by Amy Sandas
Leander turned with a glass of cognac in hand. Isabelle had always taken a particular thrill in tormenting him with subtle lashes of her sharp tongue. But it had been years since her attempts did anything more than cause a brief prick of annoyance.
He intentionally swept his gaze over her in a perusal that was just shy of being rude before he provided a nonchalant reply. “They all must learn eventually that they cannot always have what they desire most.”
Isabelle’s gaze tightened, but her response was cut off when someone else gave a blustering retort, “No man can have the number of bedpartners Vittori is reported to have. His exploits are more exaggerated rumor than fact.”
Leander took a long sip of his cognac while he slid an amused glance toward Lord Filbert, a dissipated man of middle-aged years who was well past his prime though he refused to acknowledge it.
“You must be speaking of yourself, Filbert,” interjected Baroness Tyrell with a sultry tone and a heated glance that caressed Leander from head to toe. “Rumor and fact are one and the same when it comes to Count Vittori,” she purred.
Leander returned her appreciative look with one of his own as he lifted his glass in silent salute.
“It appears not all of your admirers have been abandoned in London,” Isabelle observed with a cunning smile. She gave a playful swat at Leander’s arm before gliding elegantly across the room to the bleary-eyed viscount’s side. “But surely, there are more titillating subjects to discuss than my dear brother’s sexual conquests.”
“I doubt it,” drawled Baroness Tyrell’s lean-featured husband.
Giving the baron a quick wink, Leander addressed the room as a whole. “If you’ll please excuse me. I shall leave you to speculate about my intimate activities without me. I’m in need of a little restoration after my trek across the moors.”
Taking his cognac with him, he sauntered from the room.
The Lyndons’ friends were fine in small doses, but lengthy exposure tended to give Leander a sour taste in his mouth. I was a testament to the depth of his craving for diversion that he had even agreed to this holiday. Considering he would be in their company for an extended visit, it was best to ration his time wisely.
In the mood for a bit of exploration, Leander decided to go in search of the housekeeper himself rather than choosing to wait for the silent butler to appear.
Heading toward the back of the long-vaulted hall, he noted a narrow hallway extending into the shadows behind the fireplace. It seemed as likely as anything to lead to the servants’ domain in a place like this. Sipping his cognac, he made his way down the wood-paneled corridor.
The hallway was unlit by any candles and the air was eerily still and quiet.
Just when he’d decided the hallway did not appear to be heading where he’d thought it would, he heard a hushed sound coming from around the corner up ahead. At the same time, the air seemed to stir around him, bringing with it the sharp scent of cloud-filled skies, damp earth, and wind-battered wildflowers.
Despite the prickling chill that lifted the hair on his nape, Leander continued forward, inexplicably compelled to discover what lay ahead. As he drew nearer, a barely discernable sigh slid through the near darkness to gently caress Leander’s ears.
A corresponding tingle of awareness danced down his spine.
Not that he truly believed in such things...but this house, with its subtle layer of ancient history covered by a modern façade, would be the perfect place for a haunting.
He turned the corner slowly and found himself in a small vestibule containing a door that was open to the courtyard beyond, allowing the misty wind to sweep inside. He was just about to step forward to close the door when the young woman he’d encountered on the moors crossed the threshold.
It might have been the uncertain dusky light filtering through the narrow space or the fact that his mind had already settled on thoughts of the supernatural. It also could have been the nature of the woman herself as she turned to look at him with dark, soulful eyes, a tangle of brown hair, and skin made pale by the chill of outdoors.
Whatever it was, Leander couldn’t hold back the words that rose to his lips. “I’m not sure if I’m blessed or cursed to come upon your haunting apparition twice in one day.”
The woman didn’t respond to his half jest with a laugh as he expected, nor did she appear particularly surprised to see him there. Instead, she cocked her head to one side and noted simply, “Ghosts never appear in this wing of the house.”
He lowered his chin and smiled. “So, you are flesh and blood then?”
“Of course.” She shrugged free of her oversized coat and hung it on a peg jutting out from the wall, revealing a slim figure of modest curves before she turned to pull the door closed and ensconced them in darkness.
“There should be no reason for guests to venture into this area,” she noted with a hint of censure in her voice. The words came from closer than he’d expected as she moved past him unseen.
Leander turned toward her, willing his vision to acclimate to the darkness. “I was looking for the kitchens,” he replied, lowering his voice to match the odd intimacy of the interaction.
“Then this time you are lost.”
He smiled. “I was actually searching for the housekeeper to take me to my room. Perhaps you would show me the way?” The idea of spending a bit more time with the intriguing young woman had become rather appealing.
There was a long pause following his question during which Leander began to make out her dusky form in the deeper shadows. Oddly, her pale face was higher than he expected as if she were floating a couple feet off the ground.
“I suppose I can do that,” she finally replied, though her acquiescence was obviously reluctant. “All of the guests were given rooms in the east wing. Follow me.”
Turning in place, her vague form walked away from him, continuing to rise for a few steps before she disappeared once again.
Abandoned in the uncertain darkness, Leander whispered a curse beneath his breath as he took a tentative step forward.
“Mind the steps. They’re a bit uneven.” Her softly textured voice echoed in the close chamber.
Taking another careful stride, he encountered the first step of what proved to be a spiral stone staircase. The strange woman waited for him on the next level, which was gratefully lit by a single wall sconce.
“This way,” she said, leading him through another hallway, this one wider and shorter than the corridor he’d traversed below, but paneled in the same dark polished wood. Pushing open a large door, she brought them into a solemn portrait gallery lined with dozens and dozens of paintings on one side with a long row of windows on the other. The windows had heavy drapes that could be closed against the damaging sun but were currently left open to allow in the fading light of dusk.
“Quite a collection,” Leander noted.
She replied without turning around. “The residents of Bilberry Hall have a long and winding history that goes back to a time before the Conqueror.”
“I see,” Leander replied as he followed her through the echoing gallery. Noting the muddied hem of her dress, he asked, “Do you walk the moors frequently?”
“Twice a day, usually. Depending on the status of my work.”
They’d reached the far end of the gallery and she opened the double doors with ease before Leander could offer his assistance. With only a quick glance in his direction, she continued across another smaller room that contained an array of marble statuary. There were four full-sized depictions of various themes—two men engaged in mortal battle, a couple in a rapt embrace, a lush woman carrying a large urn atop her head, and a man with a dagger and shield with his defeated foe laid out at his feet. Several pedestals holding busts of men and women alike took up position in the spaces between the larger pieces.
Leander was tempted to slow his pace and get a better look at the statues, but his guide continued without pause. Apparently, this was no leisurely tour of the house.
At the opposite end of the room, they exited onto a wide landing between two flights of stairs. They appeared to have reached the main stairway he’d seen from the great hall.
Leander stepped up beside her as they began their ascent to the third floor. “I hope I haven’t taken you away from any vital tasks,” he said.
She gave him a curious look. “You haven’t.”
Leander flashed a winning smile, hoping to inspire more than the casual reaction he’d gotten from her so far. He was accustomed to rousing a flash of sensual interest in most people he met, yet he’d not detected even the slightest flicker in this one. “I would hate for you to be reprimanded for abandoning your work on my account.”
The curiosity in her gaze shifted to slight amusement. “I’m hardly likely to reprimand myself.” Before Leander could decipher her reply, she stopped at the top of the stairs and gestured down a wide hallway that ran the length of both the marble room and portrait gallery below. “This is the guest wing,” she noted, turning back to face him more fully in the gas-lit hall. Her brown eyes met his without diffidence. “Do you have a name?”
“I do,” Leander replied with another smile, finding himself charmed by her strange and unexpected manner. He tucked one hand behind his back and gave a courtly gesture with the other as he offered an abbreviated yet still perfectly executed bow. “Count Leander Vittori, at your service.”
Her brows lifted briefly, though she didn’t appear particularly impressed. “The viscount’s brother-in-law?”
“Stepbrother-in-law.”
She studied him intently for a moment—her dark eyes seeming to acknowledge something he hadn’t yet grasped—before her lips curved in a way that wasn’t quite a smile, though he suspected it was meant to be. “Then we are family,” she stated simply.
Leander’s smile tilted as he wondered if she might be a bit daft as well as odd. “How so?”
“I am the viscount’s sister,” she replied before turning to lead him farther down the thick carpeted hall.
Leander stood for a few moments in stunned silence before he followed after her.
Lyndon had a sister?
Chapter Three
Desdemona closed the door to her private apartments and took a steadying breath.
Though she had been expecting the London visitors for more than a week, she still wasn’t quite prepared for the intrusion. She’d intentionally taken extra-long walks today to avoid being at the manor when everyone arrived. Not the actions of a gracious hostess, but she figured it was justified considering these weren’t her guests.
Judging by the numerous carriages and unfamiliar horses in the stables, she’d nearly succeeded.
If not for Count Vittori.
When he’d approached her on the moors, his longish black hair had been tousled by the wind, making him look wild and slightly untamed despite his fine clothing. His deep-set, blue-grey eyes had been far too brazenly assessing. The rich, slightly accented undertones in his voice had implied the kind of knowledge and experience Desdemona had only read about. And when he’d curved his mouth....
There had been something unabashedly sinful in his smile. Something dangerous.
Something that had triggered an acute and intense reaction within her. Despite the chill of the moorland wind, her blood had run hot and her brain had gone soft in a way she’d never experienced before.
Vittori’s effect on her had been startling.
She’d hoped to have the chance to analyze her reaction before another encounter with him. But no more than an hour later, there he was again.
And in her private wing, no less.
Of course, the man hadn’t known it was her wing. It’s not as if she’d hung a banner or anything. It was just the oldest part of the manor and her favorite.
Unfortunately, he’d proven to be even more intensely affecting up close. Her body had practically hummed in response to his nearness. She had never been so physically aware of another person before.
It was disconcerting.
As was the shift in his expression when she’d told him who she was.
She’d almost asked him outright why he’d looked so surprised but managed to hold back the words. Her questions were sometimes intrusive when she didn’t intend them to be and had a way of making people uncomfortable. Even if she was less than thrilled by having so many strangers in her house, she didn’t want to do anything that would make her brother’s guests feel unwelcome.
She pushed away from the door and took a seat on the captain’s chair standing sentry in the short hallway that led to her personal rooms. After untying the laces of her muddied boots, she set them on the thatched mat beside the chair, then stood and walked stocking-foot into the next room, a spacious yet cozy sitting room furnished with her favorite of the antique pieces she had discovered in the attics one summer.
Beyond that was her private study, formerly the armory, with the enormous leather-topped mahogany desk that had once been her great-grandfather’s and endless stacks of books piled on every surface and in every available nook.
Though she was tempted to pause and glance over her notes from earlier that day, she continued past her desk to the door tucked into the corner behind it and entered her bedroom. Crossing the thick Persian rug of her private sanctum, she glanced out the window at the darkening sky.
Dinner was going to be served later than usual as the viscountess had made it clear they intended to keep London hours for the full duration of their visit, which was fine by Desdemona because it meant she would have far less opportunity to encounter anyone unless she chose to do so. It also gave her plenty of time to get a little more work done after she cleaned up.
Twenty-five minutes later, a steaming bath was set up in front of the fireplace in Desdemona’s bedroom. She’d already stripped off her muddied clothes and stood in her underthings with a blanket wrapped around her as Mary, one of the upstairs maids, arranged the soaps and towels beside the bathtub.
Straightening with a smile, Mary asked, “Would you like me to brush through your hair before you wash it, miss?”
“Yes, thank you,” Desdemona replied as she dropped the blanket and released the ties on her shift. Once naked, she quickly lowered herself into the heated water, lifting her hair away to drop it over the rim of the tub.
The maid took up position on a stool behind her and detangled the pins holding the hair away from her face. Desdemona closed her eyes as Mary started to drag the brush through the endless tangles.
After a few minutes, she asked, “Has the viscount arrived with the others?”
“He has.”
“Has he inquired about me?”
There was a pause in the pull of the brush and Desdemona knew the answer before Mary gave it. “No, miss. Not that I know of.”
If the viscount had asked any of the manor’s servants about his younger sister’s well-being or whereabouts, Mary would have known about it. In a household serviced by the same minimal amount of staff for nearly a decade, the servants became closer than family.
Well, closer to family than any Desdemona had ever had.
“And Lady Lyndon. Has she met with Mrs. Thatcher?”
“Yes, she has,” Mary replied gently as she continued working through the fierce snarls created by the moorland winds. “They discussed the menus for upcoming meals and the entertainments that have been planned for the guests.”
Desdemona nodded, ignoring the uncomfortable weight in her chest. “I assume everything is in readiness to her specifications.”
“Yes, miss,” Mary replied.
Desdemona had been twelve the last time she’d seen her brother. She’d tried to keep up a correspondence with him the first few years after he moved to London, but John rarely replied. When he did, the missives had been brief and inconsequential and he certainly never bothered to respond to the quarterly reports from her governess at the time.
On Desdemona’s fifteenth birthday, Miss Redkin sent her last repor
t to the viscount indicating that as she had nothing more to teach the young lady, she was removing herself from the position. She recommended the viscount hire a lady’s companion to take her place.
As expected, there was no response. And no companion was ever hired.
Desdemona stopped bothering to communicate with her brother after that. The one exception being the time she sent a letter several months before she was to turn eighteen and asked when she might travel to London for her debut.
There had been no response to that letter either.
By then, her brother’s dissolute lifestyle had often been featured in the gossip pages of the London paper that was delivered to the manor every week. That was how Desdemona learned of her brother’s marriage to Isabelle Fairchild, the daughter of a marquess. Lord and Lady Lyndon and their scandalous set of friends had continued to appear in the paper at various intervals over the years. Though the information gleaned from the gossip pages was superficial, it was the only connection Desdemona had to her brother and his life in London.
It was also where she’d first read about Count Leander Vittori. The son of an earl’s daughter and an Italian nobleman, Vittori had moved from Italy to England as a boy after his father’s death. With his libertine ways and wild exploits, he was a steady presence in the scandal sheets.
Desdemona figured the papers had to be exaggerating Vittori’s exploits for the purpose of sensationalizing the man and selling more papers. It was hard to believe anyone could live the kind of shamelessly hedonistic life that Vittori was reputed to indulge in, but after having experienced the direct effect of his wicked gaze and sinful smile, Desdemona had to consider the possibility that everything she’d read about him had been entirely true.
And considering her acute physical reaction to him, Desdemona realized he posed a greater threat to her carefully maintained state of well-being than any of her brother’s other guests.
When the letter had arrived at the manor addressed to the housekeeper advising that the viscount and viscountess would be coming to Staffordshire for a lengthy stay and that nine additional guests would be accompanying them, excitement had not been Desdemona’s initial reaction.