The Sleeping Beauty

by Jacqueline Navin

  Doing her best to flounce, she turned away from him with a sound of disgust. He reined in his mounting anger, reminding himself that he was supposed to be smoothing out their differences, not inflaming them.

  He could coddle her pride. For five thousand and another six annually, he could do that. “I admit I thought you a servant,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “It was unforgivable of me, but I can only plead the excuse of ignorance and poor lighting.”

  Her head came back around, slowly. Thoughtfully.

  Encouraged, he continued. “You are no fool, that one can easily see.” He took a step closer, glad she didn’t skitter away from him. At this distance, he could see her prominent collarbone and the soft pulse that beat at the base of her throat. His gaze dipped lower to where the tiny breasts heaved under the too-large bodice. The slightest tremor stirred inside him. He swallowed, tearing his eyes away from the strangely exciting sight. “You don’t trust me. I think this is fair. However, though I may be a cad, I am an honest one. If you don’t believe me, consider that your father loves you too much to deceive you. He will no doubt share with you every facet of our conversation and the resultant bargain. Therefore, I have no choice but to be truthful.”

  She bit her lip with uncertainty, and he felt his stomach clench as the even, white teeth sank into tender flesh.

  She said, “If all you want is money, I will pay you to go away.”

  “If money was the only consideration, I could pluck an heiress without going farther than the drawing rooms of Belgravia and Mayfair.”

  “Then why did you come?”

  He hesitated. “There was talk. There was…a legend of sorts. Of a woman who lived in these parts, who was possessed of beauty and charm—”

  The blue of her eyes grew icy when she cut him off. “If you wish to flatter me, you must think me indeed a fool.”

  “Of beauty and charm,” he insisted, coming even closer, so that it seemed he towered over her. She was so petite, so fragile, like an exquisite doll made of porcelain. “That is the truth.”

  “And rich.”

  He didn’t flinch. Almost, but he fought it. “And rich. Yes.” There was an awkward silence.

  She was the one who broke it. “I trust my father is compensating you well.”

  He didn’t like that, not at all. Less so for it being the truth. “I have already admitted as much. You cannot wound me by taunting me with it.”

  “Can’t I?”

  He gritted his teeth. “You are very clever.”

  “Didn’t they tell you that when they were extolling my beauty and wit?”

  “Charm. It was beauty and charm. However, they clearly neglected to inform me of a few things.”

  Her lips twitched for a moment, then pressed together, extinguishing any hint of amusement. “You must be very angry at whoever sent you up here.”

  “Right now, I am concerned with you.”

  “Yes, of course. You can hardly kidnap me and force me to marry you.”

  “Your father thinks my suit to be a sound one. Should you not consider that?”

  Tossing her head, she retorted, “My father is a drunkard whose affection for me has been lost in an intoxicated brain fever.”

  “He seemed quite clear thinking. He made me promise to treat you well, not to abandon you, and…to see to your needs.”

  “How wonderful.” Her eyes blazed with a renewed flare of anger, blue-green fire coming straight for him. “It seems we’re all set, then.”

  “That sort of sarcasm is unflattering.” It wasn’t true. Her features were alive and mobile with the play of emotions. His gaze once again dipped to those meager mounds of flesh, that miniature waist. What was coming over him, to wonder what that slender body would look like naked? Undressed, would it be hard angles and ungiving bone or would her breasts still rise to pinkened peaks and her hips flare with just the right sort of roundness to tempt a man’s hand to slide along the contour?

  She smirked. “Oh, heavens! And I do so wish to impress you.”

  He blinked, giving himself a mental shake. The direction of his thoughts surprised him. She was not the sort of woman he usually favored. She was haughty and brittle and far too thin. “You are making quite an impression.”

  With a brazen flourish, she squared off across from him. “Why should I care the impression you form of me? The days of my living for others’ opinions are long since gone.”

  “That is obvious,” he drawled.

  “Nothing is obvious, Mr. Mannion. Nothing is what it seems here. If you knew what was best for you, you would leave this house, leave this place and count yourself fortunate to be gone.”

  He gritted his teeth. “I’m not leaving, Helena.”

  “And I didn’t give you leave to address me by my name.”

  “It is only fitting, don’t you agree, as you shall be my wife?”

  “I have not agreed to marry you!” She exploded then, breaking away to pace. “You cannot possibly know what you are doing. You don’t know things…. There may come a day when you consider your brilliant bargain not so attractive upon reflection.”

  “What don’t I know? The reason why you and your father have chosen to molder here in this rotting mansion? I suppose I shall find the answer to that soon enough.”

  Startled, she whirled on him, eyes wide.

  Strangely, he wanted to soothe her. Instead, his words came out sharp. “Do you truly want me to leave you to this dreary life? Do you love it so much?”

  Her hand came to her throat. He could see it convulse under those long, thin fingers. He didn’t relent. “Perhaps this is why your father accepted my suit, to get you out of this….” He waved his hands around, at a loss for words to describe the stagnant air around him. “So it remains, Helena, whether you will obey him in his wishes. Will you consent to marry me as your father commands? You are a dutiful daughter, aren’t you?”

  She looked up at him all of a sudden, startled. A doe cornered. Everything inside her was laid bare, raw and vulnerable. In a stinging moment of clarity, he understood something, something he couldn’t even name, a feeling. That she needed him.

  It was an intoxicating realization, filling him with a sense of power. Shoving aside the prickles of conscience, he pressed his advantage. “Will you consent to marry me?” His body tensed, awaiting her response.

  Her shoulders weren’t as squared. Her fear had edged out the burst of defiance and there was an air of resignation about her that curled his nostrils like a hound hot after the scent of a tired hare.

  “Go away.” It wasn’t a command; it was a plea. “Leave me alone.”

  “I want an answer.”

  Her jaw worked rebelliously, but she lowered her eyes. Softly, she replied, “I do not believe I have a choice.”

  The surge of relief and triumph swept down from shoulders to heels, leaving him trembling with reaction. He’d done it. He’d gotten the money.

  Slanting a glance up at him, her tone laced with contempt, she added, “If you are inclined to gloat, I would be grateful if you would do it somewhere else. And while you are congratulating yourself, Mr. Mannion, consider that you may find the fruit you have stolen may prove sour before too long.”

  He ignored her, grinning as he snatched her hand. It was so cool. He touched his lips quickly to the slender back. “You taste sweet enough to me.”

  Snatching her hand back, she glared at him with prim affront. He laughed, buoyed by his great fortune today. “Now, I am off to have my things brought up from the inn.”

  “You are staying here?”

  “At your father’s invitation.” He hiked his brows wickedly. “Are you not happy to have me close? All the better to learn all those things a husband should know about a wife, wouldn’t you say?”

  She looked like she could claw his eyes out without a moment’s hesitation. Without a word, she stormed off, her too-large dress gaping in the back. It should have made her look silly, like a twelve-year-old in her mother’s g
own, and yet she held herself with a dignity that would not allow anything so frivolous to be associated with her magnificent exit.

  Narrowing his eyes as he stared after her, he wondered if she were going to prove difficult. He hadn’t bargained on having to actually contend with his new wife.

  Shrugging, he turned to other, more pleasant thoughts. Thoughts of money—six thousand a year! He laughed out loud as he jammed his hat on his head and exited the house.

  Chapter Four

  George Rathford was not nearly as drunk as he wanted to be. Maybe there wasn’t enough whiskey in the world to take him to the oblivion he sought. Damnation, he was tired. Tired of the pain, tired of the hopelessness.

  He blamed Althea, though it did him no good. It was useless to fault someone who was dead for one’s problems. A cat chasing his tail was what he was—hating his deceased wife and helpless to do anything about the daughter whom he loved more than anything on this earth.

  Had he done the right thing today? It was so hard to know. One rarely acted wisely when one was desperate.

  There was little time left.

  The housekeeper, Mrs. Kent, came in. “You wished to see me, my lord?”

  “Instruct the servants that this man, this Mr. Mannion, is to be treated with all honor and courtesy. I want his room cleaned impeccably, his meals hot. I know there are precious little staff left, Mrs. Kent, but I must urge you to make the best impression possible.”

  “Will Kimberly also be expected to work, my lord?”

  Rathford paused. The old Irishwoman was a blight on the house. Everyone was terrified of her, of her superstitions and her “powers.” He considered it all foolishness, but he couldn’t quite work up the courage to get rid of her. She was just a part of life in this old place—not a pleasant part, but a part just the same.

  Perhaps Kimberly’s presence was Althea’s revenge on him for being happy she was gone.

  “Kimberly has her own duties,” he said, and swallowed a large gulp of whiskey to chase away his self-disgust.

  Mrs. Kent’s voice was stiff with disapproval. “Very well, my lord.”

  “One more thing. There is to be no…talk. That is, the reason for my daughter’s seclusion may be of interest to Mr. Mannion. This might cause him to ask questions of the staff. No one is to speak of the accident. I cannot be more firm about this, Mrs. Kent. Any gossip on this topic will result in an immediate dismissal and no reference.”

  “That’s harsh, sir.”

  “Indeed. So they will know how serious I am about this matter. My daughter’s secret is to be kept.”

  “Very good, then. I’ll tell them.”

  “And have Charles fetch another bottle, will you?”

  Her frown creased her face. “Yes, my lord.”

  Adam spent the better part of the afternoon in the stables, as his room had to be “aired.” Judging from the din coming from the house and the sight of several windows flung open to disgorge huge amounts of dust, the term “aired” was a euphemism for a full-fledged scrubbing.

  While they worked, he enjoyed the company of horses and was surprised to find some astonishing specimens of horseflesh housed in the stalls. There were the work animals, and two fine Arabians whose sagging bellies bespoke of overfeeding and no exercise. With nothing better to do, he took them out to the paddock and trotted them a bit, then brushed them down when a quick-rolling thunderstorm drove them inside.

  Tired and having worked up an appetite, Adam wandered into the house. The kitchens were deserted. Pilfering a smoked sausage from a string of links hanging on a peg, he munched as he sauntered out of the room and roamed the halls.

  He smothered the smug sense of proprietorship that came over him. The place was nothing short of magnificent—underneath the dirt. It would be his someday. It felt good, and this surprised him. After all, he didn’t even expect to be living in it, save those times he was obligated to visit.

  Yet his mind couldn’t help but create images of what the Romanesque busts would look like without their layer of grime, and just how brilliantly the gold leaf would glimmer if the filth-lined windows actually allowed in some light.

  His good mood dwindled, however, as he passed through room after room of moth-eaten draperies and dust-dulled furniture. The Sleeping Beauty…yes, he felt like he was in an enchanted castle, and it was starting to send creeping tremors of disquiet up his spine.

  The eerie effect was worsened by the loud patter of rain on the windowpanes. It sounded like bony fingers tapping, begging entry. It followed him as he wound his way through the house.

  There was a music room, a portrait gallery, a column-lined portico overlooking a large ballroom that was now used for storage, apparently. In a small parlor, a painting caught his eye.

  He moved closer, stopping when the sound of scurrying mice overrode the soft brush of his footsteps. Looking up, he studied the face framed above the fireplace.

  It was her—Helena. Squinting, he looked again. Wasn’t it?

  The woman in the painting looked like her, but the eyes were colder. Empty, maybe, and devoid of fire. Her face was perfect, however, with high cheekbones blushed just right with the color of roses, and that pouting mouth that was slightly overfull and far too lush for her otherwise serious face. Her nose was perfection, her brow flawless. Dressed in an elaborate costume more suited to the last decade than to this, she was looking haughtily off into the distance, as if the laboring of the artist were of no consequence to her.

  Oh, yes, this was Helena. That arrogance was unmistakable.

  He let his eyes wander over the painted bustline, pushed up and flowing nicely over the straight line of the stomacher. It was a daring dress. Her breasts were exposed nearly to the nipples.

  Low in his belly, a snake of desire stirred to life, coiling tightly like a cobra right before it struck. The artist had rendered her thin, but not as thin as she was now. The elegant length of her neck and the willowy repose of her bared arms showed enough flesh to make his mouth go dry. The difference in her face was also noticeable, fleshing out the promise of her otherworldly beauty.

  This was undoubtedly an exquisite woman. Adam wondered if the artist had been flattering his subject, or had Helena once exuded that incredible blend of austere coolness and promised sensuality?

  Immediately following these ponderings were the obvious questions, the questions that a man who had not come all the way to Northumberland for money alone would have asked first thing. Why?

  Why did this incredible house resemble a tomb?

  Why did the mistress dress and act like a common servant?

  Why did a great and celebrated beauty shrink among the shadows and hide from the world?

  He had told himself it didn’t matter, but he was interested now.

  “Mr. Mannion, sir,” a woman’s voice said from the doorway.

  He started and spun around. A middle-aged woman in a checked muslin skirt and shawl knotted around her hunched shoulders smiled at him. She was pleasant looking, with bright eyes and a scooped nose that made her look a bit impish. “I am Mrs. Kent, the housekeeper,” she said. “Your room is done and your things have arrived from the village. They’ve been unpacked. Would you like me to show you the way now?”

  “Very well,” he said, following Mrs. Kent out the door. Before he left, he cast one quick glance over his shoulder at the portrait and felt a renewed rush of curiosity.

  What had happened?

  Pausing at the threshold of the dining room, Helena took a bracing breath and squared her shoulders. But when she entered, she found only her father, seated at the head of the long polished table.

  She was a bit taken aback by the fine linens and sparkling crystal and china settings. Looking about, she took in the improvements to the drafty place.

  “Mrs. Kent has been busy today,” she commented, taking one of the places set on either side of his.

  “It is a time of great change,” her father muttered into his glass. Although he had a w
ineglass at his place setting, he had his large fist wrapped around a tumbler.

  “Indeed,” she said, sitting stiffly and shaking out the linen napkin. “Here we are having dinner together, no more trays in our rooms. Just like civilized people.”

  “Helena, please. Not now.”

  “Of course, Father. Pardon me for troubling you. It’s just that being bartered off to a complete stranger moments after setting eyes on him has put me a bit out of sorts…but, no, I must not speak of such things, mustn’t I? I always should remember my manners.”

  “My God,” he swore, and guzzled the drink down to the last drop.

  “Isn’t that what I was always taught—deportment above all things?”

  “That was your mother.”

  “And where were you when I was being instructed in this treatise and all the rules of haute société? Off hunting?” Leaning forward, she gripped the edge of the table until it cut into her palm. “I remember wanting to go with you so badly. Once, when I was six years old, Mother had me dressed in a perfect white frock trimmed with delicate pink satin bows all along the hem. It was a beautiful dress, and costly. I know because she told me so, reminding me to take care, hounding me, really. I hated the thing, hated the prison I was in when I wore it. Trapped into being a lady when I wanted to run and jump and yell like a Red Indian.

  “We were going to tea at a neighbor’s. I always hated that, having to sit there perfectly still, perfectly silent, perfectly deported. When I saw you going to the stables, I ran out of the house and asked you to take me with you. I cried, ‘Pick me up, Papa!’ and held my arms out to you.”

  George Rathford hunched over in his seat, shielding himself from her words as if they were physical blows.

  “You looked at me and smiled. I wonder if you remember. I thought for a moment you were going to lift me up and carry me off to a grand adventure. I knew at that moment you were my absolute hero and that you’d rescue me.” She paused a moment before continuing, sotto voce. “And then Mother came. She scolded me and sent me inside, but I defied her, sure you would tell her that we were going hunting together, sure you would stand firm. Sure you would take me with you.”