Julia smiled her agreement. Henry was now over two years old and kept the duke and duchess on their toes, so, no doubt, he would do the same with his grandmother here in Ireland.
Caroline and Tom’s twins were, thankfully, not yet old enough to do much damage, since they were but five months.
Julia felt the now-familiar envy as she thought of Henry’s riotous black curls and huge brown eyes.
Or the twins’ deep blue eyes, so like their father’s, and glorious blond hair. James took after his father’s darker colouring, but Sophia showed every sign of having her mother’s silvery-blond locks.
“And of course,” the dowager continued, never really needing any encouragement to chatter. “The countess will be grateful for any help with keeping Charles in line.”
Her lips pursed in disapproval, though she couldn’t really hide the mischief that lit her eyes. The dowager was an unusual advocate of troublemakers.
Julia was quite desperate to ask why the countess should require help managing a grown man, and an earl at that. But she refused to give way to her nosiness. It was none of her business, after all.
There was an awkward silence in the carriage. The only sound the wheels trundling on the gravel and the horses hooves beating their steady rhythm on the road.
The dowager coughed delicately then said, “I mean, she shouldn’t need help with him of course. But, well, Charles is — difficult.”
There was another pause as Julia wrung her hands together and stared determinedly out of the window. She was aware that she had more than a little bit of a fascination with the earl, or The Wicked Earl as the Society Papers had labelled him. A silly fascination at that, considering they had had the briefest of conversations, and Julia was sure he would not remember her.
But fascination or not, she would not lower herself to prying and asking questions. She would not gossip so impolitely about their hosts.
The dowager, it seemed, did not suffer the same attack of conscience.
With a dramatic sigh, she said, “I suppose you must be wondering at the difficulties. And really, who could blame you? After all, the man is notorious. And of course…” She continued loudly when Julia began to interrupt. “…’tis only fitting that you should know what it is you’re walking into.”
“I suppose,” Julia said demurely, though secretly she was simply dying to know what was going on.
That was all the encouragement the dowager needed. Turning in her seat, she leaned forward and began.
“You know, of course, that our dear Charles was the most notorious of rakes before his dear father passed away. His behaviour, though never entirely ruinous, was certainly shocking and more so because he was the heir to this place,” she said with a wave of her hand.
“Anyway, I know Mary hoped that coming home and taking up his title would help him to settle down, and it has to an extent. She writes that he is a diligent and fair landlord, he takes very good care of their tenants, and gives generously to both household staff and the local church.” She paused for a moment, and Julia was a little disappointed.
There was nothing untoward at all in his behaviour. He sounded like the perfect gentleman and the perfect earl.
“But…” The dowager continued, her voice lowered to a whisper, no doubt for dramatic effect. “…as to his rakish ways, my dear Mary says if anything, he is worse than before. Travels to Dublin quite frequently, I understand. Sometimes for days at a time. And I’m sure I do not need to upset your delicate sensibilities by explaining what he gets up to.”
Julia coloured a little at the dowager’s implication. It seemed fairly obvious to her what the dowager was speaking of: drinking, gambling, and, well, being rather familiar with the opposite sex.
“Rebelling, you see, against the shackles of his responsibility,” the dowager finished with a shake of her head. “And he’s so very handsome he gets away with far more than he should. After all, he is really very, very handsome, is he not?”
Julia began to feel a little uncomfortable at the dowager’s frankly lascivious smile. She did not need to have mental images of the dowager’s — er— admiration of Lord Ranford’s handsomeness.
Then, as she thought on the countess’s concerns, Julia felt her hackles rise. It had nothing to do with her. But really! Rebelling against being a rich, spoiled Peer who had everything handed to him on a platter?
Of course, she could not and should not speak her thoughts aloud. It grated to stay quiet, but it was not her place to comment. She would remain silently reproachful.
“What a spoiled brat.”
Oh, dear. It seemed the message from her brain had not travelled to her big mouth in time.
The dowager looked at her in shock, and Julia desperately tried to think of a way to make it sound as though she had not been talking of their insalubrious host.
But really how could it have been anyone else she was referring to? Julia decided the damage had been done, and she might as well continue. ‘Twas better to say it to the dowager anyway than to say it to the earl’s overindulged face!
Julia tilted her chin defiantly and ploughed ahead.
“I mean no disrespect,” she lied, “but it seems to me that someone born to great privilege and wealth is the last person who should be rebelling against the shackles of responsibility. In fact…” She was gathering steam now and could hear it in her own voice. “…it is quite ridiculous that he should be mourning the loss of his carefree existence. For heaven’s sake! Where does he think the money for his indulgences comes from? Would he have them all lose everything so that he can drown himself in his vices?”
The dowager still looked shocked but now, thankfully, there was a gleam of amusement in her grey eyes.
“Believe me, my dear, the Ranford wealth could rival the Prince Regent’s. He could never spend it all if he lived to be a hundred years old.”
“That is neither here nor there,” Julia fumed irrationally, she knew.
Then, slowly, as she calmed herself, the realisation dawned that she was tearing apart the reputation of one of the most important Peers in realm. In front of the dowager. And on her way to stay in his home.
“I apologise, your grace,” she said, now mortified at her outburst. It was absolutely no concern of hers what the man did.
“Oh, do not be sorry, Julia. This is perfect. Just perfect.”
Julia’s emerald-green eyes widened as she took in the dowager’s elation.
“What—”she began but was promptly interrupted.
“Ah, we’re here.”
The carriage had now rolled to a stop, so Julia pushed thoughts of Charles Carrington’s shocking behaviour and her own childish tantrum from her mind.
She watched as the front door opened and a small army of servants and footmen lined the steps, with some moving to assist them from the carriage.
But Julia paid little attention as her nerves began to make themselves known.
She was remembering now the effect that Lord Ranford had had over her during their brief encounters.
Had she exaggerated his handsomeness? His height and broad shoulders? Had she exaggerated the strength and power that seemed to surround him?
Unbeknownst to the dowager or indeed anyone, Julia had spent many, many nights dreaming of the Earl of Ranford. She had dreamed of running her hands through his unruly chestnut hair, had remembered over and over the impact of those icy blue eyes.
True, their conversations had been short, and Julia doubted he even remembered her but — oh, how she remembered him.
Perhaps that was why tales of his debauchery cut her to the quick and awoke her temper. She had made a fantasy of him when he was just like every other man. Cold, unfeeling, and completely without morals.
Julia thought briefly of the duke and Mr. Crawdon, who could not be described as any of those things. They were the exception, however. Nobody could deny their love for their wives. But for every Edward Hartridge and Tom Crawdon there was a man like her father.
And
Charles Carrington was probably no better. So why did her heart race at the mere thought of seeing him again?
“My dear?”
Julia glanced up at the dowager’s enquiring tone and noticed that the footman and indeed the dowager were awaiting her departure from the carriage.
Blushing at the thought of being caught thinking impure thoughts about her host, Julia scrambled from the carriage, gathering her brown travelling gown around her ankles as she stepped down.
The dress was a new purchase. Julia had a generous clothing allowance as well as her wages, which the dowager felt weren’t used enough. Granted, most of it was saved, but some Julia did spend on clothing and accessories befitting a lady in the employ of a family such as the duchess’s.
The cloth was the finest wool, the cut excellent. It was the colour that caused contention.
The dowager had long since given up trying to insist on Julia wearing gowns in the height of fashion or eye-catching colours, though she still bemoaned their absence quite regularly. She hated the fact that Julia hid her beauty behind drab colours and severe styles.
Julia, however, was firm in her resistance to succumb to fashion. She was immeasurably grateful to the dowager for her generosity and made sure that the dowager knew it, but wearing eye-catching gowns was a guaranteed way to get noticed, and the last thing Julia wanted to do was draw attention to herself.
“I do wonder where Mary is,” the dowager said as they made their way up the steps to the huge front door of Ranford Hall. “I thought she would be outside to greet us.”
Any further discussion on the whereabouts of the countess were rendered useless by the sounds of a heated male voice coming from a closed door on their left.
Julia and the dowager shared an uneasy look.
“I think we found our hosts,” said the dowager quietly. Then, to Julia’s shock, she tiptoed over and ever so quietly pushed open the door.
“Come,” she whispered. “And be quiet.”
“Your grace, I do not think we should—”
“Shhhh,” said the dowager, waving her hand frantically in Julia’s face. “We shan’t be able to hear.”
CHAPTER TWO
JULIA’S EYES FELT AS though they were on stalks as she took in the scene before her.
The countess was sitting demurely on a beautiful chaise, drinking from a delicate teacup.
The room was bathed in weak afternoon sunlight but was protected from the chill by a roaring fire. It was pleasant and relaxing, decorated in soft, duck-egg blue and decorated with the most beautiful rosewood furnishings.
The only thing not pleasant about the room was the giant man stomping up and down, looking like an overgrown toddler.
“You cannot make me stay, mother. You seem to have forgotten, I am the earl.”
“Charles, for goodness’s sake, stop wearing a hole in the Persian rug and be sensible.”
Neither occupant of the room seemed to have noticed the arrival of Julia and the dowager.
Julia took the opportunity to study the occupants.
The countess was, no doubt, Caroline Crawdon’s mother. Still a very attractive woman, her blond hair was not as bright as Caroline’s, but her slender, willowy shape and sharp blue eyes were similar to her daughter’s.
Julia imagined that Rebecca’s dark looks must have come from her father, like Charles’s.
Finally, she allowed her eyes to move to him.
She had her answer. She had not exaggerated anything about him. If anything, her imagination had not done him justice.
He was more incredibly handsome than she had given him credit for. Taller, stronger, and just — more.
Her breath hitched as an almost violent surge of longing rushed through her.
Good Lord! How was she to live under the same roof as he, if just being in the same room caused her heart to stutter so?
“It is you who is being insensible, Mother,” Charles answered now, though he had stopped his pacing.
“You cannot go haring up to Dublin again, Charles. It is simply not to be borne. You must remain here and be a gracious host.”
“I have told you a hundred times, Mother, I am more than happy to have the dowager here. In fact, I am delighted to have her here. It will be wonderful for you. And I am happy that Caro and Becca will be coming home. Delighted. Ecstatic. ‘Tis marvellous. But that does not mean that I will stay here and live like a monk until they’re gone.”
“So you plan to disappear before they even get here then?”
“Of course not! I do not plan to be gone for weeks, Mother, but I won’t stay here the entire time with happily married couples and two old—” He paused briefly at the death stares coming from the countess at the word old. “—older ladies for company,” he finished.
“You forget Miss Channing,” said the countess now, and Julia felt her cheeks flame. “She is a young, unattached lady, and I was counting on your being a good host to her.”
“I haven’t forgotten her,” Charles said softly, and the change in his tone made Julia feel hot all over. “I’m sure there isn’t a man in the world who could forget her.”
Julia felt her earlier anger and indignation melt away. How kind of him. To speak so of her. It made her feel rather giddy. And her discomfort at standing here listening to their conversation melted away.
After all, eavesdropping wasn’t half so terrible if one heard good things about oneself.
“But still, a pretty face isn’t enough to keep me here, bored witless for days on end. Especially with a bloody companion.”
The cad! How dare he?
Her anger rushed back, hotter than before.
Of all the conceited, irritating, arrogant—
“Mary.”
Julia almost jumped out of her skin as the dowager suddenly swung open the door and called out to her friend.
Both the countess and the earl turned at the sound of her voice. The countess looked horrified, presumably worried that they might have heard the conversation. The earl looked wholly unmoved.
He greeted the dowager with all the charm and grace that he was notorious for, before turning toward Julia as the dowager and countess shared a warm greeting.
“My dear Miss Channing.” Charles gave her a perfectly respectable bow, though his eyes glinted with the blue fire that had haunted her dreams for far, far too long. “A pleasure to see you again.”
Julia tried her level best to still her erratically beating heart, partly anger, partly, she was loath to admit, sheer excitement at seeing him again, as she curtsied and avoided his eyes.
“And you, my lord,” she bit out coldly, hoping that he understood she meant the exact opposite but was too polite to say so.
By now, the older ladies had ended their embrace, and the dowager grasped Julia’s arm, steering her gently closer to the countess.
“Ah, so this is Miss Channing,” the countess said now, her smile kind and welcoming.
“Indeed. This is my Julia. Julia, meet Lady Mary Carrington, Countess of Ranford and very dear friend.”
This time, Julia’s smile came naturally.
“Lady Ranford, thank you for welcoming me to your lovely home.” Julia curtsied deeply then drew herself back up, unable to resist another glance at the far too handsome man before her.
“Oh, it is my pleasure, my dear. It is so nice to have friends here, and soon Caroline and Rebecca will arrive. It will be nice to hear laughter fill the halls once more.”
The older lady’s eyes dimmed with fresh grief, and Julia was sure she was thinking of her departed husband. Another quick look at Charles confirmed his sadness too.
And though Julia knew her place, knew what behaviour was expected of her, and had become a virtual paragon of propriety, she felt compelled to lean forward and grasp the countess’s hand.
“I am so very sorry for the loss of your husband, my lady,” she said and then moved her eyes to Charles. “And your father, my lord.”
For a moment, Julia fea
red that she had grossly over-stepped her bounds, but the countess merely smiled and answered graciously. “Thank you, child. Indeed, it has been a great loss. But we are rallying as best we can. And of course…” She continued now, linking her arm through the dowager’s and steering them gently toward the house. “…once the children fill the house with noise and commotion, it will lift our spirits mightily.”
Julia smiled at the countess’s obvious excitement. Indeed, it would be a merry group at the Hall. Julia counted herself very lucky to be a part of it. Even if Lord Ranford didn’t.
“Miss Channing.”
Turning, Julia saw that Lord Ranford was watching her with those all-too-distracting eyes and could feel the fire in her cheeks as he addressed her. On the one hand, she delighted in their close proximity. Her heart fluttered wildly, and she felt overwhelmed by him — his size, his scent, his nearness. On the other hand, she wished desperately to move away from his presence and breathe a little easier. Plus, he was an arrogant brute, and she disliked him. She did.
“Your journey was not too arduous, I hope?”
“No, my lord.”
“And you find the estate pleasing?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Have you been to Ireland before, Miss Channing?”
“No, my lord.” Keeping her eyes firmly on the floor before him, Julia was surprised into looking up at him by his sudden burst of laughter.
“I must say I find your conversational skills riveting, Miss Channing.”
At his obvious mockery, Julia felt anger stiffen her spine, and, all at once, her tongue-tied nervousness disappeared. Coupled with his earlier words and her knowledge of his childish behaviour, it was too much to bite her tongue.
“My lord, this is what’s known as a respectable conversation between a gentleman and lady who are not well-known to each other. I appreciate you might not recognise appropriate behaviour when you see it.”
As soon as she’d said it, Julia was horrified. She clamped a gloved hand over her mouth as though she could stop the words, but, of course, it was too late.
There was a moment of total silence between them before Charles threw back his head and laughed even more loudly than before.
Mysterious Miss Channing (Ranford Book 3) Page 2