The Danice Allen Anthology

by Danice Allen

  Joe eyed his master while pretending to snatch a glimpse at the horses who were prancing about, impatient to be settled in a dry stable and to dine on a bucket of oats.

  Alexander, Lord Roth, was not your average viscount. He had not the look of smooth symmetry usually attached to generations of careful inbreeding. He was not pale and delicate with a long nose, thin lips, and heavy-lidded eyes of a vapid hue. He was tanned, his nose seemed sculpted after some ruler’s noble profile on an unearthed ancient Greek coin, his lips were shapely and sensuous, and his jewel-bright eyes were large almond crescents of deepest jet. From the tip of his obsidian hair to the toes of his polished Hessians, he was as glossy and black as a raven’s wing.

  Tall, broad-shouldered, lean-hipped, dusky-eyed, and swarthy, indeed, had it not been for the excellent cut of his clothes, which bespoke the elegant Spartan style of Weston, Lord Roth might have been mistaken for a bloodthirsty highwayman or a Gypsy rogue.

  But it wasn’t just Lord Roth’s physical attributes that set him apart from others. He had an energy about him, a virile intensity that sent many a susceptible maiden into an exquisite shudder when he turned his keen black gaze upon her. Joe had seen it happen many a time.

  Presently one of the massive doors creaked open just a little. A faded, cataract-clouded eye peered distrustfully around the casement, blinking against the gusts of rain to observe the gentleman whose vigorous handling of the knocker had made him drop a rather expensive crystal decanter on the stone floor of the kitchen.

  “How may I help you?” the butler inquired icily.

  Alex, driven to exasperation by hours of thought-burdened inactivity, dreadful, uncomfortable weather, and the incivility of a servant who would keep someone standing thus in the rain, sharply returned, “I daresay you might begin by letting me in! Mr. Wickham is expecting me.”

  “Mr. Wickham is not about the house,” the butler informed him. “And he never told me about any expected visitors, sir.” His cold eye flickered over the huge white dog with muddied paws and the jolly-looking red-faced coachman. With a moue of distaste, he began to close the door.

  Alex ground his teeth together. He was astonished by the insolence of the servant. No butler of his would ever refuse an obvious gentleman admittance to the house. By God, his servants wouldn’t even turn a dog out on such a day! He thrust his foot forward, lodging it in the crack before the butler could shut the door in his face.

  “I don’t care what Mr. Wickham did or did not tell you,” Alex retorted with caustic, quelling authority. “I was sent for by a solicitor, Mr. Hook, for the reading of the late Mr. Hayle’s will. I am Lord Roth, Mr. Hayle’s other grandson. And if you don’t admit me into the house this minute, I will very likely strangle you with the first convenient bell rope I should happen to see when once I’m inside.”

  Awakened to the fact that this was not a congenial situation, Shadow growled.

  The butler’s mouth dropped open like the jaw piece on a metal helmet. Alex could even imagine the noisy clank it might have made if the butler were indeed a suit of armor standing sentry in the hall. But the revelation of who he was, or perhaps the threat and the growl, had done the trick. The butler stepped aside, opening the door wide.

  Joe and Shadow followed Alex inside, and the butler hurriedly closed the door behind them. A swelling puddle of water quickly formed around each new arrival, and the butler, an aged, emaciated-looking fellow with sunken eyes and cheeks, stared at the sullied floor in dismay.

  Perceiving that the butler had to be intimidated into proper behavior, Alex assumed his loftiest mien. “Summon someone to help my coachman with the horses and then make sure he is provided with warm accommodations and a good meal. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, my lord,” muttered the butler in a grudging tone, his mouth disappearing into the puckered lines of his rawboned jaw. Then, while the ill-mannered, ill-featured fellow took care of Joe, Alex took stock of his surroundings.

  So this was the house his mother had grown up in…. Alex surveyed the lofty hall and the massive oak staircase that dominated one end of the large room. In a moment all other chafing thoughts became secondary to an overpowering surge of longing for his mother—for he could picture her here. Whatever grim associations he’d attached to the place evaporated for a time as he imagined his mother gliding gracefully down the stairs, her slender fingers sliding along the ornately carved banister. The Tudor furnishings were solid and reassuring compared with the spindly gilt chairs and Egyptian couches cluttering the houses of the fashion-mad ton. Pencarrow’s furnishings were comforting, as his mother had been.

  To squelch this disturbing tide of childish yearning, Alex determinedly turned his thoughts to his grandfather. He knew that Chester Hayle had been a landowner with some considerable holdings, and his land was pocked everywhere with tin mines. Although much of the tin had already been mined, he had accumulated enough wealth to keep his progeny flush in the pocket for some time, if they were careful. Of course Grandfather had ever been a careful man. Indeed, he was a God-fearing, prudent man, which was precisely why he so hated the frippery fellow his daughter had chosen to marry.

  Jared Wickham was a frippery sort of fellow when he met Charlotte Hayle. He gambled and wenched, got himself foxed at every opportunity, and generally led a most dissipated life. But when he met Miss Hayle at a rout in London, he fell in love with the speed and depth of a plunging boulder.

  While Charlotte reciprocated his passion with equal feeling, her father considered the viscount unfit for marriage and forbade her from ever seeing him. Charlotte did what any besotted girl would do. She defied her father and ran off to Scotland to be married. Thus began the rift between father and daughter that endured till her death. And beyond her death, thought Alex grimly.

  Impatient with his nagging thoughts and desperate for some distracting activity, Alex looked about for the butler, but that fellow seemed more intent on supervising the two maids who were mopping up the mud and water off the floor than with settling him comfortably in a room. Besides his mental discomfort, he felt chilled standing in the drafty hall, so he decided to trouble the butler no longer and find himself a chair near a fireplace somewhere.

  He dropped his hat and umbrella on a table and opened the first door off the hall to his right. Good God, what a mistake. It held the coffin! Since dead bodies did not hold up well in warm rooms, there was no fire, the draperies were shut, and only a single candle held vigil as it gave off an eerie glow at the head of the richly varnished casket.

  Alex stood frozen. Here was Grandfather Hayle, the man who’d stolen the joy out of his boyhood. Harmless, now. Dead. Then, while bitterness and sadness boiled together in his stomach, a most unlikely sound drifted across the hall. Laughter, a man’s and a woman’s—his a clear, true tenor, hers a throaty contralto.

  Trapped on one side by death and darkness and on the other by vibrant sounds of human joy, Alex still did not know which he preferred to face just now. He knew with certainty that it was Zachary’s laughter he’d heard, although he had not seen his beloved little brother in seventeen years. Despite the voice of reason that advised him against allowing it, unbidden hope welled up inside him to mix with his apprehension.

  There were footfalls in the hall, and suddenly the laughter stopped. Alex turned slowly around and came face to face with his past. Black eyes locked with golden-sorrel swirls. He recognized those odd eyes, but that was all he recognized of his little brother in this man who matched him in height, if not perhaps in strength. He had a lean, tanned, unlined face with an aquiline nose and arched golden brows. God, how ironic. He was the image of their father!

  “You didn’t alert your butler that I was expected,” Alex said at last, clawing past the throbbing lump in his throat to break the screaming silence between them.

  “I wasn’t sure if you were coming,” Zachary replied, his tone even and impassive to match his expression.

  “I said I would come, and I’m not one to
break my word.” Alex reached deep inside for the strength to speak calmly. His face ached from the fierce effort it took to keep from showing the myriad raw emotions he felt.

  Then—had he imagined it or did Alex detect for just a moment a reflection of his own anguish in Zachary’s eyes? But he must have imagined it because those queer eyes were shuttered now against scrutiny and held a distant expression that reminded him all too exactly of his father.

  “What a beautiful dog!”

  Jolted out of his turbulent musings, Alex suddenly remembered the feminine laughter and looked down to see a slender young woman kneeling quite unselfconsciously by Shadow. Unlike the generality of delicate females, this one did not recoil from the smell of a wet dog. In fact, she had wrapped one arm about the mangy cur and was scratching him behind an ear. Shadow looked completely conquered.

  Indeed, in Shadow’s place, thought Alex distractedly, with such a comely arm wrapped about his neck and such a lush bosom pressed against him, he’d have been conquered, too! God’s teeth, her skin was like fresh-skimmed cream, ivory and flawless. Ripe-berry tints feathered her high cheekbones and inviting lips.

  But what thoughts to be having at such a time! Alex was appalled at the unexpected quickening of his body from just looking at the chit. He could only suppose that his tumbled and fevered emotions at meeting his brother again were affecting all his reactions, for it was with quite an effort that he at last wrenched his gaze away from the dark-haired beauty. But it was not before he’d observed that her dusky-fringed eyes were aqua-blue.

  When he turned his gaze back to Zachary, Alex got the distinct impression that his brother’s uncanny golden eyes had not left his person for even a moment.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce us, Zach?” The girl stood up and shook out her skirt. Such a simple, everyday feminine gesture, shaking out one’s skirt, but Alex found himself beguiled by the girl’s natural grace.

  Then, bemusedly, Alex realized that both she and his brother were wet. Not drenched, of course, but large spots of rain covered their black mourning clothes. He must have been riding at the front of the storm all along, and these two had just missed a thorough soaking. He wondered what they’d been doing outside at such a time and with such a sober event as a funeral about to take place. Curiosity and something else—disapproval?—stirred within him.

  “Lord Roth,” his brother said very formally, “this is Miss Tavistock, a friend of the family.”

  Alex took Miss Tavistock’s outstretched hand and sketched an elegant bow. Her fingers were cool and soft, and he desperately wished to feel them on his pounding forehead, stroking the tension away.

  Lord Roth! Zachary had called him Lord Roth with about as much warmth as a coffin nail! He realized how foolish he’d been to allow himself to hope that seventeen years of estrangement could be swept under the rug at first meeting.

  “How do you do, Miss Tavistock?” he said, grateful for the few seconds he could avert his face. He released her slim fingers reluctantly.

  “I do very well, thank you,” the young lady replied brightly, “except, of course, that I’m chilled to the bone.”

  Alex lifted startled eyes to hers. An enchanting mix of humor and understanding lit the aqua-blue depths. But such a prosaic comment was exactly what he needed. It brought him firmly back to reality. “Indeed, Miss Tavistock, of course you would be cold in those damp clothes. How thoughtless of me to keep you standing thus. I daresay you ought to go home and change.”

  “I shan’t bother to do that,” she returned matter-of-factly. “Sadie’ll help me out of this dreadful bombazine and dry it by the fire. In the meantime I shall just have to sit about in my petticoats.”

  Alex had had many flirtatious references to underthings whispered in his ear, but he’d never heard the feminine objects spoken of so freely by a gentlewoman. And Miss Tavistock had to be that. The black bombazine she was about to discard was fine. Her enunciation, in that lovely husky voice, was perfect, and though her hair was a bit disheveled at the moment, the shiny mahogany curls that fell well below her shoulders were held together by exquisite ivory combs. She was an artless enchantress, he concluded, discovering and admiring a single dimple in her right cheek.

  “Sadie’ll have your hide, Beth. She has enough to do today without rescuing you from yet another scolding from your mama,” Zachary advised her in an affectionate but weary tone, as if he were speaking to a trying but adorable child.

  “Sadie’s used to me, Zach,” she retorted pertly. “By now you ought to be, too.”

  Obviously quite a close family friend, thought Alex, for they spoke to each other like brother and sister.

  “Perhaps I’m not used to you yet, Beth, but we’ve time,” Zachary replied with a grudging smile.

  Somehow the girl had managed to pry a smile out of the fellow, thought Alex with ready admiration. But what did Zach mean when he said, “We’ve time?” Surely they weren’t …?

  Beth turned to Alex. The question foremost in his thoughts must have been reflected in his expression. She arched a dark brow and said, “If your brother won’t tell you. Lord Roth, I shall. Zachary and I are more than family friends—we are betrothed.”

  Despite his suspicions, Alex was stunned. Their manner toward each other hadn’t seemed the least bit loverlike. And, even more shocking, Alex found himself profoundly disappointed that the beautiful Miss Tavistock was taken.

  God, how could he possibly covet his brother’s betrothed? He’d just met the girl. And the Lord knew that the most important thing to Alex right now was reestablishing some kind of relationship with Zachary, mending old wounds, not embarking on a new flirtation. His own notions of honor dictated that he firmly suppress every amorous thought of Miss Tavistock. Now that he knew she was to be his sister-in-law, that was imperative. After all, of what importance was another comely chit to add to his list of conquests?

  “Beth!” Alex was surprised by Zachary’s suddenly stern tone. “I thought we agreed not to announce our betrothal until Grandfather was decently buried.”

  “We agreed not to tell anyone outside the family,” she said pointedly.

  Alex and Zachary both stiffened at this bold reference to their relationship. Yes, they were brothers, but Zach seemed as ready to ignore the fact as ever. The fact that he had not chosen to reveal his engagement was just further proof of the chasm between them. Alex’s chest constricted, as if heavy chains bound him. He was suddenly desperately tired.

  “Allow me to extend congratulations to you both,” he said at last, forcing a smile. “But do not linger out of politeness, Miss Tavistock. I would feel bad if you caught cold. I’m retiring to my own room, anyway.” Then, turning to Zachary and dredging up as casual a tone as he could muster, he added, “That is, if I can bully your butler into giving me one.”

  Zachary smiled with what Alex bleakly suspected was a certain enjoyment at his expense. “Stibbs was well taught by Grandfather to discourage visitors,” he explained simply, “especially people he’s never clapped eyes on before.” The tawny eyes bored into him.

  Alex frowned at his brother. Indeed, Zachary acted almost as though Alex rather than Zach himself had cut off the relationship. It was damned irritating!

  Confused, impatient, and wild to be alone so he could organize his disordered thoughts, he growled, “Well, I would be vastly grateful if you’d bring the old griffin to a comprehension of his duties and have a bedchamber prepared. I would like to change my clothes before the solicitor arrives.”

  “Of course,” Zach returned with cold courtesy. “But are you quite sure you’ve done with paying respects to Grandfather?” His gleaming eyes flickered toward the open door behind Alex.

  “Yes, quite sure,” Alex answered, strangling the urge to tell his brother exactly how he felt toward their grandfather.

  Zachary inclined his head, then turned to approach the butler, Stibbs, who was still standing over the maids as they mopped the floor.

  Alex watched
Zachary walk away, a new despair squeezing his heart. He had spent these many years regretting the loss of his five-year-old brother. He had always visualized him so very young, even though his rational mind told him he was growing up day by day. The child was gone forever. He must cease to grieve for him. But he could not suppress the hope that in the grown man Zach had become there was still a possibility of reviving the closeness they’d once had.

  “God, what a fool I am,” he muttered beneath his breath.

  “Perhaps not,” came a whispered voice from across the hall. Beth stood on the bottom step of the massive staircase. She had been watching him, and he judged from the gentle understanding in her expression that she had heard his mutterings and divined the contents of his foolish heart.

  Embarrassed to have exposed his vulnerability to this perceptive woman—his brother’s fiancée, he reminded himself—Alex pretended not to understand her. In a bracing tone, he exclaimed, “Indeed I am a fool, Miss Tavistock, to have thought my valet would get here shortly after my own arrival. He probably has the coach stuck in a mire by now, so determined is he to travel slowly and safely.” Then he added rather lamely, “Thinks he’ll break his neck, silly fellow.”

  “Indeed, Lord Roth,” she replied guilelessly, “none of us want to get hurt, do we?” She turned and left him to ponder her words.

  Chapter Two

  “Lor’, Miss, ye look like one of them mermaids Pye Thatcher’s always telling tales about. Ye’re wet as one!”

  Beth pulled off her sturdy half boots, then plucked the ivory combs out of her hair and shook the chestnut curls loose about her shoulders. “Nothing the fire won’t fix, Sadie. How long do you think it will take my gown to dry?”

  The gangly middle-aged maid bobbed her head, her frizzy gray-blond hair peeking out from under the ruffle of her mobcap. “Won’t dry at all, miss, ’less ye take it off. Here, let me help ye.”

  Beth stood close to the fire in the bedchamber she’d come to think of as her own special retreat at Pencarrow. Many times she’d been led there by Sadie or gone there on her own to tidy herself up and straighten, mend, clean, or change her clothes. She and Zachary seemed always to find the greatest fun in doing things that got them both dirty and disheveled.