Lady Wescotte wiggled her way out of the chair, her massive jowls rippling like river water on a windy day. “Surely you cannot mean to wed the deficient girl?” she wailed.
“Aunt!” Cyril cut in. “I do believe the lady said the miss was unable to speak. She did not mention an impairment of her hearing.”
Lady Wescotte looked on Lark with toplofty cordiality. “Sorry, my dear, but of course you understand my concern for my nephew. Should he buckle himself to one so all abroad, it would surely be frowned upon. Why”— she returned her gaze to Jonathon—“what would people say?”
Aunt Harriet spoke the truth of it, but he couldn’t very well allow her to insult his future wife in front of others. After all, what would people say to that? It offended his every feeling to think of wedding someone the likes of Lark, but he had to keep up appearances until he could find a way out of the predicament. He looked pointedly at his dragon of an aunt. “Must I remind you, you are addressing my betrothed? I daresay you should show a bit more respect.”
~*∞*~
Lark listened to the exchange in utter distress. Lord Peter had been so very wrong when he said Jonathon held her in high regard. Not only did Jonathon not love her, he did not even like her. The lines straining his features betrayed that truth, even while he so gallantly defended her to Lady Wescotte.
Jonathon continued to reprimand his aunt’s behaviour, and Cyril touched a gentle fingertip to Lark’s forearm and spoke in hushed tones. “Chin up, my girl, Aunt Harriet cannot say a kind word to a soul. Jon loves you, he must do, so don’t worry about the old cantankerous cabbage head. We’ve all had a go round with her at one time or another.”
Lark looked to Rebekka for reassurance and although the companion lent her a smile, Lark could see it was not one so full of confidence.
“Now, if you would be so kind Aunt Harriet, I would appreciate it if you would act as hostess in this matter and fetch my cousins so that they, too, might share in this news which just might prove to lighten the dismal occasion of my father’s death.” Lord Somerset dismissed his aunt directly then proffered his hand to Lark. “Come, my dear, stand at my side so that everyone might see just how unified we are.”
“Here, here,” Cyril intoned, raising his empty hand in a toast of sorts.
Lady Wescotte witnessed the exchange with obvious vexation. Her stance spoke the most unladylike urge to belt her nephew a good one.
Then, as quickly as she had riled, her reddened countenance faded and, as if claiming an impending victory, she waddled out of the room.
Jonathon leaned down and whispered in Lark’s ear. “Do not mistake the reprimand of my aunt’s behaviour as acceptance of you, you little minx. We shall get to the bottom of your and my father’s scheming just as soon as I have dealt with my family. I have worked too long and hard to wind up saddled with a conniving wench the likes of you.”
Time stood still. How could he be so harsh? She had not schemed, had not planned. It had all been Lord Peter’s idea. She fought the tears that threatened with every ounce of strength she could summon. All she had ever wanted was to be normal.
Chauncy arrived with a cart of champagne and crystal as voices filtered in from the great room. Marie barreled through first. “What is this Mama tells me of a marriage, Jonathon?”
Lord Somerset drew his attention from Lark and tossed a scathing look at Lady Wescotte as she jaunted in behind her daughter.
“I trust it was not a secret, my lord,” Lady Wescotte crooned. She glanced over her shoulder. “Come, come, Geoffry, do not linger.”
Geoffry remained in the shadows by the door while Lady Wescotte settled into her favourite chair. Marie made her way to Jonathon and smiled brightly. “So this is your betrothed, I take it.” She turned loving blue eyes on Lark and curtsied in greeting. “It certainly is a pleasure to meet the young lady who stole my Jonathon’s heart.”
Lark showed her to-be cousin a broad smile, but inside she did not feel at all like smiling. For once, she felt as if a case of the vapors would be a welcome respite. Was this how her life was to proceed? One person after another approaching, welcoming, criticizing? She would wind up going mad. If she could not compose her nerves around the likes of her family, how was she to handle Society?
She attempted to calm herself with a steadying breath. Marie seemed quite polite and smiled in a way that was not at all intimidating. Cyril had acted the perfect gentleman, even going so far as to criticize his own aunt in order to bring Lark to ease, yet she still found the urge to shed tears nearly all-consuming.
Again, she doubted Lord Peter’s judgment, but quickly chided herself. After all, he had preserved her life and her future. Surely, he had known what would be best.
Her dilemma overwhelmed her. She glanced up at Lord Somerset and studied his profile as he answered Marie’s query about the impending marriage. He had quite a way about him, so commanding, so steely. What had happened to the Jonathon she had fallen in love with as a child, the Jonathon who had looked at her with awe from his sick bed? He had been replaced by this hardened stone.
It was going to be impossible to marry him when she knew he would forever be ashamed of her.
~*∞*~
Jonathon looked down at his bride and felt a smile pull at the corners of his lips as she quickly averted her gaze. He found it quite disturbing that simply catching her studying him issued a distinct swell of pleasure within, but he could not deny the sensation. She was the same angel who had looked at him with concern when he lay feverish and delirious…Yet, now he knew her as an obvious wangling chit, he could not allow himself to be swayed by her innocent looks and angelic smile. He sucked in a deep breath and readied himself for battle.
He looked to Aunt Harriet and cleared his throat. “As you all know,”—he eyed Lady Wescotte pointedly—“I have decided to take a wife. May I present my betrothed, Miss Lark Blackburn.” As a murmur of congratulations circulated the library, he uncorked the champagne.
Jonathon distributed the filled glasses one by one, and Cyril proposed a toast that included continued life and happiness to the couple. All seemed content until Lady Wescotte parted her lips.
“By the Bye, Jonathon, when do you expect this betrothal to take place? This family is in mourning, if I may be so bold as to remind you.”
“Allow me to assure you, Aunt, that as it is my own father who is gone aloft, it is quite unnecessary for you to remind me I am in mourning. I daresay my heart does that for me.” He scanned the room, dismissing any more Lady Wescotte might have to say on the matter. “Now that we are all acquainted, I suggest we retire for the evening. I would remind you all of the prudence in keeping my betrothal ensconced within these walls until such time as is appropriate to pursue a public announcement.” Without waiting for the assent to his request, he turned his attention to the solicitor. “If you could remain for a few moments longer, I would like to have a word.”
The remainder of the family gave their regards and left Jonathon alone with his betrothed and Bentley Smythe.
“Rebekka?” Jonathon set his gaze on the abigail. “I would that you wait in the great room for Miss Blackburn.”
Rebekka bobbed a curtsey and complied.
Jonathon took Lark’s hand and guided her once again to the nearby settee. “Please do sit, Miss Blackburn. I’m sure today has been quite an ordeal for you.”
~*∞*~
Lark settled onto the settee with a wariness in her soul unmatched by anything she had before experienced. How could he act so outwardly pleasant, then whisper hate and contempt into her ear? She should have refused this farce of a marriage. It was just that she couldn’t remember much of her life before her parent’s death, and she longed so much to recapture some small part of that—with someone who could remember. Someone like the romanticized Jonathon who would love her, and teach her, and make her life normal.
“All right, Smythe, what the devil is going on?” Lord Somerset’s booming voice reverberated from the cavern
of the fireplace and snapped Lark’s wandering into focus. “Did you know of this, this woman’s deficiency?”
Smythe looked so forlorn that Lark felt sorry for the man. He glanced at her with nervous eyes then turned back to the forbidding Lord Somerset. “Yes, my lord. Of course I knew,” he replied on a nod.
“Why then did you not disclose this most important information?” Jonathon shot back at the balding man.
“There was not time, my lord.”
Jonathon flung a pointed finger in Lark’s direction. Instinctively she cringed back as if he would actually strike her. “Do you expect me to believe it was an oversight that you kept her a secret?” He raked a hand through his impeccably styled hair and spun around to show them both his back. “What in tarnation was my father thinking? He knew what his eccentricity did to us. He knew what it took me to regain respect. Why would he do this?” He turned to face the solicitor once again. “You find a way around this, Smythe. And you do it post haste.”
Lark could not take any more. She stood and made short order of crossing the room.
“Where do you think you are going?” Lord Somerset bellowed from behind her.
She ignored him and opened the door, motioning for Rebekka. The abigail entered while Lark’s hands flew in speech.
“But you must,” Rebekka told her. Lark adamantly shook her head.
“I will not!” she told her abigail. “Now translate what I said, or I shall find another way.”
Rebekka sighed and turned to the gentlemen. “My lady wishes to inform you. . .”
Lark touched Rebekka’s arm then signed, “You translate exactly what I said,” she warned, knowing full well that Rebekka tended to sweet-coat her translations.
“Yes, yes, all right.” The abigail looked at Lord Somerset. “Miss Lark says she would not marry you were you the last man on God’s green earth.”
Chapter Four
Lord Somerset suffered a fitful night. He lay awake most of it, his mind alert with the problems facing him in the next six months and beyond. He still could not fully comprehend his father’s intentions, nor the source of the apparent danger to Lark’s life should her identity be revealed. His father had put him in a quandary, and now he had to figure his own way out of the blasted mess. He could not marry Lark, but he could not jeopardize the family estate either. And, neither could he allow Lark’s life to remain in danger—no matter how ill he felt about her. It was just not in him to discard her without care.
As the new day dawned, he almost looked forward to the triviality of playing host to his family. Lark was safely locked in the unused portion of the estate, and as Smythe had pointed out last evening, if she had been able to keep herself hidden these many years, the fortnight his family remained in residence should be kindly done.
Jonathon considered it a welcome reprieve not to have to deal with the little chit for a while. Although, he still had Aunt Harriet to attend, he had not forgotten.
Impeccably dressed in a rich forest green velvet coat and gray breeches, he felt more comfortably in control as he made his way below stairs and into the dining room. The rest of the family had obviously been awaiting his arrival, and as his gaze fell on Aunt Harriet, he felt as if he had just been entrapped in the snare of a fowler.
Cyril, seated to the right of the table head, threw his brother a rather contemptible glare, and since Jonathon had neither seen nor spoken to his brother since last evening, he had no inkling as to what he had done to deserve such a look.
Aunt Harriet, seated in a most unfortunate position next to Cyril, opened her mouth and raised a finger. He was not in the mood for the woman’s prattle.
“I trust our meeting can be postponed until after the morning meal, Aunt Harriet?” He allowed the derision in his tone to squelch her penchant for taking control.
“Of course, Lord Som…Jonathon. It would not have crossed my mind to interrupt the morning gathering. We are together as a whole family so little these days.” She gave him the most sweet-coated of smiles.
His stomach lurched, and he swallowed the biting need to issue a snide remark.
“So kind of you to think of the family first, Aunt Harriet,” Cyril put in.
“You question my sincerity?” Lady Wescotte inquired, sounding quite rebuffed.
“I can honestly tell you, Aunt, I’ve never once questioned your sincerity.”
Jonathon stifled the grin that teased the corners of his mouth and took his place at the head of the table. “Good morning Marie, Geoffry.”
“Good morning, Jon,” Marie answered cheerfully.
“I trust you all slept well? I cannot tell you what a comfort it has been in this time of mourning to have you all near me.”
“Is that because it has been no comfort at all?”
Marie sniggered. “You are completely incorrigible, Cyril Rexley. Completely too much.”
Cyril bowed his head. “Thank you,” he said with mock reverence. “I do try very hard to live up to my reputation.”
“Perhaps you should try living up to the reputation of someone else,” Lady Wescotte spat. She sucked in a breath that seemed as if it would empty the room of oxygen then let it out at gale force. “Do pass that dish of butter, Geoffry. I believe if I do not get some nourishment soon, I will wither away.”
Cyril laughed outright. “My dear Aunt, you could make it to the turn of the century without food and still not wither away.”
“Cyril!” Jonathon might agree with his brother’s assessment of Aunt Harriet’s lack of sincerity, as well as her abundance of flesh, but he couldn’t condone the blatant disrespect upon which his younger brother insisted.
Cyril afforded his aunt a contrite look. “I apologize for my outburst. It was merely a jest. You know I would never poke fun at you in any company outside the family.”
Lady Wescotte glanced at the family members present, her gaze resting on Jonathon. For an odd moment, he felt a compassion for her he had never before experienced. She looked truly undone. Her eyes seemed to glaze into a retreated battle status—but then, without much delay, she steeled them once more and moved her attention to Cyril. “It is a pity your mother didn’t live long enough to teach you how to treat a lady.”
The harshness of her words did not escape Jonathon, nor did they surprise him. His aunt had always been adept at issuing cutting remarks without remorse. He should rebuff her, he knew, but rather than prolong a conversation whose end was long overdue, he called the morning meal to order and tried to avoid dialogue of any sort. He would deal with Harriet, Lady Wescotte, later.
~*∞*~
The aged afternoon found Jonathon alone in his study. Regardless of how many times he reviewed his father’s missive, or the terms of the will, he could not find any loopholes or answers. He would have to marry Lark Blackwell in order to keep the Rexley fortune and reputation from his irresponsible brother.
It was difficult to believe it had been Lark who sneaked into his bedroom that night when he was ill, she who touched him so gently and looked deep into his fevered face with such compassion and longing. How he had wanted her then.
Oh, how the reality of her, scheming and deficient, fell short of his fevered expectations. If only she had turned out to be the angelic being he’d concocted—the cherubic creature she appeared to be outwardly—then perhaps he could resolve to follow his father’s wishes.
A determined rap on the mahogany door dissolved his musings. “Yes,” he answered hesitantly. It didn’t take a sixth sense for him to know it was his aunt. She had attempted to nab him now and then all morning, and he had successfully avoided her until now.
The door opened, and she waddled through the opening. She reminded him of an oversized mallard, but he refused even to dwell on the thought. In truth, he felt sorry for the woman. She was accepted by Society solely because she was Wescotte’s wife, and tolerated by family only because common blood ran through their veins. It was a rather unappealing existence—one Jonathon would wish on no one.
The fact that marrying a deficient girl such as Lark would put him in a similar position was quite ironic and did not escape his notice.
“Ah, there you are my dear nephew. I am so pleased we finally have the opportunity to speak without prying ears to overhear our private conversation.”
“Is this to be a private conversation, then, Aunt Harriet?”
She made her way to the leather wing chair opposite him, and, putting a stack of neatly disguised papers on his desk in front of her, sat down. The leather let out a groan of protest as she shifted to a comfortable position and smoothed out the material in her skirts.
Jonathon waited patiently for his aunt to settle herself. When she had, she looked on him with as much a sorrowful gaze as he supposed she could impart.
Her insincerity sickened his stomach.
“You are Lord Somerset now, my dear Jonathon, and as much as it pains me to do so, I do believe you need to know the truth of all matters concerning your family and estate.” She paused for breath and effect and a knot bowed in Jonathon’s throat.
“What is it you think I should know, Aunt Harriet?” he managed to ask while silently praying it had nothing to do with her possibly having discovered that Lark actually resided in his home. For Harriet to hold such damaging news was a danger. Not that he thought she would start a family scandal—unless, perchance it would benefit herself.
“Well, I am not sure where to begin, Jonathon, it is a rather, shall we say, delicate, situation.” She probed him with her eyes—for some reaction, he was sure, but he refused to give her the satisfaction; thus far, she had said absolutely nothing.
The Resurrection of Lady Somerset Page 4