by Lavinia Kent
Needlework? It would not hold her, and she didn’t care for it anyway.
Correspondence? It had already failed her.
A book? Perhaps one of those novels filled with impossible heroes? No, it would only make her think of him more.
Maybe she should sort through her wardrobe? Given the stranger’s glance at her dress’s faded seams, it was clear that not all her gowns were up to par even for the country. Her maid, Molly, would help, and that would lead to lively conversation and gossip. It was a distinct poss—
“Clara, we have a caller. Didn’t you hear the knocker?” Robert poked his head around the door.
“A caller? In this?” She turned her head to the window as another gust sent a splatter of rain hard against the pane.
Robert chuckled. “I know it’s difficult to believe, but apparently some gentleman from Town is stuck at The Dog. The roads out of town are flooded and you know how bad the mud can get.”
“So he decides to come visiting?” A sense of cold dread was building low in her stomach. Had she been wrong about the man? Was there more to her forgotten night than imbibing too much and a misunderstanding over a watch?
But perhaps it wasn’t he, and everything was as simple as it seemed.
Robert entered the room and walked to her desk, tapping his finger against the top of her pen. “He claims he was without entertainment at The Dog and asked who lived in the area. When he heard your name, he decided that he must visit.” Robert smiled broadly at Clara and then continued, “Apparently you’re friends with his sister and he’s heard only the best about me.”
“His sister? I can’t think who he could possibly be.” Clara ran through names in her mind, trying to tie all the pieces into some type of order, but drew a blank. She shook out skirts with some force, brushing at imaginary wrinkles. “I imagine that the beds at The Dog are lumpy and damp and he hopes we will extend our hospitality for the length of his forced stay. It will probably turn out that he is mistaken in the acquaintance, but we will be forced to house him until the rains relent if not longer.”
Robert grinned like a schoolboy. “The weather is making you grumpy, although I am sure you are correct. If we’re not careful he’ll still be here next Christmas.”
“Given that it’s only just March, I am afraid to even imagine such a happening.”
“As long as he’s not like Uncle Timothy sending all the upstairs maids running and squealing.”
Clara rubbed her hip. “I can assure you nobody pinches like Uncle Timothy.” She stood. “Now I suppose we should greet our guest. Maybe he does desire company for a single afternoon. He must be used to muddy roads to be traveling at all during this season.”
“And he probably has pressing business to be about at all.” Robert clearly desired reassurance.
“I would have thought you would welcome company.” Clara walked to the door. “You’re always complaining of how dull it is here.”
Robert turned and preceded her down the stairs. “You know I just say that. I am much happier here than in Town. It is one of the things that makes Jennie so perfect for me.”
Clara placed a hand upon his sleeve. “I will do whatever I can to help. I would speak to Lord Darnell, but I fear I would not help your cause.”
Robert turned, his position on the stairs forcing him to look up at her. “I know you would and I appreciate the effort you have made in coming home. I do understand that it is difficult for you to be here.”
“Not as difficult as I feared.”
“I am glad to hear it. I know I don’t always understand what drives you to do the things you do, but I know you want only the best for me. It has not always been easy allowing you your freedom.”
Allow? Clara swallowed her reply. Michael had left her plenty of funds of her own, and she resented the implication that her life was anybody’s responsibility save her own.
There was a cough from the bottom of the stairs.
It was he.
She had known that it would be, and still it seemed impossible. He seemed impossible.
Why was he here? What did he want?
His hair looked nearly black in the dim light, all its fire dimmed by the water that slicked it back. He stared up at her with no more expression than a three-day-old fish. She could feel his appraisal raking over her. She knew she was pale after the previous nights, and under his gaze she felt a hundred years old. She’d noticed the first fine lines about her eyes in the last months, and now she feared that anxiety had deepened them to crevices.
It was nonsense. Her own mirror had assured her that, other than lack of color, she was little changed, but still he made her feel—Why was she allowing him to make her feel anything?
It would be his turn to explain himself. It was too much of a coincidence that he turned up at her home after the events of that night.
She tapped a finger once.
She was in control of herself. No man allowed her anything, hadn’t she just been thinking that when he appeared?
“Lord Westington, I must presume.” His voice was lower than she had remembered. He addressed Robert, but his eyes never left her. “Forgive my ungracious behavior in arriving at your home without invitation.”
“Not ungracious at all.” Robert strode down the steps and extended his hand. “I assure you that if we’d known any relation of one of Lady Westington’s friends was in Aylsham we’d have sent a rider to The Dog and Ferret insisting you stay with us. I fear that it is we who have been ungracious in our ignorance.”
She was going to murder her stepson. One moment he was alone with her protesting any desire to have a guest, and now he extended the invitation without any consultation or consideration of her thoughts. Granted, he couldn’t know of her history with said gentleman, but—And she still didn’t know said gentleman’s name. How many times could introductions pass by so sloppily?
Enough was enough. It was time she got answers to her questions. “As my stepson seems a little lackadaisical in his introductions, I fear I must depend upon myself, Lady Westington.” She nodded, praying he would not give away the events of that evening—but why else could he be here, save to torture her? Damn, why was he here? Did he mean to tell Robert the whole sorry saga and demand restitution? She prepared herself for the worst.
“You need no introduction. I would know you anywhere from the many descriptions I have received.” He reached out and took her hand, bringing it to his lips, his hot breath warming her chilled fingers. For a moment she thought he would presume upon the evening’s intimacy and actually kiss her hand, but he held back his lips a fraction above her skin, pausing for a moment, his eyes looking up at her. He knew exactly what she wondered, what she feared.
“You must tell me what you have heard. I had not believed my reputation to be so widely spread.” She dared him on, unable to hold herself back. Running from her own fears had never been her way.
Robert coughed loudly. She hoped he was regretting his impulsive invitation.
“My sister has described both your beauty and your spirited nature.”
“And what would you know of my nature on such brief acquaintance?” What was she doing? The words left her mouth before she could stop them. Was she daring him to mention the previous evening?
“I merely saw your expression at Lord Westington’s comments. I can assure you that my sister has gifted me with many such expressions when I spoke of allowing her to do anything. I might disagree with her sentiment, but I do recognize it.” Gads, the man sounded so pompous. Somehow he made her feel like a scolded schoolgirl.
“Ah, the mysterious sister. Lord Westington mentioned she was a dear friend. I must admit I cannot place her. Or perhaps it is that I cannot place you.”
“My sister and I have not shared a name for many years, since before her first marriage, so it may be that you simply have not made the connection.”
“It would be hard to do so when you have not gifted me with your name.” Clara smiled at him sweetly and then swept p
ast him into the parlor.
“Have I not? I find that hard to believe.” She couldn’t see his face, but she imagined it from his tone—nose in the air, lips tightly pressed, but eyes letting her know that he damn well hadn’t told her his name and wasn’t sure he was going to.
Robert caught something of the tension between them and spoke up. “Don’t mind Lady Westington. She is merely having a bit of fun. It’s only been a matter of moments, and as Clara said, the fault is mine for not taking the responsibilities of a host seriously.”
“I am sure Lady Westington meant no such thing.” The man sounded even more pompous than before.
“I can speak for myself.” Her smile could only be described as saccharine.
“No disrespect intended, my lady,” the man said. It seemed unbelievable that she still didn’t know his name.
Robert merely rolled his eyes. She should have walloped him when he was younger.
“None taken.” If her expression grew any sweeter she’d get a toothache.
They all stood there in silence. Was she going to have to ask his name again? She turned to Robert and cocked an eyebrow.
He looked at her blankly for a moment and then grinned. “Lady Westington, do let me present Mr. Jonathan Masters. Mr. Masters, I believe you have already made the acquaintance of Lady Westington.”
“Masters? The name does sound familiar.” It was there, tickling just beyond reach. And then it hit—no wonder he had looked familiar. “Who do I—Violet. You are Violet Carrington’s brother.”
Chapter 4
Masters saw the moment she put all the pieces together. One moment, her eyes were clouded with confusion, and the next, they sharpened with a cold, clear understanding.
“I should have known. It all makes such sense now.” She spoke to herself, but there was no mistaking the edge of ire in her tone. He could see her mind go through the steps—Violet’s marriages, his plans to marry Isabella to Colonel Foxworthy, the rumors surrounding Foxworthy’s death. Her eyes narrowed with each consideration. “You are searching for Isabella, trying to bring her home.”
“Yes, of course I am. It is my responsibility. What else would I be doing?” He sounded more defensive and bitter than he ought. Damn. He hated it when his guilt and insecurity showed through. He didn’t know why he felt the desire to explain, anyway. It was no business of hers why he had chosen the paths he had.
“You’re Lady Carrington’s brother. I confess you’re correct I had not put the names together.” Lord Westington stepped into the gap of social awkwardness. “How is your sister? Lady Westington was just telling me she had not heard from her recently.”
“She is doing well. I last saw her at the baptism of the Marquess of Wimberley’s daughter this past Christmas. It was a most joyous occasion and I have rarely seen her happier.”
“You do not know her well, then,” Lady Westington spoke the words so softly that he was not sure he heard them. It was clear Westington had not. She stepped toward him, and he could feel the air stir as she moved.
He continued as if she had not spoken. “But you know Lady Wimberley as well, do you not? It is a pity that you were not in attendance at the christening of her daughter. We could have become acquainted at that time. It might have made things much simpler.”
She opened her mouth and then snapped it shut, her soft pink lips quivering. It was good to see her at a loss for words. He had never been fond of women who couldn’t be quiet.
Her eyes still flashed with emotion though. They were speaking the words that would not come to her lips. In the dim light of the afternoon they looked like fine topazes. He could see the darker rim of soft brown that ringed their golden centers.
He should not be thinking about her eyes. He turned quickly toward her brother—no, that wasn’t right, her stepson. It was impossible to picture them as mother and son. Even in a few moments’ time he could see that the bond they shared was that of siblings or close friends. There was a playfulness in the expressions that passed between them that was totally lacking in parental authority.
He’d always wished he’d shared that with his sisters. No. That was not right either. He had the relationship with his sisters that necessity demanded. He would not wish for things that could not be.
The clock in the hall chimed, causing Westington to jump.
Lady Westington was still staring at him, her eyes burning with emotion. He wondered what secrets his sister had shared with her. What did she know of Isabella and the circumstances of her departure? Violet must have said something. She had never been known for her discretion. What woman was?
“Perhaps you’d like to be seated and I shall call for refreshments.” Lady Westington had pasted a smile on her face as she spoke. “Tea? Or would you prefer some port? Or even a brandy, given the chill.”
“Yes, there is a distinct chill in the air, is there not?” He spread his own best smile across his cheeks.
“I don’t know what the two of you are talking about,” Westington said. “I find it quite stuffy in here with the drapes drawn and the fire burning high. You must forgive me, however. The clock has reminded me that I promised my stable manager I’d stop by before dinner. I’ve a mare about to foal, and I am concerned.” He turned to his stepmother. “Forgive me.”
“Of course.” Her tone did not sound forgiving in the least.
Masters could almost hear her counting the seconds until Westington left the room.
“What on earth are you doing here? Do you have no purpose but to plague me?” Her words were exactly the response he had expected.
“Actually, I came to return your belongings. It seemed only proper to do so.”
“My belongings?”
“Yes, a cloak, two shoes, and a single stocking. I felt quite ashamed when I realized you had left without your shoes. I’d brought them to my coach the night before to prevent your departure.”
“You feel ashamed for hiding my shoes, but not for tying me to your bed—or accusing me of stealing your watch?” She phrased it as a question, but clearly it was not intended as such.
“Perhaps I should not have returned your belongings. I am sure a woman of your means could have managed without them. Forgive my desire to help.” He walked away from the fire. “I can manage quite well without refreshment. I will return to the tavern to await the roads drying. And as for my watch, I recovered it from you, so I am content.”
Lady Westington paused for a moment. She glanced at the door and then back to him as if measuring how many paces it would take him to leave. Her desire for his departure was clear. He watched her pull a deep breath in, the movement of her chest clear even beneath her thick wool gown and shawl.
“I am being rude,” she said, moving to a chair beside the fire. “Pointing out another’s faults can be so easy, do you not find it so? And as for your watch”—she repeated his words with clear deliberation—“you have still never told me why you believe I tried to steal it.”
He resisted remarking on the lack of courtesy in that remark; instead, he merely nodded stiffly and took the seat across from her, letting her question of the watch slide by. It would only increase the conflict between them to discuss it now.
She narrowed her eyes. “I do of course appreciate your bringing my belongings. May I have them?”
“I am afraid they are still in my coach. I was not sure that I would find you alone to present them, and it would have seemed ungracious to arrive with a bag as if planning to stay.”
“But you are planning to stay, aren’t you? You heard my brother’s invitation. Only a fool would stay at The Dog when he could be lodged here with all the comforts available.”
He refrained from asking what comforts those were. She clearly was set on provoking him and he would not have it—would not let her know how her closeness affected him. He was here to leave her belongings and to assure himself that she was not regularly given to thievery. With those two goals accomplished, he could pursue his sister with an eas
y conscience. “No, I don’t believe I will avail myself of your comforts.”
He indulged in letting his gaze rove over her as he spoke, being sure to pause at all the most delightful bits. She really was quite splendid to look at, despite the shrewish temper. He felt how soft she was when he’d put her to bed. She’d been so warm—so warm and soft. Awake, she was neither warm nor soft.
Her back was stiff. He was sure if he took out a ruler he would find it a perfect inch and a half from the brocade back of the chair. She pulled herself even straighter with that magic only true ladies possessed. “I will accept that last comment at face value and not have the maids freshen a chamber. I believe it is time we come to the real purpose of your visit. I am sure you could have found someone lurking about The Dog’s stables who could have brought me my cloak without raising an uproar. Perhaps I had just forgotten it.”
“That would be the truth.”
“Yes. It would be.”
“Your shoes and stockings would have presented more of a problem.”
She quirked a brow. “If you say so.”
She made it seem as if she was questioning his intellect. He would like to know how she would have managed it. But he didn’t really want to hear her reply.
She leaned over and rang the bell on the table. The maid appeared instantly, shining with a desire to please. “Mary, would you please have Cook send out some tidbits and a bottle of Robert’s port. I’ll have a glass of the dry sherry myself.” The maid turned to leave, and, as if on an afterthought, Lady Westington added, “Oh, and Mr. Masters mentioned leaving a package in his carriage, a gift for me from his sister.” She turned to him. “You did say it was in the brown leather bag.”
“No, a green brocade satchel just under the front bench.”
She turned back to the maid. “Ask one of the grooms if they can find it. I would love to see what secrets Violet sent me.”
The maid left.
“And what do you think of the secrets she has sent so far?” He leaned toward her and let his low voice surround her.
Her glance met his, and then her eyes dropped to his lips. She swallowed deeply and shook herself. Turning her face away, she answered, her voice carefully flat, “We are both aware she did not send you. You made her life a misery and she would never have forced you on mine.”
