The Sherbrooke Bride (6 page)

She stared up at him, not understanding, and saw that the damned sod was smiling at her, a
knowing smile, a master's smile, so smug and satisfied that it was more than she could stand. She threw back her head and screamed at the top of her lungs.

The carriage jerked to a sudden halt.

Tony's smile didn't slip. He eased her up, helped her straighten her clothes, and waited for their coachman to appear at the window, which he did almost immediately. His eyes went at once to Melissande, and she realized that he must know what her husband had been attempting to do to her.

“Go away!” she yelled at the hapless man. “Ah, just go away!”

“Yes,” Tony said easily, sitting back against the squabs, his arms folded over his chest. “Forgive my wife for disturbing you. Sometimes ladies, well, they forget themselves . . . you understand.”

The coachman was very afraid he did understand, and, flushing, hurried to climb back to his perch. The carriage jerked forward.

Tony was quiet.

Melissande arranged herself with quick clumsy movements, so furious and embarrassed and disconcerted she wanted to shriek at him until she was hoarse. But it was difficult with him just sitting there, looking out the windows, saying nothing, looking bored.
Bored!

She smashed her bonnet back onto her head, not caring that her lovely coiffure would suffer irreparable damage from her show of rage. She pulled on her pelisse and refastened the buttons, putting the wrong ones in the wrong holes and not caring.

He looked at her then and the smile was still on his lips. “You know, Mellie—”

“Mellie! What a horrid nickname! I hate it, it is perfectly dreadful and I—”

“Shut up, my dear.”

“But, I—” She saw something in his eyes that she'd never encountered before in her twenty-one years. She closed her mouth and turned away, momentarily routed.

“As I was saying, Mellie, for you I betrayed my cousin. However, it isn't the sort of betrayal that destroys the soul. You don't really know Douglas nor does he know you. Lord, were he to have seen your games during the past few days, he would have been utterly disillusioned. He probably would have snuck out in the dark of night to escape you. He wouldn't have taken you to Gretna Green. Indeed, three years ago, I doubt you even saw him beyond a handsome man who praised your immense beauty. He left you because of his honor, because he felt he had to place his duty above matters of the heart. I will tell you truthfully, my dear, he doesn't love you. He remembered that he had desired you, had admired you, had laughed and been entranced by your carelessness, your seeming guilelessness. He remembered your beauty, nothing more.

“But he doesn't love you nor did he then. His family has been ruthless in their attempts to get him wedded so that there will be a Sherbrooke heir within the year. He saw you as a way to batten down his family, to wed himself to a beautiful creature, and save himself from having to travel to London to see the crop of available debutantes.

“Even as I knew I would have you, I was thinking of all the pros and cons of what I was doing. One thing I'm quite certain of though, Douglas will come to realize what a favor I did for him by removing
you from the scene. One day he will thank me. You would have driven him mad, utterly mad.” Tony now turned to his wife. He was looking very serious. “He is much more the gentleman than I am, you know. He would never have beaten you, no matter the provocation. He would have withdrawn from you, not at all what would bring you into line.”

She said slowly, “I don't believe you. Douglas Sherbrooke does love me. He loved me then, he loved me for three years, and he still loves me. He will mourn me the rest of his life. I will be his lost love. Aye, I have broken his heart by wedding you. He will hate you forever for what you have done. He will never forgive you.”

Tony said quietly, “I hope it will not be so. I believe that only Douglas's pride will be a bit bruised. Then he will recover with alacrity when he sees what I must do to keep you under control. He will pump my hand in his gratitude. He will blubber all over me with thankfulness.”

Melissande looked down at her gloved hands. “You speak as though you do not hold me in esteem. You speak as though I am not a person to be admired or loved. You speak as though you took me away only to save your cousin. I thought you adored me, wanted me desperately.”

“Ah, that is true enough. Understand, just because I adore and want you doesn't mean that I am blind to your character. However, it isn't at all to the point. You see, what I have done demands retribution. I owe Douglas payment, of sorts, so that he won't have to start again at the beginning in his quest for a wife. Indeed, in my letter to your father I hinted as much.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't believe I will tell you, Mellie, not yet, because I have yet to be certain whether my notions are accurate.” He gave her a crooked smile. “You see, I was thinking too much about you, about having you naked beneath me, to keep an excellent mental accounting of what I hoped would be true. Well, hopefully your father will have determined the accuracy by the time we return to Claybourn. Now, my dear, your bonnet looks quite dowdy. I suggest you endeavor to make yourself look a bit more charming, for we are nearing Claybourn.”

He'd silenced her questions for the moment by appealing to her vanity. He watched her pull a small mirror from her reticule. She was efficient in her efforts, from long practice. She was so beautiful it made him shake. Her body was undoubtedly lovely—at least the parts he'd just managed to uncover and see and touch. He'd wanted to see her face when he took her virginity the previous night, but she'd been so frightened, so embarrassed, that he hadn't the heart to insist upon the lamp being lit. But what really shook him and surprised him as well was that no woman had ever affected him as she had. He had also known instantly that she was utterly impossible, spoiled, vain, as arrogant as he was, but it hadn't mattered. He'd wanted her. Despite Douglas, despite everything, he'd wanted her and he'd taken her.

Now the trick would be to live with her.

Another trick would be to bring her pleasure. The thought of a frigid wife was intolerable. It was nauseating.

The most important trick would be to pay Douglas back.

Odd, Tony thought, as the carriage bowled onto the long narrow drive of Claybourn Hall, but he hadn't given Teresa, his perfidious former betrothed, a thought since he'd met Melissande. He looked at his wife, saw that she was pale and that she was wringing her hands.

He rather hoped her father would yell at her. Then he, Tony, would step in. He was her protector, her master, her husband. Then, he prayed, he and the duke would come to another agreement.

Douglas won the piquet match. He hadn't even had to cheat. Belesain had been so drunk by the end of it, Douglas doubted he'd minded losing very much because as the winner he would have had to perform sexually, a feat he probably couldn't have managed. He'd given Douglas a key and told him to explain to the lovely wench he found in the small room that he was here to be pleasured. He said the wench loved threats and a bit of pain. Then, the bloody drunk fool had decided to accompany him. “Because,” he said as they climbed the stairs to the third floor, “she isn't exactly trained fully as yet.” Douglas watched him unlock the door and stride inside.

He followed, saying nothing. It was a spare room, with only a bed and dresser and a single circular rug in the middle. There was only one occupant, a single woman standing in the middle of the room. Was this Janine Daudet? The general grinned drunkenly at her and said with a flip of his hand, “Strip off those clothes.”

The woman hesitated, then complied. He'd
expected someone younger, though why he should have he didn't know. No, she wasn't really a girl, Douglas thought, looking at her more closely, but rather a woman in her mid-twenties. She was obviously scared and she was lovely, despite her pallor, the shadows beneath her very dark eyes, and her thinness.

Belesain waited silently until she'd stripped to her shift. Then he lurched to her, grabbed her chin painfully in his fingers and kissed her, fondling her breasts with his other hand through the thin lawn. Then, suddenly, he grabbed the front of her shift and ripped it off her. He laughed, saying over his shoulder to Douglas, “I wanted to see if you approved of her. Nice, eh? A bit thin for my taste, but her tits are nice.” He pushed her back onto the bed, leaned over her, and said low, “You see this man, my girl? You do everything he wants you to do or . . . you know the punishment, don't you? I would like to remain and watch, but I am sorely tired.” He straightened and turned to Douglas. “You are quiet. Don't you think she is lovely? Not a virgin, but not overused either. She belongs to me, and now, because she isn't stupid, she obeys my every command. Now you may enjoy her, but just for tonight.”

He lurched out of the room. Douglas moved after him and listened as his footsteps receded down the corridor and then down the stairs. He listened to another door open and close on the second floor. Then he turned back to face the woman.

She was standing now by the bed, trying to cover herself with her hands. Douglas couldn't believe his good fortune but he wasn't about to doubt it, not for a moment.

His voice was urgent as he strode to her. “Is your name Janine Daudet?”

She was small, very fair, her hair falling straight down her back nearly to her waist. She had light blue eyes, very blond brows and lashes, and she was lovely.

“Are you?”

She nodded, taking a step back.

“Don't be afraid of me. I'm here on behalf of Georges Cadoudal.”

Douglas wasn't able to keep his eyes on her face. He hadn't had a woman in a while. His body was responding with deplorable enthusiasm. “Do you know Georges Cadoudal?”

She nodded, still obviously afraid of him, not believing him for a moment, despite the flare of hope he'd seen.

“I wish you to dress, quickly. I am here to take you away, to Georges. We must hurry.”

“I don't have any gowns.”

Douglas looked around. “A cloak, anything. Come, we must hurry.”

“I don't believe you.” So there was some spirit left in her after all. She was nearly strangling on her fear but she still kept on. “I know that he gave me to you, he said so, and I know why he did it.”

“It's because I won a wager.”

“Oh no.” She became even paler. Her rouged lips parted, then closed. She shook her head, then said in a rush, “He wants me to find out what you will tell Bonaparte when you return to Paris. He worries also that you are really a spy. I think he would prefer a spy to you being from Bonaparte because he fears Bonaparte will discover the wicked things he's done.
He told me I must discover the truth or he will kill my grandmother.”

“Ah.” Douglas smiled down at her and gently began to run his hands up and down her thin arms. So, the general hadn't been drunk at all. The piquet, the wager, his loss, it had all been Belesain's plan to trap him. Not bad.

“Easy now,” he said absently, trying to calm her, all the while thinking furiously.

“Where is your grandmother?”

Janine started. “She's at the farm, two miles from Etaples to the south. He says that he has a man there watching her and that the man will kill her if I don't do as he orders.”

“If I know Georges, he's already taken care of any guards at your grandmother's farmhouse. I am really here to save you. Now, let's get you dressed in something. I am taking you and your grandmother to England.”

“England,” she said slowly, her dark eyes wide with surprise. “But we only speak French.”

“It doesn't matter. Many people speak French in England and you will learn. Georges lives there much of the time and he can teach both of you English.”

“But—”

“No, I can say no more. Georges wishes me to take you to London. You will be safe there until he returns to fetch you. There are chores he must attend to here first. Will you trust me?”

She looked up at him, worship and trust shining from her face and said simply, “Yes.”

“Good. Now, listen to me. Here's what we will do.” Douglas wondered, as he stared down into that
pale tense face that held such radiant trust for him, why people in general and females in particular believed him to be some sort of Saint George. He hated it but at the same time he found it amusing. He thought of Georges Cadoudal, and fervently hoped she would remember him. After all, Douglas was probably a married man by now and he wanted no moonstruck female on his arm on his return to England.

D
OUGLAS OPENED THE
door of the library, saw a lone candle burning on the small table beside his cousin, and strode into the room, a tired smile lighting his face.

“Tony! Lord, it's good to see you and good to be home again.” Douglas rubbed his hands together. “Ah, it's wonderful to be home and I fancy you know well my reasons.”

“Douglas,” Tony said, rising. He strode to his cousin and shook his hand. “I gather you were successful in whatever mission you undertook?”

Douglas gave him a fat smile and continued to rub his hands together. “Very successful, thank a benevolent God and a very stupid general who thought he could outsmart me. Ah, that dressing gown of yours is very elegant, but if you're not careful, your hairy legs stick out.” He walked over to the sideboard. “You want some nice French brandy? I did promise you all you could drink until the next century.”

“No, I think not.”

Douglas poured the brandy, took a deep drink,
felt it snake a warm trail all the way to his belly. “Hollis said you had to speak to me, that it was quite important, that it couldn't possibly wait until morning. I thought for a moment he was going to cry, but of course that's nonsense. Hollis never cries or yells or shows any unsuitable emotion. But it is nearly midnight, Tony, and I'm babbling because I'm about to collapse at your feet. Of course, once I see my beautiful bride, I imagine I'll forget all my fatigue. Still, I was surprised to see Hollis still up. What do you want?”

“I tried to tell Hollis to take himself off to bed, that I would await you in the entrance hall, but being Hollis, he refused.”

Douglas took another long drink of his brandy, then sat himself in a deep wing chair next to his cousin's. “What's wrong?” There was dark silence, and Douglas suddenly knew that something he wasn't going to like at all was very near now, and Tony was the messenger. “You did marry Melissande, did you not?”

Tony looked at him full-face. “Yes,” he said, “I did marry her.” He drew a deep breath, knowing there was no hope for it, and blurted out, “I also married her younger sister.”

Douglas had just taken another sip of brandy. He spit it out and choked on a cough. “You
what
?”

“I said I married two women.” Anthony Parrish turned to stare into the fireplace, at the glowing embers. So much for his rehearsed explanation. He felt as tired as his cousin. In addition, he carried a burden of guilt that was well-nigh dragging him underground. “You may select to challenge me to a duel, Douglas. It will be your right. I will not fire against you, that I swear.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” But Douglas didn't want to know what his cousin was talking about. He wanted to leave, right this minute, and go up to the huge master suite, to the huge master bed where Melissande awaited him. He didn't want to hear any more about Tony marrying two women.

“I didn't marry Melissande by proxy for you. I married her first over the anvil in Gretna Green, then once again later at her father's house. I then married Alexandra, her younger sister, by proxy, to you.”

“I see,” Douglas said. He rose, set his brandy snifter down carefully on the side table, nodded to his cousin, picked up a candle, and strode from the library.

“Douglas! Wait! You don't understand. For God's sake, come back here!”

But Douglas wasn't about to stop. He heard Tony coming after him and quickened his pace. A mistake, that's what all this was, no, it was a wicked joke, a joke worthy of Ryder . . . no . . . something else. He heard his cousin on the stairs behind him as he turned into the eastern corridor. He ran down the long hall to the master suite at the end. He pulled open the double doors, dashed inside, then slammed them closed behind him, and quickly turned the key.

He looked toward his bed, holding his candle high. The covers were as smooth as when he'd left Northcliffe Hall two weeks before. The bed was empty.

He walked to the dais and stood there staring down at that damned empty bed. He'd dreamed of this bed. Not empty like it was now. No, he'd dreamed of Melissande lying on her back in the middle, her arms open, inviting him to come to her.

He turned, furious, nearly beyond understanding anything. He looked toward the adjoining door and realized he was being a fool. Naturally she wouldn't be in his bed, she would be in the countess's bedchamber next to his. He was a stranger to her, somewhat, and it wouldn't be proper for her to be in his bed, at least not yet. Not until he had, as her husband, formally fetched her into his bed.

He flung open the door to the adjoining bedchamber. This room was smaller, its furnishings soft and very female; this was the room visited by the resident ghost who didn't exist and never had existed except in bored or fevered female minds. He saw that the bed covers were rumpled. But this bed was also empty. It was then he saw her. It was a girl and she was standing in the shadows, wearing a long white gown that covered her from her chin to her toes. He couldn't see her all that clearly, but he knew that she was very pale, and clearly startled. And was it fear he saw as well? Fear of him?

Hell, she should be afraid, he thought, and took two steps forward. She wasn't Melissande. She was a bloody stranger and she had the gall to be here in his wife's bedchamber, standing there as if she belonged, staring at him as if he were an intruder at the least, perhaps even a murderer. He stopped dead in his tracks. “Who the devil are you?”

He sounded very calm, which surprised him no end. He was shaking on the outside, his gut cramping on the inside, and he quickly set down the candle on the stand beside the bed.

“I asked you who you are. What the hell are you doing in here? Where is Melissande?”

“Melissande is down the hall, in the west wing. The bedchamber is called the Green Cube, I believe.”

Her voice was scared—high, thin, and reedy.

“I don't know you. Why are you here?”

The girl stepped forward, and he saw her square her shoulders. In the dim candlelight he saw that she was small, slight of build, and her hair was a rich dark red, long and waving down her back and over her shoulders.

“I was sleeping here.”

“You aren't Melissande.”

“No,” she said. “I'm Alexandra. I'm actually your wife.”

He laughed then, and it was an ugly raw sound, holding disbelief and utter incredulity. “You can't be my wife, sweetheart, for I've never seen you in my life. I believe you must be one of Tony's wives or perhaps one of his many mistresses.”

“You have seen me before, my lord, it's just that you don't remember me. I was only fifteen at the time and you saw only my sister.”

“Yes, and I married your sister.”

There was loud pounding on the door in Douglas's bedchamber. He could hear Tony working the doorknob frantically. Douglas looked up, hearing Tony shout, “Douglas, open this damned door! Alexandra, are you all right?”

“I'm all right, Tony,” she called out. She turned back to Douglas and said in a voice calm as a nun's, “Shall I let him in, my lord?”

“Why not? He appears to be married to everyone, thus it is his right to visit any number of female beds.”

When the strange girl walked past him into his bedchamber, Douglas moved quickly to the hall door of this adjoining chamber, and was out the door just as Tony burst into his bedchamber. Tony saw him
take off on a dead run toward the west wing.

“Douglas, damn you, stop! Where the hell are you going now? Oh, no! Stop!”

But Douglas didn't stop until he flung open the door of the Green Cube bedchamber. There, in the canopied bed, lay his wife, his bride, Melissande. She was sitting up now, looking dazed, then alarmed, framed in the candlelight. She met his gaze and blinked, pulling the sheet up to her chin.

“Douglas Sherbrooke?”

“Why are you in this room? What are you doing in his bed?”

“Because she's married to me, dammit! Douglas, please, come away, and let me explain what happened.”

“No, I want to take my wife back to my bedchamber. I want her in my bed. You can't marry every woman, Tony. It's not legal except in Turkey. Truly, you must be a Muslim. So, I'll take this one.”

“She's not your wife! I married her for myself, not for you. I've slept with her, Douglas! I took her virginity. She is my wife.” Tony had begun on a roar but he managed to end on a lower, much calmer octave.

Douglas, very pale now, stared at Melissande. God, she was the loveliest creature he'd ever seen. Her black hair was tousled about her white face, her startling dark blue eyes large and deep and so seductive he could feel himself getting hard despite what was happening, despite the fact she was apparently married to Tony, despite . . . Douglas shook his head. He was tired, exhausted actually, but he'd ridden like the devil's own disciple to get home tonight, to his bride. He thought briefly of Janine and wondered how she would do here as a third wife. He
shook his head and looked again toward his bride.

But there was no bride.

No, that wasn't right. There was a bride and her name was Alexandra and he'd never seen her before in his life even though she claimed he had.

He turned slowly to look at his cousin. “I want you to tell me this is one of your benighted jests.”

“It's not. Please, Douglas, come with me back downstairs and I will explain everything.”

“You can explain
this
?”

“Yes, if you'll just give me a ch—”

“You bloody bastard!” Douglas bared his teeth and lunged at his cousin. He slammed his fist into Tony's jaw, sending him sprawling. Tony rolled over and came up again, shaking his head. Douglas hit him again. This time, Tony grabbed Douglas's lapels and pulled him down with him. They fell with a loud thud, struggling, arms and legs flailing and thrashing.

Melissande screamed.

Alexandra stood in the open doorway, her candle held high. She saw Tony roll over on top of Douglas and smash his fist into his jaw. Douglas grunted in pain, brought up his knees and slammed them in Tony's back, lurching up. Tony hit Douglas again, harder now, making his head snap back.

Alexandra howled. She quickly dropped the candle to a tabletop and leapt upon Tony's back, pounding at his head with her fists, then jerking his hair. “Stop it, you brute! Let him alone!”

She pounded and pounded and jerked and jerked. Tony, so surprised by this unexpected onslaught that he froze, was quickly upended by Douglas. Both Alexandra and Tony went sprawling. Douglas grabbed Tony by his shirt and dragged him upright. He slammed his fist into his belly. Tony grunted,
bending over, hugging his arms around himself. Suddenly, Melissande came flying through the air to leap upon Douglas's back, wrapping her legs around his waist. She pounded her fists at his head, screaming right into his ear, “Leave him alone!”

Douglas felt his entire brain begin to vibrate. His ears were ringing. She was pulling his hair out, still screaming at him, right into his ear. Then, the other wife, the small one, was tugging madly at Melissande, jerking her off Douglas's back. Both women went down together in a twist of white nightgowns and flying masses of hair.

Tony was still bent over, trying to regain his breath. Douglas felt as though he should be bald. His scalp throbbed from Melissande's attack. He stood there, surveying the disaster. He watched as the small girl untangled herself from Melissande, rose, and rushed to him. Her face was white, her eyes dilated. She was trembling and panting.

He stood silent as a stone as her hands went from his shoulders to his chest, then to the length of his arms. He still didn't move, didn't say a word. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you? Please, tell me if you have pain.” Her fingertips skimmed lightly over his jaw and he jerked back just a bit. “Oh, forgive me, it's tender, isn't it? I'm sorry. It's not broken, no, but he hit you very hard.”

Douglas shook his head, but otherwise he still didn't move. For the life of him he couldn't come up with one reason why he should move or say anything, for that matter. Her hands continued their journey over his body, feeling, lightly prodding. Finally, when she was about to drop to her knees and feel his legs, Douglas grabbed her wrists and pulled them together in front of her. He shook her to get her attention. He
said very slowly, “I'm just fine. Leave me alone. Go feel him—your other husband.” He looked beyond her to Melissande, who was standing beside Tony, her long black hair an incredibly soft curtain that hid her face from him. Her soft hands were on Tony's body.

Douglas stepped back from the second wife and looked toward the open doorway. He said quite calmly, “Hollis, please come in here.”

Hollis, not one ounce of dignity lighter, stepped into the den of chaos. He said very gently, “My lord, should you care to accompany me, the others may then attire themselves in more suitable garb. I will serve brandy in the drawing room and they may join us when they wish. Come now, my lord. That's right. Come with me. All will be well.”