Sattler, Veronica

by The Bargain

"Another spot of tea, m'lady?" Megan queried in a perfect imitation of an aristocratic London accent. It was a game they had been playing ever since their lavish new wardrobes had arrived from the dressmaker's, and Ashleigh responded in kind.

  "Don't mind if I do, m'dear," she said, giving a good approximation of the inflections they'd heard Lady Castlereagh use. But with her next remark she slipped back into her own soft mode of speaking. "What do you think is taking so long, Megan?" She glanced at the ornate porcelain clock on the mantel across from them. "It's been nearly a half hour since he deposited us here."

  "Hmm," said Megan, setting down a heavy silver teapot and following Ashleigh's glance. "His Nibs niver said what it was he'd be checkin' into whilst we waited, but I've a good idea. I saw a narrow-faced old crone peerin' down at us from one o' the upper windows when our carriage pulled up. That'd be the great-aunt, now, wouldn't it?"

  "An austere face with snow-white hair piled high atop—?"

  "That's the one! What's she called again?"

  "Lady Margaret... Westmont, I believe. The housekeeper here told me she never married. I only met her briefly, when I— Megan! Where are you going?"

  Megan had set down her teacup and risen while Ashleigh was talking and now tiptoed carefully toward the closed double doors through which they'd been shown earlier. Her face wore a determined expression. "I've niver been one t' sit still and wonder when I was curious t' find somethin' out, darlin'." She had reached the doors and began, very carefully, to open them. Then, just as carefully, she peered around a partially ajar door into the hallway. A moment passed, and then she looked back over her shoulder at Ashleigh, a wide grin on her face. Silently, she motioned for Ashleigh to join her.

  As Ashleigh neared, she began to hear the sounds of voices coming from somewhere across the hallway. Though they were muted, nevertheless she could perceive they were strident and angry.

  "Megan," she began in a hushed tone, "should we—?"

  "Shh!" Megan put a forefinger to her lips. "We've got to get closer," she whispered, pushing the doors farther apart. She tiptoed into the entry hall, toward a partially ajar door about a dozen feet away. The tall redhead moved directly toward it, motioning for Ashleigh to follow.

  Glancing left and right to be sure no servants were about, Ashleigh complied, and a few seconds later they were both standing beside the door. Through it, Brett Westmont's voice came, loud and clear.

  "You think to hold me to this alliance because it was my grandfather's last wish?"

  "I more than think it," came the confident reply. "I know it! Brett, there are many things, I am well aware, that no one can force you to do if you do not wish to do them, but on this, I cannot imagine your refusing. My brother's dying wish was that you wed. He told you as much in your last interview—I was there, remember? And, after you left, he gave me leave to make arrangements with—"

  "Yes, of course!" Brett's voice spat out. "The Hastingses! Who else? You know, Lady Margaret, I, as well as a great many others hereabouts, I'll warrant, have long wondered at your most singular attachment to that family. And someday I'll get to the root of it!"

  "Wh-what are you referring to?" came the uneasy response.

  "Don't play the guileless innocent with me, dear Aunt! I am speaking of your almost unnatural obsession with the Hastings family over the years, or, more particularly, with forming alliances between them and the Westmonts—through marriage—not to mention your constant attention to that clan in myriad other ways. Do you think, because I was away so much during my formative years, I was unaware of your constant visits to Cloverhill Manor? Did you think me deaf, dumb and blind that I did not see your hand in the unfortunate alliance between my father and Lady Caroline? And now, in recent years, it's been that bitch, Elizabeth, who's been the focus of all your unending attentions. 'Lady Elizabeth is, I daresay, an extremely accomplished young lady,'" he mimicked. "'Lady Elizabeth was the foremost young woman presented this season. She is a true beauty, is she not? Lady Elizabeth would make the perfect wife. Lady Eliz—'"

  "Stop it!" cried his great-aunt. "You've no cause to carry on so! It is merely that—that I am the child's godmother, as I was Caroline's before her, and never having had a husband and children of my own, why, I just naturally feel drawn to her.... And, besides, she is all of those things I've said of her!"

  "I wonder..." Brett murmured. "I wonder..." There was a long silence, and Ashleigh was about to motion to Megan that they hasten back to their tea table when Brett resumed speaking.

  "But there are some things in which I'll give you your due, Lady Margaret. In the matter of my taking to heart my grandfather's final wishes, for example. It carries a powerful weight with me. Well, I suppose I should have married sometime, sooner or later. I suppose, as well, that Elizabeth Hastings will do as well as any other well-bred brood bitch."

  "Brett!" The word was almost a gasp.

  "For God's sake, Lady Margaret, spare me your outraged sensibilities! We all know why a man of our class takes a wife. It's to ensure a continuation of his line. Do you think I've not seen all the careful parading of young, blue-blooded feminine flesh about London's ballrooms and drawing rooms during 'the season,' with the carefully arranged machinations between their parents and those of the slavering young—and sometimes not so young—prospective bridegrooms that goes on behind the scenes? Why, my finest-blooded mares are not given as much consideration with regard to bloodlines and breeding ability when it's time to choose which studs will service them!"

  "Brett, I forbid you to speak in so base a fashion in front of me! I find it highly offensive, and—"

  "Yes, yes," Brett replied wearily. "Well, we're straying from our subject, and in the interest of sparing you a further wasting of breath and energy, allow me to congratulate you, Lady Margaret. No, don't look so dumbfounded. I'm telling you, you've won. Go ahead and make what arrangements you will with the Hastingses. You were right. I cannot easily neglect grandfather's last wishes, but—"

  "I knew you'd listen to reason!" Lady Margaret crowed triumphantly. "Now, when—?"

  "Not so fast, dear Great-Aunt," Brett interrupted. "There is one condition, I'm afraid, and it has to do with the matter I called you in here to discuss initially."

  There was a second's silence, followed by an audible intake of breath by Lady Margaret. "You—you mean—?"

  "Precisely. The girl, Ashleigh."

  "Brett, do not toy with me! You cannot mean to—"

  "I can, and I do. The girl stays—as my official hostess, although you're free to share such duties with her if you care to."

  "You are mad! I thought I told you—"

  "And I, in turn, have told you! I have an obligation to the chit, and I will not see it compromised. Besides, I have need of a youthful, energetic hostess."

  "And what of your obligations to your betrothed?"

  Brett sounded bored. "I care not in the slightest about that. If Elizabeth Hastings is so eager to become the next duchess of Ravensford, I hardly think she's in a position to interfere. Certainly, with our family in mourning, the wedding cannot take place for some time... perhaps not for a year, and during that time I shall need—"

  "Brett, I will not have that girl in this house! It is unthinkable that you should ask it—that you should seek to install her here, at Ravensford Hall, the home of—I won't have it Brett! I demand—"

  "My dear Lady Margaret," came the cold reply, "you are in no position to demand anything! I am the master of Ravensford Hall now, and what I decide to do here, I shall do! Ashleigh Sinclair is—"

  "Is a common tart! A whore, a creature who—"

  "She is actually none of those things, as I believe I've already explained, though what she is and how she came to be here are really none of your concern."

  "None of my—!" Margaret's tone was incredulous. "Brett, I have stood aside and said little over the years as I watched my brother bend and mold you into the person you are, though there has been much I've disapproved of. But
this time you have gone too far. I find it hard to believe what I've just heard! None of my concern! I have been mistress of Ravensford Hall for twenty years! If the identities of persons lodging under this roof are none of my concern, then whose should they be?"

  The voice that answered her was dangerously soft. "Mine, Lady Margaret. Only mine."

  "Brett, I warn you—"

  "I suggest you reconsider that remark. You are in no position to warn me of anything. You yourself continue living under this roof merely through my indulgence. I could easily have you removed to the old dowager's cottage near the lake...."

  Margaret's gasp cut the air. "You would not dare!"

  "I would, and I just might. The girl stays. See that you make her feel at home. And now, if you don't mind, I must leave. I merely came down to escort Ashleigh and her—ah—entourage. I have business in London that will keep me away for some time. When I return, I shall probably be bringing guests and shall send word ahead—to both you and my new ward, so that you may be prepared to perform the duties of hostess— either jointly or alternately, take your pick. Good day, madam."

  As the sound of Brett's voice indicated he was nearing the door, Ashleigh and Megan had just enough time to scamper back to the drawing room where they'd been having tea. Quickly reseating themselves, they both managed to arrange blank expressions on their faces before Brett pulled open the double doors and entered.

  As Brett stepped into the room his eyes quickly took in the tableau of the two young women on the sofa. The sight gave him more than one reason to halt abruptly in his tracks, and there was a long pause as he slowly contemplated what he saw.

  Not only were the two of them the total picture of graceful English gentility, sitting there before the Queen Anne tea table in their fine new frocks, but the image of Ashleigh Sinclair as she held a fragile Sevres cup and saucer nearly took his breath away. Dear God, but she was lovely! She looked for all the world like a fragile Dresden doll, her creamy skin faintly flushed with color, her huge, deep blue eyes clear and bright, meeting his in what appeared to be a look of open expectation. Was there, had there ever been, a face more beautiful, a countenance more serene or full of grace?

  All at once he found himself recalling some lines his friend Byron had let him see a few days ago when they'd met in London.

  She walks in beauty, like the night

  Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

  And all that's best of dark and bright

  Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

  Thus mellow'd to that tender light

  Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

  Abruptly, Brett stopped, catching himself in a frame of mind he wasn't sure he was prepared to deal with. Ever since they'd left London he had intentionally avoided any close scrutiny of his new ward. Somehow, he had known, if he hadn't, there would have been the very sort of disturbing fascination he found himself experiencing now. He'd known she was a unique beauty from the start, but in their earlier encounters her beauty had been somewhat subdued by the drab clothing she'd been wearing. Now, however... Damn!

  A sudden scowl marred the young duke's handsome face, and he quickly stepped forward and addressed Ashleigh and Megan.

  "Everything has been arranged for your stay, ladies. I'm leaving word with the butler and housekeeper that they are to see to your comforts, for I shall be returning to London for a time. While I am gone, Ashleigh, I trust you will make yourself familiar with the estate and its inhabitants, so that your duties as hostess may be assumed when I return. Have you any questions before I leave?"

  Ashleigh looked at Megan for a moment, but the redhead's features were carefully schooled into a look of blank innocence. Slowly, she returned her gaze to Brett. Did she have any questions! Only a hundred or so! What was she to do in a situation where the mistress of the household had just made it clear Ashleigh was unwanted? How was she to conduct herself in this strange place when the man who was responsible for her being here was to be absent? How, when she met her—and she had no doubt that she would—would she react to his new fiancée, Lady Elizabeth Hastings? How was she going to manage anything at all?

  But Ashleigh could never put any of these questions to him. Besides having to admit to eavesdropping, she would have to overcome her feelings of being intimidated whenever she was in his presence, and this she was not ready to do—perhaps would never be ready to do. So, swallowing past the lump that had formed in her throat, she put forth the most innocuous question she could think of.

  "Am—that is—are we—" She glanced at Megan briefly. "Are we to be allowed to ride, Your Grace?"

  A derisive snort met her ears. "What? Do you mean you are actually asking my permission this time? How very thoughtful of you!"

  Immediately recalling her theft of the little filly the day she'd escaped, Ashleigh felt the heat rise to her cheeks; she looked down in embarrassed silence and nodded.

  "How very prettily you blush, my dear," Brett sneered. Then, seeing her discomfort and choosing to ignore Megan's glare, he softened his tone. "As it happens, my head groom informs me that Irish Night is none the worse for your escapade on her back. In fact, he marvels over the filly's increased tractability since she's returned. It seems, my dear, that you know how to manage fine horseflesh. We shall have to discuss, sometime, how you came about it. The stable help will be alerted to make suitable mounts available to the two of you. Ah—I assume you also ride, Miss O'Brien?"

  "Me da was the finest horse trainer in all Ireland," came Megan's response. "I was weaned in a saddle, Yer Grace."

  Brett chuckled as he dismissed the coarse response he might have made. Despite her former profession, there was something about the tall Irishwoman that made him behave as a gentleman. "Very well," he said, giving them both a nod of satisfaction. "Then, if there are no further questions, I'll be taking my leave. Try to stay out of trouble while I am gone."

  "Trouble?" Ashleigh exclaimed, and then mentally kicked herself for her hasty remark. The last thing she wanted was to antagonize Brett Westmont!

  Brett's eyebrows lifted briefly with her response, and then a cynical smile spread itself across his handsome features. "Yes... trouble," he replied. "After all, you will be two females left largely to your own devices, will you not?" And before they could reply, he made them an elaborate, courtly bow and left.

  There was a brief silence as the two women stared at the doors through which he'd gone. Then Megan clucked her tongue and began to shake her head with exaggerated slowness. "'Tis as I've said before—I wonder what divil's botherin' the man... I do, indeed...."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Lady Elizabeth Hastings stepped from her family's carriage onto the crushed white stones lining the circular drive before Ravensford Hall. Tilting her elegant, bonneted head slightly, she surveyed the towering brick facade of the structure that had been the family seat of the Westmonts for more than a dozen generations. There was a cool look of satisfaction on her classically beautiful features.

  Soon, soon, she thought, all the waiting will have been worth it. Sometime within the coming year she would be the new duchess of Ravensford and mistress of all this—and more! She would be the wife of Brett Westmont, and clearly the envy of every marriageable woman of her set—not to mention their ambitious mamas and, no doubt, any number of married women as well. "Her Grace, the duchess of Ravensford"— how often she had dreamed of the sound of it! Yes, she thought smugly, it had just the right ring to it, a title in every way appropriate and in keeping with what a woman of her worth deserved. Lowering her gaze, she nodded haughtily to the waiting footman, and with a swish of her blue silk skirts, swept boldly toward the front door.

  Upstairs, looking down from where she was standing at the front window of the chamber she'd been assigned by Mrs. Busby, Ashleigh bit her lip in consternation. She'd been dreading this moment for two days, ever since Brett had left and a brief and highly uncomfortable meeting with Lady Margaret soon thereafter had left her with the knowledge tha
t Brett's fiancée would be arriving soon. Yesterday Lady Margaret had had herself driven over to the Hastings estate, which, Ashleigh now knew, bordered the western acreage of Ravensford Hall and was called Cloverhill Manor. There the duke's great-aunt had spent the better part of the afternoon, returning shortly after teatime to announce to the staff that they might expect Lady Elizabeth in the late morning.

  There had been no direct contact between Ashleigh and Lady Margaret herself at this time. Instead, Brett's great-aunt had seen fit to inform her through a written message delivered by one of the footmen to Ashleigh's chamber:

  His Grace's fiancée, the Lady Elizabeth Hastings, will be arriving tomorrow shortly before noon. Please do not consider it necessary to act the hostess on this occasion, for I shall be seeing to this duty myself, as I have always done in the past. You may present yourself in the blue drawing room shortly after Lady Elizabeth arrives, however, for an introduction, as I have already told her of your presence and she had expressed a desire to meet you. I shall send a footman up to collect you at the appropriate time. Please be prompt.

  Lady Margaret Westmont

  Ashleigh shivered, despite the pleasant warmth of the day, as she recalled the contents of the coldly worded message. She could just imagine Lady Margaret informing the young woman of her "presence," and all that that had entailed! After all, why else had the older woman taken it upon herself to visit Cloverhill Manor personally to arrange this visit? And she had stayed for hours! It didn't take too much imagination to reconstruct what had transpired during the exchange between the two women—"My dear, I know you must find it difficult to bear, but the truth had to be told.... Yes, he found her in a house of ill fame.... She was employed there.... No, my dear, I have tried my best to dissuade Brett from entering into this piece of folly, but to no avail.... He insists upon having the tart installed at the Hall.... Be brave, my dear—we all have our crosses to bear, and surely, once you are duchess and mistress of Ravensford Hall, you will be in a position to dismiss the little beggar at the first opportunity...."