Sattler, Veronica

by The Bargain

  "I see," Ashleigh returned as she nodded.

  "Not completely," Christopher told her with a glint of amusement in his eyes. "For while Miss Godwin is aptly known as the daughter of two famous—or perhaps I should say infamous?—people—Mary Wollstonecraft, the bluestocking is her mother—she is more readily identified at the moment as the love interest of young Percy Shelley here, and, unless I miss my guess, one of the major figures of a scandal in the making."

  "Ohh." Ashleigh nodded, remembering Brett's mention of the name Shelley... what had been the reference...? Ah, yes, he was a poet or philosopher of some sort... but what did the earl mean by "a scandal in the making"? She glanced up at Christopher and was about to question him on this when the raised voice of Percy Shelley intervened.

  "Brett! I was wondering where you'd gone to!"

  All heads turned to see their host walking toward them on the path, Lady Elizabeth possessively holding his arm.

  "Shelley, you scamp!" accused Brett with no small hint of amusement in his turquoise eyes. "I might have known you'd slip in unannounced. When did you arrive?"

  "Oh," replied Shelley, "in the midst of the decadent luncheon you and your millions were setting forth. But, truth to tell, Mary and I had dined en route, so we begged your majordomo's leave to take a stroll in your well-manicured gardens and await your pleasure here until the feasting was done."

  Ashleigh had no doubt that by his intonation of "well-manicured gardens" Percy Shelley was being as critical as he'd been with the term "decadent luncheon." The man was obviously a reformer, if not a political radical, and she wondered at the strangeness of his obvious friendship with one of England's foremost members of the aristocratic peerage.

  "Really, though, Percy," Brett was saying, "knowing you as I do, I should have thought the natural beauty of the greenery would count for something in your aesthetic ideal. But, come now, we can pursue that argument later. For now, there are acquaintances to be made. Have you met my fiancée? Allow me to introduce..."

  Brett proceeded to make introductions all around, although, in the case of the earl of Ranleagh, it was only Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin he presented, as Christopher and Percy were already acquainted. Ashleigh smiled politely at the poet and his lady friend when it was her turn, then found herself blushing under young Shelley's appreciative gaze, which seemed to linger a few seconds more than might be deemed proper before he bowed over her outstretched hand and murmured, "Enchanting... and lovely... yes, so lovely...."

  The final introductions involved the marquis of Wright and Lady Pamela Marlowe, and no sooner had Shelley released Pamela's hand than the honey-haired beauty turned from the poet and fixed her cold amber gaze on Elizabeth Hastings.

  "Lady Elizabeth," she drawled, "when we met earlier, in the drawing room, I hadn't the opportunity to tell you how beautiful I find your dress." Her glance filled a pause in her speech and coolly traversed the length of the powder-blue silk afternoon gown Elizabeth wore with a matching shawl trimmed in white lace. "Of course," she continued, "it is a pity, isn't it, that it's a bit overdone for afternoon wear?" A brittle laugh punctuated her speech here. "But of course, how silly of me! You're probably far more clever than the rest of us. This way you won't have to bother changing for tonight's festivities. You're already dressed for the evening."

  Elizabeth Hastings's eyes flashed silver fire, and she visibly stiffened on Brett's arm. "But of course I shall change for dinner, Lady Pamela," she countered. "After all, I have an abundant selection in my private chamber upstairs. You see," she intoned as her eyes narrowed on the honey blonde, "I've already been in residence here for some weeks—it makes planning our wedding so much easier, you know." She finished with a sugary smile at Brett as she gazed up at him with a possessive look in her eyes.

  As Ashleigh felt the sparks fly between these two, she wondered, as official hostess, what she might say to halt the conflagration that was surely coming. Notwithstanding Christopher's anticipation of difficulties, Lady Pamela had been surprisingly quiet during the luncheon, although her glares in the affianced couple's direction had told their story; but now it seemed she'd merely been biding her time until a direct confrontation might allow her the proper opportunity to vent her spleen, and judging by the look in those amber eyes, she had only begun!

  But it was Percy Shelley who saved Ashleigh the necessity of a prudent interruption, although later Ashleigh was to wonder at exactly how prudent it had been.

  "So, you are to succumb to matrimony at last!" He grinned at Brett. "Well, I suppose, for one with such extensive holdings as yours, it was inevitable. Your kind will affix its stamp of ownership where it can."

  "Why, whatever do you mean, sir?" inquired Elizabeth with an air of growing indignation.

  "Yes, Percy, do elucidate," added Brett, his grin matching Shelley's.

  "Why, Your Grace, simply this: From its earliest inception, marriage has been an institution set forth by men to signify their ownership of women. Women, in ruder ages and countries, were considered the property of men because they were the materials of usefulness or pleasure. They were valuable to them in the same manner as their flocks and herds were valuable, and it was important to men's interests that they should retain undisturbed possession. The same dread of insecurity that gave birth to those laws or opinions that defend the security of property suggested also the institution of marriage; that is, a contrivance for keeping property that others might try to take away.

  "Now, of course, we are all aware that much has occurred to modify the nature of this institution between then and now, but I wonder... Has the basic premise, that is, of male ownership, really altered?" He finished this speech with a questioning smile as he looked at the engaged couple.

  If Elizabeth was indignant before his lengthy explanation, she was fairly bristling now. "I suppose you are entitled to your opinions, sir, but I can assure you, your pretty speech was spoken only as one who has never entered the bonds of wedlock himself."

  "Ah! But you are mistaken, my lady!" It was Mary Godwin who spoke now. "Percy is married and has been for three years!"

  "What?" exclaimed Elizabeth. "But I thought that—that is, didn't I hear your name to be Godwin?"

  Mary laughed. "And truly, it is! Percy is wed, but not to me! Mrs. Shelley's name is Harriet. I am Percy's mistress!"

  Elizabeth blanched, and there was a moment of uncomfortable silence as all looked on, watching her digest this news. At last she straightened and said, quite woodenly, to the poet and his companion, "Yes... I see... I do, indeed." Margaret's lecture in her chamber had gone home.

  But Elizabeth wasn't the only one to be shocked by Mary's admission. Ashleigh found herself in quite a quandary over what she was witnessing. Despite her reservations about the revolutionary thinking of Shelley and his companion, she had found herself liking them somehow. Not only were their views given forth with a great deal of idealistic enthusiasm, but it was clear they were committed to being honest and forthright about who and what they were and what they believed in. And they both seemed utterly pleasant and likable besides, each with a ready smile and open countenance. What a world of difference between these two and the hidden snipes and barbs that had flown between the ladies Elizabeth and Pamela!

  But at the same time Ashleigh was uncomfortably aware that Percy and Mary struck at the heart of the moral code with which she'd been raised. It mattered not that the locale of her upbringing had been Hampton House; through all the years she'd lived there, she'd been more a product of Dorcas's strongly held traditional views than anything else—views that were strongly aligned with those of her parents and the household of her youth. Now, all at once, she discovered herself exposed to people whose behavior and thinking were in some ways more shocking than all the doings of Hampton House— more shocking because they were being set forth here in open and polite society, at the home of one of the most prestigious families in the nation. What was she to think? She'd have to ponder on this a long while.

>   "I read your Queen Mab last year," Christopher was saying, "and I must say, your vitriolic verse trounced us all soundly. Not only did the institution of marriage come under the lashing of your bitter pen, but so did, if I recall correctly, the monarchy, the aristocracy, religion, and war."

  "And don't forget his barbs against economic exploitation," Brett added with a good-natured grin. "Sir, that piece, I fear, has irrevocably launched you in English intellectual society as a rabidly dangerous radical."

  "Ah, but he was well on his way to that with his visit to Ireland the year before," said Christopher, his grin matching Brett's. "Did you really think, Percy, that you could make any headway in the movement for Catholic emancipation and freedom from English control?"

  Percy grinned back at both of them. "I produced two pamphlets and spoke at a huge meeting of the Irish nationalist leaders in Dublin, didn't I?"

  "My dear fellow," said Brett, "it's not your activities in Ireland that we question and marvel at. It's that you have subsequently returned to England and lived to tell about it!"

  There was shared laughter by all three men at this jest, with even the marquis of Wright joining in at the end, although Ashleigh could tell the poor man was having a difficult time reconciling the presence of Shelley with the aristocratic gathering in the duke's gardens. As for Ashleigh herself, here she'd found the contradictions the poet presented even more confounding. Her mother had been an Irish Catholic, and although, after much soul-searching, her parents had decided to raise her and her brother in their father's Anglican faith, she had always had strong feelings about the Irish Cause.

  And now here was Percy Shelley, a man she had been on the verge of dismissing as too dangerous to pay attention to, espousing the very cause she would champion if she could!

  "Tell me, sir," she advanced cautiously to the poet, "do you really think the Irish have a chance?"

  "A better one than the French, though perhaps not as good as the Americans," said Shelley, apparently not at all surprised that a woman was posing questions of a political nature.

  "And why is that, sir?" Ashleigh asked, and then, as if struck by an idea, she attempted to answer her own question. "Would it have anything to do, perhaps, with how much physical distance separates the oppressed from their oppressors?"

  "My God, we have a thinking woman here!" cried Shelley with an expression of delight. "Quickly, Mary, do not let her get away without an invitation to come and visit. The two of you would add intellectual spice, as well as beauty, to our drawing room."

  But Elizabeth at this juncture had had about all she could take of Shelley and his shocking ideas—not to mention the overbearing burden of having to suffer the presence of both Ashleigh Sinclair and Pamela Marlowe at once.

  Her eyes narrowing until they resembled silver slits, she fixed her gaze on Ashleigh. "Miss Sinclair, I hardly think your views on politics, no matter how they charm Mr. Shelley here, are appropriate for a hostess at Ravensford Hall. And, speaking of your duties, I rather think it's time you withdrew to see to them, don't you?"

  There was a brief gasp from Mary Godwin at the overt rudeness of her tone, while condemning glances from the others said as much, but Ashleigh was beyond reacting with anything but a desire to take the escape Elizabeth's words afforded. Feeling utterly foolish at having thought she might be at ease in the company of these worldly aristocrats, and feeling the sting of yet another snipe from Elizabeth Hastings, she bit her lower lip to stem the flow of tears that threatened, made a brief curtsy in the direction of the betrothed couple, and murmured, "Of course, my lady." Then she whirled and moved rapidly toward the path.

  Christopher took a moment to send Elizabeth a scathing look, then strode quickly after Ashleigh's departing figure. "Ashleigh, wait!" he called. "I'll escort you back."

  When he had gone, several pairs of accusing eyes fell on Elizabeth, but it was Pamela Marlowe who broke the silence.

  "Oh, well done, my dear," she crooned. "A perfect preview of how the well-bred duchess should behave. How very superior of you!" After a low, exaggerated curtsy in Elizabeth's direction, Pamela picked up her skirts, turned, and she, too, headed for the path.

  Brett's gaze followed Pamela's green skirts as they disappeared from view. There was little in his stance to indicate his emotions at the moment, but anyone looking more closely would have noted a tightening about the muscles of his jaw and mouth and the glacial quality of the turquoise eyes.

  There were several things working at once in his mind, and each had to do with a female. To begin with, of course, there was the despicable behavior of the creature at his side, confirming all he'd envisioned he might expect from the inbred hothouse plant he was taking as his wife; then there were the less predictable but equally irksome actions of his mistress. Oh, he'd been well enough prepared for her snide and catty remarks earlier in the conversation, but it was her retreating thrust that really rubbed. He wished he'd been the one to have said them! And the fact that his position hadn't left him the liberty to do so while that of Pamela, of all people, had—it almost didn't bear thinking on!

  And finally there was Ashleigh Sinclair. Or, to put it more specifically, Ashleigh and Christopher. How it galled him to stand helplessly by and watch that rake of an earl ply her with his green-eyed looks and solicitous words! He should have been the one to escort her back to the Hall and lend comfort where it was needed—not Christopher Edwards!

  But did Ashleigh, as his legal ward, send him one look that would have encouraged such help? Did she, even once, during all of Ranleagh's fawning attentions, seek him out with a glance or throw a smile his way? No! Instead, he had to stand aside and play the virtuous guardian, driven by his own damnable sense of honor not to touch her, never again to— Damn! Was he to play the fool in his own house? He'd never before been caught in such a coil by a female, and, by God, he wasn't about to endure it now!

  Suddenly Brett turned and threw a quick glance at those left with him in the clearing, his eyes finally resting on Elizabeth.

  "Well, my dear," Brett said ever so softly, "it seems you are indeed bent on playing the duchess, therefore I leave you to carry on. Shelley... Wright," he murmured, ignoring Elizabeth's gasp and bowing slightly to the two remaining men in the group, "see Mary and Her Grace-to-be back to the Hall, won't you?"

  And with a courteous bow to Mary Godwin and a barely perceptible nod to Elizabeth, the duke of Ravensford became the fourth person to retreat up the path in as many minutes.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  "I tell you, I shall be perfectly fine, Christopher, though I do thank you for your solicitations. This is not the first time I have had to deal with the, ah, high-handed behavior of... certain people, and—"

  "High-handed!" exclaimed Christopher. "Ashleigh, it was positively rude and vicious, and all of us there in that garden knew it!"

  "Nevertheless," Ashleigh sighed, "I am in no position to do anything about it, nor do I plan to, other than seek out a few quiet moments by myself. Please, your lordship, allow me to be excused and avail myself of some privacy?"

  It was the earl's turn to sigh. They were standing in a little-used hallway that connected the servants' passageway to the terrace, with the formal rooms of the first floor. At the opposite end from where they stood there was also a door that led to the kitchens, and this was where Ashleigh was headed, hoping she'd made it clear to Christopher that he should go back to join some of the other guests in the drawing room or elsewhere.

  "Very well, princess," said Christopher. "I'll withdraw if you're sure you'll be—"

  "At the risk of sounding tedious, my lord, I tell you I shall be fine." Ashleigh smiled. "And I really should look in on what's happening in the kitchens—my duties as hostess, you know...." She finished with a wide-eyed, imploring look she hoped would convince him.

  Christopher smiled, more taken than ever with the guileless sincerity he read in her face, then took her hand and bowed gracefully while bestowing a soft kiss on it. "Until later
, princess," he murmured, then turned and headed for the sounds of low laughter and voices drifting from the formal rooms at the front of the Hall.

  When he had gone, Ashleigh hurried toward the door to the kitchens, opened it and slipped inside.

  It wasn't the main cooking room itself she entered, but the creamery, a chamber roughly twelve feet square and lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves that held a multitude of crocks and jars of varying sizes. In one corner stood an ancient wooden butter churn and beside it, a small worktable bearing an assortment of ladles, skimmers, funnels and the like, all of them in gleaming, highly polished brass. The room was immaculate, and Ashleigh smiled as she thought of the high standards of Hettie Busby.

  But suddenly Ashleigh's attention was drawn to another corner of the dimly lit chamber. There a rustle of silk and a quick, furtive movement indicated she was not alone.

  "Oh... oh, dear!" exclaimed a soft, tremulous voice. "I suppose I've been caught out this time."

  Peering toward the voice, Ashleigh made out the slightly plump, rounded figure of a small, elderly woman dressed in a dove-gray gown that appeared costly and well made, but of a design that belonged to an earlier era, for though it lacked hoops or panniers, it was sashed at the natural waistline, and the modest neckline was supplemented by a snowy-white fichu. The wearer's head was covered by a soft mass of gray curls bobbing about a face that would have appeared benign, were it not for the look of apprehension in the hazel eyes that now met Ashleigh's.

  "Hello," said Ashleigh. "I'm sorry if I frightened you. I didn't mean to."

  "It—it's the cream, you see," said the woman. "I just love it so. They... they almost never let me have any at home." Here the hazel eyes blinked a moment, then stole a furtive glance toward the partially ajar door leading to the kitchen. "Will... will... You won't tell on me, will you?" the woman added at last as her gaze returned to Ashleigh.