Strathmere's Bride (5 page)

He looked at his erect finger, astonished. His father
had always performed the gesture when scolding one of his sons. When had he developed such a like habit? It was an impossible question to answer, for never,
never,
had he been as incensed as he was at this moment.

“I am sorry,” she said.

He heard the sound of the door behind him opening, then a murmured, “Oh, dear,” before the door shut again, leaving them once again alone. One of the servants.

“I do not mean to disrespect you,” Chloe continued.

He forced himself to relax his stance. “And yet you do. You do it constantly, Miss Pesserat, and without much effort, it seems.”

She issued the most forlorn sigh he had ever heard. “It does seems inevitable.”

“You need only make more of an effort to conform.”

Her eyes flashed. “Can you not make a similar effort?”

“I,” he answered simply, “am the duke.”

Unimpressed, she countered, “
That
does not make you infallible.”

Oh, Lord, she was at it again!
“It does make me lord and master here and I will be obeyed—and without question, if you please.”

He immediately regretted adding the last, since it gave her a clear opening for one of her clever little quips:
no, it does not please.
But she surprised him. Instead, she tipped her head to the side and asked, “Why did you leave the nursery so abruptly the other day?”

He blinked in surprise. “Pardon me?”

“In the nursery, when you were angry. You suddenly seemed to lose your anger and you left so abruptly.”

“What the devil…?” He pushed his hand through his hair while letting out a long breath. “Why do you wish to know that at a time like this?”

“Because, you see, it seemed as if you regretted getting angry when you saw how upset the children became. In fact, you seemed rather surprised to find yourself in such a state. The look on your face led me to believe that, anyway. And I thought you might be feeling the same way now. I don’t wish you to regret what the heat of your anger makes you say.”

“It is very kind of you to be solicitous of my sensibilities.” He had meant it to be sarcastic, but instead the words sounded gentle in his own ears.

One of those irritating droplets was meandering down her prettily flushed cheek. He reached for his handkerchief and handed it to her. She stared at it. “Oh, for pity’s sake,” he muttered, and snatched the thing back and pressed it to the moisture. “Your hair is leaking.”

She touched her head self-consciously. “Oh, bother.”

It was such an inane thing to say, he did smile then. He almost wanted to laugh, as if the contention between them were suddenly all mere silliness. “You’ll be fortunate if you don’t come down with the deadly ague.”

“It is only rain,” she said diffidently.

“Come by the fire, or you’ll chill.”

She appeared surprised at his solicitousness. Frankly, so was he. “Thank you, your grace.”

He led the way to the brick hearth with its iron
doors and large, open flame. Pulling up a seat, he fetched a square of linen and held it out to her.

Chloe sat down and began to dab the towel about her face and head. Jareth stood behind her, watching her movements, which were like the exacting motions of a dance. How did she always manage to make even the most ordinary actions seem beautiful? What Helena did with her voice, Miss Pesserat did with her body—

He shook his head as if to rid himself of the wayward thought. It seemed somehow disloyal to liken Lady Helena’s great gift with a girl’s artless grace. And how ungentlemanly to be reflecting at all on his nieces’ governess’s body.

His voice sounded harsh when next he spoke. “Do not take the children out of doors again without my permission,” he said, and was about to turn away when he heard her say, “No.”

He stopped, cocking his head. “Can I have heard you correctly?”

She remained with her back to him, ramrod straight and staring into the fire. “It is not right to keep the little ones confined. I do not agree to it.”

“Perhaps you misunderstand. I meant that they will go on outings with my permission only.”

“Why not under your supervision?” She turned so her face was in profile. She had the most extraordinary scooped nose, he noticed. The backlighting from the fire made her pose a perfect cameo. “It would be lovely if you were to spend time with the children. They need their family with them.”

“Do you find fault with my stewardship of the children?”

“Only in that you favor an approach reminiscent
of one of the posh princes of the East—full control and no responsibility.”

His temper was rising again, and quickly. “Why, Miss Pesserat, you are most insulting.”

She stood and whirled on him, her face flushed— though from the proximity of the fire or her rage, he did not know—and her eyes were positively brilliant. “I hate when you call me that My name is Chloe. Could you not manage that bit of informality, or will it choke you to speak it?”

He felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. Just as swiftly as it rose, his irritation receded. “Miss Chloe. See, there. I did not burst into a ball of fire.”

She paused, not trusting him it seemed, before she smiled, one of her wide, true smiles. He watched the slow way it crept across her face, taking that generous mouth into an upward curl and showing even, white teeth. “And you are jesting. However, this time it is not at my expense. You surprise me, your grace.”

“How rewarding. I endeavor to never be boring.”

Why did everything he said to this woman end up sounding…unpleasant?

Surprisingly, however, she wasn’t deflated. “You can never be that, your grace. Oh…” She let the word die and again that smile appeared. “For all your faults, never, never that.”

Absurd, the flash that skittered through him. What difference did it make what this country maid thought of him? Still, the compliment warmed him.

It was a compliment—wasn’t it?

“At least,” he said to cover his disconcerted
thoughts, “promise me you will not take any more strolls through violent spring storms.”

“Oh, la!” she sang, flipping her hand in the air in a fluid gesture. “The children had fun. Did you never do such things when you were a boy? Walk in the rain? Catch raindrops on your tongue?”

The words fell over him like a pall, pressing on his chest, his shoulders. Unwittingly, she had brought to mind the two things that left him weak with grief—the past and his lost freedom.

Why had he tarried so long with the silly girl, anyhow? “The matter, Miss Chloe, is settled. No more outings ın the rain. If you do not abide by this, I will be forced to take broader action to ensure my wishes are being observed.”

The smile disappeared, and she bowed her head. Her drenched hair hung stiffly in pointed strands. “You have made yourself very clear, your grace.”

He trusted her not to lie to him outright, but he knew she would not flinch from a lie of omission. “Tell me you will obey.”

After a mutinous pause, she said, “I will obey.” She raised her head, her face blank and plain. When she had smiled, it had been transformed, almost pretty. Yes, actually, quite lovely, in a way that was so very different from Lady Helena’s pristine beauty. Chloe Pesserat was meant to laugh, to run, to do everything in extreme. Wholly opposite to Helena, whose attraction was her—

The thought struck him and it was accurate, but he still couldn’t resist an inward cringe. The word he had found to describe Helena was
moderation.

The same sense of disquiet followed him out of the kitchens as it had the last time he had conversed
with Chloe, in the nursery. He wondered if such a reaction were unavoidable with the capricious imp that held his nieces’ sanity in her slender, sensuously expressive hands.

C
hloe prowled in her chamber that night, her thoughts tumbling one another in an agitated rush.

How could she have thought there was wisdom and pain in the duke’s cold eyes? He was completely intolerable—scolding her like a wayward child herself, questioning her competence! The blundering, self-important, conceited…bore! She had thought there was a trace of humanity behind his supreme dukeness, but she had been mistaken, clearly.

As the anger drained out of her, exhaustion descended. Cook, having heard of her disquiet, sent up a steaming teapot and a generous supply of shortbread, which was one of Chloe’s favorites. She curled up with a novel pilfered from the dowager duchess’s stash in the library, but soon dozed with it open on her lap.

Rebeccah’s fitful cries woke her sometime after the hour of three. Chloe came to her feet before the last vestiges of her dream had cleared her head and moved with swiftness to the child’s bedside.

In a firm, soft voice, she said, “Hush, Rebeccah,
it is Miss Chloe here now with you. Everything is fine,
ma petite.
Hush, now.”

She wrapped her arms about the wailing child and pulled her in tight against her breast. Rebeccah always resisted this at first. She grabbed fistfuls of Chloe’s nightrail in her little hands, pulling and punching, but the efforts soon grew weak. Her muffled cries subsided until at last she was at rest.

Gently, Chloe laid her back in her bed. She looked at the small face—the pert nose, the thick fan of lashes against the rose-kissed cheeks, the pouty mouth hanging agape with the unselfconscious ease of childhood slumber. She was not the easiest child with which to contend, but Chloe loved her with a fierceness that made her soul ache. Needing to touch, she smoothed a hand over the limbs that were just now losing their babyish roundness as Rebeccah passed from infancy to childhood.

Chloe spoke in a whisper as the child’s peace deepened. “Sleep,
chérie,
and dream of happy lands where knights ride in gleaming armor and ladies dance among perfect roses and all the dragons are slain, asleep forever. Dream of laughter and of those who love you,
ma petite.
Dream of good things, and love. Dream of love.”

Rebeccah inhaled a trembling breath, releasing it slowly as she nestled deeper under the coverlet. Chloe smiled, reflecting that it was infrequent that Rebeccah stayed put for longer than a moment or two. A time like this—just the stillness of it—was precious.

Suddenly, Chloe became aware of the fact that she wasn’t alone. Her gaze lifted to find the duke standing in the doorway.

He was dressed in dark trousers, still crisp somehow despite the wilting weather and the late hour. His coat was off, however, and he stood in his shirtsleeves—a deplorable breach of propriety, but Chloe barely noted it, for it mattered not at all to her. She only thought it odd because it was so out of character for him.

His hair was disheveled, and taken with the discarded tailcoat, signified he had been restless, perhaps bedeviled by irksome thoughts about a particular employee of his who was fond of storms and refused to bend to his indomitable will…

“You have been there for all this time?” she asked, amazed she hadn’t been aware of him before.

He gave a brief nod. “I was awake and roaming about. I heard her cries,” he said in a rough whisper. He stepped into the room, just two steps, and inclined his head to his niece. “Will…will she be all right now?”

“She shall sleep until morning,” Chloe reassured him.

“Every night this happens? That is what I was told.”

“Yes, your grace.”

She bowed her head, not wanting to look at him as he stood gazing down at Rebeccah. She had spent the evening building him into an ogre. He seemed all too human just now, with his shirtsleeves and all. And that concerned expression on his face was disconcerting.

“Is it always this…severe?”

“Tonight was not severe,” she said, coming to her feet. “It is much the same each night.”

“You are the only one who can quiet her, I am told.”

She didn’t answer. It seemed a rather rhetorical question.

“I watched you tonight, and I must admit you are very adept.”

Looking at him at last, she saw his eyes were steady and serious. They were dark in the shadowed room, lit only by a magnificent moon spilling in through the large double window. “Only hours ago you questioned my competence,” she reminded him.

“Your judgment, Miss Chloe, but not your skill. That you are kind beyond measure, and uncannily in accord with the moods and needs of my nieces, I cannot argue.”

It was as near a retraction as she was likely to get. Moving to the window, she reached up for the drape, thinking to close it against the abundant moonlight. A sharp hiss from behind her made her stop in midreach and look over her shoulder to the duke.

He stood in the midst of a flourish of light from the swollen moon, his face fully visible, his eyes narrowed to slits and focused directly on her. Puzzled, she said, “What is it?”

His voice was like gravel. “Miss Chloe—Miss Pesserat. You are…your attire,
mademoiselle!”

With a start, she remembered that she was in her nightrail.

“Mon
Dieu,
it is my nightdress. My bedroom is through that door, and I was sleeping.” She added tartly, “It is my habit at this hour.”

The shadows took him as he retreated backward, as if he didn’t trust her enough to turn his back on her. “This is most unseemly. My apologies.” From
the darkness, she heard the sounds of the door opening and closing.

Chloe shook her head, bemused by his peculiar behavior. He was a strange man, she already knew, but this really was the oddest thing…

Then she realized how much light was pouring through the window, and she had been framed in it, arm extended, and dressed only in her nightgown of modest enough design and not at all risqué. But when backlit, it would become—

Completely transparent.

The drive to Rathford Manor took just under an hour, making the Rathford family Strathmere’s closest neighbors. But even the short interval seemed endless with the dowager duchess seated across from Jareth, her sturdy scowl firmly in place and her occasional exclamations centered completely on the unacceptable qualities of their governess.

“I wish you would speak to the physicians again and see what they can tell us as to when the woman can be dismissed. We cannot be expected to withstand her haphazard—and, yes, dangerous at times— attentions to the girls.”

Jareth looked out the window. His mother’s diatribe was only a distant annoyance.

“They could have been brought down with all manner of mortal illness from her abominable behavior, not to mention the humiliation of it all. Lady Rathford was kind, of course, as any woman of breeding can be expected to be, but what she must think! I tell you, it is simply horrible to have to live with that Pesserat woman.”

Distractedly, he said, “It was only a mild spring rain. And no harm was done.”

There was a momentary silence, then the duchess exclaimed in a tight, high voice, “What did you say? You dare defend such irresponsible behavior as that?”

Blinking, Jareth snapped to attention. “Pardon me? What was it I said to upset you, Mother?”

“No harm was done? Only a spring rain?” The woman sounded as if the words were choking her.

“Mother, please calm yourself. You will work yourself into a state, and you wouldn’t wish for the Rathfords to see you with your face all red. They would fear for your health.” It was the right thing to say, for the duchess immediately and with visible effort brought herself under control.

Closing her eyes, she took several deep breaths. When she opened them again, she leveled an icy stare at her son. “Now, kindly explain what you meant by that absurd remark.”

“Only that Miss Chloe caused no harm to the children. I’ll grant you,” he added, holding a hand against her prepared objections, “that she is irresponsible, and I have told her she may not take the children out without my permission. I believe that should settle the matter.”

His mother looked pleased as they fell into an uneasy silence.

“Strathmere?” she said suddenly.

“Yes, Mother.”

“When did you begin addressing Miss Pesserat as ‘Miss Chloe’?”

Jareth didn’t answer, and to his great relief, his mother did not pursue the subject.

They arrived at the Rathford mansion, a beautiful Palladian masterpiece. Disappointingly, Lord Rathford was not in attendance, so Jareth took refreshment with the ladies in the grand salon, which showed the Rathfords’ affluence to its fullest advantage. Looking about, Jareth felt a wave of distaste for the gaudy Florentine pilasters and gold leafing all about, regular fare for the grand Georgian era that had just passed. For his own tastes he preferred the subtle distinction of aged wood rubbed with lemon oil until the patina shone. He also liked sturdy chairs, something of some substance upon which to sit rather than these delicate things with spindly legs and carved backs that dug into the flesh.

They seemed to suit Helena, however. Back rigid, she perched on the Sheridan chair as effortlessly elegant as a Madonna. Her cap of cleverly arranged ringlets caught the sun. It was a beautiful shade of blonde, so pale. She sat in rapt attention to her mother, who was speaking on some subject Jareth could hardly muster any interest in until he heard his name.

“…the music room. Go ahead, Helena. Show the duke the pianoforte used by Mozart himself.”

Of course, he should have known. Lady Rathford had been bragging.

Helena looked at him with that soft gaze of hers. “Would you like to see it, your grace?” He thought he detected a silent apology for her mother’s conceit.

Jareth felt a pang of resentment at being moved around like a helpless pawn, done so expertly by these matrons, but squelched it as unimportant.

“That would be entirely enjoyable,” he replied with a bow.

Helena led the way. The music room was on the second floor, a grand chamber with pointed vaults crisscrossing the painted ceiling, where cherubs frolicked in naked abandon. The classical technique was stunning. Jareth stopped to admire it from the doorway.

“Absolutely lovely.”

“Are you a patron of the architectural sciences, your grace?”

“Only an admirer.”

He wandered about, eyeing the treasures ensconced within the magnificent room.

Helena walked behind him. “Do you enjoy music?”

“Listening only. I have no talent. I see your family has a love for it, do they not?”

“Yes, we do favor music.”

Jareth waved his hand at the pianoforte. “Do you play?”

“Of course,” she answered, and sat down dutifully. “What would you like to hear?”

“Something airy, nothing dark. My thoughts are gloomy enough today.”

“I believe I have something,” she said. Her long, elegant fingers closed over the keys. He watched as they moved up and down the keyboard, coaxing from the instrument a lilting, playful melody that made him smile.

She didn’t smile, however. The same pained look came over her face as he had seen when she sang. It distorted the careful beauty. Closing her eyes, she tilted her head down and to one side as she played, brows drawn in concentration, then occasionally
shooting upward as though she were surprised by a particularly sprightly part of the piece.

As with her song, the music was powerful. It ended abruptly, and she bowed her head, seeming to need a moment to collect herself before the serene expression was back in place and she raised her eyes to his.

What lay beyond that composed expression? He experienced a dismal sinking disappointment as he recognized he would never sample it. It was too tightly controlled, too remote—as far away from his reach as the stars he so loved to view. Yes. The same unapproachable beauty was in Helena.

“That was breathtaking,” he said, and the words sounded like such an ineffectual way to describe what she had just given him.

She rose, a polite, controlled smile in place. “Do you have any hobbies, your grace?”

He hesitated. Her eyes were on him, expectant. “Yes, actually, I do. The science of astronomy is my hobby.”

“You watch the stars.” He detected no real interest.

“Yes. The constellations, all the heavenly bodies and celestial phenomenon. It is fascinating, how they ever change, but like seasons return again and again in their predictable patterns. And then there are always new discoveries. The other day I read in one of the papers written by an eminent astronomer that there is to be a comet visible soon in the northwest sky. I have ordered a special telescope for the occasion so as not to miss it.”

“How interesting. I understand seamen often navigate
with only a perfunctory glance at the night sky, so skilled are they in predicting direction.”

It wasn’t an unpleasant comment. Yet it showed how absolutely she had missed the point, the wonder and fascination of the night sky, not simply its utility. Yes, the skill of a seasoned navigator was impressive, but that wasn’t what made the heavens fill him with an aching sense of wonder and whet his hunger for discovery.

“Yes, it is true,” he answered, and smiled blandly.

When eventually they rejoined his mother and Lady Rathford, he received a sharp look from the dowager duchess coupled with a slight incline of her head. Approval. It failed to have any impact on him.

The afternoon progressed with a game of whist. Helena was an excellent player, but somehow managed to lose. He was not enthusiastic about cards as a rule, but he enjoyed watching how expertly Helena played each hand and then threw away her lead without seeming to at all.

She was a very accomplished girl, indeed. He caught his mother’s thinned lips, as if an unborn smile were being held at bay. She thought she was being subtle. If she had jumped up in the air and clicked her heels she couldn’t have been more obvious.

On the way home, his mother pleaded one of her migraines and lapsed into silence, for which Jareth was exceedingly grateful. It gave him the time he needed. To think.

It was already dark when they pulled up to Strathmere, the lights in the windows like poor imitations of the sparkling display of the star-strewn sky. He angled his gaze upward.