by Mary Balogh, Jo Beverley, Sandra Heath, Edith Layton, Laura Matthews
“And you’ll be polite to Piers if you meet him?”
“I’m not the one who was ever impolite.”
“Have it that way if you choose, just promise me you’ll be civil to him.”
“Of course I will, Margaret, why are you in such a stew about it? What does it matter if I’m amiable or not?”
“I’m not in a stew,” Margaret replied.
“Yes, you are, and—”
“Goodness, is that the time? I’ve such a lot to do!” Margaret cried, gathering her skirts to hurry from the library.
“Margaret!”
But the door had already closed.
Rebecca turned to go to the window and look out at the windswept December scene. Abbotlea Manor stood at the edge of the village of the same name, and had been the home of the Newton family for two hundred years. The house itself was a rambling red-brick Tudor building, gabled and mullioned, with floors that had become very uneven as the house settled over the years. It was set in gardens that in summer were a riot of roses, but which now looked gray and uninviting as the relentless wet weather gusted dismally across the countryside.
To the west, behind the village, rose the forested hill that separated Newton land from the thousands of acres belonging to the Duke of Almondsbury, while to the north, above a winding river valley that carved through the lower slopes of Dartmoor, was the vast tract owned by Edward’s aristocratic family. The high moor was swathed in cloud, and she could only just make out the battlemented towers of Winterbourne Castle, nestling in the lee of the bleak crag known as High Tor.
Oh, how she loathed that great house, and the people who lived in it, not only for excluding Edward after his marriage to her, but for denying his children as well.
She lowered her gaze to the rain-spattered Christmas roses trembling in the flower bed below the window. She’d planted them the Christmas she and Edward met eight years ago. What a festive season that had been. It had turned everyone’s world upside down, and nothing had been the same since.
It began with the annual Almondsbury Park ball, to which the Newtons wouldn’t have been invited if the duchess hadn’t required to make up numbers. Clifford’s political association with the duke had made him, his wife, and sister seem acceptable, and, just as had happened to her again now, they received a last-minute invitation. Edward had nearly not attended, either, for he’d only been visiting his family at Winterbourne Castle, but the duke had invited him in person when they’d met at the local stag hunt.
So chance brought them both to Almondsbury Castle that Christmas Eve, but when he’d asked her to dance a landler with him, it was as if they’d known each other forever. From that incredible moment on, the famous ball, an occasion steeped in snobbery and etiquette, had become a place to throw caution and propriety to the winds. He’d held her too close, and they’d soon attracted shocked attention as they moved around the floor with their arms entwined. Shock had turned to outrage when, at the end of the dance, he’d taken her beneath one of the mistletoe bunches suspended from the ballroom ceiling and kissed her lingeringly on the lips.
When she accepted his proposal only days later, she hadn’t realized he was defying other betrothal arrangements being painstakingly made for him by his tyrannical uncle, Lord Winterbourne, whose fury had known few bounds. Such was the offense taken by his lordship, that Edward had been immediately forbidden to set foot in the castle again, and had been completely cut out of the will. Lord Winterbourne let it be widely known that he considered his nephew’s union with a young woman from the lower ranks of Devon gentry to be a misalliance of monstrous proportions. Society took its cue, and the old man must have been gratified by the extent of his success when his nephew and his nephew’s new bride were shunned by everyone of note. The one thing that pinched Lord Winterbourne to the quick was the fact that Edward wasn't financially dependent upon him, but had sufficient income from his late mother’s estate to thumb his nose at the spiteful old despot.
Rebecca continued to gaze at the Christmas roses. She and Edward hadn’t been the ones to suffer because of Lord Winterbourne’s wrath. Clifford had suffered too, seeing his hopes of becoming a member of parliament dashed beyond redemption. Until the fateful Christmas ball, he’d been in favor with the duke, who had a constituency in his gift. But after the ball, the duke withdrew his support, and Clifford had seen someone else receive the patronage that had hitherto been his.
She drew a long breath. Clifford’s relegation to the political wilderness would soon be over, for Sir Oliver had influence at Westminster, and had intimated to her that if she became Lady Willoughby, he’d put her brother’s name forward where it mattered. So, not only would her second marriage take care of her and her children, it would go some way toward repaying the immense debt she felt she owed to Clifford and Margaret for the blows they’d received because of their loyalty to her.
Her thoughts moved to the Winterbourne family. How cruel and heartless they were, never forgiving or forgetting. They’d ignored Edward’s wedding, the births of his sons, and almost his funeral as well. Almost, but not quite. Edward’s cousin, Piers, the new Lord Winterbourne, had arrived disgracefully late, and left insultingly early. It would have been better—and less hypocritical—if he hadn’t bothered to come at all.
A sad light entered her eyes as she thought of Piers, whose opposition to her had been as vehement as his odious father’s. She’d found his antagonism as hurtful as it was unexpected, for until he’d learned of her closeness to Edward, he’d been very different. There had never been a great deal of contact between Abbotlea Manor and Winterbourne Castle, just the average communication between two such unequal but neighboring estates. She’d been sixteen before she even met Piers, but unlike his supercilious father, he’d always been civil and agreeable. Her encounters with him had become increasingly frequent whenever he was in residence at the castle, and each meeting had served to make her like him more. Which was why, when her name became linked with his cousin, his sudden hostility had cut so very deep.
She glanced a little guiltily at her wedding ring, which shone palely in the gray morning light. Then she put her hand crossly behind her. She wouldn’t dwell on the past, she wouldn’t! The future was what mattered now, and Piers Winterbourne could rot for all she cared. She was glad he found the hothouse life of London’s haut ton so much to his liking, for it meant he rarely graced Devon with his presence. But when he did come here, his penchant for long rides in the surrounding countryside frequently took him through Abbotlea village, where from time to time they’d come uncomfortably face to face.
Oh, the devil take him! Turning, she went back to the desk to resume her attempts at letter writing, but almost immediately she was interrupted again, although this time not by the invisible hand. Instead there was the whirlwind arrival of her sons, Matthew and Frederick. Aged seven and six respectively, and dark-haired and dark-eyed like her, they rushed in, arguing noisily over ownership of a toy soldier.
She had no option but to abandon Sir Oliver’s letter in order to mediate. But as she put the quill down once and for all that day, she was sure she heard someone give a low laugh. A cold finger ran down her spine, and again she looked uneasily around the room. But there was just the boisterous and increasingly tearful arguing of two small boys.
It was to be the following afternoon before she at last wrote and dispatched the letter of acceptance to Sir Oliver, who she soon learned hadn’t been in the least discreet about his proposal, or about his conviction that she’d become Lady Willoughby. As far as he was concerned, it was a fait accompli, and all that remained was to enjoy the physical pleasures of actual union!
She was right too about his being behind her invitation to the ball, and about his reveling in the stir caused by news of the impending betrothal. He told everyone he met, so that word had spread all over Dartmoor by the time her letter arrived at Willoughby Castle. One place it didn’t reach because of Sir Oliver’s indiscretion was Winterbourne Castle,
for no one was keen to be the bearer of such tidings concerning Edward Winterbourne’s widow.
But within an hour of Rebecca’s conversation with Margaret, someone in Abbotlea Manor itself dispatched a note to Piers at the castle. The note contained news of both Rebecca’s invitation to the ball and her imminent betrothal, and arrived just as he was about to take luncheon in the castle’s lofty, beamed dining room. The news robbed him of any appetite.
His blue eyes darkened as he read the hastily written lines. He sat back in his richly carved Jacobean armchair, his fingers beginning to drum loudly on the table. He was tall, lean, and muscular, with the thick blond hair and rugged good looks of all the Winterbourne men. Aristocratic in bearing and graceful in manner, he wore a superbly tailored sky-blue coat and cream breeches that were set off to perfection by a blue-striped neckcloth and sapphire pin.
He suddenly felt the need to escape from the castle confines, and glanced up at the footman who’d brought the note on a silver salver. “Have my horse saddled. I’ve decided to spend the afternoon riding.”
“My lord.”
As the man hastened away, Piers got up and ripped the note into tiny pieces, but as he threw them on the fire, they seemed to hover willfully away from the heat. For seconds on end they danced in the air like tiny butterflies, apparently self-supporting.
Startled, he drew back, but as he watched they sank onto the logs, where they caught flame. All except one, which lay among the ashes in the hearth. The single word written clearly upon it seemed to command his attention in the moments before it too succumbed to the heat. Rebecca.
While Piers was out on his ride, Rebecca and her sons emerged from Abbotlea Manor to gather holly and mistletoe to decorate the house. It was an annual expedition to a particular tree along the riverbank just outside the village, where the ancient trees of an adjacent cider-apple orchard bore masses of mistletoe.
The weather was still appalling, but the wind and rain seemed to suit the boys’ exuberance as they dashed ahead of their mother and then came racing back again with squeals of laughter. They wore matching clothes, dark blue coats and gray tasseled caps, and glowed with health and energy as they played peekaboo among the bushes along the riverside path.
Rebecca’s mulberry wool cloak flapped wildly around her, and the wind tugged so fiercely she had difficulty keeping the fur-trimmed hood over her dark curls. She smiled as Matthew at last spotted the holly tree, and grabbed his little brother’s hand to run toward it. They’d already picked armsful of holly by the time she reached them. Then, leaving the sprays on the wet grass, they dashed off again, this time scrambling over a stile into the orchard.
She’d been watching them for a few minutes when something, she didn’t know what, made her turn suddenly to look across the river. A cloaked man was standing on the other bank. She could tell by his general demeanor that he was elderly, but didn’t know who he was because his face was in shadow from his top hat. His long cloak billowed in the wind, and he was absolutely motionless. She knew he was staring at her, because she could almost feel his unwavering gaze, but he didn’t raise a hand in greeting, or doff his hat.
As he continued to stand there, a feeling of unease began to seep through her, and she was so intent, she didn’t hear the horse approaching. She knew nothing until Piers suddenly greeted her. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Winterbourne.”
The moment he spoke, the cloaked man disappeared. She was looking directly at him, but he just vanished. Startled, she cast around, half-expecting to see him striding away toward the village. But the meadows opposite were empty.
Collecting her wits, she made herself turn to Piers. “Good afternoon, Lord Winterbourne.” He was mounted on a restive bay thoroughbred, which he controlled with almost casual ease, and instinct told her he hadn’t seen anyone on the other riverbank. Perhaps the cloaked man had just been a trick of the light. Yes, that was it.
Piers removed his top hat, and his blond hair was bright, even on such a gray, overcast day. She was suddenly reminded so forcefully of Edward—and of her own deeply buried secrets—that she had to glance away.
The silence grew heavy. “I trust I find you well?” he asked at last.
She gave a faint smile at that. “Do you?” she murmured. Why hadn’t he simply ridden around the other side of the orchard? Why hadn’t he stayed in London!
“Yes, I do.”
“Please don’t attempt to indulge in small talk, my lord, for it rests exceedingly uneasily between us.”
“Very well, I’ll come straight to the point. Among other things, I’m given to understand you’ve been invited to the Almondsbury Castle ball. Is this correct?”
“It is.”
“Do you intend to be there?”
Her dark eyes were quizzical. “Why? Will it embarrass you if I am?” she inquired.
“No, I merely wish to know.”
“Then, yes, sir, I intend to be there, and if that offends you, I make no apology.”
“Did I say it offended me?”
“You didn’t need to.”
“Clearly I’ve made a grave error in trying to smooth things over with you,” he observed coolly.
“Is that what you’re doing?” Her dark eyes were full of disbelief.
“I didn’t have to make a point of speaking to you.”
“That’s very true, so I wonder why you took the trouble.”
“Perhaps I’m tired of the ill feeling.”
She raised a scornful eyebrow. “Indeed? Well, may I remind you that you, your father, and your entire family were the cause of that ill feeling?”
“True, but your own family wasn’t exactly ecstatic,” he reminded her.
“Edward and I proved you all wrong,” she replied defiantly.
“Neither of you proved anything I didn’t know already,” he observed enigmatically.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded, wishing again that he’d go away. Nothing changed. He’d always had the unerring ability to affect her, and always would.
He didn’t answer, but looked away toward the boys in the orchard. She couldn’t help studying him. She supposed he must be thirty-five now, in his prime, some might say, and they’d be right, for he seemed more handsome and lithely masculine than ever. London life hadn’t made a fop of him; he was every inch the man, every inch the aristocrat. Why did he always have to look so superb? Why couldn’t he have mud on his boots for once? Who else but Piers Winterbourne could ride for miles in weather like this without looking like something dragged through a hedge?
He spoke, but on a change of subject. “Your sons are a credit to you, Mrs. Winterbourne.”
“I’m surprised you recognize them, sir,” she observed dryly.
Irritation flashed through his gaze as it swung back to her. “How bitter you are, to be sure.”
“Justifiably so.”
“Indeed?”
She looked away again. “I believe congratulations are in order,” she said then.
“Congratulations?”
“I understand you are soon to be married.”
“There’s nothing definite.” He toyed with his reins. “Since marriage is the subject of the day, I gather I should be congratulating you too.”
His knowledge caught her off guard, for she hadn’t yet discovered the extent of Sir Oliver’s premature tongue-wagging. “How did you hear?”
He ignored the question. “So it’s true?”
“Yes.”
“A very unwise move, Mrs. Winterbourne. Willoughby isn’t for you.”
“Nor was Edward, it seems. Just who, in your considered opinion, would be for me, my lord?” she asked icily.
He gave the thinnest of smiles. “Someone younger than Willoughby, and without Edward’s fecklessness,” he said.
“You aren’t fit to criticize Edward, sirrah!” she replied sharply.
“Possibly, but I’m certainly entitled.”
She didn’t reply.
He smiled. “
The point goes to me, I think,” he murmured.
“I wish you’d go away, sir, for you and I have nothing worthwhile to say to each other. I intend to avoid you at the ball, and trust you’ll do the same for me.”
“Madam, on this occasion your wish is most definitely my command. You have my word upon it. Good day to you.” Tugging his top hat back on his head, he turned his impatient horse away, urging it to a reckless gallop along the riverbank.
Tears stung her eyes as she watched him. He was the bane of her life, and always would be. The only road that mattered led back to him, and she resented it with all her heart. She turned away. He could only be the bane of her life if she allowed him to be! No one knew what went on in the depths of her soul, no one, except her, and that was how it would remain. Forever.
Suddenly the hand was placed on her shoulder again, shaking her urgently for a moment before releasing her. Terrified, she cried out and whirled around to see if anyone was there. But, of course, there wasn’t. She tried to tell herself she was still imagining it all, but in her heart knew better. Someone, or something, kept seizing her shoulder, and right now she could actually feel the imprint of those ghostly fingers. Ghostly? Yes, for what other word could describe it?
She remembered the cloaked man, and her gaze flew across the river, but the other bank remained deserted. In her mind’s eye she could still see him, though, and with hindsight, he seemed somehow familiar. No, that was foolish, for he’d been swathed in a long cloak, with his face completely in shadow. And yet...
Matthew and Frederick shouted as they climbed back over the stile with armsful of mistletoe. Somehow she managed a bright smile as they raced toward her.