The Harem Bride

by Blair Bancroft

  The Harem Bride

  by Blair Bancroft

  Published by Kone Enterprises

  at Smashwords

  Copyright 2011 by Grace Ann Kone

  For other books by Blair Bancroft,

  please see http://www.blairbancroft.com

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

  Chapter One

  Shropshire, England, February 1812

  Ping. Ping. Ping.

  Penelope Blayne winced. She was already suffering guilt over asking the postboys and the long-suffering horses to forge on through a cold driving rain, and now this audible sign that the rain had turned to sleet lowered her spirits still further. They should have racked up for the night at the last posting inn, but Mr. Farley, her Aunt Cass’s solicitor had given her so little money, she feared she would not be able to pay the shot. So here she was, bowling along in the dark on rough rutted roads through sleet that would likely turn to snow, risking herself, her maid and long-time companion, Noreen O’Donnell, and the well-being of the poor exposed postboys and their team in a mad dash to get to exactly where she did not wish to go. Namely, Rockbourne Crest. A Shropshire house undoubtedly as daunting and unwelcoming as its owner.

  Ping. Ping. Ping, ping, ping, pong!

  Penny stifled a groan. The sleet was worsening. She pulled aside the curtain and peered out the window, searching for a light, any light. She could not allow this journey to continue another moment. If they didn’t end up in an icy ditch, the postboys, and likely the horses as well, would fall prey to an inflammation of the lungs, and it would be all her fault.

  Only a veil of icy pellets met her gaze. The post chaise and its passengers were as alone as if they were lost at sea or attempting to cross the Arabian desert. Swiftly, ruthlessly, Penny shut out the explosion of memories triggered by her unfortunate stray thought. Now was definitely not the time to remember Arabia or the Ottoman Empire. Indeed, never was the proper time for remembering the Ottoman Empire.

  Rockbourne Crest. Penny failed to stifle a groan. Noreen O’Donnell stirred in her sleep, then settled once again into the corner of the chaise’s one forward-facing seat. Thank goodness for that, Penny sighed. Noreen deserved her much-earned rest, for tonight was yet one more adventure in the long years that the Irishwoman had followed Aunt Cass and herself to the ends of the earth. Well, perhaps not that far. Their travels had stopped short of China, Japan, and the Antipodes. And even though Bonaparte had put a bit of a crimp in their plans here and there, they had managed to view a great deal of the remainder of the known world, including Jamaica and the former Colonies in the Americas.

  Penny scowled, as for perhaps the thousandth time the iniquity of her situation hit her. This was the first time, the very first time in all their travels, that she had ever had to worry about money. From the time she was sixteen, she had taken over travel arrangements for her peripatetic aunt, Miss Casssandra Pemberton. She had dealt with every sort of transportation, from Russian troikas to Greek donkeys, Indian elephants, and Moroccan camels. It was quite remarkable how far and how fast an ample amount of cash and a winsome smile could take a foreign traveler. Yes, she had always managed well.

  Except for that one unfortunate incident in Constantinople.

  Jason Lisbourne. Earl of Rocksley. Master of Rockbourne Crest.The name she was trying so hard to avoid echoed through her mind with every turn of the wheels. Jason, Jason, Jason.

  Penny wrenched her long-ago fantasies back to the unfortunate reality of the moment. It truly wasn’t possible that Aunt Cass had left her penniless. She couldn’t have. Wouldn’t have.

  Yet she had. Either Aunt Cass’s mind had gone begging during her long final illness, or Aunt Cass was a hopeless romantic, which Penny sincerely doubted as Miss Cassandra Pemberton had been a determined spinster all her life. Whatever the reason, Cassandra Pemberton had left her considerable fortune in trust for her niece until her thirtieth birthday. Thirtieth! This, the same niece who had not only made all arrangement for their journeys, but who had hired their servants, handled all disputes, domestic and foreign, paid all bills—

  Outrageous. Perfectly outrageous!

  Every penny of the Pemberton fortune was now controlled by Jason Lisbourne, Earl of Rocksley. Even pin money, Hector Farley, had assured her, would be decided by Lord Rocksley. After her arrival at Rockbourne Crest. Until then, there was . . . nothing. Mr. Farley had even committed the final outrage of putting Aunt Cass’s home, Pemberton Priory, up for long-term lease. This, too, he said, had been stipulated in Cassandra Pemberton’s will. When Penny demanded to read this offending paragraph for herself, she had discovered the truth of it. For a roof over her head and food on the table, for the clothes on her back, she was now wholly dependent on Jason Lisbourne, Earl of Rocksley.

  If she had been sixteen, instead of nearly six and twenty, she might have run away. But she had seen too much of the world, too many of its ills along with its wonders, to think that she could solve her present problem by childish flight. She would ask Rocksley to provide a modest cottage where she could live out the years until her Aunt Cass’s will considered her “of age.” Truthfully, she had had enough travel for a dozen lifetimes. A quiet life in a small village would suit her very well.

  She would not think about a comfortable, loving husband and a passel of children. Like her aunt, she would be grateful for what life had brought.

  Truly she would.

  Penny gasped and grabbed for the hang strap as the chaise made an abrupt turn. Its large rear wheels promptly skidded on the icy slush now covering the road, and for a few moments the carriage careened from side to side before coming to a shuddering halt.

  Noreen O’Donnell came awake as Penny, losing her grip on the strap, slid across the seat and landed in the older woman’s lap. “What?” Have we arrived then?” Miss Blayne’s maid and long-time companion gasped.

  “I am so sorry,” Penny said, pushing herself upright and straightening her bonnet. “I fear we may have had an accident. Are you all right?”

  “Oh, aye, ’tis indestructible I am,” declared Noreen O’Donnell, “and after all these years you should be knowing that.”

  As indeed Penny did. She had been only thirteen when Aunt Cass had rescued a frightened Noreen from the streets of Florence. The young maid had been abandoned after her mistress had, for the sake of her health, come to spend the winter in Italy, only to die as spring was bringing life back to the glorious landscape around her. “As Irish as Paddy’s pig,” Noreen always said of herself and had made an effort to keep her accent and sprightly, unsubservient attitude intact through all the years of Cassandra Pemberton’s efforts to teach her to speak “English.”

  “Be you all right, Misses?” One of the post boys, looking more like a carving at an ice fair than a human being, was peeking through a crack in the door.

  “We’re fine,” Penny assured him, “Are we stuck?”

  “Don’t think so, Miss. Just seeing you’re not hurt. Hang on a mo’ and I’m thinkin’ we’ll be off. Nearly there, we are.”
<
br />   Penny thanked him, vowing to give the postboys every last cent she had left when they were safely delivered to Rockbourne Crest.

  Horses snorted, the chaise jerked, shuddered, jerked again, and at last they crept forward. By the dim light of their carriage lantern, Penny thought she saw a gatehouse, but it was dark. No sign of an attendant. The gates were open. Odd, very odd. Rockbourne Crest was an estate of considerable size, or so she had been told. One would not have thought that the earl would be so careless. But, then, why should she expect any sensible action from Jason Lisbourne? From the gossip she had heard through the years, he was careless of everything and everybody. A Cynic’s cynic, a Rake’s rake. The living embodiment of all that was wrong with society in the Regency of the profligate George, Prince of Wales.

  “Oh, sainted Mary, mother of God!” Noreen wailed as the chaise started to slip and slide once again. Its two passengers were thrown back against the squabs as the chaise struggled up a steep hill, slithering from side to side like the undulations of a snake.

  “Shropshire is not at all like our dear Kent, but I am sure the postboys know what they are doing,” Penny declared, attempting to sound calm and reassuring when she was far from feeling either of those emotions. What if Rockbourne’s drive were on the edge of a precipice? What if they missed a bridge over one of the many ice-fringed streams they had seen earlier in the day. What if—

  What a fool she was! To quail over a bit of sleet and a road that wasn’t flat. Surely she had never been so missish, even when she saw her first Red Indian. Goodness knows she had endured far worse than bad weather and rough roads. But tonight . . . tonight was different. She had not experienced so many qualms since . . . since the last time she had seen Jason Lisbourne. Viscount Lyndon, he was then. Little more than a boy, he had been doing the Grand Tour . . .

  With a great stamping of hooves and snuffling from the winded horses, the post chaise came to a halt. “Stay aboard while I rouse the house, Miss,” the postboy called through the door.

  “Praise be!” cried Noreen O’Donnell. As exhausted and cold as Miss Penelope Blayne was, it was not the phrase she would have chosen.

  Four tall lanterns illuminated the steps to Rockbourne Crest, but all Penny could see through the sleet was the vague silhouette of what looked more like a fortress than a home. The ice-encrusted postboy continued to pound on a massive door that remained stubbornly closed. They were expecting her. They had to be expecting her. Mr. Farley assured her all arrangements had been made.

  The postboy, who was forty if he was a day, turned and gave her a look, a shrug of his shoulders, then renewed his assault on the front door of Rockbourne Crest. At last, it inched open, allowing a pale ribbon of light to illuminate the icy crystals beating down and forming a glistening carpet under foot. Penny let out a pent-up sigh of relief, combined with a quaver of apprehension, as the door suddenly swung wide, revealing . . . not the proper butler she had expected, nor even a proper footman. Not that she could see the features of the man in the doorway, but he was leaning against the jamb at a rather precarious angle, as if that were all that was keeping him on his feet.

  Oh, dear. The open gate. The lanterns. The Earl of Rocksley was having a party. And a shockingly unconventional one, too, if even the butler was barely able to stand. “Come, Noreen,” Penny announced. “It’s high time we warmed ourselves by a fire.”

  Noreen O’Donnell’s sniff expressed her disdain for their welcome to Rockbourne Crest. “’Tis fortunate we’ll be if that one can show us the way to our rooms. More like, he’ll go crashing down the front steps and break his neck.”

  “There must be a housekeeper somewhere,” Penny said, a bit desperately, as the postboy threw open the chaise door.

  The shallow stairs up to the house were so treacherous the gallant postboy had to escort the women up one at a time. When Noreen was safely inside, Penny emptied the meager contents of her purse into the postboy’s hands, while offering both her apologies and her thanks. Praying she was telling the truth, she told him to go round to the stables where he, his companion, and the horses would find both food and shelter.

  “Aye, Miss, thank y’ kindly,” the man replied before disappearing into the night.

  Thank goodness he had not seemed displeased by the amount of his vail. Miss Penelope Blayne had not traveled the world without learning the value and worth of those who served.

  Although the entry hall was actually quite chilly, it enveloped both women in a blanket of seeming warmth. “Ah-h,” Penny murmured, swaying slightly on her feet, much too tired to examine the details of her surroundings..

  “You the one what was expected?” the butler drawled, now propping himself up with one hand against the wall.

  Penny drew herself up to her full five feet three inches, somehow managing to look down her nose at the butler who towered over her even while drooping against the wall. She was aware of raucous noises tumbling down from the open gallery on the floor above. Shrieks of female laughter or purported fright rose over guffaws and excited shouts in a cacophony of male baritone and bass. An orgy? Here? Now? How could he! When he knew she was expected. Or was that perhaps why . . .? Oh, yes, most likely that was the explanation. This unique welcome had been staged for her delectation.

  Monster!

  “Mrs. Wilton don’t like to be roused out o’ her bed,” the drunken butler muttered, more to himself than to the two shivering ladies.

  “What is your name?” Penny snapped.

  For a moment the poor man looked as if he didn’t know. “Hutton, Miss,” he said finally, responding to her imperious tone by making a futile effort to straighten away from the wall.

  “Hutton, you will send for the housekeeper immediately. I do not care if she arrives here in her nightgown or her chemise. I want her here within five minutes, do you understand?”

  The two guests watched, fascinated, as the butler shoved off from the front wall and lurched across the hall, careening more madly than the post chaise as it had climbed the hill to Rockbourne Crest. When his hands finally found the bellpull, Penny feared he was clinging so tightly, he would pull it from the wall. But after jerking it several times, Hutton merely subsided, sinking slowly down the wall until he was sitting upright, his feet flat out in front him, his head flopping limply to one side.

  “Behold!” Penny groaned as the two women sank into a pair of elaborately carved oak chairs, which looked as if they might have been in the entry hall since Jacobean times. More importantly, the chairs were about as far away from the unconscious Hutton as they could get. “We are soaked through. Our bonnets are in ruins, very like our boots as well. My hair must be as plastered to my head as yours, frost still drips from my lashes, and we are both shivering so hard we could be taken for having an ague.”

  “Which we surely will if we must spend the night in this entry,” Noreen declared roundly. “Do you think the entire household is foxed?” she added on a more anxious note.

  “If that is the case—” Penny declared most awfully, her dire tone echoing through the sparsely furnished hall.

  “I assure you, Miss, I do not imbibe!” A formidable woman confronted them from the far side of the entry hall, her face as stiff with outrage as the uncompromising lines of her black bombazine gown.

  “I am glad to hear it, Mrs. Wilton,” Penny declared, allowing her eyes to drift to the peacefully oblivious form of Hutton, the butler, still seated haphazardly against the wall.

  “That one!” sniffed the housekeeper. “Stackpole, his lordship’s London butler was too fine to come to the wilds of Shropshire, so we’re stuck with him.” She nodded at Hutton’s recumbent form. “As heedless as the master and his guests, he is. The poor, foolish soul, not realizing gents may do as they please, while he may find himself out on his ear without a feather to fly with.”

  Penny noted this sad prospect did not seem to disturb Mrs. Wilton one whit.

  “Well, come, then,” the housekeeper commanded, as if to recalcitran
t children, “I presume you’re Miss Blayne. There’s a room ready, though why his lordship should put you there, I cannot conceive. With the house full of rakes and whatall, you’ll be wanting to have your maid sleep in your dressing room tonight, and make sure to lock your door.” After these rather startling admonitions, Mrs. Wilton turned and headed toward the imposing L-shaped oak staircase leading to the gallery above, clearly expecting the guests to follow.

  “One moment, Mrs. Wilton,” Penny called, rising to her feet. “I want to be sure the postboys are properly accommodated, and I should like them to have a hot toddy.”

  Mrs. Wilton, pausing at the foot of the stairs, turned to glare at Miss Penelope Blayne. “Hot toddies, is it? For the postboys? And me with a houseful of rakehells and ladybirds drinking everything in sight. In truth, ’tis a wonder Hutton found a drop for himself. Postboys! Good Lord, Miss, are you a radical?”

  Penny planted her feet on the diamond-patterned tiles, now well muddied by melting sleet and dirty boots. “I assure you, Mrs. Wilton, if not for the efforts of those two men, Miss O’Donnell and I might be freezing to death in a ditch. You will find someone to make and deliver a cold collation and hot toddies to the stables immediately.”

  “You heard the lady, Hetty, my love.” A new voice boomed through the entry hall. “I suggest you see to it immediately. The lady is merely upholding the hospitality of the house, something I’m sure Rocksley would expect you to do.”

  Penny, turning swiftly, could only stare. No, it could not be. Jason Lisbourne had not changed that much. His hair had once been the gold of a new-minted guinea, and even if it had darkened through the years, as hers had, he could not have become a redhead. A tall, almost skinny redhead with skin nearly as pale as Noreen’s Irish coloring and cheeks nearly as pink. And this man was as cursed as Noreen with that redhead’s nemesis, freckles. A second look showed that, although he was smiling, it was a lopsided sardonic grin, the curled lips of a man of the world, bored and disillusioned by the shallowness around him.