Candice Hern

by The Regency Rakes Trilogy

  As she spoke, it all sounded suddenly so obvious. How could she have ever believed that Peter loved her? His own words confirmed her father's subsequent taunts. "We fled early one dawn," she went on, "planning to go to Gretna Green. We never made it. My father caught up with us in Cheltenham the next day."

  "What did he do?" the marchioness asked, when it seemed, after a few moments, that Mary would not continue.

  "I have never known what he said to Peter," Mary said. "When he discovered us at an inn, he dragged me into a room and locked me inside. When he returned, almost two hours later, Peter had apparently disappeared, and I was to return to Somerset with my father. But not before he had vented his rage on me in the usual way. You see, Peter and I had ... had spent one night together. Now, I was not only ugly, but ruined as well. For my father, I was completely useless."

  The marchioness squeezed the hand Mary suddenly realized she had been holding the whole time. Mary turned toward her and met a look of such sympathy that she almost lost control again. She bit her lip and looked quickly away. Through the gallery windows she watched the tiny figure of Lizzy disappearing in the distance as she chased after the spaniel.

  "What happened when you returned home?" the marchioness asked. "Did things change, or was it as unhappy as ever?"

  "Oh, things changed all right," Mary said as her gaze followed the bouncing, running little girl. "I had to be punished for my insolence. Since I had no physical virtues with which to attract a man, only the prospect of Papa's fortune would ever entice a man to be my husband. That, he was to point out to me with vicious amusement almost daily for the rest of his life, was the only way I had managed to interest Peter. It was the only way I could possible interest any man. To punish me, he eliminated me entirely from his will."

  The marchioness gasped.

  "I was to get nothing," Mary continued. "After my father's death, I would be required to live on the sufferance of the distant cousin who would inherit, a man I had never met. But that was not my only punishment." Mary took a deep breath and considered how much to say about the next nine years. But then, there was really very little to say. "I was to be my father's prisoner," she said at last.

  "My God!"

  "I was never to leave the castle. I was never to go out of doors. I was never to speak to anyone save my maid—my jailer, I used to call her. I was never to see my friends again."

  "Oh, Mary," the marchioness said, her voice tremulous and troubled. "How horrible. How ... how long did—"

  "Nine years," Mary said. "I was kept inside the castle for nine years, until he died. I never saw the sun or the moon except through a window. I never felt the wind or the rain on my face, except in my dreams."

  "Good Lord. Good Lord, Mary. How did you bear it?"

  "I created my own separate world in the castle," Mary said. "I escaped into books. Some of my father's predecessors had amassed an extensive library. I read everything. I also escaped into music. He did not deny me that, at least."

  "Were there no relatives to turn to?" the marchioness asked, her voice rising in a plaintive, almost querulous tone. "No sympathetic servants? What about the vicar? Was there no one to help you?"

  Mary sighed and threw her head back against the sofa. "That is the pitiful part, is it not, that I did not fight to get out? I was so tired ..." She paused, mortified with shame. The worst part of telling this story was not how badly it painted her father, but how badly it reflected on her. She had not fought back. She had submitted. She had allowed. She had accepted.

  "But no," she continued, determined to finish what she had begun. "I have no close relatives and the servants were my father's agents. Any who showed signs of softness toward his insolent daughter were let go. I have no idea what was said to the vicar and his family. I have assumed they were told I was dead. I never saw them again."

  "Tell me what happened when your father died," the marchioness said. "Did the new earl, in fact, treat you well? You are obviously not impoverished."

  Mary laughed mirthlessly. "'Tis an ironic tale, at the very least. Papa, who was generally in robust health, became ill very suddenly. An inflammation of the lungs caused him to decline rapidly and within days he was near death. The household was in somewhat of a turmoil over his impending demise and failed to watch me as closely as they ought. When Papa's solicitor came to meet with his dying client, I happened to be in the hallway and he asked to speak with me." Mary paused and shook her head, still amazed at what had transpired that day.

  "The solicitor," she went on, "Mr. Fleming, was apparently surprised to find me unguarded. But he wanted to reassure me that, regardless of the lack of provisions in my father's will, that my own funds would be more than sufficient to my continued comfort."

  "Your own funds?"

  Mary chuckled. "That was my question, precisely. Mr. Fleming, disgusted with the whole sorry business, told me what he thought I should have known. It seems my mother, who had quite a bit of money of her own, had set up a trust fund for her unborn child. It had been administered all these years by Mr. Fleming. Papa had known about it at the time, of course, but had apparently forgotten about it—first, through grief and later through his increasing mental instability. Mr. Fleming had taken good care of it, nevertheless. He even hinted that he had deliberately failed to remind Papa of its existence, especially after he cut me out of his will. Anyway, it seems I had something of a fortune."

  "Good heavens!"

  "Imagine my astonishment," Mary said. "All that time I had had the means to live independently from my father and had not known it." She shook her head and smiled weakly. "But I was determined to waste no time in taking advantage of it. I requested Mr. Fleming's help in removing temporarily to Bath. He was extraordinarily sympathetic. He agreed to send his own carriage for me the next day. Papa died that night." She turned to look at the marchioness. "You will think me heartless, but the next morning I put on my brightest yellow dress, packed a few things, and left in Mr. Fleming's carriage. I left Assheton Castle for good. I have never returned. I did not mourn my father. It seemed ... hypocritical. I hated him, you see."

  The marchioness squeezed her hand again. "I understand, Mary," she said in a soft voice. "And I believe I would have done the same if I had suffered as you had. You have nothing to be ashamed of. All the shame lies at your father's door. He was the heartless one, Mary, not you. To have abused you all those years, to have lied to you about your looks and your prospects—"

  "Oh, but that is just it, you see," Mary interrupted. "He never actually lied. He was brutally honest about my shortcomings. It is just that he took such cruel delight in pointing them out."

  "No, Mary," the marchioness said in a stern voice, "he was not honest. You are not plain, as I am sure—as I hope—Jack has told you. And have never required a fortune to attract a husband. You are one of the most delightful, most personable young women I have ever met, my dear. That alone would pique any man's interest. Only look at Jack. He is besotted with you, my dear. And that has nothing to do with your fortune."

  "It is true," Mary said, feeling suddenly shy and embarrassed. "I do not believe Jack ever knew of my fortune when he asked to marry me. I never speak of it, you see. Such wealth tends to alter people's perceptions of one. So I never mentioned it to Jack, although he surely knows now, having met with Mr. Fleming."

  "Well, there you have it then," the marchioness said brightly. "You attracted a very fine, handsome man despite your father's belief that such a thing could not happen. You have proved him wrong, Mary. And if he was wrong on that count, you must necessarily suspect everything else he drilled into your head. Continue to turn your back on that unhappy part of your life, my dear, and look to all the wonders that lie ahead: your wedding, a new home, children, grandchildren ..."

  They both turned at that moment to look across the courtyard to the returning party of Charlotte, Lizzy, spaniel, and nanny. Charlotte was laughing as Lizzy skipped along energetically at her side.

  "You
see, Mary, there is always some small happiness ahead, regardless of what has gone before. Look at Charlotte," she said, nodding toward the happy domestic scene beyond the gallery windows. "She has lost Frederick, and Lizzy has lost her papa. And yet they still find happiness with one another. You must look ahead as well, my dear, and put all that unhappiness behind you."

  Mary blinked back tears as she turned to look at the marchioness, realizing how much more devastating it was to lose loved ones than never to have had any to begin with. Lady Pemerton was right. She had survived. And although she had always thought she had put her past behind her, she had never really let go of it. It colored her perception of the world, of herself, of other people, and their actions and reactions. But now she had a new frame of reference in which to view herself—as a woman soon to have a wonderful husband, a new and loving family, and a beautiful new home. Tears—of joy this time—stung her eyes as she felt the burden of the past slip from her shoulders like a tattered cloak, to be tossed aside and never worn again.

  Suddenly, she threw her arms around her future mother-in-law and gave her a fierce hug. "Thank you, my lady ... Mama. You are very good to listen to my poor history. I shall take your advice. I look forward—with gratitude ... I cannot express how much gratitude—to a new life with my new family."

  Chapter 16

  "Pull up, Jack!" Edward Maitland shouted from his position bent low over the neck of his horse. He and Jack, having raced neck-or-nothing through the parklands of Pemworth, reined in their mounts as they neared the creek edge of the northern end of the estate. Panting slightly, Edward patted the horse's neck as he eased him in to a slow trot and waited for Jack. "This old bay ain't up to your stallion," he said when Jack had joined him.

  "I wonder," Jack said in a breathless voice, "is it the old bay or the old uncle who has tired?" He laughed at Edward's outraged glare.

  "I can outride you any day, boy, and don't you forget it," Edward said, equally breathless. "It is this second-rate horseflesh you have provided." He removed his hat and ran an arm across his damp brow. "Damnation, but it will be good to see a decent stable again at Pemworth. Your father kept only the best, you know."

  "I do know," Jack said. "It is one of the things that nearly bankrupted the estate."

  The men steered their horses to the bank of the narrow creek, which gradually widened and opened fanlike as it flowed into the cove and the sea beyond. When they reached the creek edge, they dismounted and let the horses cool themselves and drink from the fresh, clear stream. Jack removed his hat and jacket, hung both over the pommel of his saddle, and leaned against the trunk of an elm, grateful for its shade. He would not admit to his uncle, now shedding his own jacket, that he was indeed thoroughly exhausted. It was a pleasant sort of fatigue, though. Almost exhilarating.

  Edward perched himself on a large boulder and stretched his legs out in front of him. "So, are the Pemworth stables among your list of improvements, I hope?"

  "They are," Jack said, "but not at the top of the list. There is much to be done. After the wedding."

  "The joyous occasion is only three days hence." Edward slanted a wary glance at his nephew. "Are you suffering any last- minute nerves?"

  "None in the least." Jack flashed his uncle a broad smile.

  Edward gave Jack an assessing look. "I must admit, you appear decidedly self-assured and calm about the whole thing. If it were me, I would surely be trembling with trepidation and doubt. But then, I suppose you are pleased to have all this business settled at last."

  "That I am." Jack leaned his head back against the tree and closed his eyes, enjoying the mingled scents unique to Pemworth: summer wild flowers and the sea, horse and leather, grass and mud.

  "Still," Edward went on, "I sense ... oh, I don't know ... something else. It is just that I have never seen you so relaxed and contented. Certainly not in the last year."

  Jack chuckled. "You are correct, sir. I have never felt more—how shall I put it?—satisfied."

  "Ah. You have bedded her already, then?"

  Jack's eyes snapped open and his head whirled around to face Edward. "Uncle!"

  Edward tilted his head and raised his brows, as if to question such apparent outrage. Jack had to laugh, for who would have expected such sensitivity from Black Jack Raeburn? He would have to hang up that old soubriquet and coin a new one. Something more suitable to his new attitude.

  "No, Uncle," he said, still chuckling, "I regret to say that I have not yet bedded Mary, though I cannot see that it is any of your business."

  Edward grinned sheepishly. "Sorry, my boy. I suppose, then, I must assign this new lazy contentment to some other cause."

  "No," Jack said, "you may still lay the blame on Mary, but not in the way your sordid mind has imagined." He paused, considering precisely how it was that Mary had fostered such peace and contentment. "She has brought a new joy to this unhappy place, Uncle. It is quite remarkable really. Have you ever noticed how everyone smiles when Mary enters a room? Well, it has been the same at Pemworth. She has Mama smiling again."

  "I had noticed the difference, actually," Edward said, "but I suspected it was no more than pre-wedding excitement."

  "No, it is Mary herself, not just the wedding, that has made the difference. She and Mama spend hours chatting and laughing together. She and Charlotte have become great friends, and she plays with the girls and makes them laugh. After all the grief this family has suffered, it does my heart glad to hear laughter once again."

  The horses seemed to have drunk their fill and turned away from the water and were ambling lazily among the bushes and grasses along the creekside. Both men's eyes were drawn to the movements of the horses.

  "I, too, am pleased to hear your mother's laughter again," Edward said, returning his gaze to Jack after his mount began to nibble at a clump of low grass. "I confess I had almost begun to despair for her health. Poor Lydia. She has lost so much. My heart breaks for her, but I had begun to believe she would never get over it. Thank God she still has you, Jack."

  "Thank God for Mary, you should say. I tell you, she is responsible for Mama's good spirits. I am a lucky man, Uncle."

  Edward cocked an eyebrow. "So, it appears you chose wisely after all."

  "More wisely than you, or I, could possibly have dreamed," Jack said. "I could not have found a more perfect partner if I had spent decades searching the globe. I do not know what twist of fate brought her to my side that night at Lady Pigeon's ball, but I shall be forever grateful."

  Edward rose from his boulder, stretched, and moved to stand next to his horse. He grabbed his jacket and shook it out. "I take it, then," he said over his shoulder, "that it is more than the lady's fortune for which you are grateful."

  Jack smiled and pushed himself away from the tree. "You are correct, Uncle." He directed a sheepish grin toward Edward. "Ironic, is it not, that I should have come to care so much for Mary after all? But I assure you, I have undergone a most dramatic change of heart."

  "Well." Edward tugged on his jacket, never taking his eyes from Jack. His mouth twitched momentarily and finally formed itself into a roguish grin. "Well. I am speechless, my boy." His grin became a chuckle and he shook his head in disbelief. "You have taken me completely by surprise. I never thought to hear such words from the likes of you. After that business with that other girl. What was her name?"

  "Suzanne. Miss Suzanne Willoughby."

  "Yes, Miss Willoughby. After all that, it seemed you would never... I mean, I never expected ... well, you know what I am trying to say. Something changed in you back then. That girl crushed your spirit. Oh, you survived well enough—"

  "With your help."

  "With my interference, your mother would say. In any case, I never expected to see you fall for another woman again. I always thought you invulnerable to such things. It is strangely reassuring to find that, after all, you are as vulnerable as any man. Ha! Listen to me!"

  Jack shrugged into his own jacket and dusted off his h
at with his sleeve. "I have surprised myself as well," he said. "I never expected to lose my heart again. And I certainly never expected to lose it to Mary. But you are right. Suzanne did crush me, though I got over it years ago. I have often thanked God, in fact, for the good fortune of not being married to Suzanne. But I never got over the wariness, the mistrust, the fear. Mary has changed all that. She has taught me to trust again. And I cannot imagine life without her, now. I tell you, if I were to discover she had not a tuppence to her name, I would still marry her."

  "Good heavens, my boy, you are well and truly lost!"

  "I am," Jack said, smiling broadly. "I admit it."

  Both men remounted their horses and pointed them back toward the Hall at a slow trot. After a few moments Edward gave Jack a slightly puzzled look and then returned his gaze to the parklands ahead. Jack watched as the corners of his uncle's mouth curled up slowly into a strange enigmatic smile.

  "You may not credit it," Edward said at last, "but I find this unexpectedly romantic turn of events quite ... well, quite pleasant, actually. It warms the cockles of my old heart to see you so happy."

  "Go on!"

  "It is true, I tell you." Edward heaved a gusty sigh. "I must be getting old, but do you know what? I find myself of late longing for the same sort of peaceful contentment you seem to have found."

  "Really?" Jack bit back a grin. "With Olivia Bannister, perhaps?"

  "Hmph!" was all the response he received as Edward urged his horse into a gallop and sped ahead.

  * * *

  The next afternoon Mary found herself in need of a few moments of privacy and decided on a stroll through the grounds. Her thoughts full of the excitement and anticipation of the wedding, she wandered alone in one of the side gardens. Well, not quite alone. One of the marchioness's spaniels toddled along beside her. Max, as he had been introduced to her by young Lizzy, had scampered up to her as she left the Hall, his liquid brown eyes and mournful whine begging her to take him outside.