Lord Braybrook’s Penniless Bride (6 page)

‘You have other duties, Miss Daventry,’ pointed out Lady Braybrook.

Christy flushed. ‘Lord Braybrook explained, then?’

‘Braybrook,’ said her ladyship, not mincing words, ‘is the most devious and annoying man imaginable. I haven’t decided if he is disguising your true purpose from Lissy, by pretending that you are my companion, or disguising your true purpose from
me
, by pretending you are here to help open Lissy’s eyes!’

Christy found herself smiling. ‘He used both arguments with me. Perhaps I am merely a convenient stone to be hurled at two birds.’

Lady Braybrook’s lips twitched. ‘He’s not completely blind, Miss Daventry. I doubt he believes you to be made of stone.’

To this cryptic remark, Christy said nothing. There was something unsettling about the amusement in Lady Braybrook’s voice.
The cat rolled in her lap, offering his belly, eyes closed to blissful slits as she obliged and kneaded.

‘Another thing, my dear. That striped creature is Tybalt—Tyb. He has an absolute genius for making up to people like Braybrook who loathe cats. If you dislike him, or he makes you sneeze, for heaven’s sake, tip him off.’

Again the sense of dislocation swept her. She felt not at all like a dependant. Lady Braybrook was doing everything in her power to make an outsider feel at home. She had even given her one of the best bedchambers.

‘Thank you, ma’am, but I love cats.’

Lady Braybrook smiled. ‘Excellent. Braybrook, like most men, prefers dogs. I must say I have never worked out why so many women love cats, and men profess to loathe them, but love dogs.’

‘That,’ said Christy, caught off guard, ‘might be because cats are independent, not slavish like dogs. Perhaps we women admire an independence and power few of us will ever know. Your Tybalt may sit in my lap, but he is the one conferring a favour. Cats are rather like aristocrats. They have staff.’ Oh, dear. Should she have said that?

A ripple of delighted laughter broke from Lady Braybrook and she laid aside her embroidery. ‘Oh, goodness. I’d never thought of that, but you are perfectly right. Although many women love dogs too.’

‘And that,’ said Christy, wildly aware that the conversation had somehow become far too personal, ‘is because we are far more flexible than gentlemen and are capable of loving creatures for quite opposite reasons. Cats for their dignity and independence, and a dog for its loyalty.’

‘Good morning, Serena. May I interrupt?’

Christy froze. As a lesson in the perils of unguarded conversation, this would be hard to beat.

Julian had enough sense to pretend he hadn’t heard the comment about aristocrats and cats, but he was pleased to see he had been correct in his estimation that Serena and Miss Daventry would suit.

‘Of course, dear,’ said Serena. ‘Miss Daventry was just observing how much you and Tyb have in common.’

Julian took one look at Tyb’s current position, sprawled with considerable indelicacy in Miss Daventry’s lap. He wasn’t sure any reply was safe. His mouth dried at the sight of Miss Daventry’s slender fingers kneading that furry abandoned belly. He’d never realised all the advantages of being a cat before.

Miss Daventry, of course, was taking no notice of him whatsoever. Although he thought there was a faint flush of colour in her cheeks.

Piqued, he said, ‘Good morning, Miss Daventry, I trust you slept well?’

‘Very well, thank you, my lord.’

Prim. Proper. Precisely what she ought to be. Not speaking until spoken to, evincing a becoming respect for her betters. But under the dowdy façade lurked quite a different creature. One who was not Miss Daventry at all. One who argued, and refused to be put in her place. Who sat kneading a cat’s belly in a slow hypnotic rhythm that sent heat curling through him. Christy. That was the woman he wanted to know. And he wouldn’t mind switching places with Serena’s cat either. His body tightened. Hell! If Miss Daventry could read his thoughts, her cheeks would ignite in fury.

‘Do you require something, Julian?’ asked Serena.

He turned to her, realising that he had been staring at Miss Daventry. Somehow he had to relegate the woman to her proper place.

‘No. I merely came in to see that you were well. I will be in the library if you require me. Just send Miss Daventry.’

Serena sent him a very straight look. ‘Thank you, Julian. I believe I need not use Miss Daventry like a page boy. We will see you later, then. Good morning.’

Julian removed himself, before he could put his other boot in his mouth. It was the cat’s fault. If the blasted creature hadn’t been lolling in Miss Daventry’s lap so brazenly, he would never have been such a fool.

His agent’s reports would banish his wayward thoughts. Anything to rid himself of this fancy to find out what, beyond a sting like a wasp, hid behind Miss Daventry’s prim façade.

At luncheon Julian congratulated himself on an excellent choice of companion. Serena seemed brighter, happier than he had seen her in a long while. Not that she was ever self-pitying, but he had thought for some time that she had lost something of her sparkle.

Miss Daventry was worth her hire for that alone.

‘I think, this afternoon, Miss Daventry might accompany Lissy and Emma for their walk,’ said Serena, sipping coffee. ‘She must learn her way about.’

‘We intended to ride this afternoon, Mama,’ said Lissy. ‘Of course, Miss Daventry may still come with us. May she not, Julian?’

He glanced up, trying not to appear at all interested. ‘Miss Daventry ride? Yes, if she wishes.’ As an invitation it left a great deal to be desired, but his unbecoming interest in Miss Daventry must not be indulged.

Miss Daventry cleared her throat.

Bracing himself for the inevitable, Julian said, ‘I collect you have an objection, ma’am. Please state it.’

Miss Daventry’s eyes narrowed. ‘Not precisely an objection, my lord. An observation.’

Did she
have
to be so damned pedantic?

‘Yes?’ He didn’t like the snappish tone of his voice, but Miss Daventry seemed not to notice.

‘I don’t ride,’ she said.

‘Don’t ride? But
everybody
rides!’ Lissy’s disbelief was palpable.

‘Not everyone, Miss Trentham,’ said Miss Daventry gently. ‘I have always lived in a town and we couldn’t afford a horse.’

‘But Harry, I mean, Mr Daventry rides. He told me he had ridden since he was a child—’

‘Enough, Lissy.’ Julian was at a loss to explain the revulsion sweeping him. This was precisely why he had hired Miss
Daventry—to demonstrate to Lissy the gulf between them. To force her to realise all she would be giving up. Now, hearing Miss Daventry explain the reality of genteel poverty with quiet dignity, he suddenly didn’t like it. The opposite side of the equation was laid brutally bare—Miss Daventry’s humiliation.

He had never intended to rub
her
nose in the gulf between herself and Lissy. If he were honest, it had not occurred to him. And yet, he could see Lissy thinking, looking at Miss Daventry’s dowdy appearance with new eyes, applying it to herself. And Miss Daventry seemed unperturbed.

Why wouldn’t she be? She’s had years to accustom herself to her station and you are paying her fifty pounds extra for the privilege of having her nose rubbed in it.

Part of him rebelled against this cold logic. Surely, even if only as part of her remuneration, she was entitled to some enjoyment in her life. It might ram the message home to Lissy all the faster, he told himself. Yes, that was it.

He looked across at Serena. She raised her brows, dearly.

‘We still have Merlin in the stables,’ he said, wondering what the devil was so entertaining.

She smiled. ‘Dear Merlin. I dare say he will be glad of a little outing. By all means, dear. I’m sure it will be very beneficial.’

Beneficial for whom? wondered Julian. Something about Serena’s smile had alarm bells clanging. He turned to Miss Daventry. ‘Ma’am, if you would care for it, you may ride Lady Braybrook’s old mount. He is very quiet, used to carrying a lady.’

Miss Daventry demurred. Of course.

‘Thank you, sir, but I will be more than happy to remain with Lady Braybrook. I—’

‘No, dear. Go with them,’ said Serena. ‘I would be much happier if you learned to ride. Lissy is for ever giving the grooms the slip when she rides out, but I fancy she will not be so rag-mannered with you! Especially if she knows you to be inexperienced.’ She shot a glance at her daughter. Who blushed.

In one final attempt to avoid her fate, Miss Daventry said, ‘But I have no riding habit!’

Serena—Julian silently blessed her—dismissed that with a wave of her hand. ‘Oh, pish! You may have my old one. It will be a little large, but the colour will suit you. It’s quite a dark blue, so you need not scruple to wear it despite your mourning. And there are any number of mourning gowns in my dressing room. Heaven knows I wouldn’t fit into most of them any more.’ She smiled ruefully at Miss Daventry, and added, ‘I have a tendency to put on weight sitting in this horrid chair. It would be better, of course, if I were not so fond of cakes and made more use of my exercise chair.’

Julian looked at Lissy. His sister was watching Miss Daventry, an odd expression on her face, as the companion accepted politely.

C
hristy frowned at her reflection. The riding habit was slightly too large, but the wretched thing was almost flattering. She had an observable figure. Most of her gowns deliberately disguised that. Wearing gowns in any way related to one’s shape was, in the crudely expressed opinion of her former employer, ‘asking for it’. Too-large gowns—which were easier to button up unassisted—the caps, and the spectacles all helped. Not that the spectacles were mere disguise—she would trip over her own feet without them.

No one looked beyond a dull, shapeless gown, the cap and spectacles. They saw only the dowdy paid companion or governess. It was safer that way.

Only she had the uncomfortable sensation that, like his lordship, Lady Braybrook saw Christy, not Miss Daventry. She had been right about the habit suiting Christy. The deep blue gave a little colour to her cheeks, although that might be the country air. She fingered the braid up the front of the habit. It was beautiful, so elegant. She had never worn such clothes in her life. Perhaps it didn’t matter. She was still the companion-governess. Borrowed plumage did not make fine birds, she told herself as she went downstairs.

‘There you are!’

Lissy and Matthew were waiting in the hall, which Christy had learnt was the Great Hall. Apparently Amberley was very old indeed and the Trenthams had been here for ever.

‘You do look nice,’ said Lissy, and Christy bit her lip not to smile at the new hint of patronage. ‘The horses have been brought around. We have Mama’s old hack for you. He’s terribly quiet.’

‘Not a slug, though,’ put in Matthew. ‘You could have ridden another horse, but Julian said it was better to be safe than sorry. He said he didn’t want to bury you.’ Not a hint of patronage there.

‘An unwelcome expense, no doubt,’ said Christy.

Matthew grinned. ‘He didn’t put it quite like that.’ The grin turned impish. ‘It was more the inconvenience.’

Christy peered over the top of her spectacles at him, in a manner she had found to be very effective with youngsters. They never seemed to realise it was a bluff; that without looking through the lenses she could see very little.

Even so, she could see Matthew’s grin; and those blue eyes, very like his brother’s, continued to twinkle.

‘Julian’s outside, with the horses and Emma and Davy,’ said Lissy, cheerfully. Not at all as though this were the brother she had described as a tyrant the previous evening.

No doubt he meant to see them off, thought Christy, wishing she had not agreed to this ride. No doubt she would make a complete fool of herself. Wasn’t one meant to learn to ride as a child? Probably little Davy was more accomplished than she would ever be.

Sure enough, when Lissy and Matthew took her out on to the front steps, Davy was already mounted on a chestnut pony with a pretty head and lively eye. Emma was mounted on a bay. His lordship stood close by, holding the reins of a tall black horse, and a lead rein attached to the bridle of a sleepy-looking dappled grey. Not a horse, really. More a large pony.

Grooms held two other horses. Mentally counting, and looking at the quality of the black horse, Christy came to a dead halt at the top of the steps as an appalling realisation struck her. She had assumed a groom would accompany the riding party and
attend to her instruction. Apparently not. His lordship was dressed for riding. Which meant…she gulped…he was planning to teach her to ride.

Schooling herself to reveal nothing, she met his lordship’s limpid gaze. And saw the glimmer of unholy amusement.

Drat him!

He knew, to a nicety, just how embarrassing she would find this and he was enjoying it!

His greeting confirmed it. ‘Miss Daventry—I’m sure you understand that I prefer to ensure your safety myself.’

She smiled. Sweetly. ‘I am very grateful for your lordship’s condescension.’

His brows snapped together, and his mouth hardened. Then his gaze flickered to Lissy, listening avidly, and he said, ‘Not at all, ma’am. Come and meet Merlin.’

Meet Merlin.
As though the creature were of some account to him, like his dog. Christy watched, fascinated, as Lord Braybrook petted the old horse…something told her Merlin was no longer in the first flush of youth. His lordship’s hands were gentle, rubbing the ears, stroking the arched neck. Then something was produced from a pocket and whiffled up out of his hand with an appreciative crunch and snort.

‘Come.’ His lordship spoke abruptly. ‘Hold out your hand. Quite flat and still.’ She obeyed and he placed a sugar lump on her palm. Horrified, she stared at it. Old though he might be, judging by the noise he’d made munching the last lump, Merlin had teeth. Large ones. In perfect working order. But before she could protest, or drop the sugar, soft whiskery lips took the treat with amazing delicacy. The teeth, again, dealt with the offering in a fashion anything but delicate.

A delighted thrill went through Christy. Without thinking she stroked the long nose and found it velvety. Liquid dark eyes blinked at her wisely, and then…that same velvet nose was shoved against her chest and rubbed up and down with great enthusiasm.

Caught unawares, Christy staggered back hard against an im
movable wall. A wall with arms that steadied her effortlessly. A shocking warmth stole through her and for one heartstopping instant she relished the male strength surrounding her. A delight promptly banished by hot embarrassment, but before she could react, strong hands grasped her shoulders and eased her away.

‘I beg your pardon, Miss Daventry,’ said his lordship in obvious amusement. ‘Merlin
is
a gentleman, but he is very fond of sugar. Are you all right?’

‘Perfectly,’ she said, ignoring her racing pulse.

Davy, from his perch on the little chestnut, said in pleased tones, ‘Look, Julian! Merlin has slobbered all over her chest.’

Christy looked down. Sure enough the braided front was a mess. She gulped and met laughing blue eyes that were pointedly
not
looking at her…chest.

‘Don’t worry, Miss Daventry. I’m sure it will come off.’

‘But, Lady Braybrook won’t like—’

‘Nonsense,’ said Lord Braybrook. ‘She always grumbled about that trick of Merlin’s. He has slobbered on it before. Besides, she gave you the habit. It’s yours now.’

Christy flushed. Besides the habit, Lady Braybrook had given her a number of gowns, saying she never wore them and that they were unsuitable for Lissy. They were even more unsuitable for the governess. Of course, a lady’s maid was given her mistress’s cast-offs, so perhaps it wasn’t
too
improper.

‘Can we go?
Please?
’ begged Davy.

Matthew had mounted, and one of the grooms was about to put Lissy up. Christy gulped as the groom linked his hands for Lissy’s booted foot and threw the girl into her saddle. Dear God. If he did that to her, she would go straight over the saddle and land on the ground.

‘Miss Daventry?’

Lord Braybrook’s voice sounded oddly distant.

‘Is there…is there not a mounting block? I don’t think the way Miss Trentham was—’

‘I’ll put you up, Miss Daventry.’

Unresisting, she was led around to the saddle. Balanced
against Merlin’s side, clutching the stirrup, she lifted a foot. His hands grasped her waist and lifted her. She gasped, and found herself perched on the saddle. For a moment his hands stayed at her waist, then dropped to her hip, steadying her. That was all. Wasn’t it? Her body hummed, as if…as if he had caressed her. Nonsense! He was making sure she was safely in place. She sat up as straight as possible, and the disturbing hands released her. She sighed in relief, thinking her ordeal over.

Wrong. His lordship was busy arranging her right leg safely over the pommel, long fingers gripping her knee as he pushed it into position. She froze, desperately trying to ignore the intimacy of his touch. Ridiculous. He was merely showing her how to sit. There was nothing intimate about it. Then his hands were on her left ankle as he adjusted her foot in the stirrup. She had to remind herself that she was wearing a boot. That he was not really touching her ankle. More accidental touches as he shortened the stirrup leather. Then he caught her foot again.

‘Keep your heel pushed down, Miss Daventry,’ he instructed, doing it for her. ‘That helps to keep your, er,
seat
, firmly in the saddle.’

That was a relief to know. She felt like a bug perched up there. Merlin seemed a great deal taller than he had from the ground.

‘Now—your reins.’

Christy looked down at the reins. She had picked them up. She knew that much. But what should she do with them?

His lordship showed her. ‘Just hold them lightly,’ he said, long fingers guiding hers to the right position, and showing her how to shorten the reins. ‘They are not to help you balance. Only to guide him. You must only feel his mouth. A light contact. And keep your thumbs on top.’

Her hands were gloved, but his touch felt just as shockingly intimate as it had on her legs. He stepped back and looked her over. She blushed.

‘Very well. At least you don’t have to be told to keep your back straight,’ he commented. He walked around to his own horse and mounted with fluid grace.

Ridiculous to glow at such off-hand praise. Determinedly she sat even straighter in the saddle.

Merlin snorted and took a couple of steps. Stifling a gasp, as her balance shifted, Christy clutched at the saddle, but Merlin came up against the end of the leading rein and stopped. She straightened at once and glanced across at his lordship, but he seemed not to have noticed.

Any more than he had noticed how scared she was. Stupid. It was years since she had fallen off that horse of Harry’s, and Merlin was much quieter, but still…she forced herself to breathe deeply.

All
women had waists, Julian reminded himself. Discovering Miss Daventry’s waist under the slightly-too-large habit might have been a surprise, but not one that should have had his hands lingering, marvelling at the suppleness of the curve, and then drifting to her hip.

With a swift glance at Miss Daventry to assure himself that she was secure in the saddle, he tugged gently at the leading rein and put his own mount into a walk. Miss Daventry’s face blanked as Merlin moved, but she gave no other sign, beyond sitting very straight and still.

He had been trying to believe that Miss Daventry must be as shapeless as her gowns. But she wasn’t. She disguised her body as effectively as she hid her true nature. Under the dowdy clothes she was slender and lissom as a willow. She would be sweet, warm…
sweet
? Hell’s teeth! If she knew what he was thinking now, and as he settled her in the saddle, she’d be a virago!

Miss Daventry might have an elegant figure and a neatly turned ankle, but she was a bundle of prickles. For which, he admitted, she could not be blamed. A wise woman in her position avoided drawing mens’ attention, unless she wished for a career in the
demi-monde
. Governesses and companions always held themselves slightly apart.

A lonely existence…

‘Where shall we go,’ asked Lissy, bringing her mare up beside them. ‘Miss Daventry, you choose.’

Julian noted that Miss Daventry looked somewhat startled at being consulted. She demurred.

‘Oh. That’s very kind, Miss Trentham, but I do not know this part of the country at all, so—’

‘I like the river,’ said Davy, hopefully.

Lissy sighed theatrically. ‘Not the river again, Davy!’

‘No, Davy!’ said Emma. ‘Not everyone likes waiting while you watch for trout that never appear.’

Davy scowled.

About to vote for the river and bring down a deluge of fury on his head, Julian was forestalled by Miss Daventry.

‘A river? With trout? Real trout?’

Davy’s scowl vanished as hope rekindled. ‘And salmon. Really big ones,’ he said, dropping his reins to demonstrate. He shot a glare at his sisters as he caught up the reins again. ‘And they do appear. Julian owns them.’ This last with great pride.

Miss Daventry’s mouth barely twitched. ‘Then of all things, that is what I should most like to see,’ she said firmly. ‘I had no idea his lordship was important enough to own fish and make them appear.’

Emma giggled, and Matthew shouted with laughter.

‘There you are, Julian. When do you try holding back the tide?’

‘As I recall,’ said Julian, trying not to laugh, ‘that wasn’t King Canute’s idea! The river then. Come along all of you.’

They rode towards the river, all thought of quarrelling forgotten.

He had to hand it to Miss Daventry. She had averted a quarrel very neatly. Lissy was far too well brought-up to argue with her. He was amused to see that Lissy’s attitude to Miss Daventry was just what he had hoped it would be. Sympathetic affection laced with pity. Which should be enough to have Lissy entertaining second thoughts about her infatuation for the dashing Mr Daventry. In his experience pity was a death knell to passion.

As for Miss Daventry, he listened with deepening respect as she took shameless advantage of Davy’s momentary gratitude.

‘Davy, what is the French word—’ beyond a faint smile she ignored a groan ‘—for “fish”?’

His littlest brother stared, and wrinkled his brow.
‘Pou…poussin?’

‘Nearly,’ said Miss Daventry. ‘That is a chicken, but it does sound similar.
Poisson.
’

They rode on towards the river and Julian listened in utter disbelief as Miss Daventry proceeded effortlessly to enlarge not only Davy’s French vocabulary, but Matthew, Emma and Lissy’s as well.

Talking about fish.

By the time they reached the woods, Christy felt a great deal safer on horseback. Lord Braybrook had insisted on keeping to a walk, but now permitted the younger members of the party to ride ahead.

‘Very neat, Miss Daventry,’ he said, as the youngsters raced off whooping. ‘I had no idea Davy knew that much French.’

She smiled. ‘You are paying me handsomely, my lord. I should use my time to the best advantage.’

‘There is that,’ he said. ‘Sit up straight, Miss Daventry. We’ll essay a trot.’