Strathmere's Bride (4 page)

His eyes flickered from the child to Chloe, his gaze dark and intense and so very, very hard. She sensed he was genuinely appalled at Rebeccah’s distress.

“I shall take you up on that invitation,” he drawled, “for this is not settled to my satisfaction. The conditions in the nursery—” he took in a sweeping glance as if to illustrate his point “—are unsatisfactory.”

The pressure of Rebeccah against her thigh, the still, silent form of Sarah as she watched her uncle
with mistrust in her eyes prompted Chloe into capitulation. “You have my pride at a disadvantage. I shall make an effort to please you in this manner, if only for the children’s sake.”

Jareth didn’t move for a moment. Chloe thought perhaps he was shocked she had behaved so humbly. Then he did something very, very odd. His expression began to alter. A stricken look replaced the cold arrogance of just moments ago.

He squinted at her, blinked and looked horrified, though she could not fathom why. Without another word, he made for the door, stopping halfway because his foot hit Sarah’s bear, which had fallen onto the floor at some point during their altercation. He stooped, retrieved it and rose, standing there for the space of a few seconds, just staring down at it. Then he turned slowly and held it out to Sarah. She regarded him solemnly for so long, Chloe feared she was going to refuse to take it.

Finally, she reached for the toy, and the duke smiled ever so slightly, stretching out long, elegant fingers to brush the slightest of caresses along her chubby jawline.

He dropped his hand, whirled to confront Chloe once again and said, “Please forgive my intrusion. It was unforgivable…I didn’t mean to upset the children.”

He left, clicking the door shut behind him with care.

Rebeccah was in a mood after that. Chloe did her best to soothe her, knowing she was frightened by her uncle’s visit, but her already challenged patience
was stretched to its limit. Sarah, on the other hand, seemed strangely content. She kept staring at her bear as if to glean some insight from the flat, dark button eye.

“R
eally, Strathmere, that is the third time I’ve spoken to you and you have neglected to answer,” the duchess scolded. “And you look positively dreadful. You aren’t coming down with the ague, are you?”

Jareth turned to his mother, attempting to compose his face in placid lines. “Yes. I am a bit out of sorts.” His voice drifted into a soft, reflective tone. “Not quite myself…”

“See to it that you are not less than your best this afternoon. I have invited the Rathfords to tea. I do so enjoy Lady Rathford. Such an impeccably comported person. Lord Rathford can be crude, it is true, but no more so than is typical of the country gentleman.” A slight, nearly imperceptible pause. “Of course, Helena is absolutely charming.”

There was an awkward silence during which Jareth realized he was expected to respond. “She is exemplary,” he said.

“Yes,” his mother nearly crooned with satisfaction. Settling back in her chair, she fiddled with the fan on her lap.

Jareth felt a strange emotion curl like a wisp of smoke, tangy and elusive, then gone. He thought it was annoyance, at his mother no less, which was not something he was used to feeling. He had the greatest respect for his mother. She was the force behind the family, taking the helm of what she would often and proudly boast was one of the finest families in England. She had led them through disaster more than once, even when his father was alive.

She had only been vaguely interested in him growing up, much less exacting than she had been with Charles, which had meant there was room for a degree of fondness in their relationship. With Charles there had been no respite from the demands incumbent upon him as heir. His mother had been ruthless—a strange word to choose, but somehow it fit— and almost viciously vigilant.

Jareth felt a dawning dread. Now that critical eye was turned his way. His days of freedom were over.

Had it been like this for Charles? Had he felt this sense of suffocation, of generations of Hunts weighing down on him—the crushing burden of responsibility squeezing out his own essence?

Fanciful silliness, he thought with disgust, then discovered that his mother was talking to him again and he hadn’t heard a word she had said.

“I am sorry, Mother,” he apologized.

The woman narrowed her eyes at him. Never beautiful, Charlotte Harrington Hunt had always been what was referred to as a handsome woman. In her older years, that handsomeness had hardened, but her eyes were still bright and lively and the flawless bone structure had held up well.

“Is it that wretched Pesserat woman?” she demanded.

Jareth blinked, disconcerted with the non sequitur. “Pardon me?”

“I was told you visited the nursery the other morning. Was that Frenchwoman impertinent to you?”

He shook his head, but he could feel the frown lines deepening on his brow.

That Pesserat woman…Had she been impertinent? He had to allow her devotion to his nieces was fierce. And that there was an aura of capableness about her, there amid all her haphazard foolishness. But she was so…
disconcerting
was the word. Indeed, the woman was that in spades.

His mother was saying, “You must not be too lenient with the servants, Strathmere. You need to remember your station. It is a grand one, but it must be used properly, and wisely. As a boy, I did not think to instruct you as I did your brother. In this I failed you, I see, for tragedy is always a possibility, and one must be prepared. For my lack of foresight, and in allowing you to affiliate so many years with commoners, I regret bitterly the loose attitude I took with you.”

Among the commoners to whom she was referring was his old partner, Colin Burke, and the reference stung. Although Colin was not a peer, his wealth was greater than the majority of titled families of England. The contempt in his mother’s voice whenever she referred to his business partner—and the man who had been his closest friend—was somehow…violating.

“However, there is no sense dwelling on the past.
You are the duke now. Let the knowledge of that fact take root inside of you and blossom.”

The duke now.
Yes, oh yes, how he knew it. As if for one second, for one blessed moment of peace, he could forget it.

His mother continued, “Duty, Strathmere. Your duty to Rebeccah and Sarah is to show them a strong hand in their rearing. Never forget who you are. You are in command of this family.” She wrung her hands and looked at him with pity in her eyes. “Oh, my son, you were always such a gentle soul. Weeping for wounded pigeons and nursing baby rabbits unearthed in the garden, you were a sweet-hearted boy—but you must put all that behind you. You must change, alter your very character so that the easy authority of your title is second nature to you, as natural as all that you’ve known in your past used to be.”

Her words spun around in his head, draining away to a hollow echo. There were more, but try as he might to concentrate on them, they were lost to him, drowned out by the shameful realization that he was, God help him, terrified of what she was describing.

Because it was already happening. And he knew that it must.

For he was the Duke of Strathmere, now and evermore.

Helena Rathford made an even better impression—if that were possible—on Jareth that afternoon than she had the first evening of their acquaintance. Garbed in a day dress, she appeared refreshingly pretty with her soft blond ringlets bobbing about her
face. The taut beauty of the previous meeting seemed more relaxed.

Lord Rathford sent his apologies at not being able to join them this afternoon. These were prettily pleaded by his wife, who deftly took herself off with the duchess to examine his mother’s porcelain collection in order to leave Jareth and Helena alone.

He gave her a rueful glance, and she remarked, “I am afraid they are rather obvious.”

Her directness he liked. It relaxed him, and it felt good after the tensions of the day. “Don’t fault them too much.”

“How kind you are,” she said, as if she truly meant it. He laughed and gave his head a shake.

“Not at all, Lady Helena. I simply know there are many times when my behavior could warrant a little understanding, and so in the interest of reaping the benefit of like charity one day, I dispense it with generosity. Purely selfish, you see.”

“Rather wise,” she corrected, sounding like a schoolmistress. He chuckled and she smiled wanly.

Looking out of the window, Jareth frowned. “It is unfortunate the weather is disagreeable today. I believe a tour of the grounds is called for when a lady comes for tea.”

“I adore gardens. I couldn’t help but notice you have a lovely one. However, it does seem rather ominous.” She ducked her head to peer up at the sky. Iron-gray and so thick with clouds it looked flat. It cast a weird glow on the late afternoon light.

“Rather lovely,” Jareth commented, studying the unusual colors. “In a way.”

“Good heavens, who is that?” Helena exclaimed.
“Do they mean to go out and about with rains coming?”

That, Jareth saw immediately, was the intrepid and apparently incredibly stupid Miss Pesserat, tromping across the front lawn with her two little charges in tow.

He was too angry to speak for a moment, then said simply, “Will you excuse me, please?”

It took several moments to locate Frederick, the butler. “See that Miss Pesserat is brought back here immediately,” Jareth told the gaunt older man with thinning hair and a huge beak of a nose. “Tell her I wish to speak with her as soon as the Rathfords depart.”

“Yes, your grace,” Frederick said without expression. “I shall send a footman right away.”

The weather worsened. A steady drizzle thickened into a downpour, making it untenable for the Rathfords to leave as planned. His mother asked them to stay to supper, and Lady Rathford agreed with a rapacious gleam in her eye she didn’t bother to hide.

They were shown to a room where they might refresh themselves, and Jareth retired to his library. It was a dreary place, more so with the wet-streaked windows weeping tearily against the implacable sky. He called for a fire to be made up, then settled down to do some of the accounts.

Remembering that he hadn’t been informed of Chloe and the children’s return, he laid down the quill and summoned Frederick.

“No, sir, I have not seen her,” the butler informed him.

“Send Mary to the nursery and see if they came in unnoticed.”

Frederick went to search out the maid. Jareth crossed the room to stare out the window at the vicious skies. The wind had picked up.

What had made that fool think of taking the children out and about on a day like this? She didn’t have the sense of—

He spied a movement. Peering closer, he saw indeed it was someone dashing across the lawn.

Damnation! Chloe Pesserat ran with Sarah on her hip, Rebeccah held by the hand and trailing along behind like the tail of a kite m a blizzard. They were headed for the rear of the house.

The exasperating woman meant to sneak them in through the kitchens and avoid detection. Anger moved him before any conscious thought registered in his brain. Storming out of the library, he strode with long, purposeful steps through the dining room, startling Cook as he burst into the largest of the kitchens—a long, cheery room where a huge fire blazed in the cooking hearth and aromas, spicy and delectable, assaulted him.

Cook looked up, her thick arms poised over a mound of dough. She stood behind the scrubbed oaken table that was sprinkled liberally with flour, and she wore some of it herself. “Your grace?”

He opened his mouth, but another sound preceded him. Giggles.

The door to the outside was located in a short hallway where the smaller kitchen rooms and assorted pantries were housed. It was from this direction the commotion was heard.

“Oh, you are a wet mouse, aren’t you?” a gay voice exclaimed. He had no trouble identifying Miss
Pesserat from the definitive accent. “Come, come. To the fire.”

“Have Cook fix up some chocolate to drink!” Rebeccah cried.

They came into view, the three of them stumbling under the weight of their soaked dresses and sodden cloaks. They were still laughing, talking over one another, excited and unruly.

“Bonne idée, chérie!”
Chloe exclaimed. “And some pastries,
bien sûr.
I am starving!”

She stopped in midstride, frozen in an awkward position, her face going suddenly immobile. Rebeccah saw Jareth at the same time as her governess and made an immediate retreat behind Chloe’s skirts. Only Sarah regarded him with a mild expression, as if he were merely a personage of passing interest.

The words, when he spoke them, were like an epithet. “Miss Pesserat.”

Cook cut in, bustling up to the children and waving her arms. “Come along, then,
mes amours,
come to the fire in the little dining room.”

Jareth looked at the woman askance, suspicious for a moment until he recalled her nationality was the same as Miss Pesserat’s. For a space, he had almost thought the governess had infected the household so that they were all talking like her. The accent was, he had to admit, one of her more charming attributes. The only one he could think of.

Mostly, she seemed to have a knack for driving him straight to madness. Take this very moment, for example. She was standing there, still stuck in that ridiculous stance. Her hair was soaked, plastered to her head like a cap, and a very unflattering one at that. He took exactly four steps forward. Four slow,
calculated steps. Up close, he could see the way her lashes were starred from the rain, making those steel-blue eyes more brilliant.

“What,” he managed to utter through his clenched jaw, “did you imagine you were doing with my nieces in the midst of this storm?”

It was as if the words released her. She straightened.

“If you please,” she began carefully, “we were out for a walk. I admit I mistook the weather. I am terribly inept at such things, I confess it, but the sky in England is so often gloomy, we would be closeted in the house forever if we didn’t take a risk now and then.”

It would have been ridiculously easy to anger, for her words had the ring of sauciness in them, except her look was so sincere. Fat rivulets skittered from her drenched hair down her nose and she didn’t even bother to wipe them away.

“Miss Pesserat,” he said at last. “I fail to comprehend what is so woefully mysterious about a sky filled with clouds. If your judgment is so profoundly impaired, perhaps I had best reassess your capabilities.”

“Capabilities?”

“Yes, you know the word. Your vocabulary is quite accomplished when you are speaking, I noticed, yet when you wish to defer a comment you do not like, you plead ignorance of a word. Charmingly demure, and effective, I must imagine, on the more unsuspecting.”

She pulled herself up in a stance that was nearly military. Absurd, utterly, and it should have annoyed him—that and the defiant way her pointy little chin
jutted out at him. Strangely, though, he found himself wrestling with the most insistent urge to
smile,
of all things.

“Yes, I understand your English very well, but there are a few words that confuse me from time to time. You must allow for that at least, your grace. In this instance, it was not that I did not know the word, but was taking exception to your questioning my
capabilities.”

“What would you have me do?” he demanded hotly. “You run the children about in the most unseemly and unmannerly ways—”

“I most certainly do not!”

“Miss Pesserat—”

“I cannot see why you are so disturbed. It is merely water. It will not melt us, like sugar candy.”

With each breath, his temper seemed to expand “That is not the point—”

“You would think a little thing like rainfall were a foreign phenomenon in England. Yet, I have never seen such a place as this, miserable always from wretched weather.”

“A very entertaining opinion—”

“Really, it is quite—”

“Do not interrupt me again, young miss!” This he thundered, his fist raised with his index finger pointing to the ceiling. In the silence afterward, he was aware of two sensations stealing over his person. One was mortification—damn this imp to tempt him into a most disreputable show of temper—and the other, inexplicably, was a deep sense of…pleasure. It had felt good to shout for once. So much for moderation.