Andrews Brothers 02 - The Rescue Page 5

  “Of course I haven’t been to Ravenwood in some time. Perhaps this is the normal way of things and I am the one remiss.”

  “The weather is common.” She had responded! Pride soared in her breast, until she noted his expression. His mouth quirked upward and he rubbed a spot between his brows as if he attempted to withhold laughter.

  “Since you understand the weather, perhaps it was unwise to go out with nothing more than a thin silk pelisse.”

  Chastisement from a complete stranger rankled. She rose to her full height, the marshy ground affected her equilibrium, and she toppled forward. The warmth of his hand encasing her arm shot a ripple of tingles along her already chilled flesh.

  How was she to express fury if he continued to rescue her?

  He patted her vacated seat and she plopped beside him with a grunt, immediately regretting her indelicate action. His only reaction was to cock a brow, but propitiously failed to comment.

  “Perhaps I should introduce myself, I am—”

  She clasped her gloved hand over his mouth and he arched his brow. “Please do not tell me your name.”

  He shrugged his shoulders and she removed her hand. How could she explain her request?

  “I suppose you have good reason for not exchanging monikers?”

  “I do.”

  He waited patiently, studying the seams of his leather gloves. She wondered what ran through his mind. Would he force the issue of exchanging names?

  ****

  Should he force the issue of exchanging names? The young mistress in his company seemed inclined to remain anonymous. Perhaps her route worked better for all concerned. In his current situation as newly arrived to a town he should be familiar with, keeping his identity a secret might behoove him.

  The lady trembled, whether from cold or fear, was unclear. Red curly hair peeked beneath her bonnet. Bright green eyes peered at him through reddish brown lashes. Freckles dotted her rosy cheeks. Indeed the lady was lovely even with the thick brown woolen gown she wore.

  A question nagged at his consciousness. Why was she riding alone? Or…perhaps she wasn’t alone.

  His heart beat faster as he scanned the tree line for liveried footmen. They might be hidden in the bushes, arrows notched and ready to sail directly into his heart. He scooted a couple of inches away from the young lady.

  “As the lady wishes.”

  She released a breath and relaxed. They sat quietly. Birds cawed overhead and hounds barked in the distance. He shivered.

  “Are you cold, sir? May I offer you your coat back?”

  “Nay. You must keep it.”

  She smiled and his heart soared. He could sit here all day and stare at the young lady, absorbing her beauty could be a lifelong pursuit.

  Smoke rose from the fireplaces at Ravenwood. Home. He should return. Rowena would expect him for afternoon tea. And of course there were preparations to be made for the Flannigan ball and wedding ceremony.

  Andrew cleared his throat and went to rise, but the lady placed a delicate hand on his forearm and squeezed. He faced her.

  “Would you mind waiting with me for a few moments longer? I enjoy the solitude, and I need this time, but I fear being alone.”

  The incapability of the statement had him reeling, but when she smiled and batted her lashes in his direction he had trouble saying no. He resumed his seat.

  “I’ve visited here many times, but never have I just sat and gazed over the land. The place is truly beautiful.”

  “Yes.” He snuck a glance at his companion.

  “When I was a child my family would visit Ravenwood. Rowena and my mother got along famously. My mother was the calm one, and Rowena was on the ostentatious side, so they complemented one another.” She wrapped her arm in his and placed her head upon his shoulder. The feel of her cheek through the thin linen fabric of his shirt had his heart thumping madly in his chest, and breathing became painful.

  “Do you hail from close by?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know of the wonderful people hereabouts. Rochdale is a close knit community. Everyone knows everyone by name.”

  Andrew gulped. He remembered no one by name. Would the townsfolk be hurt if they realized?

  “At Christmas, the entire town gathers to sing carols. Then we feast on venison and roast beef, mince pie, and of course Christmas pie. But this year…” She shrugged and her eyes glazed.

  “This year will be different,” he added for her.

  A tear slipped from her eye and onto her cheek as she nodded. In a flurry of motion, she swiped it away, replacing her melancholy look with a smile. Gracefully, she rose and handed him his greatcoat. “Perhaps it is time I returned home. It has been very nice meeting you and I hope to see you again.”

  He lifted her hand and kissed the back, never taking his eyes from her face. “It has been a pleasure meeting you as well. Perhaps we will meet again.”

  She swallowed as he released her. Without a word, she climbed astride the midnight-coated horse. At the last minute, she twisted around and looked at him. “Soon, yes?”

  He nodded.

  She kicked the horse’s flank and disappeared into the fog. He shrugged his coat back on reveling in the warmth she’d left behind. Her honeysuckle scent saturated the fabric, and he inhaled deeply. He would never forget her, and he would see her again no matter the cost.

  Chapter Seven

  The carriage bounced along the dirt road. The footmen had padded the vehicle and adjusted the struts to give the smoothest ride possible, yet Andrew’s head still pained and his bum ached. Doctor Harold Pennyworth wasn’t happy about Rowena’s decision to attend the Flannigan wedding. He insisted the jaunt would hamper Andrew’s recovery. Andrew had taken a nap to appease the good doctor, but it had not prepared him for the short, uncomfortable journey.

  Rowena Ravenlowe, dowager Lady of Ravenwood, hung on the verge of a mental breakdown. Moments of lucidity were often punctuated with absurdity at which time her butler, Kingsley, hid her from view.

  As Andrew watched his dozing mother he remembered the first incident he had witnessed only a sennight prior.

  Andrew and Rowena had enjoyed a light dinner at the London townhouse. A footman had brought in a dessert of apple cobbler on a silver tray and arranged the delight on the sideboard. He’d cut two slices and delivered each of them a portion.

  All had seemed well until Rowena lifted the fork to her lips. One minute they spoke of their impending journey north to Ravenwood and the next moment apple cobbler splattered against the flowery paper-hangings. Further splats were punctuated by fits of giggling.

  Kingsley had rushed in, removed the projectile, and escorted Rowena from the room. Stunned by the unexpected spectacle, Andrew hadn’t moved. A footman entered and cleared the table. After he left Andrew had cradled his head in his trembling hands.

  From then on, Andrew had proceeded to analyze the unusual habits of his mother. While Rowena’s sanity remained in question, her generosity was not. Everyone in her employ spoke well of her ladyship. The day before when they had arrived at Ravenwood, the villagers had run to the carriage, waved, and shouted, exhibiting happy friendly attitudes at having their mistress return.

  The wagon dipped sharply and Rowena stirred and shouted, “Watch the road, Mortimer.”

  “Sorry, my lady,” came the driver’s muffled reply.

  Rowena batted her lashes and arranged her skirts. “Let’s discuss our expectations.” Andrew waited glad to focus his mind on other issues. “Clovis Flannigan, Earl of Norhaven, has been married so many times he is constantly looking for ways to set his brides apart. His first two weddings were so close together, and almost identical in spectacle, that the second wife was called by the first wife’s name. That year of marriage was awkward to say the least. But Clovis learned his lesson and each proceeding wedding has been unique.”

  “How has he set this one apart, Mother?”

  “With a ball before a midnight wedding.”
He cocked a brow and she smashed her lips together. “I know the rules say a wedding is supposed to occur before noon, but I guess midnight is before noon.” She laughed then continued. “Do you know Clovis once asked me to marry him?”

  Andrew shook his head. He couldn’t say he was surprised. The man seemed like one desirous of growing a brood of children while in the process of amassing land and wealth through his wives’ demises.

  “He did. But I declined. After watching him outlive the young, I knew I was without hope.”

  Rowena prattled on about her youthful excursions, and Andrew only half listened. He lifted the shade and peered across the vast green pastures. They had exited the village consisting of well-kept farms and entered the rural lands between Ravenwood and the Flannigan estates. Sheep bleated on the hillside. Shepherds stood above them like lords with crooked poles. Crows circled and took turns swooping down to retrieve their supper.

  Andrew drew back. If what Rowena said was true then Clovis’ bride of today would be deceased within the year. He found himself wondering if the young lady knew her fate and if she did, why she had agreed to such a future.

  Rowena quit speaking as the carriage rolled to a jerky halt. She held tight to his arm. “Stay close to me. There will be viperous women here searching for a husband and with your natural good looks and Ravenlowe charm, you will be impossible to resist.”

  “I shall remain by your side.”

  She patted his cheek. “That’s my good boy.”

  A footman in maroon and black livery opened the door. A second footman equally arrayed escorted them up three stone steps onto a tiled patio and through a grand set of double doors adjusted to the height of a giant. Shiny marble ensconced the floors, vivid red and blue tapestries covered the hall which led to a cast iron spiral staircase.

  Greeted briefly by the butler, they were handed over to another footman who showed them their rooms. Portraits of various women glared upon them as they strolled along the wide hall.

  At their suite doors, the footman said, “You have approximately three hours before the ball. Everyone else has already arrived and prepared for this evening’s activities. Is there anything you require?”

  Andrew cocked a brow at the footman’s insolent voice. He opened his mouth to share his opinion when Rowena squeezed his arm.

  “Our servants will look after us. You are dismissed.”

  The footman snapped his heels, turned, and waltzed away.

  “Well played, Mother.”

  She shrugged. “I would rather not deal with Clovis’ staff. The arrogant jennet breeds his staff to match.”

  Andrew covered his mouth to stifle his laughter as he entered their suite. They had a common sitting area with two paisley sofas, a hideous maroon chair, and a stone fireplace. The oak mantel showcased a vase of blooming primroses. A mirror sat above creating a double image of the ill decorated room. Andrew forced himself to turn away.

  On the east and west side were two doors. Rowena entered one.

  “Ah, this is one of our bedrooms. Seems like I remember staying in this suite when he married wife number five.”

  “How many times has he wed?”

  “I can’t remember, but more than five.”

  “And he has no children?”

  She cocked a brow, a strand of graying hair dropped over it. “No known legitimate ones.”

  Rowena moved past him and opened the opposite door. The scent of sandalwood oil drifted toward his nostrils.

  “This room will be yours.”

  Andrew entered. His trunk was stowed at the foot of a four poster bed. How had the staff brought it in without his noticing?

  Passing the container, he stroked the coarse brown coverlet on his bed. Sharp, stabbing pain rocketed through his skull. He shut his eyes. A blurry image of a similar bedroom only with dark blues and brilliant whites, floated past his vision.

  Rowena’s voice reached him. He opened his eyes and stared at her concerned face.

  “Are you well, dear?”

  He released his death grip on the bed frame and nodded.

  She laid her hand on his forehead and her lip trembled.

  He clasped her hand in his. “I’m fine, Mother. Just a bit of travel fatigue.”

  She patted his cheek, and hitched her skirts. “We must hurry. Kingsley will act as your valet.”

  “Thank you.”

  The butler stepped from the shadows. A deepening frown tugged at his brow. Had Kingsley witnessed his episode?

  Rowena flowed from the room. Her maid Juliet appeared and ushered her along.

  “Mother seems well after our journey.” The title and the concern in his voice felt unusual, but good in a strange way.

  “Indeed. And how do you feel, my lord?”

  “I’ll be fine as soon as I change from these clothes and join the other guests.”

  Kingsley assisted and soon he was staring in the mirror. His black hair lay across his brow, his dark coat with gold trim fit snuggly to his waist, the bow of his white cravat peeked out at the neck. The boots formed to his calves and shone in the candlelight.

  “Do I look presentable, Kingsley?”

  “You do, my lord.”

  “Good.”

  He snapped the heels of his boots and entered the common room to wait for his mother, praying he remained presentable for the duration of the afternoon’s events.

  ****

  Lucretia hovered until Farrah wanted to scream. The chosen peach colored gown contrasted with her pale skin and bright hair. Sprigs of greenery were inserted into the thick weave of her braid. Peach slippers ensconced her dainty feet. She looked like the furry fruit hanging from the tree, only not delectable, but rather rotted.

  “The transformation isn’t my best, but it will have to do.”

  Farrah fought the urge to respond to Lucretia’s rude words. Shoulders slumped, she palmed her chin. If you only have a year left to live, does anything really matter? What would change if she blasted the maid or held her peace?

  Farrah opened her mouth to request a change of attire but was interrupted by the door swinging open.

  Clovis swaggered in. Medals attached to his dark maroon wool coat jingled against his ample frame. His balding head reflected the flickering candlelight. His pants rode low on his hips and a footman followed bowlegged behind him, periodically tugging them upward. A giggle started in the back of her throat and she quickly covered her mouth.

  “Lucretia, is she ready?”

  “Aye, my lord, as ready as I can make her. Rome wasn’t built in a day.” Clovis cocked a brow and the insolent maid continued. “Of course she is not as pretty as your other wives which made it more difficult, but I guess she’ll do.”

  Farrah fought her rising temper as the two conversed over her head as if she wasn’t there.

  Clovis closed the distance between them and circled her, tapping a finger to his chubby lips. “I agree, she is no Allison.”

  “Or Ann.”

  “Not really even a Liza.”

  “Definitely not an Isabel.”

  Red dots flashed before her vision and heat flushed her cheeks.

  “She looks pale in the peach, my lord, but I followed your instructions.”

  Clovis fingered the lacy sleeves. To keep from jumping up and clawing his eyes out, Farrah squeezed her palm until her nails pierced her skin.

  “I promised myself after Isabel died that each wife would wear the same gown in her honor.”

  The gown’s collar grew tighter and Farrah squeezed her hands together even harder to keep from ripping the gown off her body. She focused on the flickering flames in the fireplace. Her father had to have a grand plan. He loved her. No matter what he said, he wouldn’t marry her to Clovis for just more land or because of rumors about a sullied reputation. Her gut clenched. Was he concerned he might soon die and she would be left homeless?

  Clovis stomped toward the door. A short footman raced behind, tugging his master’s pants up around his wai
st in a quick jerky motion. Lucretia followed. At the door he whispered in her ear and she waved her hand before her reddening face.

  Farrah narrowed her eyes. So the lord of the manor liked his wives’ lady’s maid? Such information might be useful in the future.

  Lucretia waited until Clovis was greeted by the footman in the hallway. When the “my lords”, and “your lordships”, and the necessary groveling ended, she faced Farrah, studied her from head to toe, made a last “Humph”, and left.

  Farrah leaned in the chair and let out a long breath. The peach satin gown shimmered. Flames from the fireplace casted an eerie glow on the dull wooden floor. She wobbled to her feet and moved toward the heat. She could pull off the gown and throw it into the flames. Then she could wear whatever she wished. Prisoners got to pick their last meal before their execution, so why couldn’t she pick her gown before hers?

  Miraculously, Garrett appeared next to her and held out his hand. She considered the offering and chewed her lip. She failed to accept, and he said, “My lady, the guests are waiting.”

  Chin elevated, Farrah took his arm, and fought the tremble in her legs that threatened to consume her body. Garrett patted her hand as she tried to collect herself.

  When they stepped out of her room, the vast hallway was empty. She needed to lighten the mood or she would go mad. “Can you believe I must wed in a gown worn by all of Clovis’ dead wives?”

  Garrett halted. “No more, my lady.”

  “What?”

  “I have watched you grow from a wee babe to a young maiden and the thought of—” He stopped, shook his head, and clasped her hands in his. “I can’t change your future lass, no matter how much I want to. So stop sharing it with me.”

  He dropped his hand and she relaxed her jaw. While she worked up the courage to reply, he wrapped his arm with hers and ushered her weakened form toward the main hall.

  Engraved double doors stood open. Candelabras dangled from the high ceiling and light reflected on the shiny tiled floor. Whitewashed walls took on a yellowish glow. Couples formed a line and danced. Clovis lorded over them from his kingly platform clapping his hands and laughing at a jester who performed close by.