Книга - Bound By A Scandalous Secret
Bound By A Scandalous Secret
Diane Gaston
A most shocking betrothal!The pleasure-seeking Marquess of Rossdale has little interest in his birthright and even less in finding a bride. So he comes up with the perfect plan to survive the Season unscathed – a fake engagement to a most unsuitable girl!Outspoken Genna, the youngest of the scandalous Summerfields, has no wish to marry either. So agreeing to be Ross’s temporary fiancée will grant her freedom for a little longer. But with every kiss, both Ross and Genna must face up to what they really desire…a true match!The Scandalous SummerfieldsDisgrace is their middle name!
A most shocking betrothal!
The pleasure-seeking Marquess of Rossdale has little interest in his birthright and even less in finding a bride. So he comes up with the perfect plan to survive the Season unscathed—a fake engagement to a most unsuitable girl!
Outspoken Genna, the youngest of the scandalous Summerfields, has no wish to marry, either. So agreeing to be Ross’s temporary fiancée will grant her freedom for a little longer. But with every kiss, both Ross and Genna must face up to what they really desire...a true match!
The Scandalous Summerfields
Disgrace is their middle name!
Left destitute by their philandering parents, the three Summerfield sisters—Tess, Lorene and Genna—and their half brother, Edmund, are the talk of the ton...for all the wrong reasons!
They are at the mercy of the marriage mart to transport their family from the fringes of society to the dizzy heights of respectability.
But with no dowries, and a damaged reputation, only some very special matches can survive the scandalous Summerfields!
Read where it all started with
tempestuous Tess’s story
Bound by Duty
Read Edmund’s story in
Bound by One Scandalous Night
Read Genna’s story in
Bound by a Scandalous Secret
All available now!
And look for Lorene’s story,
coming soon!
Author Note (#u4effa6c4-5cae-55ce-a353-1c7099a2e2a9)
In my Author Notes for Bound by Duty and Bound by One Scandalous Night, I explain that The Scandalous Summerfields series was inspired by my mother, her two sisters and their brother. Their actual life stories are nothing like those in my books, but, without intending it, I realize there are similarities.
Like Genna, my aunt Gerry was the youngest in the family. Their parents died when Gerry was still a teenager and my aunt Loraine became her legal guardian. The three sisters lived together and took care of each other. Their sisterly bond continued all their lives. Although we never lived near Aunt Gerry, we visited her and her family every year. My mother and Aunt Loraine talked to her on the phone at least once a week even when long-distance phone calls could be expensive.
Also like Genna, Aunt Gerry was strong, resourceful and creative. Gerry’s creativity showed itself in her sewing and needlework. Several of her handmade Christmas ornaments still decorate our Christmas trees. Aunt Gerry had her share of adversity in her life, but she met adversity with strength. She could sew anything, grow any kind of flower and she knew the name of every one of them.
Like the Summerfield family, Aunt Gerry had three daughters and a son (who died tragically in his thirties). I can see parts of her in my cousins Gail, Marge and Marty, so it is a little like not losing her at all.
Bound by a Scandalous Secret
Diane Gaston
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
DIANE GASTON always said that if she were not a mental-health social worker, she’d want to be a romance novelist, writing the historical romances she loved to read. When this dream came true, she discovered a whole new world of friends and happy endings. Diane lives in Virginia near Washington, DC, with her husband and three very ordinary house cats. She loves to hear from readers! Contact her at dianegaston.com (http://www.dianegaston.com) or on Facebook or Twitter.
To the memory of my aunt Gerry, who was endlessly energetic, efficient and, it seemed to me, could do just about anything.
Contents
Cover (#u156b6838-e69a-5ed6-9b5f-03bf57d62ff5)
Back Cover Text (#u24067584-8747-5fad-91da-0e3f2e64f112)
Introduction (#u2dd2e0bf-aad1-57fa-b23d-7c85deee9fa0)
Author Note (#u8b2db563-acb1-5570-bc5d-c76fb64d266e)
Title Page (#udff378ee-4da4-5e3f-bee5-6db14394f62b)
About the Author (#u36f888a3-a739-515b-8860-7a93990dde26)
Dedication (#ue196f36e-7f73-5ca6-97a3-bd1232fd4bd3)
Chapter One (#u62c25a6e-f773-540b-867f-b9593ac7d7ef)
Chapter Two (#u4e0e6cc6-ffa5-57e9-be01-68bf8c113e26)
Chapter Three (#uf2ad6194-4e4b-5809-b18c-9923b6fe7e0a)
Chapter Four (#ufe715647-ecde-5b10-82f9-30e186af2034)
Chapter Five (#u55ad741d-8442-57f3-9fbd-bb5743531e41)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#u4effa6c4-5cae-55ce-a353-1c7099a2e2a9)
Lincolnshire—December 1815
Genna Summerfield first glimpsed him out of the corner of her eye, a distant horseman galloping across the land, all power and grace and heedless abandon. A thrilling sight. Beautiful grey steed, its rider in a topcoat of matching grey billowing behind him. Horse and rider looked as if they had been created from the clouds that were now covering the sky. Could she capture it on paper? She grabbed her sketchpad and charcoal and quickly drew.
It was no use. He disappeared in a dip in the hill.
She put down the sketchpad and charcoal and turned back to painting the scene in the valley below, her reason for sitting upon this hill in this cold December air. How she wished she could also paint the galloping horse and rider. What a challenge it would be to paint all those shades of grey, at the same time conveying all the power and movement.
The roar of galloping startled her. She turned. Man and horse thundered towards her.
Drat! Was he coming to oust her from the property? To chase her from this perfect vantage point?
Not now! She was almost finished. She needed but a few minutes more. Besides, she had to return soon before someone questioned her absence—
The image of the horse and rider interrupted her thoughts. Her brush rose in the air as she tried to memorise the sight, the movement, the lights and darks—
Goodness! He galloped straight for her. Genna backed away, knocking over her stool.
The rider pulled the horse to a halt mere inches away.
‘I did not mean to alarm you,’ the rider said.
‘I thought you would run me down!’ She threw her paintbrush into her jug of water and wiped her hands on the apron she wore over her dress.
He was a gentleman judging by the sheer fineness of his topcoat and tall hat and the way he sat in the saddle, as if it were his due to be above everyone else.
Please do not let this gentleman be her distant cousin, the man who’d inherited this land that she once—and still—called home.
‘My apologies.’ He dismounted. ‘I came to see if you needed assistance, but now I see you intended to be seated on this hill.’
‘Yes.’ She shaded her eyes with her hand. ‘As you can see I am painting the scene below.’
‘It is near freezing out,’ he said. ‘This cold cannot be good for you.’
She showed him her hands. ‘I am wearing gloves.’ Of course, her gloves were fingerless. ‘And my cloak is warm enough.’
She looked into his face. A strong face, long, but not thin, with a straight nose that perfectly suited him, and thick dark brows. His hair, just visible beneath his hat was also dark. His eyes were a spellbinding caramel, flecked with darker brown. She would love to paint such a memorable face.
He extended his hand. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Rossdale.’
Not her cousin, then. She breathed a sigh of relief. Some other aristocrat.
She placed her hand in his. ‘Miss Summerfield.’
‘Summerfield?’ His brows rose. ‘My host, Lord Penford, is Dell Summerfield. A relation, perhaps?’
She knew Lord Penford was her cousin, but that was about all she knew of him. Just her luck. This man was his guest.
‘A distant relation.’ She lifted her chin. ‘I’m one of the scandalous Summerfields. You’ve heard of us, no doubt.’
The smile on his face froze and she had her answer. Of course he’d heard of her family. Of her late father, Sir Hollis Summerfield of Yardney, who’d lost his fortune in a series of foolish investments. And her mother, who was legendary for having many lovers, including the one with whom she’d eloped when Genna was almost too little to remember her. Who in society had not heard of the scandalous Summerfields?
‘Then you used to live at Summerfield House.’ He gestured to the house down below.
‘That is why I am painting it,’ she responded. ‘And I would be obliged if you would not mention to Lord Penford that I trespassed on his land. I have disturbed nothing and only wished to come here this one time to paint this view.’
He waved a dismissive hand. ‘I am certain he would not mind.’
Genna was not so certain. After her father’s death, Lord Penford had been eager for Genna and her two sisters to leave the house.
She stood and started to pack up her paints. ‘In any event, I will leave now.’
He put his hand on her easel. ‘No need. Please continue.’
She shook her head. The magic was gone; the spell broken. She’d been reminded the house was no longer her home. ‘I must be getting back. It is a bit of a walk.’
‘Where are you bound?’ he asked.
Surely he knew all the scandals. ‘To Tinmore Hall.’ She gave him a defiant look. ‘Or did you forget that my sister Lorene married Lord Tinmore?’
He glanced away and dipped his head. ‘I did forget.’
Genna’s oldest sister married the ancient Lord Tinmore for his money so Genna and her sister Tess and half-brother Edmund would not be plunged into poverty. So they, unlike Lorene, could make respectable marriages and marry for love.
Genna had not forgiven Lorene for doing such a thing—sacrificing her own happiness like that, chaining herself to that old, disagreeable man. And for what? Genna did not believe in her sister’s romantic notions of love and happily ever after. Did not love ultimately wind up hurting oneself and others?
The wind picked up, rippling her painting.
Rossdale put his fingers on the edge of it to keep it from blowing away. His brow furrowed. ‘You have captured the house, certainly, but the rest of it looks nothing like this day...’
She unfastened the paper from the easel and carefully placed a sheet of tissue over it. She slipped it in a leather envelope. ‘I painted a memory, you might say.’ Or the emotion of a memory.
The wind gusted again. She turned away from it and packed up hurriedly, folding the easel and her stool, closing her paints, pouring out her jug of water and wrapping her brushes in a rag. She placed them all in a huge canvas satchel.
‘How far to your home?’ Rossdale asked.
Her home was right below them, she wanted to say. ‘To Tinmore Hall, you mean? No more than five miles.’
‘Five miles!’ He looked surprised. ‘Are you here alone?’
She pinched her lips together. ‘I require no chaperon on the land where I was born.’
He nodded in a conciliatory manner. ‘I thought perhaps you had a companion, maybe someone with a carriage visiting the house. May I convey you to Tinmore Hall, then?’ He glanced towards the clouds. ‘The sky looks ominous and you have quite a walk ahead of you.’
She almost laughed. Did he not know what could happen if a Summerfield sister was caught in a storm with a man?
Although Genna would never let matters go so far, not like her sister Tess who’d wound up married to a man after being caught in a storm. Why not risk a ride with Rossdale?
She widened her smile. ‘How kind of you. A ride would be most appreciated.’
* * *
Ross secured her satchel behind the saddle and mounted Spirit, his favourite gelding, raised from a pony at his father’s breeding stables. He reached down for Miss Summerfield and pulled her up to sit side-saddle in front of him.
She turned and looked him full in the face. ‘Thank you.’
She was lovely enough. Pale, flawless skin, eyes as blue as sea water, full pink lips, a peek of blonde hair from beneath her bonnet. Her only flaw was a nose slightly too large for her face. It made her face more interesting, though, a cut above merely being beautiful. She was not bold; neither was she bashful or flirtatious.
Unafraid described her better.
She spoke without apology about being one of the scandalous Summerfields. And certainly was not contrite about trespassing. He liked that she was comfortable with herself and took him as he was.
Possibly because she did not know who he was. People behaved differently when they knew. How refreshing to meet a young woman who had not memorised Debrett’s.
‘Which way?’ he asked.
She pointed and they started off.
‘How long have you been a guest of Lord Penford?’ she asked.
‘Two days. I’m to stay through Twelfth Night.’ Which did not please his father overmuch.
‘Is Lord Penford having guests for Christmas?’ She sounded disapproving.
He laughed. ‘One guest.’
‘You?’
‘Only me,’ he responded.
She was quiet and still for a long time. ‘How—how do you find the house?’ she finally asked.
He did not know what she meant. ‘It is comfortable,’ he ventured.
She turned to look at him. ‘I mean, has Lord Penford made many changes?’
Ah, it had been her home. She was curious about it, naturally.
‘I cannot say,’ he responded. ‘I do know he plans repairs.’
She turned away again. ‘Goodness knows it needed plenty of repairs.’
‘Have you not seen the house since leaving it?’ he asked.
She glanced back at him and shook her head.
The grey clouds rolled in quickly. He quickened Spirit’s pace. ‘I think it will snow.’
As if his words brought it on, the flakes began to fall, here and there, then faster and thicker until they could not see more than two feet ahead of them.
‘Turn here,’ she said. ‘We can take shelter.’
Through a path overgrown with shrubbery they came to a folly built in the Classical style, though half covered with vines. Its floor was strewn with twigs and leaves.
‘I see Lord Penford did not tend to all of the gardens,’ Miss Summerfield said.
‘Perhaps he did not know it was here.’ Ross dismounted. ‘It is well hidden.’
‘Hidden now,’ she said. ‘It was not always so.’
He helped her down and led Spirit up the stairs into the shelter. There was plenty of room. She sat on a bench at the folly’s centre and wrapped her cloak around her.
He sat next to her. ‘Are you cold?’
Her cheeks were tinged a delightful shade of pink and her lashes glistened from melted snowflakes. ‘Not very.’
He liked that she did not complain. He glanced around. ‘This folly has seen better days?’
She nodded, a nostalgic look on her face. ‘It was once one of our favourite places to play.’
‘You have two sisters. Am I correct?’
She swung her feet below the bench, much like she must have done when a girl. ‘And a half-brother.’ She slid him a glance. ‘My bastard brother, you know.’
Did she enjoy speaking aloud what others preferred to hide?
‘He was raised with you, I think?’ It was said Sir Hollis tried to flaunt his love child in front of his wife.
‘Yes. We all got on famously.’
She seemed to anticipate unspoken questions and answered them defiantly.
‘Where is your brother now?’ he asked.
‘Would you believe he is a sheep farmer in the Lake District?’ she scoffed.
‘Why would I not believe it?’ Almost everyone he knew could be considered a farmer when you got right down to it.
‘Well, if you knew him you’d be shocked that he wound up raising sheep. He was an officer in the Twenty-Eighth Regiment. He was wounded at Waterloo.’ She waved a hand. ‘Oh, I am making him sound too grand. He was a mere lieutenant, but he was wounded.’
‘He must have recovered?’ Or he would not be raising sheep.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘And your other sister?’ He might as well get the whole family story, since she seemed inclined to tell it.
‘Tess?’ She giggled but tried to stop herself.
‘What amuses you?’
‘Tess is married.’ She strained not to laugh. ‘But wait until I tell you how it was she came to be married! She and Marc Glenville were caught together in a storm. A rainstorm. Lord Tinmore forced them to marry.’
How ghastly. Nothing funny about a forced marriage. ‘I am somehow missing the joke.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘We are caught in a storm. You could be trapped into marrying me.’ She wagged a finger at him. ‘So you had better hope we are not discovered.’ Then an idea seemed to dawn on her face. ‘Unless you are already married. In that case, only I suffer the scandal.’ She made it sound as if suffering scandal was part of the joke.
‘I am not married.’
She grinned. ‘We had better hope Lord Tinmore or his minions do not come riding by, then.’
No one would find this place unless they already knew its location, even if they were foolish enough to venture out in a snowstorm. If they did find them, though, Ross had no worries about Lord Tinmore. Tinmore’s power would be a trifle compared to what Ross could bring to bear.
She took a breath and sighed and seemed to have conquered her fit of giggles.
‘I am acquainted with Glenville,’ he remarked. ‘A good man.’
‘Glenville is a good man,’ she agreed.
He could not speak of why he knew Glenville, though.
He’d sailed Glenville across the Channel in the family yacht several times during the war when Glenville pursued clandestine activities for the Crown. Braving the Channel’s waters was about the only danger Ross could allow himself during the war, even if he made himself available to sail whenever needed. This service had been meagre in his eyes, certainly a trifle compared to what his friend Dell had accomplished. And what others had suffered. He’d seen what the war cost some of the soldiers. Limbs. Eyes. Sanity. Why should those worthy men have had to pay the price rather than he?
He forced his mind away from painful thoughts. ‘I had not heard Glenville’s marriage had been forced.’
‘Had you not?’ She glanced at him in surprise. ‘Goodness. I thought everyone knew. I should say they seem very happy about it now, so it has all worked out. For the time being, that is.’
‘For the time being?’
She shrugged. ‘One never knows, does one?’
‘You sound a bit cynical.’ Indeed, she seemed to cycle emotions across her face with great rapidity.
Her expression sobered. ‘Of course I am cynical. Marriage can bring terrible unhappiness. My parents’ marriage certainly did.’
‘One out of many,’ he countered, although he knew several friends who were miserable and making their spouses even more so. His parents’ marriage had been happy—until his mother died. In his father’s present marriage happiness was not an issue. That marriage was a political partnership.
‘My sister Lorene’s marriage to Lord Tinmore is another example.’ She glanced away and lowered her voice as if speaking to herself and not to him. ‘She is wasting herself with him.’
‘Has it been so bad? She brought him out of his hermitage, they say. He’d been a recluse, they say.’
‘I am sure he thinks it a grand union.’ She huffed. ‘He now has people he can order about.’
‘You?’ Clearly she resented Tinmore. ‘Does he order you about?’
‘He tries. He thinks he can force me to—’ She stopped herself. ‘Never mind. My tongue runs away with me sometimes.’
She fell silent and stilled her legs and became lost in her own thoughts, which excluded him. He’d been enjoying their conversation. They’d been talking like equals, neither of them trying to impress or avoid.
He wanted more of it. ‘Tell me about your painting.’
She looked at him suspiciously. ‘What about it?’
‘I did not understand it.’
She sat up straighter. ‘You mean because the sky was purple and pink and the grassy hills, blue, and it looked nothing like December in Lincolnshire?’
‘Obviously you were not painting the landscape as it was today. You said you painted a memory, but surely you never saw the scene that way.’ The painting was a riot of colour, an exaggeration of reality.
She turned away. ‘It was a memory of those bright childhood days, when things could be what you imagined them to be, when you could create your own world in play and your world could be anything you wanted.’
‘The sky and the grass could be anything you wanted, as well. I quite comprehend.’ He smiled at her. ‘I once spent an entire summer as a virtuous knight. You should have seen all the dragons I slew and all the damsels in distress I rescued.’
Her blue eyes sparkled. ‘I was always Boadicea fighting the Romans.’ She stood and raised an arm. ‘“When the British Warrior queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods...”’ She sat down again. ‘I was much influenced by Cowper.’
‘My father had an old copy of Spencer’s The Faerie Queene.’ It had been over two hundred years old. ‘I read it over and over. I sought to recreate it in my imagination.’
She sighed. ‘Life seemed so simple then.’
They fell silent again.
‘Do you miss this place?’ he asked. ‘I don’t mean this folly. Do you miss Summerfield House where you grew up?’
Her expression turned wistful. ‘I do miss it. All the familiar rooms. The familiar paintings and furniture. We could not take much with us.’ Her chin set and her eyes hardened. ‘I do not want you to think we blame Lord Penford. He was under no obligation to us. We knew he inherited many problems my father created.’ She stood again and walked to the edge of the folly. Placing her hand on one of the columns, she leaned out. ‘The snow seems to be abating.’
He was not happy to see the flakes stop. ‘Shall we venture out in it again?’
‘I think we must,’ she said. ‘I do not want to return late and cause any questions about where I’ve been.’
‘Is that what happens?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ Her eyes changed from resentment to amusement. ‘Although I do not always answer such questions truthfully.’
‘I would wager you do not.’
* * *
Rossdale again pulled Genna up to sit in front of him on his beautiful horse. How ironic. It was the most intimate she had ever been with a man.
She liked him. She could not think of any other gentleman of her acquaintance who she liked so well and with whom she wanted to spend more time. Usually she was eager to leave a man’s company, especially when the flattery started. Especially when she suspected they were more enamoured of the generous sum Lord Tinmore would provide for her dowry than they were of her. No such avaricious gleam reached Rossdale’s eyes. She had the impression the subject of her dowry had not once crossed Rossdale’s mind.
They rode without talking, except for Genna’s directions. She led him through the fields, the shortest way to Tinmore Hall and also the way they were least likely to encounter any other person. The snow had turned the landscape a lovely white, as if it had been scrubbed clean. There was no sound but the crunch of the horse’s hooves on the snow and the huff of the animal’s breathing.
They came to the stream. The only way to cross was at the bridge, the bridge that had been flooded that fateful night Tess had been caught in the storm.
‘Leave me at the bridge,’ she said. No one was in sight, but if anyone would happen by, it would be on the road to the bridge. ‘I’ll walk the rest of the way.’
‘So we are not seen together?’ he correctly guessed.
She could not help but giggle. ‘Unless you want a forced marriage.’
He raised his hands in mock horror. ‘Anything but that.’
‘Here is fine.’ She slid from the saddle.
He unfastened her satchel and handed it to her. ‘It has been a pleasure, Miss Summerfield.’
‘I am indebted to you, sir,’ she countered. ‘But if you dare say so to anyone, I’ll have to unfurl my wrath.’
He smiled down at her and again she had the sense that she liked him.
‘It will be our secret,’ he murmured.
She nodded a farewell and hurried across the bridge. When she reached the other side, she turned.
He was still there watching her.
She waved to him and turned away, and walked quickly. She was later than she’d planned to be.
She approached the house through the formal garden behind the Hall and entered through the garden door, removing her half-boots which were soaked through and caked with snow. One of the servants would take care of them. She did not dare clean them herself as she’d been accustomed to do at Summerfield. If Lord Tinmore heard of it, she’d have to endure yet another lecture on the proper behaviour of a lady, which did not include cleaning boots.
What an ungrateful wretch she was. Most young ladies would love having a servant clean her boots. Genna simply was used to doing for herself, since her father had cut back on the number of servants at Summerfield House.
She hung her damp cloak on a hook and carried her satchel up to her room. The maid assigned to her helped her change her clothes, but Genna waited until the girl left before unpacking her satchel. She left her painting on a table, unsure whether to work on it more or not.
She covered it with tissue again and put it in a drawer. She would not work on it now. Of that she was certain. Instead she hurried down to the library, opening the door cautiously and peeking in. No one was there, thank goodness, although it would have been quite easy to come up with a plausible excuse for coming to the library.
She searched the shelves until she found the volume she sought—Debrett’s Peerage & Baronetage. She pulled it out and turned first to the title names, riffling the pages until she came to the Rs.
‘Rossdale. Rossdale. Rossdale,’ she murmured as she scanned the pages.
The title name was not there.
She turned to the front of the book again and found the pages listing second titles usually borne by the eldest sons of peers. She ran her finger down the list.
Rossdale.
There it was! And next to the name Rossdale was Kessington d. D for Duke.
She had been in the company of the eldest son of the Duke of Kessington. The heir of the Duke of Kessington. And she had been chatting with him as if he were a mere friend of her brother’s. Worse, she had hung all the family’s dirty laundry out to dry in front of him, her defiant defence over anticipated censure or sympathy. He’d seen her wild painting and witnessed her nonsense about Boadicea.
She turned back to the listing of the Duke of Kessington. There were two pages of accolades and honours bestowed upon the Dukes of Kessington since the sixteen hundreds. She read that Rossdale’s mother was deceased. Rossdale’s given name was John and he had no brothers or sisters. He bore his father’s second title by courtesy—the Marquess of Rossdale.
She groaned.
The heir of the Duke of Kessington.
Chapter Two (#u4effa6c4-5cae-55ce-a353-1c7099a2e2a9)
Ross sipped claret as he waited for Dell in the drawing room. The dinner hour had passed forty minutes ago, not that he’d worked up any great appetite or even that he was in any great need of company. He was quite content to contemplate his meeting with Miss Summerfield. He’d been charmed by her.
How long had it been since a young woman simply conversed with him, about herself and her family skeletons, no less? Whenever he attended a society entertainment these days all he saw was calculation in marriageable young ladies’ eyes and those of their mamas. All he’d seen in Miss Summerfield’s eyes was friendliness.
Would that change? Obviously she’d not known the name Rossdale or its significance, but he’d guess she’d soon learn it. Would she join the ranks of calculating females then?
He was curious to know.
The door opened.
‘So sorry, Ross.’ Dell came charging in. ‘I had no idea this estate business would take so long. I’ve alerted the kitchen. Dinner should be ready in minutes.’
Ross lifted the decanter of claret. ‘Do you care for some?’
Dell nodded. ‘I’ve a great thirst.’
Ross poured him a glass and handed it to him.
‘First there is the problem of dry rot. Next the cow barn, which seems to be crumbling, but the worst is the condition of the tenant cottages. One after the other have leaking roofs, damaged masonry, broken windows. I could go on.’ He took a swig of his wine.
‘Sounds expensive,’ Ross remarked with genuine sympathy.
How many estates did Ross’s family own? Five, at least, not counting the hunting lodges and the town house in Bath. There were problems enough simply maintaining them. Think of how it would be if any were allowed to go into disrepair. This was all new to Dell, as well. He’d just arrived in Brussels with his regiment when he’d been called back to claim the title. His parents, older brother and younger sister had been killed in a horrific fire. Ross had delivered the news to him and brought him home.
A few weeks later Dell’s regiment fought at Waterloo.
‘A drain on the finances, for certain,’ Dell said. ‘Curse Sir Hollis for neglecting his property.’
‘Do you have sufficient funds?’ Ross asked.
His friends never asked, but when Ross knew they were in need he was happy to offer a loan or a gift.
Dell lifted a hand. ‘I can manage. It simply rankles to see how little has been maintained.’ He shook his head. ‘The poor tenants. They have put up with a great deal and more now with this nasty weather.’
The butler appeared at the door. ‘Dinner is served, sir.’
Dell stood. ‘At least food is plentiful. And I’ve no doubt Cook has made us a feast.’
They walked to the dining room, its long table set for two adjacent to each other to make it easier for conversing and passing food dishes. The cook indeed had not disappointed. There were partridges, squash and parsnips. Ross’s appetite made a resurgence.
‘I hope your day was not a bore,’ Dell said. ‘Did you find some way to amuse yourself?’
‘I did remarkably well,’ Ross answered, spearing a piece of buttered parsnips with his fork. ‘I rode into the village and explored your property.’
‘And that amused you?’ Dell looked sceptical.
‘The villagers were talkative.’ He pointed his fork at Dell. ‘You are considered a prime catch, you know.’
Dell laughed. ‘I take it you did not say who you were.’
Not in the village, he hadn’t. ‘I introduced myself simply as John Gordon.’
‘That explains why there are no matchmaking mamas parked on the entry stairs.’
Ross smiled. ‘I do believe tactics were being discussed to contrive an introduction to you.’
Dell shrugged. ‘They waste their time. How can I marry? These properties of mine are taking up all my time.’
How many did he have? Three?
‘I’m not certain your actual presence was considered important.’ To so many young women, marrying a title was more important than actually being a peer’s wife. ‘In any event, it would not hurt to socialise with some of your more important neighbours, you know.’
‘Who?’ he asked unenthusiastically.
Ross took a bite of food, chewed and swallowed it before he answered. ‘They said in the village that Lord Tinmore was in the country.’
‘That prosy old fellow?’ Dell cried.
‘He’s influential in Parliament,’ Ross reminded him. ‘It won’t hurt at all to entertain him a bit. He might be a help to you when you take your seat.’
‘Your father will help me.’
‘My father certainly will help you, but it will not hurt to be acquainted with Tinmore, as well.’ Ross tore off some meat from his partridge. ‘You are related to Tinmore’s wife and her sisters, I was told.’
‘They are my distant cousins, I believe,’ Dell said. ‘The ones who grew up in this house.’
‘Perhaps they would like to visit the house again.’ Ross knew Genna would desire it, at least.
Dell frowned. ‘More likely they would resent the invitation. I learned today that, not only was the estate left in near shambles, but the daughters were left with virtually nothing. My father turned them out within months of their father’s death. That is why the eldest daughter married Tinmore. For his money.’
‘Seems you learned a great deal.’ No wonder Genna Summerfield sounded bitter.
Dell gave a dry laugh. ‘The estate manager was talkative, as well.’
‘Perhaps it would be a good idea to make amends.’ And it would not hurt for Dell to be in company a little.
Dell expelled a long breath. ‘I suppose I must try.’
Ross swirled the wine in his glass. ‘I would not recommend risking offending Lord Tinmore.’
Dell peered at him. ‘For someone with an aversion to politics, you certainly are cognizant of its workings.’
‘How could I not be? My father talks of nothing else.’ Ross refilled Dell’s glass. ‘I would not say I have an aversion, though. I simply know it will eventually consume my life and I am in no hurry for that to happen.’
Dell gulped down his wine and spoke beneath his breath. ‘I never wanted this title.’
Ross reached over and placed his hand on Dell’s shoulder. ‘I know.’
They finished the course in silence and were served small cakes for dessert.
When that too was taken away and the decanter of brandy set on the table, Dell filled both their glasses. ‘Oh, very well,’ he said. ‘I will invite them to dinner.’
Ross lifted his glass and nodded approvingly.
Dell looked him in the eye. ‘Be warned, though. The youngest sister is not yet married.’
Ross grinned. ‘I am so warned.’
* * *
Two days later, Genna joined her sister and Lord Tinmore at breakfast. Sometimes if she showed up early enough to share the morning meal and acted cheerful, she could count on being left to her own devices until almost dinner time. Besides, she liked to see if Lorene needed her company. There were often houseguests or callers who came out of obligation to the Earl of Tinmore. Most were polite to Lorene, but Genna knew everyone thought her a fortune hunter. Genna often sat through these tedious meetings so Lorene would not be alone, even though it was entirely Lorene’s fault she was in this predicament.
A footman entered the breakfast room with a folded piece of paper on a silver tray. ‘A message arrived for you, sir.’
Tinmore acknowledged the servant with a nod. The footman bowed and left the room again.
Tinmore opened the folded paper and read. ‘An invitation,’ he said, although neither Lorene nor Genna had asked. He tossed the paper to Lorene. ‘From your cousin.’
‘My cousin?’ Lorene picked up the paper. ‘It is from Lord Penford, inviting us to dinner tomorrow night at Summerfield House.’
Genna’s heart beat faster. Was she included?
‘We must attend, of course,’ Tinmore said officiously. ‘He peered over his spectacles at Genna. ‘You, too, young lady.’ He never called her by her name.
‘I would love a chance to see Summerfield House again!’ she cried.
Lorene did not look as eager. ‘I suppose we must attend.’
* * *
The next day Genna was determined not to agonise over what to wear to this dinner. After all, it would be more in the nature of a family meal than a formal dinner party. There would not be other guests, apparently, save his houseguest, perhaps. A small dinner party, the invitation said, to extend his hospitality to his neighbour and his cousins.
Genna chose her pale blue dress because it had the fewest embellishments. She allowed her maid to add only a matching blue ribbon to her hair, pulled up into a simple chignon. She wore tiny pearl earrings in her ears and a simple pearl necklace around her neck. She draped her paisley shawl over her arm, the one with shades of blue in it.
She met Lorene coming out of her bedchamber.
Lorene stopped and gazed at her. ‘You look lovely, Genna. That dress does wonders for your eyes.’
Genna blinked. Truly? She’d aimed to show little fuss.
‘Do I look all right?’ Lorene asked. ‘I was uncertain how to dress.’
Lorene also chose a plain gown, but one in deep green. Her earrings were emeralds, though, and her necklace, an emerald pendant. The dark hue made Lorene’s complexion glow.
Lorene looked like a creature of the forest. If Lorene were the forest, then Genna must be—what? The sky? Genna was taller. Lorene, small. Genna had blonde hair and blue eyes; Lorene, mahogany-brown hair with eyes to match. No wonder people whispered that they must have been born of different fathers. They were opposites. One earthbound. The other...flighty.
Genna put her arm around Lorene and squeezed her. ‘You look beautiful as always. Together we shall present such a pretty picture for our cousin he will wish he had been nicer to us.’
Lorene smiled wanly. ‘You are speaking nonsense.’
Genna grinned. ‘Perhaps. Not about you looking beautiful, though.’ They walked through the corridor and started down the long staircase. ‘What is he, anyway? Our fourth cousin?’
Lorene sighed. ‘I can never puzzle it out. He shares a great-great-grandfather or a great-great-great one with our father. I can never keep it straight.’
Genna laughed. ‘He got the fortunate side of the family, obviously.’
They walked arm in arm to the drawing room next to the hall where Lord Tinmore would, no doubt, be waiting for them. Before they crossed the threshold, though, they separated and Lorene walked into the room first, Genna a few steps behind her. Tinmore insisted on such formalities.
Lord Tinmore was seated in a chair, his neckcloth loosened. His valet, almost as ancient as the Earl himself, patted his forehead with a cloth. Tinmore motioned the ladies in, even though they were already approaching him.
Lorene frowned. ‘What is amiss, sir? Are you unwell?’
He gestured to his throat. ‘Damned throat is sore and I am feverish. Came upon me an hour ago.’
Lorene put her cloak and reticule on the sofa and pulled off a glove. She bent down and felt her husband’s wrinkled, brown-spotted forehead. ‘You are feverish. Has the doctor been summoned?’
‘He has indeed, ma’am,’ the valet said.
She straightened. ‘We must send Lord Penford a message. We cannot attend this dinner.’
Not attend the dinner? Genna’s spirits sank. She yearned to see her home again.
‘I cannot,’ Tinmore stated. ‘But you and your sister must.’
Genna brightened.
‘No,’ Lorene protested. ‘I will stay with you. I’ll see you get proper care.’
He waved her away. ‘Wicky will tend me. I dare say he knows better than you how to give me care.’
So typical of Tinmore. True, his valet had decades more experience in caring for his lordship than Lorene, but it was unkind to say so to her face.
‘I think I should stay,’ Lorene tried again in a more forceful tone.
Tinmore raised his voice. ‘You and your sister will attend this dinner and make my excuses. I do not wish to insult this man. I may need his good opinion some day.’ He ended with a fit of coughing.
A footman came to the door. ‘The carriage is ready, my lord.’
‘Go.’ Tinmore flicked his fingers, brushing them away like gnats buzzing around his rheumy head. ‘You mustn’t keep the horses waiting. It is not good for them to stand still so long.’
Typical of Tinmore. Caring more for his horses’ comfort than his wife’s feelings.
Genna picked up Lorene’s cloak and reticule and started for the door. Lorene caught up with her and draped the cloak around herself.
At least Lord Tinmore was too sick to admonish Lorene for not waiting for the footman to help her with her cloak.
‘I really do not want to go,’ Lorene whispered to Genna.
‘Lord Tinmore will be well cared for. Do not fret.’ Genna was more than glad Tinmore would not accompany them.
‘It is not that,’ Lorene said. ‘I do not wish to go.’
‘Why not?’ Genna was eager to see their home again, no matter the elevated company they would be in.
Lorene murmured, ‘It will make me feel sad.’
Goodness. Was not Lorene already sad? Could she not simply look forward to a visit home, free of Tinmore’s talons? Sometimes Genna had no patience for her.
But she took her sister’s hand and squeezed it in sympathy.
* * *
They spoke little on the carriage ride to Summerfield House. Who knew what Lorene’s thoughts must be, but Genna was surprised to feel her own bout of nerves at the thought of seeing Rossdale again.
The Marquess of Rossdale.
If he expected her to be impressed by his title, he’d be well mistaken. She would not be one of those encroaching young ladies she’d seen during her Season in London, so eager to be pleasing to the highest-ranking bachelor in the room.
Heedless of the cold, she and Lorene nearly leaned out the windows as they entered the gate to Summerfield House, its honey-coloured stone so familiar, so beautiful. She’d seen the house only from afar. Up close it looked unchanged, except that the grounds seemed well tended. At least what she could see of them. A thin dusting of snow still blanketed the land.
When the carriage pulled up to the house, Genna saw a familiar face waiting to assist them from the carriage.
‘Becker!’ she cried, waving from the window.
Their old footman opened the door and put down the stairs.
‘My lady,’ he said to Lorene, somewhat reservedly. He helped her out.
‘So good to see you, Becker,’ Lorene said. ‘How are you? In good health?’
‘Good health, ma’am,’ he replied.
He reached for Genna’s hand next and grinned. ‘Miss Genna.’
She jumped out and gave him a quick hug. Who cared if it was improper to hug a servant? She’d known him all her life.
‘I have missed you!’ she cried.
His eyes glistened with tears. ‘The house is not the same without you.’
He collected himself and led Lorene and Genna through one of the archways and up the stairs to the main entrance. A guidebook had once described the house:
Summerfield House was built by John Carr, a contemporary of Robert Adam, in the Italianate style, with the entrance to the house on the first floor.
Genna loved that word. Italianate.
The door opened as they reached it.
‘Jeffers!’ Genna ran into the hall and hugged their old butler, a man who had been more present in her life than her own father.
‘Miss Genna, a treat to see you.’ He hugged her back, but quickly released her and bowed to Lorene. ‘My lady, how good to have you back.’
Lorene extended her hand and clasped Mr Jeffers’s hand in a warm gesture. ‘I am happy to see you, Jeffers. How are matters here? Is all well? Are you well?’
He nodded. ‘The new master has had much needed work done, but it is quiet here without you girls.’
Genna supposed Jeffers still saw them in their pinafores. She touched his arm. ‘We were never going to be able to stay, you know.’
Jeffers smiled sadly. ‘That is true, but, still...’ He blinked and turned towards the door. ‘Are we not expecting Lord Tinmore?’
‘He sends his regrets,’ Lorene explained. ‘He is ill.’
‘I am sorry to hear it. Nothing serious, I hope?’ he asked.
‘Not serious.’ Lorene glanced away. ‘You should announce us to Lord Penford, I think.’
How very sad. Lorene acted as if Lord Tinmore was looking over her shoulder, ready to chastise her for performing below her station with servants. These were servants they’d known their whole lives, the people who had truly looked out for their welfare, and, even though Tinmore was nowhere near, Lorene could not feel free to converse with them.
Jeffers looked abashed. ‘Certainly. They are in the octagon drawing room.’
He and Lorene started to cross the hall.
‘Wait!’ Genna cried.
She stood in the centre of the hall and gazed up at the plasterwork ceiling. There was the familiar pattern, the rosettes, the gold gilt, the griffins that hearkened back to her grandfather’s days in India. Why had she never drawn the ceiling’s design? Why had she not copied its pale cream, green and white?
‘Come,’ Lorene said impatiently. ‘They are waiting for us.’
Genna took one more look, then joined her sister. As they walked to the drawing room, though, she fell back, memorising each detail. The matching marble stairs with their bright blue balustrades, the small tables and chairs still in the same places, the familiar paintings on the walls.
They reached the door to the drawing room. Would it be changed? she wondered.
Jeffers opened the door and announced. ‘Lady Tinmore and Miss Summerfield.’
Two young gentlemen stood. One, of course, was Lord Rossdale, dressed in formal dinner attire, which made him look even more like a duke’s heir. The other man was an inch or two shorter than Rossdale and fairer, with brown hair and blue eyes.
Jeffers continued the introductions. ‘My lady, Miss Summerfield, allow me to present Lord Rossdale—’
The Marquess bowed.
‘And Lord Penford.’
But Penford was so young!
He approached them. ‘My cousins. How delightful to meet you at last.’ His voice lacked any enthusiasm, however. He blinked at Lorene as if in surprise and stiffly offered his hand. ‘Where is Lord Tinmore, ma’am?’
Lorene blushed, which was not like her. She might be reserved, but never sheepish. Unless Tinmore had cowed her into feeling insecure in company. Or perhaps she was as surprised as Genna that Penford was not their father’s age.
‘Lord Tinmore is ill.’ Lorene put her hand in Penford’s. ‘A trifling illness, but he thought it best to remain at home.’
Penford quickly drew his hand away. ‘I am delighted you accepted my invitation.’ He glanced past Lorene and looked at Genna with a distinct lack of interest. ‘And your sister.’ He perfunctorily shook Genna’s. ‘Miss Summerfield.’
The stiff boor. Genna made certain to smile at him. ‘Call me Genna. It seems silly to stand on ceremony when we are family.’
‘Genna,’ he repeated automatically. He glanced back to Lorene.
‘You may address me as Lorene, if you wish,’ she murmured.
‘Lorene,’ he murmured. ‘My friends call me Dell.’
Which was not quite permission for Lorene and Genna to do so.
Rossdale stepped forward.
‘Oh.’ Penford seemed to have forgotten him. ‘My friend Ross here is visiting with me over Christmas.’
‘Ma’am.’ Ross bowed to Lorene. When he turned to Genna, he winked. ‘Miss Summerfield.’
She felt like giggling.
‘Come sit.’ Penford offered Lorene his arm and led her to a sitting area, with its pale pink brocade sofa and matching chairs that their mother had selected for this room. He placed her in one of the chairs and he sat in the other.
The Marquess gestured to Genna to sit, as well.
She hesitated. ‘May I look at the room first?’
‘By all means,’ Penford responded.
‘You lived here, I believe,’ Rossdale said, remaining at her side.
‘I did, sir,’ she said too brightly.
So far he was not divulging the fact they’d met before. He stood politely while she gazed at another familiar plasterwork ceiling, its design mimicked in the octagon carpet below. Again, nothing was changed, not one stick of furniture out of place, not one vase moved to a different table, nor any porcelain figurines rearranged. She gazed at her grandmother’s portrait above the fireplace, powdered hair and silk gown, seated in an idyllic garden.
Rossdale said, ‘A magnificent painting.’
‘Our grandmother.’ Although neither she nor Lorene bore any resemblance to the lady. ‘By Gainsborough.’
‘Indeed?’ He sounded impressed.
Genna had always loved the painting, but it was Gainsborough’s depiction of the sky and greenery that fascinated her the most, so wild and windy.
‘I am pouring claret. Would you like some, Genna?’ Penford called over to her.
She felt summoned. ‘Yes, thank you.’
She walked over and lowered herself on to the sofa. Rossdale sat next to her.
‘Does the room pass your inspection?’ Penford asked, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
He handed her the glass of wine.
Was he censuring her for paying more attention to the room than the people in it? Well, how ill mannered of him! It was the most natural thing in the world to want to see the house where one grew up.
‘It is as I remember it,’ she responded as if it had been a genuine question. ‘I confess to a great desire to see all the rooms again. We were in much turmoil when we left.’ When he’d sent them packing, she meant.
Penford’s face stiffened. He turned to Lorene, shutting Genna out. ‘Do you also have a desire to see the house?’
Lorene stared into space. ‘I have put it behind me.’
‘I imagine Tinmore Hall is much grander than Summerfield,’ he remarked.
Grander and colder, Genna thought.
‘It is very grand, indeed,’ Lorene responded.
Genna turned to Rossdale. ‘I expect the house where you grew up would make both Summerfield House and Tinmore Hall look like tenants’ cottages.’
His brows rose. Now he knew she knew his rank.
‘Not so much different.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Definitely grander, though.’
‘Ross grew up at Kessington,’ Penford explained to Lorene. ‘You have heard of it?’
Her eyes grew wide. Now Lorene knew Rossdale’s rank, as well. Wait until Lorene told Tinmore whom he’d missed meeting.
‘Yes, of course.’ Lorene turned to Rossdale. ‘It is in Suffolk, is it not?’
‘It is,’ he replied. ‘And it is a grand house.’ He grinned. ‘My father should commission someone to paint it some day.’
He leaned forward to pour himself more wine and brushed against Genna’s leg.
Secretly joking with her, obviously. What fun to flaunt a secret and not reveal it.
‘I paint, you know,’ she piped up, feigning all innocence. ‘I even paint houses sometimes.’
‘Do you?’ Penford said politely. ‘How nice to be so accomplished.’
Genna waited for him to ask Lorene her accomplishments, which were primarily in taking excellent care of her younger siblings for most of their lives. He did not ask, though, and Lorene would never say.
Genna could boast on her sister’s behalf, though. ‘Lorene plays the pianoforte beautifully. And she sings very well, too.’
Lorene gazed at her hands clasped in her lap. ‘I am not as skilled as Genna would have you believe.’
‘Perhaps you will play for us tonight,’ Penford said, still all politeness.
‘After dinner, perhaps?’ Genna suggested.
‘Perhaps after dinner you would show me the house, Miss Summerfield,’ Rossdale asked. ‘It would kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Ease my curiosity about the building and give you your nostalgic tour.’
How perfect, Genna thought. Lorene would simply spoil her enjoyment if she came along and Lord Penford’s presence only reminded Genna that all her beloved rooms now belonged to him. With Rossdale, she could enjoy herself.
She smiled. ‘An excellent plan.’
Chapter Three (#u4effa6c4-5cae-55ce-a353-1c7099a2e2a9)
Ross enjoyed the dinner more than any he could recall in recent memory. Genna regaled them with stories about the house and their childhood years. She made those days sound idyllic, although if one listened carefully, one could hear the loneliness of neglected children in the tales.
Still, she made him laugh and her sister, too, which was a surprise. Heretofore Lady Tinmore had lacked any animation whatsoever. Dell was worse, though. He’d turned sullen and quiet throughout the meal.
It had never been Dell’s habit to be silent. He’d once been game for anything and as voluble as they come. He’d turned sombre, though. Ross could not blame him. He simply wished Dell happy again.
In any event, Ross was eager to take a tour of the house with the very entertaining Genna.
After the dessert, he spoke up. ‘I propose we forgo our brandy and allow Miss Summerfield her house tour. Then we can gather for tea afterwards and listen to Lady Tinmore play the pianoforte.’
Dell would not object.
‘Very well,’ Dell responded. He turned to Lady Tinmore as if an afterthought. ‘If you approve, ma’am?’
‘Certainly.’ Lady Tinmore lowered her lashes.
She’d never let on if she did object, Ross was sure.
‘What a fine idea! Let us go now.’ Genna sprang to her feet and started for the door.
Ross reached her just as the footman opened it for her. She flashed the man a grateful smile and fondly touched his arm. These servants were the people she grew up with. Ross liked that she showed her affection for them.
They walked out the dining room and into the centre of the house, a room off the hall where the great staircase led to the upper floors.
‘Where shall we start?’ Ross asked.
Genna’s expression turned uncertain. ‘Would you mind terribly if we started in the kitchen? I would so much like to see all the servants. They will most likely be there or in the servants’ hall. You may wait here, if you do not wish to come with me.’
‘Why would I object?’
She smiled. ‘Follow me.’
She led him down a set of stairs to a corridor on the ground floor of the left wing of the house. They soon heard voices and the clatter of dishes.
She hurried ahead and entered the kitchen. ‘Hello, everyone!’
He remained in the doorway and watched.
The cook and kitchen maids dropped what they were doing and flocked around her. Other maids and footmen came from the servants’ hall and other rooms. She hugged or clasped hands with many of them, asking them all questions about their welfare and listening intently to their answers. She shared information about her sisters and her half-brother, but, unlike her cynical conversation with Ross about her siblings, all was sunny and bright when she talked to the servants. So they would have no cause to worry, perhaps?
‘Lorene—’ she went on ‘Lady Tinmore, I mean—asked me to convey her greetings and well wishes to all of you. She is stuck with our host, I’m afraid, but I am certain she will ply me with questions about all of you as soon as we are alone.’
Ross remembered no such exchange between the sisters, but it was kind of Genna to make the servants believe Lady Tinmore thought about them.
Finally Genna seemed to remember him. She gestured towards him and laughed. ‘Lord Rossdale! I do not need to present you, do I? I am certain everyone knows who you are.’ She turned back to the servants. ‘Lord Rossdale begged for a tour of the house, but really only so I could see all its beloved rooms again and make this quick visit to you. I am told little has changed.’
‘Only the rooms that were your parents,’ the housekeeper told her. ‘Lord Penford asked for a few minor changes in your father’s room, which he is using for his own. He asked for your mother’s room to be made over for Lord Rossdale.’
Ross turned to the housekeeper. ‘He needn’t have put you to the trouble, but the room is quite comfortable. For that I thank you.’
Genna looked pleased at his words. ‘We should be on our way, though. I am sure Lady Tinmore will wish to return to Tinmore Hall as soon as possible, so we do not overstay our welcome.’ She grinned. ‘I am less worried about that. I’m happy for our cousin to put up with us for as long as possible. I am so glad to be home for a little while.’
But, of course, it would never be her home again.
There were more hugs and promises that Genna would visit whenever she could.
Ross interrupted the farewells. ‘Might we have a lamp? I suspect some of the rooms will be dark.’
A footman dashed off and soon returned with a lamp. Genna extricated herself and, with eyes sparkling with tears, let Ross lead her away.
When they were out of earshot, she murmured, ‘I miss them all.’ She shot him a defiant look. ‘No doubt you disapprove.’
‘Of missing them?’
‘Of such an attachment to servants,’ she replied.
He lifted his hands in protest. ‘That is unfair, Miss Summerfield. What have I said or done to deserve such an accusation?’
She sighed. ‘You’ve done nothing, have you? Forgive me. I tend to jump to conclusions. It is a dreadful fault. After this past year mixing in society, I learned to expect such sentiments. Certainly Tinmore would have apoplexy if he knew I’d entered the servants’ wing. No doubt that is why Lorene stayed away.’
‘Does your sister disapprove of fraternising with servants as well?’ He would not be surprised. She seemed the opposite of Genna in every way.
‘Lorene?’ Her voice cracked. ‘Goodness, no. But she tries not to displease Tinmore.’ She shrugged. ‘Not even when he could not possibly know.’
‘What shall we see next?’ he asked, eager to change the subject and restore her good cheer.
‘I should like to see my old room,’ she responded. ‘And the schoolroom.’
They climbed the two flights of stairs to the second floor and walked down a corridor to the children’s wing.
She opened one of the doors. ‘This was my room.’
It was a pleasant room with a large window, although the curtains were closed. She walked through the space, subdued and silent.
‘Is it as you remember?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘Everything is in the right place.’
‘You are not happy to see it, though.’
She shook her head. ‘There is nothing of me left here. It could be anyone’s room now.’ She continued to walk around it. ‘Perhaps Lorene knew it would feel like this. Perhaps that is why she did not wish to come.’
He frowned. ‘I am sorry it disappoints you.’
She turned to him with a sad smile. ‘It is odd. I do feel disappointed, but I also like that I am seeing it again. It helps me remember what it once was, even if the remembering makes me sad.’
Ross had rooms in his father’s various residences, rooms he would never have to vacate, except by choice. For him the rooms were more of a cage than a haven.
‘Let us continue,’ she said resolutely.
They entered every bedroom and Genna commented on whose room it had been and related some memory attached to it.
They came to the schoolroom. She ran her fingers over the surface of the table. ‘We left everything here.’ She opened a wooden chest. ‘Here are our slates and some of the toys.’ She pointed to a cabinet. ‘Our books will be in there.’ She sighed. ‘It is as if we walked out of here as children, probably to run out of doors to play.’
‘To become Boadicea?’ Ross remembered.
She smiled. ‘Yes! Out of doors the fun began.’ She clasped her hands together and perused the room one more time. ‘Let us proceed.’
They peeked in other guest bedchambers, but she hesitated when they neared the rooms that had been her parents’. ‘I certainly will not explore Penford’s room.’ She said the name with some disdain.
‘You seem inclined to dislike my friend,’ he remarked.
‘Well, he might have let us stay here a while longer.’ She frowned.
‘Dell only inherited the title last summer. I believe your resentment belongs to his father.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Oh. I did not know.’
Dell might not desire him to say more. Ross changed the subject. ‘I have no objection to your seeing your mother’s bedchamber,’
She recovered from her embarrassment and blinked up at him with feigned innocence. ‘Me? Enter a gentleman’s bedchamber accompanied by the gentleman himself? What would Lord Tinmore say?’
‘This will be one of those instances where Lord Tinmore will never know.’ He grinned. ‘Besides, for propriety’s sake we will leave the door open and I dare say my valet will be inside—’
Her eyes widened in mock horror. ‘A witness? He might tell Lord Tinmore! We would be married post-haste, I assure you.’
She mocked the idea of being married, so unlike the other young women thrown at him.
Her expression turned conspiratorial. ‘Although I am pining to show you something about the house, so we might step inside the room just for a moment.’
With no one else would Ross risk such a thing, for the very reason of which she’d joked.
He opened the door and, as he expected, his valet was in the room, tending to his clothes.
‘Do not be alarmed, Coogan,’ he said to his man. ‘We will be only a moment.’
‘Yes, Coogan.’ Genna giggled. ‘Only a moment.’
‘Do you require something, m’lord?’ Coogan asked. ‘I was about to join the servants for dinner, but I can delay—’
‘We are touring the house and Miss Summerfield wishes to show me something about the room,’ Ross replied. ‘Stay until we leave.’
Ross was glad to have a witness, just in case.
She stepped just inside the doorway and faced a wall papered in pale blue. She pressed on a spot and a door opened, a door that heretofore had been unnoticed by Ross.
‘We’ll be leaving now,’ she said to his valet and gestured for Ross to follow her.
They could not have been more than a fraction of a minute.
As soon as he stepped over this secret threshold, she pushed the door closed. Their lamp illuminated a secret hallway that disappeared into the darkness.
‘My grandfather built this house so that he would never have to encounter his servants in the house unless they were performing some service for him. He had secret doors put in all the rooms and connected them all with hidden passages. The servants had to scurry through these narrow spaces. We can get to any part of the house from here.’ She headed towards the darkness. ‘Come. I’ll show you.’
* * *
Dell remained in the dining room with Lorene until they’d both finished the cakes that Cook had made for dessert. Their conversation was sparse and awkward.
He’d never met his Lincolnshire cousins, knew them only by the scandal and gossip that followed the family and had no reason to give them a further thought. He’d not been prepared for the likes of Lorene.
Lovely, demure, sad.
When he and Lorene retired to the drawing room, he was even more aware of the intimacy of their situation. What had he been thinking to allow Ross and the all-too-lively Genna to go off into the recesses of the house? Why the devil had Tinmore not simply refused the invitation? Why send his wife and her sister alone?
He realised they were standing in the drawing room.
She gestured to the pianoforte. ‘Shall I play for you?’
‘If you wish.’ It would save him from attempting conversation with her, something that seemed to fail him of late.
She sat at the pianoforte and started to play. After the first few hesitant notes, she seemed to lose her self-consciousness and her playing became more assured and fluid. He recognised the piece she chose. It was one his sister used to play—Mozart’s Andante Grazioso. The memory stabbed at his heart.
Lorene played the piece with skill and feeling. When she came to the end and looked up at him, he immediately said, ‘Play another.’
This time she began confidently—Pathétique by Beethoven—and he fancied she showed in the music that sadness he sensed in her. It touched his own.
And drew him to her in a manner that was not to be advised.
She was married to a man who wielded much influence in the House of Lords. Dell would be new to the body. Ross was right. He needed to tread carefully if he wished to do any good.
When Lorene finished this piece, she automatically went on to another, then another, each one filled with melancholy. With yearning.
The music moved him.
She moved him.
When she finally placed her hands in her lap, they were trembling. ‘That is all I know by heart.’
‘Surely there is sheet music here.’ He looked around the pianoforte.
She rose and opened a nearby cabinet. ‘It is in here.’ She removed the top sheet and looked at it. ‘Oh. It is a song I used to play.’
‘Play it if you like.’ After all, what could he say to her if she stopped playing? His insides were already shredded.
She placed the sheet on the music rack, played the first notes and, to his surprise, began to sing.
I have a silent sorrow here,
A grief I’ll ne’er impart;
It breathes no sigh, it sheds no tear,
But it consumes my heart.
This cherished woe, this loved despair,
My lot for ever be,
So my soul’s lord, the pangs to bear
Be never known by thee.
Her voice was clear and pure and the feeling behind the lyrics suggested this was a song that had meaning for her. What was her ‘cherished woe’, her ‘loved despair’? He knew what his grief was.
She finished the song and lifted her eyes to his.
‘Lorene,’ he murmured.
There was a knock on the door, breaking his reverie.
The butler appeared. ‘Beg pardon, sir, my lady.’
‘What is it, Jeffers?’ Dell asked, his voice unsteady.
‘The weather, sir,’ Jeffers said. ‘A storm. It has begun to snow and sleet.’
Lorene paled and stood. Dell stepped towards the window. She brushed against him as he opened the curtains with his hand. They both looked out on to ground already tinged with white. The hiss of sleet, now so clear, must have been obscured by the music.
She spun around. ‘We must leave! Where is Genna?’
‘I sent Becker to find her,’ Jeffers said.
‘Well done, Jeffers. Alert the stables to ready the carriage.’ Dell turned towards Lorene. ‘You might still make it home if you can leave immediately.’
Lorene placed her hands on her cheeks. ‘We did not expect bad weather.’
Dell touched her arm, concerned by her distress. ‘Try not to worry.’
‘Where is Genna?’ she cried, rushing from the room. ‘Why did she have to tour the house?’
* * *
Genna led Ross through dark narrow corridors, stopping at doors that opened into the other bedchambers. On the other side, the doors to the secret passageways were nearly invisible to the eye. While they navigated this labyrinth, sometimes they heard music.
‘Lorene must be playing the pianoforte,’ Genna said.
The music wafting through the air merely made their excursion seem more fanciful.
It was like a game. Ross tried to guess what room they’d come upon next with the floor plan of the house fixed in his mind, but he was often wrong. Genna navigated the spaces with ease, though, and he could imagine her as a little girl running through these same spaces.
She opened a door on to the schoolroom. ‘Is it not bizarre? The passageways even lead here. Why would my great-grandfather care if servants were seen in the nursery?’
‘I wonder why he built the whole thing,’ Ross said.
She grinned. ‘It made for wonderful games of hide and seek.’
He could picture it in his mind’s eye. The neglected children running through the secret parts of the house as if the passages had been created for their amusement.
‘It even leads to the attic!’ They came upon some stairs and she climbed to the top, opening a door into a huge room filled with boxes, chests and old furniture. Their little lamp illuminated only a small part of it.
Ross’s shoe kicked something. He leaned down and picked up what looked like a large bound book.
‘What is that?’ she asked, turning to see.
He handed it to her and she opened it.
‘Oh! It is my sketchbook.’ Heedless of the dust, she sat cross-legged on the floor and placed the lamp nearby. She leafed through the pages. ‘Oh, my goodness. I thought this was gone for ever!’
‘What is it doing up here?’ he asked.
‘I hid it for safekeeping and then I could not remember where it was.’ She closed it and hugged it to her. ‘I cannot believe you found it!’
‘Tripped over it, you mean.’ He made light of it, but her voice had cracked with emotion.
When had he ever met a woman who wore her emotions so plainly on her sleeve? And yet...there was more she kept hidden. From everyone, he suspected. With luck the Christmas season would afford him the opportunity to see more of her.
She opened the book again and turned the pages. Illuminated by the lamp, her face glowed, looking even lovelier than she’d appeared before. Her hair glittered like threads of gold and her blue eyes were like sapphires, shadowed by long lashes. What might it be like to comb his fingers through those golden locks and to have her eyes darken with desire?
He stepped back.
For all the scandal in her family she was still a respectable young woman. A dalliance with her would only dishonour her and neither she nor he wished for something more honourable—like marriage.
The time was nearing when he would be forced to pick among the daughters of the ton for a wife worthy of becoming a duchess. Not yet, though. Not yet.
She looked up at him. ‘What should I do with it?’
‘Take it, if you wish. It is yours.’
Her brow creased. ‘Would Lord Penford mind, do you think? He might not like knowing I was poking through the attic.’
He shrugged. ‘I cannot think he would care.’
She stood and, clutching her sketchbook in one hand, brushed off her skirt with the other. ‘We were not supposed to take anything but personal items.’
He pointed to the book. ‘This is a personal item.’
She stroked it. ‘I suppose.’
He crouched down to pick up the lamp. ‘In any event, we should probably make our way back to the drawing room.’
She nodded.
He helped her through the door and down the stairs. She led him through the secret corridor down more stairs to the main floor where they heard their names called.
‘Genna! Where are you?’ her sister cried.
‘Ross! We need you!’ Dell’s voice followed.
Genna giggled. ‘They must think we have disappeared into thin air.’
‘Does your sister not know of the secret passageway?’
‘She knows of it, but we really stopped using it years ago.’ She paused. ‘At least Lorene and Tess did.’ She seized his hand. ‘Come. We’ll walk out somewhere where we will not be seen emerging from the secret passageway.’
They entered another hallway, and Ross had no idea where they were.
‘This is the laundry wing.’ She led him to a door that opened on to the stairway hall, but before stepping into the hall, she placed her sketchbook just inside the secret passage.
‘Genna!’ her sister called again, her voice coming from the floor above.
‘We are here!’ Genna replied, closing the door which looked nearly invisible from this side. ‘At the bottom of the stairs.’
Her sister hurried down the stairs, Dell at her heels. ‘Where have you been? We have been searching for you this half-hour!’
Genna sounded all innocence. ‘I was showing Lord Rossdale the house. We just finished touring the laundry wing.’
‘The laundry wing!’ Lady Tinmore cried. ‘What nostalgia did you have for the laundry wing?’
‘None at all,’ Genna retorted. ‘I merely thought it would interest Lord Rossdale.’
‘I assure you, it did interest me,’ Ross replied as smoothly as his companion. ‘I am always interested in how other houses are run.’
Dell tossed him a puzzled look and Ross shook his head to warn his friend not to ask what the devil he was about.
‘Never mind.’ Genna’s sister swiped the air impatiently. ‘The weather has turned dreadful. Jeffers has called for the carriage. We must leave immediately.’
Genna sobered and nodded her head. ‘Of course.’
Jeffers appeared with their cloaks and Ross hurriedly helped Genna into hers. As they rushed to the front door and opened it, a footman, his shoulders and hat covered with snow, was climbing the stairs.
‘The coachman says he cannot risk the trip,’ the footman said, his breath making clouds at his mouth. ‘The weather prevents it.’
They looked out, but there was nothing to see but white.
‘Oh, no!’ Lady Tinmore cried.
Genna put her hands on her sister’s shoulders and steered her back inside. ‘Do not worry, Lorene. This could not have been helped.’
‘We should have left earlier,’ she cried.
‘And you would have been caught on the road in this,’ Dell said. ‘And perhaps stranded all night. We will make you comfortable here. I will send a messenger to Lord Tinmore as soon as it is safe to do so.’
‘We will have to spend the night?’ Lorene asked.
‘It cannot be helped,’ Genna said to her. ‘We will have to spend the night.’
Chapter Four (#u4effa6c4-5cae-55ce-a353-1c7099a2e2a9)
The lovely evening was over.
Although Lord Penford had tea brought into the drawing room, Lorene’s nerves and Penford’s coolness spoiled Genna’s mood. Lorene was worried, obviously, about what Lord Tinmore would say when they finally returned and who knew why Penford acted so distantly to them? Why had he invited them if he did not want their company? Had he done so out of some sense of obligation? Even so, it was Lord Tinmore who’d compelled them to accept the invitation and she and Lorene certainly had not caused it to snow.
Not that it mattered. If Tinmore wished to ring a peal over their heads, reason would not stop him.
All the enjoyment had gone out of the evening, though.
Lord Penford poured brandy for himself and Rossdale and sat sullenly sipping from his glass while Rossdale and Genna made an effort to keep up conversation. With no warning Penford stood and announced he was retiring for the night. Rossdale was kind enough to keep Genna and Lorene company until the housekeeper announced that their bedchambers were ready. At that point they also felt they must say goodnight.
The housekeeper led them upstairs. ‘We thought you might like to spend the night in your old rooms, so those are what we prepared for you.’
‘Thank you,’ Lorene said.
Genna gave the woman whom she’d known her whole life a hug. ‘Yes, thank you. You are too good to us.’
The older woman hugged her back. ‘We’ve found clean nightclothes for you, as well. Nellie and Anna will help you.’ Nellie and Anna had served as their ladies’ maids before they’d moved.
They bade the housekeeper goodnight and Genna entered her bedchamber for the second time that night. At least now there was a fire in the grill and a smiling old friend waiting for her.
‘How nice it is that you can stay the night,’ Anna said. ‘In your old room. Like old times.’
‘It is grand!’ Genna responded.
Anna helped her out of her dress and into a nightgown.
‘Come sit and I’ll comb out your hair,’ Anna said.
Genna sat at her old familiar dressing table and gazed in her old familiar mirror. ‘Tell me,’ she said after a time. ‘What are the servants saying about Lord Penford?’
Anna untied the ribbon in her hair. ‘We are grateful to him. He kept most of us on and we did not expect that. He does seem angry when he learns of some new repair to the house, but his anger is never directed at the servants.’
‘He must be angry at my father, then,’ Genna said. Did his anger extend to the daughters, too? That might explain why he was so unfriendly.
‘I suppose you are right.’ She pulled out Genna’s hairpins and started combing out the tangles. ‘He paid us our back wages, you know.’
Genna glanced at her in the mirror. ‘Did he? How good of him.’
Paying their back wages was certainly something Lord Penford could have avoided if he’d chosen to. What could the servants do if he’d refused to pay them?
Anna gave her a sly grin. ‘Why are you not asking about Lord Rossdale?’
Genna felt her cheeks grow hot. Why would that happen? ‘Lord Rossdale? Whatever for?’
She stopped combing. ‘Is he sweet on you? We were wondering.’
‘He’s not sweet on me!’ Genna protested. ‘Goodness. He’s far beyond my touch. Besides, you know that I’m not full of romantic notions like Lorene and Tess. He knew I wanted to see the house so he asked for a tour.’
‘So he said in the kitchen.’ Anna resumed combing. ‘I am still saying he’s sweet on you.’
Genna stilled her hand and met Anna’s gaze in the mirror. ‘Please do not say so. At least not to anyone else. I admit Lord Rossdale and I do seem to enjoy each other’s company, but it is nothing more than that and I do not want any rumours to start. It would not be fair when he has merely been kind to me.’
Anna shrugged. ‘If you say so.’
As soon as Anna left, Genna started missing her. She missed all these dear people. Now she would have to get used to not seeing them all over again. It was so very depressing.
She stared at the bed, not sleepy one bit. All she’d do was toss and turn and remember when her room looked like her room. She spun around and strode to the door.
Like she’d done so many times when she was younger, she crossed the hallway to Lorene’s room and knocked on her door.
‘Come in,’ Lorene said.
Genna opened the door. ‘I came to see how you are faring. You were so upset about the weather and our having to spend the night.’ How the tables had turned. Genna used to run to Lorene for comfort, now it was the other way around.
Lorene lowered herself into a chair. ‘I confess I am distressed. What will he think?’ She did not need to explain who he was. ‘Knowing we are spending the night with two unmarried gentlemen without any sort of chaperon.’
Genna sat on the floor at her feet and took Lorene’s wringing hands in hers. ‘We are home. Among our own servants. And Lord Penford and Lord Rossdale are gentlemen. There is nothing to worry over.’
Lorene gave her a pained look.
Genna felt a knot of anger inside. ‘Will Tinmore...give you a tongue lashing over this?’ Or worse, he might couch his cruelty in oh-so-reasonable words.
Lorene leaned forward and squeezed Genna’s fingers. ‘Do not worry over that! Good heavens, he is so good to us.’
Only when it suited him, though. He liked to be in charge of them.
Well, he might be in charge of Lorene, but Genna refused to give him power over her—even if she reaped the advantages of his money. She could not escape admitting that.
She smiled at Lorene. ‘Let us enjoy our time back in our old rooms, then. Back home. Does it not feel lovely to be here?’
Lorene pulled her hands away and swept a lock of hair away from her face. ‘I cannot enjoy it as you do, now that it is no longer our home.’
Genna secretly agreed. She did not enjoy seeing the rooms empty of any signs of her sisters or brother or herself, but she’d never admit it to Lorene. The best part of the house tour had been showing Rossdale the secret passages; the rest merely made her sad, just as Lorene had anticipated.
Genna stood. ‘I love being back. I’m glad we can stay. I’ll sleep in my old bed. I’ll wake to sun shining in my windows. Cook will make us our breakfast again. It will be delightful.’
Lorene rose, too, and walked to the window. ‘We had better hope the sun shines tomorrow.’ She peeked out. ‘It is still snowing.’
Genna gazed out on to the familiar grounds, all white now. ‘We must not worry about tomorrow until it comes.’ She turned to Lorene. ‘How did you and Lord Penford fare while we toured the house?’
Lorene averted her face. ‘I played the pianoforte.’
‘We heard,’ Genna said. ‘You learned to play on that piano. How nice you were able to play on it again.’
‘Yes,’ Lorene replied unconvincingly. ‘Nice.’
Cheering up Lorene was not working at all. It was merely making Genna feel wretched. ‘Well, I believe I will go back to my room and snuggle up in my old bed. You’ve no idea how I’ve yearned to do so.’
Even if she feared she’d merely toss and turn.
She bussed her sister on the cheek and walked back to the room where she’d slept for years, ever since she’d left the nursery.
But once in the room, she found it intolerable. She paced for a few minutes, trying to decide what to do. Finally she made up her mind. She picked up a candle from the table next to her bed and carried it to the hidden door. She opened the door and entered the passageway.
She made her way downstairs and to the space where she’d left her sketchbook. As she picked it up and turned to go back to her room, the light from another candle approached. Her heart pounded.
‘Miss Summerfield.’ It was Lord Rossdale.
He came closer and smiled. ‘I came to pick up your sketchbook. I see you had the same notion. I am glad you decided to keep it.’
She clutched it to her chest. ‘I have not decided to keep it. I just wished to look at it in my room. I cannot take it back with me. It is too big to conceal and I do not wish to cause any problems.’
‘I am certain Dell would wish you to have it,’ he said.
She could not believe that. Even so, Lorene would probably worry about her taking it out of the house. ‘I do not wish to ask him or to have my sister know. She would not like him bothered.’ Genna was certain Lorene would not wish her to ask anything of Lord Penford.
Rossdale did not move, though, and the corridor was too narrow for Genna to get past him.
‘Enjoy the book tonight, then,’ he said finally. ‘Come, I’ll walk you back to your room.’
She laughed softly. ‘More like you want me to show you the way so you do not become lost.’
He grinned. ‘I am found out.’
He flattened himself against the wall so she could get by, but she still brushed against him and her senses heightened when they touched.
How strange it was to react so to such a touch. She did not understand it at all.
And she dared not think about it too much.
* * *
The next morning did indeed begin with the sun pouring in Genna’s bedroom window. For a moment it seemed as if the last year had never happened. That was, until her gaze scanned the room.
Still, she refused to succumb to the blue devils. Instead she bounded from the bed and went to the window. Her beloved garden was still covered in snow, not only sparkling white, but also showing shades of blue and lavender in the shadows. The sky was an intense cerulean, as if it had been scrubbed clean of clouds during the night, leaving only an intense blue.
Genna opened the window and leaned out, gulping in the fresh, chilled air, relishing the breeze through her hair, billowing under her nightdress to tingle her skin.
‘It is a lovely day!’ she cried.
On a rise behind the house, a man riding a horse appeared. A grey horse and a grey-coated man.
Lord Rossdale.
He took off his hat and waved to her.
Imagine that he should see her doing such a silly thing. In her nightdress, no less! Perhaps he had heard her nonsense, as well.
She laughed and waved back before drawing back inside and shutting the window. She sat at her small table and turned the pages of her old sketchbook, remembering when life was more pleasant here.
Unfortunately, some of her drawings also reminded her of unhappy times. Hearing her father bellow about how much his daughters cost him, or rail against her mother who’d deserted them when Genna was small. Then there were the times when he’d consumed too many bottles from the wine cellar and she’d hidden from him. Her drawings during those times were sombre, rendered in charcoal and pencil, all shadowy and fearful.
Most of the pages, though, were filled with watercolours. Playful scenes that included her sisters and brother. Sunny skies, green grasses, flowers in all colours of the rainbow.
Her technique had been hopelessly childish, but, even so, her emotions had found their way on to the paper. The charcoal ones, obviously sad. The watercolours, happy and carefree.
A soft knock sounded at the door. Before Genna could respond, Anna opened the door and poked her head in.
She paused in surprise. ‘Good morning, miss. I thought you would still be sleeping.’
Genna smiled. ‘The sun woke me.’ She closed the sketchbook and gestured to the window. ‘Is it not a beautiful day?’
‘It is, indeed, miss.’ Anna entered the room and placed a fresh towel by the pitcher and basin Genna had used since a child. ‘Mr Jeffers sent one of the stable boys with a message to Tinmore Hall.’
‘That should relieve Lorene’s mind.’ Genna swung back to the window. ‘How I would like it if I had my half-boots with me. I would love to be outside.’ Even if she had her watercolours and brushes with her, she could paint the scene below and include all the colours she found in the white snow. That would bring equal pleasure.
She gazed out of the window again, wishing she were galloping across the snow-filled fields. On a grey horse, perhaps. Held by a grey-coated gentleman.
She turned away with a sigh. ‘I suppose I might as well wash up. Then you can help me dress.’
Anna also arranged her hair in a simple knot atop her head.
When she was done, Genna stood. ‘I might see if Lorene is awake yet.’ She turned to Anna and filled with emotion again. ‘I do not know when I will see you again.’ She hugged Anna. ‘I shall miss you!’
Anna had tears in her eyes when Genna released her. ‘I shall miss you, too, miss. We all miss you.’
Genna swallowed tears of her own. ‘I will contrive to visit if I can.’
She left the room, knowing she was unlikely to see it again, ever, and knocked on Lorene’s door.
Lorene was alone in the room seated in one of the chairs. Doing nothing but thinking, Genna supposed.
‘How did you sleep?’ Genna asked.
‘Quite well,’ Lorene responded. Of course, Lorene would respond that way no matter what.
‘Anna told me a messenger was sent to Tinmore Hall,’ Genna assured her.
Lorene merely nodded.
Genna wanted to shake her, shake some reaction, some emotion from her, something besides worry over what Lord Tinmore would think, say, or do. She wanted her sister the way she used to be.
‘Shall we go down to breakfast?’ Genna asked.
Lorene rose from her chair. ‘If you like.’
They made their way to the green drawing room where breakfast was to be served. Lord Penford sat at the table, reading a newspaper. He looked startled at their entrance and hastily stood.
‘Good morning,’ he said stiffly. ‘I did not expect you awake so early.’
‘We are anxious to return to Tinmore Hall,’ Lorene said.
‘Yes,’ Penford said. ‘I imagine you are.’
‘I am not so eager to return,’ Genna corrected. ‘I have enjoyed my visit to our old home immensely.’ She looked over the sideboard where the food was displayed. ‘Oh, look, Lorene. Cook has made porridge! It has been ages and ages since I’ve tasted Cook’s porridge!
Becker, one of the footmen, attended the sideboard. Lorene made her selections, including porridge, and was seated next to Lord Penford at the small round breakfast table.
Becker waited upon Genna next, placing a ladle of oatmeal into a bowl for her. She added some cheeses, bread and jam.
‘Thank you, Becker.’ She smiled at him as he carried her plate to the table and seated her opposite her sister.
Penford sat as well although he did not look at either of them. ‘I trust you slept well.’
Lorene hesitated for a moment before answering, ‘Very well, sir.’
‘Fabulously well!’ added Genna. ‘Like being at home.’
Lorene shot her a disapproving look, before turning to Penford. ‘It was a kindness to put us in our old rooms.’
He glanced down at his newspaper. ‘The housekeeper’s decision, I am sure.’
Goodness! Could he be more sullen? ‘I hope you did not disapprove.’
He shot her a surprised look. ‘Why would I disapprove?’
She merely answered with a smile.
Why had he invited them if he seemed to take no pleasure in the visit? Unless his main purpose was to curry favour with Tinmore. If so, Genna was glad Tinmore had not accompanied them. Well, she was glad Tinmore had not accompanied them, no matter what Penford thought. Perhaps if Penford had been a more generous man, he might have left his cousins in the house to manage it in his absence. He might have come to their rescue instead of tossing them out of the only home they’d ever known and forcing Lorene to make that horrible marriage.
Lorene broke in. ‘The porridge is lovely. Just as I remembered it.’
Penford’s voice deepened. ‘I am glad it pleases you.’ He put down his paper and darted Lorene a glance. ‘I sent a man to Tinmore Hall early this morning. The roads are passable. You may order your coach at any time.’
He was in a hurry to be rid of them, no doubt.
‘Might we have the carriage in an hour?’ Lorene asked this so tentatively one would think she was asking for the moon instead of what Penford was eager to provide.
‘Certainly.’ Penford nodded towards Becker, who bowed in reply and left the room to accomplish the task.
Genna sighed and dipped her spoon into the porridge. She’d hoped to see Lord Rossdale one more time, but likely he was still galloping over the fields.
The rest of the breakfast transpired in near silence, except for the rattle of Lord Penford’s newspaper and the bits of conversation exchanged between Genna and Lorene. Genna used the time to think about the house. Her time away had seemed to erase it as her home. Leave the place to the dour Lord Penford. Her life here was gone for ever. More of its memories had been captured in her sketchbook, but she had no confidence that it would ever return to her possession. Likely she would not even see Rossdale again.
* * *
When it came time for them to leave, the servants gathered in the hall to bid them goodbye, just as they had done when Genna and her sisters first removed to Tinmore Hall. This time the tears did not fall freely, although many bid them farewell with a damp eye. Lorene shook their hands. Genna hugged each of them. Lord Penford stood to the side and Genna wondered if he felt impatient for them to depart.
When the coach pulled up to the front, Penford walked outside with them, without greatcoat, hat, or gloves. One of the coachmen helped Genna climb into the coach.
Lord Penford took Lorene’s hand to assist her.
Lorene turned to him, but lowered her lashes. ‘Thank you, sir, for inviting us and for putting us up for the night.’ She lifted her eyes to him.
For a moment Penford seemed to hold her in place. He finally spoke. ‘My pleasure.’ He’d never seemed to experience pleasure from their visit. ‘I shall remember your music.’
Lorene pulled away and climbed into the coach.
‘Safe journey,’ Penford said through the window.
As the coachman was mounting his seat, a horse’s hooves sounded near. A beautiful silver-grey steed appeared beside the coach.
Rossdale leaned down from his saddle to look inside the coach. ‘You are leaving already!’
Genna leaned out the window. ‘We must get back.’
‘Forgive me for not being here to say a proper goodbye.’ His horse danced restlessly beside them.
Genna spoke in a false tone. ‘I do not believe I shall forgive you.’ She smiled. ‘But thank you for allowing me to give you a tour of the house. It was most kind.’
He grinned. ‘It certainly was more than I ever thought it would be.’
The coach started to move.
‘Goodbye!’ Genna sat back, but turned to look out the back window as the coach pulled away.
Rossdale dismounted from his horse and stood with Penford watching the coach leave.
They watched until the coach travelled out of their sight.
Chapter Five (#u4effa6c4-5cae-55ce-a353-1c7099a2e2a9)
Lorene fretted on the road back to Tinmore Hall. ‘I wish we had not gone. He will have been frantic with worry when we did not return last night.’
Did she fear the effect of Tinmore’s worry on his health or that he would blame her for their absence?
‘He wanted us to go,’ Genna reminded her. ‘He ordered us to go.’
Lorene curled up in the corner of the carriage, making herself even smaller. ‘Still, we should not have gone.’
Genna tried to change the subject. ‘What did you think of our cousin, then? Lord Penford. Did you know he just inherited the title this summer?’
Lorene did not answer right away. ‘I did not know that,’ she finally said. ‘Perhaps that was why he was so sad.’
‘Sad?’ Genna had not considered that. Perhaps he had not been disagreeable and rude. Perhaps he’d still been grieving. His father would have died only a few months before. She felt a pang of guilt.
‘He’s taking care of the house,’ Genna said, trying to make amends, at least in her own mind. ‘Anna said he paid the servants their back wages.’
‘Did he?’ Lorene glanced back at her. ‘How very kind of him.’
Genna might have continued the conversation by asking what Lorene thought of Rossdale, but she didn’t. She felt Lorene really wished to be quiet. Instead Genna recounted their tour of the house, intending to fix in her memory the details of each room they’d visited. More vivid, though, were Rossdale’s reactions to those details. She’d enjoyed showing him the rooms more than she’d enjoyed visiting them.
Their carriage crossed over the bridge and the cupolas of Tinmore Hall came into view. The snow-covered lawn only set off the house more, its yellow stone gleaming gold in the morning sun. Genna’s spirits sank.
She hated the huge mausoleum. The house hadn’t seen a change in over fifty years. At least her mother had kept Summerfield House filled with the latest fashion in furnishings—at least until she ran off with her lover.
The carriage passed through the wrought-iron gate and drove up to the main entrance. Two footmen emerged from the house, ready to attend them. Moments later they were in the great hall, its mahogany wainscoting such a contrast to the light, airy plasterwork of Summerfield House.
Dixon, the butler, greeted Lorene. ‘It is good you are back, m’lady.’
‘How is Lord Tinmore?’ she asked.
‘His fever is worse, I fear, m’lady,’ he responded. ‘He spent a fitful night.’
Oh, dear. This would only increase Lorene’s guilt.
‘Did the doctor see him yesterday?’ Lorene handed one of the footmen her cloak and gloves.
Dixon nodded. ‘The doctor spent the night, caught in the storm as you were. He is here now.’
The doctor’s presence should give Lorene some comfort.
‘I must go to him.’ Lorene started for the stairway. ‘I ought to have been at his side last night.’
‘He would not have known it if you were,’ Dixon said.
Lorene halted and turned her head. ‘He was that ill?’
‘Insensible with fever, Wicky told us.’
‘That is good, Lorene,’ Genna broke in. ‘He cannot be angry at you if he does not know you were gone.’
Lorene swung around. ‘It is not good!’ she snapped. ‘He is ill.’
Genna felt her face grow hot. ‘I am so sorry. It was a thoughtless thing to say.’
‘And very unkind,’ Lorene added.
‘Yes,’ Genna admitted, filled with shame. ‘Very unkind. I am so sorry.’
Lorene turned her back on Genna and ran up the stairs.
Why could she not still her tongue at moments like these? She must admit she cared more about Lorene’s welfare than Tinmore’s health, but she did not precisely wish him to be seriously ill, did she?
She took a breath and glanced at Dixon. ‘Is Lord Tinmore so very ill?’
His expression was disapproving. ‘I gather so from Wicky’s report.’
Genna deserved his disdain. By day’s end the other servants would hear of her uncharitable comment and would call her an ungrateful wretch.
Which she was.
* * *
Over the next three days Genna hardly saw Lorene, who devoted all of her time to her husband’s care. Genna would have happily assisted in some way—for Lorene’s sake, not Tinmore’s—but no one required anything of her and anything she offered was refused. She kept to her room, mostly, and amused herself by drawing galloping horses with tall, long-coated riders. She could never quite capture that sense of fluid movement she’d seen that day when she’d gone to make a painting of Summerfield House.
She had just finished another attempt and was contemplating ripping it up when there was a knock at her door. Her maid, probably. ‘Come in,’ she called, placing the drawing face down on her table.
‘Genna—’ It was Lorene.
Genna turned and rose from her chair. ‘How is—?’ she began.
Lorene did not let her finish. ‘He is better. The fever broke during the night and now he is resting more comfortably.’
‘I am glad for you,’ Genna said.
Lorene waved her words away.
Genna walked over to her. ‘You look as if you need rest, too. Might you not lie down now?’
Lorene nodded. ‘I believe I will. I just wanted you to know.’
‘Thank you.’ Genna felt careful, as if talking to a stranger. ‘I am glad to know it.’
Lorene turned to leave, but a footman appeared in the corridor.
‘My lady, two gentlemen have called to enquire after his lordship’s health,’ he said. ‘Lord Rossdale and Lord Penford.’
Genna’s heart fluttered. She would be excited for any company, would she not? Of course, they had not come to call upon her.
Lorene put a hand to her hair. ‘Oh, dear. I am not presentable.’ She turned to Genna. ‘Would you entertain them until I can make myself fit for company?’
‘Certainly. Anything to help.’ Genna turned to the footman. ‘Where are they?’ There were so very many rooms in this house where visitors might be received.
‘I put them in the Mount Olympus room,’ he replied.
The room with the ceiling and walls covered with scenes from mythology, cavorting, nearly naked gods, all painted over a century before.
‘Very good,’ Lorene told him. ‘Have Cook prepare some tea and biscuits.’
‘Tea?’ Genna said. ‘Offer them wine. Claret or sherry or something.’
Lorene pursed her lips. ‘Very well. Some wine, then, as well as tea and biscuits.’
The footman bowed and rushed off.
Lorene glanced at Genna.
‘I can go down directly.’ Genna took off the apron she wore to cover her dress and hurried to wash the charcoal off her fingers. She dried her hands. ‘I’m off!’
* * *
Ross craned his neck and stared in wonder at the ceiling. It looked as if the mighty Zeus and all the lesser gods surrounding him might tumble down on to his head.
‘This is quite a room,’ he remarked. ‘I am reminded of our Grand Tour—the palaces of Rome and Venice. Remember the murals? On every ceiling it seemed.’
‘A man cannot think. The room fills the mind too much,’ Dell responded.
Ross grinned. ‘We did not do much thinking in those days, did we?’
Dell nodded, his face still grim. ‘None at all, I recall.’
Ross perused the ceiling and walls again. ‘In those days we would have been riveted by the naked ladies.’ He stopped in front of one such figure, a goddess who appeared as if she would step out from the wall and join them.
Dell paced. ‘Remind me again why we were compelled to come here?’
Ross had already explained. ‘You wanted to become acquainted with Lord Tinmore, so calling to enquire after his health is only polite, especially after his illness kept him away from your dinner.’
The door opened and both men turned. Ross smiled. It was Genna, the one person he’d hoped to see when he concocted this scheme to call at Tinmore Hall.
Genna strode over to them. ‘Rossdale. Penford. How good of you to call. My sister will be here in a few minutes. She has ordered refreshment for you, as well.’
Dell frowned. ‘Lord Tinmore is still ill, then?’
‘Lorene can better answer your questions.’ She gave Dell a cordial smile. ‘But, yes, Tinmore remains unwell.’
She gestured to the gilt stools cushioned in green damask that lined the walls of the room. ‘Do sit.’
The room was in sore need of a rearrangement of furniture more conducive to conversation, Ross thought. A style more in tune with the present.
‘Tell me, how is the weather?’ Genna asked politely. ‘I see our snow still covers the fields. Was it not terribly cold to ride this distance?’
‘Not so terribly cold.’ Ross kept his expression bland. ‘I suspect some people would consider walking this far even when it is cold outside.’ He darted a glance her way and saw she understood his joke.
‘We felt it our duty to enquire into Lord Tinmore’s health,’ Dell said solemnly.
‘How very good of you,’ she responded, her voice kind.
Ross gave her an approving look.
‘How were the roads?’ she asked.
Dell shrugged. ‘Slippery in places, but the horses kept their footing.’
‘I think they relished the exercise,’ Rossdale added. He’d relished it, as well.
She looked at a loss for what else to say. He fished around to find a topic and rescue her from having to make conversation.
She beat him to it. ‘Tell me, do you plan to stay at Summerfield House for Christmastide?’
‘At present that is our plan,’ Dell responded.
Genna looked surprised. ‘Do you not travel to visit your families?’
Dell averted his gaze and Rossdale answered. ‘We decided to avoid all that.’
He hoped his tone warned her not to ask more about that. Dell’s grief at the loss of his entire family was still raw. It was why Ross had elected to pass up a Christmas visit to his father at Kessington Hall. So he could be with his friend at such a time.
That and because he preferred his friend’s company to the politically advantageous guests his father always invited.
‘What are your plans?’ Ross asked her.
She sighed. ‘Lord Tinmore plans a house party. Several of his friends will come to stay.’ She did not seem to look forward to this. ‘Guests should arrive next week.’
‘No, they will not.’ Her sister entered the room. Genna and the gentlemen stood. ‘How do you do, sirs? It is kind of you to call.’
Dell’s voice turned raspy. ‘How—how fares Lord Tinmore?’
Lady Tinmore glanced up at him, then gazed away. ‘He is better. The fever broke, but he remains too weak to receive callers.’
‘We do understand,’ Dell said stiffly. ‘Please send our best wishes for his recovery.’
Lady Tinmore darted another glance at him. ‘I will. Thank you, sir.’
Dell seemed uncomfortable around these sisters. Not ready for even this relatively benign social call?
Genna turned to her sister. ‘What did you mean the guests will not arrive next week?’
Her sister replied, ‘Tinmore has asked that the house party be cancelled. His secretary is to write to the guests today.’
The refreshments arrived. Ross and Dell accepted glasses of wine and offers of biscuits.
Ross stepped away while Lady Tinmore poured for Dell. To his delight, Genna joined him.
He wanted a chance to speak to her. ‘Are you disappointed about the house party?’ he asked.
She laughed. ‘Not at all. I do not rub well with Lord Tinmore’s friends.’
Her sister heard her and snapped, ‘It is cancelled because Lord Tinmore needs the time to recover. He has been very sick, Genna.’
‘I know that, Lorene,’ Genna said softly.
Ross felt for her. No one liked being reprimanded in front of others.
He took a sip of his wine. ‘Tell me about this room, Lady Tinmore. It is quite unusual.’
‘It is called the Mount Olympus room,’ Lady Tinmore responded, sounding glad to change the subject. ‘Depicting the Greek gods. My husband said it was painted over one hundred years ago by the Italian muralist, Verrio. He painted a similar scene even more elaborate at Burghley House. And one at Chatsworth, as well. My husband prefers this one, though.’
Ross noticed Genna gazing at the walls and ceiling as if seeing them for the first time.
‘It is hard to imagine one even more elaborate,’ he said diplomatically. ‘Although it does remind me of rooms we saw in Rome and Florence and Venice.’
‘You’ve visited Rome and Florence and Venice?’ Genna’s eyes grew wide.
‘We did indeed,’ Ross replied. ‘On our Grand Tour. You would have appreciated the fine art there.’
‘Lord Tinmore’s grandfather and great-grandfather collected many fine pieces of Italian art. They are hung in almost every room of this house,’ Lady Tinmore said almost dutifully.
‘They are?’ Genna looked surprised.
Dell drained the contents of his wineglass and placed it on the table. ‘We must take our leave.’ He spoke to Lady Tinmore, but did not quite meet her eye. ‘I do hope Lord Tinmore continues to improve.’
‘Thank you,’ she murmured.
Ross bowed to her. ‘It was a pleasure seeing you again, ma’am.’ He turned to Genna. ‘And you, Miss Summerfield. I hope we meet again.’
‘Yes.’ Genna smiled. ‘I would enjoy that.’
Perhaps he could convince Dell to call upon Lord Tinmore again. Or he could call upon the gentleman himself, although he had less reason to do so and no interest in meeting the man. He merely wanted to see Genna again.
And he still must devise a way to deliver her sketchbook to her as he had promised.
Before Ross could say another word, Dell strode out of the room as if in a hurry. Ross was compelled to follow, although he did so at a more appropriate pace.
He also turned back to the ladies when he reached the door. ‘Good day, ma’am. Miss Summerfield.’
When he caught up to Dell in the hall, Dell had already sent the footman for their greatcoats, hats and gloves.
‘What the devil was the rush?’ Ross asked him.
‘We were intruding.’ Dell did not meet his eye. ‘Tinmore is still ill. Sick enough for him to cancel his house party. The last thing Lady Tinmore needs are callers.’
‘She did not seem to mind,’ Ross insisted.
The footman brought their coats and assisted in putting them on. ‘Your horses are being brought from the stable.’
They waited in uncomfortable silence until the horses were outside the door.
* * *
They were on the main road from the estate before Ross spoke. ‘What is amiss, Dell?’
‘Amiss?’ he shot back. ‘I told you. We were intruding. I should not have allowed you to talk me into this visit.’
Ross spoke in a milder tone. ‘I did not see any indication that we were not welcome. Lady Tinmore seemed very gracious. I think she appreciated our concern for her husband.’
‘She was gracious,’ Dell admitted, sounding calmer. ‘She was—’ He cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps we might call again. In a week or so, when we are certain of Tinmore’s recovery.’
* * *
Genna and Lorene waited at the window until they saw Rossdale and Penford ride away.
Lorene then turned to tidy up the wineglasses and plate of biscuits, putting them back on the tray, something for which her husband would chastise her if he knew of it.
Acting like a servant, he would say.
Genna liked those old habits of Lorene’s—her tendency to take care of things and save others the trouble.
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- Жанр: Исторические любовные романы, Современная зарубежная литература
- Язык: Книги на английском языке
- Объём: 280 стр. 4 иллюстрации
- ISBN: 9781474042734
- Дата выхода книги: 18 мая 2019
- Версия: 📚 Электронная книга
A most shocking betrothal!The pleasure-seeking Marquess of Rossdale has little interest in his birthright and even less in finding a bride. So he comes up with the perfect plan to survive the Season unscathed – a fake engagement to a most unsuitable girl!Outspoken Genna, the youngest of the scandalous Summerfields, has no wish to marry either. So agreeing to be Ross’s temporary fiancée will grant her freedom for a little longer. But with every kiss, both Ross and Genna must face up to what they really desire…a true match!The Scandalous SummerfieldsDisgrace is their middle name!
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