by Amy Sandas
“Gerald, my lord,” the man replied with a long, slow bow of his head.
“Thank you, Gerald.”
“I shall be back shortly with your wine.”
As the butler bowed out of the room, Leander strolled toward the bookshelves. It was not the most impressive library he’d ever seen, but the contents were well kept, and the room felt as though it was often used.
The wine ended up being a good choice as it perfectly suited his mood and the library proved to be the sanctuary he hadn’t realized he’d needed. He took his time sipping the wine as he perused the various volumes on the shelves. Selecting a philosophical treatise he vaguely recalled reading during his school years, he settled into one of the overstuffed chairs.
After a while, he looked up to pour himself more wine only to hesitate when he caught sight of the clock on the mantel. It was nearly dawn.
He couldn’t think of the last time he’d passed such a satisfying evening that hadn’t involved anyone getting naked.
After returning the book he’d been reading to its spot on the shelf, he went around and blew out the candles that hadn’t already been spent. Wrapped in a warm wine haze, Leander made his way up the main stairs. When he reached the second landing, instead of continuing up to the third floor and the guest wing, he found himself strolling amongst the marble statuary before opening the oversized double doors to the portrait gallery.
The room was still and quiet. The household staff had not yet come by to close the drapes against the slowly rising sun, and the lavender light of dawn bathed the gallery in a gentle, dusky mood as long-dead men, women, children, and beloved pets watched his progression with unnaturally serene expressions.
Turning away from the portraits, he approached the long row of windows that overlooked the unkept gardens and restless, windswept moors beyond. Heavy mist and the retreating shadows of night obscured the distance from view, but he could easily bring to mind the uneven landscape and craggy rock outcroppings he’d traveled through the day before. He could practically smell the dampness of the earth, the mineral tang of stone, and the subtle sweetness of long grass mingling in the air.
The moors were raw, desolate, and—as long as you weren’t being buffeted by the ceaseless wind—oddly alluring. Not at all what he’d expected.
The bellow of a wolfhound pulled his wavering focus to where the two beasts he’d encountered the day before ran carelessly through the garden. They came from the direction of the stables and were followed at a much more sedate pace by the lovely Miss Littlefield.
She was dressed once again in muddied boots, a dull-colored dress, and that heavy brown overcoat. This morning, her caramel-colored hair was barely secured in a loose braid down her back.
Though she’d been quite attractive in her finery last night, Leander decided he preferred her as she was this morning.
Self-assured and unaware of his perusal, the young woman passed through the garden in purposeful strides, then stepped through the gate at the far end and continued across the sloping landscape until she and the wolfhounds faded into the mist and fog.
As a rule, he preferred not to concern himself with things that did not affect him personally, but the thought of Isabella directing her manipulations toward the unsuspecting Miss Littlefield had settled like a thorn in his side.
What did Isabelle want with her?
***
As soon as Desdemona started heading back toward the manor, Jack and Simon became more subdued. She couldn’t fault them for their reluctance. The poor wolfhounds hated being confined to the stables when she usually allowed them free range about the estate, including the manor house. Unfortunately, her brother’s guests were not likely to take kindly to her beasts and she doubted the dogs would take kindly to them.
The morning had been lovely for a walk. The misty air and familiar smells of the moors had dispersed the lingering discontent she’d been carrying since dinner the night before. The grounding sensation of her boots traversing the earth she knew so well recalled her to herself.
The John she remembered from her youth existed only as a glimmer beneath the man’s current excesses. It saddened her, but also made her acknowledge that her place in the world had never really been as Viscount Lyndon’s sister. She had been forging her own way for many years.
The rest of them—Lady Lyndon, in particular—unsettled Desdemona in a way she couldn’t quite define. But she did know she was not accustomed to feeling uncertain and off-balance in her own home and that was exactly what she’d experienced since her first glimpse of Vittori.
At least she had her walks to re-center and regain perspective.
She’d made it to Crofter’s Peak by the time the sun had risen high enough to clear away the lingering fog of morning. The landscape she loved so much became bathed in a soft golden hue as the wind invigorated everything it touched.
Though she might have been of a similar mind to her hounds, she could not stay away from the house for long.
Coming over the final rise to see the sprawling manor before her, she felt a familiar sense of pride. She’d loved Bilberry Hall and the land that held it for as long as she could remember. And soon, its complete history would be available to share with anyone who wished to learn of the many generations who lived here through sorrow and triumph, loss and fortitude.
She loved knowing that long after she was gone, this place would remain for those who would come after her.
Her attention was abruptly drawn from the hall as Jack and Simon suddenly came running to her side. Shifting her gaze, she spotted a single rider approaching.
A tingle of anticipation swept across her nape before she realized it was not Vittori.
To her surprise, it was John. He drew his horse in to a slow walk as he neared. His cheeks and nose were flushed and slightly chapped from the cool wind, but he kept a solid seat in the saddle and his gaze was far less bleary than it had been the night before.
“Good day, brother,” she said politely after giving her hounds the signal to heel.
John huffed a laugh as he swung down to the ground. “Is it? I’m still deciding.” Drawing himself into a stiffly proper posture, he gathered his horse’s reins and turned to face Desdemona more squarely.
For a moment, she saw the young man she remembered in the warmth of his eyes. But then his brows lowered, and he said gruffly. “Walk with me, Des.”
They strolled side by side for several minutes before John chuckled dryly. “I should have remembered you were never one to fill silences with inane chatter.”
She gave him a curious glance. “Do you wish me to be inane?”
“Of course not.” He paused. “I suppose I owe you an apology for not being more...ah, presentable when we saw each other last night.” When Desdemona did not reply, he continued, “The journey from London had been rather trying. I’d needed something to help me to relax.”
She had nothing really to say to that. He didn’t need to make excuses to her for his personal habits.
“I do regret not giving you a proper greeting after so long.” He gave a flashing smile. “You’ve grown quite a bit, haven’t you? You look like Mother.”
“Do I?” She couldn’t imagine any resemblance between the elegant and stately portrait of the prior viscountess and the image she saw in her mirror each day. She’d always thought herself rather plain and was fine with that.
“Indeed,” John said with a nod. “It’s in the eyes and a bit about the mouth. She rarely smiled either,” he noted absently.
Desdemona withheld the frown that pressed between her brows. He seemed to be saying everything but what he’d sought her out to say. She wished he would just speak plainly with her.
Several more minutes passed before he asked, “Are you happy here, Des?”
He asked the question while keeping his gaze directed firmly on the path ahead. Though she couldn’t read his expression, his manner was reluctant. It seemed peculiar that he would ask such a question now. Did h
e regret his years of neglect?
She took a deep breath of the earthy air and turned her face into the wind.
Was she happy?
She’d like to travel a bit someday and she wouldn’t mind a trip to London to explore the city and experience the many ways it was different from Staffordshire. But she was no longer interested in being presented at court or joining in the rounds of socializing required of a debutante. She was too old for such things and would only become a laughingstock.
The truth was, she didn’t know for a fact that she was happy in Staffordshire since she had nothing else to compare it to. But she wasn’t unhappy.
When she still hadn’t answered after a full minute, John cleared his throat. “What I mean to ask is...do you wish for a husband?”
Oh goodness, no!
She used to think of marriage every now and then when she was younger. The thought of having children someday had always been a pleasant one. But she had become far too set in her ways. A husband would only want to change her. “No, brother, I do not pine for a husband. I am content in my current circumstances,” she assured.
He was watching her now with subtle tension lining his features. Was it guilt? Or something else? Then he gave a nod and glanced down at his boots. “Good. Good.”
They lapsed into silence once again, not speaking until they paused in the stable yard. A boy ran out to lead the horse into the stables. Desdemona signaled for Jack and Simon to follow, which they did, though reluctantly.
The viscount’s hands shook a bit before he stuffed them into the pockets of his greatcoat and shifted his gaze toward the manor. “Ah, Isabelle would like for you to join us for dinner again tonight,” he muttered. “If you’d rather not, I can make some excuse for your absence.” His brown eyes found hers again. “I don’t want you to feel obligated to entertain my guests. I know we can all be a lot to take for someone not accustomed to socializing.”
John had always been a bit self-centered and oblivious to the needs or concerns of others, so his words were something of a surprise. But it was the tone of his voice that struck her most acutely. She’d never known her brother to possess even a hint of uncertainty, but that was exactly what she sensed in him now.
Giving a small shake of her head, she assured, “I will join you if that is your wish.”
His expression tightened for a moment before he gave a short nod and smiled. “All right, then. The others are likely to be coming down soon for breakfast. I should go clean up after my ride.”
Desdemona watched her brother walk away, acknowledging the ways he’d changed and the subtle things that remained familiar. She could have asked him why he’d so rarely written back to her when she’d been a child, or why he’d refused to respond to her request for a debut, or why he’d never come back for a visit, not even over the holiday or her birthday. But she realized it didn’t matter. The past was past.
Not to mention, his inquiry regarding a husband reminded her of how fortunate she was for the independence his neglect had afforded. If her options were between a husband she didn’t want and a solitary life in the country, the choice was easy.
Chapter Six
Over the next few days, Desdemona developed a strategy for managing the disruption to her household. Her mornings went on much as they always had since none of the Londoners rose for several hours into the day. While the guests were breakfasting and doing whatever they did to fill their daytime hours, Desdemona stayed in her apartment and focused on her work. By the time she went for her afternoon walk, the others were typically tucked into their rooms for a few hours of rest before readying themselves for the evening meal and the late night that inevitably came after.
The only time she was expected to join them was for dinner.
For the most part, she found the guests rather interesting to observe. They all seemed quite desperate to remain in a perpetual state of being entertained. If there was nothing amusing or exciting or scandalous happening, someone felt compelled to create it. Though on occasion their antics could be amusing and clever, Desdemona often felt bemused by their need for constant diversions.
Every now and then, someone would try to get Desdemona to join in their racy conversations, but she always got the sense it was with a purpose of making her the momentary entertainment.
One exception was Lord Rutledge. He was seated next to her at dinner every night and loved to ask about her life in Staffordshire though she suspected he only half listened to her answers. She often felt as though there was some unspoken intention behind his words, and every now and then, she caught him wearing a smile that suggested he held some salacious secret he was just waiting for her to discover.
And then there was Count Vittori.
After just a few nights, it became obvious that he was not a usual member of the Lyndons’ set. He was almost as much of an observer to the group as she was, with one stark exception; the various innuendos and sly comments that were tossed about seemed to suggest that the count had been intimately involved with several of the other guests at one point or another.
Lord Filbert tried to belittle the count for his reputation but failed when Vittori replied to a comment intended to shame him with a silky smile and an offer to teach Filbert some of his tricks if the man were lonely.
The response got a laugh from the others while Filbert reddened in embarrassment.
When she’d glanced back toward the count, it was to find him staring at her rather intently, as though he were trying to discern her reaction to the topic under discussion. To Desdemona’s gaze, he appeared tense despite his smooth response to Filbert. She wondered how it must feel to constantly have your personal life discussed and written about as entertainment for others and she felt an unexpected tug of sympathy for the man.
But then, he lowered his brows over his gaze and lifted his glass for a drink. The moment of silent regard was effectively interrupted, but Desdemona found herself thinking about it for a long time after.
***
Leander left the library at dawn for the fourth morning in a row.
It had become habit for him to remain with the party until an hour or so after Miss Littlefield retired before he’d slip away himself and retreat to the library for the remainder of the night.
And just as he had done each of the prior mornings when the sun started to rise, he made his way up to the portrait gallery and watched out the window for wolfhounds to appear.
On this day, however, there was more than mist and fog to contend with as a steady rainfall pelted the earth and pattered against the windowpanes. Still, he watched. It wouldn’t have surprised him if he’d seen the young woman head out for her daily walk despite the more aggressive weather.
Only when he was convinced she wouldn’t be appearing did he turn away from the window. But instead of heading up to the guest wing to find his bed, he strolled through the gallery to the doors at the far end.
Leander was not a man who lived by his impulses. Just about everything he did was the result of a very deliberate choice and was typically based on an assessment of what would bring him the most pleasurable and gratifying result.
At that moment, he had an undeniable desire to see just what Miss Littlefield did with her time when the rains kept her from walking the moorlands, and he couldn’t keep himself from indulging in the irrational compulsion even though it contained very little chance of providing the kind of satisfaction his body had been craving for the last few days.
Leaving the gallery behind, Leander stepped into the dusky light of the winding stone staircase. His boots made only the softest scuffing sounds as he ascended. Around the final turn, the stairway opened to a proper landing lit by a window narrow enough to have been an arrow slit at one time.
The muted sound of a woman’s voice muttering a frustrated curse interrupted the heavy quiet.
Leander turned toward a large door that had been left slightly ajar at the far end of the landing.
He realized his presenc
e in this part of the house was an intrusion—not to mention disgracefully improper considering these were the private quarters of a young lady. But he had never been one to worry too much over what was proper. In fact, he preferred whatever was improper just about any day of the week.
Crossing the landing with silent steps, he curled his fingers around the edge of the door and opened it far enough to slip through into a short hallway. An elaborately carved wooden chair with a worn leather cushion stood along one wall. Next to it were a pair of muddy boots on a woven mat. Hanging from hooks on the opposite wall were a row of scarfs and shawls—in colors of grey and brown and beige.
Already, Leander detected the subtle scents of nature he associated with Miss Littlefield.
At the end of the short hall was another door. This one was wide open, inviting him forward. Leander willingly obliged.
With only the dull light of a rainy day filtering through the eastern-facing casement windows, the next room was still and quiet, as though it hadn’t quite woken up yet. It was an intriguing space containing an odd mix of antique and modern. As though the designer were in the process of restoring the sitting room to how it had looked several hundred years ago but was doing it piece by piece and hadn’t yet located all the elements to complete the transformation.
Another muttered curse reached his ears. Leander smiled, recognizing Miss Littlefield’s distinctive voice. He followed the sound to another open doorway.
The room beyond was smaller than the one he’d just left and it was lit by gas lamps with the highest concentration of light spilling across an oversized desk that took up a great deal of space. A cozy sofa faced the fireplace and in front of it stood a low table that might have been used for serving tea if not for the fact that it was covered in stacks of books. In fact, all around the room—in every available space and on every flat surface—were more books.
Miss Littlefield, however, was nowhere to be seen.
Then he heard an incoherent mutter of frustration just before the sound of one of those many stacks of books crashing to the floor echoed from behind the desk.