by Anne O'Brien
When matters at Burford allowed, Nicholas decided on impulse to spend some time at Aymestry Manor. It was a fine day and an easy ride through undemanding country. He did not need an excuse, but if he did, some of his mares would be ready to drop their foals. Furness would deal with it, of course—he had worked with horses all his life, and his father before him—but Nicholas wanted to see the fruition of his long-term planning for himself. He dropped down through the woods behind the little Manor, remembering boyhood adventures there with his brothers, and so was perhaps, a trifle melancholy, only to see a little group of visitors with their horses standing beside one of the paddocks. This was nothing out of the way. Most likely lost travellers stopped to ask direction. A lady was in conversation with his groom, another female companion and an escort in attendance. His first thought was that the lady held the reins of a prime piece of horseflesh. He cast an experienced eye over the short arched neck and glossy, deep-chested body, the powerful, glossy flanks. A pretty animal—and perhaps not unfamiliar? Then the lady turned, gathering up the reins and taking hold of the saddle to mount. At the same moment, as if on cue, the sun emerged from behind a little cloud to illuminate the scene.
Nicholas reined in his horse sharply, with a less-than-smooth gesture, causing his mount to toss its head in immediate resistance to the unusual treatment. Then he simply sat and stared through narrowed eyes.
Golden hair, curling neatly into her neck, a rakish little hat trimmed with a soft feather that curled to brush her cheek. A deep blue riding habit in some soft material that draped and clung to her tall, elegant figure. A heart-lifting smile as she turned her head to reply to some comment from Furness.
Oh, God! No!
Nicholas closed his eyes against the vivid scene. It was bad enough seeing her in his dreams, imagining her dancing in London in some other man’s arms. Probably the damned Earl of Moreton! But not here! Not now!
But when he opened them, the vision was still there. The sun felt too hot on his skin, the light around him too bright to bear. Everything was in sharp focus as he heard her soft, infectious laugh, as his heart beat heavily against his ribs. Then, with a touch of his heel, he urged his horse forward.
Thea had no presentiment of his approach until the sharp hiss of warning from Agnes Drew caused her to turn her head. A figure mounted on a magnificent dark bay thoroughbred rode toward her, came to a halt, the sun behind him gilding his outline, casting his face into shadow. But she knew immediately—and froze, hands tight on her reins. He dismounted.
They simply stood and looked at each other. As if they were alone in the universe.
It was almost a month since they had set eyes on each other. Thea felt that it could have been yesterday as her gaze searched his familiar features.
Tension held them silent in its grip. Eyes locked as emotion arced between them. Attraction or latent hostility? A nameless desire? Neither could or would have named it, but it held them captive, unaware of either their surroundings or the more-than-interested audience. Until it was suddenly brought to Nicholas’s mind, the recollection of the almost physical charge between his brother Henry and Eleanor, the love of his life, when they were in the same room together. No. There was nothing similar here. It could not be! And Thea found herself dissecting her motives in proposing this visit. Had she wanted this meeting all along? In honesty, she did not know. But her heart seemed to be lodged somewhere in the region of her throat. She could find no words to say.
Furness coughed respectfully. ‘There now, miss. Here’s his lordship. Timely come, I reckon. Just as you was about to leave, an’ all.’
It broke the spell. The focus softened and the actors in the little scene fell back into accustomed responses. Lord Nicholas stepped forward, handing his horse over to Furness. Bowed formally in acknowledgement of Thea’s presence. Inclined his head to Mistress Drew. Thea curtsied. Neither smiled.
‘Miss Wooton-Devereux. Mistress Drew.’ His bow was impeccable, worthy of a town withdrawing room, no indication of the churning surge of emotions through his body. They might have been the casual travellers he had first thought them to be. ‘Welcome to Aymestry Manor. I would not have expected to see you here in this part of the country.’ Why are you here?
Thea determined not to show her discomfiture. She could be just as cool as he. ‘I am visiting an elderly relative, my lord—a cousin of my mama—in Tenbury Wells.’ I should not be here. What a terrible faux pas. ‘I remembered your description of your home here, and since it was so near … Master Furness has been telling me about your horses.’
‘We are proud of them.’ It is too painful you being here. I wish you had not—and yet …
‘And rightly so. I have been admiring the foals …’ He is so cold, so stern. As if my sudden appearance at his door holds no significance for him. So what do I read in his eyes when he looks at me, when I am unable to look away or hide my own feelings?
‘Ah, yes. We have a new stallion. We are breeding for speed as well as endurance …’ She is so polite and composed. As if it is nothing to her that I have discovered her at my home. And that there is a passion which runs between us, almost visible as a shimmer in the air, which cannot be gainsaid, however much I would deny it.
He was just as she remembered. Tall, imposing, his dark hair lifted by the light breeze. The straight nose and fine brows of all the Faringdons. Absurdly handsome in a distinctly masculine fashion, features dramatically sculpted with light and shadow. She had been used to seeing him elegant in town clothing. Now he wore the double-breasted riding coat, breeches and riding boots of the country gentleman, just as becoming, the dark green cloth of the coat emphasising his lithe, well-muscled build and broad shoulders. But his mouth was stern, his eyes cold, blue fire that held no warmth. Whatever flashed between them, shattering in their mutual awareness, was not a welcome—but of course she had destroyed the possibility of that, had not she?
‘Perhaps you will stay for some refreshment, Miss Wooton-Devereux? Before your return to Tenbury.’ It would be better if you did not!
‘Why no. Thank you, my lord, but we must go back. My cousin …’ Once he would have called me Thea.
‘I am sure Mistress Drew and your groom would appreciate the opportunity to rest and refresh themselves.’ The arch to his brows became more pronounced.
‘Very well, my lord.’ She accepted the inevitable with a gracious but chilling smile. ‘It will be my pleasure.’ She had noted the hint—the merest hint of arrogant criticism. How dare he make her aware of her responsibilities!
Lord Nicholas nodded as if he had no doubts of her acquiescence. ‘I will go on up to the house. Furness here will take your animals and direct you. Mrs Grant, my housekeeper, will see to your comfort.’ He turned on his heel and strode off towards the main wing of the house, leaving the ladies to follow at their leisure and Dacre to remain to discuss the finer points of horseflesh and enjoy a tankard of ale with Furness.
‘I told you we should not have come!’ Agnes’s voice took on the tone of Thea’s childhood nursemaid. ‘Why would you not take my advice?’
‘I know, I know! But we did and we have met him. Don’t tell my mother!’
‘Hmm!’ Agnes huffed, but beyond glaring at her wilful mistress, she knew there was no ground to be made in saying more. At least she could rely on Lord Nicholas to behave as a gentleman should. His manners, in the circumstances, had been impeccable. She could not but admire him.
They were welcomed into the Manor by an elderly lady, clearly a family retainer, clad in black silk with the keys of the household secured by a silver chatelaine to her waist. She curtsied with placid composure, smiled in welcome and showed them into a sunny parlour where she invited them to sit at their ease. ‘We do not see many visitors these days at Aymestry. Master Nicholas does not stay here often,’ she explained, with the familiarity of long service to the family. ‘It is good to have people about the place. Sometimes it is too quiet. His lordship said to bring you whatever you requ
ired. I shall bring tea, perhaps?’
‘If you would be so kind, Mrs Grant. It is a beautiful old house.’ Thea cast her eyes in admiration round the cosily panelled room, in the Tudor wing of the house, with its polished furniture and rich deep-red drapes.
‘Indeed it is. I wish … But there. Master Nicholas will do just as he wishes! I shall bring the tea tray.’ Leaving Thea to contemplate the knowledge that Master Nicholas probably always did exactly as he wished. Only to be interrupted by the return of the gentleman himself with Mrs Grant and the tea tray hard on his heels.
Without a hostess, Thea was called upon to preside over the little ceremony of brewing the tea which she did with consummate skill, calling on all her social skills to remain serenely at ease. As she poured the fragrant brew into delicate china cups, Lord Nicholas and Miss Wooton-Devereux indulged in polite and meaningless conversation about the scenery, the condition of the roads, the prospect of the harvest, the horses. Both lady and gentleman found themselves most adept at exchanging a number of opinions, in which neither had any particular interest at that moment, and in the coolest manner possible. And between them Agnes for the most part sat and listened. When called upon to give an opinion, she did so in brusque but not unfriendly manner, intent on watching the skilled thrust and parry that disguised far deeper emotions, emotions which had the edge of a honed duelling blade.
It was a relief for everyone when conversation was interrupted by a distant rumble of thunder.
‘We should be going, Miss Thea,’ Agnes interrupted with a glance at the thunder clouds now clear through the window. ‘It may be nothing, just a summer shower, but we should not wish to be drenched.’
‘Too late, I fear.’ Nicholas stood as a flash of lightning pierced the shadows. They had failed to see the growing gloom in the room. ‘I will ask Mrs Grant to prepare rooms. You will stay here for the night.’
Again the presumption that they would do as he said! Well, she would not. ‘No, my lord. There is no need. I am sure it will soon blow over—and we will be home before dusk.’
‘That would be a foolish decision. You will be quite safe here, Miss Wooton-Devereux.’ Nicholas’s lips curled in what might have been reassurance—or more likely a touch of derision. Thea was in no doubt. ‘Mistress Drew is chaperon enough for you, I believe. Your reputation will not suffer under my roof. Do I need to send a message so that your cousin will be at ease?’
‘I doubt she will notice our absence. She is somewhat cut off from the world.’ Thea resented the sharp cut at her previous immoderate behaviour but had little choice except to let it go, even if she had to clench her hands into fists within the folds of the dark velvet to achieve it. The rain began to beat against the window, heralding an imminent downpour. It prompted her decision even as she hated the necessity. ‘It seems that we must accept your kind invitation, my lord. We are most grateful.’
‘Very well.’ His lordship gave no indication that he had heard anything in her reply but the gratitude she professed. He inclined his head. ‘Perhaps you will dine with me later? Mrs Grant will arrange all. Now … if you will excuse me, I need to conduct some business before the rain gets any heavier.’
And that was it. All icy good manners. Damn him!
‘I told you—’ Agnes began as soon as the door had closed after him.
‘I know! Don’t fuss.’ Thea allowed her ruffled sensibilities to show. Why did she feel that she had been outmanoeuvred? ‘I freely admit I was in the wrong. Does that make you feel any better?’
‘No. It does not! We should not be staying here.’
‘I know that too, Agnes.’ She allowed herself a wry smile as the absurdity and potential discomfort of the situation struck her. ‘You can sleep across the threshold of my room if it makes you feel any better.’
‘No, it won’t. Not that I would need to. I don’t know what it is between you two—but I don’t think his lordship likes you very much.’
‘Good. Neither do I like him. And that is exactly how it should be, if you recall.’ Thea stood, carefully replaced the china teacup on the tray and shook out her skirts. What was the use of regret? She must deal with what she could not change. ‘We will leave Aymestry tomorrow morning and we can forget we were ever here. All I have to do is survive an evening of dining with him.’
‘Hmm!’
‘I trust the food will be warmer than his manners!’
‘And perhaps sweeter and more palatable than yours, Miss Thea!’
On which tart word of warning, and ignoring the lady’s answering flounce, Mistress Drew stalked from the room to discover the whereabouts of Mrs Grant.
Thea was shown into a bedroom in one of the more recent additions to the house where the panelling had been replaced with papered walls in white and cream stripes. Small and intimate, full of light, she had the impression that it had once been the room of a Faringdon lady. There were no personal touches now, but a pair of delicate watercolour paintings of country scenes hung beside the fireplace, a small dressing table with a mirror graced the window embrasure and there was a lingering smell of herbs—of lavender and perhaps rosemary. The bed hangings and window drapes were old, but distinctly feminine, in pale blue embroidered silk, well cared for, and had once been very fine.
She took off the close-fitting coat of her riding habit, shook out the lace ruffles on her cuffs and brushed her heavy skirts of any lingering dust from her ride. It was the best she could do. Hot water had been provided for her, so she washed her face and combed her hair with the ivory comb thoughtfully placed for her use on the dressing table.
Then she sat and looked out of the window at the new green leaves giving shape to the herbaceous border where it bloomed against the warm stone of the kitchen garden wall.
Now what? It was all very simple, she decided. As she had told Agnes, they would dine, she would try for sweetness and a soft response to every topic of conversation—if it killed her!—and she would leave tomorrow. There need be no complications here. But Lord Nicholas’s proximity brought a shiver of anticipation along her skin, as if a gentle breeze had got up with the onset of evening to caress her arms and throat. A heightened colour touched her cheeks with rose. Recognising it, accepting it, Thea warned herself to have a care, and believed that she could rely on Nicholas to treat her with such icy indifference and formality that she would feel no inclination to behave in a less-than-maidenly manner. She knew exactly how to conduct herself with sufficient social skills to grace any occasion.
As the light began to fade, a footman came to lead her to the dining room, again one of the old panelled rooms. Everything had been made ready, with a fire lit against the chill of the early summer evening and the dining table formally set, but with only two places. Agnes was probably tucked up in a cosy gossip with Mrs Grant, Thea decided with some envy.
Nicholas bowed Thea into the room and held her chair as she sat, before taking his own place at the opposite end. So they were to dine formally. She considered this decision on Nicholas’s part. Perhaps it was for the best.
A simple meal was served to them by two self-effacing footmen. The polished surface of the table stretched between them, weighty with silver and crystal, discouraging conversation on a personal level. The wide expanse exactly mirrored the distance between the two who shared the meal.
It was the strangest meal, Thea decided, that she had ever eaten in her life. The tension in the air robbed her of any real appetite but she did her best to do justice to Mrs Grant’s kind preparations. The conversation that flowed so easily—cool, practised, trivial, uncontroversial conversation—hid the charged undercurrent that wound the tension to snapping point, as taut as a watch spring. His face was calm, expression enigmatic. She presumed that hers was the same. Their manners could not be faulted.
But all the time that same undercurrent curled, as strong as the lethal drag below the surface of a placid millpond, spelling disaster to the unwary. Whenever their eyes met across the expanse of china and glassware, i
t held them, until one of them deliberately broke the contact by sheer effort of will. It was almost a courtship, held suspended in icy restraint. Thea found that her breathing was shallow and, despite an excellent wine, her mouth was dry. The words that they addressed to each other did not express what was in their hearts. And both knew it. It was almost as if the air around them held its breath for the outcome.
Eventually the footmen withdrew, leaving fruit, sweetmeats, a decanter of port. Candles were lit against the shadows, the drapes closed, enclosing Nicholas and Theodora in a small personal world of heightened emotion. The flickering lights glowed on the soft velvet of her gown and on the bright curls of her hair. It sparked fire from the diamond pin in his cravat. Her beauty struck him once again, rare as the jewel at his throat, as she looked up from the apple that she had begun to pare. An urge to push the situation on—to some sort of conclusion—gripped him. Indeed, he realised that he had no choice.
‘Do you wish to withdraw to one of the parlours, madam? Or retire?’ His voice was low, as if deliberately controlled. It made her shiver. Here was the ideal chance to escape his dominating presence and she knew that she should take it. Then tomorrow she could leave—and the visit would be over with no lasting repercussions for either. She had made a mistake in coming here, but it would soon be rectified.
She should say yes, should return to the restful solitude of her bedchamber, where she could breathe again.
‘No. I would stay here,’ she heard herself say. Her pulse began to beat, an insistent throb in the tender hollow at the base of her throat.
‘Of course.’ He appeared to accept her decision with equanimity and poured a glass of port for both of them.