“He cuts a fine figure, does he not?”
“Sir?”
“Jamison, my dear,” The elderly man reminded her jovially, inclining his head. “Elliot to everyone in my acquaintance,” he paused, scratching his jaw with the tip of a gnarled forefinger. “Although, I believe Ravensmoor would insist on referring to me as an interfering old goat.”
Kate choked on her bubble of laughter at his good-natured comment. “I don't believe you.”
“I know the way the lad thinks.” He responded easily.
Kate stifled a laugh. “Are you?”
“Am I what?” Jamison asked blankly, his attention having drifted.
Kate continued indulgently. “Are you an interfering old goat?”
Elliot Jamison chuckled aloud. Beneath his breath, he murmured an unintelligible comment pertaining to American bluntness.
“Ravensmoor can knight me with whatever title deemed appropriate. Frankly, I enjoy employing the moniker of the interfering old goat to the fullest.” He whispered in a conspiratorial tone, the faded color of eyes dancing with dry humor. As he withdrew his gnarled hand from hers, he was the epitome of false innocence. “Your answer, my dear?”
“Answer?”
“Does he cut a fine figure?” He probed, cocking a grizzled white brow in the general direction of the younger man.
“I suppose.” She responded evasively. She watched the subject of their discussion lead Anne back to her crowd of giggling friends. Dante flashed Kate a bold wink before the diminutive figure of an elderly woman, attired in glaring shades of red and purple, clutched at his arm.
“That's Cynthia.” Jamison supplied, indicating the rounded figure attached to Dante's arm. He stifled a devastatingly brilliant smile of amusement at some comment the woman whispered into his ear. “Another function where Cynthia has, again, misplaced her teeth.”
Kate smothered a laugh at his disgruntled tone, recalling Anne's secretly divulged comment. She watched with barely concealed humor as their host diligently led the woman about the crowded room, his bright eyes scanning vacant seats.
“Oh, dear, the poor woman.” She murmured, hiding her smile behind her fingertips.
“Indeed.” Jamison snorted, although a lingering edge of amusement was evident.
“Has he known her for a long time?”
“Ravensmoor has been acquainted with us his entire life.” Elliot Jamison provided, his eyes following the dark haired man in question. “Cynthia was a friend of his mother's, in her childhood. She spent more time here than she elsewhere. She was engaged to the Countess Margaret's brother before the war, but Daniel failed to return from the Battle of El Alamein.”
“What was El Alamein?” Kate questioned bemusedly.
“Where, dear.” He corrected gently, his sharp twinkle in his eyes fading as his thoughts drifted. “El Alamein is a quaint little village west of the city of Alexandria, on the northern coast of Egypt. Ravensmoor's grandfather was involved there, in 1942, as was Daniel. One came home, the other remained buried in the sands of a faraway land.”
“Ah.” She lowered her head at the regret she detected in his tone. “You were there?”
“Serving proudly alongside the pair,” he reaffirmed before clearing his throat and shaking the memories away. “Cynthia never married and became a fixture here, as the boy's honorary aunt. The old earl considered me one of the lads, having served in so many campaigns. I never understood why the boy continues to invite the lot of us to functions, especially when we're such an incorrigible lot.”
“Nonsense,” Kate tutted sympathetically, shaking her head. She reached for the librarian's hand, affectionately squeezing the gnarled flesh. “Apparently, Dante adores all of you. I feel he thinks of you as the family.”
“Oddness and all?” He questioned, smiling at her nod. “Cynthia's absentmindedness is a mild case of an eccentricity compared to the rest of us. The saints should have a few exemplary marks in their books when the boy's time comes, for good behavior.”
“It can't be that bad.”
“It isn't?” He laughed, as if she had provided him with an amusing witticism. The sound seemed unusual, as if it were something he rarely did. “Do you spy Byron in the outdated red frock coat?”
He indicated the figure at the far end of the room, the man in question raptly involved in conversation with a stunning brunette forty years his junior. Byron appeared to have stepped from the cover of an old movie magazine, from the pencil thin mustache to the oiled coif of the early years of the cinema. He sported the most lecherous grin Kate had witnessed in her lifetime, causing her to shake her head in disbelief.
“Byron used to be a chum of young Ravensmoor's father. After his father's demise, the boy continued to accept Byron and invite him to family functions, letting him know he was an important part of the Ravensmoor lineage. Byron is a dastardly rogue, if I may say so. A woman must keep her eye on him at all times.”
“Really?”
“He has a problem with keeping his hands to himself.” Elliot Jamison cackled, causing Kate's eyes to widen perceptibly.
“He must be close to sixty, if a day!”
“Try eighty, my dear.” He leaned closer, as if he meant to divulge the world's greatest kept secret. “When I was a lad, there was a saying I particularly enjoyed. When a man stops looking, there's a problem with the plumbing.”
Kate's face flamed brilliantly at the remark, her started eyes flying wide, “Sir?”
“Jamison, my dear,” He interjected smoothly, laughter cackling from him before he adopted a sober demeanor. “Did I shock you?”
“Fine, Jamison.” She hurried to respond, not failing to miss the teasing glint in his eyes before she afforded him a wry smile. “You, for a librarian, are absolutely horrible.”
“I'm steeped in books on a daily basis, but don't interpret that as meaning I'm straitlaced and a conclusive boor.” He provided. “I've never been up on myself, much as the boy would say otherwise.”
“No,” Kate agreed with a chuckle. “You aren't a snob.”
Strangely enough, he appeared pleased with her comment as he sat back in the stiff seat. A slow grin teased his lips and his pale eyes followed Dante's progress about the room. He exclaimed aloud, stifling the urge to shout a proud bravo as Ravensmoor paused and pointed Cynthia in the direction of a vacant seat. The boy discreetly turned his back while the woman stepped behind him, retrieving her lost goods.
“The boy located them.” He mused aloud, Cynthia's rotund figure straightening as she flashed Dante a miraculously toothy smile.
Dante granted the elderly woman a fond smile before he leaned over and pressed a warm kiss to her crepe paper folds of her cheek. Idly, Jamison fingered his lined jaw, covertly watching Kate's reaction. There were many questions flitting through his mind and he the grace of old age to blame for his outspoken behavior. Clearing his throat, he regained the American's undivided attention, wishing he were forty years younger.
“You understand us far better than we comprehend ourselves.”
“Are you flattering me, sir?”
“I am merely observing.” He mused aloud, turning as Dante approached the pair with a secretive smile curving his full lips. Jamison left the phrase hanging, his gaze reverting to the portrait at the far end of the room.
***
“He's irrefutably smitten, isn't he?” Claudia giggled behind her hand. She hadn't failed to notice the sultry wink Anne's father had delivered to the woman sitting with the town librarian.
“I do believe so” Anne smiled before savoring a cooling sip of iced soda. She turned, seeing her father's head above the crowd as he moved across the room and claimed Kate.
“What did I miss?” A familiar and breathless voice interrupted. Anne's former school chum, Megan, slid between the pair.
“You're late as usual.” Anne chastised teasingly.
At her grandfather's demise, Dante had removed his daughter from the exclusive private academy and enroll
ed her into public school. Her father had a yearning for his daughter to be a member of the so-called normal class, not of the socially elite. Since that time, Anne had known the pair who stood at her side, who accepted the over-tall and nervous preteen with open arms. They had remained close, trusted, and true friends.
“I had to wait for my uncle's new wife.” Meg offered as an exasperated explanation. Megan father's was the poor relation of a Lord Hugh Somers, who resided on a vast estate a hundred kilometers to the north of Colinwood. The octogenarian uncle wedded a few months ago to a woman far younger than himself, much to the disapproval of his heirs.
“Why?” Claudia asked, her eyes wide in her round face.
Megan clicked her tongue and waved a hand, as if she expected the action to define the actual reason behind her tardiness.
“My father went to perform his obligatory visit on his great-uncle and happened to mention the simply wonderful bash your father was having. Uncle Hugh's new wife was in residence and the poor dear was simply going mad, being confined to the estate.” Megan provided, lifting the heavy length of her long blonde hair from the nape of her neck and fanning herself. “She was positively thrilled with the idea of attending and ventured down this morning, specifically to attend. I couldn't precisely tell her she wasn't invited.”
“And?” Claudia pressed on, her uncontrollable bouncing enthusiasm urging the other onwards.
“I waited for her to dress!” She winced as she yelled the words aloud and gave Anne a contrite look. Meg glanced down at her off-the-shelf denims and simple cardigan, wryly twisting her lips. “Women with the funds take forever to decide over the simplest things. Please, Anne, I do hope you don't mind.”
Anne smiled indulgently; thinking one more individual in the mash of bodies was unlikely to be noticed.
“Megan, I don't see it as such.” Anne supplied graciously, shaking her head as the girl heaved a hearty sigh of relief. She thought it particularly humorous her friends overlooked that she was one of the so-called women with funds. “I expect the crowd should be lightening soon. Perhaps, you'll introduce me to your new great-aunt?”
“You mean my new great-great aunt.” Megan corrected, her lips twisting and emphasizing her chagrin.
“Ooh!” Claudia breathed, her round little face alight and her mass of red curls jiggling, “That must really bite!”
“What?”
Claudia rolled her dark brown eyes at Anne with disbelief.
“Haven't you heard, sweets?” She giggled beneath her breath, her hand self-consciously covering her mouth before she leaned closer to the pair. “Meg's two times great-aunt is barely your father's age.”
“Oh, please don't remind me!” Megan threw her head back in a dramatic gesture, a balled fist landing heavily on her chest. “The woman is young enough to be married to one of Uncle Hugh's grandsons!”
“Perhaps your Uncle Hugh is infatuated?” Anne offered lightly, although she realized the outcome of many May-December marriages between the elite.
“Anne, you go through life with rose colored glasses.” Claudia managed with an indulgent smile. “I decided long ago that it must be the result of your family's wonderful love story.”
Anne smiled at the observation, relishing that the tale spun about the Ravensmoors would soon happen.
“Perhaps.”
Megan's attention came back to her school chums and she grimaced.
“Uncle Hugh may have an old man's love for a young and pretty woman. Although, I think Angelica is more in love with his money.”
“What is your uncle's wife's name?” Anne managed, paling.
“Angelica,” Meg provided innocently, annotating the sudden change in Anne's usually placid expression. Their hostess rose to the tips of her toes, her expression tormented as she scanned the numerous heads milling about the room. “Is there a problem?”
Anne exhaled deeply. “Your new aunt wouldn't be a very leggy blonde with a deep tan?”
Megan's lip jutted out, pondering her friend's question. “Yes.”
“Does she reek of gardenias?”
Megan's response was a slow nod. Claudia's expression was one of bewilderment. “Why all the questions?” She blurted, entirely lost.
“I do believe you may be correct about your uncle's new wife.” She provided, her gaze commiserating.
Anne's expression was visibly haunted as she lowered from the tips of her toes and turned back to the pair.
“She insisted on coming to my party to cause a scene.” Megan and Claudia both frowned at her, knowing Anne wasn't prone to histrionics.
“Your new aunt is my father's ex-wife.”
Chapter Eighteen
“What a touching display.”
The woman stood directly in front of Kate, her words cutting. She looked up, past the skin tight and pale pink sweater that displayed a gaping amount of enhanced cleavage, and into the stranger's face. The woman was a towering and curvaceous Amazon, her artificially tanned figure blocking any escape route.
“Pardon?” Kate managed with forced politeness.
The woman glared smugly at Kate. She had been beautiful in her youth, but lines of dissipation lingered about her eyes. Heavy lines creased the flesh about her mouth and the youthful coif she wore accentuated the sagging contours of her jaw. Kate inhaled deeply, the perfumed scent of gardenias flooding over her, laced with the underlying aroma of rum.
“You heard me. What a touching display.” She repeated with obvious bitterness.
Kate blinked, wondering at the woman's identity and the apparent hostility. “Concerning?”
The woman made a disgusted sound from deep within her throat. “You really are a stupid one, aren't you?”
Kate hackles rose, and her jaw tightened. “I don't think it's any of your business.”
“Everyone saw him, his hands all over you and the heat in his eyes,” the woman ground out, her words low and menacing.
Kate's eyes glittered dangerously as she rose to her full but diminutive height. “I don't know who you think you are….”
“Tell me, does he do that enticing thing with his teeth?” The woman brazened onwards, interrupting Kate with the hushed crudeness of her question. “Don't play me for the fool, sweet. I can recognize a well-sated woman. He always was a prize in the bedchamber, the very best of lovers.”
Her brittle laugh sounded crazed.
“It's erotic, is it not, to have that much man in your arms?”
Kate made a face, realizing a disgruntled and drunken lover apparently stood before her. Her mind worked rapidly, knowing the woman wasn't going to allow her to leave unscathed. Thankfully, she had enough survival instinct embedded in her to find a graceful manner to exit the confrontation.
“I suppose you're speaking of Ravensmoor?” Kate asked with deceptive innocence.
“Ravensmoor, the high and mighty,” She echoed the name in a voice dripping with sarcasm, her eyes rolling. “Dante, Dante, Dante.” She chanted childishly, her body swaying with the name.
“Yes, Dante,” Kate responded, her brow rising in an exact imitation of the man in question.
“Oh, yes.” The woman smirked, her painted lips twisting into an ugly grimace. Suddenly, she blinked, her expression one of shocked disbelief. Kate felt an uncomfortable chill trail down her spine, shooing the heat from her body. “It seems the irrefutable lord of the manor obtained his mythical lady after all!”
“What?”
“The lady,” the woman laughed cruelly. “You don't know?”
Kate was becoming exasperated with each passing moment. “Would I ask you if I did?”
“He has the lady from the portrait, after all.” She continued, reeling about on her heel and nearly toppling. She pushed at those standing in her way and staggered to a grand fireplace, digging manicured nails deep into Kate's arm and pulling her along. Her actions caused a swarm of guests to pull back, their attention fastened on the furious and drunken woman. A murmur of disbelief rose among the
older attendees, many of whom recognized the once beautiful woman.
“Have a look, sweets. Raise your eyes to the famous Raven's Lady.” She commanded with a grand and sweeping flourish, indicating the portrait towering above the fireplace.
Kate looked up, blinking in awe. The portrait was well over two centuries old, if she could judge correctly from the form of dress the woman wore. Despite the age of the painting, the figure of the female was vibrantly alive.
She recognized the features, nearly identical and brushed with the same incredible touches of life. The cheeks held the same flush and the emerald eyes were a mirror image of her own. Kate's breath caught in her throat, recognizing the jewel hanging about her own neck.
“Oh, you're a prize piece, aren't you? You've been in this room for more than three hours, hungering after him.” The woman continued bitingly, flinging Kate's arm roughly aside. “He kept the portrait from you, didn't he?”
Kate straightened, anger simmering deep within her. Words rushed madly thorough her head, a series of confusing and disorientated phrases. She shook her head, unaware of the speculative glances of the nearby guests.
“How long has the portrait been here?” She managed from between clenched teeth, not daring to turn toward the other woman.
“Nearly two hundred years.” The willowy blonde-haired person supplied, folding her arms across her ample breasts, inordinately pleased. “It's Dante's favorite, if I do say so. I didn't think he'd find you, though.”
“Find me?” Kate ground the question out, her hands forming tight fists at her sides, feeding on her gullibility. The painting explained why everyone had turned to stare at her arrival, why the silence was deafening. She was the prize he flaunted for the benefit of everyone present, the earl, and his woman in attendance at Colinwood.
“How does it feel, being used by the great Lord Raven?” The woman spat, the tip of her finger jabbing into the American. Kate stumbled backwards, unable to catch herself. She felt a familiar pair of muscular arms catch her, seconds before she struck the floor. Furiously, she wrenched away, her anger apparent.
My Lord Raven (The Ravensmoor Saga) Page 20
