by Cheryl Holt
“Why didn’t you write to me yourself?” he pressed. “You could have asked for details rather than relying on secondhand accounts.”
“I wrote for years. Charles wouldn’t let you read my letters.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said, more vehemently than he’d intended.
“I stopped when you turned sixteen because you finally wrote back and insisted I not bother you again. Don’t you recall? It’s certainly vivid in my mind.”
He’d never written to her, so she had to be lying or else Charles had . . . had . . .
“What do you want from me?” he inquired.
“I want to stay with you for a while.”
“Why?”
“I’ve missed you.”
“No, you haven’t. Tell me the real reason.”
“I don’t have another one. Should I invent something?”
“Do you need money? Is that it? How much will it take to make you go away?”
“No, I don’t need any money. How awful of you to suggest it.”
He studied her, a thousand questions on the tip of his tongue, and he hated that he was so curious.
She’d traveled to Italy with a lover, a dashing young army captain with no funds and no prospects. After she’d vanished, a lawyer had contacted Charles about sending her an allowance, and his answer had been to immediately file for divorce.
Over the intervening years, there had been occasional tales of her wretched condition, of her surviving in dire poverty and begging for scraps in various European cities, but now, he had to doubt what he’d been told. She was hale and beautiful and well-fed and . . . and . . . quite magnificent.
There! He’d admitted it. She was stunning.
“I want you out of here by morning,” he advised her.
“Don’t be silly.”
“I can’t have you annoying Esther and causing a ruckus.”
“Who cares about Esther?”
“I do.”
“You didn’t when you were a baby. She used to visit all the time, and you’d burst into tears whenever she entered the room.”
She’d flustered him again, with her talk of his childhood. It was too alarming to be in her presence.
“I want you to go,” he declared.
“I won’t.” He glared, unaccustomed to blatant insubordination, and at his scowl, she laughed. “What if I refuse to leave? Will you toss me out on the road?”
“I might.”
“No, you won’t. You were such a sweet boy, and I hear that you still are. A tad stuffy and cold, but you have a good heart.”
“I have no heart. Not where you’re concerned.”
“You’re being a bully. The behavior doesn’t suit you.”
“You don’t deserve a shred of kindness from me.”
“While I’m here,” she said, ignoring his cruel comment, “we’ll work to bring you ’round to my way of thinking. Before you know it, you’ll forget you were ever Charles’s son.”
Her calm assurance infuriated him. It seemed they were playing cards, that she had all the aces. He wasn’t a brute. He wouldn’t throw a woman out on the road, no matter how much he loathed her, and she’d gambled that he wouldn’t. Apparently, she’d won.
“All right, you can stay,” he grumbled. “But only for a week, and you’ll retire to the west wing, so the family doesn’t have to be constantly bumping into you.”
“I’m already settled in the countess’s suite. I don’t wish to move.”
It was where Esther would expect to sleep. She would have a fit.
A muscle ticked in his cheek. “No, you’ll move. I’m afraid I have to insist.”
“And I’m afraid I have to insist.”
She stood and came ’round the desk, and she laid a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, shocked that she would touch him. With her standing and him sitting, he felt very young, out of his element. Her striking green eyes were expressive and troubled.
“Let me stay longer than a week,” she begged. “Please?”
“Why should I?”
“I don’t have anywhere to go.”
“It never bothered you before.”
“My dearest, Giorgio, died last winter,” she informed him.
“So?” He wouldn’t ask who Giorgio had been, why he was dear, why she was grieving.
“I need to be surrounded by people who love me, and I’m so lonely.”
He fumed and fretted, then was enormously astounded to hear himself say, “Two weeks, and that’s it. During that time, I’ll make arrangements for you.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ll keep to yourself, and you’ll instigate no discord. You’ll avoid Esther, and you’ll refrain from insulting or offending her.”
“If I can’t harass Esther, you’ll take all the fun out of my visit.”
“I mean it, Barbara. You’ll behave, or you’ll leave.”
She smiled a slow, seductive smile. “I’ll be as good as I can be. You won’t even know I’m here.”
“Now that I doubt.”
She leaned down and placed a tender kiss on his cheek, then she sauntered out, and he was all alone in the austere, somber room. His heart was beating so hard that he wondered if it might simply burst from his chest.
His hands shaking, he grabbed the decanter, filled a glass to the rim, and finally had the drink he so desperately needed.
“WILL that be all, Lady Barbara?”
“Yes, Peg, but I’d like you to come back in an hour to dress my hair. Since my son has arrived, I want to look especially grand when I join him for supper.”
“Yes, milady.”
The girl curtsied and tiptoed out, being so deferential and polite that Barbara might never have been away a single day.
The door shut behind her, and Barbara slumped in her chair, weak with relief that she’d bluffed her way into staying, that John hadn’t sent her packing as she’d absolutely feared he might.
She’d been in Italy, flat broke and suffering through Giorgio’s lengthy demise, and she’d assumed she would continue on in the foreign country after his death. But once he’d passed away, his villa had been so quiet, and creditors had begun circling, so she couldn’t remain.
Yet where was she to go? She’d burned all her bridges.
She’d been married at fifteen and had been much too immature to deal with the very demanding and much older Charles Middleton. When she’d foolishly fled, she’d been suffocating on his rules and criticisms. She shouldn’t have run off, but she had, and that fact couldn’t be changed.
If John ever learned the truth of how she’d struggled, perhaps he wouldn’t be so smugly derisive. Her life had been horrendously difficult, romance and security fleeting.
She’d let her army captain convince her that Charles would forgive their impulsive flight, that funds would be provided to tide them over, but they hadn’t been. Six months of poverty and bickering had doomed the amour.
After he’d abandoned her, she’d engaged in a series of torrid affairs with Europe’s most eligible bachelors, but at age forty-six, she was destitute and exhausted. England had called to her in a manner she hadn’t supposed possible.
She’d been notified that Charles was dead, that John was the earl, but she hadn’t been able to predict how he would react to her return. A brazen appearance had seemed best, and she’d chosen to make it at Penworth Castle. It was far from London, so if he’d spurned her, gossip would have been minimized, but mostly, she’d come because she’d always cherished the wild spot.
In her short tenure as countess, she’d visited many times. She’d curried favor with the servants, and they still adored her. Nary a one had suggested she wasn’t welcome, and all of them were happy to complain about Esther and how the family had never been the same after she had taken Barbara’s place.
It was a small solace, but comfort nonetheless.
She sat at her dressing table and gazed in the mirror. Her hair and face were still beautiful, but ther
e were tiny wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Where had the years gone? Could she get some of them back?
She had to try.
John was the only person on earth who might ultimately exhibit the least amount of concern for her. She had to make him love her again, and she was determined to wear him down until he relented and she earned his pardon.
Footsteps marched up the stairs, heralding the encounter for which she’d been waiting. She poured a glass of wine and went to relax on the sofa in front of the fire. The door was flung open, a bevy of servants hustling in. Esther followed behind.
“Put my trunks in the ...”
Esther stumbled to a halt and gaped at Barbara, not understanding what she was seeing. It was the countess’s suite, and clearly, Barbara was ensconced in it.
“What are you doing in here?” Esther huffed.
“This is my room. What are you doing in here?”
Barbara pointed toward the hall, indicating that Esther should depart, but Esther regrouped, pulling herself up, straightening her spine.
“Get out. At once!” Esther commanded.
“I don’t take orders from you, Esther.”
Barbara gestured to the servants, and like ants in a line, they spun and left with Esther’s trunks.
“Bring those back!” Esther bellowed, but no one heeded her. At having her authority so blatantly flaunted, she was aghast. “You won’t get away with this,” Esther warned.
“I believe I already have.”
“I’ll speak to John. He’ll have you out of here like that!”
Esther snapped her fingers, but the click didn’t sound, so the drama of the moment was foiled.
“You’ll speak to John?” Barbara was disdainful, condescending. “Why would you? He gave me the suite himself.”
“But it’s . . . it’s the countess’s! He wouldn’t have! He didn’t!”
“He did. Good luck with changing his mind. You’re aware of how stubborn he can be.”
Esther was so furious that her entire body was shaking, but she didn’t know what to do with all her rage. She’d never been the sharpest tack in the shed, and obviously, she’d gained no intellect in the intervening decades.
“I . . . I hate you,” Esther hurled. “I’ve always hated you!”
“Sticks and stones, Esther. Sticks and stones.” Barbara made a shooing motion with her hand, urging Esther out. “Now please go. I’m needed downstairs to greet John’s guests, and I’m not dressed.”
Esther hovered for a few seconds, then she whirled away and raced out.
“John! John!” she screeched, her voice echoing to the rafters.
Barbara grinned.
John would never intervene on Esther’s behalf. In that regard, he was too much like his father, who had loathed discord and wouldn’t tolerate it. Especially from a hysterical female.
The boudoir was hers. The first battle was won. Supper—and playing hostess to John’s company—would be next. She would keep ingratiating herself until he realized he couldn’t manage without her.
“One day at a time, Barbara,” she murmured to herself. “One day at a time.”
Chapter 7
LILY tiptoed down the dark corridor, the flame from her candle flickering on the walls, making the shadows large and menacing. It was very late, everyone asleep, but in the parlor up ahead, a lamp burned. Anxious for company, she rushed toward it.
While she wasn’t usually timid, the nocturnal sounds of the old castle were disconcerting. She’d awakened with a start, convinced that someone was in her bedchamber. Not a person, specifically, but there’d been a definite presence, accompanied by groaning noises and a chain rattling.
Her heart pounding, she’d actually whispered, “Who is it? Who’s there?”
Of course, there’d been no answer, but she’d been spooked beyond all reason. She’d grabbed her robe and fled to the lower floors.
With no small amount of relief, she entered a cozy salon. A fire crackled in the grate, a comfortable couch positioned in front of it, but the room appeared to be empty. She took a hesitant step inside, then another.
“Is anybody here?” she tentatively murmured.
There was no reply, and she stopped, listening and hearing heavy breathing, which scared her out of her wits.
Suddenly, the door slammed with a bang, and a male voice shouted, “Boo!”
“Ah!” she shrieked, and she whipped around to find Lord Penworth lurking behind her.
He laughed and laughed until he was bent over with jollity.
“What is so funny?” she snapped.
“You. Oh, if you could have seen the look on your face. It was priceless.”
He swiped a hand across his eyes, wiping away tears of merriment as he collapsed into a chair.
Apparently he’d been sitting in the corner, drinking, and watching her as she’d sneaked in. He seemed to expect that she would stay and chat, but she wasn’t in the mood to spar.
After their kiss on Bramwell’s ship, she’d studiously avoided him. She’d liked the intimate embrace much more than she should have—so much so, in fact, that she often caught herself daydreaming about it.
She’d obsessed so frequently and in such detail that she wondered if Dubois’s potion hadn’t had a reverse effect, if it hadn’t caused her to grow infatuated rather than Penworth.
“Why are you walking the halls?” he asked once his amusement had eased.
“I . . . couldn’t sleep.”
“Are the ghosts keeping you up?”
She scoffed with false bravado, “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”
“Isn’t there?”
“No.”
“It’s a castle, Miss Lambert, with centuries of history. Ghosts abound. It’s what I love about the place. Just admit you’re terrified and be done with it.”
“Well . . . now that you mention it . . . I might have witnessed a sight that was a bit . . . peculiar. It unnerved me.”
“The initial encounter can be unsettling.”
“I thought I heard groaning, too.”
“Apparitions and groaning! On your first night! My goodness. You’re certainly receiving a warm welcome.”
“I didn’t care for it.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“I doubt it.”
Her surly retort ignited another bout of hilarity, and as she stared at him, she couldn’t help noticing how mirth made him look younger, how it made him look handsome and charming and approachable.
It occurred to her that she was viewing a side of him he rarely showed to others. If she’d been more brazen, she might have tarried, might have drawn him into a conversation and inquired about his mother’s surprising arrival.
But it was late, they were alone, and he was imbibing. It was a recipe for disaster.
She headed for the door. “I’d better get back to my room,” she said.
“So soon? Aren’t you afraid the goblins might be waiting?”
“I’ll survive.”
“Won’t you feel safer by the fire?”
She peered at him, at the fire, at the sofa. She glanced down at her nightgown and robe.
“Actually, no.” She reached for the knob. “I’ll just be going.”
“I don’t think so.”
Quick as lightning, he jumped up and spun the key in the lock. Then he laid it on top of the doorsill, where she couldn’t retrieve it unless she climbed on a chair.
“Give me that key,” she fumed.
“No.”
“Give it to me!”
“No,” he maddeningly repeated.
“I can’t be in here with you.”
“You already are.”
He took a step toward her, and she took one back. He took another, and she did the same. They kept on, with him herding her across the floor as deftly as if they were waltzing at a fancy ball.
There was a gleam in his eye she’d seen before, but it had strengthened to a worrisome degree. A few knocking
ghosts didn’t seem quite so frightening. Not when she was confronted by a real-life knave who wasn’t a figment of her imagination.
“Hold it right there, you bounder.” She extended her palm as if the paltry appendage could ward him off.
“You must learn something about me, Miss Lambert.”
“What is that?”
“I never do as I’m told.”
“Couldn’t you start? Just for me?”
“What fun would that be?”
He swooped in and scooped her off her feet. In an instant, she was on her back on the sofa. She’d intended to elude any advance, but he was on top of her so fast that she couldn’t. His entire body was stretched out the length of hers.
For several delicious moments, she wallowed in the pleasure of feeling his weight pressing her down, but she swiftly recalled her moral underpinnings. She had to redirect his focus so she could distract him and race out.
The key on the sill posed a problem, but she refused to ponder it. She would find a way to divert him and escape.
“Why are you sitting in here drinking all by yourself?” she asked. “Is it a habit? Should I assume it’s yet another secret vice?”
“I have no secret vices.”
“Liar.”
On being reminded that she knew about Lauretta, his cheeks flushed.
“You have the sharpest tongue,” he charged.
“Don’t I, though?”
“I never allow anyone to speak to me as you do.”
“Why is that, do you suppose?”
“I believe you’ve driven me insane with your bizarre conduct.”
“I’m a perfectly normal woman.”
“There’s no such thing.”
“You bring out the worst in me.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” he said.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“About what?”
“About your sitting here in the dark. Why are you?”
He stared and stared, then he stunned her by saying, “If you must know, I’ve been thinking about my mother.”
“Have you?” She struggled to keep her expression blank so he’d continue.
“Have you been apprised of her history?” he inquired.
