by Amy Sandas
Actually, it hadn’t been among any of her reactions.
But her feelings on the sudden upheaval of her home were not consulted. So, now the day had come. The house was filled with strangers—her brother included—who were accustomed to living a very different life than what she’d cultivated, and there was nothing Desdemona could do about it.
Part of her was tempted to avoid everyone for the duration of their stay.
Another part of her—the prideful part that rarely had cause to make an appearance—refused to hide from her brother or his sophisticated guests. And she couldn’t deny she was curious about the viscount. John had been a good brother once—when they were young and their parents had still been alive.
Mary finished brushing her hair and rose quietly to her feet. “Is there anything else you’ll need, miss?”
“No, Mary. Thank you.”
“I’ll be back later then to help you dress for dinner.”
For the first time in over a decade, Bilberry Hall was hosting a formal dinner party and, whether or not she was expected, Desdemona planned to be in attendance.
Chapter Four
Desdemona tried not be nervous as she made her way toward the main part of the house. Everyone was to gather in the blue drawing room before dinner and she wanted to get there early enough to see her brother for the first time before everyone else came down.
Mary had spent a full half hour styling her hair in an elaborate coiffure atop her head that allowed for a few softening tendrils to fall against her cheeks. The maid had also insisted on dressing Desdemona in one of the formal gowns that had been made the year Desdemona had hoped for a London debut. When she had realized she wasn’t going to be presented to society, Desdemona had packed up the gowns and put them into storage since there hadn’t been any likelihood she’d have an occasion to wear such elegant clothing in Staffordshire.
Apparently, tonight was just such an occasion.
Though she was twenty-two years old and well past the age of a debutante, the gown was pale pink and perfect for a young lady’s coming out. If the style was nearly five years outdated, that couldn’t be helped. She was not concerned with impressing anyone anyway. She just wanted to see her brother again.
She’d convinced herself that John had surely had his reasons for staying away from Staffordshire for so many years. Just as he’d likely had a reason for not writing her directly about his visit and for not seeking her out immediately upon his arrival.
In truth, Desdemona probably should have been waiting in the hall to greet everyone as a good hostess would have. She just found it a little difficult to be gracious when she wasn’t even sure if she would be welcomed to the party.
The door to the blue drawing room was open, inviting entrance. Though her nerves were uncommonly active, she gathered herself into what she hoped was some semblance of confidence and grace, then crossed the threshold.
She saw the viscountess first.
It would have been impossible to miss the elegant woman dressed in a peacock-blue gown of shimmering silk and satin trimmed with black lace. The richness of the gown’s hue offset the lady’s pale golden hair and creamy complexion. Lady Lyndon’s sophistication was evident in every line of her posture, in the wealth of sapphires and diamonds that circled her neck and wrists, and in her half-amused, half-bored expression as she listened to the mumbled words being spoken in a rambling fashion by the man slouched in a chair with his back to the door.
Assuming the man to be her brother, Desdemona continued forward.
Before she got very far into the room, the viscountess noted her arrival with a gasp and a wide smile as she rushed forward with her arms outstretched to take both of Desdemona’s hands in hers. “Oh, my dear girl. You must be John’s sister.” The woman drew Desdemona in for a quick embrace and a pert kiss on her cheek. Then she leaned back with the smile still bright on her face. “John has always talked of you as if you were a child, but that’s not the case at all, is it? Why, you must be seventeen, at least.”
Desdemona was thrown off by the effusive greeting and replied automatically to the viscountess’s last comment. “I turned twenty-two on my last birthday.”
Blue eyes widened dramatically. “Goodness! Fully grown and rather pretty, as well. What a surprise.”
Desdemona had no idea how to respond to that, but apparently, she didn’t need to as the viscountess wrapped an arm around her waist and propelled her forward into the viscount’s line of sight.
“Come now, John. Greet your sister properly.”
Desdemona looked down at the man in the chair. For a second, she thought she was seeing her father again. A slightly fleshier, more red-faced, and glassier-eyed version of her father.
“What, ho? Who’s this you say, Isabelle?” the viscount asked as he shifted in his chair. His unfocused gaze slid wildly past their position before returning again.
A much more inebriated version of her father, Desdemona amended.
Lady Lyndon laughed. “It’s your sister, you tease.”
“What? Des?” John perked up, sitting a bit straighter.
“Hello, John,” Desdemona said, stepping away from the viscountess.
There was a genuine look of surprise on her brother’s face as he finally swayed to his feet and gave her a quick once-over. “Is it really you? I can’t say you look anything like the girl I remember.”
“It has been many years,” she answered simply.
“Indeed,” he said with a laugh as he set his glass on the table beside him and held out his arms.
Desdemona allowed the clumsy embrace for only a brief moment before she stepped out of reach from both the viscount and the viscountess. She was not accustomed to so much physical contact. She hadn’t been hugged since she was a small child. The servants would never presume such familiarity and she certainly didn’t have any friends to do so.
“Do say you plan to join us for dinner, darling,” Lady Lyndon chimed in. “Our dear friends are simply going to adore you. Aren’t they, John?”
“Oh yes,” he replied as he swept up his snifter and crossed the room in a slightly weaving path to the liquor service in the corner.
Desdemona watched him for a moment, accepting the dull heaviness that settled in her stomach. She might have changed from the girl she’d been when they’d last been in each other’s company, but she would say John was the more altered between them.
Before the melancholy realization fully settled in, something in the air of the room changed—as though it became electrified—and she turned toward the door just as Count Vittori sauntered in.
His blue-grey gaze swept the room in a way that suggested he did not expect to find anything of interest in his perusal. Though Desdemona felt a distinctive hum along her nerves as his eyes briefly met hers, he gave no indication at all that they’d previously encountered each other.
“Ah, and here is my brother, just in time for our little family reunion,” the viscountess exclaimed, sweeping to Desdemona’s side once again to link arms with her. “Come here, Leander, so I may introduce you to John’s dear sister.”
The count’s eyes flashed beneath his dark arched brows with some undefinable emotion at the viscountess’s words. Then he curled his lips in a smile that managed to be a disdainful smirk and subtle knowing grin rolled into one.
“Leander, allow me to present Miss Desdemona Littlefield,” said the viscountess with a graceful turn of her wrist. “And this, my dear, is Count Leander Vittori.”
The count bowed gracefully, never letting his gaze leave Desdemona’s as he took up her hand and lifted it to his lips. She hadn’t worn any gloves and she felt the warmth of his breath on her skin just before he pressed his lips to her knuckles in a brief kiss. The gesture took less than a moment. But as he straightened and released her, Desdemona felt slightly changed by it...though she couldn’t discern how.
“Desdemona,” he repeated as his gaze found hers. The subtle notes of his Italian accent tempere
d by years in England made her name sound different from any other time she’d heard it spoken aloud. “How woefully tragic,” he noted with a curl at the corner of his arched lips.
Desdemona tilted her head, catching his reference to Shakespeare’s character of the same name who had been murdered by her husband, Othello, when he believed she’d betrayed him.
“No more so than Leander,” she stated, considering the fact that the count’s namesake drowned while swimming in a storm to meet with his lover.
He gave a shallow nod, causing a lock of black hair to fall over his forehead. “Quite true,” he replied quietly. Then the curve of his lips deepened. “Feel free to call me whatever you’d like.”
Desdemona frowned at the strange allowance. “My lord?”
The silvery-grey striations flashed within the blue of his eyes. “That’ll do for now.”
“You devil, Leander,” the viscountess interjected with a snap of her fan against his arm. The sharp note in her voice was not quite concealed by her playful smile. “The girl is not likely to be accustomed to your particular brand of flirtation.”
“Perhaps she’d like to be,” the count argued. Though he spoke to his stepsister, he kept his gaze on Desdemona.
His smooth words and velvety tone suggested all manner of improper things and Desdemona felt herself warming despite herself. Then she noticed the hint of tension in his jaw and the slight furrow between his slashing eyebrows. His rakish innuendo was motivated by something deeper than the wickedness that seemed to come naturally to him. There was a glint of challenge in his eyes and something else...
Then his mouth curved in a smile that showed a flash of white teeth and a soft chuckle sounded from his throat.
Desdemona realized then that she’d been openly staring at the man for what was probably an inordinate amount of time. She blinked and cleared her throat as she searched for some response to his last comment. “Flirtation of any kind is not something I’ve had any occasion to practice.”
Vittori’s smile widened for just a moment before he leaned closer to her. His scent—spicy and dark—drifted around her as he murmured in a silky tone, “What a shame, tesoro mio. It can be such a pleasurable diversion.”
“That’s quite enough, Leander,” the viscountess interjected with a laugh. She sent her stepbrother an intense little glare before she turned to Desdemona with a bright smile. The moment of discord was so subtle and so fleeting, she wasn’t sure she hadn’t imagined it. “The girl will start to think you are being serious.”
“Not at all,” Desdemona responded before Vittori could. “I may not have much experience with socializing, but I’m capable of discerning the difference between earnest interest and careless teasing.”
As she finished speaking, she met the count’s gaze. The outer corners of his eyes crinkled as he narrowed his gaze and lowered his chin in acknowledgement. “I am never careless, tesoro. Reckless, certainly. But never careless.”
“I’m sure I should appreciate the distinction,” Desdemona replied.
Something interesting flared to life in his gaze in response to her measured retort, but then Lady Lyndon stepped forward once again with a soft laugh. Her touch was cool as she laid a hand on Desdemona’s arm. “Isn’t she a delight, Leander?”
Vittori lowered his chin and a lock of hair grazed his brow as he gave a short nod. “A delight, indeed.”
***
Desdemona spent the next thirty minutes or so being led around the room by the viscountess as she was introduced to each of the houseguests as they arrived. For someone who rarely left the estate and had never socialized in any real sense, it was a whirlwind of smiling faces, odd glances, and awkward small talk.
Everyone seemed to agree with the viscountess that Desdemona was a “delight” and “such a lovely creature.” In fact, the words were spoken so often, they had completely lost their meaning by the time the guests were all called into dinner.
Chapter Five
Leander studied the fair Desdemona throughout the meal, trying to figure out what Isabelle had planned for the poor girl.
She really was as lovely as the viscountess was intent upon insisting.
Despite the dated and ridiculously modest style of her gown, it fit her slim figure perfectly, bringing just enough attention to her gently curved hips and modest bosom. Her hair was dressed simply, but beneath the well-lit chandelier, darker, auburn-like hues became more apparent, adding an unexpected warmth to the light brown tresses. Her dark brown eyes were framed by long, thick lashes but somehow managed to remain reserved and oddly assessing. She was not prone to smiling and instead retained a steady expression of mild curiosity throughout the meal.
Unfortunately for her, Miss Littlefield had been seated between the licentious Lord Rutledge and the dissipated Lord Filbert for dinner. The contrast of the fresh young lady against the two middle-aged roués was almost disturbing. Yet as the meal progressed along its inevitable route amongst this set and the alcohol flowed more freely and the conversation became more shockingly risqué, Leander was surprised to see that Miss Littlefield’s composure never faltered.
At most, she would occasionally glance toward her brother and briefly reveal something akin to disappointment in her eyes before she’d shift her focus to someone else. Strangely, the country innocent didn’t appear particularly scandalized by the Londoners as she observed their overindulgence and increasing debauchery with a stoic gaze. It almost seemed as though she were watching it all as a spectator observing a play.
When it became clear that with the endless bottles of wine rounding the table, the dinner party was not likely to end anytime soon, Miss Littlefield quietly rose to her feet. Passing by her brother’s chair, she spoke a few words to him before continuing from the room.
Like most of the guests, the viscount was so deep in his cups that he barely seemed to make note of her departure.
A few others, however, did notice. Leander, of course, as well as Lord Rutledge, whose cynical gaze openly followed the young woman as she left the room. More disturbing than the aging reprobate’s interest was Isabelle’s as Leander noted the sharp gleam in her eye when she focused her brief attention upon her sister-in-law.
He knew that look. Isabelle had something in mind for the girl and his stepsister’s plots never benefitted anyone but herself.
There had been a time when they were children that he’d believed his new older sister to be one of the brightest, most splendid creatures he’d ever seen. But the illusion had not lasted long. Her skill for deceit and manipulation had been keen even then, when she’d been no more than a girl of fourteen. It had only become more sophisticated in the years since.
He glanced to the viscount, who was slumped down in his seat, the day of drinking finally having caught up with the man as he snored softly into his cravat. Lyndon had obviously developed his own way of escaping his wife’s insatiable need to manipulate the world to suit her whims.
Baron Tyrell leaned over the table toward Leander to whisper with dramatic flair, “What on earth could Lyndon be thinking to allow that pure little sheep amongst so many wolves?”
Tyrell, like his wife, relished scandal in all its forms. If they couldn’t find any to talk about, they created it. Usually together, but not always.
“I suppose it is too much to expect the young woman to be safe in her own home,” Leander replied in a drawl of affected boredom.
The baron laughed, thinking it a jest, while Leander’s forefinger tapped impatiently against the curve of his wineglass.
Isabelle’s voice reached his ears and he turned to see her smiling slyly at Lord Rutledge. “Isn’t she delightful?” she cooed. “So, refreshing and...untouched by the rest of the world.”
“How kind of you, my lady,” Rutledge noted dryly, “to bring the world to Miss Littlefield. Well,” he added with a cunning smile and an elegant gesture of his hand, “the demi-monde, anyway.”
His quip inspired a round of laughter as the vi
scountess signaled for more wine to be brought to the table. The evening was only getting started and Leander suddenly wanted nothing more to do with it. He’d been his stepsister’s pawn and plaything too many times in his youth. He was not going to be a party to whatever she had planned for her sister-in-law.
As he rose to his feet, Isabelle caught his eye. Her smile managed to bring a chill to his bones that he hadn’t experienced in many years. Ignoring the sensation, he left the dining room without a word.
He strolled across the great hall, his steps echoing eerily off the wood-paneled walls. He didn’t get far before the butler silently materialized from his shadowed corner. “Good evening,” the aged servant said in a slow monotone. “Is there anything you require of me, my lord?”
Leander paused. He’d intended to retire, but he realized he wasn’t ready for his bed quite yet. “Only if you know where I can find a good red wine and a little solitude.”
“Of course. This way, my lord.” The tall, stately butler turned and led Leander to a door nestled beside the giant fireplace. Opening the door, he gestured for Leander to enter.
The room was softly lit by only a few candelabra—one set on a marble table right beside the door, one placed at the edge of a large leather-topped desk that stood beside the windows, and another at the far end of the room on a table placed between two overstuffed reading chairs. Two of the four walls were covered floor to ceiling in books. Heavy curtains were drawn over the windows and a moderate warmth emanated from the low-burning fire across the room.
“Will the library do for your purposes?”
Knowing there was little chance the other guests would come in search of a book tonight—or any other night, for that matter—Leander gave a smile. “Quite well. Thank you, ah...?”
“Gerald, my lord,” the man replied with a long, slow bow of his head.
“Thank you, Gerald.”