Lord Braybrook’s Penniless Bride (9 page)

‘Well, you might give a thought to
my
position,’ growled Harry. ‘It won’t help my standing if people are whispering that my sister must earn her own living!’ He went on. ‘And there is no need for you to do so! His Grace would help you. If you would only—’

‘No.’ She cut him off. ‘I want nothing from him! Harry—be sensible!’

He snorted. ‘Sensible? I am being sensible! The quickest way to establish myself is by an advantageous marriage, and—’

‘You cannot marry anyone without telling the truth! Let alone Miss Trentham, who is accustomed to all this!’

All this, she gestured to include, meant the pinkish-brown bulk of Amberley, the grounds and the woods stretching down to the glimmering stretch of river. And not just Amberley itself, but all it represented—Lissy’s place in the world. A world from which she and Harry were barred.

In this world, being the illegitimate son and daughter of a duke made every difference.

She had always known that. No one had cushioned the truth for her. She had known it at eight when people pointed and whispered in the street. And at ten when she had gone to school in Bath with strict instructions that her ‘father’ had died and where they were from. That the Duke of Alcaston was Harry’s very generous ‘godfather’. And she had known it at eighteen when she had fallen in love for the first and last time. For some, love did indeed alter when it alteration found.

Although perhaps for Harry it was slightly different. He at least could make his way in the world and be known according to his own actions. She, on the other hand, would always be judged on her mother’s status as a duke’s mistress. Tainted. A potential whore. The sins of the mother were very definitely visited on the daughter.

Harry seemed to read her thoughts. ‘And what came of it when
you
told the truth? If you hadn’t been so high minded—’

‘I told the truth!’ she snapped. ‘I prefer to manage honestly and upon my own terms. How will you support Miss Trentham?’

He shrugged. ‘I daresay his Grace would increase my allowance if I married. Especially if I married well. And she has a dowry.’

Her teeth clenched.

‘She has a dowry if her brother chooses to release it!’ she said, not bothering to disguise her contempt for his attitude. ‘And you have no claim on Alcaston at all. You cannot rely on him.’

‘Since I was never fool enough to antagonise him as you did,
I’m not worried he’ll cast me off.’ His mouth hardened. ‘I see no reason why my birth should make a difference. As for Braybrook—’ he shrugged ‘—he’s fond enough of Alicia not to let her starve. He’ll know damn well that it’s better to help me than cast her off.’

Christy’s fists clenched, but she said in a calm voice, ‘I hadn’t thought of that. How convenient for you that Braybrook is devoted to his family.’

Harry went scarlet. ‘I didn’t mean it like that! Just that—look, Christy, don’t make such a piece of work of it. A good marriage for me would help us both. If I can persuade our father into settling some money on you, then you could live with us. You can help Alicia with the household.’

‘How very generous,’ she said carefully. ‘This certainly puts things in a different light. I’ll think about it.’

Harry looked relieved. ‘You do that. You’ll see it’s for the best. It’s not as if I’m going to seduce Alicia or elope. Her connections won’t help my career if she’s disgraced.’ He pulled an elegant timepiece from his pocket. ‘I must be off. An engagement in Hereford. Just thought I’d call on my way past.’ He put the watch away. ‘Change your day off next week. We could go into Hereford together. Sir John has a gig that I am permitted to use.’

She smiled. ‘I am afraid not, Harry. Wednesdays seem not at all convenient for Lady Braybrook.’

C
hristy said goodbye to Harry at the stables and then walked up to the house. He was determined, then, to snare Alicia. The situation was worse than she had thought. She had believed that she could influence Harry, make him see the wrongness of deceiving Alicia and her family. She was a fool.

Perhaps she ought to be grateful Harry was clear-headed enough to see that an elopement or seduction would damage Alicia and by extension himself. Instead she felt sick. Cold calculation held him back, the realisation that a disgraced bride would be a burden. And inside her churned the knowledge that if he’d claimed more altruistic reasons for not seducing Alicia or eloping with her, she might not have believed him.

Her course was clear although she had time before she might have to act. Any hint that Alicia was likely to do something foolish, and she must tell Lord Braybrook the truth. Armed with that information, he would be able to forbid Harry the house and even the headstrong Alicia would agree he was correct to do so.

It would ruin Harry if Braybrook made the truth public. He would probably lose his position. And the story would travel. Even with Alcaston’s support, it would be difficult, if not impossible, for Harry to find another position. It was even possible that Alcaston, to whom discretion was all, might cast him off as he had her…

She wouldn’t come out of it well either. Her position here
would be finished and possibly all other positions, unless she changed her name, which would mean she had no references at all…No. That couldn’t be allowed to matter. Perhaps, since the truth would save Alicia, Lady Braybrook might agree to write her a reference under an assumed name? But what about Harry?

She opened the side door that led into the garden room and walked slowly back through the hallways that led to the Great Hall. Could she bring herself to ruin Harry so entirely?

The answer came easily—if it saved Alicia from a crashing mistake, then yes, she could. She could not bear to see the family torn apart by Harry’s ambition and Alicia’s folly.

There would be no point threatening exposure; Harry might simply pretend to agree and become more secretive. The knowledge that he was capable of using a girl’s affections so coldly sliced deep. That was worse than the rest—if Harry had truly loved Alicia, then she would sympathise. But he didn’t. Alicia was a means to an end and he had weighed her brother’s affection for her in his plans.

She came out under the musicians’ gallery and turned towards the main stairs. She must return to Lady Braybrook and the girls. Continue opening Alicia’s eyes to the truth. Not just the life she would lead, but the far more bitter truth that Harry felt no affection for her.

‘Miss Daventry?’

Startled, she spun around. Lord Braybrook rose from a seat at the huge oak refectory table to one side.

‘My lord. I did not see you. Were you looking for me?’

He came towards her, frowning. ‘Is something bothering you?’ There was no suspicion in his voice. Only concern.

Something inside her tilted as he walked towards her. Quaked in fright that he read her thoughts and feelings so easily.

‘Of course not!’ she said too quickly, summoning a bright smile. ‘Whatever should be bothering me? You will excuse me, my lord. I must return to my duties.’

‘A family quarrel, perhaps? I saw your brother.’

Her smile froze and she spoke as coldly as possible. ‘I do not
believe that is anything to do with you, my lord.’ The lie tasted sour. Her quarrel with Harry was very much his business. Should she simply tell him? Get it over with?

He reached out, carefully smoothing between her brows with one finger. Shock jolted through her. Then, lightly, he touched the finger to her lower lip, traced the curve.

For a moment she stood, unable to move for the torrent of sensation. Then she stepped back, her eyes lowered. She forced herself to concentrate on a patch of sunlight glowing on the Persian rug beneath her feet. ‘Is that all, my lord?’

His hand dropped back to his side. ‘I’ll bid you good day,’ he said. And turned, walking swiftly away.

She shivered as he disappeared through a door under the gallery at the back of the hall. Why had he done that? Worse, why did she feel as though a thousand chrysalises were hatching into butterflies in her stomach? Not just her stomach either—her entire body hummed, fluttered at the memory of his touch.

His reputation. He’s a rake!

His touch had driven everything else out of her mind. No, not just his touch—he had been concerned about her. He had noticed her distraction. That was temptation itself.

It was not so much that she mistrusted him, but herself. Mistrusted the little voice murmuring that he had truly
seen
her. Enough to see her distress. As though it mattered to him. She could not afford to think that. The half-landings might be a trifle dull, but it was safer to remain on them.

He was going to stay away from Miss Daventry. Under no circumstances would he wait for her in empty passages. Nor would he risk finding her alone by coming down early for dinner. Or any other meal. Nor would he permit himself to wonder about what brought a frown to her brow or a worried look to her eyes. It was not his concern.

None of which resolutions explained why, the following morning, Miss Daventry’s empty place at the breakfast table felt like a void.

Julian carved more ham for himself, refilled his coffee cup and glared at the empty place. Was she ill? And why was he wondering about it? He’d been insane to touch her yesterday—how could touching a woman’s brow and lower lip with a single finger feel more intimate than—?

‘Is the ham disagreeing with you, Julian?’

Serena’s amused voice broke his reverie. And that was another puzzle—why the devil was Serena downstairs at this hour?

He shrugged. ‘I merely wondered why Miss Daventry is not down.’

Serena’s lifted brows had him adding hurriedly, ‘After all, she’s not much of a companion to you lying abed.’ And immediately had to banish images of Miss Daventry lying abed, tawny tresses spread in silken abandon on a pillow—
his
pillow. He strangled the forming vision, cleared his throat and pulled his chair closer to the table.

‘Since Lissy and Emma have gone to spend the day with Lucy Pargeter, we decided that Miss Daventry should have her day off,’ said Serena. ‘I dare say she is preparing to go out.’

‘Out? Where?’ And how? As far as he was aware, Miss Daventry could not drive so much as a gig.

At that moment the door to the breakfast parlour opened to admit Miss Daventry. Julian stared. She was wearing one of her old gowns, an unadorned grey cambric with a deep blue spencer. A plain straw bonnet hung from her arm by its strings. There was not a cap in sight, however, and the coiled tawny tresses seemed to capture every stray gleam of sunlight. A single wisp had escaped, drifting against her cheek

He swallowed, his fingers itching to tuck the wisp back, brush his fingers over the soft cheek, feel the warmth of leaping blood under her skin.

Not a good idea at all.

‘Ah, Miss Daventry.’ Serena’s smile was unabashed. ‘His lordship was wondering where you were. Have you thought where you might go for your day off?’

Casting a suspicious glance at Julian, Miss Daventry said, ‘I thought to go for a walk, ma’am.’

Julian frowned. A walk sounded harmless, but what if she became lost? The forest stretched for miles.

Matthew looked up. ‘There’s a nice path up through the woods just beyond the village,’ he said helpfully. ‘Then you follow it back along the ridge and down to the river, and it brings you home the way we rode the other day. I’ll draw you a map.’

Which put paid to Miss Daventry losing her way; Matthew’s maps were generally very good, but still—‘That is easily a walk of four miles, Matt,’ he said irritably. ‘A great deal of it uphill. She will be exhausted!’

‘Oh,’ said Matthew, plainly crestfallen. ‘Well, I suppose it’s a bit steep, but—’

‘She,’
said the cat’s mother, sweetly deferential, ‘enjoys walking. And
she
is quite capable of deciding for herself how far she can walk. Thank you, Matthew. That sounds lovely. I shall take my sketch book and pencils.’

A very odd choking noise escaped Serena, but all she said was, ‘You had better take food with you. And some water. I know that walk and a great deal of it
is
uphill.’ She smiled. ‘And you might like to take a basket with you for blackberries.’

‘Blackberries?’

‘Oh, yes!’ said Davy, muffled by a mouthful of toast. He swallowed hastily. ‘There’s a jolly big clump just where you get back down to the river.’ He added, ‘Only you get a tummy ache if you eat more than you put in the basket.’

Miss Daventry’s dimple made the briefest appearance. ‘Do you?’

‘You do,’ said Serena, absolutely straight faced. ‘A medically proven fact. And the juice is very hard to get out of clothing. Not exactly medically proven, but you might like to bear it in mind.’

There was that dimple teasing him again. Curse it, she wasn’t even looking at him, so why should he feel so enchanted by it?

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

And not just the damned dimple—laughter in her eyes and voice, and the corners of her mouth lifting into the loveliest smile, one that he could imagine stained purple with blackberry juice, lips as sweet and luscious as the most forbidden of forbid
den fruit, softening, parting…What the hell was he
doing
? Indulging in erotic fantasies about Christy Daventry and blackberries was bad enough, but at the breakfast table with her and his family it was lunacy!

‘Just don’t become lost,’ he said coldly. ‘Searching for you would be inconvenient.’

‘Your lordship is all consideration.’

He breathed a sigh of relief as the dimple vanished and prim Miss Daventry returned in glacial propriety. As long as he didn’t think about melting the ice…He blocked that from his mind as Matthew explained the route, tearing a page from a small notebook in his pocket. Melting this particular glacier was out of the question. It didn’t want to be melted. He had seen that yesterday. He had seen the flash of awareness in her eyes before she stepped back behind her walls.

Perhaps he could tempt her out again, but if she didn’t want to play, then that was that. He was past the age where an uninterested woman was a challenge. Wasn’t he?

He pushed back his chair and Juno, sprawled behind it, leapt to her feet, tail waving. ‘Coming, Davy?’ he asked. ‘I’m looking over some crops this morning. You can come if you wish and your mother doesn’t mind.’ Davy’s constant chatter would drive all thought of Miss Daventry out of his head.

Davy’s face lit and he turned pleading eyes on Serena. “Mama? May I? Please?’

A smile twitched at the corner of Serena’s mouth. ‘Oh, I think I can manage, Davy. You may go.’

Julian eyed Serena. ‘You won’t be lonely?’

‘Not at all,’ she assured him, pouring another cup of tea.

He left it there. Every instinct shrieked that she was up to something. But what?

Davy finished his toast in record time, wiped his mouth and jumped up, giving no further time for speculation.

Julian grinned and held out his hand as his little brother came around the table. The small fingers that slid into his hand were sticky. Definitely sticky. He was going to end up with jam all over
his breeches, no doubt. ‘We’ll stop by the kitchens for some food on the way to the stables.’

Unable to help himself, he glanced towards Miss Daventry. She was watching Davy with an odd smile. She looked up. For an instant their gazes held and then, still with that queer, twisted smile, she turned away.

For a moment she had looked…well,
longing
. But what would a woman like Miss Daventry long for? Riches? Status? Probably. Who could blame her? Her future was insecure in the extreme. He pushed the thought away, giving his attention to Davy’s questions as they left the room together. But he could not quite banish the niggling question—
what would happen to her after she left Amberley
? For she would. One day she would be gone. Where would she go? What would she do? And why did the image of her alone in lodgings, eking out every penny, leave him cold and shaken?

Sticky with perspiration, damp tendrils of hair clinging to her brow, Christy forced her aching legs up the last of the incline. Lungs burning, she leaned against an oak at the top to catch her breath. Below her the track wound away down through the oak woods. She had come out on a broader track, a ride, stretching in either direction along the top of what she supposed was a ridge. Matthew had explained it all as he drew the map for her.

Just turn right when you reach the top. It will bring you to a lookout over the river after a couple of miles. You could eat your lunch there. Another two hundred yards on, you’ll find a track leading you back down to the river where we rode that first day and you follow the river home. It’s very easy.

Easy.

Except for the pull up that hill. Matthew’s
a bit steep
didn’t even begin to describe it. Taking out her water bottle, she uncorked it and had a couple of mouthfuls, letting it trickle down slowly. Goodness, she was hot! Her bonnet dangled from her arm by its strings. She had taken it off less than a third of the way up the hill. There was no point worrying about sunburn in the green
cool of the woods, and the lining would be ruined with perspiration if she did not.

She was hot, sticky and, she suspected, rather grimy. Her hair was dishevelled, and her gloves were stuffed in her pocket. Ladylike Miss Daventry had remained at the bottom of the hill. Or perhaps back at Amberley. Up here there was no need for her. Up here there were only squirrels and birds to see Christy. A rabbit hopped across the path. She smiled—very well, rabbits too. She looked about. It was just a wood. Trees. But the sunlight slid through the leaves in dappled green light and there was such a feeling of freshness, of damp earth, of things growing and simply being. And it was all hers. Every sun-dappled scrap of it. In this moment the trees, the damp growing earth, the birdsong and the occasional scurryings of small creatures were all hers. She stood quite still, drawing it in, wishing she could remain right there, in that place and time. For a moment her whole being sang with joy and delight at merely being alive.