“If you wish her to remain, then you must persuade her.”
“But I only did it for you! Because of that lock of hair. I knew you would wish to see her. And I knew—”
“You know nothing about it,” he said harshly. “I’ll not permit you to interfere with my life, Julia. Do you understand me?”
Julia’s bottom lip wobbled, but though she gave every appearance of being on the verge of a tearful display, Sebastian could not help but notice the stubborn set of her chin. It was a feature that was distinctly Conrad. “It is not interference,” she informed him, “if I have done it for your own good.”
Miss Craddock, Lady Harker’s personal maid, arrived at dawn with the altered riding costume draped over her arm. She was a stern woman of middle-years who brooked no nonsense and, before Sylvia could utter more than a cursory protest, she had assisted her into the dark blue habit, skillfully arranged her hair, and was pinning into place a very fashionable riding hat.
Sylvia was ashamed at how easily she fell back into the role of privileged, pampered young lady. Over and over again, she reminded herself that she was no longer a member of the society to which she had been born. That she was a governess of absolutely no consequence. A superior servant, as Sebastian had said so unkindly. She had no business sitting at a dressing table, allowing Craddock to brush her hair. And she had no right to don the stylish riding costume lent to her by Lady Harker.
She reminded herself how hard it had been to adjust to her new life in Cheapside after her father’s death. She had had to learn to be independent. To see to her own needs. There had been no one to help her dress or to arrange her hair at the Dinwiddy’s. No one to press her gowns or mend a torn hem. It was up to her to see that her clothing remained clean and in good order. And it was up to her to arrange her hair as quickly and efficiently as possible each morning before beginning lessons in the schoolroom.
She stood in front of the gilt framed looking glass, scarcely able to credit the transformation that Craddock had wrought in so short a time. She was taller than Lady Harker, as well as being slimmer in the waist and fuller in the bosom, but the skillful lady’s maid had managed to lengthen the voluminous skirts, take in the waist of the riding jacket, and somehow add an extra inch to the elaborately cuffed sleeves. Worn over a starched petticoat and muslin chemisette, the dark blue habit now fit her body as if it had been made for her.
If that were not enough to render her speechless, her hair—which she had grown so used to seeing in a simple chignon or coil of braids—was now prettily rolled into the confines of a fine, silk hair net. When combined with the little riding hat perched atop her head and the borrowed riding costume gracefully skimming the curves of her figure, she no longer bore any resemblance to Sylvia Stafford, governess. Instead, the image reflected back at her in the mirror was that of the glorious Miss Stafford of Newell Park. A lady that Sylvia did not know anymore. A stranger.
She frowned at her reflection.
“You’re unhappy with it, miss?” Craddock asked as she handed her a pair of Lady Harker’s worsted riding gloves.
“Not at all.” Sylvia made an effort to smile. “I like it very much. Indeed, I believe you have worked a minor miracle.”
“I’ve only done what milady bid me.”
“You have done it exceedingly well.” Sylvia tugged on her borrowed gloves. They were uncommonly snug. “Is Lady Harker waiting at the stables?”
“I expect so, miss.” Craddock collected her sewing basket. “Will you be needing anything else?”
“No. Thank you, Craddock.”
Craddock dropped a perfunctory curtsy and left the room. Sylvia wondered what the lady’s maid thought of her. The entire staff must know by now that she was a governess in a merchant’s household. And when it came to distinctions of rank and wealth, servants could be even more toplofty than their employers. How long would it be before the butler or the housekeeper made some subtle attempt to depress her pretensions?
As if she could have any pretensions after that disastrous meeting with Sebastian!
He had been distant and cold, making it abundantly clear that she was not of his class. Indeed, at times, she could almost have sworn that he hated her.
It puzzled her exceedingly. She knew she had been foolish. And he had a right to be wary of her after what she had done. But to hate her for it? She could not understand it.
Exiting her room, she made her way down the curving, marble staircase. Yesterday, she had been too tired and overwhelmed to appreciate her surroundings. Today, it was difficult to refrain from looking all about her.
She was no stranger to grand houses. Newell Park had often been called a Palladian jewel box and the Mainwaring’s familial estate in Devon could easily have doubled for a medieval castle. Pershing Hall, however, was something else altogether. It had the requisite paintings and pillars, of course, and the main hall itself was possessed of a truly spectacular domed ceiling. But it was a sprawling, illogical structure. Built in competing architectural styles, it appeared to Sylvia that every generation had added something new. A Tudor arch, Elizabethan chimneys, and Palladian columns. She could not even begin to fathom how many rooms it must have or how long it would take to walk from one end of the house to the other.
To think that Sebastian lived here, all alone except for his servants and the occasional visits from his sister! It was a sobering thought.
And yet, Sebastian Conrad had never been the sort of gentleman who enjoyed society. He had been quiet and aloof, his severe gaze hinting at disapproval as it drifted over the various gaieties of the season.
“I do not know why he bothers to come!” Penelope Mainwaring had complained once during a musical evening at Lord and Lady Lovejoy’s townhouse in Mayfair.
Sylvia had consented to sing two songs that night. Sebastian had been at the back of the room. She had felt his eyes on her throughout her brief performance. It was early in their courtship then—if it could even be called a courtship. She had not known quite what to make of him yet. But somehow, even then, his solemn, steady regard made the practiced flirtations of her other beaux seem childish and silly.
He had been so much more imposing than other gentlemen. So much more serious. He had not given her effusive compliments or made a show of teasing her. He had just been there. Formidable. Reliable. Trustworthy. And because he had not appeared to give his affections easily, she had valued his attention all the more.
Of course, that had only been at the beginning. Later, when she had spent more time with him, talked to him and got to know him, she had come to care for him deeply.
Not that any of that mattered anymore.
They were two different people now. Virtual strangers who were not even inclined to like each other very much.
She descended the final flight of stairs, so lost in her own thoughts that she did not see the servant bounding up the steps from below. He was carrying a can of hot water and an armful of folded towels. At the sight of her, he stopped short. Water sloshed over the edge of the wide spout and splashed onto the steps.
“Oh, I do beg your pardon!” she said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No indeed, miss. It was my own fault.”
“Nonsense.” She stepped down to where he stood. “If you can spare a towel?”
“A towel?”
She cast a pointed glance to the small puddle at his feet. “I would hate for someone to slip on the stairs.”
“You needn’t trouble yourself. I’ll tend to it myself when—”
“No trouble at all. I’ll make short work of it.” She took the topmost towel from the stack in his arms and, in one smooth movement, knelt down and mopped up the spill. “There, you see?” She rose to find him regarding her with a slightly furrowed brow and an assessing glint in his sharp, foxlike eyes.
Her smile faded. She had the uncomfortable feeling
that her relative value was being weighed and measured down to the inch. “Forgive me,” she said, “but are you his lordship’s valet?”
“I have that honor, miss.”
She slowly folded the damp towel. She had wondered if Sebastian would be joining them for their ride this morning. But if his valet was only now bringing up his shaving things, he clearly had no intention of doing so. “Well…” She extended the folded towel. “I’ll not keep you then.”
“Thank you, miss.” He gave her as much of a bow as he could manage with his arms full.
She watched him for a moment as he continued his ascent up the stairs. He had been Sebastian’s batman, had he not? More than anyone else, he must know about Sebastian’s state of mind. She was terribly tempted to question him, but something in the way he had looked at her convinced her to hold her tongue. She could not be entirely certain, but she had the distinct impression that Milsom would never divulge any of his master’s secrets—least of all to her.
Sebastian tilted his head back, allowing Milsom to run a shaving razor up the length of his throat with a practiced flick. “You’re damnably quiet this morning,” he grumbled.
“Am I, my lord?”
“Not conspiring with my sister again, are you?”
Milsom lowered his brows in disapproval. “I should think not, sir.” He made another pass with the razor. “I never did conspire with anyone.”
“No? What would you call it, then?”
“Can’t say what I’d call it.” Milsom considered for a moment. “Her ladyship plagued me about that lock of hair of yours until I confessed the name of the female who gave it to you.” He swiped the razor along the edge of Sebastian’s jaw. “Don’t expect anyone could withstand her ladyship once she’s got an idea in her head.”
Sebastian frowned. “Perhaps not.”
“I resisted her as long as I was able.”
“That bad, was it?”
“You’ve no idea, my lord.” Milsom grimaced at the memory.
“She cried, I suppose.”
“A great deal, sir.”
Sebastian was not wholly unsympathetic. He knew from bitter experience that Julia could make a damned nuisance of herself if she did not get her way. Still, he had thought his valet was made of sterner stuff. “The trouble with you, Milsom, is that you haven’t the first idea how to defend yourself against feminine wiles.”
“Don’t reckon I do, my lord.” Milsom stood back to assess his handiwork. “There’s never been much cause to learn, has there?” Seemingly satisfied with the quality of his master’s shave, he turned to the dressing table and busied himself with cleaning up. “Speaking of the fairer sex…I saw your Miss Stafford this morning.”
Sebastian’s traitorous heart gave a painful lurch. He scowled. “She’s not my Miss Stafford, Milsom.”
“She was dressed up to ride with her ladyship.”
“Was she?” Sebastian rose and went to the washstand. He was up and dressed himself, but not because he intended to join them. Indeed, riding out onto the estate, exposing his scarred face to the unforgiving morning sunlight, was the very last thing he wished to do.
Besides, he thought as he splashed his face with cold water and dried it roughly with a towel, he had no interest in renewing his relationship with Miss Stafford.
“She was looking uncommonly handsome, if I may say so,” Milsom remarked from his place at the dressing table.
Sebastian shot his valet a ferocious glare. “No, Milsom. You may not say so.”
Milsom shrugged. “Might be that Miss Stafford and her ladyship haven’t rode out yet. I expect you could still join them if—”
“Damn your impertinence,” Sebastian growled. “It’s bad enough I must hear this sort of thing from my sister. I’ll not countenance it from you.”
“As you say, my lord. But seeing as how you’re the Earl of Radcliffe now—”
“Milsom—”
“And you’ll be needing a countess.” Milsom coughed discreetly. “And an heir.”
Sebastian raked a hand through his hair. “A countess and an heir,” he muttered. “Hell and damnation.”
He strode out of his bedchamber and through the doors that led to his private sitting room. It was a thoroughly masculine space, with an enormous desk of polished mahogany, a stuffed sofa and chairs, and dark, heavy wood tables adorned with glass oil lamps, inlaid boxes, and a smattering of Far Eastern objet d’art that had been collected by his father many years before.
It was where he did most of his reading and his writing now. It was also where Milsom brought his meals. He rarely saw the rest of the staff at Pershing and, except for the occasional foray into the library or the even rarer twilight gallop over the grounds, he did not often stray from his apartments. It was isolating, yes, but far from uncomfortable. Especially when compared with the accommodations he had endured in India.
But then, the Earl of Radcliffe’s apartments were large and luxurious by any measure. Along with the rest of the family quarters, they occupied a great portion of the west wing and connected, via adjoining dressing rooms, to the equally impressive apartments of the Countess of Radcliffe—apartments that had stood vacant since the death of his mother two decades before.
Apartments that, if he married, would house his own countess.
He cursed Milsom for bringing up such a thing. Not that the thought had been far from his mind since Miss Stafford’s arrival.
That first year after returning to India, he had lived on dreams of her. Dreams of holding her. Kissing her. Marrying her. Those dreams had suffered a particularly painful death, but now… to think that Sylvia Stafford was once again within his reach.
He had the wealth and the title now. And he could have her, too, if he wanted her. Perhaps not in the way he had once imagined. Not as his beloved, nor even as his friend. But what difference did sentiment make? If he wed her, she would do her duty by him and consider it a small price to pay for the privilege of having been made the Countess of Radcliffe.
The thought gave Sebastian little comfort.
Restless and irritable, he prowled the length of the room, only to stop, quite abruptly, at one of the velvet-draped windows that faced the park. Tension coiled in his stomach. Everything within him warned that he must stay on his guard. That he mustn’t give in to curiosity. Or to longing.
Naturally, such sensible internal advice had no effect at all.
Leaning his shoulder against the window frame, he folded his arms across his chest and stared, broodingly, out across the grounds toward the imposing stone outbuildings that made up the Pershing Hall stables.
There was no sign of Miss Stafford and his sister, but unless he was very much mistaken in her character, Julia would make a point of guiding her guest down the one riding path of which the bank of windows in the Earl of Radcliffe’s apartments had an unobstructed view.
He was not mistaken.
Only a short time later, he caught his first glimpse of two horses weaving along the narrow bridle path in the distance. The riders were too far away to make out just yet, but he recognized his sister’s dappled gray mare, and the gleaming, dark copper coat of Ares, the bay gelding that he had recommended for Miss Stafford.
He waited impatiently for the two women to come into view. It did not take long. There was a cluster of trees which briefly blocked the path, a glare from the sun which temporarily obstructed his vision. And then, suddenly, there they were.
There she was.
He exhaled slowly.
She was perched atop Ares’ back, wearing a dark blue riding costume that appeared to be molded to her every curve. Her cheeks were flushed from exercise, her expression oddly grave under the brim of a dashing little hat. Ares danced sideways on the path, seeming to take exception to the wind as it rustled the branches in an overhanging tree, but Miss Stafford handled him
expertly. She had an impeccable seat. And, even from a distance, he could appreciate how soft her gloved hands were on the reins.
She had always been an excellent horsewoman. He had observed as much in London on the few occasions he had managed to “accidentally” cross her path when she was out for her morning ride in Hyde Park. She had ridden a bay gelding then, too. Sebastian remembered how, in the bright sunlight, the highlights in her hair had gleamed to match its coat.
He shifted where he stood, settling his shoulder more firmly against the window frame as he watched Miss Stafford urge Ares forward to ride abreast with the dappled mare. She said something to Julia—he wished he knew what it was—and then she leaned forward in her saddle and stroked Ares gently on the neck.
God, but the sight of her made him ache. As much now as it had three years ago. A painful, physical ache that he could feel in every corner of his being.
It made him uneasy, too. Even more so than it had done when she first arrived. He could not think why. Unless it had something to do with the way she was dressed. The fashionable, blue habit she had on was startlingly different from the drab, shapeless gown she had worn yesterday.
And he was startled.
She no longer looked like a governess, he realized. She looked instead very much as she had once looked in London.
Yet something about Sylvia Stafford was profoundly different. He could not quite put his finger on it. Perhaps it was simply his own altered view of her after having been jilted so heartlessly. Perhaps, after three long years, he was at last seeing her as she really was. A faithless flirt. A fortune hunter. A woman who, when it came down to it, likely had no more sense of honor than her dissolute father had had before her.
He wanted to hate her. At the same time, much to his mortification, he wanted to grab hold of her, to pull her into his arms and cover her soft mouth with his.
The very idea of it was laughable.
As disfigured as he was, how could he ever presume to touch her? She would recoil in horror. She would swoon or run away screaming. Not that he could imagine Miss Stafford doing any of those things. She had always seemed to have more than her fair share of courage. Even so, she was not an automaton. She was a flesh and blood woman. She would not be able to disguise her revulsion. He would see it in her face the moment he attempted to touch her.
The Lost Letter Page 5
