by Louise Allen
‘A hideous cacophony of styles, no research, gimcrack fakery’ had been the mildest of her father’s opinions.
But if this was the mode then she would have to accustom herself to it and at least Jack could not fault her for allowing the house to be neglected, or for skimping on her research and on the quality of the objects ordered. Not that the house had been allowed to fall into any kind of disrepair. There had been a succession of highly respectable tenants, Mr Lansing had assured her, just as there were with all of the Dersington properties her father had acquired that were fit to be rented out.
All the tenancies were on short leases, but this house had been let furnished and would have seemed hopelessly outdated now, she was sure. There were still the other floors to be dealt with, of course, but perhaps Jack would tolerate that if the public rooms were acceptable.
The tea tray arrived, shortly followed by Harper to announce that hot water could be taken up the moment Miss Aylmer expressed a wish to bathe. The maid had been tight-lipped over the facilities at the castle, although Madelyn was not sure what the woman expected. Her mother had, after all, made one of her rare protests when her husband had wanted to use the medieval garderobes—draughty little turrets with an alcove equipped with a plank seat with a hole and a long drop to the moat below. Mama had insisted on an earth closet in the inner court, although baths had to be taken in large wooden vats that were lined with linen sheets before the water was poured in.
‘I will take a bath in half an hour,’ she told Harper. ‘First I will finish my tea and write a note to...’ How would Jack want to be addressed now? Was he using his title yet? ‘To Lady Fairfield to let her know I have arrived. Do you have her direction?’
‘A footman went as soon as you arrived, Miss Aylmer. Mr Ransome’s orders.’
That answered her question as far as the staff were concerned, although she had no idea when he would make a general announcement that he was accepting the title.
Madelyn pushed down the feeling of resentment at being managed and told herself it was a thoughtful gesture and showed her betrothed’s concern. She put down her cup, jumped at the sound of the door knocker and winced as the spindly table rocked on its faux bamboo legs.
‘What the hell?’ demanded a voice from the hall.
‘Sir.’ Partridge’s fluting tones carried clearly through the half-open door. ‘Miss Aylmer—’
‘Miss Aylmer had better be at home, because I want to talk to her. Now.’ Jack’s voice was unmistakable, even through the anger.
* * *
As the cab rattled along Piccadilly towards St James’s Street, Jack decided that he had reason to be pleased with himself. He had managed to secure the assistance of an excellent companion and social tutor for Madelyn and the staff for the London house had been appointed through Madelyn’s man of business, Lansing.
With the wedding he would begin to use the title and he saw no problem with that, other than the inevitable gossip. His claim had been ratified by both the House of Lords and the College of Heralds on the death of his brother and he could expect nothing but approval now that he was finally accepting it.
None of the arrangements had been problematic—the difficult thing was not demanding the keys and taking possession of the house in St James’s Square the moment he arrived back in London. It was not his yet, he had reminded himself more than once over the past weeks as the temptation built like a dull ache.
The family seat, Dersington Mote, was in Suffolk. It was ancient and should have been the place he yearned for, he supposed. But he’d had a miserable childhood there, one he was in no hurry to remember. As his grandfather became older and more confused the old man was happier in the London house, which was smaller, warmer, a little faded and old fashioned, but a home where he was less disorientated by the world. With his mother dead, his grandparents had taken their younger grandson to live with them, and Jack had loved the house. The Earl might be vague about who he was most of the time, but he was invariably kind and Jack’s grandmother was indulgent to a boy who would sit and listen for hours to her read out loud or tell stories.
Now it would be his again. He could almost feel the worn leather of the desktop in the study under his fingers, smell the familiar scent of lemon and beeswax polish, pipe smoke and his grandmother’s lavender soap.
Soon he would set foot in that room for the first time in more than six years. When his grandparents died his father made the house his London base and Jack had removed himself before he was thrown out. First he wanted to drop into Brooks’s where his post was directed when he was out of town. He had been accepted as a member years ago, before his father died and, despite the fact that most of his fellow members considered that he was letting them all down by refusing to use the title, he ignored the dark looks and mutterings for the sake of convenience. The wives of the members were concerned only that he, landless, did not flirt with their impressionable daughters who should be making good matches, or lure their sons into the kind of dissipation his brother and father had been infamous for. They generally ignored him, omitted him from their guest lists and pretended the aristocratic black sheep did not exist.
It was ironic, he had thought in the early days when the snubs and whispers had hurt. His father and brother had been frivolous, spendthrift, indolent wastrels, but they were accepted. Jack had neither the taste, nor the time and money, for indiscriminate wenching, reckless gambling or drinking himself into a stupor, but he was the one looked down on.
His fellow aristocrats might despise him, but they did not shun his talents for solving problems on their behalf. He had spent the past week in Lincolnshire, concluding the last commission he intended taking, and wondered if he would miss the work. Not the tedium, of which there was plenty, but the puzzle of solving a problem and the occasional excitement, even danger. This last case had involved the plausible gentleman who had insinuated his way into the life of a certain young viscount, much to the alarm of his trustees The man had put up a satisfactory fight when confronted by Jack and the officers of the law armed with a warrant for his arrest on forgery charges and it had been a pleasure to let off some of his tight-wound emotions.
Jack was absently rubbing his bruised knuckles as the carriage turned down St James’s Street and pulled up outside the club. Yes, some things he’d miss. Earls were supposed to be respectable these days, on the surface at least.
‘Mr Ransome.’ The hall porter opened the door for him. ‘There is post awaiting you in the office, sir. Would you like it now, sir, or when you leave?’
‘Now, thank you.’ Jack tipped the man, then carried the correspondence through to the library. With a twinge of amusement he recognised the need to clear away everything to give himself a fresh start.
* * *
An hour later a plump little butler flung the door open with a flourish as Jack made himself walk slowly up the steps. ‘Sir. Welcome. I am Partridge.’
Jack stepped inside, took a deep breath, looked around. ‘What the hell?’
Chapter Five
‘Sir? Miss Aylmer—’
Jack looked around the hall and almost turned right around again. It was the wrong house, surely? But there was the famous twisted ironwork of the staircase, the foliage and hidden birds he had searched for and delighted in as a child.
‘Miss Aylmer had better be at home because I want to talk to her. Now. What the devil is this? It looks like a damned bordello designed for Prinny and his cronies.’
Partridge took a step back and then, bravely, held his ground. ‘The redecoration of this floor has just been completed, Mr Ransome. The house had been let furnished for some time—it required modernising so Miss Aylmer gave instructions. No expense or effort has been spared, I assure you.’
Jack strode past him to the end of the hall and stopped, one hand on the study door, his stomach churning. This was the heart of the house for him, the place where hi
s grandfather had sat behind the battered old desk that had been his own father’s, reading and rereading his familiar books, shutting out the reality of the baffling world outside. Jack would sit in the armchair in the corner, his feet not reaching the floor, and listen to the old man’s rambling stories while his grandmother sat sewing, watching the two loves of her life.
The door opened at a push. He took one look and spun round to the butler. ‘Where is the furniture? The books? Where is the damn desk?’
‘Mr Ransome—’ The butler was positively wringing his hands.
‘Is something wrong?’ enquired a voice behind him.
The author of all this. He turned so sharply that Madelyn took a step back. Then she stopped, met his furious gaze, chin up, blue-grey eyes steady. There was the smallest furrow between her brows, but otherwise her face was expressionless. He saw her swallow, hard.
‘This.’ Jack swept his hand round in a gesture to encompass the entire hideous gilded mess. ‘This abomination.’
‘I instructed Mr Lansing to refurnish in the most modern taste. Is this not correct in some way? I carried out the most extensive research on what was fashionable.’
‘It is hideous. Appalling.’
‘I know nothing about fashionable interiors, but—’
‘That much, Miss Aylmer, is evident. You ordered this? Have you no taste whatsoever?’ She opened her mouth, but he swept on. ‘Where are the original contents?’
‘Partridge?’ She said it calmly enough, but her eyes were wide now and her cheeks white.
‘Everything was moved to the upper floors, Miss Aylmer. As I said, only this floor has been completed and there were sufficient rooms to store everything until we had orders about its disposal.’
‘Nothing will be disposed of except for this...this tawdry rubbish. Get whoever was responsible for the decoration and the furnishings back here, have it all reinstated as it was. Starting with the study.’
‘Mr Ransome, if I might have a word?’
And a knife in my back by the sound of it.
A faint tremor underneath the taut words made him stop, breathe. Jack had his anger under control by the time he turned back to her. ‘Of course, Miss Aylmer.’ He followed her into the drawing room, winced at the crocodile couch and closed the door.
Madelyn sank down on to a hard, upright chair, her back perfectly straight, her head up. Her hair had been curled, crimped and piled up, leaving her neck naked and vulnerable.
She looks like a plucked bird, he thought.
Lady Fairfield was presumably responsible for the eau-de-Nil travelling dress she was wearing. Neither the hair style or the gown suited her and she seemed unlike herself, as though she was dressing up. For some reason that only increased his bad humour. He had not realised his wife-to-be was quite so plain, quite so awkward.
‘Where am I to reside while this work is carried out?’ she asked. Somehow, she was keeping her voice steady, but the hem of her gown moved. He assumed she was controlling anger with an effort, trembling with indignation. He did not care. Let her have a shouting match if that was what she wanted.
‘They can do it room by room. I imagine that will not discommode you too much. There are enough apartments on this floor to provide alternative dining and drawing rooms and I assume you can manage without the use of the study.’ He sat down on something that appeared to have been looted from a pharaoh’s tomb. At least sitting on it he did not have to look at the thing.
‘Certainly I can. I regret that my assumption that you would wish your London house to be in the latest mode was so far misplaced.’
Anger at the shock at finding everything so changed was subsiding into a roiling stomach and a strong desire to down half a bottle of brandy. He hadn’t felt this bad since his grandfather died, he realised. It was like losing him all over again.
Jack looked across at his betrothed and felt a pang of guilt. This was still Madelyn’s house and she was trying to do the right thing. Probably, at this moment, she was wondering what she had done to promise herself to such an angry man.
‘I apologise for swearing. You meant it for the best, no doubt.’ He was a gentleman, he reminded himself. He should not take out his disappointment and temper on a lady, even if she was the cause of that disappointment.
She turned that wide blue-grey gaze on him, and he found he could manage to get the scowl off his face if he really tried. ‘This was my home, but why I should imagine it would stay unchanged for so many years I do not know.’ It was an explanation and, he supposed, a poor sort of apology.
‘Your home? But I had assumed that Dersington Mote would be the house that was of chief importance to you.’
‘That was where my father and brother lived. My mother died when I was ten and my grandparents did not think it was the right place for a child.’ That had been on the day when his grandmother had arrived to find he had a black eye and bruised cheek as a result of disturbing his father by crying at night over the loss of his mother. He tipped his head back against the hard, uncomfortable upholstery, closed his eyes and wondered why he felt so weary.
‘Your father’s parents?’ When he nodded she said, ‘But did they not live at the country house?’
‘My grandfather became confused with age. This smaller house was easier for him and, in London, my grandmother was closer to her friends who supported her.’
‘Oh, I understand now.’ There was a rustle of fabric, and he blinked. Madelyn was sitting on the footstool by his knees, hands clasped in her lap, ruffled skirts pooling around her. ‘I will speak to the workmen myself, make certain everything is just as you want it again.’ The faint scent of old roses and warm female drifted up.
‘You have a great deal of experience making certain that the men in your life have exactly the surroundings they desire, haven’t you?’ He found he was irrationally irritated by that. That was what ladies did, after all. The household was their kingdom but they were managing it for their husbands, fathers and, sometimes, brothers.
‘Yes.’ She tipped her head to one side, clearly puzzled at this sudden change of mood. Those ugly curls bobbed, but the movement sent up another disturbing waft of fragrance, a memory of her secret garden behind the massive stone walls. ‘But not men. There has only ever been my father to please.’
‘And what do you want? Where do you want to live? How do you want to live?’
‘Me?’ The suggestion that she might express a preference made her rock back on the stool as though to get him into better focus. ‘What is the point of wondering that? If I want children, a family, then I have no choice in the matter.’
‘Take this house, for example. We both agree we hate this.’ He rapped his knuckles on the gilded scales of the arm chair.
‘Yes,’ Madelyn agreed warily.
‘I want the study back how I remember it, I want this Egyptian nonsense gone. But there is no reason why we cannot decide on the rest of the house together.’
‘Truly? But if this is not the mode, then I have no idea about other possibilities. And what if we disagree?’ She hesitated, bit her lip. ‘Then it would be your decision, of course.’
‘No. Then we discuss it. Compromise, perhaps.’
It was as though he had handed any other woman of his acquaintance a very large diamond. ‘Oh, yes.’ Her face lit up with an unguarded smile that had him smiling back.
Jack caught her by the shoulders and bent his head until he could feel the warmth of her breath on his lips. ‘Oh, yes?’
* * *
Madelyn nodded, felt the warmth of the blush rising, although she kept her gaze locked with Jack’s, only closing her eyes as he came close. Jack tasted of something that she remembered from the castle garden—something indefinably spicy—and perhaps of his recent anger as well, and her lips parted immediately as he stroked his tongue over them.
Had he pulled her up
or had she risen into his arms? She wasn’t sure, but she was there now, on his lap, arms twined around his neck, his body warm and hard and exciting under her hands.
And then the door opened and shut again with a click that sent her toppling off, bouncing onto the stool, then the carpet, in an ungainly tangle of limbs. Jack reached for her, she felt his hand curl around one silk-stockinged ankle, then he let go and ended up sprawled on the floor next to her.
Madelyn struggled to sit up, impeded by the unfamiliar stays that jabbed in her ribs. Jack flopped back on the thick gold and black carpet and laughed. ‘I think we have scandalised our new butler.’ He rolled over onto one elbow and looked at her, apparently more than happy to continue where they had just left off.
Scandalised, Madelyn scrambled to her feet. ‘I will open the door.’ She knew she was pink-faced with embarrassment. How she was going to face Partridge...
‘Leave it.’ Jack spoke so sharply that she stopped dead, turned and sat in the nearest straight-backed chair, chin up, struggling to get her breath under control. She knew she was shaking, then it dawned on her that it was not only fear that he was losing his temper and would shout at her. There was this alarming urge to give free rein to all the things inside her that were fighting to be expressed. She had no practice in showing her feelings, let alone in losing her temper, but it seemed she was going to begin learning now.
Jack stayed where he was, quite at ease cross-legged on the floor. ‘Really, Madelyn, there is no need to be so bourgeois about it. This is our house, or rather, yours and—’
‘Yes,’ she said steadily, ignoring the distracting sight of tight breeches straining over his muscles. ‘It is mine, just at the moment. And they are my servants. And whatever else I may be, I am not a bourgeois.’ It was amazing that she could speak so clearly, she thought, as though watching herself from afar. Any moment now he will stand up and he will shout—or worse—and I will dissolve...