Lyon's Gate (Sherbrooke Brides 9)

“At the time, I told him that my betrothed was with another woman. I suppose Jason told me what he did to make me feel better.”

Corrie was astonished. “You’re joking, surely. This idiot man was your future husband and he betrayed you?”

“He must have believed I was very stupid. Actually, he was right. I found out he was marrying me for my money. When I confronted him, he admitted he’d been with this other woman, though only one time, the lying worm swore to me, and then proceeded to promise it would never happen again. I’m not that foolish. It was then that I told him I knew he was a fortune hunter.”

“Did you shoot him?”

Hallie sighed. “I would have enjoyed that, perhaps right through his ear, but instead I locked myself in my bedchamber and licked my wounds.”

“What happened to him?”

“He married a rich merchant’s daughter last year. Poor girl.” She paused a moment. “And that’s why I don’t ever wish to marry.”

Corrie rose and smoothed down her skirts. “Well, that’s bad enough. I’m sorry you had to care for a man of that ilk. You never suspected?”

Hallie shook her head, saying as she did so, “Not for a moment. Goodness, I was naïve. However, Jason’s experience must have been much worse than mine. But the thing is, I can’t imagine any girl betraying either James or Jason. They’re both so beautiful and, well, they both appear quite honorable.”

“Yes, they are. The fact is, I loved James from the moment I first saw him at the advanced age of three. Do you know that most people can’t tell James and Jason apart?”

Hallie shook her head. “No, that’s not possible. They’re very different from each other. Please, Corrie, tell me what happened.”

“It was a very bad time, Hallie, for all of us.” Corrie patted her shoulder. “I don’t think it’s right for me to say anything. You must ask Jason. Shall we go downstairs and play whist? Or perhaps we can waltz.”

CHAPTER 18

The move to Lyon’s Gate occupied a good three hours, an additional two to install both Martha and Petrie, who had begged Jason to allow him to be both his permanent valet and Lyon’s Gate’s butler, since Hollis had taught him everything over the past five years. Jason had to admit that occasionally he’d missed Petrie’s services in America. He agreed to Petrie continuing as his valet and Hallie agreed to Petrie as their butler. Jason knew she was accepting Petrie in all goodwill and innocence. Well, she’d find out soon enough what a misogynist he was. They hadn’t been in Lyon’s Gate more than an hour before Petrie told Martha she was a mouthy girl with no respect for his craft and skill. Jason had seen seventeen-year-old Martha, hands on hips, chin out, tell him he was an insufferable prune-faced old tick, and he wasn’t even that old yet.

Old tick or not, it was nice to have someone looking after him again. Jason could always smack Petrie if he stepped over the line with any of the females in the house.

Good God, he’d moved into a house with a woman he hadn’t known more than two months, and Cousin Angela, whom he’d known a week. His world had turned sideways.

As for Martha, she was so excited she danced in and out of every room, saying over and over, “Our first ’ouse, er, house. Heavenly groats—ain’t—isn’t—it jest grand, Miss Hallie?”

“It’s the grandest,” Hallie agreed, and realized she was moving into a house with a man who looked like a god. In the dark hours of the night, she knew she would be quite content to drop him to the floor, hold him down, and kiss him, forever.

The house was quiet. Jason lay in his bed, the first time he and his new bed had been together. He stretched, pillowed his head on his arms, and stared up at the dark ceiling. There wasn’t much of a moon tonight, so little light came through the windows. Some minutes later, from downstairs, came twelve mellow strokes from the lovely Ledenbrun clock, a gift from his grandmother.

His first home. Hallie’s first home. Oh yes, he’d heard Martha’s excited voice, anyone who’d been in the house at the time had, much to Petrie’s tight-lipped disapproval. Yes, the house was just grand. He smiled, but it soon fell away. She’d wanted to kiss him. She’d held on until he’d jerked her arms from around his neck.

Their cook, Mrs. Millsom, so bosomy she could probably balance a vegetable or two quite nicely, had prepared them an excellent dinner—some fish and mutton, if he remembered right, but he’d been so wrapped up in sitting in the master’s chair at his own dining room table in his own dining room, that he really didn’t remember what he’d eaten. Perhaps there’d been some peas as well. He’d been aware of Cook watching him and so he’d complimented her extravagantly. Mrs. Millsom fluttered her fingers and removed herself back to the kitchen, singing if he’d not imagined it, and Hallie had said, “Oh no, not Mrs. Millsom,” but he hadn’t asked her what she’d meant by that.

He frowned at one memory. Hallie had said as they’d shared a glass of port after dinner, “I’m so excited I can scarcely keep myself from bubbling over—my first home, my first dinner in my own home.”

And Angela, seeing that he was ready to open his mouth, said quickly as she raised her glass, “I propose a toast: to yours and Jason’s first home and our first home together.”

It was her home too, dammit. Her di

ning room table in her dining room. Not his alone. He’d seen her looking about, in tearing spirits, and he’d known she’d wanted to ask him to waltz again throughout the house with her. But she hadn’t, probably because of his blatant rejection of her—and that brought Judith McCrae from that hidden part of his brain out in front of his eyes, the girl who’d been a monster, the girl who’d nearly killed him. Yes, whenever he dredged Judith up, his mind settled back into its proper path.

When he fell asleep, he dreamed of that afternoon again, saw himself jumping in front of his father, felt the bullet tearing into his shoulder, and the endless pain that had drawn him deep into himself, almost killing him. He jerked awake, breathing fast and hard, sweat covering him. He hadn’t had that dream for many months. Now, tonight, in his new bed, it had come and brought it all back. He didn’t want to go back to sleep. He didn’t want to fall back into that nightmare. When he fell asleep again, he slept soundly, nothing at all coming into his brain to break him.

The next morning, as Jason walked down the stairs, the events of that long-ago day tucked back into the shrouded darkness, he heard Petrie saying, “Your step is entirely too light. It shows lack of respect for your betters. You are nearly dancing, Martha, and a lady’s maid shouldn’t dance. Her step should be slow and stately. Her eyes should be looking upon her feet. I won’t have your high spirits in my house.”

Petrie’s house? Well, why not? It was damned near everyone’s house. Jason started to call out when he saw young Martha standing right in front of Petrie, hands on hips, foot tapping, a lovely sneer on her thin young face. “Well, now, you itchy old codswallop, you’re not even fat and jowly yet, and ’ere—here—you are acting like a stern grandfather without even a flicker of laughter in him. Dear Mr. Hollis must be ten times your age, yet he’s never tight-mouthed and disapproving, and what’s more, he quite likes females, unlike you, who would like to bake all of us in that wonderful new oven the mistress bought.

“Listen to me, Mr. Petrie. Of course I have a light step, I’m only seventeen years old. Go away now, I heard your master stirring ever so long ago. You do tend to him, do you not?”

Petrie stared down at her, mouth agape. “I am not an itchy old codswallop.”