“You know what I meant.” He glared. “This nonsense about losing her memory. Do you believe it?”
“It’s not my place to believe or not believe, my lord.”
Oliver clenched his teeth. “I’m asking what you think, Hollinger. Surely you have an opinion.”
“I do indeed, sir.”
“Excellent. I should very much like to hear it.”
“If you insist. I have a skeptical nature, my lord, therefore unusual occurrences often seem to me to be suspicious.” Hollinger paused for a moment. “However, I have heard of such things as loss of memory after a blow to the head therefore it also seems to me entirely plausible. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. Shakespeare, sir,” the butler added in an apologetic manner.
“I know Shakespeare!” Oliver started off then turned back. “Hollinger, do I strike you as a scholarly sort of man?”
The butler hesitated.
“Again, I am asking for your opinion.”
“As you wish, my lord. Not especially scholarly, no sir.”
“Find those bags, Hollinger,” Oliver said in a sharper manner than he would have wished and started off. “I am going for a ride. No, a walk. A very long walk.”
“Yes, my lord.”
So much for the peaceful nature of country life. Oliver stalked down the stairs and through the central corridor to the terrace, passing any number of servants who cast him a curious glance. No doubt news of their mysterious guest’s arrival was already the talk of the household. He stepped out onto the terrace, crossed to the far right and down the steps that led to the garden. The house was not especially old as country houses went, a mere two hundred years or so. Palladian in style, it was designed by a previous earl who fancied himself a bit of an architect. Oliver snorted. If he recalled his family history, that particular ancestor was certainly no scholar. Scholarly men did not run in the Leighton family.
He strode along the broad gravel walk between the tall hedges that formed an alley of sorts through the full length of the gardens, intersected at right angles in two places by similar walks. Occasional breaks in the hedges allowed entry into formal planting beds that had been designed nearly as long ago as the house itself. While remaining true to the original plan in spirit, exactly what blooms were grown varied from year to year with the whims of the current countess. His mother was particularly fond of spring flowers, and there was little that could compare with the Norcroft gardens in the spring.
To the side of the main house, and out of sight of the terrace, was a greenhouse dedicated to producing spring blossoms to fill vases in the house all year long as well as the propagation and care of the outside plantings and supplemental care of the plants grown in the conservatory on the south side of the manor. The gardens were Italian and French in style, symmetrical and precise. Classic. He skirted around a large fountain, positioned in the center of the first intersection, and ignored the stares of a half dozen life-size marble statues of nubile nymphs in Grecian garb. Both fountain and statues were installed by his grandmother for no reason other than—as the story went—she liked them.
The formal beds gave way to clipped lawn perfect for games of croquet and his mother’s now only occasional foray into archery. Her old target remained stationed at the far side of the wide lawn. Eventually he reached the perpendicular two rows of shaped yews that sandwiched the broken remains of an ancient Roman wall and marked the end of the tended gardens. While the trees hid the offending wall from the house on one side and the countryside on the other, he had long been grateful that whatever earl or countess or landscaper who had originally designed the garden had seen fit to retain this remnant of antiquity. As a child, he had thought it a secret spot built and preserved by magic and had wondered as well if only children could see it. As the current earl, he suspected its retention had more to do with economy rather than anything of a mystic nature. It was less expensive to hide the wall than remove it. Regardless, he was grateful for its presence. It bespoke of a continuity of civilization, an unbroken line of humanity that he liked being part of. As he had done since boyhood, he braced his hand on the stone and vaulted over the low wall. Now, as always, the thought crossed his mind as to the lives of those long-dead Romans and the purpose of this short section of crumbling wall as no one, to his knowledge, had ever determined where it started or where it ended. It simply was.
A half an hour later he reached the top of the gently sloping hill that overlooked the slight valley where the manor sat, the narrow river or broad stream, depending on one’s point of view and mood, that ran along the edge of the estate and even, he had always thought, the world beyond. This place was as much a legacy as his land and his title. His father had first shown him this spot when Oliver was very young. It was where he’d said he liked to contemplate his life. Oliver hadn’t been up here in years but this was where he too came to sort out the complexities of his own life, and had done so since the first moment he could escape the watchful eyes of governesses as a boy. From here the world seemed to take on a proper perspective. He settled on the ground at the base of an ancient oak that, as a child, he had thought as old as the Roman wall itself. Now, he knew that was nonsense. Trees, even oaks, did not live for fourteen hundred years. Still, the tree was old and venerable and comforting.
He remembered coming up here when his father had died. He’d been barely eight years of age at the time. His father had been not much older than Oliver was now, a healthy, handsome man in the prime of his life. He had slipped on wine spilled at the top of the grand marble stairway during a party in honor of something no one could now recall and had fallen backwards down the stairs. At first, he had insisted he was fine. But the next day he had taken to his bed with an aching head. By nightfall, he was dead.
He’d been a good man and a better father and had taught his son as much by example as by words about honor and strength. The day he died, Oliver had sat by his bed for a few minutes, not really understanding that this chat with his father would be their last. Not until years later had Oliver realized his father must have known the end was near. He had talked to Oliver in those final lucid moments of the responsibility that went hand in hand with his title. Responsibility to the people who depended upon him, his servants and tenants, responsibility to his country and to his family. And he had told Oliver to take care of his mother.
Oliver had wept under this tree then. Alone, so as not to upset his mother. After all, he was now the earl. But here, he had felt his father’s presence and, whether it was a trick of the mind or simply need, felt as well his strength and his wisdom. And he was never alone.
Oliver had come up here before he had gone off to school for the first time and again whenever he had returned home. Here, he had considered the future when he had completed his studies and prepared to fully take over the family finances and estate and all the myriad details that were part and parcel of being the Earl of Norcroft. This was where he had once pondered the vagaries of a woman’s heart when the girl he had thought he had loved had loved someone else. And here he had realized that it probably hadn’t been love at all, as the pain he had felt had been more to his pride than his heart.
Overlooking his home, his world, through the years, Oliver had considered matters both great and small, those of importance and those of no significance whatsoever. He wasn’t entirely sure where the question of Kate fell and wasn’t at all sure Kate was the real question.
He stared at the manor in the distance. It was most irritating to discover no one thought he could be a scholar. Certainly he had never aspired to scholarly pursuits, so the fact that no one perceived him as a scholar shouldn’t bother him in the least. Perhaps his annoyance came from the very real impression that everyone considered him too lazy or frivolous or stupid to be a scholar. That somehow it was his intelligence they were commenting on. Damnation. He could have been a scholar. He quite liked…he searched his mind…history. Yes, that was it, history
. Why, hadn’t he once planned to write a family history? Certainly that was years ago but he had gone so far as to compile old family documents and diaries. No, on second thought, his mother had gathered everything for him. She’d been most encouraging, as he recalled. The papers were probably now in trunks in the attic. He simply hadn’t managed to get around to them yet. His life was extraordinarily busy.
Oliver managed the estate and the family’s finances. He had any number of quite lucrative investments that he kept a watchful eye on. As the Earl of Norcroft there were constant social obligations as well, especially when he was in residence in London. Besides, his mother and it seemed damn near everyone else he knew wanted him to wed. He certainly wasn’t going to find an acceptable bride if he stayed at home and thought about…history!
As for adventures, he had had any number of adventures, although perhaps carousing with his friends might not be what his mother had meant. And even that sort of adventure had diminished through the years. He plucked a piece of grass and rolled it absently between his fingers. Admittedly, those adventures had often involved the rescue of his friends and one could argue they had been more their adventures and not his. But his friends depended upon him for assistance and advice. They would do the same for him if need be.
What kind of adventures did his mother think he should have? Should he explore the wilds of Africa or search for buried treasure or slay dragons? How absurd. He was not about to go off to hunt for orchids in the jungle or study the stars in the Southern Hemisphere or build railroads in America as his friends had. He had responsibilities, obligations, people who depended upon him. As for romantic adventures, he’d had more than a few. That none of them had led to anything of a more permanent nature had been, in most instances, for the best. He’d only ever thought himself in love once and even that had not involved the kind of reckless abandon that he had expected then, and still did, surely went hand in hand with true love.
The fact that his mother thought he had no spirit of adventure was only slightly less bothersome than the idea that she did. His brows drew together and he tossed aside the crumpled blade of grass and picked a new one. What kind of adventures did a woman well past her fiftieth year want? Which only begged the question of what kind she had already had? He knew little of his mother’s past or his father’s either, for that matter, beyond those family details one usually knows in a vague sort of way about one’s parents. Now, he wondered if he knew his mother at all. Certainly, they shared the manor and the house in London but aside from finding themselves at the same social events on occasion, their respective circles of acquaintances did not often overlap. The fact that she had brought up the question of romantic adventures was disturbing enough. The idea that she might well be interested in such a thing for herself was more than he wanted to think about. Damnation, she was his mother! And it was up to him to protect her, from herself if necessary. She was kind and generous and far too good of heart which left her vulnerable to those who might easily take advantage of her. Granted, to his knowledge, she had never fallen prey to those with unscrupulous intentions. It was up to Oliver to make certain she never did.
However, if she wished to consider this unnamed guest of theirs as some kind of adventure, it was probably harmless enough as long as he kept his wits about him, resisted the lure of dark red hair and enticing green eyes. Besides, his mother was right about one thing. If Kate was deceiving them, what possible purpose could she have? While his mother did have access to some funds, the vast majority of the family’s wealth was under his control. If Kate’s loss of memory was a ruse, what besides money could she want? It was an intriguing question. His mother was convinced Kate was a lady of quality. There were certainly ways to determine such a thing. Absently he shredded the blade of grass and stared at the manor. Yes, indeed, there were ways to determine if a woman was a lady that had nothing to do with what she might or might not remember.
And why didn’t Kate know if she liked him or not? That too was most annoying. People usually liked him, he was an eminently likeable sort. Most, particularly women, considered him both charming and dashing. And while not the handsomest man in the world, he was certainly not unattractive. He had friends, he was a desired guest at any social gathering, and he was considered quite a catch among mothers of marriageable daughters.
Still, he blew a long breath, it could well be his suspicious nature when it came to mysterious women bearing empty envelopes and claiming not to know their own names had made him somewhat less likeable than usual. Although there had been moments when he had been quite charming in spite of his reservations. Or perhaps he hadn’t been charming so much as charmed.
When his gaze had met hers, when he had kissed her hand—twice—there had been something…something indefinable. A promise perhaps, although that was an absurd idea and attributable to nothing more than his own romantic tendencies. In spite of his suspicions, and the circumstances were difficult to believe, he found himself casually hoping she was who she said she was. Or rather who she didn’t say she was. Perhaps Kate wasn’t merely his mother’s adventure but his own? It was a silly thought of course. Still, there was something about the woman.
He flicked away the grass in his hand and got to his feet. As always, the mere act of pondering his problems had eased them. And, as always, he felt as if he had talked not only to himself but to someone older and wiser. The feeling was nothing more than a remnant of childhood but reassuring regardless. His innate sense of calm and confidence had returned. The world, his world, had righted itself and life was again in its proper order. He brushed off his trousers and started down the hill. He was in control and he had a plan. Vague and unformed and little more than an idea in the back of his mind, but a plan nonetheless.
He might not be able to determine who Kate was, but he could certainly determine what she was and why she was here. And in the process, determine as well, why he cared.
Chapter 5
Kate had bent low to better study the wall. It certainly appeared Roman. She had no idea how she knew this information with the same certainly that most people knew their own names. A knowledge of Roman ruins was one thing she’d learned about herself, although she’d had little time to discover much else.
Lady Norcroft had decreed Kate go directly to bed yesterday afternoon. After all, the older woman had said, losing one’s memory was bound to exhaust anyone. Sure enough, Kate had fallen into a surprisingly deep, dreamless sleep and hadn’t opened her eyes for a full twenty-four hours. She couldn’t recall ever sleeping that soundly before, but then she couldn’t recall much of anything. Still, even if there was some satisfaction to be gained by the realization that she had such obscure knowledge, it did seem a rather useless thing to know.
She straightened and met the startled gaze of Lord Norcroft a scant second before his knees smacked into her midsection, and knocked her backwards several feet and flat on her back. A hard thunk beside her indicated he had met the same fate.
She stared up at the sky, decided she wasn’t injured, and drew a deep breath. “Do grown men always leap a wall in that manner or is that too something I have forgotten?”
“No?” he said, barely able to catch his breath and it sounded more a question than an answer.
“This is the second time in as many days that I have been knocked to the ground.”
“Fell.” He gasped. “The first time you fell.”
“Did I?” She sighed. “I can’t recall.” She should probably sit up, although there was something about staring up at the clouds serenely drifting across a blue sky rather than at his equally blue, but not at all serene eyes that made it much easier to talk freely. “Are you all right?”
“I will be. I’ve just had the wind knocked out of me.” For a long moment he was silent. “Have your bags been located?” he said at last.
“Not that I know of.”
“But this is not what you were wearing yesterday.”
“This dress belongs to one of your cou
sins. Genevieve, I believe your mother said.” She watched a rotund white horse pull an oddly shaped carriage across the sky. “She was so good as to loan it to me.”
“I don’t it recall it looking that lovely on my cousin.”
She laughed. “A charming thing to say, my lord, but I suspect you, like most men, rarely notice what a woman wears from day to day. I daresay you might well have seen this gown every day for a month and yet, the next day, would be hard pressed to describe it.”
“Excellent point.” He chuckled. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”
“I believe I have rested entirely too much already.”
“And I believe I owe you an apology.”
“For knocking me to the ground or for insincere flattery?”
“The flattery was most sincere, I’ll not apologize for that. But yes, for knocking you over and for yesterday as well.” He paused. “I was perhaps not as gracious as I should have been.”
“Your apology is accepted.” She studied a cloud that resembled a frolicking lamb.
“And accepted far more graciously than I have been. Thank you.”
“It’s understandable really, your behavior that is. Or at least I seem to understand it.” She thought for a moment. “You have all that responsibility.”
“It can be a bit overwhelming at times,” he said wryly. “Which leads me to take myself and everything else far more seriously than I should on occasion.” Apparently his lordship also found it easier to speak candidly while staring at the sky instead of looking at her.
“Still, when one is responsible for a mother or a family—”
“One has to do what is necessary to protect them even from themselves if need be—”
“Especially if they are less than sensible and you are the only one with your feet firmly on the ground.”
“Are we speaking of you or me?” he said slowly.
“I wish I knew.” The lamb drifted quickly across the sky, pushed by the wind or unseen forces. She shivered and sat up. “It’s most exhausting you know, not to know, probably why I slept so long. I keep trying to recall something, anything, about who I am. It’s there, just out of reach and yet I can’t grab hold of it.”
Seduction of a Proper Gentleman (Last Man Standing) Page 6