Strathmere's Bride. Jacqueline Navin
at his mother no less, which was not something he was used to feeling. He had the greatest respect for his mother. She was the force behind the family, taking the helm of what she would often and proudly boast was one of the finest families in England. She had led them through disaster more than once, even when his father was alive.
She had only been vaguely interested in him growing up, much less exacting than she had been with Charles, which had meant there was room for a degree of fondness in their relationship. With Charles there had been no respite from the demands incumbent upon him as heir. His mother had been ruthless—a strange word to choose, but somehow it fit— and almost viciously vigilant.
Jareth felt a dawning dread. Now that critical eye was turned his way. His days of freedom were over.
Had it been like this for Charles? Had he felt this sense of suffocation, of generations of Hunts weighing down on him—the crushing burden of responsibility squeezing out his own essence?
Fanciful silliness, he thought with disgust, then discovered that his mother was talking to him again and he hadn’t heard a word she had said.
“I am sorry, Mother,” he apologized.
The woman narrowed her eyes at him. Never beautiful, Charlotte Harrington Hunt had always been what was referred to as a handsome woman. In her older years, that handsomeness had hardened, but her eyes were still bright and lively and the flawless bone structure had held up well.
“Is it that wretched Pesserat woman?” she demanded.
Jareth blinked, disconcerted with the non sequitur. “Pardon me?”
“I was told you visited the nursery the other morning. Was that Frenchwoman impertinent to you?”
He shook his head, but he could feel the frown lines deepening on his brow.
That Pesserat woman…Had she been impertinent? He had to allow her devotion to his nieces was fierce. And that there was an aura of capableness about her, there amid all her haphazard foolishness. But she was so…disconcerting was the word. Indeed, the woman was that in spades.
His mother was saying, “You must not be too lenient with the servants, Strathmere. You need to remember your station. It is a grand one, but it must be used properly, and wisely. As a boy, I did not think to instruct you as I did your brother. In this I failed you, I see, for tragedy is always a possibility, and one must be prepared. For my lack of foresight, and in allowing you to affiliate so many years with commoners, I regret bitterly the loose attitude I took with you.”
Among the commoners to whom she was referring was his old partner, Colin Burke, and the reference stung. Although Colin was not a peer, his wealth was greater than the majority of titled families of England. The contempt in his mother’s voice whenever she referred to his business partner—and the man who had been his closest friend—was somehow…violating.
“However, there is no sense dwelling on the past. You are the duke now. Let the knowledge of that fact take root inside of you and blossom.”
The duke now. Yes, oh yes, how he knew it. As if for one second, for one blessed moment of peace, he could forget it.
His mother continued, “Duty, Strathmere. Your duty to Rebeccah and Sarah is to show them a strong hand in their rearing. Never forget who you are. You are in command of this family.” She wrung her hands and looked at him with pity in her eyes. “Oh, my son, you were always such a gentle soul. Weeping for wounded pigeons and nursing baby rabbits unearthed in the garden, you were a sweet-hearted boy—but you must put all that behind you. You must change, alter your very character so that the easy authority of your title is second nature to you, as natural as all that you’ve known in your past used to be.”
Her words spun around in his head, draining away to a hollow echo. There were more, but try as he might to concentrate on them, they were lost to him, drowned out by the shameful realization that he was, God help him, terrified of what she was describing.
Because it was already happening. And he knew that it must.
For he was the Duke of Strathmere, now and evermore.
Helena Rathford made an even better impression—if that were possible—on Jareth that afternoon than she had the first evening of their acquaintance. Garbed in a day dress, she appeared refreshingly pretty with her soft blond ringlets bobbing about her face. The taut beauty of the previous meeting seemed more relaxed.
Lord Rathford sent his apologies at not being able to join them this afternoon. These were prettily pleaded by his wife, who deftly took herself off with the duchess to examine his mother’s porcelain collection in order to leave Jareth and Helena alone.
He gave her a rueful glance, and she remarked, “I am afraid they are rather obvious.”
Her directness he liked. It relaxed him, and it felt good after the tensions of the day. “Don’t fault them too much.”
“How kind you are,” she said, as if she truly meant it. He laughed and gave his head a shake.
“Not at all, Lady Helena. I simply know there are many times when my behavior could warrant a little understanding, and so in the interest of reaping the benefit of like charity one day, I dispense it with generosity. Purely selfish, you see.”
“Rather wise,” she corrected, sounding like a schoolmistress. He chuckled and she smiled wanly.
Looking out of the window, Jareth frowned. “It is unfortunate the weather is disagreeable today. I believe a tour of the grounds is called for when a lady comes for tea.”
“I adore gardens. I couldn’t help but notice you have a lovely one. However, it does seem rather ominous.” She ducked her head to peer up at the sky. Iron-gray and so thick with clouds it looked flat. It cast a weird glow on the late afternoon light.
“Rather lovely,” Jareth commented, studying the unusual colors. “In a way.”
“Good heavens, who is that?” Helena exclaimed. “Do they mean to go out and about with rains coming?”
That, Jareth saw immediately, was the intrepid and apparently incredibly stupid Miss Pesserat, tromping across the front lawn with her two little charges in tow.
He was too angry to speak for a moment, then said simply, “Will you excuse me, please?”
It took several moments to locate Frederick, the butler. “See that Miss Pesserat is brought back here immediately,” Jareth told the gaunt older man with thinning hair and a huge beak of a nose. “Tell her I wish to speak with her as soon as the Rathfords depart.”
“Yes, your grace,” Frederick said without expression. “I shall send a footman right away.”
The weather worsened. A steady drizzle thickened into a downpour, making it untenable for the Rathfords to leave as planned. His mother asked them to stay to supper, and Lady Rathford agreed with a rapacious gleam in her eye she didn’t bother to hide.
They were shown to a room where they might refresh themselves, and Jareth retired to his library. It was a dreary place, more so with the wet-streaked windows weeping tearily against the implacable sky. He called for a fire to be made up, then settled down to do some of the accounts.
Remembering that he hadn’t been informed of Chloe and the children’s return, he laid down the quill and summoned Frederick.
“No, sir, I have not seen her,” the butler informed him.
“Send Mary to the nursery and see if they came in unnoticed.”
Frederick went to search out the maid. Jareth crossed the room to stare out the window at the vicious skies. The wind had picked up.
What had made that fool think of taking the children out and about on a day like this? She didn’t have the sense of—
He spied a movement. Peering closer, he saw indeed it was someone dashing across the lawn.
Damnation!