Viscount Saxby was seated on the opposite side of the table, beside eighteen-year-old Christabel Middleton, who was accounted the beauty of her family. Madeline found Olivia, the elder Middleton daughter, much more interesting; however, she wasn’t a susceptible young man. She was secretly pleased to note that Lord Saxby did not appear to be particularly captivated by his companion, though his demeanor remained as pleasant as ever.
A good-humored, good-natured man, she mused, remembering the smile and wink he’d given her in the Great Hall. And a patient one: would any other man—Lord Rupert, for example—have been as tolerant of Volumnia’s presence in his chamber and of Juliana’s efforts to retrieve her? Madeline doubted it.
Was it because Saxby was an eldest child himself? She’d managed to glean that much from her mother, before dinner; his younger brother, the Honorable Wilfred Lowell, was also present at this house party, as one of Hal’s boon companions. A lanky youth with the same fair coloring as his brother, but without the easy confidence and self-assurance. Still growing into himself, a boy just becoming a man, much like Madeline’s own brothers—and she included Hal in that assessment, twin or no. Indeed, there were times when the ten minutes that separated her birth from his felt like ten years.
Lord Saxby must be a good five or six years older than the Honorable Wilfred, so perhaps he’d had ample time to learn patience. And kindness, which was a quality Madeline had come to value over the years—not least because it wasn’t the most salient trait in her own family, especially among her parents and brothers!
Still, Madeline reminded herself, she couldn’t form a complete opinion of the viscount’s character on a single encounter, any more than she could take something as ephemeral as a wink or a smile as evidence of interest on his part. She’d more sense than that—she hoped. But this house party should give her the opportunity to get to know him better. And the other young men as well, she conceded in the interests of fairness. Perhaps even Lord Rupert had sterling qualities of which she was yet unaware. Resolutely, she turned back to smile at whatever he had just said.
Dinner was excellent, as befitted the house and the season. Hugo suspected that the Duchess of Whitborough, being half-French, was responsible for the array of Continental dishes that found their way onto the table. She was almost certainly responsible for the excellent wines that accompanied each course—the estate of her father, the late Comte de Sevigny, had boasted a fine expanse of vineyards.
The only thing about the meal that Hugo didn’t enjoy was the sight of Lord Rupert Bonham ogling Lady Madeline as though she were one of the morsels on his plate. Fortunately, the lady appeared unbeguiled. After all, Hugo reasoned, as Whitborough’s eldest daughter, she could do a good deal better for herself than an idle rake like Lord Rupert! Relieved, he addressed himself to his own plate and, occasionally, Miss Christabel Middleton, who was very pretty but hadn’t much to say for herself.
According to custom, the ladies departed after the last course, leaving the men to their port and cigars. Sipping at a glass of as fine a port as a man could desire, Hugo allowed himself to relax fully for the first time since his arrival. While he enjoyed the company of women, he’d always felt most at home among men, especially those who shared his interest in sport.
Not surprisingly, the conversations swirling around him centered on the next morning’s hunt, the weather, the terrain—on which Sir George Middleton was happy to expound, and the merits of everyone’s respective horses. Some of the younger men were apt to be competitive when it came to the last—Denforth and Lord Reginald, in particular. Such talk was common enough among sportsmen, but their increasingly heated exchanges made Hugo uneasy. He was not unfamiliar with sibling rivalry, but this felt as though it were in an entirely different class. Fortunately, before the brothers’ boasting could escalate into an outright quarrel, Whitborough suggested that the men join the ladies in the Great Hall.
The rest of the evening passed agreeably enough, with music about the piano. Lady Madeline played—competently, if not brilliantly—to accompany Lady Elaine, who sang a few traditional airs in a clear, sweet soprano. Everyone joined in on a selection of popular songs from H.M.S Pinafore, then retired to their chambers in anticipation of an early rise.
Mellowed by food and wine, Hugo went up the stairs at an unhurried pace, content to let others precede him. Reaching the second floor landing, he was surprised to find Lady Madeline standing there, ostensibly examining her hem as though for loose stitches. As he approached, she straightened up and smiled at him.
“Good evening, Lord Saxby.”
“Good evening, Lady Madeline,” Hugo returned. The thought that she might have been waiting for him crossed his mind, but he dismissed it at once as absurd, even conceited.
“I hope you are finding Denforth to your liking. Despite the earlier—intrusion,” she added, a charming mixture of amusement and apology in her tone.
Hugo relaxed, smiling back. “Thank you, Lady Madeline. I’m quite comfortable here, and I trust my recent visitor is, as well?”
“She should be. Juliana persuaded me to allow Volumnia to sleep in my dressing room for the night. I still can’t figure out how,” she added, shaking her head bemusedly.
“Younger sisters—younger siblings, in general, have a way of wrapping one about their little fingers,” he pointed out.
Her lips quirked in a rueful smile. “So they do! Have you other siblings besides your brother, Lord Saxby?”
“Two sisters, both married now. Wilf is the youngest in our family. Is Lady Juliana the youngest in yours?”
“Second youngest. My brother Jason comes after her—he’s almost ten.” Her changeable eyes sparked with amusement. “To quote Wordsworth’s poem, ‘We are seven.’”
“Quite a brood,” Hugo remarked as they headed along the passage towards their chambers. “But you seem quite close—at least you and your sisters do,” he qualified, remembering the odd tension between Denforth and Lord Reginald.
“Oh, I wanted sisters for the longest time,” she confessed. “I was the only girl for almost seven years, so I couldn’t have been happier when Lainey and then Ju were born.”
“Maddie!”
A slight figure in a white nightgown was running towards them, plaits streaming behind her like twin banners. Even in the dimly lit passage, Hugo recognized Lady Juliana’s bright head.
“It’s Volumnia!” the girl exclaimed, skidding to a stop before them. “She’s having the kittens now!”
“Now?” Lady Madeline echoed, paling visibly. For a moment, Hugo wondered if she were about to have a fit of the vapors—not that he would have blamed her. “In my dressing room? Oh, Lord…” She bit her lip, visibly torn between laughter and annoyance. “Nothing like a cat for the worst possible timing!”
“Four have already been born,” Lady Juliana rushed on excitedly. “And your maid—Albertine—says there may be at least two more on the way!”
Her sister winced. “Remind me to double Albertine’s salary.”
“Would you like to come and see the kittens, Lord Saxby?” Lady Juliana asked, looking up at Hugo with those impossibly blue eyes.
“I’m sure Volumnia has matters well in hand, Ju,” Lady Madeline interposed, fixing her sister with a stern gaze. “This isn’t her first litter, after all.”
“But, Maddie—”
“I would be happy to look in for a moment,” Hugo broke in. “If you think it won’t disturb the new mother. And if it’s all right with your sister, seeing that it’s her dressing room,” he added.
Lady Madeline threw him a grateful glance before capitulating with an exasperated sigh. “Oh very well! Let us all go, then!”
The travail was over. Hugo was relieved not to have witnessed the grislier parts, but he duly admired Volumnia’s newborn progeny, their eyes still closed, rooting insistently at their mother’s now-flaccid belly.
“Two black, two tortoiseshell, one grey, one ginger,” Lady Madeline observed, regarding
the litter with an expression of wry indulgence. “A full complement of colors. Any idea who the sire might be, Ju?”
“Probably Titus. She and Xerxes can’t abide each other.” Lady Juliana glanced up from the basket over which she’d been hovering. “Would you like to take one of the kittens, Lord Saxby—when they’re old enough?”
“Thank you, but I fear I must decline,” Hugo replied. “Cats make my mother sneeze.”
“Oh, that’s too bad!” she sympathized. “But if you were to have your own household—”
“That will do, Juliana,” Lady Madeline interrupted. “Doubtless there will be plenty of others eager to adopt a kitten. Margaret might like one, and perhaps Olivia Middleton as well.”
“Quite right,” Hugo said heartily. “I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding homes for such winsome little chaps, especially once their eyes are open.”
Strangely enough, he found that he meant it. While he generally preferred dogs to cats, there was something rather endearing about these squirming, squeaking balls of fur—though he was also grateful that they hadn’t made their first appearance in his chamber!
Smiling, Lady Juliana turned back to the basket. Hugo met Lady Madeline’s resigned, ruefully amused gaze over her sister’s bowed head, while a letter to his sister began to compose itself in his mind.
My Dear Charley: Never before have I attended a cat’s confinement…
Chapter Three
CELIA: He was furnished like a hunter.
ROSALIND: Oh, ominous! he comes to kill my heart.
—William Shakespeare, As You Like It
* * *
At least her habit still fit. Madeline regarded her reflection critically, but the line of the bodice was snug, the drape of the skirt smooth. And the black broadcloth had been excellently cared for, showing no sign of wear. Belatedly, it occurred to her that she might have commissioned another during the Little Season—perhaps in green, to bring out the color of her eyes—but there was no point in dwelling on that oversight.
Leaving the mirror, she went to the window and looked out. No rain or snow, but a feeble sun, just visible through the mists, which would most likely burn off by afternoon. Nothing that would deter avid sportsmen from their pursuit of a fox.
Madeline sighed. While she knew herself to be a good horsewoman and well able to keep up with the rest of the field if she chose, she’d never been the most enthusiastic of hunters. But almost all of the men would be riding out this morning—including Lord Saxby, whom she’d discovered was quite passionate about sport.
She picked up her riding crop and went downstairs. Breakfast on a hunt morning tended to be a hurried, catch-as-catch-can affair, but Elaine, Margaret, and the Middleton sisters were all in the breakfast parlor, tucking into the food. Joining them, Madeline downed a quick meal of toast, fried ham, and coffee, then headed out to the courtyard with the others.
The sun was shining with slightly more conviction now, illuminating the hunters’ scarlet coats—Madeline flatly refused to call them “pink”—and the horses’ glossy hides. Sir George’s pack was milling about the courtyard as well, eagerly sniffing the air and wagging their tails.
Most of the men were already mounted, Madeline noticed. All her brothers, except Jason, who was probably watching from the nursery window. Hal and Reg sat erect on their respective mounts, deliberately facing away from each other, while Gervase surveyed them both with a sardonic glint in his eyes. And Father, astride Kingmaker, his best hunter…
Madeline felt the familiar ache deep in her chest, of mingled love and resentment. How often she’d seen him like this when she was a child: mounted on his horse and blazing with a vitality that made other men appear like shadows beside him! Sometimes her mother had ridden out with him, though less frequently as their family grew. And the child-Madeline had looked on in something close to awe, marveling that two such splendid people could be her parents.
That sort of bedazzlement was destined to end, she supposed. Discovering—and accepting—that one’s parents had feet of clay was surely part of growing up. She just hadn’t expected that realization to carry such… bitterness with it.
She glanced back towards the steps where Maman was standing, beside her dear friend, the Duchess of Langdale. No sign of temper on her mother’s exquisitely boned face: on the contrary, she was smiling as she surveyed the company. Madeline fancied she could see the warmth in Her Grace’s eyes, especially when her gaze rested on Reg, who had always been her favorite child. And when the Duke looked back at his wife and touched the brim of his hat, he received a cordial nod in response.
Madeline turned away, feeling like an intruder on such intimacy. After everything her father had done, she still couldn’t understand how her mother could have agreed to reconcile with him. But then, it hadn’t been her choice to make, the Duchess had pointed out astringently when the subject had arisen between them. Still, that didn’t mean Madeline had to like it, or live with it.
A handsome bay gelding crossed her field of vision, but it was his rider who caught—and held—her attention. Enough to make any woman’s mouth water: Lord Saxby in a black Melton coat that defined his broad shoulders, buff breeches that hugged his splendid thighs, while overhead the strengthening sunlight brightened his hair to gold. Here’s metal more attractive…
A groom approached, leading Juno, Madeline’s favorite mare, and she hastened to mount up, her spirits lifting as she settled into the sidesaddle. Hunting might not be her favorite activity, but the sight of Lord Saxby in riding dress provided ample compensation!
Reining in his horse (an excellent beast), Hugo blotted his forehead and looked around him, breathless, exhilarated, and unable to stop the grin he could feel spreading across his face.
Less than an hour into the hunt, the pack had drawn a fox, who’d led them a merry chase over hedge and field before going to ground somewhere. But to judge from the way Middleton’s hounds still sniffed the air and whined, it was possible that he hadn’t gone far.
Glancing at his nearest companions, who just happened to be Denforth and Lord Reginald, Hugo saw on their faces the same mixture of excitement and impatience that he was feeling. Caught up in the thrill of the chase and in no hurry for the day’s sport to end. Every second seemed an eternity—then, a hound gave voice, and the huntsman’s shout of “View halloo!” sent excitement rippling through the crowd like an electric current.
Galvanized, the hunters sprang into action once more. Daring riders that they were, Denforth and Lord Reginald raced immediately towards the front of the pack. So, a little to Hugo’s surprise, did Whitborough himself. Granted, the duke was vigorous for a man of his years, but his willingness to take risks when he must be close to fifty was as alarming as it was impressive. Hugo felt a sudden sharp pang when he thought of his own father, who was not much older than Whitborough and had once ridden with equal verve and daring.
He swallowed down the sadness and focused instead on the moment, the wind stinging the blood into his cheeks, the galloping stride of the horse beneath him, the baying of the hounds and the pounding thunder of hooves in his ears. Dear God, could there be anything more exciting than this?
Someone was coming up behind him on the left, closing the gap between them. Well and good: Hugo had never minded pacing himself against another rider. More companionable that way, sometimes—
“Oof!”
The oncoming horse shouldered into Hugo’s bay, sending the latter staggering sideways into some low-lying brush. Fighting to control his mount and keep his seat, Hugo turned a furious glare on the offender. He had the fleeting impression of a hard-featured, florid face set in determined lines and a rawboned, iron-grey hunter who looked every bit as stubborn and uncompromising as his master before the pair swept past him, without so much as an apology or even a perfunctory “pardon me.”
Swearing inwardly, Hugo brought his own horse under control, gentling him with hands and words. Much to his relief, the bay didn’t seem to
have suffered any injuries—no thanks to the grey and his rider. He walked the horse in a slow circle, to calm them both, then prepared to rejoin the hunt.
He couldn’t have gone more than half a dozen strides when he heard a woman scream.
Centuries of breeding nudged Hugo in the ribs. With no more than a fleeting moment of regret for the fox, he reined in the bay and headed towards the sound.
He found the source, not at a fence or a hedge, as he’d half-expected but on the banks of a stream, where four wet, bedraggled riders and their horses were straggling ashore. To Hugo’s alarm, Wilf was among them—along with Lady Madeline. It took him a moment to recognize the other two as Miss Christabel Middleton and Lady Margaret Carlisle, the latter on foot and leaning wearily against her mount.
“Good God!” he exclaimed, dismounting at once to assist them. “What happened here? Is anyone hurt?”
Lady Madeline, also on foot, looked up at his approach. “Fortunately, no. But thank you for inquiring, Lord Saxby.”
Hugo exhaled, relief washing over him. “I heard the scream and feared the worst.”
“That was me,” Miss Christabel confessed, looking abashed. “It was the shock, you see! I’m not usually so panicky!”
“My fault!” Wilf broke in, flushing. “Forgive me, Miss Christabel! I didn’t mean to crowd you!”
“No need to apologize, Mr. Lowell,” she assured him. “I’m quite unharmed—poor Margaret and Madeline may have got the worst of it!”
“And you at least rode like a gentleman,” Lady Madeline added.
Wilf shook his head, still contrite. “That great pig of a horse—”
“Was it a grey?” Hugo interrupted. “With a hard-faced, middle-aged chap in the saddle?”
The Advent of Lady Madeline Page 3