Almost - Almost A Bride Part 5

"Yes, please, Becky." Arabella took the shallow Delftware cup filled with fragrant chocolate as the maid handed it to her. "I'm going to walk over to the Barratts' this morning, so would you put out the striped Indian muslin?"

"The orange and brown one, ma'am?" Becky opened the armoire.

"Yes, it's light and cool." Arabella sipped chocolate, planning her day and in particular how best to avoid her housemate. If she spent the morning at the Barratts', she could exercise the dogs on the walk there and back, so there would be no need to ride this afternoon and she could spend that time in the hothouse. No one in their right mind, not even someone as stubbornly determined as the duke, would want to swelter in a hothouse all afternoon just to impose his company upon her. And that would just leave dinner. Well, she could manage to spend a civilized meal in his company once a day as they'd agreed. As long as he kept his distance, she added to herself with a grimace.

"Something the matter, Lady Arabella?" Becky looked concerned as she saw Arabella's expression. "Is it the toothache?" Becky had recently suffered a bout of toothache and could imagine nothing worse.

"No, not at all, Becky." Arabella forced a cheery smile. "I was just thinking about something I have to do that I don't really want to."

Becky shook out the folds of striped muslin with a critical frown. "I'll just pa.s.s the iron over this, ma'am. Seems a bit creased."

"Oh, there's no need," Arabella said carelessly. "I'm going to be walking across the fields and it's bound to get dusty and creased in the heat anyway."

"Well, I don't know, m'lady," Becky said doubtfully. "At least if you start out looking pressed . . ."

Arabella was about to dismiss this nicety with a laugh, but then she thought about the duke. Always so immaculate, his lace so dazzlingly white, so starched and pressed, even after riding, even when standing in the broiling heat of the hothouse. Never a hair out of place. While yesterday she had looked as limp and disheveled as a neglected rag doll left out in the rain. It was no wonder, really, that he had been so overly familiar. He'd treated her with all the insulting familiarity he might accord a dairymaid. She had no wish to run into him before this evening, but if she did she'd rather not be at a disadvantage again.

Yet another major inconvenience of sharing this roof, she reflected, pushing back the bedclothes with an energetic kick of her legs. She could no longer dress as she pleased. "Very well, Becky, press it if you think it needs it." She pulled her nightgown over her head and went to the washstand.

Her hair could do with a wash, she decided, examining herself in the mirror behind the ewer. "Becky, I'll take a bath before dinner this afternoon. Would you make sure there's plenty of hot water?"

Becky, frowning as she pressed the flatiron into the muslin, murmured an a.s.sent.

"And lemon juice to rinse my hair," Arabella continued, wringing out the sponge against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"Aye, m'lady. And lavender and rosewater for the bath," Becky said, holding up the gown and subjecting it to close scrutiny before laying it carefully over a chair.

"Perfect." Arabella dropped her shift over her head.

"Will you wear stays, m'lady?" Becky proffered the stiffened whalebone garment.

"In this heat?" Arabella exclaimed, stepping into a cambric petticoat. Becky replaced the stays in the linen chest and offered cotton stockings. These too were rejected with a quick head-shake and were returned to the linen chest. Becky picked up the Indian muslin. The skirts of the gown were stiffened with tarlatan, which gave the dress a degree of formality even without the hourgla.s.s shape imposed by stays, and Arabella after a swift glance in the long mirror decided she had sacrificed enough comfort in the interest of sartorial propriety for one day.

"Shall I do your hair, m'lady?" Becky picked up the silver hairbrush.

"No, I'll do it," Arabella said, taking the brush from the maid. "I'll have my breakfast in the parlor in five minutes."

"Very well, ma'am." Becky hurried off and Arabella sat down at the dresser. After a couple of cursory swipes at the dusky ma.s.s of curls, she twisted the whole lot into a knot on top of her head that left the nape of her neck bare to catch any refreshing breezes the day might bring. She slipped her feet into a pair of leather sandals that were practical for walking across fields although somewhat incongruous with the gown-but then, so were bare legs. Her appearance would satisfy any swift appraisal and as such it would have to do.

She broke her fast in the parlor that adjoined her bedchamber. It was her sanctum and had been from the time she'd left the realm of nursery and schoolroom. The books were her own favorites . . . those she could take with her to whatever awaited her in the new life; the orchids on the windowsills were most definitely her own, as were the two watercolors of Venice. Meg had brought those back for her after her adventure.

Arabella grinned to herself as she slathered b.u.t.ter on bread and cut a slice of ham. She had been astounded by Meg's indiscretion. For all her quick wit and liveliness of mind, Meg had always given the impression of being law-abiding and conventional, her fiery red hair belying the seeming evenness of her temper. Of the two friends, it was Arabella who was considered to be the loose cannon, the one who refused to conform. But then Meg had fallen in love with a gondolier who played the mandolin.

She had been brought back in haste and tears from the delights of the Grand Ca.n.a.l and only Arabella knew that those delights had actually encompa.s.sed rather more than a star-filled Venetian sky and the mellifluous tones of a handsome gondolier. The gondolier had offered a great deal more in the way of love than his serenades. Fortunately Lord and Lady Barratt knew only that their daughter had had an understandable but foolish infatuation to which they had promptly but with their customary kindness put an end. Staid, comfortable country folk that they were, they could never have imagined in their worst nightmares their only child's brief and pa.s.sionate liaison. Fortunately the indiscretion had produced no ill consequences and only Arabella recognized that the old Meg had vanished forever.

And only Meg could give Arabella an unbiased, honest opinion on the present situation. And Meg would put that ridiculous kiss into perspective.

Arabella drained the last drop of tea from her cup. It was still early but the Barratt household would have been up and about long since, and it was a good forty-five-minute walk cross-country. She could ride it in half the time, but she was in the mood to walk.

Jack had woken just before dawn. A milky light washed the chamber and he pushed aside the covers almost as his eyes opened. He went to the open cas.e.m.e.nt and looked out at the garden still bathed in moonlight. In half an hour the stars would begin to fade, but for the moment the world, or at least this little part of it, was locked in sleep. If he were in London, he would probably be playing the last hand of the night amid the smoke and the reek of spilled wine and the lurchings of drunken gamblers too far gone to make a decent play. The city streets would steam with ordure and would be alive with the swift slithering menace of the underworld. Here there was a moon-washed garden, a slight freshening of the air, the hoot of an owl, and total peace.

The land of Charlotte's birthplace, the land she had loved so deeply. But the silence, the absence of action, of the need for action, made him restless. He had a very limited tolerance for the bucolic. He dressed in shirt and britches and silently let himself out of the house through the kitchen door. The stable clock showed four-thirty as he crossed the yard and made for the paddock that led down to the river that ran along the boundary of Lacey Court. He would have enjoyed the company of the dogs but they were nowhere to be seen. Somehow Jack doubted they were made to bed down in the stables; they were probably curled up at the foot of Arabella's bed.

Arabella. p.r.i.c.kly, difficult, stubborn, self-willed. But most interesting. Charlotte had had spirit, a mind of her own, but she had still obeyed convention. She had made the dutiful marriage, and as dutifully taken her place at the French Court. Lilly was the embodiment of convention. While she shaped her world according to her own wishes, she always made sure that no breath of scandal attached to her. She maintained a complaisant but dull husband, while entertaining a lover who satisfied her desire for the excitement of the unconventional. Jack enjoyed her. They enjoyed each other. It was an arrangement he would be loath to disrupt. But then, he had no intention of disrupting it, marriage notwithstanding.

He paused beside the river. He'd been walking for close to an hour and the sun was a hint on the eastern horizon. He could just make out a speckled trout as it lay still in the shadow of a flat stone. There were some bucolic pleasures he enjoyed and he wished that he had thought to bring a rod. Dawn was the best time for fishing.

Frederick Dunston would have rods. And guns. He would have fished and hunted. But Jack knew he would never be able to fish with Dunston's rods or shoot game with his guns. Jack's enjoyment of the man's personal possessions had not been part of the price the earl paid for Charlotte's death.

But Dunston's sister? Yes, she was part of the price. Jack turned to retrace his steps along the riverbank. She would bring him the last coin of vengeance, but she would also be a wife, dependent upon her benefactor, the husband who, by saving her from penury, had saddled her with a debt she could never repay. He had thought it a neat irony, her freedom in exchange for Charlotte's, but now he was not so sure.

Jack approached the house now bathed in the soft glow of the rising sun, reflecting on the one unexpected problem in his tidy plan. The putative wife appeared disinclined to accept dependence or benefactors.

Arabella whistled to the dogs as she hurried down the stairs, intent on her walk to the Barratts'. Oscar and Boris appeared instantly, paws skittering on the polished floor in their haste. They dripped milk from their whiskers. They were perennial favorites in the kitchen and knew exactly how to plead. Arabella had long given up laying down rules for the proper care and feeding of two adorable red setters. The occasional bowl of milk would do them no harm and they had enough exercise to absorb most indiscretions.

"Barratts," she said to them as she opened the front door. They waved feathery tails and ran ahead of her down the steps. Their dam resided at the Barratts', and several of their siblings. Barratts' was a good destination for an early morning.

"I give you good morning, Arabella."

The melodious greeting brought her to a stop on the bottom step. She turned slowly. What was he doing up and about this early? He was a city dweller. He should be going to bed at this hour, not appearing to disconcert her, all shining and combed and urbane in black velvet and silver lace, his attire perfect in every detail, right down to the sheathed rapier at his side.

Unsmiling, she returned the greeting. "Good morning, your grace."

He ran lightly down the steps to her side. "I thought we'd dispensed with that particular absurd formality last night."

"I prefer to maintain the formalities," Arabella said.

"Ah." He seemed to consider this as he ran a long look over her, taking in the tumbled knot at the top of her head and the bare feet in the simple leather sandals. "So I see."

"If you'll excuse me, sir," Arabella said with frigid dignity, "I am on an urgent errand."

"Oh, then I'll accompany you on your way." He offered a benign smile.

"Mrs. Elliot will have prepared your breakfast," she stated.

"I broke my fast this hour past," he said, still smiling. "An excellent repast, as it happens. So where does this errand take you?""It's an errand that requires no companionship," Arabella said. "But if it has something to do with the estate, then surely I should partic.i.p.ate." The smile now had a little edge of challenge to it and the gray eyes were uncomfortably penetrating.

"It has nothing to do with the estate," she declared, beginning to feel like a rat in a trap. "It's purely personal. So I beg you to excuse me, sir." She started off down the drive. "I will walk with you to your destination," he said, catching up easily. "Maybe you could point out one or two of the landmarks of the estate along the way."

Arabella could see no way to dislodge him, apart from turning the dogs on him, but given the way they were gamboling around him with eager little yaps, the chances were fairly remote. He picked up a stick

and threw it for them, and that was the end of that remote possibility. There was nothing for it but to walk in silence, ignoring him as far as possible. "You had a London Season, as I recall," Jack said. Silence in the face of such an ordinary, perfectly reasonable question was not possible. "Yes, ten years ago." She picked up the s...o...b..ry stick that Boris had dropped at her feet and threw it. "You didn't enjoy Town?" He threw another stick for Oscar. "No."Jack considered the short negative. It offered no handholds to an expanded conversation. So he asked bluntly, "Why not?"Arabella looked at him for the first time since they'd begun their walk. Her p.r.o.nounced eyebrows rose and she said, "What a stupid question, sir. Look at yourself and look at me. How could you imagine I could live in that, your world. I have no interest in fashion, in gossip, in intrigue, in all the falseness . . .

it suited my brother, and it clearly suits you. You don't know me, sir, but what little you've gleaned in the last twenty-four hours must have made it clear to you that that is not for me.""There's room in that world for the unusual, Arabella," he said. "Room for the innovator.""I'm a woman," she declared, as if that was the end of it. "Women can be innovators," he said mildly, throwing another stick for the dogs.

"Not in my experience." The conversation was beginning to interest her, much to her irritation.

"I would venture to suggest that your experience was somewhat limited, given that you only had one Season, and that with all the restrictions of a debutante."Perhaps he had a point. She had to satisfy herself with the tart rejoinder, "It was enough.""But what of your interest in politics?" he pressed. "Was that stimulated by your short exposure to London life?""Maybe." Arabella walked a little faster. He lengthened his own stride accordingly. "And what of the arts, Arabella? The theater, opera, music . . .

Surely you wouldn't close your mind to those experiences?"

"I don't close my mind to anything," she said, making no attempt now to mask her irritation at this catechism that grew increasingly uncomfortable. "Forgive me, but I think you do," he said gently. "You are closing your mind very firmly to the possibility of exposing yourself to a great variety of interesting experiences . . . of living life to its full.

Why would you do that?" He sounded genuinely interested in her answer. Arabella stopped in her tracks and turned to face him. "Your grace, you are forgetting that opening my mind to such experiences would involve marriage to you. That is what I am rejecting."

Chapter 5.

Arabella set off again, her skirts swinging with her energetic stride. Jack raised his eyebrows. She was clearly intent on putting as much distance between herself and her unwanted companion as she could. Well, he could be just as stubborn. He walked quickly in her wake, catching up to her easily although she increased her speed as far as she could without actually breaking into an undignified run.

"Peter Bailey was telling me of some neighbor dispute over a plot of land on the far side of the village,"he observed as if their previous exchange had never taken place. "Does the inhabitant of Lacey Court generally arbitrate such issues? Or is it left to the magistrate?"

"The lord of Lacey Court is a magistrate," she replied, allowing her step to slow. It was too hot for fast walking even at this early hour, and it was clear that she was not going to lose her companion whatever she said or did. The only dignified course was resignation. "He sits on the bench with Sir Mark Barratt and Lord Alsop."

"I see. Then it would be politic for me to make the acquaintance of my fellow magistrates," Jack observed.

"Oh, don't worry, they'll come knocking at your door," she said dryly. "I'll lay odds that right now Lavinia Alsop is informing her long-suffering husband, who is probably still abed, that he must dress and accompany her to Lacey Court on the instant."

"And will he obey?"

Arabella couldn't help but chuckle. "Oh, yes, you need have no fear on that score. Lavinia has only to snap her fingers and the poor man jumps to it."

"He sounds henpecked," Jack remarked.

"Well, as I said yesterday, you have not met Lavinia Alsop as yet." Arabella turned off the lane at a stile that filled a gap in the high hedge. "I'm going this way. You may wish to continue along the lane."

"Why would I wish to do that?" he asked.

"You're hardly dressed for climbing stiles and traversing fields and ditches," she pointed out in tones of sweet reason.

"And you are?" he wondered.

"I'm accustomed to it," she stated, and set one foot on the stile.

"Allow me to go first." He put his hands at her waist and lifted her off the first crosspiece, then with commendable agility swung himself over the stile, the neatness of his movement completely unhampered by the long rapier. "Now," he said, turning to face the stile. "If you step up, I'll lift you over."

"You're very gallant, sir, but it's quite unnecessary," Arabella declared. "If you would move aside, please . . ." She set her sandaled foot on the rough-hewn plank.

A lazy smile curved his mouth. "And if I don't?"

"Then I shall continue my walk along the lane and you may enjoy the field to your heart's content," she snapped.

Jack laughed and stepped away from the stile. "Please yourself." He had to admit that she climbed over the stile with a lithe grace and the deft management of her skirts, which offered him barely a glimpse of well-turned ankles.

Arabella jumped down and set off around the field, skirting the ripening corn that stood almost waist high, rippling in the light breeze. The dogs were in seventh heaven, racing around with shrill barks and fluttering tails, startling rabbits among the stalks.

"It must be close to harvest," Jack said, keeping pace beside her.

"Another week," she said. "If you're still here, you'll be obliged to host the harvest dinner."

"And what does that entail?"

And so it went on for the duration of the walk, Jack asking unimpeachably neutral, intelligent questions about village life and the running of the estate and Arabella giving him the plain answers. There was no further trespa.s.sing on private ground and only once did he touch her, placing a steadying hand on her arm when she nearly lost her footing in a rabbit hole. And she could find no fault with that.

They approached the Barratts' square, redbrick gabled house from the narrow lane that ran in front of it. The house stood close to the lane, a gate between two low stone pillars giving onto a narrow path that led directly to the front door. A broader driveway ran along the side to the stables and carriage house at the rear. It was the modest residence of a man with frugal tastes and little sense of consequence, Jack reflected.

"I'll leave you here," Arabella said, her hand on the latch of the gate. "If you continue along the lane, you'll come to a crossroads. Take the left fork and that will lead you back to Lacey Court. The right fork will take you into the village."

"Ah," he said, nodding. He leaned idly against one of the pillars. "How long do you think it will take you to accomplish your errand?"

"I have no idea," Arabella said. "I may stay all day." It was not an untruth. Often enough she and Meg spent the day together.

"Shall I continue to walk the dogs, in that case?" he asked politely, although it was very clear that Boris and Oscar, who were on their hind legs trying to push the gate open, had decided they too had reached their destination.

Arabella shook her head. "They have family here," she explained. "You'd have to drag them away by main force."

He nodded with a slight laugh. "Yes, I can see that."

Arabella opened the gate and the dogs raced towards the rear of the house. Two other streaks of red appeared and the four of them fell in a tumbling heap, barking excitedly. "Their sisters," Arabella said. "And that's their mother. She's just had another litter."

A b.i.t.c.h with swollen teats hanging heavy sauntered around the corner of the house to greet her erstwhile puppies. "Are your two going to serve as stud for their sisters?" Jack inquired.

Arabella shook her head. "No, Sir Mark doesn't believe in inbreeding. He breeds them for pleasure rather than profit."

So this was the residence of one of his fellow magistrates. One could turn a handsome profit breeding hunting dogs, Jack mused. It took an enlightened breeder to forgo the convenience of breeding within his own stock.

"Good morning, your grace," Arabella said in firm but courteous dismissal, sketching a curtsy.

Jack was momentarily startled. "I was hoping you would introduce me to Sir Mark."

"No," Arabella said definitely. "I've come to visit my friend Meg. I have no idea whether Sir Mark is at home, and even if he is, it's not my place to explain that you've usurped-" She broke off, raising a hand in a gesture of frustration at the absurd predicament in which she found herself. "You must smooth your own way, Duke." And she turned from him, hurrying up the path to the front door.

Jack offered an ironic bow to her back before turning and strolling down the lane towards the crossroads and the village.

Arabella greeted the steward who opened the door to her. "Morning, Harcourt. Is Miss Barratt abovestairs?"

"She's still in the breakfast parlor, Lady Arabella. With Sir Mark and her ladyship."