“Before that, I was Sir Harold’s bailiff.” The slow, deep roll of Pollett’s Cornish accent fell on Gideon’s ears like music. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”
They might have. He hadn’t been interested enough to pay attention to much beyond the basics of his solicitor’s correspondence. Difficult as it was, he summoned a smile. “I can’t think of any man better suited to run the estate, Pollett.”
It was true. Unexpected his brother had seen it too. He wouldn’t have credited Harry with such good sense.
Pollett’s face creased in concern. “The estate isn’t as it should be. I did my best, but…”
Gideon made a dismissive gesture. “It doesn’t matter.” The house stood, and anything else could be fixed. If he could summon heart for the task.
“We’ve been short-staffed. And Sir Harold…”
Gideon met Pollett’s eyes and a silent message of understanding passed between them. Harry had already been a hopeless drunkard when Gideon left, for all he’d only been nineteen.
Sir Barker had been a man of stubborn opinions. He’d considered drinking, like hard riding and ceaseless womanizing, an essential manly attribute. Gideon’s open contempt for his sire’s swinish pursuits was just one of many conflicts between them.
A memory of Harry before the liquor got to him assailed Gideon and aroused a pang of genuine sorrow. His brother had been tall and gold like a Norse god. Strong. Hearty. Stupid as an ox but not vicious.
Any viciousness in the family had been his father’s.
Pollett swallowed visibly as Harry’s bluff ghost hovered, then vanished. “All will be well now there’s a real Trevithick holding the reins.”
Dear God, how much more of this could he take? The hope and joy in Pollett’s face made Gideon flinch. He didn’t deserve this unconditional welcome.
To avoid the old man’s gaze, Gideon turned back to the carriage. He looked inside to where Sarah shrank into the shadows. “Come out, Miss Watson.”
He stood back as she reluctantly obeyed. When she emerged, Pollett’s face lit with curiosity and the beginnings of speculation. “Are felicitations in order, Sir Gideon?”
If a man traveled alone with a woman, she could fill few roles in his life. A relative, and Pollett intimately knew the sparseness of the Trevithick family tree. A wife. A mistress.
Gideon stifled grim laughter. He wished to hell he was normal enough to have a mistress. If he did, she’d be a damned sight better turned out than Miss Watson. However low the Trevithicks sank, they always dressed their ladybirds comme il faut.
The girl hovered at his side with visible uncertainty. She’d raised the greatcoat’s collar around her face, and her shoulders hunched.
Shame was so familiar, he had no trouble recognizing it in another. He hated seeing such a proud spirit brought low. She hid her injuries, as though they marked her unclean, contagious. More than that, she must know her virtue was in question.
She waited silently, gazing at the ground. Poor Sarah. Hurt. Alone. Helpless.
Her brothers’ violence cast her into an unforgiving world. How she must loathe relying so totally on strangers. In this isolated place, she had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
His glance swept the small crowd arrayed before him. Generations of service tied these men and women to the Trevithicks. He drew himself up to his full height, and his voice rang with authority. “Miss Watson is an acquaintance who needs somewhere to stay.” He ignored her muffled gasp of horror as he used her name. “It’s imperative nobody knows of her presence. I entrust her safety to your good sense and discretion.”
Sarah mightn’t realize it, but he’d just claimed her as a denizen of his private kingdom. Penrhyn had always been a realm unto itself, loyal to those who belonged, suspicious of incomers. He waited as first one maid dropped into a curtsy, then another, and the men bowed acknowledgment.
Gideon gestured for her to precede him up the stairs and into the cavernous hall. But as he followed her into the house, reluctance weighted his tread.
The day’s last sunlight poured in dusty rays through tall mullioned windows. Inside, the shabbiness evidenced outside was overwhelming. Sparse furniture littered the vast space. There were signs of a hurried cleaning, but the elaborately carved moldings were unpolished, the curtains dusty, the fires unlit. The servants trailed in and lined up against the dark paneling.
“We put on extra staff when we heard you were coming, Sir Gideon. But I awaited your orders before I did too much. For the last year, it’s just been me and Mrs. Pollett in the house.” For a moment, Pollett’s formality faded. “I’m sorry, lad. It’s not much of a homecoming.”
Gideon looked around the unprepared, dirty room. Memories of his childhood were colder than the winter air. His father had conducted punishments here, usually before the staff. Gideon’s refusal to cry under the whip should have pleased the old tartar. After all, Sir Barker’s constant carp was that he’d spawned a puling weakling in his second son. But Gideon’s sullen obstinacy had only incited greater violence.
“Sir Gideon?”
The girl’s soft voice shattered his painful reminiscences. He turned to look at her. The collar folded back from her face, and as luck would have it, she stood in a pool of sunlight. Lit like a saint in a religious painting.
Her features were clearly discernible. A pointed chin, full lips, large eyes as changeable as the Cornish weather. Her hands tangled in the black folds of the coat, he guessed to hide their unsteadiness.
“You must be tired.” Now he looked more closely, there were dark crescents beneath her eyes, visible even under the bruising. “The travel has been difficult.”
When she met his stare, she raised her chin and summoned a fleeting smile. She was alone, afraid, defenseless, but she dared fate to defeat her. Something shifted in the farthest reaches of his heart, and the house’s sounds receded to a hushed murmur. Sarah Watson drew him as no other woman ever had. If circumstances weren’t so tragically askew, he might aspire to offer for her hand.
Instead, she’d do better to run a thousand miles from him. He was no use to himself. He was no use to the world. He could be no use to a wife.
That knowledge didn’t stop him yearning for joys other men took for granted.
He’d had months to count the agonizing toll of his years in India. He thought he’d measured the price of his experiences. But only now, when the phantom life he might have led beckoned like a desert mirage, did he truly comprehend all that had been stolen.
Grim reality dictated that Sarah remained an unfulfilled promise of everything he’d never have.
He tamped down the poignant longing, the regret, the sadness. She’d be gone in three weeks. He could endure that, surely. He’d endured a year of unspeakable suffering in Rangapindhi and survived.
“I’m all right.” She hesitated and bit her lip. “I’d love a bath, if that’s possible.”
“I’m sure it is.” Gideon glanced at Pollett, who waited nearby. “Are any bedrooms ready?”
“Aye, Sir Gideon.” The man stumbled every time he spoke the title. “The master suite is prepared.”
“That will not be suitable for Miss Watson,” he said curtly. The glare he shot Pollett made it clear Miss Watson was not and never would be his mistress. “Have the maids make up the Chinese room. You’ll need to make preparations for my man Tulliver too. And I’m expecting another guest, an Indian colleague, in the next few days. He’ll use the ivy room.”
Pollett bowed and spoke in a subdued voice. “Yes, Sir Gideon.”
Gideon desperately needed to escape this room with its hordes of unhappy ghosts. He gestured Sarah toward one end of the hall. “In the meantime, Miss Watson and I will take tea in the library. If it’s habitable.”
Pollett bowed again as he passed. When he lifted his head, he spoke softly and with a sincerity that made Gideon cringe. “I’m glad you lived to come home, lad.”
“Thank you,” he muttered, wishing he felt a shred of grati
tude for his survival into the hellish present.
At Sir Gideon’s side, Charis crossed a dark corridor and entered an even darker room. She drew her first unconstricted breath since she’d arrived. Thank goodness she was no longer the cynosure of all eyes. She loathed knowing the servants thought she was no better than she ought to be. In spite of Sir Gideon’s gallant efforts to insist she wasn’t his mistress. Her bruised face only increased speculation.
She waited uncertainly as he flung aside a heavy set of blue velvet curtains. Choking dust flew into the air. Sudden light dazzled her. She closed her eyes and opened them on a wall of windows facing an overgrown terrace poised above the sea.
For a long moment, Gideon stared at the magnificent view. Charis sensed sadness and curiously, for a man who returned home, a deep loneliness.
Was he grieving for his dead brother and father? Or did something else trouble him?
His essential isolation prompted her to touch him, offer comfort, remind him he was part of the human race. She curled her hands into the coat and stifled the impulse. The journey had taught her he wouldn’t welcome her overtures.
His rejections hurt, but not as much as it hurt to witness his brooding unhappiness. More sign that she was dangerously vulnerable to this man who was little more than a stranger. But she’d already fallen off the precipice. It was too late to try to save herself.
Eventually, he turned, brushing dust from his hands. His expression was neutral, the brief vulnerability hidden.
“I’ve brought you to a hovel, I’m sorry.” He moved across to help her take the coat off. He draped it over a set of mahogany library stairs. Like everything in the room, they were covered in thick dust. But no amount of dirt could conceal the impressive walls of leather-bound books or the elaborately carved furniture and plasterwork. This was a beautiful room, but nobody had cared for it in years.
“Hardly a hovel.” Gingerly she perched on an upholstered chair, sending up a puff of dust that made her sneeze. She was weary to the bone, and every muscle ached from the beating and the hours in the coach. She’d sell her soul for a hot bath and a bed and the chance to sleep for a month. She’d sell her soul twice over to see a glimmer of joy in Sir Gideon’s dark face.
“How are you feeling?” He surveyed her with an impersonal concern that made her want to shrivel up in the corner.
“I’ll be glad to stay put for a little while,” she said. “How are you?”
He frowned as if the reminder of his illness rankled. “I’m perfectly well, thank you.” He swung away, discouraging further inquiries after his health. “You should rest and regain your strength. I’ll send Mrs. Pollett to you after we’ve eaten. She’s not Akash, but she knows most of the country remedies.”
“Thank you.” She had no right to mind his eagerness to consign her to other people’s care. Frightening how much power a glance or a word from him had over her emotions. She tried to set up self-protective barriers, but they crumbled to rubble the moment she looked at him.
She sneezed again and muttered her thanks as she accepted the handkerchief Gideon extended in her direction. Through watery eyes, she watched him prowl the room, lifting items seemingly at random and inspecting them.
How curious he was so ill at ease in his own house. Why was his homecoming so strained? He’d dropped hints of a clouded family history. Did old memories torment him? Something did. Tension stiffened his back, and deep lines bracketed his expressive mouth.
The door opened to a girl carrying a tray. The cups didn’t match. One was Meissen, one was Sèvres. Both were exquisite. Once, someone at Penrhyn had had taste and money to indulge it.
Sharing the tray was a plate of roughly hewn cheese sandwiches. To Charis’s embarrassment, her stomach growled. She flushed. Great-aunt Georgiana would be mortified at such a faux pas.
Sir Gideon replaced a small marble bust of Plato on the windowsill and turned to the maid. “What’s your name, lass?”
The musical baritone worked its usual magic. Even Charis, who should by now be inured to its allure, shivered in sensual reaction to that deep, musical sound. The girl’s thin shoulders relaxed, and she sent Sir Gideon a shy smile as she slid the tray onto a dusty rosewood side table.
“Dorcas, Sir Gideon.” She curtsied. “I be Pollett’s granddaughter. Ee mightn’t remember me, sir, but I remember ee, though I were only a ween of five when ee left.”
“You used to churn the butter for your mother.”
“Aye, sir.” The girl flushed with surprised pleasure. “Fancy ee remembering that.”
Gideon tilted his head toward Charis. “Miss Watson needs a maid. Would you be interested in helping, Dorcas?”
The girl curtsied to Charis. “Oh, aye, miss. But I bain’t never been a lady’s maid afore.”
“I’m sure you’ll be splendid, Dorcas,” Charis said. Again, she had reason to be grateful for Gideon’s thoughtfulness. She was wicked to want more than he offered.
The girl grinned with gap-toothed delight. “Thank ee, miss. Thank ee.”
When Dorcas had gone, Gideon glanced across at Charis. “She’ll be clumsy at first, but she was a quick child. I imagine she’ll learn fast.”
“There’s no need to make excuses. You’re kind to think of my convenience. My step…my brothers…” Dear heaven, the false intimacy of being alone with Sir Gideon in this beautiful, neglected room made her forget she lived a lie. She needed to watch her tongue, or she’d reveal her true identity. “My brothers deprived me of my maid over the last weeks.”
It infuriated her to recall Felix and Hubert’s petty tyrannies. As though lacking a servant’s attentions would convince her to marry the foul Lord Desaye.
Gideon strolled across to the table. He lifted the plate of sandwiches and extended it toward her. “You’re hungry after your journey.”
She stood, ignoring a yelp of discomfort from her abused body. This at least she knew how to do. Something familiar in the sea of unfamiliarity. “Shall I pour your tea?”
“Thank you.” Gideon put down the plate as Pollett entered the room. Charis concentrated on fiddling with the tea things, her color rising as she recalled Pollett’s quick assumption that she was Sir Gideon’s mistress.
“Is all in order, sir?”
“We need a fire,” Gideon said, taking a seat near the table.
As Pollett left, Charis passed Gideon his tea and a plate with two sandwiches arranged upon it. Her left arm made the simple duty more trouble than usual, but she managed. Such a small achievement, but enough to revive her spirit.
He smiled almost naturally. “So this is what it’s like to be under a lady’s dominion.”
She frowned with puzzlement. “Surely you’ve taken tea with a female before.”
“Never alone. Never in my own house.” He swallowed a mouthful of tea and lifted his chunky sandwich for a healthy bite. Whatever his illness of yesterday, it seemed to have passed.
“What about your mother?” She took the chair opposite. As she sipped from her cup, she stifled a sigh of pleasure. It was a small luxury, yet one she’d missed.
His face became expressionless. “My mother died at my birth. My father didn’t remarry, having already sired two sons and seeing no need to submit himself again to the yoke of matrimony.”
“I’m sorry about your mother.” Had his mother bought the pretty china and chosen the delicate, faded fabrics that upholstered the furniture? So much death marred his life. Was this what darkened his soul? Sadness thickened her throat, and the tea abruptly lost its flavor. “No feminine influence at all in the house?”
His lips quirked. “No ladies at any rate.”
“Oh.”
She couldn’t control a blush although her heart beat faster at the idea of him with a woman. He wouldn’t sit across the table, drinking tea. He’d snatch her up in his arms and kiss her and…She tamped down the wanton images before she made more of a fool of herself than she had already. Her face felt like it was on fire.
The smile became a smirk. “Indeed.”
She dragged her mind kicking and screaming back to reality and looked around the room. Anything to avoid his knowing glance. Now she thought about it, the house shrieked its lack of chatelaine. Penrhyn badly needed a woman to take charge and restore its former glory.
Perhaps the absence of early feminine influence explained Sir Gideon’s awkwardness with her. Although he didn’t strike her as an innately shy man. Again, she wondered if he disliked her. The possibility made her belly tighten with denial. She dearly wanted Sir Gideon’s approval.
Surely he must like her just a little. His manner at times such as this was almost intimate. Certainly more intimate than she could remember encountering in other gentlemen. Every time he turned that warm regard on her, she felt like a sunflower opening to the sun. She knew the reaction was improper, dizzying, perilous, but she couldn’t help it.
He broke the tense silence and spoke with a polite formality that chilled the already icy air. “I hope you’ll treat the house as your own, Miss Watson. Go where you please. Read anything in the library. There’s a pianoforte in the morning room—or there used to be. I wouldn’t advise you to stray too far from the grounds in case you’re seen. Although I suspect your injuries put anything too energetic out of reach at present.”
“Thank you,” Charis said dully. Stupid to long for Sir Gideon’s arms to close around her. She forced herself to remember they were chance-met strangers. This silly wayward lilt of the heart was purely one-sided.
All this emotional turmoil on top of the beating and the long days of travel conspired to sap her last ounce of energy. With a tired gesture, she set her cup in its saucer. Every second intensified her multitude of aches. Her head thickened with weariness.
He rose from his chair and moved across to a sideboard, where he splashed some brandy into a glass. “The house and estate will demand my attention for the next few days. Penrhyn’s been too long without a master.” She recognized his tone as a deliberate attempt to put her at a distance.
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