Unsuitable Bride for a Viscount
Author
Elizabeth Beacon
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16,0K
Chapters
19
Chapter One
Viscount Stratford hardly noticed the rain-sodden countryside he was riding through or the cloud-veiled hills slowly emerging from the gloom.
Confounded storm, Alaric thought briefly as urgency drove him relentlessly on.
Finding his niece was all that mattered and last night’s rain had cost him precious hours. He spent the time pacing a wayside barn impatient for even a glimmer of light and how could he sleep when his niece was missing in a deluge? At this time of year nights were short, and the rain had finally stopped, but at this very moment Juno could be wandering alone and lost and soaked to the skin in the hills—even if she had been taken in by strangers would they be kind to her or use her to make money? He shook his head to try and shake off an image of his naive niece held for ransom by hardy rogues, or lying hurt and feverish somewhere and needing him. So badly it hurt to think that he had failed her yet again.
How had he ever managed to persuade himself it was a good idea to leave Juno in his mother’s care while he went to Paris to try and be useful to the Duke of Wellington in his new role as British Ambassador to France? The Royalists and even some former Bonapartists might fawn on the Duke, but it was Bonaparte’s former capital, for goodness’ sake. It beat Alaric how anyone thought it a good notion to put one of the defeated emperor’s foes in such a post, but never mind that now. Juno was all that mattered and thank goodness his London agent had sent warning all was not well so he was already on his way home when she ran away.
And who can blame her when her life was intolerable and you were busy being self-important elsewhere, Stratford? What a fine guardian you have proved to be.
No wonder his orphaned niece had run away to find her former governess, who was now living in the still-sleeping town just visible in the distance. What comfort had Juno ever got from him or his mother?
None at all, the relentless voice of his conscience condemned him once again.
Even thinking about the Dowager Lady Stratford made the weariness of his days on the road between here and Paris lie heavy on his shoulders and he tried to shake it off. But now that Juno had run away from the only family she had left he could not escape the truth any longer. Since he inherited this wretched title he had neglected his niece and driven himself to places he did not really want to go and done things he had no need to do just so he did not have to think about the dratted woman and all the cold places she had left in his life. Which made him a coward, he concluded as he eyed the sleepy Herefordshire town up ahead.
Even if she was not so fond of Miss Grantham, he could see why Juno would set out for this quiet and out-of-the-way place so far from fashionable Mayfair. His mother would sooner walk barefoot down New Bond Street in rags than come here to make her granddaughter return to Stratford House and do as she was bid. So of course Miss Grantham had looked like Juno’s best ally in a crisis. The lady had taught, guided and cared for the girl for four years and he had not. His own niece did not feel she could ask him for help when his mother decided to ignore Juno’s objections and marry her off against her will to a rich middle-aged peer who was willing to pay the Dowager Lady Stratford handsomely for a young wife and the prospect of an heir as soon as he could get one on her.
‘Over my dead body,’ Alaric vowed as impatience and guilt made the distance between here and Broadley seem endless.
His horse had to pick its way past ruts and potholes full of floodwater and it would be reckless and cruel to try and spur him on. How dare two selfish aristocrats try to impose such a repellent match on such a young and diffident girl? And what a fool he was to think it would do his shy niece good to meet people her own age who would teach her to take life less seriously. He had only ever wanted her to make a few friends and see that under all the show and sparkle, the polite world was made up of human beings with all the faults, virtues and foibles of their kind. It was never his intention to marry her off so young and especially not against her wishes.
He thought he had made that very clear to his mother when he financed an extravagant new wardrobe for her and Juno and told his staff to make Stratford House ready to launch his niece in style. It was a rite of passage, he had reasoned, an experience Juno would have to go through sooner or later, so she might as well get it out of the way rather than build it up into a dreaded ordeal. And society would expect the only child of the last Viscount Stratford to make her curtsy the moment she was old enough. Alaric did not want whispers there was something wrong with the girl and her family were keeping her close to make her debut seem even more daunting if they put it off until she was older.
He knew Juno was a bright girl who could talk happily enough when she felt at ease with her company because he had heard her laughing and chattering to Miss Grantham on their walks around the park and pleasure gardens at Stratford Park. He even got past her wariness and shyness himself now and again, but they were not close enough to be easy together very often. He had to blame himself for that, as well as so many other things that had gone wrong with Juno’s life while he was not looking.
There now, he was on the outskirts of the town he had been aiming for ever since he grimly ordered a fresh horse and set out from Stratford House. At least the place was small enough for him to find the centre easily so he rode his weary and very muddy horse as fast as he dared into the stable yard of the posting inn and tipped a sleepy groom to tend to the animal as it deserved after such stalwart service.
‘Do you know of a Milton Cottage?’ he asked as the groom yawned, stared sleepily at such a filthy gentleman and scratched his head as if he had never seen the like of him before.
‘Aye.’
‘Where is it then, man?’ Alaric demanded, impatience and terror making him sound harsh. It was either that or fall into the nearest haystack and sleep for a week, but he could not do that until he knew Juno was safe and sound.
‘Up yonder.’ The man pointed at an area of more prosperous-looking houses to the east of the town and backing on to yet more hills and heath.
‘What street?’ Alaric demanded, not wanting to waste time wandering about in the sleepy streets looking at every house along the way.
‘Hill side of Silver Square—see them little houses almost out of the town by the Big House beyond, governor?’ Alaric nodded. ‘About in the middle is Milton Cottage.’
‘My thanks,’ Alaric said and tossed the man another coin before striding off as fast as he could go. The sun was nearly up at last so that would have to do. He could not wait for a respectable hour to find out if Juno was safely with her former governess.
It was hardly a square at all by London or Bath standards. The only house worth a second glance was the large one taking up the whole of the south side of the so-called square with one row of cottages at a right angle to it and another one ranged opposite. The rest was open to the view of the western plain and he could see a hint of distant hills and thought it was probably a fine prospect on a clear day. Today only the odd shaft of sunlight managed to peer past the hurrying clouds left over from last night’s downpour. Alaric frowned against the brilliance of one of those bright rays of light as he knocked on the highly polished brass knocker loudly enough to tell whoever was supposed to answer it to get out of bed and do their duty.
He was lifting his hand to do it again and never mind the respectable ladies sleeping within who had a right to sleep for several hours yet, he had to know if Juno had got here safely. At last he heard movement inside and bolts being drawn back, then a key turning in the lock. About time, he huffed to himself, and glared into the narrow crack of space at the stranger warily peering back at him.
Alaric blinked to make sure he was not seeing wonders conjured up by his weary mind instead of a much plainer truth. No, she was still there, staring back at him as if he was about the worst thing she could imagine opening a door to at any time of day, let alone this one. Ye gods, what ailed him? He had never been the sort of low and lusty fool to ogle and squeeze the maids whenever he managed to catch one alone in a dark corner. He despised masters who preyed on local girls and left a trail of little bastards and ruined lives behind them. Yet even as he was ordering himself to look away and think why he was here and how urgent it was to find Juno his eyes were eating the woman up as if she was the best thing they had ever seen and they could not get enough of her.
A shaft of that curious sunlight darted into the corridor through an open door behind her and added a shine of gold to her honey-coloured hair. She had eyes of a clear, light blue he refused to call forget-me-not because it would be a cliché and there was nothing weary or shopworn about them. Still, he could not think of a better description, so it would have to do for a worn-out fool like him. It was not as if he was going to write poems to a housemaid, so it hardly mattered what colour he called her fascinating blue gaze. Still, his mind would not let go of the delightful picture of this tall and slender female blinking back at him in the early morning light.
She must have slept in her dark-coloured gown and her hair was tumbling down her back and made him want to reach out and find out for himself if it was as softly full of life and as silkily touchable as the brown-and-gold mass looked from here. Her face was a nearly perfect oval and she had finely cut features and a haughty nose, but it was her mouth—generous and still half-asleep and unwary as if it had not yet caught up with the rest of her—that did the most damage. It drew his gaze like a magnet and made him yearn for things he had no right to yearn for. He tried to dismiss the idea of kissing her unguarded lips properly awake as he wondered how such a definite, determined-looking female managed to take orders and skivvy for her so-called betters. And how would it feel to kiss that soft and sleepy mouth until the differences between lord and maidservant faded away and he felt as if he had come home at last to a place he was made for and fitted perfectly.
Stiff and still half-asleep, Marianne Turner was woken by hammering on the door and stumbled to open it before whoever was out there could knock again. On her way here hope won over weariness for a heady moment, then reason told her if this was the lost girl she had a very heavy hand with a door knocker. Marianne sighed with tiredness and disappointment as she drew back the bolts and unlocked the door as quietly as she could. The impatience of whoever was out there had made her fumble, which said a lot about impatience and people who used it as a weapon to get their own way.
‘About time,’ a deep masculine voice grumbled as soon as she had the door open a cautious few inches to eye up the stranger on the doorstep and shake her head in disbelief. He made it sound as if she was incompetent for not coming sooner when he was being rude and demanding at an outrageous hour of the morning.
‘What do you mean by thundering on a lady’s door at cockcrow? You will wake up half the street.’ She blinked at the unshaven, mud-spattered and very male idiot standing on the doorstep as if he had every right to go where he chose and wake up anyone he wanted to and never mind the time. She glared at him and, goodness, there was an awful lot of him to glare at, wasn’t there? ‘You must have heard me trying to get the door open—have you no manners at all?’ she demanded.
‘Not with incompetent bunglers. Now hurry up and let me in, then go and tell Miss Grantham I need to speak to her,’ he demanded as if she should scurry about at his bidding and curtsy as if her life depended on it all the while and she was not doing that either.
‘No,’ Marianne said grumpily and refused to be awed by his height and powerful build.
Luckily, he could have no idea Fliss Grantham was not upstairs fast asleep in her maidenly bed. In fact, Fliss had been marooned up in the Broadley Hills by last night’s storm and at least Miss Donne’s maid had told Marianne’s brother, Darius, about a shepherds’ hut up there where they could take shelter from the deluge. Secretly Marianne had been delighted that the stubborn pair would now have to admit the powerful attraction between them that had been so obvious from the start. They would have to marry after a night alone in the hills so that was one reason to be cheerful this morning, now she came to think of it. Except this ill-mannered, unshaven and travel-worn stranger had thrust his very muddy boot in the door while she was busy thinking about Fliss and Darius, so now she could not slam it in his face.
Oh, and Fliss’s former pupil, Juno Defford, was still missing after a night of heavy rain. She had far more important things to do than wonder how it might feel if this arrogantly masculine fool was clean, had shaved and was as fascinated by her as she was in danger of being by him, if she did not wake up properly and get back to real life.
‘Go away and take a bath and shave, then come back at a civilised hour,’ she ordered the man impatiently. ‘But only if you intend to ask civil questions when you get here, mind. Throwing demands about as if the rest of us cannot wait to obey you sets people’s backs up and we have enough to worry about already.’
She glared down at his intrusive foot in the hope he would remove it. No such luck; the man had neither manners nor regard for a lady’s peace and privacy. She tried not to blink in the face of his eagle-eyed scrutiny, but he was tall and she was not used to looking up that far at a man. It felt as if a force of nature was glowering back at her and it was far too early in the morning to deal with one of those when she had so many other things to worry about. She eyed the powerful masculine form under his dirt-spattered and travel-worn clothing and wrinkled her nose fastidiously to tell him what she thought of his disreputable state.
Behind several days’ growth of beard his features were clean-cut and patrician and she supposed he would look stern and impatient even without the whiskers. With them he looked like a pirate, or a very dirty duellist who was all hard eyes and dangerous edges. Something deep inside her whispered he looked like a warrior rather than the idle gentleman of means his accent and the quality of his clothes under all that dirt argued he must be. She almost preferred him this way if he had to be here at all. The set of smooth-shaven and immaculate gentlemen of fashion he probably belonged to when he was clean and decent and not trying to intimidate his way into strange houses made her inner radical stir and shake her fist at the luxury they took for granted while so many people in this unfair world had nothing but the rags on their backs.
‘I must speak with Miss Grantham immediately,’ he argued like a king in disguise.
A pretty heavy disguise, she argued silently and stayed where she was.
‘On personal business,’ he added in the deep and growling voice that secretly sent a shiver of awareness down her spine. ‘Kindly let me in without more ado, then go and tell Miss Grantham I have arrived. Never mind if she is dressed or no, it is urgent,’ he added as if his outrageous demand would remove her from his path like magic.
‘Absolutely not,’ she replied, folding her arms across her body to make it very clear she was going nowhere.
She could stand here until half the townsfolk were wide awake if she had to and she had no intention of telling this grim and arrogant stranger that Fliss had been out all night with a man she would now have to marry if she wanted to save her good name. Even if Marianne had wanted to tell him that tale, it was not hers to tell. The man glared at her again and looked determined to stay in the way until he got what he wanted. She felt a treacherous stir of pity for the dark shadows under his hard blue eyes and the lines of exhaustion so stark around his mouth. He looked as if he had been screwing up his face against the elements and physical weariness most of the way here. He was not wet enough to have been out in the worst of the storm, but he did not look as if he’d spent much of last night sleeping either. In fact he looked as if he had spent days of hard effort and not much sleep to get here with the dawn.
For a fleeting moment he reminded her sharply of her husband Daniel after too many hard days on the march. But this was not the time to weaken or grieve for what she had lost and this man did not need her pity. Her memory of how exhausted she had felt after days in the tail of the Peninsular Army would not help her be sternly objective about him either. And this bossy autocrat had nothing in common with gallant and kind Sergeant Daniel Turner and his beloved but sometimes very weary wife. She reminded herself this man’s filthy clothes had once been of the finest quality and no amount of money could buy him a right to stand on a lady’s doorstep issuing brusque orders at dawn. He needed taking down a peg or two if he thought it should.
‘Go to the local inn and get some sleep,’ she told him brusquely. ‘If you fall down on their doorstep, at least the grooms and ostlers can carry you to the barn to sleep off your journey. If you collapse out there, we will just have to leave you lying there until you wake up again.’
‘I dare say you think you are a good girl protecting your employer’s privacy, but a young woman’s life could depend on you doing as you are bid, my girl, and you are confoundedly in the way,’ he informed her with exaggerated patience, as if she was the last straw he was trying hard not to sweep aside like an annoying fly.
‘I am not the maid, you stupid man. Nor am I a girl,’ she told him with a sneaky little worm of temper writhing away inside her. He must have taken one look at her slept-in clothes and unkempt hair and decided she was of no account.
‘Who are you, then?’ he barked impatiently.
‘A friend of Miss Grantham’s and of her own former governess, Miss Donne—whose privacy you are violating by calling at her house at such an unearthly hour and demanding the company of a lady living under her roof.’
‘Privacy be damned,’ he said with an exasperated sigh, as if he was still thinking of pushing past her to rouse the household and maybe even opening every door he came across until he found Fliss behind one of them. And all he would find was an empty room and neatly made bed so she could not allow that.
‘Do tell me where you live, sir, so I can organise an early morning invasion of your house and see how you like it,’ she said and did her best not to blink when he stared back as if daring her to do her worst.
‘Stratford Park,’ he snapped impatiently.
Oh, no, he must be Viscount Stratford, then—Juno Defford’s uncle and guardian and Fliss’s former employer. How could she not have realised he was the only autocrat likely to turn up in Broadley demanding Fliss’s presence at this ridiculous hour of the day and throwing his weight about when she did not jump to obey his orders? He was supposed to be in Paris annoying the French, but here he was on Miss Donne’s doorstep, annoying Marianne instead.
‘So you are the idiot who caused this unholy mess in the first place,’ she said with a glare to let him know what she thought of him for neglecting a girl he should be honour bound to care for.
‘Maybe,’ he said wearily. He took off a fine and filthy riding glove to rub a hand over his eyes.
‘I suppose you really are Lord Stratford?’ she said with haughtily raised brows to let him know his title cut no ice with her.
‘Yes, and you are still in my way. Whoever you are, you seem to know a great deal about me and mine although we have never set eyes on one another until this very moment, so you must also know how urgent my mission is and I must suppose you are being rude and obstructive on purpose.’
‘Think what you please, I am not rousing the household when they had so little sleep and so much worry yesterday because of what you did to your unfortunate ward.’
‘Is Juno here, then—is she safe?’
