Читать книгу Much Ado About You - Eloisa James - Страница 6

The first thing Teresa Essex noticed was that the Englishmen were playing with toys. Toys! That fitted with everything they’d heard about Englishmen: thin, puny types they were, who never grew up and shivered with cold during a stiff breeze.

Still, they were only men, if English versions of them.

Tess hadn’t been much over sixteen years old when she realised that men’s notions of toys were flexible. With a glance at Josie and a touch on Imogen’s shoulder she brought her sisters into a straight line. Annabel had already fallen into place, her head tilted just so, the better to allow the beholders to appreciate the sheen of her honey-golden hair.

These Englishmen looked even more shocked at the sight of the four of them than was usual. They were practically gaping. Quite rude, really. They weren’t exactly the spindly-legged, sickly creatures she would have expected, from what was said about Englishmen. The one of them looked like a fashion plate and had a wild mop of black curls that she supposed must be fashionable. Not that he was a dandy. Dandies didn’t have that faintly dangerous air. The other was tall, with a bit of a gut and a messy shock of brown hair falling over his brow. A lone wolf, perhaps.

‘Well,’ she said finally, when no one spoke, ‘we are, naturally, sorry to interrupt you both, especially when you were so gainfully occupied.’ She gave it just the faintest stress. Just enough to let them know that they were not merely pretty Scottish lasses, to be shunted off to the back room and ignored. They were ladies, after all, whether they wore unfashionable clothing or not.

The elegant one bowed and came forward, saying, ‘What a delightful surprise to meet you, Miss Essex. All of you.’

There was something odd about his voice, as if he were having trouble not laughing. But he kissed her hand with all the adroitness of a courtier.

Then finally the big one, the lone wolf, shook himself, for all the world like a dog coming out of a puddle, and came to her side as well. ‘I apologise for my impoliteness,’ he said. ‘I am Rafe Jourdain, the Duke of Holbrook. I’m afraid that I mistook your ages.’

‘Our ages?’ Tess let her eyebrows ask a delicate question. Then, slowly, the implications of the gaudily painted room and the clusters of toys sank in. ‘You thought we were still children?’

He nodded, standing before her now, bowing again, the easy sweep of a man who has spent his lifetime in the highest echelons of society, even though he (apparently) didn’t bother to brush his hair. ‘I offer you all my heartiest apologies. I was under the erroneous belief that you and you sisters were quite young.’

‘Young!’ Tess said. ‘You must have thought we were mere babes in arms!’ Because now she had taken in the presence of a nanny and four gaping young nursemaids in white aprons, the rocking horses, the dolls. ‘Didn’t Papa tell you -’

But she broke off. Of course Papa hadn’t told him. Papa had likely informed him of Starling’s age, and Wanton’s stride, and what Lady of Pleasure liked to eat before a race, but not the ages of his daughters.

Their guardian had taken her hand and was smiling down at her now, and her heart warmed despite her resentment. ‘I’m such a fool that I forgot to ask your father. And, of course, I hadn’t the faintest notion that my guardianship would be needed. Will you accept my deepest sympathies for your loss, Miss Essex?’

Tess blinked. His eyes were a curious colour, sort of a grey-blue. And kind, for all he looked like a wild man of Borneo. A dash of hope mixed with the bleak feeling of defensiveness in her chest.

‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘May I introduce my sisters? This is Imogen,’ she said, turning to her sister. ‘Imogen is just turned twenty.’ There were moments when she thought that Imogen was more beautiful than Annabel (and that was really saying something). She had their mother’s sleek black hair and her laughing eyes, but that mouth – only Imogen had a mouth that took such an exquisite curve. Sometimes it struck men like a blow in the stomach; it was rather interesting to watch the duke blink and recover.

Imogen, of course, never paid any mind to the effect she had on men because she was in love. She did smile at the duke, though, and gave a pretty curtsy. When their father had a bit of money, he usually remembered to hire a governess for a time, at least, and so they all could put on dandified manners when required.

‘This is Annabel,’ Tess said, putting a hand on Annabel’s arm. ‘Annabel is the eldest after me; she is twenty-two.’ If Imogen paid no heed to men, Annabel must have toddled out of her nurse’s arms knowing how to flirt. Now she gave the duke a rosy-lipped smile that spoke of innocence and something else; she pitched her voice to the tune of an unheavenly appreciation. Her simple greeting sounded like honey with an edge of lemon.

The duke showed no sign of turning weak at the knees.

‘Miss Annabel,’ he said, bringing her hand to his lips. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

‘And Josephine,’ Tess said. ‘Josie is fifteen, and still in the schoolroom.’

Tess noticed that the duke was already smiling at Josie, which was a sign of his good manners. She loathed it when men acted as if they were stuck by glue to Annabel’s side and only gave Josie the scantest glance.

‘I’d rather you didn’t kiss my hand,’ Josie said briskly.

‘May I introduce a friend of mine?’ the duke said, acting as if he didn’t hear Josie’s comment, although he made no effort to kiss her hand. ‘Garret Langham, the Earl of Mayne.’

Annabel gave Mayne a blithely appreciative smile, as if she were a four-year-old being handed a piece of birthday cake. There was nothing more to Annabel’s taste than a man in possession of all his limbs and a title.

Mayne smiled back with something of the same admiration, although Tess thought that his emotion likely had little to do with Annabel’s forefathers.

The gentlemen completed their greetings, and the duke turned back to her. ‘Miss Essex, since none of you are likely to have interest in these -’ he waved his hand ‘- these playthings, shall we retire to the public rooms? I’m afraid that my housekeeper will likely need a short period of time to ready bedchambers for you, but I imagine your maids will assist.’

Tess felt a blush rising up her collarbone. ‘We haven’t brought any maids with us.’

‘In that case,’ her guardian said without even blinking, we can employ these four young women for the purpose, if that would be acceptable.’ He indicated the four nursemaids, still lined up against the wall, their eyes wide as ha’pennies. ‘I’m certain the housekeeper can train them in their duties readily enough.’

‘You’re in need of a chaperone,’ Mayne put in, with a slanting glance at the duke. ‘Now that you’re no longer running a nursery. Tonight, Rafe.’

Clearly the thought hadn’t crossed their guardian’s mind. ‘Dammit, I’ll have to write a note to Lady Clarice,’ he said, running a hand through his wild hair, ‘and ask her to pay me a visit. That’s if she’ll come after last time; I think I was a trifle rude to her.’

‘In your cups, were you?’ Mayne asked.

A wry grimace curled their guardian’s mouth. ‘I threw her out, with luck not bodily. Can’t really remember.’ He suddenly realised that Tess and the girls were all staring at him and gave them a smile that hadn’t a whit of remorse in it. ‘Now my wards will think I’m a sot.’

‘To know you is to love you,’ the earl said, throwing him a sarcastic grin. ‘My dear Misses Essex, the evening when your guardian isn’t clutching a bumper of brandy will be the day hell blooms with roses.’

‘Lady Clarice’s land runs parallel to ours,’ Holbrook said to Tess, ignoring his friend’s comment. ‘I daresay if I send a pretty enough note, she’ll forgive me since we are in desperate circumstances. You can’t possibly spend the night under my roof without a chaperone.’

But Mayne wasn’t to be silenced. ‘The lady’s a widow, and she has an eye for your guardian,’ he told the girls. ‘I do believe she’s hoping that one day she’ll find him so deep in his cups that he doesn’t notice that she’s calling the banns. It’s too bad for her that Rafe doesn’t show his liquor.’

‘Nonsense,’ the duke said gruffly, sweeping his hair about so that he looked even more of a lunatic.

‘Doesn’t bother her that she has ten years on Rafe,’ Mayne continued blithely. ‘Lady Clarice has an optimistic soul, for all that her own son is almost Rafe’s own age.’

‘Maitland is considerably younger than I,’ the duke said rather curtly.

‘He’s in his twenties,’ Mayne said, ‘and that makes Lady Clarice at least five years older than you.’

Tess felt rather than heard an agitated little sound from Imogen, at the same second that her own heart sunk. They were hoping to wean Imogen from her hopeless adoration of Lord Maitland, and finding him next door wasn’t the best start. ‘Are you by any chance referring to Draven Maitland, Your Grace?’ she asked, obedient to an imploring glance from Imogen.

‘So you know Maitland, do you?’ It didn’t look to Tess as if their guardian thought much more of Lord Maitland than she did. ‘Likely he’ll accompany his mother then. I’ll ask them both to join us for supper. Perhaps you and your sisters would like to take a short rest before the evening meal?’

‘That would be pleasant,’ Tess said. Imogen was grinning like a fool. Tess saw the duke’s eyes take in her grin, but he said nothing.

‘The rose suite will do until your chambers are readied.’ Holbrook held out his arm, and Tess took it, rather awkwardly.

The Englishmen were so unlike what she had expected! They were – formidable. But Englishmen weren’t supposed to be formidable. Everything she’d ever heard about English gentlemen suggested that they were willowy creatures, liable to sneeze and blow away. Oh, there were exceptions, of course. Lord Maitland, for one, had a sturdy enough figure.

Their new guardian didn’t fit the mould either. He was not ducal in the least. He wasn’t dressed in satin or velvet. Instead, he was wearing trousers so old that she could see the seams on the side, especially where they strained over his belly, and a white shirt that didn’t have a bit of satin on it. Its sleeves were even turned up, as if he were about to set to work in the stables.

There was nothing aristocratic about his voice, either. It was nice enough, but gruff and brusque. And he had lines around his eyes, for all he couldn’t be more than thirty-five. Dissipated, that’s what he looked. Not a womaniser: Tess could spot one of those a mile off, and though he looked at all of them with interest, there wasn’t a spark of appreciation of their womanhood in his eyes.

And yet, for all that wild hair and dissipated face and ancient clothing, for all of that — he wasn’t frightening.

Tess felt a hard knot in her chest begin to loosen, just a trifle.

This burly man who had hired four nursemaids for four little girls and was never without a bumper of brandy … he wasn’t someone to fear.

Tess looked down at the worn linen of his shirtsleeve and said, ‘I want to thank you, Your Grace, for accepting this guardianship.’ She swallowed, but it had to be said. ‘My father was an improvident man, and sometimes he traded upon acquaintance in a way that must create a burden.’

He looked genuinely surprised. ‘Don’t think twice about it, m’dear.’

‘I’m quite serious,’ Tess persisted. ‘I -’

‘So am I,’ the duke said. ‘I must be named guardian in at least twenty wills, Miss Essex. I am a duke, after all, and I’ve never seen that I had a reason to refuse such a request.’

‘Oh,’ Tess said, shocked to the bone. It seemed her father wasn’t the only man to take advantage of a slender acquaintance with Holbrook.

He patted her hand, for all the world as if he were a middle-aged uncle. ‘Not to fear, Miss Essex. I’m certain we can figure out this guardianship business amongst us. It should be an easy enough business to find a governess for young Josie. Finding a chaperone that we can bear to live with might take a bit more thinking. But there’s nothing to worry about.’

To Tess’s mind, worry had been her sole emotion of last few months, most of which had been occupied by squabbling over the possibility that their guardian was a reasonable, kindly man versus a half-cracked horseman. And to each and every nervous question Tess had said stoutly, ‘I’m certain he will be an estimable gentleman. After all, Papa chose him with careful forethought.’

Lord knows that wasn’t the truth. On his deathbed, Papa had grasped her hand, and said, ‘Not to worry, Tess. I’ve an optimal man to look after you all. Asked him just after poor old Monkton up and died last year. I knew Holbrook years ago.’

‘Why has he never visited, Papa?’

‘Never met him again,’ her father had said, looking so white against the pillow that Tess’s heart had clenched with fear. ‘Not to worry, lass. ‘I’ve seen his name mentioned time and again in Sporting Magagne. He’ll take good care of Wanton, Bluebell, and the rest. Said he would. Wrote me as much. And I sent him Starling to seal the bargain.’

‘I’m sure he will, Papa,’ Tess had said, putting down her sweet, feckless Papa’s hand with a loving squeeze since he seemed to have drifted off to sleep. So this duke would take good care of Papa’s beloved horseflesh – but what of his daughters?

He opened his eyes again though. ‘You’ll be right and tight with Holbrook, Tess. Take care of them for me, won’t you?’

She picked up his hand again hastily, trying to force back the tears crowding her throat.

‘Feel as if I’m looking at you through a snowstorm,’ he had said, his voice just a whisper of sound.

‘Oh, Papa,’ Tess whispered. ‘I do love you.’

He shook his head, obviously gathering himself. ‘I’ll be seeing your mother, I’ve no doubt.’ There was a little smile on his face. Papa was always very good at looking forward to a happy event. Sometimes she thought he was happier in the week before a big race, when he had something to anticipate, than when he’d won a race. Not that he won very often.

‘Yes, Papa,’ she whispered, brushing the tears away as they coursed down her cheeks.

‘My lass,’ he said, and she didn’t know whether he was talking of her or her mother. Then, ‘Don’t forget that Wanton likes apple-mash.’ And, again, ‘Take care of them for me, Tess?’

‘Of course I will, Papa. I’ll inform His Grace immediately on our arrival about Wanton’s weak stomach.’

‘I didn’t mean that, Tessa,’ her father said, and this smile was for her, not for her mother. ‘Annabel’s too beautiful, you know. And sweet Josie.’ There was silence for a moment, then he said, ‘Maitland’s not right for Imogen. Wild thing, that boy.’

There were tears running down Tess’s wrists.

‘You’re …’ His voice faltered, then he said, rather dreamily. ‘Tess. Those apples …’

But he had gone to sleep, then. And though she and her sisters had told him of the stables until they were hoarse, and Josie had brought a bowl of steaming apple-mash into the bedchamber, thinking it might arouse him, he didn’t wake. After a few days, he slipped away in the midst of the night.

The funeral passed like a grey dream. Their plump cousin, who had inherited the estate, appeared with a clucking wife and two maiden aunts in tow; Tess did her best to make them comfortable in a house that hadn’t even one decent feather bed. When the duke’s secretary finally arrived to announce their fate, she managed not to scream questions about his master but waited patiently. When that secretary spent the first full week of his visit arranging for their father’s horses to be sent to England with all possible comfort, her questions seemed unnecessary. The horses left long before they did. Could their unknown guardian have made it clearer where his priorities lay?

So even as she reassured Josie, and told Imogen to stop talking of Draven Maitland or she would strangle her with the only ribbon Annabel had left, Tess had worried, and worried, until the lump of grief in her chest seemed to turn to permanent stone.

She’d just as soon have nothing to do with a horse-mad male, ever again. It was galling to find that their futures were utterly dependent on just such a man. It made her think fierce thoughts of her darling papa, and that made her feel guilty, and guilt made her feel irritable.

Looking at the Duke of Holbrook now, there was no question that their guardian was indeed horse-mad. With that hair and clothing, he was probably garden-variety mad and no need for the adjective.

But he was kind, too. And not lecherous.

He didn’t seem to have their father’s easy way of ignoring their comforts. He certainly had no obligation to invite them to live in his house, nor to treat them like real relatives.

Perhaps she’d been too hasty. Perhaps – just perhaps – all men weren’t mad in the same ways.