His servants saw to the mundanities of life while he kept his mind on higher subjects.
Matters of state, for example. The welfare of his tenants. The management of no fewer than five estates and various properties in London. The progress of his protégés in their scientific and exploratory endeavors. The manifold demands of his extensive family.
He had a mountain of important, high-minded work he must see to at once if he wanted to devote himself to Lady Cecily at the forthcoming party.
And yet … He scrutinized his surroundings with dissatisfaction.
Was that really the best they could do with flowers in the great hall? He didn’t know the first thing about floral arrangements, but it seemed to him that he’d seen far more impressive displays at other gentlemen’s houses.
Those gentlemen had wives, he reminded himself, or sisters or daughters. Ladies who listed flower arrangement among their accomplishments. Not busy, efficient housekeepers who strove more for propriety than artistic flair.
It would be tactless and possibly futile to request Mrs. Juteney to improve upon her work.
But what about the furniture, now? All at once, the dark mahogany upholstered in deep green and burgundy seemed heavy and somber, though he’d lived comfortably with these pieces all his life.
There was no time—not even for him—to refurnish the house before his guests arrived. But as he strode about the place, he saw it through new eyes. Eyes that grew increasingly critical the longer he looked.
Anglesby Park was splendid in its proportions and grand in its appointments, but it lacked a certain almost indefinable something: The feminine touch.
His stringent appraisal took on an edge of rueful self-mockery. He’d wanted to impress Lady Cecily by inviting her here, hadn’t he? Perhaps she’d be appalled instead.
He was not one to wring his hands over what he couldn’t help, however. If and when she married him, he’d give Cecily carte blanche to redecorate the house to her taste. And it was a magnificent house, even if its grandeur might be considered a little old-fashioned.
His butler and his housekeeper had matters well in hand, so Rand went to his library and threw himself into work. He needed to clear his schedule completely to make room for a far more pleasant task: wooing Lady Cecily Westruther.
* * *
Despite all his preparations, Lady Cecily’s arrival took Rand by surprise.
He had issued the invitation to this house party in the vague manner in which these things were usually done. Nothing so precise as a date was ever set, for that would be vulgar in the extreme. One opened one’s house, and guests came and went as they pleased.
Why it had been fixed in his head that no one would arrive until tomorrow at the earliest, he had no idea. Perhaps because today was a Sunday?
He’d underestimated Lady Cecily’s enthusiasm, it seemed. He only wished that enthusiasm was for him and not the contents of his attics.
Her early arrival was not the only surprise in store for him. An older lady, fearsomely elegant in a bronze carriage dress, accompanied her.
“Lady Arden.” He bowed. “What a delightful surprise.”
Her fine eyebrows flexed at that. The last time their paths had crossed, his primary concern was to deflect her attempts to marry him off. Now, those attempts would be more than welcome, if channeled in the correct direction. He must contrive to have a private conversation with her.
Lady Cecily curtsied, but there was a frown in her eyes. She looked from him to Lady Arden “You are acquainted, then?”
“My sweet child,” said Lady Arden, smiling benignly upon them both. “I am the dear boy’s aunt.”
“First cousin once removed,” corrected Rand, smoothly ignoring Lady Cecily’s hot, accusatory look. “On my mother’s side.”
Resentment settled over Lady Cecily’s face and he’d no doubt it was directed solely at him.
He regarded her in amusement. He didn’t know what the girl thought he’d done; he’d not the least idea she intended to bring Lady Arden as chaperone. If anyone had deceived her, it was Lady Arden herself. Or Montford, perhaps.
Now, there was a thought.
“I don’t know why you ought to be so surprised, Cecily,” said Lady Arden. “I am related to half the peers in the country, after all.”
“That is true,” Rand said apologetically.
And he would take the utmost advantage of his relationship with Cecily’s chaperone, assuming he’d find an ally in that lady.
One never knew, though. Lady Arden would do almost anything to further her family’s interests, particularly when it came to marriage. There was a ruthlessness beneath her charm that so many men underestimated—to their peril. But she also believed strongly in honor and duty. She might refuse to upset a betrothal that was already in place.
Well, time would tell which way she might bend. If she came out against him, he didn’t doubt his ability to match wits with Her Ladyship and win.
Belatedly, he recalled his invitation to Norland. “And where is your betrothed, Lady Cecily? Seeing to the horses? My grooms will do all that.” He glanced beyond her through the front door but saw no sign of the duke.
“Oh, His Grace is not here yet,” said Cecily. “He had business in Cambridge that will delay his arrival a day or two.”
“Neglecting you for dull research, Lady Cecily?” said Rand.
“Not at all,” she returned with a bland look. “He has a commission to execute for me, that is all.”
There wasn’t a trace of defensiveness in her tone and he accepted that his shot had hit wide of the mark. Her alliance with Norland wasn’t a love match, after all. The lady had no reason to be possessive or particular. She was unlikely to be needled by any lack of feeling her fiancé might display toward her.
For the first time, he wondered what it said about Lady Cecily that she should so readily accept a marriage that had no basis in love. Not only accept it, but steadfastly hold on to it in defiance of the undeniable passion she felt for Rand.
Lost in remembrance of that passion, he wasn’t aware of his housekeeper’s presence until Mrs. Juteney gave a discreet cough.
“Ah! Yes. And here is Mrs. Juteney to show you to your chambers.”
“Thank you.” Lady Arden smiled at the housekeeper and stripped off her gloves. “Then tea, I think?”
Rand bowed. “Yes, of course. Tea on the terrace, please, Mrs. Juteney. Shall we say, in half an hour?”
* * *
Cecily longed to steal up to the attics and search for Jonathon’s papers as soon as she’d arrived at Anglesby Park. But that would be neither polite nor practicable. As Ashburn had remarked, there must be acres of attic in this house.
So she washed and changed her traveling costume for a cherry-striped gown and donned a chip straw hat with a wide ribbon that tied beneath her chin. Then she went down to join her host and her chaperone on the terrace.
She resisted the urge to avoid Ashburn’s brilliant gaze. He surveyed her with appreciation, even amusement. Did he guess how she champed at the bit to get down to the business of her visit. Did he know how utterly suffocating she found the conventions that bound her?
As she sipped tea out of a translucently delicate china cup and made genteel conversation, Cecily realized she’d rarely felt more discomfited in her life. Every phrase Ashburn uttered, no matter how innocent, seemed charged with innuendo.
Lady Arden might rattle on about town gossip, but Cecily wasn’t fooled. Despite her air of nonchalance, Lady Arden watched them both closely, as if awaiting confirmation of an opinion. Had Ashburn informed her of his intentions? Perhaps Montford had set her to watch them, perhaps even promote Ashburn’s cause. That would be just like the wily duke.
Whatever the case, Cecily felt harried, challenged, measured, and scrutinized, none of which soothed her temper.
Ashburn, on the other hand, appeared at ease, which she hotly resented. She realized with surprise that this was the first time she’d seen
him in daylight.
He had gallantly taken the seat facing the sun, so that when he turned his head to look at her, the sunlight danced in his eyes, burnishing them to gold.
Those eyes, Cecily thought with a faint, delicious shiver. They looked almost wild in their glittering intensity. By contrast, the natural light gentled the sharp contours of his face, making him appear younger and more relaxed. A young, virile lion lazing in the sun.
So at ease was their host, he even went so far as to laugh at one of Lady Arden’s witticisms. A burning streak of jealousy shot through Cecily. She wished she’d made him laugh like that.
Oh, confound it! She wasn’t developing a tendre for him, was she? Physical attraction was one thing; she’d be lost if she started fancying herself in love with the Duke of Ashburn.
Resolutely, she turned her thoughts back to the reason she’d accepted this perilous invitation. Jonathon’s papers were here somewhere, waiting for her. When might she have a chance to speak with Ashburn alone? When could she begin the search?
Would he and Lady Arden chatter on about nothing forever? Cecily’s impatience built and built, until she felt like a volcano, ready to hurl rocks and steam and lava in every direction.
Ashburn regarded her with a degree of amused understanding that made her want to hit him. “Perhaps if you ladies are not too fatigued by the journey, I might conduct you on a tour of the house.”
He glanced toward the magnificent vista that spread like a jeweled tapestry before them. “Or there are some pretty rambles if you are feeling more energetic.”
Lady Arden smiled. “I have letters to write, dear boy.” A large sapphire flashed as she flicked her fingertips in a shooing motion. “But you young things ought to take advantage of the clear weather while you can. Run along, both of you. Just be sure to return before dark.”
This was Cecily’s chance. She was on her feet before Lady Arden finished her last sentence. “I should like to see the house, if you please, Your Grace. I hear you have a fine … porcelain collection.”
It was a safe bet, since almost every noble household had a fine porcelain collection.
“Indeed.” The smallest tic at the side of his mouth showed Ashburn’s appreciation of this particular gambit. “I believe there’s a nice little assortment of knickknacks somewhere.”
He bowed and waited for Cecily to precede him into the house.
“Your subtlety never fails to astonish me,” he murmured as they stepped through the long windows into the relative cool of the library. “This way.”
Without further explanation, he led her up a flight of stairs and along a corridor to a saloon papered in pale green silk damask. The walls were lined with cabinets full of exquisite, eggshell-thin porcelain.
Breathtaking. Quite simply … Cecily looked about her in wonder.
She had never been an aficionado of art or music, but porcelain, now … The delicate beauty, the shapes, the luster, the way the colors came vividly to life on that medium, had always fascinated her.
Here was a room she could spend days in. Or she might if she did not have a far more vital mission at this house than to dwell in artistic appreciation.
“A nice little assortment,” she echoed, dryly ironic. “But you know I did not come away with you to look at porcelain.”
However, as usual, Ashburn missed nothing. He had caught her expression of surprised wonder. With a curious quirk to his lips that she now took to be his version of a full-blown smile, he said, “Nevertheless, I think you ought to spend some time here, if only to answer Lady Arden when she quizzes you about it.”
Ignoring her protest, Ashburn drew her hand through his arm and led her from one cabinet to the next.
His touch, his nearness, sent her senses careering. Her body went first hot, then cold. Her heart skipped and jumped in her chest.
Stop it! She commanded her wayward self to fall in line with her reason. The mind, her cousin Xavier had always told her, was a more powerful instrument than the body. Why couldn’t hers seem to seize control?
Ashburn was about to pass by the largest cabinet in the room when she stopped him.
“What about this one?” She indicated it with a wave of her hand.
“Ah.” Ashburn remained silent for a time, while Cecily inspected the contents.
She immediately identified the service as Sèvres. Predominantly turquoise, the collection of plate showed a series of vignettes.
While she might appreciate the excellence of the artist’s technique and the sheer decadence of the gilt decoration, the ornate extravagance of this pattern was not to Cecily’s taste. The Chinese porcelain farther along better pleased her sense of harmony and restraint.
“This,” Ashburn said at last, “is my favorite part of the collection.”
She regarded him with a sinking feeling that had no business striking her at that moment. She had marked him as a man of great taste and discernment; certainly his appreciation for the rest of the collection in this room showed him to be so. Yet, this rather overdecorated set was the one he preferred?
Even if she were the greatest devotee of Sèvres, she could not think this service a superior example of that factory’s wares. She thought the subject rather banal, for one thing: a pair of lovers, all powdered and patched. They were clothed in the dress of a bygone age in shades of pearl gray, pink, and pale blue—a rather insipid combination, she thought.
Ashburn turned to her, and that faint glimmer of a smile was in his eyes again, taking the edge off her disapproval. “Your expression is an excellent mirror of your feelings, Lady Cecily. I am forced to defend my choice.”
“Not at all,” she said politely. “It is a very fine set.”
“But that is not the reason I like it.” He hunted in his waistcoat pocket, then produced a small key.
Cecily wondered why he kept that key with him rather than leaving it in the lock as he left the others. She watched Ashburn’s hands as he unlocked the cabinet and opened the glass doors. He wore no gloves. She became acutely aware of how large and strangely rugged those hands looked against the delicateness of the plate as he selected one and brought it out to show her.
His handling of the piece was dexterous and light and practiced, as if he did this often. She regarded him with renewed interest. She’d thought he cared only for steam engines and automatons and other innovations.
“Do you see the two lovers?” he said, tilting the plate so the sunlight did not glare from its surface.
How ridiculous that the mere mention of that word lovers from him should set her pulse fluttering madly. Trying to appear unconscious of what lay thick in the air between them, she nodded.
Cecily examined the brushwork with critical, reluctant appreciation. “They are beautifully executed.”
He gave an odd, almost embarrassed laugh. “They are my parents.”
Her gaze flew to his, her lips parting in surprise. For some reason she could not name, she flushed.
She looked again at the plate in his hands, then turned to stare with fascination at the rest of the set.
It was some moments before she could bring herself to speak. She sensed him next to her, heard his breathing, felt the warmth from his body. She even smelled him, an indescribable masculine scent of mingled horse leathers, shaving soap, wool, and something she thought might be his sun-warmed skin.
Oh, dear Lord, was she so weak that she was drawn to the way this man smelled? How utterly ridiculous!
Determined to master this awful jumble of emotions, Cecily focused her attention on the collection of vignettes, following the narrative as it progressed from one plate to the next.
“It is the tale of their courtship,” he murmured.
She nodded, for in those vignettes a saga of love lost and reclaimed unfolded as clearly as if it had been written in words.
Her throat seemed to close up. “They must have been very much in love.”
Her voice sounded unsteady. She didn’t know why the notion
that Ashburn’s parents had known such passion and tenderness should unsettle her so much. That a collection of plates she’d immediately dismissed as prosaic could convey such a wealth and depth of emotion troubled her more than she could express.
Softly, Ashburn said, “Other men own plate commemorating the battles they’ve fought, the nations they’ve conquered, the trophies and honors they’ve won from their king. My father commissioned this. Because winning my mother was the crowning glory of his life.”
As he spoke those words to her, she felt a monumental shift inside herself. His parents had experienced something precious and oh, so rare. Theirs was a great love story, a story worthy of being immortalized in porcelain. Each piece spoke of hope and pursuit, surrender, separation.…
“This one,” Cecily said, pointing to the plate depicting a ship sailing away from shore, a small male figure on deck staring back toward land. “Where did he go?”
“My grandfather shipped Papa off to France. In the hope, I believe, that my father would forget his infatuation among the delights Paris had to offer.”
“And the next?”
He returned the plate he’d been holding to its stand. “Ah, the next shows my mother, boarding the packet to go after him.”
“Oh!” She laughed. “I think I should have liked your mama.”
“A most determined lady,” he agreed. His voice changed timbre. “Or so I believe.”
She looked up at him, a question in her eyes.
He didn’t meet her eye, but stared into the china cabinet, his attention far away. “My mother died in childbirth with me. My father soon followed her. They say he died of grief but that is not true. He succumbed to a deadly fever several months later.” He glanced down at her. “I am told he used to bring me here.”
Her reaction was barely a breath. “Oh…”
His lips twisted a little, as if the notion gave him an equal amount of pleasure and pain. She sensed he did not often show vulnerability to anyone, but this loss was too deep even for him to conceal.
Did he blame himself for his parents’ deaths? Such a reaction was not logical, but when was the heart ever governed by reason?
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