Season For Desire Page 5

  “Have I become ill, too, or did that nearly make sense?” Giles said.

  “I have not yet decided,” Audrina replied. “But—thank you, Lady Irving.”

  “What about you, princess?” asked Giles. “What brought your royal backside into this carriage, and then so delightfully into my lap?”

  Was he flirting with her, or trying to provoke a rage with his teasing? No smile softened those hard features, though his blue eyes crinkled at the corners. Sitting at his side, she could see the freckles on his cheekbones, flecked over lighter skin as if an artist had shaken a brush of golden paint.

  She drew herself strict and upright, hands folded neatly in her lap. No flirting, no rage. “What was the alternative to traveling with your party, Mr. Rutherford?” Her consonants snapped with careful breeding. “Being left alone in York? That would never be permitted for a gently bred young lady. Returning to London with Llewellyn and my father? I cannot think whether I would have disliked that more, or they.”

  “So you honor us only by default.”

  “Be that as it may, you are still honored,” she said sweetly. “Do try to remember that the next time you are tempted to speak of my backside.”

  “Vulgar,” said Lady Irving—but Giles Rutherford smiled.

  At last there was something to see besides Rutherfords, more Rutherfords, Lady Irving’s turban, and the grayness of wintry moors. Through frozen fog, Castle Parr’s wings of golden stone drifted into view. The central structure was tall and domed like a great crowned head. All in all, it gave the impression of an elegant lady stretching out her arms in an embrace of welcome.

  When the travelers piled out of the carriage, the elderly Lord Dudley was just as welcoming. Audrina guessed that her father had described the callers as dear friends and holiday guests, and the viscount’s eager reception betrayed his loneliness. Though he appeared frail, a small stooped man with a fringe of snowy hair, his eyes were brown and bright and merry.

  Lord Dudley waved off his butler, guiding the guests into the stately house himself with a shuffling stride. “Travel is beyond us now,” he said in a hoarse but carrying voice. “M’lady and our daughter-in-law and I rattle around in this great pile with scarcely a bit of company. Glad to get Alleyneham’s message that you were nearby. I was a friend to his father in our youth, and I remember the present earl as a child. Quite a rotten boy, but then eldest sons so often are, eh?”

  Richard chuckled. “As you’re my host, I shouldn’t disagree, but since my eldest son is at my side, I cannot agree either.”

  “Is he?” Lord Dudley tilted up his face, studying each member of the party in turn. “Lady Irving, welcome. Ah, and you’re Alleyneham’s daughter. And you”—his dark eyes fixed on Giles—“are the fair spit of your mother.”

  “You knew her?”

  “Everyone knew Lady Beatrix.” The viscount waved a gnarled hand as he began to lead his visitors through the echoing entry hall. “Tall, she was, and full of mischief. And I could never forget all that red hair. Or her laugh. She had a marvelous laugh, didn’t she?”

  “I don’t remember her laughing much,” Giles said. “But then, she was ill for years.”

  “Heel!” A high, scratchy voice carried into the entry hall, followed by a clatter and skitter and thump. Within a few seconds, a motley bunch of canines came into view at a subdued trot. Almost lost at the center of the pack was a woman as elderly as Lord Dudley, with a face like a carved apple and the straight bearing of a general. This must be the viscountess—though she was dressed plainly, in an old-fashioned round gown of dark-green stuff, and her long white hair fell unpinned down her back like a young girl’s.

  “About time you all got here,” she called to her visitors in a voice like a rusty flute. “Dudley and Sophy and I have been waiting luncheon for at least a half hour.”

  “She sounds as cheerful as Lady Irving,” murmured Giles Rutherford, a tickle of sound in Audrina’s ear. “This should be interesting.”

  “Sophy is our daughter-in-law,” explained Lord Dudley as hound after hound—good God, were there eight of them?—nosed his hands and wound tight circles around his legs. “A friend of your late wife’s, I think, Mr. Rutherford? So said Lord Alleyneham’s letter. Sophy spends most of her time in the library because the dogs aren’t allowed in there.” His laugh was a bark. “They’d chew the bindings.”

  “I don’t want to go into the library. I don’t have time to read with eight rascals to keep me busy.” Her ladyship’s words might have been wistful had her tone not been so brisk. “So. Who have we here? A Mr. Rutherford, I presume.” Her eyes were as dark as her husband’s, though drifting—first to the elder American, then his son. “And another Mr. Rutherford, eh? And let’s see—you would be . . .”

  “Lord Alleyneham’s daughter,” prompted the viscount. Audrina performed her curtsy.

  “And Lady Irving,” he added. Lady Dudley turned to the last member of their party. “I remember when you were Estella Oliver. I was as old during your London Season as you are now. You used to be quite a pretty girl. What happened to you?”

  “Drink, gambling, and rakish men.” Lady Irving rolled the r’s over her tongue like toffees. “All the delights of London were worth a few wrinkles and gray hairs. What’s your excuse, Lady Dudley?”

  “I’m too old to make excuses for the way I look.” Lady Dudley folded her arms, allowing her back to fall into a stoop. “Dudley, I’m hungry.” She sounded plaintive.

  Richard Rutherford cleared his throat. “I am sure we’re sorry for any delay on the road that caused inconvenience to your schedule.”

  “I’m not,” said Lady Irving. “We were jostled enough as it was. No sense in killing ourselves or the horses to shave a few minutes.”

  Richard Rutherford shot her a look similar to the ones Audrina had seen him direct at his son: brows lifted, lids dropped; the tiniest shake of the head accompanying it. Rendered into words, it might read Hush, now, and don’t be rude.

  Amazingly, Lady Irving fell silent.

  “Before we meet Sophy and go in to luncheon, my lady, I wonder if I might inquire”—Mr. Rutherford paused delicately—“does she have in her possession a puzzle box? Have you noticed such an item? It was a gift from Lady Beatrix, and . . .”

  Lady Dudley tilted her head, hair falling like spider silk over one shoulder. “You get right to the point, don’t you, Rutherford?”

  “Yes, Sophy has it.” Lord Dudley steadied himself with a hand on the head of a long-legged hound. “It’s a pretty thing of gold. She never could get it open, but I don’t suppose that matters. If you shake it, it’s clear that it’s empty.”

  Chapter Five

  Wherein a Brighter Turban Is Required

  Silence dropped like a cloak over the entry hall.

  But it wasn’t Lady Irving’s hall, or her quest—and therefore she need not be silent. “Empty, eh? That’s a spoke in your wheel, Rutherford.” Her voice echoed on the stone walls, bouncing to the ceiling dozens of feet above.

  “It might seem empty to your daughter-in-law, my lady,” said Richard. “But if we could examine it—if your daughter-in-law doesn’t mind, that is—Giles might be able to open it. For, ah, posterity’s sake.”

  “Sophy won’t mind. She doesn’t mind anything except being around the dogs.” Lady Dudley reached into a pocket of her dark gown and pulled out a handful of tea biscuits. A canine ecstasy of panting ensued as she dropped a treat into each dog’s mouth. “But what do you think you’ll find?”

  With a lift of his brows, Giles looked to his father. “That’s a fair question. What do we think we’ll find in an empty box?”

  Richard clapped his son on the shoulder, his handsome features brightening. “One never knows, son. That’s the adventure of it!”

  Adventure, yes. For adventure, Estella had agreed to hare up to York with her oldest friend’s husband; adventure, and the love of knowing things that no one else knew. A longtime widow, Estella had nieces and neph
ews and grand-nieces and grand-nephews aplenty, but most of her time was her own. This meant she was free to pursue her favorite pastime: collecting information. And as with any collection, the pleasure was in the getting and the keeping, not the sharing.

  If she were to be frank with herself—which was not a habit in which she ordinarily indulged—she would rather spend the days before Christmas on strange, frozen roads than at the fringes of a family Christmas. In Castle Parr, they were all uprooted. All strangers.

  In a way, this knit them.

  “Adventure,” she murmured. “It is.”

  Giles rolled his eyes. “That’s my father’s favorite word.”

  Crow’s feet marked the corners of Richard’s eyes, a pattern laid by years of sun and smiles. His grin showed overlapping incisors, a small imperfection that added to the impression of full-body delight. “It’s a wonderful word. Everyone ought to have a favorite word.”

  “How about luncheon?” Lady Dudley took on a hopeful look.

  “We’ve got to fetch Sophy first. And maybe the guests would like to freshen up. You won’t starve in another half hour, will you?” Dudley winked at his wife, who snorted.

  “Can’t say. How many biscuits have I left in my pockets?” She shook back her long white hair, then turned to Richard Rutherford. “Dudley said your wife knew Sophy long ago. Did she ever mention whether my son Jack had—”

  “I’d be glad,” Estella interrupted loudly, “for the chance to tidy up before luncheon. Could we be shown to our rooms?”

  Everyone stared at her as though she’d shouted curses. Fine. Let them stare, as long as Lady Dudley didn’t finish her sentence. Lady Irving was known to say outrageous things. To be blunt, rude, or selfish. Sometimes, though, it served a selfless purpose.

  Because it seemed Lady Dudley’s wit was leaving her. Her speeches were odd, her manner was absent. Without the animation of her question, she looked lost.

  “Of course, of course,” Lord Dudley rushed to say. “Take all the time you need. Lady D, let’s get the hounds to the stables.”

  The viscountess’s face cleared, and she snapped her fingers. “Heel!” Silently except for the click of canine nails on marble, the pack of dogs left off nosing around Lord Dudley—or should that be herd, or flock? Estella had never been a literary sort, and the intricacies of naming groups of animals were beyond her.

  Lady Dudley marched from the entry hall with more force and pique than she had entered. Well, let her. It wouldn’t do her any good to discuss her son before a group such as this; the result would be either lies or pain.

  Sometimes Estella regretted collecting information. One of those times had been a decade before, when through a chain of servants’ tittle-tattle, she learned that John Parr had died not in his home, but in Bedlam. After striking his head, the viscountcy’s glib and charming heir had turned gruff and mercurial; this everyone knew. But his outbursts of violence? Those were meant to be a family secret.

  Though there was no such thing as a family secret, really.

  Estella wondered whether Lady Dudley had started taking in dogs as a way to protect herself from her son. Or maybe they had gathered over time, a collection of warm-hearted beasts to chase away the lonely cold.

  “Well.” She let her voice carry through a space that seemed far too silent. “Where did our footman and maid hide themselves? Their carriage ought to have arrived by now, and they might as well make themselves useful.”

  Talk of servants snapped the group back into action, and within a few minutes the quartet of travelers were shown to their bedchambers. Audrina and Estella had adjacent rooms, and the countess found hers to be as soft and dark and cluttery as a Christmas pudding. The room held a vanity and glass, a bed, a wardrobe, a writing-desk and chair, an armchair, a scatter of lamps, a wooden chest, and enough gewgaws to open a junk shop.

  The Rutherfords were in chambers of their own at the plainer end of the corridor. There was no stickler for rank like an English butler, to whom no amount of fortune could compensate for the lack of a title.

  Estella had felt that way once herself. Certainly she had encouraged her nieces to marry titles—but she would never have urged them to ignore their hearts. Not as she had done.

  Standing before the generous fire, she coaxed her heavy silk turban from her head and laid it over a clutter of bottles on the vanity table. Beneath it, her hair was cropped short. In the past year or two, strands of gray had dimmed the former auburn. Now she simply looked faded. Old.

  She had never really had the chance to be young.

  Lord Irving had been much her senior, loose-mouthed and vulgar, but willing to buy her for a high price shortly after her debut. For the few years of her marriage, she’d endured his careless infidelities and spendthrift ways, his roughness with her in the marriage bed and his indifference outside of it. If an earl could act in such a way, then what the devil did rank guarantee a woman?

  Nothing. Nothing at all. Thank God she’d got a generous income for life, so she need never rely on anyone but herself again.

  Herself, and her maid. When Estella fell into the doldrums, she wore something bright to help pull herself out, and she obviously needed to don something brighter before luncheon. The castle had one of those modern bell-pull systems, and it was easy to ring for Lizzie. To sink into the armchair and slide off her slippers; to shut her eyes for a moment, allowing the maid to fuss about and ensure the safe transfer of the countess’s belongings to the wardrobe.

  “You’d better find me another turban to wear, Lizzie,” Estella said as the maid bustled about. “Did you pack the aquamarine?”

  “Yes, my lady. It’s right here.” Her eyes still closed, Estella heard the soft thumping of hatboxes, the rustle of one silk headpiece exchanged for another. “Oh, ma’am—one of the paste gems is coming loose. Shall I mend it right now?”

  “Yes, do.”

  Lizzie was unflappable and efficient—a skilled lady’s maid, though Estella sometimes missed the voluble opinions of her French maid, Simone. It had been more difficult to fall into the doldrums around Simone because there was simply no silence. No opinion went unanswered, no clashing costume unchallenged.

  “There, my lady. It’s quite secure now,” said Lizzie after a few minutes.

  “Thank you, Lizzie,” she said. “You may go. Please check on Lady Audrina before you return to your quarters.”

  “Yes, my lady. Right away.”

  Estella allowed herself a few more minutes to warm her feet before the fire, then slid back into her slippers and stood. Hips, knees, ankles popped as she did. Not a sign of age, surely; she was merely cold. No one in England was ever warm enough in December.

  The aquamarine turban had been repaired; Lizzie did good work, not that Estella wanted her to become vain about it and demand a higher salary. This was Estella’s favorite garment: the color of a summer sea, with plumes the shade of a vivid sunset and glass gemstones bright as the Crown Jewels. As she placed it atop her head, she smiled at her reflection, and a few years seemed to drop from the granite-faced woman in the glass.

  When she and Audrina entered the dining room of Castle Parr, Estella noted that the Rutherfords and Dudleys had preceded them. Neither the Americans nor their host and hostess had changed clothing. They remained content to wear drab colors, fortunate souls.

  The dining room smelled like lemons over mustiness, the telltale scent of a room cleaned often but used seldom. It stretched high, with windows nearly two stories tall and curtains heavy with embroidery, so heavy that they tugged and sagged against their corded ties. Lustrous paper-hangings in shades of tan and cream gave the space a pleasant lightness, but not even the two fireplaces could banish the feeling of cold one gained from looking out those windows to the frosty barrenness outside: skeletal trees and defeated brown grass, unadorned even by a blanket of snow.

  Estella reminded herself that she was wearing the aquamarine turban.

  “Quite a nice spread you’ve laid before
us.” She eyed the sideboard between the fireplaces; on it, an assortment of cold meats, cheeses, and dried fruits were arranged. “Are we to see the mythical Sophy sometime soon, or shall we eat without her?”

  “Mythical? I do like the sound of that.”

  The voice from the doorway was crisp yet warm, like a ginger biscuit straight from the oven. The occupants of the dining room turned in its direction.

  “Ah, Soph!” Lord Dudley’s hoarse voice squeezed. “Finishing one of your notes, were you? Sophy looks through a telescope all night and transcribes her notes all day.”

  “I’d be mythical indeed, Papa, if I truly did as you say. Won’t you introduce me to the guests?”

  The mysterious Sophy proved to be nothing like the frail, flowery creature Lady Irving had imagined. A woman of about forty years, she was of average height and build but gave an impression of uncommon vigor. As Lord Dudley made the introductions, Sophy Parr removed her pince-nez and shoved the small spectacles in the pocket of her sensible black gown. The eyes thus revealed were gray and astute.

  “Lady Irving, pleased to meet you.” Sophy’s handshake was as firm as her curtsy was abrupt. “I suppose her ladyship told you I don’t like the dogs? It’s her favorite thing to tell people about me, but it’s not true. I like them fine from a distance. Any closer, though, and I start to sneeze.”

  “They are out in the stables for the afternoon, Sophy.” Lord Dudley laughed, genial under his crown of white hair. “If you can manage a sneeze from that distance, I’ll credit you with supernatural powers.”

  “A sad waste of supernatural powers,” remarked Giles Rutherford, “if sneezing is the only manifestation.”

  Lady Dudley, standing at his side, declined to comment—though the expression on her face was worth a few choice sentences.