by The Bargain
What Ashleigh didn't realize was that she was a natural candidate for the role. She may have spent only the first seven years of her life in such genteel surroundings, but the foundation she had received then, coupled with her own native intelligence and an inborn capacity to consider others, was more than adequate to see her through a role that some might spend a lifetime trying to assume. There was an art to making others feel at ease and welcome in one's home, and without realizing it consciously, in this regard, Ashleigh Sinclair was an artist.
But as she moved about the room, Ashleigh's serenely smiling countenance failed to reveal a number of thoughts that had to do with what she regarded as the more difficult aspects of her role as the duke of Ravensford's hostess. As she saw it, her chief shortcoming in being able to carry out her duties was that she was not only unsophisticated but also naive when it came to the mores of the ton. Why, she could still remember her shock as the earl of Ranleagh had informed her, ever so casually and much as if he were discussing the weather, that Lady Pamela was the duke's mistress! And she'd had a similar reaction when she'd learned of the liaison between Mr. Shelley and Miss Wollstonecraft. Surely, she thought to herself, her callow sensibilities had been obvious to all. She reflected for a moment on the polished air of someone like Lady Jersey, who was renowned for her abilities as a hostess, and tried to imagine how she would have handled such incidents. One thing was sure; she certainly wouldn't have acted like a schoolgirl about to recite her first piece!
Ashleigh was just chastising herself along these lines when she saw Christopher Edwards making his way toward her from where he'd been standing in conversation with Pamela Marlowe.
"Ah, there you are, princess," said the earl. "I told Pamela I was hoping we wouldn't have to search you out."
"Search me out? Why, Christopher, I've been readily available for whoever needs me for the past—"
"Oh, yes, of course—" he smiled "—and a more perfectly charming hostess Brett couldn't wish for, though I'm convinced he hardly deserves you. But, no, what I was referring to was our desire—Lady Pamela's and mine, that is—to be as inconspicuous as possible in making our farewells."
"You're leaving?"
"I'm afraid so, princess, though the charming look of disappointment on your beautiful face almost persuades me to stay."
"Oh, but then, why don't you? The dinner we've planned for this evening promises—"
"Ah, yes, I'm sure it's to be a gastronomical delight, but the fact is, you see, that it's Pamela who needs to withdraw, and I have promised to see her home."
Ashleigh glanced past his shoulder and saw Pamela Marlowe looking at them, an unhappy glimmer in her eyes. "I see," she said quietly. "Well, I'm not sure where Brett is right now, but—"
"Good God, Ashleigh," Christopher interrupted, "Brett is the last person we'd wish to summon up now! That's why I've sought you out. Pamela has no wish to see His Grace, ah, 'before Hell freezes over,' I believe is the wording she used."
"Oh," said Ashleigh, nodding. "Very well, then, your lordship, allow me to see you and the lady to your carriage." She threw an encouraging smile at Pamela as she said this and was gratified to see the blonde nod stiffly and attempt a smile in return.
A few minutes later, as Ashleigh turned in the entry hall, having seen Pamela and the earl off, she was approached by a footman coming from the far end of the hallway.
"What is it, Robert?" she asked with a smile. She congratulated herself on remembering his name, even though Robert was new to the Hall. In fact, she now knew the names of all those who served on the vast staff at Ravensford Hall—no mean feat in itself, but it had been one of the first duties she had taken upon herself when she came to work here, and the servants noticed and appreciated it. Why, there were some who, even after years of service, were still hailed by Iron Skirts as "boy," or "you, there, miss," but the little miss knew and seemed to care about each one of them, and they were not apt to forget it.
"A message for you, Miss Sinclair," said Robert. "Your presence is requested upstairs, in your chamber."
"In my chamber? But who would want...? Whom is the message from, Robert?"
"Ah, that I couldn't say, miss. It was transmitted to me by Mr. Jameson." The look on Robert's face seemed to indicate he was genuinely sorry he couldn't give her more information.
"Very well, Robert." Ashleigh smiled reassuringly. "Thank you."
Robert bowed respectfully and retreated down the hallway.
Now, who could be summoning her up to her chamber just when she was sorely needed down here? Ashleigh wondered as she headed for the stairway. Margaret and Elizabeth seemed to have disappeared, and she hadn't seen Brett in over an hour, so it was imperative that she remain below with the guests. Someone had to see to their needs!
A few minutes later she turned the ornate brass handle on her chamber door and pushed it open. When she entered, she found herself staring into the stern turquoise gaze of Brett Westmont.
Not sure how she should react to his presence in her chamber, Ashleigh glanced at the still-open door she'd been about to shut behind her, and then back at Brett.
"Go ahead, leave it ajar if you wish," he told her. "I wouldn't want any... confusion to attend the purpose of this interview." There was a faint hint of mockery in his tone.
Ashleigh decided to ignore it. "You sent for me, Your Grace?"
"Ah, ever the polite, ever the proper, ever the perfect, formal Miss Sinclair," he mocked. "You were to call me Brett, remember? Say it, lovely Ashleigh, say my name, or has the name of another replaced it in your lexicon?"
This last was delivered with a vehemence that was so far beyond his usual range of cool reserve that Ashleigh took a moment to study him before replying. He was standing near one of the windows that faced the front drive of the Hall, looking every inch the noble lord of the manor in his well-cut riding clothes, but he'd removed the jacket and hung it over the back of a nearby chair, and his stock as well. This left him in shirt sleeves, and the shirt was half undone at the top, displaying more than a glimpse of the whorls of deep mahogany hair that covered his chest. The result was not so much an image of dishevelment as of roguish indifference to propriety, and Ashleigh felt herself shiver at this effect.
Then she noticed he held a glass in his hand, and on the floor, near the chair that bore his jacket and stock, stood a half-empty bottle of brandy. Remembering another time she'd seen him drinking in a similar chamber down the hall, she swallowed past the lump that formed in her throat and answered, "...Brett."
"Ah," he nodded, "so you can yet recall the syllable, but still, that does not signify that you would not prefer to be uttering another name, one... shall I say, of greater length?" He took a step toward her, and Ashleigh, who had not moved from beyond the doorway since entering the chamber, had to force herself not to retreat into the hall.
"I—I do not take your meaning, Your Gr— Brett."
"Do you not?" he inquired sharply as he closed the distance between them. "Well, then, allow me to spell it out for you. The name you would prefer to speak—" he held out his glass in the pose of an actor delivering a soliloquy "—'trippingly on the tongue,' is it not... Christopher?" There was a brief, bitter twist of his lips as he finished the question, and his eyes looked cold and cruel as they held hers.
The insinuation was so far from anything Ashleigh might have expected, she drew in a quick, sharp breath before giving her reply. "Why—why, no, I—what would make you ask such a thing?"
Brett turned, set his glass on a stand near the bed and walked back toward the window, acting much as if he hadn't heard her. "You just saw Christopher Edwards to his carriage. Why?"
Beginning to feel annoyance at his incessant questioning, Ashleigh took a few steps into the room and placed her hands at her hips as her gaze followed his out the window. "I was seeing both his lordship and Lady Pamela Marlowe to his carriage, to be precise. The lady, it seems, had had enough of your insouciant bad manners and asked to be taken back
to London."
Brett whirled on her, his gaze a menacing turquoise glare. "So, the little kitten has claws, has she? Well, perhaps you'd care to enlighten me, pretty cat, as to just what I have done to bring such words of condemnation down upon my head?"
He was standing very close to her now, near enough for Ashleigh to notice the thick sweep of mahogany lashes that framed eyes that were almost too beautiful for a man's, and at the corners of those eyes, faint little lines that were pale in contrast to the bronze of his tanned face and came from squinting against the sun.
But, as if making up her mind not to let his nearness intimidate her, Ashleigh stood her ground as she spat up at him, "What sort of man are you, that you would invite your mistress to your home on the day of the announcement of your betrothal to another woman?"
"Hah!" exclaimed Brett, glaring down at her. "And what sort of woman are you, that you would flirt and play the coquette to one of the most profligate rakes in England when you are an official hostess and recipient of another man's largesse?"
"'Coquette!' 'F-flirt!'" Ashleigh sputtered.
"Those are, I believe, the words I used. You needn't repeat them like a pet parrot! And as for your accusations regarding my poor, injured mistress, disabuse your mind of such, here and now! It was Pamela Marlowe's own idea to show up here at Ravensford Hall with half of bloody London in tow—not mine! If anything, I'd more than made it clear to her when I saw her last in the city, that it was over—done—and she was free to seek... other liaisons. But could the bitch have done with it? Oh, no, she had to drag an entire caravan of people down here to celebrate my birthday, of all idiocies, and Christopher Edwards among them!"
Taken aback by this hotly delivered revelation, Ashleigh felt the wind go out of her sails for a moment. Then, picking up on what else he'd told her, she felt it rise again and billow forth. "I did not flirt with Christopher Edwards!"
"Didn't you?"
"No, and what if I had?" she added, feeling the anger of righteous indignation begin to well up. What business of his was it whom she flirted with? He was merely her employer, nothing more. They both knew his trumped-up guardianship was a sham. "I'll thank you to allow me to flirt or—or talk to whom I wish! You have no right—"
"No right? You bloody little fool! I have the clearest right of all—the right of someone who took your honor—to see to it that it is somehow restored. I have told you, Christopher Edwards is—"
He stopped as he noticed the sudden drain of all color from her face, the anguished look in her eyes at his reference to her humiliating deflowering at his hands. It was his undoing. He looked into those eyes for several silent seconds and felt his anger crumbling. Then, with a groan, he bent and drew her to him.
Ashleigh felt his arms envelop her even as his lips buried themselves in her hair. It was a sensation of strength and softness all at once. There was the very size of him, huge and muscular as he held her against his length, but at the same moment the feel of his mouth at her temple, her ear, the delicate, sensitive place beneath, sent shivers of longing through her, and she responded with a rush of feelings that had nothing to do with rational thought.
With a cry, she threw her arms about his neck, even as his mouth came down to claim hers in a fierce, demanding kiss. With it, the room began to spin and disappear from her ken, for in seconds there was nothing but the sensation of his mouth on hers, moving, tasting, seeking entry. She felt her lips open under his, felt the hot thrust of his tongue as it grazed her teeth and slipped between.
Then his hands began to move, slowly at first, then in more demanding fashion, coursing over her back and shoulders, then down again, lower, until they clasped her hips and drew them close to his.
"Ashleigh... sweet, beautiful Ashleigh," he murmured against her mouth, "God, how I've wanted to do this.... You're far too lovely to resist, do you know that? You're a witch... a sweet, unbearably, enticing witch...."
A hand came around and moved to her breast, and with this Ashleigh suddenly realized the danger of what was happening. "Brett," she breathed, "Brett, no..."
But then he found her nipple, and as he fingered its budding hardness, a jolt of pleasure shot through her, straight to her very core. Suddenly there was a melting sensation in her loins and her knees threatened to buckle under her. Again, his fingers moved, and the feeling seemed to build, dragging her will with it. She heard herself moan, found her arms tightening about his neck as she reached upward to accept the renewed onslaught of his mouth, and all the while the feeling below was building... building....
Suddenly there was a sharp bark from the doorway, and the door sprung wide, the crashing sound driving them apart. Finn stood there with his hackles raised, the feral gleam of his fangs transmitting an unmistakable message.
Ashleigh felt as if a bucket of cold water had been thrown over her as she instantly recovered her senses. "Finn!" she cried, "Finn, it's all right. Stay back. It's all right."
The dog ceased his snarling and gazed at his mistress with puzzled eyes. He heard her words and was moved to obey, but there was something wrong somewhere....
"Finn, down!" came the command, and this time the message was so powerful, the big dog complied at once.
Then there came, from out in the hallway, the excited snuffling and grunting sound that could only belong to one creature.
"Lady Dimples!" Ashleigh exclaimed.
"Damn!" swore Brett before glaring turquoise daggers at, first the pig, then Finn, then Ashleigh. "My dear, I take back all I said or implied about the dangers of Christopher Edward's presence—or any other's, for that matter. It would seem you are more than adequately... chaperoned. But," he added with a hint of a twist to his handsome mouth as he made for the door, "if I were you, I would see that your protectors are kept more firmly about you—at all times!"
And with nary another glance, he was through the door and gone.
* * * * *
Brett made his way down the hallway until, at the head of the stairs, he turned toward the opposite wing of the house, the wing that held the library. If he'd been less than clearheaded when Ashleigh had entered her chamber, he was stone-cold sober now. What insanity had taken hold of him? Not only had he found himself in the throes of some unnameable emotion that had led him to send for her there in the first place, but he'd then gone on to toss all reasonable behavior to the wind when in her presence, and— Damn! Bloody damn!
As he made his way toward the sanctuary of the library—his grandfather's favorite sanctuary, he reminded himself, but now his, as if it were a legacy—his mind ran over the events of the day that might account for his unusual state.
First, there'd been that delightful morning outing with Ashleigh and Megan—delightful, yes, but that didn't alter the fact that he'd found himself instigating it against all his earlier determinations....
Then there'd been the unexpected crush of guests, with the distasteful business of having to parade about with Elizabeth on his arm... cool, beautiful Elizabeth, the perfect English lady who could hardly bear the touch of a man on her person. It was something he'd always suspected before, but when, before arriving upon the little scene with Shelley, he'd attempted a brief embrace in the gardens, Elizabeth Hastings had frozen under his touch with a look of revulsion in her eyes that confirmed his suspicions. And to think that he must spend his life tied to that frigid creature! Damn Margaret and her interference, anyway!
But, as if that weren't enough, he'd had to endure the feline exchange of barbs between a fiancée he couldn't abide and a mistress he no longer wanted. There'd been a fine kettle of birthday fish!
But was that sufficient for the gods that seemed determined to mock him today? Oh, no! For, beyond all endurance, he'd had to sit idly by and watch his ward, whom he'd foolishly just come to deciding he was growing to like, fall under the spell of that rogue, Ranleagh! Didn't the chit realize that all he'd worked for—to carefully build her reputation before the eyes of those like Lady Jersey and her ilk—
<
br /> Suddenly, as he stood before the door of the library, a door he'd faced countless times in his youth before gathering the strength to brave the stern visage on the other side, the obvious occurred to Brett. In his mind he let the names, the identities slip by... Ashleigh... Elizabeth... Margaret... Lady Jersey... women, all of them—women! And each of them a bloody thorn in his side!
With a vengeance, Brett shoved at the library door and stalked inside. He was surprised to find the candle burning in the heavy silver candlestick on his grandfather's desk, and then there came the pungent aroma of tobacco.... His eyes flickered from the empty chair behind the desk to the smoky haze coming from the armchair to the right of it....
"Patrick!"
"I was wondering when you'd show up, old man. Another quarter hour and I'd have been forced to let your majordomo announce me formally, just when I'd thought myself prudent in convincing him to let me wait for you here. Didn't want to intrude on your house party dressed as I am." Patrick gestured at the dusty riding boots on the feet he'd crossed casually before him as he sat in the chair.
"The devil with formalities," said Brett, crossing to clasp his hand. "You're a sight for sore eyes, and I'm glad you're here. Can I get you anything? A glass of wine, perhaps, or—"
"In a moment, maybe, if you'll join me, but first, I'm hot to tell you my news."
"Which is...?" said Brett as he pulled up a nearby chair.
"It's about my search," said Patrick, a look of absolute joy lighting his rugged features. "Brett, my sister is alive!"
Brett flashed him a delighted smile. "I thought you looked rather pleased with the world just now when I walked in. How do you know?"
Patrick drew on the clay pipe he held between giant, tanned fingers, then let out the smoke slowly before answering, "It's a long story, but if you're prepared to listen..."
He proceeded to tell Brett of the letter he'd discovered, carefully editing out the details of who Maria was, other than a friend who'd aided his family in their free trading years ago. While it was his fervent wish that Brett might come to know his mother's story and that a reconciliation be effected, especially now that the old duke was dead, he and his parents had sworn an oath to Maria that they'd never reveal her secret; and where Patrick was concerned, his word was sacred.
