Mesalliance

The
Mésalliance

Stella
Riley

Smashwords
Edition

Copyright 2012
Stella Riley

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Cover
Portrait

Duchess
Izabela Czartoryska

Alexander
Roslin 1774

Despite the
slowness of a pace dictated by unfamiliar country and the
uselessness of his right arm, the solitary rider looked
appreciatively across the wild splendour of Redesdale, shimmering
beneath a cloudless July haze, and congratulated himself on finally
eluding the bailiff.

For five days
the fellow had shadowed his every step, reciting names and rents,
acreages and tithes, leases and debts – until escape had become not
only desirable but imperative. Not that the bailiff could be
blamed; for since nothing was ever likely to make his noble
employer forsake the delights of London in favour of his most
distant and least favourite estate, it was only sensible to seize
on the person of his noble employer’s son and heir. But it was a
great pity, thought the heir ruefully, that Mr Forne talked so
much.

Grimacing
slightly, he shifted his arm inside its sling in an attempt to ease
the nagging discomfort of his shoulder and found, as usual, that it
didn’t help a great deal. But the heat of Northumberland was a good
deal easier to bear than the heat of London and another week or two
should see him fit enough to re-join his regiment. All in all – now
that he was finally alone – it was possible to detect a mild
stirring of content.

When he first
saw the girl she had been gathering wild flowers and her arms were
full of them, a riot of blazing colour against the faded pink of
her gown and rendering her even more plain than she undoubtedly
was. Flat as a board, angular and thin, she was all eyes and mouth
and wildly disordered nut-brown hair. Startled and poised for
flight, she regarded him out of dark-fringed cisterns of
aquamarine, so that he said quickly, ‘Don’t be frightened. I’m
quite harmless – as, no doubt, you can see.’

She appeared to
absorb the glories of his immaculate full-skirted grey coat, and
the black sling that supported his arm before saying simply, ‘Yes.
Does it hurt?’

Laughter
gleamed in his eyes but he answered truthfully, ‘A little.’ And
then, realising that the low, sweet voice was miraculously free of
the local dialect, ‘Do you live here?’

Nodding, she
let fall some of the flowers to push back her hair and point across
the fell. ‘Over there.’

He looked but
saw nothing and turned back to the wide, considering eyes below
him. ‘You’ve dropped your flowers. Allow me to -- ’

But at his
first movement, she took fright again and backed off saying
breathlessly, ‘It doesn’t matter. I have to go. Goodbye.’ And ran,
graceful as a deer, away across the turf.

It was then
that he noticed that her feet were bare.

He would almost
certainly have forgotten her had he not seen her again the next
day, sitting motionless on the far side of a beck. There were no
flowers this time but the thin arms were curved round something
else. A hare? He had to look twice to be sure and then, smiling,
bowed to her from the saddle. She surveyed him solemnly and replied
with a tiny inclination of her head. The hare, so far as he could
see, did not even twitch.

He decided to
put Mr Forne’s knowledge to the test.

‘That’d be old
Mr Kendrick’s grand-daughter, my lord. Her mother died when she
were not more than two or three months old, poor lass. Aye … I mind
it well on account of the young mistress having seemed perfectly
hale afore they set off on that visit to London-town – and then to
have Mr Tom come home in black not six weeks later? Well, fair
shocked us all, it did – and not even a nice funeral to go to, the
young lady having been buried with her own kin in the south.
Terrible! Then, after that, Mr Tom took to the drink and were
killed in a tavern brawl over to Hexham-way only three years
later.’

Mr Forne
paused, shaking his head regretfully and, taking advantage of the
opportunity to get a word in, his lordship said idly, ‘And the girl
is what – about twelve years old?’

‘Bless you, no,
sir. The young lady’s more like sixteen, I reckon – but with only
her grandpa and a couple of servants, it’s no wonder she’s grown up
half gypsy. Seems hardly right when they say she’s got a whole set
of Quality relations on her mother’s side. But there … old Mr
Kendrick’s health ain’t what it was and happen he’s glad of the
company. Took it hard he did when Mr Tom died …’

Having already
heard more than enough, his lordship allowed his attention to
wander. Mr Forne continued to worry the subject for a further
twenty minutes. His lordship sighed gently and reflected that it
served him right for asking. Plain little Mistress Kendrick might
have the indefinable promise of something that had nothing to do
with beauty – but since he himself would never see it fulfilled, it
really wasn’t worth this amount of suffering.

After four days
of paperwork accompanied by the bailiff’s tireless tongue, his
lordship was driven to rise a good two hours earlier than he liked
in order to beat a strategic retreat. And when he came upon the
Kendrick child at the foot of a tree, one hand upraised and her
voice low and coaxing, it somehow failed to surprise him at
all.

Half amused,
half interested, he reined in some way behind her and quietly
dismounted to approach on foot … and had just enough time to see a
squirrel accept the offering in her extended fingers before a twig
snapped beneath his foot and the tableau dissolved. In a flash of
red, the squirrel scampered back into its shelter of leaves and the
girl whipped round to face him.

Expecting
either alarm or justifiable exasperation, he flung up his hand in a
gesture of surrender and said, ‘I beg your pardon. I’m an oaf and
quite obviously trespassing. Have I undone hours of patient
work?’

The unkempt
head tilted consideringly and then the wide mouth curved into a
disconcertingly splendid smile. ‘No. He’ll come back – though not
today for I’ve nothing else to give him. And I don’t think you are
an oaf.’

‘That’s
generous of you,’ he replied with careful gravity. ‘But if not that
– then what?’

She studied the
long, blue-black hair neatly tied at his nape, the dark
heavy-lidded eyes and the elegant blue coat with its deep, braided
cuffs. Concentration drew a single line between her brows and then
she said seriously, ‘It’s difficult because I never met anyone like
you before. But I suppose that you are a gentleman … and I think
that perhaps you are kind.’

‘Thank you,’ he
said, distinctly taken-aback.

‘For what?’ The
guileless eyes were puzzled.

And because he
could not think of an answer and did not, in any case, know why he
was conducting a conversation at some ungodly hour of the morning
with an untidy child of incredible simplicity, he laughed at the
absurdity of it all and wondered what his friends would say if they
could see him.

Still eyeing
him as if he were some rare and exotic species, the girl smiled
doubtfully and said, ‘You don’t live here.’

‘No,’ he
agreed, amusement still threaded through his lazy tones. ‘And you
don’t wear shoes.’

‘They’re over
there.’ She moved for the first time, an unconsciously fluid
gesture of vague disinterest. Then, ‘What is your name?’

He smiled and
opened his mouth to reply. But instead of supplying his title or
even his army rank, he heard himself announcing his given name –
which no one that he could recall ever used at all.

‘Tracy. I
should like you, if you will, to call me Tracy.’

‘Rosalind,’
announced the Marquis of Amberley, pensively, ‘will be distraught.
I believe she had counted on serving you up in a garland of
strawberry leaves to the Bishop’s niece. Anything below a Viscount,
you know, is quite below the lady’s touch – so Rosalind thought
that you might go down rather well. Or was it the other way
about?’

His companion
lifted one sardonic brow.

‘Or was it
that, having been married over a year, your eye has begun to wander
and Rosalind – wise lady that she is – perceives the need to
provide you with a rival?’

The Marquis
regarded him with an air of mild hilarity.

‘For the
favours of the Bishop’s niece, of course?’

‘Of course.
Have you something else in mind?’ Dark eyes widening, the lazy
voice became the epitome of shocked innocence. ‘Has
Rosalind
something else in mind?’

There was a
long silence as quizzical grey-green eyes met mocking black ones.
Then Amberley said, ‘Ask her. When you explain that you are
leaving, for example. She might even tell you.’

‘Tell him
what?’ enquired a musical voice from behind them. ‘And what is this
talk of leaving?’

The quizzical
expression changed to something very different as Lord Amberley
turned to look across at his wife. Rising, he said, ‘Rock thinks
you must, by now, be feeling the need to add spice to our failing
relationship. And he’s ready to offer his services.’

‘With the
result,’ added the Duke of Rockliffe smoothly, ‘that Dominic is
throwing me out. He will tell you it is a matter of protecting his
honour – but it’s my belief that he is naturally reluctant to see
my superior rank and charm cut him out with the Bishop’s
daughter.’

‘Niece,’
corrected the Marquis helpfully.

‘Niece,’
repeated Rockliffe. And smiled.

The Marchioness
of Amberley gave a little rippling laugh and walked unerringly past
him to her husband’s side.

‘How fortunate
it is,’ she remarked, ‘that the two of you have each other. But I
often wonder which one is pulling the strings.’

Amberley smiled
down into the beautiful blind eyes and dropped a kiss into her
palm. ‘We take it in turns. Should you be standing there?’

‘I look tired
and frail? Thank you.’ But she smiled and allowed him to hand her
to the sofa, settling gracefully into the light circle of his
arm.

Looking at
them, his Grace of Rockliffe experienced a more than usually sharp
twinge of envy. Never less than beautiful, Rosalind glowed now with
the anticipation of meeting her first baby in three months’ time;
and Dominic, when he looked at her, did so with an expression that
the Duke was discovering himself reluctant to witness. They were
complete in each other and he was happy for them; but their joy had
a growing ability to make him restless … and the knowledge was
disconcerting.

As if she
sensed his withdrawal, Rosalind said, ‘Rock? Are you really leaving
us?’

‘I am afraid
that I must. Nell’s term ends on Friday and so there arises the
arduous necessity of removing her from Bath and keeping her safely
under my eye until I can place her with either Lucilla or Aunt
Augusta.’ He sighed. ‘You should thank God fasting, Dominic, that
Eloise did not see fit to provide you with a trio of sisters. They
are inevitably either tedious or fatiguing. And, as for my reckless
little brother, I expect almost daily to hear of his demise in some
hair-raising enterprise or other. However. My immediate problem is
not Nicholas but Nell … and I have the lowering feeling that it’s
going to be a very trying summer.’

‘The last time
I saw your Aunt Augusta,’ said the Marquis reflectively, ‘she vowed
that nothing would induce her to take responsibility for Nell
again.’

‘Quite.’
Rockliffe leaned back in apparent gloom. ‘That was a year ago after
the dear child let a frog loose in church and bludgeoned the
under-footman into taking her to a race meeting. I live in hopes
that Augusta may have got over it by now. Indeed, I am
praying
for it.’