Lord Braybrook’s Penniless Bride (8 page)

He’d wondered what she would taste like. Not only wondered, but considered finding out. It would be better to see as little of her as possible. Not that there was any danger of seducing her, but he could do without the inevitable frustration of not being able to do so, if he didn’t squash this inexplicable attraction.

Miss Daventry was dangerous. The more so because she had not the least idea of it. She didn’t even realise the danger
she
was in. Not that she was in any danger. He was not, definitely
not
, going to seduce his stepmother’s companion.

‘Miss Daventry!’

Christy turned carefully at the autocratic summons, conscious of stiff, aching muscles. She had spent the rest of the afternoon
sewing and talking with Lady Braybrook until it was time to change for dinner. Now she wondered if she might have to eat her dinner off the mantelpiece. She could almost hear the creaking protest of overused muscles with every movement. As for the stairs, they were a penance.

‘My lord.’

He was frowning at her. ‘That is one of Lady Braybrook’s gowns.’

She felt heat steal over her cheeks. No doubt he thought she was dressing above her station in this soft grey silk. Her skin flickered at his intent stare. She twitched the heavy embroidered shawl Lady Braybrook had given her, drawing it a little closer across her bodice.

‘Her ladyship wished me to wear it.’ Her ladyship had more than wished. She had ordered. On pain of being sent back upstairs to change, should Christy dare to rebel and appear in one of her old gowns? How could she refuse? She couldn’t remember when she had last talked, really talked, with another woman apart from her mother and Sukey. It was frighteningly easy to believe, to pretend, that she belonged here.

Her last employer had considered her as more of an errand girl, only addressing her when she required something. Lady Braybrook’s notion of a companion was far more…well…
companionable
than Mrs March’s had been. It touched a chord inside her, an unacknowledged yearning that had been better left sleeping.

‘And you obliged her.’

There was something odd about his voice, but she forced herself to respond calmly. ‘As you see, my lord.’

Her tone was even, quite indifferent. Which, given that her lungs had apparently lost their capacity, was remarkable. There was nothing, she told herself,
nothing
about Lord Braybrook to make her breathing hitch.

She had seen handsome men before. Men with blue eyes. Well-dressed men. There was no reason in the world for her waist, hands and—her stomach fluttered—legs to remember how carefully he had settled her in the saddle. There had been nothing intimate about it.

‘And the cap, Miss Daventry—’

‘Is my own,’ she informed him stiffly.

He didn’t doubt it. Not for one moment. Serena wouldn’t have been seen dead in the monstrosity. And not a scrap of hair was to be seen. For which he ought to thank every god in the pantheon. Three ruined cravats on the floor of his bedchamber were testament to his distraction over whether or not Miss Daventry’s hair could possibly be as silken as it looked.

Clearing his throat, he gestured for her to precede him into the drawing room. And averted his gaze from the lure of her slight figure.
Voluptuous
, he reminded himself. He preferred voluptuous. Ripe, seductive,
womanly
curves. It would help enormously if he remembered that, rather than the supple curve of Miss Daventry’s waist.

To his relief Serena, Lissy and Matthew were already down. Finding himself alone with Miss Daventry…His cravat tightened in the most unaccountable way, and he wondered what excuse he might have used for abandoning her.

‘Ah. There you both are.’ Serena smiled. Then frowned. Direfully.

Julian blinked. And glanced down to check that he hadn’t forgotten some vital item of attire. Like his trousers.

‘No, dear.
Not
a cap. Not with that gown.’

He choked back a laugh, and risked a sideways glance to see how Miss Daventry was taking this admonition.

Meekly. Not a flicker of rebellion. For some reason that irked him. She’d bristled like an angry cat when
he
mentioned it.

‘Julian, for heaven’s sake, remove it!’

Remove it—?
Remove Miss Daventry’s cap? His fingers itched.

Playing for time, he said, ‘Remove what, Serena?’

‘Miss Daventry’s cap!’ said Serena in pained tones. ‘Now, Julian!’

Rebellion sparked then all right and tight. Miss Daventry clutched at the cap…just a split second after Julian’s instinctive response to an order that would have made a troop sergeant jump.

The cap dangled in his hand, and Miss Daventry stared up at him in disbelief, minus the remnants of her dowdy disguise.

‘Much better!’ declared Serena.

Part of Julian’s brain agreed. The witless part that took one look at the gleaming tawny coils of Miss Daventry’s hair and wanted to slide his fingers into it. The other part of his brain, the part that recognised Miss Daventry as Disaster-Made-Flesh, told him to return the cap without delay, and tell Serena to mind her own misbegotten business.

‘Give it to me, Julian,’ said Serena. Stunned, he obeyed. And groaned mentally as she shifted in her chair and sat on the cap. Not even the redoubtable Miss Daventry was going to retrieve it from there.

‘And let that be the last of these caps that I see,’ Serena said cheerfully. ‘You may wear them at my age.’

Lissy giggled. ‘But, Mama—Mr Havergal said they were repellant at your age too!’

Havergal again? Who the devil
was
this Havergal fellow?

He couched it a little more tactfully. ‘Who is Havergal and what does he have to say to your mother’s choice of headgear, Liss?’

‘Nothing at all,’ said Serena.

‘Oh, he’s an old friend of Mama’s,’ said Lissy. ‘He plans to settle not far from here and rides out from Hereford to visit Mama every few days. Haven’t you met him?’

‘Not yet,’ said Julian. An oversight he planned to correct very soon. He glanced at Serena. ‘I’ll look forward to making his acquaintance.’

‘I’m sure you will soon,’ said Serena, her cheeks faintly pink. ‘Now where was I? Oh, yes. Miss Daventry—at twenty-four, a cap is an abomination. And when you have such pretty hair, ’tis a crime to hide it. Isn’t it, Lissy?’ She favoured her daughter with a stern look.

Lissy blinked. ‘Pardon, Mama? Oh, yes. Miss Daventry, you look much nicer without the horrid thing!’

She did. Years younger and damnably pretty. Even with the spectacles. None of which deflected him from the fact that Serena
had purposely changed the subject. Whoever Havergal was, she didn’t want to talk about him.

‘If we are finished correcting Miss Daventry’s lamentable taste in caps,’ he said, ‘perhaps we might have our dinner.’

Over the next few days Christy settled into the rhythm of the house. In the mornings before Lady Braybrook came down, she taught Davy and Emma. After lunch she walked with Lissy and Emma, practising French or Italian conversation, or sketching.

She saw little of Lord Braybrook. She suspected he had taken a dislike to her. He never spoke to her unless he absolutely had to. And she had not been asked to accompany him out riding with his sisters again.

On the afternoons he escorted his sisters riding, she remained with Lady Braybrook. When he could not ride with them, she accompanied them with an elderly groom called Twigg, who instructed her patiently and seemed to like her.

This was how it should be, Christy told herself, as she escorted Alicia and Emma out to the garden for some sketching practice about a week after her arrival. It didn’t matter if his lordship liked her or not. For all his faults, he was too fair-minded to dismiss her if she did her job well. Since Lady Braybrook was happy with her, she was safe. After all, his plan was working perfectly. There were innumerable opportunities for Alicia to be faced with the reality of what marriage to Harry would mean…such as this sketching party.

‘You know, we
have
sketched Amberley before,’ grumbled Emma, as they walked across the park.

Christy was not about to be deflected. ‘Excellent. Then we can compare what you have sketched. It’s interesting how different people can all draw the same familiar scene and produce completely different pictures. And if you hunt out the old sketches, we can see how you have improved and how your style may have changed.’

Emma scowled. ‘I’d rather go to the stables and draw one of the horses.’

This notwithstanding, she settled down and silence reigned
while the three of them sketched. At length Christy called a halt and looked at her pupils’ efforts.

She was hard put to it not to chuckle. Both sketches said as much about the artists as Amberley. Emma’s was very exact, down to the precise number of windows visible and including every tree and shrub as well as a stray gardener. Alicia, however, had shown Amberley as a rearing mass of stone with a turbulent background of non-existent clouds.

‘But it’s sunny today, Liss!’ protested Emma when she saw this.

Alicia glared. ‘Who cares? Amberley looks so romantic when there’s a storm coming. Like something in
The Mysteries of Udolpho
.’

Emma rolled her eyes. ‘
That
silly book?’

‘It’s not silly! You haven’t even read it!’

‘Only because Mama won’t let me!’ said Emma. ‘Anyway, Matt said it was silly.’ She turned to Christy. ‘May we see yours, Miss Daventry?’

‘Of course.’ Christy passed her the book.

‘But this is not Amberley,’ said Emma frowning. ‘You said “our home”.’

‘Amberley is your home,’ said Christy. ‘This is
my
home. Or it was. It is to be sold now.’

‘Oh,’ said Emma. ‘Liss, it’s awfully good. Do look.’ She tilted the book to give Alicia a better view. Christy held her breath. She had drawn the house meticulously, showing its size, its position between the apothecary and the fishmonger, the very unaristocratic nature of the street. It was, above all, completely unromantic.

Alicia looked rather daunted. ‘You lived
there
?’ she asked, as though such a thing were unimaginable. ‘But I thought…a town house, Mr Daventry said.’

‘Well, it’s in a town,’ said Christy cheerfully. ‘Right in the middle of Bristol near the quay. Rather noisy. Wealthy people live in Clifton for the most part. I lived in that house after I left school, although I became a junior mistress for a year first. Then I was at home with Mama before I took a live-in position as a companion out at Clifton. I came home to nurse her.’ No need to
mention the more unpleasant aspects of earning your own living. Such as being considered fair game by your employer’s son. At least she did not have to contend with that here.

Emma was still examining the picture. ‘Is that an apothecary beside your house, Miss Daventry?’ she asked.

‘An apothecary?’ Alicia sounded stunned.

Christy nodded. ‘Yes. Very useful when Mama was ill. And a fishmonger on the other side. Smelly, sometimes, but it was a very convenient house. Not so large as to require more than one servant to help with the housework, and close to all the shops. Shall we pack up?’

Alicia was notably silent as she packed up her sketching gear, nibbling at her lower lip, and frowning as though deep in thought.

‘Is something bothering you, Alicia?’ asked Christy gently.

Alicia flushed. ‘Oh, no. That is one of Mama’s old dresses, is it not, Miss Daventry?’

‘Yes,’ said Christy. ‘Thanks to Lady Braybrook’s kindness I shall not have to make myself new dresses for years. Quite a saving.’

Alicia’s eyes widened. ‘For—?’ She broke off, staring past Christy. ‘I…I think…is that not Mr Daventry coming towards us?’

Christy turned. Sure enough, Harry was striding towards them from the direction of the house.

Alicia went pink, casting a nervous glance at Christy. ‘How…how lovely. I mean, for you, Miss Daventry.’

Harry bowed as he drew near. ‘Good afternoon, ladies. Lady Braybrook said I would find you here. Sketching, is it?’ He bestowed an extra smile on Alicia.

Alicia smiled back, but Christy thought there was just a touch of reserve in her expression.

‘We sketched Amberley,’ said Emma, ‘because Miss Daventry said that we should draw our home, only of course she drew
your
old home in Bristol. It’s awfully clear. You can even see the apothecary next door!’

It did not appear that this information afforded Harry the least pleasure. ‘Can you?’ He looked at Christy. ‘Lady Braybrook has
given you permission to walk with me in the grounds. She says Miss Trentham and Miss Emma should return to the house.’

‘Of course,’ said Christy. She smiled at Emma. ‘Perhaps you might take my book and pencils back to my room, Emma?’

She watched as the girls departed and then faced her brother.

‘Why the hell did you do that?’ he demanded.

She raised her brows. ‘You don’t think Miss Trentham deserves some inkling of what is in store for her if she marries you? Of course, had you not led her to believe that you owned a
fashionable
town house—’

He scowled. ‘It’s no business of yours! You’d be better off having a care for your reputation! People are talking about Braybrook squiring you around! Of course, I assured Sir John that there was nothing in it, but—’

‘You
what
?’ Christy’s temper spilled over. ‘How dare you discuss my affairs!’

Stubbornness crept into his expression. ‘He’s a rake. Everyone knows that around here! Why, he’s even got—’ He broke off, and cleared his throat. ‘Well, mum for that, but even though Sir John says Braybrook isn’t the sort to seduce the chambermaids, let alone the governess, people are talking.’ He gave her a scathing glance. ‘Although you’re not the sort to attract him, so there can be nothing to worry about—unless he was bored.’

‘His lordship,’ said Christy with a decided snap, ‘appears not to have sunk to such ghastly depths of
ennui
as that!’ She denied the ignoble urge to ask what it was his lordship had got. It was none of her business. Besides, she could hazard a very fair guess that his lordship had a mistress tucked away close by. Hereford, perhaps. That was how these things were done.