The Harem Bride

by Blair Bancroft

Published by Kone Enterprises

at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 by Grace Ann Kone

For other books by Blair Bancroft,

please see
http://www.blairbancroft.com

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If you would like to share this book with another person, please
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Shropshire, England, February 1812

Ping. Ping. Ping.

Penelope Blayne winced. She was already
suffering guilt over asking the postboys and the long-suffering
horses to forge on through a cold driving rain, and now this
audible sign that the rain had turned to sleet lowered her spirits
still further. They should have racked up for the night at the last
posting inn, but Mr. Farley, her Aunt Cass’s solicitor had given
her so little money, she feared she would not be able to pay the
shot. So here she was, bowling along in the dark on rough rutted
roads through sleet that would likely turn to snow, risking
herself, her maid and long-time companion, Noreen O’Donnell, and
the well-being of the poor exposed postboys and their team in a mad
dash to get to exactly where she did not wish to go. Namely,
Rockbourne Crest. A Shropshire house undoubtedly as daunting and
unwelcoming as its owner.

Ping. Ping. Ping, ping, ping, pong!

Penny stifled a groan. The sleet was
worsening. She pulled aside the curtain and peered out the window,
searching for a light, any light. She could not allow this journey
to continue another moment. If they didn’t end up in an icy ditch,
the postboys, and likely the horses as well, would fall prey to an
inflammation of the lungs, and it would be all her fault.

Only a veil of icy pellets met her
gaze. The post chaise and its passengers were as alone as if they
were lost at sea or attempting to cross the Arabian desert.
Swiftly, ruthlessly, Penny shut out the explosion of memories
triggered by her unfortunate stray thought. Now was definitely not
the time to remember Arabia or the Ottoman Empire. Indeed,
never
was the proper time for
remembering the Ottoman Empire.

Rockbourne Crest. Penny failed to stifle a
groan. Noreen O’Donnell stirred in her sleep, then settled once
again into the corner of the chaise’s one forward-facing seat.
Thank goodness for that, Penny sighed. Noreen deserved her
much-earned rest, for tonight was yet one more adventure in the
long years that the Irishwoman had followed Aunt Cass and herself
to the ends of the earth. Well, perhaps not that far. Their travels
had stopped short of China, Japan, and the Antipodes. And even
though Bonaparte had put a bit of a crimp in their plans here and
there, they had managed to view a great deal of the remainder of
the known world, including Jamaica and the former Colonies in the
Americas.

Penny scowled, as for perhaps the thousandth
time the iniquity of her situation hit her. This was the first
time, the very first time in all their travels, that she had ever
had to worry about money. From the time she was sixteen, she had
taken over travel arrangements for her peripatetic aunt, Miss
Casssandra Pemberton. She had dealt with every sort of
transportation, from Russian troikas to Greek donkeys, Indian
elephants, and Moroccan camels. It was quite remarkable how far and
how fast an ample amount of cash and a winsome smile could take a
foreign traveler. Yes, she had always managed well.

Except for that one unfortunate incident in
Constantinople.

Jason Lisbourne. Earl of
Rocksley. Master of Rockbourne Crest.
The name she was
trying so hard to avoid echoed through her mind with every turn of
the wheels.
Jason, Jason,
Jason.

Penny wrenched her long-ago fantasies back to
the unfortunate reality of the moment. It truly wasn’t possible
that Aunt Cass had left her penniless. She couldn’t have. Wouldn’t
have.

Yet she had. Either Aunt Cass’s mind
had gone begging during her long final illness, or Aunt Cass was a
hopeless romantic, which Penny sincerely doubted as Miss Cassandra
Pemberton had been a determined spinster all her life. Whatever the
reason, Cassandra Pemberton had left her considerable fortune in
trust for her niece until her thirtieth birthday.
Thirtieth!
This, the same niece who
had not only made all arrangement for their journeys, but who had
hired their servants, handled all disputes, domestic and foreign,
paid all bills—

Outrageous. Perfectly outrageous!

Every penny of the Pemberton fortune
was now controlled by Jason Lisbourne, Earl of Rocksley. Even pin
money, Hector Farley, had assured her, would be decided by Lord
Rocksley.
After
her arrival
at Rockbourne Crest. Until then, there was . . . nothing. Mr.
Farley had even committed the final outrage of putting Aunt Cass’s
home, Pemberton Priory, up for long-term lease. This, too, he said,
had been stipulated in Cassandra Pemberton’s will. When Penny
demanded to read this offending paragraph for herself, she had
discovered the truth of it. For a roof over her head and food on
the table, for the clothes on her back, she was now wholly
dependent on Jason Lisbourne, Earl of Rocksley.

If she had been sixteen, instead of nearly
six and twenty, she might have run away. But she had seen too much
of the world, too many of its ills along with its wonders, to think
that she could solve her present problem by childish flight. She
would ask Rocksley to provide a modest cottage where she could live
out the years until her Aunt Cass’s will considered her “of age.”
Truthfully, she had had enough travel for a dozen lifetimes. A
quiet life in a small village would suit her very well.

She would not think about a comfortable,
loving husband and a passel of children. Like her aunt, she would
be grateful for what life had brought.

Truly she would.

Penny gasped and grabbed for the hang strap
as the chaise made an abrupt turn. Its large rear wheels promptly
skidded on the icy slush now covering the road, and for a few
moments the carriage careened from side to side before coming to a
shuddering halt.

Noreen O’Donnell came awake as Penny, losing
her grip on the strap, slid across the seat and landed in the older
woman’s lap. “What?” Have we arrived then?” Miss Blayne’s maid and
long-time companion gasped.

“
I am so sorry,” Penny said, pushing
herself upright and straightening her bonnet. “I fear we may have
had an accident. Are you all right?”

“
Oh, aye, ’tis indestructible I am,”
declared Noreen O’Donnell, “and after all these years you should be
knowing that.”

As indeed Penny did. She had been only
thirteen when Aunt Cass had rescued a frightened Noreen from the
streets of Florence. The young maid had been abandoned after her
mistress had, for the sake of her health, come to spend the winter
in Italy, only to die as spring was bringing life back to the
glorious landscape around her. “As Irish as Paddy’s pig,” Noreen
always said of herself and had made an effort to keep her accent
and sprightly, unsubservient attitude intact through all the years
of Cassandra Pemberton’s efforts to teach her to speak
“English.”

“
Be you all right, Misses?” One of the
post boys, looking more like a carving at an ice fair than a human
being, was peeking through a crack in the door.

“
We’re fine,” Penny assured him, “Are
we stuck?”

“
Don’t think so, Miss. Just seeing
you’re not hurt. Hang on a mo’ and I’m thinkin’ we’ll be off.
Nearly there, we are.”

Penny thanked him, vowing to give the
postboys every last cent she had left when they were safely
delivered to Rockbourne Crest.

Horses snorted, the chaise jerked, shuddered,
jerked again, and at last they crept forward. By the dim light of
their carriage lantern, Penny thought she saw a gatehouse, but it
was dark. No sign of an attendant. The gates were open. Odd, very
odd. Rockbourne Crest was an estate of considerable size, or so she
had been told. One would not have thought that the earl would be so
careless. But, then, why should she expect any sensible action from
Jason Lisbourne? From the gossip she had heard through the years,
he was careless of everything and everybody. A Cynic’s cynic, a
Rake’s rake. The living embodiment of all that was wrong with
society in the Regency of the profligate George, Prince of
Wales.

“
Oh, sainted Mary, mother of God!”
Noreen wailed as the chaise started to slip and slide once again.
Its two passengers were thrown back against the squabs as the
chaise struggled up a steep hill, slithering from side to side like
the undulations of a snake.

“
Shropshire is not at all like our dear
Kent, but I am sure the postboys know what they are doing,” Penny
declared, attempting to sound calm and reassuring when she was far
from feeling either of those emotions. What if Rockbourne’s drive
were on the edge of a precipice? What if they missed a bridge over
one of the many ice-fringed streams they had seen earlier in the
day. What if—

What a fool she was! To quail over a bit of
sleet and a road that wasn’t flat. Surely she had never been so
missish, even when she saw her first Red Indian. Goodness knows she
had endured far worse than bad weather and rough roads. But tonight
. . . tonight was different. She had not experienced so many qualms
since . . . since the last time she had seen Jason Lisbourne.
Viscount Lyndon, he was then. Little more than a boy, he had been
doing the Grand Tour . . .

With a great stamping of hooves and snuffling
from the winded horses, the post chaise came to a halt. “Stay
aboard while I rouse the house, Miss,” the postboy called through
the door.

“
Praise be!” cried Noreen O’Donnell. As
exhausted and cold as Miss Penelope Blayne was, it was not the
phrase she would have chosen.

Four tall lanterns illuminated the steps to
Rockbourne Crest, but all Penny could see through the sleet was the
vague silhouette of what looked more like a fortress than a home.
The ice-encrusted postboy continued to pound on a massive door that
remained stubbornly closed. They were expecting her. They had to be
expecting her. Mr. Farley assured her all arrangements had been
made.

The postboy, who was forty if he was a day,
turned and gave her a look, a shrug of his shoulders, then renewed
his assault on the front door of Rockbourne Crest. At last, it
inched open, allowing a pale ribbon of light to illuminate the icy
crystals beating down and forming a glistening carpet under foot.
Penny let out a pent-up sigh of relief, combined with a quaver of
apprehension, as the door suddenly swung wide, revealing . . . not
the proper butler she had expected, nor even a proper footman. Not
that she could see the features of the man in the doorway, but he
was leaning against the jamb at a rather precarious angle, as if
that were all that was keeping him on his feet.

Oh, dear
. The
open gate. The lanterns. The Earl of Rocksley was having a party.
And a shockingly unconventional one, too, if even the butler was
barely able to stand. “Come, Noreen,” Penny announced. “It’s high
time we warmed ourselves by a fire.”

Noreen O’Donnell’s sniff expressed her
disdain for their welcome to Rockbourne Crest. “’Tis fortunate
we’ll be if that one can show us the way to our rooms. More like,
he’ll go crashing down the front steps and break his neck.”

“
There must be a housekeeper
somewhere,” Penny said, a bit desperately, as the postboy threw
open the chaise door.

The shallow stairs up to the house were so
treacherous the gallant postboy had to escort the women up one at a
time. When Noreen was safely inside, Penny emptied the meager
contents of her purse into the postboy’s hands, while offering both
her apologies and her thanks. Praying she was telling the truth,
she told him to go round to the stables where he, his companion,
and the horses would find both food and shelter.