by The Bargain
Brett listened carefully to the tale, and when Patrick had finished, he rose to pour them each a sherry to toast his friend's good fortune.
"So," he said, after lowering his glass, "I suppose you're off to London to try to track down this sister of the child's old nurse?"
"I am, although I think I'll stay and make a few more inquiries here in Kent first. You never know when someone might recall something about what went on back then. Look at what happened with Jemmy Stokes."
Brett nodded and was silent a moment. Then he raised his eyes to meet his friend's, a somber expression on his face. "Patrick, far be it from me to spout gloom and doom, but—" he twisted in his chair and looked uncomfortable for a moment "—but it's been twelve years since—"
"The fire, yes I know, but if you think that's going to daunt my enthusiasm, you can forget it. I've had faith that the little one is alive for some time now, even before my trip to Kent, as you well know, so all the gloom and doom in the world isn't going to faze me at this point." Patrick leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees as he gazed at his friend with earnest intent. "What I would like to ask about, however, is what it is of gloom and doom that's troubling you, old man. No, don't deny it. I saw the scowl on your handsome puss when you came through that door. What's amiss, and can I help?"
Brett sighed, then met Patrick's compassionate gaze. "You're right, of course. And since you've just finished telling me your fantastic tale, perhaps you won't consider mine too incredible."
"I'm all ears, Your Grace," Patrick told him with a dramatic flourish of his arm.
"To begin with, I'm engaged to be wed—"
"Brett, that's wonderful!"
"Save your congratulations. The lady is a cold, passionless bitch, chosen by my grandfather, with a bit of urging from the Lady Margaret, before he died."
"I see." Patrick's tone was sympathetic.
"Not yet, you don't. We announced our betrothal today, and Pamela Marlowe showed up at the party."
"Oh," murmured Patrick. "I see."
"Still not yet. There is a third complication. I have under my roof just now a new responsibility. A female ward... a very young and beautiful female ward..."
"God, Brett, you don't mean to tell me—"
"Wait! You haven't heard the worst of it. Sit back in your chair, Patrick, and have another sherry while I regale you with a tale of the most dramatic coil a man ever found himself involved in...."
In as few words as possible, but omitting none of the facts that pointed a guilty finger his way, the duke told his friend of the appearance of the new ward and "hostess" in his life, beginning with the well-meaning intentions of his dying grandfather and ending with his frustrated attraction to "the chit."
"And so you see before you, my friend, a man who is promised to a woman he cannot abide, sought by a woman he no longer desires, and desirous of a woman he has wronged and dares not touch again. A pretty picture, is it not? And, if you've listened carefully, you've heard the common thread: woman! I tell you, Patrick, I'm beginning to think my grandfather was the wisest of all men alive.... Well, and just what is it you find yourself able to grin about?"
Patrick's grin grew even broader. He had long known of Brett's well-tutored antipathy toward women, but he'd also made it clear he'd never share his view. Women, to Patrick St. Clare, were the most wonderful, beguiling, fascinating creatures alive. Beginning with the mother and sister he'd adored, he'd always relished their company, frequently finding them far more intelligent, wise and talented than their male-dominated society would admit. And women seemed to recognize this affinity in Patrick, for they frequently sought out his friendship as well as his sexual favors, for his good looks and blatant virility were hard to pass by. But where Brett used women and then discarded them with nary a backward glance, Patrick frequently found his loves of yesterday becoming his friends of today.
Moreover, Patrick was not about to tell Brett something else he recognized right now, though he was sorely tempted: Brett Westmont's current dilemma, which he attributed to women, was of his own making; it was he who subscribed to taking a wife to be nothing more to him than a brood mare; it was he who ensnared and then dumped the Pamela Marlowes in his world; and it was he who'd abused this poor little ward he'd spoken of, through his own arrogance—misunderstandings or no.
Well, it would be a deucedly interesting time he'd have while here at Ravensford Hall, watching to see how his friend worked his way through this one. He wouldn't miss it for the world!
"I was wondering what was so amusing," Brett was saying.
"Oh, nothing I'm capable of explaining to you, old man," said Patrick. "But I am looking forward, ever so much, to being invited to stay for dinner!"
CHAPTER NINETEEN
"But Megan, I cannot see why you won't come downstairs and join the guests for dinner. Your position in this respect is perfectly clear: you participate as my companion, not my abigail! Those people down there haven't the faintest idea you've that status!" Suddenly Ashleigh grew thoughtful. "Oh, dear! I've just realized something.... Megan..." She turned to look at her friend who'd been helping her complete her toilette for the dinner party that was soon to commence downstairs. "Is it because you're fearful that if you join the guests from London, someone might recognize you...?" She continued awkwardly. "You know... from Hampton House, and—"
"Ah, no," Megan chuckled, "'tis not that, darlin'. Ye might not have noticed, but I did plenty o' checkin' on the duke's guests durin' the luncheon, ah, from afar, ye understand. No, it turns out the only one here who knows what I was before I, ah, retired, is Mr. Shelley—No, don't fash yerself—Percy, whom I met later this afternoon on the terrace, is the last person who'd give me away. He even told me so! Said he was delighted that a poor Irish lass had worked her way through the insufferable English class barriers. No, Ashleigh, ye've naught t' fear on that score."
"But then, why?" Ashleigh questioned. "If no one who matters recognizes you, and they're only acquainted with you as my companion, what could be keeping you from joining us?"
Megan looked at Ashleigh's reflection in the cheval mirror as she worked at the row of tiny buttons at the back of her dinner gown. "Faith, darlin', what ye say may be true—now— they don't know I work as yer abigail—but they could find out—just as soon as Iron Skirts or Lady High-and-Mighty decided t' inform them!"
"Oh, piffle!" Ashleigh exclaimed as she stamped a delicate foot on the carpet. "And shock their guests that someone so lowly could have found her way to their precious dinner table? I cannot think it likely they would risk such a scandal."
"Hmm," murmured Megan. "Perhaps, but that's not the whole o' the problem. Are ye fergettin' me own difficulties in dealin' with the miserable company o' those two oinseach? 'Tis hard put I'd be t' keep from settin' me skean t' their bloody throats the first time either o' them looked at ye crosswise!" She slipped the final button through its delicate loop and stepped back to join Ashleigh in viewing the finished product they saw in the mirror.
Tonight Ashleigh wore a beautifully cut Empire gown of flowing white silk, its diaphanous folds of a texture so fine, Madame Gautier had been begged by Ashleigh, when she first saw it, to employ double, and even triple, layers of the fabric in several places for the sake of modesty, if not warmth.
White, especially for evening, the modiste had assured her, would be all the rage this season. When the first English ladies had flocked over to Paris following Napoleon's abdication and exile, they were astonished to find the French still wearing the classical white instead of the myriad colors that had permeated the Englishwoman's wardrobe in recent years. On the other hand, the Frenchwoman's skirt, instead of falling straight to the ankles like her counterpart's across the channel, now flared out slightly at the hem. The impact of this news on the fashionable world of the haute ton, Madame Gautier had declared, would be an instantaneous flood of orders for "blanc wiz ze flare."
Of course, there was still much about the gown to proclaim
it far advanced beyond the white Grecian mode of a dozen years earlier. Its tiny puffed sleeves were still more substantial than the almost nonexistent sleeves Ashleigh recalled her mother wearing in an era when feminine gowns more often resembled nightdresses in their scantiness of cut and fabric. And they were almost met on her upper arms by the tops of long silk gloves that hugged like a second skin. Also, while it was true that a wide band of exquisite lace, set across the daring décolletage, barely kept her generously curving breasts from spilling free, at least there was no attempt at draping these charms with a swath of fabric so sheer it had encouraged, at least among the more daring in that earlier age, an application of rouge to the nipples beneath!
Nevertheless, as Ashleigh eyed the curving mounds of flesh that rose above this gown's square-cut décolletage, she felt a blush invade her cheeks. "Megan!" she gasped. "I don't know how I could have allowed Madame Gautier to—to cut this so!" She took tense fingers and attempted to tug the band of lace upward. "How could it have escaped our notice?"
"Ah, colleen, don't ye recall ye donned it at the final fittin' minus its lace, which hadn't yet arrived from Paris? Suzanne told us 'twould be added later, just before 'twas delivered."
Ashleigh's blush deepened as she recalled the moment, realizing at last that she'd deliberately put out of her mind the image of her standing before the dressmaker's looking glass with the twin peaks of her breasts peeping over the edge of her neckline. "Ohh, Megan, yes—yes, now I do, but—but the lace! I thought it would be ever so much more... generous!"
Megan chuckled. "And here I'd begun t' think ye were becomin' a newly sophisticated woman o' the ton!"
Megan's choice of words hit Ashleigh like a blast of cold air. Sophisticated! Why it was the very facet—or the lack of it— she'd bemoaned earlier today that kept her feeling inadequate in dealing with the polished ladies and gentlemen of the duke's set!
Thoughts of her employer intruding on her reflection sent an additional surge of emotion through her slender frame. After the disturbing scene earlier in this chamber, she'd found herself more than a little shaken by what had transpired between them. She had not enjoyed recalling her inexplicable capitulation in his embrace, had not wanted to examine too closely what this implied about her own inclinations, and so, in the hours since then, she'd kept all introspection at bay, attributing her puzzling behavior to just one more aspect of a severe lack of sophistication on her part when it came to dealing with the experienced members of the ton, and especially its men!
Now, as the sounds of Megan's remark echoed in her ear, she made up her mind to something: if she was to measure up to what was expected of her as the duke of Ravensford's hostess—and she had no illusions that she had any alternatives— she must begin to develop the degree of worldliness she'd witnessed in those about her, downstairs and in the gardens this afternoon; she must outgrow the naivete of her sheltered upbringing; and she would begin this very night—by wearing this gown!
Ashleigh gave an assertive nod, causing the mass of shining ringlets Megan had fashioned atop her head to bounce and shimmer in the room's flickering candlelight. "Megan, you're absolutely right. I am sophisticated enough to wear this gown... or at least I shall begin to be... more so, that is, once I go downstairs in it." She cast one final appraising glance at the mirror, then turned to face her friend. "Well, what is it you find so amusing?" she demanded, seeing the redhead's mouth begin to work as a twinkle enlivened the green of her eyes.
"Ah, mavourneen!" exclaimed Megan, allowing a grin to break free at last. "'Tis just the determinin' look in yer eye as ye made yer momentous decision. So 'tis sophistication ye crave, is it?" She eyed the much-discussed neckline, then glanced at the blue-enameled clock on the mantelpiece. "I'm thinkin' 'twould not be a bad idea t' be wearin' this gown t' give yerself a confident feelin' o' increased worldliness when ye venture forth downstairs this evenin', but I tell ye what—'tis early yet! Why don't ye relax here for a wee bit while I run t' me chamber and fetch that shawl Suzanne made me? 'Tis made o' the same fine lace as—" her eyes fell on Ashleigh's neckline again "—as that. Then, at any moment that ye might be findin' yerself... chilly, why ye could just... cover up a wee bit!" She finished with a broadening of her grin and one arched, questioning red eyebrow.
Ashleigh returned the grin. Shawls were highly in vogue now, and she accepted the perfection of Megan's solution with not a little of the ever-growing admiration she'd come to have for the redhead's quickness of wit. "Megan," she said, "I shudder to think what the men who run this country would do if they realized just how narrowly they escaped their fate by the accident of birth that made you female... and Irish. If you'd been born an Englishman, you'd be running this country by now, I'm sure of it. Yes, of course I'll wait while you run to your chamber, but while you're there, I wish you'd change into that gold silk ensemble for evening. It has a matching shawl, too, if I recall."
Megan was halfway to the door, but she turned to give her friend a rueful smile. "I'm thinkin' 'twould take nothin' short o' some earthshakin' event t' make me change me mind on that score, lass. Now sit and relax. I'll be back in a wink." And with a wink of her eye, she left the chamber.
* * * * *
Patrick had finished bathing and changing into evening attire with the help of Brett's man, Higgins, and was ready to seek out the duke before venturing downstairs. Glancing briefly at his reflection in a wall mirror he had to stoop to peer into, he gave a small smile of satisfaction at his reflection. The stock that rose above the high points of his starched collar was immaculate and perfectly tied. Brett's man was a veritable genius, he decided, and he began to realize why it was that certain members of the set of dandies of the ton vied with each other almost to the point of bloodletting over the services of a good valet, often resorting to stealing these talented fellows away from one another with enormous briberies and the like. Higgins had accomplished the tying of this particular stock in only a single try, and the results were far handsomer than anything Patrick himself might have aimed for. And the deep blue cutaway he wore over his silver-embroidered white satin waistcoat had arrived from its pressing immaculate.
"Well, Patrick, old boy," he grinned as he saluted himself in the mirror, "you look to be a fine enough specimen of a man to tempt the ladies tonight, I'll wager. Let's see, then, what's afoot." Opening the door to his guestchamber, he stepped into the hallway and crashed, head-on, into a quickly moving figure.
"Here, now, I beg your pardon, but—" Patrick gazed down at the apparition that sat in indignant shock on the polished marble floor amidst a swirl of jade-green skirts and found himself tongue-tied for the first time in his life. There, shaking a head sporting a wealth of fiery-red curls, as if to clear it after being knocked silly, was the most ravishing creature he'd ever laid eyes on!
"Well," demanded the beauty. "Are ye goin't' stand there all evenin' or is it a gentleman ye're callin' yerself?" Megan continued to glare at the lengthy pair of strong, muscular legs encased in deep gray pantaloons and matching Hessians with silver tassels as she reached out a hand in an attitude of expecting to be helped up.
Patrick stared in awe for a moment at the beautifully shaped hand with its long, slender white fingers, then reached to clasp it and draw the redhead to her feet. But in the next instant he found himself awestruck once again as he gazed into the most incredible pair of slanting green eyes set in a face that could have been a symbol for the beauty of woman incarnate.
Finding herself again on her feet, Megan had a moment to blink before looking up into the bluest eyes she'd ever seen on a man. Moreover, the fact that she actually had to gaze upward to meet their stare was no small thing in her experience, and she found herself curiously arrested by it. Then, as the seconds ticked by, with neither of them moving a muscle as they stood there, gazing at each other, she began to realize it was not only the eyes or the size of the man that was so compelling; from the top of his curly black hair to the tips of his well-polished Hessians, this was
a man any woman would look twice at and then some! When she'd at last taken all this in, a slow, wide smile etched itself across her wondering face.
Seeing the smile, Patrick found himself in danger of choking on his own bated breath until, letting it out with a whoosh, he quickly met it with his own, saying, "Irish... you're as Irish as a shamrock!"
"Aye," Megan responded, "that I am, and proud t' be, I can tell ye, Mr....?"
"St. Clare... Patrick St. Clare, ma geersha, and who might you be?"
"Faith, ye speak the tongue yerself!" Megan exclaimed. Faintly she realized that this dashingly handsome and virile stranger still held her hand clasped in his own giant one, but she made no move to disengage it. "Me name's Megan."
"Megan," murmured Patrick, sounding much as if the sound of it were a prayer ushering in a miracle.
Megan, too, remained transfixed as she continued to look into his eyes. "O'Brien," she whispered at last.
"Megan O'Brien... a beautiful name, macushla, and who might you—"
"Patrick!" exclaimed a deep male voice from down the hallway. "I was wondering if you were ready."
They both turned to see Brett heading toward them.
Broken from his dazed trance, Patrick released the hand he'd been holding and wondered if the heat he felt about his ears meant he was blushing—something he couldn't recall doing in years.
"Ah, I see the two of you have met," Brett told them as he drew near. Then, at their silence, he glanced quickly at the face of each before adding, "Um... need I further the introductions or—?"
"Oh, no, no," assured Patrick. "Miss O'Brien's just told me her name... though perhaps, on second thought, it might help to learn how you've come by her acquaintance."
