St. Leger 1: The Bride Finder Page 6

  "Master's in the study there." Trigg nodded with a jerk of one dirty thumb and prepared to shuffle on his way.

  "Wait!" Madeline cried. "Aren't you going to announce me?"

  To her astonishment the sour old man's face split into a stump-toothed grin. "Announce you? Lord help you, mistress. There's never any announcing necessary with master. You needn't bother knockin', either."

  And he went off, chuckling over some jest Madeline failed to see. Puzzling over it, she supposed it could be thought amusing, a bride asking to be announced to her own husband. But she had not been treated much like a bride so far.

  For all she knew, Anatole could have summoned her to his study just to tell her to go to the devil. And from what she had already seen of her husband and his temper, she would almost be glad to go.

  But she had resolved that whatever the outcome of all this, whether she was bidden to go or stay, she was not going to be intimidated by Anatole St. Leger again. Abandoning her pelisse and velvet hat upon a table in the dusty hall, she smoothed out her skirts and started to give a timid knock, then stopped, remembering that Trigghorne had told her not to bother.

  Bracing herself, she turned the knob. As the door inched open, she peered inside the study, gloom-ridden with dark paneling and that faint layering of dust that seemed to coat everything at Castle Leger. Most of the light spilled through the tall windows at the far end of the chamber.

  And that was where he stood, staring at her. All her newly formed resolve threatened to desert her. During the past half hour, she had tried to soften the image of her husband in her mind. She had almost managed to forget what a daunting sight he was with his thick mane of wild black hair and hard, unsmiling eyes.

  If Fitzleger had not also been present, Madeline feared she would have turned and fled. It was the clergyman who stepped forward, saying warmly, "Do come in, child."

  Madeline crept across the threshold, never taking her eyes off Anatole. A low rumbling sounded. Dear heaven, she thought in dismay. The man was actually growling at her.

  Then she realized the sound emanated from the area before the hearth. A trio of large hounds stretched to their feet, the growling escalating to a series of sharp barks.

  "Quiet!" Anatole commanded.

  But Madeline had no fear of dogs. She approached the largest hound, holding out her hand to be sniffed. He was a disreputable-looking old beast, his ears tattered, one eye scarred closed. He remained wary as his cold black nose snuffled over the back of her hand. Madeline cooed some soothing nonsense words, and the dog's tail began to wag.

  As he permitted her to stroke the shaggy dome of his head, the other two dogs seemed to take their cue from him. Madeline laughed as her hands were assaulted by several warm, wet tongues, and then Anatole's shadow fell across them.

  "Ranger. Brutus. Pendragon. Down!"

  The hounds cowered back immediately. Anatole stalked to the parlor door and swung it open. "Out!"

  For a startled moment Madeline was unsure if he meant her or the dogs. But as three hounds slunk past him, she protested, "Oh, no. You don't need to put them out on my account."

  She reflected that it was the warmest welcome she had received so far. But glaring at the dogs as if they were a pack of traitors, Anatole chased them from the study and slammed the door.

  He turned back toward Madeline, and the two of them regarded each other in awkward silence. Fitzleger cleared his throat and rubbed his hands nervously together.

  "I should probably be going as well," he said.

  "Oh, no," Madeline cried, unable to conceal her alarm at the prospect of being left alone with Anatole. "I—I mean. Must you go so soon?"

  Fitzleger gave her a melancholy smile. "You have no more need of me, my dear."

  "Aye, the damage has been done," Anatole muttered.

  "And St. Leger has much he wishes to say to you," Fitzleger continued with a stern look in Anatole's direction. Taking one of Madeline's hands, the clergyman pressed it between the warmth of both of his.

  "I shall see you again soon. St. Leger and I have arranged that your final vows will be taken tomorrow in my very own church."

  "Oh." Madeline said with a wan smile. "That sounds very… final."

  Until that moment she did not realize how much she had been hoping for some reprieve, that perhaps Fitzleger would not have been able to persuade Anatole to accept Madeline as his bride. It would have been humiliating to have returned home to her family, rejected, but—

  Be sensible, Madeline, she adjured herself. Vows have been taken, promises exchanged. The man's money has been spent.

  "If you think tomorrow is too soon for the wedding—" Anatole began.

  "Oh, no. Tomorrow will be fine," Madeline said, hanging her head.

  "Good. Then, I shall leave the two of you to become acquainted." Fitzleger carried Madeline's hand to his lips in a courtly gesture.

  He added in a whisper for her ears alone. "Courage, child. All will be well."

  Would it? Madeline wondered bleakly. Heaven knows, she still felt as though the clergyman had betrayed her trust completely. But as Fitzleger made his bow to Anatole and prepared to leave, it was all she could do not to cling to his coattails.

  When the door closed behind him, it was as if she had been deserted by her dearest friend. The heavy silence settled again. Then Anatole made a brusque motion with his hand.

  "Well, would you like to sit down?"

  It sounded more like a command than an invitation. Madeline glanced about her for a seat. Behind her was a tapestry-covered chair, but one of the claw feet had broken off. Anatole had propped the chair leg up with a volume of John Milton's poetry.

  Fitzleger's words echoed in her head. He makes great use of books.

  Madeline sighed. "No, thank you," she said. "I think I prefer to stand."

  "Please yourself." Anatole strode past her and took to pacing in front of the hearth, a moody expression clouding his eyes.

  Madeline shrank back against the sideboard, making sure she stayed out of his way. It was like being closed in a small place with something dark and dangerous. As spacious as the study was, it didn't seem large enough to contain Anatole with his powerful frame. He should have been out tearing across the countryside on that devil-spawned stallion of his. A wild spirit of a man who belonged to the black moors, the rugged cliff side, the sea-lashed shore… not the sort of gentle soul who could ever belong to Madeline Breton.

  "I regret that I had to interrupt your conversation with Fitzleger," she said. "I tried to be patient. But my poor cousin and my maid are still huddled in the carriage, and my coachmen wanted to know if they should unhitch the horses."

  "What!" This at least had the effect of bringing him to a halt. His brow furrowed. "I'm sorry. I shall give Trigghorne orders to see to their comfort at once."

  "Thank you," Madeline started to say when he continued, "The horses must be taken care of. It is not good to keep them standing about."

  "The horses? What about my cousin?"

  "What's the matter with her?"

  "She is still overcome from your greeting."

  "Damnation! I only kissed the woman. I didn't rape her."

  His crudity caused Madeline to blush. He waved his hand impatiently. "Have the wench carted up to one of the bedchambers."

  "I don't think I could persuade Harriet to set foot in this house, let alone a bedchamber. She is terrified of you, sir. She keeps begging to go back to London."

  "Then, let her" was Anatole's callous response.

  Madeline stiffened. "And perhaps you think I should go with her."

  "If that's what you want," he said coldly. "Return my marriage settlement, and we shall find some way to call it quits."

  Madeline would have liked nothing better than to fling every penny back into his hard, arrogant face. Her pride rose like a lump in her throat. But she had to swallow it and confess, "I—I cannot return your money, my lord. It's been spent."

  "What!" His fierce loo
k of incredulity made her flinch. "How could you possibly have gone through such a sum already and—never mind. Don't trouble yourself to answer." He shook his head in disgust. "I should have guessed as soon as I saw you needed a second carriage. I suppose it is stuffed with more expensive silk nonsense like you've got on your back."

  Actually the second coach was crammed with a treasure far more precious to Madeline, her collection of books. Anatole's settlement had been merrily dispersed by her mother and father. But she made no effort to correct Anatole, though she scarce knew what kept her silent. Shame for her family or her own stubborn pride.

  What did it matter? Anatole had held her in contempt from the beginning. Nothing was going to change that.

  "I shall see that your money is returned, sir," Madeline said. "Even if I have to hire out for a chambermaid and scrub floors to do it."

  "Hang the money and hang this talk of your leaving," he snarled. "You know as well as I do that you are not going anywhere."

  Madeline stared into his eyes, and for a flickering second it was like looking into a dark mirror of her own despair.

  She tussled with her pride a moment more, then conceded, "I suppose you are right, sir. We must go through with this marriage. Honor constrains us both."

  "Honor?" A grim smile touched his lips. "There are far more powerful forces in a man's life than honor."

  "Such as?"

  "Fate."

  Madeline blinked at this cryptic remark, but before she could question it, he went on, "We simply will have to learn to make the best of a bad bargain."

  "What a charming way of putting it."

  His dark brows snapped together. "We will get on much better, madam, if you do not expect pretty speeches. I am no good at them. Or at tendering my apologies."

  "Neither am I. But then, I have had little practice," Madeline said wryly. "I am so used to being right."

  "Wonderful. I can see we are going to deal extremely well."

  But for the first time, Madeline caught a glimmer of humor in his eyes. It heartened her as nothing had done thus far.

  "For some reason," she said, " Fitzleger believes we are well suited."

  She was afraid Anatole might sneer at the notion, but he nodded solemnly. "Aye. Bride Finder is noted for his wisdom in these matters."

  "Fitzleger."

  "That is what you call him?"

  "That is what he is. I sent him to London to find me a bride, didn't I?"

  "But… Bride Finder? You speak like it is a title or some sort of position."

  "Yes, well…" Anatole rubbed the line of his jaw. "There are a few things you should know about Fitzleger. And myself."

  "Yes?" Madeline prompted when he hesitated.

  Anatole cast an uncertain look at her. His hand seemed to stray involuntarily up to touch the pale crease of his scar.

  "Never mind," he murmured. "That can keep until another time."

  He straightened, saying in a brisker tone, "Are you fond of horses?"

  The abrupt change of conversation disconcerted Madeline, but not so much as the question itself. She was tempted to lie. But there had already been enough misunderstanding between them.

  "No, actually I'm rather afraid of them."

  "Then, you don't ride at all?"

  "Not if I can avoid it."

  He scowled.

  "Do you like books?" she ventured.

  "Books? What kind of books?"

  "Like the one you used to prop up your chair. Do you read?"

  "Not if I can help it."

  She sighed.

  Anatole was the first to recover from his disappointment.

  "It scarcely matters," he said. "It is not as though we are going to become boon companions after all. Only husband and wife."

  "Yes, only husband and wife," Madeline echoed sadly. A marriage of convenience. That could have been enough if only she had not allowed herself to dream of so much more.

  Anatole held out his hands to her. "Come here, then," he said, like a man resolved to do his duty. "Let's have another look at you."

  Not another inspection, Madeline thought with alarm. But she obeyed, coming closer, slipping her fingers warily into his. His hand engulfed hers, large, rough, infusing her cold fingertips with heat.

  A shiver coursed through her as he held her at arm's length, his gaze roving boldly over her.

  "Do you always dress that way?" he demanded. "You look fine enough to wait upon the king."

  Madeline was not foolish enough to mistake this for a compliment. She smoothed out the folds of the shimmering apricot silk.

  "I would not have taken such pains for the king," she said.

  "You did it for me?"

  "Yes."

  "It was a waste of effort and money."

  "I clearly perceive that," Madeline replied.

  "If we are to get along, in future, you will not be so extravagant in matters of dress." He dropped her hand, pointing above her neckline. "Does that thing come off?"

  "What thing?" Madeline grumbled. "My head?"

  "No. That blasted mountain of flour."

  "Yes, certainly it comes off. It's only a wig."

  "Good. Remove it."

  "Here? Now?" she asked, startled.

  "Of course now."

  She was inclined to refuse his blunt demand. But there was a dark impatience in his eyes that warned her if she didn't comply, he would remove the wig himself after his own rough fashion. Just as he had done with the portrait earlier, Madeline thought, feeling the bruise on her neck where the ribbon had snapped.

  Expelling a gusty sigh, she reached up to dislodge the hairpiece. It proved a messy proceeding. Her gown would only let her stretch her hands up so far, so she had to bow her head. Powder and hairpins flew everywhere, and she lapsed into a fit of sneezing by the time she got the wretched thing off.

  Unperturbed, Anatole plucked the wig from her grasp. Holding it away from him as though it were a dead rat, he flung it amongst the ashes in the fireplace.

  A choked gasp escaped Madeline as he calmly dusted off his hands. The practical side of her nature wanted to protest such a waste. But she supposed it made no difference. It was not as though she had any desire to wear the thing again, either.

  But now her own hair was exposed in all its mad red glory. Anatole had reacted so strangely before at the sight of one curl, she hardly knew what to expect from him now.

  But there was little she could do but remove the rest of the pins and allow her hair to cascade about her shoulders in a fiery tangle. She tensed as Anatole stepped closer. He caught up one strand, brushing away the residue of powder. The curl lay stretched across his calloused palm like a skein of silken fire.

  Madeline realized she was barely breathing. He stood so close, he overwhelmed her, dominating the line of her sight. There was no place else to look but at him, notice things she hadn't before. The hint of sun-bronzed skin at the open neckline of his shirt, the powerful cords of his throat, the way his thick lashes cast a shadow over his cheekbones when he lowered his eyes.

  He feathered her hair with the pad of his thumb, his expression inscrutable. "Well," he pronounced at last. "It is most definitely the color of flame."

  "Yes, I'm sorry," Madeline said, although she hardly knew why she was apologizing. Perhaps because she had spent most of her life expressing regret for the red hair that marked her as so different from the rest of her golden blond family. She rescued her hair from his grasp, brushing it behind her shoulders with a defensive gesture. She took a step back, putting enough distance between them so that she felt able to breathe again.

  "I'm sorry you don't like it," she repeated miserably.

  "I didn't say I didn't like it. I prefer your real hair to that ridiculous wig. The color will just take some getting used to. I daresay you'll look better when you've been brushed."

  "I could say the same for you, sir," Madeline said, eyeing his unkempt mane.

  But her tart remark seemed to roll right past him
. Propping his chin in his hand, he continued his leisurely study of her. This time he reached out to pluck at her gown, raising up the hem to expose her ankles.

  With an outraged gasp, Madeline snatched her skirt away from him. Unperturbed, he demanded, "What have you got on your feet?"

  "A simple pair of shoes with heels."

  "I thought as much from the way you mince about. Totally impractical. You'll break your neck on our steep stairs. Get rid of them."

  Now? Madeline started to ask, then realized it was a foolish question. She leaned for support on a pedestal table, easing out of her shoes. Her height dropped by several inches. Without wig, without heels, she barely came up to the middle of Anatole's chest.

  "Is there anything else you want removed?" she asked testily.

  She regretted the question as soon as it was out of her mouth. Something wicked flashed in his eyes, his gaze drifting down to linger on the region of her bodice.

  But he said, "No, I'd be afraid to take anything else off. There would be nothing left of you."

  Her lack of inches had always been a sore point with Madeline. Her cheeks stinging, she bridled. "If we are to get along, sir, you will refrain from making disparaging remarks about my size, especially my—" She crossed her arms defensively over her breasts. "I am large enough for all practical purposes."

  "Agreed." But his lips twitched in a sardonic smile.

  Madeline continued in injured tones, "I realize you are far more attracted to strapping females like my cousin Harriet, but you will have to learn to restrain yourself. At least in my presence."

  Anatole's smile dissolved into a mighty scowl. A hint of red crept into his cheeks, "if we are to get along, madam, I prefer to forget that particular incident, and I desire you to do the same."

  "Agreed." But the remembrance of the wholehearted way he had kissed Harriet fretted at Madeline, like a pebble lodged in her shoe. "Of course, it is not an easy thing to forget… my bridegroom pouncing upon another woman."

  "It was a simple mistake, damn it! Do I have to hear about this for the rest of my life?"

  "I don't intend to bring it up again. It is only that Harriet and I are both well-bred women, not tavern wenches. We are not accustomed to such behavior. Neither she nor I had ever been kissed before. I still haven't been."