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  A Heart Too Proud

  Laura London

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  To Jane, who has been there since the first page

  Chapter One

  When one of the twins said that I looked like a shake-rag after a full day’s dusting, I was able to laugh with her, knowing full well that I would get no scolding from Mrs. Goodbody for my grubby appearance. Indeed, how should I look after a berry-picking expedition on a warm summer’s day? For though I am normally neat as wax (as Mrs. Goodbody often says with pride) I am also quite capable of becoming a deal more bedraggled than my younger sisters.

  And play had been the order of the day. Mrs. Goodbody had shoved the children and me firmly out the door that morning, baskets and wrapped lunches under our arms, telling us to rush and get the mayberries before the birds had them, just as she had every year since I can remember. As always, too, we had eaten as many as we had picked, or so it seemed, then spent the rest of the day wading in the stream, hunting for lucky clovers, or lying in the grass feeling the sun burn warmly through our now stained muslin gowns. At such times I would think, Who could ask life for more? Then I would think of my uncertain future and a slight shiver of fear would pass through me; I would quickly force the unwelcome thought from my mind. Much better, it was, to think of the past, of my childhood filled with security and simple pleasures.

  It may surprise you that one left an orphan at the age of eight could honestly say that she had passed a happy childhood, yet such a person am I. My parents died as they had lived, with calm dignity and faith, laying no burdens on the living. For all that I had loved them, they did not carry part of me with them to the grave. Do not think me heartless, for they would never have wished it. In fact, my twin sisters, now thirteen years old, cannot remember either parent; for their arrival in the world had been the occasion of my mother’s departure from it and my father had outlived her by only two years.

  Before his death, Father had been private secretary to Admiral Barfreston and we had lived in a cottage on the admiral’s estate, Barfrestly. After Father’s death, Admiral Barfreston had continued to let us remain in the cottage, even sending his own housekeeper, Mrs. Goodbody, to live with us, providing her with a modest portion of the estate’s revenue for our care.

  Admiral Barfreston had been a kind though absentminded guardian. When we did attract his occasional notice, he would toss us a sixpence and tell us to be good children. Unfortunately, we must have slipped from his erratic memory at the crucial moment when he made his will. Thus we had been left unprovided for when he died that September. This time I was old enough to understand the implications of being left penniless and unprotected and I’m afraid that I embarrassed Admiral Barfreston’s austere lawyer with a hug of gratitude upon learning that we could remain on at Barfrestly, at least temporarily. “Temporarily” had slipped into weeks and weeks into months and it seemed that we would go on forever just as we always had.

  On the admiral’s death, the estate had passed on to a distant cousin, the notorious Lord Nicholas Dearborne, Marquis of Lorne; Admiral Barfreston had never married and had not even a nephew to receive his property. And as for Lord Dearborne, they said he was so wealthy that his tenant farmers lived in houses as big as Barfrestly Manor. A gentleman of Lord Dearborne’s exalted degree was hardly likely to visit a small and ramshackle estate like Barfrestly, the admiral’s lawyer had told us. He would probably leave the whole affair to his man of business, who would eventually sell the place. Dearborne himself was a leader in London society, a close personal friend of the Prince Regent, and “indifferent, arrogant, and dangerous.” So Mrs. Goodbody said, and she had that personally from the innkeeper’s wife, who had it from Lady Peterby’s maid, who had spent one whole season in London attending to her mistress.

  There were other things said of Lord Dearborne, too. Once I overheard Squire Macready’s stableboys in whispered gossip, and went to Mrs. Goodbody for an explanation. What was a Paphian? She had stiffened like a fence post and snapped that the evil goings-on of London dandies were not for the innocent ears of young maidens.

  When other sources failed, my sisters Caroline and Christa were there to provide enlightenment. They are inveterate eavesdroppers and often have the gossip. Lord Dearborne, they pronounced, spent time with wicked women. When I questioned them further I was relieved to discover that they were mercifully in ignorance of exactly what it was that he did with the wicked women. If truth be told, I had somewhat of a confused idea myself. Even though I am six years older than the twins, I don’t often play big sister to them; our relationship is more that of beloved playmates.

  And so it had been on this warm June day as we returned home from the orchard, our hearts full of goodwill and our baskets brimming with berries, little dreaming that today something would happen to interrupt forever our present peaceful lives.

  Once through the orchard you can look across the now tangled jungle of a garden that Admiral Barfreston’s mother had lavished such care upon and see, rising above our cottage and other outbuildings, a large timber-framed mansion set between rows of chestnut and silver birch trees. It had been closed up since the death of Admiral Barfreston, and even before that only a few of its many rooms were in use.

  The tireless twins raced up the weedy path to the cottage, eager to show off our harvest of fruit just as I noticed Cleo disappearing around the corner of the mansion. Cleo was the twins’ spaniel pup and unfortunately, we’ve not yet been able to convince her that chickens are not placed on earth for the sole purpose of being chased around for the entertainment of wiry young dogs. As there were almost certain to be hens scratching about in front of the house at this time of the afternoon, I decided to make haste to the front yard to insure that no damage was done to the estate’s prime egg producers. As I rounded the corner of the house I stopped short in astonishment.

  There, in the driveway, was the most magnificent carriage that I had ever seen. Up until then I had thought Mrs. Macready’s shiny barouche the height of elegance, but now I saw there was a level beyond. Beneath a fine coat of recently acquired travel silt, the carriage’s satin-smooth sides gleamed and sparkled with colorful inlay. An elaborate crest in black and red was emblazoned on its door and it was drawn by a perfectly matched team-of-six in a silver-studded harness. Several bewigged liverymen, formally garbed in matching red and black uniforms, were standing at attention. Not being one to call a pigeon a peacock, I must admit that I gaped like a yokel. I was so engrossed in gawking at this equipage, which compared favorably with my imaginings of Cinderella’s coach, that until he spoke I didn’t even notice the stylishly dressed young man standing not four yards from me.

  “Sweet Jesus, Nicky, will you look at that? I swear I’d have spent less time in London lately if I’d known the Kentish milkmaids had become so devilishly beautiful.”

  Startled, I looked around me for the beautiful milkmaid, then gasped as the young man walked over to me and slid an arm firmly about my waist, pulling me close against his chest. Looking into the hard features above me, I recognized Lord Lesley Peterby from Petersperch; the Peterbys’ acres marched with the squire’s. I had not had an
y social intercourse with the Peterby family, for I’d as likely chat with the Archangel Gabriel, but I had several times seen Lord Peterby riding through the countryside on his visits to Petersperch. If the Marquis of Lorne was notorious, Lord Peterby was so disreputable that his name wasn’t even mentioned (at least it wasn’t supposed to be). He was, as they say, not received locally, and spent most of his time in London where they are more broadminded. Lord Peterby was reputedly the despair of his well-liked and respectable mama, and was popularly credited with having driven his long-suffering papa to death with his dueling, gambling, and preoccupation with low company.

  Before I had time to collect my scattered wits, Lord Peterby had reached his other hand up to the collar of my gown, pulling it carefully aside to caress the base of my neck.

  I heard the twins come racing into the yard, their voices shrill with excitement. “Mrs. Goodbody, come quick! There’s a London dandy in the yard and he’s trying to steal Lizzie’s virtue!”

  At that Lord Peterby let out what in a less elegant person would have been a yelp, and released me with such suddenness that I fell back to sit down hard on the drive. I saw then that my release was not due to the twins, but to Cleo, who had rushed across the yard to sink her sharp teeth firmly into His Lordship’s ankle in a gallant effort in my defense. Of course, I should have done then what any other girl with the least pretension to gentility would have done: fainted. Regrettably, one’s spur-of-the-moment responses are not so easily controlled, and it was not my gentility that won the day, but my sense of humor. Lord Peterby’s unsuccessful attempts to free his polished Hessians from Cleo’s determined attack brought my choked laughter bubbling to the surface. Once, when the sexton’s wife had reproved me for laughing during choir practice, the vicar had told her to let me laugh, “for Elizabeth’s laughter charms like moonbeams on water.” But Lord Peterby certainly looked in no mood to appreciate its charm. Caro scooped the wriggling Cleo into her arms where she barked indignantly at being snatched from the best sport she had seen all week. Her excited little face made me laugh all the harder. So there I sat—a crumpled heap in the dirt, shouting with laughter as Mrs. Goodbody came running across the yard. Jolly tears streaming down my face, I looked, I fear, as vulgar as a barmaid in a Rowlandson etching.

  Though Mrs. Goodbody could see that I had not been hurt, there was no diminution of her white-hot wrath. “How dare you, young good-for-naught?” she rounded on Lord Lesley Peterby. “Do you think this is London? No doubt there are the sort of women there who would welcome your insulting advances, but this is Kent, my lad. Decent women live here. If you ever so much as touch my lamb again, I will take a full account of your actions to your mama—who is a fine woman, well you know it, and would never sanction such rakings in her own village.” I’ll bet it’s been a while since someone threatened to tell his mother on Lord Peterby, I thought to myself. “And what’s more, I will bring an account of your behavior to the Marquis of Lorne,” continued Mrs. Goodbody, obviously determined to brazen it out in fine style, “who now owns this estate!”

  Whatever Mrs. Goodbody had planned to say next was interrupted by a titter from inside the coach. There was a movement of one of the satin window curtains and then it was pulled aside to reveal a previously hidden occupant.

  If this carriage was Cinderella’s coach, the feminine occupant could easily have passed for Cinderella herself. Her smartly coiffed blond hair cascaded onto a slender, creamy neck which shone with jewels. And her gown! The neckline was so low that it later led Christa to remark, to Mrs. Goodbody’s horror, that she’d been afraid “they” would fall out. Dragging my eyes away from the amazing décolletage, I saw that it would be impossible, as well, to find fault with her face. Long and surprisingly dark-lashed brown eyes, wonderfully pink cheeks, and bright red lips combined to make her look rather like an exquisite china-head doll. Mrs. Goodbody can snort and say “pretty is as pretty does” but to me, uninitiated into the mysteries of rouge pots and mascara, she was unquestionably lovely.

  The vision shook a ringed finger at Lord Peterby and gurglingly reproved:

  “Here now, Lesley, don’t be handling Nicky’s inheritance before he has had a chance to examine it himself.”

  Lord Lesley began shaking the country dust off his trousers, and flicked an imaginary speck from his embroidered waistcoat. Mrs. Goodbody was still drawn up like a bow ready to be sprung, the light of battle in her eye.

  “Now don’t go aiming at me again, my good woman. You can see the chit is none the worse off,” observed Lord Peterby drily, glancing at my laughing countenance.

  “No thanks to you!” snapped Mrs. Goodbody. “Now take yourself and your… lady friend off before I take it upon myself to inform His Lordship of your conduct here. He would welcome no debaucher on his lands!”

  The lady in the carriage tittered again, then said:

  “A-ha, Lesley, that you cannot deny. Nicky has never liked another man poaching on his preserve. Have you, Nicky?” She leaned even further out of the coach as she spoke and fluttered the sooty lashes at another man, who had been leaning his long, graceful body against the shadowed side of the coach, his arms folded negligently before him. I had not noticed him in all the excitement; he stood in a shadowed position; but as he straightened and stepped into the sun I saw immediately that he was not a man who could go long unnoticed in any company.

  He could have posed for a Greek god in a Botticelli painting. The sun shafted off his red-gold hair, which fell in shining curls to brush his broad shoulders. His beautifully molded features were set in an expression of sardonic indifference, and the clear blue eyes that swept briefly over us were the coldest I’d ever seen. Instead of being robed in classical tradition, the Botticelli god wore riding clothes so expertly fitted to his slender, powerful frame that even my inexperienced eye could judge them as having been made by no provincial tailor. Even his name was Greek; “Nicky,” the lady in the carriage had called him. I think it means something to do with victory.

  “You are Mrs. Goodbody?” asked the stranger curtly.

  “Aye, ’tis,” assented Mrs. Goodbody warily.

  “I wasn’t aware that you had any daughters.” He was frowning slightly.

  “Daughters? To be sure, I have not—the Good Lord didn’t see fit to bless Joe and me with youngsters of our own and Joe’s been gone these fifteen years now… Daughters—you think Miss Elizabeth here…? I should say not! Why the very idea! Miss Elizabeth is quality! She’s here under the protection of Admiral Barfreston, sir.” Mrs. Goodbody spoke with such conviction that I half expected the admiral’s shade to appear forthwith, rapier in hand, to offer me protection. The thought made me giggle.

  The golden-haired man raised his eyebrows slightly and came over to stand above me. Reaching out one long, shapely hand, he grasped my elbow and dragged me easily to my feet. I flushed under his insolent gaze, which played over my body with the dispassionate appraisal of a cattle judge on fair day.

  “She’s quality, I agree,” sneered the hateful stranger. He turned to Mrs. Goodbody. “But I was under the impression that Admiral Barfreston was a man in his eighties…?”

  For a moment I was afraid that Mrs. Goodbody would pop out the buttons of her dress, with such rage did her bosom swell.

  “Nothing of the sort, sir! The admiral was a fine Christian gentleman, and Miss Elizabeth’s father was employed by him as a secretary. When he died, orphans they were left—poor little Elizabeth only eight years old, and Caroline and Christa not out of nappies. And the admiral supported the dears like his own. These are good, innocent children, sir, and know naught of evil.” Mrs. Goodbody stopped, as though a thought had suddenly occurred to her. “Might I ask your name, sir?”

  “Nicholas Dearborne,” he said shortly.

  Poor Mrs. Goodbody. To say that she was dismayed would much understate the case. My sister Christa, who was supposed to know naught of evil, didn’t help matters by pointing at the lady in the carriage and piping:
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  “Then that must be a wicked woman.”

  Mrs. Goodbody shot her a look that boded ill for the miscreant twin, though I saw Lord Dearborne’s lips twitch in spite of himself. You had to admit that the man had presence, but I cared not for his arrogant, commanding air. I imagined he would throw the lot of us off what was now his property with no further ado. He certainly looked capable of doing so. If that was intended, however, he gave no sign of it but calmly began to question Mrs. Goodbody about the condition of the manor house. How long since it had been in use? How much work was necessary to make it habitable? How many servants were needed to operate it? Could she acquire servants from the village? It seemed Milord was coming to stay for a time!

  When he announced that he was bringing along his ward, it was too much for Christa. She had obviously decided that since she was already in trouble, there was nothing to lose by questioning the marquis further.

  “Mr. Marquis, sir? Is your ward a boy or a girl?”

  “He’s a boy,” said the marquis, indifferently.

  “Is he an orphan?” she pursued.

  “Yes.”

  I’m sure she would have asked more if the more cautious Caro hadn’t dug her elbow into her sister’s ribs and told her to hush.

  The lady in the carriage again leaned out and said petulantly:

  “Do hurry and complete your domestic business, Nicky darling. I vow I’m eager to relax and refresh myself in that excellent inn Lesley has been promising us.”

  “One moment more, Cat,” said Lord Dearborne, over his shoulder. “Mrs. Goodbody, Lord Barfreston’s solicitor will call on you this evening and he has been instructed to advance you whatever sums you need to make the manor livable. Hire whatever help you find necessary. Just don’t economize. The place looks half eaten by dry rot and I’ve no desire to wake one morning with the ceiling collapsed.”