To Catch a Bride

by Anne Gracie

  “Don’t tell me the smell is as delicious,” he said dryly.

  She laughed. The port reeked of rotting fish, seaweed, and acrid mud. “It’s odd that it smells more fishy and sea-like here than it does at sea. But it’s interesting.”

  Two sailors rowed them toward the landing. Seabirds called from invisible locations and muffled sounds floated across the water. “Sounds echo so mysteriously in fog,” she commented as they were rowed ashore. “It’s like another world.”

  “It’s also blasted inconvenient. Mind how you go,” he said, helping her ashore. “The steps will be wet and slippery.”

  He walked them into town at a cracking pace. Ayisha had almost to run to keep up with him. She was given no time to explore Portsmouth, had barely enough time to get her land legs back before they were heading out of town in a carriage that he called a yellow bounder.

  In a matter of minutes he’d arranged everything; hired the carriage and postilion, sent Higgins off to collect his curricle from Harry’s place and meet them at Cleeveden, and collected English money from the bank.

  The only thing that slowed him for a moment was the sight of Ayisha shivering in her cotton dress and shawl. He’d whirled her into a shop and five minutes later whirled her out, now wearing a soft woolen cloak in a deep rose color, lined with green silk, trimmed with white swansdown around the hood, and with a swansdown muff to match. Ayisha loved it.

  “Your grandmother will no doubt enjoy buying you clothes more suitable for the climate,” he told her as he helped her into the carriage.

  Ayisha nodded. She was looking forward to it. There were so many beautiful things in that small shop.

  “Is there some reason for your hurry?” she asked as they trotted out of Portsmouth. She could see no reason for haste; the ship had taken more than four weeks to sail from Alexandria, nobody could possibly be expecting them.

  “I want to make it to Winchester tonight. If this fog extends far inland it’ll slow us considerably.”

  “What’s at Winchester?”

  He gave her a slow-burning look. “A very good inn.”

  A very good inn. She felt her cheeks warming and could not help but smile. He’d missed her. Joy bubbled up in her. She’d missed him, too, missed sleeping beside him, entwined with him, breathing in the scent of his skin, feeling the warm, relaxed power of his big body. She missed waking up to be greeted with that quiet, deep, “Good morning, sweetheart” and the kiss that invariably followed. And the lovemaking that followed that.

  She understood now why Laila missed being married so badly. In those last weeks on the ship, Ayisha had tossed and turned in the narrow bunk in Mrs. Ferris’s cabin, warring with herself; her body warring with her mind. Her body ached for him. Just one thought or glimpse of him was enough to cause her body to tingle and clench deep inside. She lay awake for hours, thinking how easy it would be to slip down from her bunk and run the short distance to Rafe’s cabin . . .

  Now, in one terse phrase, with one burning look, he’d conveyed that he’d felt the same. He’d missed her.

  The carriage hit a pothole and Ayisha bounced, nearly sliding off the seat. He steadied her, drawing her against him.

  “That’s why they call these things ‘yellow bounders,’ ” he told her. “I would have preferred a larger vehicle, but there were none to be hired.”

  “I don’t mind the bouncing,” she said. “And I especially like this window.” She gestured to the wide glass window that ran across the entire front of the carriage. “It lets me see where we are going and all the wonderful sights.”

  “What wonderful sights?” he asked. “There’s nothing but fields.”

  She laughed. “English fields,” she reminded him. “So tidy in green and brown and yellow—all in patchwork, with lovely hedges, and all so much greener than I expected—I cannot wait for spring and all the flowers. And the villages are so tidy and pretty and so very different—look at that house with its neat, black wig.”

  His lips twitched. “Thatched roof.”

  “It looks like a wig. It’s all so English, you see, and fascinating to me.”

  “I’m more fascinated by what’s inside the carriage,” he said and brushed his lips over hers. But then they slowed to pass through a village and a number of people peered curiously in at them. “No privacy at all,” he grumbled, straightening, but he kept his firm, possessive hold on her. The care he took of her warmed her almost as much as the feel of his magnificent body. She pressed closer.

  They stayed like that for most of the journey, Rafe sprawled, relaxed, his long legs crossed in front of him, explaining the various things that caught her attention, and sneaking kisses when he could.

  Ayisha snuggled against his side, encircled by his arm, marveling at the greenness and dampness of England and basked privately in the good fortune that had brought this beloved man to her and made him want her. She watched the lush green countryside of England flash past her and counted the hours to Winchester with the very good inn.

  But twenty miles before Winchester, the carriage broke an axle and they were forced to put up instead in a small, wayside inn, where there was no private accommodation: only two rooms containing several beds, one for men, one for women.

  The axle was replaced overnight, enabling them to make a good start the next morning. It was a cold day and they traveled in companionable silence. Rafe stared out of the window with a grim expression; taciturn, no doubt because his plans for the previous evening had been ruined. Ayisha watched the passing countryside with Cleo on her lap, stroking the little creature absently. While also regretting the lost opportunity for making love, she was growing increasingly nervous about meeting her grandmother for the first time.

  She wouldn’t tell her grandmother the truth until tomorrow, she thought. Allow herself a day of being simply a granddaughter, without the complications.

  Rafe was confident the circumstances of her birth would make little difference to her grandmother; he’d said so several times. He was sure her grandmother would love her. She hoped he was right.

  He was so strong and self-sufficient himself that he couldn’t understand how important it was to her that her grandmother liked her, how much Ayisha needed to belong. This country was very beautiful, and she’d grown up hearing stories and dreaming of England, but it was also very strange to a girl who’d grown up in heat and dust and bright, pitiless sunshine.

  They reached the small town of Andover by mid-morning, where they stopped for a short time to change horses and refresh themselves.

  Shortly after they left Andover, Ayisha saw a signpost flash by. “Foxcotte!” she exclaimed.

  “What?”

  “I just saw a sign to Foxcotte. Wasn’t that where you used to live?”

  “My grandmother’s house, yes. The village of Foxcotte is close by,” he said in a bored voice. “I haven’t been there since I was a boy.”

  “But I thought you said—don’t you own it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why haven’t you been back?”

  He shrugged. “Not interested.”

  “Who lives there now?”

  “Nobody.”

  “You didn’t rent it out?”

  He gave her a cool look. “No, why should I?”

  “No reason,” she said, amazed that anyone could own a house they didn’t visit and didn’t use. It seemed very wasteful to her, but it wasn’t her business. “Will we live there after we’re married?”

  “No, we’ll live in my London house,” he said curtly.

  She nodded, a little disappointed. She rather thought she’d enjoy living among all this lush green countryside, but of course, if he hated Foxcotte, there was nothing more to be said. It seemed very strange. She’d gained the impression he’d been very happy living with his grandmother. That he hadn’t gone back there since he was fourteen augured strong feelings.

  “We’ll be at Penton Mewsey soon,” he commented. “Cleeveden is just beyond it.”r />
  The two houses must be very close,” she said, to cover the tumult of butterflies that had started leaping in her stomach at his words. “Cleeveden and Foxcotte, I mean.”

  “Yes, about five miles apart. That’s how my grandmother and yours knew each other so well as girls.” The carriage slowed, the postilion turned his head and made a gesture to Rafe, who nodded. The carriage turned into a gateway and bowled briskly up a smooth gravel drive.

  “Welcome to Cleeveden,” said Rafe. “Your family home.”

  Nineteen

  Cleeveden was a large, elegant stone house with an impressive portico, flanked by a dozen or more Doric-style pillars. It was set on a smooth rise of lawn in the middle of an elegant park. It looked like a house from a painting, not one in which real people lived.

  “It’s a new house,” Rafe told her. “They demolished the old one and built this one when they came back from India. Only the park remained, but even that was redesigned.”

  Ayisha barely took in what he was saying. It was much bigger and much grander than she’d expected. She’d imagined her grandmother in one of those pretty cottages they’d passed, not in a large, stone . . . temple. She bundled Cleo back into her basket with suddenly nerveless hands.

  “Does my hair look all right?” she asked Rafe, brushing the short, dark locks with her fingers. “She’ll think I’m a boy, some sort of uncivilized savage. I wish it had grown more.” She straightened her clothes, trying to smooth the travel creases from her dress.

  “Stop worrying, you look beautiful,” he said and gave her a swift kiss. “She’s going to love you.”

  He’d sent a note on ahead the night before, thinking an elderly lady might need time to adjust to the happy news of the imminent arrival of a long-lost granddaughter.

  The carriage pulled up at an imposing stepped entrance. Gripping Rafe’s arm for support, Ayisha took a deep breath and went forward to meet her grandmother. She pulled the bellpull and waited.

  After what felt like an interminable wait, the door was opened by a butler. His gaze ran over them without a flicker of expression. He addressed himself to Rafe. “Good morning, Mr. Ramsey, miss. Please, enter. Lady Cleeve received your note yesterday, sir, and is expecting you.”

  Ayisha’s grip on Rafe’s arm tightened as they entered the house and she looked around her. It still looked more like a temple than a home. The entry hall was large and imposing, marble paved and lined with statues. A sweeping set of wide, marble stairs rose at the end of it, curving gracefully upward. Overhead a domed cupola let in light.

  “The postilion will require refreshment and the horses need attending to. We also have baggage,” Rafe said, and with a flick of a wrist the butler sent a couple of footmen out to attend to things.

  “Miss, if you care to accompany this maidservant,” the butler said, indicating a waiting maid. “Lady Cleeve has issued instructions that you be attended to. No doubt you also need refreshment,” the butler said.

  “Oh, but—” Ayisha began, ready to say she needed no refreshment, that indeed she couldn’t swallow a thing.

  But the butler continued, “Lady Cleeve wishes to speak to Mr. Ramsey in private first.”

  Ayisha glanced at Rafe, a hollow feeling in her stomach. This was not how she’d thought it would be. If Ayisha’s grandchild arrived, she would have been in the hall to greet her—if not on the steps—not having private discussions with other people first.

  “Miss Cleeve and I will see Lady Cleeve together,” Rafe said firmly.

  “Her ladyship was most insistent,” the butler said.

  “I said, we will both—”

  “That’s very thoughtful,” Ayisha interrupted Rafe quickly, seeing he was about to make an issue of it. “Go on, Rafe. I need to make use of the conveniences. I’ll join you shortly.” She needed some time to think.

  “Then I’ll wait until you’re ready,” he said, folding his arms.

  “No, go ahead, please,” Ayisha said. “Don’t keep my gr—Lady Cleeve waiting.”

  Rafe gave her a searching look. “Are you sure?”

  “Very sure,” Ayisha said, feeling anything but.

  “Lady Cleeve awaits you in the drawing room, sir,” the butler said, indicating the room. “I shall announce you.”

  With some reluctance, Rafe followed. Ayisha went with the maid, who led her to a small room off the entry hall.

  “There’s a necessary in here, miss,” the girl told her, “and some warm water to wash with. After that, I’m to take you to the kitchen for a cup of tea and a bite to eat.” She gave Ayisha an embarrassed, half-apologetic look.

  Ayisha knew why. The kitchen was no place for a welcome guest. It was an insult and the girl knew it.

  “Where is the kitchen?” Ayisha asked calmly, determined not to show any hint of distress. She hadn’t asked to come here. She’d been brought here at Lady Cleeve’s request. And she would not drink her tea in the kitchen.

  The girl pointed. “Down there, miss, through that green baize door.”

  Ayisha looked. There were several doors. “Do any of those lead outside? It’s just that I have my cat with me and I think she would appreciate a patch of dirt in which to do her business.”

  “Shall I take her out for you, miss?”

  “No, thank you, she’s unsettled enough. I’ll take her myself.”

  “Very good, miss. If you turn right down that narrow passage at the back there, then turn left, it will lead you to a back entrance. Only staff use it, mind, but . . .” She trailed off uncomfortably.

  “Thank you,” Ayisha said. “There’s no need to wait. I will join you in the kitchen when I’m ready.”

  The girl nodded and disappeared through the green baize door. Ayisha felt hollow and apprehensive. Why was Lady Cleeve behaving like this? She didn’t even know Ayisha wasn’t Alicia yet . . .

  She stiffened her spine. If her grandmother had changed her mind, Ayisha could bear it. Even as a starving child in Cairo, she’d never once descended to begging in the streets, and now that she was in England she refused to beg for crumbs of affection.

  A moment later the butler emerged from the drawing room and went through the green baize door to the kitchen area. Ayisha tiptoed back down the hall and listened at the drawing room door.

  “—and when I found out the girl in the drawing was not Alicia, but Henry’s bastard—well, it was too late to recall you. You’d already embarked for Egypt.”

  Ayisha froze. How could Lady Cleeve possibly have found that out already?

  “She is, all the same, your only living granddaughter,” said Rafe in a tight voice. “The circumstances of her birth are not of her making.”

  “She’s an opportunist, come to get what she can.” Her grandmother sounded so certain, so implacable.

  Something inside Ayisha shriveled.

  “Rubbish! Good God, madam, I had to practically threaten her to get her to come here.”

  Ayisha bit her lip.

  “A pity you did—”

  “And in any case, what if she did come to better her life? Why shouldn’t she? She’s your son’s daughter, your flesh and blood—and she’s been abandoned to earn her living in Cairo as best she could from the age of thirteen! It’s a disgrace.”

  “Well, exactly,” Lady Cleeve declared righteously. “And I beg you will not sully my ears by describing how she earned that living.”

  Ayisha leaned against the doorjamb, her eyes closed in pain as the harsh words washed over her. She didn’t know how it was, but somehow, her grandmother’s mind had been poisoned against her.

  “Madam, you try my patience sorely.” Rafe’s voice was as cold as a whiplash. “From the day her parents died, Ayisha lived disguised as a boy! Why? To prevent male attention, not solicit it. She earned what little she did by working: running errands, selling pies and bread in the streets, and collecting firewood. Living always on the brink of starvation.”

  There was a short silence, then Rafe continued, “ The disgra
ce was your son’s. He should have made better provision for his only daughter, taken better care of her.”

  Ayisha heard a ladylike snort. “I saw her from the window when you arrived; she looks like no boy I ever saw. Depend on it, my dear Mr. Ramsey, women of this order know how to pull the wool over gentlem—”

  “She is of no ‘order,’” snapped Rafe. “Ayisha is unique, and she is my affianced wife.”

  “What? You can’t possibly marry the girl! Good God, man, but her mother was a slave!”

  The words hung in the air. The silence stretched. Aisha couldn’t breathe. How did Lady Cleeve know? It was the one secret Ayisha had kept from Rafe.

  She could tell from the quality of the silence that it mattered. Mattered a great deal. Trembling, with knuckles pressed against her teeth, Ayisha waited for Rafe’s response.

  “A slave? What evidence do you have of such an accusation?” For the first time since she’d met him he sounded less than certain.

  “Ahh, I see you didn’t know.”

  Why hadn’t she told him? Ayisha lashed herself silently. She’d meant to when she was telling him the truth about herself, but he’d shocked her by renewing his marriage proposal and it had driven everything else out of her mind.

  After that, there hadn’t seemed to be an appropriate moment to say, “Oh, and by the way, my mother was a slave. Papa bought her from her former master.”

  She ran shaking hands over her face. She hadn’t told him later because she was a coward. It wasn’t Mama’s fault she’d been taken by Cossacks as a girl.

  Ayisha’s illegitimacy hadn’t mattered to him, and she’d convinced herself Mama’s slave status wouldn’t, either, not because she truly believed it, but because she was so happy and she didn’t want anything to spoil it.

  Because the daughter of a slave was a slave, too. No matter who her father was.

  “It makes no difference to me who her mother was,” Rafe said coldly.

  Not true, she thought sadly. The length of that silence had told her the news had shocked him. Deeply. Now he was just being stubborn, unwilling to admit he’d made a mistake. Papa had been just the same.