The Kidnapped Bride (3 page)

She bit her lip. “I don’t know. I have never tried.”

“Well, do the best you can. Have to see about finding you a maid, I suppose.” He paused as though he would say more, but then, with a shrug, he turned away and left the room.

She stared at her reflection, fighting back tears that had suddenly and against all reason decided to plague her. It would do her no good to cry. She would need her senses about her to face whatever lay ahead. What, she wondered, did he expect to accomplish by this extortionate behavior? Why, it was straight out of one of those silly novels! She had behaved quite wickedly herself, to be sure. But he! Could he really expect her to develop any of the tenderer feelings for him now, after he had treated her in such a monstrous way? Why, he had sounded much like Grandpapa—callous, unfeeling, insensitive, and perfectly selfish—as though nothing counted except his own wishes!

It was lucky, she thought suddenly, that she was not particularly missish, for if she were at all inclined to vapors, she would have been having them all over the place by now. But she was made of sterner stuff than that. She straightened her shoulders and stripped off her gloves. Darcy would simply have to learn the error of his ways. It was too bad, but there it was.

H
ER THOUGHTS WERE INTERRUPTED
by Beck’s entrance with a pitcher and basin. He set these down upon the chest next to the mirror and handed her the towel he had draped over his arm. “Will there be anything else, Miss Lennox-Matthews?”

She was tempted to say that, yes, she would like the carriage brought round immediately for a return trip to London, but his expression deterred her. He was taller than his master, thin and wiry. He also looked a good deal more sinister than Darcy, and she realized, looking at Beck, that she ought to be frightened by all this. She wondered why the thought had not occurred to her before. But, of course, it was because she had thought of Darcy for so long as a harmless, gentle type, and he had done little, despite his determination to wed her, to alter that impression of him. Beck was another type entirely. The face below his dark, limp hair was a long oval with a great deal of chin, thin lips, a hooked nose, ears that stuck out, and gray eyes that were coldly penetrating under thick, peaked brows. But his clothing was neat, and he carried himself with an air of self-importance. Stoutly maintaining her dignity, she shook her head in answer to his question. He nodded stiffly, then turning to leave, bethought himself of something else.

“His lordship mentioned a comb, miss.” He extracted one made of tortoise-shell from his waistcoat pocket. “I expect I’ll find something better, but this was the best I could do on short notice.”

“Thank you, Beck. I can manage now.” He bowed and returned to the door. She raised her arms to attempt to deal with her hair and then lowered them again when she realized that he had paused at the door and was watching her. She looked at him, and he ran his tongue over his lips, staring insolently. “I said I can manage, Beck. You may go.”

“As you say, miss.” He bowed again and slipped soundlessly through the door. She did not hear his footsteps retreating, and thinking he remained outside the door, she went to look. The hall was empty. For a moment she wondered if she could run out the front door without being caught. Then she sighed. Even if she could, where would she go? She didn’t even know where she was precisely. Vaguely, she remembered Darcy mentioning his house near Finchley Common, and she supposed that was where she was, but it was not much help. She would certainly be worse off lost on the Common. Besides, now that she came to notice, the door to the library was open.

Well, Sarah, she thought with a sigh, you have certainly done it to yourself this time! It was a good deal worse than any other scrape she had gotten herself into, although since her parents’ deaths it had often seemed to her that, one way or another, she had simply tumbled from one scrape to another. But her intentions were always good, she told herself firmly. Then, even as the thought materialized, she had to retract it. Her intentions always
seemed
good or at least understandable, but she rarely considered that there might be side effects, and this time the side effects were proving rather overwhelming!

A sudden lump rose to her throat when she thought of Sir Nicholas. Some lesson! She had only meant to teach him to respect her individuality, to cease his eternal carping and correcting, to teach him that she must be guided, with gentleness, not dictated to. She was shrewd enough to realize that his attempts to rule her indicated, at the very least, a concern for her welfare, but something in her nature made her want to challenge him. And here was the result. Whatever cause she had given him for disapproval in the past, this was infinitely worse. Now, he would despise her, would think her a loose woman. Not that it would matter, she told herself with another sigh. Not if she were forced to marry Darcy!

But this would not do. Firmly, she forced the dismal thoughts aside and strode back to the mirror to do what she could about her appearance. Once she had moistened her lips and washed her face, she turned her attention to her hair. Knowing she could never recapture the style worked by Lizzie’s clever fingers, she simply combed the tangles out and pushed it back behind her ears to fall in a tawny velvet cloud down her back. It made her look more like a schoolroom miss than a young lady, but it would have to do.

Her dress was another matter. There was nothing at all to be done about the smudges and wrinkles in the skirt, but she could and did remove the spencer jacket. At least her bodice was clean. She pinched up the tiny puffed sleeves and shook out the skirt so that it fell more smoothly from the high, ribboned waist. The spencer had been cut high to her throat with a narrow lace ruff, but the bodice of the dress itself was low-scooped with a flat, pleated, lace edge. The plump curves of her breasts rose softly above it, and a slender green silk ribbon encircled her throat. She shook her skirts again, gave a pat to her hair, and went back to the library, prepared to do battle.

Unfortunately for her purpose, she found the cozy scene that greeted her rather daunting. Her captor was seated in a deep armchair near the fire with his feet propped carefully on the fender, the huge dog sprawled beneath his legs. Darcy looked up, nodding at her entrance. “A vast improvement, my dear. Ah … forgive me, it slipped out.” He got to his feet, skirting the sleepy Erebus, flicked a piece of lint from the skirt of his coat, and raised a wineglass in a toasting gesture. “Salutations. I like your hair like that. Hate it when females chop off their curls. Glad you haven’t.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She eyed him speculatively and made the shrewd guess that his drink was not his first nor yet his second. He noted the direction of her gaze.

“May I pour you a glass?”

“If you please, sir,” she replied with a smile. Perhaps if she seemed relaxed about the whole situation, it would be easier to reason with the man.

“Good stuff. Not so good as I shall be able to buy with the Lennox-Matthews fortune, but good enough.” He moved to a side table and poured out another glass, taking the opportunity to replenish his own.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said when he handed her her glass. She took a tiny sip. The wine was not so bad. Sarah was not particularly fond of spirits, but in a good cause…. She gazed at him across the top of her glass. Was it possible that he was a bit nervous? She remembered his unexpected strength in the carriage and the sudden fear she had had in Beck’s presence. This was indeed a pretty predicament! She took another sip. Had someone not referred to wine as Dutch courage? She wondered briefly what the Dutch thought of such a reference. But then she took herself firmly in hand. She had come in here to do battle, had she not? Well then, Sarah, she told herself sternly. Get on with it, my girl! Darcy had clearly had several glasses of Dutch courage, yet he also seemed to be at a loss for words. So much for the Dutch. With a swish of her skirt, Sarah moved purposefully to the other chair in front of the fireplace and sat down.

Once she was seated, Darcy sat down in his own chair, slumped back, and propped his feet up again. “Tom’s going to set up a table for us here. Only habitable room down here at the moment. Matty did our bedrooms but not much else, I’m afraid.” Sarah perched on the edge of her seat.

“My lord,” she began calmly, “we must speak of the matter at hand. There is still time to make things right, you know. My relatives will be furious, of course, there is no gainsaying that, but the rest can certainly be covered up to the point where we shall not become the latest
on dit
. I know you cannot look forward—”

“Not now, Sarah,” he interrupted. “We shall talk about it after we eat. Drink your wine.”

“But, sir, by then it will be too—”

“I
said
‘not now’!” he growled stubbornly.

Sarah fell silent and moments later, Beck entered, followed by a grizzled and rather untidy fellow whom she assumed to be Matty’s husband, Tom. Presumably, Matty must be the housekeeper. The two men dragged a table out from the wall and began to lay covers for a
tête à tête
dinner. Her gaze drifted back to Darcy. What had possessed him? He said he had thought she cared for him. Then why had he sprung this business on her in such a way? Why had he not approached her before going to her uncle if he truly thought she would be agreeable to his suit? It occurred to her now that she had not given much thought before to what sort of man Darcy Ashton really was.

He had always seemed amiable, rather easily led, not one to take the initiative in much of anything. All she had ever had to do to attract his notice and bring him to her side in a crowd was to smile at him. But he had certainly not seemed ardent or passionate or lost to love. She knew those signs well enough, for many of the men who had continually surrounded her since her come-out displayed such flattering attitudes. But not Darcy. Not Sir Nicholas either, drat the man. He had
never
flattered her. But this was not the time to think of Sir Nicholas, she told herself sternly, forcing her thoughts back to Darcy.

He did not even follow his own lead when it came to matters of dress. He was a fop, a dandy, but not the sort who was constantly affecting outrageous styles in the hope that some fashionable quirk of his own devising would catch on and bear his name. Darcy merely followed the lead of others. When he liked a style, he took it for his own. He dressed elegantly despite his supposed lack of income, but there was nothing unique about his appearance. There had been nothing about him, in fact, to attract one’s notice, except for the simple matter of his having been in some way or other related to Sir Nicholas.

Sarah did not like the direction her train of thought was taking, but she could be honest enough with herself when the occasion warranted. And if ever an occasion warranted, this one did. She had used Darcy. It was rather despicable, put that way, but there was really no other way to put it. She knew now that she would have paid him utterly no heed whatsoever had some kind soul not pointed out the pertinent relationship. She had been friendly to everyone, of course, but there had been a difference in the way she behaved with Darcy. Enough of a difference that he had been encouraged to offer for her hand in marriage. How foolish she had been!

She sighed, sipping at her drink and glancing uneasily at her companion. She did not wonder that her uncle had not mentioned the proposal. It would not have occurred to him to do so. She knew Lord Hartley received at least an offer a week, probably more than that, but he rarely mentioned them. And, having already warned Sarah to avoid Darcy’s company, he would not have encouraged her attraction to the fellow by informing her of the offer. For Uncle Barnabas would assume that any offer was flattering enough to attract an impressionable young girl’s notice to the gentleman making it.

The whole business would be very romantic, of course, if Sir Nicholas were to come thundering to her rescue in the tradition of all the best romances. She indulged herself in a brief vision of Sir Nicholas—tall, dashing, and handsome enough to suit anyone’s notion of a hero—mounted on a white charger and swooping down upon them, sword in hand. But her imagination balked when she tried to envision him sweeping her into his arms and declaring his undying love in the manner of a proper hero. Instead, she was visited by an unsettling memory of his less appealing, though no less heroic, characteristics.

Sir Nicholas would be far more likely to assume that the whole wretched affair was her fault from beginning to end and to read her the devil of a scold into the bargain. Not that she would mind it much if only he could save her. But she had no notion where he was, and he certainly had no way of knowing where she was! Nor did anyone else. She was on her own. She would simply have to cope.

Sarah was not one to run from her problems. She preferred to attack them head on. But at the moment, and so long as Darcy persisted in his stubbornness and refused to discuss things rationally, there seemed to be nothing to attack. If she ranted at him, he would no doubt simply get up and leave or, worse, order that dreadful Beck to remove her until after he had enjoyed his dinner. Much better to remain calm. Her mind seemed to be spinning very little in the way of substantive ideas, however, so perhaps it would be best to wait patiently until after they had eaten.

Dinner came at last, but it was a mediocre affair. Matty clearly had no great turn for the culinary arts. The pigeon pie lacked salt, the rabbit stew was greasy, and the cherry fool (at least, Sarah supposed it was meant to be a fool) was watery. She assuaged the worst of her hunger pangs with bread and cheese, taking only token bites of everything else and finding the whole business rather depressing.

Tom appeared at the door soon after they began to eat and called the great dog to his dinner, but though Darcy maintained a flow of trivial small talk while they ate, it seemed a long while afterward before Beck finally came to clear the dishes and to set a decanter of port at his master’s elbow. He inquired if anything else would be needed.