Having a hard time keeping a strict expression on her face, Hannah rolled her eyes and finally looked down at Harold. “Downstairs,” she ordered, her finger pointing to the stairwell. Slowly, Harold made his way down the marble stairs, his body still low to the ground as Donald watched him from the top of the stairs. “That tail tends to leave a trail of destruction wherever he goes,” Hannah said to the boy, one brow arcing up in amusement. “Especially when he’s excited. It will be safer for all of us if he’s downstairs.”
Will had used his hold on Barbara to pull her closer to him, although she had given up her tight hold on him when Hannah called for the dog. “You can let go of me now,” she said, struggling to keep from sounding like a shrew as she said the words.
“Do I have to?”Will countered, one brow arching up as he quirked his lips.
Barbara inhaled sharply and blinked once before color suffused her face. “You’re incorrigible,” she whispered firmly.
“Only with you, my lady,” he replied, his grin widening. He caught sight of Henry perusing the room where the plant stand had been upended and realized he should be doing the same. “Pardon me while I see to your future home.” He stepped from in front of her and disappeared into a bedchamber, leaving Barbara open-mouthed and staring at his retreating back.
“He can be so vexing,” Hannah said with a shake of her head, her gaze following her brother. “But he is a good man. Come. Let’s see if we can’t find the master bedchamber.”
About to put voice to a reply, Barbara instead closed her mouth and followed Hannah into a large bedchamber. Blue Aubusson carpet covered the floor, and blue velvet drapes hung on either side of the windows, although they appeared a bit sun-bleached. The papered walls had the appearance of watered silk. Although Holland cloths covered most of the furnishings, the tall chest of drawers was uncovered, its inlaid maple and polished brass hardware a bit dusty. Drawn to the open door on the short wall of the room, Barbara made her way into the dressing room. Void of clothes and without any windows of its own, it was almost too dark to see. A sliver of light shown beneath a door in the opposite wall, though, and Barbara made her way to it.
Trying the knob, she found it turned easily. Once she had it opened, she stepped through into a brightly lit bedchamber of greens and golds, the gold shimmering from gilt that decorated the drawer fronts, the bedposts and even the walls. The sea foam green carpet beneath her feet had her closing her eyes as her slippered feet sunk into it. She inhaled deeply, recognizing the scents of lavender and rosemary.
“You look like a goddess.”
Barbara gave a start and whirled to find Will leaning against the bedchamber’s door jamb, his arms crossed over his chest. “You look like a bounder,” she countered, not about to admit he had startled her with his words. Startled and flattered her with his simple statement.
“In that case, I do believe I will join you.” Will pushed himself away from the jamb and made his way into the room, his gaze taking in the condition of the wood moldings and windows. “Of course your bedchamber would be in perfect condition,” he murmured, noting there wasn’t any evidence of water damage on the ceiling nor down the walls.
Barbara inhaled sharply at his words. “My bedchamber?” she repeated.
Will nodded. “Unless you prefer the blue one, but I think this color suits you so much better.”
“The gilt is a bit much, though, don’t you think?” she replied, watching him carefully. What is he doing? Why was he talking about the bedchamber as if it was hers?
“All the gold in the world wouldn’t be enough to honor you,” he whispered, his slow steps bringing him closer to her as he continued studying the room.
“You make me sound like a...” She struggled to find a word that suited his comment.
“Goddess.”
Barbara felt the blush even before her face colored up.
“Bounder,” she countered.
“Only if I’m allowed to worship you,” he whispered, now close enough that he could reach out and touch her.
“I hardly think I’m worthy of worship,” she replied, her voice nearly breaking when she realized he was so close he could almost kiss her.
“Oh, I disagree,” Will replied with a shake of his head. He suddenly straightened. “As does our son,” he added, turning on one heel to find Donald watching them from the doorway. “Your mother is a goddess, isn’t she Donald?”
The boy’s look of consternation slowly changed to one of humor. “She is,” he replied. “Not Athena, though,” he added, his head shaking.
Will chuckled as an eyebrow went up. The kid already knew his mythology! He sighed when he realized his opportunity to kiss Barbara had passed, though. “Aphrodite,” he stated then, wondering at how her expression changed when he realized they were being watched.
Henry and Hannah appeared behind Donald, holding hands as they studied the room from the doorway. “Have you seen enough?” Henry wondered. “’Bout time we take the ladies back to Gisborn Hall so they can go shopping, and we can go fishing.”
Will nodded. “Indeed.” He turned to Barbara. “My lady?” he added as he offered his arm.
Barbara regarded it for a moment and finally placed hers on it, her fingers lightly resting on the lawn of his shirt as Donald took her other hand. The five made their way back to Gisborn Hall, their conversations about repairs and fishing.
Harold followed slowly behind them, tail between his legs, still convinced his mistress was upset with him.
Chapter 45
A House to Call Their Own
Meanwhile, back in Mayfair
Victoria stood next to her betrothed and stared up at the white stone townhouse with the dark blue door. “You can afford this?” she murmured, rather stunned they were standing in Curzon Street admiring a townhouse Stephen had just claimed was theirs.
“I can,” he said with a nod. Of course, he couldn’t afford it on the salary he was making at the Foreign Office, but his allowance was rather more generous than his father had suggested it would be that one day in his study. Just a week ago. “Do you like it?”
Barely able to suppress her excitement, Victoria bounced on the balls of her slippered feet. “Oh, I think I do. May we go inside?”
Stephen grinned as he held up the key. “There are some furnishings, of course, but not a lot in the way of things,” he warned. “And the ballroom is rather small.” He had looked at two other nearby townhouses, finding they were beautiful and perfectly outfitted, but both lacked ballrooms. Given how he had met the woman who had agreed to be his wife, he decided his townhouse would have a ballroom.
“A ballroom?” Victoria repeated, her expression of delighted surprise making Stephen want to kiss her right then and there. They would be seen by someone, he was sure, though, and given their neighbors included a marquess, two earls and several relations to aristocrats, the last thing he wanted to do was offend anyone by displaying his affection for his soon-to-be wife where anyone could see them.
Her hand on his arm, Victoria watched as Stephen inserted the key into the lock and turned the door knob. “The staff is on holiday, but usually there is a butler, a maid, a cook and a scullery maid. You’ll need a lady’s maid, of course, but perhaps yours will join you from Middlesex,” he suggested as he pushed the door open to reveal the vestibule.
“Since I was sharing a maid with my mother, I rather doubt I would be allowed to bring her to London,” Victoria countered, her gaze moving from him to what appeared through the open door.
“Then we’ll see to one for you,” Stephen assured her, rather happy to see her suddenly stunned expression. “What do you think?” he wondered, watching her reaction as she took in the sight of the vestibule.
With its marble floor inlaid with the pattern of the mariner’s compass, its northern point oriented to true north, and the walls papered in a pale gold, the room was light and welcoming. Beyond was the central hall, its staircase to the second floor swooping up in a curve f
rom the left side while the hall wrapped around to the right. “It’s so elegant,” Victoria whispered.
Stephen allowed a chuckle. “You don’t have to whisper,” he said, although when he heard his voice echo a bit, he lowered it to add, “But you can if you want.”
The ceiling of the hall went all the way to the roof of the house, so as Victoria’s gaze swept up, she took in the balustrade railing wrapping around the second story mezzanine. “It’s so modern,” she breathed.
“Aye,” Stephen agreed as he pointed to their left. “This will be one of your rooms, I should think.”
Victoria regarded him for a moment. Your rooms. The words had her feeling a bit humble. She was more than glad she had agreed to accept Stephen’s offer of marriage. To think, his status as a bastard had nearly prevented her from considering him. I would have been a fool to turn him down.
The only door to the left before the staircase revealed a tastefully decorated parlor, its furnishings upholstered in rose and deep green fabrics. Victoria could imagine hosting callers in the cozy room, the tea set taking up most of the low table in front of the settee, a fire crackling in the brick fireplace. She would have to make the acquaintance of other young matrons before doing so, though. She only knew her aunt and the people to whom Stephen had introduced her at the theatre and at his aunt’s musicale.
Across the hall, Victoria boggled at the sky blue powder room, stunned to learn the house was piped for gas lighting and outfitted with indoor plumbing and toilets.
Stephen stood just inside the small study, imagining himself behind the walnut desk while reading invitations to Society events and perhaps performing a bit of work for the Foreign Office there.
A library, the shelves bare but otherwise furnished with comfortable chairs and lamps on the side tables, would need a bit of work, but Victoria was sure she could manage the task. There were several bookstores in London, after all. Depending on how much pin money Stephen thought to bestow on her, she was fairly sure she would have the basic necessities on the shelves before the year was out.
Although not nearly as large as the one in Devonville House, the dining room could seat twelve comfortably if the table and chairs currently on display were any indication. “Unfortunately, there’s not a breakfast parlor,” Stephen said as he watched Victoria take a walk about the entire room, her gloved hands touching the backs of every chair as she went.
“Oh, I wouldn’t have expected one,” she replied with a shake of her head. “But I do hope I’ll be allowed to sit closer to you than the other end of the table,” she said as she pointed to the end of the long room.
Stephen gave her a nod. “Of course,” he replied. “We needn’t stand on ceremony, unless we’re hosting guests, I suppose,” he added.
“Who might they be, do you suppose?” she wondered as she opened a sideboard to discover a collection of bone china plates and bowls. She pulled one out to study the delicate floral pattern around the rim. Royal Worcester.
Stephen considered the question. “I was hoping to host my father and his wife when you were ready for guests,” he replied. “And your parents, of course, should they make a trip to London.” They wouldn’t be at the wedding since Victoria insisted on a quiet affair with only her aunt and uncle as her witnesses. Anthony Regan would be returning from Sussex later that day specifically to attend. Stephen had sent a note via courier to his mother, asking if she might make the trip from Kent to be a witness. Her reply had arrived earlier that day. See you at nine o’ clock in the morning. Do let your father know. I shouldn’t want to embarrass him. Mum.
By noon tomorrow, he and Victoria would be wed.
Stephen still wasn’t quite sure what had happened to have him marrying so soon after returning to London. Perhaps it had been the letter from his brother, the bright white missive displaying the seal of the Earl of Gisborn in the dark red wax.
Dear bastard brother, I hope this letter finds you enjoying the benefits of being an earl. A note from Lady Devonville included in father’s letter informed me you have done well in my name when it comes to potential wives. Please note that you no longer need to court ladies on my behalf. In the event father hasn’t informed you, I found my Barbara in Broadwell. I found something else, as well. Someone, rather. His name is Donald, and he is my son. As a bastard, the boy will have a life much like yours, I expect, although it will probably be far from London. Barbara does not wish to live in the capital, and I do not wish to live anywhere where she is not. At seven years of age, Donald is the spitting image of me at that age (and probably you, as well), or so Hannah claims as she has seen the painting of me in my mother’s room. She was too young to remember me at that age. She has embraced my Barbara as her own sister. Now, if I can convince Barbara to marry me, I have the earl’s assurances I shall have a position as a foreman and Ellsworth’s old summer house in which to reside. Here’s hoping you have chosen a woman to court from among those Lady Devonville mentioned in her note. My money is on the one who crashed the ball. Sincerely, your legitimate brother.
Bastard! Stephen couldn’t help but thinking when he read the note. But he knew his brother had a point. As the daughter of a man who had eschewed his position in the aristocracy, Victoria was much like him—on the outside, looking in, the heels of their hands pressed against the glass on either side of their faces so they could better see everything.
He had a feeling she would be referred to as the one who had crashed the ball for the rest of her life, though.
Or perhaps he had decided to marry Victoria because his physical reaction to her was so profound. When he paid a call on her aunt’s house in order so that he could bring Victoria to the Curzon Street townhouse, his cock had responded even before she appeared at the door. Dressed in a deep blue carriage gown and pelisse, her silver-gray eyes appeared more intense than usual. He had kissed her, not intending to do so, but dammit—what else could he do?
He was attracted to her.
She had already agreed to be his wife. He had a special license tucked into his pocket and a bishop lined up to perform the ceremony at Devonville House—Cherice insisted it take place in her parlor—so what was the harm in a quick peck on the lips?
“A penny for your thoughts,” Victoria whispered from where she stood at his side, her gaze still admiring the dining room.
“I fear you would be shortchanged, my sweeting,” Stephen replied. “Shall we?” he asked as he led them back into the hall.
The last set of double doors at the end of the hall opened onto the ballroom. As Stephen had warned, the space was not large, but Victoria still had to grin when her gaze lifted to the ceiling and she realized it was a miniature version of Lord Weatherstone’s grand ballroom. Even the ceiling was painted with a similar motif, cherubs and all. Columns flanked a single pair of French doors that lead to the backyard garden.
“Oh, Stephen,” she breathed as she moved into the room, spinning about much like she had done at Lord Weatherstone’s ball, the expression on her face pure bliss. “It’s simply divine.”
Stephen didn’t bother to suppress his smile as he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. “You can see yourself as mistress of this abode then?” he queried.
“Oh, aye,” she answered, rather liking how he still held her, how he swayed their bodies from side to side as if they were dancing a rather slow, scandalous dance. “When I came to London, I didn’t have an expectation of this,” she said in a quiet voice.
Stephen angled his head to one side, noting how her joy seemed to have changed to reflection in a heartbeat. “Didn’t you come to make your debut?” he asked. “To find a husband—?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” she interrupted, although the shake of her head was at odds with her words. “What I said to you at Lady Torrington’s musicale. I’m so sorry. I was mean because I thought you had deliberately misrepresented yourself, but it was I who thought you were Bellingham. I jumped to a conclusion I shouldn’t have.”
Stephen all
owed a nod, rather glad she didn’t think he had passed himself off as his brother in an attempt to steal a kiss in the gardens. “I forgive you,” Stephen whispered before he planted a kiss on her forehead.
“Thank you,” she murmured. She allowed a sigh. “Anyway, I meant that I didn’t come to London expecting to marry a future marquess, or any aristocrat for that matter.”
Stephen allowed a shrug. “Well, I suppose that’s a good thing since I’ll never inherit a title,” he replied, a bit worried at the sudden change in her manner.
“You see, having grown up with a father who never embraced this...” She held out her hands and glanced about the elegant ballroom, still feeling a bit of disbelief that she would soon be living in Curzon Street. “Well, it meant that I didn’t have the expectation. I lived in a modest home—a nice one, please don’t misunderstand—but certainly nothing like this.”
“But that doesn’t mean you didn’t want to live in something like this,” Stephen continued for her, hoping he guessed her line of thinking.
“Exactly. And now, here you are, a... a—”
“Bastard,” Stephen interrupted, finding the word not as insulting as he usually did.
“And yet, you’re offering me a life... and a house—”
“A home,” Stephen interrupted again, wondering if she had changed her mind about marrying him.
“Even after the awful things I said to you,” she finished, tears collecting in her eyes.
Stephen regarded her for a moment before pulling her into his arms. “It did hurt a bit,” he finally admitted. “But then you kissed me and made it all...”
This time, it was Victoria who interrupted when her lips were suddenly on his, kissing him with a fervor she hadn’t shown before. “I love you,” she whispered when she ended the kiss.
The Caress of a Commander [retail] Page 30
