My Favorite Bride

by Christina Dodd

  Tonight, the children were hungry from their adventure, and she felt both sympathy and empathy. The scent of the food made her own mouth water.

  As the long knife sliced into the crusty brown meat, Colonel Gregory announced, “Miss Prendregast has pointed out to me I’ve been lax in my duties, so I have decided to host a party.”

  Nothing else could have distracted the girls, but that did. Every eye turned in his direction, every mouth hung open.

  And Samantha thought, No wonder he will allow me the material to make the girls new dresses.

  Then she looked at him, at his jaw, so firm it looked as if it could shatter. At his form, hard, muscled, without an ounce of fat, and held with military rigidity. At his cold, cold eyes, rimmed with dark lashes. She didn’t believe for a minute the man was acting on her advice. So why was he hosting a party?

  Catching her eye, he lifted his brows in a parody of innocent inquiry.

  She responded with exactly the same expression, and didn’t know which one of them would have looked away first, but all the girls recovered their power of speech at the same time. “When, Father?” “Who’s coming?” “For how long?” “Will there be children to play with?”

  Mitten, the butler, directed the servants to bring the bowls of parsleyed potatoes, the steaming peas, tiny dark green brussels sprouts, the savory pudding and the golden loaves of bread. The footmen circulated as Samantha helped Kyla and Henrietta, seated on either side of her, to load their plates.

  Colonel Gregory filled a platter with meat as he answered the questions succinctly and in order. “The invitations will go out at once, for the first of September. I’ll invite everyone in the district, and as many old friends from abroad and in the service as I can find. They’ll be here for three days—like old fish, after three days guests begin to stink.”

  Mitten accepted the platter, and served the older children.

  Kyla’s forehead wrinkled. “Can’t they take a bath?”

  Samantha flashed a glance toward Colonel Gregory and met his mirth-filled gaze. Warmth suffused her; she unfalteringly ignored it and patted Kyla’s hand. “It’s an adage, dear. They can take as many baths as they want. They won’t really stink.”

  “Adults always say peculiar things like that,” Vivian loudly whispered to Kyla.

  Mitten brought the platter to Samantha, then put it down hastily to catch Henrietta’s fork before it hit the floor. Samantha served herself, then helped Henrietta wipe the potatoes off her bodice while the footman brought new silverware.

  Dinner with the children was always an adventure.

  Round-eyed with dismay, Agnes said, “The first of September is only a fortnight away. How will we get ready in time?”

  Colonel Gregory helped Emmeline cut her meat. “Three days ago, I sent a letter to the countess of Marchant requesting her help.”

  A groan like an a capella chorus rose from the children.

  Swiftly he looked up, his eyes at their most glacial.

  At once the children busied themselves with their plates.

  He dismissed the servants, waited until they had bowed themselves out, then in clipped tones, he said, “Lady Marchant is an accomplished hostess, and we will all be glad of her assistance.”

  Samantha didn’t know what was going on, but she certainly understood the need to smooth things over. “I’m sure that’s true. Just as I’m sure she’ll be of great assistance.”

  Agnes blinked rapidly as if the mere mention of the lady made her want to cry.

  Samantha forked a small mouthful of peas into her mouth, chewed and swallowed. “When can we expect her ladyship?”

  “With any luck, if she has no other engagements, she’ll be here within the week,” he said.

  As if she couldn’t hold it back, Henrietta released a huge sigh.

  Samantha pulled Henrietta’s plate toward her. “Let me cut your meat.”

  “Oh!” Mara covered her mouth in dismay. “How will we get our gowns done in time for the party?”

  “I’ve hired seamstresses,” Colonel Gregory said. “Your lessons will be temporarily suspended.”

  The children cheered.

  “Temporarily,” he emphasized. “You’ll be busy getting ready to perform.”

  Agnes didn’t even bother to conceal her hostility. “Perform why?”

  Colonel Gregory looked sharply at her. “For our company, to display your accomplishments.”

  “That is what young ladies do,” Samantha said.

  The color washed out of Mara’s face. “But . . . I can’t do anything.”

  “You have a good voice,” Colonel Gregory said. “So you will sing.”

  “I can’t sing in front of . . . people,” Mara cried.

  “You sing like your mother,” he answered.

  The color returned to Mara’s cheeks in a rush of pleasure. To Samantha’s surprise, Colonel Gregory occasionally said the right thing. “Did Mrs. Gregory have a beautiful voice?”

  “Very beautiful,” Colonel Gregory said. “All of the children sing well, but only Mara has the purity and tone of her mother.”

  “I’ll t . . . try,” Mara stammered.

  “You will sing, and you will sing beautifully,” Colonel Gregory retorted.

  He spoke in such a decisive tone, Mara nodded and looked as if she believed it.

  He asked, “Now, what about the rest of you? Agnes, have you been practicing the pianoforte?”

  Agnes pushed back her chair so violently it tipped over backwards. Bursting into tears, she ran from the room.

  The other children looked from side to side, trying to comprehend what had happened.

  Samantha started to rise, but Colonel Gregory said, “Sit, Miss Prendregast, and finish your meal. You’re the last person she’ll wish to see.”

  Samantha sank back down. She supposed he was right, but at the same time she hated to leave the child alone and sobbing.

  “The housekeeper will give her warm milk and toast and put her to bed.” Colonel Gregory poured a dab of sauce on his meat.

  Henrietta’s lip wobbled, too. “But Agnes has never done that before.”

  “No. But she’s never had a governess like Miss Prendregast before, either, to teach her a much-needed lesson.” Colonel Gregory swept the children with a glance that informed them he knew of their shenanigans.

  Vivian and Mara blushed. Emmeline and Kyla scrunched down in their chairs. Defiant to the finish, Henrietta crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Don’t worry. Every soldier must learn to accept defeat graciously, and when Agnes does, all will be well.” As he spoke, Emmeline reached for her milk and knocked it over. He helped her mop it up, and when everyone had settled down again, he announced, “That’s enough about personal matters. You children know the rules. We use this time at dinner to discuss a matter of interest to all of us, and tonight that topic is—the wildlife of our area.”

  Samantha stopped eating the parsleyed potatoes long enough to glance sharply in his direction. Was he trying to educate her?

  “But, Father, that doesn’t interest me,” Vivian objected. “I want to know the newest styles in gowns.”

  “Then you should be quiet, because everyone else here is completely interested in the wildlife of our area,” he said.

  Up and down the table, the heads shook no.

  “Anyone who is not interested in the wildlife of our area can leave the table.” His cold blue eyes grew glacial. “I understand Cook has made a strawberry trifle for dessert.”

  The heads shook yes, and for the rest of the meal, even though Henrietta also spilled her milk and Emmeline dropped pudding on the sculpted oriental carpet, Samantha learned about roe deer, badgers, and squirrels. She did not say she was uninterested, although the subject engaged her only when they discoursed about creatures that might eat her. She adored trifle too.

  When the trifle was consumed and the children stood and asked to be excused, Colonel Gregory allowed them to go with a curtsy to both h
im and Samantha.

  When they had gone, he said, “Stay, Miss Prendregast. Have a glass of ratafia—or port, if you’d rather—and tell me how things are truly proceeding.”

  It wasn’t really an invitation. She didn’t think he knew how to issue an invitation. But it was a politer command than he’d previously delivered, and Samantha wanted to stay, far too much, and that was a reason to go. “I should prepare the lesson for tomorrow.”

  “Perhaps you could teach them about snakes.”

  She sat hard in her chair. “Do you know everything those children are up to?”

  He didn’t smile, but those azure, sapphire, cobalt eyes—my heavens, they were most constantly changing blue!—contained a sleepy warmth that heated her muscles and left her knees weak. “Not everything. Not always. I’m usually a step behind and an hour late.”

  She had to stop fooling herself. She wasn’t leaving the table. She wanted to sit and talk with another adult. She wanted to talk about the children, the weather, the party.

  She wanted to talk to Colonel Gregory. “Port, please.”

  Standing, he poured two glasses, and placed one full of tawny liquid before her.

  She sipped, and scarcely restrained a shudder. Port tasted like tar and burned like kerosene. “Who would drink that?” she asked hoarsely. “At least . . . on purpose?”

  He grinned. “That’s one kind. Let’s try you with this. It’s sweeter.” He placed a glass of a ruby red liquor before her.

  Cautious now, she sniffed it first. Rich, warm, heady. She sipped. “Oh.” The liquid rolled across her tongue. “That’s good. I think I like it.”

  “You’ve never tried port before?”

  She couldn’t keep the sarcastic tone from her voice. “Most employers don’t encourage their governesses to drink with them, and all rather forcibly discouraged me from raiding the liquor cabinet on my own.”

  “So you haven’t got a drinking problem?”

  She chuckled, then realized he looked somber and inquiring. Hastily she sobered. “No, not at all. Why do you ask?”

  “In India, my wife bought me a bag made of skins in which to carry liquid. The natives all used them when they traveled, and I’ve carried it in my nighttime rides about the countryside.”

  She cradled her glass in her hand. “Full of port?”

  “Whisky, Miss Prendregast. I require my men to leave their homes and travel with me in the cold and the dark. Occasionally, I share refreshment with them.”

  She almost smiled at his haughty tone, but this was serious. “Someone drank the whisky?”

  “Someone took the skin,” he corrected. “The night after you arrived.”

  Carefully, she placed the glass on the table. She’d been accused of robbery many times before, and she couldn’t bear to have him think that of her. “I don’t drink on the sly. Nor do I steal.”

  “No, of course not. You have Lady Bucknell’s confidence. She knows, as I do, that once a thief, always a thief.”

  Rage ignited and blazed behind Samantha’s eyes. Rage . . . and fear. Did he know about her checkered past? Was this his less than subtle way of keeping her on edge?

  But no. Not Colonel Gregory. He had not a subtle bone in his body. The man reeked of righteousness. So why was he so attractive?

  He said, “I flatter myself that I can read a man’s character—or a woman’s—and you’re not the kind of woman to choose such an easy, sordid way of earning a living.”

  “A wonderful compliment indeed, Colonel.” She’d heard such blathering before, from men who had never faced starvation, who had never known a moment’s want, who never faced an upraised fist or an unwanted baby. After today, she had imagined, hoped that Colonel Gregory would be different . . . but Adorna had warned her, and really, why would he be? He was a landowner. A man. She knew better than to expect anything different from him, just because he was from the country. Just because he had blue eyes and hair the color of midnight.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  Whatever else could be said about him, he was astute. Probably the result of leading English troops through the lost lands of the East. She said flatly, “You probably misplaced the skin. That’s the usual situation in these cases.”

  “Probably you’re right.” Pulling out the chair to her right, he seated himself.

  This strong, law-abiding, tradition-following officer seated himself at the end of the table beside a servant. Why?

  She pushed her chair back a little.

  What did he mean by his familiarity? Should she be apprehensive about her past . . . or her virtue?

  He stared with a little too much discernment for her comfort. She didn’t want him making inquiries about her past. She didn’t want him asking her questions she would find too difficult to answer. She had sentenced herself to a year in this place. She had to fulfill her promise.

  So she asked, “Why do you let the children get away with such mischief as mud baths and snakes in the desk? You’d have better luck keeping a governess if you put a stop to them.”

  Still he considered her.

  She tried to stare him in the eyes. But she couldn’t quite; her past, her disillusionment with him, and most of all this continuing, discomfiting attraction she felt, made her glance down at the table, up at his right shoulder, sideways at the gold-framed mirrors that decorated the dining room, and back at his chin. She fixed her gaze there, and watched his lips move as he answered her. “I’m frequently away, and if the governess can’t handle any situation that arises, she’s of no use to me.”

  “I suppose.” She considered the stains on the white tablecloth, stains put there by his children. “Who is the countess of Marchant?”

  “Teresa is a lovely lady, a friend of my wife’s.” He twirled his glass and smiled fondly into the port as if he were looking into the countess’s eyes. “She’s been a great help to me since my return to England. She’s been urging me to get back into society, so I know she’ll be glad to assist with this party.”

  “Oh.” A chill slithered through Samantha, and she straightened in her chair. She had known there had to be an ulterior motive to giving this party. He’d given her one she could understand—he had decided to court Lady Marchant and was going about it the best way he knew how, with the gift of his home as an enticement. This certainly explained why the children were unhappy. They would welcome no one to take their beloved mother’s place.

  That didn’t explain why Samantha was unhappy, but she wouldn’t think about that. “Will the children eat dinner with you when the countess is here?” Taking another sip of port, she savored the aromatic flavor.

  “Not during the party, but otherwise . . . of course.” He managed to look blank. “Why wouldn’t they?”

  She didn’t know exactly how to explain the obvious. “They . . . spill milk.”

  “Of course they spill milk. My daughters spill milk all the time. The house is awash in milk. I’m surprised we haven’t floated away.”

  Samantha gurgled with surprised laughter. “Which is why most gentry don’t dine with their younger children.”

  “So why do I?” He placed his palms flat on the table and leaned toward her. “Is that your question, Miss Prendregast?”

  No wonder he’d managed to hold her so firmly that night on the road. He had the most masculine hands she’d ever had the pleasure of observing, long-fingered and broad-palmed, and the nails were clean and shaped. The back of his hand was large and heavy, sprinkled lightly with dark hair and invested with authority and power. She could see the might of him in the veins and sinews, and she suffered that annoying curl of sensation in the depths of her abdomen. A blush climbed her cheeks to her forehead. She, who had never before blushed. What did it mean?

  An inner voice mocked her. You know what it means. But fiercely she turned her mind away. She was far from home, among strangers, and she saw in one man security and strength. That was all. “Most gentry don’t allow their children to learn their manners wit
h them.”

  “I’m a busy man. I don’t get to see my children as often as I wish. I can almost always eat dinner with them, and there is no one better equipped to train them than their father.”

  “Unique,” she whispered.

  He did as he wished, not as everyone else did, and that made him dangerous to her, for whom family union was a shining beacon that beckoned like a chimera. She’d spent her early life peeking into candlelit windows at families like this one, gathered around a table, eating and laughing and talking. It was a vision she’d decided was not for her. Many times she had decided that, but always the desire to be part of a family had returned to haunt the periphery of her mind.

  How could he take her from disillusionment to a grudging admiration in so short a time?

  “You have developed a tan, Miss Prendregast, and”—his fingers brushed the tip of her nose—“a bit of a sunburn.”

  She seized the chance to get away from the table. From him. From the questions and the unwanted intimacy. Leaping to her feet, she went to a mirror. He was right. She did have color in her face, and red tipped her nose. “Lady Bucknell tells me I must never go without my bonnet, but I couldn’t resist today.”

  “It’s charming.” Then he spoiled everything with autocratic impertinence. “Why aren’t you married?”

  Samantha swung around. “What kind of question is that?”

  “You’re attractive, you’re young. Probably you’re on the lookout for a husband, and you’ll be here only as long as it takes you to find one.”

  Now she understood. Colonel Gregory was worried that, no sooner than she settled the children, she would leave and he’d be without a governess again. Pure self-interest prompted his inquiry, and she understood self-interest. “If I were on the lookout for a husband, I assure you, there are a bounty of men in London.” She seated herself again. “I have no interest in marriage.”

  “You would rather care for someone else’s children than have the security of husband and a home of your own?” His tone made his disbelief clear.