"And I brought books to this place," he said ruefully. "Like coals to Newcastle, I see."
"Our serious books are in the library downstairs," she told him. "This book room is devoted to plays, novels, poetry." She ran her fingers over the volumes on a shelf. "Some old journals. My aunt is inordinately fond of horrid mysteries. You're welcome to read anything you like. We generally get the London papers by noon each day."
"Excellent," he said cheerfully. "That is what I call an easy distance."
Lady Elkins's bedroom was next to the upstairs library, then Juliet's own room, then Cary's. She passed all three of these rooms, then opened the door to the fourth. "This is Quebec."
Quebec was a large, octagonal room with windows overlooking the lake. The walls were paneled in dark green watered silk, and a huge black bearskin lay on the parquet floor before the white marble hearth. Huntsmen's trophies lined the walls. The only other ornament was a large painting of a military gentleman that hung over the mantle. "Sir Roger Wayborn, the first baronet," Juliet explained. "The fifth son of the third Earl Wayborn. He went to Canada with Baron Dorchester in 1759. They fought together in the Battle of Quebec, hence the name of the room."
Swale was looking at the large head of the animal mounted opposite Sir Roger's portrait. It had the largest, strangest antlers he had ever seen. "That is called a caribou, I believe," he said. "And the smaller head next to it is a beaver's."
"I think you are right," she said, surprised.
He stood under the head of a large, snarling cat. "This, of course is a mountain lion. I have been to Canada. Oh, not in a military capacity," he said quickly when he saw her eyes light up. "One of my disreputable cousins has an estate on the St. Lawrence River. I spent an enjoyable six months there when I was seventeen, paddling around in a canoe with an Indian guide. Do I get points off in your accounts, Miss Wayborn?"
She laughed. "For paddling in a canoe?"
"For being sent down from Oxford. That's why I was sent to Canada in the first place."
"Yes, indeed," she said. "But points back on for the canoe-paddling scheme."
He grinned at her. The bed in Quebec, he could not help but notice, was a huge carved box of walnut topped with a thick feather mattress and hung all around with heavy curtains of green and gold brocade. "Sir Benedict's chamber, I daresay," he remarked. "Very handsome."
"Quebec," she told him, "is one of our guest rooms. You're wondering why I didn't put you in Quebec," she guessed, toying with the polished brass door handle.
"It does seem a comfortable chamber."
"Yes, but unfortunately, it's haunted," Miss Wayborn apologized.
"By the first baronet, Sir Roger?"
"Certainly not," she said. "There are no ghosts in my family, thank you. It's the caribou. The last person to sleep here was butted out of the window by the caribou."
"The ghost of the caribou."
"M-m-m," she smugly agreed. "So you see, I could not in good conscience put your lordship in Quebec. If the caribou were to take you in dislike ..."
"Now, Miss Wayborn," he chuckled. "Do you really expect me to believe you don't wish me to be butted out of the window by the ghost of your caribou?"
"There is a tree outside the window," she explained, moving smoothly out into the hall, "so it is not as though you'd break your neck."
The next bedroom she showed him was Agincourt. Her pride was evident, and he could easily see why. The carpet was dark blue with the gold fleur-de-lis of France, while the bed hangings were the red and gold of the English king. The scarlet walls were hung with tapestries depicting the famous victory of Henry V over the French at Agincourt in 1415.
"Splendid, isn't it?" she said. "I did think of putting you here, but as a matter of fact, this chamber is reserved for my cousin, Captain Cary."
"And a fire has been lit," Swale observed. "Do you expect him momentarily?"
"Oh, "Juliet said airily, "there is always a fire in Agincourt in honor of our ancestors who fought there."
Runnymede was on the opposite side of the house, up the western staircase, just three doors from Hastings. While not as splendid as Agincourt, it was a handsome, comfortable chamber with dark blue hangings around the bed and a view of the rolling green farmland of Surrey from the tall windows.
"One of your illustrious ancestors was at the signing of the Magna Carta, I collect?"
"Baron Wayborn," she affirmed. "There is a lovely effigy of his lordship and his wife atop their tomb in the family crypt, if you're interested in effigies."
"Not as a general rule."
"Baron Wayborn's great-grandson became the first Earl Wayborn in the reign of James I. The Earl was granted his father-in-law's estate in the Midlands, but his younger brother remained here in Surrey without a title until Sir Roger was made a baronet in 1760. There have always been Wayborns in Surrey." She cleared her throat. "I would have put your lordship in Runnymede, but then Sir Benedict would not have a place to put a friend if a friend were to visit him unexpectedly. You understand."
"Certainly. Don't give it another thought."
"And this," she said, throwing open the door to the last chamber on the hall, "is Hastings."
The room was cold and dark and cramped. There was a faint smell of mold clinging to the bed hangings. Swale entered cautiously, the floorboards creaking under him, and upset a collection of old cricket bats set on one side of the door. "I take it one of your ancestors was also at the Battle of Hastings in 1066?" he inquired with forced cheer.
"Yes," she replied, remaining at the door. "But we lost that one."
Swale looked around slowly, taking in the narrow, lumpy bed that sagged in the middle, the hideous, unupholstered black chairs and benches that were the only furnishings. In one corner was a stack of boxes. "The room is not yet ready," he guessed.
"What do you mean?" she asked innocently. "Here's your trunk now," she added as two footmen carried Swale's trunk into the room. "Open the window, John," she instructed one of the footmen airily. John obeyed, opening a tiny window choked with ivy. "This is a most convenient chamber to put guests in, my lord," she told Swale. "The footmen are in the room directly above you."
Swale suddenly chuckled. "This is where I lose my temper and start throwing things, is that it, Miss Wayborn? You're testing me."
Juliet inclined her head. "Why should I test you, my lord?"
He tapped his nose. Naturally, his Juliet would not be inclined to discuss personal matters in front of the servants. He had always been raised to ignore servants, but Juliet evidently worried about wagging tongues. "Right," he said. "Mum's the word. Test away."
"Would you like to see the grounds now?" she inquired coldly.
"Passionately," he said, lavishly tipping the footmen.
"May I suggest we ride?" said Juliet. "You do ride, don't you?"
"The question is not do I ride," he informed her, "but can you keep up with me?"
Twenty minutes later, he met her downstairs in the circular entrance hall; she was dressed in a dark green riding habit and no hat, he in buckskins and a simple black coat. The horses were brought to the front steps, and he balked when he saw the nondescript brown mare she expected him to ride.
"I'm not riding that," he said stoutly. "I see you have something nice for yourself," he added resentfully, nodding toward the dancing black mare the groom was walking up and down.
"Dolly is mine," she told him irritably. "The black mare is Cary's. As you are his guest, you may ride his horse. She's very fresh. You'll probably break your neck."
They agreed to race for a half mile to the crest overlooking Silvercombe. To her chagrin and despite his weighing sixteen stone compared to her eight, he reached it first. "You ride well," she said grudgingly as she overtook him.
"I had the better mount," he said truthfully. "I wonder your brother hasn't found you a better horse. That brown mare is no longer young."
"I know," she said, leaning forward to pat Dolly's neck. "Cary bought m
e the prettiest saddle horse for my nineteenth birthday, but Benedict made him send her back. He was certain I'd break my neck on her-as though I should! " She sighed as she thought of the beautiful, swift black mare that had been hers so fleetingly. "Benedict doesn't ride, so he's not the best judge when it comes to horses."
He nodded absently as he looked out over the valley, observing avast white house with spires and battlements that reminded him of a wedding cake. "Silvercombe appears to be a large, handsome house with a very fine prospect," he remarked. "Is it really for sale?"
"I expect you would like to buy it for a certain lady," she said sourly, "as a wedding present."
He stared at her, amazed by this unexpected boldness, his heart pounding. Before this moment, he had been uncertain as to the feelings of his Juliet, but this must remove all doubt. When a lady asks a gentleman to buy her a country house for a wedding present, then the gentleman is on solid ground indeed! His battered heart filled with gratitude; while he had been dreading all those humiliating declarations that must accompany the courtship of any well-bred young lady, Juliet had apparently judged it best to dispense with all that and move straight to the wedding gifts. For sparing him the indignities of going down on bended knee and pleading in the wettest terms his violent love, he considered a country estate of some six thousand acres not too extravagant a tribute.
"I daresay I will," he said, smiling brilliantly. "If a certain lady desires me to purchase Silvercombe, I will of course be commanded by her."
Juliet was trembling with rage. The thought of Lady Serena-Lady Swale-as mistress of Silvercombe made her positively ill. "You would do that to me," she said bitterly. "You'd buy a house not a mile from my brother's door, and-and live there!"
"Possibly not," he said, now thoroughly confused. "I am fond of Sir Benedict, but I suppose it is possible to be settled too near him."
"Quite! "
"Then I shall look for something farther afield, shall I?" he asked cautiously.
"Indeed!" she snapped, turning her mild brown mare back toward Wayborn Hall. "I must return to the house now, but you mustn't let me keep you from paying your respects. Just keep to the path; Silvercombe is less than a mile. You must be most anxious to see your sister and your-your friends."
"Why don't you come with me?" he suggested.
Juliet snorted. Lady Maria Fitzwilliam would certainly be confounded if the notorious Miss Whip arrived at Silvercombe in the company of Lord Swale-she could hardly claim not to be at home to her own brother! And her ladyship's displeasure at being forced to receive Miss Wayborn would be richly worth savoring.
Reluctantly, she shook her head. However rude and insolent the Silvercombe ladies had been, she would not retaliate with behavior that would make Sir Benedict cringe. "I can't leave my brother's property without telling anyone where I have gone," she said. "Besides, it's nearly six o'clock now, and we dine at six-thirty."
"Country hours," he remarked. "It is rather late for a visit, I suppose. If I were to call now, Serena might feel obliged to invite me to dinner."
"She might," Juliet agreed. "Would that not be desirable? Do not imagine we'd be offended at Wayborn Hall if you were to find the company at Silvercombe more to your liking."
"Pretty shabby I would look, riding over at this hour in all my dirt and hanging out for an invitation to dine," he said, rubbing his head. His head felt vulnerable and itchy now that it bore nothing but stubble, and he found himself rubbing it almost continuously. "I may be an ill-mannered brute, but I think I am better than that."
"As you please," she said coldly. His anxiety to please Serena Calverstock annoyed her like nothing else, even though apparently, his love for the lady was encouraging him to look and behave more and more like the gentleman. The Swale she knew had never given a second thought to being an ill-mannered brute. Rather, he reveled in it. She was not entirely sure she liked the new Swale. His pleasantries grated on her ears all the way back to the house.
She would have gone straight up to her room to change, but he stopped her in the hall. "Before we part, Miss Wayborn, would you be kind enough to provide me with some paper? I would like to send my sister a note since I won't be visiting her until tomorrow."
Certain that he really meant to write to Lady Serena, Juliet was too irritated to be gracious, though of course, such a civil request could not be denied. She brought him to the morning room where her aunt kept an escritoire well stocked with writing supplies. He watched, amused, as his hostess, with every appearance of ill humor, sat down in her green habit and began to rule lines onto a sheet of hot-pressed paper with a little silver pencil.
"My dear Miss Wayborn," he murmured, chuckling, "I am well able to line my own paper. I have been doing it since I was a boy. It is excessively kind of you; I thank you for it with all my heart, but I wish you would not go to such trouble for my sake."
Cheeks flaming, Juliet immediately sprang up from her seat. It must look as though she were eager to perform any little service for him, however menial, and this was decidedly not the case! "It is only force of habit," she explained quickly, anxious to remove the impression of obsequiousness that she had unwittingly created. "I always line my brothers' paper for them. They never do it for themselves. Benedict can't and Cary won't."
"I see," he said, his green eyes twinkling. "My own sister claims to love me, but she has never given me such a practical proof of it as this."
"I will leave you to write your letters, sir," she said coolly. "But don't forget that dinner is at half-past six. If you're not punctual, don't think I'll keep the others waiting! There's nothing worse than cold soup."
With a haughty toss of her head, she swept from the room.
The family customarily gathered before dinner in a small lounge across from the dining room. Juliet was the first to come down, and she immediately set about tidying up the little room. Her brothers and her aunt were constantly taking books from the library, leaving them scattered around the lounge, and never putting them back. And as it seemed unfair to tax the servants with replacing books that they probably could not read to their proper places, the task almost always fell to her. When Swale joined her a few minutes later, looking surprisingly elegant in his formal evening dress, she was carrying a stack of books over to a side table. He stopped in the doorway and looked in, rubbing his head self-consciously, and to her annoyance, he did not offer his assistance. She did not want his help, of course, but she would have enjoyed telling him so.
He said merely, "More books, I see."
She plunked them down on the table, snatched the top one, and sat down with it.
"Your brothers will very likely be late," he said. "We are all three of us sharing the same valet, and I got him first."
He was looking as well as she supposed it was possible for him to look. His neckcloth was spotless, and his coat had been thoroughly ironed. She doubted he would ever be polished enough for Lady Serena, but she was obliged to admit he was quite elegant enough for herself. His figure was not fashionably slender, but he was very tall, and Nature had given him a deep chest, broad shoulders, and good legs. While his physique was nowhere near as pleasing as that of her cousin Horatio, or indeed, her brother Cary, there was a vigor about Swale, an appetite and a restless energy, that she liked. But for some reason, he was repressing it and acting like a milksop. Such unexceptional behavior might win him the fair Serena, but why was he acting the courtly tulip with her? They were not even friends.
"My aunt will be late as well," she told him. "She's having her hair crimped over her ears. Could take hours."
He merely looked at her for a moment, and she wondered if he were evaluating her appearance as she had already evaluated his. It was a disconcerting thought, and she braced herself for the comment she expected him to make. Compliment or insult, it was likely to be embarrassing. She was the first to admit that her appearance had suffered greatly from the departure of Mademoiselle Ruppert.
She was wearing one of her new
London gowns, a white silk with a pale green gauze. About as daring as she dared, it left her neck and arms bare, while clinging provocatively to her tall, proud figure. She had declined Huddle's expertise in crimping and had dressed her hair herself, pulling it back from her face in a simple twist, with one long curl draped across her breast. She was wearing her mother's pearldrop earrings and no other ornament.
"You seem to have a goodish number of china bits in there," he observed, turning his attention from her to the room. "Shall we risk it? Or, do I remain in the hall where I can't hurt anything?"
She shrugged, unaccountably annoyed not to be likened again to his favorite dog. "I only wish we had better things for your lordship to knock aboutperhaps our ornaments are not up to your standard?" She pointed out two tall Sevres vases that graced the mantelpiece. "You would not be ashamed to break those, I think," she said civilly.
"No, indeed," he said, grinning at her. It really was a charming, boyish grin, she noted, and quite wasted on her. Boyish charm could not affect her. "Eminently breakable. Expensive?"
"Ten thousand pounds for the pair, but I daresay you have Sevres bowling pins at Auckland."
"At a mere ten thousand pounds a pair, why not?"
She frowned at him, tired of the jest though she herself had initiated it. "Ten thousand pounds is all I have in the world, you know!" she said sharply.
"Is it?" he said, blinking at her in surprise. 'Well, I daresay when you marry, Sir Benedict will make you a handsome settlement. My father gave my sister fifty or sixty thousand."
Juliet's anger deepened. "That is well for your sister, my lord. But when I say all I have in the world is ten thousand pounds, I mean it. That is my dowry, and I wouldn't take a penny more from my brother."
"That is a pity," he said, rubbing his head. "I think women need more inducement to marry than a mere ten thousand pounds-we men are such beasts. If I were a woman, I wouldn't marry for a penny less than fifty thousand guineas."
She regarded him in astonishment. "If you were a woman! "
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