The Rebel Bride Read Free Page B

Clair. The village seemed practically empty save for a few ducks that swam lazily in a small pond at the center of the green.
    “Everybody be home having their dinner, milord,” Bladen said, surveying the quiet village.
    “And you’ll be having your own dinner soon enough, Bladen,” the earl said over his shoulder. “We’ll be at St. Clair in but a short time now.”
    “Aye,” Bladen agreed, reflecting with some pleasure on the meal that would be ready for him. He tightened his grip once again as his master passed out of the village and spurred his horses forward.
    Julien felt a quickening within as they entered St. Clair park. Giant oak trees lined the drive, forming a lush green ceiling of leaves. Only slight beams of sunlight penetrated the dense covering. He mused that these giant oaks would remain as they were long after the St. Clairs were dead and forgotten.
    The oaks came to an end when the curricle burst onto the graveled drive that wound around in circular fashion in front of the mansion. Julien drew his horses to a halt in front of the great stone steps.
    The last rays of sunlight cast their gold hue on the thick stone walls that rose up two stories, extending at the four corners to form round Gothic towers. Julien was seized by a feeling of agelessness, of being drawn back in time, away from the modern society of London. As he gazed at his home, he could not but respect his hard-willed ancestors who had ensured his birthright. St. Clair had been gutted on two occasions, the last being over one hundred and fifty years ago, during the interminable battles between Charles I’s Royalist troops andCromwell’s Roundheads, but the earls of March had simply scrubbed down the smoke-blackened stone walls and rebuilt the interior. Julien knew as a simple fact that if war again ravaged England he would do just as his ancestors had done. St. Clair must never be allowed to fall into ruin.
    No sooner had Julien alighted from his curricle than the great doors were thrown open and Mannering, the St. Clair butler for over thirty years, made his way down the ancient stone steps to greet his master. Julien’s eyes lit up at the sight of his old retainer. He knew full well that the smooth running of St. Clair resulted in great part from the competence of the faithful Mannering.
    Mrs. Cradshaw, St. Clair’s housekeeper, followed closely on the butler’s heels, her plump, simple face alight with pleasure.
    “Ah, welcome home, my lord,” Mannering boomed in his rich, deep voice, bowing low.
    “It’s certainly good to be home, Mannering. I trust all goes well with Mrs. Mannering?”
    “As well as can be expected, my lord, considering the years are making us all a bit rickety.”
    Mannering beamed at the young earl, pleased that his lordship was never too high in the instep to be concerned about those in his employ. It was true that Mrs. Mannering had hidden the earl once years before when he’d unloosed all his father’s hunters into the formal St. Clair gardens. He could still remember the countess’s hysterical screams.
    “Master Julien!” Mrs. Cradshaw bustled forward and swept Julien a deep curtsy.
    Julien encircled the small, plump woman in his arms, a wide smile on his face.
    “Your prodigal has returned, Emma. Is it too much to hope that there will be some blueberry muffins beside my plate this evening?” He gave her a gentle hug and released her.
    “Fancy that, Edward,” she said, turning to Mannering. “Master Julien never forgets his blueberry muffins. It’s a good lad you are.”
    “Indeed this lad would never forget. Moreover, François will not be arriving until well after dinner tonight. Far too late to turn up his artistic nose at my tastes.”
    “What can you expect from those Frogs? Why, I had it on the best information that the Frenchies are so ignorant the ladies crush up blueberries and rub them on their eyes.”
    “Why, Mrs. Cradshaw,” Julien said, “I have it from my best sources