by Candace Camp
“I noticed how pleased everyone was to see him.”
“Oh, yes, he’s a good man. He was raised proper, you see. When Lady Barbara married again after Sir Alan died and took the little master off to Willowmere with her, we were afraid that we wouldn’t see him again. That he’d be grown before he came back. We weren’t even sure we wouldn’t all be turned out and the house shut. But the old earl said no—it was him that ran everything, even about the boy. And he said that Master Royce must know his property and the people here. He kept the staff, and he’d come here three or four times a year. He always brought Master Royce with him. Wanted us all to know him and the other way around.” She smiled and sighed, shaking her head fondly. “That boy loved coming here—mind, I think ’twas more he liked that it was just him and the old earl when they visited. Master Royce was that fond of the man. Well, he could hardly remember his own father, and his grandfather passed on before he was born.”
She stopped in front of a room and took a breath. “Ah, here I am, talking your ear off, and you’ll be wanting to have a rest and wash-up ’fore supper, I warrant.”
“Oh, no—I mean—well, yes, of course, I would like that. But it’s been most enjoyable talking to you.” Mary smiled. This friendly, warm woman was poles apart from any of the servants at Stewkesbury House.
Mary’s bedchamber was smaller than the one at Stewkesbury House, but quite comfortable and pleasantly, if not as elegantly, furnished. Relaxed by the surroundings, Mary was able to take a short nap after she washed up from the journey. When she awoke, she put on her best dress for dinner and went to look around the house before supper. As she strolled through the hallway downstairs, looking at the portraits lining the corridor, a masculine voice sounded behind her.
“Felonious-looking lot, aren’t they?”
“Hello, Royce.” Mary turned to face him.
He, too, was dressed for dinner, though he had eschewed formal attire, as the Talbots had the last few nights. As always, the sight of him caused her heart to leap traitorously. She could not help but think of what had passed between them last night, and a blush stole up her throat. She wondered if he thought of it, too — or perhaps it was so commonplace a thing to him that it had slipped his mind.
To cover her sudden nerves, she said lightly, “I would have said that they were quite pious, actually.”
“Not from what I’ve heard.” He came to stand beside her, gazing up at the large oil painting before them. “That’s the first baronet, got his title from Queen Elizabeth. I believe he was something of a corsair, but as he stuck to stealing from Spain, the Queen didn’t mind. He bought this place from the Iverleys—who had sadly gone into decline—and changed into a lord of the manor.”
“Is this his wife?” Mary asked, going on to the next painting, which depicted a woman with strawberry blond hair and a high ruff rising behind her head.
“The second. The first one, it’s said, jumped off a tower when he gave up the sea. Couldn’t face the idea of his being home all the time. She never lived at Iverley Hall. But Lady Margaret here outlived her husband by a good many years and ruled the place with an iron hand—and, apparently, a great deal of skill, for she increased the family fortunes her grandson inherited. Her son was something of a cipher, and she remained in virtual control of the place even after he reached his majority.”
“You’re very familiar with them all.”
“Indeed, yes. Lord Reginald insisted I learn about my land and family. He said I should not become a stranger to my own people just because my mother had married a Talbot. He was right, of course; he nearly always was—though clearly he made a mistake in cutting himself off from his daughter.” He cast a sideways glance at her.
Mary smiled. “Thank you for saying that. Mama never talked about him, except that once when she told us about their falling out. I could not judge what sort of man he was; I could not even tell for certain how she felt about him. But you sound as though you were quite fond of him.”
He nodded. “I was. I am still. He could be an irascible old devil and difficult to deal with. There was hell to pay if one crossed him. But he followed the same rules he laid out for others. He wasn’t an affectionate sort. An approving nod was usually the best you could get from him. But he spent far more time and trouble on a lad who had no real claim on him than most others would have. He was much more a father to me than my own.”
Mary smiled, thinking how his words echoed those his housekeeper had spoken earlier. Obviously the woman had been on the mark with her assessment of Sir Royce.
“What about your stepfather?” she asked. “Oliver’s father?”
Royce shrugged as he turned away, walking with her along the hall. “He was a good enough sort. But neither he nor my mother was there a great deal. They preferred the bright lights of London to the solitude of Willowmere. Oliver and Fitz and I saw them infrequently, usually only for a month or two in the dead of winter—or when they were under the hatches and had to spend a while in the country to repair their finances.”
“I’m sorry.” She tried to imagine growing up as he had, rarely even seeing his parents. Her life might have lacked the financial advantages his had, but she preferred the close, loving family relationship she had known.
“Oh, they were never at point non plus,” he said, misunderstanding her words of regret.
Mary glanced at him, but he was looking away from her, and she wondered whether he had purposefully taken her statement to be about something he found easier to discuss.
“The old earl ran the estate,” Royce continued, “so Lawrence could only borrow on his prospects, and my mother’s father had tied up her money so tightly that they could get nothing but income from it. Obviously, everyone knew how poor they were at managing their finances. The old earl was forever on at them about it. I think he was actually a bit relieved when Lawrence died before him; he feared that his son would dissipate the fortune before Oliver got hold of it. Grandfa—I mean, Lord Reginald managed my lands and money as well so that Lawrence and my mother could not make a hash of that either.” He grinned at her, taking the sting out of the words. “Come, let me show you around the house. There are better things to be seen than these stuffy old ancestors.”
He held out his arm, and Mary took it. His closeness made her fingers tremble, and her breath came faster in her throat. Her head was filled with thoughts of his kisses and caresses, and her body tingled all over again.
Even now, as they strolled through the hallways, Royce pointing out this room and that, smoothly chatting about the house and his life, Mary wished that he would stop and take her in his arms and kiss her. It would be wrong, of course; she was well aware of that. There was a bevy of reasons for them to stay at arm’s distance. Unfortunately, the force pulling her to him was far stronger than the logic holding them apart.
Did he feel the same way? No, she told herself. She was foolish to let herself even consider the possibility. He was attracted to her, certainly, but for a man like Royce Wins-low, their kisses last night would have been something quite minor. He had probably indulged in many such moments.
He led her finally out onto the terrace, which looked down upon a garden that was delightfully unregimented, flowers growing in profusion and narrow paths winding among them with few borders between.
“It’s a charming house, Sir Royce. I cannot imagine that Willowmere could be any nicer.”
Royce chuckled. “You should wait until you have seen Willowmere. I suspect you will change your mind. Iverley Hall is dear to me, but it is far less grand.”
“Grandeur does not always appeal,” Mary replied.
“Very diplomatic of you.” Royce turned to her.
They were so close that Mary could see the ring of darker green on the outer edge of his irises. Her throat grew tight, the pulse leaping in it. Royce wanted to kiss her; she could see it in his eyes, in the softening of his lips. Her entire body tingled with the memory of the kisses they had shared the night be
fore.
He should not kiss her, she knew. She should not want him to. What had happened last night had sprung from the excitement of the moment, from the bizarre situation in which they had found themselves. Now, cooler, calmer heads must prevail. Yet somehow she could not move, could only stand, poised and trembling, as if on the brink of some precipice.
Royce turned away abruptly. “We should go back inside.”
“Of course.” Mary drew a shaky breath and walked back with him to the door, careful not to take his arm again.
Chapter 15
When they drove away from Iverley Hall the following morning, Royce took two extra grooms with him, one ranging ahead of the carriage and the other lagging behind. Mary noticed that both men had pistols tucked into their belts.
The journey was shorter than on the first two days, taking only six or seven hours, and the sisters found the landscape more interesting. Yesterday, as they approached Iverley Hall, Mary had noticed that the peaceful English scenery had become—well, somehow larger. Blue-tinged hills appeared in the distance, and today they traveled into them. Vistas spread out before them, now often dotted with beautiful dark lakes. Mary remembered that Oliver had called it the Lake District. There was an aura of grandeur to it, almost of wildness.
In the middle of the afternoon, Sir Royce dropped back by the carriage to tell them that they were turning into the park surrounding Willowmere. The sisters all crowded to the windows, despite Miss Dalrymple’s protestations, leaning out to catch a first glimpse of the house that would now be their home.
The carriage rolled through a long avenue of yews, emerging at last on a green expanse of lawn, with a house sitting in the middle like a jewel in a setting. Willowmere sprawled over the ground, three stories tall and spreading in every direction, far larger than Royce’s home. It lacked Iverley Hall’s symmetry, for it had clearly been added onto several times, with towers and wings pushing out here and there; yet the overall result was somehow pleasing. Built of yellowish stone, it reflected a welcoming glow in the afternoon sun. The stone had discolored irregularly, so that it seemed permanently shadowed in places, and ivy almost completely covered one wall. Trees and shrubs softened the edges of the building, and gardens spread out from either side.
“Oh my,” Lily breathed.
Mary glanced at Miss Dalrymple and saw that even she was wide-eyed as she gazed at the house.
“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” Royce leaned down to talk to them through the carriage window. “Don’t worry. It’s much more comfortable than Stewkesbury House. You’ll soon feel at home here.”
Mary wasn’t sure about that, but she had to admit that the house was lovely. Still … there was something about the smaller, squarer Iverley Hall that she preferred.
At least the staff here were not as stiff as those at Stewkesbury House—or perhaps, Mary thought, it was just that she and her sisters had learned not to act in the ways that shocked them so. Since the earl had sent a message informing them of the girls’ arrival, the servants had had time to prepare, and each girl was shown to her own room. Mary’s bedchamber lay on the west side of the house, overlooking a garden that fell in levels to an expanse of green. Beyond that lay one of the inky pools of water, called tarns, that were scattered about the countryside. A small wooden gazebo lay at the edge of the tarn. The pond was fed by a stream diverted from the nearby river, and a narrow stone bridge arched the stream, looking like something out of a fairy tale.
Mary left the window and took a slow visual turn of her room. The maid had called it the iris bedchamber, and indeed the wallpaper was patterned with delicately drawn flowers. The drapes and bedcover echoed the deep blue of the irises, and a dark golden wingback chair by the fire offered a welcome accent. The furniture was neither as dark nor as heavy as the pieces in her room at Stewkesbury House, which pleased Mary as well. Perhaps, she thought, it would not be so bad here after all.
That hopeful idea was doused the following day, however, when Miss Dalrymple set out in earnest to train the Bascombe girls into proper young ladies. First she tested their skills in the various arts required of a girl about to make her debut, marching them into the music room to play the piano and sing, then taking them to the nursery for a bit of watercolor and charcoal drawing. It did not take her long to discover that none of the girls had the slightest ability to draw and had not, indeed, ever picked up a paintbrush. Their musical skills were almost as horrifying to her, for while all four girls could carry a tune and Camellia, at least, had a nice, clear voice, only Lily could play the piano, and her skills were limited to a few rollicking popular songs.
When they moved on to sewing, Mary had higher hopes, but she soon found out that Miss Dalrymple was not impressed by the girls’ ability at such prosaic things as making dresses or mending rents or tears. What she wanted was fine needlework like embroidery.
“But making a frock is more useful,” Mary pointed out. “Rose is an excellent seamstress. She makes nearly all our dresses. We help with the seams, of course, but the fine work is hers.”
“Don’t!” Miss Dalrymple raised both hands, her eyes rounded in horror. “Don’t ever tell anyone that! It will positively ruin your chances.”
“Why? I would think it would be a good thing to be able to make one’s clothes.”
“You might as well tell everyone you can chop wood or scrub the floors.”
“Well, we can, though I was never very good with an axe.”
Miss Dalrymple looked for a moment as if her eyes might roll back in her head. She dropped into a chair and fanned herself furiously to regain her poise. “I haven’t the time to teach you all the skills you lack. We will concentrate on the most important. You cannot hope to ‘take’ if you cannot dance.”
“We can dance,” Lily protested.
“I do not mean a jig.” The older woman sent her a withering glance. “I mean the quadrille, the cotillion, the country dance, and the waltz. These are the essential dances for every ball, and until you have mastered them, it would be an absolute disaster to take you to even a county assembly.”
The girls began a daily routine of deportment lessons after breakfast, followed by a luncheon with Miss Dalrymple that was primarily an exercise in table manners and in learning the names and uses of a dizzying array of utensils and dishes. Next came instruction in music and singing, ending finally with a dance lesson in the small ballroom. It was, Mary thought, a testament to their teacher’s grim character that she managed to turn even normally pleasurable things such as singing and dancing into boring drudgery.
At first the girls danced with each other, but when Miss Dalrymple realized that the girls were dancing the men’s steps even when they should be following the women’s, she called in Sir Royce to serve as their partner. Royce was agreeable, as he usually proved to be, and his presence greatly enlivened the lessons. He was an excellent dancer, and even Mary, who had up until now declared herself hopeless on the dance floor, found it easy to follow the steps. Moreover, he kept up such an easy, effortless flow of chatter that she found herself paying more attention to his voice than to the movement of her feet, and, amazingly, before long she was able to sail through an entire dance without any stumbles or missteps.
The country dances were the easiest for the girls, for they closely resembled the reels that were popular at home. The quadrille and the cotillion, with their numerous couples and intricate patterns of steps, were more difficult, and it was almost impossible, with their small group of participants, to replicate what an actual dance would be like. But it was the waltz that captured their attention.
“Now, the waltz,” Miss Dalrymple began, her mouth pinching up, “has not always been considered proper. A few years back you would not have found it approved at an assembly in the country, and it was not introduced into Almack’s until ten years ago. Indeed, I am not convinced that it is the sort of dance that a young girl should be allowed to do. In particular, I have grave misgivings about teaching it to a group of
girls who are, well, less than genteel in so much of their manner.”
She fixed the girls with a grim look to drive home her point.
“However,” Miss Dalrymple continued, “it has become so popular that a young lady cannot be considered ready to enter society unless she can waltz. Therefore, we will learn the steps. But remember that I expect you to execute them with the utmost grace and dignity, staying always an arm’s length from your partner and engaging in only quiet, refined conversation. And do not forget that you must never dance more than two waltzes with the same gentleman in one evening unless he is your fiancé or husband. And if you should be so fortunate as to receive a voucher for Almack’s”—the downward turn of the governess’s mouth clearly expressed her own doubts regarding the matter—“you must not waltz until one of the patronesses has given you permission and presented you with a suitable partner.”
“That sounds excessively silly,” Camellia told her.
Miss Dalrymple’s face pursed up as if she had bitten into a lemon, but Sir Royce forestalled her reply by saying, “Yes, isn’t it? However, Miss Dalrymple is quite correct. The patronesses at Almack’s can make or break a young woman entering society. The place is deadly dull, and the food is barely adequate; Lady Jersey runs it like a martinet. Yet nothing is as highly valued as a voucher to Almack’s.”
As was usually the case, Mary’s sisters, even Camellia, were quick to accept Sir Royce’s word as law, and they promised solemnly that they would not ruin their social futures by waltzing at Almack’s without permission.
When Royce took Mary into his arms to demonstrate the waltz, she realized at once why the dance had been considered scandalous. “Arm’s length” seemed entirely too close. Forced to look up into his face, she could feel the heat from his body, smell the scent of his shaving soap and cologne. Her hand was cupped in his, and his other hand rested on her waist. It was as near as she could come to being held by him in public. Her cheeks pinkened with embarrassment. What if her feelings were written on her face?
