Lord Braybrook’s Penniless Bride (10 page)

Still with that delight brimming over, she set off along the ridge for the promised lookout. She found it easily enough, a rocky outcrop where she perched high above the valley and could see the river far below, a shining ribbon slipping along towards its rendezvous with the mightier Severn at Chepstow, and at last the sea. All connected, all of a piece. Boats, like a child’s bath toys, came and went as she munched her bread, cheese and apples. Apples that had grown in this same earth, warmed by the same sun pouring down on her head and shoulders. Folly to imagine that somehow she was part of it, but the idea lingered of being held, cradled, for once belonging. She should, she knew, put her bonnet back on—she was going to be sadly freckled, even a little bit sunburnt. She didn’t care. Even her spencer had been discarded and folded away in the satchel. She couldn’t think when she had enjoyed a day more. And all she had done was go for a walk. In Bristol when she had walked there had always been streets, noise and smells. Here she had the forest track and instead of noise, the song of birds and the occasional sounds floating up from the village below nestled in the trees on either side of the
river. She watched a small ferry being poled across. Lady Braybrook had said something about organising a boating picnic for the children in a few days. She had no doubt that her ladyship would announce that she had absolutely no need for a companion that day and insist that she went with Lissy and Emma.

She sighed. That was the greatest danger of all. This affection she felt for all of them. Not just Lady Braybrook, but the children. Matt with his quiet scholarly ways, yet still with the streak of boyish mischief, Emma and Lissy, so merry and confident, and little Davy with his hero-worship of his eldest brother. Christy pushed away the memory of them going off together that morning, Davy chattering like a magpie and his lordship, dark head bent to catch all those whirling words, his little brother’s no doubt sticky hand safe within his, and the dog at their heels.

Foolish sentiment, she told herself. It was not for her. They were kind, friendly, but they were not her family. Eventually she would leave and have to depend solely upon herself. That was constant. She had known it at eighteen when she had fallen in love—

No!

She grabbed the satchel and pushed herself to her feet. That bitter memory would not spoil this golden day. It would be over soon enough and she would have to wait for her next day off, which might be pouring with rain. Picking up the basket she had brought for blackberries, she set off.

Today there was only today, with no regret for yesterdays and definitely no worry about tomorrows. She was going to pick blackberries. She was going to enjoy the day’s gifts and hoard the pleasure like a squirrel with a nut, every scrap of sunshine, every touch of the breeze on her hot face, every birdcall and every blackberry that didn’t get as far as her basket.

Two hours later, picking blackberries, Christy acknowledged that one of the day’s memories would be blackberry brambles. She wouldn’t have believed how viciously the wretched sprays could cling. As for connected, the problem was to
avoid
being connected. They clung to everything, her hair, her skirts; her bare
arms were well and truly scratched. Her basket was two-thirds full and that had taken an hour, although she admitted it might have been quicker had she not eaten so many. She loved blackberries and these, bursting with sunshine, were temptation itself.

She was slightly damp, having cooled her face in the river, but it was so hot she would be dry again by the time she reached Amberley. Although she would still slip in by the side door. She was a mess, but she was having so much fun. Never had she been able to roam like this for a whole day. Always she had been kept within doors, living in town. Either with her mother or at school or in her jobs. When she had gone out, it had been to do an errand. There had never been a chance simply to
be
. And blackberries had always been bought.

Moving around the patch, she saw a particularly luscious bunch over her head. Standing on tiptoe, she reached up, carefully lifting a prickly shoot out of the way…and felt it catch across the tops of her breasts through the cambric and linen of her gown and chemise.

‘Bother!’ she muttered and twisted around to release the clinging barbs. More snagged on her hair. With a curse she reached up to remove them. And froze as something on the ground caught her gaze. There, coiled lazily in the sun, was a greeny-coloured snake. She pulled back with a startled gasp, lost her balance and fell against the brambles. The snake didn’t move.

One eye on the snake, Christy tried to pull free, but discovered that she was held fast. As soon as she loosened one set of barbs, another gripped with even greater tenacity. The snake appeared oblivious, until it suddenly uncoiled, raising its head. Briefly the forked tongue flickered and then with a rustle of grass and fallen leaves it slithered away towards the river.

Christy breathed a sigh of relief, and continued to battle the brambles, only to hear the sound of approaching hoofbeats. She muttered a curse as she twisted to look over her shoulder. Riding towards her on his tall black gelding was his lordship, sitting easily in the saddle as if he had grown there.

Spending the rest of the afternoon entangled in a bramble bush
because she was too proud to call out would be stupid. Drawing a deep breath, she yelled. He raised a hand and his horse altered course towards her.

‘Miss Daventry, is something—?’ He broke off and the blue eyes widened. ‘Ah.’ He barely suppressed the grin, but swung down and came towards her swiftly. ‘Are you all right?’ His gaze fell on her scratched arms and his mouth set hard. ‘What the devil were you doing to get that scratched?’ Even as he spoke he fished an odd-looking tool out of his coat pocket, unfolded it to reveal a blade and began cutting her free.

‘I was reaching for
those
…’ she indicated the dangling blackberries ‘…and overbalanced.’

He gave a disgusted look as he caught a spray snagged on her hair, cut it and cast it away. ‘Miss Daventry, the first rule of black-berrying is that no fruit is worth falling into the brambles for.’

‘There was a snake,’ she said, feeling foolish. ‘I dare say it was harmless, but it startled me.’

‘A snake?’ He began to unhook a shoot that had caught across her breasts, the small barbs digging mercilessly. She froze at the shocking feel of his fingers, brushing with apparent uninterest over her breasts. Her breath locked in her throat; she looked down. The long, lean fingers worked carefully, detaching the clinging prickles. She swallowed. She felt surrounded by him, by the mingled odours of leather, horse and something warm, spicy and very male. This close she could see the faint dark shadow along his jaw, even though he would have shaved that morning. It looked scratchy, tempting, as though it invited curious fingertips. She clenched her fists, denying the thought, denying the sensation of his fingers brushing her breasts. Several layers of cloth should have muted his touch. They didn’t.

His hands stilled. ‘I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?’

‘Wha—pardon?’ She gulped. His right hand rested very lightly on her right breast. Heat rose, aching in both breasts.

‘Your hands clenched. Did I hurt you?’

‘Oh. Er, no. Of course not.’ She forced her hands to relax. She wasn’t used to being so close to a man. That was all.

He frowned as though not quite convinced, but continued. ‘What colour was it?’

‘Colour?’ Frantically she pulled her senses back from the accidental caress of those long brown fingers. ‘Oh, the snake—greenish. It was quite long, too. A yard?’ No doubt he would think she was exaggerating and tell her that snakes didn’t grow to that size.

‘A grass snake, then,’ he said. ‘Harmless.’ There was a ripping sound as one stubborn barb tore her gown, a small, three-cornered tear. His breath hissed in.

‘Blast. Did that scratch you?’

‘N…no.’

‘Good. Hold still, we’re nearly there.’

A moment later she stepped free, stumbling slightly. He steadied her. ‘You should wash those scratches. Mrs Higgs will have some comfrey salve in the stillroom.’

She nodded. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ Her breath came uncertainly. He still held her. Not to steady her now. There was something intangibly different about the grip of his hands just above her bare elbows…something extremely unsteadying. She should step away. Should have already stepped away. Even as the thought flickered, his grip loosened, slid up her arms, his gaze questioning. And every speeding heartbeat she remained in his hold gave him the wrong answer.

‘Someone in the bible found a lamb in a thicket, did they not?’ His voice caressed. Hungry.

Oh, the temptation of that dark hunger! Not just his voice, but in his eyes. Her reason floundered for some sort of footing. ‘Abraham,’ she said. ‘And…and it was a ram, not a lamb. He sacrificed it instead of his son.’

Heat flared in his eyes. ‘As long as I am not expected to sacrifice you…’

H
is blood hammered. Surely she knew where this was heading?

Awareness flared in her eyes. He took a deep breath. She knew, then. Knew and had not stepped back…Slowly he raised his hand to her face, brushing the backs of his fingers over the silk of her jaw, her throat…soft, warm…tawny tresses tumbled over his wrist. Any moment she would pull back, the golden, sun-warmed enchantment broken by reality.

Reality which said she was not for him. That she was respectable, unmarried, probably virgin—his sisters’ governess, his stepmother’s companion. In a word, forbidden. Dangerous.

Some dangers were worth risking. Behind the spectacles, her mismatched eyes were dazed. He drew her closer, one arm sliding about her waist, bringing her to him so that the small, rounded breasts just brushed against him. A taste. Just one taste of those sweet, berry-stained lips…

His intent was clear, and every instinct shrieked a warning to Christy. Folly! Exactly what she had guarded against. She should stop him. Say no…But she was discovering that virtue was a simple matter when there was no temptation to sin. And Julian Trentham was temptation incarnate. It glinted in the brilliant blue of his eyes, now blazing with desire, caressed her with fire in the touch of his fingers on her throat, and trembled within her
at the hard promise of his body, so dangerously close as his lips sought hers.

One word—
no
—was all it would take.

His lips touched hers and her wits whirled.

A kiss. Just a kiss. She’d been mauled about before by an employer’s son.
A bit of sport
, he’d called it. It had meant nothing to him, less than nothing to her. Only this man did not maul, and a kiss was definitely not just a kiss. Warm, firm lips feathered and caressed, promising ravishment, yet teasing with light touches before settling properly. The tip of his tongue traced the quivering seam of her lips, exploring, probing at the corner of her mouth. Gentle strength enveloped her, cradled her, all heat and restrained fierceness…and against all received wisdom, her head sank back against his arm as her mouth opened under his.

His control shook as he felt the flowering of her lips, the softening as they opened. Quelling the urge to ravish her mouth, he took it gently, absorbing the gasp of shock as his tongue penetrated the sweetness, sliding deep. Honey, sweet wild honey, intoxicating—her very hesitance, even clumsiness, made it all the sweeter. All the more dangerous…With his final, fading shred of sanity Julian broke the kiss. He stared down into her flushed face, and nearly lost control again as she blinked up at him from behind her spectacles.

‘This,’ he informed her, ‘is not a good idea.’ With difficulty he forced his arms to release her and stepped back, clutching a few returning shreds of common sense, not to mention honour.

‘N…no.’ She seemed to be having as much difficulty breathing as he was.

No man of honour seduced innocents. He hauled in a breath. This was neither the time nor place to say what he needed to say to Miss Daventry. Especially since he couldn’t straighten his wits enough to think what that might be.

The blackberries she had been trying to reach caught his eye. Sweet, luscious and ripe. He stretched up, plucked them carefully, one by one, and deposited them in the basket.

‘Your berries, Miss Daventry. I’ll bid you good afternoon.’

Before he continued where he had left off and disgraced himself any further. She said nothing and, with a nod, he went to his horse and mounted.

Pushing Conqueror into a trot, he rode away, suppressing the urge to look back. Desire had been riding him with spurs for days, but kissing Christy Daventry was tantamount to insanity. Her birth and character rendered her untouchable. Or they should. Marriage was out of the question. Seducing her unthinkable.

But there were other open, honest offers that could be made to a woman. Offers that did not rely on the sweet lies and falseness of a cold-hearted seduction. He could have her as long as she understood exactly what was offered and was not permitted to delude herself with romantic dreams. As long as he didn’t cheat her with lies.

Christy watched him ride away, shivering despite the warmth of the sun. She touched her lips. How could a kiss—just a kiss!—make her feel like this?

Like what?

As though she were about to melt. As though his hand still cupped her breast, and his mouth still plundered hers. As though her world had tilted on its axis and started spinning in the wrong direction.

Her world would be tipped upside down if she let him seduce her. She knew that. Why, then, was everything in her whispering that it might be worth the risk? It was worth nothing. The only guarantee was a parting.

So?
that insidious little voice murmured.
He’s rich. You could get a settlement from him that would mean you never had to work again…you would have what you want: security.

She might also have a child, and not willingly would she start the cycle again. Oh, there were precautions that could be taken. She knew that. None better. She also knew that they were uncertain at best. Harry was proof of that. And there was further proof, a headstone in a Bristol churchyard…a little sister. She blinked back tears at the memory. She had been sixteen when eight-
year-old Sarah died of measles. Sarah would be sixteen now, earning her own living. Worrying about scraping enough together to survive on. Perhaps it was as well…

She couldn’t do it. She would not risk bearing a child with no rights.
Filius nullius.
A child who did not exist in the world’s calculations. A child who would have to lie every time someone asked about her father. Whose father would not bother to attend that child’s funeral…The old anger rose, but she forced it back. There was no point. There never had been. Even when she had said all that was to be said on the subject. Said it to the Duke of Alcaston’s face.

And she could not bear to sell, for cold hard cash, what she had once refused to give for love. Desire was not love. This aching, restless need would not last. It would fade, as love had once faded. Until it did, her hard-earned and usually unshakeable self-control would have to do double duty.

Somehow all the delight had gone from the day, although around her the sun still poured golden, birds still sang, and blackberries gleamed darkly in the hedgerow. Bending down, she picked up the basket. She had enough in there. Some fruit was out of her reach; the rest was not worth the pain, and if she knew which ones Lord Braybrook had plucked, she would leave them behind for the birds.

After a long walk she should have been hungry. Instead, every spoonful of soup was an effort. The problem was sitting to her left, and he didn’t appear to be off his food at all. Certainly he did not look as though he were aware that the woman he had kissed witless near a blackberry patch a few hours earlier was seated beside him. Not right beside him, of course, but a quarter of the way around the table.

There were only four of them that evening: herself, Lady Braybrook, Matthew and his lordship. Alicia and Emma were spending the night with Miss Pargeter. It should not have made any difference. Unlike her previous position where she had always dined alone if her employer had family or a visitor, she was expected to take her meals with the family.

She felt comfortable with them usually, except for the queer off-balance feeling that his lordship caused, but she ignored that, pretending it didn’t exist. These family meals at the round table held little of formality, and it never seemed to matter who sat where. No one ever minded if the conversation bounced back and forth across the table and became somewhat noisy. The affection between them all glowed as golden and mellow as the candles on the table and in the wall sconces. Just being there and seeing it gave her a sense of peace, even though she was not really part of it. Not inside. It was not that they ignored her. Far from it. They made her welcome. But she still did not
belong
, although the light touched her.

Now, listening to Lady Braybrook explaining what needed to be done before the Summer Ball in three weeks, she knew what a fool she had been—that even while denying it, she had let herself believe that she
was
somehow included. The Incident—a cold, indifferent word chosen deliberately—by the bramble patch had jolted her out of her folly.

She nodded. ‘Of course, ma’am. I will see that the bedchambers are prepared as well, if you wish to give me the list of guests staying overnight.’

Lady Braybrook smiled. ‘Thank you, dear. It will be so much easier with you to help. I positively look forward to Braybrook marrying and his wife taking this sort of thing off my hands!’

Lord Braybrook looked up from his conversation about winter crops with Matthew. ‘Serena, if the ball is too much—’

She waved him to silence. ‘Nonsense. Not now I have Miss Daventry. Ah. Thank you, Walter.’

The servants cleared away the first course and brought in the second. Matthew’s eyes lit up.

‘I say! Blackberry pie! Excellent!’ He grinned at Christy. ‘Did you pick those?’

Her cheeks reddened. ‘Yes.’ She had delivered the berries to the kitchen, expecting them to be transformed into nicely anonymous jam or jelly. Not placed on the table before her, a tangible reminder of idiocy. Anger spiked. No doubt to his lordship they
were merely blackberries. A tasty treat. Just as she would be if she weren’t careful.

‘A family tradition,’ said Lady Braybrook cheerfully. ‘One’s first full basket of blackberries is always served for dinner. I gave the instructions this morning that if you came in with enough we were to have a pie.’

Christy felt the barbs dig into her again, mocking even as they drew her on.

‘Looks jolly good,’ said Matthew. ‘Thank you, Miss Daventry.’

‘They are…they are just blackberries,’ she said. ‘I thought they would be made into jam.’ It was just their way. She would not fall into the trap of self-delusion again.

‘Certainly not,’ said Lady Braybrook. ‘One’s first blackberries should be memorable, Miss Daventry. Don’t you agree, Julian?’

‘Definitely,’ he said. ‘They look delicious, Miss Daventry.’

Cheeks hot, she met his gaze.

Beyond a polite greeting, it was the first remark he had addressed to her all evening. She wished he had refrained now. There was something disturbing in his gaze. Something that said he was thinking about the taste of more than blackberries.

She swallowed, cold and shaken as the blush ebbed. More than ever she felt apart, separate.

Matthew frowned. ‘That walk was not after all too much for you, was it?’ he asked. ‘You’re awfully quiet this evening. Pale, too.’

Aware of his lordship’s intensified gaze, she managed a smile for Matthew. ‘Nonsense. I am a little tired, but it is a nice sort of tired.’ Or it would have been. ‘And I saw a great many birds,’ she added, desperate to change the subject. ‘Just as you said. Only I didn’t know what the half of them were.’

‘Oh, we can’t have that,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You’d better borrow Braybrook’s bird books.’ He turned to his brother. ‘That will be all right, won’t it, Julian?’

‘Of course,’ said his lordship. He turned to Christy. ‘Indeed, there is something I wish to discuss with you, so if you come to the library after dinner I will give them to you.’

Oh,
God
! Why hadn’t she bitten her tongue? She could just imagine what he wished to
discuss
. His etchings probably.

‘Perhaps another time, my lord,’ she said. ‘I believe Lady Braybrook wishes to arrange the details for the Summer Ball, so—’

‘Nonsense, dear,’ said Lady Braybrook, cutting off her retreat. ‘That can wait, but you do put me in mind of something.’ She turned to her stepson. ‘Julian—your marriage.’

Julian’s wineglass paused halfway to his lips as he stared as Serena.

‘My
what
?’ he asked, in disbelief. Where the devil had that come from? They had been talking about blackberries. Sort of.

‘Marriage, Julian.’ Serena sipped her own wine. ‘I am sure I can speak freely. Matt will not repeat anything and of course Miss Daventry would not.’

A quick glance told him that Miss Daventry looked as stunned as
he
felt. ‘Nevertheless, it’s hardly—’ he began.

‘It really is time you considered marriage seriously,’ said Serena, ignoring his attempt to change the subject as she served some pie for herself and Miss Daventry. ‘At thirty-two, it’s high time you were settled. Before it’s too late.’

He set his wineglass down with a distinct click. ‘Are you telling me that I’m on the shelf?’

Matthew spluttered.

‘Shut up, Matt.’

‘Sorry.’ Matthew didn’t sound in the least bit sorry.

‘Not precisely on the shelf,’ said Serena. ‘But if you leave it much longer they’ll all be far too young for you. Think about it! All the eligible…that is, well-bred, well-dowered,
pretty
girls are snapped up at once.’

He stared at her.

‘That is what you want in a woman, after all. Isn’t it?’ she said.

Those were precisely the qualifications that he had always taken it for granted that his
bride
would possess. Only right now he wasn’t thinking about a bride. In fact, given his current intentions, discussing a possible marriage seemed highly inapposite.

‘Have some pie, dear,’ she said, passing it to him. His brain reeled. Those were still the qualifications he required. Blackberry pie had nothing to do with marriage…

‘So,’ continued Serena, as Julian helped himself to pie and then passed it along to Matt, ‘it appears to me that as you have not met anyone suitable in London, then you might as well consider local candidates—the Summer Ball is a perfect opportunity for you to look them all over and make a selection.’

Good God! He took a spoonful of pie, its sweetness bursting in his mouth. She made it sound like buying a filly at Tattersalls! And he couldn’t fault her for that, because, on the rare occasions he had considered the matter, that had been his own approach.

‘Intelligent,’ he got out and took another spoonful of pie. It was delicious, delicately spiced with nutmeg, and, violently aware of Christy’s silent presence, he was enjoying it about as much as a bowl of dust and ashes.