And so when Mr. Smith had presented him with an opportunity to invest in horse breeding deep within the Dorset countryside, Philip had agreed immediately. Though his impulsiveness was fueled by his desperation to leave London, Philip did not feel as though he was going in over his head. He believed he knew enough about horses to make a success of it, though he acknowledged he didn’t know everything, and was therefore hoping to learn more from his new partner, Mr. Winter.
His other hasty decision, however, had plunged him deep into murky waters.
After committing himself to Mr. Winter’s business, Philip had then tackled the issue of where he would live. Mr. Smith had suggested to him a “grand and distinguished” country estate that was not only suitable for a lord, but very near Whistler Manor where Mr. Winter lived. Philip, seeing the convenience of the estate’s proximity to Mr. Winter’s home, quickly decided to take Tyndall Hall … without first looking at it.
This will teach me, he thought as he surveyed the cracks in the wall of his new study.
Tyndall Hall had undoubtedly been very “grand and distinguished” at one time. Indeed, it may even have been fit for a lord, but its grandness was buried under several decades’ worth of dust, cobwebs, and decay. The estate and its extensive property, as it turned out, had once belonged to a marquess, who had foolishly and drunkenly lost the deed to the estate in a card game. The winner of said deed promptly presented it to another gambler to cover an old debt. The third gambler then sold it to a then rich, but now bankrupt, baron, who had been trying for two years to offload the deteriorating and overgrown estate. In Philip, the destitute baron had found a willing and naïve buyer — the best kind of consumer for all things in poor condition.
But no matter. Philip had moved here to start anew. And in this dilapidated old house, miles from London and all other apparent cultured civilization, Philip would find rebirth.
He would have Tyndall Hall renovated. The lawns and gardens would be freshened and manicured, and the lands would be made ready for tenants once more. Everything would be completely and thoroughly refurbished; no detail would be overlooked. Philip smiled to himself. He and Tyndall Hall would be reborn together.
Perhaps once it was presentable — or rather, livable — he would begin looking for a live-in mistress. Which would be the best room to house her? A room nearest to his own chamber so that his journey to her would not be far, or one farthest away so he could escape her whenever he wished?
“My lord?” said a feminine voice.
“Yes, Mrs. Jones,” answered Philip. He would have to look into finding more staff as well. He had only been able to secure a few footmen, a cook, and one housemaid on such short notice.
Mrs. Jones entered the room fully. “Forgive me for disturbing you, my lord, but a Mr. Edward Winter is here to speak with you.”
“Yes, I thought he might come sooner or later. Show him into the drawing room and offer him some tea.”
Mrs. Jones curtsied stiffly. Philip heard her old knees pop and crack. “Yes, my lord.”
“Just a moment, Mrs. Jones,” he said before the old maid could leave. He heard her groan softly. More than likely she thought he was going to assign her more work. “Once you’ve shown Mr. Winter into the drawing room, take an hour to rest. I realize this house is entirely too large and too … deteriorated for you to take on by yourself.”
Mrs. Jones’s eyes lit up in surprise. “Thank you, my lord,” she said and left the room.
Some of his peers might be of the opinion that unwavering discipline was the best way to manage the household staff. Philip, on the other hand, thought it was best to keep them happy. After all, they prepared and served food and witnessed events that were better left as secrets, as Philip knew only too well. “Loyalty and honesty are not qualities one finds in disgruntled employees, Philip,” his father had told him. “Make certain they are always content, and they are less likely to betray you.”
Philip hoped to God his father’s words were true. If he made a fool of himself with this investment, he wanted to leave his failure in Dorset. The kind of reputation that would be assigned to him if he failed was the last thing he needed. He could imagine the sound of his amended title now — “Lord Philip Ravenshaw, second son of the Duke of Willingham, naturally able to repel ladies, and a professional cock-up in business”. He shuddered at the thought.
“Mr. Winter,” said Philip when he entered the drawing room fifteen minutes later. Mr. Winter rose immediately from his chair. “How good of you to come, sir. I meant to call on you as soon as I arrived, but as you can see from the state of this old place,” said Philip, “my visit was delayed.”
Mr. Winter said nothing. He looked past Philip and through the doorway as though waiting for someone else to appear.
Philip’s lips stretched into a nervous smile. “Is something the matter, sir?”
“Oh, no, my lord, everything is quite well,” Mr. Winter rushed to explain. “It’s just that I …” Mr. Winter chuckled. “I do not think we should begin business with a lie.”
Philip nodded. “Well spoken.”
“I confess, Lord Philip … my expectations of you were of someone much … older.”
“Older?” Philip queried.
“Yes, my lord,” said Mr. Winter. “How old are you?”
“First, please do not call me ‘my lord.’ If we are to be partners in business, then I believe titles should not separate us. And to answer your question, I am four-and-twenty, but my age need not be of concern. I assure you, sir, my intentions with this venture are not fly-by-night. I plan to invest a great deal of myself into this project in addition to money.”
Mr. Winter smiled slowly. “I knew I would like you.”
Philip nodded. “You seem to be amiable as well. I think we will work together quite nicely.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Winter agreed.
“Now, then,” said Philip and walked over to the sofa to sit. “What has brought you here this morning?”
Mr. Winter sat on the sofa opposite Philip. “I’ve come to issue an invitation to dinner this evening at my home, Whistler Manor.”
“Excellent,” said Philip. “What time shall I plan to arrive?”
“I thought we would dine around six, but I was hoping to have a chance to show you the grounds, as well as the current horses in our possession. I’d say arriving around four o’clock should give me time enough to accomplish all I have planned.”
Philip nodded once. “I shall be there.”
• • •
She could not figure out which gown to wear. Lord Philip and her father due to arrive at the Manor any moment for dinner, and Olivia was still standing in her bedchamber, clad only in her chemise and stockings. But she simply could not find anything to wear — such a stupid dilemma, really. She already detested the man on principle, yet she was worried about how she would look to him.
She told herself she cared about her appearance only for the sake of her father. She refused to entertain the silly notion that Lord Philip’s judgment mattered to her personally, because it didn’t. It just didn’t.
“Oh, this is nonsense,” she muttered and grabbed her light-blue gown. The dress had been buried in the back of her armoire, though she couldn’t remember for the life of her why. It was an older dress, true, but it was still quite fashionable. At least she thought it would still be considered fashionable. She hadn’t flipped through the pages of The Lady’s Magazine since she’d left London, so she really had no way of knowing.
Feeling that time was becoming ever more pressing, Olivia chose not to worry about how fashionable the dress was and quickly pulled the garment over her head.
The sleeves were short and puffed slightly at the shoulders. The bodice, which had been altered to accommodate Olivia’s rather small bosom, was embroidered with roses in pink silk ribbon. She turned and examined herself in the mirror. As usual, she wished she had more up top.
Nothing could change how she was shaped — or rather,
wasn’t shaped — but the least she could do was amplify what she did have. She grabbed a yellow silk ribbon from her dressing table and tied it tightly around her body just beneath where breasts should be. Perhaps it would make her appear fuller.
Her hair, she knew, should probably be styled in a bun atop her head, but she preferred to wear it down. When styled in a bun, the heavy strands pulled too sharply on her scalp for her liking, but something had to be done about it. It was still a tangled mess from riding her horse, Emily, earlier. She poured some water in the basin of her washstand and wetted her fingers.
She smoothed and twisted her curly strawberry strands until they looked like little red-golden ropes. They would cease to lie flat and spring to life once they dried, but she rather liked the effect. It reminded her of a painting she had seen in London of the Roman goddess Diana.
The goddess had been sitting by a river, bathing naked in the forest with her long, curly blond hair billowing around her. Olivia had been shocked to see the image as all parts of the goddess had been shown. Her father had rushed her away from the risqué piece the moment he’d spotted her looking at it, but the image had already been burned in her mind. Olivia would always remember how strong the goddess had looked, sitting so boldly naked in the forest alone. Olivia wished she had the courage to be equally as strong. She was going to need a bit of strength and courage tonight, for certain.
How would she get through the meal with a lord? One could not simply chat away with members of the aristocracy the one might with friends. She would just have to mimic the behavior of the ladies she’d observed during her Season.
The sound of hoof beats reached her ears suddenly and pulled her out of her daydream. They were back. Her pulse quickened and her fingers began to tremble with nervousness. Her hair was still damp and her fingers wet. She grabbed at the towel that hung next to the basin and dried her hands quickly. She should already be downstairs, waiting to greet them when they entered the house. Tardiness would most certainly be an unforgivable offense in the eyes of a duke’s son. She had to beat them to the main door, and fast.
She rushed out of her room and down the stairs. Half-way down the stairs, she tripped over the hem of her dress and had to cling to the banister to prevent from toppling forward … just as her father and Lord Philip entered the house.
Olivia knew she looked like a fool standing there as she was in the middle the staircase — bent over forward with her hair flung over her head — but there was nothing she could do but right herself. She slung her hair back and pulled herself upright slowly. They were all silent for a beat, and then her father cleared his throat. “Lord Philip Ravenshaw,” Mr. Winter said as though nothing had happened. “Allow me to present my daughter, Miss Olivia Winter.”
“It’s a pleasure, Miss Winter,” Lord Philip mumbled and bowed slightly.
Oh, my, Olivia thought as her heart sunk to the pit of her stomach. Lord Philip Ravenshaw was not the old codger she had predicted. He was quite the opposite, in fact — very young, and also very attractive (if she were to be honest). Olivia shook off the shock of his appearance and extended her foot to walk forward. When cold air rushed between her toes, she remembered she had forgotten her slippers.
Oh, dear Lord. Not only had she almost fallen on her face before him, but she was barefoot as well. She had her stockings on, true, but that wasn’t enough to make up for the absolute blunder of having no shoes. Lord Philip must think her horridly uncivilized. It was then, in a quick flash of panic, that Olivia realized how severely she had lied to herself.
She had indeed wanted Lord Philip to form a good opinion of her. In the deepest, darkest, most distant corner of her mind, she had secretly hoped to impress him with flawless manners and an expert sense of propriety. Perhaps with his approval, she would finally gain absolution for having been such an abysmal failure in London.
A wave of depression very nearly drowned her resolve and she almost began to cry. She banished her tears as quickly as they came upon her when she saw Lord Philip’s confused expression. She had already embarrassed herself profusely in front of him. She would not make herself a ninny as well.
This man was not God, after all. He was just a man; the same as any other, no matter who his father happened to be. She clung to that thought as she lifted her chin a notch and walked towards him proudly, bare feet and all.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Lord Philip,” she said calmly as she curtsied. Then she felt — and heard — a seam in her bodice pop and she remembered something else she’d forgotten.
Her lovely blue gown, with its pale pink silk roses, was one of the dresses that had become too small for her in the past year.
So that’s why it had been buried in the back of her armoire.
Chapter Three
They waited the meal for her, much to Philip’s agitation. His stomach had grumbled three times in the last minute. He could smell the roast beef and the roast potatoes. The scents slithered around his nose and teased his hungry body. What the devil could be taking her so long?
To his way of thinking, the process of changing gowns should consume a span of time no greater than five minutes. At present, Miss Winter had kept them waiting for well over thirty minutes. It was all very improper. What the hell was she doing? Sewing a new dress?
He exhaled deeply to calm himself. Olivia was the daughter of his business partner. It did not do well to think badly of the relatives of one’s partner, no matter how dreadfully hungry one happened to be. He should not be so critical of her, either. He doubted Olivia and Mr. Winter received many visitors this far in the country. With a guest finally in the house, particularly one of standing, the girl was naturally going to behave nervously. Nevertheless, even if she were in possession of the worst nerves in all of Britain, she had already done quite a few unforgivable things.
She had virtually fallen down the stairs in front of him … and without slippers for God’s sake! The site of her stocking-clad feet had been shocking. How could a proper lady forget her slippers? All the ladies he knew back in London would certainly never forget something as elemental as slippers.
Then the seam in her gown had popped … loudly, in fact. She had laughed and excused herself as if such a thing happened every day. At that point, Philip didn’t think the girl could possibly be any more ridiculous. But then she had proven him wrong by ascending the stairs backwards! Apparently, one of the seams at the back of her dress had popped.
Christ above. He had been horribly embarrassed for her. Someone had to be. She hadn’t appeared to be flustered even once. Miss Olivia Winter was either tough as nails, or as crazy as a loon. And as far as Philip was concerned, neither characteristic was very appealing in a lady.
Finally, after nearly forty-five minutes, Miss Winter entered the dining room. Philip rose from his chair out of habit. Mr. Winter hastily followed suit soon after. Olivia’s new dress was a deep maroon and, Philip noted, very outdated. Not that Philip possessed extensive knowledge of current women’s fashions, but he did have a mother and a sister who were obsessed with keeping up with all the latest trends.
She had left her unruly hair free to hang past her shoulders and down the length of her back. Philip had been surprised to see it unbound when she’d nearly tumbled down the stairs, but other events soon stole his attention away from her chosen coiffure. He was equally surprised now to see she hadn’t fashioned it into a bun after all that time in her bedchamber. But there was nothing, save for his hunger, to keep his attention from it this time.
All the ladies he knew, and had ever met, for that matter, kept their hair bound. He had never been sure as to why, only that it was the proper thing to do. After viewing Miss Winter’s wild locks, however, he was beginning to understand exactly why it was proper.
Her hair was more blonde that red, but it was just red enough to be considered unfashionable. Even if the color of her hair were the envy of ladies everywhere, Philip would not like it because he himself preferred dark
hair and dark hair only on women. The standards of current fashion and his personal preference notwithstanding, Philip experienced an intense desire to reach out and grab her curly strands. He wasn’t sure if it was the length or the texture, but something about her hair caused his fingers to ache with the desire to touch it. It was a primitive impulse, one deep-seated in raw lust.
Christ, he had to get rid of that. If there was anything worse than thinking badly of the daughter of one’s business partner, it was having lecherous fantasies about her.
“I’m sorry my son is not here,” said Mr. Winter as they all three lowered themselves into their chairs. Mr. Winter was at the head of the table; Olivia and Philip were seated on either side of him, across from one another. Wonderful, Philip thought. He would be forced to look at her all through dinner after experiencing the urge to grab her by the hair.
“Son?” Philip inquired conversationally, wanting to keep his attention away from Olivia.
“Yes,” said Mr. Winter. “Richard is his name. He’s away at Cambridge at the moment.”
“What is his area of study?” Philip asked politely as his crystal goblet was filled with red wine. Next the server placed before him the beef and potatoes. Olivia was forgotten completely at first sight of the food. Philip employed every ounce of his control to keep from shoveling it all into his mouth. Far too many years of his mother drilling dining room etiquette into his head won out against his riotous stomach.
Stephanie James Page 3
