A Perilous Marriage (3 page)

“What about Lord Tasker—what do I say when I see him again?”

“Well, you won’t be riding until your mare is better, and in the meantime, I trust you to arrange the household for me for Richard’s visit. So, as you will be busy doing that, it is unlikely that you will run across him soon. If he calls here, make sure I am with you. It is likely our reticence will put him off, and he will look elsewhere for a bride. Of course, in thinking things over, you may well decide to have him court you and find out what he is really like. There is no harm in learning how a person conducts himself in private as well as public. We all show a different face depending on circumstances. It may confirm your opinion or perhaps change it.” Her smile was enigmatic as she walked away, leaving Lucie dumbfounded at her last remark.

“Hell will freeze over before I let that savage court me,” she muttered to herself as she wondered what kind of a game her grandmother was playing.

* * * *

Dawn appeared bright and early a couple of days later, and soon, the sky was a cloudless, cerulean blue heralding a warm day. Lucie was awake before time with the light, but knowing she could not take her usual morning ride, decided instead she would go the village and deliver a basket of food to an elderly tenant who had been ill and also call on Carolyn.

She ordered the gig to be made ready, had a quick breakfast, and set off. Clara, the aged mare usually delegated to pull the trap, was slow and steady, but Lucie wasn’t concerned about speed as the horse ambled placidly through the country lanes to the village. It was too nice a day to rush, and she knew she would be back in good time before Eleanor came downstairs. Leaving the fruit and a jar of beef broth with the grateful parishioner, she had a quick word with Molly Buckthorn about the forthcoming church schedules then set off for Carolyn’s cottage to find that she had gone out with a group of riders on a ramble.

She shrugged off her disappointment and turned for home and had just left the village when she saw, in the distance, two riders heading her way. Instantly, she guessed one of them was Edmund Tasker. Taking a side lane that she knew would eventually reach Ashbury Mead from another direction; she applied her whip to Clara’s hindquarters in an effort to hurry her along. Startled, for haste was never a skill Clara had acquired, she speeded up a little but, after a few moments, eased back to her normal gait. Choosing seldom-used lanes and urging Clara on took all Lucie’s patience, and she was hot and wind-swept before she arrived safely at the back of the estate and turned into the stable yard.

Handing over the reins to a groom, she yanked off her bonnet, ignoring the unruly, tangled curls. Breathing a sigh of relief that she had evaded her nemesis, she headed for the garden to cool off before she went upstairs to wash and change for luncheon. Although always aware of her position in society, she nevertheless took care not to flaunt her title and advantages to the village people. She felt it unkind to show off to those who were less fortunate, so she always dressed simply and unobtrusively whenever she went calling locally. Her unadorned fawn-coloured muslin gown was, by this time, thoroughly creased, and clung to the warmth of her body as she walked round the corner of the house, heading for the terrace.

Chapter Three

Richard Buchan Martell, now the new Earl of Copeland, cantered up the long drive leading to Ashbury Mead Manor, gazing curiously about him to see if there were any changes since he had last visited. Although, he reflected, it was rare to find much change in estates as old as this one unless they went downhill and became derelict through the neglect of owners who gambled their patrimony away in the clubs and drinking dens of the city. Usually, they prospered, as this one evidently did. Originally a small manor house, it had been rebuilt at least twice and was now a substantial, three-storied, red-brick residence dating back to the late 17th century. The red brick, surmounted with tall, decorative Queen Anne chimneys, glowed warmly in the sunlight, making him feel welcome.

He was early—almost too early for politeness—but he had shortened his stay at an inn on his way down from his estate in Shropshire, having been irritatingly kept awake by a crowd of rowdy, drunken guests. The bed and food had also left much to be desired. He’d departed once he felt his horse was rested enough, for there was no way was he going to change mounts and lose his treasured Jamal, his Arabian horse.

The main door of the house opened as the horse was taken to the stables by a suitably reverent groom after noting all Richard’s instructions for its care.

Rowten stood on the step to greet him with his usual reserved bow. “Her Grace is not yet about, milord, but please do come in, and I will inform her and make you comfortable while you wait. What refreshment would you like?”

“Strong coffee, thank you. I will have it in the garden. It is too nice a day to linger indoors. Please tell her Grace not to hurry. I am content just to sit and enjoy the scenery.”

“Very good milord. If you will step this way, your coffee will be with you shortly.” He led Richard down a passage and out onto a wide terrace where a group of chairs were positioned beside a low balustrade festooned with aubrietia and other alpines. It overlooked a wide lawn with a shrubbery to one side. Further walling and granite stairs led to a pebbled path, which in turn sloped down to parkland and a large lake beyond with water fowl.

“Splendid! I cannot think of a better place to enjoy this view,” Richard said happily, realising after the long years travelling in America how much he had missed England. Sitting in the warm sunlight, drinking well-made coffee, and reviewing his days recently spent with the family lawyer, he pondered on the strange quirks of fate that had brought him back to the land of his birth and the title he had inherited.

With two elder brothers, he had never given the matter of the family succession any thought when he had finally fallen out with his father for the last time. He had left to make his fortune far away from the continual bullying the old man heaped on his sons’ heads. His mother, bless her heart, had long succumbed to the tyrant, preferring death, he eventually grasped, to the maltreatment she had to endure. Resentment had reached fever pitch when Richard finally told his father he disowned him as a parent and was leaving home.

“You won’t inherit a blasted farthing from me, you damned good-for-nothing. Leave and never come back!” The strident bellow of his enraged sire had reached up to the granite ramparts of the very old manor house which fronted the ancient castle ruin, and soon, everyone was aware that the youngest and most independent of the family, having had enough, was leaving home. He’d called on his godmother on his way south, who agreed his decision was the right one. Swiftly, he boarded a ship for the New World. With an excellent brain, a grasp of legal matters, and exceptional proficiency in languages, he prospered accordingly. At thirty years of age, he was extremely wealthy and, until now, happy with his lot. He had every intention of staying in America, but inheriting the earldom changed everything. It was a responsibility he had never wanted but which he could not ignore.

Soon after he’d left, his eldest brother, Henry, ignoring the fact he was the heir, had unexpectedly bought himself a captaincy in the Cavalry. He had died of wounds received at Waterloo. Perhaps he, too, had fallen out with their father? Richard had received the news some months after through Eleanor and wrote back to her but never sent a word of condolence to his father. It came as a shock when, much later, he received a letter from the family solicitor to say that his father was dying and news that James, the next heir—who had never married—had recently died of a malignant disease. Richard Buchan Martell was now heir apparent.

He was shaken into the unwanted realization that his plans for his future were set awry by these events. He couldn’t ignore a family duty. Well, he could if he wished. He'd walk away and never give another thought to his inherited role. But if he did that, his conscience would be up in arms and would never give him peace. In spite of his hard-learned awareness following his escape from the family home that he cared not a whit for any of those he had left behind, he knew he must return to England. He had to see what was left of the estate and try to recover his relationship with his father.

By the time he reached Liverpool, his father was dead, which made him wonder if the two of them could ever have been reconciled. He thought not. Too much bitterness lay between them to have broken down the barrier. His brief visit to the estate was enough to show him the disastrous state things had sunk to since all of consequence had died.  He had enough to contend with, now, to put the dilapidated place in order and see to his uncared for people. They had suffered over the years from negligence and rank ill treatment, and he knew he must put things right and salvage his bitter conscience that, in the end, he had left things too late. It was lucky he now had the means to change things for the better. Finally, he was home and found there was a great deal to do in taking over the earldom.  He had also to make a trip to the London solicitors to finalise his accession to the title.

But first and far more pleasant, he could enjoy a promised visit to his godmother to give her all the news of his travels and of his intentions from now on. He owed her so much. His career, his fortune, and the forthcoming and very welcome advice she would readily give him. She took the place of the mother he’d hardly known, and his respect and love for Eleanor was boundless.

* * * *

He looked round as he heard the sound of feet on gravel and saw the girl walking his way. Ah, a maid coming to see if he wanted more coffee or maybe seeking some cool air.

“The kitchen too hot or are you going to fetch me more coffee?”

Stunned at the question, Lucie looked at the stranger who sat at ease in the garden and recognized at once their expected guest had arrived early. Her grandmother had not yet appeared, and the man obviously thought she was a maid. For a moment, she was angry, but her ever present humour took over. What should she do? Bob a curtsey and fetch him more coffee? Except Rowten would be cross, and no one, least of all a guest, should get on the wrong side of their butler. Or should she simply tell him who she was? Impishly, she racked her brains for an alternative as he was looking at her impatiently.

“Yes, your Lordship, it’s hot in the kitchen. Hot everywhere today, I guess. It is too hot for coffee. You’d do better with a pint of cool ale.”

“Now there’s a good thought, girl. I have developed a thirst, so a pint of ale it is, and be quick about it. And while you are at it, I haven’t had breakfast, so a decent slice of bread and cheese would not come amiss.” Surprised, he stared at her raised brows following his request. Impudent miss indeed. “What’s wrong with that? I haven’t tasted English cheese in many a long year.”

“Richard! You’ve come at last. And what do I hear? You are starved of cheese? We shall bury you in prime Gloucester rounds before you are much older if that is so!” Eleanor said laughingly as she emerged through the open doors leading to the terrace. She caught sight of Lucie and, with a quick look at her untidiness, said, “Oh, my goodness, you’ve already met? Lucie, my love, perhaps changing for luncheon...?” Her voice trailed away.

“Indeed I shall, Grandmama. I have just returned from the village, and the day is hot and breezy. Clara, too, was her usual temperamental self and would not hurry for me, no matter how I urged her. I undoubtedly need to freshen up after coping with her laziness. I shall see you later at luncheon.” Giving them both a bright smile, she said, “Your Grace, my lord.” She effected a sweeping curtsey and disappeared the way she had come but not before she watched the tide of scarlet sweep over the cheeks of their guest who had leapt to his feet the moment the duchess appeared.

Serves you right.
She smiled to herself.
That will teach you to jump to conclusions and throw out orders regardless of who receives them.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t down to greet you, Richard. These days, it takes me longer to dress. Thankfully, Lucie stood in my place. She is ever mindful of visitors,” Eleanor said.

Is she, by Jove? One would never have guessed!
“Please don’t apologise. It is my fault for being early. The journey was shorter than expected. As for your granddaughter, she appeared just as you did, so I haven’t had a chance to talk with her...”

“So what was it about cheese?” Eleanor was evidently confused. “Oh, never mind, you are here now, and I want all your news.” She turned to the open doors of the drawing room. “Rowten,” she called, “I believe my godson is hungry. Tell cook we shall have luncheon early, if it doesn’t cause a bother, and inform Lucie as well.” She turned back to Richard. “That takes care of your hunger, but I think a drink is in order now, don’t you, Richard? We can enjoy it out here until the meal is ready. Rowten, I'll have a glass of champagne, Richard will you join me or do you prefer ale?” She sat down in a chair and waved at her godson to resume his seat.