The Harem Bride

by Blair Bancroft

  “Gant Deveny,” he said, sweeping her a bow that was close to mockery. “Lord Brawley. And there’s many will tell you the name is apt.” Hands on hips, he threw back his shoulders, assuming a belligerent stance. “I have that redhead temper, you see. When I’m not too lazy to indulge it, that is,” he added on a wink.

  Clearly, this man was nearly as far gone in his cups as poor Hutton. Brawley. Brawl. “Oh, I see,” Penny said faintly, wishing only to find her room and burrow under a mountain of bedcovers.

  “Who can say if there’s a footman left standing,” Mrs. Wilton grumbled, but she tugged on the bellpull.

  “Surely not all the maids are tipsy as well,” Penny snapped. The housekeeper shrugged. It was at last becoming apparent that Mrs. Wilton was openly hostile, though the why of it Penny could not imagine.

  “Ah, there you are, Rocksley! Lord Brawley drawled. “Come to greet your guests at last, have you?”

  Penny felt a frisson of wind as icy as that blowing beyond the great front door. Behind her. Jason was behind her, and, oh, dear God, she couldn’t look up, she couldn’t move!

  “Come, come, Rocksley,” Gant Deveny chided, rather gleefully. “See to your guests.”

  Unsteady, somewhat shuffling, steps approached. Oh, no, not Jason too! A large body appeared in front of her. She who had been such an intrepid soul all her life fixed her eyes on the tips of his boots and kept them there. Long fingers reached out, tilted up her chin. She kept her eyes down. A head, topped by waves of rumpled brown hair, bent to peer beneath her bonnet. A pair of fine cobalt blue eyes regarded her with interest, the effect considerably spoiled by the red lines criss-crossing the whites. His nose was sharper, she thought, and far more arrogant than when he was a young man of twenty-one. But his mouth—ah, that was the same—full and eminently kissable . . .

  Horrified, Miss Penelope Blayne jerked her chin out of her Trustee’s grasp and looked past him, to fix her disapproving gaze on Hutton.

  “Looks like a drowned rat,” the Earl of Rocksley intoned, “but I daresay that’s my Penelope.” He sighed. “A bit long in the tooth. Looked considerably better the last time I saw her, but what’s a man to do?” He shrugged. “Daresay she’ll do. Don’t have much choice.”

  Miss Penelope Blayne managed to keep her countenance, but Noreen O’Donnell’s indignant gasp filled the hall.

  “So who is she?” Lord Brawley asked, lifting an inquiring brow. “Too far gone for proper introductions, are you, Rock?”

  “Not at all, not at all,” said Jason Lisbourne, Earl of Rocksley. “Gant, dear boy, I’d like you to meet m’wife.”

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Two

  Upon the following morning, Jason Victor Granville Lisbourne, Earl of Rocksley, opened one bloodshot eye and surveyed the burgundy velvet hangings at the foot of his bed with considerable loathing. Not that the innocent fabric had offended. Oh, no. It was merely a symbol of the world to which he did not care to return. Of his disgust with himself, his wish that all his party guests, including his closest friend Gant Deveny, had miraculously disappeared, whisked off in a hail of sleet. That his butler had been truly unconscious and that his housekeeper was deaf, dumb, and blind.

  Aa-rgh! The earl’s eye snapped shut, his lips thinned as his head and stomach threatened simultaneous explosion. He grimaced, groaned, swallowed hard, and managed to croak a faint, “Kirby!”

  His meticulous and highly efficient valet, Daniel Kirby, whisked back the bed hangings so fast the earl could only assume he had been standing, patiently waiting, beside the bed. After gulping down the concoction Kirby held to his lips, then disgorging the acidic contents of his much-abused stomach into the basin the faithful valet held to his lips, Jason Lisbourne fell back on his pillows. Alas, he was now fit enough to loathe himself still more.

  Nearly ten years he had kept the secret. Ten long years. And then, within moments of seeing Penelope Blayne, he had blurted out their dire secret in front of witnesses. Gant was a friend, of course. In spite of the viscount’s cynical outlook on the world, the earl knew he could count on Brawley not to reveal what he had heard. But Hutton, who may not have been as dead to the proceedings in the hall as he appeared? And Mrs. Wilton, who had been sour and straight-laced about his doings even before taking up Methodism? Hell and damnation! By now the whole household, and each and every guest, would know he had a wife!

  Perhaps the sleet had turned to snow? Mayhap there was a mountain of it outside, trapping the secret within his own walls. Which presently contained at least half the most accomplished tale bearers in the ton. Including Mrs. Daphne Coleraine.

  Daphne! The Earl of Rocksley moaned, willing the fiendish pixies banging anvils within his head to cease and desist. “The roads, Kirby, are they passable?”

  “Indeed, my lord, I believe they are. The sleet turned to snow, but deposited only an inch or two. The roads this morning are nothing worse than their customary winter state.” A slight sniff indicated what Rocksley’s fastidious valet thought of country roads. “Any proper coachman should be able to manage, my lord.”

  To the devil with it then. His guests could go. They could all go, spreading the news to every flapping ear along a beeline back to London, for he could scarcely have his present houseful of guests of dubious reputation in residence with Miss Penelope Blayne.

  Penelope Blayne Lisbourne, Countess of Rocksley.

  “The basin, Kirby,” the earl gasped. “At once!”

  “My dear fellow,” drawled Gant Deveny a few agonizing minutes later as he strolled into the earl’s bedchamber, “I am sorry to see you in such a state. Truly, I had thought you the man of rock-hard head and cast iron stomach.”

  “Go away.”

  “But I have come to see how you go on, dear chap. The house is so ominously quiet I feared everyone had expired. There’s not even a sign of the lovely Lady Rocksley.”

  “Lovely!” Jason Lisbourne sputtered.

  “Quite so, I believe, when not dripping icicles onto the tiles. Indeed, I rather thought I caught a glimpse of an elegant figure beneath—”

  “Be quiet!” roared the earl. Then, after a groan of misery brought on by his burst of temper, he ground out, “Miss Blayne is none of your concern.”

  “Not the happy reunion of Ulysses and his faithful Penelope, I take it,” Lord Brawley drawled.

  “If I could move, I’d darken your daylights.”

  “Ah-h,” Gant murmured, and wisely kept silent.

  “Kirby,” the earl called to his valet, “is Hutton up and about?”

  “I fear Hutton, my lord, is in worse case than your lordship.”

  “Then send whatever footman is on his feet,” Lord Rocksley barked. “My guests are to be gone as quickly as they can crawl out of their beds. Mrs. Wilton may feed any who have the stomach for food, and then they are to be off. The party is over.” Weakly, the earl wiggled his fingers to indicate his orders were not yet finished. “What is the hour?” he asked.

  “Gone eleven, my lord.”

  Jason sighed, gritted his teeth. The frown lines on his noble forehead deepened. “Kirby, you will inform Miss Blayne that I will see her in my study at one o’clock. See that Mrs. Wilton provides Miss Blayne and her maid with whatever food or other comforts they desire, but under no circumstances are they to leave their room until the time of our appointment. And since it is doubtful all our guests will be departed by that time, see that a footman, not one of the maids, accompanies Miss Blayne to my study. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly, my lord,” intoned the most proper Daniel Kirby. “Does my lord have any further orders?”

  “Go.” Jason waved an impatient hand, shooing his valet out the door.

  “So,” breathed Gant Deveny as the valet left the room, “can it be that the most notorious rake in the ton is actually married?”

  “I suppose it never occurred to you that my orders for my guests to leave included you?”

  “Not a bit of it,” said Lord Brawley, serene
ly. “I suspect you are in need of as much support as you can get. That is what true friends are for, are they not?”

  Lord Rocksley told his closest friend precisely what he could do with his offer of support.

  “Now, now, dear boy, no need to get twitty. You can’t blame me for being fascinated. We have been acquainted how long? Seven years, eight? And not one word about a wife hidden about in the bushes. I am agog, old chap, simply agog.”

  “Then may you strangle on your curiosity, for I shall not assuage it!” With a great heave, Jason sat up, dangling his feet off the side of the high four-poster, his arms stiff, clutching the bedcovers on either side for support. He forced back the bile rising in his throat, then swore, most colorfully.

  “Perhaps I should speak to Miss Blayne . . . or should I say, Lady Rocksley,” Lord Brawley offered, lips twitching, his fine hazel eyes dancing with amusement.

  “Take yourself off,” the earl growled. “Perhaps by tea time I shall be able to appreciate what you find so humorous in this situation, but at the moment I wish you in Hades.”

  Gant Deveny grinned outright. As he left, he proffered a wave of his hand so audacious, Jason picked a candlestick off the bedtable and flung it after him. Fortunately for the fine Persian carpet, it was not lit.

  The earl and his guests were not the only late risers at Rockbourne Crest. Miss Penelope Blayne, exhausted by her journey across England from her home—Miss Cassandra Pemberton’s former home—in Kent, also awakened late. Breakfast had arrived on a tray borne by a pink-cheeked maid who must have been as Methodist as Mrs. Wilton, for she looked as if she had never drunk anything stronger than milk in her sixteen or seventeen years of life. A far cry from the debauchery Penny had glimpsed as she and Noreen were escorted to their rooms last night, for the party had spilled out of the drawing room, the card room, various salons, and, she suspected, even the bedrooms. Mrs. Wilton’s basilisk stare had failed to slow the shrieks of painted ladies in various states of undress, running shrieking and laughing through the stately halls of Rockbourne Crest, with equally disheveled gentlemen in hot pursuit. Gentlemen. It truly did not seem possible the pack of animals Penny had seen last night could be considered gentlemen.

  Jason had done it on purpose, of course. If he wished to disconcert her, he had come close to achieving his goal. Bad enough he controlled Aunt Cass’s money—her money—but never had she thought him so low as to greet her in such a fashion. She had loved him, for heaven’s sake. Adored him. He was her hero, her savior. The knight on a white charger with whom she had planned to spend her life.

  And here she was, trapped in her room while satyrs and demi-reps roamed the corridors, and her husband of ten years had to drink himself into near oblivion just to greet her at the door.

  Penny gagged on her toast and blackberry jam, Noreen swiftly appearing to pat her vigorously on the back. After her coughing subsided and she had wiped away her tears, Miss Blayne waved off the remainder of her breakfast and sat, staring glumly at the very fine pastel embroidery of the heavy quilt on her bed. Eyes narrowing, she looked more closely. Very fine embroidery indeed. She lifted her eyes to survey the room she had barely noticed the night before. Noreen had locked both doors . . . yes, there had been two of them. One into the hall and one at the far end of the dressing room, where Noreen would sleep. Too exhausted for curiosity, both women had donned their nightclothes and found their beds, tumbling into sleep on the instant.

  But now . . . Penny examined the room with care. Disoriented as she was from the recent upheaval in her life, as well as the prospect of a long-postponed confrontation with her husband, it took some time for the truth to become apparent.

  Her bed alone was a work of art, as were the furnishings around her. From what she had seen of Rockbourne Crest last night, it was likely a seventeenth century edifice, built when stately homes still thought first of defense. But this room has undoubtedly been redecorated during the time of George II or the early days of George III. Even with its heavy winter fabrics, it was light and airy. At the windows and from the canopy above her head, hung masses of rose velvet, fringed and tied back in cream cord. The headboard, footboard and the underside of the wooden canopy were cream, with a delicate painted pattern of tiny pastel flowers and leaves. A tall chest, a dressing table, and two bedtables, were painted in a similar manner, while other, smaller pieces of furniture scattered about the vast room were exquisite examples of Chinoiserie—the most ornate piece, a fine cabinet, set against a wall-size mural of delicate flowers, a stream, and stylized trees done in the Oriental manner. The fireplace, in which a cheery fire was taking the chill off the gray day, was of white marble, finely carved in a design of cherubs, birds, flowers, and grapes.

  Penny brushed a crumb from her nightgown, then peeked over the edge of the bed. The carpet was also in the Eastern style, a mix of cream and rose accented with pale green and rich burgundy. Vaguely, she remembered the exquisite softness of it, the depth to which her toes had sunk last night as she had crawled into bed.

  Oh, no, heaven help her! The thought struck like the cut of a sword. Her heart did a very queer flip-flop, rushed up to dizzy her head, then plummeted to her toes. She very much feared she was in the countess’s suite! In the rooms belonging to the wife of the Earl of Rocksley. There could be no other explanation for the magnificence around her.

  “Noreen,” she called sharply, “where does the second door go?”

  “Into another dressing room, Miss. I peeked, you see, and caught the eye from a valet too niffy-naffy for his own good, I can tell you.”

  “Do you think . . . can it be . . . ?”

  “Oh, aye, Miss. ‘Tis his lordship’s own room, his valet told me so in no uncertain terms. Horrid man. Thinks he’s so grand, he does.”

  Penny, shuddering, subsided onto her pillows.

  An hour later, having received the earl’s command and dressed accordingly, Penny sank onto the deep-set window seat and looked out the mullioned windows toward the bare beds of the formal gardens, the bentwood trellises stark against the mulched earth and pebbled paths. Beyond was a pond, its graceful curves outlined in drooping willows that managed, in their winter state, to look like a fine charcoal sketch. The pond, of course, was as gray as the bare willow branches, under a sky that exactly matched Penny’s spirits. She wished she had never come to Rockbourne Crest. She had all the qualifications to be an outstanding governess. French, after all, was only one of the languages in which she could converse. She could play the piano, sketch, and recite history with all the skill of someone who had seen most of the world’s great historical landmarks. And at maps and globes . . . ah, she was quite certain there was not a governess in the kingdom who could better her knowledge.

  Penny sighed and ducked her head. She lacked the one quintessential quality of a governess. She was not humble. She had a quick wit and a sharp tongue, well-honed by her Aunt Cass’s example. She would not last as a governess above a day.

  So, since she had become accustomed to eating well and having a roof over her head—and since she had an intimate knowledge of the narrow confines of a kept woman’s life—she had come to Rockbourne Crest. She had known, of course, that Jason did not want her. After all, had he ever, in ten long years, given any indication that he wished to live with her as husband and wife? Therefore, she would do as she had planned. She would ask Jason—Lord Rocksley—to provide a cottage in the country and a modest maintenance. Surely, that was not asking too much.

  Too much. Too much. Penny Blayne Lisbourne, Countess of Rocksley, stayed on the window seat, her bleak thoughts echoing through her head, until the same pink-cheeked maid brought nuncheon. To any and all efforts Noreen O’Donnell made at conversation, Penelope refused to reply. She simply chewed her food, tasting nothing, and looked off into space. Her much-traveled Irish maid and companion might as well have been nonexistent.

  The Countess of Rocksley saw only a great yawning void as her intelligence, sharpened by Miss Cassandra Pemberton�
�s constant prodding, dictated that she remain independent, while her heart yearned for something else altogether. Except, of course, she had loved him too well and too long to ever be a burden. Therefore . . . the circular trap snapped closed, dictating her ignominious exile to a lonely cottage in the country.

  “It’s time,” Noreen said. “A footman’s come to take you to his lordship.”

  Penny pushed back her chair and stood, nervously brushing down the skirt of her gray silk gown. Fortunately, her trunks had been brought up not an hour since and Noreen had hastily pressed out the wrinkles in this severe mourning gown. Miss Cassandra Pemberton, meticulous to a fault, had specified in her will that no one was to wear black. “I have had a good life,” she stated. “I need no crows to herald my passing.” Her niece had heeded her instructions. She wore the stark charcoal gray gown to mourn the passing of her marriage to the Right Honorable Jason Lisbourne, Earl of Rocksley.

  He had been right. The glorious golden child he had married was gone. As his wife moved toward him with all the regal bearing of a queen marching toward her execution, Jason rose from behind the barricade of his burled walnut kneehole desk and studied her with open interest. Her once silver blonde curls had darkened, though the wisps of sandy gold now framing her face could not be called unattractive. If only the mass of her hair were not pulled back into a coif more suitable for a governess or maiden aunt.

  And the rest of her? Jason had to concede that far more character now shone from the fine symmetry of her face than from the soft, unformed child of sixteen. Child? A misnomer, surely. Miss Cassandra Pemberton had never really allowed Penelope Blayne to be a child.