Strathmere's Bride

Cover Page

Praise

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About The Author

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Copyright

Praise for Jacqueline Navin’s recent release,

A Rose at Midnight

“Nothing can prepare you for the pure love that flows from Ms. Navin’s writing. She gives warmth, humor, tears of joy…her books are gifts to be treasured.”

—Bell, Book and Candle

“Ms. Navin touches our hearts with a tale of rebirth and the joyous wonders of love.”

—Romantic Times Magazine

“I thought I was to be asked

to leave.”

“We could never get on without you,” Jareth murmured, turning to face her.

The words touched something in Chloe, a distant hope, a desire held at bay. It must have shone in her eyes as she raised her gaze to his. “You could not?”

He seemed to realize his error. His expression sobered.

She lowered her gaze, ashamed of what he might see in her eyes. The touch of his fingers along her chin made her catch her breath. They were warm and smooth, and tiny shivers of excitement shot forth like sparks from a flint to singe her cheek and sizzle down her neck.

“Sweet Lord, Chloe, are you never satisfied with anything? Do you always need to push me beyond comfort?” His words were harsh, but they were spoken in a tone that was almost a caress…

Dear Reader,

Autumn is such a romantic season—fall colors, rustling leaves, big sweaters and, for many of you, the kids are back in school So, as the leaves fall, snuggle up in a cozy chair and let us sweep you away to the romantic past!

Rising star Jacqueline Navin returns with her fourth Harlequin Historical novel since her publishing debut in March of 1998. Her latest, Strathmere’s Bride, stays true to her passionate and emotional style. In this Regency-style historical tale, a duke who is now the single father of his two orphaned nieces intends to marry—quickly. He courts a lovely and proper woman, but is much more intrigued by the very improper governess running about with his nieces. Will he choose duty, or desire…?

Bestselling author Ruth Langan brings us the final book in THE O’NEIL SAGA, Briana. Set in England and Ireland, this is the tale of a feisty Irish noblewoman and the lonely, tormented landowner who first saves her life—and then succumbs to her charms! In The Doctor’s Wife by the popular Cheryl St John, scandalous secrets are revealed but love triumphs when a waitress “from the other side of the tracks” marries a young doctor in need of a mother for his baby girl. And don’t miss Branded Hearts by Diana Hall, a Western chock-full of juicy surprises. Here, a young cowgirl bent on revenge must fight her feelings for her boss, an enigmatic cattle rancher.

Enjoy. And come back again next month for four more choices of the best in historical romance.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

P.S. We’d love to hear what you think about Harlequin Historicals! Drop us a line at:

Harlequin Historicals

300 E. 42nd Street, 6th Floor

New York, NY 10017

Strathmere’s Bride

Jacqueline Navin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JACQUELINE NAVIN

lives with her husband and three small children in Maryland, where she works in private practice as a psychologist. Writing has been her hobby since the sixth grade, and she has boxes full of incomplete manuscripts to prove it.

When asked, as she often is, how she finds time m her busy schedule to write, she replies that it is not a problem—thanks to the staunch support of her husband, who is not unused to doing the dinner dishes and tucking the kids into bed. However, finding time to do the laundry—that’s the problem. Jacqueline would love to hear from readers. Please write to her at P.O. Box 1611, Bel Air, MD 21014.

This is Lindsey’s book—my Chloe,

my very own little flibbertigibbet.

How well I know how trying they can be.

And how precious.

Chapter One

Northumberland, England, 1847

There was no doubt about it, Jareth Hunt, Duke of Strathmere, thought as he gazed out his study window at his two nieces and their governess frolicking on the grass. Chloe Pesserat was entirely unacceptable.

Narrowing his eyes, he shook his head in disapproval. The woman in question reclined prostrate on the blanket she had strewn on the closely clipped lawn, her head propped upon her two palms and one of her legs bent so that her foot—her shoeless foot!—turned lazy circles in the air. Miss Pesserat looked more as if she were in a bedroom than in a public place. Why, her entire stockinged leg was exposed. A very shapely one, with a finely tapered calf and slender ankle…

Inserting a forefinger inside the tightly knotted cravat, Jareth pulled hard, but he still had difficulty swallowing. The fire, he thought, glancing blamefully at the hearth. It blazed far too brightly for such a fine day as this. The weather was unseasonably warm, he noticed just now.

Unlatching the casement, he cracked the window to let in some fresh air. The high-pitched shouts of his eldest niece carried inside, making him wince. Rebeccah, who was five years of age, hooted and ran about, flapping her arms and chanting something unintelligible in a very loud, obnoxious voice.

He frowned at her ridiculous antics. She looked demented—completely unsuitable for the daughter of the late Duke of Strathmere. Yet, as unsightly as it was, he preferred Rebeccah’s annoying behavior to the way three-year-old Sarah sat so silently, her tiny fingers clutching a withered flower left over from last summer.

Rebeccah cried, “And then what happened?”

“Then the prince carried off the evil dragon!” Miss Pesserat’s voice held only a trace of a French accent, making it sound musical and lilting and undeniably enchanting.

“Hurrah!” exclaimed Rebeccah. “Kill the dragon!” She commenced with the leaping and shrieking once again.

“And then…” Miss Pesserat said in a provocative way, holding up a slender finger.

Rebeccah froze. “Yes?” she urged gleefully.

“He came back for the princess and…” She paused, and in chorus the two voices chimed, “They lived happily ever after!”

Rebeccah clapped and jumped in place. Miss Pesserat turned to Sarah and prodded her with a set of wiggling fingers, making the little girl smile.

But no laugh. Jareth’s heart constricted as he watched his youngest niece, solemn little Sarah, who had uttered not one single sound since the accident that took her parents’ lives three months ago.

Sheer bad luck, an error in the driver’s judgment, a ripple in the fabric of destiny—something unexplainable had caused Jareth’s elder brother’s carriage to overturn on a hairpin curve and spill down a sharp, craggy ravine. The duke and duchess were killed. Blessedly, the children, who had been with them, had survived. But not unscarred. Rebeccah had been injured, but her physical recovery had been swift.

Oddly, Sarah had escaped with nary a scratch, except that she no longer possessed a loving mother, a devoted father or the ability to speak. It wasn’t that she had any physical damage to her vocal cords. The once exuberant child had simply ceased talking. She made no sounds, in fact—not crying, not laughter, not the tiniest noise since the accident.

That terrible event had also left Jareth the seventh duke, riddled with grief and utterly miserable. Gone was the life he had led as a contented second son. His business, his friends, his much valued freedom were gone. All he had now was duty. Duty to the duchy and duty to his family, his nieces in particular. And one big headache in the bargain. Miss Chloe Pesserat.

Miss Pesserat scrambled to her feet, pausing to slip on a discarded slipper. As she balanced on one foot, she held out her slender arms in a delicate move that was reminiscent of the prima ballerinas Jareth had seen on the Paris stage. Miss Chloe, as the little girls called her, possessed an uncanny grace. It was evident m her smallest movement, making each motion extraordinarily…well, beautiful.

She now began a very ungraceful chase of Rebeccah, claiming to be the dragon come back for revenge. Rebeccah squealed, declaring herself the prince and facing off against the evil monster. Sarah smiled, running when her sister warned her of the mortal danger she was in, but still in silence. Always in silence.

Jareth watched Rebeccah, who looked joyful at this moment. She seemed, as far as anyone could surmise, to have survived the loss of her parents without incident, except of course for the howling night terrors. Almost every night in the wee hours before dawn, Jareth was told, the five-year-old hovered in some netherworld between sleep and wakefulness, her thrashing and sobbing so alarming as to send normally affectionate servants scurrying away in tears. The only one who could quiet her, and not without effort, was Miss Chloe.

Jareth scowled, returning his regard to the young woman carrying on in the most indecorous manner, issuing sounds no human had any business making, skirts hitched up almost to her knees.

“Outrageous, isn’t she?” a cultured voice asked from behind him.

Jareth nodded. Now the chit tumbled Rebeccah onto the ground. As they rolled about, they kicked up chunks of mud. Dark stains appeared on their skirts.

“Abominable,” his mother said.

“Is there no way to dismiss her?” Jareth asked. Really, this was preposterous. Cavorting like village urchins!

“The doctor said absolutely not. Both girls’ nerves are fragile. He is fearful of what would happen if they had to do without her. He believes they have transferred their affections to their Miss Chloe. Losing her, so quickly after the loss of…” The dowager duchess faltered only a little, but to her son, who had never heard his mother’s voice so much as quiver throughout all of this wretched tragedy, it was as startling as her dissolving into tears.

He remained perfectly rigid, knowing any sign that he had noticed her distress would be inappropriate. When she spoke again, her voice was restored. “The loss of their parents, it might be devastating.”

“Has anyone spoken to her?”

“I have, on numerous occasions.” A long, indrawn breath, then a protracted sigh. “She refuses to heed my instruction and makes no secret of telling me so. She informed me that the children need joy in their lives, that propriety and convention need to be suspended during this period of time she referred to as ‘mending.’”

Jareth snorted.

“My sentiments exactly, Strathmere.” Strange how easily his mother altered his name, and with no sign that only a short time ago a different son went by that title, a son now dead. He was no longer Jareth. He was Strathmere, even to his mother. Everything was altered irrevocably, even that primal bond with the woman who bore him thirty-one years ago.

She continued, “I was hopeful that you could be more forceful with her.”

“Certainly,” he said with conviction. He observed that Miss Pesserat had swung Rebeccah onto her back and was galloping about like some kind of maniacal racehorse.

“Disgraceful.” Just by the tone of his mother’s voice, Jareth could imagine her top lip curled in contempt.

At that moment, the object of their disapproval’s eye caught his through the open window. She stopped, the wide smile freezing on her face for a moment, then wilting rapidly until it was gone. Oblivious to the change, Rebeccah urged her on.

She certainly looked normal enough. Unflinching under his regard, she was merely an unremarkable girl, perhaps a bit pretty, with gray-blue eyes of a strange quality, tilted-up nose and wide, mobile mouth. Her hair hung in dark strands about her face, almost completely out of the sloppy knot sagging on the back of her head.

Not beautiful, no. But something about her made a man look twice.

She dropped her skirts into place and reached around to catch Rebeccah as she straightened. The child slid safely to the ground, grumping her disappointment at the end of their game.

His mother whispered in his ear, “I know you only arrived yesterday, but I want you to see her as soon as possible. We have visitors coming later today, and it would be unthinkable for them to witness anything similar to what we’ve just seen. You remember the Rathfords? You met Lord and Lady Rathford, and their delightful daughter Helena, when last you visited.”

“Yes,” he answered curtly, never taking his gaze from the girl. Miss Pesserat, his late sister-in-law’s cousin who had come all the way from France to care for Sarah and Rebeccah, was giving the girls orders in her charmingly accented voice as she balled up the blanket into a messy armful.

Rebeccah, it seemed, was having none of it Miss Pesserat handled the recalcitrant child’s protests with a firm tone and determined repetition of her request for cooperation. Eventually, Rebeccah stomped off toward the house.

For Sarah, Miss Pesserat only had to extend her hand and the little girl came up and took it. Jareth battled a fresh wash of pain as he considered how changed this little sprite was from the lively two-year-old he had met on his last visit, only seven months ago.

“Be firm,” his mother urged. He heard the rustle of her dress as she headed toward the door. Before she left, she added in a stiff, grudging voice, “But do not be unkind. The children need her. God help us, we need her.”

Miss Pesserat and the children disappeared around the corner, presumably to enter through the kitchens. His mother was gone. The soft click of the door told him he was alone.

Jareth Hunt let his head drop and felt the weariness lay claim to every inch of his body.

Chloe managed to settle the girls into their beds for a much needed nap, but it wasn’t easy. She had to promise Rebeccah there would be her favorite biscuits on the tea tray when the child awoke, but that was not a problem. Cook always did little favors for Chloe. Cook was French, and though the two of them had never set eyes on each other before coming to Strathmere, Cook considered them related, as countrymen if not kinsmen.

Humming lightly, Chloe crossed to Sarah’s bed. The child lay clutching her bear, the one with the mottled fur, which had weathered too many hugs from sticky hands. He was missing his left eye and several seams had to be restitched on a regular basis.

Touching Sarah’s white-blond hair, Chloe smiled. “Good Samuel will guard your dreams.”

Samuel was the bear’s name. Much too solemn an appellation for a fellow blessed with so much love, Chloe had always thought, but it had been his name before she arrived seven months ago to care for her cousin Bethany’s children, and so it stayed.

Under the tender ministrations of her soothing voice and the lightest of touches as she stroked the child’s hair, Sarah was asleep in no time. Chloe crept to Rebeccah’s bed. The girl’s mouth gaped open, and she snored lightly. Dear, impulsive, bossy, demanding Rebeccah. Chloe’s heart felt tight gazing at her. In some ways, this child’s scars were deeper than her sister’s. Chloe knew well the horrors the girl kept buried within.

She closed her eyes. Dearest Bethany, I shall look after them. I shall see them out of the shadows. Send your love to help me, cousin, and show me how.

A young upstairs maid named Mary appeared at the door. She nodded when Chloe laid a finger to her lips. Silently Mary held up a letter.

“Thank you,” Chloe whispered softly, coming to take it. Mary followed Chloe as she exited the girls’ bedchamber and walked across the playroom to her own small chamber.

The missive was from Papa. Chloe recognized the handwriting immediately. How she loved his long, chatty letters, full of news of her family. How she missed them all. Oh, she longed for home, that lazy, contented life in the Loire Valley, with everyone around her she had known since birth and no one frowning at her in disapproval or thinking her daft just because she laughed out loud.

“And his grace wishes to see you in his study when you have finished with the girls,” Mary added in a hushed tone.

Chloe’s head snapped up. She had known it was only a matter of time before she was summoned before the new duke.

She had seen him on two occasions. The first time was yesterday when he arrived. He had not come to his brother’s funeral, as he had been abroad and his last visit was a month before she herself had arrived at Strathmere. From her window, she had watched as he alighted from a stylish charcoal brougham. Lean, elegant, dressed impeccably in tailcoat and pants with a single, sharp crease, his snow-white shirt crisply pressed, he looked exactly as a duke should. Except for his dark chestnut hair. His hair surprised her a little, for it was left to curl loosely about his crown, not slicked back with Macassar oil as was the fashion. Of course, he kept it neatly trimmed, but there was something untamed about that hair. And, she had thought in her brief glimpse of him today through the library window—her second sighting— something soulful in the large, deep brown eyes.

She didn’t dread the upcoming confrontation with him, but she didn’t savor it, either. It was just that it was tiring to battle the mighty Hunt family’s disapproval all the time just for the privilege of being herself.

Glancing at the letter in her hand, she felt a sharp pang of homesickness. Squaring her shoulders, she put the letter on her bedside table to be enjoyed later. To Mary, she said, “Tell him I shall be down directly. I just want to tidy up.”

Mary’s gaze swept the length of Chloe’s dress, then she giggled. Chloe sighed, looking down at herself. She was a mess. She always seemed to be untidy. She was never quite sure how that happened.

It took her only a few minutes to change her dress into a pretty muslin print and restyle her hair in a simple twist. Of course, the results were hardly impressive. She was not particularly talented with hair. Too impatient, she supposed.

Peering closer at the small pier glass, she saw her reflection was one of a pleasant-faced girl with good skin and clear, unusual eyes of blue, overlaid with wisps of pale, pale gray. Her father always said her eyes looked like a stormy sea. She liked that. Her nose was pretty, too, sort of small with a tiny slope at the tip. Her mouth was large, with wide full lips that had a tendency to break into an infectious smile.

A pleasant-faced girl, certainly, but not a true beauty, which pleased her just fine. Beauties, like her late cousin Bethany, had too much responsibility living up to everyone else’s expectations or apologizing for their good looks. Bethany had spent enormous effort trying to convince everyone that even though she was beautiful, she was still a nice person.

With a last pat for her hair, she went down to the library. Pausing just outside the threshold of the room that was now the new duke’s domain, she drew in a bracing breath. The dowager duchess wanted to dismiss her, that she already knew, and perhaps the duke agreed. The ironic thing was, she wanted to go, but she couldn’t let that happen for two very good reasons. One’s name was Rebeccah, and the other’s was Sarah.

With a perfunctory knock on the door, she let herself in.

Chapter Two

Jareth turned to greet Miss Pesserat as she came into the room.

She looked much different than she had earlier, which was an improvement, for her hair was neater and her dress clean.

And then again, it was not an improvement. Her face was plain, devoid of expression, and that fascinating mobility he had seen when she was with the children was gone.

She sketched a neat curtsy for him. “Your grace wished to see me?”

“Yes. Please have a seat, Miss Pesserat.”

“Thank you.”

She sat, folding her hands on her lap, and waited. The picture of decorum.

Jareth pulled himself up straight, clasped his hands behind his back and began to speak. “Miss Pesserat, I believe you know why I have asked to see you today.”

“Yes, of course. You disapprove of me, non?”

Jareth stopped. Chloe just stared back at him with wide, innocent eyes. They were so pale. Haunting eyes. Eyes that could look clear through a person.

“Those are your words, not mine. I prefer to use my own, for they will convey my meaning more directly, so if you will be patient, please.”

He was satisfied with the demure expression she donned. He continued, “Principally, I am distressed at your behavior. It has come to my attention that you are leading my nieces in daily activities that are filled with far too much play.”

“Children should play.”

“Of course, Miss Pesserat. Please do not think to twist my words to put me at the defense.” Her lashes swept down, betraying her. Oh, Miss Pesserat knew exactly what she was doing. And she was very good at it. “Play is essential, but not the only thing that must be present in a child’s life. Discipline, for example, must serve to balance.”

“I quite agree, your grace.”

“What I have observed since I have arrived home is a deplorable lack of discipline in the children. They are allowed to romp about most indecorously—”

She held up a slender hand in one of those gestures that seemed as light as air. “Pardon, your grace. I do not understand, in-dec-roos-ly.”

“Like urchins in the streets of London, mademoiselle,” he explained impatiently. “I observed them today gadding about in a most unseemly fashion out on the lawn. Their behavior would have disgraced this family should a visitor happened to have seen such screeching and laughter as was taking place.”

“I am sorry we disturbed you.” She looked up, as if troubled. “You dislike laughter?”

Jareth narrowed his eyes. “When appropriate, I do not, Miss Pesserat, disapprove of laughter, of course. However, hysterics are a different matter.”

She smiled and nodded. Her smile lit up her face, transforming it and warming the room. “That is good, because the children need to laugh. It is joy that will chase their sadness away. They need to learn how to live again, your grace. To enjoy what life can give them.” Frowning slightly, she asked, “Do you not agree that life is to be enjoyed?”