My Favorite Bride

by Christina Dodd

  “You’re being sarcastic about my gender.” Which he didn’t really mind. He didn’t want her to find traits to admire in the other men.

  “Not at all. The gentlemen are very welcoming.” She gestured toward the women. “With Lady Marchant’s help, the ladies have been, too.”

  “How could they not be charmed?”

  “Very easily, I fear. Ladies are not so distracted by a fashionable gown or a pretty accessory.”

  He wanted to laugh. Was she really so innocent? Yes, he knew she was. “Believe me, my dear, it is not your gown or your accessories that the men appreciate.”

  Her brow wrinkled. “You mean . . . they appreciate my figure? That’s hardly likely. I’m quite thin, with scarcely a curve.” She seemed to realize she’d been curt, for she added, “But thank you for the compliment.”

  If they had time alone, he could convince her of his appreciation. But the officers, the lords, and the gentlemen who had stayed out of their conversation out of respect for him found their respect wearing thin. They stomped and pawed the ground, grumbling under their breaths. After a glance at them, William gravely said, “Allow me to warn you. The younger officers are back from India, and rather wild after their return. Please view any suggestions to stroll in the garden or admire the stars with great suspicion.”

  “Unless I want to end in a wrestling match?” Her eyes flashed with irritation, although how he’d irritated her, he didn’t know. “Believe me, men in every class use the same sorry lures. I’m wise to them all.”

  Jealousy stabbed at him. “Have you had a great many men try to seduce you?”

  “A great many, yes. None have succeeded. None will succeed. As I told you before, I am single, and pleased to remain so.” Looking him over with withering scorn, she said, “Nothing has changed my mind.”

  She meant, of course, that he hadn’t changed her mind. But she’d also inadvertently told him she hadn’t found the other men attractive. He tamped down his satisfaction, but she must have seen it, for she stared, perplexed.

  Duncan strode up. “Miss Prendregast, it’s so good to see you again.” But he wasn’t paying attention to her, and Duncan always paid attention to women—unless he was working. “William, Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh have arrived. You’ll want to greet them yourself.”

  William swiveled to see Lady Featherstonebaugh hobbling across the lawn from the house, leaning heavily on her cane.

  For the first time today, he touched Samantha. Just her gloved hand. Just once, lightly. A spark sprang between them.

  Her brown eyes widened. She took a hard breath.

  In a soft tone, he said, “Remember, you’re not so experienced as you would like to imagine.”

  As he strode toward Lady Featherstonebaugh, he thought he heard Samantha murmur, “Nor am I as innocent as you would like to believe.”

  “Pardon me, gentlemen.” After luncheon the next day, Samantha excused herself from the little group of gentlemen. “I have duties to perform.”

  “Colonel Gregory doesn’t need you.” Lieutenant Du Clos smiled gallantly, if a little edgily. He hadn’t taken her determined indifference with any amount of grace. “He’s talking with Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh.”

  “It’s not Colonel Gregory who needs me, but one of his children.” Samantha curtsied and marched toward the house. Why did the lieutenant think her duties concerned William? Had she somehow betrayed her interest in Colonel Gregory? Had she smiled too sweetly, gazed at him too fondly?

  She rubbed her head. This being in love was a difficult business to handle.

  In love.

  She tripped on the step going into the house. The footman caught her arm. She thanked him and kept walking, putting one foot in front of the other, hoping there were no more obstacles, glad no one remained inside the house, for right now she could no more navigate difficulties or make conversation than she could fly.

  In love. With Colonel Gregory? It wasn’t possible. That would be the height of stupidity.

  All right. She admitted it. She was attracted to him. She found his figure alluring, his conversation stimulating, and the way he kissed inspiring. But that was all it was. A pathetic fascination with the way he kissed. That was why she watched his lips when he spoke, and imagined them on her skin. That was why she fretted half the night over what to wear on every occasion. She was trapped by his magnetism, nothing more. This constant heartache, this irresistible desire to dance in the sunshine, this need to see him night and day—this was not love. Not with a man so far above her station. Not with . . . not with any man. She knew better. She did know better.

  Entering the empty music room, she went to the pianoforte. Opening it, she ran her fingers over the keys. When played as a background, the magnificent instrument blended in divine harmony with Mara’s voice. Colonel Gregory would be proud of his daughter tomorrow. Her voice was everything he had promised.

  Samantha frowned. But Mara herself . . . the child seemed distracted. Frightened. Overwhelmed by the challenge of singing for so many people.

  Samantha understood. When Samantha’s father had first decided she should earn her living, she had been four years old, standing on the street corner, grease smeared on her face to make her look more pathetic, singing for her supper. She’d been so frightened her voice had quavered, and no one gave her money. And she starved that night, for Da wouldn’t feed a parasite. She’d gotten over her stage fright in a hurry, but she’d never forgotten the soul-shaking fear.

  Her father. Yes. Whenever she imagined herself in love, she should remember her father. Half Welsh, half mad. Those nights when he drank, and came in to fall unconscious on the bed. The days when he was sober and surly, searching for tuppence for his gin. The times when he was smiling, clean, well-dressed, bringing presents to his daughter and his wife. As a little child, she couldn’t understand why her mother cried when he was so wonderful. Only later did she understand he’d found a woman, a rich woman to cajole and pleasure. He’d been handsome, her father, charming when he chose to be, and when she thought how he had ended . . . she put her hand over her eyes as if to shut out the memory.

  Yes. When she softened with longing toward Colonel Gregory, she would remember Da.

  She heard the clatter of boots on the hardwood floor, and hastily she lowered her hand.

  Mara appeared in the doorway, cheeks flushed. “I’m sorry I’m late, Miss Prendregast, but a team of us were playing ball.”

  “That’s why you’re wearing your old clothes.”

  “Mrs. Chester insisted. She’s already had to mend a tear on my new gown when I put too many rocks in my pocket and tore it loose.” Mara appeared remarkably unrepentant.

  Colonel Gregory had been right about Mrs. Chester. The little lady held absolute control over the children, no matter how many children there were, and her practical sense had proved infallible. Samantha no longer worried about Colonel Gregory’s daughters; they were in good hands, at least for the duration of the party.

  Samantha ran her fingers down the keys. “Shall we sing?”

  Coming to the piano, Mara warmed up, then launched into a rendition of “Barbara Allen.” Her voice was high and pure, singing the old ballad with touching innocence. Then, in the middle of the second stanza, she stopped and faced the piano. “Do you know where my father goes at night?”

  Samantha dropped her hands into her lap. Her heart sped up. What did Mara mean? Had she seen William kissing Samantha? “Have you seen your father go somewhere at night?”

  “Yes! Father rides out on his horse every night.”

  “Oh.” Samantha’s breath calmed. “You mean—when he catches robbers.”

  “No—worse than robbers.” Mara sounded absolutely matter-of-fact.

  “Who could be worse than robbers?”

  “I don’t know, but he caught one last night.”

  He’d caught more than a robber. He’d caught Samantha. In love. She was a fool. “Good for him,” she said to Mara. “It’s won
derful that your papa is so brave and keeps us all safe. You must be very proud of him.”

  Mara shrugged. “Yes, Miss Prendregast.” The child watched her, head tilted, toe tapping.

  Samantha’s suspicions stirred. “How did you find out about your father?”

  Mara lifted her chin. “I was hiding under the desk in Father’s study, and I heard him and Mr. Monroe talking.”

  “This morning?”

  “Yes.”

  Times like these tested a governess to her utmost. Samantha held out her arms. “Come here, dear.” When Mara came and nestled next to her on the piano bench, she embraced the child and smoothed her hair back from her forehead. “Do you know you’re not supposed to eavesdrop?”

  “Yes, but I wasn’t supposed to be in the study, either, so I had no choice.” Mara shrugged. “Father would have yelled at me.”

  That made absolute sense to the child and, sadly, to Samantha. “Yes, well . . . don’t hide like that anymore.”

  “I promise.”

  “It would be best if you didn’t tell anyone else about your papa’s activities. That would be dangerous for your father.” Samantha’s mind swiftly built a scenario in which William confronted a robber, was caught off guard, shot, writhed in the dirt of the road while the robber lifted his other pistol—

  “I know that,” Mara said scornfully. “I only told you. I can tell you anything. Can’t I?”

  Mara’s quavering voice yanked Samantha’s attention back to the girl in her arms. She recognized trouble when she heard it. “Absolutely. Did you want to tell me something else?”

  “Yes . . . no.”

  “Do you want me to guess?”

  “No.” Pushing her way out of Samantha’s arms, Mara took her place beside the piano. “I want to sing.”

  There was no forcing the child’s confession, but when Mara had finished the melody, Samantha tried to reassure her. “You’ll sing tonight, and you’ll be the hit of the party. I promise. And your father will be so proud of you.”

  Mara’s face fell. “Miss Prendregast?”

  “What is it, dear?”

  “About . . . about . . . it’s about . . .” Mara took several audible breaths.

  “When you sing tonight, you’ll forget all your fears and your troubles, and you’ll be transported to a different plane.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I believe that, but . . .” Mara looked at Samantha with hopeless eyes. “It’s not that.”

  “Then what?”

  “Miss Prendregast, I can tell you anything.” Mara’s voice rose an octave. “Can’t I?”

  The same question. Samantha stood and wrapped her arm around Mara’s shoulders. “Absolutely.”

  “Even if it’s—” A stampede outside the door stopped Mara. She stared at the door as the other Gregory children burst in.

  “We’ve come to practice our song,” Agnes said.

  “We’re going to practice! We’re going to practice!” Kyla and Emmeline jumped up and down and clapped their hands.

  Mara broke away from Samantha. “Yes, I love to practice our song!”

  Samantha wanted to call her back, but . . . she looked all right now. Hopefully everything would work out for Mara, for Colonel Gregory—and for Samantha.

  Samantha had only to remember who she was, and where she’d come from, and never, ever admit her love for the children’s father to anyone.

  Including herself.

  Chapter Nineteen

  That evening, in the music room, as those horrible Gregory children sang some pitiful song, Lady Featherstonebaugh nodded agreeably and tapped her toe. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, that was she. A woman of wit disguised as a dear old grandmotherly type. At least for now. She touched her split lip. At least until her bruises healed.

  She hated Pashenka with all her heart. If not for him, she would soon be in Italy where she had money in the bank, a false identity, and the sunshine to heat her aching bones. Aching because he’d knocked her down, the blackguard, trying to force information from her.

  It had taken a long, painful half hour before Pashenka had revealed his hand. There was a party over at Colonel Gregory’s. A party of high-ranking military men, ambassadors, and even an official from the Home Office or two. Pashenka, the weasel, didn’t want to take a chance that someone knew of his defection. He wanted her to go. She and Rupert. He promised that if she did this, and came back with enough information, he would allow her to live.

  So here she was, sitting in the back row, listening to a bunch of children caterwaul while their father beamed proudly. Today she had sat all alone in a comfortable chair in one of the alcoves in the great hall, and sat alone in an uncomfortable chair in one of those stupid tents for luncheon. After supper, she would don a handsome ball gown so she would have the privilege of watching other people dance.

  Her split lip and aching hip kept her smiles to a minimum, and that was unusual for her. Usually she flattered and smirked and socialized with the best of them, and always kept her ears open while she did. Now she had to sit like an old woman and wait for people to come close, and speak of matters better kept secret.

  And actually . . . they did. As always, the generals and the diplomats failed to realize her canny intelligence and saw only an old woman who frequently nodded off, and never seemed to hear well. They spoke of troops in Crimea and Egypt, of spies, of explosions and munitions. In their words she heard the clinking of gold. Or she would . . . if she could safely escape from Pashenka.

  Rupert sidled down the row of chairs to her and sat down so closely, his leg rested on her posh lavender velvet skirt. Damn the man. He could always be depended upon to call attention to himself—and to wrinkle her clothing. In a stage whisper, he asked, “Valda, where’s that map?”

  Incredulous, she stared at the line of people sitting before her. Quietly she commanded, “Cease your blather. We can’t talk here.”

  “No one can hear us. The children are singing.”

  She stared at him in disbelief. That was why he’d never become a preeminent spy. He saw what he wanted, acted as he pleased.

  His voice rose a little. “I’m your husband. I’m the man, and I say you should give that map to Pashenka.”

  “For pity’s sake.” Lady Marchant sat in front of them, and three of the other decorative women. “They can hear you.”

  “They’re not paying any heed, and even if they were, they wouldn’t understand.”

  As if she were listening to some husbandly wit, Valda curled her lips at the corners and kept her voice low and well modulated. “Never underestimate the power of gossip. If, in their ignorance, they repeated this conversation, we would have trouble.”

  “I don’t care.” But Rupert lowered his voice. “Just give Pashenka the map, or there’ll be more trouble.”

  “For whom?” She examined him: his hooked, thin nose, his long fingers, his skinny calves in their old-fashioned hose. “And why? He doesn’t know about the map.”

  Rupert opened his mouth, then shut it.

  Grasping his arm, she dug in her fingers. “Does he?”

  His eyes shifted from side to side.

  “You told him?” Her voice rose.

  “If you give him the map, he won’t hurt you again.” Ever since Rupert had seen her slammed against the wall, he’d been more sober, more aware of the danger stalking them. Oh, he would still abandon her in a minute if he thought he could flee without repercussions. He wasn’t clever enough to do it, and so he played his part for Pashenka. He watched her, for if she escaped without him, he was dead.

  “No,” she said sarcastically, “if I give him the map, he’ll kill me . . . us.”

  “No, he won’t. He promised he wouldn’t.”

  She smiled in chilly disbelief. Sliding her hand into her pocket, she fingered the pistol she’d stolen from Colonel Gregory’s collection, and thought how grand, how much gratification she would get, from shooting Rupert. “Until I set foot on Italian soil, I am a walking corpse—and I’
ll take you to the grave with me, Rupert, so don’t betray me.”

  “Where is the map?” he whined.

  So Pashenka was in contact with Rupert, pulling his strings, trying to make her reveal her secrets. Did Pashenka think her stupid? Once she’d given him the map, he would kill her and escape from England, and use the knowledge she’d obtained to secure his own safety.

  So. She had to make yet another plan. When she returned to Maitland, she would promise Pashenka the map. Maybe even give it to him, if he threatened her. But she would keep the secrets she’d learned at this party in her head. She’d say she would only speak to his supervisor—in Russia.

  Nonsense, of course. His supervisor would kill her with even less emotion that Pashenka, but she had to buy herself some time. Time to hatch an escape plan. And what better way to spend her time than listening to English military secrets?

  No matter what the challenge, she had always survived and thrived. She would do so again.

  She smiled. And winced as her healing lip split.

  William stood, arms folded, and listened as his children sang for the guests. They wore their jewel-toned gowns, stood with their toes on an invisible line. Lovely in a satin of so pale a pink it matched the color on her cheeks, Samantha played the piano in accompaniment, a faint smile on her beguiling countenance. When the girls had finished, they curtsied and posed while the other parents clapped, and murmured words like, “Charming,” and “Delightful.” Every one of them was beaming, seeing in the colonel’s children the promise of their own.

  At Samantha’s whispered instruction, Agnes and Vivian pushed Mara to the forefront, and Mara bowed by herself. The clapping increased, and through a haze of fatherly conceit, William heard calls of, “Brava!”

  Before the cheering had completely died, Samantha herded the girls from the music room, holding Emmeline’s hand so she couldn’t throw kisses to the crowd.