The Rebel Bride

by Catherine Coulter

  Percy turned his head with some difficulty above his high starched shirt points, to gaze wonderingly at his friend. “She is a tidy morsel,” he said only, trying to gauge Julien’s mood. As Julien’s countenance remained impassive and he offered no response, Percy said with some exasperation, “Good God, Julien, she has been in your keeping for but, what is it? ah, only five or six months?”

  “Why don’t you take her then, Percy? Cut out old Riverton. Surely she would enjoy you more than that bag of wind.”

  “Quite above my touch, as you well know, March. Unlike you, I am cursed with a father who holds a tight rein on the purse strings.”

  “Come, Percy, you know very well you could afford to maintain the fair Yvette if you were not so careless with your guineas at the gaming tables.”

  “That’s quite easy for you to say, Julien,” Percy said, allowing himself some bitterness. “In control of your own fortune and rich as Midas at eighteen—good God, it makes my dinner churn at the thought.”

  “As you will, Percy, but if you change your mind, you must move quickly, for I intend to dispense with her favors upon my return to London.”

  “Well, it is thoughtful of you to offer, March. But for the moment I and my pocketbook are quite content with less expensive pieces of enjoyment.”

  They fell into silence once again, and Julien’s thoughts were drawn back to the years he’d spent learning to manage his vast estate after his father’s early and unexpected death in a hunting accident. And, of course, there had been his ever-complaining mother. It was with profound relief that he had installed her, according to her wishes, in a cozy house in Brook Street to spend her days and evenings with an assortment of dowagers in equally comfortable circumstances.

  “I say, Julien, when do you go to St. Clair?”

  Julien pulled himself out of his memories. “Tomorrow, I think. I will expect you and Hugh toward the end of the week.”

  “And what kind of sport do you offer besides hunting and fishing?”

  Julien looked down at Percy’s expectant face and said gently, “Fresh country air, Percy, nothing more. But it is exceedingly fresh.”

  “That’s too bad of you, March. Surely you know that fresh air is bad for the lungs. All know that’s the case.”

  “Of course, we shall enjoy François’s excellent cooking to maintain our spirits in the evenings.” Julien poked the head of his cane into Percy’s expanding stomach.

  “A concession that meets my approval. Do you mind if I give François a recipe for cod with capers in black butter? My man is quite unable to get it just right.”

  Julien laughed, picturing such a confrontation between Percy and his emotional, artistic chef. “You certainly may try, but be prepared for the most comprehensive of Gallic oaths. He really does them well, perhaps even better than some of his dishes.”

  He reflected on François’s past tirades and added, “Perhaps you had best not, Percy, for I have known the good François to brandish his butcher knife with maniacal intentions. I remember a poor scullery maid who chanced to make a face when she ate one of his scones. She ran screaming for her life.”

  Percy suddenly remembered his father’s constant harping on the instability of the French. He decided it best to forget any improvements in his cod and changed the subject abruptly. “I trust we will play at cards. I expect to lose a fortune to you, you know.”

  “I keep telling you, Percy, be more careful with your discards. You stake too much on the chances of winning a big hand. It’s your head you must use, not that elusive entity you call intuition.”

  Percy ignored this advice, for he’d heard it too many times before, and said with a good deal of satisfaction, “Well, I know that Hugh will put you in your place, for a better card player I have yet to find. Then we will see how well you practice your own advice.”

  “You’re right. We shall see.” Julien grinned, his calm unruffled. “I just might prove you wrong this time. There will be nothing to disturb my concentration at St. Clair.”

  Percy refused to be drawn, his thoughts turning again to the epicurean delights he would enjoy at Julien’s estate.

  2

  Julien’s journey to St. Clair occupied the better part of two days. As he tooled his curricle at a smart pace on his way north, with only his tiger, Bladen, for company, he felt again an unsettling restlessness that even the promise of excellent shooting and the thought of comfortable evenings spent with his friends did not lessen. A faint crease on his forehead was the only visible sign that anything disturbed the earl of March. Had Bladen seen his master’s face, he would have probably thought him displeased with a new hunter or perhaps with a wager lost at cards. But he did not have an opportunity for such speculation, for the earl kept his gaze fixed on the road ahead, over the heads of his beautiful matched bays.

  As Bladen handled the payment of tolls at the various stages, brooking no nonsense from the toll takers, Julien was left to his thoughts, undisturbed.

  He hadn’t traveled to St. Clair for some months, and his visit now was prompted not by the cares of the estate but by motives he himself could not define to his satisfaction. He thought to break free of the admittedly comfortable restraints that were binding him to a round of activities that held little pleasure for him, for there was a growing emptiness that nagged at him whenever he slowed his frantic pace.

  Perhaps, he reflected, as he flicked the thong of his whip over the head of his leader, he would be able to speak to Hugh. Unlike Percy, Hugh Drakemore, Lord Launston, was an older, settled man who seemed to know his way. In their long years of friendship, Julien had never known Hugh to react with anything but an amiable equanimity to the vagaries of his fellow man. But then, what would he say to Hugh? Certainly he could not complain that he was tired of his wealth and title, for he most assuredly was not. No, it was something else, something elusive, just out of his reach.

  He had found himself looking searchingly at Percy the night before, noting the small yet obvious signs of dissipation about his eyes, the once-athletic body that was now running to fat. Percy had quizzed him often about being a fixture at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing salon, a pursuit, however, that kept Julien’s body hard and muscular. Percy seemed to devote his energies, indeed his life, to gaming, women, and drink. Now it occurred to Julien that he was being a hypocrite, criticizing his friends. How was he different from the pleasure-seeking ton, flitting about brightly in the evenings, hurling themselves into the gaiety? Surely his head ached just as abominably as his friends’ heads did the mornings after evenings spent in consuming quantities of brandy.

  Beyond making this silent observation, Julien found that this train of thought was inordinately frustrating and inconclusive. Perhaps, he thought, this visit to St. Clair was just what he needed. But his lips twisted ironically at this wishful conclusion. He was still seeing St. Clair as the place of happiness and innocent adventure of his boyhood, with dragons to slay and fair maidens to rescue, though in all truth, there hadn’t been any maidens, fair or otherwise, to rescue.

  He urged his horses to a faster pace. Fine-blood cattle, they jumped forward, a well-trained extension of his arm. They forced him to concentrate on his driving, for the road was narrow, even dangerously so.

  The slightly built Bladen hung on tightly, shaking his head. His master always drove to an inch, but he had never seen him increase his horses’ pace on such a winding, narrow road. He thought fleetingly that his master was driving as if demons were after him. He paused, alarmed by this thought, and swung his head around quickly to search the road behind them. Seeing nothing but clouds of dust raised by the curricle, he shrugged his shoulders and wondered whether demons were invisible. He turned his attention on the road ahead, thankful now more than ever that his master was an excellent whip.

  Late in the afternoon, three days after leaving London, Julien drove his curricle through the village of Dapplemoor, which lay but a few miles to the west of St. Clair. The village seemed practically empt
y save for a few ducks that swam lazily in a small pond at the center of the green.

  “Everybody be home having their dinner, milord,” Bladen said, surveying the quiet village.

  “And you’ll be having your own dinner soon enough, Bladen,” the earl said over his shoulder. “We’ll be at St. Clair in but a short time now.”

  “Aye,” Bladen agreed, reflecting with some pleasure on the meal that would be ready for him. He tightened his grip once again as his master passed out of the village and spurred his horses forward.

  Julien felt a quickening within as they entered St. Clair park. Giant oak trees lined the drive, forming a lush green ceiling of leaves. Only slight beams of sunlight penetrated the dense covering. He mused that these giant oaks would remain as they were long after the St. Clairs were dead and forgotten.

  The oaks came to an end when the curricle burst onto the graveled drive that wound around in circular fashion in front of the mansion. Julien drew his horses to a halt in front of the great stone steps.

  The last rays of sunlight cast their gold hue on the thick stone walls that rose up two stories, extending at the four corners to form round Gothic towers. Julien was seized by a feeling of agelessness, of being drawn back in time, away from the modern society of London. As he gazed at his home, he could not but respect his hard-willed ancestors who had ensured his birthright. St. Clair had been gutted on two occasions, the last being over one hundred and fifty years ago, during the interminable battles between Charles I’s Royalist troops and Cromwell’s Roundheads, but the earls of March had simply scrubbed down the smoke-blackened stone walls and rebuilt the interior. Julien knew as a simple fact that if war again ravaged England he would do just as his ancestors had done. St. Clair must never be allowed to fall into ruin.

  No sooner had Julien alighted from his curricle than the great doors were thrown open and Mannering, the St. Clair butler for over thirty years, made his way down the ancient stone steps to greet his master. Julien’s eyes lit up at the sight of his old retainer. He knew full well that the smooth running of St. Clair resulted in great part from the competence of the faithful Mannering.

  Mrs. Cradshaw, St. Clair’s housekeeper, followed closely on the butler’s heels, her plump, simple face alight with pleasure.

  “Ah, welcome home, my lord,” Mannering boomed in his rich, deep voice, bowing low.

  “It’s certainly good to be home, Mannering. I trust all goes well with Mrs. Mannering?”

  “As well as can be expected, my lord, considering the years are making us all a bit rickety.”

  Mannering beamed at the young earl, pleased that his lordship was never too high in the instep to be concerned about those in his employ. It was true that Mrs. Mannering had hidden the earl once years before when he’d unloosed all his father’s hunters into the formal St. Clair gardens. He could still remember the countess’s hysterical screams.

  “Master Julien!” Mrs. Cradshaw bustled forward and swept Julien a deep curtsy.

  Julien encircled the small, plump woman in his arms, a wide smile on his face.

  “Your prodigal has returned, Emma. Is it too much to hope that there will be some blueberry muffins beside my plate this evening?” He gave her a gentle hug and released her.

  “Fancy that, Edward,” she said, turning to Mannering. “Master Julien never forgets his blueberry muffins. It’s a good lad you are.”

  “Indeed this lad would never forget. Moreover, François will not be arriving until well after dinner tonight. Far too late to turn up his artistic nose at my tastes.”

  “What can you expect from those Frogs? Why, I had it on the best information that the Frenchies are so ignorant the ladies crush up blueberries and rub them on their eyes.”

  “Why, Mrs. Cradshaw,” Julien said, “I have it from my best sources that the French think blueberries fit for only pigs and Englishmen. And perhaps as coloring for the ladies’ eyelids.”

  She laughed and laughed, lightly tapping him on his arm.

  “Now, Emma,” Mannering said, “his lordship looks worn to the bone and it’s time we got everything ordered away for his comfort.”

  He turned to Julien and continued formally, servant now to master, “Your rooms are all ready, my lord, and since I do not see your valet—” he paused slightly to leave no doubt that he found Timmens an unnecessary encumbrance “I myself will attend your lordship tonight.”

  Julien was amused by the rivalry between his two households but managed to maintain a serious expression. Poor Mannering. If he only knew that Timmens considered himself quite put upon to be dragged into the wilds of the North, into the company of persons he considered to be outlandishly uncivilized. Julien gave a brief moment’s thought to the dusty state of his normally gleaming Hessians. He could almost hear Timmens’s high, reedy voice reproaching him. It was remarkably irritating.

  Julien nodded his agreement to Mannering and made his way through the great front doors, past several footmen and two giggling maids who had peeped around a corner to peer at him.

  “I always feel that I should be removing my armor rather than a meager cloak and hat,” Julien remarked, as Mannering gently removed the many-caped greatcoat and the beaver hat.

  “Indeed, my lord, isn’t it just grand?” Pride rang in his voice, perhaps as much as in the earl’s.

  Like many great houses of its age, St. Clair opened its oaken doors directly into a magnificent hall, whose walls were covered with ancient tapestries and brightly lit flambeaux. Suits of highly polished armor stood upright around the great room. Julien had always the impression that at a moment’s notice they would spring forward into action to defend St. Clair, and as a boy he had joined them in many an imaginary battle. A wistful smile played over his lips, and it was with a conscious effort that he turned his attention to Mrs. Cradshaw.

  “I find myself quite famished. Could I have my dinner, with, of course, the blueberry muffins, in about an hour?”

  “Certainly, my lord.” She gave him a sideways glance as if to remind him that he was no longer among that rackety pack of good-for-nothing servants in London, who could not be trusted to take proper care of his lordship.

  Julien strode to the main staircase, a dark oak affair that dominated a goodly portion of the hall. He touched the ornately carved railing, aware that it glowed shiny and bright under the careful ministrations of Mrs. Cradshaw. He slowed his step halfway up the stairs, turning his gaze for a moment to the portraits of past earls and their wives on the wall beside him. They had been a prolific line, he thought, mentally adding to this number of portraits the scores of others that hung in the gallery. The portraits reminded him that the St. Clairs had inherited father to son in an unbroken stream of earls from the mid-sixteenth century until the present, an unusual occurrence in itself. Julien could readily imagine his father hurling abuse at his head for all eternity should he not marry and produce the necessary male child. It had seemed rather absurd to trouble himself with such thoughts, for he was young and quite healthy, certainly more so than his nominal heir at present, a distant sickly cousin who would become the eighth earl should Julien depart this world without a son.

  On his next birthday Julien would be twenty-eight, a reasonable enough age to take a wife and beget a future earl of March.

  He was certain that this decision would please his Aunt Mary Tolford, sister to his mother, who had been voluble on the subject of his marriage from the moment he had passed his twenty-fifth birthday. He could always count on her, after all formal amenities were done, to look at him with narrowed eyes and inquire after his plans to modernize the nursery wing at St. Clair. Over the past three years whenever he had crossed the portal of her rather dark and airless house in London he knew that in the drawing room he would face a nervous young miss, elegantly clad, pale with anxiety, awaiting his inspection.

  Julien looked up, surprised that he had reached his room. A footman appeared and quickly flung open the massive door. Like the hall below, the master bedc
hamber was amazing in size and filled with heavy furniture that dated from Tudor times, when that particular St. Clair had been the second Viscount Barresford and the fifth Baron Hedford. It had crossed his mind to wonder how the diligent Mrs. Cradshaw managed to move the ponderous pieces in order to sweep beneath them. But it was the huge canopy bed that Julien most appreciated. The Tudor St. Clair responsible for its construction must have been a giant of a man, for the bed was nearly seven feet long and almost as wide. Julien could not be displeased at this, for he himself was six feet tall and suffered unending discomfort at inns and at his friends’ houses.

  While Mannering directed footmen in the preparation of the bath, Julien walked over to a brightly burning fire and eased himself into a large leather chair. He negligently loosened his cravat and with a sigh of comfort stretched his long legs out before him.

  What more could a man wish for? he wondered lazily. Somehow the thought of a wife’s domestic chatter intruding on the majestic silence of this ancient chamber was unimaginable to him. In any case, he thought with a grimace, its sole purpose would be to grate on his nerves.

  Having done justice to Cook’s innumerable dishes, Julien rose, sated, and walked from the formal, rather somber dining room to the sixth earl’s library. Julien never felt quite at his ease in this room, for it was uniquely his father’s. All Tudor influence had been swept away, replaced by pale-blue-satin hangings and light, delicately carved French pieces from the last century. Lush, light-blue-patterned Aubusson carpets covered the cold stone floor, and even the massive carved mantelpiece had been removed and replaced by a light-colored Italian marble one. He could still picture his mother, a descendant of a long, proud heritage of drafty castles in the North, casting scathing comments at her husband’s folly. Since his father’s death some ten years ago, this room, and indeed all of St. Clair, was Julien’s alone, to do with as he pleased. But he had vowed long ago that the library would remain just as it was, the only tangible expression of his father’s taste at St. Clair.