The Sherbrooke Bride Read online

  “Oh dear, what if he feels that he broke my heart three years ago and that is why I haven’t wed! What if he believes that I’ve pined for him? I can’t bear that, Father, I just can’t! What shall I do?”

  The duke made soothing noises. Pride, he thought, damnable pride. Well, he’d infused her with all the pride that was in his lineage. Inspiration struck and he smiled to himself. “The poor fellow,” he said in a mournful voice, shaking his head.

  Melissande whirled about to face her father, blinking in confusion. “What poor fellow?”

  “Why, the Earl of Northcliffe, of course. The man has wanted you for three years, has doubtless suffered more than you and I could possibly imagine. He wanted you, Melissande, but he felt great dedication for England, felt honor bound by what he believed to be his sacred duty. He did not dismiss his honor, despite his ardent desire for you. Surely you cannot fault him for that. And now he tries to make restitution. He pines for you. And now he bows himself before you, my dear, begging that you forgive his lamentable integrity, that you please consider that you will have him now.” The duke wasn’t about to tell his daughter that the earl had sold out some nine or ten months before. Even Melissande would wonder at the earl’s depth of passion were she to know that he hadn’t pushed to have her for nearly a year after he was free to do so.

  “He was very distraught,” Melissande said slowly. “Even as I took him to task for his devotion to his absurd duty, he did appear genuinely distraught.”

  “He is the Earl of Northcliffe, and his home is one of the premier estates in England.”

  “Yes, that is true.”

  “He has wealth and standing. He is still a man to be reckoned with in the government. I hear he still consults with the War Ministry, even with Addington.” The duke paused, then added smoothly, “A man in such a position desperately needs a wife of grace and consequence to oversee his social obligations. He is also a handsome man as I recall. I hear he is much in demand in London drawing rooms.”

  “He is very dark, too dark. He is probably hairy. I do not like men so dark, but he is an earl.”

  “You liked him well enough three years ago.”

  “Perhaps, but I was very young. He was severe then; he is probably more so now. He did not laugh very much; he was far too serious. No, even his smiles were rare.”

  “He was suffering from a rather serious wound.”

  “Still, he rarely showed a glimmer of humor when I was amusing. It was a fault I saw but ignored then.”

  “But my dear, how could he be so very severe when he admired you? His admiration, as I recall, was quite remarkable in its scope.” That was true, but he’d known that the earl, had he remained longer in his daughter’s orbit, would have removed the blinders from his eyes. He fully intended to have them wed as quickly as possible.

  “Not as remarkable as his devotion to his country!”

  “Now his devotion would be to you, his wife, no longer to his country. You are an intelligent girl, Melissande. Surely with such a devoted husband, you would arrange matters quite to your liking. Ah, how you would shine when you took your rightful place as the Countess of Northcliffe in London society.”

  The duke stopped, knowing the seeds were all well planted, watered, and fertilized. Perhaps even a bit too much fertilizer. He must wait now and see if her mental powers were sufficient to bring the seeds to fruition. He hesitated to threaten her but he would do so should she refuse what he wanted her to do.

  She was looking thoughtful, a circumstance that normally would have made him very wary, for her perfect brow was furrowed, a condition that she wouldn’t have allowed had she been aware of it, for it diminished her beauty. It made her look remarkably human. Soon, thank God, another man would have to worry about her tantrums, her passions, her sulks, the inevitable scenes that gave him indigestion. Ah, but then again, the man who would be her husband would also have one of the most beautiful women in England in his possession.

  The duke wondered if that would be enough. He liked the Earl of Northcliffe, believed him a fine young man. Since he was fit again, he probably did smile and laugh from time to time. The duke hadn’t remembered him as being overly serious and severe. And now he would give him a prize that would gratify any man’s soul.

  He would give himself desperately needed funds to keep the ducal ship afloat.

  CHAPTER

  4

  “BUT WHAT DO you think, Alex? Should I agree to marry Douglas Sherbrooke?”

  Why, Alexandra wondered yet again as she looked at her sister, did people go through the pretense of asking for another’s opinion? It was as if Alexandra, more than most, gave an impression that encouraged people to speak to her of their innermost thoughts, to ask her view, but of course, she wasn’t to expect that they would ever heed anything she had to say.

  Slowly she raised her chin and said clearly, “I think Douglas Sherbrooke deserves to marry the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  That drew up Melissande, for she’d been pacing her bedchamber like a healthy young colt, clearly involved in her own thoughts. “What did you say?”

  “I think Douglas Sherbrooke—”

  “Oh, all right, I heard you! Well, if I decide to wed him, you will have your wish, won’t you?”

  Alexandra eyed her sister thoughtfully, then said slowly, “I hope that Douglas Sherbrooke will believe so.”

  Melissande had very nearly convinced herself that becoming the Countess of Northcliffe would be quite the thing for her to do when their mother, Her Grace, Lady Judith, came into the bedchamber like a small whirlwind, spots of angry color on her thin cheeks, her hands fluttering, saying, “Your father says you will marry the earl soon—next week if it can be arranged! He says we won’t go to London, there won’t be the need to go! Ah, the man is impossible! What are we to do?”

  Alexandra said mildly, “You know there isn’t much money, Mama. London would cost Papa a fortune he can ill afford to spend.”

  “Stuff and nonsense! It is ever his plaint. I want to go to London. As for you, my girl, you must find a husband, and you’ll not find one hanging over the garden wall watching you as you weed your infernal plants! After your sister chooses the gentleman she wishes, why then, the others will realize that you are to come next. They will put their feelings for your sister behind them and turn to you. As I said, your father has always complained that there is no money for anything, but there always is, except for your poor brother, who is quite unable to pry sufficient funds from your father to live like a young gentleman should live in London. It is disgraceful, and so I told His Grace.”

  Lady Judith stopped to catch her breath. “What did Papa say?” Alexandra asked quickly during this brief respite.

  “He said I should mind to my own affairs, if it is any of your concern, my girl.”

  Alexandra wondered why her father had told his wife about the marriage plans, but decided he’d probably been forced into it somehow. She sat back and watched with a good deal of detachment as her mother and Melissande whipped themselves into a state of advanced outrage. It was ever so when one or the other didn’t get her way. Eventually Alexandra rose and walked from her sister’s peach and cream bedchamber, her departure unregarded.

  Alexandra knew that Melissande would agree to marry the earl. She also knew that on that day, she would wish to be on another continent so she wouldn’t have to see it, wouldn’t have to live through it. She didn’t want to face up to it, but she had to. She also knew there was no hope for it; she would be here, aloofness and silence her only defense, and she would be forced to smile and to greet the earl as a future sister-in-law should and she would have to watch him look at Melissande as he spoke the words that would make her his wife.

  Alexandra had come to realize in her eighteen years that life could concoct many lavishly inedible dishes to serve on one’s plate.

  Northcliffe Hall

  Douglas couldn’t believe it, couldn’t at first take it all in. He stared from t
he Duke of Beresford’s letter to the other short, urgent scrawl dispatched by Lord Avery himself just that morning, brought to him by a messenger who awaited his reply in the kitchen, doubtless downing ale.

  He picked up the duke’s letter again. It was jovial to the eyebrows, filled with jubilation and relief and congratulations. Douglas was to marry Melissande next week at Claybourn Hall in the ancient Norman church in the village of Wetherby. The duke would become his proud papa-in-law in seven days. His new papa-in-law would also shove quite a few guineas into the needy ducal pocket once the marriage had taken place.

  He picked up Lord Avery’s letter. He was also to go to Etaples, France, as soon as possible, disguised as a bloody French soldier. He was to await Georges Cadoudal’s instructions, then follow them. He was to rescue a French girl who was being held against her will by one of Napoleon’s generals. There was nothing more, absolutely no detail, no names, no specifics. If Douglas didn’t do this, England would lose its best chance at eliminating Napoleon, for Georges Cadoudal was the brain behind the entire operation. Lord Avery was counting on Douglas. England was counting on Douglas. To hammer the final nail in the coffin, Lord Avery wrote in closing, “If you do not rescue this wretched girl, Cadoudal says he won’t continue with the plan. He insists upon you, Douglas, but he refuses to say why. Perhaps you know the answer. I know you have met him in the past. You must do this and succeed, Northcliffe, you must. England’s fate lies in your hands.”

  Douglas sat back in his chair and laughed. “I must wed and I must go to France.” He laughed louder.

  Would he sail to France to rescue Cadoudal’s lover, as doubtless this female was, or travel to Claybourn Hall as a bridegroom?

  Douglas stopped laughing. The frown returned to his forehead. Why couldn’t life be simple, just once? He was responsible for England’s fate? Well, hell.

  He thought about Georges Cadoudal, the radical leader of the Royalist Chouans. His last attempt to eliminate Napoleon had been in December 1800, his followers using explosives in Paris that had killed twenty-two people and wounded well over fifty, but not harming any of Napoleon’s entourage. Georges Cadoudal was a dangerous man, a passionate man who despised Napoleon to the depths of his soul, a man who sought the return of the Bourbons to the French throne; he counted no cost, be it lives or money. But evidently this girl’s life he counted high, so high that he would renege on his plans with England if she weren’t rescued.

  Cadoudal knew Douglas, that was true, had seen him play the Frenchman several years before and succeed in a mission, but why he would insist upon Douglas and no other to rescue his lover would remain a mystery until and unless Douglas went to Etaples, France. And now the English government was backing Cadoudal in another plot. And the plot was in jeopardy because Georges’s lover was being held prisoner.

  When Hollis, the Sherbrooke butler for thirty years, who looked remarkably like a quite respectable peer of the realm himself, walked soundlessly into the library, Douglas at first paid him no heed. Once, many years before, when Douglas was young and prideful as a cock and equally jealous of his own worth, a friend had joked that Douglas resembled the Sherbrooke butler more than he did his own father. Douglas had flattened him.

  Hollis cleared his throat gently.

  Douglas looked up, and a black eyebrow went up as well in silent question.

  “Your cousin, Lord Rathmore, has just arrived, my lord. He said I wasn’t to disturb you but one simply doesn’t disregard His Lordship’s presence, you know.”

  “That is certainly true. To ask Tony to remain in a quiet corner to await someone’s pleasure would never do. I’ll come directly. I wonder what His Lordship wants? Surely not to press me about marriage.”

  “Probably not, my lord. If I may speak plainly, His Lordship looks a bit downpin, a bit tight about the mouth. Perhaps ill, although not of the body, you understand, but of the spirit. Were I to hazard a guess, knowing His Lordship’s penchants, I dare say it would involve the fair sex.” He looked off into the distance, adding, “It usually does, regardless of penchants.”

  “Damnation,” said Douglas, rising from his desk. “I’ll see him.” He stared down again at the two letters. The messenger could wait a bit longer. He had to think, had to weigh all the alternatives open to him, he had to have more time. Besides, Anthony Colin St. John Parrish, Viscount Rathmore, was the son of his mother’s first cousin, and a favorite of his. It had been six months since they’d been in each other’s company.

  His first view of his cousin did not gladden his heart. He looked depressed as the devil, just as Hollis had said. Douglas strode into the small estate room, closed the door firmly behind him, and locked it. “All right, Tony,” he said without preamble, “out with it. What is wrong?”

  Tony Parrish, Viscount Rathmore, turned about from his perusal of nothing in particular outside the window to look at his cousin. He straightened his shoulders automatically and tried for a smile. It wasn’t much of a smile, but Douglas appreciated the effort, and repeated mildly, “Tell me, Tony. What’s happened?”

  “Hollis, I gather?”

  “Yes. Tell me.”

  “That man should have been a bloody priest.”

  “Oh no, it’s just that he isn’t blind. Also he’s rather fond of you. Now, talk to me, Tony.”

  “All right, curse you, if you must know, I am no longer engaged. I am now without a fiancée. I have been betrayed. I am alone and adrift. I am here.”

  Was Hollis never wrong? Still, Douglas was incredulous. “You mean to say that Teresa Carleton broke it off?”

  “Of course she didn’t. Don’t be a simpleton. No, I did. I found out she was sleeping with one of my friends. Friend, ha! The bloody sod! Can you believe it, Douglas? The woman was to marry me—me!—she was to be my bloody wife. I had selected her with great care, I had nurtured her as I would the most precious of blossoms, treated her with consideration and respect, never doing much of anything except kissing her and not even with my mouth open, mind you, and all along she was actually one of my friend’s mistresses. It is impossible to believe, Douglas, it is intolerable.”

  “It isn’t as if she were a virgin to begin with, Tony,” Douglas said mildly. “She’s a widow, after all. I dare say you’ve continued sleeping with your lovers and I doubt not that some of them are friends of Teresa’s.”

  “That’s not the point, and you know it, damn you!”

  “Perhaps not to you, but—” Douglas broke off. “It is over then? You’re a free man now? Have you really broken the engagement or are you here to lick your wounds and consider your unanchored state?”

  “Yes, I’ve broken it off, and I would like to kill the woman for her perfidy! Cuckolding me! Me, Douglas!”

  “You weren’t yet wed to the lady, Tony.”

  “The principle remains the same. I cannot take it in, Douglas, I can scarce convince my mind that it has really happened. How could a woman do such a thing to me?”

  His cousin, Douglas thought, held a very good opinion of himself, and truth be told, so did most other people. No woman, so far as Douglas knew, had ever played Tony false. Indeed, it was always Tony who had stepped away, laughing, as carefree as Ryder when it came to the fair sex, until he met Teresa Carleton, a young widow who had, for some obscure and unfathomed reason, charmed Viscount Rathmore to his Hessian-covered toes and marriage had popped into his mind and out of his mouth within a week. Then she had proceeded to play the game by the same rules Tony employed. The blow to his esteem must be shattering. No wonder he was reeling from it.

  “I can’t go back to London now for I would see her and my temper is uncertain, Douglas, you know that. I must rusticate until I regain my balance, until I am once more in control—cold and hard in my brain once again—and in no danger of cursing that scheming slut and slapping her silly. Do you mind if I stay here for a while?”

  The solution to his problem came to Douglas in a blinding flash, fully fleshed and brilliant, and he grinned. “Tony
, you may stay here for the remainder of the century. You may drink all my fine French brandy; you may even sleep in my earl’s bed. You may do anything you wish.” Douglas strode to his cousin, grabbed his hand and pumped it, all the while grinning like a fool. “In addition, you, Tony, are about to save my life. Heaven will welcome you for what you will do for me.”

  Tony Parrish looked at his cousin, then smiled, a real smile, one filled with curiosity and humor. “I expect you will tell your expectations of my future bravery,” he said slowly.

  “Oh yes, indeed. Let’s go riding and I will tell you all about it.”

  Tony’s smile remained intact, his interest level high for about five minutes into Douglas’s recital, then he looked astounded, aghast, then once again, he smiled, shrugged, and said, “Why not?”

  Claybourn Hall

  Why not indeed, Tony Parrish thought five days later, his eyes a bit glazed from the vision that stood not five feet from him. She was the most exquisite creature he had ever seen. Every feature complemented the other, and each was arguably well nigh perfect. None of his former or present mistresses, nor his former fiancée, Teresa Carleton, came near to her in the flawlessness of her features. He’d always believed fair-haired women were the most beautiful, the most delicate and alluring. By all the saints, not so. Her hair was black and thick with no hint of red, her eyes an incredible dark blue, slightly slanted upward and sinfully long-lashed. Her skin was white and soft and smooth, her nose thin, her mouth full and tempting. Her body was so precisely perfect in its wondrous curves that it made him break into an immediate sweat.

  He felt his belly cramp. He felt himself pale. He just looked at her, unable not to, and watched a slow smile touch her mouth. She spoke, saying softly, “Viscount Rathmore? You are the earl’s cousin, I believe?”