Lord Braybrook’s Penniless Bride (11 page)

Serena raised her brows. ‘I thought that went without saying?’

And the rest
didn’t
?

‘Anyway, dear—give it some consideration. The obvious choice is Miss Postleton, but—’

‘Anne?’
asked Matthew, the serving spoon clattering against the pie dish. ‘Shouldn’t have thought she was quite Julian’s sort, you know. She’s not…I don’t know…
kind
, really. Snubbed poor old Flint horribly in the village the other day when he asked her if he might dance with her at the Summer Ball. Liss spoke up to save his feelings and said
she’d
dance with him.’

‘Oh, well,’ said Serena. ‘I do not say that I am set on Anne—that will be for Braybrook to decide…’

‘Really?’ he said with just the faintest hint of irony.

Serena sipped her hock. ‘Don’t be sarcastic, dear. I am merely pointing out that, unless you actually think about it, nothing will happen.’

‘Better him than me,’ muttered Matthew, casting Julian a pitying glance and pouring a generous dollop of cream over his blackberry pie.

Christy’s faint hope that talk of marriage might have given his lordship’s thoughts a more proper direction died as they rose from the dining table.

‘Serena, if you will excuse me, I have some work to do this evening. If I may borrow Miss Daventry for a few moments, I will find those books for her.’

‘Of course, Julian,’ said Lady Braybrook, clearly oblivious to the possibility that her companion might have to defend her virtue. ‘And, Miss Daventry, the ball can wait. This is still your day off, you know, and you look quite tired. I think you should go up early. Goodnight, dear.’ She signalled to the footman who waited to carry her up to the drawing room. Matthew rose to wheel her out, saying, ‘Goodnight, Miss Daventry.’

Once the door was safely shut behind them, Christy swung to face Lord Braybrook. ‘You will excuse me, my lord. I have nothing to discuss with you. If you are happy to lend me the books, you may send them to my room. Goodnight.’

Devils danced in his eyes. Gritting her teeth, she turned to go.

‘I’ll bring them up myself, Miss Daventry. Just as soon as I find them. I suggest you don’t prepare yourself for bed quite yet.’

‘Wha—?’ Recovering, she veiled fright and anger under frosty disdain. ‘I
beg
your pardon?’

‘Miss Daventry—I wish to speak with you. Now. You may choose the venue. My library. Or your bedchamber.’ The corner of his mouth twitched. ‘Or mine if you prefer.’

She went cold all over. Sometimes a man’s kisses meant worse than nothing…

‘On the whole I recommend the library,’ he went on. ‘You may sit beside the bell pull and I will sit far enough away to give you ample opportunity to use it should you deem it necessary.’

She stared at him. He might be lying, but she thought not. She simply couldn’t imagine him telling a lie. Which might mean that her imagination was sadly lacking. ‘The library, then,’ she agreed. If he was lying, he would discover that she was not entirely without defences.

True to his word, Lord Braybrook made no effort to join Christy by the fireplace, but sat behind his desk.

‘You know why we are here, Miss Daventry,’ he said. ‘But first let me assure you that I have no intention of seducing you here in the library, or indeed under this roof.’

‘You don’t?’ Then what had that kiss been about? If ever a kiss had promised sinful indulgence…

‘I wish to make you an offer.’

Shock robbed her of speech. He couldn’t, it simply wasn’t possible! And even if he did—

‘I am offering you the position of my mistress.’

That on the other hand was eminently possible.

After a moment she said carefully, ‘No doubt you will explain the difference between this and seduction, my lord, but—’

‘The difference is honesty, Miss Daventry,’ he told her. ‘I am not offering lies about kisses and moonlight, nor about undying devotion. I am not tricking you into anything. I am not even trying to trick your body into anything. I desire you and wish you to be my mistress. After that kiss this afternoon, there is no point in denying our mutual attraction. Is there?’

She shook her head. One moment of idiocy. And God help her, the memory of it, the tender promise of his arms and kiss could still tempt her even in the face of his cool, businesslike proposition.

He was speaking again. Cold. Rational. ‘Obviously you are not the sort of female to whom I can offer marriage—but you would be well provided for.’

She swallowed that without flinching. It was no more than the truth. Indeed, it was truer than he knew. She waited.

‘I have several comfortable houses in nearby towns. A lease would be settled on you, along with an annuity, and I would visit you. Discreetly, of course.’

‘Of course,’ she echoed.
Discretion
, the duke’s watchword. The reason he had not attended her mother’s funeral, or Sarah’s. Yet all her neighbours would know exactly what she was and she would live isolated except for his brief visits. Visits that would
grow further apart until they ceased entirely and then one day she would receive a note from him to inform her of what her heart already knew: that it was finished. She would be her mother all over again. Mistresses were for bedsport only and when their charms faded, their lovers faded away too. Her mother had been lucky the duke had continued to support her.

‘You would not find me an ungenerous lover, Miss Daventry. In any way. There would be a proper contract drawn up between us, including provision for any child. Nor would you be dismissed when I marry.’

‘I see. A charming prospect for your wife.’

He actually flushed. ‘You misunderstand. The requirements for wife and mistress are very different. In my world fidelity is not demanded, nor am I hypocrite enough to expect something of my wife that I am not prepared to give in return. Once the succession is assured, she may please herself discreetly.’

She had never heard it spelt out so brutally, and she had never heard of a contract, but she understood all about the difference between wife and mistress in his world. A wife brought breeding and fortune. A mistress was for bedsport.
And love…?
She choked that off. Love had no part in either arrangement, despite lip service in the marriage vows.

‘Miss Daventry?’

She rose to her feet, conscious of aching regret, mingled with gratitude that he had made his offer openly, that he had not seduced her with sweet lies and kisses. Tenderness would have been the ultimate temptation. Now more than ever, she understood her mother’s mistakes, understood her believing that it was different. Because the memory of this afternoon’s kiss promised delight and tenderness. Even in the face of his cold, calculated offer, that kiss whispered of so much more. That with
him
it would be different.

‘No, thank you, my lord. Goodnight. I will give Lady Braybrook my notice in the morning.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ He looked as winded as if she had landed a blow to his stomach.

‘I am refusing your generous offer, my lord—’

‘Yes, I understood that,’ he said impatiently. ‘But why are you leaving?’

She struggled for words. For coherent thoughts.

‘My lord, you have offered me the position of your mistress. Surely you neither expect nor wish me to remain here?’

He frowned. ‘I thought I made it clear that I was not going to seduce you? If you are refusing me, then that is an end of the matter. I’m not about to creep into your bedchamber to have my wicked way with you against your will. You have refused. So be it. Do not imagine, Miss Daventry, that I am fancying myself in love, nor that I am incapable of controlling my desires. You are perfectly safe under my roof.’

Safe? Perhaps in the way a mouse was safe from a well-fed, sleeping cat…but something about the very quietness of his assurance rang true.

He could be lying. But she still couldn’t imagine it, and she liked being here. It was the most dangerous illusion of all, but here she felt comfortable. Which was stupid. His lordship’s dishonourable proposal had showed her exactly how far from his world she was.

‘Very well. I will remain.’

For now.

‘Good.’ He stood up and strolled across to the bookshelves, pulling out three octavo volumes. ‘And you are quite sure that you will not reconsider your refusal?’ As though he had offered to buy something material. Which perhaps he had.

‘Quite sure, my lord,’ she said evenly. ‘It is not a life that appeals to me.’

He turned, the books in his hands, and frowned at her. ‘I thought you were insulted, but you are not, are you?’

She considered that. Was she? Beneath the numbness she felt something, but she doubted it was anger. What right had she to be insulted? Even if he didn’t know it, she was illegitimate, a duke’s by-blow. She used the ugly term deliberately, reminding herself of reality. He had been honest with her. That in itself
implied some sort of respect. He had not simply attempted to take what he wanted, either by stealth, or force. The choice was hers. She must make it wisely.

‘No, my lord. You were honest with me. I appreciate that. But if it’s any consolation, I have no experience or talents that would render me at all suitable as a mistress.’

He seemed to freeze, but an instant later laid the books on his desk, placing them with careful exactitude in the very middle. ‘Ah. I believe these to be the volumes you wanted, Miss Daventry.’

‘Volumes?’

Long, lean fingers brushed lightly over the calfskin, reminding her of the magic they could summon from a woman’s body…

‘George Graves,
British Ornithology
. In three volumes. Lady Braybrook will wish to know if you are enjoying them.’ His voice was cool, remote. Aristocrat to humble dependant. Probably she would have been expected to call him
my lord
in bed…‘Matthew is our resident expert if you have any questions.’

She dragged in a breath, banishing fancy and regret. ‘Of course, my lord. Thank you.’

The other subject was closed, then. Dismissed. No doubt from his mind as well as from discussion. Which was exactly what she wanted. Wasn’t it?

Aware of his gaze on her, she came forwards and picked up the books. A slight movement behind the desk startled her. She looked up at him sharply.

‘If you are not insulted, Miss Daventry, and you admit your attraction—will you tell me why you refused?’

His voice betrayed only mild curiosity, but something about the set of his jaw, the line of his mouth, had her backing away, heart pounding. And not in fear. Her mind was blank. Why
was
she refusing?

Words came without conscious thought. ‘You warned me yourself, my lord.’

The black brows snapped together. ‘Oh? When?’

‘This afternoon. When you told me that no fruit is worth the pain of falling into the bramble patch.’

His mouth twisted. ‘I see. Well, should you change your mind,’ he said politely, ‘you have only to say so and I will arrange it all.’

She inclined her head. ‘You are all kindness, sir.’ Then, clutching the books, she beat a dignified retreat.

J
ulian shut his eyes and clenched his fists as the door closed. That was that. The refusal he had half expected. Without even bothering to find out what he was prepared to offer. What
was
it about Christy Daventry? She wasn’t a beauty—but he had never wanted a woman more. She was honest enough to raise blisters when she abandoned her reserve. And the thought of her abandoning her reserve in bed raised something even more painful.

But she wasn’t his usual sort of woman. She was neither one of his discreet aristocratic lovers, nor a woman he would set up publicly in London, an acknowledged ladybird—a voluptuous prize to flaunt before the world, at the opera, in the Park. He couldn’t see her in that milieu at all. He wanted her all to himself.
His.
Here.

Well, not
here
precisely. That was impossible. But somewhere close to Amberley so that he could ride over and spend a few days with her at times…which was foolish beyond belief. He had never done anything like that in his life. When he visited a mistress it was to have sex. Not because he wanted to spend time with her. Damn it! Why had he wanted to sit down with those books and help her find the birds she had seen today? And suggest other birds to watch for. Why did he want to find out how to make her laugh, banish the sadness he sometimes saw in her eyes? Why did he even notice the sadness?

She had refused him. And it was not the sort of refusal that gave him the least hope she would change her mind. Her decision had been made, and voiced, with cool deliberation. No tears. No reproaches. She hadn’t even been decently shocked.

No fruit is worth the pain of falling into the bramble patch.

That spurred something inside him startlingly close to shame. He knew damn well it was true. In these
affaires
all penalty was on the woman’s side. Any social costs and hurt would be borne by her. Miss Daventry had decided that he wasn’t worth the risk. And having assured her that she was safe from him, he must honour that promise. Her assurance that she had no experience didn’t help in the least. Quite the opposite—he was doubtless about to spend a sleepless night imagining all sorts of ways in which he could redress her inexperience.

Enough! He had promised not to seduce her. Blackberries were off the menu.

For the next few days Julian buried himself in estate business either in the library, or about the estate, listing jobs to be done before winter. Cottages to be repaired, wood to be cut, a farmer’s widow to re-house. He took Davy with him and spent as little time in Miss Daventry’s company as possible. He saw her at breakfast and in the evenings, always in company with Serena or one of his siblings. She said
good morning, good evening
. Beyond that she scarcely even looked at him.

Which was a good thing, he assured himself as he tightened his horse’s girth one morning ten days after the ill-advised rendezvous by the blackberries. Miss Daventry was doing the job for which she had been hired. She ran errands for Serena, helped with teaching Davy, supervised Lissy and Emma at their music, engaged in French and Italian conversation with them, and, according to Serena, was a great help with the arrangements for the swiftly approaching ball. This morning she had been sent off to the village shop to buy some embroidery silks. Serena had given her the errand at breakfast. He had been tempted to order his curricle instead of riding to his meeting
with Sir John Postleton so that he might offer to take her up. He was an idiot.

Out of sight, out of mind. That’s how it was meant to work. That was how it always had worked in the past.

This time dismissing a failed conquest from his mind was nigh on impossible, he thought, riding out of the stable yard. He snorted. Conquest? A more inappropriate word could not be imagined. Miss Daventry was not the sort of female one conquered. He still wanted her. Only that wasn’t why he had thought of offering to drive her into the village. He had simply wanted to be with her. Talk to her. Perhaps tease her into one of her sharp comments. He must be mad. Barking, in fact. Especially since he was quite sure she would not have stepped into the curricle.

A bell clanged as Christy pushed open the door of the village shop. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dimness after the blaze of sunshine outside. The shop was crowded, shelves towering to the ceiling, laden with goods ranging from shoes to cheeses. More expensive wares, such as tea and spices, were stored behind the counter to be dispensed by Mr Wilkins on request. Flitches of bacon hung from the rafters and the whole shop breathed the yeasty warmth of new-baked bread.

Everything was spotless, from the windows to the floor, including the small, neat man behind the counter, subjecting her to a searching scrutiny. Recognising her, he relaxed and permitted himself a slight bow.

‘Good day, Miss Daventry. May I help you?’

‘Good day, Mr Wilkins,’ she said. ‘Some embroidery silks for her ladyship, if you please, and some cambric for myself.’ She needed to hem new handkerchiefs.

Mr Wilkins bustled from behind the counter and in a very short time the embroidery silks were laid out for her inspection. Pulling Lady Braybrook’s samples from her pocket, Christy began the painstaking task of selecting matches. Some blues were needed…that pale sky blue? Yes. But not that royal blue. This one? Perhaps…About to ask if she might take the silks to the window,
she heard the bell ring again as the door opened. Mr Wilkins, setting out some cambric for her inspection, looked up and his mouth pursed as though he had bitten into something unpleasant.

‘What is it, child?’

The cold, dismissive tone drew echoes from the past, and Christy turned to see who had entered.

Shock slammed into her.

In the drawing room at Amberley there was a set of miniatures of Lady Braybrook’s children. All painted as five year olds, all staggeringly alike with the Trentham dark hair and blue eyes, luminous on ivory.

It was as though the portrait of five-year-old Alicia had sprung to warm, glowing life and walked into the shop. The same glossy black curls and bright eyes—only this child’s complexion was tinged golden with the sun.

‘Well?’ snapped Mr Wilkins. ‘What do you want?’

There could only be one explanation for the child’s resemblance to the Trenthams and Mr Wilkins’s attitude. With condensing pain, Christy saw the little girl’s nervousness.

‘Please, sir—a paper of pins for Mam, and…and a pink riband.’ The piping voice sounded breathless, and the child cast a quick glance at Christy. ‘I’ve enough money.’ She opened her tightly clenched fingers to show a shilling clutched there.

Mr Wilkins looked affronted. ‘You’ll have to wait. This lady is before you.’

Her voice indifferent, Christy said, ‘There’s no need for that, Mr Wilkins. I am not done with my selections. Serve the child.’

‘Well—’Mr Wilkins found a paper of pins and wrapped them up. ‘There. You can’t have the riband. I’ll not have you pawing through my goods, dirtying them.’

Within Christy long-buried rage uncurled, stretching its wings.

The little girl said nothing, just swallowed and handed him the shilling.

‘Mr Wilkins,’ said Christy in creditably neutral tones, ‘I believe my hands are clean. Perhaps if I were to look through your ribands and the child were to point out the right colour?’

Purple, Christy reflected, was particularly unflattering on a man’s face. ‘There’s no need, Miss Daventry,’ began Wilkins, ‘I assure you—’

The door jangled, but Christy did not bother to look around.

‘Mr Postleton! Miss Anne!’ Mr Wilkins started towards them, bowing low, his face wreathed in obsequiousness.

Miss Anne…Christy glanced over her shoulder—she had met Miss Postleton at church—briefly. Anne Postleton had acknowledged the introduction with a supercilious
oh?
and continued on her way. It was a wonder the shop ceiling didn’t cave in with the shock of having the young lady under it along with the woman Braybrook desired as his mistress. Not to mention the child.

‘Oh, Mr Wilkins!’ said Miss Anne. ‘I am in such a bother! The Summer Ball at Amberley, you know! And I am to have a new gown, so I should like to look at your silks, if you please!’

‘But of course, Miss Anne!’ he said at once, starting towards them, wreathed in unctuous delight. ‘If you would just tell me which colours, I will fetch them down this instant!’

The final thread restraining Christy’s temper snapped.

‘The ribands, if you please, sir!’

Shocked faces turned towards her, and she shamelessly added, ‘I should not care to keep Lady Braybrook waiting for her silks either, Mr Wilkins.’

Mr Postleton stared. ‘What the deuce! Braybrook’s governess, ain’t it?’

‘Miss
Trentham
’s governess,’ Christy corrected him, willing herself to ignore the smirk.

A faint sneer curled Miss Postleton’s lip. ‘Oh, yes. The
governess
.’ Oozing disdain, she turned back to Mr Wilkins. ‘I won’t keep you long, Mr Wilk—’

Mr Wilkins, however, had found the ribands and placed the box on the counter with a bang. ‘Thank you,’ said Christy, and turned to the little girl with a smile. ‘A pink riband, was it not? And I don’t think I know your name?’

The child looked up her hesitantly and nodded. ‘Nan,’ she whispered.

A stifled titter came from behind them. ‘Oh, really! Ned! Do you see who it is?’

A muffled crack of laughter came from Mr Postleton. ‘By Jove!’

The child, Nan, flinched. At the sight a slow fire ignited in Christy’s gut. She remembered, oh,
how
she remembered the murmurs in Bath when she had been a child—the people who turned away, the shopkeepers who seemed not to see one. Whose arithmetic in working out the change had so often disagreed with hers. Then she had not understood. Now, she understood only too well. And this child…she was how old? Five? Six? And already condemned.

She summoned a smile. ‘How do you do, Nan?’ she responded. ‘I am Miss Daventry. I work at Amberley.’

Selecting several different pinks from the box, she set them out. Beyond them at the far end of the counter, Mr Wilkins tenderly laid out lengths of silk for Miss Postleton. Christy ignored them, but Ned Postleton’s occasional glances were an unpleasant itch between her shoulder blades.

The child, Nan, subjected the ribands to a close inspection, then, careful not to touch, she pointed and said, ‘That one.’

It was a deep, rich colour, almost raspberry.

‘Perfect,’ said Christy. She could imagine it glowing in the raven curls. ‘Is it for you? It will look very pretty.’

Nan nodded. ‘Because I’ve been good.’

Such a simple delight, thought Christy. She put the other ribands back and looked toward Mr Wilkins, who was hovering over Miss Postleton, complimenting her on her taste as she scowled over the merits of jonquil yellow and palest pink. His back was firmly turned to Christy.

She dragged in a breath and prepared to do battle.

‘Mr Wilkins—’

‘Might as well serve the lady, Wilkins,’ drawled Mr Postleton, lounging against the counter and running his eyes over Christy. ‘M’sister could be hours.’ He gave Christy a wink.

Miss Postleton glanced up, cast a condescending glance at
Christy and shrugged. ‘Oh, as you please. I am sure it makes no difference to
me
!’

Mr Wilkins came over and grudgingly measured out a length of pink delight while Nan watched, breathless.

She paid for the riband and pins and then, stowing her treasure safely in a pocket, smiled shyly at Christy. ‘Thank you, miss.’

With a jingle of the doorbell, she was gone, trotting off up the street. Christy watched her for a moment—torn between an aching sense of fellowship and a searing desire to hit the man whose careless pleasure had condemned his daughter to a half-life. Nan could have been herself all those years ago…or Sarah. Or her own child had she been fool enough to accept Braybrook’s offer. An innocent, condemned by the world as tainted, impure.

Her chin up, she turned to Mr Wilkins. ‘What a pretty child,’ she said. ‘Such blue eyes—I’ve never seen anything lovelier.’

Another titter escaped from Miss Postleton.

Let them make of
that
what they would! She knew exactly where those blue eyes came from and she would wager her year’s salary that neither Mr Wilkins nor Miss Postleton had ever snubbed the father!

‘Very pretty,’ muttered Mr Wilkins, as though the words were dragged from him.

‘And so well mannered,’ continued Christy with malice aforethought, handing him Lady Braybrook’s embroidery silks and her own cambric. ‘One can tell so much from the way a girl conducts herself with others.’

Miss Postleton looked up from the dress lengths, her face stiff with outrage.

Casting discretion to hell, Christy continued pensively, ‘Heritage does tell, does it not? Her parents must be very good sort of people.’

Mr Wilkins’s mouth flopped open and closed like a fish on a very nasty hook, as he did up Christy’s purchases in a neat parcel. Ignoring a stifled snort of laughter from Mr Postleton, Christy handed the money to Mr Wilkins.

Mr Wilkins gulped, and wiped his brow. ‘Ah, yes. Jane Roberts…she’s, er, widowed. As it were.’

‘As it were, Mr Wilkins?’ She tucked the parcel safely into her satchel. Never before had she quite understood the pleasure there could be in taking a pound or three of flesh.

The little man swallowed. ‘Er, yes. He died—old Tom Roberts, her husband. Child was born a few months later.’

‘How very sad,’ said Christy. ‘Such a misfortune. Well, thank you for your help, Mr Wilkins. Good day to you.’ She nodded politely to Mr Postleton and his sister as she walked to the door.

A spiteful voice followed her. ‘I dare say poor, dear Lady Braybrook will be
most
interested in the company her servants keep.’

Christy looked back. ‘Oh, do you think so? I
had
thought her mind to be above village tittle-tattle, but if you think it will amuse her to know that I met you here, Miss Postleton, I will mention it. Good day to you.’