Mary Brendan

by Wedding Night Revenge

  Sam recognised the inquisitiveness levelled at his sister and smiled thinly. Women never liked Annie. Poor little cow never had to say or do anything. They just never liked the look of her.

  ‘Say hello to Miss Shaughnessy, Annie,’ Sam ordered gruffly, tilting up her head to cure Noreen’s curiosity.

  His sister obeyed him, and solemn eyes set in a perfectly sculpted oval face regarded Noreen.

  Noreen gawped, entranced for a moment by the wistful child. Then she slid a suspicious glance at the youth who was by no stretch of the imagination a looker.

  The girl had a clear, pale countenance. The wispy tendrils of silky hair that had slipped free of her bonnet glowed like rich thick sherry. Her eyes, or what could be seen of them beneath those dropped black lashes, were huge and velvet brown. Sam had a good mop of chestnut hair, it was true, but there any similarity ended. His eyes were a shade of grey and his skin was lightly dusted with freckles; something else to hold against him. Why should his be unremarkable whereas hers were ugly blemishes? ‘Your sister, is she now?’ was directed snappishly at Sam.

  He sighed at the sarcasm; automatically a protective arm curled about Annie’s shoulders. He proffered their references, penned that very morning by Joseph Walsh. On the master’s instruction, of course, burned like acid into his consciousness. ‘She’s me sister,’ he stated curtly. ‘Go and tell your mistress we’re here.’

  With a sullen, sideways look Noreen did as she was told.

  Thankfully Rachel found it easy to be kind and gracious to this couple who had been forced upon her by her enemy. She’d feared she might snap and snarl at them. But now they were here, in her morning room, she felt more curiosity than irritation. She also felt an overwhelming sense of shame as she studied the girl. The idea that this awkward, nervous child might be any man’s mistress, let alone likely to tempt the urbane Earl of Devane, now seemed utterly ludicrous. Yet she had accused him of being perversely interested in her!

  A better presumption would have been that the Italian soprano would risk laughing herself hoarse at the very idea that this gauche maid was her rival.

  Annie was indeed exquisitely pretty, but excruciatingly shy. Her brother seemed to be her rock…her universe. On being ushered, by Noreen, to an audience with her, one of Annie’s small hands had latched on to one of Sam’s sleeves. Still the girl stood slightly behind him, gripping, as a talisman, that piece of dark material. Her sad eyes were lifted to his face, unwaveringly seeking reassurance. Once in a while, she darted a look at Rachel, flinching if their glances grazed, as though expecting a blow or a harsh word. As their eyes skimmed together again, Rachel gave her a welcoming smile. Annie looked startled and shuffled further behind her brother.

  ‘Your sister seems very…nervous. Do I frighten her?’

  ‘All ladies frighten her, m’m.’

  ‘Why is that?’ Rachel asked, astonished.

  Sam felt ill at ease. He should have kept his bitter comment to himself. Too late. Bluntly he expanded on it. “Cos of their gentlemen liking the look of her, which case they don’t…’

  Rachel studied him in silence for a moment, then transferred her attention to the girl’s pure, pale face. Perhaps she had been a little hasty…or naïve in thinking no woman would view the child as a threat. Sam’s cynical attitude spoke volumes: he was drawing on experience. ‘Do you mean that your sister sometimes receives unwanted attention from gentlemen? And that their ladies resent it? Blame Annie for it?’ Rachel asked gently, aware the youth already regretted his candour.

  Sam’s lips skewed into a travesty of a smile. One of his hands comforted the bloodless fingers biting into his arm. ‘Yes, m’m,’ was all he prudently allowed himself to admit this time. He looked directly at Rachel; guessed that a woman’s suspicion might soon be kindling in her mind. Much as he hated Lord Devane for crushing his dreams, he had to be fair. If it wasn’t for him, Annie would by now be beneath Arthur Goodwin’s paltry protection for a time. And after that time…then what?

  All of it was his fault. Her own brother had put her at risk from that fat lecherous pig. He’d lost his temper that day the carriages collided and stupidly drawn attention to himself. But for that folly, Arthur Goodwin might never have bothered them. So he’d tell the truth. Put his lordship straight with this woman he loved. Then never think of him or wolfhounds or a new life in Ireland, ever again. ‘Lord Devane was kind and good to both of us. Annie liked him. We both did. We would have stayed with him.’

  Rachel took no offence at the bald declaration that Sam and his sister preferred Berkeley Square to Beaulieu Gardens. In truth she would rather they were still in Devane’s employ. But not to spite the libertine this youth had championed. What troubled her conscience was that she could never match the prospects they had lost when Devane put them off.

  She no longer knew what her own destiny held; she could scarce guarantee their futures. Sam had tacitly confirmed what the Earl of Devane had told her: he hadn’t seduced Annie Smith, he had protected her and her brother. From what Sam inferred, she gleaned that degenerates hounded his sister for their own base ends. Knowledge of Connor’s generosity, his integrity where the Smiths were concerned, made her oddly angry and uneasy. It was at such variance with the way he now treated her. Yet once she had known him only behave in an honourable way…to everyone. He certainly had been the gallant major he so recently scorned in his quiet sarcastic way. She had made him rue his own goodness.

  Yet once she had loved him.

  When they had been first betrothed she had only to look at him for her knees to turn to water, for her heart to hammer wildly.

  But after months in which he seemed to spend more time with her father than with her, she’d come to think of him as dull and boring. Her father thought him a handsome, personable fellow. An engrossing companion…soon to be a son…to take about with him and show off to his cronies. Rachel had grown increasingly resentful of his absence and had also begun to suspect him too weak and placid.

  Piqued that he allowed her father to monopolise so much of his time, she would set out to rile him. But nothing seemed to upset his equilibrium. She had flirted intentionally and provocatively with other gentlemen; he’d tolerated it with equanimity. She had failed to keep appointments to go for a drive in the Park or to meet mutual friends; he’d smiled that small smile of forgiveness, conveyed their excuses. She’d yearned for a more lusty, dynamic lover. He’d kept his kisses brief and chaste, his caresses light and respectful. She didn’t want a handsome shell of a man with no power and substance…and no passion. She’d teased and tormented, wanting a flash of jealousy, a sign of smouldering desire he couldn’t control, sure it was there. Time and again she had attempted to prod into life the tiger she was certain resided within. He was a soldier, an officer decorated, so it was rumoured, for courageous sorties behind enemy lines in the Peninsula. But even his valour was shrugged aside by the man himself. She had been irritated by his modesty when he drawled in that lazy way that he’d found himself in the thick of things primarily by accident. In final frustration, she’d decided he must be a fortune hunter, more interested in her father and his fine estate—which in the fullness of time would be hers and thus her husband’s—than he was in his future wife. How very ironic. Now he had that very estate—her pride and joy—and he disdained to keep it. He had no use of it for he had inherited one of his own which was so much grander.

  Now when she demanded his tolerance, his respect, the savage in him snapped at her heels. Angry lust or cool contempt was all he now showed her. Yet the caring, gentle man he had been was still alive. That side of him had nurtured the well being of these young people. With a deep sigh she unconsciously yearned for the man she might have had. If only she could have shaped herself an idol from those appealing facets of his character…the bits she chose, how easy it would be to madly love the beast once more…

  Astonishment at acknowledging such a thought gave way to horror and must have registered in her face. She noticed
both Sam and his timid sister were watching her. Hastily she composed her features.

  ‘So you have been used to working with horses, Samuel?’ Rachel burst out briskly, scanning Joseph Walsh’s spider-scripted sentences. Somewhere in her anguished mind she wondered if it had been necessary to go to such farcical lengths as to provide references for a couple she had already consented to take on. But Connor seemed a stickler for propriety. Despite his boast that he cared nothing of gossip for himself, for he was soon away to Ireland, she wondered whether he was protecting her reputation or his own.

  ‘Yes, m’m. But I’ll work in the stables or the kitchens. Joseph Walsh…’ he indicated the letter with a nod ‘…was training me up to serve at table, only I never finished learning to be an under-footman…’

  ‘And Annie?’ Rachel looked at the girl; this time Annie held eye contact from beneath her luxuriant lashes. ‘It says here, Annie, that you have proved yourself competent as a scullery-maid and that you did some sewing for the Earl’s housekeeper.’

  After a little nudge from her brother, Annie whispered, ‘Yes, m’m.’

  ‘Good. Versatile and conscientious people are what we need here at Beaulieu Gardens,’ their new mistress said to encourage them. ‘Noreen will show you to the kitchens and introduce you to the other staff. You may partake of a little refreshment, then Noreen will show you where you lodge. By one of the clock I shall expect you to start work. Ralph Turner who drives for me, will allocate jobs in the stable or garden, and Noreen will allocate jobs and supervise you in the house.’

  Rachel suddenly felt tired, and a great desire to be alone with her troublesome thoughts. She was certainly unable to deal with any incipient personality clashes between her staff that day. Thus she elected to ignore the challenging glance that slanted between her Irish maid and the youth.

  Rachel’s solitude was to be short-lived. By two o’clock, Lucinda Saunders was sitting with her in the drawing room. Rachel wasn’t surprised to see her. In fact, she had been expecting her sooner. It had been a few days since she and Connor had emerged from his study with the space between them seeming solid with ice.

  Rachel knew that her friend had been agog to learn what had occurred to cause such a freeze. Possibly the fact that his lordship also had the mark of her hand imprinted on his lean cheek had fired Lucinda’s curiosity.

  Paul Saunders had interrupted any leading questions his wife attempted to put to Rachel on the ride home. Every time Lucinda had slid the seat to corner Rachel for a gabbled private whisper, her husband had blandly drawn them into a conversation about the fine music or the delicious buffet they’d enjoyed that evening. He’d remained undaunted by his wife’s obvious frustration and speaking looks and Rachel was seen safely indoors at Beaulieu Gardens without having scandalised her friends with any sordid details of what passed between her and Lord Devane. But now Rachel knew that Lucinda would not be put off longer from knowing why Connor had been so determined to speak to her alone that evening.

  Lucinda launched straight away into, ‘I would have been here yesterday but I felt a trifle breathless. I think the babe is trying to find a comfortable spot; either that or he’s training to be a tumbler.’ A hand massaged at her abdomen as she eased back in the comfy chair. A crafty look was shot at Rachel from beneath her lashes. ‘I hope you’re about to indulge in some girlish gossip today. You know I’m just dying to know…’

  ‘Would you bring us some tea, Noreen, please?’ Rachel interrupted quickly, noticing that her maid was hesitating by the door to help little Alan range his toys on the table.

  ‘I’ll see to it straight away, m’m,’ Noreen readily agreed.

  Noreen had barely shut the door behind her when Lucinda quickly continued, ‘My first thought when Connor took you off alone like that was that he might propose. Paul said he wasn’t sure what he might propose. I know I’m being too vulgarly inquisitive, Rachel, but we are such good friends. Did he ask you to marry him? Did you reject him again? Is that why you both looked so…so…?’

  ‘Embittered?’ Rachel supplied with a twist of her soft lips. Should she reveal the shocking, callous way he had treated her? Did it matter if she did? People everywhere knew of the shocking, callous way she once had treated him. All he wanted was what was fair; he’d mocked her, while taunting her with the deeds to Windrush. So she would be fair…and expose his cruelty as once she had shown the world her own…

  ‘He made me a proposition, Lucinda, not a proposal. Suffice to say that I no longer find the thought of being a kept woman at all appealing, or amusing. It was a mean thing to say about Philip Moncur that day, even in jest, for he’s a nice enough gentleman. But then saying and doing stupid things seems to come quite naturally to me, I’m afraid.’

  Lucinda finally closed her dropped jaw to burble, ‘Lord Devane made an offer to keep you as his mistress?’

  ‘Well, not exactly keep,’ Rachel rebutted wryly. ‘He made it clear he is soon to go back to Ireland. He doesn’t want a lengthy liaison as I understand it. In fact, I think one night might do.’ She felt a spontaneous surge of tears thicken her throat, stealing her voice. Quickly she bent to give Alan a watery smile as he surrounded her feet with soldiers. She lifted him on to her lap, stroked at his silky soft hair. With a deep breath she continued huskily, ‘He let me see the deeds to Windrush. They were in a drawer in his desk…just inches from my hand. I could have tried to flee with them. I swear that was what he wanted, simply so he could thwart me in it. You see, he has no wish to keep Windrush himself. If I agree to his terms, he’ll give me the deeds before he goes overseas. Or he’ll sell the estate. It’s my choice. Good of him, don’t you think?’

  Lucinda flinched at her friend’s dulcet bitterness. She put a hand to her mouth. Her eyes were saucer-wide as she stared at Rachel. Abruptly her features settled into easier lines. ‘He must mean just to horridly tease you, Rachel. It’s a joke,’ Lucinda mollified.

  ‘No, it’s not; he means to punish me at last. He knows I couldn’t bear the thought of strangers having Windrush. Yet, oddly, while he has it I accept things aren’t hopeless. I never before realised just how badly he was affected by my jilting him. Of course, I knew it was not nice for him…’ She choked a little despairing laugh. ‘How feeble that sounds. Of course it was not nice for him. Oh, I just mean I never realised before how much he suffered. Really suffered. No wonder his stepbrother, Jason, hates me. I’m surprised now his mother was so civil to me. I imagine she knew how terribly low it brought him.’ Conscious she’d probably been imprudent in disclosing so much, Rachel requested quietly, ‘I’d rather you said nothing of this to anyone at the moment. Once June is married and Lord Devane has gone overseas, if you must, then tell Paul.’

  ‘I should not have asked you,’ Lucinda wailed. ‘I should not have been so prying.’ Suddenly brightening, she confided with wrinkled nose, ‘I suppose I could prevaricate a bit if Paul asks too soon…’ Her conscience clear on that score, she happily resumed the topic. ‘Now I understand why you slapped his face! I couldn’t credit you would do so just to rebuff a marriage offer. Oh, I can scarce credit it. Connor seems so gentleman-like, so…so…’

  ‘So decent?’ Rachel supplied ironically.

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Agree, of course.’

  Lucinda’s round jaw sagged. Back she flopped in her chair. ‘You’ll agree?’

  ‘While I scheme at something else entirely.’ Rachel felt family pride again rampage through her, bringing its own relief. Niggling guilt about her own actions were swept aside by a torrent of filial indignation. ‘He shan’t win in this,’ she hissed. ‘Had he just insulted me, perhaps I might have accepted it as condign. June and William can be married at Windrush, of that I have his promise…signed and sealed,’ she added significantly. She paused, took a calming breath. ‘Thereafter I suppose I would have resided here permanently with my parents and Sylvie when Windrush was sold.’ An encompassing glance took in the pleasant drawing room, watched the bro
cade curtains twitch in the mild afternoon air. ‘June will, of course, move to William’s villa in Richmond, although they talk all the time of buying a country retreat…’ She tailed off.

  Sorrow for her papa and his meddling plucked at her heart. He had risked being made to look a fool for her. He had put his trust in the morality of a man who would not shrink from abusing that trust. A surge of righteous anger made her blast through her gritted white teeth, ‘The arrogant conceit of the brute! He has the gall to say to me that my father intentionally lost Windrush to him because he hoped it would throw me back in his path. He actually said he intends to foil my father’s plan to make him revive our betrothal! There will be no happy ending, the egotistical devil told me. As though I would deem a hateful mésalliance with him as a happy ending! It is too much that he also spites my papa! When I think how well my father liked him. He still does like him. Papa has no idea Connor mocks him behind his back! Oh, where on earth is Noreen with that tea!’ Rachel exploded in a stifled cry as she jumped to her feet.

  She swished to open the door, only to spy her maid further along the corridor, just disappearing in a busy rustle of starched, white cotton, through the arch that lead to the kitchens below. Rachel sighed on a frown, wondering what errand had superseded her request for tea. She sorely needed some refreshment and some distraction.

  Noreen slammed the heavy kettle on to the hob. Wafer-thin porcelain, silver spoons, sugar and cream jugs were all assembled quickly, deftly, without her once raising her eyes above table height. Her mouth was pursed to stop her lips trembling. Her eyes blinked rapidly to disperse the wetness. It wasn’t sadness, it was God’s own wrath, she promised herself as the hot prickling behind her eyes became unbearable. Quickly she cuffed at it.

  Sam Smith placed down the fork he’d buffed to a whitish gloss. He picked up another, turned it this way and that in front of his face while his eyes slid past the utensil to his supervisor. If she was aware of him, seated at the far end of the scrubbed pine table, polishing silver, she gave no sign. The cups and saucers were shuffled aimlessly about on the tray again as she glared at the kettle. Sam knew she was already willing it to steam so she could make the tea and be gone.