“Right this way, my dear.” Wilmott held out his arm. She looked behind her and found Evvie being escorted by a dapper elderly footman. Having no choice, she lightly touched Wilmott’s arm and they were led to the castle’s drawing room.
Powerscourt’s drawing room was the grand dame of Victorian delights. It was done in the modern Grecian style; ladies perched on saber-legged chairs and men sat on scroll-end couches. Carved in the marble overmantel, a lifelike Orpheus played his lyre for the Muses. Sea-green shadow-striped satin covered the windows in swags and jabots and framed the archway that led to a sumptuous glass and iron conservatory.
Already feeling like a churchmouse in a cathedral, Lissa hugged her crepe shawl to her and looked at the ladies in the drawing room. In her pitifully plain taffeta, she was overwhelmed by the scallops, poufing, cording, piping, fringing, passementerie, and tassels that ornamented their sophisticated gowns. Arabella Parks, an old chum from days long past, looked particularly fetching in a peach satin oversewn with gilt fringe. It was all Lissa could do not to run the other way.
But by then she had met Ivan’s eye. He stood by the mantel looking every bit as handsome as Orpheus himself. He wore a severe black cutaway relieved only by his brilliantly white shirt. Even his barrel-knotted tie was an unheard of black silk, but it complemented his coloring magnificently. Though she was terrified, she would die before she would show it.
Meeting his cool gaze, she allowed Wilmott to escort her to their host and exchange pleasantries—if that was possible with the eleventh Marquis of Powerscourt. Yet seeing how changed the castle was, she was beginning to think anything was possible with this wickedly attractive man. Anything at all.
“Who would have ever thought, old boy!” Wilmott congratulated Ivan on his newfound wealth as if he were still the stableboy he remembered him to be.
With all eyes on them, Ivan chivalrously bent down and brushed Lissa’s hand with his lips. His touch felt at once like fire and ice, and her fingers curled into her palm as if to protect them from the strange sensation.
“Yes, who would have ever thought,” he answered meaningfully, his assessing gaze darting between her and Wilmott. His hidden meaning not lost on her, she colored, then despised herself for doing so.
Numbly she watched him greet her sister. After he kissed Evvie’s hand and she was blushing prettily, Tramore greeted the two Billingsworth sisters in the same manner, though perhaps a bit more dispassionately. He next proceeded to introduce his company. The group was small. Arabella sat next to her mother and father, and much to Lissa’s relief, the Bishops were there also.
Lissa turned to meet the stranger in the group. Yet he was no stranger, not really. He was the man who had been in the Mercantile that terrible day they received the news of Great-aunt Sophie’s death. He looked quite dashing now in doeskin trousers and a gray cutaway. His cravat was blue, and as bright as his eyes, which were now trained on herself and Evvie.
“This is my bailiff—if you will—Holland Jones,” Ivan said, introducing the stranger.
Mr. Jones bent to kiss her hand. His manners were assured, but Lissa could have sworn his hand shook when he touched hers. When he was introduced to Evvie, he made the same elegant gesture, and his eyes seemed to warm at her sister’s sweet appearance.
When the introductions had been made, the ladies were served sherry and seated. A short half hour was spent in idle conversation while Lissa self-consciously fingered the corners of her shawl.
There was only one terribly uncomfortable moment when Mrs. Parks bubbled with enthusiasm over the castle’s new appearance. Thoughtlessly she exclaimed, “I’ve never seen this old place look so grand! Why, the last time Mr. Parks and I were here, one could hardly see to the end of the Hall in the gloom. It’s quite extraordinary—can you believe it’s the same place, my lord?”
A booming silence reverberated around the room and Lissa knew all too well the reason for it. There wasn’t a person in the room who hadn’t been to tea at Powerscourt —except, ironically, the very person who now owned it. Everyone knew Ivan had been barred from the castle like a leper.
“I wouldn’t know,” Ivan answered, as solemn as death.
His words immediately put everyone to shame. Mrs. Parks, remembering whom she’d been talking to, seemed to go into apoplexy. She fanned herself most hysterically while the silence in the room became almost unbearable. Everyone suddenly seemed to find their drinks or shirt buttons so much more interesting than the conversation at hand.
Only Lissa seemed to find the courage to look at Ivan. It had been thoughtless of Mrs. Parks to inadvertently bring up his father’s cruelty, and if Lissa had found even the tiniest glimmer of hurt in Ivan’s eyes, she surely would have been beside herself trying to ease it. Yet typically, Ivan seemed to relish his guests’ discomfort and suddenly she was angry. How like him to fight back in this manner, she thought. But he was not going to destroy everyone around him and he was most definitely not going to destroy her.
Abruptly she stood and walked to the mantel. Joining Ivan, she daringly met his gaze and said, “I daresay the marquis has been the lucky one, then, not having had to endure tea in that gloomy Hall with the former Lord Powerscourt.”
A few of the men released chuckles, and quickly the tension was dispelled. Lissa knew there wasn’t a visitor in the room who didn’t remember all the awful calls made to Ivan’s father. For years an invitation to Powerscourt had been like an invitation to hell. Certainly one did not ignore it.
With the company again at ease, conversation began once more. Heartened, Lissa looked about the room. Her gaze was caught by Mr. Jones’s. To her surprise, Ivan’s bailiff looked at her with open admiration, as if she had done something he’d wanted to do for years. She smiled at the nice gentleman, then took a sip of her sherry.
“How well I remember that unchecked boldness, Lissa,” Ivan whispered for her ears only. Shocked by his comment, she stared up at him. As if it were yesterday, she recalled his kiss in the stables, but then the phrase “Lusty Lissa” echoed once more in her mind. He had obviously seen the look that had passed between her and Jones. Was he accusing her of something? He now appeared thoroughly displeased. With a sense of foreboding, she took another sip of her sherry.
Thankfully dinner was announced at that point, and all the ladies were escorted to the dining room. Lissa was pleasantly surprised to find Mr. Bishop her companion for dinner, for Wilmott had been forced upon Mrs. Parks. Yet for some reason she was perturbed to find Ivan holding out his arm for Arabella. She had no doubts they made a fine couple. Arabella’s flaming locks were perfectly complemented by Ivan’s darkness. But the picture of them together jarred her.
She’d always thought of Ivan as a loner, not as some well-bred young lady’s socially correct escort. In the past, Ivan’s very aloofness had only fed the flames of her terrible attraction to him. Now, thankfully, perhaps those days were no more. The old Ivan was gone. In his stead was a man she hardly knew—a devastating marquis who obviously knew how to court women. And if the old Ivan was gone, it just might be possible that her attraction to him was gone too. That it had diminished with time.
She allowed a footman to seat her. Once settled, she looked down the long banquet table and stole another glance at Ivan, who sat at the head. His strong fingers neatly unfolded his napkin. With the appearance of the sommelier, Ivan nodded to his wineglass. The essence of a smile played upon his fine lips and with it, Lissa found herself captivated. His smile had always been so elusive. As a girl, she’d spent days wagering against Evvie to see who could make their somber stableboy smile first. Somehow Evvie had usually won, because she was so sweet and guileless. But Lissa hadn’t minded losing, especially if the reward was one of Ivan’s smiles. Even Michelangelo couldn’t have painted a more handsome youth.
Unexpectedly Ivan raised his eyes. His gaze shot down the length of the table and locked with hers. He’d caught her staring like an awestruck maiden, and she couldn’t hide the blus
h that seeped up her bosom and stained her cheeks. Unnerved, she immediately looked away. She spent the time before the soup was served fiddling once more with her shawl. And worrying that perhaps instead of diminishing with time, her attraction to Ivan had only ripened.
Dinner was served fashionablyà la Russe, whereby each dish was carried round in succession to all the guests. Lissa could hardly name all the dishes for each course, but she was glad there was so much to take her attention away from the man who sat at the end of the table. The wine was sweet and heady, and before she knew it, she felt brave enough to turn her head again in Ivan’s direction. This time, unfortunately, her gaze was caught by Wilmott, who was also sitting at that end of the table. The old man smiled at her and wiggled his fingers in what he hoped was a discreet wave. Lissa acknowledged him with a smile but quickly averted her eyes, only to turn once more to the marquis.
Yet now Lissa found Tramore’s attentions elsewhere. They weren’t on Arabella as she expected, but rather the marquis was leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed upon his chest, studying Wilmott. The object of his scrutiny, however, didn’t seem to notice for Wilmott was again trying to catch her eye. Old Billingsworth brazenly winked this time, and she had to stifle the urge to giggle. The entire situation was so absurd! She longed to tell Evvie all about it, but her sister was sitting at the opposite end of the table engaged in a lively conversation with Mr. Jones.
When dinner was over cordials were served in the conservatory for the ladies, and the gentlemen retired to Ivan’s library for brandy. Though the conservatory was a most glorious setting for cordials and cakes, Lissa found the humidity quite unbearable. There was a huge porcelain stove in the middle of the room, and while the oleanders and palms thrived on the heat, she felt wilted and oppressed. She took a lime cordial and sat gingerly on a wrought-iron chair next to Evvie. She opened her shawl a bit and listened in on the conversation the other ladies were having.
“How delightful that dinner was. The trifle was excellent.” Mrs. Parks plunked herself down on a baroque-revival bench.
“Yes, but if only I were young and slim like the girls here, I wouldn’t feel so uncomfortable in my stays right now.” Mrs. Bishop ran her hands down her hefty sides and smiled warmly at the company.
“It was quite decent of Ivan to invite us here. Why do you suppose he did so?” Arabella bit into a pink petit-four.
“He only invited us because of Father’s new business deal with him. Lord Powerscourt is buying some of Father’s lands,” Honoria stated.
Lissa looked at her abruptly. Was it true? Ivan and Wilmott doing business together? She suddenly had an awful thought. Did that have anything to do with her? Was Ivan somehow . . . ? Realizing surely she was over-estimating her own importance, she quickly abandoned the idea, yet still it tickled at the back of her mind. Finding the humidity cloying, she parted her temples with a handkerchief. Though she longed to take off her shawl, even in this company she felt it would be too scandalous.
“But no! Lord Powerscourt invited us all simply because he is a generous man,” stated Mrs. Bishop. “A far cry from his father.”
“Ah, but he’s more like his father than anyone could have predicted.” Adele spoke up from the corner. “He is quite the Gothic character—with his dark looks and tragic past.”
Lissa turned to Adele and could have sworn she saw passion in the woman’s eyes. Adele almost seemed smitten with their host. But Lissa could hardly speculate on that possibility as she watched the steam cling to the crystal panes of the conservatory. She wondered vaguely if she were about to have heat stroke.
“And that scar—where on earth did he acquire it? It has me utterly captivated!” Arabella practically swooned.
Now Lissa most definitely felt sick. Turning to Evvie, she took her arm for support.
“That wicked thing. He didn’t have it before when he was a stableboy. I swear he didn’t,” Mrs. Parks insisted.
“He acquired it in a fit of passion—as all Gothic characters do,” Adele stated assuredly.
“My God, Evvie,” Lissa whispered, “I must get some air.” Abruptly she stood and headed for the drawing room. She knew the other ladies were taken aback by her rudeness, but she had to get to the passage. She had to go somewhere cooler, where she could walk off the wine she had drunk and gather her thoughts.
Once in the darkened passage, however, she felt little better. She took off her shawl and leaned her bare shoulders against the cool granite stones of the wall. Her head spun abominably and she regretted every sip of wine she had taken. Forcing herself to walk, she wandered down the corridor, but every nook and cranny made her think of Ivan. She pictured him everywhere, looking at her with disapproval, his scar white and angry, jagging down what once had been a most handsome cheek.
She backed against the wall and closed her eyes, trying desperately to get the picture out of her mind. In her state, she barely heard the opening and closing of the door down the passage and the murmurs of male voices, nor did she hear the footsteps as they approached her.
“Lizzy! What are you doing there?”
Her eyes flew open and she found herself face to face with Wilmott. Instinctively she clutched her shawl to her bosom.
“I—I was freshening up and was looking for the conservatory. I suppose I got lost. What are you doing here, if I may ask?” Wilmott was standing far too close. And that gleam in his eye was not a good sign.
“Looking for old Powerscourt. He wandered off, saying something about getting us another bottle of port and not bothering the servants. We haven’t seen him since.”
“I’m sure he’ll return. But I think the conservatory is back this way and I suppose the ladies are wondering what has become of me, so—”
“Old girl, why don’t you come in here and sit down a moment. You look a bit flushed.” He took her arm and opened one of the doors in the passage. She could see a tiny salon, almost like a morning room. It was a pretty room, but it contained far too many couches for her to go in there with only Wilmott.
“No, really, I must get back to the conservatory.” She gently pulled from his grasp. Seeing the elderly man’s gaze dip to her décolletage, she tried to cover herself with her shawl.
“You do look . . . fetching tonight, my dear.” Wilmott came closer. “But the reason you’re so flushed is that shawl. It’s far too warm in here for you to wear it. Here, let me take it.” He reached out but Lissa pulled back.
“Oh, no! I actually feel a chill. And I must return to the conservatory—”
“Come on, Lizzy, do as I ask. What kind of wife are you to become if you cannot obey your husband? Give me the shawl and we’ll rest in here. Come along now.” He reached for her arm but she sidestepped him. He reached again, she sidestepped again. Then he began to laugh.
“Why, you coy minx, you’re flirting with me, aren’t you?” With that, Wilmott practically lunged at her. He grabbed the back of the shawl just as she was fleeing. She scurried away, leaving her only means of modesty in Wilmott’s grasp.
“Come back, Lizzy old girl!” he called to her. When all she did was shoot him a withering look, he laughed all the harder, then began to chase her.
For his age, Wilmott had a pretty good set of legs. She was amazed at his endurance as he followed her through one room after another, then back out into the passage. She did get enough ahead of him at one point, however, to duck into a room at the far side of the passage. With her hair atumble and her dress practically falling from one shoulder, she shut herself in with the hope that Wilmott would give up his search for her and return to the library.
Watching the door as she heard footsteps pass on the other side, she backed farther into the dim room and bumped squarely into what she thought was a huge table. But as her hands met the baize that lined its top, she realized she was in the billiard room.
“You could hide behind the drapery, but may I suggest the settee instead? It’s so much less obvious.”
Recognizing that
awful voice, she spun around and searched the room for her new tormentor. It was Ivan, of course, and he stood at the other end of the room by the window seat, nursing a brandy.
“You!” was the only foolish word that could escape her lips. Her eyes met with his and it was all she could do not to run back out to the passage.
With excruciating slowness, he studied her. He seemed to take note of her disheveled hair, then his gaze slid down her dress, only to raise again and rest at her heaving, well-displayed bosom.
“You seem to have misplaced some of your clothing since dinner,” he stated dryly, his eyes flicking from her bodice to her face.
Before she could answer, a voice rang out in the passage. “Lizzy! Come on out, Lizzy old girl!” When she heard Wilmott checking all the rooms in the passage, she tensed. If he found her in there with Ivan, no doubt he would be most displeased—displeased enough, perhaps, to decide not to marry her. But then, the thought of hiding from him in front of Ivan was too humiliating even to consider.
Standing in indecision, she listened as the doors banged in the corridor. It was obvious Wilmott was getting angry, and with each successive empty room, his fury seemed to increase.
“Lizzy!” he shouted in the room next to them.
“There’s a key in the lock. Turn it,” Ivan stated. She looked at him as if he were mad. It was a terrible decision. To have her family’s future ruined because she’d angered her fiancé, or to willingly lock herself in a room with Ivan Tramore—her nemesis.
Her eyes turned to the key. If only Wilmott would miss this room! But as his footsteps neared, she knew she couldn’t be so foolish as to rely on that. So, feeling more than seeing Ivan’s look of triumph, she tiptoed to the door and turned the key. The bolt shot home with an almost imperceptible noise, and Wilmott was shaking impotently on the handle before she could even take a step back from the door.
When Angels Fall Page 8
