The Winter Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) (17 page)

“Not know how to
ride
?” Lord Breckenridge glared at his son. “What sort of an upbringin’ is that for a future bride of Breckenridge?”

Freddy shrugged. “I don’t suppose there’s much call for horses in Venice.”

Damaris nodded. “Gondolas yes, horses no. A gondola is a kind of boat,” she explained kindly. “The canals, you see.”

The old man glowered at her. “I know what a gondola is.”

She smiled at him. “Then you understand why I don’t ride.”

Freddy leaned forward. “I thought I’d teach her to ride while we’re here. Give us something to do.”

“Harrumph! Not much point at her age,” his father growled. “Only time to learn to ride is when you’re a child.” He gave Damaris a flinty look. “I was ridin’ to hounds by the time I was seven.”

“Good for you,” she responded. “But even if I could ride, I wouldn’t hunt foxes.” She’d had a taste of how it felt to be hunted and she wouldn’t wish that on any creature.

“Not hunt foxes?” His eyes almost popped with the heresy. “Why on earth not? They’re vermin! And it’s excellent sport.”

“All God’s creatures have their place.”

“A fox’s place is to be hunted, dammit, gel!”

“Not by me.” She nibbled on a macaroon, then added provocatively, “Besides, foxes are sweet.”

“Sweet?”
he echoed in disgust. “Foxes are
sweet
?” He turned to glare at Freddy. “And
this
is the bride you choose to bring home to Breckenridge?”

“It is,” Freddy agreed. “Delightful, isn’t she?”

“Harrumph!” His father hunched over his wine and after a moment muttered, “Almeria Armthwaite is English
and
a bruisin’ rider to hounds. You could have had her.”

Freddy smiled. “Anyone can, I believe, as long as he enjoys the whip.”

There was a short, stunned silence, into which Freddy rose. “Excellent dinner, Mother; convey my compliments to Mrs. Bradshaw. It’s been a long day and my bride-to-be must be tired, so we’ll bid you good night.” And before his parents could recover, Freddy and Damaris made their escape.

The moment the door closed behind them, Freddy gave a small whoop, seized Damaris in his arms and swung her around in an exuberant whirl. “That was wonderful!” he exclaimed. She laughed and as he came to a halt and let her slide back to earth, his voice deepened. “You were wonderful.”

He gazed down at her for a long moment, his arms loosely locked around her; tall and warm and strong. She stared back, breathlessly aware of the way her body was still pressed against him, the tips of her breasts just touching his chest, her palms resting lightly on his forearms. His hands were warm as they slid slowly down to circle her waist. Her skirts were twined around his legs. Every nerve in her body thrummed with awareness of him.

She moistened her lips. His blue eyes darkened and he bent his head, angling it to—

A discreet cough behind them caused Freddy to release her and step back. A footman carrying a large tray of crockery passed them by, looking embarrassed and muttering an apology.

Damaris’s cheeks were burning. What must he think of her, pressing herself against him like that? There for the taking, right outside his parents’ dining room. This was a business arrangement, she reminded herself.

Freddy offered her his arm and together they mounted the stairs. “I meant it,” he said in a low voice. “You were wonderful at dinner. So composed and unruffled. Are you sure they didn’t upset you?”

She strove to make her voice cool and matter-of-fact. “Not at all. But I was very annoyed by their rudeness to you. Are they always like that?”

“Don’t let it bother you,” he said. “I don’t.”

It did bother him, she could tell, and now what he’d told her about only coming here once a year, and not even for Christmas, was starting to make sense. But despite his light dismissal, she recognized the underlying message of “keep out, private family business.” And since she was a faux fiancée she had to respect that. For now, at least.

They climbed the stairs in silence. Outside, the rain drummed steadily, pouring off the roof and rattling down spouts and gutters.

“Foxes are sweet?” he quizzed her when they reached the landing.

She chuckled. “I couldn’t resist. And what about your comment about Miss Armthwaite?”

“Father walked into that one.” They’d reached the door of her bedchamber and paused. His hand came up, as if to cup her cheek, and she stiffened and quickly stepped back.

“I think it’s best if we don’t,” she said and, in a moment of inspiration, added, “We had that moment in the hall in front of that footman—surely that should suffice. It’s not necessary now, is it? For our pretense, I mean.”

“Necessary?” He looked at her as if trying to fathom her thoughts. “No, it’s not . . . necessary.”

She fought a blush and said in as crisp a voice as she could manage, “Then I’ll bid you good night.” She hurriedly let herself into her bedchamber, closed the door and leaned against it in relief. What must he think of her? She’d promised she had no interest in him, no interest in marriage. And it was true, so what business did she have in encouraging him to . . . flirt?

“Tired, miss?” Her maid, Polly, came forward. “I’ve put a warming pan over your sheets, miss, and your nightgown is warming by the fire. There’s hot water in the jug, and I can fetch a hot brick for you if you want one.”

“Thank you, Polly, that will do very nicely.” She quickly washed, changed into her nightclothes and slipped into bed. Polly blew out the candles and slipped into her own bed in the adjoining room.

Damaris snuggled down. She was cozy and warm, almost too warm. Her body was hot with remembered awareness.

Lust,
her father whispered in her head. . . .

She buried her face in her pillow.

 • • • 

A
fter breakfast the next morning, Lady Breckenridge announced she would show Miss Chance over the house—the more domestic areas, which would, naturally, be of most interest to a future bride.

Minutes into the tour her true purpose soon became apparent: to impress on Damaris her unworthiness for the position.

“I’d arranged a house party to start next week,” Lady Breckenridge said. “I had invited the flower of English young womanhood, and their mothers.”

“Mmm?” Damaris made a vaguely interested sound. “These linen closets are most impressive.”

“Every girl invited I’ve known since birth; even before that, you might say. Our families have known each other for generations.” She fixed Damaris with a look.
“Generations.”

“No surprises there for you, then,” Damaris said cheerfully and looked around for something else to comment on. Did the woman think she was going to wither up and creep away?

“Each girl gently born, delicately bred, skilled in all the womanly arts, each one born to step into the position, knowing everyone, and everything . . .”

“But you had to cancel it. What a shame. Do you make your own cheese?”

Lady Breckenridge’s pale blue eyes glittered. “Instead, here you are, a girl I’ve never met before, some connection of Lady Beatrice’s but otherwise entirely unknown to English society. And half
Italian
.” As if Damaris were some mongrel puppy. Which, come to think of it, was not far off the mark, Damaris thought. Papa’s family was quite undistinguished.

“Yes, and half English too. Interesting, isn’t it?”

From the look on Lady Breckenridge’s face, it wasn’t. “Do you play any musical instruments, Miss Chance? The harp, or perhaps the pianoforte?”

“No, I’m afraid my musical skills are barely adequate, though I do like to sing, and we are learning to dance—my sisters and I.”

The well-plucked eyebrows almost disappeared. “You don’t dance?”

“My father didn’t approve of it.”

“Good heavens, how very peculiar. I would have thought dancing was an essential skill for any young woman aspiring to become a lady. But then, I suppose when one has had a foreign upbringing . . .” Lady Breckenridge tailed off on a disparaging note. “You embroider, of course.”

“Not very well, though I do stitch a neat hem, if I say so myself.”

“Hems,” Lady Breckenridge declared, “are for maids to sew.”

“It’s a skill I’ve found very useful over the years,” Damaris said cheerfully.

Lady Breckenridge sniffed. “Do you have any ladylike accomplishments at all, Miss Chance?”

Damaris smiled. “I’m not sure how ladylike it is, but I do like to draw and paint.”

She was rewarded with a thin smile. “Indeed. Watercolors are quite an acceptable medium.”

“I paint china,” Damaris said brightly and inaccurately. “Cups, bowls, chamber pots, that sort of thing.” She’d been trained to paint with watercolors. The china painting was a new skill. But she wasn’t aiming to please.

There was a chilly silence, then: “I should hate to see Frederick marry to disoblige his parents.”

“I should hate even more for him to marry simply to oblige them,” Damaris said, and when Lady Breckenridge’s eyebrows flew up on cue, she added, “I think a man, if he’s truly a man, ought to marry to please himself, don’t you, Lady Breckenridge? So this is where you dry the washing in wet weather. How ingenious. And of course, necessary—I didn’t realize it rained so much in England until I came here.”

“This has been an unseasonably cold winter,” Lady Breckenridge said, adding waspishly, “I suppose the sun shines all the time in Italy.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Damaris said carelessly. “I’ve never been there.”

“What? But—”

“Venice,” she said. “And this is the storeroom? So interesting that English people confuse the two countries. Venice was an independent republic for centuries until Napoleon’s invasion. Currently it’s part of the Kingdom of Lombardy-Venetia, though we have every hope that the Austrians will leave and the republic be reestablished.” And how grateful she was for Abby’s insistence that they learn something of their supposed country of birth.

She smiled at Lady Breckenridge, who was looking exceedingly sour, and continued, “I would never mix up England and Scotland, or England and Wales. But then, my mother ensured I had an excellent education. Heavens. What a large flour bin. Do you not find that the flour gets stale in such a large container?”

“No,” Lady Breckenridge said thinly. “We do not.”

The rain had stopped and they proceeded to the kitchen gardens. Having tended gardens most of her life, Damaris was truly interested and asked the head gardener a great many questions.

As they left the high-walled kitchen gardens, Lady Breckenridge commented, “You seem to have a great deal of
practical
knowledge of gardening, Miss Chance. So unexpected in a lady. One could almost imagine you were the gardener’s daughter.” She tittered at her own joke.

“Mama never approved of my grubbing around in the dirt, either. She held that a lady should have a variety of accomplishments and interests to occupy her; hers were music and sewing—she did truly exquisite embroidery.” Her eyes clouded, remembering how the pieces Mama had embroidered for Damaris’s bride chest had been burned. “But I preferred to grow things.” It was a necessity as well as a pleasure: The garden helped keep them fed.

Lady Breckenridge arched a brow. “I did not realize Venetians could keep gardens. Surely all that water . . .”

Curses! She’d forgotten about the canals. “Not in the house, no—of course we cannot have gardens around the house, as the English do. But we had gardens and orchards in our”—she groped for a solution to her rash statement—“in our country properties.”

“Properties?”

“Yes,” Damaris said airily, hoping she wouldn’t ask for further details. “Does Breckenridge have orchards?”

When they returned to the house an hour later, Lady Breckenridge handed Damaris over to Freddy with an air of relief, saying, “I have shown Miss Chance the domestic parts of the house and the gardens. She is interested in herbs. And orchards. And”—she shuddered eloquently as she glided away—“bees.”

Freddy watched her go, then whistled softly. “Round one to Miss Chance. My mother looks almost crushed. What did you do to her?”

“Nothing, I promise you,” Damaris said. “On the contrary, she has spent the last two hours squashing my pretensions in the most relentless, elegant fashion.”

“Really?” His eyes danced. “Your pretensions look remarkably unsquashed to me. Quite delightfully perky, in fact.”

Seeing the direction of his gaze she pulled her shawl across her bosom. “Those,” she said with what she hoped was quelling dignity, “are not pretensions.”

“No? Really? What are they, then? Please explain.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at his wicked, mock-schoolboy eagerness. “You, Mr. Monkton-Coombes, are a shocking flirt.”

He gave her a wounded look. “Nonsense! I’m a very good flirt, some would even say excellent, though modesty prevents me from saying so.”

She laughed. “It will serve you right when I jilt you. Nobody will wonder at it at all.”

“They won’t, will they?” He heaved a doleful sigh, but Damaris wasn’t deceived; his eyes still danced, blue as the sun on the sea.

“I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great deal.”

—
JANE AUSTEN,
JANE AUSTEN’S LETTERS

T
here would be just three for luncheon, the butler informed them while they were waiting for Lord Breckenridge to arrive. Lady Breckenridge had retired to her bedchamber with a severe headache and had ordered her luncheon brought up on a tray.

“Oh, dear, I probably gave her that headache,” Damaris admitted to Freddy after the butler had left. “I feel terrible now.”

“Nonsense. My mother’s headaches are legendary. They come on whenever she fails to get her way. If she were truly ill, she wouldn’t have ordered any luncheon at all, let alone on a tray.”

Lord Breckenridge entered. He gave Damaris a sharp look. “Heard you asked to be shown the gardens, Miss Chance—the
kitchen
gardens.”

“Yes, my lord; it was very interesting. I have an interest in growing things.”

“Your only job is to grow an heir for Breckenridge,” he grumbled as he seated himself. As the butler served luncheon, the older man eyed Damaris thoughtfully. It was quite rude of him to stare, but she refused to be put out of countenance by him.

“Heard you also found the orchards worth looking at.”

She broke open a bread roll and buttered it. “I did.”

“The beehives too.”

“Yes, I have contemplated keeping bees myself.” She picked up her spoon and started on her soup.

His hairy gray brows snapped together. “Yourself?”

She looked up from her soup in faint surprise at his tone and said coolly, “I have a fondness for honey.” She glanced at the butler. “Please tell the cook this soup is delicious.”

Lord Breckenridge addressed himself to his plate for the rest of the meal, but at the end, he fixed her with a hard gaze once more. “Goin’ for a drive this afternoon. Be pleased if you’d accompany me, Miss Chance.”

The words were couched as a request, but it was an order, Damaris had no doubt. She turned to Freddy. “Did you have plans for us this afternoon, Freddy?”

“Wasn’t asking him. It’s you I want to talk to.”

“You said you wanted to go into the village,” Freddy said at the same time. She’d said no such thing; he was giving her an excuse.

“She can do that anytime, boy,” his father snapped. “Make up your mind, gel, which is it to be?”

She forced her fingers to unclench—the man was so rude. She longed to give him a good set-down, but Freddy was looking tense. False betrothal or not, his protective instincts were strong, she’d learned, and she didn’t want to be the cause of any further tension between him and his parents. Better for him to think his father’s rudeness didn’t bother her at all. Water off a duck’s back, she’d said.

No doubt Lord Breckenridge was going to attempt the same kind of pretension-squashery as his wife had earlier. If that was the case, Damaris thought, bring it on.

“As your father said, Freddy, we can go into the village anytime. Thank you, Lord Breckenridge, I’d be happy to go for a drive with you.”

“Hah!” The older man shot a triumphant look at Freddy. “Gel knows which side her bread is buttered on.”

“Nothing of the sort; it’s just that I was taught to show respect to old people,” she said sweetly, adding, “no matter how little they may deserve it.”

 • • • 

S
he ran upstairs to fetch her warm pelisse, hat and gloves. When she came downstairs, buttoning her gloves, Freddy and his father were standing chest to chest, glaring at each other.

As she hurried up, Freddy glanced at her and stepped back, saying something to his father she didn’t catch.

His father snorted and turned to Damaris. “Ready, Miss Chance?”

She glanced at Freddy. His face was set and unreadable but he made no move to dissuade her. “Perfectly,” she said and sailed out the front door.

“Thought I’d show you the estate,” Lord Breckenridge said as the carriage moved off. It was a phaeton, she was glad to see, open to the air but with a hood to shelter them if it rained. After her experience with the yellow bounder, she was a little nervous of riding in stuffy closed carriages. The last thing she wanted was to throw up over her supposed future father-in-law. Though there could be compensations, she reflected.

“What were you and Freddy talking about in the hall just now?” she asked him.

He snorted. “Damned impertinence.”

“Who, you or him?”

He gave her a narrow look. “That’s enough cheek from you, missy. Bad enough my son thinks—” He broke off and glared at her. “I know how to treat a lady, dammit.”

Damaris hid a smile. She was perfectly capable of defending herself against any gibes his father might make, but the thought that Freddy had warned his father off made her feel warm inside.

“And don’t think I’m going to let you tool these beauties about the country,” he said grumpily, indicating the matched bays pulling the phaeton. “I’m not a reckless fool like my son.”

“Your son is neither a fool nor reckless. And if you have brought me here to insult him, you may stop the carriage now and I will get down and walk.” She waited with chin high, ignoring his scrutiny.

After a moment he grunted, so, taking that as acceptance of her terms, she added, “And beautiful as they may be, I have no desire to drive your horses.”

They drove down the main drive and turned left, away from the village, along a narrow lane lined with high hedgerows. They passed a small cottage, where an elderly woman in a mob-cap stood in the front garden, pruning vines. She gazed intently at them and half raised her hand, as if to wave, but Lord Breckenridge took no notice. Damaris smiled at the woman as the phaeton swept past at a fast clip. “Who was that?”

“Eh? Oh, her. Nobody.”

“She was clearly somebody.”

He gave her an exasperated look. “Old retainer. Nobody you need notice.”

“Oh, I notice everyone,” she said blithely. She waited for some crushing response, but apart from another grunt, he didn’t say anything for some time.

They drove through endless lanes, and from time to time he’d throw out some comment about whatever it was they were passing. “Potatoes,” he said as they passed a field of some crop drowning under sheets of water. “All this blasted rain we’ve been havin’. Looks set to ruin the harvest.”

Another time he jerked his head at a field full of sheep. “Sheep,” he informed her.

She restrained herself from exclaiming in amazement. While he remained civil, so would she. “For meat or wool?”

He gave her a surprised look. “Wool.”

They drove through a small hamlet and he said, “Tenants’ cottages.” Several children ran out, waving. A woman carrying a basket bobbed a curtsy. A couple of laborers trudging along the lane stood back as they passed and tugged their forelocks to Lord Breckenridge. He ignored them all.

Damaris, not quite knowing what to do, smiled at them anyway.

At a crossroads a broad-shouldered man in a worn leather apron straightened from examining a horse and dipped his head in greeting. Lord Breckenridge gave him a curt nod, saying to Damaris as they passed, “Smith. Good man. Knows his trade.”

Gradually it dawned on her that, unless he’d changed his mind at the last minute—or since she’d threatened to get out and walk—this wasn’t an attempt to squash the unsuitable bride’s pretensions. He really was giving her a tour of the estate. Why, she had no idea, but something inside her unknotted, and she began to relax and enjoy herself.

They came to a muddy field dotted with pigs. Before he could say “pigs” to her, she said, “I used to breed pigs.”

It was only a slight exaggeration; a farmer had given them a piglet once, and Damaris had raised it. She’d wept when it had to be killed but she’d still eaten the meat. Meat was always very scarce at the mission and it was sinful to waste food simply because you’d known it as a friend. Pigs were affectionate and intelligent creatures.

He turned his head to stare at her. “You bred
pigs
? Good God!” Then, after a pause, he asked, “What kind of pigs?”

“A Chinese breed. They were experimental,” she hastily added.

He grunted and gave her another hard-to-read look. “Experimental Chinese pigs, eh? And do they swim, these Chinese pigs?”

She gave him a blank look. “Swim?”

“Yes, well, they’d need to, because of the canals, wouldn’t they?”

She managed to keep a straight face. ”Er, no, we kept them on an island, where we had the orchards.”

“Extraordinary,” he murmured to himself. “Experimental Chinese swimming pigs . . .”

 • • • 

“W
ell, how was he?” Freddy asked her on their return.

“Perfectly civil.” She took off her hat and frowned thoughtfully. “Surprisingly so.”

“Why? What did you talk about?”

“The estate.”

“The estate?”

She nodded. “It wasn’t at all what I expected, but he pointed out the crops he was growing and the apple orchards and sheep. And we talked briefly about pigs.”

“Pigs?”

She giggled. “The pigs were my fault, to be honest. I told him I’d bred pigs—well, I raised a piglet once in China, which is close. I thought for a minute he’d bubbled me when he asked if they swam in the canals, but he seemed to accept my explanation—I said they were kept on an island where we had orchards. He seemed remarkably impressed.”

Freddy groaned. “He would be. It all makes sense now. Blast!”

“What makes sense?” She tilted her head curiously. “Tell me.”

He took her arm and led her toward the stairs. “Those muff—girls they had lined up for me, they’re all very different, but they have one thing in common: They were all raised on an estate like this and have some knowledge of how to run one.”

She nodded, a little puzzled. “Yes, your mother asked me about running a house the first night we arrived, remember?”

“Yes, but you don’t understand. My mother is in charge of the house; my father runs the estate—or, rather, tells the estate manager how to run it.”

“Yes, I assumed that’s how it would be. So what—” She broke off. “Where are we going?” They’d passed the landing of the floor where her bedchamber was.

“Something I want to show you.” He tugged her onward. “The thing is, if my father is talking land management—and pigs!—to you, it probably means he’s starting to approve of you.” He pulled a wry face. “Come to think of it, they probably both do. First you sent my mother upstairs in a sulk—”

“I did no such thing.”

“She called it a headache, but believe me it was a sulk. Which means she didn’t manage to crush you, which is a point in your favor. The future Lady Breckenridge must be able to hold her own with the finest aristocratic bitches in the land. They like it that you stood up to them.”

“Oh.” She digested the implications of that as he led her through a maze of corridors and up a series of increasingly narrow stairs.

She paused on a landing to catch her breath. “So when they’re nasty to me, would you rather I burst into tears instead?” She wasn’t sure she could weep on demand, and it certainly went against the grain to do so, but he was giving her a cottage in exchange for this performance, and he who paid the piper chose the tune.

“Good God, no, I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years. I don’t think any young woman has ever managed to get the better of my mother.” He shook his head in amazement. “And not only did you manage to keep my father civil—”

“That was you and your warning off.”

“How did you—”

“I asked him.”

“And he
told
you?” He laughed. “Well, there you are. And then you discussed crops and pigs with him. Wonders will never cease. Turn here.”

“Where are we going again?” She peered doubtfully up a steep narrow staircase that seemed to lead into a cupboard.

He gave a faint smile. “Wait and see. There’s a key to unlock it—ah, here we are.” He produced a key from the ledge over the narrow doorway, reached past her to unlock the door and waved her on. “Ladies first.”

She had to bend to get through the small door, but she stepped outside into fresh air and gasped with pleasure at the view in front of her. He’d brought her to the small towerlike structure she’d vaguely noticed on top of the house. Surrounding the tower there was a narrow walkway about four feet wide, with a railed barrier for safety. She could see for miles in every direction.

“Seeing as you’ve been driving around the estate all day, thought you might enjoy the bird’s-eye view. Besides, with any luck we’ll get a sunset. You do like sunsets, don’t you?”

“I do indeed,” she said softly, touched by his thoughtfulness.

He nodded. “Thought so. Women usually like such things.”

Unreasonably annoyed at being part of “usual women,” she moved to the edge of the walkway and looked out.

She could see the kitchen gardens, the apple orchards and the beehives she’d visited in the morning. On a rise was the copse of winter-bare silver birches she’d noticed on her drive, and surrounding the estate was a patchwork stretch of small farms and cottages. She spotted the cottage where the old woman had smiled at her. “Who lives there?”

“Our old nurse, Nanny McBride. Why?”

“Oh, we passed her today, that’s all. She was in her garden, pruning. I thought she looked nice.”

“She likes her garden,” he said indifferently.

“Can I meet her?”

“Nanny McBride? Whatever for? She’s very old.”

“She seemed quite vigorous to me, certainly not too old for visitors.”

“I’ve already dropped in on her. Did it while you were off with my father.” With one booted foot he stirred a small pile of rubbish in a corner, bits of wood, an old bucket, a length of rotted rope.

“You’ve visited her? Already?” He must care for his old nanny to have visited her so soon.

“Only out of duty.” He sounded uninterested, but she wasn’t convinced.

He leaned forward, frowning, then smiled, and from the pile in the corner, produced a small, weathered-looking wooden sword, the handle of which had once been painted red. “So that’s where it got to. He must have hidden it.” He turned the small sword over in his hands and made a couple of pretend passes with it. “My brother, George, and I used to play up here every chance we could. Pirates and buccaneers, mainly, but sometimes we’d be soldiers trying to take the fort or the castle, depending what it was. That end was always George’s and this end was mine.”