And the substantial bulge in his pantaloons.
Adaira pinched the back of her hand to stop her wayward thoughts.
Enough! What is wrong with me?
It served no purpose to dwell on those moments in the stable. She needed to focus on the present and how she’d endure a month under the same roof as his lordship. He didn’t think her capable of behaving like a lady. Her ardent responses in the stable hadn’t lent to that opinion, now had they?
A smile tugged her lips upwards. She’d charm his lordship’s socks off.
Oh, you just wait and see, your Royal Pompousness. I’ll be the quintessence of tonnish decorum.
Her gaze returned to the immaculate grounds. Heaven forbid there be a weed or spent flower amongst the groomed beds. No doubt the earl required the deer and squirrels, even the birds and bees, to ask permission before they were allowed access to the charming gardens.
She could almost hear his condescending voice as he addressed the creatures.
Please do take care not to trod upon the flowers or leave any droppings.
Truthfully, the beautiful grounds were a startling contrast to the austerity of the mansion’s outer facade. When she’d arrived early yesterday evening, the manor had been bathed in a misty rain. The structure sat beneath the sunless sky, the same dismal shade of pewter gray as the heavens above. From without, the monstrous house appeared unwelcoming, almost hostile. Its dark windows reflected no light, like great soulless eyes. A shiver had tripped across her shoulders.
She wasn’t being fanciful. The place emanated unhappiness.
They were admitted to the manor by a one-armed, stooped shouldered butler. Despite his physical restrictions, the man bore an air of poised dignity. With an infinitesimal bending of his lips, he intoned, “Welcome to Cadbury Park. I am Westbrook.”
He bowed deeply. “If you have need of anything at all, please let me know. His lordship’s greatest desire is that you enjoy your stay.”
A stunning circular entry, complete with a glossy black marble floor and eight Roman pillars, boasted a crystal chandelier that was every bit of six feet tall. It loomed overhead, dead center of the entrance hall. Craning her neck, Adaira suppressed a gasp of astonishment. A domed window atop the entry filtered what light the late afternoon offered. The chandelier’s prisms would create a glorious web of color when the sun struck it from above.
Dual ornately carved staircases leading to the upper wings graced the opposite side of the entry. Two pocket doors, one on either side of the entrance hall revealed a drawing room and library.
A flash of movement caught her eye. Adaira surreptitiously peeked into the library.
Good heavens, was that an owl? Perched in a large cage, the pigeon-sized bird was mottled chestnut brown and white. It blinked its great dark eyes at her, then rotated its head nearly all the way around.
Two more doors, closed to curious eyes, were positioned near the staircases. Beyond the stairs were several more doorways. An assortment of luxurious chairs and glossy tables were strategically placed throughout the grand entrance. Lush bouquets graced several of the tabletops. In comparison, Craiglocky’s furnishings seemed outdated and worn.
Comfortable though, and unpretentious.
Unlike the room she’d been assigned as her bedchamber.
Decorated in shades of green, ivory, and peach, the chamber shouted opulence from the lush jade carpet she stood upon—the exact shade of the moors at dawn—to the thick peach and cream counterpane. Silk papered walls, resplendent with impossibly detailed images of tropical birds and plants, paled against the gilded gold framed paintings and mirrors. Even the furnishings, tinted a pale eggshell, were embellished with flowering vines.
“The carriages be waiting, Miss Adaira.” Maisey held a straw bonnet. The crown was adorned with a slew of pale blue, white, and lavender silk roses. They matched the lavender braiding edging Adaira’s blue spencer.
Taking the bonnet from Maisey, Adaira’s lips twisted wryly. “I look like a great confection.”
“Nae, ye look grand.” Maisey cocked her head. “Are ye sure yer jacket won’t be too hot?”
Would it?
“You may be right. Why don’t you fetch my gauze shawl, Maisey? I’ll take it along as well. Yesterday was too warm by far. I’ve no idea how much shade is available along the lake’s edge.”
Adaira searched the landscape with a blasé eye, noting several tall groves of trees in the distance near the lake. Her gaze lit on the magnificent stables and meadows a good ways from the manor house. Fionn, his sleek ebony mane streaming behind him and legs stretched into a full run, streaked across a meadow.
Braggart.
Three mares, including the one she’d met in Craiglocky’s stables, galloped behind him.
Trollops.
Fiend seize it. She’d lost that battle. Never had she felt so betrayed by her family. Where was their allegiance? Lord Clarendon snapped his fingers, and they fawned all over him.
Forcing her to stud Fionn with the earl’s mares was outside of enough. Now, she’d forever be linked to His Regal Stuffiness. She ran her practiced gaze over the mares. From here, they looked to be prime steppers. That rankled. She’d hoped his lordship’s horses would be sway-backed queer prancers.
Adaira took the bonnet. Setting it on her head, she loosely tied the wide ribbon to the right of her chin.
After tugging on her gloves, she gathered her reticule, her parasol, and a book of Coleridge’s poems. She’d no intention of reading, but the book afforded her an excuse to bury her nose in its musty pages and ignore the earl. Taking the shawl from the maid, Adaira draped it over one arm.
Due to their late arrival last night, she’d been spared dining with her host. Fortune surely wouldn’t smile on her as benevolently from this point onward. Most of the guests were arriving for the ball today or tomorrow. His lordship had insisted she be present for the event. It would be one taxing gathering upon another, every day, for thirty days.
With no hope of reprieve.
Torturous.
She’d overheard one of the upstairs maids tell Maisey one hundred guests were expected to stay at least two weeks. In excess of three hundred were invited to the ball. Adaira cringed. Did he have to invite that many people?
Gads. It made her head spin.
Firming her lips, Adaira closed her eyes. She inhaled slowly. She could do this. God help her, she must. The perfume from two enormous vases of flowers teased her nostrils. She sneezed, her eyes popping open.
She sighed. “I’ll wear the ivory mull with the silver embroidery tonight, Maisey.”
The latest fashion, the gown was modest and sophisticated—the essence of the role she was compelled to assume.
“Aye, miss. I’ll hang it to air.” The lady’s maid dutifully headed to the wardrobe.
“Thank you.”
Adaira left her chamber, her contemplation returning to the source of her agitation. She’d insisted on introducing Fionn to Lord Clarendon’s stables. She refused to utter more than a half dozen words to his lordship as she did so.
She sighed again while slipping her reticule’s drawstrings over her wrist. Surliness was out of the question from this point onward. She was determined to be the epitome of ladylike conduct and, perchance, shorten her term of indenture.
Toward that end, she plastered a demure smile on her face and made her way to the waiting carriages. Not so much as one peevish word would fall from her lips.
She could do it.
All she had to do was avoid Lord Clarendon at every turn.
Leaning against the fence of one of Cadbury’s many pastures, Roark extended his hand. The mare greedily snatched the apple from his palm. He’d purchased the ancient nag he’d ridden into Craigcutty and turned her out to pasture. She�
��d never carry a rider again. She was in good company. A blind mule, a deaf sheep, and two arthritic plow horses were her new companions.
In the adjoining field, Fionn, Tenacity, and two of Roark’s largest mares romped happily. He grinned. Adaira’s eyes had snapped with fury when she led the stallion to his stall in Cadbury’s stables last evening. Roark allowed her the small concession. He didn’t need her raising a breeze her first day here.
A hard knock against the back of his knees made him grip the fencepost for balance. Guinevere’s cold nose snuffled his hand, then his coat pocket. Roark chuckled. “Yes, old girl, I’ve a treat for you too.”
He patted her shaggy head. The dog, tail wagging furiously and tongue lolling, turned her head to look at him with her good eye.
The rattle of carriage wheels on stone drew his attention to the courtyard. Helene’s driver expertly tooled the conveyance to the front of the manor where the barouche joined another pair of barouches, as well as three wagonettes, two wagons laden with picnicking supplies, and a landau.
Why were the supplies still here? They ought to have gone on ahead to prepare for his guests’ arrival. A maid scurried from the house and handed Westbrook a basket before she climbed into the wagon. Roark grinned as his diligent butler lifted the cloth and peered inside before giving a sharp nod of his head.
Evidently something had been forgotten. Westbrook returned the hamper to the maid, then spoke to the wagons’ drivers. A moment later, the vehicles lurched and rumbled down the lane.
Several guests loitered about the circular drive while others had already been directed to their seats by his footmen, Oscar and Thom. Both walked with slight limps, a result of wounds acquired during the war with the French. A few gentlemen, including Luxmoore and the Fergusons, chose to ride horseback rather than in an equipage.
The picnic party was relatively small, perhaps thirty in all. Those present consisted primarily of the local gentry. A few intended to stay at the manor, but most would seek their homes at the end of the day and return for tomorrow’s activities. The house would be swollen with guests come nightfall, however.
Roark’s gaze roved the monstrosity that was his home. Even washed in sunlight, the place reminded him of a tomb. There had been so little joy within its walls. A familiar pang wrenched his heart.
Just then, Adaira emerged from the entrance. Roark’s breath hung suspended for a moment. Breathtaking in a white and blue gown and blue spencer edged with lavender, a smile lit her radiant face. She lightly skipped down the steps, almost stumbling over a pair of frolicking kittens. She regained her balance and paused to stroke each of their mottled backs. Raising her head, she smiled and headed for the carriage containing her family.
Thom approached her saying, “Miss, over here, please.” With a sweep of his hunter green clad arm, he directed her to the landau instead. Confusion skittered across her beautiful face. She shrugged her shoulders, and waving her fingers at her mother and sisters, dutifully followed him. After handing her into the vehicle, Thom bowed smartly before making his way to Westbrook’s side.
Once Adaira adjusted her skirts, she opened her parasol and covertly scrutinized the other guests. She almost seemed shy, using the contraption as a protective barrier against the many inquisitive glances sent her way. A peculiar urge to protect her assailed Roark.
Helene spied him and began waving her handkerchief enthusiastically. She turned and said something to the balding man sitting beside her. Annoyance pinched his face. He grudgingly moved to the opposite seat, already occupied by a younger gentleman holding a squirming dachshund puppy. The men must be the Austrian relatives she’d mentioned were coming for a visit.
Roark strode toward the mansion, his lips turned up slightly. Helene expected him to ride with her. He had other plans—discussing the breeding venture with Adaira, to be precise. Confined to the same vehicle for the two miles it took to reach the lake, she’d be forced to hear him out. With the other guests also in open-topped carriages, there would be no question of impropriety.
As he drew close, the guests not yet in a vehicle scurried to find their places. He approached Helene’s barouche. She scooted over, brushing her skirts aside to make room for him. Leaning forward, providing him and any other male within viewing distance a clear view of her ample cleavage, she curled her mouth into a seductive smile.
“My lord, allow me to introduce my cousin, Count Otto von Schnitzer and his son, Freidrick. Otto darling, this is the neighbor I’ve told you so much about. Roark, the Earl. . .”
Yelping, the puppy escaped the younger man’s arms and jumped to the floor. Cowering in the corner, head lowered, its entire body quaked in terror.
Roark considered Freidrick. From the corny-faced rash covering the lad’s face, he guessed the whelp to be about eight and ten. The boy’s expression was one of bored arrogance. He regarded Roark with the haughtiness of one who is overly indulged and fully aware of his elevated station.
Helene glared at her cousin. “I told you not to bring that beast along.”
Distaste written on her face, she edged the terrified dog away from her with her toe. Freidrick grabbed the pup by the nape of her neck, causing another yap of pain.
“Stillsitze,” he growled harshly.
He forced the puppy to sit on his lap, his hands clamped around her small brownish-red form. She whimpered, regarding Roark with soulful brown eyes.
His gut knotted, and he fisted his hands. One more cry from that pathetic animal, and—
As if he read Roark’s thoughts, Freidrick made a pretense of gently petting the dog, a cocky smile skewing his petulant mouth. Insolent cur.
The count had yet to say a word in reprimand to his son. He stared over Roark’s shoulder, a salacious smile curving his thin lips. His bulbous eyes glowed with lust. Roark followed von Schnitzer’s gaze.
Adaira sat demurely in the landau. Her gaze roamed the wagons, locking onto Roark’s for a lengthy moment before widening in fright when she met the count’s eyes. She dropped her attention to her lap. Roark didn’t miss the flush staining her cheeks, or her hand clenching around the parasol’s handle.
Odd, she appeared truly disconcerted.
Westbrook passed near the landau. She spoke to him. He paused, spearing Roark an almost indiscernible look, before answering. Even from where he stood, Roark saw her stiffen and strain settle on her face. She jutted her adorable chin upward, and sparks flew from her expressive eyes.
No doubt about it. She’d learned who she’d be sharing the landau with. Blast Westbrook’s efficiency.
Helene stared at the butler making his way to her carriage. “I cannot imagine why you surround yourself with all these . . . these decrepit souls, my lord.”
Her strident voice demanded Roark’s attention.
He glanced at her. She shifted her position, and her breasts heaved upward with the movement. Was it because he’d become accustomed to Adaira’s slenderness or was Helene even more rounded? She stared at Westbrook, the merest hint of distaste etched on her beautiful face.
Count von Schnizter yawned, making no effort to cover his mouth, before muttering, “I’d prefer to not expose my son to das undesirable riffraff.”
He ran his forefinger along his thin mustache.
Or himself, Roark wagered, irked at the count’s arrogance.
Roark had hand-selected every member of his staff. After his sire’s death, he’d dismissed the entire household without references. Not once had any of them made a single effort to aid him or his mother. They’d been more concerned with their monthly wages, turning a deaf ear and blind eye to the abuse doled out by their employer.
Instead, Roark offered positions to those no one else would consider for employment. His compassion resulted in a fiercely loyal, as well as competent, household.
Helene wiggled her
gloved fingers imperiously at the butler and footmen. “Surely there are places for their kind,” she whispered.
She’d never voiced this attitude before. Roark considered her for a moment. A poised, attractive woman, with no hint of malice in her lovely eyes looked back at him. Had lust blinded him to her true nature? Was she trying to impress the count by ridiculing others? That spoke volumes about both of them.
Roark adjusted his hat, and tugged his gloves on more firmly, lest he say what burned on his tongue. Resting a hand on the barouche’s side, he smiled at her.
“You are absolutely correct, Mrs. Winthrop.”
The Earl's Enticement (Castle Bride Series) Page 18