My Favorite Bride (3 page)

Two lanterns appeared in the distance, swaying on . . . a coach! Lightning flashed—and she was right! It
was
a coach. If she hadn't been so exhausted, she would have shouted with joy. Now if she could get the coachman's attention.

The conveyance moved toward her, dipping and swaying. As it closed on her, she moved to the side of the road and yelled and waved her arms. And in the first piece of luck she'd had since her horrendous encounter with Mr. Wordlaw, the coach stopped. A footman jumped down and opened the
door. She gave him her hand and he helped her into the luxurious interior. “I'm going to—”

“Silvermere. Yes, Miss Prendregast, we know.” He shut the door.

She sat blinking in the darkness. Her hand caressed the rolled upholstery, and she wondered what . . . how . . .

That man. He'd been too lazy to rescue her himself, but he must have sent these fellows.

The coach turned around, then set off with such speed Samantha fell back against the seat. And was too exhausted to do more than rest there. She wondered if she should worry that she was being kidnapped, and decided kidnapping was a small price to pay for the chance to sit down.

They rode for long enough that she drifted into sleep. Then the coach slowed to a stop, and she jerked awake. The door opened, the footman thrust his hand in, she took it and stepped out onto the step.

And looked up, up, up at the magnificent mansion that rose like a monolith before her.

Chapter Three

Samantha woke to the clatter of dishes at her bedside. She pushed her hair out of her eyes and watched as the plump young maid drew the olive and gold brocade curtains. Morning sunlight poured in, and Samantha blinked.

“Good morning, miss,” stated a black-and-white–uniformed maid cheerfully before curtsying briskly. She couldn't be more than fifteen, a child of nature who reeked of health, fresh air, and starch. “I'm Clarinda. I've brought yer breakfast.”

“Thank you.” Samantha pulled herself into a sitting position. “What time is it?”

“Gone past seven, but ye were tired after yer walk last night.”

Samantha looked around the room she'd so briefly glimpsed the evening before. Her second
floor bedchamber was large and spacious, surely a guest room. As did everything in this house, it glowed with prosperity. The dark oak furniture was carved and heavy, and her bed was wide, with a down comforter atop her and a feather mattress beneath. Most important, she had a separate dressing room with running water, drawn from a cistern on the roof.

This was the hovel that she feared would house livestock as well as six children and a hulking colonel?

“Here ye are, miss.” Clarinda placed the tray across Samantha's lap and lifted the domed, silver cover. Steam rose from the golden fresh eggs, the spicy sausage, the buttery crumpets, the bowl of oatmeal, thick with honey, and a poached pear sprinkled with cinnamon. “Cook didn't know what ye like, so ye've got a smidgin o' everything.”

“It looks wonderful.” Samantha took a deep breath and realized that, for the first time since she'd left London, she was hungry.

Clarinda poured the tea. “Ah, it's a beautiful day, miss.”

Outside, Samantha saw, the day was bright with sunshine. Great trees swept her windows with green, and through the branches she could see the sky, so blue it almost hurt her eyes. Nary a cloud dimmed the brilliance.

Going to the old-fashioned fireplace, Clarinda added logs to the flames. “The men picked up yer trunk off the road last night.” Clarinda patted the black painted wooden box with its leather straps
and heavy lock. Under her mob cap, her light brown hair sparked with liveliness, and her brown eyes snapped with interest. “Shall I unpack it?”

“Yes. If you would. The key is . . .” Where was her reticule?

“Here, miss?” Clarinda picked up the black velvet bag from the dressing table.

“Yes, thank you.” Samantha extended her hand, grateful that she hadn't lost it in her exhaustion.

She wondered if she had hallucinated the whole episode the night before. The walk into the darkness. That man, crashing through the bushes. Then, just when she was relieved to be rescued, and by a gentleman, he barked questions at her like a barrister and took her purse.

All right. So he hadn't kept it. But he'd ridden away without offering a crumb of assistance. What a blighter!

Although . . . well, how had the coach arrived so propitiously?

It had all seemed too fantastic to be real, except that her feet hurt, and she would never forget the shock of stepping out of that coach and seeing the mansion that was Silvermere. The broad, four-story building rose into the darkness above the carriage portico. Light shined from every window on every level. The wide double doors stood open, and Mrs. Shelbourn, the dignified, elderly housekeeper, had gestured her in. “Hurry, my dear, we have a hot meal waiting for you.”

Samantha hadn't been able to eat much of that meal, but this one filled the empty corners nicely. Finished, she poured the rest of her tea into her cup
and slipped out of bed. She walked across the rug and, when she came to the fringed edge, tiptoed across the chilly wood to the window.

She looked out into a park composed of great sweeps of lawn, grand old trees whose tops reached higher than her eyes, and here and there a gazebo or a garden of blooming flowers. A topiary, with bushes cut into the shapes of lions and birds, was off to one side. The grounds were beautiful, and more important . . . “I can't see the mountains from here.”

“No, miss, but they're out there. The mountains embrace Silvermere like great arms. Beautiful, they are.”

“Humph.” Samantha turned her back to the view. “Did that storm bring rain?”

“ ‘Twas a grand thunderstorm with lightning flashing from peak t' peak and rain t' wash the brooks.” Clarinda smiled at her, and deep dimples popped into the smooth, rosy cheeks. “You must have been dreadful tired t' have slept through it. When you're dressed, Colonel Gregory would like t' speak with ye.”

“Yes. Of course. As he wishes.” Would Colonel Gregory be as surprising as his home? Certainly Samantha no longer imagined a grizzled, hardened warrior. Whoever lived here must have some idea of comportment, for all that he spent years in India ratcheting about in the wilds and repeatedly impregnating his wife.

She handed Clarinda her key. “What is the colonel like?”

“Ah, miss, he's a good man.” Clarinda knelt before the trunk and wrestled it open.

Samantha waited, but nothing else was forthcoming. “Is he very old?”

“Not very old. Not as old as me grandfather.”

“Oh.” Samantha was back to thinking him grizzled.

“But handsome, me mum says.”

Very grizzled. Probably gray and steely-eyed.

“And too strict with the children by half, not that ye heard me say so.” Clarinda pulled out the first of the gowns, a froth of pale pink chintz, and flung it on the chair. Next came the flowered lawn, and the sapphire poplin. Finally, she reached the dark green serge. “Miss, shall I have this ironed?”

Samantha considered her mental image of the uniformed soldier awaiting her. Crusty older men responded well to an appearance of charm and youth. “No, I think not. A better choice might be the pink.”

Clarinda considered the gown, then considered Samantha. “We'll see.” Gathering up the gown, she disappeared.

By the time she had returned, Samantha had finished her tea, washed in the sink in the dressing room, and donned her undergarments. As Clarinda slipped the gown over Samantha's head, Samantha asked, “Why is Colonel Gregory so strict with the children?”

“It's his military training. He wants them t' follow orders. T' march in drill. T' never get dirty, and if they do, t' clean their boots until they shine.”

Samantha lifted her eyebrows. “These children must be saints. Why, I'll have nothing to do at all!”

Clarinda burst into laughter. “We'll see about that, miss.”

“Psst!” the sound echoed up and down the second-floor corridor.

Samantha stopped on her way to meet Colonel Gregory, and glanced around. A door stood slightly open. Three young faces were pressed to the crack, and three hands gestured for her to come in.

“Did you want me?” Samantha pointed to herself. As if she didn't know.

“Shh!” The children put their fingers to their lips, then vigorously gestured again.

Amused and intrigued, Samantha entered a stark bedchamber. Three narrow iron beds, spread with quilts, stood against the wall. A rigid row of dolls nodded on the window seat. Neither toys nor a rug cluttered a hardwood floor. Plain curtains hung at the windows. The girls' room, Samantha realized, although it bore more resemblance to an orphanage than to the bedchamber of much indulged children.

Then, as six dark-haired children lined up before her, the ones at the door as well as the ones waiting inside, she realized—every one of these children were girls. The colonel had only girls.

She almost laughed. Since her conversation with Adorna she'd been worried about her responsibilities. Worried that, for the first time, she had taken on more than she could handle.

But aristocratic girls were sweet, modest, and easy to manage, and only a military man, trying to
fit them into a military mold, could imagine this to be a difficult assignment.

“Greetings, my lasses! Are you my new charges?” Samantha asked merrily.

The tallest girl, a beauty with budding breasts and a officious expression, pulled a riding crop out from behind her back and slapped her ankle-high black boot with it. “You are the new governess?”

Taken aback, Samantha considered the lass, and the line of her sisters, all dressed in indistinguishable, plain, dark blue shirtdresses, cut to a child's shorter length, with a white pinafore over the top. Each child's hair was pulled back in a tight braid tied with dark blue ribbon. They all wore the same ankle-high boots, and they all wore identical expressions of distrust and aggression. “Yes. I'm Miss Samantha Prendregast.” Some second, cautionary sense made her add, “You may call me Miss Prendregast.”

“I am Agnes.” The girl indicated the next oldest should speak.

“I'm Vivian.” This child was as tall as her sister, strikingly handsome, with dark hair and brows that winged upward without curve.

Agnes pointed with her crop.

The next child, dark haired and blue eyed, announced, “Mara.”

Samantha had caught on now, and smiled warmly. “Good to meet you, Vivian and Mara. How old are you, Vivian?” She pointed at the girl.

Vivian answered, “Eleven.”

“And you, Mara?”

“Nine.”

Agnes glared at Samantha. “
Don't
interrupt.”

“You're young to be issuing orders,” Samantha said softly. “You may want to think before you continue.”

As if shocked at the soft reprimand, Agnes blinked, then recovered. “No.”

Her tone reminded Samantha of someone. Samantha frowned. Someone she had met recently. But who?

Agnes pointed to the next girl.

“Henrietta.” This child, a brunette with brown eyes, clearly didn't quite understand the scheme to intimidate the new governess, and she curtsied to Samantha.

Never one to follow orders, especially from ruddy-mouthed children, Samantha interrupted. “What a beautiful name, Henrietta. You're seven?”

Henrietta nodded, eyes wide. “How did you know?”

“I'm a good guesser,” Samantha confessed.

Agnes slapped her boot to get everyone's attention, and pointed at a grinning, gap-toothed lass blessed with those same, unusually straight brows.

“Emmeline,” the toothless one said.

“Are you five years old?” Samantha asked.

“Yeth,” the child lisped, “and I losth my teeth.”

“So you have,” Samantha said, smiling. Emmeline was a pet.

With a scowl, Agnes pointed to the smallest girl, as dark-haired and dark-eyed as the older girls.

She stuck her finger in her mouth, and looked down at the rug.

With a sigh, Agnes said, “That's Kyla.”

Kyla ran to Agnes and buried her head in Agnes's skirt.

Agnes stroked her head and glared at Samantha as if daring her to make a comment.

“Kyla obviously adores you,” Samantha said. “And for good reason. You're the one who keeps the family in harmony, aren't you?”

“Yes. We don't need you.” Agnes drew herself up. “We'll explain to you why you should go home.”

Samantha drew herself up in imitation of Agnes. “I can't.”

“Yes, you can! You have to.”

“I have been sent to Cumbria with strict instructions from my employer to remain here and teach you and your sisters everything I know about geography, science, pianoforte, penmanship, literature, deportment—”

“I don't need that!” Agnes interrupted.

Samantha raised her brows. “I would say you do.” Her gaze swept them. “You all do.”

Mara thrust herself forward. She had a disreputable air about her. She wore the same clothes as the others, but the skirt was wrinkled. A large, pink wet spot covered the bodice of the pinafore. Her hair was dressed like the others, but wisps had escaped and curled around her face. None of which stopped her from saying, “Papa doesn't like governesses.”

“Your papa hired me.”

Vivian joined in the battle. “He fired the last five governesses, so he doesn't like them.”