The Bewitching Hour

by Diana Douglas

  Priscilla broke into laughter just as Olivia came into the room.

  Olivia smiled with pleasure. “Nellie is arranging the flowers. She always does a lovely job." She found a chair and turned to Stratton. “My lord, you had mentioned that you would be attending the Sutter's ball last night.” Her cheeks dimpled as her smile widened with mischief. “We heard a delicious bit of gossip this morning and I was wondering if you could vouch for its truth.”

  Priscilla sucked in a gasp. “Olivia!”

  Stratton tilted his head slightly toward her and said, “Indeed? What did you hear?”

  “We heard that Lady Sutter imbibed a bit too much champagne and became extremely affectionate with Mr. Greenfield.”

  What has gotten into her? “You really shouldn’t repeat this,” Priscilla said.

  Olivia's eyes turned guileless. ”I simply wanted to find out if what they said was true. It won’t travel any further than this drawing room.” She lowered her voice. “I’m afraid we were eavesdropping on the kitchen staff. Sometimes they do tend to embellish, but knowing Lady Sutter, she can be quite...”

  “Quite friendly?” Stratton supplied.

  “Yes, friendly.” She nodded enthusiastically. “I understand a number of guests as well as Lord Sutter saw them leaving the alcove. The poor man carted Lady Sutter off somewhere and she wasn’t seen for the rest of the evening.”

  Stratton shook his head. “Alas, I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed, Mrs. Hutton.”

  “How disappointing,” Olivia murmured. “I did so hope it was true.”

  “It was Lord Adams, not Mr. Greenfield,” he clarified. “But the rest of your story is correct.”

  Olivia clapped her hands with glee. “Why Lord Adams is twenty years her junior! How marvelous. And to think we missed it all.”

  “Don’t despair,” Stratton reassured her. “It’s early in the season and I’m certain there will be other bits of scandal to keep us entertained over the next few months.”

  “Oh, I hope so.”

  Stratton grinned at Priscilla who was still stunned by the turn their conversation had taken.

  Olivia rose quickly. “I must go see what’s taking Beldon so long with our tea. He’s getting on and tends to be forgetful.”

  Stratton stood as she left the room. “I believe Mrs. Hutton likes me,” he told Priscilla.

  She shot him her best disapproving look. “You haven’t given her a choice. You’ve been far too charming. I thought you had promised to be a fiend.”

  “Mrs. Hutton is a joy and I couldn’t bear to play the brute with her.” He sat down next to her. “But I am somewhat confused. You don't seem the type to indulge in gossip.”

  “I don’t,” she protested.

  “No?” He began to lightly trace the curve of her ear and disconcerting shiver traveled through her.

  She scooted away from him. “Not a steady diet of it. But occasionally -- a bit here and there.”

  He closed the gap between them. “And how long have you been eavesdropping on the servants?”

  “I don't. Not normally." She swallowed, trying to ignore the warmth of his leg pressed up against hers. "Olivia shouldn’t have mentioned it. It’s not as if we make a habit of listening to their gossip, but the girls in the kitchen were laughing and carrying on so, we wanted to find out why.” She frowned at him. “Why am I explaining this to you?”

  His breath tickled her ear as he ran his fingertip down the bridge of her nose. “And how did the servants hear of it?” he asked softly.

  “What? Um. Morning deliveries, I think.”

  He tilted her chin up as he leaned toward her. She breathed in his scent. Her heartbeat quickened.

  “I can see how that would happen,” he murmured. “Gossip would travel quite quickly that way.”

  “It does. I mean I think it does.” Her lips twitched slightly. “You mustn’t do this.”

  “Mustn’t do what?”

  She closed her eyes and murmured, “You mustn’t kiss me.”

  “I mustn’t touch your ear, I mustn’t kiss you. You are forever telling me what I can and cannot do.”

  Her eyes opened just a fraction. “But Olivia could come back any moment.”

  “She will give us warning, love. She didn’t leave us alone to start up a game of whist.”

  “I’m not your love.”

  “Are you certain of that?” His hands gently cupped the sides of her face and he lowered his mouth to hers. She tugged on the lapels of his jacket, bringing him closer. His lips were as smooth and velvety as the petals of a rose, but his body was tense and she could tell he was exercising great restraint. His hands remained where they were, his caress to her cheek stayed feather light. She touched the tip of her tongue to his and sighed softly. He groaned and wrapped his arms around her. It was quickly becoming unbearable. She was trying to convince herself to pull away when a crash sounded in the hallway. Reality returned and they hastily released one another.

  “Oh heavens, look at this mess,” Olivia said loudly outside the door. “When did I become so clumsy?”

  “I’ll see to it, Madam.” Beldon’s voice was also uncommonly loud.

  Stratton muffled a laugh in Priscilla’s blond curls. “What Mrs. Hutton lacks in originality,” he murmured. “She makes up in spirit. If only she and Aunt Mirabella could change places, life would be perfect.”

  “You would dare to leave me with your Aunt Mirabella?” Priscilla edged away from him and primly folded her hands. “I’m not certain that I would care for that arrangement.”

  “I would never leave you with Aunt Mirabella,” he vowed. “That would be heartless. She would soon have you turned out in tangerine and purple taffeta with enormous ostrich feathers dyed to match.”

  “Well, I’ve certainly made a mess,” Olivia announced as she came into the room.

  A smile touched Priscilla’s lips as she asked, “What broke?”

  “That awful little gargoyle on the table in the hallway.”

  “A most fortunate accident,” Priscilla remarked. “You’ve always hated it as have I. What possessed Mama to buy it, I’ll never know.”

  Olivia smiled brightly. “It was hideous, wasn’t it? It needed to be broken. I’m surprised it didn’t give you nightmares as a child.”

  “I rarely have nightmares,” Priscilla said. “And we didn’t have it when I was a child.”

  “You’re quite lucky. I have terrible nightmares,” Stratton said solemnly.

  “How awful,” Olivia sympathized.

  “It is,” he agreed. “And they’re always about dogs. Twelve small dogs all named after Greek and Roman gods. Last week I dreamed they ate all the furniture in my study.”

  After a stifled burst of laughter, Priscilla asked, “Are you certain it was a nightmare?”

  He let out an exaggerated sigh. “Unfortunately, no. I keep hoping that I’ll wake up, but as of yet I haven’t.”

  Beldon cleared his throat as he entered the room carrying a tea tray. Olivia looked up at him and motioned for him to set it down in front of her. “Thank you, Beldon. Would you care for tea or brandy, my lord?”

  “Tea, thank you. I’m afraid I’ll need to take my leave shortly. Aunt Mirabella’s mongrels recently damaged our neighbor’s garden and I need to pay a visit and make certain all is well.”

  “Surely they can’t be as bad as all that.” Olivia picked up the teapot and poured.

  “Oh, but they are. And I fear they’re nowhere near finished with disrupting our household. Every day seems to bring new peril.” Much to Priscilla’s and Olivia’s enjoyment he entertained them with stories of the tulip bed calamity as well as the most recent damage done to the furnishings. By the time he made ready to leave they were wiping tears of laughter from their eyes.

  “Please come again, my lord,” Olivia said, “We do enjoy your company. Why, I can’t remember the last time I laughed this much.”

  “The pleasure was mine, Mrs. Hutton.” He presented her with a
n elegant bow.

  “I’ll see you to the door,” Priscilla rose from her seat and reached for the bell pull. Beldon appeared in a matter of seconds. “Lord Stratton is leaving. Would you fetch his hat and gloves?”

  “Certainly, miss.” He met them moments later in the foyer

  Once Beldon handed him his hat and coat, Priscilla said, “Thank you Beldon. I’ll see Lord Stratton out.”

  Beldon’s lip quirked slightly. “Yes, miss.” He turned and left them alone by the front door.

  “What’s wrong with your butler?” Stratton asked. “He had a very odd look on his face.”

  “I believe he’s smiling.”

  “Are your certain he isn’t just bilious?”

  She laughed. “No. I’m fairly sure he’s smiling.”

  “I didn’t realize smiling could be so painful.”

  Her shoulders lifted in a tiny shrug. “He hasn’t had much practice at it.”

  “A hazard of the profession, I suppose.” He bent down and his lips brushed against her cheek in a chaste kiss. His eyes glittered as he looked at her and her knees went week. “Were you expecting something a little more enthusiastic?”

  Her hand touched her cheek. “I haven’t the vaguest idea what you mean.”

  “I’ll see you tonight, love,” he whispered.

  Priscilla stood at the window watching as he motioned for his tiger to pull up and climbed into his Phaeton. Once he drove off, she leaned back against the front door and closed her eyes. Her body reeled with frustration and it was becoming just a little too much to bear.

  The moment Stratton entered the high-ceilinged foyer, Reeds took his hat and gloves, gave him the welcome news that Cecelia and Aunt Mirabella were resting in their chambers for the evening’s events and that Madame’s creatures were safely locked up in their suite. At the moment the house was amazingly, delightfully quiet. Stepping into his study, he pulled the door shut and locked it.

  He sat down behind his desk, opened the middle drawer and took out vellum and a draft of the missive he had composed earlier in Rand’s study. This attraction for her was a new experience for him and in some respects inexplicable. There was no denying that she was beautiful. But he’d been around beautiful women before and there was more to it than that. He loved the way her blue eyes darkened and flashed when she was angry just as much as he appreciated the way she had reached out to Cecelia and put her at ease. She was a delightful contradiction whose sense of propriety and passionate nature were currently at war.

  Her inexperience was daunting. Something he wasn’t quite sure how to handle. Over the past fifteen years, he’d had his share of women, but his only experience with virginity had been his own and that had been lost at the age of sixteen. His partners were chosen on the basis of sexual appeal and talent and little else. Up until now, all notions of a serious long term relationship had been pushed aside. There simply hadn't been time. Years back, fresh from Oxford, he was too busy indulging himself in the amusements and games London had to offer young wealthy gentlemen to think about marriage.

  War had interrupted those indulgences. When the French bastard, Napoleon, proved too large a threat to ignore, he had purchased his commission over his mother’s tearful protests and prepared to leave for the peninsula. But three days before his regiment was to leave, he received new orders from Whitehall. It appeared the war office thought his talents could be better utilized under Lord Thatcher, director of the Blackguard division, an organization devoted more to covert operations than combat.

  Three months later Rand had joined him. Stratton knew his father had pulled more strings than a puppet master to bring this about. It had never been openly discussed, but Stratton had long suspected the earl had been involved in some sort of espionage. And once he agreed to take assignments for the Blackguards his suspicions were confirmed.

  His mother would have been horrified. The general consensus of society was that no true gentlemen would involve himself in such a dishonorable business. Stratton had no such misgivings. He and Rand had done what needed to be done. But three years ago, their cover had been blown and he gladly resigned and came home for good. He suspected that Rand still had dealings with Thatcher, but as far as he was concerned, it was all in the past and he preferred to keep it there. He had other responsibilities waiting.

  At his father's insistence, he settled down to concentrating on the day to day management of their country estate in Surrey. Reston Manor, the seat of the Stratton holdings, was a vast property made up of numerous small farms, rolling pastures, dense woodlands, assorted ponds and streams as well as a lake. He was determined to do well by it. Over the past few years he had ridden every inch of land, acquainted himself with every soul, tenant and newborn alike, who lived and worked there. In truth, he had taken on the responsibility with a perseverance that had shocked him as well as his father.

  Who would have guessed that the well bred viscount could one day converse easily on the proper time of year to manure the fields, the merits of alfalfa versus barley or what variety of sheep produced the best wool? He’d found contentment in his work. The land brought him a new purpose. He loved the outdoors; the smell of the stables, the satisfaction of seeing a crop brought to harvest and was not at all averse to rolling up his sleeves when shearing season began.

  But his responsibilities were broader than what he had met thus far and without an heir, the estate would eventually pass to a distant relative. He was well past the age when he should have married; a circumstance his mother had frequently found necessary to remind him of. Rand may have been right in his assessment that his parent's absence was to keep him in London for the season, as well as to give them more time with Arabella. The likelihood of his finding a wife in London was far greater than finding one at Reston Manor. As much fun as the local country misses had been, they were not marriage material.

  But Priscilla was and whatever it took to win her heart he would do. With that in mind, he picked up his quill, dipped it in the ink well and began to write.

  Chapter Eight

  “The bloodlines of this Arabian are faultless.” The white haired, ruddy-faced Lord Jennings shifted his considerable bulk in the oversized chair in Lady Williams’ drawing room.

  Lady Williams gracefully smoothed out her jade green skirts, leaned forward to display a bit more décolletage and flashed a smile. “Do tell me more about him, my lord,” she encouraged. “Arabians are such noble creatures.”

  He beamed at her interest. “His name is Majestic. A fitting name if there ever was one. Been wanting to get my hands on him for some time. I was ecstatic to hear he was for sale. Sent my nephew to Tattersall's to see what can be done about purchasing him. Told him I don’t care what it costs, but he always makes a good bargain. Loves prime horseflesh as much as I do. Don’t expect him home until this evening.” He stopped at the sight of Lady Williams’ butler standing in the open doorway.

  She followed his gaze.

  “What is it, Newman?”

  “Milady, a Sir Montville is here.”

  Her eyes narrowed briefly but then remembering Lord Jennings, she forced a smile. “How nice. Please show him in. I haven’t seen Sir Montville in ages.” She looked up at Jennings. “He’s a distant cousin on my husband's side. Have you met him?”

  Jennings shook his head. “Haven’t had the pleasure.”

  Moments later, Montville was admitted to the drawing room. “My lady.” He crossed the room and took her hand, bowing deeply. “How kind of you to receive me. I apologize for the intrusion. I didn’t realize you had company.”

  “It’s no intrusion, Philip,” she murmured. “You are a part of my late husband’s family and thus are a part of mine. Please, meet Lord Jennings. Lord Jennings, Sir Montville.

  Montville turned and bowed to the older man. “Lord Jennings. Delighted to meet you.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, as well. Forgive me for not standing, but my gout’s acting up a bit. Earlier I was telling Lady Williams that
what I regret the most about growing old is that it keeps me off my mounts. Used to enjoy riding immensely, but I would be a fool to try it now." He sighed loudly. "I can still appreciate a prime piece of horse flesh, though I must admit watching isn’t nearly as satisfying as riding.”

  With a delicate flick of her wrist, Lady Williams opened her fan and began to lightly fan herself. “I don’t believe you’re nearly as old as you pretend, my lord,” she said. “Years have little to do with a man’s age and you seem far younger than many men half your years.”

  His chin wobbled as he laughed.“You flatter me, Lady Williams. Don’t believe a word you’ve said, of course, but it’s quite nice to hear. My Agnes, Lady Jennings, always said I was a fool for a pretty face and a kind word. She was right. Usually was. I miss her terribly.”

  “She was a lovely woman,” Lady Williams said.

  “Yes, she was.”

  “I’m certain you miss your husband as well, Lady Williams,” Montville commented.

  “Yes," she said with a sigh. "I cared a great deal for Edward.” She lowered her head for a moment and when she returned her gaze to Lord Jennings her eyes were glistening with tears. “Our age difference meant nothing to me. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about him.”

  Jennings’ cloudy gray eyes were sympathetic. “There, there, my dear. I know it’s difficult but you’re still young. You must get on with your life. It will become easier as time goes by. Coming into town for the season is probably the best thing for you. Attend the balls and soirées. Dance. Try to enjoy yourself.”

  She gazed at him through lowered lashes. “Thank you for your words of encouragement. I’ll try my best to do so.”

  “Good, good. You deserve a happy life, my dear.” He grimaced as he shifted his foot. “As much as I’ve enjoyed myself, I’m afraid I must take my leave.”

  “Must you? I was so enjoying your company.”

  Clearing his throat noisily, he said, “Truth be told, my foot is aching mightily and needs the attention of my manservant. Anderson’s a miracle worker. Makes a first rate mustard poultice. Started off as my batman and hasn’t left me since. Don’t know what I’d do without him.” He looked over at Montville who had remained standing. “Could I trouble you to hand me my cane, my boy?”