The Bachelor's Bargain (3 page)

“Your Majesty,” he called out. “Good Queen Anne.”

She paused, every limb suddenly rigid. She could not bring herself to look at him. “Yes, my lord?”

“Would Your Royal Highness be so kind as to extend Sir Alexander cordial greetings from his brother?”

“Yes, my lord,” she whispered. “Of course, my lord.”

The Marquess of Blackthorne was chuckling behind her as she brushed past the green baize curtain and fled into the hall.

Anne remembered to shut the door. It was the only part of her plan that was not lost. How dare she show Sir Alexander a length of Honiton lace when she had been ordered to tell the man that his brother, the marquess and heir to the duchy, had suddenly returned from the dead? If she failed to carry out her duty, she would be dismissed.

“Set the tea on the table there,” the duke’s younger son told her as she approached the fireplace. Lounging on a damask-covered chair in the sitting room of his suite, he barely glanced up from the newspaper he was perusing.

Known to enjoy the luxuries of his rank, Sir Alexander cut a fine figure as he drove his gig about Tiverton. In London he was said to shine even more brightly, a veritable star among Society’s eligible bachelors. With his tall, slim, well-proportioned physique, thick golden hair, and brilliant blue eyes, he was reputed to have broken many a young lady’s delicate heart.

“Sugar, my lord?” Anne asked softly. She had managed to pour his tea without spilling any into the saucer, but she hardly trusted herself with the tiny silver tongs.

“Please.” He lifted his head and scrutinized the dish of quinces. “Do pass my compliments to Mrs. Smythe. The fruit appears quite agreeable.”

“Yes, my lord.” She got the first lump of sugar into his tea without incident. The second landed with a splash. “Milk?” she asked quickly.

“Dare I? I fear it may end in my lap.”

“I beg your pardon, sir.” Anne glanced up at him. “I shall take the greatest care.”

His bright blue eyes greeted hers with a light sparkle. “Pour away, then.”

He studied her as she lifted the creamer and tipped it over his cup. She held her breath.
Please, dear Lord, do not let me
spill it. Give me strength. Give me courage.

“Well done, miss.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She let out her breath.

“Have you served me in the past?”

“I am lady’s maid to Miss Prudence Watson, but she does not require me on Saturdays. Your footmen take leave, and I bring your tea.”

“Ah, yes. I begin to recall you.” He scrutinized her so intently that she felt a heat creep into her cheeks. “Surely, then, you are familiar with your duties and with the proper decorum required of the duke’s staff. Are you aware, madam, that you have shut the door to my sitting room?”

“I am, sir.”

“Ahh, I see.” He settled back in his chair and stretched out his legs. Deeply set beneath his pale brow, his blue eyes took on a glitter that sent a knot into the pit of Anne’s stomach. He did not understand at all, and his shameless advances with the female household staff were common knowledge. She gripped her hands at her waist until the blood drained from her fingers.

If she were to save her father, she must do it now. She must bring out the lace. But if she were to keep her position at Slocombe House, she must tell him about his brother’s arrival.

“Pray, what am I to make of this tightly shut door, miss?” Sir Alexander cut into her dilemma. When Anne failed to make an immediate reply, he held up his newspaper, a copy of London’s popular daily,
The Tattler
. “Perhaps I should pen a letter to Miss Pickworth and beg her advice in the matter. I might write, ‘Dear Miss Pickworth, the housemaid serving my tea today closed the door to my chambers. What shall I do with her?’ Indeed, I think a letter is a very good idea. Do bring my pens and inkwell from the—”

“Sir, I beg you will not write to Miss Pickworth,” Anne spoke up quickly. The very idea that all London might somehow learn of her indiscretion sent an arrow of fear to her heart. “I closed the door, my lord, because I wished to speak to you in private.”

“Privacy between a duke’s son and a housemaid? Well now. Have you a certain object in mind?”

Anne watched dark spots dance across her eyes. “Indeed, I do have a purpose, my lord.”

“A purpose beyond splashing sugar into my tea and milk onto my lap? This is intriguing. Do you wish to join me in reading Miss Pickworth’s latest commentary on Society?” He patted the arm of a nearby chair. “She writes that Miss Prudence Watson’s malady has prevented her from returning to London, though her eldest sister and her husband are soon expected home from their travels abroad. ‘No doubt Mr. and Mrs. Locke,’ writes Miss Pickworth, ‘will deeply desire the company of their dear sister, Society’s brightest star
.
But sadly, Miss Watson remains unwell.’ Is that not dreadful information? I wonder if you have any notion as to what can be ailing her.”

Anne shook her head. She was not about to inform the man that her mistress appeared to be suffering from a deep despondency of spirit and a strangely nervous disposition. Any little thing might prompt a flood of tears or a collapse into hysterics. The smallest events distressed her, and she seemed to find little purpose or hope in life.

“I cannot say what troubles Miss Watson,” Anne told him.

“Perhaps we should invite her to come to tea with us today. She is a beautiful young woman and her company might entertain us both. Or do you prefer to have me all to yourself?”

Anne stared at the newspaper. The lump that had been in her throat all afternoon wedged tight. “As Miss Watson’s lady’s maid, I should be pleased to increase her happiness in any way possible. But she writes letters to her sisters on Saturdays, and I believe she will not wish to be disturbed.”

“You know her well, do you?” Ignoring his tea, he set the newspaper down and stood. “Miss Watson’s London residence, Trenton House, is very near to my own family’s ancestral home on Cranleigh Crescent.”

“Yes, sir. I am aware of that.” Anne’s mouth turned to glue.

Sir Alexander tugged at the hem of his striped waistcoat and loosened the silk cravat at his neck as he took two steps toward her. She lowered her focus, concentrating on the way his narrow-cut trousers came together under the instep of his shiny leather shoes.

“Of what else are you aware, miss?” he asked. “Something more than serving tea in the afternoon?”

She dug her nails into her palm. “Yes, my lord.”

“How engaging.” He reached out and touched the side of her face. “Your cheeks are aflame. A very pretty pink. Let me see your eyes now. Ah, they are brown. A disappointment, for I am partial to blue-eyed ladies.”

“My lord,” she managed, “I do not wish to speak of my eyes.”

“But you did wish for a tête-à-tête with me, did you not?” He reached around and tugged the white cotton mobcap from her head, and her hair spilled across her shoulders. “Oh, dear, brown again. I have never been fond of brown hair, but your figure is—”

“Sir, it is about lace.” Anne shrugged away from the fingers that had reached to touch her hair. “I have come to speak with you about lace. Honiton, to be exact.”

“Lace?” He looked up, confusion furrowing his brow.

“I was taught lace design by Mr. Samuel Beacon in Nottingham, and he says I am the finest pattern pricker he has ever seen, and certainly one of the cleverest artists. My execution of lace is said to be exquisite.” She gulped down a breath, determined to get it all out before he could say another word or reach for her again. “Thinking only of your future happiness with the Lady Gabrielle Duchesne, the daughter of the Comte de la Roche, I contrived to fashion a design with her wedding gown in mind. I have created a length of the most delicate lace, my lord, using silk threads and more than a thousand bobbins.”

Taking a step back from him, Anne dipped her fingers into her pocket and brought out the roll of lace. “As you can see,” she hurried on, unwinding its length, “I have carefully created the Chouteau family’s lozenge. I centered it just here, believing my lady Gabrielle may wish to use the lace on her bonnet or perhaps at her bodice. Bearing your esteemed heritage in mind, sir, I designed a row of English roses along the edge, while ribbons twined with morning glories loop around the lozenge.”

When he said nothing, she gathered her courage, lifted her chin, and continued. “Ferns, of course, have been interwoven throughout the pattern to convey the lush beauty of England. As I designed this border, I envisioned a garden of the sort that only my lady’s future home here at Slocombe House could boast, a profusion of blossoms, vines, and birds. I have given the lace a certain fragility, you see, thinking of the misty air in the south and wishing the fabric to whisper against your bride’s skin in a most delicate fashion.”

Forcing herself to meet his eyes, she laid the lace in his hands. “I come boldly before you, my lord, only because of my great reverence for your excellent tastes, knowing that you would wish the very best for your future wife. Had I sold this to the laceman, the crest would be meaningless to any other buyer, and so I . . . I would beg you to . . . to consider a fair price—”

“Alex!” The deep voice rang through the cavernous room like a gong. “Alex, old man, how are you?”

Sir Alexander glanced up from the lace, focused on the man who had just burst into his room, and faded to a deathly shade of white. “Ruel?” Anne’s lace drifted to the floor. “Can it be?”

She watched in horror as her months of work, her only hope for her father’s freedom, came to rest at the edge of the carpet beside the fire. Sir Alexander took a step forward, and the sharp heel of his pump impaled the lace.

“Ruel!” he cried, hurrying across the room with the length of lace trailing behind him. “You are alive. But we thought you were gone! We had heard appalling reports that you were dead. Father has been beside himself, sending out parties of inquiry, posting letters left and right. But you are well. Thank heaven!”

The two men embraced, the one a dark pirate and the other a golden youth. Anne looked down at her tattered handiwork, remembering her father in prison and the fiendish lace machines that had put him there. Then she covered her hand where, in the kitchen below, a dusty beggar’s lips had heated her skin. She decided she agreed with his earlier sentiment.

The devil could take the Marquess of Blackthorne.

Two

“Alex, you are looking capital.” Ruel clapped his brother on the back. “How old are you now? Twenty, at least.”

“Three-and-twenty, Ruel, and you look abominable. Your skin is as brown as a seaman’s. And your hair! Good heavens, where have you been these last months? When did you arrive at Slocombe?”

“Not an hour ago. May I join you for tea? I assume there is plenty.”

Ruel glanced at the housemaid. She had backed up against the fireplace, her face as white as chalk and her cheeks a pair of pink roses. This must be the young lady who had served him leavings with the charity in the kitchen, yet she looked different now. Her hair, a rich brown cape around her shoulders, glistened in the red firelight. Her mobcap lay on the floor. Ruel appraised the situation. Alex was still up to his lecherous pranks. Had the maid been a willing partner?

“I shall see to the pouring,” he said, aware that the woman would wish to escape and restore her appearance.

“I shall fetch Mr. Errand.” Her voice was low. “He will dispatch a footman to serve you, my lord.”

“Nonsense.” Alex settled into his chair and waved a hand at her. “Pour the tea. My first cup is cold already, and I have no patience to wait for a footman. Seat yourself, brother, and tell me what you have been about. The last intelligence we had of you was from our cousin, Auguste Chouteau. He wrote that you were staying with him in St. Louis in the Missouri Territory.”

“The last I heard of myself, I had been scalped by Indians.” Ruel looked at the maid again. She was carefully ignoring him. Unable to rescue her cap, which had fallen beneath the tea table, she had tucked her hair behind her ears and bent to pour a second cup of tea. “Fortunately, I have kept the hair on top of my head, and a valet will take a razor to my face.”

The maid’s attention darted from the teapot to his face. Their eyes met, and the flush spread from her cheeks down her neck. Caught, she shifted her concentration to her tasks again.

How did he appear to a woman, Ruel wondered. Though a common house servant was no judge of aristocratic manliness, it comforted him to see the blush of color that made her fair skin glow. Perhaps he had not lost all his noble bearing during the three months of torment he had spent at sea.

“Before you go out in Society, you must do better than shave,” Alexander informed him. “The regent has developed a bit of a tousled mop, but he manages to make it appear rather dashing. You, on the other hand, look a veritable rake. So where have you been, Ruel? No doubt pirating, smuggling, or something else equally illegal.”

“Your opinion of my talents has grown since I have been away, Alex. I am flattered.” Ruel accepted the warm cup Anne handed him and held it to his lips. Closing his eyes, he took a deep drink. As the steaming liquid seeped into his body, he felt his muscles unknot. He let out a long breath.

“In spite of my appearance,” he told his brother, “I have been the perfect gentleman. I departed St. Louis half a year ago and have been traveling homeward since that time. Down the Mississippi River to New Orleans. Around Florida. Across the Atlantic.”