The Harem Bride (26 page)

So he should be grateful, should he not?
Jason mused. He was better off than most of his acquaintances.
Penny was a delightful armful, even if he had not been able to
touch her heart.

And whose fault was that? In a manner far
more justified than Caroline Lamb’s blatant invitation to Byron,
the sixteen-year-old Penny—Gulbeyaz, the harem bride—had offered
herself to him, had indeed expected to be his wife before the
world, and he, feeling only relief that Miss Pemberton’s animosity
had set him free, turned his back and sailed away, refusing to
accept Penny’s precious gift of love.

And now he was cursed with his mama
under foot, his steward constantly prating of estate business,
Stanmore declaiming pious sermons on Sunday and altogether too
visible the remainder of the week. Dinner at the Squire’s. Musical
evenings
. Hell and the devil, how was a
man to have time to think, let alone make peace with his
wife?

Excuses! Nothing but excuses. Jason’s
long-dormant conscience now scolded him daily. To regain his wife’s
love required only that he give love in return. But that was more
than a bit of a struggle, for by day his wife was as cool and
tart-tongued as the woman who had arrived on his doorstep one icy
February night. A second Cassandra Pemberton in the making. And she
was far too much in the company of that blasted round-collared Don
Juan, the vicar. How could he have been such a fool as to have
appointed a young, unmarried man to such a position? Just another
example of his careless, rakish ways, Jason supposed. And now he
was paying for it, for every woman in the area was making eyes at
Mr. Adrian Stanmore, even spinsters twice his age. Outrageous,
that’s what it was.

Instantly recognizing the supreme irony of
his wayward thoughts, the earl let out a rueful chuckle, then
patted his horse’s neck when the animal sidled and snorted,
startled by his owner’s mirth. “It’s all right,” he whispered to
the stallion. And then, more thoughtfully, “Yes . . . somehow it
will all come right.” Jason took one last look at the spring beauty
of his acres, then turned his horse toward the path leading down to
the problems that waited below.

From the age of nine, Penny had spent her
life solely in the close company of her Aunt Cass. Traveling
constantly, she had never had the comfort of a friend her own age.
Nor had she had the benefit of the wisdom of a woman who had borne
and raised three children, as had the Dowager Countess of Rocksley.
Except for one or two inevitable skirmishes over which Lady
Rocksley was head of the household, Penny was well pleased with
Jason’s mother.

That lady had, in fact, taken the news of her
son’s irregular marriage exceedingly well and was spending long
hours at the secretaire in the morning room writing letters to a
vast number of friends, imparting the “true” story of her husband’s
marriage and his wife’s impeccable antecedents. And at the same
time the dowager had found time to support her daughter-in-law’s
plunge into county life. For Penny had rushed to renew her brief
acquaintance with Mary Houghton, daughter of the local squire, and
with Helen Seagrave, the young gentlewoman so impoverished she was
obliged to earn a few extra shillings by providing lessons on the
harp and pianoforte.

Though Penny could scarce believe it, she was
on her way to acquiring her first friends since the kindness of
Ayshe and Leyla in the Sultan’s harem. The novelty of it touched
her, spreading not only warmth but a determination to better her
new friends’ lives if she could. Surely one of them might do for
Mr. Adrian Stanmore, for whoever had heard of a bachelor vicar?
Particularly one who was almost sinfully handsome?

Mary, the downtrodden daughter of the
loquacious and overpowering Mrs. Houghton, very much needed a home
of her own, and Helen Seagrave also needed some means of raising
herself above the level of genteel poverty. Both women were well
brought-up and kind-hearted, although Miss Houghton was far too
much of a mouse, to Penny’s way of thinking. She could only hope,
freed from her mama, Mary Houghton would develop a bit of
backbone.

If the younger Countess of Rocksley ever gave
a thought to whether her compulsion to be so busy about the affairs
of others might be an attempt to avoid considering her own
unsatisfactory situation, she gave no outward sign of it.

It seemed, however, that the earl could not
share his wife’s interest in the vicar, for he scowled mightily
whenever Mr. Stanmore’s name was mentioned. A fact that brought a
positive gleam to his mother’s eye and which Penny found puzzling,
for she could not imagine any fault Jason could find in Mr.
Stanmore, nor why his obvious annoyance seemed to please his
mother, the dowager.

A bustling at the front entrance drifted down
the hall to the cozy parlor where Penny had been sitting, a novel
abandoned at her side. Callers? There had been so few of these in
their weeks of rustication that Penny did not wait for Hutton’s
summons. She arrived in the foyer in time to see Gant Deveny
handing his many-caped driving coat to Hutton. “Lord Brawley!” she
exclaimed, then, recovering quickly, added with surprising truth
that she was delighted to see him. As well as the softer, gentler
Mr. Dinsmore, who accompanied the viscount.

Gant Deveny turned to greet her, white teeth
flashing into a lopsided grin. The irony of the situation—the
contrast with the night when he had been the one to greet her under
such inauspicious circumstances in the same entry hall—struck them
both at once. Penny glanced at Hutton, who stood ramrod straight,
very much on his dignity, then back to Lord Brawley. She giggled.
He chuckled, then, green eyes dancing, burst into an open guffaw.
Hutton let out an audible huff. Penny and Gant Deveny attempted to
stifle their laughter, only to bend nearly double in paroxysms of
hopeless mirth, while Harry Dinsmore looked on, thoroughly
confused.

“
Good God, whatever can be so amusing?”
the earl demanded, from half-way down the stairs.

“
We were . . . remembering . . .” Penny
began.

“
The night your lady arrived last
winter,” Gant finished.

Jason immediately glanced at the
obviously outraged Hutton. A slow grin spread over his face. In
retrospect, in spite of his own reprehensible conduct that night,
it
was
rather
funny.

It also marked how very far his marriage had
come in a remarkably short space of time. If they could all laugh
about that disastrous night, perhaps there was hope for them
yet.

~ * ~

Hope was fleeting. In spite of the
flurry of assigning rooms to their unexpected guests and ordering
the luggage taken up, the Countess of Rocksley caught the speaking
look Lord Brawley exchanged with her husband.
Merciful heavens, what now?
With the certainty
of some new disaster come upon them, Penny excused herself, saying
she needed to be certain the rooms were properly turned out, and
left the gentlemen to closet themselves in the earl’s
study.

“
Well?” Jason demanded, as soon as they
all had glasses of Madeira in hand and were sprawled in the room’s
comfortable chairs. “And do not tell me you are merely passing
through Shropshire on your way to Brighton.”

His listeners paid the earl the compliment of
chuckling at this feeble attempt at humor. Harry Dinsmore sunk
further into his bergère chair, his legs stretched out in front of
him. Gant Deveny’s rather prominent Adam’s Apple convulsed as he
swallowed the bald statement he had been about to make. “Ah . . .
you recall the scandal between Lord Byron and Caro Lamb while you
were in town?” he inquired rather obliquely. At the earl’s abrupt
nod and impatient scowl, Lord Brawley ventured, “As you can well
imagine, no man could be faulted for tiring of such a surfeit of
adoration, and any normal woman might take the hint—”

“
But not Caro Lamb,” Harry Dinsmore
contributed eagerly, catching the purpose of Brawley’s
circumlocution. “Byron wants nothing more to do with her, but she
follows him everywhere, camps in the street outside places she
ain’t invited, throws herself at his feet.”

“
Worse than a leech,” Gant declared.
The chit’s gone mad, fit for Bedlam. “Can’t stand Byron myself, but
I have to admit it’s enough to make me feel sorry for the poor
devil.”

“
Feel sorrier for Charles Lamb,” Harry
Dinsmore grunted. “Imagine having such a wife.”

There was a decidedly awkward silence as all
three men contemplated Mr. Dinsmore’s words. “Is that the point you
are trying to make, gentlemen?” the earl intoned. “That I should be
grateful my wife’s reputation is not in worse shreds than it
already is?”

Lord Brawley looked at Mr. Dinsmore, who
raised a hand to cover his lips and slowly shook his head. Gant
Deveny, obviously elected to be the bearer of bad tidings, emitted
a heartfelt sigh. “Never thought any such thing, Rock, I assure
you. Your countess is a fine woman. No one who meets her can fail
to recognize her for the lady she is. Whole thing’s a
misunderstanding, blow over in no time, without a doubt.”

“
Then . . .?” The earl raised an
eyebrow, and waited.

“
It’s Daphne!” Mr. Dinsmore burst out,
forgetting his intention of letting Brawley take the brunt of the
earl’s displeasure.

“
She has decided to emulate the antics
of Caro Lamb,” said Gant. “We caught wind of her intentions and
have come to warn you. She has leased a house near here and plans
to lay siege to the citadel, as the Lamb has done with
Byron!”

“
She cannot think I will take her
back!” the earl barked.

Harry Dinsmore cleared his throat. “She wants
a good deal more than that, I fear.”

“
It seems,” Brawley said, “she has
convinced herself that your marriage is totally invalid and that
she will rescue you from the harem harpy. As she puts it,” he added
hastily, when Jason appeared on the verge of erupting from his
chair with the purpose of throttling his best friend.

“
Or else she simply plans to drive a
wedge between you and your wife,” Mr. Dinsmore said, “so that you
will divorce Lady Rocksley and be free to marry her.”

“
Has the whole world gone mad?” Jason
groaned. Jumping to his feet, he paced the room, hands behind his
back, head down. “Is she here now?” he demanded at last. “Am I to
expect her to arrive at my door, hard on your heels?”

“
Unknown,” Lord Brawley responded. “She
has effected a short-term lease for something called Fenwick Manor,
I’m told—a property belonging to some cit in Bristol.”

The earl swore with grim fluency. “Not two
miles from here,” he muttered, “less as the crow flies. I’ll wring
the blasted woman’s neck. Just let me get my hands on her—”

“
Can’t do that, old chap,” Harry
Dinsmore advised. “Bad
ton
.
And I daresay the countess would not care to see you
hanged.”

The earl’s profanity grew even more
inventive, causing his friends to view him with undisguised
admiration. “Hutton!” the earl bawled. When the butler answered
with suspicious alacrity, all three gentlemen realized he must have
had his ear to the door. “Send a footman to Fenwick Manor at once
to inquire if a Mrs. Daphne Coleraine is in residence.

“
And now, gentlemen,” the earl added
after Hutton’s departure, “let us anticipate the uproar when my
mama and my wife discover this catastrophe. And plan how we may
come out of it with our skins intact.”

“
I say!” protested Mr. Dinsmore. “Ain’t
fair to say ‘
our
skins,’ you
know. Deucedly unfair, in fact. Tell him, Brawley.”

But Gant Deveny was slumped glumly in his
chair, thinking of the ancient tale about death being the reward of
the messenger bearing bad tidings. At the moment death seemed
almost preferable to the storm that was about to break over
Rockbourne Crest. Yet, as good friends should, he and Harry were
here to support Jason in his time of need. And Jason’s countess as
well. For no one, particularly a bride on such shaky ground as the
young Countess of Rocksley, deserved as formidable an adversary as
Mrs. Daphne Coleraine.

On the following day, Penny left the
gentlemen to their own devices and, blithely unaware that the
footman had returned to impart that Fenwick Manor was in hourly
expectation of Mrs. Coleraine’s arrival, set off for the village,
driving a gig, with Noreen O’Donnell up beside her. During the long
years of her Aunt Cass’s illness, a visit to the village had been
her only freedom. Before haring off to London, Penny had initiated
this practice in Shropshire and re-embraced it with alacrity upon
her return. Though Old Betsy was anything but a high-stepping prad,
Penny reveled in being in full control of the reins and in her
ability to direct the aging animal wherever she and Noreen might
wish to go.

Today, in addition to errands for her
mama-in-law and for herself, she planned to call on Helen Seagrave,
whose struggles to support herself, her ailing mother, and a
querulous aunt on the pension of her father, a colonel who had died
in the army’s brave stand at Corunna, had brought her to giving
lessons on the harp and pianoforte. Although Penny also enjoyed the
quiet companionship of Miss Mary Houghton, the squire’s daughter
was a mere nineteen and so painfully shy that Penny was already
coming to conclusion that it must be Helen Seagrave for the vicar.
Though how the burden of Miss Seagrave’s relatives was to be
managed, the countess was, as yet, uncertain. But the determination
that there should be at least one happy pair of newlyweds, other
than Blossom and her Ned, in this particular part of Shropshire was
firmly fixed in her mind. She would see Mr. Adrian Stanmore
properly wed before the year was out!