“Amazing.” Kate supplied dreamily, faintly blushing due to the reference of last night.
“Colinwood's saving grace is the formal gardens, designed by my ancestor during his earldom.” She paused, indicating an obelisk at the far end of the garden. The monument seemed unsightly, overpowering the exacting precision of the rose garden, crowded by a trio of unmatched stone benches. “The obelisk was erected by Colin's wife, Countess Margaret, as a memorial to his untimely death.”
“The garden is lovely.” Kate sighed, her eyes lifting. “However, the windows are spectacular.”
“Colin Burroughs detested the dark.” Anne admitted shamelessly. “He insisted the windows permit as much light as possible into every corner of the house. There are exactly forty-eight windows, all reaching from nearly floor to ceiling, throughout the manor house.”
“Impressive.” Kate was amazed, and then paused as a thought suddenly occurred. “Colin? Colinwood?”
“Colinwood, the manor house, is named after my ancestor.” She lowered her voice, her eyes twinkling with restrained humor. “The male ego, apparently, runs rampant in this family.”
Kate stifled her smile as Anne coaxed her down the remaining expanse of the brightly lit corridor. At the end of the long passageway, there were a sealed set of double doors and to her left, a curving staircase. Kate paused, marveling at the exquisitely marbled foyer below her. She stroked the banister, impressed by the magnificent scrollwork and frolicking nymphs and fairies carved into each section.
“Lovelier than the windows, wouldn't you say?” Anne posed as her slender fingers traced the intricately carved ivy leaf pattern. Kate nodded, unable to find words to describe the beauty of the carvings. “The banister was installed in the mid-eighteen hundreds by the second Nathan. The legend states that a dozen Irish wood carvers, specifically known for the near mythological quality of their work, sculpted it. As rumor has it, when everyone in the district saw the beauty of the workmanship and asked where they could hire the workers, Nathan commented the wee folk created it strictly for the amusement of the Raven.”
“Ah, a devious devil,” the statement slipped out before Kate could prevent it. Her startled gaze flew to Anne, expecting censure but the girl laughed and nodded.
“Naturally,” an unholy twinkle lit the depths of Anne's eyes. “Would you admit to your rival where you purchased an absolutely stunning dress?”
“Oh, no!” Kate choked on a stifled chuckle.
At the head of the stairs, she stared at the length of the wall stretching high above her. Her neck craned uncomfortably backwards as she gaped at the sheer magnitude of portraits. Ornately framed and many nearly twice her height, each person was portrayed in expert detail, to the simplest gold tassel or military service ribbon.
Anne beamed and leaned back on the banister, executing a grand and sweeping gesture with her arm. “These are a mere smattering of my glorious male ancestors. Each person you see has resided at this estate. The portrayals of their respective wives are in various rooms throughout Colinwood, but this wall is strictly for the Ravens.”
“You keep saying The Ravens?” Kate questioned, frowning even as her gaze remained upon the portraits. “Is there any particular reason?”
“It's the abbreviated title name for the Ravensmoors.” Anne supplied indulgently.
Kate nodded in understanding and indicated a painting. “Who is the gentleman above me?”
“Do you mean the gent in the military uniform?” Anne fed on her interest, needing little encouragement. “He is my great-grandfather, Major Jonathan Burroughs.”
“Elliot Jamison's commander?”
“None other.”
Kate scanned the face appreciatively, able to distinguish the strong resemblance the Ravensmoor men held to one another. The thickness of the iron gray hair, the similarly colored eyes, the cleft chin, and the immense stature of the individuals was inescapable.
“He's well decorated.” She commented, noting the large numbers of medals and ribbons on his uniform.
“Jonathan was a hero, by most standards.” Anne supplied simply before she pointed to another set of portraits of an elderly men. “This is Jonathan's father, William. To the left is his father, Douglas. The Ravens preferred to have their images painted late in life, believing something more commendable should be revealed by then, in lieu of youth and impertinence. Lord Douglas would say a Raven should never have a portrait commissioned while wet behind the ears. He felt the naiveté would be apparent in the years to pass. When one matured, they would have completed their purpose in life.”
“You're less likely to give a damn about what others think. When you're young, the opposite may be true.”
“Bravo.” Anne commented, enjoying her receptive audience. Moving down the stairs, she paused before a portrait of a dashing young man with severe blue eyes and an equally stern continence. “This is Nathan, who assumed the earldom approximately two decades before your country was in the throes of its Civil War.”
Kate considered the portrait. The figure portrayed couldn't be much older than the girl, their resemblance striking. “He doesn't appear happy.”
“I don't suppose he was, at the time. Nathan was scarcely twenty when he inherited the title. He discovered, despite his careful overview of the estate, his father squandered nearly all the land and monies. He saved the estates, and salvaged a bit of pride at the same time, since his father's death created quite a scandal. It took Nathan nearly a decade to accomplish the feat, but he did manage.”
“Poor man.”
“Hah!” Anne exclaimed, sunlight glistening on her face and her lips curving into a warm smile. “A moment ago, you called him a devious devil.”
Kate's mouth fell open as she stared from the serious face, then to the balustrade. “Is this the same Nathan and his wee folk?”
“None other.”
Kate granted her a knowing smile. “Now, I understand the sentiment of portraits commissioned early in life.”
“Exactly,” Anne agreed, inclining her head in a mock salute before shoving her hands into the pockets of her jeans. She rocked on her heels and gazed up at the portrait. “If Nathan would have waited another fifteen or twenty years, an entirely different man would be portrayed.”
Kate nodded, realizing the younger girl savored the attention displayed toward her ancestors. She understood her pride, having seen the same burst from Adam when he eagerly shared tidbits he uncovered about their ancestors.
“Who is Nathan's father?” She queried. “I notice fathers and forefathers on this wall. Do the portraits end with Nathan?”
The innocently posed question brought a dark frown to Anne's face. The girl managed another haughty toss of her head and pointed to a small portrait set far away from the others. This painting seemed ostracized to the darkest corner.
“That's Nathan's sire.” Anne's voice sounded chilly.
Kate moved to the girl's shoulder and peered at the man who caused such a dramatic change in Anne's jovial manner. She couldn't contain a startled gasp of amazement as she stared into an obese face flushed an unhealthy shade of red with great bulging eyes. The man's nose was a great mass of bulbous flesh above thick lips that hung laxly from a mouth twisted with dissipation. His attire was a revolting puce waistcoat that threatened to burst at the seams and garish peach breeches that clambered against the injustice of both weight and color. She abruptly thought of the caricature of a frog forced to dress in human clothing.
“This is the father of your serious Nathan?”
“None other,” Anne countered, her face twisting as if she tasted something sour and crossed her arms across her bosom.
“He doesn't bear any likeness to the Ravensmoors.” Kate commented pointedly, not having missed the colorless quality of the individual. “He lacks the jaw, the eyes….”
“Nathan was the exclusive proof Leslie was, in fact, a Ravensmoor. If Nathan wouldn't have borne such striking resemblance to his grandfather, Leslie'
s father may have disowned him.”
“If he's the one that ran the family into debt…?”
“Why is his portrait tolerated in the manor house, if he brought about such dishonor?” Anne shrugged, a frown spoiling her perfect features. “I believe he's a reminder of how he nearly destroyed everything. It prevents another peacock from inhabiting Colinwood.”
“Excuse me?” Kate was uncertain she heard the deliberate slur correctly.
“Leslie was known as the Peacock of Ravensmoor due to his extravagance and his gaudy attire.” Anne provided, her attractive features twisting with distaste.
“Leslie?” Kate repeated, shaking her head in disbelief. “Isn't your father also named Leslie?”
“My grandfather unjustly subjected my father to twice the curse already due to the Ravensmoor men.” She muttered below her breath before she fell silent.
“Your grandfather?” Kate frowned, hastily scanning the paintings. “Your grandfather's portrait isn't among these?”
“No.” Anne chided, as if the question Kate posed was frivolous. Anne forced lightness into her tone as she continued. “My grandfather's portrait is in my father's study. Papa moved the portrait shortly after his death.” She lowered her voice and her fingers shielded her lips. “Many have thought the move was arranged out of respect for Lord Andrew, but I suspect my father needed the constant reminder of where the pair would have their fiercest battles.”
Chuckling, Anne moved away from the banister and proceeded down to staircase. Kate followed closely behind her, nearly colliding with her as the girl paused. Anne retreated to the furthest end of the staircase, emitting a long and reverent sigh of pleasure and indicated the largest portrait on the wall.
“This is the first earl that resided at Colinwood after receiving his title. He inherited the title by default.”
“How does one inherit a title by default?”
“Nathan was the youngest son, the third in line to the earldom.” Anne provided informatively. “His father was Colin and the sons, Roderick and Edmund. They perished in a carriage accident and, with their deaths, Nathan fell into the line of succession.”
Kate looked to the man staring down from his lofty perch on the wall. The figure was sedately attired in an opened frock coat and fawn colored breeches, his large hands fanning the trim expanse of his thighs, emphasizing his long length. He’d foregone the extensively knotted cravat of the time, leaving the collar of his shirt opened, and exposing an expanse of bronzed skin. Regally, he regarded the artist with a stubbornly lifted jaw.
However, the cobalt blueness of his eyes held her enraptured, whisking her breath away. Kate felt light-headed, her ears ringing. She gripped Anne's arm as the blood rushed from her face and her skin chilled.
“Kate?” Anne inquired, catching the strain filling the woman's pale features.
“I know him.” Her voice sounded weak to her ears. She exhaled heavily and stared at the painting. He was the beautiful man from her dreams, who had ridden to her side and implored her to look at him. Staring into his painted eyes, knowing how they danced in her dreams a few hours earlier, she could almost hear his deep voice stirring in the air.
“Of course you do, Kate.” Anne soothed.
“You don't understand!” Kate protested, disorientated. “I know him!”
“Naturally, Madam.” A male voice boomed not far from above them and the spell was shattered. Kate looked up to the landing, realizing Dante exited from the grand room at the top of the stairs.
“You know the face because I'm the grandson.” His large hand touched the region of his heart, his stance as regal as the man in the portrait. “I, alone, bear the most substantial resemblance to Nathan Archimedes Christophe Dante Burroughs. I believe, more than the young Nathan who recuperated our lagging family fortunes.”
He spoke the truth, Kate realized. The clothes were exchanged for sleek black trousers and a lightweight sweater, both expertly molded to the muscular expanse of his broad physique. His hair was damp but the thick locks were springing into wild disarray. Unbound, his hair did surround identical features, emphasizing the same startling eyes and stubbornly cleft jaw.
“I didn't realize….” Kate supplied lamely, her color heightening as Anne released her grip. They stood side-by-side, their contrasting height, and coloring an odd compliment to each other.
“If I stood beneath the painting, dear lady, you would declare the old earl had stepped into the present.” His voice was a deep and silky baritone. “My family has always said the first Raven's spirit haunts the mighty halls of this great house through me.”
He strode aristocratically down the few steps to them, halting two paces beneath Kate's frozen figure. Despite his daughter's halfhearted protest, he ruffled her hair into a tangled mess, then turned to his secretary. His position on the staircase left him at a definite advantage, their eyes level to one another. Disconcerted, Kate stared at him on almost equal grounds, his vivid eyes fathomless. Nonsensically, she asked the first thing that leapt into her head.
“How tall are you?”
“American or European?” He chuckled. Whereas she was unable to read anything a moment ago, a sudden wealth of warmth and laughter flooded the colorful depths.
“I'm miserable at the metric system.” She admitted ruefully, her attention never leaving his face.
He made her breathless, she realized as she looked into his striking features, her knees weak and her heart roaring in her ears. He inflamed her senses without a single action and deliciously sensuous thoughts invaded her mind. Presently, he stood so close she was able to discern the minute creases that fanned about his eyes and the faint evidence of a scar in the arch of his brow.
“I imagine I'm a bit over six and a half feet. I believe I'm a foot taller than you.” He supplied with a tilt of a single winged brow.
Kate was startled how quickly he determined her height and managed a self-conscious shrug, which he accepted as a response.
“Have you nothing else to do but regale my secretary with our sordid family history, moppet?” He chastened fondly, breaking eye contact and turning to his daughter. “Our bloodline is torturously dull.”
“On the contrary,” Kate interposed swiftly. “Your ancestors are astounding. Although, Anne did say the portraits of the wives are in another wing of the house. Where are the children?”
“You're gazing on the images of the children as well, my dear.” He spread his hand elegantly, encompassing the images with one grand sweep. “The Ravensmoor line of descent has not been the most prolific. Since the second Nathan, there has been solely one male heir each generation. I'm an only child, as was my father, as was his father.”
“I'm the anomaly.” Anne inserted with accentuated irony. “I'm the only female Ravensmoor born.”
“Ever?” Kate was stunned.
She nodded. “As in documented ever.”
Kate shook her head. “My knowledge of titles is a bit lacking, but doesn't that mean you're the last earl?”
“You're well informed.” Dante rejoined grimly before giving a negligent shrug. “I'm the last male heir of the Ravensmoor title.”
“So much history,” Kate's eyes skimmed over the figures of the great men on the wall. “My mother's favorite subject was history, of all sorts. Adam and I learned to appreciate everything she taught us, but to lose so much….” She trailed off, unable to finish.
“History is factoring component of our lives. It shapes us and gages our responses to the world. Nevertheless, again, I must be boring you.” He muttered before supplying her with a slight quirk of his lips. “Would breakfast tempt you, instead of history?”
Kate laughed before nodding, unable to find her voice. His smile broadened as he straightened and crooked both of his arms to the women, offering a chivalrous escort down the stairs. Taking Anne's lead, she placed her fingertips on Dante's forearm.
“Kate.” Anne emitted her name warningly. Dante came to an abrupt halt in the foyer, his
face expressionless as he looked between the two females. “I should forewarn you, before we reach the dining room, the servants may act as strangely as Maevis.”
“You're going to have to bring more American's home or purchase china wholesale.” Kate murmured with attempted levity, aware of the tightening of Dante's jaw.
His sudden burst of laughter was deep and melodious. Vainly, he attempted to present his daughter with a straight face. “What service did Maevis send to its untimely demise?”
“The Rosenthal,” Anne responded easily.
“I was never particularly enamored with the Rosenthal.” He countered solemnly and flashed Kate a conspiratorial wink. He released their arms and flexed his large hands. “The set was far too delicate for my own use.”
***
The loud crash of dinnerware reverberated off the high ceilings. The light and fluffy eggs oozed across the immaculately polished gloss of the wood floor. The meal and shards of the platter slid to a near comical halt at the feet of a dour faced and impassive manservant. One bone china tea set, a platter, and four plates all met their untimely demise at the hands of three different servants. Kate flinched each time the doors of the dining room opened.
“If the staff breaks another service, it may be wiser to invest in a porcelain manufacturing company.” Ann remarked flippantly. She was a picture of genteel serenity, sipping her morning tea and covertly monitoring Kate beneath of her lashes.
“China is replaceable.” Dante countered, ignoring the raised voices evident beyond the closed doors.
Anne's gaze slipped to her father, who was watching their guest beneath lowered lids. She managed a close-lipped smile as her father summoned the butler.
“My lord?” The man inquired and stepped forward. He tipped his graying head, his voice, and features completely barren of emotion.
“Williams.” Dante began in a controlled and clipped tone. Outwardly composed, his annoyance was discernible by the impatient tapping of his fingers on the table. “Notify Mrs. O'Toole I do wish to dine before lunch. In all these years, I was lead to believe she had better control of her staff.”
My Lord Raven (The Ravensmoor Saga) Page 9
