It was unfair for one man to be so handsome. Lord Gosling was beautiful in a boyish way; the Earl of Winterton was a mesmerizing man in the prime of life. His dark hair was a rumple of unruly waves today, curling over his brow like a classical statue. He paused in front of a portrait, raising his chin to study it, and Viola’s eyes skimmed over the lines of his profile. His nose was straight but not large, his jaw firm. He turned to continue his circuit of the room and her gaze drifted lower over broad shoulders, clad in a royal blue coat. His hands, still clasped behind his hips, were elegant, long-fingered and strong. Viola tore her eyes away but not before noticing that his backside was also rather perfectly shaped. She fixed her gaze on the vase on the mantel and kept it there as his footsteps echoed softly in the silent room. Do not ogle an earl, she scolded herself. What had come over her?
“A veritable museum of Cavendish history.” Lord Winterton returned to her side.
Viola smiled. “Yes. The dowager duchess take a particular interest in maintaining it.”
“The lady above the fireplace, I take it.” He turned toward the portrait in question, and Viola’s attention snagged once more on the sensual set of his lips before she yanked her gaze away.
“Yes. Miss Alice Penworth, when that was painted soon before her marriage.” In the painting the dowager duchess was young and beautiful, glowing with love and happiness. It was no secret her marriage to the late duke had been one of love, which had ended tragically some seventeen years ago with the duke’s sudden death, when Bridget was a baby.
“Her youngest daughter has her looks.”
Viola nodded. “All the young ladies do, to some extent. They have their father’s coloring. His Grace looks very like his father, though.”
“Does he?” He scanned the walls. “Which is he?”
She glanced at him in surprise. The portrait of the late duke looked almost exactly like the current duke; Wessex was the image of his father, from his deep-set eyes and stern face to his height and build. “There.” She indicated the portrait between the windows, at an angle from the dowager’s. The arrangement and their respective poses made it appear that the late duke and his wife were gazing in adoration at each other across the room.
“Of course.” Winterton went to stand in front of it. “It’s very like Wessex, you say?”
Slowly she followed him. “To the life.” She hesitated. “Are you not acquainted with His Grace, then?” She had assumed he must be a rather close friend, for the duke to invite him to Kingstag at Christmastime. Wessex was devoted to his family and guarded his time with them closely. The dowager duchess was the one who had planned the house party, and only then because of Serena’s recent heartbreak.
“Not really, no,” said the earl. He seemed absorbed in the painting. “He’s a stern man, I take it.”
Oh dear heaven. Had she let a perfect stranger into the castle? The earl claimed to have an appointment, but he’d offered no proof and Viola had never heard warning of his visit from Mr. Martin, who normally kept her apprised of things like that. The duke and duchess preferred their schedules be kept aligned. Her spine stiffened and she said, “I suppose you’ll have to form your own opinion.”
“Our correspondence was cordial,” he said. “And the rumors I heard paint him a passionate, romantic fellow.”
The rumors were probably about how the duke had married. Before he met his duchess, Wessex had been engaged to another woman—Miss Helen Gray, now Mrs. Blair. That wedding had been called off at the very last minute, and within days the duke married Cleo and Miss Gray married Mr. Blair. Viola had heard many versions of the story from the Cavendish girls, but she wasn’t sure how much truth lay in them. Bridget declared her brother fell in love with his betrothed bride’s sister at first sight and pined away until Helen took pity on him and released him from the engagement. Serena believed the sisters had worked it out between the two of them, which one would become the duchess, with all its duties and responsibility, and which one would get James Blair, who was a great favorite of the girls. Alexandra claimed Mr. Blair challenged the duke to a duel over Miss Gray, whom he had been secretly in love with for ages, and the duke stepped aside because he was secretly in love with Cleo.
It all sounded highly melodramatic and very unlike the reserved, practical duke she knew. Privately she suspected it had been an arranged marriage between Wessex and Helen Gray in the first place, and once they had a chance to know each other a bit they had realized how wretched their union would have been, a disaster averted in the nick of time. Viola had had many opportunities to see Wessex and Mrs. Blair together, and there was no chance, in her opinion, that either of them could have believed they would suit each other.
On the other hand, one could all but hear the passion crackling between Wessex and his duchess, while the Blairs were the picture of bliss. Whatever had happened, it had certainly ended happily for all of them.
Not that she would ever tell the Earl of Winterton any of that.
“You must judge for yourself,” she said again. Please let the duke and duchess return early, she silently wished. “Would you like to see the rest of the house now?”
The earl couldn’t miss the coolness in her tone. He turned to her, his azure eyes brighter than ever, and smiled—warmly, as if to reassure her. “Very much, Mrs. Cavendish.”
Chapter Four
Wes went down to dinner more curious about Mrs. Cavendish than about the location of the Desnos atlas.
His tour of the house had been cut short when a servant came to inform Mrs. Cavendish that the dowager duchess wanted to see her. From the alarm that flashed over her face for a moment, Wes guessed that his absent hostess was keeping an eye on things from afar. But the end result was that his companion excused herself, and he didn’t set eyes on her for the rest of the day.
It left him free to amuse himself, and he did try to redirect his thoughts toward the Desnos. After a calculated delay, he returned to the library. This time only Lady Bridget was in the room, pacing and muttering to herself. At his entrance, she stopped short.
“I beg your pardon,” Wes said with a slight bow. “Mrs. Cavendish was called away, and I hoped to find a book to read.”
The young lady pressed her lips together, but curtseyed. “Of course. I was about to go to the drawing room anyway. Do come in, sir, and help yourself to any books you fancy.” She went to the desk, gathered her papers, and left.
Wes stood back as she went by him. He hadn’t meant to chase her away, but he wasn’t about to protest being left alone in the library for a while. He headed straight for the globes, presuming any travel books would be there.
An hour of hunting did not turn up the Desnos, nor any atlas which might be mistaken for it. He stood drumming his fingers on the table, wishing he could ask Mrs. Cavendish. She must know. She appeared to know everything that went on in the house.
And yet he doubted she would tell him, even if she knew precisely where the Desnos was. He had been mesmerized by her, and felt an unwarranted eagerness to take a tour of Kingstag Castle when she offered. But he hadn’t missed the chill that came over her demeanor after he revealed that he didn’t know the Duke of Wessex personally. She wasn’t merely the duke’s employee, she was also a relation. The widow of a distant, lowly cousin, in her telling, but one who clearly took her familial connection seriously.
Wes had distant relations who turned to him for support or assistance. He supposed he employed some of them; he’d been away from Winterbury Hall so much, he wasn’t entirely sure. He was certain none of them were members of his personal household, and he was quite sure none of them were remotely as attractive as she was.
Mrs Cavendish, though, was a member of the family here. He eavesdropped on her easy conversation with Lady Bridget with amusement, but also envy. His discussions with Justin were never so affectionate or so… so… peaceful. It was genuine curiosity in part that drove him to ask her advice.
Wes didn’t think too much on the other rea
sons he felt like seeking her out.
When he reached the parlor where the guests were gathered before dinner, Justin gave him a severe look. Wes ignored it. Mrs. Cavendish was engaged in conversation, so he skirted the throng of young people, biding his time, and as he did so another lady caught his eye.
“Good evening, ma’am.” He bowed before Lady Sophronia.
She looked him up and down. “Winterton! It’s about time. You may sit with me; all the handsome men do.”
Amused, he took the seat next to her on the sofa. Lady Sophronia was tiny and must be over ninety, but her hair was still elaborately arranged, and dyed an unnatural shade of red. Unlike many elderly ladies who clung to the fashions of their youth, she wore a modern gown, although with the most unusual cape over her shoulders.
She noticed him looking at it. “Otter,” she confided, stroking it gently. “A gift from my second fiancé. Such a fine man he was; Russian, you see, and so virile.”
Wes blinked. “Indeed.”
“Have you been to Russia?” She nodded at Lady Alexandra, who was holding court for Justin and some of the other young people by the windows. “Alexandra tells me you’re quite a world traveler.”
“I have been to Russia, ma’am, though only once, and not for long. I prefer climates warmer than England, not colder.”
She gave a snort of laughter. “Missed your mark this time! There hasn’t been this much snow at Kingstag in decades. I should know, I’ve been here for seven of them.”
“Have you really?” he said in admiration. “You must know everything there is to know about the castle, then.”
Her gaze turned sharp. “More than likely. What’s sparked your curiosity?”
Unconsciously he glanced at Mrs. Cavendish. She was speaking to the eldest Cavendish girl, Lady Serena. “Nothing specific,” he said absently. “Mrs. Cavendish very kindly took me on a tour of the house today.”
“Did she? Viola’s a good girl.” Lady Sophronia nodded. “Wretched luck, of course, but she’s got spirit. I like her.”
“Wretched luck?” Wes tried to look only mildly interested, even though he’d gone tense and somehow concerned. Did Sophronia only mean that she was a widow? Reduced to working for wages? What bad luck had Viola Cavendish suffered?
The elderly lady shook her head and wagged her finger at him. “It’s not my place to tell you her life story. If you want to know, you’ll have to get it from her.”
Wes sat up a little straighter. “Indeed, Lady Sophronia, I meant no offense—”
She cackled with laughter. “No, of course not! You can’t keep your eyes off her. I may be old but I’m not blind. She’s a pretty girl…” She paused, her head tilted thoughtfully to one side, and gave a small shrug. “Not a girl, I suppose, but certainly young enough to be foolish about some things. Well, I’ll tell you this: her husband—a good lad, James, but no head for money, and a man without money is hardly worth marrying—was Wessex’s third cousin. Their great-great-grandfather was my uncle, and a duller person you never met. He was a Calvinist and as a consequence never spent a farthing on anything frivolous in his life. What a waste!” She shook her head, looking piqued. “He left his children provided for, but James… The men in that branch of the family are handsome as anything, but idiots, all of them, each in his own way. Thank goodness Wessex inherited some sense with his title, or we’d all be living on turnips and roasted squirrels. Have you ever eaten a squirrel?”
“Er.” Wes blinked at the diversion. “No. A crocodile once, on the banks of the Nile. But James…?” For once he had no interest in talking about his travels.
Sophronia seemed pleased. “Crocodile! How exotic.” She gave him a triumphant smile. “I knew you were not a dull person. I have no patience for dullards. You must tell me more about Egypt, and your visit to Russia. I always longed to see Sergei’s homeland. A Cossack shot him before we could marry. Such a cowardly thing to do. A proper duel with swords would have been at least romantic and exciting.”
“Of course,” he said, trying once more to get the conversation on more interesting topics. “I take it Wessex was close to his third cousin?”
“What? Oh no, he barely knew the boy.” She frowned. “Such a pity. James’s grandmother was my bosom friend. We had such times together! But she had a weak heart, as did all her family; they died young, every one of them I can remember. Naturally Wessex would look after James’s widow, but Viola was the one who insisted on a position.”
“She seems part of the family.” He watched as the woman in question spoke quietly to Lady Serena, who smiled warmly in return and clasped her hand for a moment. “Quite warmly received.”
Sophronia scoffed. “She knows how to make herself useful! I do admire that in a person, you know; people who know how to do things are wonderful to have around.”
“Then it seems a very fortunate thing for all, that she’s here.”
“Indeed,” said Sophronia. “As for how long she’ll stay…” She raised her shoulders. “Well, necessity will guide that, I suppose.”
Wes tried to look only politely curious. “Necessity?”
Sophronia glanced around furtively, and lowered her voice. “Oh yes, she has very good cause to stay for now. Later? Who can say. But she’ll likely not see reason, not where he’s concerned.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, shall we go in to dinner?” Lady Serena blushed and smiled prettily as she made her announcement. At her side, Mrs. Cavendish gave a tiny nod of approval, and even the butler looked proud.
Wes mustered a smile and helped Lady Sophronia to her feet. She waved him away and summoned Lady Bridget, who hurried over, and they began a quiet but animated conversation.
He strolled off, wondering what she’d meant. Who was he? Why was Mrs Cavendish only in her post because of him, and why was she unreasonable about him? All in all, Lady Sophronia had only inspired more questions than she’d answered.
Well. Perhaps he was unreasonable for being so interested. If he wanted to know more about the lady, he ought to own his interest honestly and speak to the woman. He was nothing but a gossipy bore if he pried into her history from afar and never made an effort to know her. And if he became less interested as a result of that effort, then he neither deserved or needed to know every detail of her past.
He would just have to keep reminding himself of that every time she smiled at him.
Chapter Five
For the first few days of the party, Viola felt confidently in control. Serena was doing an admirable job as hostess, Bridget’s ideas for entertainments stayed within the bounds of propriety, and even Sophronia was behaving herself. Every day she reported to the dowager duchess that all was well.
By the third day, the novelty of the deep snow began to wear off. Alexandra snapped at Serena, who told her to go sulk in her room if she couldn’t be civil. Lord Newton and Mr. Jones got into a testy argument about sleigh racing. One of Serena’s dearest friends, Miss Kate Lacy, arrived at last after being delayed by the storm, but so did a mysterious young man called Conte Luigi Mascapone. Viola knew he was not on the guest list and despaired of what to do with him, but Lady Sophronia clasped him in her arms, declared he was the grandson of a dear friend of hers, and invited him on the spot to stay for the party. Viola could do nothing but send the housekeeper to prepare a room for him.
Lord Winterton seemed to be either hiding from the young people, which Viola could somewhat understand, or fascinated by Kingstag; more than once she bumped into him in some unusual part of the house. He claimed to be lost, which was reasonable, but she was beginning to wonder how such a world traveler had such a poor sense of direction.
The last straw was catching Bridget doing something suspicious in the library on the fourth day.
Viola didn’t actually know what Bridget was doing. She went to inquire how the play was progressing—by then she was in desperate search of anything to occupy the rest of the guests, and Bridget had holed up in the library promising to have a new ac
t ready before dinner for people to rehearse. But when she opened the door, Bridget was not at the desk, writing diligently on her play. She was standing in front of an open French window, letting powdery snow blow into the room.
“Bridget!”
With a startled motion the girl slammed the door. The glass shuddered so hard Viola feared it would break.
“What are you doing?” Viola hurried across the room. Snow was blowing against the glass, and the wind blew loudly against the castle walls, throwing up white powder that sparkled in the weak winter sun.
“Getting some fresh air.” Bridget widened her eyes innocently and went back to the desk. She dropped into the chair and bent over her papers, scribbling away.
Suspicious, Viola scanned the terrace outside. She could see no one, but were there footsteps in the snow leading from the door around the corner? It was hard to tell in the glittering breeze. “Was someone here on the terrace?”
“In all this snow?” Bridget scoffed. “Who would traipse through it?”
“That isn’t an outright denial.”
Bridget made a face, her pen still skimming across the page. “I suppose if you think someone might decide to wander through the snow to chat through an open window, there’s nothing I can do to dissuade you. Go out and search, if you like.”
Viola was certain the girl was lying, but there was nothing she could do. She turned the lock on the French window just in case, and went back to the desk. “How is the play coming along? Everyone is quite anxious to have more scenes to rehearse.”
“It’s bloody brilliant,” said Bridget with satisfaction. “Original and ridiculous and everything a farce should be. Read this.” She pushed some pages across the table.
At the Christmas Wedding Page 5
