The delicious aroma of fresh bread and biscuits wafted in the air. Althea’s stomach rumbled. “Cook has been baking?”
“All morning, milady,” Sally said.
“I have barely eaten today and shall indulge with a cup of tea, as soon as I’ve changed out of my traveling gown.” A sleepy black tomcat woke and stretched on the window seat. He jumped down with a meow of welcome and stalked over to rub against her legs.
Althea reached down and picked him up. “Have you missed me, Jet?” She stroked his sleek vibrating body and walked to the window to run a critical eye over her rose garden, picturing how delightful it would be in a month or so.
“It happened again, my lady,” Sally said. “I came downstairs and found Jet in the garden. Somehow, he managed to open the window.”
Althea put down the cat. Her body ached and she longed for a hot bath after the uncomfortable carriage ride with its inferior springs on rutted roads. “How very odd,” she said with a moment of disquiet. “He’s a clever cat, but that window latch isn’t loose.” She beckoned to her maid. “Come upstairs, Sally, I require a bath and a change of clothes. Then you must spend what’s left of the day with your Ned.”
The next morning, Althea woke with a luxurious stretch. She slept like the dead here. How pleasant to wake to the sparrow’s chirrup on the roof instead of the noise of traffic and shouts of early tradesmen and hawkers in the streets. After drinking a refreshing cup of coffee and nibbling a sweet roll at breakfast, she donned a shawl and wandered out to better inspect the garden. It was a treat not to be in London and have to be one’s well-turned out best from morning till night. A crisp breeze toyed with her hair, which Sally had yet to dress, as she was busy unpacking Althea’s trunk.
A volley of gunshot carried on the breeze from deep in the Crowthorne Woods. She stared at the pale sky now filled with fluttering birds. More shots followed. Sir Horace’s weekend guests, no doubt.
The crunch of heavy footsteps on the gravel made her turn.
“Lady Brookwood? Your maid said I might find you here.” Sir Horace strode toward her, his gray head bare, hat in hand. She stiffened. Sally would not have directed him here. How dare he come unannounced into her garden?
She nodded. “Sir Horace.”
He tucked a thumb into his crimson waistcoat, which strained over his stomach, and smiled unabashed. “I heard you had arrived yesterday. Nothing remains a secret for long in Slough. I called to welcome you home.”
“How kind. I expected you to be out with your party.”
“And so I was.”
“Have you left your guests?” Aware of her hair loose over her shoulders, she smoothed it back while the baronet, a man of some fifty years, stared at her with hooded, hawkish eyes.
“They shan’t miss me when their blood is up. I’ll return to them shortly. Lady Crowthorne has asked me to extend a dinner invitation to you for this evening.”
Althea very much doubted it. His second wife, Lady Crowthorne, had not been at all welcoming in the past. A widow such as herself young enough to tempt a husband, made her unpopular with some married women. “How good of her to think of me. But I must decline. I came here to rest after a demanding Christmas season.”
He cocked his head. “Surely someone so young and full of life prefers bright company to her own?”
The chill breeze whooshed through the poplars and lifted the hair from her neck, blowing strands across her face. She tucked it back while suppressing a shiver. “Please consider me for the next occasion. I shall have to decline, I’m afraid I’m exhausted.” Annoyed by his boorish behavior, she picked up the skirts of her morning gown and crossed the damp grass to the house. “You must excuse me. I must dress. You have caught me en dishabille.”
“I shan’t complain about that. You look as fresh as a dewy morning.” He strode after her. “My guests will be greatly disappointed. I believe you know many of them.” He rattled off some familiar names. “I promise to return you to your home before midnight, so it needn’t tax your strength.” He stepped in front of her, forcing her to halt. Althea’s hackles rose at his effrontery, but she held her tongue. Unwise to foster bad relations with a neighbor, especially a wealthy, powerful man such as he.
He held out his hands, palm upward. “How can you say no to music, dancing, and the superb food prepared by my excellent French chef?” Hard brown eyes assessed her as he crossed his arms. “I won’t leave until you agree.” It infuriated her. Another man who was used to getting what he wanted.
Under his steady gaze, she sought for a polite excuse. “I keep no carriage here.”
“No problem. I’ll send mine to get you.”
He was intractable. She forced a smile and decided to agree if only to get rid of him. “Then I can hardly refuse such a promising evening’s entertainment.” She dipped a curtsey and continued to walk to the house, refusing to escort him to the door. Let him exit the way he came.
“Six o’clock,” he called after her.
Chapter Three
Precisely at six o’clock, Sir Horace’s coachman drove the shiny blue landau up to the door to take her to his mansion. By road it was several miles. They crossed a stone bridge over a river which flooded every winter and cut off his estate from the village.
They drove through gates and down the tree-lined avenue to his crenellated monstrosity of a house. A huge faux castle, it had been built only a few years ago after he tore down an Elizabethan house. Such pomposity.
In the entry hall, Althea greeted Lady Crowthorne warmly, hoping her presence didn’t affect the lady unfavorably. Crowthorne’s wife curtsied with a sour expression, her thin body clad in an unattractive shade of lavender.
The shoot had been successful with many birds bagged and the atmosphere in the reception rooms merry. As she entered, familiar faces turned toward her. Althea shrugged off her tiredness, determined to enjoy the evening and went to greet those she knew.
The thought of a pleasant evening was short lived when she saw two men whose attentions toward her had been unwelcome since Brookwood died.
A jolt of pleasure surprised her when Lord Montsimon appeared and bowed to her. She put it down to the fact that he measured up far better than the married wolves around him. He was every bit as bad as the rest, but he did not cheat on a wife and came in an altogether more attractive package. Still, she had no intention of encouraging him. His smile of greeting reminded her of his insufferable cockiness. She nodded coolly and turned back to the lady at her elbow.
At dinner, Lady Crowthorne placed Althea at the far end of the table beside Skiffy, Sir Lumley St. George Skeffington, a small, thin man with sharp features and rouged cheeks. Heavy perfume wafted in the air as he waved his hands and talked incessantly about fashion. He had designed his elaborate costume and confessed to frequently advising George IV in matters of dress before he became king.
Montsimon was seated at the head of the table, on Lady Crowthorne’s left, and was busy charming their hostess if her laughter was any judge.
After a superb dinner, which lived up to Crowthorne’s boast, Althea danced with several partners. When the musicians struck up a waltz, Montsimon beat several other men to her side. She stepped reluctantly into his arms, but the skill of both the musicians and Montsimon’s dancing lifted her mood and she began to enjoy herself.
“Sir Henry must have brought the musicians from London,” she said. “They are outstanding.”
“Indeed.”
“Do you enjoy the country?” Althea asked. She was surprised to see such an urban creature in the wilds of Buckinghamshire, and Crowthorne did not seem the type of man she expected Montsimon to associate with.
“In small doses,” Montsimon said as he swept her around the floor. “The air is invigorating. But then, when one becomes suffused with energy, there is little of the right company with which to enjoy it. What can one do?” He laughed.
Must he make every comment sound suggestive? “One might ride or hunt.” She raise
d her eyebrows. “Or play whist or backgammon.”
“That would certainly account for a few hours.”
“I find no difficulty in employing myself.”
“How fortunate you are not to suffer ennui from the lack of society.”
“We are fortunate tonight,” she said, smiling at her hostess who danced past and stared at them. “But sometimes society can be a bore.”
“You think so?” He studied her face. “You surely can’t be much above one-and-twenty.”
A soft gasp escaped her as she caught the white flash of his grin. He’d taken three years off her age. She smiled to herself. She was no ingénue, and he knew it. “How old I am has nothing to do with it.”
He frowned. “You’re not ill?”
She raised a brow. “I’m in the best of health, thank you for your concern.”
“Of course, you are.” His gaze roamed her face. “You’re positively glowing.”
“Dancing with you might contribute to my high color, my lord,” she said, imbuing her voice with sarcasm.
“I’m pleased to hear it,” he said, deliberating misunderstanding her.
“You may not be if I elaborated.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Surely you aren’t about to retire and become a recluse? I believe I just heard a collective sigh from all the gentlemen in the ballroom.”
“Not at all,” she said crisply. Was he working up to request a liaison as two other men had done? She tensed, preparing to give him short shrift.
“Do you like dogs, Lady Brookwood?”
Startled, she gazed into his gray eyes, finding them sharp and assessing. How unpredictable he was. “I like all animals. I have a cat.”
“I seem to have acquired a dog,” he said with a rueful expression. “Turned up at my stables in London. I tried to give it to my coachman, but Spot…” He shrugged apologetically when a laugh escaped her lips. “Yes, I know, not very original a name, is it? But he does have an awful lot of black spots, and is not at all handsome, I’m afraid.”
“What sort of dog is he?”
“Eh? Of an indifferent breed. A bit of this and a bit of that, with a remarkably long curly tail.”
“Is he friendly?”
“Very much so to me, although not always to others.” He grimaced. “But a fine ratter as it turns out.”
“He won’t like to be left behind.”
“No he wouldn’t.” He grinned. “So I didn’t. Spot is spending the evening in Sir Horace’s stable.”
Her smile broadened in approval. “You brought the dog with you?”
Montsimon adopted a chagrined expression although she doubted the validity of it. “I did attempt to leave Spot in London, but he would have none of it. Followed my carriage, so I had to take him up.”
Althea was still smiling when the dance ended. His kind heart was a nice surprise, but it may well have been a ploy to soften her attitude toward him. She still considered it wise to keep him at arm’s length. Perhaps even more so now as he proved to be a good deal too charming.
She next partnered the flamboyant, Edward Hughes Ball for a quadrille. He had inherited the princely sum of forty thousand a year from an uncle and expressed a fervent desire to buy Oatlands from the financially strapped Duke of York.
Sir Horace escorted her onto the floor for the final waltz. He was a forceful dancer without a shred of grace. She disliked his hands on her. “I require a word with you,” he murmured in her ear. “Come to my study after the dance. It’s to your right at the top of the stairs.”
She drew in a breath. “What will Lady Crowthorne think? Can you not tell me what this is about?”
“No. It’s a business matter. Lady Crowthorne understands.”
Althea doubted she did. “What sort of business? I’m about to leave.”
His hand crushed hers, and his hard eyes compelled her. “I shall go up first. Slip away after a few minutes.”
She had to steel herself not to disengage from his grasp. It wouldn’t do to cause a scene. “I’m sorry, Sir Horace. I don’t feel it’s wise.”
“I must insist that you do come. It will be to your disadvantage not to, Lady Brookwood.”
At the conclusion of the dance, Sir Horace strode from the room. What lay behind this invitation? Surely he didn’t plan to seduce her with his wife already on the alert. She hesitated. Could she slip away and go home? She had no transport. And if she did not see him now, he would turn up at her home tomorrow and force his way in as he’d done this morning. She wanted this at an end. If he was about to suggest a carte blanche, she would firmly put him in his place.
Althea searched the ballroom for Lady Crowthorne. Her hostess’ attention was fully engaged with Montsimon. Althea murmured to the lady beside her that she was to visit the retiring room, then left the ballroom. She located Sir Horace’s study at the top of the stairs and entering, leaving the door ajar.
“Ah, there you are.” He crossed the room and closed the door behind her.
She clutched her reticule in nervous fingers. “I can’t imagine what this is about, Sir Horace,” she said, her tone all business. “But could you be brief? I am about to retire.”
He waved her protest away with a hand, his eyes gleaming with intent. “Please sit. The leather armchair close to the fire is comfortable.”
“No, thank you. I shan’t be here long.”
He shrugged. “Then I’ll come right to the point. I wish to buy Owltree Cottage, and although it’s not a valuable piece of property, I’m prepared to offer you a good price for it.”
Althea went cold. “What made you believe I want to sell?”
Sir Horace strode to his desk and unrolled a length of paper. He beckoned her over. “This is what I wished to show you.”
Curious, she stepped closer to the desk. He held up a plan of his property and the surrounding area. She located Owltree Cottage, like a small island in the sea of woodland on his vast estate.
“I don’t see why you would want to buy my house.” She stared up at him, alarm bells ringing.
He stabbed at the center of it with a finger. “My gamekeeper uses this forest road, which peters out a half mile from Owltree Cottage.”
“Of course. I’m well aware of it.”
“It’s my intention to extend the road and join it up with the road to the village. It will cut off miles of travel for us when the weather is bad.” His hard eyes raked hers. Ignoring her rapid heartbeat, she shrugged, not wishing him to see that he’d frightened her. “You know, of course, heavy snow blocks our access to the village in the winter,” he said. “We are forced to travel many miles by the south road.”
“You speak of a mere trail. No carriage could use it.”
“It would carry small vehicles once improved sufficiently.”
She shook her head. “The terrain is heavily treed and there’s a brook.”
“There is a watercourse, I agree, which makes it impossible to place the road anywhere but here.” He ran his thumb over the page. “This, as you see, must cut across your property.”
There was something brutal about that thumb. She couldn’t turn her gaze away. Her panic grew to tighten her chest and restrict her breathing. “Absurd. I shall never sell my home. Nor will I agree to your invasion of my land.” She fought to hide her anger, but it was intolerable to think of his vehicles rolling through her garden, her peace forever destroyed.
“I advise you not to be too hasty in your refusal, Lady Brookwood. Should you not agree, I shall take it from you.” His smile was savage as he rolled up the map with jerky movements. “You must be aware that you would lose should you fight me in this.” He nodded at a painting hanging above them on the wall. “My great-great-grandfather granted Owltree Cottage to his steward. Your ancestor to be precise.”
“It was legally done. I have the deed.”
“You are sure it is legal? Loose arrangements were made back then. I have my solicitor searching the archives. He is confident h
e can prove the original document to be flawed. If so, I would regain the property, and you will not be paid a shilling.”
Althea spluttered, unable to contain her feelings a moment longer. “I don’t understand. Why would you do something like this?” She spat out the words contemptuously. “There are other ways; the village road might be improved, the bridge rebuilt for far less expense….”
She had made a mistake. His eyes glowed, satisfied to have shaken her. He stared again at the murky oil painting, his ancestor perhaps. A more decent man than him, it seemed. “There’s a way you can dissuade me.”
“And what is that?” She feared the answer, but felt compelled to ask. To hear the shabby words from his lips, she hoped it would shame him.
“By becoming my mistress.” He turned to her, his expression conveying such covetousness she dropped her gaze.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she countered icily.
He reached out and grabbed one of her hands. “Think about it. With me as your protector, you shall gain in so many ways, my dear. I know Brookwood left you in straightened circumstances.”
She pulled her hand away. “I’m not yet in debtor’s prison.”
“You’re not being sensible. A lovely young woman like you deserves to be dressed like a queen. I can establish you in London in the greatest comfort. You would want for nothing.”
It was a ploy to control her. Once she was his mistress, it gave him power over her. And he would still take the house. The thought of that man on top of her rendered her close to fainting. “You wish a reluctant mistress, Sir Horace?” She tilted her head. “I find myself wondering why you are reduced to buying your women.”
He was so sure of himself and his place in the world, he batted the insult away with an indifferent shrug. “Why do you wish to hold on to that old house?”
“That is my concern.” She put her hands on her hips. “You shall never frighten me into falling into your arms. Surely, you wouldn’t want a lover you have to threaten into sleeping with you. One who might bring a knife to your bed and stab you while you slept.” It gave Althea satisfaction to visualize herself in the act. “Let’s forget this foolish conversation ever took place.”
The Viscount’s Widowed Lady Page 3