If only the Wyndham girl didn’t walk quite so close to her. They even brushed elbows a few times, as the sway of their bodies crossing the rougher ground of the pasture brought them together. It made the trio resemble a loving family far too much.
And a loving family was something he could not condone. A loving family was something of which he couldn’t be a part.
Ever.
With his heart dead inside him, discipline was all that remained, all that kept him going.
As he continued to watch, Miss Wyndham paused, bent, and examined something by her feet.
In response to her invitation, Polly bent down as well.
Something was plucked from the ground, and as Polly and her new tutor stood up straight again, the Wyndham chit placed it in his daughter’s hair, before standing back to appraise her.
Hal clenched his jaw. He hadn’t invited the Wyndhams into his home to have them indulge in such foolishness as putting flowers in a young girl’s hair. Polly was not a toy with which to be played. Yes, he knew the Wyndhams had lost a daughter in the past, and he was sorry for it, but that gave them no excuse to be soft on Polly.
In fact, this sort of familiar behavior was the exact opposite of what he wanted for her. He would have a word with Miss Wyndham.
A cold sweat broke out on his brow, making him scrub irritably at his forehead. Deuce take it, why was he anxious again? Perhaps because he hadn’t had a normal conversation with anyone since Mary’s death. Could he even recall how to go about it? It would mean meeting his new dependents face-to-face.
Yes, he had already seen Miss Wyndham, but she’d nothing to say to him, which didn’t help the situation at all. A note would have to do. He’d write it now and give it to one of the servants to deliver.
Miss Galatea Wyndham needed to be taken to task immediately, before she completely scuppered his plans.
Chapter 5
“Infuriating man!”
Tia stalked from one side of the breakfast room to the other, crumpling the piece of paper in her hands. It was as much as she could do not to tear it into myriad pieces and individually set fire to them from the plate warmer on the sideboard. Except such action might cause a conflagration, completely ruining breakfast—and burning down their new home when they’d been in it a mere three days.
Not the wisest of actions.
“Calm down, my dear. Is it so very terrible Lord Ansford should write to you thus?”
“It’s inexpressibly rude, Mama, that’s what it is.” Tia flopped into a chair and poked angrily at the slice of ham on her plate. “He hasn’t even introduced himself to us yet, but he’s already ordering us about like servants.”
“Well, in a way we are.”
“But we’re also family, despite being only distantly related.”
“Very distantly,” Mama echoed.
“So, he should accord us a bit more respect. I mean, me in particular, as this missive doesn’t mention you. Clearly, I am the only one at fault.”
Her mother heaved a great sigh. “I fully understand you find his tone peremptory—”
“To say the least.”
“But we mustn’t forget he may not be in his right mind.”
“After three years? Surely anyone recovers from the loss of a spouse in three years—oh, please forgive me. That was insensitive.”
Mama dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. When she raised her head, her mouth was set in a determined line.
“We promised each other not to ruin our lives with grief. Being in the poorhouse has stiffened my resolve not to repine. I will never forget your papa, and nor must you, but you can see what lengthy grieving can do to a person. It is most unhealthy.”
“I will never forget Papa, nor little Phoebe. I treasure their memories, but as you say, it’s unwise to submerge oneself in misery. It seems to have unhinged Lord Ansford entirely.”
Mama took a sip of her Darjeeling. “Therefore, we must be patient with him. And never forget he is our benefactor. Do you really want to hazard our futures on a matter of principle?”
Tia uncrumpled the note and smoothed it out beside her breakfast plate, steeling herself to read it one more time so she could decide what action to take.
Miss Wyndham, the note said, I trust you will not pamper Miss Polly with any approaches of friendship. I thought I had made myself clear when I explained she must be educated under the strictest of regimens. A sociable meander about the grounds with yourself and Mrs. Wyndham does not come under the aegis of “education.” It is merely a waste of time. Should Polly require exercise, she can take it with Nurse.
The note was signed with an aristocratic scrawl.
“I don’t intend to change my attitude toward Polly.” Tia struggled to keep the defiance from her voice. “I stand by my belief she needs to be won over gradually, with kindness and understanding. And she deserves to have some enjoyment, after what she’s been through. After what her father is still putting her through.”
At her mother’s wry expression, Tia added, “I promise to be careful not to anger or upset Lord Ansford. I’m certain he will understand when I explain my proposed methods to him. I’ll be subtle and reasonable. I don’t want you worrying he might fly into a rage and turn us out.”
“Fortunately, that isn’t something he can easily do. His duty to us is all bound up in law, as his man of business explained before we arrived. Ansford has even made us beneficiaries in his will, though I cannot understand why so young a man considered he needed to make one.”
“He evidently does not wish to allow room for error. I think he likes to be in control. Of everything. And I wouldn’t call him young,” Tia mused. “Why, he seemed at least forty to me.”
“Goodness, no! I’m certain he’s barely reached thirty. Such a shame so promising a political career should be cut short by tragedy.”
Tia signaled to the waiting footman, who withdrew her chair as she stood. Thanking him with a nod, she walked across to the mullioned window. Quaint though these historical items of architecture were, the leaded panes did not give a good view of the gardens beyond, adding to her sense of being shut in.
The catch gave with a metallic clang, but she paused a moment before pushing the window open. What if he were outside, glaring back at her with those dark, storm-filled eyes and that heavy, disapproving frown?
This is nonsense.
She had no reason to fear the man, none at all. He would hardly have opened his home to them if he meant them any harm.
Would he?
She pulled the window to and spun on her heel, catching a resigned expression on her mother’s face. She ignored it. “I’m going right now in search of him.” Before my courage fails me.
“But you don’t know where he is,” Mama pointed out.
“Well, I know where he won’t be. With Polly. She told me yesterday she barely sees him from one week to the next. I shall boldly penetrate the forbidden east wing, and if I don’t find him there, he’s probably in that horrid folly tower Mrs. Dunne told us to stay away from.”
“Not without good reason, I’m sure.” Mama raised an eyebrow in warning.
“Polly’s starting to speak up a bit more now, and I need her to trust me. If I bring out the birch switch and act the martinet, she’ll only retreat into herself again. I’m sorry, but for Polly’s sake I must do this.”
It was for her own sake as well, though she cared not to admit it. It wasn’t pleasant, being ignored.
“I promise not to be cross,” she reassured her mother. “By the time I’ve tracked down the lion to his lair, the exercise will have made me more equable.”
Leaving Mama to the excitements of the North Wiltshire Gazette, Tia left the breakfast room and headed for the main hallway. Once there, instead of turning left toward their wing of
the house, she spun to the right and stood for a moment facing down the door into the east wing. With its thick oak panels and iron studs, it resembled the gate of a fortress. For a moment she feared it might be locked and barred to her, and she’d have to find some other way in.
But when she applied her hand to the ring, it turned easily. A lift of the latch, one foot forward, and she was in Terra Incognita.
Not only unknown but also forbidden.
Chapter 6
As Tia went through the doorway, a breath of cold air made her shiver. She had emerged into the abbey’s medieval cloister, with the rose garden at its center. As she gazed around, empty doorways gaped with black maws from the walkways, and when she glanced up, it was to find herself being leered at by roof bosses carved into grotesque creatures.
She repressed a shudder. What would she discover if she explored this place? The skeletons of innumerable murdered wives and relations? An antiquated torture chamber? Her sense of unease was not improved by the fact the weather had now broken. Dark clouds scudded across the sky, casting fistfuls of rain against the windows, with only a crash of thunder or a blast of lightning lacking to complete the melodramatic effect.
Tia hurried on until she came to a stretch of cloister apparently more inhabited than the other parts. At the foot of a stone stairway stood a shoe rack, a boot remover, and a foot-scraper, set beneath a line of pegs containing a range of caped coats, cloaks, and gentleman’s hats.
So, Lord Ansford was human after all. Here was the paraphernalia of everyday existence, items belonging to a flesh and blood man. Not a wife-killing fiend or lunatic flagellant, but a real being who got his boots muddy and enjoyed protection from the cold.
This was the staircase she must try, in hopes of finally meeting the master of Foxleaze face to face. The steps led up to a corridor lined with bookcases. Tia gasped as she scanned the titles—histories, geographies, art engravings, travels, Chapman’s Homer, Dryden’s translation of Virgil, Caesar’s The Gallic Wars.
When all the Wyndham’s books had to be sold, she’d been distraught. How ungenerous of the baron to forbid them this treasure house of knowledge. But perhaps he didn’t know of her deprivation and would perfectly understand if she asked for access to his library.
Remembering the prime reason for her foray, Tia dragged herself away and continued her exploration. A bit farther along the corridor, she came upon a gentleman’s study, complete with walnut-topped desk, studded leather chair, and various writing implements. The room boasted a magnificent marble fireplace, currently sporting a display of lilac blooms, lavender, and white roses.
The guilt-ridden, wife-murdering, relative-hating Lord Ansford receded into the background of her imagination and an accomplished scholar with excellent taste took his place.
Glancing about in pleasant surprise, Tia noticed a large portrait hanging above the fireplace. A closer examination revealed the skill of its painter. He—or she—had captured the skin tones of the female subject perfectly and had picked out where the light reflected in the woman’s gray eyes and gleamed in her guinea-gold locks. The artist’s brush had recorded every fold of the gown and the individual curls of the sitter’s hair where they caressed her face.
This was Polly’s mother.
There was no doubting the similarity. The late baroness was portrayed as a breathtaking, golden beauty. With her own dark curls and brown eyes, Tia considered herself no more than a common country wench in the presence of so much ethereal pallor.
So absorbed was she in contemplation of the former Lady Ansford, she didn’t hear the measured tread behind her, nor the sharp intake of breath signaling the newcomer’s arrival.
A harsh voice behind her rasped, “This room is private.”
Tia jumped in shock, spun around, and found herself face to face with the owner of Foxleaze Abbey.
Fortunately—or otherwise—the man was fully dressed. Had he not been, it would have been a struggle to keep her eyes from straying admiringly across the superb musculature of his torso. Now it was hidden beneath somber black clothing, which accentuated the paleness of his skin and echoed the dark circles around his eyes. Did he never raise his face to the sun? Did he never sleep?
If any gentleman had set out to make himself appear frightful, Lord Ansford was that gentleman.
He continued to glare at her, his words a challenge hanging in the air between them like a duelist’s glove.
She met his regard directly, and suddenly the masculine beauty hidden behind the unkempt hair and straggling beard was revealed to her. Long, dark, feathered lashes. High, aristocratic cheekbones. Combined with the black slashes of his eyebrows, his features looked as if they’d been applied by the hand of a master.
Her eyes snagged on his firm mouth—it had a fascinating tilt at each corner, though his lips were unsmiling. He boasted a straight nose and determined, square jaw, speckled with dark stubble.
Here was a man with enough excellent physical attributes to make every woman in the land fall at his feet—but he didn’t give a damn.
Moistening lips gone suddenly dry, Tia started forward, one hand outstretched in greeting. “Lord Ansford, we meet at last. I am Galatea Wyndham. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“I know who you are.” As his hands remained clasped behind his back, she dropped her own in confusion and fiddled with a fold of her skirts. How unforgivably rude! But she mustn’t rise to the bait and forget her purpose in coming here.
Polly. It was all about Polly.
“You should not be here,” Ansford continued in the same colorless tone. “You must leave at once.”
Not only rude but hurtful. How did one make any headway with such a creature?
By setting a good example and by not sinking to his level.
“Forgive me, my lord. I didn’t mean to intrude upon your privacy. I thought the place empty and was just admiring the splendid portrait above the fireplace.”
Ansford continued to observe her in a disinterested fashion, which, paradoxically, unnerved her more than outright animosity would have done. Should she swallow her pride and go?
He was waiting for her to do exactly that. She sensed stubbornness behind the facade of indifference, willpower that would eventually drive her from the room with nary a word spoken.
Direct conflict with the man who held the Wyndhams’ fate in his hands? Not a good plan. She would have to see if she could draw him out somehow, make her presence less odious to him.
Glancing at the portrait above the fireplace, she began conversationally, “Who’s the artist? They’re a true master of their craft.”
“You’d recognize a master’s hand, would you?”
She shot him a sharp look, but his face remained impassive.
“I’m educated well enough to know about art, my lord. You wouldn’t have employed me to teach Polly if you thought otherwise. I used to visit all the exhibitions—”
He waved her into silence. “I don’t mean to indulge in conversation, Miss Wyndham. I’m waiting for you to leave.”
What abominable rudeness! Fissures started to appear in her resolve.
“Of course, I’ll quit your study if I’m disturbing you. But I’d like to be allowed to make use of your library. Some of the books will complement Polly’s studies.”
“No.”
The fissures became chasms.
“I promise I’ll do nothing to disturb you.” She strove to keep the terseness from her voice.
“I said no.”
Tia chewed on her lip. Handsome as a statue of a Greek god. With a heart as hard as marble. But she wasn’t prepared to give up. Yet.
“I can always send a servant for a book,” she offered. “You must allow your staff up here.”
One dark brow lifted. It was the first sign he’d given o
f any real emotion.
“You can hardly expect my servants to recognize a name like ‘Aeschylus’ when they see it written down, or ‘Euripides.’ Fetch you a book they will,” he informed her, “but it won’t be the one you sent for.”
Two sentences from the implacable Lord Ansford? This could almost be considered progress.
“If I wrote the title down for them, clearly and carefully,” she persisted, “they would be able to match it up with the appropriate book.”
The other eyebrow joined its fellow. “Do you have any idea how long it would take a servant to match up your writing to the book title? No, I want as little disturbance as possible. I cannot have footmen with lighted lamps poring for hours through my library. It is unthinkable.”
It might be unthinkable now, but she would find a way.
Let’s see who of the two of us is the most immovable.
She bowed her head, a polite but insincere acknowledgment of his victory. “Good morning, my lord. Perhaps we may see you at dinner?”
She was hoping no such thing, for his presence would cast a pall of gloom across the table and make every dish taste like ashes.
He made no reply as she eased past him and made for the door. His indifference infuriated her more than his anger might have done.
She didn’t like failing to make an impression, she didn’t like feeling unwanted, and more than anything she hated not being accorded the common courtesies. Her benefactor was a damnable fellow, and she had no desire to set eyes on him ever again, or listen to his colorless voice, or see his emotionless face.
Yet Tia couldn’t help but glance over her shoulder to see if her defiance had wrought any change in the man’s demeanor, elicited any expression he didn’t want her to see.
No. He’d simply turned his back on the door and was staring up at the portrait, as impervious to Tia as he was to the rest of the world. And if she didn’t like being ignored, well, it was her cross to bear.
Beguiling the Baron Page 3