The Earl’s Mistletoe Bride (3 page)

But not Mrs Aubrey’s ribbon! That must not be soaked by the storm. Beth tucked the little parcel safely into the bodice of her gown. Then, gritting her teeth against the pain, she ducked under the fence and started back along the lane to Fratcombe.

It had felt like no distance at all on the way here, but now the bend seemed miles away. Beyond it was Widow Jenkinson’s house, where Beth would be able to ask for shelter. She hobbled awkwardly along, leaning heavily on her parasol. It was not strong enough to bear her weight. The handle snapped after just a few yards. Fate was definitely against her.

She stood on her good leg gazing down at the pieces of broken parasol. ‘Oh, fiddlesticks!’ She hurled the useless handle to the ground.

‘May I be of assistance, ma’am?’

Beth whirled round so quickly that she forgot about her injury and put her weight on her sprained ankle. She cried out in pain and almost fell.

‘Good God, ma’am! You are hurt.’

That voice had not changed. It was Jonathan.

She had been so intent on cursing the flimsy parasol that she had not heard the sound of his arrival.

‘Go to their heads.’ This time, he was not alone. A groom jumped down and ran to hold the horses. Jonathan sprang to the ground at the same moment and reached Beth just as she managed to regain her balance.

Her pain was forgotten. It was Jonathan. He had returned. He had returned to save her, all over again.

‘Let me help you into my curricle, ma’am.’ He offered his arm. ‘Lean on me. You should not put any weight on that ankle.’

She accepted gladly. Even with only one good leg, she felt as if she were floating, buoyed up by his touch, but when they reached the carriage step, reality intruded. She stopped, uncertain of whether she could mount.

‘Allow me.’ With a single, swift movement he picked her up in his arms. Her mind was instantly full of the scent of him, long familiar from her dreams, but before she could relax into his embrace, he had deposited her on the soft leather seat and stepped back. She felt bereft. ‘Shall I fetch your parasol for you?’ He pointed back to where it lay on the ground.

‘If you would be so good, sir,’ she said demurely, trying to avoid those penetrating eyes. She needed a few moments to collect her thoughts and regain control of her soaring emotions. This was no time for the stuff of dreams. He was bound to have questions. Her
stomach lurched alarmingly. He would want to know what she had discovered about her past. How could she ever explain that there was nothing to tell?

He was back in a trice, offering her the broken parasol. When she shook her head, he dropped the pieces on to the floor and sprang up to take his seat beside her. ‘There is a storm coming. My horses can smell it. I need to get them under cover before it breaks.’ Without waiting for orders, the groom ran to swing himself up behind, while Jonathan started his pair into motion. He was giving them all his attention, keeping them under rigid control. There must be a danger that they would try to bolt when the lightning came. She found she was perversely glad of it. No questions yet awhile.

She tried to keep her eyes on the road, but she could not stop herself from stealing greedy sideways glances at Jonathan. This time, she would fix every detail of his image in her memory. His face was extremely brown. Too dark and leathery for a gentleman’s complexion, of course, but only to be expected in a man who had served for so long under the burning sun of the Peninsula. There were flecks of grey in the dark hair around his temples and behind his ears. She could make out fine white lines at the corner of his eyes, too. Laughter lines, perhaps? Or simply the result of screwing up his eyes against the brilliant light? She was not at all sure that he had been laughing much. His expression seemed harsh, and there was a stern set to his jaw. He looked…he looked intimidating.

She guessed—no, she knew, by instinct—that her gallant rescuer had been changed by his years in the army, and that his experiences had not softened him.
No doubt he had been involved in bloody battles. He must have suffered. He had probably lost comrades, and friends. Beth had read the lists of casualties in the rector’s newspaper, always with her heart in her mouth lest the Earl of Portbury be among them. She knew his regiment had taken heavy losses, particularly at the siege of Badajoz, only months before.

They had almost reached the bend that led to the village. Jonathan was slowing his horses for the turn, his gloved hands pulling back on the reins. They were lean, strong hands, but sensitive, too, as Beth knew from experience, both then and now. His hands had touched her skin and—

She forced herself to push the image aside and to smile politely. A real lady would never permit such wanton thoughts!

They had completed the turn and were speeding up once more. ‘And now, ma’am, I pray you will tell me where I may set you down.’ He glanced across at her face, his eyes widening with what might be admiration. Her heart began to race, all over again. Was it possible that he—?

He turned back to his horses. ‘You are a lady of remarkable fortitude, to smile through the pain of your injured ankle,’ he said, with studied politeness. ‘I know it is not quite the thing, but I hope you will permit me to introduce myself, for it is seldom that a man has the pleasure of meeting a lady with such courage.’

Beth’s smile faltered. Great waves of pain broke over her whole body. He had forgotten her completely.

T
he introductions were brief and rather stilted, but Jon did not waste valuable time in enquiring what suddenly ailed his passenger. He sprang his horses along the empty village street and hauled them to a stand at the rectory gate. A quick glance up at the louring sky warned him that the storm would break at any moment. Polite niceties would have to wait.

Leaving his groom to mind the horses, Jon leapt down and hurried round to Miss Aubrey’s side. ‘There is no time to lose, ma’am. The storm is coming. Pray put your arm around my neck and I will carry you in.’ He ignored her shocked gasp and her chalk-white face. This was no time for displays of missish modesty. He slid one arm round her back and the other under her knees, hefted her into his arms and raced up the path to the rectory door.

‘Would you be so good as to ply the knocker, ma’am?’

It seemed to take her a moment or two to realise what he was asking of her. Was she slow-witted? No, surely not. He was being too hard on her. Perhaps the pain in her ankle had worsened? In addition to her strange pallor, she was also biting her lip.

The door was opened by a very small maid. ‘Oh, miss!’ she cried.

‘Open the door wide, that I may carry Miss Aubrey inside. Hurry!’ He almost pushed his way into the hall. He carried her through the first available door, into the small parlour at the front of the house. It was deserted. ‘Fetch the rector or Mrs Aubrey. Quickly now!’ The maid was still standing in the hall, open-mouthed. Jon knelt to slide Miss Aubrey on to the sofa and then rose again, frowning. He took one angry step towards the girl, who gasped in fright and took to her heels.

Jon turned back to the invalid. ‘Forgive me, ma’am, but I must get my horses under cover before the storm. Perhaps you would give my regards to Mr and Mrs Aubrey? I—’

‘Master Jonathan!’ Mrs Aubrey was standing in the doorway.

Jon spun round and sketched a quick bow. ‘As I was saying to Miss Aubrey, ma’am, I must see to my horses before the storm. Miss Aubrey, I fear, has sprained her ankle, but now that you are here, I know she will be well taken care of. I shall call again, as soon as may be.’ He strode to the door and smiled down at the old lady’s puzzled frown. ‘We shall be able to talk more comfortably then.’ He bowed again. ‘My compliments to the rector.’ Then he hurried back to the front door.

The timid little maid was nowhere to be seen, so Jon
let himself out and ran down the path to his curricle. ‘Right, Sam. Let’s see what kind of speed we can make to the Manor. If this pair are going to bolt, I’d much rather they did so on my own land.’

‘You poor child, you are shivering. It must be the shock. Let me find you a shawl.’ Mrs Aubrey tugged hard at the bell. ‘Brandy. The rector always says it is the best remedy. Oh, if only he were here.’ She was talking as much to herself as to Beth. ‘Ah, Hetty. Go upstairs and fetch down Miss Beth’s heaviest shawl. And then bring me the decanter of brandy from the rector’s library. Quickly now. Miss Beth is injured.’

The little maid bobbed a curtsy and disappeared.

Beth neither moved nor spoke. She could not. Her teeth were chattering. Her body felt as if it had been doused in freezing water. She could not feel any of her limbs, not even her injured ankle. She was totally numb. Her shining champion was nothing of the kind. She had been looking for his return for months now, while he had completely forgotten that she existed. She had been conjuring up castles in the air, like one of the tiny children in her schoolroom. She was an utter fool!

Mrs Aubrey set a chair by Beth’s feet and pushed aside the grubby muslin skirts. ‘Oh, dear. That is very swollen.’ She began to ease off Beth’s shoes. She was trying to be gentle, but pain shot up Beth’s leg, pulling her sharply back to the real world. She was unable to suppress a little groan. ‘Aye, my dear. I know. It does look very painful.’ Mrs Aubrey ran her fingers very gently over Beth’s foot and lower leg.

Beth gritted her teeth. She would not allow herself
to make another sound. She might have behaved like a silly schoolgirl over Jonathan, but she was not such a faint heart as to scream over a turned ankle.

‘I am almost certain that it is only a sprain, my dear, though once the storm has passed, I shall send the boy for the doctor. Just to check.’

‘Oh, ma’am—’ Beth could barely find her voice.

‘Hush, child. Ah, Hetty. Excellent. Here, give it to me.’ Mrs Aubrey helped Beth to sit up a little further and wrapped her warmly in the shawl. Then she slid extra cushions behind her, for support.

Before Beth could say a word of thanks, Hetty reappeared with the decanter and two glasses.

‘Put it down there.’ Mrs Aubrey pointed to the small piecrust table near Beth’s hand. The old lady was in her element, for she loved caring for invalids. ‘Now fetch me a basin of cold water, some cloths, and towels. We must put cold compresses on this ankle before it swells any more.’

The little maid nodded and disappeared again.

‘First, a little brandy.’ Mrs Aubrey poured out a small amount. She hesitated and then poured the merest film of liquid into the second glass. ‘I have had two shocks this afternoon. First, your sprained ankle, and then Master Jonathan’s unexpected return. He has put off his regimentals, too. I wonder…?’ She paused, staring at nothing. Then, recollecting herself, she pressed the fuller glass into Beth’s hand and raised her own. ‘To your speedy recovery, my dear. And poor Jonathan’s also.’

Jon dropped gratefully into the huge leather chair and stretched out his legs. What a day!

His valet, Vernon, pulled off Jon’s boots with gloved hands and exaggerated care. Then he padded off to the dressing room where he had already hung up Jon’s wet coat.

Jon sighed as the door closed between them. There was no noise inside the bedchamber now, apart from the hiss and sputter of the newly lit fire. He let his head fall back on to the leather. For a moment, he stared vacantly at the ceiling. Then he let his eyes drift closed and forced his shoulders to relax. Peace at last.

It was good to be back at Fratcombe. Here he would be spared his mother’s tart reminders of his duty, and his brother’s annoying company, too. Here he could visit his good friend, the rector. That last visit to Fratcombe seemed an age ago now. It had been so short—less that twenty-four hours, all told—that he had barely spoken to the Aubreys. Before he could even unpack, Jon had been summoned to London and sent back to Spain where—

He shook his head vigorously. He did not want to think about Spain.

A question began to nag at the edge of his brain. He had been so busy trying to escape the storm that he had pushed it aside till now. Who on earth was Miss Elizabeth Aubrey? The Aubreys had no children, Jon knew. Nor had there ever been any mention of brothers on the rector’s side. So, probably not a niece or great-niece either. She must be some very distant relation. But why had she never been mentioned before?

Intrigued, Jon decided that he would pay a call at the rectory first thing in the morning. A few polite questions would soon solve this little puzzle. Besides, the lady herself was quite attractive, as far as he could recall. He had been too concerned for his horses to pay much attention to her—until he carried her inside. Lifting her into his curricle was one thing, but carrying her the length of the rectory path and into the little parlour was quite another! He might be unsure of the colour of her eyes, but he certainly remembered the feel of her curves through her thin summer muslins. A tallish lady, and slim, but rounded in exactly the right places to fill a man’s hands.

It was interesting that she was unmarried, for she must be at least two- or three-and-twenty. Lack of dowry, probably. But at least she was old enough to have passed the simpering stage. He was surprised to find he was actually looking forward to becoming better acquainted with the mysterious Miss Aubrey. Perhaps he should invite all three of them to visit the Manor? Nothing at all improper in that, not when he and the Aubreys were such old friends. Yes, he would pay a call tomorrow, and if the lady proved to be amiable—as he fully expected any relation of the rector’s to be—he would issue the invitation. It was too long since he had been in company with real ladies, of the kind who could converse sensibly with a man. By comparison with the insipid schoolgirls that Jon’s mother favoured, Miss Aubrey might be a refreshing change. Just the kind of pleasant diversion he needed during this brief visit to Fratcombe Manor.

Thunder rattled the windows. The storm was now raging immediately overhead: blinding flashes of
lightning, followed almost instantly by drum rolls of thunder. Between them, Mother Nature and Father Zeus were showing what they could do.

Behind the closed door of the dressing room, Jon’s valet was probably still tutting over his ruined hat and coat, or muttering about the mud on his boots. Jon did not give a fig for the man. An earl’s consequence required a tonnish manservant, and Vernon was certainly that, but he had little else to recommend him. Jon should have chosen with more care on his return to England, but he had been too world-weary to bother with such a chore.

He had of course ensured that Joseph, his army batman, was properly recompensed and given a comfortable annuity for his years of devoted service. Joseph planned to set himself up in a small public house, he said. He might even find himself a wife.

A wife?

Jon groaned and rose to put more logs on the fire. At this moment, he really longed to see cheerful flames. One of his good and abiding memories of his years in Spain was sitting round the camp fire, sharing the local brandy with his comrades, and laughing together at the very silly tales they told each other.

The valet might be new to Jon’s service, but he had at least thought to provide a decanter of brandy in the master’s chamber. Jon smiled wryly and poured himself a large measure. He was minded to toss it down in a single swallow, but he did not. Once or twice in Spain, he had allowed himself to get very drunk when the pain of loss was almost unbearable. Returning to England’s damp countryside did not justify seeking oblivion in
drink. It would insult the friends who had been left behind in baked Spanish earth.

Jon took one large mouthful, savouring the flavours.

The dressing room door opened. ‘Is there anything else I can do for your lordship?’

Jon shook his head and waved the man away. He was too punctilious by half. Perhaps if Joseph had not yet spent his money…? No, that would not do. Joseph was a batman, not an earl’s valet. Besides, he wanted more than a business of his own. He wanted a wife, and perhaps a family. If he returned to serve Jon, what woman would have him? Let it be.

Jon sat down again and took another slow sip of his brandy.

A wife. Everything always came back to a wife. Particularly in his mother’s eyes. Jon had barely had time to kiss her cheek before she started on the subject. Since Jon’s first wife had been dead for well over a year, he should be looking about him for another. The matter was urgent, the Dowager maintained. And this time, he
must
set up his nursery.

Her ideas of duty—an earl must make a dynastic marriage and produce at least an heir and a spare—were much the same as his late father’s. And just as blinkered. Jon’s wife, Alicia, had been a duke’s daughter, but their marriage had been a total disaster. Even his mother would admit that now. And yet, she wanted him to do it all over again, to select a bride of rank from among the simpering debutantes on the London marriage mart. It would not cross her mind that an age gap of well-nigh twenty years might be unbridgeable. How was he, a man
of thirty-five, to take charge of a green girl just out of the schoolroom? He need not spend much time with her, of course—except for the inescapable duty of getting an heir—and he would certainly hold himself aloof, as his rank required, but still, the prospect of all that empty-headed gabbling was more than he could stomach. That was the kind of marriage his father had made, and his grandfather before him. But neither of them had been to war or watched friends die. War changed what a man valued in life…

Beth felt a bit of a fraud, leaning on a walking stick. It was not as if she had done any real damage. On the other hand, it was extremely painful to put her full weight on her injured ankle. So, for the moment, the walking stick would have to stay. The most difficult part of life was coping with the stairs without a strong man to help her. The rector was much too old to carry Beth. If he had offered, she would certainly have refused.

If Jonathan had offered to take her in his arms…

Beth’s insides were melting at the mere thought of his hands on her body. She shook her head, cross with herself for allowing his image to intrude, yet again. She had been trying so hard not to think about him. Sadly, the more she tried, the more he filled her mind and confused her rioting senses. And the more her guilt returned to haunt her.

She stood at the top of the stairs, looking down to the hall. It seemed a very long way, but she would conquer it. With her walking stick in one hand and her other hand on the baluster rail, she started carefully down.

Hetty appeared when Beth had reached about half
way. ‘Oh, Miss Beth. Let me help you.’ She started up the stairs.

Beth paused, balanced carefully and shook her head. ‘Thank you, Hetty, but I am quite well enough to manage. I must learn to use my cane and, in any case, you have better things to do than to act as a crutch for me.’

‘Well, if you say so, miss. But you will not go out of the house, will you? I can bring you anything you need.’

Beth finally reached the hallway. She was a little out of breath, but she was proud of herself. ‘No, Hetty, I will not go out of the house. Though I must say that I am glad that it is not a school day. The children would have worried if I had failed to turn up for their lessons.’

‘Mrs Aubrey said she would take over while you were poorly. She’s looking forward to it, she says.’ Hetty grinned knowingly.

‘Does she now?’ Beth smiled back at the maid. It sounded as if Aunt Caro intended Beth to remain an invalid for several more days. Well, Beth would see about that. The rector’s wife had responsibilities enough. She could not be expected to become the schoolmistress as well.