Harlequin Historical September 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: Lord Havelock's List\Saved by the Viking Warrior\The Pirate Hunter (18 page)

Not that she could fault any of them. Each of them knew exactly what they were supposed to be doing—and each other, too.

She was the only one who seemed to feel like a stranger here. Who wasn't totally comfortable with their role. She was used to
doing
housework, not ordering others to do it, that was half the trouble.

So, as the spring cleaning commenced, even though the new year had not yet come round, Mary took to walking about the rooms with a rag in her hand, and a scarf tied over her head, desperate to find some dirt, or a cobweb, Mrs Brownlow's team might have overlooked.

While her husband rode out early to avoid, she suspected, all the bustle, even though he muttered vague excuses about tenants. And only making love to her at night, behind the closed doors of their bedroom.

‘There's a carriage coming up the drive, my lady.'

Mary looked up from the skirting board behind the sofa—where she'd found a satisfyingly thick layer of dust—to see that Mrs Brownlow herself had come with the news, instead of sending her husband.

‘You've got visitors. So I'll take that,' she said, snatching the duster from Mary's hand. ‘You shouldn't be doing it, anyway,' she grumbled.

Though what was she supposed to do all day, now that her husband didn't seem inclined to chase her round the furniture any longer? Sit on a sofa and twiddle her thumbs?

‘I'll have Mr Brownlow...' who'd taken on the mantle of butler ‘...show them to the drawing room while you go and change into something more suitable.'

‘Yes, yes, of course,' said Mary, fumbling the strings of her apron undone and making for the door.

Change? Into what? She supposed she would look slightly better in a clean gown, rather than one she'd been crawling around on the floor in, but not much. Neither of the other gowns she owned were in all that much better condition, after serving as bedding, then withstanding her time as cook and housemaid.

There was her wedding gown, of course. Only was it suitable for receiving callers?

What did the wife of a viscount wear for receiving callers, anyway?

Oh, what did it matter? Surely the most important thing was to make them feel welcome?

And it was no use, she decided—snatching the scarf from her head and stuffing it into her pocket—trying to pretend she was something she wasn't.

She stifled a pang of guilt as she hurriedly tidied her hair before the mirror. Lord Havelock had said he wanted her to be well dressed when the local gentry came calling. He'd said she would have to buy a lot of new clothes.

Only, somehow once they'd got down here, the topic had never come up again. And she hadn't liked to mention it.

With any luck, whoever was calling on her today would be able to tell her where she could find a reliable dressmaker, locally. In fact, it would be a very good topic of conversation. Anyone who knew her husband would have no trouble believing he'd swept her off her feet, and down here, without giving her a chance to buy any bride clothes.

Feeling much better about her gown now she could look upon it as a conversation opener, rather than a personal failing, Mary made her way to the drawing room.

She had only just reached it and taken a seat on one of the chairs by the fireplace, when Brownlow opened the door again.

‘Lady Peverell,' he intoned. ‘And Miss Julia Durant.'

‘Oh!' She leapt to her feet, her hand flying to her throat. She knew that her husband had written to invite Julia to come and live with them, but as far as she knew, he hadn't received a reply.

Lady Peverell, a stylishly dressed blonde who didn't look much beyond the age of thirty, flicked Mary's crumpled, grubby gown a look of scorn, drew off her gloves and made for the chair she'd just leapt out of.

‘Oh. Of course,' said Mary, moving out of her way. ‘Do come and sit beside the fire,' she said a moment too late. ‘You must be dreadfully cold after your journey. Such weather. I expect you'd like tea.'

It was all she could do to cross to the bell pull and ring for a servant, rather than run down to the kitchen and put the kettle on herself. With one withering look, Lady Peverell had made her feel as though she had no right to be in the room. Let alone pose as lady of the house. And as for presuming to the title...well!

‘And you, too, Ju—' She pulled herself up, remembering she had no right to
address
her husband's sister by her given name, just because they'd been used to speaking
of
her that way. ‘I mean, Miss Durant.'

She sent the girl a timid smile. Which wasn't returned. Miss Julia Durant remained standing just inside the doorway, scowling at her.

Oh, but she looked so very much like Lord Havelock, when things weren't going his way! She had the militant stance and the determined chin. She had the same-shaped hazel eyes, too. And from what she could see of her hair, which was fighting its way out from under her bonnet, the same thick mass of unruly curls that graced his head, too.

Though, she frowned, he had described her as a beauty. A girl at risk from a predatory older man.

Julia could certainly
become
very attractive, once she'd outgrown the spots that marred her complexion, learned not to pout and glower at strangers, and had her hair styled by a professional.

Julia responded to her smile with a look of scorn and a toss of her head. She flounced over to the window and flung herself on to the sill, turning her shoulder to the other occupants of the room.

‘You see?' said Lady Peverell, waving the riding crop she held in one hand in Julia's direction. ‘You see what I've had to contend with? I have a houseful of guests, but does she care? No. The minute she gets that letter from her brother nothing will satisfy her but instant removal to this godforsaken pile. Won't even wait till Twelfth Night.'

Well, that was very like Lord Havelock, too. He didn't see the need to wait once he'd made up his mind to do something, either.

‘And now she
is
here,' Lady Peverell continued, her voice rising both in volume and pitch, ‘she's no better pleased. Not that I'm taking you back, miss, so don't you think I will.'

Julia shot her a look of fury over her shoulder, before folding her arms and glaring out of the window again.

‘That is the only thing that made me give in to her badgering. The knowledge that at long last I would be able to wash my hands of her! Even though I can see that we've taken you by surprise, turning up unannounced.'

‘Oh, no, not at all....' Mrs Brownlow could have any of the bedrooms in the guest wing ready in a trice. ‘It doesn't matter in the least that we didn't know the exact date she would arrive—'

‘Stuff,' snorted Lady Peverell. ‘And this is how it will
always
be once you have her under your roof. Well, I just hope you have a
very
strong constitution. The girl is a complete hoyden. Selfish and self-willed. Totally impossible.'

Mary didn't believe it for one second. From what Lord Havelock had told her, the poor girl had spent her life being passed around like a parcel. The few weeks during which Mary had undergone such treatment had given her a very good idea of how Julia must feel. Especially since her current guardian was doing what her own relatives had done—talking about what was to become of her as though she had no say, no brains, no will of her own.

And no feelings.

She had just taken a deep breath, to explain, calmly and rationally, that Julia would be a welcome addition to the household, when the door burst open and Lord Havelock strode in.

‘Gregory!' With a heart-rending cry, Julia leapt to her feet, flew across the room, flung herself into his outstretched arms and dissolved into noisy sobs.

‘There, there,' he crooned, rocking her in his arms. ‘No need to cry. You're safe now. You're home.'

‘Oh, for heaven's sake,' muttered Lady Peverell. ‘No wonder the girl is so wild. Nobody can ever do anything with her, because she only has to pour out some tale into your ear and you come rushing in to take her side. She's a spoiled madam and it is all your fault.'

Lord Havelock's arms tightened round his sister's heaving shoulders. He glared at Lady Peverell.

‘Then you can have no qualms about leaving her in my care, can you?' He jerked his head towards the door. ‘Have a safe journey home. I heard you say how busy you are with your house party. Do not let us detain you.'

Mary's jaw dropped. She knew he had a temper. But was he really going to throw Lady Peverell out, after travelling so far, in such horrid weather? She hadn't even had any tea.

But the peevish Lady Peverell didn't appear the least surprised by his attitude. She just got to her feet and gathered her things together with an air of magnificent disdain.

Shooting the siblings one look of sheer loathing, Lady Peverell turned to Mary.

‘I wish you luck,' she said. ‘Oh, and before I forget, I brought you a small gift. Here,' she said, thrusting the riding crop into the hands Mary had stretched out, impulsively, to implore her not to leave without at least having a cup of tea.

Mary blinked down at the riding crop in confusion. She couldn't ride a horse, so had no need of such a thing. Of course, Lady Peverell couldn't know that. She raised her eyes, trying to form a polite smile of gratitude.

‘I've found,' said Lady Peverell, shooting Julia a look of pure malice, ‘it's the only way to keep that creature in line.'

With that parting shot, she strode from the room, her nose in the air.

The smile froze on Mary's lips.

There was a beat of silence.

Lord Havelock was looking at her with cool, assessing eyes. And with a start, Mary realised she was still clutching the riding crop in her hands.

With a cry of disgust, she flung it away. It landed on the floor by the window with a clatter that caused Julia to lift her head from her brother's shoulder and look up.

‘I would never,' cried Mary, ‘
ever
use such a thing. Not on an animal, let alone a person!'

* * *

‘I know,' he snapped.

There was no need for her to say it. She was such a gentle creature—too gentle for her own good, sometimes.

He'd heard Lady Peverell's tirade well before he'd reached the room, her voice was so strident. And though she'd spoken venomously, he couldn't deny there was an element of truth to what he'd overheard. Julia could be...a bit of a handful. She was a Durant, after all, with the Durant will and the Durant temper.

And he could just see her running rings round Mary, given half a chance.

Well, he'd just have to make sure she didn't get a chance.

He stilled as it struck him that Mary's happiness was now just as important to him as Julia's had ever been. Which was ironic, considering he'd only married her so he could provide a home for Julia. Yet now this had become Mary's home, too. She loved it here. He'd watched her blossom in it. Delight in it.

And he didn't want Julia's moods to ruin it all for her. It would be totally unfair to expect her to deal with Julia—in
this
frame of mind, anyway. Not even Lady Peverell could exert any sort of control over his sister, so how could he expect Mary to take her in hand? Why, she couldn't even keep Mrs Brownlow in her place. The dratted woman had promoted herself to the position of housekeeper and was running Mayfield just as she pleased.

‘You needn't be afraid of Mary,' he said to Julia. ‘She has the kindest heart imaginable. Honestly,' he said when she continued to cling to him, whilst looking at Mary as though she was some kind of ogre. ‘I made sure of it before I married her.'

Mary flinched. Made sure of it? How? They'd only known each other a few days before he proposed.

And yet he'd made that list, hadn't he? A list that ensured the woman he picked would provide a home for his beloved, treasured sister. The girl he was holding in his arms. The girl who'd flown to him. Who called him by his given name without thinking, when so far Mary had never dared be so familiar....

She always had to call him
my lord
, or
husband
, or occasionally, when she felt very daring,
Havelock
. Because he'd never invited her to share the intimacy his sister naturally took for granted.

Though she was sure Julia hadn't meant to, the girl had given her a very brutal reminder of what her place in his life really was.

A means to an end.

‘She's been very busy,' said her husband to his sister, ‘putting this old place to rights, so you could come home.'

‘C-can I have my old room back?'

He shook his head. ‘Sorry, Ju. The family wing hasn't been used in such a long time it's still a bit of a mess. But there are any number of rooms in what used to be the guest wing you can choose from.'

When she didn't stop pouting, Lord Havelock chucked her under her chin. ‘How about coming and having a look? A couple have good views over the stables.'

‘The stables?' Julia stopped crying abruptly. ‘I...I suppose that would be...' She sniffed and wiped her tear-stained face with the back of one hand.

‘And even better,' he went on, before she had the chance to form her thoughts into words, ‘I've got something inside the stables that will put a smile back on your face.'

‘A new horse? For m-me?'

‘Welcome-home present,' he grinned. ‘Saw Panther at Tatt's and knew he'd be just the thing to put the roses back in your cheeks. Want to come and meet him?'

Julia shook off her angry, tearful demeanour the way a dog shakes off water after a dunking.

‘Oh, yes, please.'

All smiles and arm in arm, brother and sister left the room without a backward glance. As though Mary didn't exist.

And then Mrs Brownlow came in, with a tea tray. Behind her came Susan, who was the chief housemaid, with another tray, laden with cakes and other dainties.