A Most Unsuitable Groom by Kasey Michaels (9 page)

"Certainly," Mariah said, rising to her feet and brushing down the front of her gown. "I'd like to go outside, if that's possible. Breathe some sea air. The world should smell good after three days of storms."

"Only if the Channel didn't spit up something terrible from the bottom," Callie told her, grinning. "We'll use the front stairs. Odette never uses them, even though Papa told her she could. But he gave that up as a bad job years ago. Odette does what Odette does. She's a
mamba,
you know. A real voodoo priestess. She's taught me a lot, but says that I'm not a chosen one, so she won't teach me more. Maybe she'll teach you. She likes your hair, you see. Says it's a sign from the good
loa.
Magical living flame. I wish I had magical living flame hair. Mine is just brown. So de-pressingly ordinary, and there's so very much of it. If only it wouldn't curl so, like a baby's hair. I detest ringlets..."

Mariah let Callie chatter on as they walked and she examined her surroundings, as she'd been otherwise occupied the first time she'd
entered the very large, impressive foyer of this huge house. Squire Franklin's manor house had been the grandest dwelling she'd seen at home, and she'd lived in her share of small, cramped quarters, following her father to North America.

But Squire Franklin's prideful possession paled in comparison to Becket Hall. Most anything would, she imagined. In fact, at least half of the Squire's domicile would probably have fit comfortably in the foyer of Becket Hall.

They passed Edyth in the hallway, and Mariah asked if she would please sit with William for an hour. The woman's smile was all the answer she'd needed to assure herself that the infant would be in good hands.

Odette had been kind enough to explain how Becket Hall was run, and the whole arrangement seemed very democratic. Almost American in the way everyone was free to do what he or she did best, and with responsibility placed on each person's shoulders by that person him- or herself. Odette had also told her of the years of slavery in Haiti before the slaves had risen in their own version of the French Revolution and Ainsley Becket's abhorrence for anything that even vaguely resembled forcing anyone to do anything.

Mariah would have thought that everyone would just lie about, doing nothing, yet Becket Hall was pristine, beautifully organized. And the maids, if they had to be given a title, sang as they worked.

Callie descended the wide, curving staircase slowly, looking back at Mariah every few steps, as if she might faint and topple on her, but then they were crossing the wide foyer and Callie's slim shoulders seemed to relax.

"Papa is in his study most days at this time, reading all of the London newspapers that he has shipped to him, and everyone else is out and about somewhere— and Spence is probably hiding his head somewhere in shame. Do you want to see the drawing room first?"

"You seem to be enjoying your brother's discomfort," Mariah pointed out, smiling.

"Oh, yes, definitely. It's lovely to not be the one Odette will be giving the hairy eyeball for this once. That's what Rian calls the way Odette
looks
at us— the hairy eyeball. I have
no
idea what that means. Well, here's the .drawing room. You probably didn't notice much of anything the night you arrived here."

The furniture in the main drawing room was massive, much of it, Mariah believed, Spanish—she'd once seen a book of drawings on such things. The ceilings soared, the windows rose from the floor to nearly touch those high ceilings and the fabrics that covered those windows and the multitude of furniture in the drawing room were of sumptuous silks and vibrant brocades. She strained to take in the fine artwork hanging on pale, stuccoed walls and to count all the many vases of exotic flowers and acres of fine Turkish carpets spread out over gleaming wooden tails the color of dried cherries.

"All these flowers," she said, cupping one perfect pink bloom in her palm.

Callie nodded. "We have a conservatory and Papa is always adding new flowers and plants he has shipped here. But it's Jacko who cares for them. I'll show it to you later, if Jacko says it's all right. He's very possessive of his babies. Not that he calls the flowers his babies, but that's what Rian says."

"Then I'll wait for his permission," Mariah said, continuing her examination of the large room.

None of the four immense crystal chandeliers, each hanging from a different coffered area of the ornate ceiling, had been lit, as all the draperies had been thrown back so that only sheer ivory silk panels with fleur-de-lis woven into them covered the windows that poured with sunlight.

One enormous glass-fronted cabinet placed between two of the windows displayed a collection of jade that was probably worth a king's ransom. The far wall—it was very far away in this large room— actually had a highly ornamental black metal grille hanging on it, the entire piece nearly the size of a bam door. And yet it didn't overpower the other furnishings. Little could.

"It's humble," Mariah said cheekily, "but I imagine that, to you, it's simply
home."

Callie frowned at her, not understanding, and Mariah wanted to slap herself for speaking so plainly. This was a fine home and she should be on her best behavior...and she would be, if she knew what that was. But she was a quartermaster's motherless daughter, brought up in some rather rough-and-tumble locations, and she was probably both more unsophisticated and more blunt than most young English ladies.

The paintings on the walls were magnificent: landscapes, seascapes. And, when she walked toward a fireplace that could probably comfortably roast an ox on a spit, it was to see something else she had missed that first night—the nearly life-size portrait of one of the most beautiful women she'd ever seen. Her hair was a mass of dark curls, her smile lit up the room and her striped, full-skirted gown was bright, colorful.
Exotic.

"Mama," Callie said as Mariah walked closer for a better look. "Her name was Isabella. I don't remember her and I don't look like her. Everyone says I do, but I'm not half so.. .so vibrant. I'm the pale English version, I suppose. Papa bought most everything in this room and many of the others while he lived in the islands and had it all shipped here on his boats, for years and years, to be stored until we found Becket Hall. Oh, and I meant ships. Jacko winces if I don't say ships."

"Jacko again." Mariah returned her attention to Callie, who could prove to be a fountain of information—if she could only find the correct way to ask her questions, that is. "I don't recall that name in the list of Beoket siblings. But he is a Becket?"

"Jacko? Oh, no, he's not a Becket. Jacko is Papa's business partner. Most everyone came here with Papa when he decided it was time to return to England. Why, they even broke up the ships and used the lumber to build the village. We're very self-sustaining, Papa calls it."

"And quite isolated," Mariah said, now heading for the hallway again. "This room seems to be at the front of the house. I want to see the water. I don't know why, as I saw much too much water for six long weeks. I think I'm simply attempting to get my bearings and I'm all turned about at the moment. Which way would I go?"

"This way/' Callie said, leading the way down another wide hallway, Mariah following slowly, taking time to peak into several other large rooms, all of them furnished in equal grandeur. The Beckets were obviously not worried where the pennies for their next meal might come from. She stopped at one doorway, leaning a hand against the jamb. "A piano! Oh, and a harp! Do you have musical evenings, Callie?"

Callie backtracked to look into the room done all in golds and reds, just as if she'd never seen it before this moment. "The music room. The piano is mine. Papa gave it to me one Christmas, as soon as he learned of the invention. What sort of present comes with an obligation for daily practice? Elly plays much better than I could ever aspire to do. And Spencer sings. But never ask Court to sing. He will, most willingly, but he's not very good. Now come on. We can't be safe for much longer before someone will see us and—oh, good morning, Jacko."

Mariah turned around to see a huge man standing in front of her. Not that he was overly tall, but he was, as her father would have said, a door-full of man. Broad, with a hard, rounded stomach that she felt certain she could bounce coins off, if she dared. He was dressed simply in white shirt and tan breeches, his muscular calves straining at white hose. His dark hair had begun to thin atop a huge head and he had a smile that seemed to be full of amusement and a joy for life.

Until, that is, she looked more closely. Because that's what he was doing—looking more closely at her, his head forward on his neck, his heavy, slightly hunched shoulders hinting at an aggression his smile would put the lie to only for anyone who wished to believe in fairy tales.

This was the man who had grown all those beautiful flowers? The idea seemed incomprehensible, as he looked more like the ogre who would invade a town, frighten all the children and stomp on all the pretty posies.

Mariah fought the urge to step back a pace and instead lifted her chin even as she dropped into a slight curtsey. "Mr. Jacko, I am Mariah Rutledge. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."

Jacko reached up his right hand to scratch beneath his left ear, a curious gesture, but one that now had his head tilted to the right, so that he seemed to be looking at her now out of the corners of his bean-black eyes. "Just Jacko. There's no
mister
about it. So, you're the one who gave us that fine boy upstairs. 1 haven't laughed so long or hard in a long time."

Mariah lifted her chin even higher. "You find my son amusing, Jacko?"

Now he tipped his head from side to side, as if weighing how he would answer. A fascinating man, but perhaps fascinating in the way a North American rattlesnake could be fascinating. "No, Mariah, girl. I find the fix Spencer's in amusing. You've just tied him fast to Becket Hall, didn't you now? Tied him hard and fast, when we couldn't find a way to make him stay. The Cap'n's over the moon, though he'd never say so. He likes to know where his chicks are."

Mariah knew her cheeks had gone pale. "Spencer. . .Spencer didn't plan to stay here? Where was he going to go?"

Jacko shrugged those massive shoulders. "Which way is the wind blowing today, Miss Rutledge?" He lifted a hand to his forehead in a blatantly mocking salute. "But he won't be sailing off now. What with the fine great anchor you tied fast to his ankle."

"Jacko," Callie said quietly. "That was a mean thing to say. Go away."

And, to Mariah's amazement, that's just what the man did, turning his back on the pair of them and heading toward the front of the house. Her body inwardly sagged in relief.

"Did he mean that, Callie? Was Spencer planning to leave?"

Callie shrugged. "Spencer has always talked about the places he'd like to see. China. America. I think he'd cheerfully sail off to the moon, if it took him away from Becket Hall. That's why he went off to the Army. He wanted to fight Napole'on, see the Continent. But he was sent to Canada instead." She smiled. "But that's how he met you, Mariah, and now you're going to be married. Elly says Spencer has to grow up now, stop chafing at living here. I don't know why he chafes. I think it's lovely here. But Spence was ten years old, I think, when we came to Romney Marsh. He remembers the islands and I don't. I only know Romney Marsh."

"But Spencer knows other places exist," Mariah said as they began walking once more. "Whole other worlds he hasn't seen. And now, because of William and me, he won't see them."

"Nonsense. He hasn't even been to London. You can take William and go to London, surely. That's another world, or at least that's what Morgan and Elly say. Come on, we'll go outside, let you smell the fresh air."

Mariah nodded her agreement, knowing she'd just heard an opinion straight out of the innocence of youth. It would serve no purpose to argue that she, Mariah, had put an end to' all of Spencer's dreams, whatever those might be. A wife and child meant responsibility and, if she knew nothing else about Spencer Becket, she knew he was a man who took his responsibilities very seriously.

She'd had time, around their nightly campfires, to listen to Clovis tell her about Spencer Becket, the man who had bloodied General Proctor's nose. She'd heard the same story from her father, who'd believed the man had deserved a medal, not two months in the small gaol and being stripped of his rank.

Was it any wonder that the night she'd crawled beneath the blanket to share her body's warmth with Lieutenant Becket, and he'd reached for her, felt her softness, began to fumble with the buttons of her gown, that she'd welcomed that touch, sought.. .sought
something
in that touch? Not only allowed what the feverish man was doing, but aided and abetted him?

Even the pain that had come when he'd entered her had been welcome, proving to her that, yes, she was still alive and she could still
feel.

And now she had tied an anchor to the man's ankle; he felt duty-bound to marry her, care for their son. She'd quite possibly saved his life; he'd quite possibly saved hers without knowing it and his reward was to be a lifetime in this house, on this land—where he didn't want to be.

"Mariah, what do you think?"

Mariah blinked, surprised to see that she was now standing on an immense stone terrace overlooking a stretch of sand and shingle beach, the Channel lapping quietly at the shoreline, the blue sky seemingly limitless.