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He inclined his head. ‘You are welcome, Miss Daventry.’ Detached. Bored, even. ‘Of course, should it be necessary, you will request a halt, will you not?’
She squared her shoulders. ‘That will not be necessary, my lord. I should not wish to delay us.’
He raised his brows. ‘I assure you, Miss Daventry, a brief halt will be a great deal more preferable than the alternative— won’t it, Parkes?’
The valet, thus appealed to, permitted himself a brief smile. ‘Indeed, sir. I’ve not forgotten how often you used to ask to be let down.’
Julian laughed at Miss Daventry’s look of patent disbelief. ‘Perfectly true, Miss Daventry. But I became accustomed eventually.’
A small smile flickered, and a dimple sprang to life. ‘I fear I did not travel enough as a child then. I remained staidly in Bath.’
‘Bath? I understood from your brother that your home had always been in Bristol.’ Where the devil had that dimple come from?
Miss Daventry’s pale cheeks pinkened again and the dimple vanished. ‘Oh. Harry was very small when Mama moved to Bristol. And I went to school in Bath when I was ten. When I was older I became a junior assistant mistress.’
She subsided into silence, turning her head to watch the passing scenery.
Julian returned to his book, glancing up from time to time to check on Miss Daventry. He told himself that he was not, most definitely not, looking for that dimple. He had seen dimples before. But, really, for a moment there, the staid Miss Daventry had looked almost pretty. Spectacles and all. And her mouth was not in the least prim when she smiled. It was soft, inviting…
There was something about her. Something that made him want to look again… The eyes. That was all. Once he became accustomed to them, she would have no interest for him whatsoever. In the meantime she was suffering from carriage sickness and it behoved him to care for her. No more. No less.
Reminding himself of that, Julian reburied himself in his book, only glancing over the top every ten pages or so.
Aware of his occasional scrutiny, Christy tried to ignore it, repressing an urge to peep under her lashes. Her heart thudded uncomfortably; the result, she assured herself, of having so nearly revealed too much. Her pounding heart had nothing to do with those brilliant eyes that seemed to perceive more than they ought. It wasn’t as if he cared about her, Christy Daventry. She was in his charge, therefore he owed it to himself to make sure she was comfortable. If she were not, it was a reflection on himself. He was being kind to her in the same way he would care for any other servant. Or his dog or horse. Admirable, but nothing to make her heart beat faster. Noblesse oblige. That or he was ensuring she wasn’t sick in his beautifully appointed carriage.
But the bright glance of his blue eyes was hard to ignore. She was infuriated to find herself drifting into a daydream where his lordship’s remarkable eyes were focused on her. And not because he was concerned she might be sick all over his highly polished boots.
Ridiculous! She knew nothing of him. Except that he was thoughtful enough to find a companion for his stepmother, kind enough to change seats with the carriage-sick companion, and sensible enough not to drive his sister into revolt. Heavens! She was rapidly making him out to be a paragon.
Lord Braybrook was no paragon. The lazy twinkle in his eyes, combined with unconscious arrogance, suggested he was the sort of man a sensible woman steered well clear of. Assuming he had not already informed the sensible woman that he had no designs on her virtue, as though the idea were unthinkable. And a very good thing too. Christy had a sneaking suspicion that when his lordship did focus his attention on a female, good sense might come under heavy fire.
Oh, nonsense. He was probably horrid on closer acquaintance, the sort of man who kicked puppies. Yes. That was better. No one could like a man who kicked puppies. Or kittens. A pity she was having so much difficulty seeing him in the role. Much easier to see those lean fingers cradling a small creature… rocking it.
She smothered a yawn. Such a warm day…rocking…like a cradle. No, that was the coach. It was beautifully sprung and she felt much better now, facing forwards. Far less disconcerting to have the breeze from the open window in her face and see the world spinning towards her and away, rather than just spinning away in front of her…rocking, rocking, rocking…
Later, some time later, she was vaguely aware of being eased down to the seat, gentle hands removing her bonnet and spectacles, tucking a rug around her, a light touch feathering over her cheek…a dream, a memory, nothing more. Christy slept, cradled in dreams.
She awoke in near darkness to a touch on her shoulder and a deep voice saying, ‘We are nearly there, Miss Daventry.’
Dazed, she sat up. Strong hands caught her as the coach swung around a turn. Coach? Where…? Blinking sleep away, she clutched at the strap hanging down, and the hands released her. Some of her confusion ebbed. This was not Bristol. She was in a coach, with Lord Braybrook and his valet. Why had she been lying down with a rug tucked over her? And where were her glasses? Everything was blurred.
Worried, she felt along the seat. They must have fallen off while she slept. And how dreadful that she had dozed off in front of Lord Braybrook and been shameless enough to lie down! And her spectacles were probably broken if they had fallen to the floor.
‘Miss Daventry—is something amiss?’
She flushed. ‘My spectacles must have fallen off. I can’t see without them.’
‘Of course.’
He reached into his pocket and drew out a small object, offering it to her. Confused, she reached for it and he placed it in her hand. Immediately her fingers recognised her spectacles, wrapped in a handkerchief.
‘I thought they were safer in my pocket,’ said his lordship.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she unfolded the handkerchief, shaken by a memory of gentle hands making her comfortable. Had her dream not been a dream? Had he laid her down on the seat and removed her spectacles and bonnet? And tucked the rug over her? She swallowed. He must have. But the caressing touch on her cheek had certainly been a dream. Hadn’t it?
‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said, putting the spectacles on. The darkening world came back into focus. ‘You are most kind.’ She schooled her voice to polite indifference. His noblesse oblige again. If she remembered that, good sense would prevail. Not the foolish dream of tenderness. She handed him the handkerchief.
He pocketed it. ‘Not at all, Miss Daventry. We shall be at the house in a few moments. Your bonnet is on the seat.’
His cool tones revived her wilting common sense. She retrieved the bonnet, and attempted to tidy herself, securing stray tendrils of hair with hairpins before replacing the bonnet. She thought that she must be sadly rumpled after the day’s journey and sleeping in the carriage, but there was little she could do about it.
Julian dragged his gaze away from her to look out of the window. He could see the house now, lights glimmering in the dusk, its bulk dark against the deepening sky. Home. Concentrate on that. Not the impossible softness of her cheek under his fingers as he removed the bonnet and spectacles, not the jolt to his gut as he finally saw the colour of her hair, a rich tawny brown, rigidly scraped back and confined with a battalion of pins. Nor the queer protective sensation he had felt watching her sleep, her mouth relaxed and soft. Definitely not the odd pang he had felt when she awoke and sat up, clothes and hair askew, and that vulnerable sleepy look in her eyes.
She was in his employ, a servant to all intents and purposes. He had no business feeling anything for her beyond a sense of general responsibility. Indeed, to judge by her cool response to him, that was precisely what she expected and preferred.
She would neither expect nor wish him to be thinking about a little girl left at school in Bath. It was none of his concern. It should not come near him, let alone touch him. Ridiculous to feel sympathy for that long-ago little girl. He had gone to school himself at eight…memories poured back. His confusion at his first return for the holidays to find his mother gone. The servants’ evasions of his questions. His father’s bitterness and refusal to explain and the slow realisation that there was to be something scandalous, and expensive, called a ‘divorce’. That he probably wouldn’t see his mother again. And he hadn’t. After the divorce she had married her lover and lived on the Continent, dying when he was fifteen. By then he had understood. His father’s attitude had been quite clear when he married Serena as a matter of convenience to breed a couple of back-up heirs. Better to marry for reasons less likely to sour on one than love—property, connections and duty. One needed to like and respect one’s spouse. Anything more was damned dangerous, and passion and desire were best served by taking a discreet mistress.
Still, he remembered the child’s sense of abandonment and loss. Worse for a girl, of course. Boys were better able to cope with such things. Look at Davy, longing for the day he went to school. Not until he was ten, though. Serena had insisted and, since he knew his father had agreed, that was that. Besides which, he liked having Davy about the place. All of them, in fact.
Christy sat up straighter as they bowled up the avenue, the horses finding a second wind so close to their stable. They rattled over what appeared to be a stone bridge, under an arch into a narrow passageway and out into what must once have been a castle forecourt. Obviously someone had been watching for them, because as they drew up at the front door several people and a dog raced down the steps.
To Christy’s startled eyes Lord Braybrook appeared to be surrounded by a mob as he stepped out of the coach into the light of the carriage lamps. She had the oddest sensation that thick glass reared up, allowing her to see, but slicing her apart from the bright circle.
‘Did you bring us anything?’
‘Why didn’t you come back sooner? You said you would be back yesterday!’
Lord Braybrook fended off the barking black-and-tan setter, swung a small boy up into his arms and said, ‘For heaven’s sake, be still, you three! Get down, Juno. Anyone would think I’d been away for a month! How are you, Davy? Have you behaved yourself?’
‘Yes.’ The small boy nodded vigorously.
‘Liar!’ said an older boy of fifteen or so. ‘He’s been a little pest, Julian. He glued himself to the front steps last night so he wouldn’t have to go to bed until you came home! The bottom of his nankeens is still there!’
‘Yes,’ chimed in the girl. ‘And Mama made us pull him out of them when they wouldn’t unstick! She said it was our fault he got the glue because we were supposed to be minding him!’
In the dusk, Christy had the distinct impression that his lordship was trying to preserve a straight face. Laughter bubbled up inside her.
‘Davy?’ His lordship’s voice was mild enough, but something about it hinted at tempered steel.
‘Well, you said you’d be back!’ muttered the little boy.
‘Hmm. I was delayed. Next time go to bed when you’re told.’ A stern voice, one to be obeyed, but affectionate. Caring.
‘Oh, very well. That’s what Mr Havergal said. Did you bring us something?’
‘Who is Mr Havergal?’ asked his lordship.
Davy shrugged. ‘Just a friend of Mama’s. Don’t you know him? He calls quite often.’ He tugged on his brother’s lapel. ‘Did you bring us anything?’
‘No. I brought your mama something instead.’
‘Mama?’ came the chorus from three throats.
Lord Braybrook put the little boy down, patted the dog, an elegant bitch, and turned back to the coach. ‘Permit me to assist you down, Miss Daventry.’
Christy stood up, and discovered herself to be appallingly cramped from the long journey, her legs barely able to hold her. Carefully she moved to the open door.
A strong hand gripped her elbow. Heat shot through her. Shocked, she looked up.
The firm lips curved a little, not unsympathetically.
‘I dare say you are a trifle stiff, Miss Daventry. I am myself.’
Christy took leave to doubt that. The wretched man had leapt down as lightly as a stag, without any hint of stiffness.
‘I…thank you, my lord.’ Tingling heat still spread through her. Folly! She was tired. Imagining things. She was chilled and his hand was warm.
He assisted her down from the carriage, steadying her as she stumbled a little.
‘This is Miss Daventry,’ he said. ‘Miss Daventry, these are my youngest sister, Emma, and my brothers, Matthew and Davy.’
Christy summoned a smile, despite her tiredness. ‘Good evening, Emma, Matthew, Davy.’ The dog came and sniffed at her and she bent to fondle the silky ears.
‘And Juno,’ said his lordship. The dog returned to him, tail waving.
‘Good evening, Miss Daventry,’ said Emma politely.
‘Good evening, ma’am,’ said Matthew, bowing slightly.
Davy scowled. ‘Did you make Julian late?’
Now she thought about it, she probably had. ‘I am afraid so, Davy,’ she admitted. ‘His lordship kindly gave me an extra day to ready myself before leaving Bristol.’
Davy looked unimpressed. ‘Mama was cross with me because of my nankeens,’ he informed her. ‘I had bread and butter for my supper, and no cake.’
Lord Braybrook stifled an odd sound and leant down to give his small brother a not unkindly swat on the behind. ‘Don’t blame Miss Daventry for your misdoings, scamp. Now, off with you. It’s long past your bedtime.’
Lord Braybrook kept his hand close to Christy’s elbow as they went up the steps into the mellow lighted hall, closely attended by Juno, who seemed to feel she must remain as close as possible to her restored master.
A butler bowed. ‘Welcome home, my lord.’
‘Good evening, Hallam,’ said Lord Braybrook. The butler glanced at Christy but his well-trained visage betrayed not the least surprise or curiosity.
She stared about her. The hall was enormous. She had the impression of great age, a high-vaulted ceiling and pinky-brown weathered stone. A branching stone staircase at the back led up to a gallery
‘Welcome to Amberley, Miss Daventry,’ said Lord Braybrook.
Her response was lost in a startled exclamation from the back of the hall.
‘Good heavens! Who is this, Julian?’
Two people were there. One a tall, slender young lady who must, Christy surmised, be Miss Trentham. Black curls, loosely arranged and confined with a pink bandeau, framed a vivid face with the family eyes. The other was an older woman, seated, her legs covered with a shawl, and a large tabby cat in her lap. An instant later, she realised that the chair had wheels—a Bath chair.
The woman was staring at her in amazement. And, she thought, disapproval. Her new employer. Lady Braybrook herself.
‘Julian, what have you done?’ This in tones of deep suspicion.
His lordship went to her, bent down and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I suppose you will think I have been far too precipitate and should have discussed it with you, but—’
‘No doubt!’ said Lady Braybrook.
Lord Braybrook smiled. ‘This is Miss Daventry, Serena—your new companion.’
If Lady Braybrook had looked puzzled before, she looked positively stunned now. Her jaw dropped and she said, ‘But I told you! I don’t want a companion! Even if I did, I would very much prefer to choose my own!’
Christy blinked. She had known he was autocratic— arrogant, even. Her lips set. Yes, she had definitely known he was arrogant! But this! He had completely bypassed his stepmother’s views on the subject!
Anger, and hot embarrassment, overcame the little voice warning her that she’d better bite her tongue.
She lifted her chin and said in the sweetest tones she could muster, ‘Thank you, my lord, for a most interesting, if wasted, journey. Perhaps next time you might have the goodness to take account of the views of all the persons involved before embroiling anyone else in your schemes. I do trust that I may be offered a bedchamber for the night rather than trudging back immediately!’
Chapter Four
Lady Braybrook’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into her elegant cap, but Christy didn’t care. To hell with what anyone thought of her. She was tired after two days’ travel, and now she had the journey back. She probably wouldn’t even have time to see Harry before being bundled off and she would have to dig into her slender savings to stay at an inn while she found lodgings.
Then, ‘Oh, well done, dear! Julian, for heaven’s sake, stop standing there gaping and see that Miss…Daventry, did you say?’—a swift glance at Miss Trentham— ‘Yes, have Miss Daventry’s baggage taken up. She may have the guest chamber along from me. That will do very well.’
She held out her hand, saying, ‘You must be famished, Miss Daventry, so do not worry about changing.’ Bemused, Christy came forwards to accept the proffered hand.
‘Lissy dear, show Miss Daventry where she may wash her face and hands. Then bring her to the small dining parlour.’
Christy permitted herself to be led away by Miss Trentham and heard Lady Braybrook say in tones of steely determination, ‘In the meantime, Julian, shall we discuss this privately? Matt—take Davy upstairs and see that he goes to bed.’
***
Miss Trentham smiled at Christy in a very friendly way as she led her out of the hall and asked, ‘Are you really Miss Daventry? What a coincidence! I…we know a Mr Daventry. He…he is a most particular friend.’ She blushed prettily.
‘No coincidence at all,’ said Christy. ‘Harry is my brother. Lord Braybrook sought me out intentionally. Since he was under the erroneous impression that your mother required a companion, he thought of me.’
Miss Trentham’s blue, blue eyes opened wide. ‘But, surely you need not work?’
There was no scorn in her voice, only shock.
First trick to his lordship, thought Christy, following Miss Trentham down a passage. Probably the last one though, given Lady Braybrook’s reaction to his high-handed efforts. She elaborated, feeling she might as well partially earn the quarter’s wages that Lord Braybrook would undoubtedly insist she accept. ‘But of course, Miss Trentham. Harry must make his own way in the world and I cannot be a burden on him.’ Miss Trentham looked a little self-conscious, and Christy went on, ‘At this stage of his career he has quite enough to do to support himself. Our—’ She caught herself and went on, ‘His godfather is generous, but it does not extend to supporting a sister.’
‘Oh. I…I see.’ The dazed tone suggested that Miss Trentham was gaining a whole new view of matters beyond Harry’s good looks and charm. ‘Here we are,’ she said, opening a door. ‘This is the garden room. Mama insists the boys come inside through this room and there are always soap and water here.’
Removing her bonnet to lave her face and hands, Christy thought Lady Braybrook sounded extremely practical. Kind, too, and probably a far more pleasant employer than her last. Christy sighed as she dried her face. She wouldn’t be getting much of a reference out of this one either.
