Sattler, Veronica (19 page)

"Your
duties would be simple and clear-cut. I shall be entertaining friends both in
Kent and in London on occasion, and at such times, I shall require a hostess.
From what I have seen, and learned of your breeding and background, you should
be able to carry out such responsibilities admirably, Miss Sinclair."

Ashleigh's
mind whirled with this proposal, for it caught her completely unprepared. Did
he really mean what he was saying? Could he be trusted? After all, duke or not,
he'd been no gentleman before, and once she was back in his clutches, what was
to prevent him from... Her mind balked at the horrible possibilities, and she
felt the blood rising to her cheeks.

Of
course, she would not be alone this time—Megan would be there, bless her heart.
And then, too, what other choices did she have? To remain here and become one
of Madame's stable of fallen women? To go into the streets, seeking
God-knows-what? She cast a brief sidelong glance at Brett who stood, waiting
patiently for her response, but his expression was shuttered and gave her no
further clues. Finally she looked at Megan.

"Well,
Ashleigh, darlin', what do ye think?"

"I
was about to ask
you
that question, Megan."

"Hmm,"
said her friend as her glance darted from Ashleigh to Brett. "And ye'd be
havin' no objections t' Ashleigh havin' a couple o' friends along in the
bargain, Yer Grace?"

"A
couple?"
Brett queried.

"Ah,
well, yes," said Megan, the green eyes suddenly hinting at merriment.
"There's meself, as I've already plainly stated, and then there's
Finn...."

"Finn?"
Brett's eyebrows rose suspiciously.

"The
fine Irish wolfhound ye laid eyes on but a short while ago. Ye see, Yer
Grace," she added with a smile that indicated she was now enjoying herself
tremendously, "he's the only
male
Ashleigh trusts these days."

Brett
made a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a protest, but then glanced
at the small porcelain clock on the mantel and, seeing the hour, said
hurriedly, "Yes, yes, I'll find a place for you all"—although a
momentary consideration of what Margaret's reaction would be when she learned
of the redhead's background caused a small inward shudder. He shifted his gaze
to Ashleigh. "Well, Miss Sinclair?"

Ashleigh's
indecision registered in her eyes. "I... I'd have to have some sort of—of
income. That is, I meant it when I said I intend to repay what you spent to—to
have me, and I don't see how I'm to do it unless... unless..."

"I'll
have my solicitor deposit five hundred pounds with the Bank of England in your
name, first thing in the morning. We'll consider this your yearly stipend. In
addition—"

"Ah,
I was after thinkin' a
thousand
pounds a year would be more like it, Yer
Grace," came the interruption from the doorway.

Brett's
frown of displeasure was blatant. "A thousand pounds is a lot of money,
Miss O'Brien."

"Aye."
Megan nodded. "But since 'tis the very amount ye paid Madame fer
Ashleigh's—ah—services..." She shrugged. "After all, Yer Grace, ye'd
wish her t' be able t' repay ye, wouldn't ye?"

Brett's
sigh was nearly a groan. He nodded. "A thousand yearly."

Megan
returned the nod. "Now, Yer Grace, as ye were sayin'...?"

"As
I was saying, in addition, there will be fifty pounds for each specific
occasion—a dinner party, whatever, wherein you perform the duties of hostess.
And of course, all of your expenses will be borne by me. Does that suit?"

"Ex-expenses?"

Brett
made an impatient gesture. "Food, clothing—living expenses."

Wide-eyed,
Ashleigh nodded. She hadn't dreamed the offer would be so generous. But then
her eyes went to Megan who remained in the doorway, taking all of this in with
a look of total satisfaction on her face. Returning her eyes to Brett, she
ventured one more request. "There—there would have to be some—some
compensation for my companion, too," she managed to tell him.

Brett
let out an exasperated rush of breath. "Three hundred pounds a year and
she doubles as your abigail." He cast an appraising glance at Megan, then
at the hairbrush on the dressing table. "She
was
helping you with your
toilette earlier this evening, was she not?"

Ashleigh
looked uncertain and glanced at Megan. "I'm not sure—"

"It'll
be fine fer me, darlin'," Megan put in. "Companion and abigail...
aye, I like the sound o' that!"

Brett
was glancing at the clock again. It was after ten, and if he was to make
Almack's before they closed the doors at eleven... His eyes focused on
Ashleigh's. "Well, Miss Sinclair? Are we agreed?"

As
Ashleigh met his gaze she was still far from deciding. It seemed like such a
risk-ridden thing to do! But then a sharp burst of drunken laughter from a
chamber down the hall and the sound of a door slamming reminded her of her
alternatives. With a brief glance at Megan, she took a deep breath and answered
him. "Very well, Your Grace, we'll go."

The
following morning Ashleigh sat across from Brett and Megan in a carriage
bearing them across town. It was a grand vehicle, far larger than the light,
open barouche into which their motley group had been squeezed when leaving
Hampton House the evening before. And as Brett had given her and Megan a hand
up into the present vehicle, she had glimpsed the handsome black, gold and
crimson Ravensford coat of arms emblazoned on the door and been properly awed.
Now, as she sat comfortably ensconced in the rich, soft leather interior as
they were whisked around Hyde Park, Ashleigh felt that awe growing.

What,
she at last dared ask herself, was she doing here, riding in a duke's carriage
in the midst of London's most fashionable district? She, Ashleigh Sinclair, who
only one short week ago had been unquestioningly discharging her duties as a scullery
and serving maid. Somehow, despite the cementing presence of the cool-visaged
man across from her, the reality of the bargain she had entered into last evening
hadn't seemed quite real—until now. Now, with London's late-spring sunshine
filtering through the carriage's clean, shiny windows, the enormity of what she
was presently involved in became apparent to her, almost as if in the bright
sunlight there could be absolutely no pretense. Now she had to admit her life
had suddenly changed, and in ways unalterable and all
too
real.

She
allowed herself a covert glance at the man sitting across from her. He seemed
totally impervious to the presence of the two women with whom he shared the
carriage. Immaculately groomed, as always, he wore a morning coat of deep blue
superfine, a perfectly tied cravat above his tan waistcoat, and buff-colored
breeches that snugly covered the muscular lower reaches of his tall frame until
they met a pair of blue and gold Hessians. The profile he presented to her as
she chanced a second glance from beneath lowered lashes might have been carved
of stone as he fixed his turquoise gaze on the scenery outside the window; the
wide, handsome forehead fringed by a chestnut brush of curls, the straight,
well-chiseled nose, the arrogant mouth that perfectly complemented a square,
strongly carved jaw—all could have been made of granite.

Ashleigh
sighed inwardly. She had no need, actually, to be glimpsing those handsome,
formidable features. Their every line had been unwillingly committed to memory
during that awful twenty-four hours when she had been his plaything, etched and
re-etched there during those hours when he had used her so cavalierly and then
again, later, when he had held her prisoner. Even now, when she dared allow
herself to think of it, her body burned with shame, her cheeks feeling as if
they were on fire.

Despite
this recollection, she found herself stealing yet another glance at Brett's
profile, this time with the hope of assessing his mood and guessing at his
thoughts. He seemed not to have moved an inch over the past minutes and
appeared to her cool and distant, even brooding. There was no hint of the lazy
smile she knew could transform his entire aspect; with that smile his face took
on inestimable charm, with its flashing white teeth and a pair of deeply
grooved dimples. No, this morning she saw a different man altogether from the
rakish captor who had dishonored her; different even from the brisk, efficient
man of business of last evening.

Recalling
a scene from the evening before, Ashleigh suddenly found herself biting her
lower lip to keep from giggling, for there had been one instant when His Grace
had lost his businesslike aplomb. It had been the moment when they were about
to enter his barouche. Actually, Brett had already handed her up and was
turning to assist Megan in similar fashion when the redhead had suddenly
whirled about, crying, "Wait! We've forgotten a couple o' things, Yer
Grace!" And Ashleigh had watched the duke's face change from a look of
annoyed impatience to one of horrified disgust as Megan had emerged from
Hampton House a few moments later with a tail-wagging Finn behind her, and,
bringing up the rear, a happily grunting pig! Oh, but it had been difficult to
keep from laughing aloud as His Grace's "What in hell do you take me for,
Miss O'Brien, a Gypsy circus master?" had cut across the warm night air!
Nor, she merrily reflected now, was it any easier to stifle her giggles when
she saw the look on his face as Megan had peremptorily marched her little
ensemble straight past him and into the waiting carriage with a look of smug
disdain on her beautiful Gaelic features.

Ashleigh's
gaze shifted to Megan, and as their eyes met, she could tell from the answering
twinkle in the green eyes that Megan must have read her thoughts, for after a
quick glance at Brett's averted profile, the corners of the redhead's mouth
began to twitch with amusement.

"I've
been givin' it a great deal o' thought, Ashleigh, darlin', and I've at last
come up with a solution," Megan suddenly said aloud. At Ashleigh's look of
puzzlement she hastened on. "'Tis over what name t' give the wee lady
piglet, o' course! Ye recall, we were after findin' one last night?"

Ashleigh
nodded, but couldn't help darting a glance in Brett's direction. His Grace
hadn't moved a jot during this exchange, but Ashleigh thought she detected a
slight tightening of the muscles about his mouth and perhaps the barest flaring
of those arrogant nostrils as well.

"The
wee porker, ye may have noted," Megan was saying, "has the loveliest
pair o' dimples gracin' her sweet little rump, and bein' she's a lady pig, what
would ye think about callin' her Lady Dimples?" It was Megan's turn to
glance at the rigid profile of their carriage companion, but unlike Ashleigh's,
her glance was bold and saucy, and when she returned it to Ashleigh, it was
accompanied by a wickedly wide grin.

Again
Ashleigh had to stifle a giggle, for the grin reminded her of yet another
episode from the evening before. Once their unlikely ensemble had been crowded
into the barouche and Brett began driving them to his town house, he had plied
Ashleigh with a host of questions about her background. He'd learned from
Madame that her father had been a minor nobleman of some sort; what was his
title? Did she have any living relatives? Where had her family home been
located? But each time he had set forth one of these inquiries, it had been
Megan who'd answered or, rather, parried a response. Giving Ashleigh's hand a
surreptitious squeeze to indicate she should be still, the Irishwoman's replies
had been deftly evasive: "Well, now, 'tis a long time since the poor
colleen's tragedy, and herself bein' such a wee lass when it all happened, I'm
sure she only recalls callin' her da 'Papa' or 'Father,' Yer Grace.... Sure and
ye'd not be wishin' t' dredge up all those tragic memories fer the poor lass by
askin' her t' recall a home that is no more!"... and, finally, "Ah,
'tis a poor, homeless orphan she was, ladylike down t' her bones, and the
soul
of virtue! Anyone
with
half an eye
could've seen that!" And
this last had been accompanied by, first, the most accusing of looks aimed
directly at His Grace and then a wide, devilish grin.

Of
course, Ashleigh now recalled with a shiver, His Grace's expression had grown
darkly ominous at this last impertinence, and she had been forced to deliver a
well-placed nudge to Megan's ribs with her elbow when she'd seen it; it was one
thing to enjoy a joke at the duke's expense as a means of getting some small
recompense for what he'd done to her; it was quite another to provoke the
carefully leashed anger she now realized lurked just beneath the surface of
that cool, seldom ruffled exterior, especially since he was now to be her
employer for at least a year.

Later,
when she and Megan had been shown to their chamber in the town house and were
at last alone, Ashleigh had questioned her friend about the entire business.
"Aren't you afraid of pushing him too far, Megan? And what was it you
meant to accomplish by avoiding his questions that way?"

Megan
had smiled before taking Ashleigh's hand and giving it a warm squeeze.
"Ah, Ashleigh," she'd said, shaking her head, "have ye no faith
in me judgment? 'Tis me, Megan O'Brien, ye're talkin' t', and I've made me way
fer the better part o' five years by makin' it
me business
t'
know
men,
remember? Don't ye fret, me lass, I'll not push him too far—although,
I must admit," she'd added a bit softly, and more to herself, "that
one does appear t' be a bit more complicated than most. I wonder what divil it
is that irks him so..." Then, her tone immediately lightening, she'd
looked Ashleigh in the eye, saying, "As fer the other, I can only tell ye
that it never pays t' tell a man too much about yerself. Take me word fer it,
me lass, a woman can go ever so much further in dealin' with her men when
there's a wee touch o' the mysterious about her."