Temptation Has Green Eyes

by Lynne Connolly

  Although she’d expected it, Sophia was still taken aback by the sheer size of the place. They caught a glimpse of it from a distance, swept around a corner of the tree-lined drive, and there it was.

  “My goodness,” she murmured.

  “Yes. And it’s just as grand inside. At least it had better be.” He gave a wry grin. “I’ve had workers restoring it for the last two years. They’ve nearly finished the central block, they said. I need to tell them what to start on next. Perhaps you can help me decide.”

  He took her hands, and she gladly removed her attention from the house to his face. Today he was smiling, at ease. He seemed much more relaxed here.

  “I want you involved,” he said. “This will be your home. In future, people will say you are responsible for the creation of this magnificent house, the best in the country.”

  Leaning forward, he kissed her. He’d done a lot of that over the last two days. Making up for lost time, he said. She wasn’t complaining.

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  He squeezed her hands. “You have been responsible for investment decisions costing thousands of pounds. You can handle this easily.”

  His belief in her warmed her heart as much as his kisses. But she had many things to tell him, and some of them might change his mind. In a way, the size of this house was good, since she’d be able to avoid him, and he her if he wished it. She didn’t know where to begin, but it had to be with current events rather than past ones.

  Except they were bound together.

  She turned her attention back to the house. It was huge, of gleaming golden stone, the central block a Palladian masterpiece with ranks of windows on the three main stories. Too many to count. But that wasn’t all. Either side of the main block stretched two huge wings, a story lower but in the same style, so the house appeared as nothing so much as a palace. The sun glinted off the myriad windows, delineated fine-hewn stone. One person owned this?

  The household of servants has amassed outside to greet her. That seemed worst of all. “We only had four servants living in,” she said.

  “We have more than that in London,” he remarked. “It’s needed.”

  “I can see that.”

  She didn’t hide her wonder from him, and he watched her, his expression inscrutable.

  “You like it?”

  “Wouldn’t that be an insult? Merely to like it, I mean. Isn’t it more appropriate to marvel at it, or admire it, or stand in awe of it?”

  He gave an easy laugh. “Perhaps. But from you, liking will be enough. It’s a lifetime’s task.”

  Easily. But she wouldn’t say that now. The house was modern, so probably had the best services, such as kitchen equipment and building standards. So maybe finishing and keeping it beautiful wouldn’t take all her time. Although making it truly beautiful would make it worthwhile. A proper legacy.

  Max alighted first and helped her out himself. He smiled at her as she descended. “Welcome home, my lady.”

  Home. Anything less like a home she couldn’t imagine, but people did live in comfort in these places. More than comfort if rumor had it right. But luxury wasn’t her preference. It intimidated her.

  Trying to behave as a lady born to the life, she allowed Max to introduce her to the servants, which he did with aplomb. Luckily, not to every single member of staff, since the grassed area they stood on appeared to be a catch-all for any passing wind. The long range of buildings probably channeled them this way. She had to hold her broad-brimmed hat to keep it in place. But she did have time to gather that many of the servants here were related, and most had served the family for generations.

  Also that they didn’t approve of her. Although the servants took care to keep their wordless exchanges out of Max’s sight, Sophia was quicker and more perceptive. She saw the raised brow one of the upstairs maids exchanged with a footman. They were probably secure in their positions in the household. Perhaps they should take more care.

  Not that she was given to drawing a white-gloved hand over the top of pieces of furniture, as some mistresses did. But she’d ensure the house was properly taken care of. As her duty. Anyone who didn’t come up to her standards would have to leave, and that included wordless criticisms of her or any other person in the house.

  With her hand on Max’s arm, she climbed the broad, shallow stairs and entered the house.

  The vast hall was high enough to encompass all the main areas and as wide as most London houses. But the painted ceiling drew her attention. People, or beings, flew across the huge area toward a figure at the center.

  “My great-grandfather,” Max murmured to her. “He was the one who went into exile with King Charles. The king presented him with the marquisate on his restoration. He was a mere earl before that. But not a penniless one.”

  “How so?”

  “Some of the family remained behind in England. Half the family was royalist, half for Parliament. It preserved the estate when many perished.” He shrugged. “But ruin comes from many quarters. The Wallaces have lost and rebuilt many fortunes.”

  “And you built the present one.”

  His smile was warm. “So I did. The one my father dissipated building this place.”

  She blinked. “I thought he gambled. That is, I assumed…either that or unwise investments.”

  “The South Sea bubble did him no favors,” Max said. “I learned never to invest everything in one pot from that debacle. But he had money left. The estates were extensive. I sold as many as I could. I had to, to pay the mortgage on this place. My credit wouldn’t have lasted long had I not.”

  “I hadn’t realized matters were so dire. I mean, I heard of your family’s bad times, but I thought they were relative, not absolute.”

  Since the danger had gone, she couldn’t see the point of keeping the information from the servants who probably knew more than she did in any case. A few remained after the introductions, footmen and a maid.

  “Did my maid arrive?” she asked one of them and received assurances that she had.

  French and Max’s valet had left early that morning so they would arrive sooner than their master and mistress. She had been forced to see to herself at the stop on the road. Not that it had been a hardship. She’d enjoyed the quiet room and the refreshments she’d shared with Max alone. And the kisses. She looked forward to more than that tonight, confident, as she had never been before, that her husband would share her bed. Or she would share his.

  A wave of tiredness swept over her at the reminder of bed, but she pushed it aside. She was made of sterner stuff than to collapse after two days’ travel. Except she wasn’t used to it, as many were. She refused to allow a comfortable journey in a coach furnished with every luxury to vanquish her.

  Concerned he might notice her fatigue before she saw this edifice, she turned away and studied the rest of the hall. Paintings, mostly landscapes, hung on the walls, and everywhere but the ceiling was enlivened by decorative plasterwork. The floor was marble, but with very little furniture. She didn’t find the place comfortable, but she guessed that was deliberate. “This is a statement rather than a hall,” she said.

  “It is,” he replied, his voice low. If he spoke up it would echo around the walls repeatedly, like in a cathedral. This place was as big as St. Paul’s, but a temple for temporal power, not spiritual majesty and just as awe-inspiring.

  The staircase was a double—two staircases either side of the space led to a landing above. “Somewhere for the lords to gaze down on the less fortunate,” she commented and received a sharp laugh for her pains.

  If she had expected the rooms to grow less grand, she was disappointed. The staterooms were enfilade, in a long line along the front of the house, so they got the best views. When the doors to each room were opened, as they were now, she could see right through to the end. They wandered through a huge salon, another smaller salon, a music room, and a state bedroom with a four-poster bed draped in cri
mson velvet.

  She reached for his hand and he took it, his fingers winding securely around hers.

  “We don’t have to sleep here, do we?”

  He chuckled. “Not unless you want to. Nobody has ever slept in this bed. In the old days, it was a mark of favor to receive a guest in a bedchamber. Much as you have your levees today.”

  She hadn’t held many of those. A time when the house was opened to people while she was dressing. She only did that when she was preparing for a ball or something elaborate that would take time. Most of the people who attended wished for her favor in some way, musicians and artists. Someone had even composed an execrable poem to her beauty, in the hope that she’d sponsor the publication of his small volume. Not a chance, although she hadn’t told him in those terms. He had excellent taste, however, and had helped her select her fan for the day.

  That seemed so far away now. This place was a kingdom on its own. People could live here and escape detection for years.

  After the grand chambers where they’d spend time with guests and honored visitors, they passed through to a small antechamber. This contained two pietra dura cabinets of such beauty they took her breath away, the polished marble and semiprecious stones glinting in the daylight streaming through the wide windows. But she didn’t want to touch them. They were too beautiful for someone as normal as she.

  She’d never felt so inadequate. But this was her house, and Max wanted her to take charge of it.

  Dismissing the footman who’d accompanied them, Max strode through more beautiful rooms until he reached a bedchamber, where he closed the door firmly. Another lovely room, but with modern wallpaper in Chinese silk and a canopied bed instead of an old-fashioned four-poster.

  “You’re not happy,” he stated.

  She shook her head. “It’s just…you said it was grand, but I never imagined anything like this. How could I? It’s bigger than St. James’s or Kensington.”

  He pushed her into a chair and knelt before her, taking her hands. “This is our home, and it will be exactly as you wish it to be.” He glanced around. “This is your bedroom, should you prefer it.”

  “Where’s yours?”

  “Next door,” he said promptly. “This is the only suite with adjoining bedrooms, and I thought we might prefer it. But if you want a different room, say so, and we’ll make the arrangements. This is our house, Sophia. It belongs to us, not the other way around. My parents were its servants, but that’s the last thing I want. It’s ours, to do with as we wish.” He grimaced. “I used to dream of coming here in the dead of night and burning it down.”

  She gasped. “But it’s so beautiful!”

  “It is. But it’s a mausoleum. Not a house.” Longing entered his gaze. “I wanted a home. I was brought up here. Even the nursery wing is grand. I never knew a home. Do you know the moment I entered your father’s house I felt more comfortable? The furniture was worn but good. The place bore marks from people having lived there. It was a home. I wanted that for our London house, too, and you’ve done a great deal toward making that happen. But here…I don’t think it’s possible.” He took a deep breath. “I lived here in solitary splendor, no siblings to enliven my days until Poppy came. And all the time building was going on around us. The place still isn’t finished. I fear it never will be. Like the bottomless soup pot in fairy tales.”

  She remembered those stories, and his reference almost made her smile, except he seemed so despairing. Lifting her head, she glanced around the room, taking it in. The blue colors would suit her. They appeared newer than the rest of the furnishings she’d seen so far. “Did you order this room prepared for me?”

  His cheekbones gained a red tint and he glanced away. “I wanted you to be comfortable somewhere. But I did it when we were first married. I planned to overawe you. So if you don’t like this, please change it.”

  He did it for her. Even then, he was thinking of her. “I like it.” She got to her feet. “Show me the rest of the house, and when we see a servant, we’ll order tea for when we’re done.”

  Before she was tired, but now she felt full of renewed energy. He’d just informed her that he needed her, that he wanted her help. That was enough to remind her what she could do. She was a businesswoman, trained to evaluate investment projects. So she’d use her training to this place. Regard it as a business. After all, it was part of the family investments. She would assess the return exactly as she would anything else.

  Smiling, he stood too and took her hand, raising it to his lips to bestow a soft kiss on the back. Then, watching her face, he turned it over and grazed her palm with his lips. “Thank you,” he said. “I chose the perfect wife, did I not?”

  They continued to tour the house, and Sophia did her best to thrust her emotions to the back of her mind and paid far more attention to her analytical brain.

  Devereaux Place had treasures, most of them packed in the main block. As they went around, Max told her its history. What Sophia had imagined a modern construction proved to be something else entirely.

  “We’re coming to the older section. The façade to this part is just that. It covers a much older building.”

  Indeed, the style and the feel of the house changed from the gorgeous staterooms to the more lived-in library. In fact, the house had three libraries. At least one too many. One was old, another was for show, and another had always been there, originally holding the official papers belonging to the estate that were now safely locked away in the estate office downstairs.

  She liked the Jacobean Long Gallery which overtopped the staterooms. It was a long room with window embrasures and a line of family portraits. She noted the family resemblance, the sharp features, and from time to time, the green eyes that were so distinctive a part of her husband’s face. Except his sparkled with life and liveliness. When he realized Sophia was taking more of an interest in the house, he regaled her with far more interesting, and scurrilous stories.

  Sophia viewed the family rooms, elegant and more modern in design, and the older rooms at the back of the house. That had originally been the front, but Max’s father had turned the whole aspect of the building, making the front of the house the back. She began to warm to the place. She liked this part.

  The wings mainly contained offices and guest rooms, together with some frivolities like a summer drawing room. “As if this place needs another drawing room!” She turned to him with a laugh.

  He shrugged. “You’re right. It was built to contain that bureau.” He indicated an elaborate desk with a bookcase top. “It was presented to the marquess of the day by King Charles the Second.”

  She didn’t like it. The barley sugar twist legs were only the half of it. “A room for one piece of furniture?” That was when she got her idea. “You worked all your adult life to keep this place,” she said. “Why?”

  They were alone here, so he could be as frank as he wished. Would he confide in her?

  “This house was my father’s dream,” he said. “It was my mother’s dream, too. They were devoted, my parents. Adored each other, even when it became clear there would be no more children after Poppy. There was a problem when Poppy was born, and it rendered my mother barren. At least, that was what she called it in her bitter moments.” He paused. “She had many of those after he died.”

  She had many now, Sophia thought, but didn’t say it aloud. “So you wanted to keep it for her?”

  “I want her back here. When he died, she left and never came back, except when compelled to. Now she moves from one member of her family to the other. Living with Julius isn’t unusual. She lived there before, and then she went to her sister who was ill, and then back to Julius. After my father’s death, I had this place closed up and a skeleton staff put in place. It distressed her greatly, and I don’t think she’s ever forgiven me for doing it.”

  “I see.” Sophia had a word for that. Several, in fact. She’d seen people use objects to lever a deal before, and this
was what her mother-in-law was doing. Only in this case, she was using the house as a way of gaining her son’s attention and his love.

  Sophia didn’t give a fig for that. In fact, she gave less. “She has martyred herself for you?”

  He shook his head. “It wasn’t like that. She never railed against me.” He crossed the room, leaned his hands on the sill, and stared out over the home park. “She told me this house was mine now, and I should do as I pleased with it.”

  “I’ll wager she did,” Sophia muttered, but kept her voice low. She walked across the room to join him, mustering her courage to say what had to be said. “I do have a suggestion. She’s right. This is your house.”

  She turned her back on the view and leaned back, studying the drawing room. Attractive enough, but not the magnificence of the rooms in the main part of the building. “They spent all the estate money on this house.”

  “They were determined to make it perfect.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Some parts aren’t finished. These wings have blank ends, and some rooms have no floors. At the end of the other wing, there’s a double story section without floors. There are plans for the development. My next project.” He sighed.

  “Then don’t do it.” A suggestion she dearly wished him to adopt, so she had to concentrate, put all her powers of persuasion, such as they were, to work.

  Max turned away from the window and straightened, folding his arms across his chest. He was preparing to take his stand. Her heart sank.

  “Give me your opinion with no bark on it.”

  She waved her hand. “This could be a room out of a pattern book. There is nothing distinctive about it, apart from the bureau. I believe your parents had run out of invention or money or enthusiasm by this point. Everything is expected, traditional, as if they’d given the job to someone else and told him to get on with it.”

  He kept his attention on her face. At least he gave a short nod, so slight she might have missed it had she not been paying attention to his every move. “Go on.”