She stared at him. Did he think such flattery would turn her head? She knew very well how she looked this morning. She wore a subdued cotton gown of powder blue, its long sleeves trimmed with a cautious ripple of lace. She had pinned her plainest white collar close around her throat, and after a bit of inner debate, had tied a starched white apron around her waist. Silly to think such frumpish apparel would discourage Dougald, but she liked to think she had the good sense to dress with discretion.
“Ah, you wonder who I am. Could it be my new cousin did not even tell you of my existence?” The stranger flattened the back of his hand to his forehead. “I, who am his heir?”
This was Dougald’s heir? She inspected him more closely. He wore checked wool trousers of brown and blue with a thin thread of yellow, a matched checked waistcoat, a large bow cravat and a gold-and-diamond collar pin. His brown frock coat sported velvet cuffs and collar of a most intense cobalt that matched his finest feature—beautifully lashed blue eyes that managed to hint at a melancholy that would have done Byron proud. Unfortunately, he did not have a Byronic coiffeur. Rather his brown hair grew long on one side and someone, probably his talented valet, carefully combed it over the top to hide the bald spot…which glistened in patches of pale skin from among the glutinous strands.
Hannah pretended not to notice. “You…live here?”
“Yes.” He inspected the rose he still held, and she realized he had chosen it not for its beauty, but to match the yellow thread in his plaid waistcoat. “When I’m not in London, I make my home at Raeburn Castle.”
“I apologize for my ignorance, sir.” Hannah smirked. She was more and more aware of the trials afflicting Dougald in his new position. Although she feared she would be damned by her sentiments, she reveled in his calamity. He had always been so ambitious for himself and his family; in inheriting this estate, he must have thought he had achieved all his goals. But between the elderly ladies, the heir and his own wife, Dougald might have just bitten off more than he could chew. Not that Dougald could imagine such an instance, but she could—and had, many a time in her fondest dreams. “I’m afraid no one told me of your residence herein.”
“If I could be so bold as to introduce myself—I am Seaton Brackner, Baron Onslow, the son of the twelfth earl’s youngest brother and the current Lord Raeburn’s fifth cousin once removed.”
She curtsied. “Miss Hannah Setterington, sir. I have come to be a companion to His Lordship’s aunt. And your aunt, also, I presume.”
“So the report is true.” He bowed and again extended the rose. “The fairest maiden has taken residence herein.”
Solemnly, she accepted the blossom. “You flatter me, sir, but I am too sensible to allow you to turn my head. I will mark your interest as nothing more than a London-dweller’s boredom in his current rural circumstances.”
“You crush me.” He offered his arm, and she placed her hand on his sleeve. “Rather, you would have crushed me, but I must believe you never look in the mirror or you would realize the sincerity of my adulation.”
She amended her first judgment. Sir Onslow wasn’t completely a little fop. Rather, he was a resplendent urbanite suffering in the ennui of the country, probably because of monetary concerns. He was also, she decided, her most likely source of distraction in this untenable situation. “Where are you taking me, sir?”
“My first thought was to the breakfast chamber, but if you prefer, fair maiden, I will summon my steed and toss you into the saddle, and carry you away from the drudgery of ordinary life.”
She eyed the top of his head, which she could clearly see, and thought that the chance of him tossing her anywhere seemed unlikely. “The breakfast chamber sounds appealing.” Although Dougald undoubtedly lurked therein.
Sir Onslow heaved a huge sigh. “Like so many young ladies, you lack imagination.”
“I don’t lack imagination. Rather I suffer from a strong streak of practicality.” And the sure knowledge that if she tried to flee Raeburn Castle, Dougald would be after her in a flash. She wouldn’t involve any man in the strife between her and her husband; someone would get hurt, and that someone would never be Dougald.
She and Sir Onslow strolled down the long, broad gallery that ran from the stairway toward the great hall.
“So you met the aunts,” he said. “Or shall I say…Aunt Spring and her companions. By the way they scold me, they might as well all be my aunts.”
His gloom made her smile. “I met them last night.”
“What did you think?”
“They are lovely ladies, and I’m sure Aunt Spring will be a pleasure to care for.”
“How discreet you are.” He sounded woefully disappointed, but he brightened. “I always think the aunts are like a small pack of terrier dogs, circling and nipping, bounding and demanding.”
She repressed a smile. “Not a pack, sir. They have quite distinctive personalities.”
“Indeed! Very distinctive personalities, but taken as a whole, they are interfering, judgmental, benevolent know-it-alls.”
“You seem…bitter.”
“Not at all. I adore them, too. Who wouldn’t?” He heaved a theatrically large sigh. “Only I do wish they had an ounce of discretion between them!”
From what she’d observed the previous night, she had to agree—the aunts said what was on their minds and what was on their minds frequently shouldn’t be said. Their comments about her and Dougald had been discerning, their insight more so. She had been glad to leave Dougald last night and sit with the aunts in their drawing room where she smiled and nodded while they chatted, and at last pleaded exhaustion so that Mrs. Trenchard could escort her to her cramped, cold, shabby room.
To sleep badly and dream of Dougald.
The corridor looked quite different in the daytime, with sunlight coming in from a row of windows along one side. Hannah hadn’t seen the windows the night before, nor did she understand how the castle bent inward to allow windows at such a place, but every ancient dwelling she’d ever visited displayed such eccentricies. “An interesting place, Raeburn Castle,” she observed.
“A wretched old pile of rock,” Sir Onslow said. “But it’s our pile of rock, so we love it.”
“Lord Raeburn is making improvements, I see.” She indicated the door propped against the wall and heard the rumble of workers’ voices.
“Lord Raeburn is a barbarian with no sense of history.” Sir Onslow sniffed. “Worse, he won’t improve my chambers until he’s done his own. But what do you expect from a brute who killed his wife?” He peered at her intently, waiting to see her reaction.
Hannah was conscious of a strong desire to snap at him. Instead she stopped and used her firmest, most disapproving governess glare. “Do you know that or are you spreading unfounded rumors?”
“Rumors, of course!” Obviously, Sir Onslow was not the least repentant. “My dear Miss Setterington, I dine out on rumors. A man in my position is either a raconteur and a gossipmonger, or he is unwanted.”
“Ah.” Hannah relaxed her disapproval. He spoke the truth. When attending a dinner, she would prefer to be seated next to a man such as this than those eternally boring and endlessly proper gentlemen Lord Ruskin had deemed acceptable for an unmarried lady.
Well. She wouldn’t ever have to worry about that again. “Nevertheless, sir, it seems ungracious of you to live off of Lord Raeburn’s hospitality and malign him so viciously.”
Sir Onslow smiled and primped. “I have done Dougald such a favor. Before he arrived here, only a small portion of England knew his story. What a ruffian he was in his youth. How he ran from his home because his father hated him. How he roamed the streets to loot and steal.”
Hannah had heard that before, too, although that had been gossip whispered behind a young wife’s back. And when she had attempted to question Dougald about the tales, he had distracted or ignored her.
Another part of his life she had not been allowed to share.
Sir Onslow continued, �
�I tell how Dougald reformed because he loved his young wife. How they fought and she threatened to leave him. How in a rage he declared if she wouldn’t live with him, she would die.”
A shiver chased up Hannah’s spine. Sir Onslow’s dramatics were a little too close to the truth.
“So he killed her and left her body to the wolves, and he’s mourned her ever since.” Sir Onslow blinked with delight. “I have spread the tale everywhere, and Dougald is now a man of mystery, fortune and passion from Scotland to Cornwall. He ought to be grateful. I’ve given him caché.”
The scent of freshly baked wheaten bread drifted to her. “Is he grateful?”
“Probably not, but I told you he was a barbarian.”
Hannah laughed. She couldn’t help it. Sir Onslow’s voice was droll, his wit refreshing after Dougald’s oppressive desire for vengeance. Walking on, she asked, “Have you always spent time here?”
“Mother insisted. She said it was my heritage, and of course the lesser lights of the ton do find it impressive when I call myself Sir Onslow of Raeburn Castle.” He smiled up at his ancestral paintings on the wall. “So I say it often.”
Hannah twirled the rose as she chuckled at his self-deprecating tone.
Footsteps bounded down the steps behind them, and Hannah turned to see Charles, unshaven, disheveled, bloodshot eyes fixed on her, hurrying forward like a man with a mission. “Madame, if I might beg a word…”
“What unfashionable haste, my good man!” Sir Onslow pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and flapped it in Charles’s direction. “You bring a French wave of garlic with you.”
Charles stopped, seeing for the first time her arm on Sir Onslow’s sleeve. His already wrinkled lips pruned, and his head lowered. “Madame…”
“She is ‘Miss Setterington’ to you,” Sir Onslow said.
Charles’s mouth worked as he glared. He knew her name very well, he hated to be corrected, and he must especially hate being corrected when he knew himself to be right.
Hannah enjoyed seeing him discomfited.
Giving in with a huff, Charles said, “Miss Setterington, I had hoped you would accompany me to Lord Raeburn. He has a need of you.”
Ah, so Dougald was not yet in the breakfast chamber. She didn’t need to brace herself to see him. Not yet.
Charles had always been the servant who came in search of her when Dougald wanted her to tie his cravat, or sew on a button, or any of the other useless, silly tasks he had deemed acceptable for his wife to perform. The memory put her back up, and she sounded quite stuffy when she asked, “Did Lord Raeburn send for me?”
“Of course he didn’t send for you!” Sir Onslow’s indignation lifted him to his toes. “No gentleman would request a lady’s presence before breakfast!”
Hannah ignored him. “Did he, Charles?”
Charles glared. “Not exactly, but I can’t…he rather needs…I hope that you…”
Hannah didn’t know what Charles hoped, but she listened as he stammered, searching for an explanation, and knowing he couldn’t say what he wanted, which was, “It is not a woman’s place to question her man’s demands.” Ah, to see Charles muffled could prove the greatest delight of this dreadful predicament.
“Thank you.” She smiled at him and cast as strong a chill with that smile as Charles did with his glare. “I fear I must agree with Sir Onslow. If Lord Raeburn didn’t ‘exactly’ send for me, then I shall wait until after breakfast to speak to him.”
Charles stood, rigid and disbelieving, as Sir Onslow gestured toward the doorway, and said, “Right through here.” As they passed Charles, Sir Onslow said, in a voice loud enough to carry, “Damn frogs put on airs and don’t know a thing about manners.”
Hannah didn’t look at Charles, but she could imagine how a man who fancied himself the harbinger of French civilization in the wilderness of English society reacted to being called a frog. Her imaginings brought her immense pleasure.
She and Sir Onslow walked through a small, empty room containing little but a round, dainty dining table close to the window.
“This is the little dining room,” he explained. “Meals are served here when four or fewer are eating. That is to say—never. Lord Raeburn’s hospitality is quite…hospitable. Here we are, Miss Setterington, the breakfast chamber.”
Hannah followed her nose through the next door. The rich, salty odor of bacon, sausage, and kippers wafted through the air, and beneath that was the toasty aroma of crumpets and muffins. Entering the darkly paneled dining chamber, she saw a long table that boasted seating for two dozen guests, dishes stood steaming on a sideboard, and the room was full of milling servants and elderly ladies eating a surprising amount of food.
“There they are,” Aunt Spring said. “I told you they’d come down together.” Then she squinted at Sir Onslow. “Well, not you, of course!”
“Thank you, Aunt.” Sir Onslow indicated two empty settings between Miss Minnie and Aunt Ethel. He held the chair for Hannah as he asked, “Who were you expecting?”
“I believe she thought dear Dougald would bring Miss Setterington down.” Aunt Ethel held her fork above a mound of scrambled eggs and kippers. “They appeared quite involved last night.”
“Have you changed your interest?” Aunt Isabel asked Hannah. “Because you shouldn’t. Seaton is a dear boy, but he’s poor as a church mouse and his title is barely a generation old.”
“Thank you, too, ma’am.” On Sir Onslow’s face Hannah saw the same beleaguered expression Dougald had worn when confronted with the aunts. Seating himself beside Hannah, he lifted a finger.
Mrs. Trenchard abandoned her station beside the side table and hurried over. “What can I do for you, Sir Onslow?”
He waved a negligent hand toward Hannah. “What would you like, Miss Setterington?”
“Hot chocolate, please, Mrs. Trenchard.” Maybe that would cure the headache the mention of Dougald’s name had caused.
“It’s too early for liquor, so I’ll have tea,” Sir Onslow said.
Mrs. Trenchard smiled fondly on him and hurried away to give the order to a serving maid.
Sir Onslow leaned close to Hannah. “Now there’s an interesting character.”
Hannah followed his gaze. “Mrs. Trenchard?”
“Yes. Comes from an old family, devoted retainers. Aunt Spring’s mother died in childbirth, so they brought in Mrs. Trenchard’s mother as wet nurse, and she just never left. Until the day she died, she was at Aunt Spring’s side, protecting her from every unpleasantry in life, and she raised Mrs. Trenchard to do the same. It’s very odd to watch the two of them, with Aunt Spring so happy all the time and grim old Mrs. Trenchard racing up to check on her every chance she gets.”
That explained the previous night’s interrogation. “So I’ve been brought in to replace Mrs. Trenchard?”
“In a manner of speaking. She is the housekeeper, too, but she doesn’t easily give up responsibilities.”
Miss Minnie apparently decided there had been enough low-voiced conversation between them, for she bent a glare on them, and boomed, “The food’s right there. Help yourself, Miss Setterington. We don’t stand on ceremony in the morning.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I find I have an appetite after my travels.” Hannah went to the sideboard and observed such a variety of foods she wanted to rejoice. No one ever ate better than at an English country house, and she knew she could do justice to this repast—especially since Dougald was not present.
Sir Onslow joined her and rubbed his palms together in anticipation. That and the glint in his eyes when he gazed upon the fresh stack of scones explained the little pouch of belly that played havoc with the smooth line of his frock coat.
Picking up a serving fork, she began to place sausages on her plate.
In her sweet, carrying voice, Aunt Ethel declared, “If that young woman is going to flirt with every gentleman in the castle, we’ll find her a husband very soon.”
Hannah missed her sausage and the for
k struck the porcelain with a tink.
Aunt Spring said, “Dear, she might have been flirting with Seaton—”
Hannah couldn’t look at Sir Onslow.
“—But she was kissing Dougald.”
“Already?” Sir Onslow sounded delighted—the raconteur with a new tidbit of gossip.
Hannah ignored him. He was the least of her problems.
Mrs. Trenchard shot her a scandalized glance and shooed the suddenly coughing servants from the room.
Matchmakers. The aunts were matchmakers. In Hannah’s experience, matchmakers were trouble, for they manipulated their victims until they succeeded in their goal—marriage between two dupes.
Always before she’d walked a delicate line among the traps set for her and various gentlemen by the well-meaning matchmakers. She’d had to; matchmakers would not hesitate to trap her in a compromising situation, and more than one gentleman had indicated his willingness to be caught in that particular snare with her. But she had not been tempted.
Of course not. She was already married.
So what did she do now, when matchmakers not-so-subtly planned to set her up with her own husband?
“Perhaps she doesn’t want to be married. Perhaps she simply wants a series of affairs. After being married to Irving, a series of affairs seems like a wise idea to me.” In a reflective tone, Aunt Isabel said, “I wonder if I could interest any man in an affair.”
“It would have to be several someones if you had a series of affairs,” Aunt Ethel observed.
“Miss Setterington is as good as married to Dougald,” Miss Minnie declared.
“Good morning.” Dougald spoke just loudly enough to make himself heard over the din, but the silence that fell was instantaneous and uncomfortable. It was, Hannah thought, as if his black presence cast a pall over the frivolity.
Hannah didn’t want to look at him, to remember her foolishness the night before—as if her kisses were more reprehensible than his threats and deception. But she quailed for only a moment before she stiffened her spine, turned and directed a clear glance his way.
Rules of Attraction Page 10