Strathmere's Bride

by Jacqueline Navin

  Chloe touched the book, taking its weight from him. Somewhere else in the room, in the universe, his mother huffed, “Oh, really!”

  “Start with that one,” Jareth said softly.

  It was she who broke eye contact, glancing to his mother. He watched her narrowed gaze, the almost imperceptible hardening of her features.

  She was angry at his mother on his behalf.

  It made him smile, genuinely pleased. She said, “Thank you, your grace. I regret to have disturbed you.”

  “It was a pleasure,” he replied. And he meant it.

  She turned, leaving quickly. He was aware of a wish to follow, envying her the ability to quit this room.

  In the ensuing silence, Gerald’s voice sounded large and loud. “Who was that?”

  His mother didn’t answer, so Jareth turned to face his cousin. “Miss Chloe, my nieces’ governess.”

  Gerald was sharp, at least sharp enough to be watching Jareth closely. “That accent…is she French?”

  “Yes.”

  He curled his lip. “Never trust a frog.”

  “Gerald!” the duchess scolded, but it was a halfhearted reprimand.

  “Chloe Pesserat is my late sister-in-law’s relative. Her cousin. She came to tend the children several months before Bethany and Charles were killed and has been gracious enough to remain in order to avoid undo trauma to the children.”

  “Pretty thing,” Gerald said. “Moves like a dancer.” His grin was lascivious, meant to convey to Jareth just how appealing he found the French governess. Jareth sensed immediately that he was being baited.

  “Do you think so?” he replied with a barely stifled yawn. He shoved his hands into his pockets to hide the white-knuckled fists from his cousin’s too observant glances. “I always thought her rather plain.”

  “And plenty of trouble,” his mother added. “We are planning to get rid of her just as soon as Jareth— as soon as the situation is resolved.”

  Jareth could scarcely believe his mother’s blunder. Two, in fact. First, his name. Second, the “situation” that needed to be “resolved” was his unmarried state. How uncouth of her to mention her master plan so baldly. So, Chloe would stay on until Helena came to live at Strathmere after their wedding and then the responsibility of his nieces would be handled, naturally, by his new wife.

  The new Duchess of Strathmere.

  It was hard to pinpoint exactly why the plan didn’t appeal to him. It made sense. Indeed, he was convinced of Helena’s competence and had no doubts she would do an excellent job with the girls.

  But she couldn’t heal them. That he knew. This his mother didn’t care about. He did. However, mindful of Gerald’s perked ears, he kept his opinion to himself.

  “Do you still like to hunt, Jareth?” Gerald asked.

  “It was Charles who loved it, not I,” Jareth replied without rancor.

  “Ah, yes, I recall that now. Well, do you hunt at all? With the weather turning now, it is the most excellent season for deer. That is the only thing I missed about the country—”

  “No.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “No deer are to be hunted in my parks.”

  His mother scoffed. “Surely, dear, you don’t mean to say—”

  “I mean,” he began, his voice lowering with sternness, “that no deer are to be killed on Strathmere lands. My lands. I am well within my rights to make such a rule. Is that clear?”

  Silence. His mother’s face was pure shock, something he had never seen before. It was the sight of it that brought on the realization of how coarsely he had just behaved.

  Gerald murmured some excuse, quickly drained the remainder of his glass and placed it on a teakwood table before exiting the room quickly.

  The duchess looked away with a sharp twist of her head, her face as stony as any statue’s.

  Regret washed over him. Taking a step forward, he placed a hand on his mother’s thin shoulder. It felt bony and slight. She didn’t recoil, didn’t react at all to his touch.

  “Forgive me,” he murmured.

  “I have given Gerald his old room,” she said. “Do ask Mrs. Hennicot to check and see if he is comfortable.”

  And so Jareth knew his request was in vain. The transgression was already forgotten, but would never, never be forgiven.

  Gerald took to quail shooting instead. Jareth accompanied him a few times, but, as he told his cousin in the library, the hunt was not one of his interests. The immense paperwork associated with overseeing the duchy provided an adequate excuse to avoid further outings, and a very real one. Visits from solicitors began in earnest now that more than a few months had passed since his brother’s death and they thought, he supposed, that his mourning had lessened, at least enough for him to transact business.

  He thought often of the past. At times, he longed to go back. He missed his old life. He wanted it again, wanted to be the man he once was.

  Colin Burke corresponded regularly, and Jareth always looked forward to his letters, despite the fact that they were somewhat painful to read. Through them, Jareth was kept abreast of the happenings at Burke and Hunt Shipping. In addition, there was the matter of a young redhead of insurpassable beauty by the name of Serena Cameron, whom Jareth had met and liked very much. She was keeping his friend heavily occupied, it seemed. Between the lines of Colin’s terse mention of her, Jareth recognized a burgeoning affection that didn’t surprise him at all.

  He had his own courtship, however, which he saw to dutifully. Helena visited, and he and his mother dined at Rathford Manor as often as possible.

  As for Chloe, she was much in his thoughts. He saw her with the children sometimes and at night in the garden. He would be working in the library in the evenings, hunched over his desk, when he would get the urge to stretch his legs. Going to the window, he would wait. Wrapped in a great cloak and moving in those gorgeous, sweeping motions that were hers alone, she would come.

  A strange, urgent longing began to grow within him as the days wore on. It seemed the more he steeped in his isolation, the stronger the need grew.

  But what exactly that need was, he couldn’t say.

  Restless, he roamed the house, wishing the weather were pleasant enough to ride. He needed exercise, he needed the outdoors. The roiling confusion of his thoughts consumed him.

  It wasn’t until he was on the threshold of the nursery that he realized where he was. His mind had wandered while his feet had moved, bringing him here, of all places. But he found it was a pleasant discovery. The door was slightly ajar and he pushed it in.

  She was alone, seated at the window seat. Head turned to look at the unhindered gray of this bleak winter’s day, she didn’t appear to have heard him enter. On her lap was a sheaf of papers, held in one limp hand while her other rested upon it.

  “Miss Chloe?” he said softly.

  She turned, but didn’t rise. Her eyes matched the sky behind her. Her hair was in its usual state of disarray, but for once he could make no complaint. The tousled look suited her. If all those carefully groomed young ladies of London could see Chloe now, like this, this wild, natural beauty would be all the rage within the week.

  “Good afternoon, your grace.” Her voice was quiet and seemed a bit flat. “If you are looking to find the children, they are asleep. Tempers were short today, so I insisted on them taking a nap.”

  He took another step forward. “Is anything amiss? You seem distraught. Is it bad news?” He swept a hand toward the letter.

  “Pardon? Oh, no, no. There is nothing bad from home. A new letter just arrived, filled with nothing but good news.”

  He sat with her on the window seat, turned so he faced her. His back rested against the worn paneling and his shoulder brushed the gauzy white voile curtains. “You look disturbed just the same.”

  She was quiet for a moment, turning back to the window. “It brings on a melancholy, sometimes. I miss him so.”

  There was an unpleasant pang somewhere inside his che
st. “Him?”

  “Mon père. Papa.”

  “Your father—you miss your father?”

  “Of course. And he hates being separated from me, as well. His letters are always loving, saying how he longs to see me again. He is not lonely, however. He has found a new lady love.”

  “And that does not please you?”

  “Oh, no, monsieur, it is not that at all. I am very relieved to see him going on with his life, but it is sad not to be there with him, to share in his happiness.”

  “Ah,” he said as if he understood. But he didn’t. He himself had never known that kind of closeness with his kin. “What else do you miss from home?” He paused, then asked, “Where exactly is your home, Miss Chloe?”

  “It is a small village called Saint-Remy in the Loire Valley. It is an enchanted place. So green, with large open hills that look like a painting. All the time, people are friendly and will help you.”

  “Has your family always lived there?”

  “My father’s family has. My mother was, as you know, English, but she loved it there. She never regretted leaving England, not one day. It is a simple life, a good life.” She sighed, lost in fond remembrance.

  He glanced out at the denuded garden below. “You must long for home. Perhaps one day you shall return.”

  Her eyes snapped to his. “Perhaps.”

  She must have thought he was hinting at her being dismissed in the future. “A week or two holiday should take the edge off your missing them,” he said by way of clarification.

  Visibly relaxing, she shook her head. “I cannot leave the girls just now. If nothing else, who would be with Rebeccah at night when she begins to cry out?”

  “Yes, of course.” They fell silent. He was struck with an idea. “Perhaps your father shall come to visit.”

  She looked at him suddenly with an amazed look on her face. “You are kind to worry over my homesickness.”

  “I am not a complete ogre, Miss Chloe, despite what you may think of me.”

  “I do not think you are an ogre.” Her voice lacked the edge of conviction.

  He angled his head a little to the side, as if considering her. “You may have cause to. I have been harsh, though with reason, I will staunchly maintain. However, I have not been completely honest with you.”

  “Oh?”

  “I…well, I must confess it, Miss Chloe—I had a recent memory of myself and my brother playing in the dirt, and at an older age than the girls.”

  Her look of concern changed into one of delight. “How horrid. And you weren’t flayed for it?”

  “Not in the least. But that is not the worst of it, Miss Chloe. No…not by far.”

  “Pray, do tell, your grace. Confession is good for the soul, they say. Bring it out, and by the telling you may find some relief for your troubled conscience.”

  “True enough. If you believe you can bear what I am about to tell you, I will go ahead.”

  Her lips trembled, warding off a delighted smile. “Please do. I have braced myself.”

  “It was fun. Playing in the dirt, I mean. It used to make me deliriously happy. Charles, too.”

  She shook her head as if in disappointment. “Now, that is difficult to imagine. The duke huddled in a dirt pile?”

  “We would play soldiers. It was bliss.”

  “Ah, your secret shall remain safe.” She cast him a glance full of mischief. “For a price.”

  “Now I shall regret my honesty.”

  “Not too steep a price, I promise.”

  “Then tell me what it is.”

  “Hmm.” She rubbed her chin, deep in thought. “You must tell the children an honest-to-goodness pirate story.”

  “But I know no pirate stories!”

  “Then you must make one up.”

  “I am no good at telling stories,” he complained.

  She nodded solemnly. “Yes, your grace. I had noticed.”

  “You must help me.”

  “Very well. Shall we seal our bargain with a handshake? A gentleman’s agreement?”

  “It shall be so, Miss Chloe,” he said, and held out his hand for hers. The touch of her skin as her fingers slid into his was like a jolt to his nerves. Her smile wavered—he thought he saw it, but then the moment was gone and he wondered if he had imagined her falter.

  “A deal,” she pronounced.

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t want to let go. And, surprisingly, she didn’t pull away. Not at first. They gazed at each other for a moment, then she seemed to gather herself mentally and her hand slipped out of his.

  What the devil had he been playing at? he wondered. Angry at himself, he came to his feet. “Thank you.” He felt a bit disoriented, not certain in which direction lay the door.

  “Your grace, before you go…I have a question. Something that has been troubling me.”

  He paused. “Yes?”

  “I hope this doesn’t distress you. I fear it may. I do not wish to say anything that—”

  “Miss Chloe, simply ask!”

  “I only want to know—why do you keep staring at her? At Sarah? Is it because she cannot talk? Does it disturb you?”

  Jareth smiled and shook his head. “You really are a trial, do you know that? Come, allow me to show you something.”

  He held his hand out and she came to him, brushing so close as she passed him that he could smell her clean scent. No perfumes, but soft and sweet, like wildflowers on a moist spring night. He inhaled greedily as she walked with him into the children’s sleeping quarters, located on the opposite side of the nursery from her room.

  From the doorway, he pointed to the blond child lying like a slumbering cherub in her bed. “See her?” he asked.

  “Certainement.”

  “Do you not notice it?”

  “What?”

  “The resemblance. She looks so like Charles. I remember him well, especially what he looked like as a child. Perhaps the resemblance is stronger when he was younger, but she is his image.”

  Chloe looked up at him then. She must have caught something in his expression as he gazed down at his brother’s youngest child, for she said, “How difficult it must be for you with him gone.”

  He would have answered that, yes, indeed it was, but his voice didn’t function properly, and no sound came forth when he opened his mouth. He shut it and simply nodded.

  Then she did the unthinkable. But, of course, Chloe, who cared nothing for convention and everything for humanity, would go beyond the bounds of propriety without a qualm. And do it in such a guileless, natural way that it was impossible to take offense.

  She laid a hand on his arm. With empathy filling her eyes, she touched him in a way a woman has no business touching a man, not a man who is not her husband. Her fingers curled against the cloth of his coat, the soft pressure hot under the layers of lawn and wool.

  “You must not turn away from the memories. I know it is not seemly to you English to dwell on the emotions you hold in your heart, but grief is like a wound—it must breathe and hurt to expel the poisons. If not, it only festers and grows worse.”

  “Miss Chloe, I hardly think it appropriate for you to be advising me,” he said, but didn’t take his arm out from under her touch. He couldn’t. It was as if his body had lost the capacity to move. Or perhaps he simply didn’t want to.

  “Oh, your grace, you are correct, I know this. I am no one, and you are a duke.”

  “Do not say that,” he said fiercely, surprising them both.

  Her lips were so full, so facile. Each passing emotion played on them—a frown, a moue of confusion, a hint of a smile that entranced with the breathtaking suspense of whether she would grace the world with one of those fabulous smiles that stretched the generous mouth wide and lit up her face to impossible fascination.

  Dear God, he thought as he stared down at her, eyes fastened to that decadent mouth. He wanted desperately to kiss her.

  Chapter Eleven

  Chloe shivered at th
e way he was looking at her.

  She felt suddenly self-conscious, aware of every aspect of his body, and hers.

  “What is it I should not say?” she asked.

  “That you are no one. I thought the French had dispensed with all this ridiculousness about titles and peerage. You emulate the Americans and their republic, where all are equal, don’t you?”

  “Is that what you believe, that men are equal to one another, even here in England?”

  “Being a duke doesn’t make me better,” he said with feeling. “It means more is expected of me. Certain things.”

  She bowed her head and laughed. “Why do you persist in that ridiculous idea? The only thing expected of you is what you expect of yourself.”

  “Miss…Chloe. It is not so simple.”

  She looked up at him. His square jaw was set, betraying his tension. She reached up and laid a slender hand against it, feeling the power, the hardness there.

  It was incredibly stupid. It went against everything she knew of this man, to think he wouldn’t recoil from such boldness, such unseemly familiarity.

  But he did not. He only closed his eyes for a moment and turned his face into her hand, grazing his rough-skinned cheek against her palm.

  When he opened his eyes, she knew she was lost. Lost now, lost forever. His hands she felt on her, demanding and not at all gentle, slipping over her shoulders. She saw his lips part, his head angle to one side, and she stepped forward, just one step, in answer to the silent invitation, but it was a step that bridged leagues. Her breasts brushed up against his chest. His head bent lower, his mouth just before hers. Her eyes drifted closed.

  In her mind, she refused to heed the alarmed voice inside her head that protested, telling her this was disaster, because all she could do was feel. His whole body was only inches from hers, held taut with leashed masculine power. She wanted him so intensely that it was an actual ache, and when his lips touched hers, she answered hungrily.

  It was not a gentle kiss. It was greedy, illicit, frantic. Almost as if they both knew they would come to their senses and had only these precious moments of abandon to indulge their desire, so they gave themselves over to it with fervor.