“If it is not true, then tell me who you want to marry,” Fanny challenged.
That stopped Rachel, and she stared down into the river’s boiling waters. Although she would rather marry almost anyone more than Felix, there was no one that she truly wanted to marry.
Not a single one of her many suitors made her heart flutter the way Papa had made Mama’s. Since Mama had told her about that, Rachel had been determined to find a husband who had the same effect on her heart. Now she offered up a silent prayer that she would meet him very quickly.
Young Toby asked eagerly, “Did you hear that Gentleman Jack robbed Lord Creevy in full daylight yesterday in that very wood?” He nodded toward the birch forest across the river.
“It is an outrage!” Fanny cried furiously. “When will they find and hang that outlaw?”
Never, Rachel hoped, but she kept that thought to herself. During her frequent visits to the poor and sick in the neighbourhood, she had perceived how much good the highwayman did. Like Robin Hood, he robbed the rich to help those who desperately needed it, and she applauded him for doing so. What he did might be against man’s law, but she was certain it complied with God’s to help the poor and unfortunate.
Maxi whimpered to be picked up, and Rachel obliged, lifting the silver-haired terrier into her arms.
Fanny asked, “When does the Duke of Westleigh arrive at Wingate Hall?”
Rachel was surprised that Fanny knew about the duke’s impending visit. “Either today or tomorrow. Why?”
“Because I am anxious to meet him.” Fanny’s pouting face was suddenly alive with excitement. “I have heard that he is sinfully handsome. It is a great social coup to have him visit Wingate Hall.”
“So I gather,” Rachel said dryly. “Aunt Sophia has been preening herself insufferably since he accepted her invitation.”
Rachel had been astonished that the duke had done so, for she knew her missing brother Stephen hated him, and she had gathered that the duke reciprocated Stephen’s enmity.
“Sophia has good reason to preen,” Fanny said. “Everyone knows Westleigh never accepts invitations to country houses. It is said he considers them all so inferior to his own Royal Elms.”
“Stephen does not like the duke,” Rachel told Fanny. “He says Westleigh is infuriatingly haughty and treated him with freezing condescension.”
“‘Tis a duke’s right,” Fanny retorted, obviously unmoved by her missing betrothed’s opinion.
“The duke clearly does not think much of our stable either. He wrote he would bring two of his own mounts for riding and their groom for us to house.” Rachel was still indignant over this implied—and undeserved—insult to the quality of Wingate Hall’s horses.
“By Jove, he must be bringing Lightning,” cried young Toby, who was horsemad. “I heard he prefers him to any other mount and often brings him when he travels ‘Tis said Lightning is the premier stallion in the kingdom.”
Suddenly Maxi began barking furiously and struggling to escape Rachel’s arms. As she put the little terrier down, she looked across the river. Emerging from the birch wood were two of the finest chestnut horses she had ever seen.
Toby exclaimed in awe, “What a pair of prime ‘uns? I’ll wager the big stallion on the left is Lightning. It must be Westleigh’s grooms arriving with his horses.”
So, Rachel thought irritably, the arrogant duke had brought two grooms instead of one to be housed.
As Jerome and Ferris left the trees behind and emerged into the full sunlight, it blinded the duke, and he was suddenly too warm in his leather vest. He removed it and lay it across Lightning’s back.
As his eyes became accustomed to the bright sunshine, he saw directly ahead of him a short, rickety wooden bridge. Jerome slowed Lightning to a walk, and Ferris followed his lead. The span would be barely wide enough for Jerome’s coach, and he hoped that the flimsy structure would not collapse under the equipage’s weight.
Then he saw the stream, its waters a crazy, rain-swollen cataract tearing with furious force at the banks. He heard Ferris’s gasp.
Even before Jerome turned to see his groom staring whitefaced at the raging river he knew what was wrong. At age six, Ferris had fallen into a stream and had come within a hairsbreadth of drowning before he had been saved. Since then Ferris, so brave in every other respect, had been terrified of water. He had flatly refused all of Jerome’s offers to teach him to swim. He would not go near water if he could avoid it.
“Come on, the bridge is short; we will be across in half a minute,” Jerome said encouragingly.
As their mounts clattered onto the flimsy wooden structure, he advised, “Look beyond the bridge, not down at the water, and it will be easier for you.”
Ferris forced his gaze forward. Suddenly, his eyes widened, his jaw dropped, and his hold on the reins slackened. “My God, have you ever seen anything as beautiful?” he muttered. All thought of the wild water beneath him seemed to have vanished.
Jerome’s attention had been focused on Ferris, but now he jerked his gaze away to see what was so compelling that his friend had forgotten his terror of the roiling water.
It did not take Jerome more than a second to identify which of the two elegantly dressed young women standing with a gangling youth had such an effect on Ferris. One, a pouty-faced blonde, was a beaut but the second was the most ravishing creature Jerome had ever beheld.
His own jaw dropped as he stared at this vision. Helen of Troy would have been jealous of that exquisite face, set with huge eyes, a perfect little nose, and a full cherry-red mouth that begged to be kissed. Her hair, as black and shining as a raven’s wing, contrasted vividly with her fine, alabaster skin.
Her slender body was equally enticing in a violet riding habit. Its fitted jacket, trimmed in silver, was moulded to her full breasts and to a waist so tiny Jerome could have spanned it with his hands. The habit’s skirt was full, puffed out by layers of voluminous petticoats.
His breath caught. Much as he despised and distrusted beautiful women, it was all he could do to tear his eyes away from her. Ferris had not yet managed to do so but was still staring slack-jawed, the reins hanging loose in his hand.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jerome caught a glimpse of a silver terrier rushing forward from beside the beauty’s violet skirt. The dog danced in front of the approaching horses, barking furiously.
Ferris’s skittish chestnut, no longer held in check by a tight rein, erupted in rearing, whirling, bucking fury.
The groom, caught unaware, was hurled from the saddle into the tumultuous river.
“For God’s sakes, Ferris!” Jerome cried in horror.
The colt, freed of his rider, raced from the bridge past the beauty and her companion, but Jerome paid no heed to the valuable runaway. His only thought as he vaulted from his horse was for Ferris.
“Help, help me,” the groom shouted frantically.
“I’m coming, Ferris!” Jerome cried, yanking off his boots with two quick, vicious tugs.
Ferris’s scream of terror as he sank beneath the surface into the swirling maelstrom was like a lance through Jerome’s heart.
He looked down in dismay at the tumbling river beneath him. Strong a swimmer as he was, he was not certain that even he could conquer those fierce waters, but he had to try. Jerome would not let his friend drown.
The current carried Ferris beneath the bridge, and he disappeared from sight.
Jerome ran to the downstream side of the narrow span and dived into the tumultuous river. He surfaced very near to Ferris.
With powerful strokes, he closed the distance between them and managed to grab a piece of his coarse, homespun shirt.
The panicked groom was flailing about so frantically that he pulled Jerome beneath the water with him.
When Jerome resurfaced, he yelled, “Stop struggling!” He prayed that Ferris could hear this command above the roar of the water. “Relax and I will carry you to shore.”
Apparently, the gro
om heard for he stopped fighting him.
Jerome managed to hook his arm beneath Ferris’s and held him so that his head was above the frothy surface. The groom was choking and coughing and sneezing water.
Stroking one-armed and kicking with all the strength he possessed, Jerome fought his way across the powerful current that was pulling him relentlessly downstream. He prayed that his strength would last until he could reach the bank.
Chapter 3
Rachel watched with her heart in her throat as the rescuer, encumbered by his human burden, battled against the fierce current of the river trying to reach the bank. He was visibly tiring, and she doubted that he would make it.
If only she had a rope to throw to the two grooms, she and Toby could help pull them to shore, but she did not.
She looked around frantically for something else to use but saw nothing. In desperation, she thought of stringing together the long underpetticoats that puffed out her riding skirt, Although Rachel knew that no well-bred young lady would shed her petticoats in public, no matter what the reason, saving a human life—perhaps two of them—was far more important to her. She had to do everything she could to save the men, or she would not be able to live with herself.
She stepped back from her two companions who were staring transfixed at the life-and-death struggle in the water. Making certain that neither of them was looking in her direction, she hastily pulled off her three white underpetticoats.
Working feverishly, Rachel tied them together into a makeshift rope, then knotted a rock in one end. She cried, “Toby, come with me.”
He followed her as she raced along the bank. When she was opposite the men in the water, she swung the petticoat rope in a circle over her head to give it momentum. Shouting at the men in the water, hoping that they could hear her above the crashing river, she flung it out over the foaming torrent.
As its knotted end containing the rock landed in the water, the groom who could not swim—the one the other groom had called Ferris—grabbed it. The petticoats grew taut so suddenly that Rachel was nearly yanked forward on her face.
“Help me, Toby,” she cried as she struggled to retain her balance. He grabbed the petticoat just above her hands. She prayed that the cloth would not tear.
Ferris was clinging to the other end of the makeshift rope with both hands.
Together, Rachel and Toby strained, moving hand over hand, laboriously pulling the men to shore.
The rescuer, seeing what they were about, released his hold on the man he had saved. With his weight gone, Rachel and Toby were able to reel Ferris more quickly to the bank.
When he reached it, he staggered up under his own power. He was still wheezing and sneezing water, but he was clearly in good condition. Once he had put several feet between the torrent and himself, he fell to his knees at the base of a slender willow and kissed the earth.
Rachel looked back at the man who was still in the water. Seeing that he was almost to shore and would make it without help, she ran to the man on his knees. Dropping her soaked petticoats, she sank down beside him.
Ferris’s teeth were chattering and he was shivering violently, but he was no longer coughing out water.
She hastily began to unbutton the jacket of her riding habit. “Let me give you my jacket to warm you.” But even as she offered, she looked dubiously at his wide shoulders and thick body, “I am not certain, though, that you will fit into it.”
“No, ma’am, I would not.” Ferris wrapped his arms tightly around his body. “Tis very kind of you to offer, but I do not need it. I’ll be all right.”
Picking up her wet, bedraggled petticoats, she scrambled to her feet and turned back to the river and the other groom.
She was awed that he had dared to dive into the raging river to try to save his companion, knowing that it would most likely mean death for himself, too. It was the bravest, most unselfish act she had ever seen.
As he emerged from the water, her eyes widened. His face was strong with a broad forehead, aristocratic nose, prominent cheekbones, a mouth that looked as though it did not smile often, and a jutting, determined jaw. Rivulets of water ran from blond hair that sprang into dripping curls around that arresting face.
Her drenched petticoats fell unnoticed from her suddenly nerveless fingers. When she had seen the groom on horseback, she had not noticed how tall or how handsome he was. The thin material of his soaked shirt was plastered against him, revealing the powerful muscles of his arms, shoulders, and chest. The garment was only half buttoned and wet swirls of golden hair decorated his chest. Rachel realized to her shock that his soaked clothing was almost as revealing as if he were naked.
Modesty required that she look away, but her gaze seemed beyond her control as it moved down that marvellous body to the sodden breeches moulded to slim hips. Rachel drew in her breath and held it. He was a work of art! Something the great Michelangelo would have been proud to have sculpted.
Why he was so splendid he should be the Duke of Westleigh instead of his groom!
Rachel could not tear her fascinated gaze from his powerful body, all rippling muscle and sinew. A strange heat curled within her. She belatedly realized that this man was not merely making her heart flutter.
He was making it turn somersaults.
“Like what you see?” an icily sarcastic voice demanded.
Her gaze snapped upward, and she met blue eyes that radiated cold fury.
“I am not some damn stud on the auction block for milady’s perusal!”
Fanny, standing beside Rachel, gasped in shock. “How dare you, a lowly groom, speak to the Lady Rachel Wingate, the Earl of Arlington’s sister, in such a rude, vulgar fashion!”
He gave Fanny a look so scathing that it elicited another gasp from her. “How dare Lady Rachel look me over in such a rude, vulgar fashion,” he demanded.
He was right, Rachel thought guiltily. She had been unwittingly staring at him in a most bold and improper manner. She felt her cheeks bloom hotly with embarrassment.
To hide her discomfort, she bent down to pick up Maxi who had scampered up to her. She lifted him and rubbed her burning cheek against his silver coat.
The handsome groom’s expression became even more forbidding. “Is that your damned dog?”
She nodded.
“Then teach him not to run at spirited, skittish horses. He nearly cost Ferris his life!”
The angry groom not only looked as though he ought to be the Duke of Westleigh, he acted as though he was.
His blue eyes seemed to turn to the gray shade of the sea on a stormy winter day, and he said harshly, “But no doubt the life of a lowly groom means less than nothing to you.”
“That is not true!” Rachel cried, stung by his sarcasm. She would never have forgiven herself if Ferris had drowned. “I am very, very sorry!”
“And you, boy, are insufferably insolent,” Fanny said in her most supercilious tone.
“Please, Fanny,” Rachel began, but the girl would not be silenced.
“You may rest assured that I shall complain to your master about your appalling speech and conduct toward Lady Rachel.”
Fanny’s threat did not seem to frighten him in the least. He gave her an odd, utterly unrepentant look that made him seen even more handsome to Rachel. “You do that,” he said carelessly.
His rich, vibrant voice sent a tiny quaver of delight through Rachel. He was by far the most intriguing man she had ever seen, even if he was a groom.
“He has every right to be angry, Fanny,” Rachel said. “Only his courageous risking of his own life averted tragedy. Maxi nearly cost his companion his life.”
The stormy eyes snapped back to examine Rachel with something like surprise. Then he subjected her to the same kind of perusal, as leisurely as it was audacious and insulting, that she had given him.
Men might have studied her so boldly when her attention was elsewhere and she was unaware of it, but no man—and especially not a servant—had ever dared to do
so to her face as he was doing now.
His daring examination kindled such a delicious, insidious warmth within her, however, that she could not be outraged as she ought to be. Deliberately echoing his earlier complaint, she said tartly, “I am not a brood mare on the auction block for your perusal.”
He gave her a wicked grin that made her breath catch. “Tit for tat, my dear.”
Rachel could feel her cheeks grow hot at his discourteous, insultingly familiar address. “You are impudent!”
“He is worse than that,” Fanny cried. “His behaviour is shocking.”
The other groom, who was half a head shorter, had quietly gone to collect the big chestnut stallion and now led him up to his companion.
As the tall groom took the reins, Toby, staring at the horse in awe, asked, “Is he the Duke of Westleigh’s Lightning?”
“Aye,” the tall groom replied.
“By Jove, I knew it had to be,” Toby exclaimed. “He’s as prime as people say.”
Yes, the stallion was, Rachel thought, forgiving the duke for bringing his own mounts. Even she would readily agree that no horse in Wingate Hall’s stables could match Lightning.
The impertinent groom gave Toby a friendly smile that made Rachel’s pulse race. “Thank you for your help in pulling Ferris from the river. I am not certain we would have made it otherwise. That was quick thinking on your part.”
“Do not thank me, thank Lady Rachel. It was her quick thinking—and her petticoats that she sacrificed.” Toby looked down at the wet, knotted cloth lying muddied and forgotten by Rachel’s skirt. “I fear they are ruined now.”
The groom’s smile faded, and a shocked gasp escaped Fanny.
“Rachel, how could you?” she demanded.
“I could not let a man drown.”
The groom looked at Rachel sceptically, as though he could not credit what she had just said. Water was no longer dripping from him, but his wet clothes were still pasted to his body in a way that fed the odd, aching heat within Rachel, and she could not seem to stop herself from staring at him.
Midnight Bride Page 2
