Strathmere's Bride
Jacqueline Navin
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#ue5983c70-8e44-5f13-ac25-bcda1422e24d)
Praise (#u68dd1f14-0871-52af-9dc4-243963f6c8b3)
Excerpt (#ud304c02c-d1e8-5df1-a7d5-68d047db2044)
Dear Reader (#u2d5aef70-5b15-5519-884e-ef9f644a6d0e)
Title Page (#ubfc5919b-e97b-5c75-911b-559150497049)
About The Author (#u0ceca7e1-65b7-5bca-8154-41490a54bcd7)
Acknowledgments (#u2879d1c0-b5b3-57e8-a954-6d609f2a8f2e)
Chapter One (#uc98ac307-7269-5c18-95d3-30abb92c2c34)
Chapter Two (#ud394b4c8-b2cb-51d8-80ad-3ba869974256)
Chapter Three (#uba16c11a-e80d-5c8b-b189-97112447773c)
Chapter Four (#uda648e6c-dff4-50f2-8e36-1d85948aa76e)
Chapter Five (#ud98b1e53-64a1-5ced-ae7c-b70627c86ec7)
Chapter Six (#u362911d5-08a4-5e7b-bd4d-1fb98a38726f)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Praise for Jacqueline Navin’s recent release,
A Rose at Midnight
“Nothing can prepare you for the pure love that flows from Ms. Navin’s writing. She gives warmth, humor, tears of joy…her books are gifts to be treasured.”
—Bell, Book and Candle
“Ms. Navin touches our hearts with a tale of rebirth and the joyous wonders of love.”
—Romantic Times Magazine
“I thought I was to be asked
to leave.”
“We could never get on without you,” Jareth murmured, turning to face her.
The words touched something in Chloe, a distant hope, a desire held at bay. It must have shone in her eyes as she raised her gaze to his. “You could not?”
He seemed to realize his error. His expression sobered.
She lowered her gaze, ashamed of what he might see in her eyes. The touch of his fingers along her chin made her catch her breath. They were warm and smooth, and tiny shivers of excitement shot forth like sparks from a flint to singe her cheek and sizzle down her neck.
“Sweet Lord, Chloe, are you never satisfied with anything? Do you always need to push me beyond comfort?” His words were harsh, but they were spoken in a tone that was almost a caress…
Dear Reader,
Autumn is such a romantic season—fall colors, rustling leaves, big sweaters and, for many of you, the kids are back in school So, as the leaves fall, snuggle up in a cozy chair and let us sweep you away to the romantic past!
Rising star Jacqueline Navin returns with her fourth Harlequin Historical novel since her publishing debut in March of 1998. Her latest, Strathmere’s Bride, stays true to her passionate and emotional style. In this Regency-style historical tale, a duke who is now the single father of his two orphaned nieces intends to marry—quickly. He courts a lovely and proper woman, but is much more intrigued by the very improper governess running about with his nieces. Will he choose duty, or desire…?
Bestselling author Ruth Langan brings us the final book in THE O’NEIL SAGA, Briana. Set in England and Ireland, this is the tale of a feisty Irish noblewoman and the lonely, tormented landowner who first saves her life—and then succumbs to her charms! In The Doctor’s Wife by the popular Cheryl St John, scandalous secrets are revealed but love triumphs when a waitress “from the other side of the tracks” marries a young doctor in need of a mother for his baby girl. And don’t miss Branded Hearts by Diana Hall, a Western chock-full of juicy surprises. Here, a young cowgirl bent on revenge must fight her feelings for her boss, an enigmatic cattle rancher.
Enjoy. And come back again next month for four more choices of the best in historical romance.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
P.S. We’d love to hear what you think about Harlequin Historicals! Drop us a line at:
Harlequin Historicals
300 E. 42nd Street, 6th Floor
New York, NY 10017
Strathmere’s Bride
Jacqueline Navin
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
JACQUELINE NAVIN (#ulink_ae8efcd3-b139-56f3-bb09-6caf37b4c530)
lives with her husband and three small children in Maryland, where she works in private practice as a psychologist. Writing has been her hobby since the sixth grade, and she has boxes full of incomplete manuscripts to prove it.
When asked, as she often is, how she finds time m her busy schedule to write, she replies that it is not a problem—thanks to the staunch support of her husband, who is not unused to doing the dinner dishes and tucking the kids into bed. However, finding time to do the laundry—that’s the problem. Jacqueline would love to hear from readers. Please write to her at P.O. Box 1611, Bel Air, MD 21014.
This is Lindsey’s book—my Chloe,
my very own little flibbertigibbet.
How well I know how trying they can be.
And how precious.
Chapter One (#ulink_cc94cecc-9cb2-5992-898f-0522645cc450)
Northumberland, England, 1847
There was no doubt about it, Jareth Hunt, Duke of Strathmere, thought as he gazed out his study window at his two nieces and their governess frolicking on the grass. Chloe Pesserat was entirely unacceptable.
Narrowing his eyes, he shook his head in disapproval. The woman in question reclined prostrate on the blanket she had strewn on the closely clipped lawn, her head propped upon her two palms and one of her legs bent so that her foot—her shoeless foot!—turned lazy circles in the air. Miss Pesserat looked more as if she were in a bedroom than in a public place. Why, her entire stockinged leg was exposed. A very shapely one, with a finely tapered calf and slender ankle…
Inserting a forefinger inside the tightly knotted cravat, Jareth pulled hard, but he still had difficulty swallowing. The fire, he thought, glancing blamefully at the hearth. It blazed far too brightly for such a fine day as this. The weather was unseasonably warm, he noticed just now.
Unlatching the casement, he cracked the window to let in some fresh air. The high-pitched shouts of his eldest niece carried inside, making him wince. Rebeccah, who was five years of age, hooted and ran about, flapping her arms and chanting something unintelligible in a very loud, obnoxious voice.
He frowned at her ridiculous antics. She looked demented—completely unsuitable for the daughter of the late Duke of Strathmere. Yet, as unsightly as it was, he preferred Rebeccah’s annoying behavior to the way three-year-old Sarah sat so silently, her tiny fingers clutching a withered flower left over from last summer.
Rebeccah cried, “And then what happened?”
“Then the prince carried off the evil dragon!” Miss Pesserat’s voice held only a trace of a French accent, making it sound musical and lilting and undeniably enchanting.
“Hurrah!” exclaimed Rebeccah. “Kill the dragon!” She commenced with the leaping and shrieking once again.
“And then…” Miss Pesserat said in a provocative way, holding up a slender finger.
Rebeccah froze. “Yes?” she urged gleefully.
“He came back for the princess and…” She paused, and in chorus the two voices chimed, “They lived happily ever after!”
Rebeccah clapped and jumped in place. Miss Pesserat turned to Sarah and prodded her with a set of wiggling fingers, making the little girl smile.
But no laugh. Jareth’s heart constricted as he watched his youngest niece, solemn little Sarah, who had uttered not one single sound since the accident that took her parents’ lives three months ago.
Sheer bad luck, an error in the driver’s judgment, a ripple in the fabric of destiny—something unexplainable had caused Jareth’s elder brother’s carriage to overturn on a hairpin curve and spill down a sharp, craggy ravine. The duke and duchess were killed. Blessedly, the children, who had been with them, had survived. But not unscarred. Rebeccah had been injured, but her physical recovery had been swift.
Oddly, Sarah had escaped with nary a scratch, except that she no longer possessed a loving mother, a devoted father or the ability to speak. It wasn’t that she had any physical damage to her vocal cords. The once exuberant child had simply ceased talking. She made no sounds, in fact—not crying, not laughter, not the tiniest noise since the accident.
That terrible event had also left Jareth the seventh duke, riddled with grief and utterly miserable. Gone was the life he had led as a contented second son. His business, his friends, his much valued freedom were gone. All he had now was duty. Duty to the duchy and duty to his family, his nieces in particular. And one big headache in the bargain. Miss Chloe Pesserat.
Miss Pesserat scrambled to her feet, pausing to slip on a discarded slipper. As she balanced on one foot, she held out her slender arms in a delicate move that was reminiscent of the prima ballerinas Jareth had seen on the Paris stage. Miss Chloe, as the little girls called her, possessed an uncanny grace. It was evident m her smallest movement, making each motion extraordinarily…well, beautiful.
She now began a very ungraceful chase of Rebeccah, claiming to be the dragon come back for revenge. Rebeccah squealed, declaring herself the prince and facing off against the evil monster. Sarah smiled, running when her sister warned her of the mortal danger she was in, but still in silence. Always in silence.
Jareth watched Rebeccah, who looked joyful at this moment. She seemed, as far as anyone could surmise, to have survived the loss of her parents without incident, except of course for the howling night terrors. Almost every night in the wee hours before dawn, Jareth was told, the five-year-old hovered in some netherworld between sleep and wakefulness, her thrashing and sobbing so alarming as to send normally affectionate servants scurrying away in tears. The only one who could quiet her, and not without effort, was Miss Chloe.
Jareth scowled, returning his regard to the young woman carrying on in the most indecorous manner, issuing sounds no human had any business making, skirts hitched up almost to her knees.
“Outrageous, isn’t she?” a cultured voice asked from behind him.
Jareth nodded. Now the chit tumbled Rebeccah onto the ground. As they rolled about, they kicked up chunks of mud. Dark stains appeared on their skirts.
“Abominable,” his mother said.
“Is there no way to dismiss her?” Jareth asked. Really, this was preposterous. Cavorting like village urchins!
“The doctor said absolutely not. Both girls’ nerves are fragile. He is fearful of what would happen if they had to do without her. He believes they have transferred their affections to their Miss Chloe. Losing her, so quickly after the loss of…” The dowager duchess faltered only a little, but to her son, who had never heard his mother’s voice so much as quiver throughout all of this wretched tragedy, it was as startling as her dissolving into tears.
He remained perfectly rigid, knowing any sign that he had noticed her distress would be inappropriate. When she spoke again, her voice was restored. “The loss of their parents, it might be devastating.”
“Has anyone spoken to her?”
“I have, on numerous occasions.” A long, indrawn breath, then a protracted sigh. “She refuses to heed my instruction and makes no secret of telling me so. She informed me that the children need joy in their lives, that propriety and convention need to be suspended during this period of time she referred to as ‘mending.’”
Jareth snorted.
“My sentiments exactly, Strathmere.” Strange how easily his mother altered his name, and with no sign that only a short time ago a different son went by that title, a son now dead. He was no longer Jareth. He was Strathmere, even to his mother. Everything was altered irrevocably, even that primal bond with the woman who bore him thirty-one years ago.
She continued, “I was hopeful that you could be more forceful with her.”
“Certainly,” he said with conviction. He observed that Miss Pesserat had swung Rebeccah onto her back and was galloping about like some kind of maniacal racehorse.
“Disgraceful.” Just by the tone of his mother’s voice, Jareth could imagine her top lip curled in contempt.
At that moment, the object of their disapproval’s eye caught his through the open window. She stopped, the wide smile freezing on her face for a moment, then wilting rapidly until it was gone. Oblivious to the change, Rebeccah urged her on.
She certainly looked normal enough. Unflinching under his regard, she was merely an unremarkable girl, perhaps a bit pretty, with gray-blue eyes of a strange quality, tilted-up nose and wide, mobile mouth. Her hair hung in dark strands about her face, almost completely out of the sloppy knot sagging on the back of her head.
Not beautiful, no. But something about her made a man look twice.
She dropped her skirts into place and reached around to catch Rebeccah as she straightened. The child slid safely to the ground, grumping her disappointment at the end of their game.
His mother whispered in his ear, “I know you only arrived yesterday, but I want you to see her as soon as possible. We have visitors coming later today, and it would be unthinkable for them to witness anything similar to what we’ve just seen. You remember the Rathfords? You met Lord and Lady Rathford, and their delightful daughter Helena, when last you visited.”
“Yes,” he answered curtly, never taking his gaze from the girl. Miss Pesserat, his late sister-in-law’s cousin who had come all the way from France to care for Sarah and Rebeccah, was giving the girls orders in her charmingly accented voice as she balled up the blanket into a messy armful.
Rebeccah, it seemed, was having none of it Miss Pesserat handled the recalcitrant child’s protests with a firm tone and determined repetition of her request for cooperation. Eventually, Rebeccah stomped off toward the house.
For Sarah, Miss Pesserat only had to extend her hand and the little girl came up and took it. Jareth battled a fresh wash of pain as he considered how changed this little sprite was from the lively two-year-old he had met on his last visit, only seven months ago.
“Be firm,” his mother urged. He heard the rustle of her dress as she headed toward the door. Before she left, she added in a stiff, grudging voice, “But do not be unkind. The children need her. God help us, we need her.”
Miss Pesserat and the children disappeared around the corner, presumably to enter through the kitchens. His mother was gone. The soft click of the door told him he was alone.
Jareth Hunt let his head drop and felt the weariness lay claim to every inch of his body.
Chloe managed to settle the girls into their beds for a much needed nap, but it wasn’t easy. She had to promise Rebeccah there would be her favorite biscuits on the tea tray when the child awoke, but that was not a problem. Cook always did little favors for Chloe. Cook was French, and though the two of them had never set eyes on each other before coming to Strathmere, Cook considered them related, as countrymen if not kinsmen.
Humming lightly, Chloe crossed to Sarah’s bed. The child lay clutching her bear, the one with the mottled fur, which had weathered too many hugs from sticky hands. He was missing his left eye and several seams had to be restitched on a regular basis.
Touching Sarah’s white-blond hair, Chloe smiled. “Good Samuel will guard your dreams.”
Samuel was the bear’s name. Much too solemn an appellation for a fellow blessed with so much love, Chloe had always thought, but it had been his name before she arrived seven months ago to care for her cousin Bethany’s children, and so it stayed.
Under the tender ministrations of her soothing voice and the lightest of touches as she stroked the child’s hair, Sarah was asleep in no time. Chloe crept to Rebeccah’s bed. The girl’s mouth gaped open, and she snored lightly. Dear, impulsive, bossy, demanding Rebeccah. Chloe’s heart felt tight gazing at her. In some ways, this child’s scars were deeper than her sister’s. Chloe knew well the horrors the girl kept buried within.
She closed her eyes. Dearest Bethany, I shall look after them. I shall see them out of the shadows. Send your love to help me, cousin, and show me how.
A young upstairs maid named Mary appeared at the door. She nodded when Chloe laid a finger to her lips. Silently Mary held up a letter.
“Thank you,” Chloe whispered softly, coming to take it. Mary followed Chloe as she exited the girls’ bedchamber and walked across the playroom to her own small chamber.
The missive was from Papa. Chloe recognized the handwriting immediately. How she loved his long, chatty letters, full of news of her family. How she missed them all. Oh, she longed for home, that lazy, contented life in the Loire Valley, with everyone around her she had known since birth and no one frowning at her in disapproval or thinking her daft just because she laughed out loud.
“And his grace wishes to see you in his study when you have finished with the girls,” Mary added in a hushed tone.
Chloe’s head snapped up. She had known it was only a matter of time before she was summoned before the new duke.
She had seen him on two occasions. The first time was yesterday when he arrived. He had not come to his brother’s funeral, as he had been abroad and his last visit was a month before she herself had arrived at Strathmere. From her window, she had watched as he alighted from a stylish charcoal brougham. Lean, elegant, dressed impeccably in tailcoat and pants with a single, sharp crease, his snow-white shirt crisply pressed, he looked exactly as a duke should. Except for his dark chestnut hair. His hair surprised her a little, for it was left to curl loosely about his crown, not slicked back with Macassar oil as was the fashion. Of course, he kept it neatly trimmed, but there was something untamed about that hair. And, she had thought in her brief glimpse of him today through the library window—her second sighting— something soulful in the large, deep brown eyes.
She didn’t dread the upcoming confrontation with him, but she didn’t savor it, either. It was just that it was tiring to battle the mighty Hunt family’s disapproval all the time just for the privilege of being herself.
Glancing at the letter in her hand, she felt a sharp pang of homesickness. Squaring her shoulders, she put the letter on her bedside table to be enjoyed later. To Mary, she said, “Tell him I shall be down directly. I just want to tidy up.”
Mary’s gaze swept the length of Chloe’s dress, then she giggled. Chloe sighed, looking down at herself. She was a mess. She always seemed to be untidy. She was never quite sure how that happened.
It took her only a few minutes to change her dress into a pretty muslin print and restyle her hair in a simple twist. Of course, the results were hardly impressive. She was not particularly talented with hair. Too impatient, she supposed.
Peering closer at the small pier glass, she saw her reflection was one of a pleasant-faced girl with good skin and clear, unusual eyes of blue, overlaid with wisps of pale, pale gray. Her father always said her eyes looked like a stormy sea. She liked that. Her nose was pretty, too, sort of small with a tiny slope at the tip. Her mouth was large, with wide full lips that had a tendency to break into an infectious smile.
A pleasant-faced girl, certainly, but not a true beauty, which pleased her just fine. Beauties, like her late cousin Bethany, had too much responsibility living up to everyone else’s expectations or apologizing for their good looks. Bethany had spent enormous effort trying to convince everyone that even though she was beautiful, she was still a nice person.
With a last pat for her hair, she went down to the library. Pausing just outside the threshold of the room that was now the new duke’s domain, she drew in a bracing breath. The dowager duchess wanted to dismiss her, that she already knew, and perhaps the duke agreed. The ironic thing was, she wanted to go, but she couldn’t let that happen for two very good reasons. One’s name was Rebeccah, and the other’s was Sarah.
With a perfunctory knock on the door, she let herself in.
Chapter Two (#ulink_29ce03f3-dca3-58b1-8f3a-d4900b53fff1)
Jareth turned to greet Miss Pesserat as she came into the room.
She looked much different than she had earlier, which was an improvement, for her hair was neater and her dress clean.
And then again, it was not an improvement. Her face was plain, devoid of expression, and that fascinating mobility he had seen when she was with the children was gone.
She sketched a neat curtsy for him. “Your grace wished to see me?”
“Yes. Please have a seat, Miss Pesserat.”
“Thank you.”
She sat, folding her hands on her lap, and waited. The picture of decorum.
Jareth pulled himself up straight, clasped his hands behind his back and began to speak. “Miss Pesserat, I believe you know why I have asked to see you today.”
“Yes, of course. You disapprove of me, non?”
Jareth stopped. Chloe just stared back at him with wide, innocent eyes. They were so pale. Haunting eyes. Eyes that could look clear through a person.
“Those are your words, not mine. I prefer to use my own, for they will convey my meaning more directly, so if you will be patient, please.”
He was satisfied with the demure expression she donned. He continued, “Principally, I am distressed at your behavior. It has come to my attention that you are leading my nieces in daily activities that are filled with far too much play.”
“Children should play.”
“Of course, Miss Pesserat. Please do not think to twist my words to put me at the defense.” Her lashes swept down, betraying her. Oh, Miss Pesserat knew exactly what she was doing. And she was very good at it. “Play is essential, but not the only thing that must be present in a child’s life. Discipline, for example, must serve to balance.”
“I quite agree, your grace.”
“What I have observed since I have arrived home is a deplorable lack of discipline in the children. They are allowed to romp about most indecorously—”
She held up a slender hand in one of those gestures that seemed as light as air. “Pardon, your grace. I do not understand, in-dec-roos-ly.”
“Like urchins in the streets of London, mademoiselle,” he explained impatiently. “I observed them today gadding about in a most unseemly fashion out on the lawn. Their behavior would have disgraced this family should a visitor happened to have seen such screeching and laughter as was taking place.”
“I am sorry we disturbed you.” She looked up, as if troubled. “You dislike laughter?”
Jareth narrowed his eyes. “When appropriate, I do not, Miss Pesserat, disapprove of laughter, of course. However, hysterics are a different matter.”
She smiled and nodded. Her smile lit up her face, transforming it and warming the room. “That is good, because the children need to laugh. It is joy that will chase their sadness away. They need to learn how to live again, your grace. To enjoy what life can give them.” Frowning slightly, she asked, “Do you not agree that life is to be enjoyed?”
Despite her disconcerting remarks, Jareth countered without hesitation. “Yes, I do indeed. In its proper place, enjoyment is essential to a satisfactory existence. But there are other things that make for a complete life. Duty and responsibility, for example, and conducting yourself with dignity and self-respect. And all things in moderation, Miss Pesserat.”
She wrinkled her nose. “You English put much stock in all of that mod-a-ray-shon.”
Was she mocking him? “Are you saying you think it useless to know how to hold oneself with dignity?”
Her spine stiffened visibly. “The French have dignity.”
Now she had made it sound as if he were insulting her heritage. He sighed, shaking his head in exasperation. “If you wish to misunderstand me apurpose, I can do nothing to stop you, but I suggest you listen closely to my words to avoid unpleasantness. I believe I am being quite clear. We—my mother and I—would like you to alter the haphazard way in which you perform your duties. The children must be schooled in their manners and appropriate decorum befitting their station. You have an obligation to instruct them in these things, Miss Pesserat, as is your duty as governess.”
“I agree with you, I do.” Chloe paused, seeming troubled. “But not at this time, your grace. They are recovering from an unspeakable event—”
“More the reason to establish normal routines,” he interjected forcefully, “to help them recover and enjoy the security of a structured environment.”
“I disagree,” she countered. Jareth couldn’t help a grudging admiration at her courage, for as much as he did not appreciate it, he couldn’t fault her for it. She was fighting for what she believed in, fighting for the sake of the children.
But she was, of course, wrong.
“They need love and joy,” she insisted.
“In measure, Miss Pesserat, in measure.”
She stood in a breathtakingly fluid movement. “No, in abundance, sir.”
He stared at her, donning the careful languid laziness those of his class cultivated to handle such vulgar outbursts of emotion. After a long pause, she sat back down. He said in a clipped, precise voice, “If you have reined yourself under control, we can resume our conversation.”
“But there is nothing to discuss. You and I disagree. You are in charge, but I am the one with the children in my care. What precisely do you suggest we discuss?”
Surprisingly, she had summed the situation up quite succinctly. They were at an impasse.
However, before Jareth had ever dreamed he would inherit the dukedom from his brother, he had spent eleven years in the business world. He had started a shipping business with an adept young commoner, a man by the name of Colin Burke, who had won a sturdy vessel in a game of cards. Jareth’s infusion of capital created Burke and Hunt Shipping. They started with one ship. The fleet grew over the years. Colin captained his own vessel and dealt with the local merchants in each port of call, but Jareth had been the one to move among his peers, culling investors and striking deals among the aristocracy.
He was a duke by birth, but a deal maker by trade. Why hadn’t he thought of that before?
“We should discuss a compromise, Miss Pesserat,” he said at last. “Since we both have differing views, as you so aptly put it, but both sincerely want what is best for my nieces, then I suppose we must find some way to meld our ideas together.”
He could see she was suspicious. “A truce?”
“A compromise. Meeting halfway.”
“I know what compromise means.” She wasn’t ready to give in. “What do you suggest?”
“A parceling of time, as it were.” He sat down across from her and leaned forward, wanting to meet her eye-to-eye. When he had wanted to intimidate her, he took the advantage of having her seated and him standing, but now they were going to compromise and so should meet as equals. Or so it would appear.
“What I suggest, Miss Pesserat, is that the children’s time be structured to include a substantial amount of time for play. This would have to be conducted within the confines of the nursery, however. Of course, there should be occasional outings, but these should proceed in an orderly fashion with an eye toward their education. Perhaps a stroll to the pond to observe the ducks and other aspects of nature.” She was sitting perfectly still. He inclined his head forward and lowered his voice slightly, lending an illusion of conspiracy. “During these times they will conduct themselves as ladies should, you understand. The kind of romping the children presently engage in should be kept to contained places where they may not be inadvertently observed. The walled garden beyond the kitchens, for example, is a lovely place.”
She remained quiet. This encouraged him. “Also, I am told their manners at tea are atrocious. I should like to begin taking tea with them so as to help with their instruction in this regard.”
Chloe felt her eyes snap wide and a snorting sort of laugh escaped her before she could stop it. She brought her hand up quickly over her mouth. Visions of the duke seated at the tea table with the children, observing their antics—which were, she would agree, deplorable for gentle company but perfectly natural for children of their age—were decidedly funny.
The duke snapped his mouth shut and stared at her. She disliked that look. She had seen it before. It was how the dowager duchess always regarded her.
Coughing, she brought herself under control. “I am sorry, your grace. Please continue.”
He waited a good minute or more before he spoke again. “I wish to be more involved with my nieces, and I shall be. I will be overseeing their instruction and so I expect to see progress in the areas of self-discipline.” He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together over his chest.
Chloe had had enough pretense. Politely, she said, “But that is no compromise, your grace. It is what you have wanted all along.”
He didn’t move, didn’t even blink.
Then he smiled. It wasn’t a warm smile.
“Miss Pesserat,” he began with studious patience. “I am going to see that my nieces are brought up as proper ladies of their station should be, with or without your cooperation.”
Was he threatening her? “Monsieur, are you saying you will dismiss me if I do not agree?”
“If you think your position in this house, and in those children’s lives, is utterly inalterable, I will tell you, Miss Pesserat, that I will not hesitate to terminate your employment here regardless of the dire warning of the doctor—of which I can only assume you are aware, since you seem uncannily sure of yourself. This I will do if I determine the damage to the children would be greater if you were to stay than to go.”
A sick, heavy feeling pressed down on her chest, making her feel slightly ill. Chloe tried to determine whether or not he was bluffing.
Not that she cared a whit for the position. Or Strathmere or England for that matter. But the children..
That she could not have. It was a sacred trust her beloved cousin had given her. Bethany had brought her into her children’s lives to help strike a balance between the constraints of the girls’ societal position and the more simple pleasures life had to offer.
Friends since girlhood, Bethany had always said Chloe had a talent for living. Chloe hadn’t understood what she meant, for the manner in which she approached life was completely natural to her. However, she had recognized the blatant appeal in her cousin’s letter and accepted the position. When she arrived at Strathmere, she had seen immediately what Bethany had feared—that her precious daughters would miss out on all the joie de vivre and lead, if it were up to the dowager duchess, a dreary existence dominated by etiquette, restraint and, above all, moderation.
Chloe looked at Jareth with cool assessment. “You would pitch the children into another loss so soon after the death of their parents just so you might have your way? Is it so important, then, to win?”
He was visibly taken aback, stunned to hear it put that way. Recovering quickly, he countered, “I will take whatever steps necessary to protect and guide my nieces.”
“You spent too many years at the bargaining table, your grace. Your mother loved to tell everyone of your great success, so I know you were a very good businessman. But this is not a cargo we are speaking of, but little ones, precious to me.”
“And to me,” he added sharply.
She shook her head. “You do not even know them. You were not here when they lost their mama and papa. You do not hold Rebeccah in your arms at night while she cries out. You say you know what is best for them, but how can you know?”
He paled. “How can you?” he challenged, but his voice lost its edge.
She gave him a little smile. “I do not know, your grace. I only follow what is in my heart.”
He stayed silent, watching her with those dark, dark eyes. They were like pools of pitch. Something passed over them, an indefinable emotion Chloe didn’t understand. She didn’t have any hope of him comprehending what she was trying to accomplish with the children, and she certainly didn’t expect to win his approval. But she would not be dismissed.
Drawing in a long breath, he said, in a steady, deep voice, “I will not argue with you, Miss Pesserat. I have a duty to my nieces that I shall see done to the best of my ability. You—” he paused”—shall make your own choices.”
“Yes,” she said quietly, standing. “You speak of duty as if only a duke could truly know its meaning. I have a duty as well, your grace.”
With that, she strode to the door, bracing herself for some comment, some parting gibe he would throw out in order to have the last word. When it didn’t come, she placed her hand on the doorknob and glanced back over her shoulder. The duke was watching her, body stiff, face inscrutable.
It was then it struck her that she had been wrong. He wasn’t interested in “winning,” as she had accused him. She saw the troubled look on his face and it wasn’t anger. He truly cared about his nieces. He wanted what was best for them.
But he was, of course, wrong.
She turned back around and left, heading to her room.
It didn’t matter what his motives were. Chloe loved her cousin’s daughters with a fierce protectiveness, no less than if they had been her own. She would not allow the duke to destroy them, even if he did it with the best of intentions.
Chapter Three (#ulink_af71e1b0-909b-52fa-9df6-c072cd4d2a53)
In the drawing room, Helena Rathford arranged her skirts with a quick flick of her wrist, then gave a nod to her accompanist seated at the pianoforte. Her mother nodded back and struck the first chord.
Jareth watched the young woman, impressed with her grace, her self-possession, her lovely face. Hers was a commanding kind of beauty—strong, high cheekbones with slashing hollows underneath, thin lips of bright primrose, a fine nose and chin, all framed with silvery-blond hair. She closed her pale lashes over ice-blue eyes, drew in a breath and began to sing.
Her voice was magnificent. Jareth stood transfixed for a moment as Helena gave life to the notes. It appeared to be almost painful, as if she dragged the melody up from her soul to set it free into the air.
Something, the touch of her gaze perhaps, made him glance at his mother. She was looking back at him, a crafty, knowing smile just slightly twisting her lips. Her eyes slid away, but there was satisfaction in them, he saw.
Jareth was no idiot, which was what he would have to have been to be oblivious to his mother’s intentions with regard to Lady Helena Rathford. He glanced up, examining the woman his mother wanted him to marry. Beauty, breeding, accomplished in the arts, congenial and pleasant. His mother’s discriminating taste had ferreted out a superior specimen of womanly excellence.
The music washed over him, and he let it take him with it as it built. His gaze drifted to the window. To the night, and to the stars, spilled across the sky like a thousand brilliant diamonds on black velvet. They were his great love, the stars. So beautiful, so mysterious. Complex, yet predictable, stable. Each season bringing its own patterns to study, to wonder about, yet an ever changing panorama.
Strange, but he felt so emotional just now. Perhaps it was Helena’s impassioned song, perhaps it was being home after so long, perhaps grief. He didn’t know. He only knew a bleak sadness was welling up inside him, hardening his throat and pricking the back of his eyes.
That was when he saw the movement. Down in the garden, a shadow flitting among the symmetrical boxwoods. Dark gray against the paler color of the night sky, it was the figure of a woman.
She moved out into the open. She must have heard the music, for she lifted her hands and Jareth knew her identity, for only one person in all his life had he ever witnessed to have such beauty in her movements.
Miss Pesserat swayed, then folded her arms about herself. The moon was fat and low behind her. She twirled, then pointed a toe. He could almost imagine her laugh when her head fell back and all that loose hair caught in the moonlight.
The ache within him eased.
Catching himself, he turned his attention back to Helena. Poised, so very lovely, her face bespoke of the anguish of her song, the gorgeous Italian words sung with fluency and expertly accented. Behind her, Lady Rathford beamed. So proud, her face flushed, eyes almost glazed over as she gazed upon her offspring. Curious, Jareth shot a glance to Lord Rathford. He was seated on a Chippendale chair by the fire, his chin on his chest. He was sleeping.
Jareth almost smiled at the contrast between the man’s apathy and his wife’s euphoria. During dinner, he had been witness to the many differences in them, almost polar opposites on every matter. Yet between them, they had produced this remarkable creature.
Regarding Helena once again, Jareth studied her, assessing her for the role for which his mother had brought her before him. She would make an exemplary duchess, and an acceptable wife and companion.
Yes, he decided. He could do much worse than Helena Rathford.
Chloe settled into her bed. The cup of tea she had set on her bedside table had cooled, but that didn’t disturb her. She still found the drink soothing. She loved the English custom of drinking tea, and she loved their gardens, although she considered them much too severe in design. Everything exact and perfectly aligned. She wanted to plant a huge bush on the right, sprinkle some bulbs from Amsterdam off to the left, draw the eye to an asymmetrical configuration, but it wasn’t her house. It wasn’t her garden, although she always referred to it as such in her mind. She’d sometimes think, I shall go down to my garden tonight, and walk in the darkness and dream of home.
Except tonight her thoughts had been much closer to her present home than her past. She could not keep herself from thinking about the duke. For all of his impeccably tailored clothing and unwaveringly cool manner, she had thought she spied a sadness in his dark eyes, eyes that were almost pretty, with an absurd abundance of sooty lashes that would make any debutante weep with envy. But he had disappointed her in the end, hadn’t he, caught just as much in the trappings of high convention as his myopic mother.
She sighed and sipped the tepid tea. She had almost forgotten her father’s letter, with so much on her mind. With a smile, she sank down against the assemblage of pillows piled behind her. It was one of the few luxuries in which she indulged, this plethora of pillows.
She opened her letter. Papa’s bold, spidery handwriting scrawled out the French words. Reading them was like music to her.
Dearest daughter,
It is my fondest wish this letter finds you well and happy. Your last letter was amusing, so I am to think you are faring better in England than I would have guessed. How I miss you. Last night, Madame Duvier asked about you and we laughed, recalling how you sneaked the lamb into your bedchamber when you were five years old, and I realized then that I miss your mischief, though I can hardly believe I’m saying so.
Madame Duvier loved to tell that story. The pretty widow had a talent for making people laugh, and her father had been mentioning her often in his letters of late. Perhaps he was hinting at something, seeing if Chloe approved. She resolved to include abundant praise for the woman in her next letter. Papa was so funny to worry. Hadn’t she been prodding and pushing him for years since Mama had died to find someone to fill his life?
The rest of the letter included the usual gossip about her brother, who continued, against her father’s good counsel, to pay court to a village girl everyone knew was fickle and false. Her sister, Gigi, was well, her baby growing rapidly and, according to Papa, petted and spoiled and utterly enchanting.
When Chloe was through, she read it again, then folded it and tucked it in her nightstand drawer. She would read it several more times before placing it with the others in the cloth-covered box under her bed.
She stretched out, feeling the familiar warm mixture of pleasure and pain in her breast It was always like this after Papa’s letters. She missed them all, her family, who were flawed, yes, and not grand like dukes or duchesses, but pleasant, simple folk.
That was what she missed most of all. Being loved.
She dreamed that night of swimming. Somehow, she could breathe when submerged, and it was exhilarating. Exploring delightful worlds, she kicked upward, beckoned by muffled screams.
The screams were real. Rebeccah, she realized, her feet swinging out from under the covers. Without a second thought, she rushed into the nursery next door.
“Do we call him Uncle Strathmere?” Rebeccah asked, frowning.
“No, ma petite, you simply address him as you’ve always done.”
“He never smiles. I do not like him. I think he may be mean.”
Chloe angled her head, setting a mobcap onto the child’s dark curls.
They were dressing up in the old garments from a trunk pilfered from the attics, one of Rebeccah’s favorite activities. She was currently garbed in a flowing empire gown, a fashionably flimsy piece from the previous generation, when bodices were dampened and nipples rouged. Now the once decadent garment sagged, sadly innocent on the thin coltishness of the little girl’s body.
Turning to Sarah, Chloe dropped a huge bonnet made up in the fashion of the cavaliers, with one huge plume curling behind, on the tot’s head. Rebeccah cried, “I want that one!”
“You have a fine bonnet,” Chloe protested, adjusting the hat so that the three-year-old’s eyes were no longer covered. “Sarah shall be your suitor.”
“Oh, horrid!” Rebeccah cried in disgust. She ripped off the mobcap and flung herself down onto the floor with a flourish.
“Please yourself,” Chloe said with a shrug.
“All right!” Rebeccah replied when she saw Chloe meant to leave her alone to sulk. Snatching up the mobcap again, she jammed it on her head. “But I’m ugly.”
Chloe gave her a long, thoughtful stare. “Perhaps you are right, chérie. Let us find something that suits your fancy dress better, oui?”
When investigation of the trunks failed to reveal anything as dazzling as Sarah’s hat, Rebeccah went into another sulk. “Everything is horrid,” she complained. “First Uncle is mean, and now I have no beautiful hat.”
“Your uncle is not mean,” Chloe protested, although she could barely think of something positive to say about the man. He was rather dour. “Perhaps he has much on his mind. We must do our best to welcome him and help him. He has been away from Strathmere for a very long time.”
The child folded her small arms across her chest. “He must not interfere with the nursery. You must tell him, Miss Chloe. Except, of course, for new toys. We simply have to have some new toys.”
Chloe rolled her eyes.
The child continued. “I shall tell him everything is dreadfully old. Grandmama won’t let us have any fun. He must tell Grandmama to stay away from us and to let—”
Without a word, Chloe placed her hand on Rebeccah’s forehead and gave a gentle push. The little girl flopped backward, landing among the heap of dresses behind her, her legs flailing in the air.
Chloe turned to Sarah, who smiled. “What do you think of your uncle, Sarah?” The child merely gazed back. Chloe continued, unperturbed by Sarah’s silence. “Ah, I agree. Much too serious. It is rather sad, I think, to mope about in such a manner all the day.” As if to herself, she muttered, “Moderation. Humph.” With a quick sigh, she reached out a hand and pulled the struggling Rebeccah to her feet. “Enough, Queen Rebeccah. You can think up orders for the new duke another time. Let—”
Chloe stopped, stunned into silence, for she looked up just then to find a tall male figure standing inside the doorway of the nursery.
Instantly, she was aware of the confusion around her, of the children’s mussed appearance, of her own rumpled dress and hair all astraggle. She sat there, staring at him, the picture of decorum in stark contrast to her dishabille. He was, as was his custom, dressed in dark trousers that had been so crisply pressed the seam was as fine and straight as a saber’s edge. His expertly tied cravat lay in soft folds against a shirt as white and pristine as a new sheet of bleached parchment. Steady eyes glittered at her without a hint of reaction to anything he might have heard.
He glanced around the room. She saw his nostrils flare, a sign of annoyance, she was certain. The toys had not yet been put away, and the watercolors were still out, curdling in their ceramic trays with caked brushes scattered over the children’s masterpieces.
Chloe came to her feet. “Good morning, your grace.”
Rebeccah sidled to Chloe’s side, all show of bravery gone. Chloe’s hand came to rest on the child’s shoulder, hugging her against her hip protectively.
The duke looked simply…contemptuous. Clasping his hands behind his back, he walked a tight circle about the nursery, like a general inspecting barracks. He paused over the colors bleeding into one another on the children’s paintings, and moved on.
He sniffed. “The nursery is untidy, Miss Pesserat.”
“We are playing,” Chloe answered. “See? Dressing fancy.” She gave him a small, ironic smile. “A kind of history lesson, n’est-ce pas?”
“Unacceptable,” he shot back, and began to walk about again. “This room is a disgrace. The children must be taught to pick up after themselves. The servants are not to be used as an excuse for bad habits.”
Chloe almost groaned when he picked up a smashed wooden figure. Rebeccah had demolished the thing during one of her tantrums, then thrown it aside. Chloe, intent on gaining control of the child, had forgotten to discard the ruined toy.
Without thinking, she stepped forward and took the piece from him. His long, sun-browned fingers released it, brushing hers for an instant. She was surprised how warm they were, for this was a cold man.
She glanced at him to find a satirical smile twisting his handsome mouth. “I quite agree. We do our cleaning before lunch. Would you like to stay and supervise?”
Jareth gave her a withering stare. “I have other duties.” He spoke in a calculated tone meant to convey an order. “I have no doubts that the room will be put to rights, just as I instructed. I trust that from our last conversation we understand each other very well.”
The arrogance of his words brought instant reaction. “There was no understanding, your grace. At least I was not brought to any further understanding of you. You may have had some enlightenment from my explanations of my philosophies, but I…” She tapped her fingertip against her bottom lip. It was an insolent gesture and she knew it. “No, I cannot say I understand anything about you.”
His eyelids lowered in a lazy, dangerous look. “You are very clever, Miss Pesserat, and right to remind me of it. I was misled—falsely so, I admit— by your irresponsible behavior. It made me think you simple, but you are far from that.”
He dare… “I am so glad you admit being wrong.”
He took a step closer. “And you forget yourself. Allow me to remind you that you are the children’s nurse, or governess if you will, in my employ. And whether or not you—”
He stopped, for a faint keening sounded in low and began to build. Chloe looked down to find Rebeccah whimpering and frantically pulling on Chloe’s skirt. The child’s distress instantly brought Chloe out of her single-minded rage.
Snapping her head up to face Jareth again, she said, “We are upsetting the children. May I suggest that you scold me later if you are still so inclined, when they are not present?”
His eyes flickered from the child to Chloe, his gaze dark and intense and so very, very hard. She sensed he was genuinely appalled at Rebeccah’s distress.
“I shall take you up on that invitation,” he drawled, “for this is not settled to my satisfaction. The conditions in the nursery—” he took in a sweeping glance as if to illustrate his point “—are unsatisfactory.”
The pressure of Rebeccah against her thigh, the still, silent form of Sarah as she watched her uncle with mistrust in her eyes prompted Chloe into capitulation. “You have my pride at a disadvantage. I shall make an effort to please you in this manner, if only for the children’s sake.”
Jareth didn’t move for a moment. Chloe thought perhaps he was shocked she had behaved so humbly. Then he did something very, very odd. His expression began to alter. A stricken look replaced the cold arrogance of just moments ago.
He squinted at her, blinked and looked horrified, though she could not fathom why. Without another word, he made for the door, stopping halfway because his foot hit Sarah’s bear, which had fallen onto the floor at some point during their altercation. He stooped, retrieved it and rose, standing there for the space of a few seconds, just staring down at it. Then he turned slowly and held it out to Sarah. She regarded him solemnly for so long, Chloe feared she was going to refuse to take it.
Finally, she reached for the toy, and the duke smiled ever so slightly, stretching out long, elegant fingers to brush the slightest of caresses along her chubby jawline.
He dropped his hand, whirled to confront Chloe once again and said, “Please forgive my intrusion. It was unforgivable…I didn’t mean to upset the children.”
He left, clicking the door shut behind him with care.
Rebeccah was in a mood after that. Chloe did her best to soothe her, knowing she was frightened by her uncle’s visit, but her already challenged patience was stretched to its limit. Sarah, on the other hand, seemed strangely content. She kept staring at her bear as if to glean some insight from the flat, dark button eye.
Chapter Four (#ulink_2aad6aa1-3065-5c64-9067-612294a99f12)
“Really, Strathmere, that is the third time I’ve spoken to you and you have neglected to answer,” the duchess scolded. “And you look positively dreadful. You aren’t coming down with the ague, are you?”
Jareth turned to his mother, attempting to compose his face in placid lines. “Yes. I am a bit out of sorts.” His voice drifted into a soft, reflective tone. “Not quite myself…”
“See to it that you are not less than your best this afternoon. I have invited the Rathfords to tea. I do so enjoy Lady Rathford. Such an impeccably comported person. Lord Rathford can be crude, it is true, but no more so than is typical of the country gentleman.” A slight, nearly imperceptible pause. “Of course, Helena is absolutely charming.”
There was an awkward silence during which Jareth realized he was expected to respond. “She is exemplary,” he said.
“Yes,” his mother nearly crooned with satisfaction. Settling back in her chair, she fiddled with the fan on her lap.
Jareth felt a strange emotion curl like a wisp of smoke, tangy and elusive, then gone. He thought it was annoyance, at his mother no less, which was not something he was used to feeling. He had the greatest respect for his mother. She was the force behind the family, taking the helm of what she would often and proudly boast was one of the finest families in England. She had led them through disaster more than once, even when his father was alive.
She had only been vaguely interested in him growing up, much less exacting than she had been with Charles, which had meant there was room for a degree of fondness in their relationship. With Charles there had been no respite from the demands incumbent upon him as heir. His mother had been ruthless—a strange word to choose, but somehow it fit— and almost viciously vigilant.
Jareth felt a dawning dread. Now that critical eye was turned his way. His days of freedom were over.
Had it been like this for Charles? Had he felt this sense of suffocation, of generations of Hunts weighing down on him—the crushing burden of responsibility squeezing out his own essence?
Fanciful silliness, he thought with disgust, then discovered that his mother was talking to him again and he hadn’t heard a word she had said.
“I am sorry, Mother,” he apologized.
The woman narrowed her eyes at him. Never beautiful, Charlotte Harrington Hunt had always been what was referred to as a handsome woman. In her older years, that handsomeness had hardened, but her eyes were still bright and lively and the flawless bone structure had held up well.
“Is it that wretched Pesserat woman?” she demanded.
Jareth blinked, disconcerted with the non sequitur. “Pardon me?”
“I was told you visited the nursery the other morning. Was that Frenchwoman impertinent to you?”
He shook his head, but he could feel the frown lines deepening on his brow.
That Pesserat woman…Had she been impertinent? He had to allow her devotion to his nieces was fierce. And that there was an aura of capableness about her, there amid all her haphazard foolishness. But she was so…disconcerting was the word. Indeed, the woman was that in spades.
His mother was saying, “You must not be too lenient with the servants, Strathmere. You need to remember your station. It is a grand one, but it must be used properly, and wisely. As a boy, I did not think to instruct you as I did your brother. In this I failed you, I see, for tragedy is always a possibility, and one must be prepared. For my lack of foresight, and in allowing you to affiliate so many years with commoners, I regret bitterly the loose attitude I took with you.”
Among the commoners to whom she was referring was his old partner, Colin Burke, and the reference stung. Although Colin was not a peer, his wealth was greater than the majority of titled families of England. The contempt in his mother’s voice whenever she referred to his business partner—and the man who had been his closest friend—was somehow…violating.
“However, there is no sense dwelling on the past. You are the duke now. Let the knowledge of that fact take root inside of you and blossom.”
The duke now. Yes, oh yes, how he knew it. As if for one second, for one blessed moment of peace, he could forget it.
His mother continued, “Duty, Strathmere. Your duty to Rebeccah and Sarah is to show them a strong hand in their rearing. Never forget who you are. You are in command of this family.” She wrung her hands and looked at him with pity in her eyes. “Oh, my son, you were always such a gentle soul. Weeping for wounded pigeons and nursing baby rabbits unearthed in the garden, you were a sweet-hearted boy—but you must put all that behind you. You must change, alter your very character so that the easy authority of your title is second nature to you, as natural as all that you’ve known in your past used to be.”
Her words spun around in his head, draining away to a hollow echo. There were more, but try as he might to concentrate on them, they were lost to him, drowned out by the shameful realization that he was, God help him, terrified of what she was describing.
Because it was already happening. And he knew that it must.
For he was the Duke of Strathmere, now and evermore.
Helena Rathford made an even better impression—if that were possible—on Jareth that afternoon than she had the first evening of their acquaintance. Garbed in a day dress, she appeared refreshingly pretty with her soft blond ringlets bobbing about her face. The taut beauty of the previous meeting seemed more relaxed.
Lord Rathford sent his apologies at not being able to join them this afternoon. These were prettily pleaded by his wife, who deftly took herself off with the duchess to examine his mother’s porcelain collection in order to leave Jareth and Helena alone.
He gave her a rueful glance, and she remarked, “I am afraid they are rather obvious.”
Her directness he liked. It relaxed him, and it felt good after the tensions of the day. “Don’t fault them too much.”
“How kind you are,” she said, as if she truly meant it. He laughed and gave his head a shake.
“Not at all, Lady Helena. I simply know there are many times when my behavior could warrant a little understanding, and so in the interest of reaping the benefit of like charity one day, I dispense it with generosity. Purely selfish, you see.”
“Rather wise,” she corrected, sounding like a schoolmistress. He chuckled and she smiled wanly.
Looking out of the window, Jareth frowned. “It is unfortunate the weather is disagreeable today. I believe a tour of the grounds is called for when a lady comes for tea.”
“I adore gardens. I couldn’t help but notice you have a lovely one. However, it does seem rather ominous.” She ducked her head to peer up at the sky. Iron-gray and so thick with clouds it looked flat. It cast a weird glow on the late afternoon light.
“Rather lovely,” Jareth commented, studying the unusual colors. “In a way.”
“Good heavens, who is that?” Helena exclaimed. “Do they mean to go out and about with rains coming?”
That, Jareth saw immediately, was the intrepid and apparently incredibly stupid Miss Pesserat, tromping across the front lawn with her two little charges in tow.
He was too angry to speak for a moment, then said simply, “Will you excuse me, please?”
It took several moments to locate Frederick, the butler. “See that Miss Pesserat is brought back here immediately,” Jareth told the gaunt older man with thinning hair and a huge beak of a nose. “Tell her I wish to speak with her as soon as the Rathfords depart.”
“Yes, your grace,” Frederick said without expression. “I shall send a footman right away.”
The weather worsened. A steady drizzle thickened into a downpour, making it untenable for the Rathfords to leave as planned. His mother asked them to stay to supper, and Lady Rathford agreed with a rapacious gleam in her eye she didn’t bother to hide.
They were shown to a room where they might refresh themselves, and Jareth retired to his library. It was a dreary place, more so with the wet-streaked windows weeping tearily against the implacable sky. He called for a fire to be made up, then settled down to do some of the accounts.
Remembering that he hadn’t been informed of Chloe and the children’s return, he laid down the quill and summoned Frederick.
“No, sir, I have not seen her,” the butler informed him.
“Send Mary to the nursery and see if they came in unnoticed.”
Frederick went to search out the maid. Jareth crossed the room to stare out the window at the vicious skies. The wind had picked up.
What had made that fool think of taking the children out and about on a day like this? She didn’t have the sense of—
He spied a movement. Peering closer, he saw indeed it was someone dashing across the lawn.
Damnation! Chloe Pesserat ran with Sarah on her hip, Rebeccah held by the hand and trailing along behind like the tail of a kite m a blizzard. They were headed for the rear of the house.
The exasperating woman meant to sneak them in through the kitchens and avoid detection. Anger moved him before any conscious thought registered in his brain. Storming out of the library, he strode with long, purposeful steps through the dining room, startling Cook as he burst into the largest of the kitchens—a long, cheery room where a huge fire blazed in the cooking hearth and aromas, spicy and delectable, assaulted him.
Cook looked up, her thick arms poised over a mound of dough. She stood behind the scrubbed oaken table that was sprinkled liberally with flour, and she wore some of it herself. “Your grace?”
He opened his mouth, but another sound preceded him. Giggles.
The door to the outside was located in a short hallway where the smaller kitchen rooms and assorted pantries were housed. It was from this direction the commotion was heard.
“Oh, you are a wet mouse, aren’t you?” a gay voice exclaimed. He had no trouble identifying Miss Pesserat from the definitive accent. “Come, come. To the fire.”
“Have Cook fix up some chocolate to drink!” Rebeccah cried.
They came into view, the three of them stumbling under the weight of their soaked dresses and sodden cloaks. They were still laughing, talking over one another, excited and unruly.
“Bonne idée, chérie!” Chloe exclaimed. “And some pastries, bien sûr. I am starving!”
She stopped in midstride, frozen in an awkward position, her face going suddenly immobile. Rebeccah saw Jareth at the same time as her governess and made an immediate retreat behind Chloe’s skirts. Only Sarah regarded him with a mild expression, as if he were merely a personage of passing interest.
The words, when he spoke them, were like an epithet. “Miss Pesserat.”
Cook cut in, bustling up to the children and waving her arms. “Come along, then, mes amours, come to the fire in the little dining room.”
Jareth looked at the woman askance, suspicious for a moment until he recalled her nationality was the same as Miss Pesserat’s. For a space, he had almost thought the governess had infected the household so that they were all talking like her. The accent was, he had to admit, one of her more charming attributes. The only one he could think of.
Mostly, she seemed to have a knack for driving him straight to madness. Take this very moment, for example. She was standing there, still stuck in that ridiculous stance. Her hair was soaked, plastered to her head like a cap, and a very unflattering one at that. He took exactly four steps forward. Four slow, calculated steps. Up close, he could see the way her lashes were starred from the rain, making those steel-blue eyes more brilliant.
“What,” he managed to utter through his clenched jaw, “did you imagine you were doing with my nieces in the midst of this storm?”
It was as if the words released her. She straightened.
“If you please,” she began carefully, “we were out for a walk. I admit I mistook the weather. I am terribly inept at such things, I confess it, but the sky in England is so often gloomy, we would be closeted in the house forever if we didn’t take a risk now and then.”
It would have been ridiculously easy to anger, for her words had the ring of sauciness in them, except her look was so sincere. Fat rivulets skittered from her drenched hair down her nose and she didn’t even bother to wipe them away.
“Miss Pesserat,” he said at last. “I fail to comprehend what is so woefully mysterious about a sky filled with clouds. If your judgment is so profoundly impaired, perhaps I had best reassess your capabilities.”
“Capabilities?”
“Yes, you know the word. Your vocabulary is quite accomplished when you are speaking, I noticed, yet when you wish to defer a comment you do not like, you plead ignorance of a word. Charmingly demure, and effective, I must imagine, on the more unsuspecting.”
She pulled herself up in a stance that was nearly military. Absurd, utterly, and it should have annoyed him—that and the defiant way her pointy little chin jutted out at him. Strangely, though, he found himself wrestling with the most insistent urge to smile, of all things.
“Yes, I understand your English very well, but there are a few words that confuse me from time to time. You must allow for that at least, your grace. In this instance, it was not that I did not know the word, but was taking exception to your questioning my capabilities.”
“What would you have me do?” he demanded hotly. “You run the children about in the most unseemly and unmannerly ways—”
“I most certainly do not!”
“Miss Pesserat—”
“I cannot see why you are so disturbed. It is merely water. It will not melt us, like sugar candy.”
With each breath, his temper seemed to expand “That is not the point—”
“You would think a little thing like rainfall were a foreign phenomenon in England. Yet, I have never seen such a place as this, miserable always from wretched weather.”
“A very entertaining opinion—”
“Really, it is quite—”
“Do not interrupt me again, young miss!” This he thundered, his fist raised with his index finger pointing to the ceiling. In the silence afterward, he was aware of two sensations stealing over his person. One was mortification—damn this imp to tempt him into a most disreputable show of temper—and the other, inexplicably, was a deep sense of…pleasure. It had felt good to shout for once. So much for moderation.
He looked at his erect finger, astonished. His father had always performed the gesture when scolding one of his sons. When had he developed such a like habit? It was an impossible question to answer, for never, never, had he been as incensed as he was at this moment.
“I am sorry,” she said.
He heard the sound of the door behind him opening, then a murmured, “Oh, dear,” before the door shut again, leaving them once again alone. One of the servants.
“I do not mean to disrespect you,” Chloe continued.
He forced himself to relax his stance. “And yet you do. You do it constantly, Miss Pesserat, and without much effort, it seems.”
She issued the most forlorn sigh he had ever heard. “It does seems inevitable.”
“You need only make more of an effort to conform.”
Her eyes flashed. “Can you not make a similar effort?”
“I,” he answered simply, “am the duke.”
Unimpressed, she countered, “That does not make you infallible.”
Oh, Lord, she was at it again! “It does make me lord and master here and I will be obeyed—and without question, if you please.”
He immediately regretted adding the last, since it gave her a clear opening for one of her clever little quips: no, it does not please. But she surprised him. Instead, she tipped her head to the side and asked, “Why did you leave the nursery so abruptly the other day?”
He blinked in surprise. “Pardon me?”
“In the nursery, when you were angry. You suddenly seemed to lose your anger and you left so abruptly.”
“What the devil…?” He pushed his hand through his hair while letting out a long breath. “Why do you wish to know that at a time like this?”
“Because, you see, it seemed as if you regretted getting angry when you saw how upset the children became. In fact, you seemed rather surprised to find yourself in such a state. The look on your face led me to believe that, anyway. And I thought you might be feeling the same way now. I don’t wish you to regret what the heat of your anger makes you say.”
“It is very kind of you to be solicitous of my sensibilities.” He had meant it to be sarcastic, but instead the words sounded gentle in his own ears.
One of those irritating droplets was meandering down her prettily flushed cheek. He reached for his handkerchief and handed it to her. She stared at it. “Oh, for pity’s sake,” he muttered, and snatched the thing back and pressed it to the moisture. “Your hair is leaking.”
She touched her head self-consciously. “Oh, bother.”
It was such an inane thing to say, he did smile then. He almost wanted to laugh, as if the contention between them were suddenly all mere silliness. “You’ll be fortunate if you don’t come down with the deadly ague.”
“It is only rain,” she said diffidently.
“Come by the fire, or you’ll chill.”
She appeared surprised at his solicitousness. Frankly, so was he. “Thank you, your grace.”
He led the way to the brick hearth with its iron doors and large, open flame. Pulling up a seat, he fetched a square of linen and held it out to her.
Chloe sat down and began to dab the towel about her face and head. Jareth stood behind her, watching her movements, which were like the exacting motions of a dance. How did she always manage to make even the most ordinary actions seem beautiful? What Helena did with her voice, Miss Pesserat did with her body—
He shook his head as if to rid himself of the wayward thought. It seemed somehow disloyal to liken Lady Helena’s great gift with a girl’s artless grace. And how ungentlemanly to be reflecting at all on his nieces’ governess’s body.
His voice sounded harsh when next he spoke. “Do not take the children out of doors again without my permission,” he said, and was about to turn away when he heard her say, “No.”
He stopped, cocking his head. “Can I have heard you correctly?”
She remained with her back to him, ramrod straight and staring into the fire. “It is not right to keep the little ones confined. I do not agree to it.”
“Perhaps you misunderstand. I meant that they will go on outings with my permission only.”
“Why not under your supervision?” She turned so her face was in profile. She had the most extraordinary scooped nose, he noticed. The backlighting from the fire made her pose a perfect cameo. “It would be lovely if you were to spend time with the children. They need their family with them.”
“Do you find fault with my stewardship of the children?”
“Only in that you favor an approach reminiscent of one of the posh princes of the East—full control and no responsibility.”
His temper was rising again, and quickly. “Why, Miss Pesserat, you are most insulting.”
She stood and whirled on him, her face flushed— though from the proximity of the fire or her rage, he did not know—and her eyes were positively brilliant. “I hate when you call me that My name is Chloe. Could you not manage that bit of informality, or will it choke you to speak it?”
He felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. Just as swiftly as it rose, his irritation receded. “Miss Chloe. See, there. I did not burst into a ball of fire.”
She paused, not trusting him it seemed, before she smiled, one of her wide, true smiles. He watched the slow way it crept across her face, taking that generous mouth into an upward curl and showing even, white teeth. “And you are jesting. However, this time it is not at my expense. You surprise me, your grace.”
“How rewarding. I endeavor to never be boring.”
Why did everything he said to this woman end up sounding…unpleasant?
Surprisingly, however, she wasn’t deflated. “You can never be that, your grace. Oh…” She let the word die and again that smile appeared. “For all your faults, never, never that.”
Absurd, the flash that skittered through him. What difference did it make what this country maid thought of him? Still, the compliment warmed him.
It was a compliment—wasn’t it?
“At least,” he said to cover his disconcerted thoughts, “promise me you will not take any more strolls through violent spring storms.”
“Oh, la!” she sang, flipping her hand in the air in a fluid gesture. “The children had fun. Did you never do such things when you were a boy? Walk in the rain? Catch raindrops on your tongue?”
The words fell over him like a pall, pressing on his chest, his shoulders. Unwittingly, she had brought to mind the two things that left him weak with grief—the past and his lost freedom.
Why had he tarried so long with the silly girl, anyhow? “The matter, Miss Chloe, is settled. No more outings ın the rain. If you do not abide by this, I will be forced to take broader action to ensure my wishes are being observed.”
The smile disappeared, and she bowed her head. Her drenched hair hung stiffly in pointed strands. “You have made yourself very clear, your grace.”
He trusted her not to lie to him outright, but he knew she would not flinch from a lie of omission. “Tell me you will obey.”
After a mutinous pause, she said, “I will obey.” She raised her head, her face blank and plain. When she had smiled, it had been transformed, almost pretty. Yes, actually, quite lovely, in a way that was so very different from Lady Helena’s pristine beauty. Chloe Pesserat was meant to laugh, to run, to do everything in extreme. Wholly opposite to Helena, whose attraction was her—
The thought struck him and it was accurate, but he still couldn’t resist an inward cringe. The word he had found to describe Helena was moderation.
The same sense of disquiet followed him out of the kitchens as it had the last time he had conversed with Chloe, in the nursery. He wondered if such a reaction were unavoidable with the capricious imp that held his nieces’ sanity in her slender, sensuously expressive hands.
Chapter Five (#ulink_87038b92-f640-5866-97a2-eae0142570d6)
Chloe prowled in her chamber that night, her thoughts tumbling one another in an agitated rush.
How could she have thought there was wisdom and pain in the duke’s cold eyes? He was completely intolerable—scolding her like a wayward child herself, questioning her competence! The blundering, self-important, conceited…bore! She had thought there was a trace of humanity behind his supreme dukeness, but she had been mistaken, clearly.
As the anger drained out of her, exhaustion descended. Cook, having heard of her disquiet, sent up a steaming teapot and a generous supply of shortbread, which was one of Chloe’s favorites. She curled up with a novel pilfered from the dowager duchess’s stash in the library, but soon dozed with it open on her lap.
Rebeccah’s fitful cries woke her sometime after the hour of three. Chloe came to her feet before the last vestiges of her dream had cleared her head and moved with swiftness to the child’s bedside.
In a firm, soft voice, she said, “Hush, Rebeccah, it is Miss Chloe here now with you. Everything is fine, ma petite. Hush, now.”
She wrapped her arms about the wailing child and pulled her in tight against her breast. Rebeccah always resisted this at first. She grabbed fistfuls of Chloe’s nightrail in her little hands, pulling and punching, but the efforts soon grew weak. Her muffled cries subsided until at last she was at rest.
Gently, Chloe laid her back in her bed. She looked at the small face—the pert nose, the thick fan of lashes against the rose-kissed cheeks, the pouty mouth hanging agape with the unselfconscious ease of childhood slumber. She was not the easiest child with which to contend, but Chloe loved her with a fierceness that made her soul ache. Needing to touch, she smoothed a hand over the limbs that were just now losing their babyish roundness as Rebeccah passed from infancy to childhood.
Chloe spoke in a whisper as the child’s peace deepened. “Sleep, chérie, and dream of happy lands where knights ride in gleaming armor and ladies dance among perfect roses and all the dragons are slain, asleep forever. Dream of laughter and of those who love you, ma petite. Dream of good things, and love. Dream of love.”
Rebeccah inhaled a trembling breath, releasing it slowly as she nestled deeper under the coverlet. Chloe smiled, reflecting that it was infrequent that Rebeccah stayed put for longer than a moment or two. A time like this—just the stillness of it—was precious.
Suddenly, Chloe became aware of the fact that she wasn’t alone. Her gaze lifted to find the duke standing in the doorway.
He was dressed in dark trousers, still crisp somehow despite the wilting weather and the late hour. His coat was off, however, and he stood in his shirtsleeves—a deplorable breach of propriety, but Chloe barely noted it, for it mattered not at all to her. She only thought it odd because it was so out of character for him.
His hair was disheveled, and taken with the discarded tailcoat, signified he had been restless, perhaps bedeviled by irksome thoughts about a particular employee of his who was fond of storms and refused to bend to his indomitable will…
“You have been there for all this time?” she asked, amazed she hadn’t been aware of him before.
He gave a brief nod. “I was awake and roaming about. I heard her cries,” he said in a rough whisper. He stepped into the room, just two steps, and inclined his head to his niece. “Will…will she be all right now?”
“She shall sleep until morning,” Chloe reassured him.
“Every night this happens? That is what I was told.”
“Yes, your grace.”
She bowed her head, not wanting to look at him as he stood gazing down at Rebeccah. She had spent the evening building him into an ogre. He seemed all too human just now, with his shirtsleeves and all. And that concerned expression on his face was disconcerting.
“Is it always this…severe?”
“Tonight was not severe,” she said, coming to her feet. “It is much the same each night.”
“You are the only one who can quiet her, I am told.”
She didn’t answer. It seemed a rather rhetorical question.
“I watched you tonight, and I must admit you are very adept.”
Looking at him at last, she saw his eyes were steady and serious. They were dark in the shadowed room, lit only by a magnificent moon spilling in through the large double window. “Only hours ago you questioned my competence,” she reminded him.
“Your judgment, Miss Chloe, but not your skill. That you are kind beyond measure, and uncannily in accord with the moods and needs of my nieces, I cannot argue.”
It was as near a retraction as she was likely to get. Moving to the window, she reached up for the drape, thinking to close it against the abundant moonlight. A sharp hiss from behind her made her stop in midreach and look over her shoulder to the duke.
He stood in the midst of a flourish of light from the swollen moon, his face fully visible, his eyes narrowed to slits and focused directly on her. Puzzled, she said, “What is it?”
His voice was like gravel. “Miss Chloe—Miss Pesserat. You are…your attire, mademoiselle!”
With a start, she remembered that she was in her nightrail.
“Mon Dieu, it is my nightdress. My bedroom is through that door, and I was sleeping.” She added tartly, “It is my habit at this hour.”
The shadows took him as he retreated backward, as if he didn’t trust her enough to turn his back on her. “This is most unseemly. My apologies.” From the darkness, she heard the sounds of the door opening and closing.
Chloe shook her head, bemused by his peculiar behavior. He was a strange man, she already knew, but this really was the oddest thing…
Then she realized how much light was pouring through the window, and she had been framed in it, arm extended, and dressed only in her nightgown of modest enough design and not at all risqué. But when backlit, it would become—
Completely transparent.
The drive to Rathford Manor took just under an hour, making the Rathford family Strathmere’s closest neighbors. But even the short interval seemed endless with the dowager duchess seated across from Jareth, her sturdy scowl firmly in place and her occasional exclamations centered completely on the unacceptable qualities of their governess.
“I wish you would speak to the physicians again and see what they can tell us as to when the woman can be dismissed. We cannot be expected to withstand her haphazard—and, yes, dangerous at times— attentions to the girls.”
Jareth looked out the window. His mother’s diatribe was only a distant annoyance.
“They could have been brought down with all manner of mortal illness from her abominable behavior, not to mention the humiliation of it all. Lady Rathford was kind, of course, as any woman of breeding can be expected to be, but what she must think! I tell you, it is simply horrible to have to live with that Pesserat woman.”
Distractedly, he said, “It was only a mild spring rain. And no harm was done.”
There was a momentary silence, then the duchess exclaimed in a tight, high voice, “What did you say? You dare defend such irresponsible behavior as that?”
Blinking, Jareth snapped to attention. “Pardon me? What was it I said to upset you, Mother?”
“No harm was done? Only a spring rain?” The woman sounded as if the words were choking her.
“Mother, please calm yourself. You will work yourself into a state, and you wouldn’t wish for the Rathfords to see you with your face all red. They would fear for your health.” It was the right thing to say, for the duchess immediately and with visible effort brought herself under control.
Closing her eyes, she took several deep breaths. When she opened them again, she leveled an icy stare at her son. “Now, kindly explain what you meant by that absurd remark.”
“Only that Miss Chloe caused no harm to the children. I’ll grant you,” he added, holding a hand against her prepared objections, “that she is irresponsible, and I have told her she may not take the children out without my permission. I believe that should settle the matter.”
His mother looked pleased as they fell into an uneasy silence.
“Strathmere?” she said suddenly.
“Yes, Mother.”
“When did you begin addressing Miss Pesserat as ‘Miss Chloe’?”
Jareth didn’t answer, and to his great relief, his mother did not pursue the subject.
They arrived at the Rathford mansion, a beautiful Palladian masterpiece. Disappointingly, Lord Rathford was not in attendance, so Jareth took refreshment with the ladies in the grand salon, which showed the Rathfords’ affluence to its fullest advantage. Looking about, Jareth felt a wave of distaste for the gaudy Florentine pilasters and gold leafing all about, regular fare for the grand Georgian era that had just passed. For his own tastes he preferred the subtle distinction of aged wood rubbed with lemon oil until the patina shone. He also liked sturdy chairs, something of some substance upon which to sit rather than these delicate things with spindly legs and carved backs that dug into the flesh.
They seemed to suit Helena, however. Back rigid, she perched on the Sheridan chair as effortlessly elegant as a Madonna. Her cap of cleverly arranged ringlets caught the sun. It was a beautiful shade of blonde, so pale. She sat in rapt attention to her mother, who was speaking on some subject Jareth could hardly muster any interest in until he heard his name.
“…the music room. Go ahead, Helena. Show the duke the pianoforte used by Mozart himself.”
Of course, he should have known. Lady Rathford had been bragging.
Helena looked at him with that soft gaze of hers. “Would you like to see it, your grace?” He thought he detected a silent apology for her mother’s conceit.
Jareth felt a pang of resentment at being moved around like a helpless pawn, done so expertly by these matrons, but squelched it as unimportant.
“That would be entirely enjoyable,” he replied with a bow.
Helena led the way. The music room was on the second floor, a grand chamber with pointed vaults crisscrossing the painted ceiling, where cherubs frolicked in naked abandon. The classical technique was stunning. Jareth stopped to admire it from the doorway.
“Absolutely lovely.”
“Are you a patron of the architectural sciences, your grace?”
“Only an admirer.”
He wandered about, eyeing the treasures ensconced within the magnificent room.
Helena walked behind him. “Do you enjoy music?”
“Listening only. I have no talent. I see your family has a love for it, do they not?”
“Yes, we do favor music.”
Jareth waved his hand at the pianoforte. “Do you play?”
“Of course,” she answered, and sat down dutifully. “What would you like to hear?”
“Something airy, nothing dark. My thoughts are gloomy enough today.”
“I believe I have something,” she said. Her long, elegant fingers closed over the keys. He watched as they moved up and down the keyboard, coaxing from the instrument a lilting, playful melody that made him smile.
She didn’t smile, however. The same pained look came over her face as he had seen when she sang. It distorted the careful beauty. Closing her eyes, she tilted her head down and to one side as she played, brows drawn in concentration, then occasionally shooting upward as though she were surprised by a particularly sprightly part of the piece.
As with her song, the music was powerful. It ended abruptly, and she bowed her head, seeming to need a moment to collect herself before the serene expression was back in place and she raised her eyes to his.
What lay beyond that composed expression? He experienced a dismal sinking disappointment as he recognized he would never sample it. It was too tightly controlled, too remote—as far away from his reach as the stars he so loved to view. Yes. The same unapproachable beauty was in Helena.
“That was breathtaking,” he said, and the words sounded like such an ineffectual way to describe what she had just given him.
She rose, a polite, controlled smile in place. “Do you have any hobbies, your grace?”
He hesitated. Her eyes were on him, expectant. “Yes, actually, I do. The science of astronomy is my hobby.”
“You watch the stars.” He detected no real interest.
“Yes. The constellations, all the heavenly bodies and celestial phenomenon. It is fascinating, how they ever change, but like seasons return again and again in their predictable patterns. And then there are always new discoveries. The other day I read in one of the papers written by an eminent astronomer that there is to be a comet visible soon in the northwest sky. I have ordered a special telescope for the occasion so as not to miss it.”
“How interesting. I understand seamen often navigate with only a perfunctory glance at the night sky, so skilled are they in predicting direction.”
It wasn’t an unpleasant comment. Yet it showed how absolutely she had missed the point, the wonder and fascination of the night sky, not simply its utility. Yes, the skill of a seasoned navigator was impressive, but that wasn’t what made the heavens fill him with an aching sense of wonder and whet his hunger for discovery.
“Yes, it is true,” he answered, and smiled blandly.
When eventually they rejoined his mother and Lady Rathford, he received a sharp look from the dowager duchess coupled with a slight incline of her head. Approval. It failed to have any impact on him.
The afternoon progressed with a game of whist. Helena was an excellent player, but somehow managed to lose. He was not enthusiastic about cards as a rule, but he enjoyed watching how expertly Helena played each hand and then threw away her lead without seeming to at all.
She was a very accomplished girl, indeed. He caught his mother’s thinned lips, as if an unborn smile were being held at bay. She thought she was being subtle. If she had jumped up in the air and clicked her heels she couldn’t have been more obvious.
On the way home, his mother pleaded one of her migraines and lapsed into silence, for which Jareth was exceedingly grateful. It gave him the time he needed. To think.
It was already dark when they pulled up to Strathmere, the lights in the windows like poor imitations of the sparkling display of the star-strewn sky. He angled his gaze upward.
Tonight he would spend in the sweet air of the garden, reading the stars and trying to convince himself that the path he was on was the right one.
Or maybe he would just lose himself in the wonder of the heavens and leave the rest of it to be contemplated later.
Chapter Six (#ulink_35437574-de1a-5e8f-862e-9fabc2aa8613)
“Your grace, may I speak with you?”
Jareth looked up from his ledgers to see Miss Pesserat standing in the doorway, leaning inward in an inquisitive pose. With her hair neatly pulled back off her face, she looked rather…appealing, Jareth noted. Her skin almost glowed, perfect skin with a natural blush to her cheeks that lent her a fresh-faced, innocent quality. Remarkable, he thought as he sat back, surveying her openly. Her dress was even clean and relatively free of wrinkles.
“Come in, Miss Pesserat.” He paused, smiling at his slip. “Miss Chloe, I meant to say.”
“Merci. I shall not keep you. I merely wished to ask your permission to take the children on an outing.”
That broadened his smile. This was a good sign. Apparently, he was being quite effective in establishing his authority regarding the activities of his nieces.
Chloe stepped forward and laid a carefully lettered document before him. “See, here I have a schedule prepared for each day of the week. It is important for children to have exercise regularly, do you not agree?” Before he could even formulate an answer, she made one of those sweeping, fluid gestures that never failed to astonish him with their pure artistry. “When I was a child, we walked everywhere, every day was a different adventure. It builds the lungs. Too much indoors…” She paused, frowning meaningfully at him. The way her bottom lip stuck out was almost adorable. “It stifles the brain. Not enough air.”
Jareth held his hands up as if in surrender. “Your point is taken, Miss Chloe, and though it is at odds with conventional medical wisdom, it happens to coincide with my views, as well. As a child, I too loved the out-of-doors. I would not dream of cheating my nieces out of such enjoyment. Now, let me see here, on Tuesday you have written you would like to take the girls on a walk to the pond. What educational benefit were you planning to achieve with this excursion?”
Chloe looked startled. “Why, to see the ducks.”
“Excellent. A study of nature, the local wildlife in particular.” He took a quill out of its ink pot and made a mark next to that activity. Pen poised over the next item, he lifted his face expectantly. “What is the purpose of Wednesday’s trip?”
“Ah, pardon, what was Wednesday’s trip?”
“The walk into the eastern woods.”
“Oh, well…that was…Mon Dieu, I cannot quite recall.” At his reaction of displeasure she hurriedly said, “Yes, now I remember. We are to look for small animals and see if we can find where they live.”
Jareth was even more pleased with that activity. “Wise, Miss Chloe. You challenge the children to think, to see beyond a cute fluffy tail or huge, limpid eyes. They must learn of the living habits of the creatures we share the land with.”
He made another check and perused the rest of the proposed activities. “I think on Thursday, you shall remain indoors. Mother and I are traveling to Rathford Manor again, and I would prefer you not leave the house. Perhaps your planned activity to study the fauna of the area can be postponed.”
Chloe smiled sweetly. “Certainement.”
She looked positively angelic, and he wasn’t too humble to feel a puff of satisfaction.
Returning the smile, he handed back her schedule. “With that small alteration, I can give my approval.”
“Merci, your grace.”
She whirled to take her leave, and if it hadn’t been for the quick curtsy she dropped, he might have never suspected. But when she left, he paused, pen pressed against his bottom lip as he thought over his sudden misgivings.
Dismissing his doubts, he went to work on the documents before him. There wasn’t a need to question her motives just because she had seen sense in the end—she, Miss Chloe, the flibbertigibbet who usually made no sense at all…
Sometime later, he realized how foolish he had been to think it would be so easy. Miss Chloe and the two girls marched across the front lawn, Miss Chloe calling out commands as the children highstepped in time. The last thing he heard was her exclaiming something about a herd of elephants ahead of them, and the trio went screaming down the hill and disappeared.
Presumably, he thought wearily, to the duck pond.
In the garden that night, the air was wonderfully cool. Jareth liked it thus. He had removed his jacket and turned up his shirtsleeves clear to his elbows.
This garden, this place that had been his nightly refuge as a child and now as a man, brought him the peace of mind he needed so badly.
He fiddled with the calibrations of the large telescope he had dragged out with him. In his youth, when the desire to study star patterns began to become an obsession, he would spend many a night out here, gazing upward and marveling at this particularly magnificent wonder of creation.
Adjusting the angle of the delicate instrument, Jareth bent over and peered in the lens.
A shadow crossed the verdant path, blocking the moonlight.
“Good evening.”
The voice was so unexpected he started, straightening to face this intruder. Chloe smiled at him. He was surprised to note it was a warm smile, full of genuine greeting. A fleeting thought passed through his mind that not even his own mother looked happy to see him anymore. Her features were always strained in lines of concern, and she seemed, whenever in his company, more relieved that he was finally present to air her assorted worries than pleased to be sharing his company.
“Hello, Miss Chloe.”
“What are you doing?” Without waiting for his answer, she sidled around to stand beside him, her eyes never leaving the strange contraption he had set up before him. “What is this?” she asked in wonder. She touched a black knob.
“Please,” he said, taking her slim fingers in his and guiding them away. He was surprised she didn’t snatch her hand back, at least not right away. Her skin was cool, the contact pleasant. Then he remembered how unseemly it was to have skin-on-skin contact with any woman. He was not, nor was she, wearing any gloves.
He released his grip.
Her heavily lashed lids slid over her eyes and she glanced away. “I am sorry, I am intruding. I shall leave you,” she said, and had already turned to go when Jareth heard somebody say, “Wait.”
It was a heartbeat or two before he realized he had been the one to speak.
She looked at him and blinked those wide, stormyblue eyes at him. “Yes?”
He held out a hand to her in invitation. “I did not mean to frighten you away.”
Ah, she was predictable. Her chin came up and she said, “I am not frightened.”
In a conciliatory tone, he said, “Come and take a look.”
She hesitated a moment—perhaps she was a little frightened—before coming to stand before him. “Your grace?”
In the moonlight the gray-blue of her eyes gleamed pale. They were wide with genuine interest and a touch of apprehension.
Pointing to the viewing lens, he said, “Look through there.”
She struggled to focus through the awkward angle. “What is that?” she asked.
“What does it look like to you?”
“A dragon,” she replied.
Puzzled, he said, “What?” She straightened, and he stepped up to have a look for himself.
“How do you see a dragon? That is Piscis Austrinus. The heavens do have a dragon, but Draco is farther north, on the other side of Polaris.”
Turning, he was just in time to catch her shrug. “You asked me what I see. I only can say what it looks like to me. A dragon.”
He let out a sigh. “You do see the strangest things, don’t you, Miss Chloe?”
Her smile was brilliant. “Merci beaucoup!”
Shaking his head, he chuckled. “And you always mystify me.”
“It is good not to be predictable, oui? Surprise makes life fun. But too much, it can disturb. We need to know the same things are always there for us. To depend on. Otherwise we grow anxious and our moods grow poor.”
“This is a side of you I never thought to see. You are quite the philosopher.”
“Do you think so, your grace? They are just my thoughts, you see.” She shot him a mischievous glance. “I do have thoughts.”
“I never doubted it. It is just that they rarely agree with my own.”
“Ah,” she said, nodding wisely. “It is true. But which one of us is in the right? Is it always you? Is it always me? I think neither, though we are both too stubborn to admit any such thing.”
“Why, you amaze me again.”
“And another wonder to speak of is the fact that we have something in common, eh? You come to the garden to enjoy the night.” She swept her arm skyward like any prima ballerina. “And I, to walk the garden paths. It is where I gather thoughts.”
“So this is where you get all those ridiculous ideas.”
A wry smile and the slightest of giggles were his reward. “Among other sources.”
She tilted her head back to view with her naked eye what his telescope had just given her a glimpse of. “Without the tube it just looks like a blur of light. I think I like it better like this. It leaves more to the imagination, n’est-ce pas? One looks at the stars and sees the patterns and dreams of heroes and deeds of magic and bravery and perilous quests, of fortunes and wars and all other manner of glories to be won.”
Jareth angled a glance above him. The majesty of the clear night had always inspired him, and Miss Chloe’s poetic statement caught fire to the tendrils of his imagination, filling him with heady vision. “It is a fabulous stage, upon which countless dramas are played,” he agreed.
“See, there.” Chloe pointed excitedly. “Does that not look like a snake?”
“That is Lacerta.”
“It does not matter what some ancient man named it or what tradition holds it to be, but what your imagination can conjure. I see a snake.”
“Do you always disapprove of tradition?”
“No,” she answered, squinting at the sky. “Do you always adhere to it?”
“No.” Looking upward, he was disturbed to note that the pattern of stars she had indicated did indeed appear to resemble a snake.
“And there,” she cried, pointing in the direction of Pegasus, “it is a woman leaning over as if working in a garden.”
“Impossible. I see no such thing.”
“Yes, there. The form of her hunched over, the drape of her skirt.”
Jareth angled a look at her skeptically. “You are making this up.”
“Non”! It is true. It is a story, you see. The woman is working in the garden. She is a poor woman, scratching out a meager life from the earth.”
Jareth looked up at the heavens, his features full of doubt.
Chloe continued, “Her young man is gone, and she is grieving her loss.”
“How can you tell that from the stars?” he demanded. “I don’t even see the woman and you can see all that?”
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