“Did I miss Uncle’s parting?” he asked as he came to a halt near them.
“Unfortunately yes,” Sebastian said.
“Not unfortunate. He’s gone. That’s all that matters.”
“It matters that the three of us are here,” Sebastian assured him. “I’m grateful you were able to join us.”
Rafe shrugged, as though it were of no consequence. “I finished with my ledgers earlier than I anticipated and had a bit of extra time. Shall we cross the street so you may take up residence?”
“By all means. Let us reclaim Easton House as ours.”
Their footsteps resounded and the fog swirled as though anxious to get out of their way. Sebastian could only imagine how they must have looked to anyone glancing out a window. Three men—he in the middle, his brothers flanking him and following one step behind—their walking sticks hitting the ground in perfect synchronicity. They passed through the gateway, the wrought iron gate having been left ajar in his uncle’s haste to leave. He wondered what sort of welcome the servants would give him. He’d seen no one he knew the night of the ball. If his uncle had replaced them all, he might very well be doing the same. He wanted no one about whose loyalties could be questioned.
He and his brothers marched up the drive, climbed the steps. They’d just reached the top, when the massive oak door swung open, and the butler stepped out. His was a familiar face. His hair had begun turning white, but he still had a proud, erect carriage. He bowed slightly. “Your Grace.”
“Thomas.”
A sparkle lit his brown eyes. “You remembered, sir.”
“How could I forget? You slipped me lemon drops when my father wasn’t looking.”
“I thought you did that only for me,” Tristan said.
“For all of you, sirs. Welcome back to Easton House. Anticipating your return, I have taken the liberty of assembling the staff. There are some who will no doubt not meet with your approval, but I believe you will find most are willing and anxious to see to your needs.”
“I appreciate it. Let’s see to business.” As he stepped through the doorway into the marbled foyer, his nostrils twitched as he caught the rancid stench of his uncle. Then he heard a gasp, a breath catch, and a tiny squeak. Three of the maids had lowered their gazes, and he wondered why he could so easily forget that his face was a shock to most who first saw him.
“I am the Duke of Keswick,” he announced. “My brothers, Lord Tristan Easton and Lord Rafe Easton.” Each nodded when introduced. “We are here reclaiming what is ours. If you doubt our claim, I will help you find employment elsewhere for I will tolerate no disloyalty to myself or my brothers. It would behoove you to be honest with us now if you cannot serve us as we require, for you will discover that forgiveness is not our strong suit.”
No one moved. No one spoke.
“Excellent then. I want everything in this residence washed, aired out, and polished until all looks new and I will be unable to find even a hair from the previous resident. Do I make myself clear?”
Heads bobbed. “Then see that it is done.” He turned to Thomas. “You and I shall meet in the library in an hour to discuss the particulars of this household.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
With his brothers beside him, he began his tour. The familiarity of the surroundings was settling into his bones and beginning to feel welcoming. The one thing he noticed were the occasional empty spaces on the wall. Portraits of his father were not to be seen. He remembered as young lads that he and Tristan had stood for a portrait—one facing one way, one the other. Later they’d all had a portrait done with their parents. Those were also missing.
“Where do you suppose the paintings are?” he asked.
He didn’t need to elaborate.
“In the attic, hopefully,” Tristan said, “although I’d not put it past Uncle to have burned them.”
“I’m quite surprised he lived here,” Rafe said. “I would have thought Father’s ghost would have haunted him.”
“Only a man with the ability to feel guilt can be haunted by his actions,” Sebastian said. He spoke from experience, but he was not going to share that with his brothers.
They reached the library. A footman opened the door for them. For some reason this room was more difficult to face than the others. Perhaps because it had been their father’s domain. Their mother had a smaller library, more of a sitting room, with vibrant colors and books that appealed to her. But this room possessed a darkness, a boldness. Leather books lined mahogany shelves. Hunter green chairs were arranged in intimate sitting areas. Within reach of each was a table of crystal decanters. Their father had entertained here.
Sebastian didn’t want to consider that their uncle may have as well. He strode across the room to the large table near his father’s massive desk. He retrieved three glasses and filled each with whiskey. After each of his brothers took a glass, Sebastian lifted his. “To Father and reclaiming what belonged to him.”
“And what now belongs to you,” Tristan said.
“To all of us,” Sebastian corrected. “It may be entailed, but make no mistake, I consider it ours.”
A resounding clink filled the corner as the brothers touched their glasses together. He didn’t know why he didn’t feel as though he was yet home.
But he downed the whiskey, relished it burning, and swore that he would never again abandon his legacy or his brothers.
He heard a door opening and glanced over as Thomas strode in carrying a silver salver. “A missive was just delivered for you, Your Grace.”
Sebastian took it, dismissed the butler, and set aside his glass to open it. He read the elegant script with a measure of dread.
“What is it?” Tristan asked.
“We’ve been invited to a small dinner party at Lady Ivers’s this evening.”
“Lady Ivers? Isn’t she Mary’s aunt?”
“Yes.”
“Then I don’t see how we can decline.”
Chapter 8
The carriages they’d seen arriving should have served as a clue. Still, Sebastian was taken aback when he and his brothers were escorted into the parlor to see such a mass of humanity.
“Good God,” Tristan murmured. “There must be at least fifty people here. I would hate to see what she considers a large dinner party.”
Sebastian supposed he should have anticipated that all conversation would cease and all eyes would turn toward the door when the lords of Pembrook entered. Damnation but he thought facing the Cossacks might have been a sight easier.
A woman of average height and build with hair that the passage of time had faded to a faint red bustled over. As she neared her green eyes sparkled, and it was that green that would have given her identity away if Mary hadn’t been following closely on her heels to give credence to his suspicions.
“Your Grace! My lords! I am so pleased you were able to join us this evening.” She held out her hand.
Taking it, Sebastian bowed over it. “Lady Ivers, it is indeed a pleasure to be invited.”
She winked at him. “Do not think I did not catch the exact meaning of your words. Yet I assure you that it shall be a pleasure to attend as well.”
“Your guests don’t seem to be quite as pleased as you with our arrival.”
“On the contrary, they are simply agape that I managed to be the first to lure you gentlemen to such an affair. Allow me the honor of introducing my daughter, Lady Alicia.”
The lady was slightly taller than her mother, considerably more slender. Her hair was a less vibrant red than Mary’s, and he wondered if he would be comparing all women he met to Mary. It was a ridiculous notion. It was only that he knew her so well—
Only he didn’t. Not really. He knew little of what her life had been like while he’d been away.
The girl curtsied. “Your Grace. My lords.”
“Lady Alicia.”
“She is quite accomplished on the pianoforte and will entertain us following dinner. And of c
ourse, you are acquainted with my dear niece Lady Mary,” the countess said.
He thought neither of the other two ladies held a candle to her in beauty, although they came close. “Yes. It is good to see you again, Lady Mary.”
“And you, Your Grace, my lords.”
“Allow me to introduce Viscount Fitzwilliam,” Lady Ivers continued.
Sebastian had a strong need to groan. The night would no doubt be filled with tedious introductions. “You are a fortunate man, my lord, to have won Lady Mary over.”
“I’d have not asked for her hand in marriage if I’d thought otherwise.”
Right then. So we’re not going to get along famously. He was actually glad. He hadn’t wanted to like the man, and he wasn’t certain why. It went without saying that he wanted Mary to be happy. He just wasn’t certain this was the man with whom he wanted her to be happy. He couldn’t explain his strange thoughts.
“Your Grace,” Lady Ivers began, “you will discover that I am most unconventional and known for being a bit eccentric. I have dispensed with formal seating this evening. If you will be so kind as to escort me into dinner when the time comes …”
Her pointed stare indicated that no was not an option as a response.
“I would be honored.”
“Splendid. Lord Rafe, my daughter shall be on your arm and, Lord Tristan, if you will be so kind as to escort Lady Mary. You don’t mind do you, Fitzwilliam?”
The viscount opened his mouth.
“Good. I thought not. Come along then, Fitzwilliam. I want to ensure that you are acquainted with the lady you’ll escort into dinner. Gentlemen, I shall see you shortly.”
She bustled off. Fitzwilliam bent down and whispered something to Mary. She nodded, said something in a low voice. The intimacy of their belonging together struck Sebastian like a blow to the chest. Which was ludicrous. He had no claim on her. He’d rarely thought of her over the years. Pembrook was always uppermost in his mind. As Fitzwilliam strode away, she turned back to them. “I do hope you’re not put off by my aunt’s manipulations. She can be quite … enthusiastic.”
“I would better describe her as a tempest at sea,” Tristan said.
Lady Alicia smiled. “I hope to have at least half her energy when I’m her age.”
“I haven’t half her energy now,” Mary said. “We are truly pleased that you accepted Aunt Sophie’s invitation. We thought this small affair might be a less overwhelming introduction back into Society. If you’ll come along, Lady Alicia and I will introduce you around.”
It was a ten-minute maze of nodding, bowing, and taking gloved hands. It was only as the bell was rung for dinner that it occurred to Sebastian that he should have been paying more attention to the young ladies to whom he was introduced, to determine if one might make a suitable wife. Then he realized that if he’d already forgotten their names that they probably weren’t for him. Shouldn’t he at least be attracted to them enough to want to remember their names?
Thank goodness he was rescued by his formidable hostess and escorted her into dinner. He had been dreading the seating but with her at the foot of the table and he to her right, only she, the wall, Tristan, and Mary—both of whom sat across from him—had to endure his scars. Lady Alicia was to his right. In spite of the number of people in attendance, Lady Ivers had managed to arrange the seating so dinner was more intimate. After he quickly downed two glasses of wine, he also found it more relaxed.
Fitzwilliam was on the other side of Mary, so while he’d not accompanied her into dinner, he was no doubt somewhat mollified to find himself sitting beside his betrothed. The poor chit he’d escorted into dinner was ignored as the viscount sought to engage Mary in conversation. Once he had her attention, Tristan began cleverly luring her back to him. Sebastian suspected she’d have a stiff neck before the night was done.
However, he couldn’t deny he appreciated the view he had of her. From beneath her lashes, she met his gaze and damned if it wasn’t as though she’d reached across the table and touched him. He lifted his wineglass in a silent salute, which she returned with a soft smile. His gaze followed the slope of her throat to her bared décolletage. Her skin was a creamy white that drew the eye, but then everything about her commanded attention.
She turned away as Fitzwilliam diverted her once again. He wondered if the viscount was an exceptional conversationalist or if he was as boring as his clothing. Black and white. Not a single thread of color.
“Amazing, isn’t she?” Lady Ivers said so quietly that no one else heard, and the heat burned his cheeks at being caught staring at Mary. “One can hardly countenance that she had no formal preparation for her own Season. But then what do nuns know of etiquette outside of the church?”
All Sebastian’s personal discomforts in this situation vanished, and he studied the countess as though she’d just spoken in a foreign language. “Nuns?”
“Quite.” She blinked, offered a slight smile, then appeared flummoxed. “Oh, my word.” Her voice went even lower. “Did I let the cat out of the bag? I would have thought she told you, but then I suppose in reflection that it is not something about which one boasts—even to an old friend. But yes, her father sent her to a nunnery when she was little more than twelve. In spite of my earnest objections. She was already ensconced behind those walls by the time I found out. One of those orders that doesn’t allow visitors. I wanted to bring her to our home, but my husband insisted it was not my concern. The nerve. My sister’s daughter not my concern. I can tell you it was some months before he again found his bed warm.”
If Sebastian weren’t still shocked and seething by this revelation he might have smiled at her acerbic tone.
“Can you imagine a girl of her spirit being confined to such a restrained world?” she asked.
Asking why the Earl of Winslow would do such a thing to his only daughter was on the tip of his tongue but he feared he knew. Surely not, but he couldn’t quiet his suspicions. The man was fortunate that Sebastian hadn’t known of this when he’d visited. He could hardly imagine a crueler fate for the girl who had once raced wildly over the moors with him.
“I finally had enough of it. Put my foot down this year I tell you. Told Winslow to his face that if I was bringing my daughter to London for the Season that I was good and well bringing my dear sister’s daughter with me. Her dear mother would have wanted her to have a proper suitor.”
“And is he? A proper suitor. Fitzwilliam.”
She drew herself up as though she were responsible for the arrangement. “Oh, quite. He is the heir to Glenchester.”
He tried to place the name—
“Marquess,” she said as though she could see that he struggled.
“It seems I am far less prepared than Lady Mary for a night such as this.”
“Don’t concern yourself. You’ll get the hang of everything quickly enough. I suspect your father taught you a great deal that you’ve merely locked away.”
He remembered the few times she and her family had visited. “Your husband. He’s not here tonight,” Sebastian said. “Are condolences in order?”
“Oh, my dear, that would be quite premature. Unfortunately, some wretched problem with his tenants called him away to the estate for a few days. Quite honestly he prefers the country.”
“I can relate to his preference.”
She smiled. “I suspect most men do, but they must tolerate what women prefer from time to time. Makes for a more pleasant marriage.”
Her words had him glancing back over to Mary, and wondering what her husband would tolerate from her. Would he give her the freedom she needed? And if he didn’t what recourse did Sebastian have to ensure she was happy? None at all, he supposed.
Her light laughter floated toward him, the sound as pleasing as crystal glasses tapped gently with a silver fork. Tristan had said something to elicit her response. It seemed his brother was quite the flirtatious devil.
He wished when he returned to Pembrook that she would be the
re. Where the deuce was Fitzwilliam’s estate anyway? He knew so little of the man, knew so little of most of these people. But then they knew nothing of him.
“Did you enjoy your time in the army, Your Grace?” Lady Alicia asked.
He felt Mary’s gaze light on him like a caress, could sense her holding her breath, anticipating his answer, and he wondered if she was as aware of him as he of her. Even when he didn’t hear the words, he heard her voice. The succulent aromas of the feast wafted around him, and yet he was acutely conscious of the scent of orchids—when not a single blossom graced the room. The scent was hers, all hers. Of that he was certain. Lady Alicia and her mother carried the fragrance of roses. “It provided interesting … experiences,” he finally answered curtly, far too curtly.
The girl blushed such a violent hue of red that he wished he could take back the tone if not the words. He simply hated being dissected as though he were the latest species of insect discovered.
“Did you serve in the Crimea, Your Grace?” Fitzwilliam asked, emphasizing the address as though it were undeserved, a challenge in his voice that indicated he might doubt Sebastian’s claims.
He had no intention of revealing that he’d lied about his age. One need be only sixteen to serve, but he’d felt a desire to lose himself in military life. He’d forged a letter from a fictitious father and never revealed that he was of the aristocracy. He’d been treated as a common man and that had given him a perspective many of his peers would never experience. He began his career as an ensign, serving as a captain’s assistant. “I did. Balaclava. Tennyson immortalized the battle.”
“The Charge of the Light Brigade,” Lady Alicia said in wonder. “You were there?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Nasty business that,” Fitzwilliam said.
“All war is nasty business, my lord.”
She Tempts the Duke Page 8
