Sattler, Veronica (23 page)

"Wh-what
are you referring to?" came the uneasy response.

"Don't
play the guileless innocent with me, dear Aunt! I am speaking of your almost
unnatural obsession with the Hastings family over the years, or, more particularly,
with forming alliances between them and the Westmonts—through marriage—not to
mention your constant attention to that clan in myriad other ways. Do you
think, because I was away so much during my formative years, I was unaware of
your constant visits to Cloverhill Manor? Did you think me deaf, dumb and blind
that I did not see your hand in the unfortunate alliance between my father and
Lady Caroline? And now, in recent years, it's been that bitch, Elizabeth, who's
been the focus of all your unending attentions. 'Lady Elizabeth is, I daresay,
an extremely accomplished young lady,'" he mimicked. "'Lady Elizabeth
was the foremost young woman presented this season. She is a true beauty, is
she not? Lady Elizabeth would make the perfect wife. Lady Eliz—'"

"Stop
it!" cried his great-aunt. "You've no cause to carry on so! It is
merely that—that I am the child's godmother, as I was Caroline's before her,
and never having had a husband and children of my own, why, I just naturally
feel drawn to her.... And, besides, she
is
all of those things I've said
of her!"

"I
wonder..." Brett murmured. "I wonder..." There was a long
silence, and Ashleigh was about to motion to Megan that they hasten back to
their tea table when Brett resumed speaking.

"But
there are some things in which I'll give you your due, Lady Margaret. In the
matter of my taking to heart my grandfather's final wishes, for example. It
carries a powerful weight with me. Well, I suppose I should have married
sometime, sooner or later. I suppose, as well, that Elizabeth Hastings will do
as well as any other well-bred brood bitch."

"Brett!"
The
word was almost a gasp.

"For
God's sake, Lady Margaret, spare me your outraged sensibilities! We all know
why a man of our class takes a wife. It's to ensure a continuation of his line.
Do you think I've not seen all the careful parading of young, blue-blooded
feminine flesh about London's ballrooms and drawing rooms during 'the season,'
with the carefully arranged machinations between their parents and those of the
slavering young—and sometimes not so young—prospective bridegrooms that goes on
behind the scenes? Why, my finest-blooded mares are not given as much
consideration with regard to bloodlines and breeding ability when it's time to
choose which studs will service them!"

"Brett,
I forbid you to speak in so base a fashion in front of me! I find it highly
offensive, and—"

"Yes,
yes," Brett replied wearily. "Well, we're straying from our subject,
and in the interest of sparing you a further wasting of breath and energy,
allow me to congratulate you, Lady Margaret. No, don't look so dumbfounded. I'm
telling you, you've won. Go ahead and make what arrangements you will with the
Hastingses. You were right. I cannot easily neglect grandfather's last wishes,
but—"

"I
knew you'd listen to reason!" Lady Margaret crowed triumphantly.
"Now, when—?"

"Not
so fast, dear Great-Aunt," Brett interrupted. "There is one
condition, I'm afraid, and it has to do with the matter I called you in here to
discuss initially."

There
was a second's silence, followed by an audible intake of breath by Lady
Margaret. "You—you mean—?"

"Precisely.
The girl, Ashleigh."

"Brett,
do not toy with me! You cannot mean to—"

"I
can, and I do. The girl stays—as my official hostess, although you're free to
share such duties with her if you care to."

"You
are mad! I thought I told you—"

"And
I, in turn, have told
you!
I have an obligation to the chit, and I will
not see it compromised. Besides, I have need of a youthful, energetic
hostess."

"And
what of your obligations to your betrothed?"

Brett
sounded bored. "I care not in the slightest about that. If Elizabeth
Hastings is so eager to become the next duchess of Ravensford, I hardly think
she's in a position to interfere. Certainly, with our family in mourning, the
wedding cannot take place for some time... perhaps not for a year, and during
that time I shall need—"

"Brett,
I will not have that girl in this house! It is unthinkable that you should ask
it—that you should seek to install her here, at Ravensford Hall, the home of—I
won't have it Brett! I demand—"

"My
dear Lady Margaret," came the cold reply, "you are in no position to
demand
anything!
I am the master of Ravensford Hall now, and what I
decide to do here, I shall do! Ashleigh Sinclair is—"

"Is
a common
tart!
A
whore, a creature who—"

"She
is actually none of those things, as I believe I've already explained, though
what she is and how she came to be here are really none of your concern."

"None
of
my—!" Margaret's tone was incredulous. "Brett, I have stood aside and
said little over the years as I watched my brother bend and mold you into the
person you are, though there has been much I've disapproved of. But this time
you have gone too far. I find it hard to believe what I've just heard!
None
of my concern!
I have been mistress of Ravensford Hall for twenty years! If
the identities of persons lodging under this roof are none of my concern, then
whose should they be?"

The
voice that answered her was dangerously soft. "Mine, Lady Margaret. Only
mine."

"Brett,
I warn you—"

"I
suggest you reconsider that remark. You are in no position to warn me of
anything. You yourself continue living under this roof merely through my
indulgence. I could easily have you removed to the old dowager's cottage near
the lake...."

Margaret's
gasp cut the air. "You would not
dare!"

"I
would, and I just might. The girl stays. See that you make her feel at home.
And now, if you don't mind, I must leave. I merely came down to escort Ashleigh
and her—ah—entourage. I have business in London that will keep me away for some
time. When I return, I shall probably be bringing guests and shall send word
ahead—to both you
and
my new ward, so that you may be prepared to
perform the duties of hostess— either jointly or alternately, take your pick.
Good day, madam."

As
the sound of Brett's voice indicated he was nearing the door, Ashleigh and
Megan had just enough time to scamper back to the drawing room where they'd
been having tea. Quickly reseating themselves, they both managed to arrange blank
expressions on their faces before Brett pulled open the double doors and
entered.

As
Brett stepped into the room his eyes quickly took in the tableau of the two
young women on the sofa. The sight gave him more than one reason to halt
abruptly in his tracks, and there was a long pause as he slowly contemplated
what he saw.

Not
only were the two of them the total picture of graceful English gentility,
sitting there before the Queen Anne tea table in their fine new frocks, but the
image of Ashleigh Sinclair as she held a fragile Sevres cup and saucer nearly
took his breath away. Dear God, but she was lovely! She looked for all the
world like a fragile Dresden doll, her creamy skin faintly flushed with color,
her huge, deep blue eyes clear and bright, meeting his in what appeared to be a
look of open expectation. Was there, had there ever been, a face more
beautiful, a countenance more serene or full of grace?

All
at once he found himself recalling some lines his friend Byron had let him see
a few days ago when they'd met in London.

She walks in
beauty, like the night

Of cloudless
climes and starry skies;

And all that's
best of dark and bright

Meet in her
aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellow'd to
that tender light

Which heaven to
gaudy day denies.

Abruptly,
Brett stopped, catching himself in a frame of mind he wasn't sure he was
prepared to deal with. Ever since they'd left London he had intentionally
avoided any close scrutiny of his new ward. Somehow, he had known, if he
hadn't, there would have been the very sort of disturbing fascination he found
himself experiencing now. He'd known she was a unique beauty from the start,
but in their earlier encounters her beauty had been somewhat subdued by the
drab clothing she'd been wearing. Now, however...
Damn!

A
sudden scowl marred the young duke's handsome face, and he quickly stepped
forward and addressed Ashleigh and Megan.

"Everything
has been arranged for your stay, ladies. I'm leaving word with the butler and
housekeeper that they are to see to your comforts, for I shall be returning to
London for a time. While I am gone, Ashleigh, I trust you will make yourself
familiar with the estate and its inhabitants, so that your duties as hostess
may be assumed when I return. Have you any questions before I leave?"

Ashleigh
looked at Megan for a moment, but the redhead's features were carefully
schooled into a look of blank innocence. Slowly, she returned her gaze to
Brett. Did she have any questions! Only a hundred or so! What was she to do in
a situation where the mistress of the household had just made it clear Ashleigh
was unwanted? How was she to conduct herself in this strange place when the man
who was responsible for her being here was to be absent? How, when she met
her—and she had no doubt that she would—would she react to his new fiancée,
Lady Elizabeth Hastings? How was she going to manage anything at all?

But
Ashleigh could never put any of these questions to him. Besides having to admit
to eavesdropping, she would have to overcome her feelings of being intimidated
whenever she was in his presence, and this she was not ready to do—perhaps
would never be ready to do. So, swallowing past the lump that had formed in her
throat, she put forth the most innocuous question she could think of.

"Am—that
is—are we—" She glanced at Megan briefly. "Are we to be allowed to
ride, Your Grace?"

A
derisive snort met her ears. "What? Do you mean you are actually asking my
permission this time? How very thoughtful of you!"

Immediately
recalling her theft of the little filly the day she'd escaped, Ashleigh felt
the heat rise to her cheeks; she looked down in embarrassed silence and nodded.

"How
very prettily you blush, my dear," Brett sneered. Then, seeing her
discomfort and choosing to ignore Megan's glare, he softened his tone. "As
it happens, my head groom informs me that Irish Night is none the worse for
your escapade on her back. In fact, he marvels over the filly's increased
tractability since she's returned. It seems, my dear, that you know how to
manage fine horseflesh. We shall have to discuss, sometime, how you came about
it. The stable help will be alerted to make suitable mounts available to the
two of you. Ah—I assume you also ride, Miss O'Brien?"

"Me
da was the finest horse trainer in all Ireland," came Megan's response.
"I was
weaned
in a saddle, Yer Grace."

Brett
chuckled as he dismissed the coarse response he might have made. Despite her
former profession, there was something about the tall Irishwoman that made him
behave as a gentleman. "Very well," he said, giving them both a nod
of satisfaction. "Then, if there are no further questions, I'll be taking
my leave. Try to stay out of trouble while I am gone."

"Trouble?"
Ashleigh exclaimed, and then mentally kicked herself for her hasty remark. The
last thing she wanted was to antagonize Brett Westmont!

Brett's
eyebrows lifted briefly with her response, and then a cynical smile spread
itself across his handsome features. "Yes... trouble," he replied.
"After all, you will be two
females
left largely to your own
devices, will you not?" And before they could reply, he made them an
elaborate, courtly bow and left.

There
was a brief silence as the two women stared at the doors through which he'd
gone. Then Megan clucked her tongue and began to shake her head with
exaggerated slowness. "'Tis as I've said before—I wonder what divil's
botherin' the man... I do, indeed...."

Lady
Elizabeth Hastings stepped from her family's carriage onto the crushed white
stones lining the circular drive before Ravensford Hall. Tilting her elegant,
bonneted head slightly, she surveyed the towering brick facade of the structure
that had been the family seat of the Westmonts for more than a dozen
generations. There was a cool look of satisfaction on her classically beautiful
features.

Soon,
soon, she thought, all the waiting will have been worth it. Sometime within the
coming year she would be the new duchess of Ravensford and mistress of all
this—and more! She would be the wife of Brett Westmont, and clearly the envy of
every marriageable woman of her set—not to mention their ambitious mamas and,
no doubt, any number of married women as well. "Her Grace, the duchess of
Ravensford"— how often she had dreamed of the sound of it! Yes, she
thought smugly, it had just the right ring to it, a title in every way
appropriate and in keeping with what a woman of her worth deserved. Lowering
her gaze, she nodded haughtily to the waiting footman, and with a swish of her
blue silk skirts, swept boldly toward the front door.