A lean-faced man looked out, his cheeks hollow, big eyes dark above them. His nose was slightly hooked, his mouth a tight-lipped line. His eyes had a haunted, sorrowful look that didn't change, even when he smiled. His hair, jet-black, hung to his jaw, straight and glossed.
“Whist, yer an ugly brute,” he said to himself. He turned away and headed to the clothes-chest in the corner, reaching for a more-formal shirt.
Dressing better isn't going to help matters. You're still not going to win any lady’s admiration.
Nevertheless, as he shrugged on the shirt and changed his hose from longer riding ones to breeches, he couldn't help wondering if he'd make a good impression.
Lady Genevieve had been in his thoughts all morning. She had, in fact, crept into his thoughts that night, as he lay here alone in bed. He blushed, ashamed at having even thought such things about her.
She's a fine gentlewoman, far above you. And she's not interested in the likes of you.
He realized he didn't know a great deal about Genevieve, besides that she came from France, and that she was Lady Arabella's cousin.
Asking Richard for details seemed unwise – he was sure he wouldn't take kindly to his interest, even though Richard was a good friend.
He might tolerate my ways for himself, but he'd object to my sort paying court to a cousin of his.
He smiled sourly. No, he would have to make inquiries carefully. He finished fastening the breeches over the knee – they showed some rather fine silk stockings below – and glanced in the mirror.
“I won't scare Lady Arabella's sister.”
He laughed to himself, a bitter laugh, and then headed down the hallway to the stairs. He wasn't going to draw attention to himself by being late.
The sound of people laughing drifted up the stairwell and he went down quietly, knowing the rest of the family was already gathered in the hall. The light outside suggested it was perhaps three of the clock – it was still winter-enough for the day to start to darken by now. The window over the doorway showed a sky pale sapphire blue.
“Adair! Come join us!”
Ascott was already there, his face flushed as if he'd lately washed and dried it, and then hastily changed his clothes – he had, Adair noticed – put on a cream-white velvet day-suit that fit him perfectly. Inwardly, he gave a wry laugh.
Ascott will be drawing everyone's eye – he always does.
He headed to the back of the group who awaited their guests by the front door.
“And Mr. McGinten said he saw the coach coming up the road...they'll be here any moment!” Arabella gushed.
Adair smiled fondly to himself, surprised to see the composed mistress of the household so excited.
Next to her, Genevieve stood. His eye fixed on her and he could suddenly look nowhere else. She too had changed, wearing a white dress, her hair loose down her back in a simple style that nonetheless looked effortlessly elegant. Her hands were clasped in front of her, those beautiful eyes downcast. Adair felt his breath catch in his throat.
“Cold down here, isn't it?” Ascott interrupted his thoughts. He jumped, un-focusing his eyes from where they'd locked on Genevieve.
“I suppose,” he agreed, running his hands down his upper arms, surprised he'd barely noticed the chill.
“Milady?” A servant interrupted loudly, appearing around the side of the door, holding out the worst of the cold air with it. “They're here.”
“Oh!”
The hallway, already atwitter, was suddenly abuzz with excitement. The maid arrived with Mirelle and Arabella took her, lifting her up and making her crow with excitement. Then, just as they turned toward the door, it opened.
The guests walked into the hall.
A tall, fair-haired man accompanied a slight, fair-haired woman, and Adair felt a strange shock as she stared straight at him. Dressed in black, lurking at the edge of the group, he'd expected nobody to notice him.
Her pale gaze held his for an instant, and Adair felt a little tug on the surface of his mind, almost as if someone ruffled the surface of his thoughts, looking in. Then she broke the gaze and the feeling stopped. He leaned back, astounded.
At the edge of the hall, by the door, Arabella had passed her daughter to Richard, and embraced the slight, pale-haired woman, laughter and tears filling the hall. “Oh! Francine! My dear! You're here at last.”
Adair, blinking, recovered from the shock, and focused on the small, stocky form of a child that the blonde-haired man was carefully lowering so that he could stand on his own feet.
“There you go, Stewart,” he beamed at the child. “Off you go.”
The little body tottered forward, then his legs buckled and he sat down abruptly. He giggled.
Adair looked away, relieved he hadn't cried. He hated the sound of children crying – it haunted his dreams with its aching emptiness, a sound he’d heard his fill of. He looked up and found the blonde-haired woman, noting she was again watching him. She was leaning on her sister's arm, standing beside Genevieve.
“Mirelle?” Arabella was saying. “Look! It's your cousin. Come, say hello!”
While the rest of the family stood about indulgently, watching the toddlers meet, Adair glanced around the room, feeling more than a little disorientated. Ascott was watching the children with the same indulgent fondness as the rest of the grown-ups, Richard was talking to the blonde-haired man, both eyeing the toddlers fondly, and the three women stood facing the children, making encouraging sounds.
As he looked their way, Arabella spotted him. She held out a hand. “Come and meet my sister, Lady Francine.”
He gulped. He had rarely met someone who disconcerted him so much, besides perhaps Genevieve herself. Now he was supposed to go and talk to them both? He felt his legs go stiff and unwieldy as wood.
Arabella drew her sister forward so that he found himself looking into those pale blue eyes. He bowed low. “Greetings, milady,” he managed to say.
“Hello,” she said, lightly. “I'm Francine. You must be Lord Adair.”
“Adair. Yes.”
He bowed again and she took his hand briefly, then let go. He looked past her to Genevieve, who was staring at him with an odd, inscrutable face.
He straightened up at once and moved back, leaning against the wall. On the floor in front of them, the little boy – Adair had no idea how young he was, save that he was younger than Mirelle was – had sat down again. The little girl reached out and gently touched his hair. The gesture was full of so much innocent care that Adair looked sharply away.
Don't remember. Don't think about how innocent, how precious, life can be.
He counted to ten, making himself breathe, like he did when the hurt was too bad and he had to think of something else. Then he looked up.
Genevieve was still watching him. This time, her brown eyes had a look that had a gentle curiosity, and compassion. He swallowed hard. “You have brothers and sisters?” he asked her.
She shook her head, answering naturally, before he'd had time to contemplate the fact that he'd just spoken to her unthinkingly.
“No,” she replied in that low, musical voice with its vague accent. “It was just me. Me and Papa, living all alone in the chateau together.”
“You must be lonely,” he said. Again, the words left his mouth before he'd thought about them. She looked down and he thought he saw a trace of sadness in her eyes when she looked up again.
“It is hard, sometimes. I would have liked a sister. Or someone who remembered Mama too.”
Suddenly it was hard to breathe. The room swam around Adair. Memories he didn't want to think about crowded, whispering, on the edge of his sanity. Dark and alluring, they were calling him away. He looked down at his hands, and then everything was dark.
“Adair?” a voice said from very far away. “We're going into the dining room. Want to come?”
Adair groaned and made himself look up at Ascott, who was standing beside him, calm as ever. He came to his senses slowly
. Realized that he was leaning against the rear wall of the hallway, and that Ascott was in front of him, blocking out the view of curious onlookers. Genevieve had gone.
“I'll come,” he murmured, feeling desolate. He straightened up. The rest of the room returned, warm candlelight and firelight rushing in to fill the space where the darkness was. Everything was quiet now, even the recesses of his soul.
Adair looked around. The other guests had all followed Arabella into the dining room. Only Francine remained, on the edge of the group, looking at him with a level gaze that held no condemnation, only knowing. Then she turned and walked off with the rest of the group.
“Are we going to have refreshments? Or some other entertainment?” Adair made himself ask, trying to focus on the present, to make himself come back from the dark place his mind had gone.
“We'll sit down for some refreshments first,” Ascott said, walking beside him as they headed into the dining room. “And then later I believe Lady Arabella has organized a banquet, and perhaps some dancing. We shall see.”
“Fine,” Adair agreed, leaning on the wall a moment. After these incidents, his head always ached and he felt suddenly exhausted. He made himself breathe deeply, and then followed Ascott inside.
The dining room was lit with the light of several candelabra, arrayed at intervals down the long, formal table. The high-backed chairs behind it gleamed, only two of them empty. He winced. One was beside the newcomers, the other beside Genevieve.
Without asking, Ascott took the closer, leaving him to walk around the table and take the one beside Genevieve. He didn't look up, but reached for his napkin and fussily settled it on his lap, taking his time about it.
“It's cold in here, isn't it?” Genevieve asked, conversational, as if he hadn't just made a total fool of himself by passing out in front of her.
“Yes,” he mumbled. “Quite cool.”
There was a fire burning across the room – a vast one in a wide hearth-place that cast red light across the scene, warming the air. On this side of the table, the heat had not quite reached them. He noticed Lady Genevieve sat stiffly, face taut with the cold.
“Is France warm?” he asked. He instantly regretted the comment, especially when Ascott laughed. Beside him, Genevieve beamed shyly.
“It is certainly warm in summer,” she said. “And possibly warmer in winter. I miss it.”
“I can imagine,” he said sincerely. Her eyes – two dark pools – held his. He found himself unable to look anywhere else. Her expression was solemn, and it felt in that moment as if the whole hall had receded, leaving them alone together.
He saw her blink, shifting focus. He realized he was staring at her and coughed, looking down shyly.
“I wish I could describe it to you, my homeland,” Genevieve continued, low-voiced. “We have forests like these in some parts of it – though our forests are oak and beech, at least where I come from. And the hills are rolling and soft, not like these ones,” she added, making a gesture out toward the rugged cliffs beyond the windows.
“It sounds beautiful,” he murmured.
“Thank you,” she said.
Again, their eyes met and Adair drew in a sharp breath. When she smiled, she was breathtaking. He found himself, heart thudding, unable to look away.
“You are not too tired to join us in a dance later?” Francine asked, breaking the silence.
Genevieve shook her head. “I am not tired, no. Thank you,” she nodded.
“Sister! I hadn't even asked! You're not too tired, are you?” Arabella inquired of the pale-haired woman.
Francine chuckled. “You didn't ask because it wasn't necessary. Of course not!”
They both laughed. Somewhere on the right of the room, a door opened and three servants entered, armed with flasks and salvers. The refreshments had arrived.
Adair waited while a tankard of warm ale – boiled to remove the alcoholic humors – was placed before him, and a platter mounded with little spicy cakes. Beside him, Genevieve reached out a graceful hand and took one, biting into it.
He couldn't help smiling as he watched her chew, an expression of mild surprise on her face. “They're good, aren't they?” he asked.
“Yes,” she agreed, dabbing crumbs off her lips with the linen napkin. Adair wished he could touch those soft lips the way it did. He looked away, feeling his loins ache with wanting.
“You're a new face,” the blonde-haired man whom Adair hadn't met yet, smiled at him. “I'm Henry Gracewell.” He held out a hand and shook Adair's, who had reached out to shake his without thinking about it.
“Adair,” he murmured.
“Pleased to meet you. What brings you to these parts?” He said something to Genevieve in a language Adair didn't understand. He frowned.
She replied in the same tongue, and then turned to him.
“It's French,” she explained. “He asked me if I like Scotland. I said it's beautiful.”
“Thanks,” Adair said, feeling the compliment to his country warm his heart almost like a personal compliment. He beamed at her.
“Sorry, cousin,” Henry demurred, nodding to her. “I know it was rude of me. I just wanted to exercise my French.”
Beside him, Francine shot off a remark in the same language, and Arabella joined in, replying something else. Adair looked from one to the other, wishing his education had been that complete.
“The family ties to France have always been strong,” Genevieve said quietly. “Some say it dates from King Alexander's time, when a French lord settled here in Scotland, and married a Scots wife.”
“Oh?” Adair nodded, interested. He wanted to ask Genevieve more, but the sight of her plump lips slightly parted, damp from where she'd touched them to the rim of her beaker, made sense desert him. In that moment, all he wanted, all he knew, was to cover her in kisses.
Her body would be soft, and scented, and I would start at her neck, at that point in the hollow of her throat, and work my way down, heading to her sternum, and...
He blinked as he realized he was sitting in the dining hall, and someone had just asked him a question. He had no idea what it had been or what to say in response. He blushed, looking down.
“Lord Adair?” Genevieve asked, frowning. “Is something amiss?”
“N...no,” he stammered. He blushed, recalling his thoughts from earlier. If she could have seen them, what would she have thought?
“I asked if it is terribly cold in the North?”
He shook his head. “It's warm enough,” he shrugged. “Not quite as warm as it is down here, but good enough.”
“Adair, you jest!” Richard interrupted. “It's cold up there. Cold enough to freeze the...apologies,” he blushed.
Adair felt thrown by the interruption, even though he also wanted, badly, to laugh. Poor Richard! He looked so embarrassed. Beside him, Genevieve frowned.
“Bollocks?” she asked.
Adair stared in amazement. Arabella went very quiet.
“Milady?” It was difficult to keep the surprise from his voice, but he did his best. “I mean...why did you ask...that?”
She had gone red too, now. “It is a rude word, I think?”
He grinned. “It means...unmentionable parts of a man, milady. If you'll excuse me.” He coughed, embarrassed.
“Oh,” she said mildly. “Well, I did wonder. Could you pass me that plate, please?”
He didn't know what to say to her sudden, unexpected recovery, so he did as he was bidden, and passed her the jam tarts.
“Thank you,” she said. She bit into one, raising a brow at him. He couldn't help smiling.
Bollocks!? Where had she heard a word like that? And to say it, so baldly, at the table! She was a most unusual lady.
He studied her surreptitiously as she chatted to Arabella and Richard, her conversation lively, her laugh cheerful. He wished he could find the nerve to talk to her as easily as she talked to others. Nevertheless, it wasn't in him. Even if he hadn't just been waiting to
make a fool of himself, he didn't know how to start.
“You're going to attend the party this evening?” Henry asked him from across the table, making him jump.
“Yes,” he nodded.
He hadn't actually decided until that moment that he would – such events were difficult for him at the best of times. However, now he'd committed to it, and there was no backing out. He was going to attend a ball with Genevieve, after all.
A FRIGHTENING MOMENT
“I'm sure that's straight now,” Genevieve said, feeing just a little impatient as Camma, her self-assigned maidservant, straightened the back of her gown.
“Och, mistress! It's got so much fabric, I dinnae ken how tae make it stay flat!” Camma said.
“Well, you seem to have managed,” Genevieve murmured dryly. She looked at the reflection of herself in the mirror, surprised by how much she cared about her appearance tonight.
It's not because he's going to be there. I won't let myself believe that.
All the same, she couldn't quite deny that Lord Adair, with his fine profile, jet-black hair, and odd ways, had made quite an impression on her. She regarded her reflection in the mirror, assessing it.
It's a nice gown.
The only ball-gown she had brought with her was an older one, but she had to admit it suited her well. A blue close to dove-gray, it had a wide skirt of brocade, open in the front to show an underskirt of figured silk, woven in Lyon with a pattern of lilies. The waist was cut in a low “v”, and the skirt had panniers on each side – it was a new French fashion. Her hair was left loose – naturally curly, it needed little extra styling. She turned slowly in front of the mirror, pleased with the effect.
“By! You look fine,” Camma said, standing back to survey her from the doorway.
Genevieve raised a brow, not quite sure how to respond to her new maid. She still wasn't used to her chatty ways. The woman's face was open and sincere though, and she couldn't be cross. She smiled. “Thank you.”
Shadowy Highland Romance: Blood of Duncliffe Series (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story) Page 5