Midnight Bride by Barbara Allister Page B

pruning shears in his hand.
    Startled, Dunstan got up, nodded to the gardener, pulled out his watch, and headed to the house. The morning was far advanced. Only a half hour until his meeting with Elizabeth. She had to agree to marry him; he refused to let his name become part of a scandal again. His stomach began churning again, and he rubbed it, wishing he had eaten less that morning.

Chapter 4

    Upstairs in the master's chambers Charles Beckworth had just begun to stir. His first movements caused disastrous results. Only his valet's knowledge of him kept him from ruining his bed. Porter stood beside the bed, a basin in his hands until Charles finished heaving.
    "Don't look at me like that, Porter," he said huskily when he could speak again and his valet had returned.
    "I am sorry, Master Charles. Tell me what you do not like about my expression, and I will be happy to change it," the older man said soothingly.
    "You can start by calling me Mr. Beckworth ," Charles said as he had often done before, regretting that he had allowed his mother to persuade him to keep his father's valet for himself. There was something intimidating about a valet who had known you before you were even in short pants.
    "Of course, Master Charles." The other man continued to lay out the clothing his master would need for the day. "How was your visit with Miss Elizabeth?" he asked with the familiarity of an old retainer.
    "Elizabeth?" Charles asked. The fact that even his older sister was still a child to Porter soothed his feelings somewhat. "We had a rare dustup."
    "Somewhat quicker than normal, wouldn't you say, sir?" Porter continued with his duties as calmly as if Charles had told him that Elizabeth and he were getting along well. "How were Lord and Lady Ravenwood and the children?"
    "All right, I suppose." Charles climbed out of bed, heading for the dressing room. "Why does this always happen, Porter?"
    "What, sir?"
    "These arguments. Devilish uncomfortable having Elizabeth angry with me. Have to go to see her and make up." Charles ruffled his hair and then poured water over his head and neck. He frowned at the man in the mirror and then caught sight of the arrested expression on the face of his valet.
    Porter stopped. He laid the shirt he had in his hands on a chair and crossed the room. He handed Charles a towel, stepped back, and asked, "Did you quarrel with her last evening?"
    "No. Yesterday afternoon was enough. She was angry with me, and I must admit she had a right to be. I must see her and apologize immediately." Like his sister's, Charles's anger was quick to disappear, a flash fire that quickly burned away. There were times, however, the anger smoldered for days, weeks, but those were usually when someone else had been hurt. Had he been able to find his sister's fiancé six years before, he would have shown him what a Beckworth's anger was like when it was left to smolder. Even when he thought of the man today and remembered his sister's weeping, his anger began to burn as hotly as ever.
    "But Master Charles?" Porter paused, unwilling to admit that he had been gossiping with the other servants. But the matter was too important. "You saw her last evening. From Miller's account, we assumed that you had already made peace with her."
    "When? Last evening?" Charles turned around, rubbing his wet head with a towel. His shoulders, broader than they appeared when he was dressed, rippled with muscles.
    "Apparently you insisted on seeing her. Took a tray of Madeira with you."
    "Madeira? I don't even like the stuff."
    "But I believe Mr. Hartley persuaded you it was more proper for a reconciliation drink with your sister than brandy." Porter handed Charles the first of his clothes. The valet's face was stiff with disapproval. Although too loyal to his master to mention the matter to others, he did not approve of Sebastian Hartley. Even his valet was second- class. A gentleman's gentleman knew these things.
    "Hartley? I was talking to Hartley