Blackmail and the Bride (The Six Pearls of Baron Ridlington Book 5) Page 6

  “Now then, dearie. None o’ that.” She rubbed Cressida’s back. “Yer ‘ere now, with this fine lookin’ husband o’ yers. We’ll make the best o’ it, don’t yer worry none.”

  She looked up at Richard, gave him a thoroughly assessing look which made him want to fidget and straighten his cravat, then turned back to Cressida.

  “There be one thing yer both need right now.”

  “What’s that?” asked Richard, almost afraid to hear the answer.

  “A nice cuppa.”

  Chapter Seven

  Richard carefully lit the candles in their bedchamber while Cressida prepared herself for bed in the little dressing room.

  It had been a long day, but after Mrs. Parsnip’s excellent cup of tea, and an afternoon spent exploring, they’d had a comfortable and simple meal of meat pie, fresh fish and a succulent apple tart, which was one of the best Richard could remember eating.

  There wouldn’t be any problem with the food at Branscombe Magna.

  After dinner, they agreed to forgo more tea for a little brandy, and sat companionably next to the fire in the little parlor. Zizi endorsed this notion, turning circles several times, then settling near enough to feel the warmth but far enough away to avoid flying embers.

  Cressida had suggested they make some notes about the house, and her practical ideas made sense.

  They listed the most important things they needed, such as how many maids and servants they should consider hiring, what rooms could be restored and which needed to be completely refurnished, and whether it was worth even attempting to do anything with the small ballroom they’d found on the far side of one wing.

  They both agreed that the jewel of the house was the conservatory, a large room floored in marble and with windows covering two walls. One side looked out across a hill to the ocean, and the other faced what was probably a lovely green lawn, but at the moment looked more like a fallow field.

  Gardeners were also on the list of people to hire.

  “We have not spoken yet of money, Richard.” Cressida glanced over at him. “I suppose I didn’t feel I knew you well enough…”

  He grinned. “Odd, isn’t it? I know what you mean, but it is your money, your dowry. So don’t hesitate to ask whatever questions you’d like.” He put down his list. “May I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why did you marry me?” He’d been itching to ask that question for what seemed like months, even though their marriage was barely a week old.

  “You know why. To avoid the scandal in Brussels.”

  He shook his head. “There were many ways that could have been avoided, Cressida. And both you and I know it. Might I not have the truth now? The deed is done, we’re away from Brussels, and certainly we have no plans to mingle in Society…”

  She looked down at her hands, and he remained silent, wondering if this time she would indeed give him the real reason she’d married a man she’d never met. “I had no choice in the matter.”

  He heard the flat note of hopelessness in her voice and wondered at it. “What do you mean?”

  She looked up, her face blank of expression. “As you know, my parents are gone. I relied upon Aunt Phyllida and she took care of me, looking after my needs, making sure I was raised well.” Her lip curled.

  “That does not seem cause for concern, Cressy?” He dared shorten her name, and smiled as it fell naturally from his lips.

  She shot him a surprised little smile. “Oh. My friends used to call me that when I was little.”

  “Is it appropriate?”

  “Yes,” she nodded. “Now more than ever.”

  “Please,” encouraged Richard. “Go on with your story. Your Aunt Phyllida raised you?”

  “Well, not completely, but she took me in when Mama passed away and for a year I was in mourning. I didn’t mind not attending parties of girls my age, anyway. I was used to my own company, just me and Mama. But after that year ended, I found Aunt Phyllida making sure I had everything a young lady of fashion needed—either bought for me or drummed into me.” She sighed. “I did not know at the time that I was being groomed to make what is known as a good match.”

  “Ah.”

  “You’re familiar with the process, I see.”

  Richard snorted. “Isn’t everyone? I have lost count of the people I met in London whose sole aim every day was to find that good match.”

  “Well, it would seem that Aunt Phyllida found one. I had no idea, of course, that she was coaching me, teaching me all the things I would need to become a duchess.”

  Richard’s eyebrows rose. “Really?” He tried hard to imagine this red-haired sprite as a duchess. He failed.

  “I learned that she had already made successful overtures to the Clothydes.”

  “Good Lord.” He knew that name. They were of the highest Ton, second only to the Cumberlands or the Clarences. They were also the quintessential arbiters of all that was correct, defining appropriate behavior and complete sticklers for propriety.

  “I see you’re familiar with the family.” Her tone was wry.

  “Not personally,” he asserted. “They wouldn’t have anything to do with the Ridlingtons. M’father’s reputation would have seen to that.”

  “So you can see how the merest breath of scandal would have impacted my Aunt’s carefully crafted negotiations?”

  He thought about it. “I can, yes. And by association, your Aunt would have fallen from favour in the eyes of the Clothydes?”

  “Exactly.”

  “When did you find all this out?”

  She returned to contemplation of her hands in her lap. “After that damned ball. I felt so constricted and confined that I needed to do something to remind myself that I was still alive.”

  “And you found two willing gentlemen?”

  Her shoulders rose and fell. “Yes.” She turned and glanced at him. “They were off to war, Richard. Who knows if they will ever see home again? They asked for a quick kiss…was it such a great sin?”

  Since Richard hadn’t been above stealing kisses at balls, he shook his head. “In my book, no. But in Society’s? You know the answer to that.”

  “Yes, I found out in a hurry. The next day Aunt Phyllida informed me that I had two choices. I could marry immediately, or…”

  “What was your other choice?” He watched her face as her lips tightened.

  “A convent.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, really. A convent. Aunt Phyllida was quite clear. I had disgraced both the Branscombe name and, by default, stained the St. Cyr reputation. The Clothydes would be appalled at my whorish behavior, and yes she used that exact word. The only way to salvage their good name would be for me to wed immediately, obviously not a Clothyde—or enter a convent.”

  “That’s…that’s…medieval, for God’s sake,” sputtered Richard.

  “We were in Brussels, remember. There are more convents over there than here, and money will buy a wimple more easily than a loaf of bread, especially in light of the situation and the war. Everyone needs money. Convents are no exception.” She shrugged. “So you can see why I opted for marriage. Aunt Phyllida would be forgiven if I made a suitable match, and her reputation would be saved.” She swallowed. “They could all walk away from me, secure in the knowledge that they’d done their duty by me. I would—I suppose I have, actually—cease to exist as far as they’re concerned.”

  “But…” He considered his next words. “You had no idea who they would choose for you, did you?”

  “I had to hope there was an ounce of compassion left in Aunt Phyllida.” Cressida stood, moved to the small side table and poured a little more brandy. “There wasn’t. I shouldn’t have expected any.” She offered the decanter to Richard, but he shook his head. He wanted her to finish the story.

  The clink of the glass stopper going back into its place broke the silence, and she swallowed down the brandy. “In the interests of honesty, Richard, I will note that I had
seen you at an earlier affair. I believe it was the Jameson ridotto. I had asked my Aunt who you were.”

  “You did? Why?” He watched her face.

  “You seemed…interesting. That’s all. It was but a casual inquiry, the sort of thing one does at a ridotto.”

  He wondered if the slight colour rising in her cheeks was from the brandy or the conversation.

  “And you think that was enough for your Aunt to select me as your intended husband?”

  “It’s the only possibility I can think of.” She sighed. “Knowing what we know now about my birth? I think it’s safe to say that Aunt Phyllida was waiting for the right moment to separate me from the family. My actions at the ball provided the ideal excuse.” A brief smile crossed her face. “Goodness, they must all have been at their wits’ end trying to think of a way to dispose of me, the potential family scandal.” She frowned. “I have to confess that now the truth has been revealed, that threat of a convent was probably closer than I ever knew.”

  “A horrid thought. It was certainly convenient that I was currently in the most impossible of positions. Perrenporth’s offer seemed too good to be true,” mused Richard. “There I was, in the most awful debt with nowhere to turn. Single and eligible.”

  “I hate to suggest this,” she turned away to warm her hands at the hearth, “but is it possible your situation was created to facilitate mine?”

  “Jesus.” Struck dumb by the thought, Richard turned it over in his mind. Would the Earl and his cronies resort to murder to save a girl from scandal?

  Disgust clawed at his throat as he realized that he could not dismiss such an idea out of hand. “I don’t know,” he finally answered.

  “Horrible thought, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, and one that will haunt me tonight.” He rose. “I’ll walk Zizi.”

  His words came back to him later as Cressida emerged in her warmest night clothes. She glanced at the bed. “There’ll be little room for blankets,” she observed.

  Richard sighed as he extracted his only nightshirt from his valise. He preferred to sleep in the nude, but that obviously was out of the question. For now, anyway.

  “Do we still need them? I promise to keep my lustful male instincts under control, if you can make the same promise…”

  She grinned and ran her hands through her curls. “I don’t think I possess lustful instincts.”

  “In that case, we’ll dispense with the barrier.” He retired to the dressing room, stripped, and hung up his clothes on the hooks as best he could. They really had to see about improving their sleeping quarters.

  He reappeared to find his wife tucked in with the blankets up to her nose. “They smell a bit musty,” she commented.

  “Well, Zizi doesn’t seem to mind.” He observed her fussing on her chair, then settling herself into her imitation of a furry pillow. She’d give up sleeping on his feet, since he tossed and turned and inevitably kicked her off the bed. He dropped a quick pat on her head then walked around the room, extinguishing the candles. “How about the quilt? Will it be warm enough?”

  She nodded, her eyes following him as he circled back to the bed. “It will do.”

  The last candle died, and he slid beneath the covers with a sigh. “After the last few days, I’ll admit this does seem a bit more comfortable.”

  “Will we ever get to feel as if this is home, I wonder?” Sleep threaded through her voice.

  “I don’t know, Cressy. I really don’t know.” He turned on his side, only to hear a little snore.

  Smiling to himself, he snuggled closer, amused at the natural way she fell into his warmth. He found himself liking the closeness, the sensation of her body next to his.

  God knew he was no innocent when it came to women. He’d admit that to anyone. But this particular moment, this night, was different. He fell asleep trying to work out why.

  *~~*~~*

  Cressida had no idea what woke her, but it was pitch black when she opened her eyes and blinked, trying to recall where she was.

  Checking her surroundings, she found herself warm, comfortable, and apparently encased within a snug embrace. Well, this was an interesting experience. Apparently her husband had a tendency to cuddle in his sleep.

  Zizi was snoring softly on the blankets she’d put over a chair, a small ball of fur tucked like a pillow into her nest.

  Something tugged at the corner of her eye and she shifted her head to look across the room. High on the wall opposite the bed was some kind of light…or shadow of a light…or something…

  A sound, a sigh like the faint call of a mourning dove…

  Cressida’s skin chilled. What the devil…?

  She reached for Richard’s arm and jiggled it. “Richard,” she whispered. “Wake up…”

  He snuffled, and ignored her.

  The light moved now, pulsing between bright and dark, but yet barely visible. She couldn’t explain what she was seeing, but the hairs on the back of her neck were standing upright.

  She hung on to the solid arm around her. “Richard,” she cried out. “For God’s sake, wake up…”

  “Wha…” he grunted.

  “Something’s in here…”

  Her words made it through his sleepy brain, and she felt his muscles tense beneath her fingers.

  “Where?” He spoke softly.

  “On the wall. It’s a kind of…light…thing…” She nodded her head at it. “Over there…”

  She released his arm as he turned to look in the direction she’d indicated.

  As he did so, the light faded away.

  “Did you see it? God, tell me you saw it, please…”

  “I…I’m not sure…” he mumbled.

  “It was there. I heard a sound, like a bird sighing…”

  “I do know it’s freezing cold in here.” Richard pulled her back down and tugged the covers over them both. “And you’re shivering.”

  He slid her back into his warmth and she went without a moment’s hesitation. “I saw it. I know I did.”

  “I believe you,” he mumbled into her hair. “Tell me about it in the morning.”

  She fully intended to, but that meant she’d have to go back to sleep.

  After half an hour or so of peeping over the quilt to see if there were any lights anywhere, she accepted that whatever it was must have departed for the night. She closed her eyes, but did not expect to sleep at all.

  She had reckoned without the comfort of a warm man who liked to cuddle.

  It was quite a surprise when next she awoke…and found daylight streaming into their room.

  Chapter Eight

  Richard strolled back to the house through the early morning mist, whistling a little, pleased at the shape of the stables. He’d anticipated the worst and found several snug stalls, fresh hay, and two young lads who were enamoured of the equine species.

  Tommy and Harry Worsnop looked like fraternal twins—they certainly fought that way, grinned Richard. He’d had a good few spats with his own brothers growing up, so he was quite prepared to wait until they were done, and realized he was watching over the stall.

  Once the scuffle had ended, the bloody noses wiped and hands shaken, he felt it an appropriate moment to walk in and scare the living daylights out of both of them.

  “‘Ere, who’re yer?” One lad stared at him, eyes wide. “Where’d yer come from then?”

  Richard found himself the subject of two somewhat apprehensive gazes, and a third—more curious than anything—from the only horse currently calling these quarters home.

  “My name is Ridlington. My wife is the former Cressida Branscombe, and her family have given her Branscombe Magna. We arrived yesterday, in their carriage, so I knew I would have to find out about what kind of mounts were available first thing.”

  “Only one mount, sir,” the other lad touched his forehead respectfully. “That’s our Nellie here.” He turned and stroked the nose that was almost butting his ear. “She’s a lovely old girl, and we comes b
y of a morning to take care of her.”

  “But ain’t up to yer weight, sir, I’m thinkin’…” said the other lad.

  Richard walked around and into Nellie’s stall, eyeing her over, accepting a friendly snort, and rubbing her nose. She was indeed a lovely old girl. But the lad was right.

  He turned to them. “So who has the best horses around here and are there any for sale?”

  That question brought identical grins to the young faces, and began a discussion that lasted for a good half hour. At the end, Richard had agreed to expect their neighbor, Mr. Dart, around five that afternoon, with two fine horses for his consideration.

  Hence the cheerful whistle as he made his way back to the house. Zizi tripped and toddled her happy way through the overgrown grass, growling at imaginary threats, chasing squirrels and butterflies, and rushing back to make sure he was there at intermittent intervals. The mist faded and the morning sun hit the old stone walls, bringing their colours to life—grays and browns interspersed with pale lines—a beautiful sight that would only improve as the windows were cleaned and some of the encroaching ivy cut back.

  It was a solid house, that was for certain. Seeing it now in the sunlight, settled into its surroundings like a contented pigeon in a sheltered nest…well, something stirred inside Richard. He’d never expected to own property like this, and a surprising sense of possession swelled within him.

  He had a wife and a home. Not to mention a floor mop masquerading as a dog.

  It was not easy to accept any of those things, but here he was, hoping to add horses to the list. Which brought on another matter—money.

  The letters that they’d been given on their departure from London had turned out to be various documents pertaining to their possession of Branscombe Magna, introductions to the nearest branch of Coutts bank, and a local lawyer. All of which would be important if they were to set up their lives here, and Richard knew he couldn’t wait to execute them.