“Thank you, Melville.”
After the butler left him, Lucius sensed his body giving in to the need for sleep. If not for the estate’s accounts to review and his father to visit, he would have happily sunk into the comfort of his bed. His empty bed. Though it had been empty for months—no, for over a year—its emptiness was suddenly unappealing.
He made his way to his study and had just crossed the threshold when Mrs. Ives stopped him with her usual effusive greeting.
“My lord, how wonderful it is to have you back at Hartwell. We did not expect you quite so soon, so it is an extra pleasure.”
How could anyone resist such a greeting, not to mention the smell of lemon oil and clean linen that always seemed to cling to the woman?
“Mrs. Ives, I trust you’ve been well and all has been as expected in my absence.”
Other than the nurse Lucius had hired to care for his father, the estate’s staff rarely involved themselves with his father’s illness and unpredictable moods. They were content to pretend for Lucius’s benefit that all was well, and he was usually content to play along.
“His Lordship has been quite well, though he took a little turn today. No rhyme or reason why. But he is tucked in bed now and ended the day quite well. Perhaps he will return to his own rooms more quickly than the last spell.”
Mrs. Ives was a dutiful caretaker and always strove to return his father to his fully furnished rooms, his books, writing implements, and the specimens he’d collected from around the estate as quickly as possible. His rooms encompassed the increasingly dilapidated family wing where Lucius’s mother and father had lived in happier times. His father refused to move from the space he’d shared with his wife, but Lucius was content to sleep in the renovated portion of the house usually reserved for guests. Back in the days of the country house parties his parents hosted, the many bedrooms had been filled. Now they stood empty, furnishings covered with dust cloths, except for the spacious dark-paneled suite Lucius had selected for himself.
“I hope you’re right.”
“The spells don’t seem to last quite as long lately, my lord. Have you noticed?”
The truth was he had not. The pattern of his father’s highs and lows seemed as unpredictable to Lucius as they ever had. It wasn’t surprising, however, that Mrs. Ives, perennial optimist, would think so.
“Perhaps I should take closer note. They seem quite consistently inconsistent to me.”
Mrs. Ives was too polite to contradict him. “Yes, my lord.”
Melville scratched softly at the open doorway and then proceeded into the room to place Lucius’s supper tray on his desk. Despite his fatigue, the food smelled delicious. Mrs. Ives saw him eyeing him the meal and seemed to take pity.
“I shall leave you to your supper, my lord. You must be famished and exhausted after your journey.”
“Indeed. Tell my father I’ll visit him in the morning.”
“Yes, my lord. He’ll be pleased to see you.”
When his father was in the midst of his worst spells, he wasn’t particularly pleased to see anyone. If he found any pleasure in visitors, he only took umbrage with them moments later. The extremes of his emotions were dizzying. Lucius couldn’t imagine the misery of such riotous feelings. Observing his father’s highs and lows and the travesty of his parents’ marriage drove Lucius to control his own emotions. And it usually worked.
Men should be guided by logic and reason, and reason should always rule over the deceptions of the heart.
He’d read it once, but Lucius couldn’t remember where. Marcus Aurelius, perhaps? Some rational, stoic man who’d never allowed himself to drown in emotion as his father had. Whoever’d written it, Lucius was only certain the man had never been kissed quite unexpectedly by a beautiful bluestocking.
JESS WOKE ON her twenty-third day at Marleston and found her surroundings familiar for the first time since arriving. Every other morning she’d woken early, expecting to be in her tiny room above the bookshop. She missed the smell of book leather and the bustling sounds of London beyond the window glass, but the music of birdsong and the scent of fresh-cut grass was an undeniably pleasant consolation.
As her first weeks at Marleston Hall flew by, Jess and Lady Stamford managed to settle into a comfortable rapport and predictable daily routine. They met in the countess’s sitting room late in the morning to go over the previous day’s post, plan the next day’s meals, and write letters to the countess’s many correspondents. Castor and Pollux had taken to joining their morning sessions, one balancing happily on the countess’s lap and the other dozing at Jess’s feet.
In her evening hours, Jess continued to work on speeches and articles for the Women’s Union, as she’d promised Alice she would. Some days, between Lady Stamford’s extensive correspondence and the writing and rewriting of speeches, her wrist ached and her fingers went numb. At those moments, she’d find a quiet nook and read one of the handful of beloved books she’d brought with her to Marleston. Settling on just a few had been one of the hardest parts of leaving the shop behind, but they were favorites she’d never tire of reading again and again. And the familiar words never failed to soothe her.
Among the staff, she’d encountered a frustratingly mixed reception. For the most part Marleston’s employees welcomed her with kindness and a willingness to impart the rules of correct behavior at a grand estate. It seemed she needed reminding about a few points of etiquette nearly every day. But she was an oddity to some, a working-class woman raised up to be a countess’s companion. If she still questioned why Lady Stamford had given her the position, Jess could hardly blame the lady’s maid, Miss Dawes, for snubbing her at every turn, or the butler, Mr. Noon, for slanting a gaze at her now and then as if she might abscond with the silver.
Her mood soared on days she managed to remember which spoon to use, how to properly address each of Lady Stamford’s correspondents, and how to be more help than hindrance to the other staff. But she missed Jack and Alice and her circle of friends in the Women’s Union so fiercely that the hours filled with foibles, missteps, and the chastising glance of Mr. Noon made her itch for her first month’s wages so she could buy a ticket and take the next train back to London.
Tilly, Marleston’s between maid, had found Jess tucked in a library alcove on her fifth day. She’d already swiped away her tears and settled her breathing, but Tilly gently prodded her to confess the rest—her anxieties about being a lady’s companion and a longing for London and the few friends she’d left behind. It helped, especially when Tilly assured her Noon distrusted everyone and Dawes found favor with few.
Tilly queried Jess about the volume of Oliver Twist clutched in her hands like a precious talisman, and it eased her mind to talk about books. When Tilly confessed her inability to read and asked if Jess might teach her, Jess had been eager to help. Their lessons enriched her days at Marleston, and despite continued blunders in etiquette, Jess was growing accustomed to the grand house.
The loss of the shop, the scandalous kiss in Mayfair, the man with a voice as smooth as melted chocolate all receded in her thoughts, an occasional twinge in her heart, and she busied herself with teaching Tilly and learning how to be helpful to a countess.
During her hours with Lady Stamford, the countess spoke of Lord Grimsby often, mostly recounting tales from his boyhood. She described her family as full of men, mentioning one son and two nephews. Of the three, it seemed Lord Grimsby held a special place in her heart. Her stories painted a picture of an admirable man—one with a ravenous curiosity, kind toward others despite his quiet, taciturn nature, and whose most reliable trait was a fierce loyalty to his family. He seemed quite a precise gentleman too. Lady Stamford smiled when recalling Lord Grimsby’s insistence that everything on his desk remain in exactly the same position, that chairs in the sitting room be a specific distance apart, and that the art on the walls of the dining room be hung equidistant from one another. The countess spoke of her late husband too and occasionally of her son, who
’d inherited his father’s earldom and was on the hunt for a suitable bride to become the next Countess of Stamford. It seemed to Jess that her employer was looking forward to becoming a dowager countess, and even more so to grandchildren.
Jess listened quietly, only interjecting questions when it seemed appropriate, and above all attempting to appear as interested in stories of Lady Stamford’s son as she was in tales of her favorite nephew. It was silly to feel any kinship with the man she’d met on only two occasions and in the most awkward of circumstances, yet Jess found herself smiling more and fidgeting less when Lady Stamford described Lord Grimsby’s boyhood adventures. It was difficult to reconcile the serious gentleman she’d met with the young man the countess described so lovingly.
“Anything interesting in yesterday’s post, Jessamin?”
Lady Stamford spoke to her in familiar terms and had invited Jess to call her Augusta in return, but she’d yet to manage it.
“Yes, actually there is, my lady. A letter from America that smells of roses.”
“Do let me see that one, my dear.”
Lady Stamford held out her hand and Jess glanced at the return address before handing the sealed letter to her. The name Sedgwick was embossed on the paper, and someone with a looping, feminine style of handwriting had addressed the letter. The script was so ornate, Jess struggled to decipher the words.
Lady Stamford unfolded the letter and made a tsking noise as she skimmed the paper.
“Oh my, this will be a challenge.”
“A challenge?” Jess continued to slice open each letter in the small pile on the desk, though the dismayed tone in the countess’s voice set her on edge. In the short time she’d been in her employ, Jess had never known Lady Stamford to be anything but cheerful and carefree. The woman seemed to take everything as a pleasure to be enjoyed or a minor conundrum to be efficiently unraveled.
Jess lifted a cup of tea to her lips and watched as the countess began to pace the length of the intricate floral rug that decorated her sitting room. Her peach-colored gown was a similar hue to one of the half dozen she’d ordered from her dressmaker for Jess. She’d insisted a lady’s companion must have a fashionable wardrobe, though her duties of fetching, writing, and reading to the countess required no such thing. Still, she couldn’t deny the pleasure of sorting through fabrics, sifting the luxurious textures through her fingers, and picking colors that reminded her of flowers she’d seen at the Botanical Garden or the riotous shades of a London sunset.
“This letter is from Miss May Sedgwick. She’s the daughter of an old acquaintance and one of the richest heiresses in America. I met her father in London many years ago. I’ve yet to meet his daughter, but she’s reputedly quite lovely, and apparently very changeable. I expected her for a visit here at Marleston, but she says her heart is set on going straight to Hartwell.”
Jess assumed Hartwell might be another of the countess’s estates, though she had no notion why anyone would need another. Marleston was lovely and spacious, so beautifully constructed and well-appointed that she couldn’t imagine anyone craving another home.
Augusta looked at her expectantly.
Jess raised her eyebrows, uncertain what to say.
“Hartwell is my brother’s home.”
“Ah, I see. Is it as lovely as Marleston?”
Augusta sat down in the armchair nearest Jess.
“It used to be. It could be again, though I suspect my nephew would deny the claim.”
Heat warmed Jess’s cheeks and she had to stop herself from nervously tapping her pen against the desk. Lady Stamford had at least two nephews. Perhaps more. Though she hadn’t mentioned any others, there was no reason to assume she’d detailed her entire family tree. It was presumptuous to assume she referred to the same dour viscount Jess had been paid to kiss.
Lord Grimsby was there in her memory, too vivid and quickly brought to mind. His voice, his scent, the shape of his mouth—the more she tried not to ponder each detail, the more fixed they became in her mind’s eye. Jess remembered him far too often, and the man invaded her dreams with impunity.
“We must prepare to depart for Hartwell, Jessamin. I’ll speak to Dawes about what to pack, but could you oversee the preparations? And we should craft a letter to my nephew. He won’t welcome a house party, but that’s what he must have. We can invite Matilda and her granddaughter, perhaps Dr. Seagraves from the village, Julia and Marcus. And Lucius will no doubt wish for Mr. Wellesley.”
Augusta continued to tick off names of guests, most of whom Jess had never heard her mention, to be invited and tasks to be completed before their departure. Jess stalled on one name. Lucius. At the gallery, a woman had called Lord Grimsby by that name.
That moment—the disdain in the woman’s voice, the weight and warmth of Lord Grimsby’s hand on her arm—came back as if she stood again in the overheated gallery. Jess bit her lip to stop it trembling and clasped her hands to stop them shaking. She’d never expected to see him again, and now she was to visit his home. In just a few days, she might lift her gaze and look into his eyes, stand close enough to him to see the flecks of silver in the crescent of blue. Excitement and fear tangled in a breath-stealing mass that seemed to center in her chest, and she pressed the flat of her palm against her breastbone in a futile attempt to ease the pressure.
I can’t forget. His three words never left her, as if the heated breath of his whisper had seared them into her skin. Yet she’d spent hours tormenting herself with theories about his meaning. Was it a curse? An accusation? A plea?
That day in the shop, he’d come and offered her charity, yet the night before he’d accused her of accosting him. She’d undoubtedly scandalized him. But in the gallery, he’d held on to her as if she were his lifeline, his glacial blue eyes burning her with the intensity of his gaze. The man was inscrutable, confusing, and took up altogether too much space in her head.
“Lord Grimsby.” Jess wasn’t certain she said his name aloud until she noticed Lady Stamford had stopped speaking and sat watching her with interest.
“Yes, my nephew is at Hartwell. Maxim and Isobel’s eldest son died two years ago, and Lucius is now my brother’s heir.” Augusta answered the questions Jess hadn’t asked.
And, always sharp-eyed, Lady Stamford noticed the trembling Jess attempted to hide. Reaching out, the countess took Jess’s hands in her own. “All will be well, my dear. Please don’t worry.”
“Yes.”
It would have to be. Lady Stamford was her employer and she insisted on going to Hartwell. Lord Grim would simply have to accept Jess’s presence, though she vowed to herself she’d steer clear of him.
For the next hour they made plans, assembled lists, and addressed several invitations to those the countess wished to have at Hartwell’s house party. The letter she dictated to Lord Grimsby was brief and to the point.
L.—
I will arrive at Hartwell within the week, and Miss Sedgwick will follow shortly thereafter. Prepare Hartwell for a house party. I have invited Lady Turbridge, Marcus and Julia, Robert, and a few others.
I pray Maxim is well.
We shall be with you soon.
—A.
“We must leave tomorrow and begin preparations for Miss Sedgwick’s arrival.” Augusta reached out and patted Jess’s arm before giving it a gentle squeeze. “I’m so grateful to have you with me. There is much to do.”
Jess smiled at her employer even as her stomach churned. She could only imagine Lord Grimsby’s reaction when he found the woman who’d accosted him taking up residence in his home. Would he curse her? He certainly wouldn’t kiss her, though she couldn’t resist imagining it. Lifting her hand, she stroked the flesh near her ear, tracing the spot where he’d pressed his mouth to her skin and whispered those three haunting words. I can’t forget.
She shivered and anticipation rushed through her, as if he might walk into his aunt’s sitting room at any moment. As if he would greet her with pleasure. As if the man
had given her two minutes of consideration since walking out of her failed bookshop.
Despite his parting words, he would have forgotten her. Surely he’d forgotten. He was a viscount with an estate to run and an ailing father to care for. If he simply didn’t loathe her, that would be enough. But more likely, he’d demand his aunt dismiss her on the spot, and Jess wouldn’t blame him for it. After hearing of his protective nature, especially when it came to his family, she envisioned a dismissal as the probable outcome of her trip to Hartwell.
Then a thought struck her. “My lady, why is Miss Sedgwick so keen to go to Hartwell?”
The countess didn’t meet her gaze, merely slid her hand across Castor’s fur, as if contemplating how to respond.
When Lady Stamford looked up, her mouth was tight, mirthless, but her lips trembled as if she was attempting to force a pleasanter expression. “She intends to marry my nephew, my dear.”
Chapter Nine
“MY LORD, WE’LL do all we can, but it will take weeks to prepare all of the rooms and stock the kitchen. We’ll make do with the suites in the west wing. Cook wishes to know how many we can expect.”
Hartwell’s housekeeper, Mrs. Penry, spoke in her usual pleasant tone, yet even that sound grated on Lucius’s frayed nerves. His first cup of tea had done nothing to clear the fog from his brain. Nor had his second, or the third. His eyes itched when they weren’t blurring the figures before him, the joints of his arms and legs protested when he moved after too long a spell at his desk chair, and every noise set him on edge. Sleep continued to elude him, coming only in miserable fits and starts after weeks back in his own bed, and all the usual duties and minor troubles associated with running the estate seemed suddenly insurmountable. Focused thought eluded him too, unless it involved contemplation of a certain young woman’s lips.
And now his aunt proposed a house party the day after Mrs. Penry reported that a part of the east wing’s third-floor ceilings had begun to crack and leak. The exterior masonry and slate tile roofs, deteriorating and untended for years, had apparently decided now was as good a time as any to crumble away completely. He told himself that part of the estate, unsheltered by Hartwell Woods on the west, was more exposed to the wind and rain. But less rationally, gut deep, he wondered if the rancor between his parents, who’d slammed doors and shaken the walls with their shouting in that portion of the house for years, had somehow taken its toll. Whatever the cause, the cost of repairs, in addition to the interior updates the house required, was quickly piling up.
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