Sattler, Veronica (18 page)

All
three women's heads turned sharply toward the sound, and at the same moment the
door swung open to reveal an angry looking Madame and the tall, striking figure
of the duke of Ravensford.

Ignoring
Ashleigh's gasp of shocked surprise and the low canine growl that followed,
Madame snapped, "Dorcas, remove those two animals at once!"

As
Dorcas hurried to obey, Madame fixed her gaze on the tall redhead. "Megan,
I allowed you a free evening to tend to your friend, but I'm afraid I must now
ask you to take over for me as hostess downstairs." She glanced briefly at
the man on her left. "His Grace and I have business with Ashleigh."

Megan's
focus shifted from the begowned figure of Madame to the man beside her. Slowly,
and with a composure that went far beyond anything Ashleigh had ever seen her
affect before, she allowed her gaze to traverse the tall man in impeccably
tailored evening dress. When her perusal had run its course, she turned back to
Ashleigh. "Are ye up t' seein' this... visitor, darlin'?" she queried
softly, though loudly enough for the two in the doorway to hear.

Ashleigh
had also been taking in the figure of Brett Westmont, and from the instant he'd
appeared in the doorway, she'd been fighting to ignore the feelings that welled
up inside her. Her clenched hands had gone white at the knuckles and her heart
seemed to be beating so furiously, she fancied they all could hear it. The last
thing on earth she wanted just now was to be subjected to his presence and its
shameful reminders, but as she took in the poised stance of her employer and
the set features of her face, she felt she had little choice but to capitulate
to the older woman's wishes.

Forcing
her words out over a tongue suddenly gone dry, she answered Megan in halting
tones. "I—I'll be all right, Megan. You... you run along."

Hearing
the uncertainty in her voice, Megan hesitated for a second and gave the pair in
the doorway one more glance. Then, looking as if she'd made her mind up to
something, she nodded to Ashleigh, saying, "Very well,
mavourneen,
I'll
be goin', but if ye should change yer mind, ye've but t' call." Then, with
a swish of emerald-green skirts, she left, parting the two figures in the
doorway as she did so.

Madame
swept into the room, saying, "Do come in, Your Grace."

As
Brett followed her invitation, Ashleigh's eyes followed him. Dressed
immaculately in perfect Corinthian fashion, he appeared every inch the duke he
now was. The chestnut curls that closely hugged his finely shaped head were clean
and shining; the snowy cravat under his strong, chiseled jaw would have done
Brummell proud; a dark blue evening coat fit him to perfection as it covered
those wide, muscular shoulders and tapered without a wrinkle down to his lean,
masculine waist and hips; a white waistcoat and skintight pantaloons completed
the picture of sartorial splendor, echoing both the modish dictates of the day
and his long, lean and decidedly virile shape.

But
Ashleigh had only a split second to note all of this; she quickly found herself
under the well-remembered scrutiny of that turquoise gaze, its intensity
forcing her to shift her eyes hurriedly away while she felt the heat creep into
her face.

"Ashleigh,
my dear, where are your manners?" Madame was asking. "You are hardly
to remain seated when a duke of England enters the room!"

"It's
really not necessary," Brett replied, but Ashleigh was already rising from
the delicately curving X-frame Regency stool she'd occupied in front of Megan's
dressing table; being of such diminutive stature, she felt herself at enough of
a disadvantage beside the towering Brett and had no wish to compound this by
remaining seated while His Grace stood!

With
a flickering glance at Madame, Ashleigh made a brief curtsy in Brett's
direction, hating herself for feeling so intimidated. Where were her manners!
What she'd like to be doing this very minute was to hurl every object within
reach at her arrogantly smiling tormentor, and then be darting from the room,
never to lay eyes on the man again!

As
for Brett, the slow smile that had dawned on his handsome features may not have
been exactly arrogant, but it was prompted by the look of ill-concealed
rebellion he caught in Ashleigh's sapphire eyes. Then, too, he'd been absorbing
the delicate beauty of the girl; it was, for some reason, almost as if he'd
never seen her before—the finely sculpted, heart-shaped face that was framed by
a cascade of blue-black hair, softly curling now that it had begun to dry, over
her back and shoulders; the perfect, straight little nose that complemented a
beautifully shaped mouth that seemed to tilt upward at the corners, despite her
glum expression; the creamy complexion, offset by a tiny mole high on her right
cheek; and, of course, those incredibly blue eyes with the barest hint of
violet in their depths when she grew angry, as now. Somehow it all seemed fresh
and new to him, as if he hadn't really looked at her before—and yet, of course,
he knew he had....

"You...
spoke of having business with me, Madame?" Ashleigh purposefully kept her
eyes on her employer as she spoke, for Brett's presence in the chamber was
intensely unnerving. The way he had looked at her! Why, if her hands weren't
nervously fiddling with the deep periwinkle folds of the borrowed dressing gown
she wore, she'd have sworn she'd been undressed!

"Ah,
yes, child," said Madame. "That is, both His Grace and I, to some
extent, do." She threw a glance at Brett. "I shall state the nature
of our business, so far as it involves me, as succinctly and briefly as possible,
Your Grace. From then on, you are on your own."

Catching
Brett's nod through the veil of her downswept lashes, Ashleigh felt a frisson
of apprehension course through her as she pondered Madame's words. What did she
mean by "on your own"?

"As
you might have guessed," Madame was saying, "by virtue of your return
to Hampton House this evening, you have again come under the aegis of my
protection, or my employ."

Ashleigh
nodded uncertainly, unsure of what she was leading up to.

"But
you must know, Ashleigh dear, that under the circumstances, I can no longer
afford to keep you in the position you enjoyed while you were growing up. You
are a lovely young woman now, with far more—ah—assets than a menial's position
might make use of. However, it has been made more than clear to me by certain
other members of my staff that you would be opposed, if not ill suited, to
a—um—position such as that occupied by the majority of the women in my employ.
Is that not so?"

Again,
Ashleigh nodded, but her eyes locked with Madame's as she awaited further
elucidation.

"Moreover,
His Grace informs me that he sorely misses your company, that you left his
employ without his leave, therefore—"

"His
'employ'!" cried Ashleigh aghast. "I arrived at his home to assume a
governess's
position, only to find myself
violated
and—and held
prisoner!
How
can you—"

"My
dear Ashleigh," Madame cut in, "it is neither here nor there to me,
what the nature of your employment at Ravensford Hall was! The fact remains
that you are once again in my hands and His Grace has—ah—need of you. Since you
are unwilling or unable to perform the only acceptable function I have need of
here, I have been forced to conclude a bargain with His Grace, regarding your
services—services, my dear, which His Grace has already purchased."

There
was a shallow gasp from Ashleigh before the room fell deadly silent for several
seconds. Then Ashleigh raised tear-flooded eyes to meet the gray-green gaze of
the older woman. "How much?" she asked in a voice that quavered
somewhere above a whisper.
"How much did you sell me for?"

"That,"
answered Madame, turning toward the half-open door, "is privileged
information—unless, of course, His Grace should decide to inform you. I
suggest," she added as she moved through the door with a careless wave of
a bejeweled hand, "you take it up with him." And with a swish of
rustling taffeta, she was gone.

Staring
into the wake of her departure, Ashleigh was silent for one tension-filled
moment, then whirled to face Brett. "How very clever of you, Your Grace!"
she sneered through the tears that threatened to choke her speech. "Having
found you couldn't
buy me outright,
by a direct offer, you made straight
for the one person from whom you
could!"

Brett
watched the lovely face streaked with tears and cursed inwardly.
Damn!
He'd
known this wouldn't be
easy!
"Miss Sinclair," he murmured
softly, taking a step toward her.

"'Miss
Sinclair'!" Ashleigh cried. "Oh, that's wonderfully proper, that is!
Tell me, Your Grace, do you always use such unstintingly fine manners to
sugarcoat your debauchery?"

Stung,
yet feeling somehow he'd earned it, Brett moved a step closer. "Now, see
here, Ashleigh, I—"

"No,
you
see here!" came the harshly bitter retort. "There is
nothing on God's good earth that will make me become your mistress! Your
bought-and-paid-for
mistress! Do you hear?
Nothing!
I'm leaving here and somehow I'm
going to find
honest
employment. I don't care what it is—scrubbing
floors, selling flowers, whatever—so long as it is clean and honest work! And
you had better tell me what it is you paid that— that—woman—" she gestured
half hysterically toward the open doorway "—so that I can
repay
it.
And I will! Every rotten shilling!"

Brett
heard all this with as much patience as he could muster. No one had ever
berated him in this fashion, and least of all, a female! Nevertheless, there
was a certain amount of uneasiness residing within him where this female was
concerned, and besides, he'd already made up his mind what to do here, and he
was anxious to make it clear to her.

"Ashleigh,"
he said calmly, trying not to let the note of chagrin he felt creep into his
voice as he viewed her tear-stained face, "suppose I were to tell you that
I have no intention of installing you in my home as a mistress. Suppose it was
I
who was offering you a chance at this 'honest employment' you speak of. What
then?"

He
was standing very close to her right now, and, even before she was able to
digest the full import of his words, Ashleigh thought she caught a look of
sincerity in the turquoise eyes, shimmeringly visible through her tears.
"You—you mean...?" Her eyes scanned his face, hovering on the brink
between doubt and hope. "Wh-what kind of employment?" she asked
tentatively.

"Aye,
Yer Grace," came a bold female voice from the doorway.
"What kind,
indeed?"

Both
Ashleigh and Brett turned to see Megan's tall, emerald-clad form leaning
against the doorjamb. She was toying desultorily with a long lock of red hair
that had fallen over one shoulder, but the look in her eyes was canny and
intense.

"Ye'll
pardon me, Yer Grace, but I don't think we've been properly introduced. Me
name's Megan O'Brien, and me line o' work—" she shrugged "—has just
altered. I am newly appointed Miss Sinclair's—ah—business agent, and I'd be
interested in hearin' what it is ye're proposin' t' her."

"Newly
appointed...? Megan, what on earth are you
talking
about?" Ashleigh
exclaimed.

"Well,
newly self-appointed ye might say, Ashleigh, darlin'. Ye see, I just caught
wind o' what Madame's done t' ye, and I've up and quit me post. No, none o' yer
protests, me lass. 'Tis time I did it! Now," she added, turning her eyes
on Brett, "as I was sayin', Yer Grace, what kind o' work did ye have in
mind fer the wee colleen, and, by the way, while we're at it, ye'd better know
that wherever she goes,
I go
too!" Megan's perfect white teeth
flashed in a smug, satisfied smile.

With
an inward groan, Brett appraised the situation as he glanced from Megan to
Ashleigh, and then back to Megan again, and for the first time in his life he
cursed the sense of honor his grandfather had raised him with. Now he'd be
forced to deal with
two
useless women, one of them a childlike near
virgin, the other, a newly retired whore! He fixed Megan with a look of
reproach. "Am I to take it you don't trust my honorable intentions, Miss
O'Brien?"

"Ye
may, if ye wish, Yer Grace. But far more than that, I'm after seein' that the
little colleen here has a friend beside her this time, when she goes off t'
this new work ye mentioned. And again, Yer Grace, if ye don't mind... the
type
o' work...?"

Hearing
the adamant tone in her deceptively lilting voice, and suspecting it was
restrained fury he caught in the green eyes, Brett sighed, deciding he'd
probably have to go along with her. "Miss Sinclair," he then began
slowly, "would be installed in my household as a hostess of sorts—or
assistant hostess, if you will. My great-aunt has performed that function for
years, inasmuch as my grandfather was a widower, but she is getting on in years
and would, I'm sure, appreciate the help." Brett paused for a moment with
this lie; if there were anyone in the world who could be counted on
not
to
appreciate such unsolicited assistance, it was Lady Margaret, but since this in
no way fit in with his plans, he decided to go right past it. Time enough to
deal with Margaret later!