Almost a Bride

by Jane Feather

  “Oh?” Her well-defined eyebrows lifted. “Do you have friends in Kent, then?”

  He shook his head, and his eyes glittered in a way that made her skin prickle anew with the sense of incipient danger. “No,” he said, “but I do have a house in Kent. A very pleasant house, it seems.” He gestured expansively at his surroundings. “I intend to make a protracted stay. I must discuss business affairs with the estate manager, and I hope to meet my tenants, and of course the household staff. The country is much pleasanter than London in the heat of the summer, as I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  Arabella felt as if the ground had become quicksand beneath her feet. “I seem to be very obtuse this morning,” she said slowly. “It must be the heat. I was under the impression that you had given me permission to remain here until I can make other arrangements.”

  He bowed. “That is so. You must remain as long as it suits you.”

  “And . . . forgive me, this is where I seem to be very obtuse . . . you intend to remain under the same roof?” Again she raised her eyebrows.

  “Precisely. You are not in the least obtuse, my lady. You have a perfect understanding of the situation.” He smiled an easy, friendly smile that this time did nothing to dissipate the sense of danger.

  Anger flared once more in her tawny eyes. “You seem to delight in making game of me, Duke. I fail to understand what I can have done to deserve it. Excuse me.” She took a step towards the door.

  Jack moved ahead of her, laying a hand on the door frame. Both dogs growled in unison, hackles rising. “Be quiet and sit,” he ordered them, and to Arabella’s chagrined astonishment they obeyed, although their eyes remained fixed upon him.

  “I am not making game of you, Arabella,” he said. “Believe me, I would not do such a thing. You shared this roof with your half brother, did you not?”

  She decided to ignore the informality of his address as she’d ignored the hand kissing and folded her arms in an attempt to look as if she was in charge of this situation, as if nothing could catch her off guard. And indeed every fiber of her being, every nerve ending was alert and ready to react to whatever was to come next in this bizarre encounter.

  “He was a very infrequent visitor,” she responded, involuntarily remembering those ghastly occasions when Frederick would descend with a party of raucous debauchers and take over the entire house. In pure self-defense she’d taken to her own apartments and not emerged until they’d gone.

  “And no one considered anything in the least improper in that,” he stated.

  “No, of course not,” she said impatiently. “Frederick was my brother, I was his dependent living under his protection.” Or at least on sufferance, she reflected grimly, but she kept that to herself.

  “Well, it seems to me that I now take Frederick’s place,” he pointed out. “Your brother left you in my care.” He tapped his pocket where the faro document rested. “It’s clearly stated that the earl of Dunston handed over to me all his responsibilities as well as his assets.” His lips curved slightly as he added, “I consider you, Lady Arabella, to be an asset.”

  Arabella maintained a stony expression and his incipient smile disappeared. Jack was not one to waste his charm on an unresponsive audience. He continued in level tones, “But I also consider you to come under my protection. I stand in place of your brother. If no one objected to your sharing a roof with Frederick, then how could they possibly object to your living under the protection of his surrogate?”

  The absurd logic of this was Arabella’s undoing. Her eyes widened abruptly and with a curious stifled sound she turned away and walked to the window, where she stood, one hand stroking her mouth as she gazed out at her beloved garden. Jack was suddenly alarmed to see that her shoulders were shaking. He crossed the room in a few quick strides.

  “Arabella . . . ?”

  She turned to face him and he saw with confused astonishment that she was convulsed with laughter, her eyes glowing like topaz. “Clearly,” she said on a choke of merriment, “you haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Lady Alsop.”

  He shook his head, a gleam of responding amusement in his own eyes now, although he had no idea what he could have said to produce such a reaction from her. “No, I have not had that pleasure. What am I missing here?”

  “Lady Alsop is the wife of Viscount Alsop of Alsop Manor,” Arabella intoned solemnly. “She is a lady of some considerable consequence and most unbending morality, generally considered to be the arbiter of fashion and social conduct for some twenty miles around. One does not risk her displeasure lightly.”

  Jack nodded slowly, the gleam in his eye intensifying. “I detect a note of disapproval in your tone, madam. Is the lady in question perhaps a little too aware of her great consequence?”

  “You have it precisely. Lavinia Alsop was the daughter of a country solicitor, but she generally manages to disguise her less than aristocratic origins with an overweening self-importance. By sheer bullying and browbeating she has established herself as the bear leader of our county Society.” Arabella now sounded more contemptuous than amused. “Once she hears of Frederick’s death and your arrival at Lacey Court, she’ll descend upon me within minutes. I can expect a visit from her by tomorrow morning at the very latest.”

  “I look forward to meeting her and explaining the situation,” Jack said gravely.

  Arabella couldn’t help herself. She had always had a heightened sense of the ridiculous, and usually at the most inopportune moments. This was probably one of them but she couldn’t resist the image. She alone was more than a match for Lavinia Alsop, but to combine forces with the duke of St. Jules . . . now that would be a battle royal.

  “You know,” she said with a reluctant grin, “I’d almost be willing to fall in with your plan just to see her face when you explain that there is no real difference between a lone woman sharing a house under the protection of her brother and sharing a house under the protection of a strange man.”

  “Well?” He opened his hands in invitation.

  She hesitated as reality came crowding in. She had no desire to leave her home, her garden, her orchids, at least not without preparation. The orchids required daily attention, although Weaver, the head gardener, would follow her instructions, just not with the kind of loving attention to detail that helped them thrive. She knew she would always be welcome at the Barratts’. Meg Barratt had been her dearest friend since childhood and Sir Mark and Lady Barratt treated Arabella like another daughter. But it could only be a temporary solution. Their resources were stretched thin enough as it was. And there was always the vicarage. David and his wife would welcome her with open arms for a short while, but with six children underfoot they had little enough room for visitors. Besides, the idea of trailing around her friends, asking for charity, was anathema.

  Brutal honesty forced her to acknowledge that the search for a permanent solution to her sudden loss of hearth and home would take some time and would inevitably involve compromises. She had some distant relatives of her mother’s in Cornwall but they’d had only the briefest of formal contact since her mother’s death. Letters would have to be written . . . begging letters, she thought with a grimace.

  Jack leaned his broad shoulders against the mantel, watching her deliberations. She had a very mobile face and it wasn’t difficult to follow the progression of her thoughts. He had expected her to bear some physical resemblance to Frederick, but he could see nothing that would betray their blood connection. He had half hoped that the resemblance would be striking. It would have made it so much easier to have kept his distance, to have maintained the purely pragmatic parameters of the relationship he had proposed. But he was aware more of relief than dismay at her complete dissimilarity to her half brother. And that, he reflected, was not the most sensible reaction.

  The reflection prompted him to a rather sharp interjection. “Well?” he said again.

  She looked up from her deliberations, slightly startled by the suddenness of the reminder. Th
ere was a shadow across his face now, the light in his eyes quenched so that they were more like pewter, flat and rather cold, and uncomfortably penetrating. And then, almost as if he was aware that she had caught him in an expression that wasn’t useful for his purposes, his countenance was transformed. He smiled and his eyes gleamed again.

  “Come, Arabella, let us rout this Lady Alsop together. You know that what I propose is not totally without precedent. If I were your guardian, there would be no question of impropriety. And you have chaperones aplenty in the house. Housekeepers, personal maids, an old nurse-retainer maybe?”

  “I am well past the age for guardians, or even chaperones, Duke,” she reminded him. “I’m eight and twenty, almost in my dotage, and most certainly on the shelf.”

  She sounded so satisfied with this description that he couldn’t help laughing. “Then, by definition, my dear, you are able to make your own decisions. If you decide there is no impropriety in these arrangements, then who’s to gainsay you?”

  “Lady Alsop,” she said swiftly, adding with a considering frown, “but since I am, as I say, well past marriageable age, my reputation is not a matter for concern.” She made up her mind abruptly. It was an unconventional solution but she had never been a slavish follower of convention—witness her spinster condition—and the house was large enough to accommodate two people without their having to set eyes on each other if they so chose. She could simply do what she’d done during Frederick’s visitations and keep to her own apartments.

  She said with an accepting shrug, “Let the cats gossip as they may. But you may rest assured, my lord duke, that I will not trespass on your time or your attention. I’ll begin to make other arrangements immediately. It just might take a few weeks, the post being as slow as it is.”

  She turned towards the door and then thought of a minor nuisance resulting from her present situation. There would be many of them in the next weeks as she came to terms with the realities, she reflected ruefully. “Since my brother is no longer . . . well, would you be so good as to frank my letters, your grace?”

  “In any way I can be of service you may count on me.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and meant it. She laid a hand on the door latch, the dogs expectantly at her heels.

  “But may I trespass on your time a little longer?” Jack asked, arresting her as she opened the door.

  She turned, her hand still on the latch of the opened door. “How so, sir?”

  He replied with a return to a formality that matched her own. “I am not familiar with the house, madam. Perhaps you could show me my apartments. My horses need to be stabled, my grooms and coachmen shown their quarters, my valet introduced to the housekeeper and the steward.”

  “I’m sure your horses will have been unsaddled and baited, Duke,” Arabella said. “My household runs . . .” She paused, corrected herself with careful emphasis, “The household runs at the bidding of Franklin and Mrs. Elliot. I don’t think you will find cause for complaint.”

  “I wasn’t looking for any,” he protested mildly. “Merely requesting a tour of the house. And perhaps this afternoon you would accompany me on a ride around the estate.”

  These plans didn’t fit with her image of two people sharing a house at a distance. Matters needed to be made clear from the outset. She said coolly, “Mrs. Elliot will show you the house and Franklin will send a message to Peter Bailey, the agent, to come around this afternoon. He’ll show you the books and will escort you and be able to tell you anything you need to know.”

  “I see.” He pushed himself away from the mantel. “I assume, then, that you know little of how the estate is managed.” As he expected, the comment brought a tinge of pink to her high cheekbones.

  “On the contrary,” she said. “My brother had no interest in the business side of the estate. I work closely with Peter—” She stopped, realizing the trap he’d sprung so neatly. “I’m sure you’ll find that Peter will give you all the information. I have rather a lot to do this afternoon . . . planning my departure.”

  “Ah, yes.” He nodded as if in agreement. “But perhaps you could spare a few minutes now to show me the house, take me to my apartments . . .”

  Arabella wanted to refuse, but she couldn’t bring herself to be so ungracious. Had she been his hostess it would have been perfectly natural, but there was something uncomfortable about the idea of showing the new owner around the home she’d lived in all her life and after her father’s death had always considered to be primarily hers, despite Frederick’s official ownership. And yet it was not an unreasonable request, even if she questioned his motives for making it. He seemed to be trying to persuade her that he had her best interests at heart, but she couldn’t banish the suspicion that the truth was quite the opposite. The duke of St. Jules had no intention of doing her any favors.

  Doubt assailed her. Was she playing with fire here? But even if she was, she told herself firmly, she was clever enough to keep from burning her fingers. Besides, what real choice did she have?

  She offered a distant smile and said, “By all means, sir. Follow me,” and left the library, the dogs keeping pace at her side.

  The square-beamed hall was deserted, although she had the feeling there were hidden watchers. There was an almost palpable sense of portent in the air and every member of the household would be curious as to what was happening. She would talk with Franklin and Mrs. Elliot after she’d performed this unpleasant task of welcoming the new owner of Lacey Court. She set a foot on the first step of the staircase, and became aware that the duke was not behind her. She glanced over her shoulder. He was standing in the open front door in a yellow beam of sunlight that fell across the waxed oak floor.

  “It seems my entourage has been attended to,” he observed, turning back to the hall.

  “Did you doubt it?” she demanded with a snap. “I assured you that would be the case.”

  “Yes, so you did,” he agreed with a careless smile. “But I always prefer to verify things for myself.”

  At this rate she was going to run into the arms of the relatives in Cornwall with cries of delight, Arabella reflected dourly. “I assume you’ll be taking my brother’s apartments, Duke?” she said, striving for a neutral tone as if the subject was of no particular interest.

  “They belong to the master of the house?”

  “Yes,” she said through set lips.

  “Then that would appear to be the most suitable disposition for the master of the house,” he observed pleasantly, crossing the hall towards the staircase with a quick, loose-limbed stride that reminded her of a stalking jaguar—not that she’d ever seen a stalking jaguar, but she imagined the big cat would have something of the same rippling muscularity and deceptively relaxed posture of the duke of St. Jules. And there was that indefinable blade of menace that flashed now and again behind the gray eyes . . . the jaguar stretching out his claws as he yawned to reveal the strong white teeth—

  A discreet cough came from the shadows beneath the stairs and Arabella impatiently dismissed her fanciful train of thought as Franklin emerged into the barred sunlight of the hall. “My lady, I understand from his grace’s servant that his grace intends to remain at Lacey Court overnight. The man wished me to direct the duke’s party to suitable accommodation.” Every line of Franklin’s lean frame expressed both offense and anxiety. His encounter with the duke’s manservant had obviously ruffled his feathers and his sense of what was right and proper would be outraged by the idea of a strange man sleeping in the house without the sanctioning presence of the earl of Dunston.

  “Yes, that is so, Franklin,” Arabella said calmly. “I’m sure you’ll know just how to make the duke’s attendants comfortable.” Her hand rested on the newel post, and its smooth familiar roundness helped to ground her as she continued in the same level tones, “Lord Dunston died a few days ago in London. His grace now owns Lacey Court. I’m sure he’ll wish to talk with the household at the earliest opportunity, to explain matters full
y.” She looked at the duke for confirmation.

  Jack inclined his head in acknowledgment and said civilly, “I would be grateful, Franklin, if you and—Mrs. Elliot, isn’t it?—would come to the library at three o’clock this afternoon. We can discuss then what changes, if any, I will want made in the running of the household.”

  Franklin stared at Arabella, his expression stricken, his mouth slightly open. “Lord Dunston dead?” he murmured.

  “Yes,” Arabella said.

  “Mourning,” Franklin said in the same dazed tone. As always in moments of crisis, he found solace in practical details. “Hatchments . . . put up over the door immediately. The household must go into mourning . . . you’ll receive visits of condolence, my lady . . . the funeral? Will it be here or in London?”

  Arabella took a deep breath. In the morning’s turmoil she hadn’t given thought to any of the conventional rites that must be followed. How was Frederick’s death to be accounted for? A suicide couldn’t be buried in hallowed ground. The truth would bring utter disgrace on the family name, but how was it to be hidden?

  The duke cleared his throat and she turned questioningly towards him. “Your brother . . . Lord Dunston . . . left me, as his heir, clear instructions as to funeral and mourning arrangements, Lady Arabella. He didn’t wish you to bear any of the burden. He desired a private burial to take place immediately upon his death and I saw to that in London before I came here. It was his dying wish that there should be no period of official mourning and I’m sure you would want to honor his deathbed request.”

  Franklin gazed in bewilderment at the new owner of Lacey Court. “How did his lordship die, your grace?”

  “A duel,” Jack said promptly. “He died of his wounds. And he was most explicit about the arrangements for his funeral.”

  “I see,” the steward said, frowning down at the floor. He and Mrs. Elliot had often predicted just such a death for the earl, but the proprieties should still be observed. He shook his head. “It’s most irregular, my lady.”