by Valerie King
With the butler’s footsteps echoing down the hall, she took a few tentative steps into the long receiving room. The wainscoting was a beautiful dark mahogany. A chair near the fireplace appeared to have been covered in buckskin. The adjacent sofa of burgundy velvet surprised her
completely. Other chairs about the chamber were in gold or brown patterned silks. An extremely large vase of flowers had been placed on a round, inlaid table near the entrance to the chamber.
A panel of windows overlooked an extensive lawn to the south and to the west, a steep hillside showed a waning display of pink and purple rhododendrons. Interspersed were blackthorn shrubs and elm trees. The latter were now fully leafed, and the vista was so beautiful she found herself drawn to the window, where lovely summer sunlight poured over her. The faint warmth was nearly as delightful as the sight of black swans strolling across the lawn, heading toward a pooled stream and an island in between.
None of what she beheld was what she had come to expect from the general reports she had heard of Rotherstone. How could so much beauty reside at Blacklands when the owner was a hard, miserly man? She was utterly mystified. Was he really the tyrant and gamester his reputation suggested?
She was drawn from her reverie quite suddenly by the sound of whistling coming from the direction of the entrance hall. Could this be Rotherstone, she wondered, sounding so cheerful as he came to meet her? If she were hearing Rotherstone, this would be a second occasion within the space of a few minutes that had shocked her.
She turned and waited, swinging her reticule nervously as it dangled from her wrist. She could hear his steps now. What would he say to her? Would she be able to convince him to allow his neighbors onto his lands? Her heart began to thrum in fearful anticipation. How was she ever to persuade such a man?
A gentleman appeared in the doorway, still whistling, his hands thrust deeply into the pockets of his coat. This must be Rotherstone, she thought, only never in a hundred years would she have pictured him with curly blond hair and of rather slight proportions. She recalled Annabelle Rewell saying only yesterday that he had the broadest shoulders in three counties. The only way in which this gentleman could be said to be in possession of such shoulders was in Miss Rewell’s dreams. He was fearful handsome, however, so she could only suppose that Miss Rewell had a tendre for him and in her fancies endowed him with attributes he did not truly possess.
She frowned suddenly. There was nothing particularly intimidating about this gentleman. Perhaps he was not Rotherstone after all. Perhaps another guest had arrived at Blacklands in addition to Sir Edgar.
Realizing that her position so far away from the entrance to the chamber had not allowed the gentleman to perceive her presence, she took a step toward him and cleared her throat.
He turned startled blue eyes upon her. “I say,” he said. You gave me a fright. I did not know anyone was here.”
“I arrived but a handful of minutes ago. I am here to see Rotherstone.”
“Ah,” he murmured, a crooked smile twisting his lips. “I feel obligated to warn you that he does not like to be disturbed before eleven.”
She could not resist saying, “I have been given to understand that he does not like to be disturbed at any hour of the day.”
The gentleman issued a crack of laughter and crossed the room to her. “I am Graffham, Sir Edgar Graffham.”
Evelina realized she had been right: this man was not Rotherstone. “Lady Evelina Wesley,” she said. She dropped a small curtsy, inclining her head to him at the same time. He in turn offered a practiced bow.
She realized she was feeling a quite profound disappointment. She had since yesterday afternoon so nurtured the notion that Sir Edgar was the gentleman who had kissed her that to learn he was not the man was quite lowering. Of course, the next question that rose to mind caused her stomach to draw up in a knot. Who, then, was the man who had kissed her? He was not Rotherstone. The stranger had denied such an identity, and he had spoken as if he was only a guest at Blacklands. She could not therefore resist asking, “Tell me, are you one of several guests his lordship is presently entertaining? I realize the question must seem impertinent, but I have a very particular reason for asking.”
“And I have no disinclination to give you answer. To my knowledge, I am the only guest at present.”
Evelina did not understand, not in the least.
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, it is all very odd,” she murmured, not meeting his gaze. She found she was twirling her reticule again and desisted the moment he glanced at the spinning, beaded object.
“Odd? In what way?”
Evelina felt utterly disinclined to enter into a subject that must force her to admit to having been on Rotherstone’s property at a very indiscreet hour two nights past. She shook her head. “It does not signify in the least,” she responded with a smile. “Now, tell me, Sir Edgar, just how long have you known his lordship?”
* * * * * * * * *
Rotherstone attempted to tidy several folds of his neckcloth but was not wholly successful. Generally, he enjoyed the ritual of preparing a perfected trone d’amour, but at the moment the sanctity of his morning ablutions had been utterly desecrated. Instead, his irritation at the presence of his butler, still awaiting an answer as to whether or not he would receive Lady Evelina Wesley, had completely destroyed whatever pleasure he had been experiencing in the tying of his cravat.
As he tucked, pinched and pulled on the fine white linen, therefore, his ire rose. What the deuce did the lady mean by calling upon him at such an hour. What the deuce did she mean by calling upon him at all? Had she no sense of propriety, no common courtesy? He had no wish to see her or any of his worthless neighbors, and he certainly had no respect for a female who would call upon a bachelor at all, much less without an invitation. The fact that a maid had not accompanied her furthered his unhappy opinion of his newest neighbor.
“Shall I tell her you are not at home, my lord?” his butler called across the lofty chamber.
“Yes,” he shot back. “No. That is, hold a moment, if you please.”
“Of course, m’lord,” was the trained response.
Rotherstone paused for a long moment, considering not so much Lady Evelina but the young woman presently visiting in her home.
Since his adventure with Miss Smith of two nights ago, his mind had frequently been caught up in the memory of the shared kiss. What a surprise that kiss had been, when she had initially struggled against his advances. Never would he have expected so incensed a young woman to give herself a few minutes later so thoroughly to his embraces. Yes, she had surprised him.
Even more so, however, she had become fixed in his head. Yesterday, for instance, he had thought of her with such frequency that he had actually been tempted to call at Wildings in order to see her again.
“And Lady Evelina did not have a companion with her, a friend perhaps, when you admitted her to the house?” he inquired. He began unwinding the now ruined neckcloth from about his neck.
His butler cleared his throat. “No, m’lord.”
He became suspicious suddenly, and his suspicions afforded him a great deal of aggravation. Good God, what if his delectable Miss Smith proved in truth to be Lady Evelina?
“Tell me, Hardwick, what color was her hair?”
“M’lord?” his servant inquired, clearly surprised by the question.
He turned to look at Hardwick. “Her hair, was it red?”
Hardwick cleared his throat again. “I beg your pardon, m’lord, but I fear I cannot say. It might have red, perhaps brown. She is wearing a bonnet, and I was not attentive to her appearance.”
“Yes, of course,” he mumbled.
He attempted another neckcloth but found he was far too agitated to achieve an adequate result.
There was an art to the careful arranging of a cravat. In the course of his career, he had perfected the Mathematical and the Mailcoach, t
he latter of which he had worn exclusively in his salad days. The Rothersfall, his own particular creation, he had abandoned a year ago but knew it was still aped by the younger set. In recent times he had favored the trone d’amour. Today, it would seem, he would be fortunate if he achieved even a modest rendition of any of them.
In the end, as aggravated as he was, he chose another neckcloth and made a simple bow with two or three folds.
“You may go, Hardwick. I shall receive the lady.”
Without another word to either his shocked valet or his butler, he shrugged on his waistcoat and coat and fairly stomped from the chamber.
The distance from his bedchamber to the drawing room was considerable, since Blacklands was a long, rambling Elizabethan mansion. As he made his way, his thoughts turned to his neighbors. He could never think of them without his temper pounding at the top of his head. They had served him sufficiently ill to be barred from his home forever. That the latest to take up residence must now plague him only served to inflame his temper, for he could not help but suspect she had come to represent their community.
Arriving at the threshold of the drawing room, the harsh words he was about to speak fell backward into his throat, for there, seated opposite Sir Edgar and playing at piquet with him, was the young woman he had kissed only two nights past. She was laughing, a smile so warm and friendly suffusing a countenance so beautiful he felt all his ire melt away like frost beneath a strong sunshine. Just as he had told a whisker about his identity, so had Lady Evelina. How strange to think that his first encounter with his newest neighbor had involved two lies and a quite passionate kiss. She was as beautiful as he remembered. She was gowned in a charming dark green bonnet, a matching riding habit and wore fine leather gloves. Tucked into the wrist of her right was a cluster of yellow daisies.
“Lady Evelina,” he called to her, stepping into the room. “Or should I say, Miss Ersmith?”
She rose quickly to her feet, a sudden blush suffusing each cheek.
Sir Edgar rose as well. “Good God, Gage. What did you do to your neckcloth?”
Lord Rotherstone glanced apace at his friend, then quickly reverted his attention to the lady whose expression of astonishment still had possession of every lovely feature. Faith, but she was a beautiful woman, exquisite in every perfect feature, but what the deuce was the matter with the chit that she would ignore society’s dictums and call on him in this wholly improper manner?
“You . . . you are Rotherstone?” she asked.
“The very one,” he said.
“Then I am the greatest simpleton in all of Christendom.”
***
Chapter Three
Rotherstone was amused that she would speak of being a simpleton. “I shall not argue with you,” he said, without the smallest sympathy. He then bowed as was expected.
She responded with a slight curtsy and a proper bowing of her head as well.
“I suppose you have come to ask something of me,” he stated.
She blinked once. “I have,” she responded succinctly.
Well, he would give her that; she did not simper or demur. He could appreciate her direct, open manner. On the other hand, his suspicions were wholly confirmed by her simple admission. She wanted something from him, just as did most of the eager ladies of his acquaintance.
A familiar boredom, laced with his former irritation, descended on him. He had known dozens of young ladies just like the one before him—confident, pretty and, to varying degrees, avaricious. Her presence on his land last night became painfully obvious. He had little doubt that in some secret place in her heart she one day desired to be the countess of Rotherstone and mistress of Blacklands.
“But I am being remiss,” he stated coolly. “Will you not sit down?” He ignored Sir Edgar’s rather fierce scowl.
His friend hurried to Lady Evelina’s side, taking her elbow and guiding her in the direction of the sofa. “Yes, do be seated, and I beg you will not pay the smallest heed to Rotherstone’s ill humors. He is not himself at this hour of the day.” He glared at him anew.
She took up a seat on the sofa, settling her hands primly on her lap. She was still frowning. He could not imagine what thoughts had taken hold of her mind, but he sincerely hoped she was regretting her decision to call on him today. Perhaps in the future she would refrain from indulging whatever impulse had brought her to Blacklands.
He followed Sir Edgar, taking up a seat opposite them both, for his friend, clearly delighted with Lady Evelina’s company, chose to settle beside her on the same sofa.
“And what is it you would ask of me, I wonder?” He purposefully lifted an imperious brow, an expression he used for just such audiences as this, when he wished to dampen pretension in every form.
* * * * * * * * *
Evelina regarded Rotherstone in some bewilderment. So many thoughts rampaged through her head that she hardly knew which to address first. Of course, she was still not in the smallest degree used to the notion that the man she had kissed last night had turned out to be the enemy of every inhabitant of this part of Kent. From the moment he had made his presence known in the drawing room, she had been beset by the worst disappointment. How much better if Sir Edgar had been Rotherstone. Instead, all the very private hopes that last night’s extraordinary kiss had raised in her breast were completely and utterly shattered. She could no more hope for even the smallest romantic entanglement with a man of Rotherstone’s stamp than she could with a fish.
She had understood his character nearly from the day of her arrival at Wildings, since anyone she questioned on the subject of her neighbor gave a very poor account of the hard, reclusive earl who had a horrid love of gaming. His kisses may have been as sweet as honey, but there was nothing good in the man now seated opposite her, staring at her as though he wished she would take herself off to the farthest reaches of the kingdom.
All these thoughts and considerations, however, still vied for position in her mind with the undeniable truth that the moment his voice had drawn her gaze from Sir Edgar, she had experienced the worst presentiment that she had already tumbled in love with him. How had this happened? If only she had not been held so firmly in his arms two nights past, and if only he had not carried William on his shoulder the entire distance back to the border between Wildings and Blacklands. And if only he did not look so dashing in daylight, even if his neckcloth looked quite odd. Despite the unusual appearance of the ill-tied cravat, she admitted to herself that he was quite possibly the handsomest man she had ever before seen, and her experience had been sufficiently wide and varied to have met many who approached Adonis in beauty.
His hair was thick, black and wavy. His cheekbones were high and strong, matched by a powerful jawline that presently appeared quite stubborn. His eyes were nearly as dark as his hair, and as he met her gaze, she had a powerful sensation that he was peering into the deepest recesses of her mind. This was ridiculous, of course, but even so, a sudden spate of gooseflesh raced down her neck.
“Do not tell me,” he said, interrupting her reveries, “that you have suddenly grown shy of me?”
Evelina gave herself a strong mental shake. She had been silent far too long and responded firmly, “Not in the least. I am merely trying to make you out.”
“Hence the frown and pouting lips.”
“Yes, I suppose so. I do not mean to be uncivil. It is merely that I did not expect you to be Rotherstone. After all, you told me a whisker the other night, very boldly, too, I might add.”
“I heard one as well, Miss Ersmith.”
“You confound me,” Sir Edgar said, addressing Rotherstone. “Why do you speak of her as Miss Ersmith, and how is it you have already met?”
“As it happens, Lady Evelina wandered quite by accident onto my lands, not last night but the night before, and I chanced upon her.”
“Indeed?” he said. “A rather marvelous circumstance, I think.”
“It was. But for reasons unknown to me still, she pres
ented herself as a Miss Ersmith.”
“Indeed,” Sir Edgar said. “Well, this is rather curious.”
Evelina disliked immensely the self-satisfied expression on his lordship’s face. She could not imagine why he was so irritated by her visit, particularly when he had kissed her so warmly not so very long ago. The two circumstances made no sense to her in the least. Perhaps he was addled, dicked in the nob as her next-youngest brother, Harry, was wont to say. Somehow these thoughts elevated her spirits and she felt better able to proceed with her purpose in coming to Blacklands in the first place.
“I suppose I was merely having a bit of fun,” she explained, though she did not smile. “But that is not of the least consequence. As to why I am here today—” she began.
“I am intrigued beyond words,” Rotherstone said, the sardonic tone of his voice not lost on her.
“As it happens, I have come on a matter of some import, which, as it again happens, pertains to my having trespassed upon your lands two nights past. I was not there by accident.”
“As you said at the time.” He appeared at his most bored, save that his nostrils flared. “I believe you told me you were hunting for buried treasure.”
“Yes, you have remembered correctly, and if I recall our conversation equally as well, you spoke of the local legends, so I must conclude that you are aware of them.”
His expression grew slightly arrested, and she felt hopeful. “I am,” he said, “but only a trifle.”
Despite Rotherstone’s hostile attitude, her heart began to hum with excitement, and she could not help but smile. “Well, as it happens, I have found a map which I believe to be quite genuine.”
