by Candace Camp
The earl’s gaze held hers for a moment longer before his eyes dropped to the papers in his hands. He shuffled through them. “What is this?” He plucked one out, extending it to Mary.
She took it and cast an eye over it, coloring a little. “Nothing. I mean, nothing related to this. It is just one of our papers, a deed to the farm in Pennsylvania that my father owned.”
“And what of this?” He held up the letter Flora had written her father, still sealed with the wax she had melted onto it.
Mary reached out toward him, then pulled her hand back. She wished that she had thought to take the letter out of the satchel when she learned that Flora’s father was no longer alive to read it. “My mother wrote that to her father. I am sure that it was personal and meant for him alone.”
She hated to think of the stern-looking earl reading Flora’s tearful apologies to her father and her pleas with him to look after her children. It had gone against Flora’s grain to beg him for help; only the utmost love and fear for her children could have driven her to swallow her pride and apologize to her father. Somehow it seemed even worse for those painful words, her mother’s dying fears and hopes, to be read by this cool, remote stranger.
The earl regarded Mary assessingly. “It is addressed to Lord Stewkesbury,” he pointed out. “I think I should read it, don’t you?”
“Perhaps you’d like to compare it to my mother’s handwriting, just to make sure she wrote it,” Mary snapped, washed with the humiliation she knew her mother would have felt at the exposure of her innermost feelings to someone she didn’t even know.
The earl said nothing, merely raised a single eyebrow as he looked at her, and Mary immediately felt small and foolish. With an inarticulate noise, she turned away and sat down. The earl broke the seal on the paper and began to read. The room was deathly silent. Mary could not bring herself to look at her sisters. If this man scornfully dismissed their claim, she would have failed her family. She knew that none of the girls would blame her, but she would blame herself fiercely.
After a few moments, the earl folded the letter. He cleared his throat. “Well, ah, it would certainly appear that Lady Flora made her case.”
Hope fluttered in Mary, and she looked at the earl, trying to read his impassive face. Was he saying what she thought he was? She glanced at Royce, who smiled at her. “What does that mean?” She turned back to the earl. “Are you saying that you believe me?”
He made a slight bow toward her. “Welcome to the family, cousins.”
Chapter 6
“Thank you, sir.” Mary’s heart leapt, but she struggled to appear calm, as if she had expected his approval all along. “We are honored.”
“I have never … um … been in this position before,” Stewkesbury admitted. “I am not quite certain how to proceed. But clearly you must stay here, at least for the time being. I shall send someone for your things.”
He walked over and tugged at the tasseled cord beside the door. A moment later, the magisterial butler to whom Mary had spoken this morning glided into the room. His eyes slid over to her, and there was a spasm of astonishment on his face, quickly suppressed. Mary pressed her lips hard together to hide her little smile of satisfaction.
“Yes, my lord?” the butler asked, his tone betraying not even a hint of curiosity.
“These young ladies will be staying with us, Hooper. They are my cousins.”
There was the slightest pause before the butler replied, “Indeed, sir. I shall have rooms made up immediately.”
“Very good. In the meantime, I think tea might be in order. Oh, and send the coach around to fetch their things.”
Sir Royce told him the name and location of the inn, and Hooper bowed out of the room. As soon as he had gone, Mary turned to the earl.
“It is very good of you, sir. Thank you. We do not for the world wish to be a burden on you… .” She trailed off. There was something about the earl’s polite gaze that she found extremely inhibiting. It was difficult to tell what he was thinking. He hardly seemed welcoming, but she supposed that no one could wish to have four young women dropped in one’s lap.
“Nonsense. Think nothing further of it. You are my aunt’s children, after all.” The earl tucked her mother’s letter into an inside pocket of his jacket and sat down.
A long moment of awkward silence ensued. Finally Sir Royce broke it by saying, “I am afraid that I do not remember Flora, Stewkesbury.”
“I believe she was my father’s youngest sister. She was away at school when you and your mother came to Willowmere,” the earl told him. “After that, she was in London, making her debut. Then she disappeared. I never heard her spoken of again. I remember asking Aunt Phyllida once where she was, and she looked horrified and hushed me up. It was only years later that I understood that Aunt Flora and Grandfather had quarreled and she had left the house. Of course, we rarely saw much of the aunts anyway, stuck up there in the nursery as we were.”
“I remember Euphronia well enough from those days,” Royce commented dryly.
“Good Gad, who could not?” Stewkesbury paused and looked thoughtful. “I suppose we ought to introduce you young ladies to your other relatives. I shall invite the aunts to dinner this evening. Royce, you must come as well.”
Royce looked at the earl askance. “I? Why must I come?”
“Family dinner,” Oliver replied. Mary did not know the earl well enough to be certain, but she thought she detected a hint of laughter lurking in the man’s imperturbable gaze.
“Not my family,” Sir Royce pointed out.
“I am sure Fitz will be there.”
“I can see Fitz anytime I want.”
“But what about your duty to these young women?” Stewkesbury went on. Mary was certain now that there was contained mirth in his voice. “You cannot mean to desert them so soon.”
“Oh, yes,” Lily piped up, turning a pleading look on Sir Royce. “Please stay.”
Mary would not have admitted it as freely as her sister, but she too wished that Sir Royce would stay for the meal. She dreaded the thought of meeting more unfamiliar family members, but it would not seem as bad with him there.
“Of course, if you ask me,” Sir Royce told Lily gallantly, though he shot his stepbrother a hard look.
The butler carried in a large tray containing a tea service and cups, followed by another servant with a tray bearing a variety of cakes and biscuits. There ensued the formality of serving the tea and cakes, as well as a smattering of stilted conversation. Mary could think of nothing to say, and though Royce tried, he could not get much of a conversation going. The earl asked a few questions about their trip and their home, but Mary could not decide if he was expressing a polite interest or trying to find out information about them. She had the uneasy feeling that he was not entirely certain that they were really his cousins.
It was a relief when the tea was finished and the earl rang for a servant, remarking that he was sure the young ladies would like to be shown to their rooms to rest before dinner. He turned and bowed to the girls, said he would see them at supper, then strode off down the hallway.
“I should take my leave,” Sir Royce added, rising.
Mary turned to him, saying, “But you will be here for supper, will you not?”
“Oh yes.” He reached out and took her hand, bowing over it. When he raised his head, he stood holding her hand for a moment longer as he smiled down into her face. “Nothing could keep me away this evening.”
His hand was warm against hers; she was very aware of the texture of his skin, and her own flesh tingled in response. She could not seem to pull her gaze from his. At last he released her hand, and it was as if his movement released her from her own paralysis. She took a quick step backward, turning her face away from his. She knew a flush was rising in her cheeks but did her best to ignore it. When was she going to stop reacting this way to this man? Surely she would grow accustomed to his presence at some point. The memory of his kiss last night wou
ld fade. She would begin to view him as she did other men.
Or would she?
Mary watched Royce as he bade good-bye to her sisters, then turned and walked toward the front door. A poke in the side from Camellia’s elbow made her jump.
“What did you do that for?” She frowned at the other girl.
Camellia pointed toward the maid who stood waiting just inside the doorway. “She’s trying to take us to our rooms, but you are too busy mooning about over Sir Royce.”
“I was doing no such thing,” Mary whispered fiercely as she fell in beside Camellia, following their other sisters out of the room.
Camellia rolled her eyes. “I’m not blind, you know. Whenever he’s around, you look at him.”
Mary blushed to think that she had been so obvious. “Of course I look at him. He’s—he’s different.”
“I didn’t notice you staring at the earl.”
“Don’t smirk. It’s unbecoming.”
Camellia chuckled and leaned in closer, linking her arm through Mary’s. In a low voice, she went on, “It’s all right. He’s terribly handsome. Even I noticed that, and you know I am not the sort to get all dreamy over men.”
The maid led them up the stairs, and they emerged into a wide hallway of highly polished dark wood. A tall window facing the street let in a stream of sunlight to brighten the corridor, which was further illuminated by sconces along the walls. To the left a long wall was hung with paintings, its length broken now and then by a bench or a narrow table displaying a vase of flowers. The maid went to the first doorway, opening it to reveal a large bedchamber.
“I’m afraid there’s only two chambers made up, miss,” she said, curtseying. “There’s others, if you want us to make them up too, but they’re not as nice as these.”
“I am sure these will be fine,” Mary responded faintly, looking around the enormous room.
As Lily and Camellia followed the maid to the next room, Mary slowly turned to take in her surroundings. It was almost as large as the drawing room downstairs. The room was papered in a white and blue pattern, and long drapes on the two sets of windows matched the blue of the wallpaper, as did the heavy draperies of the four-poster bed. The bed was massive, its mattress luxuriously thick, and there was a small step placed beside it to help one climb in. At the far end of the room was a fireplace, and in front of it stood a low round table and two wingback chairs. There was also, Mary noted, a wardrobe, a dresser, and a vanity, as well as a long wooden chest at the foot of the bed. What was more amazing than the amount and size of the furniture, however, was that the room was so large that it did not seem crowded.
Mary turned to Rose and saw the same expression mirrored on her face.
“I never dreamed it would be like this!” Rose exclaimed in a hushed voice.
“Nor I.” Mary shook her head.
“It’s no wonder Sir Royce and the earl were suspicious of our motives. There must be any number of people who would love to live here. Do you really think he is going to let us stay here?” She looked a trifle scared at the idea.
“I don’t know. He seemed to have believed us.”
At that moment, Lily and Camellia came flying into the room, their faces flushed. “You should see our room!”
“It’s almost as big as the strange Chinese room downstairs!”
“I know.” Mary waved a hand around at her own room.
“I thanked the maid, and she looked at me most oddly,” Lily went on. “I thought, well, she doesn’t know who I am, so I introduced myself and tried to shake her hand.”
“She was positively shocked,” Camellia added, throwing herself onto the bed. “Ahhh.” She let out a satisfied sigh. “This is soft.”
“It’s beautiful here,” Lily added, and clambered up onto the bed beside Camellia. “I’ve never seen so many fine things—did you notice the velvet drapes? And those statues that are scattered around! It’s enough to make you feel as if you’re in a palace.” She paused, then added thoughtfully, “But the people are odd.”
“What do you think these aunts are like?” Rose asked. “Is the earl asking them here to get their opinion of us?”
“No doubt they are horrid and stern,” Lily ventured. “They’ll probably order us out of the family.”
“If they’re anything like their father, they very well might,” Mary agreed. “However, I have the feeling that the only opinion that matters here is the earl’s.”
“Have you ever seen anyone so … so …” Camellia began.
“Aristocratic?” Lily offered.
“I would have said auto cratic,” Mary retorted dryly.
“He is rather arrogant,” Rose allowed. “But maybe you can’t be aristocratic without being arrogant.”
“I don’t know,” Lily argued. “Sir Royce didn’t strike me as arrogant, and he is quite aristocratic.”
“Watch out, Mary, you have a rival for the gentleman’s affections,” Camellia warned playfully.
“What?” Rose turned to regard her sister with interest. “Do you like Sir Royce? Truly?”
“Camellia is being silly.” Mary shot a dark look at the other girl. “I have no interest in the man.”
“Why not?” Lily piped up. “I think he’s awfully handsome. And so courtly. Did you see his bow? I have never been bowed to so elegantly.”
Mary rolled her eyes. “As if I care for that.”
Camellia snorted. “When have you ever been bowed to at all, Lily?”
Lily tossed her head. “Well, perhaps never before. But I have seen bows. Mr. Curtis always—”
Their conversation was interrupted by two footmen carrying in their luggage, followed by two maids. When the bags had been sorted out to the right rooms, one maid went to Lily and Camellia’s room while the other began to put Rose’s and Mary’s clothes away in the wardrobe and dresser. Mary felt odd, just sitting there and watching someone else take care of a task she could easily do, but when she offered to help, the girls gazed at her with such astonishment that she quickly subsided.
It was not as if she had no experience with servants. There had been a cook and servants at the tavern, of course. But Mary and her sisters had taken care of their own rooms and clothes and had also pitched in to clean the tavern or work in the kitchen whenever they were needed. It was most peculiar to do nothing concerning her own dresses.
It was even stranger later that evening when the maid returned to help the girls dress and do their hair. When Mary politely declined the offer, she could see from the girl’s expression that she had again stepped astray. And though the maid said nothing, Mary also suspected that she had found Mary’s and Rose’s dresses wanting. Her mother had told her that they had dressed for dinner every evening when she was a girl, so Mary and the others had been careful to choose their very best dresses for tonight, the ones they wore to church on Sunday. However, when Mary saw a shadow flicker across the maid’s face, she knew that their best was not fine enough for a British lady.
But it was not until she and her sisters trooped downstairs that Mary realized just how far short their attire fell. The earl and Sir Royce were waiting for them, wearing black silk breeches and jackets, with snowy falls of cravats down the fronts of their white shirts. A flash of rubies glinted at Sir Royce’s cuffs and nestled in the folds of his neckcloth. The earl was more subdued, with onyx gleaming in his cuff links and stick pin, but Mary had no doubt that what he wore was the equal of anything that adorned Sir Royce.
There were two women with them—one an imposing female with iron gray hair and hard eyes, the other a younger copy of the first, her hair still dark and her form more slender. The older woman was dressed in black satin with an overskirt of lace. The neckline was low, exposing more of her bosom than Mary was accustomed to seeing, especially on a woman her age, and the sleeves were elaborately slashed and puffed. Diamonds winked at her ears and encircled her throat and wrist. The younger lady wore a burgundy silk dress in the same high-waisted style, with ruffles of l
ace cascading down the bottom third of her underskirt. Slippers in the same shade of burgundy peeped from beneath her dress. Pearls adorned her throat and ears.
Mary’s first thought when she saw the group was how utterly handsome Sir Royce was in evening attire. His lean, masculine build and sharp, aristocratic profile were perfectly complemented by the luxurious materials and elegant lines. Her pulse quickened in response.
Her second thought was an acute consciousness of the inadequacy of the dresses she and her sisters wore. Their frocks were clearly out of style, with waists that were too high. But more than that, they were far too simple, too plain, with no more than a ruffle of the same material around the hem. The people waiting for them looked ready to go to a ball. Mary suspected that neither of these women would have considered Mary’s dress acceptable to wear even to the market—not, of course, that they would ever go to the market.
Surprise flitted across the faces of the earl and his companions when they saw the Bascombe sisters, and Mary’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. Then Royce strode forward, smiling at her.
“Miss Bascombe. What a pleasure it is to see you again.” He swept her a bow, then took her arm to steer her toward the others.
Mary let out a tightly held breath, grateful for his support. “Thank you.”
“It is you who do me the favor. A gentleman always appears to advantage with a beautiful woman on his arm.”
“I fear we are terribly underdressed,” Mary began in a low voice.
“Nonsense. Your face outshines any amount of jewels and silk.”
He was speaking foolishness, she knew, but his extravagant compliments warmed her and steadied her nerves.
The earl stepped forward, saying, “Miss Bascombe, pray allow me to introduce my aunt, Lady Euphronia Harrington, and her daughter, Lady Elizabeth.”
Mary noticed that he did not explain who she and her sisters were, and she wondered if for some reason he did not want his relatives to know their identities. Was he putting them to some sort of test? Seeing if they would pass muster with the rest of his relatives before he acknowledged the Bascombe girls? If so, Mary had a sinking feeling that she and her sisters were doomed to failure. She could not see even the slightest warmth or interest in these two women’s faces as they gave Mary and her sisters the slightest of nods and a murmured greeting.
