Strathmere's Bride

by Jacqueline Navin

  “Très bien,” she asserted with a sniff. “A woman hardly wants to hear that the man who has just made love to her thinks the entire matter a mistake he would rather have not happened.”

  “Never that,” he promised.

  “But you said a mere kiss was a mistake, that it was—”

  “Yes, yes, ‘only a kiss.’ Shall you punish me endlessly for that single inane comment?”

  She smiled wickedly. “If only one comment had been thus, I certainly would forget it. But after so many…”

  “Mademoiselle,” he began in playful incredulity, “are you insinuating that I have spoken words that you consider…not of utmost soundness.”

  She nodded, biting her lips to suppress her giggles. “Most of them, in fact.”

  He laughed with her, catching her face in his hands and kissing her soundly. “And if anyone had the gall to stand up to me and tell me so, it has been you. What a sad fellow I am. I make love to a woman, and she proceeds to inform me of my faults.”

  She smiled and nestled closer into his side. A perfect fit, he mused with sublime contentment. “Everyone has faults, Jareth, and I would risk swelling your head to speak of your other…more favorable qualities.”

  “There—you admit I do have them!”

  “On occasion.”

  “Ah,” he sighed, relaxing into the pillows. “I shall have to remind you that you said that.”

  They lay like that, entwined together, and laughed and whispered and basked in this newfound intimacy. But as the night lengthened, inevitably the world crept back.

  He would not have predicted how quickly his conscience would descend upon him. As the sky lightened, desolation took hold, stealing into their warmth like the frigid fingers of a cold fog. Day was here, chasing away the last vestiges of their magical night.

  Apparently sensing his mood, he felt Chloe’s spirits descend with his.

  “Jareth…”

  He closed his eyes against the sound of his name spoken with such a mournful tone.

  “Nothing has changed, Chloe.”

  She sighed. “No, that is not true, mon cher amour. Nothing is the same.” She paused and asked, “What shall we do now?”

  Jareth opened his eyes and looked into the thinning darkness. “I haven’t the vaguest idea.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Those words, What do we do now? stayed with Jareth for days.

  He thought constantly of Chloe, though he was careful not to speak to her. When he’d glimpse her, leaving the house with the children, stealing into the library on a clandestine mission to borrow one of his mother’s novels—a secret he never divulged to anyone—he would feel a wrenching pain in the pit of his stomach.

  What do we do now? A week passed and he kept his distance, telling himself he would think of the right thing, he would find the answer to the question and then he would tell it to her.

  But as another week slipped behind them, he still had no answer, and then it came to him that this was what they were to do—stay away from each other, go on as if nothing had happened, she with the children and he in his hollow, sterile world of nobility.

  It was toward the end of the second week he noticed Gerald constantly hanging about the nursery—some business about kittens. Although it made him furious to see his cousin freely enjoying what he had forbidden himself, he rather savored the pain, letting it rip at his insides in clean, bold strokes, heightening his misery. He told himself it was no more than he deserved for what he had done.

  Some servants were speaking in the hallway one day and he recognized one as Bette, who had been the only servant to try to help him that night in the nursery with Rebeccah. He overheard her saying that his niece’s night fears had eased. The incidents were not as frequent and much milder when they did occur. He heard her breathless voice impart the dramatic secret of the child’s cure—it seemed, she reported, that the duke had taken matters into his own hands and woken the child one night against the doctor’s strict instructions, and thus the recovery was made.

  It should have made him smile, both out of pride for the parts of the story that were true and amusement for the parts that weren’t, but not much made him smile of late. He stayed to himself. He even ate alone, working late hours as he poured his energies into fashioning the family’s financial empire into his own

  His strategies were aggressive, and it was as a result of these that a visitor arrived one day unannounced, an unthinkably brash move. But rudeness was Philip D’Arc, Marquess of Claremont’s particular talent.

  Jareth had known him a long time, since their days at Cambridge. He had detested him then, for the man’s character was abominable. Charles had particularly disliked him and the three had been cordial enemies since.

  And as fate would have it, he was a friend of Gerald’s. He introduced him to the duchess.

  “I am speechless in the presence of such beauty,” Claremont said in his oily way, bowing over her hand and making his mother blush.

  Jareth left them and went into his library, but he knew his solace wouldn’t last long. Claremont was here to see him, and he knew why. When he had outmaneuvered a competitor for mining rights to an ore-rich field in Cornwall, he hadn’t known it was Claremont whom he had edged out in the bidding. He had found out later, through his solicitors, that Claremont was furious. He was here to do business.

  Probably going to make an offer to purchase it back, Jareth thought Looking over his portfolio, he studied his other holdings to see if he would sell it to him. He thought he just might. It depended on how nicely Claremont asked.

  This is what he told the marquess when he finally granted him an audience that afternoon. He might have enjoyed making him wait longer, but he realized that the sooner they got the matter settled, the sooner Claremont would leave.

  In response to this statement, Claremont merely stared, a wicked smile curling out from behind his crooked forefinger, poised thoughtfully at his lips. “I remember you differently, Strathmere. More of a quiet type. Always so serious about your studies.” Both his curled lip and the derision in his tone made it sound like an affliction.

  “And I remember you, Claremont. Always looking to do harm.”

  Claremont chuckled. “Everyone has faults, Jareth.”

  Jareth started at the familiar form of address. “I am the duke now.”

  Claremont only shrugged. “That seems a bit of a wicked twist of fate, does it not?”

  “I cannot think you shed many tears over Charles’s passing.”

  “Charles was merely one of my enemies,” he replied. “I have so many, I cannot become too excited when one goes. No, no, you misunderstand.” A cruel smile twisted his lips. “I am given to believe Burke and Hunt Shipping is thriving. An excellent investment. I was about to make an offer for it myself when I heard you were selling your shares, but then your partner—oh, excuse me, former partner—pulled in his family connections and, well, it became just another golden opportunity lost to me.”

  Claremont’s reputation barely did him justice, Jareth thought. When he was vicious, he had no peer. Astute of him to bring up the company Jareth had loved nurturing to fruition.

  Trying to sound unperturbed, Jareth replied, “Colin is a capable manager. I never had any doubt of it.”

  “How wise of you.” His voice dripped sarcasm like honey, thick and sickeningly sweet. “The irony I was referring to before was the very fact of your being duke. I mean, you must admıt, Strathmere, you aren’t the type. You have no flair. The upper classes thrive on eccentricity and you, my dear fellow, are far too independent. I have watched you all these years. There was all that unsettling business from our Cambridge days, do you remember, so your family held a particular interest for me. After all, your brother was the reason I was sent down.”

  “Forgive me for reminding you, Claremont, but you were the reason you got sent down. It was you who sneaked that trollop into your rooms.”

  “Actually, it was a trio of trollops, and i
t was your brother who informed the prefect.”

  “He did so only when he was accused himself. He owed you no loyalty.”

  “And you stood by his side. Do you remember?”

  “Of course I do. I stood by my brother because he was in the right.”

  “Ah, well, it is in the past.” His long, elegant hands waved nonchalantly in the air. “I only mention it because it had some bearing on my later years. Missed opportunities and all that.”

  Seeming pleased with himself all of a sudden, Claremont laughed—a hollow, irritating sound. “I admit I hed before. I was relieved to know of Charles’s demise, not for the loss of an old nemesis but for the beauty of the entıre matter. Charles gone, never to rear his ugly head and spoil my fun again, and you, the new Duke of Strathmere.” He laughed again as if this were the most supremely amusing jest he could imagine.

  Jareth’s expression must have conveyed his confusion. Claremont roared louder. “But it is all so perfect, do you not see? For you, the dukedom is not to be coveted. By God, man, you were part of one of the premier industries in our nation, and you had to give it all up to come back to the ancestral home and breed.”

  As quickly as it had arisen, his laughter died. Suddenly, he was deadly serious. “For a man like you, Jareth, becoming the duke is like burying you alive.”

  Jareth’s vision contracted, converging on a single pinpoint. Those eyes, those cold, flat eyes were watching him, waiting with heady anticipation for his response. Drawing in a slow breath, Jareth spoke. “Is that what you have come all this way to tell me?”

  If Claremont was disappointed at being robbed of a more satisfying reaction from his prey, he didn’t show it. He replied, “No. Your guess was correct, I wish to purchase an investment back from you, but it is not the coal mine. And—” he paused, appearing blithely amused “—I am prepared to ask very nicely.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “There is some property in Herefordshire. Worthless plot of land, nothing but a few cows and a crumbling medieval manor house.” He sounded deliberately casual, which raised Jareth’s suspicions. “It borders a farm up there that I want to expand, a nice little retreat for me when London gets too much for me. It may surprise you to learn I fancy I would enjoy playing country squire, overseeing the pastoral landscape.”

  What ridiculousness was this? Jareth wondered. His lies were as thin as gossamer.

  He remembered the acquisition of which Claremont spoke. It was a huge parcel of land Charles had bought only months before his death. It was also one of the assets Jareth had already targeted to sell off in order to raise capital for the industries he had chosen to take the duchy in the direction he envisioned.

  As much as he despised giving Claremont what he wanted, it would be cutting off his own nose to spite his face to refuse. “What are you offering for the land?”

  Claremont grinned, pleased to have piqued the duke’s interest The bargain he outlined confirmed Jareth’s suspicion that the land was no idle request. Country squire, indeed. He made the offer very attractive, too attractive to pass up even if he had been disposed to keep the land for his own uses.

  Claremont must want this land very badly, Jareth mused. He must have been extremely put out when he found out his old enemies held it.

  Then a thought occurred to him. Claremont had said something about Charles spoiling his fun again. Had Charles purchased this land just to vex Claremont?

  It wouldn’t keep Jareth from striking the bargain if this were the case. Whatever Charles’s motivations for buying the Herefordshire lands had been, this was Jareth’s duchy now, and part of his self-emancipation from the bindings of the title had been to give up trying to carry on with others’ expectations and move ahead with his own agenda. The sale suited his plan, so he informed Claremont that he would agree to the deal provided his solicitor furnished a comprehensive description of the transaction.

  Claremont smiled. “Excellent. I shall dispatch myself to London to see it done, posthaste.”

  “Good journey, Claremont,” Jareth said, turning away.

  “And good health to you, your grace. Do take special care when out and riding about. It is distressing that even conveyances as grand as the ducal carriage can sometimes be…well, unreliable.”

  Jareth whirled, but Claremont was already out the door. In his wake, a wicked chuckle echoed in the hall.

  * * *

  Chloe scooted the kitten aside for what had to be the tenth time that day. This was Sarah’s—each girl had insisted on having her own pet—and had been dubbed Harry by Rebeccah. He was a marmaladeand-cream creature with distinctive tortoiseshell markings and a remarkable amount of energy. Rebeccah’s gray-striped tabby, named Lady Anne, was, in contrast, quite lazy, but her orange brother more than made up for it.

  “See, you have smudged the ink, bad cat!” Chloe scolded. Grabbing the kitten by the scruff of the neck and placing him gently on the floor, she went back to her letter.

  What was she to say to Papa? How was she to tell him of the happenings in her life without her unhappiness pouring out on the page?

  She sighed and looked out the window. The stubborn kitten leaped on top of the table again and began pouncing about, his little eyes round with an adorable expression that by rights should have amused her. “Sarah, come and get Harry.”

  The little girl scampered in and carried off her pet, and Chloe stared once again at the empty page. She decided to write about the children and leave herself out of it completely. Papa was no fool, but any suspicions he would have would be far less humiliating than admitting the truth.

  What was there for her to be ashamed of? she wondered. Of love? Her mother had raised her better than to hide her feelings like her English aristocrat cousins. Was she ashamed of making love with Jareth? she wondered. Never. She could not regret a moment of that night for all of the admonitions and preachings of sin in the world. If that one night together were the only thing she was to have of him, she would take it with her to her grave and treasure it always.

  “Miss Chloe,” Rebeccah said, rushing into her bedroom, waving something in her hand. “Look what I have found in a cupboard.”

  Chloe was more interested in the dust covering the child. “Rebeccah, I have told you not to go crawling about in the closets.” Rebeccah ignored her and placed a small leather-bound book on Chloe’s desk with a flourish. “What is this?”

  “It’s a book!” she replied, very proud of herself.

  “I can see that. Why do you give this to me?”

  “It must have all manner of secrets inside. Perhaps even a map for treasure.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Miss Chloe, do you not see? The book was hidden. So, there must be something wonderful inside. Read it! Go ahead, open it and read it to me.”

  Chloe picked up the volume. It smelled of mildew. Opening to the first page, she said, “Probably a misplaced picture book that got shoved to the back of a cupboard…”

  The page read, “Diary of Charles David Witherspoon Hunt IV, Marquess of Harwether, heir apparent to the Duke of Strathmere.”

  “What is it, Miss Chloe? What does it say?” Rebeccah was at Chloe’s elbow. “Oh! Tell me!”

  Chloe closed the book. “It is your father’s diary from when he was a boy.”

  This, apparently, was more wonderful than secret treasure maps, judging by Rebeccah’s expression. Chloe waylaid her next, predictable, request. “And I shall not read it to you. When you are older, you may have it and read it on your own. But the things in this volume were a little boy’s private thoughts, and I don’t think that boy would want a five-year-old and a governess prying into his diary, even if the child is his own.”

  “But—”

  “Non, chérie. When you are older. Now, do not trouble me again.” Handing her the diary, she instructed, “Go put this on the shelf.”

  Thwarted, Rebeccah looked murderous as she stomped out of the room.

  No sooner had she l
eft than Gerald came into the playroom, bellowing, “What are you ladies doing indoors on such a fine day as this?”

  “Hello, Cousin Gerald!” Rebeccah cried. Chloe laid her quill down and went to the doorway, smiling to herself at how quickly the child recovered from her earth-shattering disappointment of only moments ago.

  “How is Lady Anne?” Gerald asked.

  “Come see how she can do a trick,” Rebeccah said, grabbing Gerald by the hand and pulling him over to where the kitten lay curled on her pillow. However, her attempts to rouse the cat from her sleep were unsuccessful.

  Chloe came to intervene because she couldn’t bear to see the little thing so harassed. “Let Lady Anne sleep, Rebeccah. Remember, she is only a baby.”

  Lady Anne, however, didn’t seem to mind in the least. The moment Rebeccah ceased her proddings, she curled up in a ball and closed her eyes.

  “You must be more gentle with Lady Anne,” Chloe instructed. Rebeccah flounced off, whining something about having a terrible day.

  Chloe gave Gerald an exasperated look, and he smiled back. She didn’t mind his company, especially on a lonely day like today, although she hardly found his conversation scintillating. The topic he favored was his wicked days in London. She thought perhaps he missed them too much to be as reformed as he was constantly asserting.

  “I have come here to invite you all for an outing. It is too glorious a day for staying indoors. What are you doing that is so important?”

  “Writing a letter,” Chloe answered.

  “Put it aside for a day when rain blights the sky. There is a fresh snowfall, and it will probably be the last this season.”

  The distraction would be welcome, Chloe decided. “Children, would you like to go play in the snow?”

  Sarah’s lit-up face was her answer. Rebeccah was still in a mood, and when she was like this, her oneshouldered shrug was as good as jumping up and down.

  Getting the children dressed for the cold was a substantial task. It took three-quarters of an hour before they were ready to leave. They descended the servants’ stairs, their boots making as much racket as an entire regiment of soldiers. Rebeccah’s excitement built, and she burst out the pantry door and ran to the walled orchard, Sarah on her heels.