by Julia London
But Greer had had enough of solitude. “We have gas lighting on the streets in London,” she said.
Ifan nodded. One footman looked at her strangely.
“Have you ever been to London?” she asked.
Ifan looked startled. “Me?” he asked. “Of course. In the company of his lordship.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” She smiled. Ifan smiled thinly. Greer turned her smile to the footmen. “What of your men?”
“Not I, miss,” one responded, and got a look from Ifan for it. “But Mr. Salisbury, he’s been.”
“Who is Mr. Salisbury?” Greer asked.
With a look that seemed a tad bit perturbed, Ifan said, “He is the groundskeeper.”
“He kept a rather large house in London, I’ve heard tell,” the footman offered helpfully.
“Not in London!” Ifan snapped. “Cornwall! He’s not the sort wanted in London.”
“Ah…excuse me,” Greer said, and walked away as the footman said, “I am quite certain it was London, sir.”
She made her way through another series of turns and stairs that seemed to lead nowhere, poking her head into rooms that were empty or seldom used, examining the furnishings. When she somehow ended up back at her room—and in time for luncheon, she was pleased to note—she was feeling a bit more comfortable with her surroundings.
Later that afternoon, she was actually eager to be on her rounds again. She met two chambermaids she had not seen before, and tried to help them move a brass cart from one end of a salon to another. But in her eagerness to help, she managed to catch her hem in the wheel of the cart, which had both of the young women up in arms. It took Mrs. Bowen to free the train of her gown.
She found the very large kitchen and introduced herself to Mrs. Ruby, the cook, who preferred to be addressed as Cook. The kitchen was filled with the smells of baking bread and burning peat, scents which carried Greer back some years. She had a memory of her mother in a kitchen dancing around with one of the servants before settling in to help Greer make a cake. The smell was so inviting and warmly familiar that Greer did not want to leave. She stood in the middle of the kitchen, fiddling absently with a basket of herbs, explaining to Cook how much she missed gathering her own herbs in London.
“We had only a small garden,” she said as she put some sweet basil to her nose and inhaled. “There’s not nearly as much space to grow them as there is here.”
“Ah,” Cook said, and almost collided with the scullery maid as they tried to step around Greer.
“Oh, I do beg your pardon. Shall I stand over there?” she asked, pointing to a table. She didn’t wait for Cook to answer, but picked up the basket and walked around to the small table and continued to sort through the herbs, trying to identify each one by smell. She was quite oblivious to the spat that had developed between Cook and the maid until Cook asked hesitantly, “Beg your pardon, miss…but have you the herb basket?”
“Yes!” Greer said cheerfully. “Would you like it?”
Cook and the scullery maid exchanged a quick glance as Greer handed the basket to them and then settled herself on a stool and began to tell them about Ava and Phoebe. “They are my cousins,” she said, “but they are really more like sisters. Ava is beautiful, and kind,” she said with a smile. “But she can be very headstrong. Stubborn, you might say. Really rather pigheaded when she wants to be. And Phoebe, oh my…she is so very creative and talented with a needle. She embroidered this gown,” she said, and stood up, twirling around for them to see. “But Phoebe has a tendency to give her thoughts over to fantasy,” she said, and continued to reminisce until Mrs. Bowen arrived.
Cook, she noticed, seemed very relieved as she spoke in Welsh to the housekeeper. Mrs. Bowen blinked, then looked at Greer. “Miss Fairchild, will you come with me?”
“Yes, of course. Where are we going?” Greer asked.
“To the, ah…the salon,” she said. “I should like your opinion about the decor.”
The opinion Mrs. Bowen sought, however, was nothing more than what flowers should be put in a vase. When Greer said, rather thoughtfully, “Irises,” Mrs. Bowen thanked her profusely and hurried out. It wasn’t until a few moments later that Greer realized she had been tactfully removed from the kitchen.
Now being careful to stay clear of the servants, who did not seem to appreciate her company, Greer found yet another corridor. This one was very wide with an arched ceiling and stone floor. The slight indentation in the stone down the middle of the floor indicated that centuries of persons had walked this way before her.
Along the walls were more armaments and more paintings—one would think there were not enough people in all of Wales to populate the dozens upon dozens of paintings that hung on the castle walls.
In the middle of the corridor was a set of double oak doors standing open, and as Greer neared them, she could hear the sounds of people within. She paused and listened closely. The voices sounded far away, and she guessed she was at the entrance to a large room, perhaps a ballroom.
With a quick, furtive look around to ensure no one was watching her, Greer carefully stepped up to the door. But instead of people, she saw sculptures. More than a dozen of them. It was, apparently, a small sculpture gallery on a balcony above a larger room. And though she could hear voices below her, she couldn’t resist investigating this enthralling find. She slipped inside to peruse the alabaster figures.
The Welsh voices below her were those of men, and she recognized one low, magnetic voice as belonging to the prince. Fortunately, there was no light in the balcony, save what filtered in through a pair of windows above her head, but it was sufficient light to see the sculptures of various size and subjects. As the men below seemed to be in a rather intense conversation, judging by all the guttural sounds that were tossed about, Greer moved guardedly to stand behind a life-sized sculpture of Cupid.
The craftsmanship was exquisite. She guessed that it was Italian marble, and admiring the work, she brazenly trailed her fingers along the young man’s hips, then up, tracing each curl of the lad’s head.
But soon she was distracted by the sound of swords being crossed, and curious, she peeked out from around Cupid, following the line of his arrow, which happened to be pointed directly at the prince below her.
He was wearing a lawn shirt tucked into his buckskins, his collar missing, his sleeves billowing as he fenced with a man she had not seen before. To the side stood two footmen, flanking a table where several foils had been laid.
The sight of him stirred something deep and disquieting in Greer. She could not take her eyes from him for even a moment. He fenced like a beast, strong and with powerful grace, and as he thrust forward, she could see the power of his hips and thighs outlined in the buckskins he wore. His back, broad and muscular across the shoulders, tapered into a trim waist. His dark hair was tied at the nape with a black ribbon, and he moved with the agility of a man half his age.
The man on the receiving end of his foil was lumbering backward, forced back by the speed with which the prince fenced. Fascinated by the display, Greer leaned farther out from behind Cupid, watching him.
In a matter of only minutes, the prince effortlessly forced his opponent against a column and struck the foil from his hand. His opponent’s chest heaved with the exertion of having defended himself and slowly the man raised his hands in defeat, saying something in Welsh that made the prince laugh. He lowered his blade and walked out of Greer’s sight as his opponent slid down the column to his haunches, picked up his sword, and gained his feet again. He spoke again in Welsh, and then suddenly lunged.
The abrupt movement prompted a tiny squeal of surprise from Greer—she darted behind another sculpture closer to the balcony’s edge to better view what was happening.
The man had put the prince back on his heels, thrusting wildly at his head, chest and flank, forcing the prince to retreat. She thought surely the prince would be defeated now, but he moved casually, almost as if he didn’t realize he was in d
anger of losing. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the momentum changed, and the prince was moving forward, his foil slicing across his opponent’s blade with incredible speed, fencing the man into a wall once again. He swept the man’s foil aside and pressed the tip of his foil to the man’s throat.
Greer held her breath, expecting him to thrust the point into the soft hollow of the man’s throat. But the prince suddenly grinned—a very winsome, endearing grin that she would have thought impossible had she not seen it with her own eyes—and lowered his blade.
The other man laughed with relief as the prince stooped a little crookedly to pick up his foil. The man bowed as he accepted the foil, said something more, to which the prince responded with a flick of his wrist. His opponent laughed again, and with a nod of his head, he walked away, under the balcony, so that Greer could no longer see him.
The prince took a cloth that was tucked inside his belt and cleaned the handle of his foil while the two servants gathered the other foils. When they were done, the prince said something, and the footmen walked in the same direction as the opponent, leaving the prince alone in the ballroom.
Greer remained frozen, behind the sculpture, watching him. It occurred to her that she ought to retreat, that there was something very wrong in watching a man who thought he was alone. Yet she was fascinated by him, by the way he seemed to appear so fearless and vulnerable at once.
He mopped his brow with the cloth he’d used to clean the foil, then tossed it onto the table before walking back to the middle of the ballroom. He paused, leaned down, and rubbed his knee with the palms of his hands, then straightened again, put his fists to his hips, and looked up.
Directly at Greer.
She caught her breath and held it, uncertain if he could actually see her.
“Are you spying, Miss Fairchild?”
Good God, how had he seen her? How could he possibly have seen her in the darkly lit gallery, behind the sculpture? She was mortified—young girls were caught spying on men, not sophisticated women, as she liked to fancy herself. But she had no excuse for having invaded his privacy in such an appalling manner, so she reluctantly stepped out from the sculpture and said, “I am not spying.”
Of course she had indeed been spying, but she was not fool enough to admit it. “I was admiring your sculptures. You happened to be fencing at the same time.”
“What a coincidence,” he drawled. “And how did you find the fencing?”
How did she find it? Astounding. Masterful. “Fair,” she said pertly.
One of his dark brows rose above the other. “Fair? How interesting. I am actually renowned for my skill.”
“That does not surprise me,” she said flippantly. “You are the prince. People often say to the prince what he would like to hear.”
A slow smile tipped up one corner of his mouth. “You are to be commended, Miss Fairchild, for I do not care for false flattery—and you have taken care not to flatter me in the least. I thought that perhaps you watched me so intently as to learn a thing or two about the art of defense, as you seem to fancy yourself in constant danger.”
Oh, how damnably embarrassing—he’d known she was up here all along. “Oh no,” she said airily. “I am not so foolish as to believe that I could ever best you in a game of physical strength, my lord. I shall defend myself more artfully than with brute force.”
“Ah. I should very much like to experience your artful defense.”
For some reason, the way he said it made Greer feel quite naked. So naked, in fact, that she could not think of a proper retort.
He stood below her, taking her in. After a moment, he put his hand to his nape, looked at the ground, and said—reluctantly, she thought—“Miss Fairchild…”
His voice trailed off; he glanced up at her again, his expression surprisingly distressed.
What was the matter with him? “Yes?” she prompted him.
Again he looked down, but at his hand, and spread his fingers wide as he studied them, and said quietly, “I must ask you to stop bothering my staff.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“There have been a few complaints—”
“Complaints?” she exclaimed. What awful traitors filled this house!
“It would seem that you are constantly underfoot….” He glanced up and smiled devilishly. “When you are not spying, that is. Please do have a care that you leave the servants to their tasks, will you? While I am certain they appreciate your surprising willingness to help them…please don’t.”
“Rest assured I will not!”
“Thank you.” And with that, he strode out of her sight.
Greer heard a door open and shut, and then nothing. “By the saints!” she exclaimed. “He is the most exasperatingly peculiar man I have ever encountered. Bothering the servants indeed,” she muttered as she left the sculpture gallery.
Eleven
H olding his coat and his neckcloth, Rhodrick strode across the lower promenade with no destination in mind other than to get as far from Greer Fairchild as possible within his own home. He could not imagine what he’d done to earn God’s wrath, to have deserved a woman who appeared unexpectedly in places she should not and then smiled with the force of a thousand candles.
He had spotted her on the balcony as he had waited for his friend and fencing partner, Hugh Pryce, to compose himself after being foiled by Rhodrick’s sword the first time. He’d been so startled to see her peeking out from behind the sculpture that Hugh had managed to catch him off guard and had nearly won the bout.
It was not her spying that aggravated him so completely, although he did not care for it. It was just…her. He was a man, wasn’t he, and he could not help his nature, or the fact that he enjoyed a pretty woman’s smile. But a woman’s smile did not generally cause him to be so damnably tongue-tied in her presence, and that vexed him no end.
His whole demeanor was insupportable—he was a powerful man in this small corner of the world, responsible for the welfare of hundreds of people. He was a respected arbiter and judge, a man accustomed to resolving other men’s disputes in which he could be counted to reason and rule fairly.
To discover then, on the eve of his thirty-ninth year that a young woman—who was, for all he knew, a cunning swindler—could unbalance him so completely with a mere smile was humiliating.
He marched on, his temper turning more foul. He wound his way up the stairwell and into the main foyer, past the goddamn mirror he was coming to despise. And up again, to the first floor, on his way to his study, his retreat, the one place where he might forget she was even in his house.
Except that he encountered her again.
As he entered the corridor, he was forced to stop, for she was there, her hands clasped behind her and her lovely face tilted up as she examined a painting. She seemed as surprised as he was, and for a moment, she looked as if she might flee. But then again, she always looked as if she wanted to flee when she laid eyes on his ugly face.
She did not run, however. This time, she turned and faced him fully.
His mind was racing almost as madly as his heart. Standing this close to her, he could not help noticing the fit of her gown, the way the velvet hugged every curve, the intricate embroidery on the bodice and sleeves. For a thief, the woman certainly wore some very fine clothing.
“Ahem.”
He lifted his gaze, saw the devilish sparkle in the eye of a woman who knew she was being physically admired. But then she suddenly squinted and peered closely at his face.
Rhodrick unconsciously reared back. What did she see? Did his face offend her?
“I beg your pardon, but you are bleeding.”
“What?” He touched his face and remembered now—he and Hugh rarely wore masks, and the tip of Hugh’s foil had caught his cheek, near his scar. He swiped at the dried blood, embarrassed. “It is nothing.”
She nodded. Her gaze began to burn him; he felt extraordinarily self-conscious, unimaginably ugly, and moved to step aroun
d her at the same moment she attempted to move out of his way. As a result, they almost collided.
They were standing so close he could smell lilac. He glanced down, to the twin mounds of creamy flesh that seemed to spill out of her bodice. He lifted his gaze, looked directly into her sea blue eyes. Neither of them spoke, but Rhodrick could feel something treacherous swirling around inside him.
Their awkward maneuvering seemed to amuse Miss Fairchild, however. She smiled as his gaze drifted to her luscious lips, revealing pearl white teeth.
The treachery in his body intensified.
“I do beg your pardon,” she said, and stepped out of his way.
Rhodrick hastily walked on, continuing on to the sanctuary of his study. As he strode inside, he felt a wave of relief, and tossed his coat and neckcloth onto a chair as his dogs padded over to greet him, their tails wagging. Distracted, he patted them both on the head before moving to his desk.
“You seem to prefer this study to all the other rooms in this very large castle.”
Much to his amazement and vexation, Miss Fairchild had followed him. He turned sharply to stare at her in disbelief. To add to his surprise, his dogs had now seen Miss Fairchild often enough as to be quite accustomed to her. She was absently petting them both as she watched Rhodrick.
“I…I have noticed it,” she added tentatively.
What was she doing here, in his sanctuary, petting his dogs? What was she doing here? She had made it very well known that she abhorred him—why did she not leave him be?
“It’s just that it’s such a large castle,” she continued, as if he had inquired. “And there are so many rooms.”
He blinked. “Yes,” he said. Was there some reason he should not prefer this room? With a furtive, uneasy glance around, he tried to see it through her eyes. A bit austere, perhaps, save all the books.
“I suppose it belonged to a Welsh king at one time.”
