Strathmere's Bride. Jacqueline Navin
Bride
Jacqueline Navin
lives with her husband and three small children in Maryland, where she works in private practice as a psychologist. Writing has been her hobby since the sixth grade, and she has boxes full of incomplete manuscripts to prove it.
When asked, as she often is, how she finds time m her busy schedule to write, she replies that it is not a problem—thanks to the staunch support of her husband, who is not unused to doing the dinner dishes and tucking the kids into bed. However, finding time to do the laundry—that’s the problem. Jacqueline would love to hear from readers. Please write to her at P.O. Box 1611, Bel Air, MD 21014.
This is Lindsey’s book—my Chloe,
my very own little flibbertigibbet. How well I know how trying they can be. And how precious.
Northumberland, England, 1847
There was no doubt about it, Jareth Hunt, Duke of Strathmere, thought as he gazed out his study window at his two nieces and their governess frolicking on the grass. Chloe Pesserat was entirely unacceptable.
Narrowing his eyes, he shook his head in disapproval. The woman in question reclined prostrate on the blanket she had strewn on the closely clipped lawn, her head propped upon her two palms and one of her legs bent so that her foot—her shoeless foot!—turned lazy circles in the air. Miss Pesserat looked more as if she were in a bedroom than in a public place. Why, her entire stockinged leg was exposed. A very shapely one, with a finely tapered calf and slender ankle…
Inserting a forefinger inside the tightly knotted cravat, Jareth pulled hard, but he still had difficulty swallowing. The fire, he thought, glancing blamefully at the hearth. It blazed far too brightly for such a fine day as this. The weather was unseasonably warm, he noticed just now.
Unlatching the casement, he cracked the window to let in some fresh air. The high-pitched shouts of his eldest niece carried inside, making him wince. Rebeccah, who was five years of age, hooted and ran about, flapping her arms and chanting something unintelligible in a very loud, obnoxious voice.
He frowned at her ridiculous antics. She looked demented—completely unsuitable for the daughter of the late Duke of Strathmere. Yet, as unsightly as it was, he preferred Rebeccah’s annoying behavior to the way three-year-old Sarah sat so silently, her tiny fingers clutching a withered flower left over from last summer.
Rebeccah cried, “And then what happened?”
“Then the prince carried off the evil dragon!” Miss Pesserat’s voice held only a trace of a French accent, making it sound musical and lilting and undeniably enchanting.
“Hurrah!” exclaimed Rebeccah. “Kill the dragon!” She commenced with the leaping and shrieking once again.
“And then…” Miss Pesserat said in a provocative way, holding up a slender finger.
Rebeccah froze. “Yes?” she urged gleefully.
“He came back for the princess and…” She paused, and in chorus the two voices chimed, “They lived happily ever after!”
Rebeccah clapped and jumped in place. Miss Pesserat turned to Sarah and prodded her with a set of wiggling fingers, making the little girl smile.
But no laugh. Jareth’s heart constricted as he watched his youngest niece, solemn little Sarah, who had uttered not one single sound since the accident that took her parents’ lives three months ago.
Sheer bad luck, an error in the driver’s judgment, a ripple in the fabric of destiny—something unexplainable had caused Jareth’s elder brother’s carriage to overturn on a hairpin curve and spill down a sharp, craggy ravine. The duke and duchess were killed. Blessedly, the children, who had been with them, had survived. But not unscarred. Rebeccah had been injured, but her physical recovery had been swift.
Oddly, Sarah had escaped with nary a scratch, except that she no longer possessed a loving mother, a devoted father or the ability to speak. It wasn’t that she had any physical damage to her vocal cords. The once exuberant child had simply ceased talking. She made no sounds, in fact—not crying, not laughter, not the tiniest noise since the accident.
That terrible event had also left Jareth the seventh duke, riddled with grief and utterly miserable. Gone was the life he had led as a contented second son. His business, his friends, his much valued freedom were gone. All he had now was duty. Duty to the duchy and duty to his family, his nieces in particular. And one big headache in the bargain. Miss Chloe Pesserat.
Miss Pesserat scrambled to her feet, pausing to slip on a discarded slipper. As she balanced on one foot, she held out her slender arms in a delicate move that was reminiscent of the prima ballerinas Jareth had seen on the Paris stage. Miss Chloe, as the little girls called her, possessed an uncanny grace. It was evident m her smallest movement, making each motion extraordinarily…well, beautiful.
She now began a very ungraceful chase of Rebeccah, claiming to be the dragon come back for revenge. Rebeccah squealed, declaring herself the prince and facing off against the evil monster. Sarah smiled, running when her sister warned her of the mortal danger she was in, but still in silence. Always in silence.
Jareth watched Rebeccah, who looked joyful at this moment. She seemed, as far as anyone could surmise, to have survived the loss of her parents without incident, except of course for the howling night terrors. Almost every night in the wee hours before dawn, Jareth was told, the five-year-old hovered in some netherworld between sleep and wakefulness, her thrashing and sobbing so alarming as to send normally affectionate servants scurrying away in tears. The only one who could quiet her, and not without effort, was Miss Chloe.
Jareth scowled, returning his regard to the young woman carrying on in the most indecorous manner, issuing sounds no human had any business making, skirts hitched up almost to her knees.
“Outrageous, isn’t she?” a cultured voice asked from behind him.
Jareth nodded. Now the chit tumbled Rebeccah onto the ground. As they rolled about, they kicked up chunks of mud. Dark stains appeared on their skirts.
“Abominable,” his mother said.
“Is there no way to dismiss her?” Jareth asked. Really, this was preposterous. Cavorting like village urchins!
“The doctor said absolutely not. Both girls’ nerves are fragile. He is fearful of what would happen if they had to do without her. He believes they have transferred their affections to their Miss Chloe. Losing her, so quickly after the loss of…” The dowager duchess faltered only a little, but to her son, who had never heard his mother’s voice so much as quiver throughout all of this wretched tragedy, it was as startling as her dissolving into tears.
He remained perfectly rigid, knowing any sign that he had noticed her distress would be inappropriate. When she spoke again, her voice was restored. “The loss of their parents, it might be devastating.”
“Has anyone spoken to her?”
“I have, on numerous occasions.” A long, indrawn breath, then a protracted sigh. “She refuses to heed my instruction and makes no secret of telling me so. She informed me that the children need joy in their lives, that propriety