“I knew of him. But he and his family travelled about quite often, so we were rarely playmates, as one would expect due to proximity. No, we encountered each other infrequently.” And he preferred it that way.
“He seems like a curious man.”
“Curiously behaved, do you mean?”
“Oh, no. I mean curious such as asking questions.”
“Curious is one word for it. Has he been nosing around here again?”
“Again? Not exactly.”
“The man can be annoying. I recall him pestering my father, on one of his last and infrequent sojourns here, peppering him with questions about mysteries, treasures, lost fortunes, and so forth.”
“Then he has a habit of that. He’s been by here, poking, and prodding with questions. So unamusing.”
Miss Cabot was generous. The man was something far worse than un-amusing in Peter’s opinion, but she was so kind. An urge to enfold this darling woman in an embrace soared through him, and for a moment, he had to restrain his arms from their wont to wrap around her slim shoulders. His lips tingled with desire to touch hers. He stood, to shake off those wayward fantasies, and then moved over to face the far window.
The quiet maid sat across the room with her head down and fingers flying over some piece of stitchery.
He pushed aside the drape and leaned forward to view the sky. Another glorious, early summer day. He turned away from the window. “Looks clear, no clouds. Might I interest you in a stroll around the grounds, Miss Cabot?”
“Yes. I must say, the paths here are a delight. I can hardly let a day go by without venturing out for a walk.”
Assisting her to her feet allowed him to hold her hand. So soft. Wait, he dare not drift to those thoughts. She was not for him. He shouldn’t toy with her…or himself. Just be her friend.
“Dot, please accompany me. I don’t know where Miss Barton is, but you’ll certainly benefit from some fresh air.” She turned to Peter with a confiding air. “Miss Barton is more than likely napping. The shopping in the village wore her out. Surprising, since she was used to London.”
“The shops of Woodvale are few.”
“True, but perhaps it is all the fresh air here that promotes good rest. That, and the delicious light lunch we had when we got home.” Fingertips flew up again. “I am sorry, I just start to natter, and then…”
Delighted, he let out a guffaw. “Don’t be concerned. I enjoy a spot of chatter. Life can be so serious.”
A cloud passed over her brow. He wanted to kiss it away, but didn’t suppose he should, not with the maid nearby. And not in any case.
Out in the hall, she handed the maid a parasol almost as tall as she was, selected a chip straw bonnet from the hall tree and tied it under her chin.
He took her elbow, and guided Miss Cabot down the steps, passing Perkins, who beamed before closing the door with a satisfied thump.
Peter extended his arm toward Miss Cabot, she took his cue, and laid her hand on his forearm. “I know a route. We’ll start on this path over here, west of the house, and wind our way around to the rose garden on the east.”
He glanced back to see Dot about twenty feet behind, walking along, occupied with swinging her mistress’s parasol like a plaything. The feel of Miss Cabot’s hand on his arm gave him a shiver of pleasure that traversed his body and fizzed through his veins.
“Lord Winstead, I am concerned that my prattle will give you a poor opinion of me. You’ll think me more hair than wit. But I do study such things as the Bible, poetry, and now, of course, land management.”
She looked up with those velvety brown eyes and he’d have believed anything she cared to say. “I assure you that your intellect is not in question. I find your company to be stimulating.” That didn’t sound too earthy, he hoped.
She moved her hand off his forearm and threaded it under his arm, and soon their elbows were linked in a companionable way that made his face hurt from smiling. He’d kick himself later for the hope that rose within, but for now, he’d simply enjoy the walk.
Which he did, until a pesky commotion occurred in the form of one of the grooms, who ran up, panting.
Peter loosened her arm and turned.
The lad tugged a forelock. “Miss Cabot, Steward Bramstock sent me after you. He’s waiting in the library.” Having delivered his message, the groom turned tail and scurried off.
Rosanna faced Lord Winstead, and as if choreographed, he found her hands cradled in his.
Her trusting eyes gazed into his. “I must go back. Something’s come awry upon the estate. The steward needs my assistance with some decision.”
A pang lanced through his core. This pained him—it should be him who needed to attend to urgent estate matters, not her.
“Dot, we are returning to the house, come along.” She smiled sweetly and raised a hand in farewell, turned away and was gone.
21
The appointed hour arrived the next evening, and the carriage wheels ceased their rhythmic crunching on the gravel as the coachman stopped in front of Brook House. The warm brick of the imposing home glowed in the setting sun. The scent of viburnum shrubbery perfumed the air.
Rosanna attempted to suppress the pulsating anticipation coursing through her veins as they traveled the short distance to the Brook mansion. She hated to admit it, but the expectation of the appearance of Lord Winstead caused her inner effervescence. No matter how she tried, the yearnings refused to go away. Yesterday’s emergency robbed her of time with him. And the worst was that it hadn’t been an urgent matter at all. Taking a deep breath, and imposing steely self-control, she concentrated instead on making Ellie comfortable.
“I can reassure you, my dear, that no one at the party will have any knowledge of your true identity.” She patted Ellie’s hand to comfort her, but the little redhead was trembling, down to her silk evening slippers.
“Are you sure?” Ellie’s voice was a mere whisper, yet serious and intent.
“You want to hide here, but there’s no need, with reasonable precautions, for you to become a hermit-like wraith, never appearing in public.”
“Rosanna, you especially should understand all too well the type of pressures I escaped. And the ghastly idea of discovery and a forced return to London only to be required to take part in a distasteful arranged marriage makes me quake.”
“To the best of my knowledge, you are safe here.”
Agitated, Ellie smoothed the front of her pretty gown of willow green embossed satin. A silver netted shawl along with silvery jewelry and hair ornaments completed a stunning toilette. “If you’re sure.”
“Try to relax. Fear of the unknown is wearing on you. Once we get inside, you’ll discover all is well.” Rosanna turned to Miss Barton for reinforcement. “Isn’t that true, Miss Barton? Tell Miss Moore.”
The older woman gave reassurance. “Miss Moore, Miss Cabot and I will take care of you. It’s quite sure Lady Brook has only invited a few neighbors. We already know all of them, don’t we?”
One of those in attendance would be Lord Winstead. This thought made Rosanna’s heart pound, and so to change the subject off this personally volatile note, she commented on Miss Barton’s apparel. “That dark blue is perfect on you, Miss Barton. You look so nice.”
The companion wore a simple, yet attractive dark blue evening gown. She’d altered and trimmed in satin one of her existing day gowns, since the dresses from the village seamstress were not ready yet.
“Thank you, dear.” In high alt, and preening, the companion looked quite regal in her satin shawl and jeweled hairpin borrowed from Rosanna.
Rosanna’s nerves calmed as thoughts moved off herself. Loyal Miss Barton, the daughter of a humble clergyman, began in service as a nurse, since she had no relatives to take her in when orphaned. Elevating the woman who had been so faithful and more of a friend than a servant, to a status more suitable to her birth gave Rosanna pleasure and satisfaction. Miss Barton could enter society with her head high.
A groom held the horses while footmen stepped up to assist the three ladies from Honor’s Point to descend the carriage steps.
With a sweeping gesture, the butler announced their entry, booming, "Miss Cabot, Miss Moore, Miss Barton.”
Followed by her entourage, Rosanna entered the room and performed a proper curtsey to Lady Brook. The hostess, seated near the fireplace, chided. “Lovely, Miss Cabot, but do get up. Just watching you do that makes my bones ache. We don’t stand on such ceremony here.”
Rosanna straightened, smoothing her coral silk gown.
Ellie and Barton smiled their relief at not having to perform curtseys.
Oh, well. At least she’d learned something at academy. Curtseying took effort and skill. While mannerly and somewhat balletic to see, one also had to make sure to adjust one’s curtsey to the rank of the recipient. Any sane woman happily dispensed with the showy maneuver.
The surrounding guests chuckled with amusement at Lady Brook’s edict banning further curtseying.
As if magnetized, Rosanna’s gaze landed on Lord Winstead, and his eyes locked on hers until she turned and unfurled her fan. So warm all of a sudden.
Was his adjustment to once again appearing in society quite uncomfortable after his time of semi-anonymous seclusion? So many things she wondered about. The awkwardness that his masquerade as a country laborer was at an end.
He stood in a semi-circle with Halburt and the minister, Mr. Clough. The men began a series of bows, one to each arriving lady. Perhaps they too wished someone would say ‘enough!’
Lady Brook took control. “Ladies, please be seated, so the gents can sit down. Frimley, pass the refreshments.”
The butler brought over a rolling cart laden with iced lemonade for the ladies and arrack punch for the men.
All greetings complete, the minister sat next to Miss Barton. He spoke first. “Tis a blessing to have three such fine ladies join the congregation.”
Miss Barton simpered. “How kind.”
Rosanna sank into the nearest chair, relieved for something solid beneath her after the initial contact with Lord Winstead. “Mr. Clough, I am sure it will be a blessing for us as well.” She planned to make even more time for spiritual life now that she didn’t have the distractions of London and the distraction of the battle to avoid marriage.
Clough turned away to converse with Miss Barton. “Miss Barton, where was your father’s parish?”
Rosanna overheard bits and pieces of their animated conversation which showed every sign of continuing on since the two had their heads together.
Halburt, Ellie, and Lady Brook were seated across from Rosanna and well into a discussion of the merits of the local architecture. Ellie did a lot of nodding, while the other two traded numerous comments upon the excellencies of their own ancestral homes, the state of their mortar and shingles, as well as the splendor of their gardens. Ellie may have her ears talked off, but with no strangers present she’d be happy.
Lord Winstead settled into a chair next to hers. Rosanna wasn’t altogether sure she wanted to speak one-on-one with him because of the emotions his presence stirred within her. He ended up next to her by default simply because all the others were grouped and conversing. The awkwardness of owning his beloved former estate loomed large in her mind, her nervousness a great contrast to when they were alone yesterday, and easy with each other.
His low, vibrant voice disrupted the obvious silence that had fallen over their part of the room. “You’ve had time to recover from learning that I am Lord Winstead, former owner of your home? And do you continue to forgive me, in good accord as we parted yesterday?”
“Did I not say so?”
“You did, but I need reassurance.”
Was he flirting? Perhaps. No beating around the bush there. “Indeed,” she murmured. Within, she tested her emotions. The embarrassment inherent in this situation was a painful touchstone—like an emotional toothache—freezing out her usual warmth and creating a stiff shadow over her true nature.
Stymied, she searched her social repertoire for a way out. No smooth words presented themselves, instead, she blurted, “I think you know ‘twas shabby of you to let me think otherwise.” He had asked for forgiveness, so why open the wound again? The confrontational remark welled out of the remnants of anger lurking in her heart. It seemed to her now that he almost led her on under false pretenses. But had he? Or had her own stubborn foolishness in walking out alone gotten her embroiled in this embarrassment?
“I had my reasons.”
“I’m sure.” Incorrigible. He dared to be abrupt with her. In her opinion, he should still act the supplicating gentleman, regardless of who was at fault. Perhaps beg for her forgiveness yet again.
Time seemed to drag because of this inelegant situation. Would their hostess never announce a move into the dining room? Rosanna covertly studied Lord Winstead, superimposing the image he presented tonight over her earlier encounters with him. The man’s severe black evening clothes and snowy cravat suited him well.
Yesterday, he’d truly humbled himself. Even to the point of seeking her out in the village, then calling on her at home. The stroll in the garden had been…lovely. How awkward this must be for him. Sympathy welled, coming out of nowhere. His voice drew her out of her rambling thoughts.
“Was your meeting with Bramstock urgent?”
“Bramstock?” What did he mean? “Oh…yes. I mean, no. Not urgent, but rather that he’d become impatient for my decision about how many bags of wheat seed to order.”
“I see. Unfortunate that our walk was interrupted. I hope attending to such a large estate doesn’t weigh too heavily on you.”
“So far, no. But it is a large responsibility. Especially with the lack of sunshine this year.” The topic too close for comfort—she angled away, feigning interest in a painting.
A vague memory of having seen him at one ball or another crawled to the surface of her mind. Had he participated in the marriage mart hanging out for a rich wife in an attempt to save his estate? Not that he didn’t have every right to do so.
Whether or not he’d been trying for an heiress didn’t really matter. She turned toward him with a question. “Did you take part in the London Season this year at all?”
The hunted expression on his face caused another wash of pity for him to sweep over her. He looked stricken—he must have failed in heiress-hunting, hence the loss of his estate. When would dinner be announced? This tension wore on her.
“Yes, I was there. Perhaps we were at some of the same parties. How, ah, amusing that our paths should cross out here in this rustic region.” His facial expression clouded over even more.
What was he thinking? Clearly something weighed on his mind. Whatever it was, she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out. He looked so blue-deviled, and the easy camaraderie of yesterday couldn’t be re-established.
She reminded herself that she wasn’t responsible at all for the dire circumstances which brought down his fortunes. She merely bought a beautiful estate in good faith. With those thoughts came another hearty pang of compassion for anyone who had to give up a property as stunning and gorgeous as Honor’s Point.
Squire Bredon was announced. A debonair older man entered, and then moved to greet Lady Brook, before avidly kissing her hand. The numbers were now even. Rosanna noticed a flush stealing over Lady Brook’s cheeks. Rosanna caught Ellie’s glance and raised her brows, smiling. Ellie nodded surreptitiously in return, then lowered her lashes, acknowledging deliverance from her fears.
Turning back to Winstead, who still sat at her side, she decided to throw out a white flag. “As I said yesterday, we must cry friends. I hold nothing against you for allowing me to think you a humble cottager. I forgave you.”
“I wasn’t sure. Your attitude tonight seemed to belie yesterday’s accord.”
“So true. With our time abbreviated yesterday when I was called away, I became confused when I saw you again. The somewhat hurtful truth stun
g fresh again.” She watched him as he processed her words. She didn’t want the oddness of it all to continue to hang on between them.
He looked into her eyes and smiled in clear relief. His gaze caressed her from head to toe, taking in the silky coral gown. “I failed to mention the sheer loveliness that is you this evening. When you wore violet, I had no idea such loveliness could be surpassed.” Lips slightly parted, he clearly had more to say, but the moment passed.
Lady Brook’s butler announced dinner.
The group of guests in the room swam back into Rosanna’s consciousness as all rose for the procession into the dining room.
She gave Lord Winstead a warm and encouraging smile, he nodded, and a spark passed between them. “I would like it to no end if you’d call on me again tomorrow, Lord Winstead.”
22
“It’s time for dinner.” Lady Brook stood and thus began the arranging of couples by precedence. Lord Halburt claimed the hostess, his and her titles being the highest of each gender present.
Next in precedence came Lord Winstead. “I shall be honored to take Miss Cabot to dinner.” He inclined his head, lifting one brow in question. A willing Rosanna stepped up and laid her hand on his extended forearm.
Squire Bredon, with a jolly air, smiled at Ellie and held out his arm. She murmured her assent and they followed the previous couple toward the dining room.
Mr. Clough cleared his throat, “Miss Barton, you are left with no choice. Do me the honor?”
Miss Barton’s cheeks colored as she laid her hand on the minister’s arm. “Why yes. I am honored.”
Rosanna’s intuition tingled. Questions later, she fought a smug smile.
The guests entered the dining room and Lady Brook directed them to their seats. “Halburt, you’re on my right, Lord Winstead my left. You’re next to Miss Cabot. Miss Moore, to Lord Halburt’s right. Squire, you’re to Miss Moore’s right. Mr. Clough, please preside at the head of the table with Miss Barton on your right. There.” She sat down with a whoosh of skirts billowing about her and let out a feathery laugh.
A Refuge for Rosanna Page 11
