by Jess Russell
Not so familiar. It smelled of him.
For the next hour she went through every box and parcel. There were chemises, stockings, slippers, boots, bonnets, fans, and even a parasol.
When she finished, her bed, and every available surface, held a stunning palette of color and texture. She turned slowly, memorizing the nubby wools, the wefted shimmer of the damasks, the plush sheen of a sable muff, the intricate cloisonné of forget-me-nots above the ivory handle of the parasol, the lilting goose biots crowning a riding hat. It was all too much. Too impossibly beautiful. She sank to the floor under the weight of its beauty, digging her fingers into the carpet.
Methodically, she reached for one of the boxes that littered the floor, and then for the nearest gown, a glistening dress in shell pink embroidered in green.
She could not do it. It was the green embroidery that stopped her. She was positive it matched the exact color of her eyes.
Well, the duke had a swarm of eager servants. A maid, or three, would pack it all up. She could leave the room and not even have to look.
Rising she went to the bell, but her hand fell limply to her side. She wanted this. Yes, it was all too much, and she should send it back, but she could not. It had been so very long since she had had anything she had not made herself or, she laughed ruefully, re-made.
She moved back to the bed and traced a particularly beautiful bit of openwork on a chemise. He must have paid a small fortune for this wisp of fine gauze and Venetian lace; the workmanship was so exquisite. Had he picked these out himself? Had he pored over finely drawn plates of Ackermann’s latest offerings? Had he imagined her in these gowns? No, surely not. Yet she wanted to believe he had done just that.
She sank onto the bed, finery spilled out all around her. Drowning her.
Later, as she unwrapped and bathed Egg’s hands, taking one finger at a time, Olivia began her own particular rosary of penance. Living in Paris so long, she knew the Catholic custom. She should not have left Egg alone the night of the fire. Another finger, she should have made sure Hazel had arrived before going off. Yet another, she should have called in the doctor despite Egg’s protestations. Another, she should not have been so preoccupied with her own silly fears—
An entirely new horror hit her as she began the thumb. The duke must have reimbursed Eveline Barton for her lost wardrobe as well as providing Olivia with a whole new one. Oh Lord, how much more could she be in his debt?
“Are you meant to wring my hands like that, Olive?”
Olivia gasped and dropped Egg’s hands as if they were burning.
“Oh, Egglet! I am sorry…I…” And then she burst into tears.
****
The footman’s sharp rap on the small door in the front of the traveling carriage startled Olivia. It slid open. “We are approaching the grounds, madam. You said to be sure and wake you.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Thank you, Albert.” Sleep was never a possibility. Her face had been pressed to the window for the last hour or more.
As they neared the massive iron gates, Olivia lowered the window and leaned her head out. The drive was long and meandering, going on as far as she could see. They traversed woods and parkland for some time before finally coming to a fork in the road. They took the smaller road to the right, and as the coach turned, she saw the house, Valmere, in the distance. It was situated on the precipice of a hill, a lush wild valley spreading below. She could not hear the sea, but she smelled its sharp tang. It must lie on the other side of the mansion. She only had an impression of a sprawling hodgepodge of gray stone and windows before the house was hidden from view by a copse of lime trees.
After a time, they turned again. An avenue of pollarded plane trees made a kind of lacy tunnel as the carriage entered the drive. She held out her arm as if she might capture a bit of the shifting light. Then her breath caught. The trees had opened wide to frame the dower house beyond.
How could he know? How did he know what bliss looked like? Those images only lived tucked in a secret corner of her heart. How could he possibly divine those private pictures?
The house’s hard edges were softened by ivy and climbing roses. Huge mullioned windows broke up its facade and would spill light into every room, and multiple chimneys would warm the deepest corners. To the left, a small walled garden huddled under the shade of a spreading lime tree, and a white gazebo, crowned in wisteria, peeped between the slats of an arched gate. And to complete the picture, a barn cat, sunning itself in the portico, looked up and flicked its tail.
“Egg, dear,” she whispered to her sleeping friend, “we are here. We are…home.”
Chapter Fourteen
Lord Bertram Merrick looked as if he liked a good mystery. Olivia and Egg were a mystery, and his lordship seemed bent on solving it.
“I must say I was shocked when I received the note from my nephew informing me you and Lady Wiggins would be taking up residence in the dower house for the foreseeable future. I understand Lady Wiggins is a very distant cousin?” Olivia nodded. “And where is her family’s estate? I could not make it out. My nephew must have been in quite a rush as the ink spattered dreadfully.”
“Guernsey, Lord Bertram.” Guernsey? “Lady Wiggins’s estate is in Guernsey.” And why had she said it twice? As if saying would make it so?
Lord Bertram’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t say. How singular.” Olivia valiantly held his gaze, her smile fixed in place by sheer will. “The duke tried to dissuade me from coming to the estate this year,” his lordship continued. “Citing renovations and repairs.” Again Olivia remained mute. What was there to say? “Though, thus far, I have yet to see a speck of dust let alone an actual restoration.”
“Lord Bertram.” They were coming through the garden gate. “I am very sorry, Lady Wiggins is not yet well enough to enjoy company. She will be truly vexed when I tell her of your coming to call.” Only a moment or two more and he would be at his horse and on his way. “But Dr. Asher has insisted that she keep very quiet. I am not sure when she will be able to receive company.”
“My dear Mrs. Weston, I too am sorry to be deprived of making her acquaintance. But, in the meantime, I thoroughly enjoyed talking to you. I hope you will feel free to make use of the estate as much as you like.”
“Oh, thank you, Lord Bertram. But I doubt my duties to Lady Wiggins will allow me to stray very far.” The older man raised his eyebrows, and Olivia could imagine his mind racing to fit her and Egg into some plausible slot. Judging by the appreciative look in his eyes, mistress was clearly near the top of his list. Heat crept up over her collar bones, neck, and then undoubtedly stained her cheeks. What was worse, she could see he approved of the duke’s choice.
“The property is…most dramatic,” she soldiered on. “I must say I was wonderfully surprised. I fully expected formal gardens with acres of box hedges and regimental columns of precisely groomed trees, not a leaf or petal daring to be out of place.” She ducked her head, wishing the earth might gape open and swallow her. “But perhaps the duke does not spend a great deal of time at this particular estate,” she said hopefully, “and prefers to use his resources elsewhere?”
Lord Bertram smiled and shook his head. “My dear, there is no end to Roydan’s resources. And Valmere is actually the favorite of his properties, though it is one of the most minor, if one could call this wild splendor minor.”
“I had thought”—Olivia hesitated, picking a bit of grass from her skirts—“Lady Wiggins and I would be quite alone here. Indeed I was much surprised by your visit, sir.”
Lord Bertram grinned. Though he did not look very like his nephew, Olivia imagined how that luminous smile might look on the great Duke of Roydan. “Yes, I gathered my nephew had not told you I would be in residence. Likely he hoped you and Lady Wiggins would escape my notice, but I simply could not let that happen. Not when such charming company is so close to hand.”
Olivia smiled back but pressed further. “I don’t suppose His Grace will be joi
ning you at such a minor estate?”
“On the contrary,” Lord Bertram looked as if he was rather enjoying her fishing expedition. “Though he would never neglect his other estates, especially Beckham Abbey, he usually spends a good deal of the summer months here at Valmere.” He hesitated a moment before continuing, as if he were not sure how much information to dole out. “You see it was his mother’s property—one of them. She brought a substantial dowry to my brother, but this was her very favorite. She adored the sea, and she lived here with my nephew for much of the year.”
“But I understood from the du—Mr. Wilcove, we would not see much of His Grace.”
“Well, that may be. Roydan can be rather capricious.” The snort came in a rush out of Olivia’s nose before she could stop it. Her reaction earned another laugh from Lord Bertram. “My nephew is an onion, my dear; there are many layers beneath his papery shell.” Olivia wanted more, but the duke’s uncle apparently decided to leave her dangling on that little hook.
They had come to his horse, and as Lord Bertram turned to mount, he stopped. “I confess I was very intrigued when Roydan wrote to tell me of you and Lady Wiggins coming. My nephew does not often have guests here at Valmere—well, actually, truth to tell, he never has guests at this particular estate.” He looked at her from beneath his wiry brows, but she steadfastly ignored his opening. “You can imagine how my curiosity was piqued. I hope you will forgive my interest?”
“Oh, of course, Lord Bertram. I hope you will call again sometime.” She stepped back, already retreating to the safety of the house.
“Thank you, Mrs. Weston.” He bowed from his horse. “You may count on it. I will, I hope, see you and your mistress say, next week? Till then, I wish you a good morning.”
He clucked to his mount and tipped his hat, looking very much like a dog with a good juicy bone.
****
Rhys had James drive him almost all the way to Valmere, a distance of two days’ travel, only to order him back again. A week later he had Tinsley pack his trunks again, but then would not give the order to leave. The trunks sat stacked and ready against the walls of his dressing room for the better part of a week.
Rhys pushed into the chamber only to collide with his valet. “Damnation, Tinsley! Why must you always be underfoot?” The man weighed no more than a rag doll as Rhys set him on his feet. “Have I injured you?”
“Not at all, Your Grace.”
After making a thorough appraisal of the valet, Rhys noticed his trunks looked as if they might have exploded. “What are you about, Tinsley?” More items of clothing lay over a boot bench and several chairs.
“Your Grace, I am very much afraid your hunter green will never be quite the same. Please, I must ask you to let me release it, if only to shake out its creases for a moment or two.”
“It cannot be. We are leaving this instant.”
“But, Your Grace.” Tinsley retrieved a glove from the floor and brushed it before handing it to Rhys. “What of your appointment with Mr. Cruthers?”
“Cruthers?”
It was very unlike Rhys to forget an appointment let alone the man himself.
“Yes, Your Grace. If you recall, we scheduled a fitting for your new suit of evening clothes.”
Oh, blast. Poor Tinsley had finally got him to try a new tailor and actually order new clothes, and he had forgotten. Rhys was torn for a moment, but only a moment. He needed to resolve this situation with his dressmaker before he could meet his tailor.
“It can’t be helped, Tinsley. We will reschedule.”
His valet’s usual poker-straight bearing slumped a fraction. “Yes, Your Grace. We will reschedule.”
The whole entourage was out the Old North Road and headed to Norfolk in no more than an hour.
As the miles slipped by and London receded into the past, Rhys felt a heaviness slough away from him. His lawyers peeled away at mile thirty along with the news from Mr. Wadmond that nothing had been found in the Indies, and the search for Dee Gooden continued. Daria Battersby and her “friend” had not been in contact and were cast off back at the Pig’s Gate Tavern nearly fifty miles ago. The Campbells lay twelve miles back and finally Miss Arabella in the last six.
He knocked on the carriage roof signaling his coachman to stop. His outriders were already bringing Sid alongside. They knew his habits well. He always took this last stretch on horseback.
Only the gentle creak of his saddle, the sharp smell of turned earth, and the sky, blue and clear enough that linnets could be heard singing to each other from the edges of the woodlands, filled Rhys’s senses. The surrounding hills rimmed with lupin and foxglove had begun to bloom as the English summer found its way north. Their tall and waving plumes always gave him a feeling of hope.
All would be well. Uncle Bert’s letters told of Mrs.—or Lady Wiggins’s steady recovery. Mrs. Weston would now be ready to take up her duties. Lord, take up her duties. What a dry, soulless way of describing the myriad of fantasies Rhys had stored in his brain.
The fantasies were part of the reason for his prolonged delay in coming to Valmere. He had lived with them for weeks now. Sometimes changing the color of her gown, or how her hair would fall, or the shape of her mouth as he drove into her sweet center…
Olivia Weston was like a gorgeously wrapped package he was afraid to open. What would be inside for him? Would he feel disappointed and empty, or once opened, would he be insatiable? Weren’t fantasies better than nothing?
Well, it was high time to find out. Enough of playing the role of Hamlet. To bed or not to bed. His mind “sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought.”
Good God, how dramatic he had become.
He had not seen her since that day with Sir Richard. He’d been busy with his lawyers and the investigation, such as it was. Then the added annoyance of dealing with Daria—the furtive messages and clandestine meetings, which led to nothing. Finally organizing the dower house for the ladies’ arrival, and going over the daily reports from Dr. Asher. But in truth he had been afraid to see her. Afraid she would see his terrible need of her. So it was easier to stay away. But now, with Mrs. Wiggins recovering, she would be expecting him.
God, if only she would want him just a little. Hope seeped into that tender void that lay quietly waiting between the steady rails of his oh-so-rational behavior.
Rhys squeezed his thighs harder into Sid’s now heaving sides, rocking to urge the horse even faster. He closed his eyes—utter trust—man and animal moving in perfect concert. Only sounds and motion. Only thundering hooves and wind pressing his eyelids, the flash of bright orange and then dusky green as he passed the oaks that intermittently lined the byway. They would be coming to the gates soon. He knew this stretch of road like he knew his name. Instinctively, he eased Sid to a canter. They were on the stone bridge now; Rhys heard the clop of hooves up the gentle rise and then down as it spanned Foggit Creek. Now a space of bright as the forest gave way to the fields just outside the estate’s parklands.
He registered a startled, “Good evening, Your Grace” as he tore through the gates, the keeper’s words trailing to nothing in the wind. He leaned over Sid, whispering nonsense for encouragement. “Yes, my beauty. That’s it, love.” Words he had only uttered in his mind and would never be able to say to Olivia Weston…Olivia.
He pulled up on Sid and opened his eyes. He was dead in the center of the road where the lane to the dower house led off to the right. Reality struck him full force. The object of his dreams was no more than one and a half miles away. He could be there in about four minutes, maybe sooner.
Sid pawed the ground eager to be moving. Rhys’s vision narrowed as he pictured her—Olivia—in the walled gardens of the dower cottage in one of the frocks he had chosen for her—maybe the dark green one with the square-cut décolletage. He would ride right up and vault the wall. Surprised, she would drop the roses she had been collecting as he pulled her into his arms. Her fingers would spear into his hair and caress his face�
�
A slow trickle of sweat ran down his temple and into his collar. His boots were dull with road dust. He ran his tongue over his teeth, feeling the grit of travel. He released a rein and felt the slight stubble on his cheeks. She would surely cringe from him, disgusted.
Very likely she would not want him, but he would not give her such a blatant reason for rejecting his person. When he came to her, he would at least be clean.
He took one last look down the avenue of trees and then sharply reined left, back toward the mansion.
As he rounded the last gentle curve in the lane, a gibbous moon, hanging low over the house, began to illuminate the dusky sky. His eyes ran over the familiar sedge-gray stone. A window in the south tower winked as it caught the sun’s last light. He was home.
“Took you long enough, lad.” Uncle Bert came striding from the house to greet Rhys as he handed Sid’s reins to his young groom.
“Give him an extra measure, Matthew. He has worked hard. And mind his right front fetlock, it may need a wrap.” The boy looked up hopefully. Rhys had the unreasonable urge to smooth the hair away from the boy’s face. He clasped his hands behind him. “Tomorrow we will continue your study of linear functions.” The boy grinned and led Sid away with an extra bounce in his step. Matthew reminded Rhys of himself when he was young, always keen to solve some mathematical dilemma.
Rhys turned to his uncle, who immediately clapped him on both shoulders. Uncle Bert was usually not so exuberant; well, no doubt he mostly took his cue from Rhys’s own reserved manner. He extricated himself and got a good look at Bertram. The man was positively glowing.
“Uncle, you are looking well. I do believe you have lost a good stone or two.”
“Exercise, my boy, exercise. Nothing like a good brisk walk and some gardening to get the old blood flowing.”
Gardening?
“But where have you been?” Bert continued, “I expected you weeks ago. You have been very close-mouthed about the Campbell girl. Is she why you remained in town?”