Jo Beverley Page 8

  The carriage halted and she looked out, expecting something terrible. She only saw a respectable street of tall houses and occasional shops. She saw a haberdashery and a millinery. . . .

  A footman opened the door and the earl leaped out, virtually dragging Meg with him. “My lord!”

  “Come along, or the others will think I’ve abducted you.”

  “What are you doing?” she demanded as she was hustled through a door. A moment later she realized a sensible woman would have screamed.

  But this was her husband, God help her.

  He whipped off her bonnet. Even as she protested, she realized they were in the millinery establishment.

  “My lord?” The plump young woman was clearly startled, but not at all unhappy to be invaded in this way.

  “A bonnet, Mrs. Ribbleside. Not your most fanciful creation. It must match this gown. But something a little more enlivening than brown straw.”

  “Of course—”

  “And in a hurry, please. Oh, and this is my countess. She’ll doubtless become a very good customer.”

  The woman gaped for a moment, then put on a brilliant smile. “Your ladyship! What an honor! Please, be seated—”

  “No time for that. Just pick one. Your taste is excellent.”

  As a gesture of rebellion, Meg sat firmly on the chair the milliner had indicated. “Perhaps I don’t want a new bonnet.”

  “Don’t be foolish. Women always want new bonnets.”

  She gritted her teeth. “If I am to have new clothes—and I’m sure you will insist on it, my lord—I will buy new bonnets then!”

  “We’ll have a special outfit made to go with your wedding bonnet.” He tossed her poor straw into a corner. “That thing depresses me.”

  Before she could protest, he gave her a shining smile. “Humor me, my dear.”

  Despite her best efforts, Meg’s anger and resistance thawed. Then the milliner hurried over with a handful of honey-brown velvet trimmed with blue braid.

  “The latest thing, milady. A Portuguese cap. It’ll suit your face and not look too fancy.” She settled it firmly on Meg’s head and directed her to look in the mirror.

  “There, see,” the earl said. “I knew Mrs. Ribbleside could do it. I’m not sure heavy brims suit you. That cap, with just your curls around your face, is very fetching.”

  Meg couldn’t disagree. It did look well. She’d thought they’d force her into some ridiculous confection of white straw and feathers. The cap, however, covered all her hair except the curls at the front, and the warm color suited her, as well as working with her plain dress.

  To object would be churlish and she had enough battles to fight without that. She stood and smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Ribbleside. Now, my lord, may we go? My family will be worrying.”

  With bright thanks to the milliner, he swept her out to the carriage and ordered the coachman to make more speed. As they sped off, Meg noted that price or payment had never been mentioned. There was a sinful pleasure in that, in not needing to worry about the cost.

  The fast-moving carriage swung around a corner, and she fell against him.

  He sat her straight. “We’re entering the square and I’ll go odds we’re hardly late at all.”

  Meg laughed, feeling caught up in a whirlwind, but a rather pleasant one. She looked from his sparkling eyes to the handsome square. “This is where your house is?”

  “My London house, yes. Marlborough Square.”

  She saw a large, well-maintained garden in the center of the square. It even had a small duckpond, and some children were playing there, watched by nursemaids. The square itself contained grand row houses and a few detached mansions.

  “It’s lovely.”

  “I find it so. My main seat in the country is Haverhall in Sussex. I hope you don’t mind the country.”

  The carriage was drawing to a halt and waiting servants sprang to open the door and let down the steps.

  “I spent the past four years in the country as a governess, my lord. I liked it well enough.” What a hasty shopping stop that had been. The carriage carrying her siblings had only just arrived. The earl seemed to do everything in a rush.

  Except, apparently, make love to his wife.

  Oh dear. Somewhere in this house there was a bed, and the night loomed. . . .

  He jumped down and turned to hand her out. “You’re going to have to call me something other than my lord, you know.”

  “Am I?”

  “But of course. My friends call me Sax. You wouldn’t like that.”

  Meg almost disagreed, but then guessed that was his plan. “It doesn’t seem appropriate.” She let him tuck her hand in his arm.

  “My given names are Frederick George. I do not like to be called Frederick.”

  “Then perhaps I should call you Freddy.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  She knew she could not. A less Freddy-like person was hard to imagine. Then she realized she was smiling at the thought.

  “That’s better. We’re not opponents, my dear, even though I can be an irritating fellow. You and Owain can weep into your teacups over me. But for now, why not settle for Saxonhurst? It’s better than ‘my lord,’ and may in time slide into the friendly Sax.”

  Meg accepted the olive branch with gratitude. “Very well, Saxonhurst. And what are you going to call me? You can’t call me ‘my dear’ all the time.”

  As an attack, it was daunting as a feather. “I will be happy to call you ‘my dear’ all the time if you wish. However, I would prefer to use your given name. Minerva, is it not? The goddess of wisdom.”

  Meg was about to correct him, but bit it back. Minerva was her real name, and it would keep a sense of formality between them. At the moment, the more formal the better.

  Anyway, how much more elegant, how much more “countessy” it sounded. “Minerva Saxonhurst,” she said, almost to herself, for she knew that a countess used her husband’s title rather than his family name.

  “Delightful.” He gestured. “Pray, Minerva Saxonhurst, step into your home.”

  Aware of smiling, indulgent servants, who clearly thought their flamboyant employer top-of-the-trees, Meg obeyed.

  Chapter 6

  The house was a tall, double-fronted town house of gray stone, and in the spacious, tiled hall, a small army of servants stood ready to greet her. Every one was neatly turned out and bright eyed with curiosity.

  Meg put aside another preconception. She wasn’t needed to rescue the deranged earl from disorganization and chaos. She wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t deranged, but not in any way that good housekeeping and tender nursing would mend.

  Perhaps all she was needed for was the threatening bed.

  Ah well, she intended to fit the role of wife in whatever way he wished. In fact, her rebellious banter in the coach could have been unruly. She glanced at him. He clearly hadn’t minded. The idea of having someone to fence words with, someone who didn’t mind her frankness and could give as good as he got, was rather exciting.

  She’d certainly not expected it in a husband.

  She spotted one liveried footman and just knew from his lively face and small stature that he was Susie’s Monkey. He winked at her, grinning. Not surprising that he was happy when she’d just provided him with the means to start up in business.

  A stately, gray-haired gentleman, doubtless the butler, came toward the earl, but before he could speak, one of the servants who’d been at the church cried, “Lord and Lady Saxonhurst. Hip-hip-hooray!”

  And the hall rang with cheers.

  In the following moment of silence, a voice said, “What folly have you fallen into now, Frederick?”

  Meg felt the earl’s arm turn to iron beneath her hand. He whipped to face the side of the hall, where a silver-haired lady sat in an ornate, old-fashioned sedan chair, two chairmen liveried in crimson and silver standing like statues between the shafts.

  The chair door stood open so Meg could see that the
woman was dressed entirely in black, but of rich silk encrusted with jet. Her silver hair curled out from under the brim of a ruched, black silk bonnet. Her eyes had a familiar yellowish glint, and in the lined face those eyes looked hawkish.

  “Your Grace, what a surprise.” Meg had never before heard a voice convey bitter acid.

  The old woman didn’t flinch. She turned her hawk’s gaze on Meg. “My poor child. This really wasn’t wise, no matter how urgent your need—”

  Before Meg could force any response out of her paper-dry mouth, the earl said, “Minerva is a respectable lady and now my countess, Your Grace. I must insist on complete courtesy.”

  The butler cleared his throat. “The dowager duchess brought baggage, my lord.” He indicated a huge pile of valises and bandboxes tucked away in a corner.

  “Will you throw me out into the street, Frederick?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Meg was pleased that at least the earl didn’t intend to deny his grandmother a bed for the night.

  Then he continued. “I will have you and your possessions most carefully removed and conveyed to Quiller’s.”

  A hotel? “My lord—” Meg protested.

  “Don’t.” His voice was quiet, meant only for her, and his eyes never left the woman in the chair. He seemed strangely like an animal at bay, eyeing growling hounds.

  The duchess did not seem worthy of such rage. After all, this marriage was folly, and Meg would not have agreed to it if her need hadn’t been truly urgent.

  Suddenly, he produced a quizzing glass and raised it. “Cousin Daphne! Imagine you being here.”

  Meg hadn’t noticed the young woman standing beside the old woman’s chair, even though she was dressed in an expensive-looking, full-length spencer trimmed with fur, and a large bonnet frothed with plumes. The clothes overwhelmed her thin, pale form. If the earl seemed to be always taking up all the available space, this Cousin Daphne took up far less than her share.

  Why, then, did the earl’s voice have such a caustic edge?

  The woman raised her chin, pale mouth trembling. “Why shouldn’t I be here?” She pulled her left hand out of her enormous fur muff to reveal an old-fashioned ring bearing a large emerald. “I wear the Torrance betrothal ring.”

  Meg gasped, but her husband said, “I am not and have never been betrothed to marry her.”

  “We were to marry today!” Cousin Daphne declared.

  “You are mistaken.”

  “It’s been understood forever. The duchess said—”

  “Occasionally, even the Dowager Duchess of Daingerfield makes a mistake. Pringle—”

  “Philanderer!” snapped the duchess. “You played with Daphne in the cradle.”

  “If I did anything improper, it was my nursemaid’s fault. Pringle—”

  “Saxonhurst!” Daphne shrieked, crimson splotching her cheeks. “You disgusting man.”

  “My goodness, Daphne”—he stared at her again through the quizzing glass—“you’ve turned quite red. What did I do to you in the cradle? I must say, it’s rather a feather in my cap to have been so precocious.”

  “You vile cad!”

  Meg, horrified, silently echoed that. “My lord . . . !”

  “Be quiet,” he snapped. “Pringle, I am not accustomed to being ignored.”

  “My lord!” The butler almost snapped to attention. “You wish the duchess removed?”

  “I thought I made that clear some time ago.”

  The duchess stared at him as fixedly as he stared back. “I defy you to throw me from the house, Frederick.”

  “She dismissed her carriages, my lord.”

  “Then use mine.”

  “I will not be moved. Stand your ground!” the duchess ordered her chairmen.

  “Use all my carriages if you have to,” the earl ordered. “Get the baggage out of here, and that includes the duchess and Lady Daphne.”

  “Saxonhurst!” exclaimed Lady Daphne. “Even you cannot—”

  “Watch me.”

  “My lord,” Meg protested. “It’s the Christmas season—”

  “Hold your tongue.”

  Horrified, Meg dashed over to put her arms around the twins. What had she done to bring her family here?

  The servants sprang into action, positively sweeping the pile of baggage out of the hall. When the staff seemed likely to sweep out the sedan chair, too, the duchess slammed the door and ordered the men to move. Her hand made a claw on the edge of the lowered window. Stiff-necked, Cousin Daphne stalked alongside.

  As the chair passed close, she glared at the earl. “You are beneath contempt, Saxonhurst.”

  “Then why the devil do you want to marry me?”

  “Only for the duchess’s sake. You pain her most terribly.”

  “You mean you don’t lust for my body? Not even after all our merry cradle games?”

  “You disgust me!”

  “I think it’s rather unfair to hold my infant technique against me. I assure you that now—”

  “I will never darken your door again!” She would have stormed forward, but the earl put a hand out to stop her, and stepped closer to the sedan chair.

  “May I hope that goes for you, too, Your Grace?”

  The dowager looked up with the expression of an early martyr—of the sterner sort. “You are my sacred trust, Frederick. I will never wash my hands of you.”

  Saxonhurst suddenly looked around, seized Meg’s hand, and dragged her to his side. “You were never properly introduced, were you? Minerva, Lady Saxonhurst, make the acquaintance of my mother’s mother, the Dowager Duchess of Daingerfield, and my cousin, Lady Daphne Grigg.”

  The duchess looked up at Meg and truly did seem long-suffering. Meg could understand. The earl’s behavior was completely beyond the line. Though not deranged, he was distinctly unbalanced and intolerably rude.

  “I cannot in honesty welcome you to the family.” The duchess’s hawk’s eyes swept over Meg’s clothes, assessing and dismissing. “You are clearly unsuited for such high station and unlikely to bring Saxonhurst to any sense of his failings. But I cannot abandon my family. When you need advice, come to me. I will stay in town until Twelfth Night, apparently at Quiller’s Hotel. Now, Frederick, if you will permit it, we will do as you wish and leave your disorderly house.”

  The earl stepped back sharply. The chair—which Meg now saw had a ducal coronet on the roof and a rampant lion on the door—was raised again by its attendants and carried out of the door.

  The lion and the unicorn, fighting for the crown. Upstairs and downstairs, and all around the town. . . .

  She certainly felt as if she had tumbled into a war between mighty predators. What on earth was going on?

  Daphne was no bride for the earl, and the duchess must know it. Susie had been right to suggest that the earl’s grandmother would find him an unsuitable wife. It was especially horrid that the woman had seen him as a case to be reformed.

  But then, he clearly was. No matter what lay between them, it was wrong to refuse hospitality to relatives, especially at this time of year. With a chill, Meg realized he had never once addressed the duchess as grandmother.

  “She’s upset you.”

  She searched him for signs of madness and saw only suave gloss. “I am unsuited to be an earl’s bride.”

  He tucked away his quizzing glass. “What you need to know you can learn.” With the closing of the door on the departing women, the angry, vicious man had faded like hoarfrost under the sun. “The staff here, though rascals one and all, know their business and will take care of you.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t pay the duchess any heed. In particular, don’t scurry off to Quiller’s asking for advice. That, I absolutely forbid.”

  And he meant that word, she saw.

  “Now,” he said, smile flashing, eyes brightening, “let’s eat our luncheon before the twins starve to death!”

  Servants came forward to ease them out of their outdo
or clothing and carry it away as if every item was of silk and velvet.

  “Where’s Brak?” he suddenly demanded, making Meg tense, wondering what might appear next.

  “We removed him in case of unpleasantness, milord,” the butler said, and the next moment a huge, snarling beast raced into the hall.

  “Sit!” the earl said sharply, and the dog skidded to a halt and onto its haunches. It still snarled, however, as if it, too, was starving to death, and it was the ugliest dog Meg had ever seen. Shaggy and a mottled gray-brown.

  To her surprise, the earl went forward to hunker down before the beast and fondle it. Then she noticed how the dog’s tail thumped the floor as if it wanted to shatter the tiles.

  What a very strange pet for a nobleman. Coming on top of the horrible scene with his grandmother, she had to seriously doubt his mental balance.

  He rose, saying to his dog, “Come and greet the new members of the family. They won’t hurt you.”

  They won’t hurt you!

  He brought the dog over to Meg. “This is my countess. Greet her like a gentleman, Brak.”

  Though the tail had stopped wagging, the dog sat and presented a paw.

  Meg made herself take it. “Good morning, Brak.”

  It still snarled.

  “His mouth is misshapen,” the earl said. “Ignore his teeth. He’s a terrible coward and would never attack anyone.”

  The earl then introduced the dog to Meg’s family, and it was clear his intent was to soothe the animal, not the children. In fact, he said to the twins, “I’m sure he’ll enjoy your company, but you are not to tease him. And don’t ever think he’ll defend you, for he won’t.”

  Meg longed to ask why he kept such a useless burden of a dog, but held her tongue. It could be a form of insanity, but it offered hope for another useless set of burdens he’d taken on.

  Now that the dog was apparently happy, the earl swept Meg toward a room, but halted as a footman hurried forward and whispered something in his ear.