One Wild Winter's Eve

by Anne Barton

  “That’s the spirit,” Lady Yardley said approvingly. “I believe the first and most pressing matter we must address is your ball gown.”

  Charles had methodically checked each desk drawer in the study. He’d looked inside every book, every cubby, on the shelves behind him. He’d examined every decorative item, from bookends to vases to sculptures, in case there was a false bottom or a hidden compartment that could house a letter. He’d even checked the floorboards beneath the thick carpet to see if they were removable.

  He’d found nothing.

  Discouraged, but unwilling to give up, he closed the ledgers, returned them to the shelf, and quietly made his way to the library. A glance at the grandfather clock in the foyer told him he had at least a half hour before the women returned, and he didn’t intend to waste it. If Lady Yardley had hidden sketches in the library, perhaps she’d hidden other items there as well.

  Charles hoped that she had, because the two other likely possibilities were less than optimal. The first alternative was that she’d destroyed the duchess’s letters, and Rose would never get to read them. The second was that Lady Yardley had removed them to her bedchamber, which would make them extremely difficult to retrieve—he couldn’t exactly claim to be reviewing ledgers at her dressing table.

  No, the library was infinitely more accessible. If a servant questioned his presence there, he’d just say that he was searching for a volume on flora so that he could identify a specific tree on the outskirts of Lady Yardley’s land. That was plausible enough. Still, he hoped to slip in and out undetected.

  His shoulders tensed as he opened the door and entered. Seeing hundreds of book spines lined up and flaunting mostly indecipherable titles made him uncomfortable. It was like walking into a gathering where everyone knew a secret but him.

  Illuminated only by the waning daylight, the room was gray and chilly, but he didn’t want to risk lighting a lantern, much less a fire. He’d search for a few minutes and when light ran out, he’d know his time had as well.

  He didn’t waste time on the desk or any other obvious spots, since he trusted Rose had already covered those. Instead, he flipped up the corners of the rug and lifted the cushions off footstools. He checked small drawers in side tables and the tops of shelves.

  And then he saw the box that Rose had described—the one that held the sketches.

  Through the multipaned windows he glimpsed the sun sinking into the tree line, but this wouldn’t take long. And he simply couldn’t resist the chance to see if Rose had been correct—if the subject of the sketches was him.

  He flipped the box’s lid open, found the scrolls inside, and plucked one from its velvet bed. He slid the string off and unrolled the paper.

  Holy hell.

  Unless he had a secret twin brother, the drawing was of him. Or, rather, some romanticized version of him. The clothes worn by his charcoal likeness were more elegant than anything Charles actually owned or wore, and his hair looked like it had been intentionally tousled and arranged to curl in front of his forehead. He was more of the towel-dry-and-forget-it sort of chap.

  But the shape of the face, the eyes, and the torso—those were unmistakably his.

  That realization stunned him to the core, for this was no simple, straightforward, unassuming portrait. The tone of it was intimate, personal.

  And he suddenly understood why it had affected Rose so much that she felt the need to seek him out at his cottage.

  He moved toward the window and inspected the drawing more closely, looking for a signature or some clue as to where and when it might have been drawn.

  Damn it all, he didn’t want to admit the most obvious possibility—that his employer had drawn it. He knew nothing about her hobbies or if she was artistically inclined, but it was her library, after all.

  He scanned the room for other artwork. A gold-framed oil painting hung between the windows. The landscape of muted browns and greens featured a lone rider on a horse, but at some distance. It was difficult to say if the artist’s style was similar to the sketch—they were too different in composition and medium.

  The only other artwork in the room was a large portrait above the fireplace. Charles had never studied it before, but he recalled Evans mentioning it was Lady Yardley’s late husband. The earl relaxed on a stone bench beneath a tree, wearing the smile of a man who hadn’t a care in the world. Like the sketch, this portrait had an air of intimacy about it. Merely viewing it made him feel as though he’d intruded on a private moment.

  He moved closer to examine the lower right corner and found a scrawled signature, but it was difficult to make out in the waning light. He held the corner of the frame and leaned forward, hoping to decipher a few letters—

  And the painting moved. Not side to side, as he would have expected, but toward him, as though it were a door on hinges. His first panicked reaction was to return the painting to its former position. He had no legitimate reason for being in the library, and if someone discovered he was responsible for damaging Lady Yardley’s portrait of her beloved late husband he’d be sacked on the spot.

  But wait. There was something very strange about the way the painting had moved, almost like it was intended to swing outward. Cautiously, Charles pulled on the right side of the frame once more. With an eerie creak, it glided toward him.

  In the shadows behind the painting, a small cabinet was nested in the wall, its face flush with the library’s brocade wallpaper.

  Good God. It was the stuff of spy stories—the sort of fantastical tales his father had read to him as a boy.

  He hesitated. A cabinet like this one was likely designed to hold valuables, and Charles was no thief. He only wanted to help Rose find her mother. Now that Lady Yardley knew Rose was searching for information, she could well have hidden letters there.

  Though his conscience niggled, he couldn’t pass up an opportunity like this—especially since it might never present itself again.

  So he reached for the small knob on the cabinet door, expecting to find a hidden lock or some other obstacle to opening it. When he tugged on the handle, however, the door easily opened, revealing the cabinet’s contents.

  There was a velvet box, a small pistol, a large drawstring purse, a stack of legal-looking papers, and—right in the front—a small bundle of letters.

  The notes could have been from anyone, but the prickling sensation on the back of Charles’s neck told him they were from Rose’s mother, the duchess. There was one way to confirm his suspicion. He reached into the cabinet but froze at the sound of throaty laughter coming from the corridor.

  Damn. Heart pounding, he grabbed the top letter from the bundle and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. He swung the portrait back into place, effectively closing the cabinet door at the same time. Then he scooped up the sketch of him—which he’d set on the mantel—and rolled it as he darted across the room toward the shelf where he’d found it. He barely had time to slip the string back on the scroll, drop it in the wooden box, and close the lid before Lady Yardley swept into the room.

  He quickly yanked a book from the shelf in front of him and pretended to examine the spine.

  “Why, Mr. Holland,” she purred. “Evans said you were working in the study. I didn’t expect to find you in here…  all alone.”

  Chapter Ten

  I hope it wasn’t too presumptuous of me.” Charles bowed politely to Lady Yardley, wondering if his face looked as hot as it felt. What was his excuse for being in the library? Oh yes, the tree. “I was looking for a book that might help me identify a certain tree.”

  Eyeing the volume in his hand, she arched a brow. “And so you picked up Byron’s poetry?”

  “I, ah…  I suppose I became distracted.”

  Lady Yardley glided closer and shot him an assessing look. “I would not have taken you for a lover of poetry.”

  “I’m not,” he said quickly. “It just happened to catch my eye.”

  “I confess, I’m intrigued by this si
de of you, Mr. Holland. You and I normally discuss such mundane topics. The effects of the dry weather on the fields, the larger repairs required about the estate, accounting matters. It’s all so dreadfully boring, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t think so, no.”

  “Tell me, what is your favorite poem?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Don’t be coy.” Stepping closer, she smiled suggestively, and there was no mistaking the look in her eyes. It invited him to forget that she was his employer, to think of her purely as a woman. An interested, willing, and available woman.

  This was bad. Not because he was tempted to accept her unspoken offer, but because he wasn’t. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings. She’d been kind enough to hire him, to give him a chance in a position for which he had little experience. And she’d lost her husband just a couple of years ago. It had to be difficult, becoming a widow at a relatively young age. She couldn’t be more than forty years old. Maybe Rose’s suspicions were correct and Lady Yardley had hired him because she was interested in him—not as a steward, but as a man. But no matter the reason, he’d gotten the job—he couldn’t afford to lose it.

  He sensed he was perilously close to jeopardizing his position at the moment.

  So Charles ignored her invitation and tried for a change of subject. He pointed at the picture above the mantel. “Did you paint that? Your husband’s portrait?”

  Her eyelids drooped as she stared across the room at the likeness of the man she’d married. “I did. I still miss him.”

  “I’m sorry.” He hadn’t intended to make her sad. “It’s a wonderful portrait. I never had the pleasure of knowing him, and yet I can see that he was kind…  and very much in love with you.” He shouldn’t have added that last part, but she looked so dejected, so forlorn, and he thought it might cheer her.

  It had the opposite, unintended effect of making her burst into tears.

  In a matter of seconds, her face turned red as a beet and tears streamed down her cheeks and off her chin.

  “Forgive me.” Charles fumbled in his pocket for his crisp handkerchief, found it, and thrust it at her. “It’s none of my affair, I shouldn’t have said anything.” He wanted nothing so much as to slink out of the room and to forget the entire encounter.

  “No, no,” she gasped. “I am glad that you mentioned him. It seems I never get to talk about him anymore. This house…  it’s desperately lonely without him. And I…  I see him, not just in his picture, but in his things…  everywhere I look.”

  With this, she began to cry even harder, sobs racking her body.

  Charles stood there stiffly, unsure what to do. “Shall I call someone for you?”

  “No, I—”

  She staggered and quickly gripped the edge of the shelf, but then her legs buckled and she crumpled to the floor.

  Good God. He fell to his knees beside her and searched her face. She had not fainted exactly, for she was still alert and crying. “Let me help you sit up,” he suggested.

  Sniffling, she nodded. He slipped an arm around her and helped her to sit upright, her back against the bookshelves. As he knelt beside her, her sobs subsided a little.

  “I’m going to ring for your maid to assist you.”

  “Please, no.” She stared up at him with red, watery eyes. “I don’t want anyone else to see me like this. Just help me to the sofa over there. I only need a few moments to compose myself.”

  “Very well.” He held out a hand and she took it, but when she attempted to stand, her legs wobbled like a newborn colt’s.

  “You’ll have to carry me,” she said breathlessly.

  Warning flares shot off in his head, but surely she was too distraught to have wicked intentions.

  Shaking off his doubts, he crouched and lifted her in as gentlemanly a manner as he could manage. With one arm behind her back and another beneath her knees, he stood, strode across the room to the sofa, and leaned over to deposit her on the gold silk cushions.

  Except that, when he let go—she didn’t.

  He reached behind his neck to unclasp her hands, but she kept them locked tightly together. He would have yanked on one of her arms to free himself if he wasn’t afraid he’d snap one of her bones in the process. “Lady Yardley,” he began.

  “Please, you must call me Diana.” Her breath, smelling faintly of wine, wafted over his face. “It feels so wonderful to be in your arms.”

  “You’re not,” he said firmly. “I thought you were hurt, so I carried you.”

  Still clinging to his neck, she said, “So easily, too. I admire that about you, you know—your strength, your masculinity.”

  Bloody hell. “I must go now.”

  Ignoring this, she ran a hand down his arm, arched her back, and thrust her breasts toward him. “You have the body of a Viking, you know. I would not mind seeing more of it.”

  Dear Jesus. How much wine had she had?

  She reached for his shirt as though she meant to tear it off him. He backed away quickly and stood, but she launched herself at him. Her torso collided with his and when she started to bounce off, he caught her so she wouldn’t end up on the floor. Again.

  “Ahem.” Evans, the butler, stood in the doorway wearing a look that was half disgust and half amusement. “Is everything all right, Lady Yardley?”

  She immediately put some distance between her and Charles, then smoothed the front of her skirt. “Quite. Just a bit clumsy, I fear. I almost tripped. Thank heaven Mr. Holland was here to steady me.”

  The butler arched a brow at Charles as though he were putting all the pieces of a perplexing puzzle in place. “Very well then. I heard some…  commotion, but if I’m not needed here, I’ll return to my duties.”

  “Thank you for your concern, Evans.” Lady Yardley patted her hair, the dignified countess once more.

  The moment the butler left, Charles bowed politely. “Good evening, Lady Yardley.”

  “It’s just Diana, remember…  Charles?”

  “I’d prefer to address you properly, my lady.”

  She sauntered closer, and when he took a step back, she chuckled softly. “Call me whatever you like,” she said breathlessly. “We can continue our…  conversation another time.”

  “As you wish.” He would have said anything to extract himself from the library—and her company—at that moment.

  He was almost to the doorway when she called out, “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  Stopping dead in his tracks, he swallowed. The letter he’d swiped was still in the pocket of his jacket. He hoped. But she couldn’t be referring to that. Ah, the book. “I did not,” he said smoothly. “Perhaps next time.”

  “Yes, surely you shall have better luck next time.” Lady Yardley cast him a wicked smile. “I am certain we both shall.”

  Rose’s morning had included a trip to the bustling milliner’s shop and calls to three of Lady Bonneville’s acquaintances in Bath. It seemed there was no one the viscountess didn’t know. Upon returning to Yardley Manor, the butler presented Rose with a stack of replies about the ball—which was only two days away. To date, only one person had sent his regrets. Actually, his daughter sent them as he was unable to reply himself, on account of his being deceased. Everyone else had responded in the affirmative.

  All the shopping, visiting, and planning had left Rose frazzled. The constant conversation sapped her energy. More than anything, she craved solitude, so when Lady Bonneville announced she was retiring to her bedchamber for a nap, Rose seized the chance to escape to the garden for a rejuvenating walk.

  The moment she stepped outside, the fresh, if chilly, air soothed her frayed nerves. Alone with her thoughts, she strolled through the mostly dormant garden, pausing now and then to imagine what it would look like in all its midsummer glory.

  Unfortunately, every curve of the path reminded her of Charles and the day that they’d met in the garden—the day he’d said he cared for her.

  Only
, it seemed he didn’t care enough. The distance he was putting between them hurt more than she’d thought possible. She’d been left before—first by her mother and then by her father—but her relationship with Charles was not based on blood. They had an emotional connection so strong she would have sworn it was physical. Even now, as she thought of him setting sail for America, her head pounded and her chest ached.

  But she’d healed before. She would again. She had no choice.

  Pushing thoughts of him from her mind, she walked to the far corner of the garden where a few evergreens created a secluded spot. She sat on a bench, intending to formulate a plan for finding Mama—or to at least decide on her next steps.

  Meow.

  Rose leaned over and peeked beneath the bench. Ash stood, stretched, and rubbed himself affectionately against her ankles.

  Laughing, she scratched the top of his head, just between his ears. “What are you doing here? Looking for a peaceful spot, too? Sorry to disrupt your nap.”

  The cat meowed his forgiveness, then closed his eyes in purr-filled bliss as she stroked his back.

  “What shall become of you when Charles leaves?”

  The cat paced before Rose’s feet, as if he, too, worried about the prospect of being alone.

  “You’ll always have a home with me,” she whispered.

  “Am I interrupting?”

  Rose jumped as Charles walked down the stone path, closing the distance between them in a few powerful strides.

  “I was hoping Ash would help me find you,” he said.

  “You were looking for me?”

  “Do you have a moment to talk?” His tone turned serious, sending chills through her limbs.

  “Of course.”

  They settled themselves on the bench, and the cat leaped up and nestled himself against Rose’s hip, as though he sensed she needed a warm companion.

  “First, I want to apologize for my behavior the other night at my cottage. I handled every aspect of that evening badly.”

  “You needn’t apologize for being truthful. Or for following your dreams. I envy you, you know.”