Wild Jasmine (42 page)

Reaching the house, the two men dismounted and their horses were taken away by a groom to be rested and fed. A footman led the gentlemen into the house, taking them to a small, bright receiving room.

“The Earl of Kempe and the Marquess of Westleigh to see Lord de Marisco,” Tom Ashburne told the servant.

“Very good, my lord. If you will wait here. There are wine and biscuits on the table,” the footman said, and then bowed himself from the room.

As it was early, and as they had not yet broken their fast, the two gentlemen helped themselves, settling into comfortable, tapestried-back chairs by a small, bright fire that took the chill out of the morning air.

Suddenly the door to the room burst open. A woman hurried in, smiling and saying, “Tom Ashburne, you scamp! Why did you not tell us you were coming? Padraic and Valentina are here. ’Tis Velvet’s birthday.” She embraced him, kissing him on both cheeks. “Have you found a wife yet, or are you still pining for my daughter-in-law?”

“Madame Skye!” He kissed her back, enjoying the damask-rose scent she always wore. She was undoubtedly one of the most feminine women he had ever known. “I am not even seeking a wife. Did you not promise to find one for me? I am going to rely on your good judgment.”

“Still a rogue,” she said with a smile, then turned her blue-green gaze on the other gentleman in the room. “But you must introduce me to your companion.”

“Madame Skye, Countess of Lundy, my cousin, James Rowan Lindley, the Marquess of Westleigh. Rowan, this is Lady de Marisco.”

The Marquess of Westleigh bowed low over Skye’s hand and murmured a polite greeting.

Her eyes twinkled at him, amused, and then she said to Tom Ashburne, “Why are you here? It has been ages since we last saw you.”

“Rowan has some particularly fine mares he brought from Spain. Travel is quite unrestricted since the peace. They have an Arab strain in them. He wants to put them to stud, and I told him that your husband’s Nightwind is the finest stallion in all of England today. We came to speak with Lord de Marisco about it.”

“Adam, I fear, is still abed. Our daughter’s birthday fete always begins the evening before May Day, as Velvet was born just after midnight,” Skye explained. “Adam is not as young as he once was, and our gift to Velvet caused a great deal of excitement amongst the family. Come into the Family Hall and join us for the morning meal.”

“What did you give your daughter that caused such excitement?” the Marquess of Westleigh asked, curious.

“It is a very long story, my lord. Come and eat. If you are truly interested, I will tell it to you,” Skye promised him.

In the hall, only the boys, Sybilla, and Jasmine were in evidence. The two girls were seated at the high board as far apart as they could get. Sandy had chosen to sit with Sibby, and Charlie was with Jasmine. Skye frowned, knowing there was certain to be a scene if she attempted to tell Jasmine’s tale now. She saw, however, that her grandchildren were already well-fed, and so, smiling at them, she said, “Have you been to see your mother yet?”

“We were afraid she would still be abed, Grandmama,” Sybilla answered primly. “We did not want to disturb her.”

“Fete or no, it is past time your mother was up,” Skye told the girl. “Go and tell her I said so, Sybilla.”

“Yes, Grandmama,” Sybilla said, arising, curtseying, and then gathering up a mass of flowers. “I shall take her these May morning blooms.” She hurried from the hall, her blond curls bouncing.

“Is she also your granddaughter, Madame Skye?” Tom Ashburne asked.

“She is my son-in-law the Earl of BrocCairn’s daughter, and has been raised by my daughter, Velvet, his wife. I have always considered her my grandchild, although we are not related by any blood.”

“Do you remember you once promised to find me a wife from amongst your granddaughters?” he said seriously.

“Sibby has her heart set upon the Earl of Glenkirk,” young Sandy volunteered.

“But there is no betrothal yet,” Charlie chimed in.

Tom Ashburne chuckled. “And who are these two fine young fellows?” he asked Skye as they settled themselves at the high board.

“My grandsons, Sandy and Charlie Gordon,” she told them, “and a pair of scamps they are, I can promise you. They are Sybilla’s half brothers.”

“And this lady?” the Marquess of Westleigh said, looking at Jasmine, his gaze perhaps a trifle more intimate than it should have been. Indeed, it was quite obvious she had piqued his interest.

“This is my granddaughter, Yasaman Kama Begum, an Imperial Mughal princess. She will be known here in England as Jasmine de Marisco. Her father was the late Grand Mughal, Akbar; her mother, my daughter Velvet. She was the birthday surprise that caused such a stir amongst my family last night. Shall I tell you her tale as you eat?”

They were both, of course, absolutely fascinated.

“The women in your family seem to have a penchant for adventure,” Tom Ashburne noted with a smile. “You, Lady St. Michael, Val, and now, I learn, the Countess of BrocCairn. Say on, dear Madame Skye!”

She spoke, and while she did the servants brought them a breakfast the like of which neither had had in a long time. There was oat porridge mixed with cream and bits of dried apple and pear; eggs poached in cream and marsala wine; sweet, pink country ham; tiny baby lamb chops; fresh bread, warm from the ovens; honey; a crock of newly churned butter; a small wheel of sharp cheese; flagons of nut-brown ale and red wine.

The two gentlemen ate appreciatively and with gusto as Skye unfolded Jasmine’s tale before them. When she had finished, Tom Ashburne shook his head wonderingly.

“ ’Tis the most amazing story, Madame Skye. Did I not know you and your family as well as I do, I should be dubious of such a tale. Having accompanied your son and darling Val to Turkey, however, I am not. Perhaps I should seek a wife from among a quieter family.”

“Hah!” she told him. “I do not believe you seek a wife at all, my lord, else you would have found one by now. You have turned your broken heart into a fine art, I think,” she teased him. “Besides, most of the women in my family are a dull lot at best. If you are serious, Tom Ashburne, in your intent to marry, I can find you a pretty and biddable girl who will breed you up a houseful of children. What say you?”

He laughed. “What of Mistress Jasmine?”

“Oh no, my lord,” Jasmine told him. “I have been widowed a year now and think to remain unmarried for a time longer. Besides, I am not in the least biddable. The Mughal’s daughters seldom are.”

They all laughed, and then Skye said, “Jasmine, my darling, take our guests out into the gardens for a stroll while I awaken your grandfather. You will stay, my lords? As most of my grandchildren have remained home, there is plenty of room for guests.”

They accepted her gracious invitation. Sandy and Charlie Gordon, after a whispered conversation, announced that they were riding over to Blackthorne Hall to tell their brothers of their newfound sister. Tom Ashburne, a contented look upon his face, said that he would remain by the fire in hopes of seeing Valentina shortly.

“Are you really interested in visiting my grandmother’s gardens, my lord?” Jasmine asked the Marquess of Westleigh. “She does have some particularly fine roses, I will admit.”

“I am a lover of roses,” he said, taking her arm in his. “Lead on, Mistress de Marisco.” As they walked through the house and back out into the fresh spring morning, he remarked, “You have the most elegant little feet I have ever seen. They are not only beautiful, but there is something incredibly sensual about them.”

“God’s nightshirt!” Jasmine swore, using her grandfather’s favorite oath. “I had forgotten I was without shoes, my lord. I hope you will excuse me. In India I wore slippers only on state occasions, but here in England I must have footwear on at all times except in my own chambers. When my little brother awoke me to come a-Maying with him, he told me not to wear shoes. He said it was the custom.” She laughed. “I wonder if he was teasing me? I suspect him to be a young rogue, although I already adore him. I have never had a little brother before.”

“When I was a child,” Rowan Lindley said, “my cousins and I always went barefooted on May Day morn.”

They entered Skye’s rose garden and walked slowly along the grassy paths where the bushes were just beginning to come into bloom.

“Did you grow up near the Earl of Kempe?” Jasmine inquired politely. She bent and inhaled the spicy fragrance of a newly opened pink damask rose, finding it headily delicious.

“My father, God rest him, and Tom’s mother were sister and brother. My own mother died when I was four. My father, when I was six. My father had appointed his brother-in-law, Henry Ashburne, who was then the Earl of Kempe, as my
guardian. I was brought to Swan Court to be raised with his children. I had no brothers or sisters of my own.

“My uncle and aunt, however, had four children at that time. Tom was eleven, and five years my senior. He had three younger sisters. My aunt Anne was again with child. Robert was born in the spring of the following year. He was far too young for either Tom or me to be bothered with. For want of another male sibling, Tom took me under his wing. We have been friends ever since. As we both grew older, the five years between us seemed to dissipate until it no longer existed.”

“You speak of your cousin with such fondness in your voice, my lord,” Jasmine told him, “that I suspect that yours was a happy childhood. Where, pray, is your home? I find England so fair a land.”

“Nearby to Tom’s own Swan Court. My estate is called Cadby. It is set upon the bank of the river Avon. It is but two days’ ride from Queen’s Malvern and quite near your uncle, the Earl of Alcester’s, home. You are absolutely the most beautiful woman I have ever seen!”

Jasmine stopped. Turning, she looked up at him, startled. She was shocked to see the barely masked passionate look in his unusual gold eyes. “Are all Englishmen so direct, my lord?” she asked him, keeping her voice cool. “Other than my family, I have had little contact with the English so far.” His look was so intense that she finally had to lower her eyes.

In answer he said, “There is a necklace and earrings that I bought in Spain from the same gentleman who sold me my horses. His family had come upon hard times. The necklace, he told me, was part of the booty his ancestors claimed when they drove the Moors from Spain. It is made of Persian turquoise and diamonds. Your eyes are the exact color of that turquoise, Mistress de Marisco.”

“In India a gentleman does not speak with such familiarity to a lady he has just met,” Jasmine told him primly, her heart beating nervously. “Are all Englishmen as bold as you are, my lord?”

“Some are,” he said. “If I am bold, it is because it is not often that I see something I truly want.”

Jasmine found herself confused. Although she had spoken English her entire life, she was finding that there were certain nuances of the language that she was not familiar with, or did not quite understand. “What is it exactly that you do desire, my lord?” she asked him politely.

“
You
,” he answered calmly.

Astounded, she felt her cheeks growing warm. “Ohh!” was all she could manage to say, wondering if she looked as big a fool as she surely felt. She stood very still, unable to move. She had thought herself so sophisticated. She was a widow and had known a man. In India her life had been set, like a jewel, into a prescribed setting. There was nothing in either her experience or her base of knowledge that told her how to handle a situation like this,
or
a man like the Marquess of Westleigh. She was as helpless as any innocent maid.

Looking down on her, Rowan Lindley smiled softly. He easily read the confusion in her face, and reaching up, he cupped her face with his hand. Her eyes widened slightly at his touch. His fingers splayed outward, caressing her cheek, running a thumb over her lips. “Your skin is softer than anything I have ever felt,” he told her. “I mean to have you, you know.”

“Have me for what?” she managed to gasp, shocked by the effect his warm, strong touch was having upon her.

He laughed briefly, showing even, white teeth. “For my wife, Jasmine de Marisco. I mean to have you for my wife.”

“I have no wish to remarry at this time,” she said.

“I will wait,” he replied, his golden eyes making her feel as if her blood was boiling over.

“I am certain I hear my mother calling me,” she said suddenly, pulling away from him and picking up her skirts to hurry off. Thank God she could move. She had believed her legs would never function again.

“I would not have thought that the Mughal’s daughter was a coward,” he called after her, and then he laughed as she stopped and whirled about.

“
I am not afraid of you!
” she declared vehemently. “And what could you possibly know of my father?”

“I have several shares in the East India Company,” he said, staying where he was, not moving. “I went to India several years ago. I find it a land of incredible variety. There was no one I met, native to the land, who did not love, admire, and revere Akbar. I even saw him once in Agra. You have his look about the eyes, and the beauty mark you bear approximates the mole upon his face.”

“So I have been told,” Jasmine replied dryly and, turning, hurried back into the house.

Rowan Lindley laughed softly to himself. He wanted Jasmine de Marisco with every fiber of his being. From the very
first moment he had seen her this morning, he had known that she must be his. She was young, and her life, he realized, had been very sheltered until now. Let her taste this new freedom she had just found. He could wait. He suspected that Jasmine would be very much worth the wait. Bending, he sniffed the damask rose she had smelled earlier. Its fragrance reminded him of her. Elusive, yet heady.

Jasmine had fled to her rooms. She stood in the shadow of the draperies, looking out over the gardens at Rowan Lindley. He excited her, making her feel as she had never felt, even with her dearest Jamal. Yet he did frighten her as well, despite her denials to the contrary. There was a deep, passionate intensity about him that seemed almost dangerous. His tawny, wavy hair fascinated her. She wanted to touch it, to let her fingers slide through it. She had been astounded when he had touched her. The intimacy that his touch had engendered was equally surprising.