by Romy Sommer
And after that... She’d already begun to make a list of names of likely women in the neighbourhood she could pair him with.
She smiled brightly. “Terribly silly. But I was reading in the wood and got so lost in the story I didn’t even realise the weather was changing.” She held up the Elizabeth von Arnim novel she’d brought with her. Thank heavens she’d already read it, because that was now soaked too. “I hope you don’t mind, but your house was the closest.”
“Of course not,” said Peters. “There’s a fire lit in the library. I’ll bring you a towel and a glass of sherry to warm you up.”
“Thank you.” She smiled at him, and he melted.
Commander Cavendish was not so easily won over. “She can wait out the storm in the drawing room.”
“There’s no fire in the drawing room,” Peters pointed out.
Without a word, the Commander turned back into his library, effectively turning his back on her. Peters shrugged, grinned ruefully, and waved for her to follow his master.
He sat at his desk, a book open in front of him, and pretended to ignore her as she dried herself in front of the fire, dripping all over the thick rug. She ran her fingers through her hair, fluffing up her Marcel-waved curls in a vain attempt to straighten herself up.
She was aware the Commander watched her through the corner of his eye. His gaze prickled her skin in a not entirely unpleasant way, and her heartbeat seemed to have picked up that erratic pulse again.
Peters brought her a towel to dry herself with, and a blanket to keep warm. She was almost sad to cover herself up. The moment her clinging clothes were no longer visible, the Commander seemed to find it easier to pull his gaze away. The prickle disappeared, though the staccato beating of her heart was still there. She resisted the urge to smile at the small victory. So he was a red-blooded man after all. There was hope for him indeed.
She wandered over to the chess board set up before the window, and lifted one of the ivory pieces. “Do you play?”
“Of course.” He didn’t even look at her as he spoke. But he hadn’t turned a single page since he’d sat down at the desk.
“Would you care for a game while we wait for the rain to abate?”
That brought his head up. His eyes met hers. Narrow, serious eyes that contemplated her with the merest hint of amusement. For a long moment she was sure he was going to turn his back on her again, then: “Yes.”
She sat in one of the chairs set ready beside the rosewood table, on the ivory side of the board, and he sat across from her. Averting her eyes from his dark gaze, she moved the first piece, a pawn.
By the time Peters carried in the tray, with two small crystal glasses and a decanter of sherry, they were both absorbed in the game. Peters set the tray down and left quietly.
It was a long time since she’d played with anyone but her father. Commander Cavendish played differently, and he was not as easy to read as Father, which turned the game into an interesting challenge. Nevertheless, only after he’d lost four of his pieces to her, did he seem to realise that she was serious competition.
They played in silence, concentrating on the game.
“That was a good move, Miss Stanton.” The Commander moved one of his pieces and took her bishop. “But not good enough.” He smiled. It was the first time she’d seen his smile, and it was truly a breathtaking sight, like the sun coming out after a storm.
“Rosalie,” she corrected. She countered his move. “That’s check, Commander Cavendish.”
He laughed softly, the sound almost rusty, and looked up from the board. He paused, catching her gaze. Then slowly, reluctantly, “William.” He moved another piece. “Checkmate.”
How had she not even seen that move coming?
“Thank you for a good game.” He rose and moved to the tray Peters had left for them an age past.
“I was a more formidable opponent than you expected.” She leaned back in her chair to watch him.
His sombre eyes twinkled. “Yes, I underestimated you. I won’t again.”
Her heart leapt with joy. Again. So she was no longer completely unwelcome here.
She glanced out the French doors to where a weak sun now illuminated the rain-sparkled garden beyond. “I should leave,” she said. But she didn’t move.
“You might as well have a glass of sherry before you go.” He poured the rich golden liquid into the two glasses, carried them over to her, and took his seat across the little rosewood table from her again.
She took the glass he set down for her. “Thank you.”
They sipped at their drinks in easy silence. The sweet sherry burned down her throat, warming her from the inside out. Rosalie allowed her gaze to roam across the shelves full of books that lined the long wall of the room. “Fiction or nonfiction?” she asked.
His gaze followed hers. “It’s an eclectic mix, gathered over many years. You read?”
She laughed. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“Not everyone.” His tone was unmistakably dry, and a little amused, though she couldn’t figure out what she’d said that he found so entertaining.
“Every house we’ve ever lived in has been full of books. Father would think me a complete philistine if I didn’t love reading as much as he does.” She set down her empty glass and wandered over to the bookshelves. The blanket slipped off her shoulder, and she didn’t bother to readjust it. The sherry had driven away the last of the chill.
She ran a finger across the spines. The books were arranged by type. Military and naval histories on one shelf, European history on another. Books on art and music. An entire shelf on guns and hunting.
“Those were my father’s,” William said behind her.
“You don’t hunt?”
“I never cared much for it. It always seemed so unsporting. Julia...” He caught himself, and pressed his lips together.
His inability to speak of her explained a great deal. If he was going to heal and move on, he really needed to talk about the past, not keep it buried inside.
“Yes?” She raised an eyebrow, daring him to continue.
He swallowed. She pretended not to notice his discomfort. Since the navy had seen fit to make him a commander during the war, he wasn’t a coward. She wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily.
“Julia loved the exercise. Chasing across the countryside with the wind in her hair. Do you ride?”
Rosalie smiled. “My father was a cavalry soldier before he retired. I learned to ride almost before I could walk.” She turned back to the books and discovered several shelves full of novels. “Oh, you have Lorna Doone!”
“It was one of my mother’s favourites.”
She slipped the book off the shelf and turned to William. “May I borrow this? It seems the perfect novel to read when staying in this part of the country. I’ll return it, of course.”
“An excuse to come back?” A definite smile accompanied the dry tone this time. “You hardly seem to need an excuse.”
“Is that an invitation?” Though it was not at all what she’d intended, she was flirting with him, she realised. She couldn’t help herself.
His smile deepened. “No, I simply meant that we don’t seem able to keep you out.”
“You only have to tell me to leave, and I will.”
He appeared to debate her suggestion for a moment. “I’ll bear that in mind. Though I’m not entirely sure why you would wish to return to visit a house of old men.”
“You’re not old!”
“I must be at least ten years older than you.”
“Perhaps.” She turned back to the books, hiding her smile. “But what else is there to do around here?”
“What else indeed?” Definite amusement in that voice again.
“Perhaps I should take up riding again. Can you advise who in the neighbourhood has horses they’d be willing to let me ride?”
“There is a lively hunt club at Taunton Vale, I believe.”
She wrinkled her nose.
“Like you, I find the idea of chasing down foxes rather unsporting, even if they are vermin.”
“I have a small stable,” William said. “Though if you’ve listened to the village gossips, you already know that.”
Though his expression had barely softened, there was laughter in those dark eyes, changing his face dramatically. Before, he’d been good-looking, in a rather intimidating way. Now, he was breathtaking. She hid the sudden flutter in her chest by flicking through the book in her hands. “I listened.”
“Then if the weather is fair tomorrow, would you care to go riding, Miss Stanton?”
It was more than she’d hoped for. Perhaps it would be easier than she’d anticipated to draw him out of his shell. She smiled, tucking the book up against her chest. “On one condition.”
“Oh?”
“You really do need to remember to call me Rosalie.”
Chapter Five
Rosalie was already dressed and in the kitchen before Anna had switched the kettle on to make the first pot of tea.
“You’re up early,” Anna commented. “Do you have plans?”
“It’s such a lovely day. I thought I’d go for a ramble in the countryside and do a little exploring.” She wasn’t sure why she didn’t tell Anna the whole truth. She told Anna everything, and had done since she was six years old.
“You’ll need a good breakfast before you go. And I’ll pack you a nice snack to take with.”
“Don’t go overboard.” Rosalie smiled. “I know your idea of a ‘nice snack’ and I’m not hauling some massive picnic basket around the countryside.”
Anna sniffed. “As long as you at least take a coat with you today. The weather’s turned, and you’re going to catch your death if you keep traipsing around dressed as you were yesterday. It’s a miracle you managed to stay as dry as you did.”
Rosalie gave the older woman an affectionate peck on her cheek, as she stole a slice of buttered toast from the tray Anna prepared for her father. “It’s not a miracle. I told you one of our kind neighbours gave me shelter. And besides, I’m never ill.”
Anna swatted her hand away from the tray. “Never say never, my sweet. That’s tempting fate.”
Rosalie rolled her eyes. Anna was a great believer in fate. She, on the other hand, believed in making things happen. Fate is what happened to other people.
An hour later she strode purposefully down the lane, through the woods, and out the other side, heading towards the Quantock Hills, blue and shadowy against the bright morning sky.
Anna couldn’t possibly take exception to the way she was dressed today. Sensible boots, a modishly-cut jacket over a high-necked sweater. The only item of clothing that might have caused Anna to raise an eyebrow were the riding pants that Rosalie wore. Her style of dress was the only source of discord between them. Anna did not approve of this new fashion for young women to dress like men. Rosalie was more than a little relieved the housekeeper had been sidetracked by the workmen breaking a pane of glass in the dining room, preventing a revival of their usual argument.
Past wide meadows of grazing cows, down the dappled lane where swirls of leaves crunched beneath her feet, and there was the house, golden in the arching morning sunlight. No smoke trailed up from the chimneys this morning, but as before, all the windows were thrown open to the fresh air.
The front door opened before she even reached it.
“We’ve been expecting you, Miss Stanton.” Peters positively beamed at her as he held the door wide for her to enter. “May I assist you with that basket?”
She handed it to him. “It’s a small gift from Anna.” Close enough.
He lifted the edge of the linen napkin folded neatly over the top. “Small?” he asked, lifting a brow.
She grinned, knowing the spread within: sandwiches, thick slices of ham, even thicker slices of almond cake, and a large bottle of homemade lemonade.
“Is William in the library?”
Peters didn’t even blink at her use of his master’s first name, just shook his head. “He’s waiting in the stables, Miss.”
“Does he plan to ride too?”
“He rides most mornings, unless the weather is really bad.” Then Peters winked. “But he’s not usually up and ready so early.”
She laughed as she backed out the door, to run around the house to the stables. A gravel path ran around the building to a courtyard, edged on one side by the kitchen buildings, on the other by a series of horse stalls, and on the furthest side by an unused coach house.
She found William in the stables, saddling a beautiful bay stallion. “Good morning,” she called out brightly.
He raised his head, not yet smiling, though his eyes crinkled at the edges. So much more preferable than his usual scowl. “Good morning.” He looked her up and down. “At least you’re more suitably attired for the country today… Rosalie.”
Her mouth quirked, but she repressed the urge to grin and reached up instead to stroke the stallion’s forelock. He nickered softly at her.
“He doesn’t usually take to strangers,” William said.
Like his master, then. Only with the man she wasn’t yet sure if she’d won him around. “Which one am I to ride?”
“The mare in the next stall. I’ve saddled her ready for you.”
“You were so sure I’d come?”
This time it was his mouth that quirked. “What else is there for a lively young woman to do in this village on a fine day?”
Her laugh bubbled over. “What indeed?”
Though she had plenty to do, with the renovations nearly done, the garden awaiting her attention, and the Women’s Institute’s Harvest Festival to arrange. Only none of those projects could compete against the challenge this man offered.
Her horse was a chestnut mare, its coat glowing red-gold in the bright morning sunlight as William led her out of the stall.
“What’s her name?” Rosalie stroked the mare’s forelock.
“Mairi.” He helped her mount, then turned away to swing himself up onto his own horse. Rosalie nudged the mare forward. She carolled, full of spirit, but followed Rosalie’s instructions, turning in a tight circle. They were well matched.
She and William trotted out of the courtyard side by side, turning north by unspoken consent, away from the village. As they headed down the lane, Rosalie turned in her seat to look at William. “So where are we going?”
“The lime kiln by Old Vellow,” he replied. “It’s long since been out of use, and there’s not much to see, but it’s a good distance for the horses to stretch their legs.”
He broke into a canter and Rosalie chased after him. For several miles they kept up their neck-and-neck race, down country lanes, over fields, jumping over narrow streams and hedgerows heavy with sloe berries. With the wind in her face and her hair streaming behind her, Rosalie’s heart sang.
When at last they slowed, they were both laughing and more than a little breathless. They walked the horses along a footpath beneath the trees, bending low to avoid the overhanging branches.
“That was one of the best rides I’ve had in years!” Exhilaration still bubbled in her veins.
“You ride well,” he said, with reluctance.
She wondered if he was comparing her to Julia again. It was an odd sensation, to be measured against someone else. Especially as she wasn’t entirely sure if her resemblance to his long lost love went in her favour or not. She shrugged away the discomfort, and cast a flirtatious smile over her shoulder at him. “Are you surprised?”
“You nearly beat me at chess, and you ride like a hellion. Is there anything you’re not good at?”
She bit back a laugh. “Lots. Too many years spent travelling with my father have left me seriously lacking in feminine accomplishments. I don’t do watercolours, am too impatient for embroidery or stitching, and I play the piano only indifferently.”
“At least you can list modesty as one of your virtues.”
This time she laughed out loud.
“Father says I’m insufferably precocious.”
“Are you?” Amusement glinted in his eyes.
“Probably. But I always tell him it’s his fault. He raised me, after all.”
“What happened to your mother?”
“She died when I was five.”
He didn’t bother with meaningless platitudes, and she was grateful. “My mother died when I was young too. It must have been hard for your father. Mine coped by sending me off to naval college. How did yours manage a military career and you at the same time?”
“He didn’t. Father retired from the army before Mother died. After he returned from the Boer War, he left active service and took a position closer to home, so he and my mother would never have to be apart again.” She sighed heavily. “Not that they got to spend much time together. Less than a year later she died.”
They stopped beside a brackish pond, where the trees were less dense. He dismounted, then moved to hold her horse’s head. As she slipped from the saddle, he reached out an arm to steady her, and instead of finding her feet on the ground, she slid into the circle of his arms. For the briefest moment, barely more than the space of a heartbeat, he held her against him. Then he set her back on her feet, and the air whooshed back into her lungs.
By the time her heartbeat had steadied, he’d already turned away to hobble the horses, leaving them free to graze beside the pond.
She followed him up a narrow path through the tangled brush. The lime kiln was barely visible in the undergrowth, buried in a slope beside the roadway.
“You’re right, there’s not much to see,” she said. But here, beside the old quarry, they were completely alone, surrounded by nothing but birdsong and the scuffle of squirrels among the trees. She was suddenly aware of William as she’d never been in the confines of his home. Watching as he pulled aside the tangled brambles to reveal an arch of red sandstone beneath, she took the opportunity of his distraction to look at him. Really look at him.
For a man who lived as a recluse, surrounded by books, he still had a fine physique: broad-shouldered, and a little taller and more imposing than most men she’d met. Which perhaps accounted for the villagers’ awe of him, because certainly she’d found nothing in him to fear.
