by Janet Woods
Angelina was plainly dressed, her blue gown similar to those worn by the servants at the house. As James followed after her she snatched a ribbon-bedecked straw bonnet from her head and threw it high in the air. She laughed as the wind caught her hair and sent it whipping in strands around her face, then raced after the hat as it sailed towards the stream.
She giggled when it fell into the water, picked up her skirts and waded into the shallows. The hat spun out of her reach when she bent to retrieve it. James laughed; he couldn’t help himself.
“Oh! Who are you?” Angelina didn’t think to leave the stream before she dropped her skirts. Consternation uppermost in her expression, she gazed at the sopping hem before bringing her eyes back to him. “Look what you’ve made me do, sir. My maid will most surely scold me.”
“Allow me to help you.” James retrieved her hat with his cane, then held out his hand to assist her from the stream.
She took a step backwards. “You’re on Pakenham land, sir. Would you state your name and business?”
Any lingering doubt about this girl being his sister was instantly dispelled. Her features and colouring were those of his stepmother, Elizabeth. She displayed the same high cheekbones and creamy textured skin, the same arresting green eyes. Her hair was a tawny shade rather than chestnut, and hung to her waist in a severe braid.
“I’m Lord James Wrey, Viscount Romsey, and heir to the Earl of Winterbourne.”
The green eyes remained a blank. It was as Lady Alexandra had informed him. Angelina had been kept in total ignorance of her background. “Your business, My Lord?” Her eyes narrowed slightly and her voice became fierce when he didn’t answer straight away. “You can tell me now, or wait until my three brothers arrive with their dogs. They are not far behind.”
If only she knew how close to the truth she’d come. James tried to banish the amusement from his eyes. The girl was quick-witted in the face of danger, her spirit admirable. He couldn’t resist the opportunity to tease a little and settled himself comfortably on the grass. “My business is with a young lady named Angelina. If you are she, perhaps it would be as well to wait for your three brothers to arrive. My news is of the utmost importance, and confidential.”
“Is it bad news or good?” Her lovely eyes were intrigued, but her body had the stance of a skittish colt. She’d shy away at the least sign of danger.
“Both,” James replied, enjoying the encounter and wanting it to last. “Understandably, you are nervous of me so we will wait for your brothers to arrive.”
“You do not look like a man who’d harm a woman.” She slanted her head to one side, curiosity written in her eyes.
“I’d never harm a woman. You have my word of honour.”
“I’m Angelina Pakenham,” she admitted. “What did you want to see me about, My Lord?”
“If you’ll emerge from the stream I’ll tell you.” James’ encouraging smile was met by an uncertain frown in return. “Your maid tells me you came to see the otters.”
Angelina glanced with a certain amount of anxiety towards the ridge. “Bessie will be here in a moment.”
“She is on her way. I wished to speak to you alone, first.” The time had come to stop trying to gain her confidence and tell her the news. He stood and offered her his hand again. “Take it Angelina. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Lady Alexandra is dead and I’ve been appointed your guardian.”
She gave a small, distressed cry and her eyes rounded in shock. In an instant she placed her small hand in his and came to stand in front of him on the grassy bank.
“Aunt Alexandra is dead?” She did not cry, but a haunted expression came into her eyes. “I hope she did not suffer.”
How disconsolate she sounded. James ached to take her in his arms and told a small lie to comfort her. “Lady Alexandra died suddenly. She was buried next to her husband two days ago in St Martin’s cemetery in London.”
“I see.” She withdrew her hand. Although her face had paled and tears blurred her eyes, she did not seem unduly distressed by the news. For that James was thankful.
Slanting her head to one side in that altogether charming manner of hers, she gazed at him with curiosity. “Why were you appointed my guardian, Viscount Romsey? Have you been appointed by the court?” Her eyes narrowed as she gazed at him once more. “Your face seems familiar. Have we met before?”
“Briefly, about two years ago. Your dog ran under my horse and....”
“Poor Muffin got such a fright he ran away and was lost,” she accused. “And you didn’t even apologise.”
“Apologise?” He raised an eyebrow. “The dog nearly unseated me.”
“Perhaps it’s I who should apologise then.” She gave a soft laugh. “I remember thinking how well you got your horse back under control at the time.” Her eyes glinted greenly. “My aunt thought you a most disagreeable young man. She said the language you used was unfit for my ears. I cannot imagine why she should appoint you my guardian.”
Her words had a strangely provocative quality. James found himself on the brink of apologising when he glimpsed the mischief in her eyes. “Perhaps you’d consider your three brothers more suitable guardians?”
She gave a delicate shrug. “If I admit to not having any brothers, will you say how my wardship became your business?”
“Most certainly.” He took both her hands in his and gazed at her. “Perhaps things will become clearer if I correct your mistake. You do have brothers, and I am one of them. You also have a sister, a mother and a father. You’re Lady Angelina Wrey, my dear, and far from being alone, you have a family waiting to welcome you home.”
“How?” she murmured.
“Lady Alexandra stole you from your mother. All these years your mother thought you were dead.”
The sun still shone, the breeze still sent the flowers and grasses dancing, the bees still droned amongst the flowers. To Angelina, the world appeared to have as much substance as shifting shadows upon the water.
She gazed into eyes as dark and soft as midnight, and they were full of concern. Her brother? This tall man with his kind face was her brother? Her mind was in turmoil. There were others, he’d said. “How many?”
The merest hesitation. “One. His name is William.”
“My sister?”
Another hesitation.”Rosabelle.”
“How old is Rosabelle?”
“The same age as you...twins...no, you’re not alike...Rosabelle is dark. Your mother’s name is Elizabeth. You are very much like her. Rosabelle takes after her father.”
Angelina thought she could grow to like this man. Her brother? Dear God! Tears pricked her eyes. She had a family. No more loneliness. She’d have someone to talk too, a mother to advise her. But what if...? Terror raced down her spine as she quietly asked. “I will be a stranger to them. What if they do not like me?”
She appreciated the fact James didn’t deny the possibility. “You’ll have me. I do not take my responsibilities lightly.”
“Is that what I am to you. A responsibility?” Of course she was. How could she expect this man to have feelings towards a sister he’d never known? At least he was honest with her. They had only just met, yet she felt she could trust him.
“I will not deny that you are.” His smile was teasing. “Legally, I’m your guardian until you reach the age of twenty-five, or a suitable husband is found to take you off my hands. That should not be too difficult. You’re Lady Alexandra’s heir, and you come with a large dowry.”
Dismay sliced like a knife into her heart. She stared at him with dread in her eyes. “You don’t intend to marry me off to a stranger, do you?” Her voice heated as her temper took over. “Aunt Alexandra may have stolen me, sir, but her trust was misplaced if she thought you a proper guardian for me. She’d never have forced me into marriage against my will.” The ground under her suddenly seemed as delicate and slippery as the first ice on the lake in winter.
She snatched up her hat and was abo
ut to walk away when a thought occurred to her. She rounded on him. “How do I know the tale you’ve told me is not a pack of lies? How do I know you are not here to compromise me, sir, thus to claim my aunt’s fortune for yourself? I’ve been educated about the wicked ways of men.”
His eyes widened in astonished denial, but she didn’t give him a chance to speak. She wanted to escape back to the house, to the safety of her room and the possessions familiar to her. She wanted to bury herself in Bessie’s comforting lap like she used to as a child, pretend things were just the same.
Bessie had arrived at the top of the hill. Placing a hand to his chest Angelina shoved James backwards. He stumbled, lost his footing and toppled backwards into the stream. She took off as fast as she could when he uttered an oath.
“Quick, Bessie,” she said when she reached the top of the hill. “We’ll take his horse before he catches us.”
“Go on, my love, I can’t run another step,” Bessie gasped. Breathless and puce-faced with effort she picked up a stout branch, holding it in a threatening manner in front of her. “I’ll brain him before he gets to you, that I will.”
“Wait!”
Angelina heard the man shout as she reached the spot where his horse was tethered. Her fear increased when he decreased the distance between them with long strides. There was no sign of Bessie. Angelina took a panicky breath. The man had killed her maid, now he’d kill her!
The horse was a giant, or so it seemed to her startled eyes. Her sudden appearance sent it snickering and dancing nervously. Riding was a skill she’d never been seriously taught, usually contenting herself by walking, or using a gentle old hack that had been put out to grass.
She scrambled on to the low branch and took a handful of its mane. But this horse was not the plodding old Dobbin. This horse was a bunch of muscled power waiting for release. It sensed her panic when she tried to scramble on to its back and crabbed sideways. She fell on to her hands and knees. Suddenly, it jerked its reins free from the branch it was tied to and reared high above her. She cried out in fright as its hooves slashed downwards.
She was thrown sideways with such force it robbed her of breath. Pressed into the earth by a damp, warm body, she heard James grunt then the horse go crashing off through the undergrowth.
“Thank God you’re unhurt.”
She clung to him for comfort when he brought them both upright, her heart leaping in her chest like a demented frog.
“I should have handled this better,” he said, rocking her back and forth. “I wouldn’t have you harmed for the world, my dearest sister.”
As her breathing gradually slowed to normal Angelina knew she’d been stupid. Had he meant to harm her he’d have done so at the stream when they were alone. He’d had ample time. Shyly, she raised he eyes to his.
“There’s nothing to forgive, My Lord. I acted stupidly and with undue haste.” She returned his smile. “I’m sorry I pushed you into the stream.”
“So am I.” His rueful chuckle brought a giggle to Angelina’s lips. “My dignity will never recover, and my manservant will never forgive you. He fussed about me like an old hen this morning, determined I’d make a good impression on you.”
“I can only reassure him that you did, My Lord,” she said as they scrambled to their feet.
“You must call me James,’ he said gently “As your brother and guardian, I insist.”
“James.” She said it slowly, almost caressingly, then gave an approving smile. ‘The name suits you well, despite your drenching in the stream.”
He grinned. “It’s an event I will long remember.”
“Aunt Alexandra says my imagination is too vivid for my own good at times. I’m truly sorry I doubted you.”
“Then you’ll not object to your brother kissing you. I deserve something for the uncivil treatment I’ve received at your hands.”
He was still holding her, and Angelina found herself lifting her cheek towards his lips. He was tall and had to stoop. His mouth had just brushed her cheek when she caught a glimpse of Bessie sneaking up behind him with the branch raised threateningly over her head.
“No!” she yelled in a horrified voice, but too late. With a sickening thud the makeshift weapon made contact, and James dropped like a stone at her feet.
Chapter Three
“Rosabelle, my dear. Stop fidgeting.”
Elizabeth was subjected to a rebellious glance. “Yellow makes me look hideous. No-one will ask me to dance.”
“Nonsense.” Elizabeth exchanged a glance with the dressmaker. “The neckline is too low. Trim it with the same lace and ribbon you’re using on the petticoat.”
“Mama!” Rosabelle wailed. “It’s for my eighteenth birthday ball. Stop treating me like a child.”
“Stop behaving like one,” Elizabeth snapped. “You’re trying my patience to the limit.” As usual, she thought, wishing she could feel closer to this only child of hers.
Rosabelle giggled when her brother, William, stuck his head around the door and made a face at her before continuing on his way. “Will told me that Rafe Daventry will be coming down from London for the ball.”
Elizabeth gave her a searching look. “The Earl has accepted the invitation. I believe he’ll be accompanying the Marquess of Pallister’s party. He’s their house guest at the moment.”
“Rafe cannot possibly be interested in Caroline Pallister,” Rosabelle scorned. “She’s almost an old maid, and has a bad complexion.”
“Caroline will inherit to her father’s fortune, and Rafe needs money if he’s to restore Ravenswood.” She gave a cold smile when alarm touched Rosabelle’s eyes. “Caroline may not be a beauty, but she comes with a large dowry, is accomplished, and conducts herself well in public. She’d make a fitting wife for the Earl.”
“If Rafe had intended to offer for her it would be announced by now.”
“No doubt the Earl will do what he considers best for his future,” she mused, for Rosabelle was right. “And what’s best for Ravenswood, of course. He’s sworn never to step foot in the family home and has vowed to restore the house of his maternal grandparents and live there.”
“That old pile of stones,” Rosabelle muttered.
A scruple of guilt attacked Elizabeth Wrey when Rosabelle reluctantly paraded in the gown. The delicate shade of yellow she’d chosen was wrong for Rosabelle. Dark-eyed and olive-skinned, there was a bold earthiness about Rosabelle that made a mockery of pastels,and invited the attention of men. Rosabelle’s responses made it plain the attention was welcome. It was high time the girl was married.
But the elegant and impoverished Rafe Daventry, a man who set female hearts fluttering wherever he went, was not the man for Rosabelle, whatever her inclinations,
Rosabelle needed a firm hand and her godfather, George Northbridge, was twenty years her senior. The Marquis was extremely wealthy, and although his first wife had been fertile, she’d miscarried regularly before she’d died.
George had always been fond of Rosabelle. In hindsight, Elizabeth realised his regard for Rosabelle was more than mere fondness. He was unable to tear his eyes away from the breasts which had transformed her daughter from a pert, pretty child into a voluptuous young woman almost overnight.
Secretly, Elizabeth thought George the most disgusting of men. She hated the way he stood with his legs spread wide, as if his breeches could not contain that which God had given him to procreate his kind with.
Picking up her fan Elizabeth vigorously applied a cooling stream of air to her face. Such thoughts should be kept for the privacy of the boudoir, and even there should not be encouraged for the shameful reminder it lent to her own celibate state.
Thomas had not sought her bed since Rosabelle’s birth. It was common knowledge that his mistress and the son she’d borne him, were cozily settled in a large secluded cottage on the edge of the village.
Despite the traumatic birth of Rosabelle and the warning she could not bear another infant without endangering her
life, the chance to have another child had been denied her by the presence of her husband’s mistress. Elizabeth frowned. No wonder Rosabelle was so forward. The girl had suckled from the whore for the first two years of her life.
Rosabelle had turned to Mary Mellor when she’d needed comfort. The first word she’d uttered had been the woman’s name. The second word had been Frey. Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed in cat-like concentration. The second nursery maid had been evasive on being questioned, but Elizabeth had soon got the truth out of her.
Furious at the deception, her rage had been absolute when she learned that Rosabelle’s wet-nurse had birthed a bastard son under her own roof. Worse, was the knowledge that her own husband was the boy’s father.
She’d intended to flay the skin from Mary Mellor’s back with a riding crop when she returned, but someone had warned the estate steward, who’d intercepted the woman on the road and got her to a place of safety.
Elizabeth had waited all day, the crop firmly grasped in her hand. The maid did her best to placate the squalling infant, whose shock at being denied the warm bounty of Mary Mellor’s breast would not be placated by a horn of sweet goat’s milk.
Rosabelle’s cries for Mary grew louder and louder. Just when Elizabeth thought she might use the crop on the screaming toddler instead, Thomas had appeared to confront her.
“We’re waiting dinner for you, madam,” he’d said coldly.
Thwarted by the loss of her prey, Elizabeth had lashed out at him instead, striking him ferociously about the shoulders as hard as she was able, and for as long as her strength allowed.
Her husband had stood there without flinching, his eyes understanding her rage, her need to punish someone for her hurt. When she’d all but exhausted her strength, she’d slumped against him. Gently, he’d picked her up in his arms and carried her to her chamber, leaving her in the care of her maid.
