Sattler, Veronica (35 page)

But,
as if making up her mind not to let his nearness intimidate her, Ashleigh stood
her ground as she spat up at him, "What sort of man are you, that you
would invite your mistress to your home on the day of the announcement of your
betrothal to another woman?"

"Hah!"
exclaimed Brett, glaring down at her. "And what sort of woman are you,
that you would flirt and play the coquette to one of the most profligate rakes
in England when you are an official hostess and recipient of another man's
largesse?"

"'Coquette!'
'F-flirt!'" Ashleigh sputtered.

"Those
are, I believe, the words I used. You needn't repeat them like a pet parrot!
And as for your accusations regarding my poor, injured mistress, disabuse your
mind of such, here and now! It was Pamela Marlowe's own idea to show up here at
Ravensford Hall with half of bloody London in tow—
not mine!
If anything,
I'd more than made it clear to her when I saw her last in the city, that it was
over—done—and she was free to seek... other liaisons. But could the bitch have
done with it? Oh, no, she had to drag an entire caravan of people down here to
celebrate my birthday, of all idiocies, and Christopher Edwards among
them!"

Taken
aback by this hotly delivered revelation, Ashleigh felt the wind go out of her
sails for a moment. Then, picking up on what else he'd told her, she felt it
rise again and billow forth. "I did
not
flirt with Christopher
Edwards!"

"Didn't
you?"

"No,
and what if I had?" she added, feeling the anger of righteous indignation
begin to well up. What business of his was it
whom
she flirted with? He
was merely her employer, nothing more. They both knew his trumped-up
guardianship was a sham. "I'll thank you to allow me to flirt or—or talk
to whom I wish! You have no right—"

"No
right?
You
bloody little fool! I have the clearest right of all—the right of someone who
took your honor—to see to it that it is somehow restored. I have told you,
Christopher Edwards is—"

He
stopped as he noticed the sudden drain of all color from her face, the
anguished look in her eyes at his reference to her humiliating deflowering at
his hands. It was his undoing. He looked into those eyes for several silent
seconds and felt his anger crumbling. Then, with a groan, he bent and drew her
to him.

Ashleigh
felt his arms envelop her even as his lips buried themselves in her hair. It
was a sensation of strength and softness all at once. There was the very size
of him, huge and muscular as he held her against his length, but at the same
moment the feel of his mouth at her temple, her ear, the delicate, sensitive
place beneath, sent shivers of longing through her, and she responded with a
rush of feelings that had nothing to do with rational thought.

With
a cry, she threw her arms about his neck, even as his mouth came down to claim
hers in a fierce, demanding kiss. With it, the room began to spin and disappear
from her ken, for in seconds there was nothing but the sensation of his mouth
on hers, moving, tasting, seeking entry. She felt her lips open under his, felt
the hot thrust of his tongue as it grazed her teeth and slipped between.

Then
his hands began to move, slowly at first, then in more demanding fashion,
coursing over her back and shoulders, then down again, lower, until they
clasped her hips and drew them close to his.

"Ashleigh...
sweet, beautiful Ashleigh," he murmured against her mouth, "God, how
I've wanted to do this.... You're far too lovely to resist, do you know that?
You're a witch... a sweet, unbearably, enticing witch...."

A
hand came around and moved to her breast, and with this Ashleigh suddenly
realized the danger of what was happening. "Brett," she breathed,
"Brett, no..."

But
then he found her nipple, and as he fingered its budding hardness, a jolt of
pleasure shot through her, straight to her very core. Suddenly there was a
melting sensation in her loins and her knees threatened to buckle under her.
Again, his fingers moved, and the feeling seemed to build, dragging her will
with it. She heard herself moan, found her arms tightening about his neck as
she reached upward to accept the renewed onslaught of his mouth, and all the
while the feeling below was building... building....

Suddenly
there was a sharp bark from the doorway, and the door sprung wide, the crashing
sound driving them apart. Finn stood there with his hackles raised, the feral
gleam of his fangs transmitting an unmistakable message.

Ashleigh
felt as if a bucket of cold water had been thrown over her as she instantly
recovered her senses. "Finn!" she cried, "Finn, it's all right.
Stay back. It's all right."

The
dog ceased his snarling and gazed at his mistress with puzzled eyes. He heard
her words and was moved to obey, but there was something wrong somewhere....

"Finn,
down!" came the command, and this time the message was so powerful, the
big dog complied at once.

Then
there came, from out in the hallway, the excited snuffling and grunting sound
that could only belong to one creature.

"Lady
Dimples!" Ashleigh exclaimed.

"Damn!"
swore Brett before glaring turquoise daggers at, first the pig, then Finn, then
Ashleigh. "My dear, I take back all I said or implied about the dangers of
Christopher Edward's presence—or any other's, for that matter. It would seem
you are more than adequately... chaperoned. But," he added with a hint of
a twist to his handsome mouth as he made for the door, "if I were you, I
would see that your protectors are kept more firmly about you—at all
times!"

And
with nary another glance, he was through the door and gone.

* * * * *

Brett
made his way down the hallway until, at the head of the stairs, he turned
toward the opposite wing of the house, the wing that held the library. If he'd
been less than clearheaded when Ashleigh had entered her chamber, he was
stone-cold sober now. What insanity had taken hold of him? Not only had he
found himself in the throes of some unnameable emotion that had led him to send
for her there in the first place, but he'd then gone on to toss all reasonable
behavior to the wind when in her presence, and—
Damn! Bloody damn!

As
he made his way toward the sanctuary of the library—his grandfather's favorite
sanctuary, he reminded himself, but now his, as if it were a legacy—his mind
ran over the events of the day that might account for his unusual state.

First,
there'd been that delightful morning outing with Ashleigh and Megan—delightful,
yes, but that didn't alter the fact that he'd found himself instigating it
against all his earlier determinations....

Then
there'd been the unexpected crush of guests, with the distasteful business of
having to parade about with Elizabeth on his arm... cool, beautiful Elizabeth,
the perfect English lady who could hardly bear the touch of a man on her
person. It was something he'd always suspected before, but when, before
arriving upon the little scene with Shelley, he'd attempted a brief embrace in
the gardens, Elizabeth Hastings had frozen under his touch with a look of
revulsion in her eyes that confirmed his suspicions. And to think that he must
spend his life tied to that frigid creature! Damn Margaret and her
interference, anyway!

But,
as if that weren't enough, he'd had to endure the feline exchange of barbs
between a fiancée he couldn't abide and a mistress he no longer wanted.
There'd
been a fine kettle of birthday fish!

But
was that sufficient for the gods that seemed determined to mock him today? Oh,
no! For, beyond all endurance, he'd had to sit idly by and watch his ward, whom
he'd foolishly just come to deciding he was growing to like, fall under the
spell of that rogue, Ranleagh! Didn't the chit realize that all he'd worked
for—to carefully build her reputation before the eyes of those like Lady Jersey
and her ilk—

Suddenly,
as he stood before the door of the library, a door he'd faced countless times
in his youth before gathering the strength to brave the stern visage on the
other side, the obvious occurred to Brett. In his mind he let the names, the
identities slip by... Ashleigh... Elizabeth... Margaret... Lady Jersey...
women,
all of them—
women!
And each of them a bloody thorn in his side!

With
a vengeance, Brett shoved at the library door and stalked inside. He was surprised
to find the candle burning in the heavy silver candlestick on his grandfather's
desk, and then there came the pungent aroma of tobacco.... His eyes flickered
from the empty chair behind the desk to the smoky haze coming from the armchair
to the right of it....

"Patrick!"

"I
was wondering when you'd show up, old man. Another quarter hour and I'd have
been forced to let your majordomo announce me formally, just when I'd thought
myself prudent in convincing him to let me wait for you here. Didn't want to
intrude on your house party dressed as I am." Patrick gestured at the
dusty riding boots on the feet he'd crossed casually before him as he sat in
the chair.

"The
devil with formalities," said Brett, crossing to clasp his hand.
"You're a sight for sore eyes, and I'm glad you're here. Can I get you
anything? A glass of wine, perhaps, or—"

"In
a moment, maybe, if you'll join me, but first, I'm hot to tell you my
news."

"Which
is...?" said Brett as he pulled up a nearby chair.

"It's
about my search," said Patrick, a look of absolute joy lighting his rugged
features. "Brett, my sister is alive!"

Brett
flashed him a delighted smile. "I thought you looked rather pleased with
the world just now when I walked in. How do you know?"

Patrick
drew on the clay pipe he held between giant, tanned fingers, then let out the
smoke slowly before answering, "It's a long story, but if you're prepared
to listen..."

He
proceeded to tell Brett of the letter he'd discovered, carefully editing out
the details of who Maria was, other than a friend who'd aided his family in
their free trading years ago. While it was his fervent wish that Brett might
come to know his mother's story and that a reconciliation be effected,
especially now that the old duke was dead, he and his parents had sworn an oath
to Maria that they'd never reveal her secret; and where Patrick was concerned,
his word was sacred.

Brett
listened carefully to the tale, and when Patrick had finished, he rose to pour
them each a sherry to toast his friend's good fortune.

"So,"
he said, after lowering his glass, "I suppose you're off to London to try
to track down this sister of the child's old nurse?"

"I
am, although I think I'll stay and make a few more inquiries here in Kent
first. You never know when someone might recall something about what went on
back then. Look at what happened with Jemmy Stokes."

Brett
nodded and was silent a moment. Then he raised his eyes to meet his friend's, a
somber expression on his face. "Patrick, far be it from me to spout gloom
and doom, but—" he twisted in his chair and looked uncomfortable for a moment
"—but it's been twelve years since—"

"The
fire, yes I know, but if you think that's going to daunt my enthusiasm, you can
forget it. I've had faith that the little one is alive for some time now, even
before my trip to Kent, as you well know, so all the gloom and doom in the
world isn't going to faze me at this point." Patrick leaned forward in his
chair, his elbows on his knees as he gazed at his friend with earnest intent.
"What I would like to ask about, however, is what it is of gloom and doom
that's troubling you, old man. No, don't deny it. I saw the scowl on your
handsome puss when you came through that door. What's amiss, and can I
help?"

Brett
sighed, then met Patrick's compassionate gaze. "You're right, of course.
And since you've just finished telling me your fantastic tale, perhaps you
won't consider mine too incredible."

"I'm
all ears, Your Grace," Patrick told him with a dramatic flourish of his
arm.

"To
begin with, I'm engaged to be wed—"

"Brett,
that's wonderful!"

"Save
your congratulations. The lady is a cold, passionless bitch, chosen by my
grandfather, with a bit of urging from the Lady Margaret, before he died."

"I
see." Patrick's tone was sympathetic.

"Not
yet, you don't. We announced our betrothal today, and Pamela Marlowe showed up
at the party."

"Oh,"
murmured Patrick. "I see."

"Still
not yet. There is a third complication. I have under my roof just now a new
responsibility. A female ward... a very young and beautiful female ward..."

"God,
Brett, you don't mean to tell me—"

"Wait!
You haven't heard the worst of it. Sit back in your chair, Patrick, and have
another sherry while I regale you with a tale of the most dramatic coil a man
ever found himself involved in...."

In
as few words as possible, but omitting none of the facts that pointed a guilty
finger his way, the duke told his friend of the appearance of the new ward and
"hostess" in his life, beginning with the well-meaning intentions of
his dying grandfather and ending with his frustrated attraction to "the
chit."