Strathmere's Bride

by Jacqueline Navin

The duke now. Yes, oh yes, how he knew it. As if for one second, for one blessed moment of peace, he could forget it.

  His mother continued, “Duty, Strathmere. Your duty to Rebeccah and Sarah is to show them a strong hand in their rearing. Never forget who you are. You are in command of this family.” She wrung her hands and looked at him with pity in her eyes. “Oh, my son, you were always such a gentle soul. Weeping for wounded pigeons and nursing baby rabbits unearthed in the garden, you were a sweet-hearted boy—but you must put all that behind you. You must change, alter your very character so that the easy authority of your title is second nature to you, as natural as all that you’ve known in your past used to be.”

  Her words spun around in his head, draining away to a hollow echo. There were more, but try as he might to concentrate on them, they were lost to him, drowned out by the shameful realization that he was, God help him, terrified of what she was describing.

  Because it was already happening. And he knew that it must.

  For he was the Duke of Strathmere, now and evermore.

  Helena Rathford made an even better impression—if that were possible—on Jareth that afternoon than she had the first evening of their acquaintance. Garbed in a day dress, she appeared refreshingly pretty with her soft blond ringlets bobbing about her face. The taut beauty of the previous meeting seemed more relaxed.

  Lord Rathford sent his apologies at not being able to join them this afternoon. These were prettily pleaded by his wife, who deftly took herself off with the duchess to examine his mother’s porcelain collection in order to leave Jareth and Helena alone.

  He gave her a rueful glance, and she remarked, “I am afraid they are rather obvious.”

  Her directness he liked. It relaxed him, and it felt good after the tensions of the day. “Don’t fault them too much.”

  “How kind you are,” she said, as if she truly meant it. He laughed and gave his head a shake.

  “Not at all, Lady Helena. I simply know there are many times when my behavior could warrant a little understanding, and so in the interest of reaping the benefit of like charity one day, I dispense it with generosity. Purely selfish, you see.”

  “Rather wise,” she corrected, sounding like a schoolmistress. He chuckled and she smiled wanly.

  Looking out of the window, Jareth frowned. “It is unfortunate the weather is disagreeable today. I believe a tour of the grounds is called for when a lady comes for tea.”

  “I adore gardens. I couldn’t help but notice you have a lovely one. However, it does seem rather ominous.” She ducked her head to peer up at the sky. Iron-gray and so thick with clouds it looked flat. It cast a weird glow on the late afternoon light.

  “Rather lovely,” Jareth commented, studying the unusual colors. “In a way.”

  “Good heavens, who is that?” Helena exclaimed. “Do they mean to go out and about with rains coming?”

  That, Jareth saw immediately, was the intrepid and apparently incredibly stupid Miss Pesserat, tromping across the front lawn with her two little charges in tow.

  He was too angry to speak for a moment, then said simply, “Will you excuse me, please?”

  It took several moments to locate Frederick, the butler. “See that Miss Pesserat is brought back here immediately,” Jareth told the gaunt older man with thinning hair and a huge beak of a nose. “Tell her I wish to speak with her as soon as the Rathfords depart.”

  “Yes, your grace,” Frederick said without expression. “I shall send a footman right away.”

  The weather worsened. A steady drizzle thickened into a downpour, making it untenable for the Rathfords to leave as planned. His mother asked them to stay to supper, and Lady Rathford agreed with a rapacious gleam in her eye she didn’t bother to hide.

  They were shown to a room where they might refresh themselves, and Jareth retired to his library. It was a dreary place, more so with the wet-streaked windows weeping tearily against the implacable sky. He called for a fire to be made up, then settled down to do some of the accounts.

  Remembering that he hadn’t been informed of Chloe and the children’s return, he laid down the quill and summoned Frederick.

  “No, sir, I have not seen her,” the butler informed him.

  “Send Mary to the nursery and see if they came in unnoticed.”

  Frederick went to search out the maid. Jareth crossed the room to stare out the window at the vicious skies. The wind had picked up.

  What had made that fool think of taking the children out and about on a day like this? She didn’t have the sense of—

  He spied a movement. Peering closer, he saw indeed it was someone dashing across the lawn.

  Damnation! Chloe Pesserat ran with Sarah on her hip, Rebeccah held by the hand and trailing along behind like the tail of a kite m a blizzard. They were headed for the rear of the house.

  The exasperating woman meant to sneak them in through the kitchens and avoid detection. Anger moved him before any conscious thought registered in his brain. Storming out of the library, he strode with long, purposeful steps through the dining room, startling Cook as he burst into the largest of the kitchens—a long, cheery room where a huge fire blazed in the cooking hearth and aromas, spicy and delectable, assaulted him.

  Cook looked up, her thick arms poised over a mound of dough. She stood behind the scrubbed oaken table that was sprinkled liberally with flour, and she wore some of it herself. “Your grace?”

  He opened his mouth, but another sound preceded him. Giggles.

  The door to the outside was located in a short hallway where the smaller kitchen rooms and assorted pantries were housed. It was from this direction the commotion was heard.

  “Oh, you are a wet mouse, aren’t you?” a gay voice exclaimed. He had no trouble identifying Miss Pesserat from the definitive accent. “Come, come. To the fire.”

  “Have Cook fix up some chocolate to drink!” Rebeccah cried.

  They came into view, the three of them stumbling under the weight of their soaked dresses and sodden cloaks. They were still laughing, talking over one another, excited and unruly.

  “Bonne idée, chérie!” Chloe exclaimed. “And some pastries, bien sûr. I am starving!”

  She stopped in midstride, frozen in an awkward position, her face going suddenly immobile. Rebeccah saw Jareth at the same time as her governess and made an immediate retreat behind Chloe’s skirts. Only Sarah regarded him with a mild expression, as if he were merely a personage of passing interest.

  The words, when he spoke them, were like an epithet. “Miss Pesserat.”

  Cook cut in, bustling up to the children and waving her arms. “Come along, then, mes amours, come to the fire in the little dining room.”

  Jareth looked at the woman askance, suspicious for a moment until he recalled her nationality was the same as Miss Pesserat’s. For a space, he had almost thought the governess had infected the household so that they were all talking like her. The accent was, he had to admit, one of her more charming attributes. The only one he could think of.

  Mostly, she seemed to have a knack for driving him straight to madness. Take this very moment, for example. She was standing there, still stuck in that ridiculous stance. Her hair was soaked, plastered to her head like a cap, and a very unflattering one at that. He took exactly four steps forward. Four slow, calculated steps. Up close, he could see the way her lashes were starred from the rain, making those steel-blue eyes more brilliant.

  “What,” he managed to utter through his clenched jaw, “did you imagine you were doing with my nieces in the midst of this storm?”

  It was as if the words released her. She straightened.

  “If you please,” she began carefully, “we were out for a walk. I admit I mistook the weather. I am terribly inept at such things, I confess it, but the sky in England is so often gloomy, we would be closeted in the house forever if we didn’t take a risk now and then.”

  It would have been ridiculously easy to anger, for her words had the ring
of sauciness in them, except her look was so sincere. Fat rivulets skittered from her drenched hair down her nose and she didn’t even bother to wipe them away.

  “Miss Pesserat,” he said at last. “I fail to comprehend what is so woefully mysterious about a sky filled with clouds. If your judgment is so profoundly impaired, perhaps I had best reassess your capabilities.”

  “Capabilities?”

  “Yes, you know the word. Your vocabulary is quite accomplished when you are speaking, I noticed, yet when you wish to defer a comment you do not like, you plead ignorance of a word. Charmingly demure, and effective, I must imagine, on the more unsuspecting.”

  She pulled herself up in a stance that was nearly military. Absurd, utterly, and it should have annoyed him—that and the defiant way her pointy little chin jutted out at him. Strangely, though, he found himself wrestling with the most insistent urge to smile, of all things.

  “Yes, I understand your English very well, but there are a few words that confuse me from time to time. You must allow for that at least, your grace. In this instance, it was not that I did not know the word, but was taking exception to your questioning my capabilities.”

  “What would you have me do?” he demanded hotly. “You run the children about in the most unseemly and unmannerly ways—”

  “I most certainly do not!”

  “Miss Pesserat—”

  “I cannot see why you are so disturbed. It is merely water. It will not melt us, like sugar candy.”

  With each breath, his temper seemed to expand “That is not the point—”

  “You would think a little thing like rainfall were a foreign phenomenon in England. Yet, I have never seen such a place as this, miserable always from wretched weather.”

  “A very entertaining opinion—”

  “Really, it is quite—”

  “Do not interrupt me again, young miss!” This he thundered, his fist raised with his index finger pointing to the ceiling. In the silence afterward, he was aware of two sensations stealing over his person. One was mortification—damn this imp to tempt him into a most disreputable show of temper—and the other, inexplicably, was a deep sense of…pleasure. It had felt good to shout for once. So much for moderation.

  He looked at his erect finger, astonished. His father had always performed the gesture when scolding one of his sons. When had he developed such a like habit? It was an impossible question to answer, for never, never, had he been as incensed as he was at this moment.

  “I am sorry,” she said.

  He heard the sound of the door behind him opening, then a murmured, “Oh, dear,” before the door shut again, leaving them once again alone. One of the servants.

  “I do not mean to disrespect you,” Chloe continued.

  He forced himself to relax his stance. “And yet you do. You do it constantly, Miss Pesserat, and without much effort, it seems.”

  She issued the most forlorn sigh he had ever heard. “It does seems inevitable.”

  “You need only make more of an effort to conform.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Can you not make a similar effort?”

  “I,” he answered simply, “am the duke.”

  Unimpressed, she countered, “That does not make you infallible.”

  Oh, Lord, she was at it again! “It does make me lord and master here and I will be obeyed—and without question, if you please.”

  He immediately regretted adding the last, since it gave her a clear opening for one of her clever little quips: no, it does not please. But she surprised him. Instead, she tipped her head to the side and asked, “Why did you leave the nursery so abruptly the other day?”

  He blinked in surprise. “Pardon me?”

  “In the nursery, when you were angry. You suddenly seemed to lose your anger and you left so abruptly.”

  “What the devil…?” He pushed his hand through his hair while letting out a long breath. “Why do you wish to know that at a time like this?”

  “Because, you see, it seemed as if you regretted getting angry when you saw how upset the children became. In fact, you seemed rather surprised to find yourself in such a state. The look on your face led me to believe that, anyway. And I thought you might be feeling the same way now. I don’t wish you to regret what the heat of your anger makes you say.”

  “It is very kind of you to be solicitous of my sensibilities.” He had meant it to be sarcastic, but instead the words sounded gentle in his own ears.

  One of those irritating droplets was meandering down her prettily flushed cheek. He reached for his handkerchief and handed it to her. She stared at it. “Oh, for pity’s sake,” he muttered, and snatched the thing back and pressed it to the moisture. “Your hair is leaking.”

  She touched her head self-consciously. “Oh, bother.”

  It was such an inane thing to say, he did smile then. He almost wanted to laugh, as if the contention between them were suddenly all mere silliness. “You’ll be fortunate if you don’t come down with the deadly ague.”

  “It is only rain,” she said diffidently.

  “Come by the fire, or you’ll chill.”

  She appeared surprised at his solicitousness. Frankly, so was he. “Thank you, your grace.”

  He led the way to the brick hearth with its iron doors and large, open flame. Pulling up a seat, he fetched a square of linen and held it out to her.

  Chloe sat down and began to dab the towel about her face and head. Jareth stood behind her, watching her movements, which were like the exacting motions of a dance. How did she always manage to make even the most ordinary actions seem beautiful? What Helena did with her voice, Miss Pesserat did with her body—

  He shook his head as if to rid himself of the wayward thought. It seemed somehow disloyal to liken Lady Helena’s great gift with a girl’s artless grace. And how ungentlemanly to be reflecting at all on his nieces’ governess’s body.

  His voice sounded harsh when next he spoke. “Do not take the children out of doors again without my permission,” he said, and was about to turn away when he heard her say, “No.”

  He stopped, cocking his head. “Can I have heard you correctly?”

  She remained with her back to him, ramrod straight and staring into the fire. “It is not right to keep the little ones confined. I do not agree to it.”

  “Perhaps you misunderstand. I meant that they will go on outings with my permission only.”

  “Why not under your supervision?” She turned so her face was in profile. She had the most extraordinary scooped nose, he noticed. The backlighting from the fire made her pose a perfect cameo. “It would be lovely if you were to spend time with the children. They need their family with them.”

  “Do you find fault with my stewardship of the children?”

  “Only in that you favor an approach reminiscent of one of the posh princes of the East—full control and no responsibility.”

  His temper was rising again, and quickly. “Why, Miss Pesserat, you are most insulting.”

  She stood and whirled on him, her face flushed— though from the proximity of the fire or her rage, he did not know—and her eyes were positively brilliant. “I hate when you call me that My name is Chloe. Could you not manage that bit of informality, or will it choke you to speak it?”

  He felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. Just as swiftly as it rose, his irritation receded. “Miss Chloe. See, there. I did not burst into a ball of fire.”

  She paused, not trusting him it seemed, before she smiled, one of her wide, true smiles. He watched the slow way it crept across her face, taking that generous mouth into an upward curl and showing even, white teeth. “And you are jesting. However, this time it is not at my expense. You surprise me, your grace.”

  “How rewarding. I endeavor to never be boring.”

  Why did everything he said to this woman end up sounding…unpleasant?

  Surprisingly, however, she wasn’t deflated. “You can never be that, your grace. Oh…” She let
the word die and again that smile appeared. “For all your faults, never, never that.”

  Absurd, the flash that skittered through him. What difference did it make what this country maid thought of him? Still, the compliment warmed him.

  It was a compliment—wasn’t it?

  “At least,” he said to cover his disconcerted thoughts, “promise me you will not take any more strolls through violent spring storms.”

  “Oh, la!” she sang, flipping her hand in the air in a fluid gesture. “The children had fun. Did you never do such things when you were a boy? Walk in the rain? Catch raindrops on your tongue?”

  The words fell over him like a pall, pressing on his chest, his shoulders. Unwittingly, she had brought to mind the two things that left him weak with grief—the past and his lost freedom.

  Why had he tarried so long with the silly girl, anyhow? “The matter, Miss Chloe, is settled. No more outings ın the rain. If you do not abide by this, I will be forced to take broader action to ensure my wishes are being observed.”

  The smile disappeared, and she bowed her head. Her drenched hair hung stiffly in pointed strands. “You have made yourself very clear, your grace.”

  He trusted her not to lie to him outright, but he knew she would not flinch from a lie of omission. “Tell me you will obey.”

  After a mutinous pause, she said, “I will obey.” She raised her head, her face blank and plain. When she had smiled, it had been transformed, almost pretty. Yes, actually, quite lovely, in a way that was so very different from Lady Helena’s pristine beauty. Chloe Pesserat was meant to laugh, to run, to do everything in extreme. Wholly opposite to Helena, whose attraction was her—

  The thought struck him and it was accurate, but he still couldn’t resist an inward cringe. The word he had found to describe Helena was moderation.

  The same sense of disquiet followed him out of the kitchens as it had the last time he had conversed with Chloe, in the nursery. He wondered if such a reaction were unavoidable with the capricious imp that held his nieces’ sanity in her slender, sensuously expressive hands.

  Chapter Five