- -
- 100%
- +
Mindful of her promise to the General, she and Gabriela had also left that afternoon, after packing up the last of their things, putting the lovely wooden box the General had given her into one of her trunks, then bidding the servants of the household a tearful farewell and promising to send them word from the home of Gabriela’s new guardian and trustee.
They had traveled throughout the night, stopping only to change the horses at post houses along the way. She and Gabriela slept as best they could in the rumbling carriage, woken often by jolts and jars. Though the carriage was well-appointed and as comfortable as such conveyances could be, it was a hard drive, and it was a relief whenever they stopped at an inn to change horses and could get out a bit and stretch their legs, free from the constant motion of the coach.
Now, having arrived at the duke’s stronghold the next evening, Jessica was swept by a new dismay. The castle did not look like a welcoming place.
“Are we there?” Gaby asked, pushing aside the curtain beside her and looking out. She sucked in a breath as she saw the looming structure. “Oh, my…it looks like something out of a book—you know, the romances Gramps disapproved of my reading. Doesn’t it look as if it holds ghosts and villains?”
“And at least one mad monk,” Jessica added dryly, pleased when the younger girl let out a little chuckle. “Well, shall we venture forward?”
“Oh, yes. It looks most interesting.”
Jessica smiled at the girl. Gabriela was handling everything so well it was amazing. Jessica felt sure that many another young lady would have fallen into a fit of the vapors by now, given the events of the past few days.
She ordered the driver to proceed and settled back in her seat. She hoped that the Duke of Cleybourne would not be too offended by their arrival after dark. It was not the best time to impose on someone, but she hoped that he would understand the exigencies of the situation. It was too bad, she thought, that Gabriela’s father and then the General had chosen someone so lofty in lineage and rank to be the girl’s guardian. She was afraid that he would be so high in the instep that it would be difficult to talk to him. Jessica had been raised in good circles: her father’s brother was a baron, and her mother’s father was a baronet. But that was a far cry from a duke, the very highest title one could have below royalty. Some dukes were even royal themselves. She feared that he might dismiss her, thinking Gabriela’s schooling and training in the polite arts was not good enough for the ward of a duke. She kept such thoughts to herself, however, not wanting to upset Gabriela.
The carriage rolled up to the gates, stopped for a moment, then rolled on into the courtyard beyond. The entrance had once been the outer wall of the castle, Jessica supposed, with huge gates that were closed at night, but in these modern times, the gates no longer stood, only the entrance. Inside the wall lay a small courtyard paved with stones. The coachman pulled up to the front steps of the house, then climbed down to help Gabriela and Jessica out.
The house was imposing, the timeworn stone steps leading up to a large and beautifully carved wooden door. Concealing her nerves, Jessica went up the steps, Gabriela on her heels, and knocked firmly on the front door. It was opened almost immediately by a surprised-looking footman.
“Yes?”
“I am sorry to intrude so late at night. I am Jessica Maitland, and this is Gabriela Carstairs. We are here to see the Duke of Cleybourne.”
The young man continued to stare at them blankly. “The duke?” he asked finally.
“Yes.” Jessica wonderd if the man was not quite right in the head. “The duke. Miss Carstairs is the grandniece of General Streathern. Her father was a friend of the duke’s.”
“Oh. I see.” The footman frowned some more but stepped back, permitting them inside. “If you will, ah, just sit down, I will tell His Grace that you are here.”
It was not, Jessica noted, the pleasantest of greetings. Her unease grew. What if the letter had been delayed and the duke had not gotten it yet? They had traveled very quickly, and it was possible they could have outstripped the mail.
The footman was gone for some time, and when he did return, it was with another, older man, who came forward to Jessica.
“I am very sorry, Miss…Maitland, is it? My name is Baxter. I am the butler here. I’m afraid that this is not a good time to see His Grace. It is, after all, nine o’clock, rather late for visiting.”
“I sent him a letter,” Jessica said. “Did he not receive it? I explained the circumstances of our arrival.”
“I, ah, I’m not sure. I, there has been mail, of course, but I do not know whether he has read it. His Grace did not seem to expect you.”
“I am very sorry if he has not received the letter. But if he has it and has not read it, it would be a good idea for him to do so now. It will explain everything. I am sure it must appear odd to him, but I really must meet with him. Pray go back and tell him that it is imperative that we speak. Miss Carstairs and I have traveled quite a distance. She is the duke’s ward.”
The old man eyed Gabriela somewhat skeptically. “Ward?”
“Yes.” Jessica instilled her voice with all the iron she could muster.
The butler bowed and left, but a few minutes later, he returned, looking apologetic. “I am sorry, ma’am, but His Grace is adamant. He is, um, not one who engages in much social intercourse. He suggested that you contact his estate manager, Mr. Williams, tomorrow.”
“His estate manager!” Anger flared up in Jessica. She was tired, thirsty and hungry, as well as grimy from the dust of the road. She wanted nothing so much as a chance to wash off, then tumble into bed for a long sleep. It was galling that the obnoxiously proud duke did not even have the courtesy to meet her. During the years since her father’s death, she had grown used to slights and snubs, to the small, painful pinpricks of humiliation that the rich and powerful all too frequently gave out. But they never failed to raise her ire, and this one was far worse, because it was a snub and insult to Gabriela, as well.
She glanced over at her charge and saw that Gaby’s pretty young face was pale and apprehensive. She would no doubt worry now that her guardian had no liking for her, that he might refuse to be her guardian or, even worse, be a harsh one. The sight of Gabriela’s small hands twisting together in her lap touched flame to the fuel of Jessica’s anger.
“I am so very sorry that it is inconvenient for your master to come downstairs and meet an orphan who has been placed in his care,” Jessica snapped. “But I am afraid that he has no choice in the matter. He is Gabriela’s guardian, not his estate manager, and I intend to talk to him. We have traveled for a day and a half to see him, and I have no intention of going back to the village at this hour to get a room at the inn.”
The butler shifted nervously under Jessica’s flashing eyes. “I am most awfully sorry, miss….”
“Oh, stop saying that! Just tell me where he is, and I will give him the message myself.”
The old man’s eyes widened in horror. “Miss! No, you cannot—”
But his words fell on empty space, for Jessica walked past him, saying to Gabriela, “Wait here for me, Gaby. I’ll be back in a trice.”
The butler hurried after her, his hands fluttering nervously. “But, miss, you cannot…His Grace is not receiving. It is very late.”
“I am quite aware of the hour. And I frankly do not care whether His Grace is receiving or not. I intend to talk to the man, and I am not leaving this house until I do,” Jessica said as she strode into the huge central room beyond the stairs. “Your only choice is whether you will tell me where he is or let me yell for him,” she informed him over her shoulder.
“Yell?” The man looked as if he might faint from the horror of the idea. “Miss Maitland, please…”
“Hello?” Jessica called loudly, cupping her hands around her mouth. “I am looking for the Duke of Cleybourne!”
The butler gasped behind her. “No! Miss, you must not, it isn’t seemly.”
“And is it seemly for a man to ignore his duties to a dead friend, to tell a fourteen-year-old girl who has just lost everyone dear to her that she should go back to an inn to spend the night and then talk to his estate manager? I may be unseemly, but I am not wicked.”
She walked toward the main corridor leading off from the Great Hall, shouting again, “Cleybourne!”
Down the corridor a door was flung open, and a man stepped into the corridor. He was tall, with an unruly mop of thick black hair and eyes of nearly as dark a color. His cheekbones were wide and sharp, his jaw firm and his cheeks hollowed. He was dressed in breeches and a shirt, his jacket and cravat discarded, and his shirt unbuttoned at the top. He glowered down the hallway at Jessica.
“What the devil is going on out here? Who is making that racket?”
“I am,” Jessica replied, walking purposefully toward him.
“And who the devil are you?”
“Jessica Maitland. The one whose message you just flung back in her face.”
“I am sorry, Your Grace.” The butler hurried toward him, puffing.
“Never mind, Baxter. I shall take care of this myself.” The man swayed a little, putting a hand up to the doorjamb to steady himself.
“You’re bosky!” Jessica exclaimed.
“I am not,” he disputed. “Anyway, the amount of my inebriation is scarcely any business of yours, Miss Maitland. I am still not at home to every hopeful debutante who passes through with her harpy of a mother and hopes to put up at my home. Ever since that fool Vindefors married the chit who put up at his house after an accident, every grasping mama in the Ton has tried to emulate her.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Jessica said impatiently. “But it has nothing to do with me or my purpose here, as you would know if you had listened to what your butler said.”
The man’s brows soared upward. Jessica was sure he was unused to hearing anything he said or did disputed, given his rank. “I beg your pardon,” he said icily.
“As well you should,” Jessica retorted, purposely taking his words in the wrong way. “Miss Carstairs and I have had a long and difficult journey, and it is entirely too much to be told to take ourselves off to an inn at this hour of the night.”
“Some might say that it is entirely too much to expect a stranger to take one in at this hour of the night.” The duke crossed his arms, glaring back at her. “And who in the bloody hell is Miss Carstairs?”
“She is the daughter of a man who thought you were his friend,” Jessica replied. “So good a friend that he named you her guardian.”
His arms fell to his sides, and Cleybourne stared at her. “Roddy? Roddy Carstairs? Are you saying that Roddy Carstairs’ daughter is here?”
“That is precisely what I am saying. Did you not get my letter? Or have you simply not troubled yourself to read it?”
He blinked at her for a moment, then said, “The devil!”
He turned around and strode back into the room from which he had emerged. Jessica followed him. It was a study, masculinely decorated in browns and tans, with leather chairs and a massive desk and dark wood paneling on the walls. A fire burned low in the fireplace, the only light in the room besides the oil lamp on the desk. A decanter and glass stood on the desk, mute testimony to what the duke had been doing in the dimly lit room. On the corner of the desk was a small pile of letters.
Cleybourne pawed through them and pulled one out. Jessica’s copperplate writing adorned the front, and it remained sealed. He broke the seal now and opened it, bringing the sheet of paper closer to the lamp to read it.
“I will tell you what it says. I am Miss Carstairs’ governess, Jessica Maitland, and her great-uncle, General Streathern, passed away a few days ago, leaving her entirely orphaned and still underage. As you were named in her father’s will as her guardian if her uncle could not serve, he thought that you were the proper man to become her guardian upon his death.”
The duke let out a low curse and dropped Jessica’s letter back onto the table. He looked at her again, still frowning.
“You don’t look like any governess I have ever seen.”
Jessica’s hand flew instinctively to her hair. Her thick, curly red hair had a mind of its own, and no matter how much she tried to subdue it into the sort of tight bun that was suitable for a governess, it often managed to work its way out. Now, she realized, after the long ride in the carriage, a good bit of it had come loose from the bun and straggled around her face, flame-red and curling wildly. Her hat, as well, had been knocked askew. No doubt she looked a fright. Embarrassed, she pulled off her bonnet and tried to smooth back her hair, searching for a hairpin to secure it, and the result was that even more of it tumbled down around her shoulders.
Cleybourne’s eyes went involuntarily to the bright fall of hair, glinting warmly in the light of the lamp, and something tightened in his abdomen. She had hair that made a man want to sink his hands into it, not the sort of thought he usually had about a governess—indeed, not the sort of thought Richard normally had about any woman.
Since Caroline’s death, he had locked himself away from the world, eschewing especially the company of women. The musical sound of their laughter, the golden touch of candlelight on bare feminine shoulders, the whiff of perfume—all were reminders of what he had lost, and he found himself filled with anger whenever he looked at them. The only woman he regularly saw besides the maids and housekeeper was his wife’s sister, Rachel. She was, perhaps, the most painful of all women to see, as she looked more like Caroline than anyone, tall and black haired, with eyes as green as grass, but he was too fond of her to cut her off, and she, out of all the world, was the only one who truly shared in his grief.
But never, in the four years since Caroline had died, had he looked at a woman and felt a stab of pure lust. Oh, there had been times when he had felt a man’s natural needs, but that had been simply a matter of instinct and the amount of time that had passed since he had known the pleasure of a woman’s body. It had not flamed up in him because of the look of a particular woman’s hair or the curve of her shoulder or the sound of her voice.
It seemed absurd that he should feel it now, with this harridan of a governess. God knows, she was beautiful—vivid and unusual, with startlingly blue eyes and pale, creamy skin and that wild fall of hair—and her tall, statuesque figure could not be completely toned down by the plain dark dress she wore. But she was also loud, strident and completely without manners. He did not know if he had ever met a less feminine-acting woman.
He did not want her in the house—neither her nor the young girl whose guardian she claimed he was. He had come here to end his days in this place where his life had stopped four years ago, even though his heart had continued vulgarly to beat. How could he do it with this virago and some silly girl in the house with him?
“How do I know that any of this is real?” he asked her abruptly. “What proof do you have of it?”
Jessica had tried unsuccessfully to wind her hair back into a knot, but finally she had simply let it go. She bridled at his words. “I would hate to be as suspicious as you,” she said bitingly. “First you assume we are some sort of rapacious husband-hunters, and now you doubt whether a poor orphaned girl is actually your ward.”
“One learns to be suspicious through hard experience,” Cleybourne said flatly. “Well? If your story is true, there must be some proof.”
“Of course there is proof.” Jessica had stuck the folded will and the General’s letter into her pocket when she emerged from the carriage, and now she reached in and pullled them out, handing them over to the duke. “Here is the General’s will, as well as a letter that he wrote to you, explaining the circumstances. I do not have a copy of his death certificate with me, however, if you doubt whether he has actually died.”
Cleybourne’s mouth tightened, and he snatched the papers from her. His eyes ran down the will until they reached the clause naming him guardian of General Streathern’s great-niece, Gabriela Carstairs, the daughter of Roderick and Mary Carstairs. He sighed, folding the will back up. Poor Roddy. He remembered well when his friend and his wife had died, both felled by a vicious fever that had swept through the south of England that year. Their young daughter had survived only because the doctor had insisted that she and her nurse be quarantined in her nursery, never visiting her parents.
He opened the letter and read it, squinting to make out the scratchings of an ill old man. At one point, he exclaimed, “Vesey is her only living relative! Good God!”
“Precisely.” Jessica was relieved at his reaction to Vesey’s name. From the way the man had been acting, she had been afraid that he might decide to hand Gabriela over to Lord Vesey rather than trouble with her himself. “The General was afraid that Lord Vesey might try to wrest the guardianship away from you—I’m not sure how, exactly. That is why he insisted that we leave immediately after the reading of the will and drive straight here. It has been a long and exhausting journey. Gabriela is very tired.”
“Yes, of course.” His eyes flickered to her, and he noticed for the first time the pale blue half circles of weariness and worry beneath her eyes. “You, too, I should imagine.” He sighed and laid the documents on his desk. “Well, there is nothing for it but for you to stay here, of course.” He paused, then added stiffly, “My apologies for your reception when you arrived. I had no idea who you were. I—everyone will tell you that I am not a sociable man.”
Jessica felt like retorting that this was scarcely news to her, but she held her tongue. The man might be a snob and a boor, but she did not want to offend him so much that he took Gabriela out of her care. She swallowed her pride and said, “Thank you, Your Grace. We are in your debt.”
“I will direct Baxter to set you up for the night.”
“Thank you.” Jessica started for the door, then paused and swung back to him. “I—I suppose that you would like to meet your ward. Shall I bring her here?”
“No!” His answer was swift and adamant, and his face, which had relaxed its lines somewhat, was suddenly as set as stone. He apparently realized the rudeness of his response, for he added, “That is, I think it would be better not at this time. I am sure that Miss Carstairs is quite done in by her journey. Meeting me would only be an unnecessary burden to her.”
Jessica met his eyes unflinchingly for a long moment. “Very well,” she said quietly. “Until tomorrow, then.”
“Yes.”
She turned and went out the door, passing Baxter, who was worriedly hanging about in the hall. She heard the duke call to his butler as she marched back to the entryway, seething as she went. One would think the man could have had the courtesy at least to meet his new ward! Simple politeness would have compelled most people to greet her, even if they had not expected or wanted to have such a burden placed upon them.
She saw Gabriela waiting for her, sitting alone on a marble bench near the front door. The footman stood a few feet away from her, almost as if he were standing guard. Gabriela was swinging her feet, scuffing them against the marble in a way that under normal circumstances Jessica would have reprimanded her for. But as it was, all she could think was how thin and young and lost Gabriela looked, and her chest tightened with sympathy.
“Gabriela.”
The girl whirled around, rising to her feet apprehensively. Jessica smiled at her.
“It is straightened out now,” she told her with all the cheerfulness and confidence she could muster. “The duke had not read my letter yet, so he did not understand why we were here. It was, you know, so hastily done….”
“Yes, of course. But now it is all right?” Gabriela’s face brightened. “He wants us to remain?”
“Of course.” Jessica omitted the man’s reluctant agreement that they must stay. No matter how much she might dislike him, she did not want to influence his ward’s feeling for him. “He remembered your father with affection and sorrow. I think he was merely caught by surprise, not expecting anything to have happened to the General.”
“Am I to meet him now?” Gabriela shook out her skirts a little and began to brush at a spot.
“No, I think it is best that we wait for that. He was quite considerate and pointed out that you must be very tired and not up to meeting anyone yet. Tomorrow will be much better.”
“Oh.” Gabriela’s face fell. “Well, yes, I suppose it would be better to meet him when I am looking more the thing.” She paused, then went on curiously, “What manner of man is he? What does he look like? Is he tall, short, kind—”
“In looks he is quite handsome,” Jessica admitted, pushing back her other, less positive, thoughts of him. “He is tall and dark.” She thought of him, the brown throat that showed where his shirt was unbuttoned, the breadth of his chest and shoulders beneath that shirt, owing nothing to a padded jacket as some men did, the piercing dark eyes, the sharp outcropping of cheekbones. “He is, well, the sort of man to command attention.”
“Then he looks as a duke should look?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Good. I was so afraid he would be short and pudgy. You know, the kind whose fingers are like white sausages with rings on them.”
Jessica had to laugh. “That is most unlike the Duke of Cleybourne.”
“I’m glad. Is he nice, though? I mean, he’s not high in the instep, is he?”
“He did not seem to stand on ceremony,” Jessica told her carefully. She did not want to describe the man’s cold reception or his reluctant acceptance of Gabriela, but neither did she did want to paint too rosy a picture of him or Gabriela would be severely disappointed when she met him. “As to what sort of man he is, I think we must wait and get to know him better. It is difficult to determine on such a brief meeting, after all.”
“Yes. Of course.” Gabriela nodded. “I will be able to tell much better when I meet him tomorrow.”
“Yes.” Surely, Jessica thought, the duke would be in a better mood tomorrow. He would think about the General’s letter and his old friend Carstairs, and by tomorrow morning he would have accepted the situation—perhaps even be pleased at the idea of raising Carstairs’ daughter. He would not be so rude as not to invite Gabriela to his study for an introductory chat.
They did not have to wait much longer before the butler came to them. Jessica was pleased to see that the old man bowed with not only politeness but a certain eagerness, as well, as though he was pleased to welcome the girl to the household.
“Miss Carstairs. My name is Baxter. I am His Grace’s butler. I am so pleased to meet you. I remember your father quite well. He was a good man.”
Gabriela’s face lit up with a smile. “Thank you.”
“The maids have made up your rooms now, in the nursery. I am sorry we were so ill prepared for your visit. But hopefully you will find everything to your satisfaction.”
“I am sure it will be,” Gabriela replied with another dazzling smile, and the old man’s face softened even more.
He led them up the stairs to the nursery, tucked away, as nurseries often were, far from the other bedrooms, in the rear of the house on the third floor. It was a large, cheerful suite of rooms, with a sizable central schoolroom and playroom, and three smaller bedrooms opening off it.
Gabriela’s bedroom was very pretty, if a trifle young for her, with a yellow embroidered coverlet and a lace canopy over the bed, and wallpaper of cheerful yellow roses climbing a trellis. There was a rocker beside the bed, as well as a white chest and a small white table and chairs.
Jessica’s room, beside Gabriela’s, was much starker, with only a small oak chest for her clothes and a narrow oak bed, but Jessica did not expect anything more. Governess’s rooms, in general, were neither large nor particularly accommodating. At least this one boasted a small fireplace, which had not been the case in every house where Jessica had stayed.