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An abandoned beginning to a sequel to Lord Wraybourne's Betrothed, my first novel. This was written before 1987, but I'm not sure exactly when. Lord Wraybourne's Betrothed was written in 1985, much rewritten, and sold and published in 1988 and those who have read it will know that it left Randal and Sophie at quite a different point in their relationship to that shown below. Their story is told in The Stolen Bride. Jane, Countess of Wraybourne, assessed the Crimson Room of Stenby Castle and was content. All was as it should be. She had even found a few November roses to welcome the Dowager Countess, her husband's mother. Though it was not in her nature to show it, Jane was considerably nervous at having to receive her predecessor at Stenby. Lady Wraybourne had left her home after the death of her husband and lived in seclusion in Bath until this past summer, when the marriage of her son had forced her out of mourning. Since then the Dowager had taken up the guidance of her remaining unmarried daughter, Lady Sophie, and had been accompanying her on the social round to Brighton, the great houses of the South and the London Little Season. They were now on their way to Stenby for Christmas. Jane had only met the Dowager briefly at her own wedding and had found her brusque. She wondered how the lady would react to visiting her home of forty years as a guest and how she would react herself if the older woman assumed again the running of the house. For Jane, under her husband's gentle guidance, had come to love the labour of managing Stenby. She had discovered in herself a talent for organization and a delight in being busy. Although they would visit London now and then, she knew both David and herself would spend most of their time usefully employed at home. She raised the small tablet which she kept clipped at her waist and checked her list. The rooms for the Dowager and Sophie were ready. The carpenter was busy with the window of the Etruscan room and the seamstress was well-advanced with the new drawing-room curtains as she was assisted by a number of ladies from the village. Jane glanced at the clock and found it stuck at four-o-clock. She noted this on her tablet and made her way to her room to change into a more elaborate gown in readiness for the arrival of her mother- and sister-in-law. It was her habit to dress simply in the country and to wear her long, heavy dark hair in a single braid. Now she put on a dress of ecru muslin, embroidered with stripes of tiny, brown flowers. She had Prudence Hawkins, her maid, dress her hair on top of her head and wore a delicate cap made of ribbons to match her dress. As she made her way to the Small Saloon, where she took tea, her eyes registered all around her with pride. Stenby, with it's staff of over 100, was running smoothly. When the butler had placed the tea-tray before her, she remembered the note on her tablet. "Portman, the clock in the Crimson Room is not working." He bowed slightly. "It will be seen to, My Lady." She smiled her thanks. She was truly grateful to have such wonderful staff. Portman was scrupulously fair and a very kind-hearted man. Many butlers were tyrants who abused their underlings but she knew that Portman would only be severe with the clock-boy if he had forgotten to wind the piece. The door opened and she looked up with pleasure already on her face. It could be no-one but her husband. "David. Are you come to share tea? How delightful!" The Earl's face too lit up at the sight of his wife for they were both still in the first ecstasy of love, even though they had been married now for nearly six months. "You're very fine, my sweet," he said as he accepted a cup. "Are we expecting guests?" "Your mother and Sophie!" she exclaimed in reproof. "Did you get dressed up for them? They are family." He regarded Jane, who was looking ill-at-ease, even pleating the muslin of her skirt. He sat beside her and stayed her hand. "Now tell me what troubles you," he said gently. "Nothing," she protested and then met his eyes. With a sigh she snuggled against him. "The truth is that I am a little worried about your mother." He laughed. "Why on earth?" She pulled away slightly to face him. "It is all very well for you. You are not supplanting her. I am sure she will not like my being mistress here. If she does not try to take over the running of Stenby, she will doubtless be criticizing my management in her heart." He held her close again. "My mother will have adjustments to make, yes. But I know she has too much wisdom to resent you. She has had years to accustom herself to this eventuality. Bear in mind that it is one you will probably face one day." Jane turned to him, shocked. "That is a horrid thought. How can you!" He kissed her gently. "I believe there is strength in the acceptance of reality. When I visit my father's grave I see the place where my mother will lie and beyond them, the places where you and I will one day be. But not, I hope for fifty or sixty years." "It is still horrid. I cannot imagine life without you." "Nor I without you." They rested, pressed close together, rejoicing in the perfect present. Then Jane pulled away. "Come, David. Your tea will be cold. Tell me of your day." "A day very like all the others, thank God. No catastrophes. No alarums. I rode down to the mill. It will need new stones next year. Did March arrive to fix the window?" "Yes, thank you, and the curtains are nearly finished and are exactly as I wished them to be. Soon Mrs. Hepple can begin to sort and mend the linen for if we are to have a houseful of guests at Christmas we will need every scrap. I have checked the rooms for Sophie and your mother. I hope they will find everything in order." "You are fretting again," he said with a shake of his head. "I am sure there is one room you forgot to check." "Which?" she asked in alarm. "I will show you," he replied and drew her to her feet. They walked the corridors, Jane searching her mind for the omission. He led her into their own enormous bedroom. "David, you tease!" she declared. "You had me so worried. Why should I need to check in here?" He gazed around innocently. "I am sure any number of things could have gone amiss in eight hours. Perhaps there are lumps in the bed." She laughed up at him as he began to undo the buttons at the back of her dress. "David! Your mother may be here any moment." "If they are here before five they will have made good time." He gently slipped the dress off her shoulders so that it fell in a pool at her feet. "It will crease," she remarked, without heat. "Then it will be ironed," he replied with a smile as his fingers worked at the laces of her shift. She twitched out of his reach. "I hardly think this fair, My Lord," she said saucily and came back to slowly remove his jacket. He grinned as she dropped it on the floor. "You see. I don't complain of creases." "You are obviously less thoughtful of your servants than I," she murmured as she worked on the buttons of his shirt. Somehow she lost track of her task and began to plant little kisses around his shoulders, running her hands over his finely-muscled chest. He pulled the ribbon confection from her hair and worked it free of its pins until it tumbled down her back. She looked up in laughing reproof. "David. I put it up specially!" "My mother would rather see you looking well-loved than well-poised." He swung her onto the bed. She lay there laughing in a tangle of hair and loosened shift. With a happy sigh he shed his clothes and joined her in a passionate embrace. He drew back and with one hand playing magically around her body he said, "Today is when our honeymoon ends. We will have to restrict our love-making to the proper hours of the night." Jane laughed softly. "Whenever will we sleep?" Then she gasped and arched slightly and took him in her hands to draw him into her but he held back awhile, teasing and arousing her with hands and lips until she felt she would cry out her need. At last he came into her and they raced together to their climax. As they lay entwined afterwards Jane wondered, not for the first time, whether other married couples enjoyed the crazy game of passion as much as they did. An hour later, in a plain dress and with her hair in one thick braid, Jane, Countess of Wraybourne stood with her husband in the coach-house entrance of Stenby to welcome her first guests. CHAPTER 2 The occupants of the coach bowling through the Shropshire countryside were as weary and bored as anyone who has been on the road for four days. But suddenly the younger of the two women, Lady Sophie Kyle, sat up straight and with great animation declared, "Look, Mama. I can see the Towers! We are almost home and the flag is flying. The Duke must be in residence!" The older lady snorted. "If we are passing Tyne Towers we have another hour on the road, Sophie. And as the Duke hasn't spent a night away from home in fifteen years, the flag is nothing to exclaim about." Lady Sophie turned a glowing face to her mother. "But it is wonderful to be in familiar terrain. I began to feel we would never reach Stenby. I have never traveled so far in one journey before." Lady Wraybourne smiled at her daughter. She was pleased to see some liveliness again. Sophie had become rather subdued in past weeks. "I wonder that you still recognize it all. It is over three years since you were here." "And I have missed it!" declared Sophie, gazing out of the window. She turned apologetically to her mother. "I did not mind being in Bath with you, Mama, but I have missed Stenby, particularly at Christmas." The Dowager Lady Wraybourne laid a wrinkled hand upon the smooth one of her daughter's. "I know," she said gruffly. "But I could not stand the place without your father. Silly business, maundering in Bath feeling sorry for myself but I had to go through it. I am glad it is over." The two settled into silence once more. One would not easily have known them for mother and daughter. When young the Dowager had been regarded as handsome, having fine blue eyes, thick chestnut hair and a tall, shapely figure. At sixty she was gaunt, her hair was faded and streaked with grey and her eyes were sunk in darkened sockets. None of this bothered her, for she had had her husband's love to the end and still held her children's' devotion. She had never been so foolish as to count her worth by her looks. Sophie, like her brother Lord Wraybourne, had inherited her mother's chestnut hair and blue eyes but as these had been combined with the fine-boned elegance of the Kyles the resemblance was not obvious. She was considered to be a beauty and as her looks were combined with high spirits and wit she had been a Toast since her introduction to Society in the past Spring. From under her hooded lids the Dowager considered her youngest child, made aware by her animation of just how listless the girl had been in recent weeks. "Are you bothered, Sophie, that you have not yet found a husband?" she asked suddenly. Sophie turned, surprised. "No, mama! It is not as if I have been without offers." "Then what has had you in the hips, Miss?" There was a suspicion of colour in her daughter's cheeks but she replied calmly, "Exhaustion, I suppose. Too many parties and routs and all the same people." Her mother considered her thoughtfully. "It is true that you were very keen to come to Stenby. Perhaps here you can consider your suitors more carefully and make your choice." "Oh, I doubt I will choose any of them," Sophie replied with a toss of her short curls. "I am sure I will know at once when I meet my ideal." The Dowager snorted. "That attitude has made spinsters of many a promising lass. Decide what qualities you require in a man and then, when you find such a one, put your mind to being in love. It is quite simple." "Is that what you did, Mama?" queried her daughter saucily. "You know it wasn't quite like that, Sophie. I had known your father from childhood. My emotions were engaged before I was old enough to think of suitability. That is not the case with you and I am glad of it. You would doubtless have fallen for the stableboy. Now you are old enough to have sense." A wistful smile rested on Sophie's lips. "I wonder if it is quite as simple as you make it seem, Mama." The more directly, she added, "Tell me then who you think I should wed." Her mother was taken aback but after a moment of consideration she said, "You should marry a man of high station for you would not like to live a provincial life. You should also marry a comfortable fortune for you are not economical. Not too old a man, for you would drive him to his grave, nor too young for young men are so silly. I should think a man of stability who will not be disturbed by your flibbertigibbet ways." Sophie laughed. "Fudge Mama. You have said nothing that is not common sense, except perhaps the last. I would hate to be married to a dull stick who would look at me as if I were mad whenever I had a little fun! Give me some names." "Lord Austley. Your brother favours his suit and I trust David' judgement." Sophie shook her head. "I am tired of having him thrust at me. He is well enough and seems to be able to tolerate my amusements but he treats me as a child. I am sure he expects me to grow up into a sober lady one day and I do not think I will." The Dowager's lips twitched but she did not comment. "What about the Marquis of Sale?" she asked. "He is far too serious! He is totally involved with one good cause or another." "You cannot always be a butterfly," was the gentle reproof. Sophie thought for a moment. "It is not that I object to good works. I give to charity and in Bath I used to visit the Charity School. But I do not like to make heavy weather of it and balls and dinners are not the place to be forever talking of it. Sale would drive me to a life of dissipation!" "I suppose," said the Dowager sarcastically, "you would rather marry someone like Viscount Featherstone and spend your life in the search for the perfect tailor." Sophie giggled. "Wouldn't that be dreadful? I think I would suffer a reaction and dress in grey serge, wear depressing caps and take up knitting!" Her mother joined her in laughter, shaking her head. "Sophie, I despair! Where are we to find the man for you?" Suddenly she became thoughtful. "What of Chelmly?" "Randal's brother!" exclaimed Sophie, her colour flaring. Fortunately her mother did not notice, being occupied with her own thoughts. "I am sure he is not married yet and he is a year older than David. That makes him thirty-three. As he never goes anywhere you will not have much competition which is remarkable as he's the Duke's heir....." She was interrupted by her daughter saying forcefully, "I will never marry the Marquess of Chelmly!" "Why so hot?" asked the Dowager in surprise. "I am hardly going to force you but you would do well to consider him. All the Ashbys are good looking and you would be a duchess as well as living close to your family home. I remember him as a pleasant, gentle boy." "Well, try remembering him as a man," retorted Sophie sharply. "As I recall he is a cold-hearted disciplinarian with account books where his heart should be." "I do recall him becoming rather sober," agreed her mother. "But there is spirit there. He and David were up to all kinds of rigs as boys. Then he quietened down and David spent more time with Randal. You could do a lot of good by teaching him how to enjoy life again." Sophie just looked at her and so the older lady sighed. "As you will. I am sure you will see a great deal of him, however, for I am sure he and David will have picked up their friendship again. David has outgrown Randal, I would think. A charming scamp but unstable. It is strange that we did not see him this year. Wasn't he at the wedding?" "Yes." "Was he in London during the Season?" "Yes." The Dowager stared at her daughter and noticed her frown. "Been fighting with him, have you? You two were always scrapping. I remember at five you threw a syllabub at him when he teased you, and him in his first fine suit." "Next time I see him I will probably repeat the offence," said Sophie coldly. The Dowager became serious. "You will be careful what you do, Sophie," she said. "You are not a child anymore and he certainly is no innocent. He has a wild reputation and if you provoke him now he may react in ways that could embarrass you." Sophie received this warning impassively and turned to look out of the window again. Then, however, a sparkle of mischief could be seen in her eyes as she considered the delightful prospect of hurling a bowl of syllabub at the elusive Lord Randal. And his possible retaliation. At that moment the carriage turned into the gates of Stenby Castle and both ladies craned for their first view of their home. The long drive of Stenby was not lined with trees and the parkland was rolling grass and occasional trees. Deer and sheep grazed together. Ahead was the great pile of Stenby, a haphazard and careless creation of every architectural style since the middle ages. It was built on the remains of a medieval fortress. The fifth Earl, Sophie's grandfather, had attempted to give the place homogeneity by adding a pillared facade and two Palladian wings. But from inside and from any viewpoint except center-front it was obviously a mongrel and it was loved as mongrels often are. As they passed the gatehouse a bell had been rung so that David, Jane and the appropriate servants were waiting for them. All was excitement, chatter and confusion until they were at last settled, travelling clothes discarded, over a welcome dish of tea. "You both look very well," said the Dowager with approval. "You don't look any different!" exclaimed Sophie, which caused laughter. "What did you expect?" asked Jane. "I thought you would have become very grande dame with a cap and a fine silk dress but here you are in your muslin with your hair all down your back just like when I first saw you." David and Jane shared a laughing look but then Jane said, "I can be elegant enough, I assure you. How did you enjoy the little season?" Sophie shrugged. "It was well enough but becoming much of a sameness. I am looking forward to rural idleness. We are having a real Stenby Christmas, are we not, David?" Her brother laughed. "Is that your idea of idleness? We have been working ourselves to death already and it will become worse. But yes. We are having a real Stenby Christmas. I think the staff would give notice en bloc if we did not." Sophie clapped her hands. "Oh, I have missed it and I was too young to really enjoy it before. The Yule log and the Lord of Misrule! Is there any chance that it could be a Lady of Misrule? How many guests will there be?" "At least forty, if the weather holds, and the local families in addition." "And will there still be the Wigged Ball at the Towers on New Year's Eve?" "Of course," said her brother, smiling at her enthusiasm. Sophie gave a contented smile and bit into another macaroon. "I think this will be the best Christmas of me life." CHAPTER 3 As the party sat down to tea at Stenby Castle a smart curricle swept up the curving drive to the impressive entrance of Tyne Towers, the seat of the Duke of Tyne. The driver handed the reins to the groom beside him and leapt down gracefully, despite the swirling folds of his many-caped greatcoat. For a moment he stood, as elegant as a statue, and let his eyes take in the beauties of his family home. Perhaps he was, more practically, allowing time for the doors to be swung wide so that he could sweep into the magnificent hall unimpeded. Many people had wondered how much of Lord Randal's easy grace was studied and how much was unconscious. If effort was involved he hid it very well. He was a spectacularly handsome man, more often than he would like described as beautiful. The bone-structure of his face was delicate perfection and had caused him much anguish as a boy. In manhood it was rescued from the effete by taut muscles. His eyes were a clear, deep blue which could express deceptive innocence but which frequently crinkled in genuine amusement. His lips rescued his face from any suspicion of femininity by being of a masculine firmness. The face was crowned by the genuine golden hair so rarely found in England. His mother had passed it to him and to him alone. In his brothers and sisters it deepened to carrot or faded to mouse. Lord Randal allowed the footman to remove him of his beaver hat and heavy coat to reveal yet further glories. His perfectly tailored coat and knitted unmentionables, his Hessian boots and snowy cravat all served to show to the world that his body was as well formed as his head. The critic might suggest that he was of too slight a build but those who had seen him naked were not inclined to criticize for his was the sleekness of interlocking muscle, not of weakness. A sculptor had begged in impassioned terms the honour of forming his likeness in marble, swearing that Michelangelo's David would be cast into the shade. This piece of perfection was grinning cheerfully as he greeted the footman by name and called a greeting to a maid passing through a distant door. Finding no member of his family to welcome him he flung back his head and let out a loud, "Halloo!" The three-story high marble hall amplified the sound in a most satisfactory way, as all the Ashby children had discovered in their time and soon an answering call was heard and the Duke popped his head over the wrought iron balusters of the first level. "Randal!" he shouted. "Welcome, welcome! Come up, my boy. Bring some food!" This last was not directed at his son but at any servant who might chance to be by. This was the Duke's usual way of making his needs known. Within minutes the two were settled in the comfortably shabby study, with excellent claret before them and more substantial fare on the way. "Well, my boy," declared the Duke. "It is good to see you!" He was a cheerful man who had been born into luxury and allowed it to make him happy rather than pretentious. By the simple expedient of either changing or ignoring everything which did not suit him he had been contented most of his life. As part of his practice of being happy he liked to ensure that all around him were happy too and so he was loved. It was speculated that he did not care to travel beyond his extensive lands because then he could no longer control all circumstances and might be confronted by something unpleasant. "It is very good to see you too, Sir," remarked his son sincerely. "Oh, I cannot wait for Christmas," said the Duke gleefully. "It has been a trifle dull here, you know, with the twins off socializing. The last of my chicks to go," he sighed. "Everyone will be here," declared the Duke. "And there'll be a full house at Stenby, now David is married. It will be grand." An unusual frown passed over his face. "I won't hide from you that it's not been as I would like with only James here." "Dull, eh?" remarked his younger son. "Devilish dull. Don't get me wrong, he's a fine fellow. Hard working. The estate makes three times what it did before he took over the reins and times have not been good. Everyone working, everyone content. Every cottage has a pig and a good roof. But dull." They lapsed into silence for a few minutes. Lord Randal agreed with his father's assessment of his brother, his elder by six years but it would hardly have been diplomatic to say so. The Duke liked to think that his family were devoted. In fact his two sons had disliked one another for years. "How was town?" the Duke suddenly asked. "How did the twins do?" "Much as it always is," replied his son. "Brittle and sharp as broken glass but sometimes amusing. The twins did as well as could be expected. They still refuse to be separated. I spent a fair amount of time at Depthaven." This was his estate, passed to him from his mother. The Duke showed his surprise and a degree of disapproval. "You're not turning responsible on me, are you?" Lord Randal laughed. "Hardly! I found it judicious to avoid society for a while." "What have you been up to?" asked his sire, attempting to appear stern but succeeding only in appearing curious. "All manner of things," was the cheerful reply, "but I was avoiding a too devoted young lady, not an angry husband." "Ah, a marriage trap," said the Duke with a nod. "Have to have your wits about you when you're an eligible young man. Simplest to marry a local girl and do it young as I did. It's about time one of you boys married. We have to think of the succession." Lord Randal looked bored. "I am sure dutiful James will oblige." His father snorted. "I beg leave to doubt it. He never meets a suitable young lady and if I broach the subject he turns nasty. I thought at one time that you might have funny tastes but now I wonder about him. I've been keeping a close eye on the good-looking footmen." Lord Randal choked on his wine and whooped and spluttered for a few minutes. Eventually he gained control of his breathing again. "You'll be the death of me!" he declared. "Have you discussed your suspicions with James?" The Duke looked a little sheepish. "I sort of hinted. I don't think he spoke to me above necessities for a week. Anyway, if it isn't that it must be that he don't meet the right sort so I've invited a couple of likelies for the festivities." "Who?" "Lady Winifred Salthouse and Miss Cooper-Downs." His son nodded. "Both unexceptionable and of a serious enough nature to appeal. Miss Cooper-Downs is considered a beauty, though excessively petite. Lady Winifred is rather plain but she is good-natured and intelligent. If I had to marry one of them I'd take her." "Well, mind that you take neither. They're for James." His son had difficulty in keeping a straight face over this pronouncement but soon sobered at his father's next words. "Of course, if he doesn't fancy her you can have Lady Winifred. She sounds the right sort for you. Sensible. Won't get cast into alt if you wander a little and likely to manage you well." "No thank-you," said Lord Randal clearly. One problem with his generous father was that he was likely to promote his good intentions without regards to the wishes of the recipient. "Well, you have to marry someday or people will think you an unnatural." "People can think what they damn well like!" was the sharp retort, which caused the Duke to look hurt. "You're as bad as James," he said. "Damn me if you're not. What's wrong with marriage? Liked it very well myself. A good wife is a friend, someone you can trust and share with. Someone you can depend on. I miss your mother. Fancy women aren't the same." His son strove to cheer him up. "I probably haven't met the right woman yet, father." The Duke nodded. "That's right. Wait for the right one. But promise me, when you find her, don't hold back. Give me your word." After a slight hesitation, his eyes hidden by his lids, Lord Randal obliged. A few moments later, as Lord Randal amused his father with tales of town, James Ashby, Marquis of Chelmly came into the room and gave his brother a polite greeting. He was taller and of a slightly heavier build than his brother. His features were fine and of a type commonly described as 'aristocratic' but, though he could be called handsome he would never be described as beautiful. His soft brown hair fell straight and without particular style but his clothes were well enough for country wear. "Did you make good time?" he asked courteously of his brother. "Fifteen hours. I broke for the night at Grantham." "You must have had good cattle." "Had my own sent on ahead." Good manners satisfied, the Marquis then began to discuss estate matters and after a while, Lord Randal excused himself. He made his way to a room a few doors distant and knocked gently. Given the word he entered to greet a plump and amiable lady with a kiss. This was his Aunt Camilla, his father's sister and hostess for him since the death of the Duchess. Lady Camilla's marriage had been brief and childless and so she had returned to the Towers. Eventually she had become its mistress which was an amiable arrangement all around. Sharing her brother's easy-going nature she never bothered him to dress, behave or speak in any way other than as suited him. She managed the house competently by letting it manage itself. She occupied herself with writing gossipy letter to friends, reading all the latest novels and supervising the gardens, her main delight. Lady Camilla twinkled at him. "I heard the call but thought I would give Tyne first bite, so to speak. My, but you must break a great many hearts!" She noticed the flicker of expression across his face. "Now why does that bother you, dear boy?" "I am beginning to think that coming home was a mistake," he said thoughtfully. "Marriage seems to be in the air." She nodded. "Yes, the duke is getting fidgety. But I made no mention of it, so don't avoid the issue." "Let us say that it is becoming tedious to have young ladies fall in love with one at a word. My mistresses even refuse my expensive gifts and ask only constancy. It's damned fatiguing!" "But very economical," she remarked, surprising him into laughter. "But seriously," she continued. "You should marry. Then you will not be so much pursued and if you find the right kind of sensible woman, you will not be much bothered by it." "Then my problems are over," he said cheerfully, "for father says I may have Lady Winifred Salthouse if James does not grab her first." The lady laughed and settled to listen to the naughty gossip he could bring her. But she stored away the thought that he was not as carefree as usual and determined to discover the nature of the problem. Later, having dressed for dinner, the two brothers met upon the stairs. "I understand that Christmas on a vast scale is planned?" remarked Lord Randal. "Of course," replied his brother. "And with trips to Stenby included we will be fagged to death by Ladyday. And there, alas, we leave these versions of these characters, off in a different alternate universe where the story was a little different, but where Randal and Sophie still ended up happily together. Of that I am sure. Happy Christmas, Jo |