Felix asked proudly, “Have you heard about my new Sykes?”
Who had not? Felix collected whatever struck his fancy—paintings, porcelains, silver, buttons—and no price was too high if he wanted an object. Lately, he had wanted the watercolours of a second-rate painter, Augustus Sykes. When one had come up for sale a fortnight ago, Felix and Lord Bourn had engaged in spirited bidding for it that had all London talking.
“Anyone who is acquainted with me knows that if I want something, I will have it, and I wanted that Sykes,” Felix said. “Bourn was a fool to think he could outbid me.”
Everyone else thought Felix the fool, knowing that Bourn, a close friend of the painting’s former owner, had been obligingly driving up the price far beyond what it was worth.
Jerome slipped away from Felix and Sophia and went over to her husband. After greeting Alfred, he asked whether there had been any word on his missing nephew.
“None.” Alfred’s voice sounded old and raspy. “Nothing since the letter we had from the captain of The Betsy, the boat that he had booked passage on from France to Dover. It said that Stephen failed to appear at the Calais dock at sailing time. The vessel postponed its departure until the next tide, then could wait for him no longer because the other passengers wanted to be underway.”
“When was Arlington last seen?”
“When he left Paris two days before The Betsy was to sail. We fear he was waylaid on the road to Calais.”
More likely he had been attacked by ruffians who frequented the docks in port towns and his body dumped in the Channel.
The drawing room door opened, and Lady Rachel entered the room, accompanied by a young woman Jerome had not met. He instantly forgot about Rachel’s missing brother. Even in that ugly mustard gown, she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Even more beautiful than the accursed Cleo, and Jerome had never thought to see any woman who could surpass that faithless witch in loveliness.
Lord Felix immediately deserted Sophia and minced toward her niece. Jerome wondered what Rachel’s reaction to Felix would be. His prestigious lineage and enormous wealth made him a prize marital catch. Many nubile young ladies would be delighted to wed him.
Rachel clearly was not one of them. The revulsion in her eyes when she saw Felix was unmistakable, and she made no effort to conceal it. Hastily, she tried to evade him by joining the two middle-aged couples to whom Jerome had yet to be introduced.
For some reason, Rachel’s reaction to Felix pleased Jerome enormously. Nor could he seem to tear his gaze away from her.
“I did not know young virgins were to your taste, Your Grace,” Sophia said waspishly.
Jerome had been so engrossed in watching her niece he had not noticed that Sophia had come up beside him. He could not resist retorting, “I doubt that you know my tastes at all.”
“Do not become enamoured with her,” Sophia warned. “Although it has not yet been announced, she is betrothed.”
A vague pain struck Jerome like a sneak blow from behind. Why should he care? Then his anger swelled as he remembered how passionately Rachel had returned his kiss in his bedchamber even though she was betrothed to another. Another damned faithless female!
Across the room, Lord Felix finally managed to corner Rachel. Had any woman looked at Jerome as she did at Felix, he would have left her instantly, but the fop, clearly oblivious to her distaste, made an exaggerated bow to her.
Jerome asked, “Who is the lucky man to whom Lady Rachel is betrothed?”
“Lord Felix”
Jerome’s mouth curled in disgust. So Rachel’s loathing for Felix was not strong enough to offset her willingness to enter an advantageous marriage.
Rachel bit her lip in vexation as Felix planted himself in front of her. As he bowed, she noted that his spindly legs were considerably more shapely than they had been earlier that day. He must have supplemented them with leg pads beneath his white silk stockings.
Straightening, he caught her hand in his own, diamond rings sparkling at her from every finger, and brought it to his lips. She found his touch so repulsive that she had to restrain herself from snatching her hand away.
As he released it, he asked in his affected, high-pitched voice, “May I have the happiness of conversing with you, Lady Rachel?”
Much as she would like to say no, Rachel was too well-bred to be rude to an invited guest. Having been subjected on previous occasions to his enthusiasm for musk, she was thankful for the large hoop in her underpetticoat that kept him an arm’s length away.
It was the reason she had worn it.
Felix, granted the happiness of conversing with her, could not seem to think of anything to say. They stood in awkward silence, the brightness of his canary-yellow coat making her mustard gown look even more dreary. To break the quiet, she remarked jocularly, “I fear that our colours clash.”
He frowned. “Yes, they do.”
He looked so distressed by this that she suggested, “Perhaps we should decamp to opposite sides of the room.”
His frown deepened. “No need for that. Must tell you, though, that your gown is not at all the thing. You must allow me to guide you in selecting your clothes.” His tone betrayed what a signal honour he thought he was conferring upon her. “You will be in the forefront of fashion, just as I am.”
As if she would allow anyone who dressed as ridiculously as he did to choose her clothes! She could not resist subtly retaliating with a lie. “But I love this dress.”
Felix’s horrified expression spurred her to greater fabrications. “It is my very favourite gown. The style is so flattering. And the colour is perfect for me, do you not agree?” Actually, Sophia had chosen the colour, undoubtedly because she knew how dreadful it looked on Rachel.
“It is my unhappy duty to disabuse you of both notions. You must let my superior wisdom guide you in such matters. You know we often cannot see ourselves as clearly as others can.”
Rachel smothered a smile. Felix himself was the perfect example of that truism. She said hopefully, “I fear I have given you a disgust of me.”
“You could not do that.”
Rachel struggled to hide her disappointment.
She glanced toward the Duke of Westleigh, and the tempo of her heart instantly increased. Aunt Sophia was introducing their other dinner guests, Eleanor Paxton and her parents, and Squire Archer and his wife, to the duke. As he greeted them, Rachel observed none of the condescension her brother had denounced in his manner.
He looked elegant in his handsome coat of midnight blue. It lacked the showy embroidery and brilliants that Felix’s canary-yellow satin sported, but the duke cut by far the most impressive figure in the room. He needed no padding to enhance his legs or anything else.
Rachel’s face grew warm with embarrassment as she remembered their confrontation in his bedchamber. Any doubt that she had been wrong to have gone there had been dispelled when Eleanor, returning with her fan, had seen Rachel leave the duke’s chamber.
“What were you doing?” her friend had demanded in a shocked voice. “No respectable young lady would ever dream of going to a man’s bedchamber.”
No wonder the duke had called her brazen.
But Rachel had not known it was improper. No one had thought to tell her. Since her mother had died seven years ago, there had been no one to instruct her on the niceties of proper conduct for a young lady. Her father had spoken of hiring a gentlewoman to do so prior to her London debut, but he had fallen terminally ill before he could execute this plan. Nor had Rachel ever gotten to London. She had remained in Yorkshire to run Wingate Hall.
Felix leaned over her hooped skirt in an attempt to recapture her attention and managed to get his face only a few inches from her own. She was assailed by the overwhelming odour of musk that enveloped him. Rachel could not tolerate the smell. It always made her sneeze.
It did so now, and she could not seem to stop.
“I”—sneeze—“I” —sneeze—“cannot”�
�sneeze— “musk”—sneeze.
Her eyes were watering, and the guests were turning to stare at her. She slid quickly away from Felix. “Please, you must excuse me.”
She started toward Eleanor who had joined her brother Toby, but Westleigh suddenly stepped into her path. Her heart lurched. His face was unreadable, his lips unsmiling. The memory of their kiss kindled a delicious warmth in her, and she felt herself blushing. Her gaze shyly met his, but words eluded her tongue.
He said coldly, “I understand that felicitations are in order.”
Rachel looked at him blankly. “For what?”
“Your betrothal to Lord Felix.”
“I am not betrothed to him! Aunt Sophia must have told you that. She insists that I must marry him, but I will not! Nothing will induce me to do so.”
Suddenly, the duke smiled at her, a devastating smile. Its warmth melted his icy hauteur, deepened the colour of his eyes to a rich, cyan blue, and permeated his low, vibrant voice. “You surprise me again, Lady Rachel,” he said cryptically.
Excitement curled within her, and she suddenly had difficulty catching her breath.
The door to the drawing room opened with a bang, drawing everyone’s attention. Fanny Stoddard appeared in an elaborate gown of white-corded silk brocade with an intricate floral pattern in shades of blue, red, green, and brown.
The duke’s eyes narrowed in dislike at the sight of Fanny. Then he deliberately turned his back on her.
Silence settled on the room just as Fanny inquired of the butler, “Where is the Duke of Westleigh?” In the sudden quiet, her voice carried farther than she intended.
“With Lady Rachel,” the butler said.
Fanny opened her fan with a snap and swept up to them. Rachel greeted her, but the duke kept his back turned to her.
Undeterred, Fanny trifled, “Your Grace, it pains me to have to inform you that you have the most shockingly insolent groom that I have ever met. I know once you hear of his conduct you will want to discharge him immediately.”
Westleigh turned to face Fanny. He was every inch the duke now, and she did not immediately recognize him in his fine clothes with his hair dry and neatly combed. The look he gave her was cold enough to freeze the Thames. This was not a man to cross, Rachel thought.
He said, “Lady Rachel, please remind Miss Stoddard of the oath she required of me that I never speak to her again. Assure her that the Duke of Westleigh always keeps his word.”
Fanny, belatedly recognizing him, gasped in shock. “This is a joke.” Her voice rose hysterically. “You are not the duke. How dare you come into the drawing room? You are a groom!”
Aunt Sophia hurried up to them. “Have you taken leave of your senses, Fanny? Of course, he is the duke.”
Fanny stared at Westleigh’s implacable countenance for a long moment. Then her face crumpled along with her bright dream of becoming a duchess. Tears trickled down her cheeks as she turned and fled the room.
Watching Fanny’s departure, Rachel would have felt sorrier for her had she not been bent upon destroying a man’s livelihood merely because she felt he had not been deferential enough to her.
Aunt Sophia said, “Your Grace, I cannot conceive what possessed the silly chit. I fear she is a trifle unhinged.” She glanced toward the pendulum clock. “One of our guests, Sir Waldo Fletcher, has not yet arrived.”
Rachel stifled a groan of dismay at hearing that Fletcher was invited.
“We shall start without him,” Sophia decreed. She looked at the duke, clearly expecting him to take her in to dinner.
Instead, he turned and offered his arm to Rachel. Her heart skipped a beat as he asked in that rich, resonant voice of his, “May I escort you into the dining room, Lady Rachel?”
“Your Grace!” Aunt Sophia cried indignantly.
The duke raised a haughty eyebrow. “Yes, Mrs. Wingate?”
Rachel suppressed a smile at how subtly he had reminded Sophia that her niece, as the daughter of an earl, took precedence over her.
As Rachel accepted his arm, she could feel the hard muscle concealed beneath his perfectly cut sleeve. A light, spicy scent that she found extraordinarily pleasant clung to him. As he led her into the dining room, a strange warmth bloomed within her.
The duke took the chair beside her that Aunt Sophia had meant for Felix. Rachel bit back a smile of delight and relief when the displaced fop ended up at the opposite end of the table beside Sophia in the place that she had intended for Westleigh.
Sophia, clearly furious at having her seating arrangement so neatly frustrated by the duke, glared at him and her niece.
As the footmen served the turtle soup, Rachel was acutely conscious of Westleigh’s presence beside her, of his broad shoulders nearly touching her own, and of the warmth and vitality that emanated from him.
She watched his well-shaped hand, blessedly devoid of ornamentation except for his signet ring, as he toyed with his wine glass. His fingers were long and tapered, and she watched them in fascination as they stroked the stem of the glass, gliding over the crystal. Rachel remembered the pleasure that had coursed through her when those fingers had touched her and his hand had cupped her breast. She felt hot colour rise in her cheeks.
The footmen began clearing the soup dishes away in preparation for serving the fish course. Fanny’s seat across from Rachel remained empty. So did Sir Waldo’s across from Sophia. He would surely come. As socially ambitious as he was, he would never forgo a chance to dine with the Duke of Westleigh.
Had Rachel or her father still presided over Wingate Hall, Fletcher would not have been invited. The late earl had despised the boastful bore, both for his obsequiousness toward his betters and his meanness toward his workers.
Much of his enormous wealth came from his coal mines where miners laboured long hours in wretched, dangerous conditions for barely enough pay to feed their families while Sir Waldo decked himself in costly clothes and trappings.
But Aunt Sophia liked Sir Waldo, which did not surprise Rachel. The two were very much alike in their clutch-fisted treatment of those in their power.
After Rachel’s father died, Fletcher had fancied himself a worthy suitor for her hand and had the audacity to forcibly grab her and try to kiss her against her will. She had been so infuriated that she had told him bluntly what she thought of him and of his treatment of his workers.
Her denunciation had been overheard by others, and he had hated her ever since.
Midway through the fish course, a turbot in wine sauce, Sir Waldo finally arrived. Short and rotund, he was dressed almost as ostentatiously as Lord Felix in green satin coat and breeches. He looked to be on the verge of nervous collapse. His moon-shaped face beneath his powdered, pigeon-winged wig was white as falling snow. He was wringing his hands and trembling as though he had been stricken with St. Vitas Dance.
“So sorry I am late,” he told the room in general, then his gaze settled on Lord Felix. “My most sincere apologies to you, too, Your Grace,” he said fawningly, apparently mistaking the young fop for Westleigh. “But I could not help it. I was waylaid and robbed by that scourge of the road, Gentleman Jack.”
To Rachel’s surprise, the bored disinterest with which the duke had been watching the newcomer vanished instantly at the mention of the highwayman.
Her gaze dropped to Fletcher’s finger where he usually wore an enormous ring set with an emerald the size of a quail’s egg. The finger was bare. He always carried a large bag of gold and silver coin on his person. She suspected that was gone, too.
Good for Gentleman Jack. Rachel silently applauded the daring highwayman. He had an uncanny way of picking as his victims obnoxious souls like Sir Waldo and Lord Creevy who, in her opinion, heartily deserved to be robbed.
What pleased her even more was that the highwayman then gave much of what he took to those who had suffered the worst at his greedy victim’s hands. Rachel was certain that Sir Waldo’s abused, needy miners would soon be sharing the fruits of Gentleman Jack�
��s escapade this night. From all she had heard, they desperately needed it.
Sophia gestured toward the empty place across from her. “Do sit down, Sir Waldo.” She told one of the footmen hovering behind the chairs, “Pour him a glass of wine.”
When Fletcher picked up the newly filled glass, his hand was shaking so badly that Rachel feared the wine would slosh over the rim. He put an end to this threat by draining it in two large gulps.
The footman poured more, the baronet drank it down, and the servant filled the glass a third time.
“Took my magnificent ring, he did,” Sir Waldo complained. “And my bag of coin. Had a thousand pounds in it, it did.”
Knowing how Sir Waldo loved to boast, Rachel suspected that he had doubled the sum the bag had actually contained.
Sophia exclaimed, “Why can they not catch that scoundrel?”
Sir Waldo took another deep draught of wine before answering angrily. “Because the rabble of the countryside hide and protect him. They love him.”
And deservedly so, Rachel thought.
Crops had been poor the past two years, leaving many hungry. They had food to eat now because of the highwayman’s generosity. Once they could have counted upon Wingate Hall to assist them during difficult times, but not since Rachel’s aunt had seized control of it.
Sophia said loudly, “The sooner they can hang that vicious, evil bandit the better!”
Rachel, who had seen what good Gentleman Jack had done for the area’s least fortunate inhabitants, said, “I do not believe that he is either vicious or evil.”
Westleigh’s head swivelled around, and he studied her with acute interest. No doubt Rachel had scandalized him by defending the outlaw, but she did not care. What Gentleman Jack did might be wrong in the eyes of the law, but if it kept people from starving, she believed it was morally right.
“He is called ‘Gentleman’ because he always acts like one during his robberies,” she pointed out. “The only hurt that he has inflicted upon his victims is to their pride and pockets.”
Aunt Sophia cried, “What nonsense you prattle, girl. The man is terrorizing us upstanding citizens.”
Midnight Bride Page 5
