Strathmere's Bride. Jacqueline Navin
perfect roses and all the dragons are slain, asleep forever. Dream of laughter and of those who love you, ma petite. Dream of good things, and love. Dream of love.”
Rebeccah inhaled a trembling breath, releasing it slowly as she nestled deeper under the coverlet. Chloe smiled, reflecting that it was infrequent that Rebeccah stayed put for longer than a moment or two. A time like this—just the stillness of it—was precious.
Suddenly, Chloe became aware of the fact that she wasn’t alone. Her gaze lifted to find the duke standing in the doorway.
He was dressed in dark trousers, still crisp somehow despite the wilting weather and the late hour. His coat was off, however, and he stood in his shirtsleeves—a deplorable breach of propriety, but Chloe barely noted it, for it mattered not at all to her. She only thought it odd because it was so out of character for him.
His hair was disheveled, and taken with the discarded tailcoat, signified he had been restless, perhaps bedeviled by irksome thoughts about a particular employee of his who was fond of storms and refused to bend to his indomitable will…
“You have been there for all this time?” she asked, amazed she hadn’t been aware of him before.
He gave a brief nod. “I was awake and roaming about. I heard her cries,” he said in a rough whisper. He stepped into the room, just two steps, and inclined his head to his niece. “Will…will she be all right now?”
“She shall sleep until morning,” Chloe reassured him.
“Every night this happens? That is what I was told.”
“Yes, your grace.”
She bowed her head, not wanting to look at him as he stood gazing down at Rebeccah. She had spent the evening building him into an ogre. He seemed all too human just now, with his shirtsleeves and all. And that concerned expression on his face was disconcerting.
“Is it always this…severe?”
“Tonight was not severe,” she said, coming to her feet. “It is much the same each night.”
“You are the only one who can quiet her, I am told.”
She didn’t answer. It seemed a rather rhetorical question.
“I watched you tonight, and I must admit you are very adept.”
Looking at him at last, she saw his eyes were steady and serious. They were dark in the shadowed room, lit only by a magnificent moon spilling in through the large double window. “Only hours ago you questioned my competence,” she reminded him.
“Your judgment, Miss Chloe, but not your skill. That you are kind beyond measure, and uncannily in accord with the moods and needs of my nieces, I cannot argue.”
It was as near a retraction as she was likely to get. Moving to the window, she reached up for the drape, thinking to close it against the abundant moonlight. A sharp hiss from behind her made her stop in midreach and look over her shoulder to the duke.
He stood in the midst of a flourish of light from the swollen moon, his face fully visible, his eyes narrowed to slits and focused directly on her. Puzzled, she said, “What is it?”
His voice was like gravel. “Miss Chloe—Miss Pesserat. You are…your attire, mademoiselle!”
With a start, she remembered that she was in her nightrail.
“Mon Dieu, it is my nightdress. My bedroom is through that door, and I was sleeping.” She added tartly, “It is my habit at this hour.”
The shadows took him as he retreated backward, as if he didn’t trust her enough to turn his back on her. “This is most unseemly. My apologies.” From the darkness, she heard the sounds of the door opening and closing.
Chloe shook her head, bemused by his peculiar behavior. He was a strange man, she already knew, but this really was the oddest thing…
Then she realized how much light was pouring through the window, and she had been framed in it, arm extended, and dressed only in her nightgown of modest enough design and not at all risqué. But when backlit, it would become—
Completely transparent.
The drive to Rathford Manor took just under an hour, making the Rathford family Strathmere’s closest neighbors. But even the short interval seemed endless with the dowager duchess seated across from Jareth, her sturdy scowl firmly in place and her occasional exclamations centered completely on the unacceptable qualities of their governess.
“I wish you would speak to the physicians again and see what they can tell us as to when the woman can be dismissed. We cannot be expected to withstand her haphazard—and, yes, dangerous at times— attentions to the girls.”
Jareth looked out the window. His mother’s diatribe was only a distant annoyance.
“They could have been brought down with all manner of mortal illness from her abominable behavior, not to mention the humiliation of it all. Lady Rathford was kind, of course, as any woman of breeding can be expected to be, but what she must think! I tell you, it is simply horrible to have to live with that Pesserat woman.”
Distractedly, he said, “It was only a mild spring rain. And no harm was done.”
There was a momentary silence, then the duchess exclaimed in a tight, high voice, “What did you say? You dare defend such irresponsible behavior as that?”
Blinking, Jareth snapped to attention. “Pardon me? What was it I said to upset you, Mother?”
“No harm was done? Only a spring rain?” The woman sounded as if the words were choking her.
“Mother, please calm yourself. You will work yourself into a state, and you wouldn’t wish for the Rathfords to see you with your face all red. They would fear for your health.” It was the right thing to say, for the duchess immediately and with visible effort brought herself under control.
Closing her eyes, she took several deep breaths. When she opened them again, she leveled an icy stare at her son. “Now, kindly explain what you meant by that absurd remark.”
“Only that Miss Chloe caused no harm to the children. I’ll grant you,” he added, holding a hand against her prepared objections, “that she is irresponsible, and I have told her she may not take the children out without my permission. I believe that should settle the matter.”
His mother looked pleased as they fell into an uneasy silence.
“Strathmere?” she said suddenly.
“Yes, Mother.”
“When did you begin addressing Miss Pesserat as ‘Miss Chloe’?”
Jareth didn’t answer, and to his great relief, his mother did not pursue the subject.
They arrived at the Rathford mansion, a beautiful Palladian masterpiece. Disappointingly, Lord Rathford was not in attendance, so Jareth took refreshment with the ladies in the grand salon, which showed the Rathfords’ affluence to its fullest advantage. Looking about, Jareth felt a wave of distaste for the gaudy Florentine pilasters and gold leafing all about, regular fare for the grand Georgian era that had just passed. For his own tastes he preferred the subtle distinction of aged wood rubbed with lemon oil until the patina shone. He also liked sturdy chairs, something of some substance upon which to sit rather than these delicate things with spindly legs and carved backs that dug into the flesh.
They seemed to suit Helena, however. Back rigid, she perched on the Sheridan chair as effortlessly elegant as a Madonna. Her cap of cleverly arranged ringlets caught the sun. It was a beautiful shade of blonde, so pale. She sat in rapt attention to her mother, who was speaking on some subject Jareth could hardly muster any interest in until he heard his name.
“…the music room. Go ahead, Helena. Show the duke the pianoforte used by Mozart himself.”
Of course, he should have