Contracted as His Countess Read online

  Jack looked at the woman opposite him. He could say Yes, pick up those papers, live a new life. The life he had been destined to live. All that was required of him was to sacrifice his pride and to accept being a bought man. But there were two people in this equation.

  What if Madelyn Aylmer was as eccentric as her father? She seemed to have lived cloistered in this place for years. What if she could not cope with the outside world that she had called a world of steam and speed and cities, of poverty and ugliness? But it was an exciting world, his world, full of scientific and technical advances, full of discoveries and possibilities. He was not going to turn his back on that to pander to the bizarre fancies of this woman. If she married him, then she was marrying a man of the nineteenth century and she was going to have to change and conform to his world, his time, not drag him back into her fantasies.

  Every instinct screamed at him to snatch at what was being offered, but even so... He could not take advantage of a woman who, not to put too fine a point upon it, might not be in her right mind. ‘You are doing this because it is what your father wanted,’ Jack said, before common sense and self-interest could assert themselves. ‘Is it what you truly desire, to marry a man you do not know? You must forgive my frankness, Miss Aylmer, but I want children, an heir, and that involves, shall we say, intimacy.’

  ‘I want that, too.’ She was blushing now for the first time and with her pale skin he thought the effect was like a winter sunrise staining the snow pink. ‘I mean, I want children and I am quite well aware what that entails. I am not ignorant.’

  ‘All you know of me is my ancestry,’ Jack said in a last-ditch attempt to do the right thing.

  The right thing for her, and perhaps for me, might well be to walk away from this. Do I really want to regain my pride in my heritage at the price of my pride as a man? Can I live with this woman?

  She was not beautiful, she was probably almost as much of an eccentric antiquarian as her father and she appeared to have no society manners whatsoever.

  A fine wife for an earl, he thought savagely. He was angry—he knew that in the same way that some part of his brain was aware he was drunk when he had overindulged with the brandy. Anger was no basis for making a decision of this importance.

  To his surprise Madelyn Aylmer laughed. ‘Of course your ancestry is not all I know of you. Do you think I sit here like a maiden in a tower waiting for my prince to come and hack his way through the brambles that surround me and meanwhile I have no contact with the outside world? I am perfectly capable of employing my own enquiry agents. I know a great deal about you, Jack Ransome.’

  ‘You employed—who?’

  ‘On the advice of my man of business I used a Mr Burroughs of Great Queen Street and the Dawkins brothers of Tower Hill. And my legal advisers also made enquiries.’ The little smile that had seemed so tentative was suddenly sharp. ‘What is the matter, Mr Enquiry Agent Ransome? Do you not like it when the boot is on the other foot?’

  ‘Not so much,’ he admitted. She did not appear to be either feeble-minded or delusional. It seemed Miss Aylmer had a quick wit and perhaps a sense of humour. He tried to see that as a good thing and found his own sense of humour had utterly deserted him. ‘You were well advised. They know their business.’ Anyone who knew him could have told that tone signified danger—but then, she did not know him. Not at all, whatever information she had been given.

  So, what had his competitors told her? That he was ruthless, although he kept within the law—mostly? That he had recently ended a very pleasant liaison with a wealthy widow two years older than himself? That he had no debts to worry about and gambled within his means, but that he could be reckless when it came to a sporting challenge? That he had a short fuse when it came to attacks on his honour and had met two men on Hampstead Heath at dawn as a result? He was damned if he was going to ask, because the infuriating female would probably hand him the reports to read. Whatever was in them, it had not been bad enough to turn her from this course.

  Time to shift the balance of this interview—time to see whether he could tolerate this woman as his wife and to try to make a rational decision. Everything had its price and some costs were just too high to pay.

  ‘Have you made your come-out? Been presented at Court? What do you know of the world beyond that moat?’

  Madelyn made a small, betraying movement, the smile quite gone as she rose to her feet. ‘Come into the garden,’ she said and walked away towards a small door in one corner before he could reply. ‘I think better outside. In the summer the Great Hall can feel rather like a vault.’

  Jack strode after her and caught up in time to reach the door first and open it. ‘Is it better in the winter?’ he hazarded. ‘With fires and hounds and good food?’

  ‘Hounds? I agree, that would be authentic,’ she said, glancing back as though to reassure herself that he was following along the passageway. ‘We do have them, of course. But they are never allowed inside because of the tapestries. Do you like dogs?’

  ‘Yes, although I do not have any at the moment. You do not own one? I thought medieval maidens always had small white lapdogs or miniature greyhounds.’

  ‘I have an Italian greyhound called Mist. Father allowed that because she is very well behaved. She is shut up in case you did not tolerate dogs.’

  ‘And if I do not?’

  ‘I suppose I would have had to leave her here.’ For the first time he heard real uncertainty in her voice.

  We are not following her careful script, Jack thought, wondering if she saw everything as a stage setting with each piece in its place, every character performing their preordained actions, reading from their script. If that was the case, then life outside these walls was going to come as a severe shock to Mistress Madelyn.

  ‘There would be no need,’ he said. ‘If we wed, that is. I like dogs. You were about to tell me...’ And then Madelyn opened the door at the end and he lost the thread of whatever he had been about to say and stood silent, staring.

  ‘Come in.’ Madelyn held out her hand, and he stepped out into paradise. He must have said the word aloud because she smiled. ‘Yes, that is what the Islamic gardens were called. A paradise. Technically this is a hortus conclusus. But you do not want a lecture. Wander, relax, think: that is what this place is for. I will send for refreshment before we talk further.’

  By the time Jack had pulled himself together in the haze of perfume and colour and warmth, she had gone and the door was closed. He began to explore, still faintly bemused, strolling along grass paths between knee-high hazel hurdles that held back over-spilling colour. There were roses, ladies’ mantle, banks of herbs that were smothered in bees, banks of lavender where the buzzing was almost deafening.

  He looked around and realised that this was the interior of the castle, walled on all sides, a sheltered suntrap. In the centre a circular pool held a fountain and he passed intricate knot gardens as he made his way towards it. A wave of lemon scent assaulted him as he brushed past a bushy green plant, then his feet were crushing thyme underfoot.

  The fountain was surrounded by low grass banks, and he sat down, wondering if he was drunk on scent or whether he had been transported back five hundred years. He had to make a decision about the woman who dwelt in the middle of this fantasy and he was beginning to think that she had put a spell on him and that he was in no fit state to decide anything. Or perhaps it was simply shock.

  The ends of the turf seats were marked by tall wooden posts painted in spiralling red and blue and white, each topped by some heraldic beast. He leaned back against the unicorn post, closed his eyes on the sun dazzle from the fountain and tried to think.

  What do I want? What do I need? What would be the right thing to do?

  Chapter Three

  Jack Ransome was asleep in the midst of her garden when Madelyn returned, and she indulged herself for a moment, watching him relaxed in th
e sunlight. Long dark lashes lay on those high cheekbones, the deep blue eyes were shuttered, that expressive mouth relaxed. He appeared about as safe as a sleeping cat must look to a sparrow, she thought, gesturing to the maid to put down the tray on the turf seat a few feet away from him.

  When she put one finger to her lips the girl flashed a smile in response and tiptoed away. Madelyn sat on the fountain rim and looked, not at Jack Ransome, but at her own reflection in the edge of the pool. Occasional water drops broke the image into fragments, but she knew what she was looking at well enough.

  She was not attractive by the fashionable standards of the day—she understood that perfectly from the journals and newspapers and books she’d had brought to her in the months since her father’s death. She was too tall, far too blonde—brunettes were most admired, she gathered—and far, far, too pale. Pale skin was a sign of breeding, of course, but pink cheeks and rosebud mouths were admired. Her hair was straight, her bosom too lush, she had realised as she studied the portraits of fashionable beauties and scanned the fashion plates. She had no idea how to dress, what to do with her hair, how to behave. She had no conversation. The very thought of a crowd of people made her feel a little ill.

  Fish began to rise at the sight of her, but she had brought nothing for them, so she trailed her fingers through the water, breaking up her reflection, sending them flickering away with a flash of sunlight on fin and scale.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ Jack Ransome said from behind her. He had woken silently and picked up the conversation almost where they had left off.

  Madelyn nodded without looking round. What else was she going to do? She was fitted for nothing but to live in a time long past and she knew she was not going to fall in love—that chance had gone two years ago. She might as well marry this handsome man who, by all accounts, was intelligent enough to keep her interested and who looked virile enough to give her children. He seemed chivalrous and thoughtful. At any rate he had not snatched at what she was offering without probing her own feelings first. And he appeared able to control his temper. She could cope with many things simply by enduring them, but blazing male anger terrified her.

  Not that she was prepared to reveal her thoughts to him. It had not occurred to her before this meeting that an emotionless match might be easier than one where real passions were engaged, but now it seemed so much safer.

  ‘Yes, I am sure. I would not have sent for you otherwise.’ She turned and found him right beside her.

  A poor choice of words, perhaps. His eyes narrowed. ‘If you marry me, you enter my world, you start living entirely in the year 1816. Do you understand? Clothes, style, home, manners.’

  ‘But this—’ Madelyn gestured around her ‘—I must tell you, it has been left in trust to my children. My husband would not be able to sell it, or to use the income for any other purpose than its maintenance or to control its management.’

  Jack Ransome shrugged. ‘It is the Dersington lands that I want. All that I want. This would be maintained, of course, according to the provisions of the trust. But if it is to be one of our homes, then it must function as such and not as some medieval fantasy. I will not live in a museum. If I marry you and reclaim all my estates, then they will have priority for my time and attention until I am certain they are restored as I would wish. Do you understand?’

  It was hard to control her reaction to that harsh demand, to the flat statement. But what mattered was fulfilling her father’s wish, of continuing the line. She had failed him by being a girl, she understood that. She looked at the man surrounded by her flowers, thought of the children they would have and nodded. ‘Yes, I understand.’

  Some of the tension left the lean body so close to hers. Jack Ransome held out his hands, and she put hers, cool and wet, into his grasp and let herself be drawn to her feet.

  ‘A kiss to seal our bargain?’ he asked as her gaze locked with his.

  He is still angry, she thought, momentarily daunted. He is not showing it, not shouting, but he hates the position I have put him in, he loathes being indebted to someone. The fact that he could control those feelings, still behave in a civilised manner, was almost more frightening than a display of temper would have been. Will he hate me also?

  When Madelyn closed her eyes and leaned in towards him, he gathered her closer and then his lips brushed over hers, pressed, and she gave a little gasp as his tongue licked across, tasting. Then he lifted his head and she opened her eyes and found herself lost in the darkness and a heat that was more than anger.

  Desire? For me? And then whatever it was had gone and he was smiling and stepping back, releasing her hands. It was her imagination, obviously. Imagination and inexperience. Or wishful thinking. Wishing for something she had not realised that she wanted any more.

  ‘I imagine the next step is for my lawyers to talk to yours. And you have trustees, I assume?’

  ‘Trustees, three of them. But they are bound closely by the conditions of my father’s will and cannot oppose this marriage. I will give you their various addresses before you leave, Mr Ransome.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He made no move to go. ‘Did your mother create this garden?’

  ‘Yes. When my brother died and she was... When she knew she would not get better, she asked me to continue looking after it. There are three gardeners. It takes a lot of maintenance.’

  He glanced around. ‘I have seen very few servants.’

  ‘My father preferred them to stay out of sight as much as possible. One needs a large number to manage a castle and it proved impossible to keep them if he insisted on the correct period costume. He felt it spoiled the appearance of the castle to have them walking around in modern clothing.’

  Jack Ransome did not try to hide his reaction to that. ‘Your father was obsessed, was he not?’

  It was hard to deny it. ‘Perhaps. It was everything to him and he was a perfectionist. I suppose all true artists are.’

  ‘That must have been difficult for you if he expected the same standards from you at all times. Or are you as devoted to this as he was?’

  ‘This was how I was raised. I love this place and I would like to see it become a home, even if it has to change for that to happen.’ As soon as she said it she realised how revealing that choice of words was. Home. A house, an ordinary house, imperfect, comfortable. She loved this place, it was all she knew, but it was not a home, it was a statement. Jack Ransome gave her a fleeting look that might have held sympathy or perhaps pity. Or even exasperation at her sentimentality. Madelyn tipped up her chin and stared back.

  ‘How long ago did your mother die?’

  ‘A month after the baby.’ Yes, he was definitely feeling sorry for her. ‘I imagine you will want to be on your way, Mr Ransome. If you come with me, I will find you the addresses you will need.’

  ‘Will you not call me Jack now? We are betrothed, after all.’ He sounded more amused than seductive, although his voice was low and the tone intimate. He had suppressed his anger, it seemed, and now he was bent on humouring her, she supposed. That was better than she had feared: a man who simply snatched at what she was offering, took it—and her—and then disregarded her.

  ‘Very well. And you may call me Madelyn.’ Not that he would wait for permission.

  * * *

  It seemed to take a long time to find the addresses, to have his horse brought round, and she found herself without any conversation. Jack filled her awkward silences with polite remarks about the castle and its furnishings, questions about the armour, apparent interest in the problems of having tapestries woven when the Continent and its skilled craftsmen had been out of bounds until the last year. It was perhaps her imagination that he was tense with barely controlled impatience to be gone.

  Madelyn supposed she answered sensibly enough, but she had no experience of making small talk. As he was drawing on his gloves Jack looked around again at the em
pty Great Hall. ‘You have a companion living with you, I suppose? An older relative, perhaps?’

  ‘No. I have no close relatives at all. I have my maids.’

  ‘Friends, then? I realise that you are still in mourning—’ he glanced, frowning, at her coloured gown ‘—but when you come up to London to buy your trousseau and so forth, you will need someone to show you how to go on. The year since your father’s death will be up very soon, will it not? I imagine by the time we have matters settled there can be no objection to you appearing in society before the wedding. London is very quiet at this time of year, of course.’

  ‘No. I mean, yes, I will be out of mourning shortly. I only wore black for a few days.’ There was no one to be shocked, after all, so why worry past the funeral? Draping herself in black to symbolise the emotions she felt was hypocritical, she had decided. Besides, white was the correct mourning colour for a lady of the upper classes in the Middle Ages, and she looked so frightful in white. ‘I have no... Father did not socialise in the area.’ He had fallen out with virtually all of their neighbours over one thing or another and those he had not upset regarded him as peculiar at best and a lunatic at worst.

  ‘That must have been lonely.’ He was feeling pity for her again.

  Madelyn set her teeth and managed a smile. ‘One becomes used to it. And Father had numerous guests to stay.’ All male, of course, virtually all middle aged or elderly and equally obsessed with the Middle Ages. Probably society ladies in London would consider her eccentric, too, and would not care to be friends, but at least she would not be tied to these walls, however much she loved them. And one day there will be children, she told herself. She clung to that hope even as butterflies swarmed in her stomach at the thought of venturing into the world outside or to trusting herself to this stranger with the intelligent eyes and the lips that touched hers with the promise of intimacies that frightened her.