Julianne MacLean (9 page)

She nodded. “All right.”

“And it would be best for everyone,” he continued, “if both you and I never spoke of this to each other again, not even privately. Especially privately. Such a rapport between us would not only be inappropriate, it would be…” He paused. “It would be dangerous. I’m a dangerous man, Adele. You think you’re safe with me,
but you’re not. I’m not like Harold. He should not have sent me.”

She stared at him, speechless. “No, he was right to send you. I’m alive, aren’t I? And we’re almost home.”

He walked to the door, shaking his head. “I’ll return to my room first, then arrange for breakfast to be sent up to you. I’ll see you downstairs in an hour.” He paused in the doorway. “I’ll deliver you to your mother today, then you’ll be reunited with Harold a few hours later. I’ll never mention any of this again, Adele. You have my word. We’ll forget it ever happened.”

He walked out and closed the door behind him.

T
he Osulton coach, with an impressive liveried driver at the reins, rolled swiftly and smoothly across the lush, green English countryside behind a thunderous team of galloping grays.

Inside, Adele sat quietly with her mother, Beatrice, her sister Clara, and baby Anne, while a second coach was coming later with their maids, their luggage, and Anne’s nurse.

Adele had met her mother two hours ago at a village inn. As soon as Damien had dropped Adele off in the reception room and had been assured that her mother was indeed in the building, he had taken his leave without waiting to be introduced, and had ridden off in another direction.

Adele had been glad to see him go, very glad and very relieved. Yet at the same time, she had been mystified by the frustrating well of misery that curled like a snake around her gladness and relief.

She should
not
be mourning their parting, she told herself for the umpteenth time as the coach passed through the village just north of Osulton Manor. She was promised to
Harold
, and besides, Damien was not the kind of man she would ever want to marry. Yes, he had been her hero during their journey together, but in real life, he was in love with his mistress and was known to be irresponsible. She had to keep her head on straight about what had happened between them, and accept what he said as true: it had been a temporary madness.

So she anticipated her approach to the manor with the sensible hope that she was at last returning to the real world and the familiarity of her life. The adventure, thank heavens, was over.

Upon peering out the window, however, she discovered most disagreeably that one’s expectations could often be lost in the wind. As the carriage passed through the massive stone gateway—which, emblazoned with a dramatic coat of arms, resembled the Arch of Constantine in Rome—she recalled telling Clara that she did not crave adventure. She only wanted to marry the man who had proposed to her, and move forward through life as she had intended.

Now she was facing another astonishment. This place—this massive country estate—was
nothing like what she had expected or imagined. She had thought she would be living in an ivy-covered cottage in the English countryside, in the Tudor style perhaps, because Harold, as it were, had described his home as an “old and quaint country house.”

Quaint? Perhaps Harold needed a new dictionary.

Osulton Manor was no quaint country house. It was a great, white palace, baroque in style, with large flanking octagonal turrets and a spectacular center skyline of smaller cupolas and domes. It stood on top of a high hill, surrounded by wrought iron fences and ancient English oaks that watched over the property like great lords themselves.

It was a palace fit for kings and queens, and Adele would be mistress of it all. She felt an unexpected tightening in her chest, as if this entire continent were pressing down upon her. A strict manner of behavior beyond her years and experience would be expected of her. How in the world would she learn all that she needed to learn to run a household on a scale such as this?

She pulled her gaze from the window and stared blankly down at the floor of the coach. Harold had not prepared her for this. He had made it sound like nothing. “You’re very charming,” he had said. “And that’s all it takes, really.”

She sincerely doubted it.

Then there was the matter of her virginity. She had not forgotten about that. Every so of
ten, the fear hit her like a snowball in the face. She hoped it would not be an issue.

They crossed a bridge over a rectangular pond that reflected the house and trees, then rolled to a stop in front of a central rotunda, which served as the formal entrance. Adele noticed the large glass structure around the side of the house, and surmised it was a conservatory. She imagined what it would look like inside. It would be filled with green leafy plants and flowers. She felt her spirits lift slightly. She told herself there would be other things to look forward to as well. Damien had mentioned the fine stables and the forest. Surely, she was just nervous.

“Here we are, girls,” her mother whispered, as if all the proud ancestral ghosts of Osulton were listening from above. “Sit up straight, now. Here they come.”

“You’re making her nervous, Mother,” Clara whispered, trying not to wake baby Anne.

“I’m fine,” Adele replied, which, of course, she was not.

People stood outside on the steps, waiting for them. A footman wearing navy knee breeches, ivory stockings, and shiny buckled shoes opened the door and lowered the step, then reached in to take Clara’s hand. Their mother was handed out next, and then Adele.

Adele peered out from under the wide brim of her green, plumed hat, and searched over the strange faces on the steps, all of them staring at her. Evaluating her.

Then she saw Harold.
Ah
, familiar Harold.
She was back. Centered. Her fears and tensions drained away at last. She met his gaze and smiled. He smiled in return, with his usual exuberant enthusiasm.

That’s what she had admired about him the first time she’d met him, she recalled. He always looked so pleased and eager to see her. He possessed the friendly excitability of a child, and he always made her feel at ease.

He stepped away from the rest and descended the stairs to greet her and her mother and sister. “Lady Rawdon, welcome. And Mrs. Wilson, it is indeed a pleasure to see you again.” He turned toward Adele and spoke more slowly, with more care. “And of course, Miss Wilson. Adele, I should say.” With a flourish, he raised an arm to display his home. “Welcome to Osulton Manor.”

Adele smiled. “Thank you, Harold. I’m so glad to be here at last.”

“Yes, yes, of course you are. Come, meet my family.
Your
family, before long, eh?”

She nodded and followed him up the stairs to where the others were waiting.

“Lady Rawdon,” he said to Clara, “may I present my mother, Eustacia Scott, the Viscountess Osulton.”

The two shook hands.

“Lady Rawdon,” Eustacia said, “it is a pleasure indeed. And this must be baby Anne! What a darling!” She admired Clara’s daughter.

“And Mother,” he continued, “may I present Beatrice Wilson, and her daughter, my betrothed, Adele Wilson.”

The viscountess—a plump woman with curly red hair like her son—stepped forward, and displaying her good breeding, offered her hand to Adele’s mother first. Adele paid careful attention to this English manner of introductions, for it was something she would be required to understand fully. Rank meant everything, which was why Clara had been attended to first, before their mother.

Eustacia shook her mother’s hand. “Welcome to our home, Mrs. Wilson.”

She clasped Adele’s hand last, but held on to it for a bit longer. “My dear,” she said, “I have waited too long to make your acquaintance. We are most pleased to welcome you into our family.”

Adele couldn’t have predicted the relief she would feel upon meeting her future mother-in-law. Previous to this moment, she had recalled with more than a little anxiety the sufferings of both her older sisters, Clara and Sophia, who had been forced to contend with women who despised Americans and had not approved of their sons’ marriages. Sophia had in time won the respect and love of her mother-in-law, the dowager duchess, while Clara had never been able to do so. Adele, it seemed, would not have to face that challenge.

“Thank you, Lady Osulton. I’m pleased to meet you, too.”

“You are going to be my daughter-in-law, so you must call me Eustacia!” she said, with the
same jolly enthusiasm that characterized her son. “Now come and meet Harold’s sister.”

Clara and her mother were dealt the honors first, of course, then Adele was introduced. “This is Violet,” Eustacia said.

Adele shook hands with the young woman. Violet was as dark as night, resembling a certain other member of the family.

“Now let us go inside and get you settled,” Eustacia said.

Adele felt as if she were being carried away on a huge wave. She walked into the house with the others, and stopped in the center of the round entrance hall. All along the interior pale, stone walls of the great rotunda stood classical busts and statues of Greek and Roman gods and emperors. Over her head was a frescoed ceiling—the top of the dome depicting a man atop a black horse, holding a spear over his head.

Adele gazed in awe at the bright colors and the graceful, sweeping lines. There was movement in the artistry. The fact that she could almost hear the thunderous clatter of hooves and the victorious battle cry of the great warrior stirred her senses.

Harold moved to stand beside her. “It’s the first Viscount Osulton,” he said, “victorious in battle. He was awarded his title and this house in 1715 by King George I. Just think, America wasn’t even a country then.”

Adele, who felt suitably low to the ground at that moment, smiled warmly at her fiancé. “I’ll
look forward to seeing the rest of the house, Harold. Perhaps you can tell me more about its history.”

“You will learn every detail, my dear, as you should. But there is plenty of time for that. Now, we must see you all to your rooms, so you will have enough time to dress for dinner. We have invited a few other guests, you see, to celebrate your arrival. Some of the local squires. The Earl of Whitby is also here—who is a friend, I believe, to your brother-in-law the Duke of Wentworth,” he said, referring to Sophia’s husband. “My cousin Damien, Baron Alcester, will be dining with us as well.”

At the mention of Damien’s name, Adele stiffened. She had known that in order to avoid a scandal, they were all to act as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred over the past few days. All members of the family had been informed of that. Her familiarity with him was not to be mentioned. Adele was to meet him as if for the first time.

She had not expected it to be tonight. She had thought he would stay away. She had thought she would have time to grapple with her desires.

Harold gestured toward the grand staircase, framed at the bottom by two massive, fluted columns. “I am sure you will approve of your accommodations, ladies. They are—may I be so bold as to say?—fit for queens. You shall have everything at your disposal as you prepare for this evening, which will be, I assure you, most exhilarating.”

Adele made her way soberly to the stairs. If Damien was to be in the drawing room tonight, exhilaration was something she would prefer to avoid.

I
t was late afternoon when Damien finally emerged from his rooms. He had bathed and felt clean at last after far too many days spent sleeping in his clothes. He went immediately to see his grandmother.

As soon as he pushed through the door, she clapped her hands together and wheeled herself away from the table where she had been reading the newspaper, to meet him halfway across the room. “At last! Give me a kiss, you devil.”

Damien clasped her frail, trembling hands in his, and bent forward to kiss her on the cheek. He straightened, then tipped his head at her. “A new perfume, Grandmama?”

“Why, yes…” She fiddled alluringly with a
tendril of snowy white hair that had fallen out of her chignon. “What do you think?”

“It’s wonderful on you, but you’ve always had exquisite taste. I hope you realize you’ll have to fight off the gentlemen this evening.”

She slapped his hand. “Oh, you naughty flirt. Come and tell me about London. Are you still tangled up with that actress?”

His grandmother—who knew nothing of the kidnapping and thought he’d been in London all this time—wheeled herself back to the table.

Damien seated himself across from her, stretching one long leg out in front of him in a lazy sprawl. “Yes, and by God, she has talent.”

His grandmother smirked. “You are a wicked scoundrel, Damien. Just like your grandfather. Until he met me, of course.”

He smiled affectionately at her.

“So tell me, what do you know about this heiress Harold has brought over from America? I told him not to go, you know. I told him he’d be purchased like a stud at market.”

“And he most definitely was. For a very good price, I might add.”

She clicked her tongue at him. He grinned and sat forward.

“Have you met her?” his grandmother asked.

Damien hesitated. “Yes.” He sat back again.

“I heard the gel’s father wants to fund one of his experiments. Is it true?”

“I believe so.”

“Go into business together!”

Damien smiled and raised his eyebrows.

She leaned forward and rested an elbow on the table. “What about
you
, dear boy? Isn’t it time you found a wife, too? Essence House has been empty too long. I understand Harold’s American gel is related by marriage to the Duke of Wentworth. He has a sister, does he not? Lady Lily, I believe? A pretty little dark-haired cupcake?”

“I do like cupcakes.”

“I’m quite aware of that, young man.” She leaned back again, gazing into Damien’s eyes with scrutiny. “From what I hear, this particular cupcake has exceptionally rich frosting. The duke is a wealthy man. Surely, you must be considering such a practical quality in a young woman. Times have been difficult lately, have they not?”

Damien stood and walked to the window. “Yes, they have.”

“It would be a very advantageous match.”

Damien sighed. “I’m sure the duke would be immensely pleased to marry his sister off to an impoverished rake.”

She grinned at him. “If she has hot blood in her veins, she would probably make her brother’s life miserable if he didn’t agree to it. You have that effect on women, my boy, and don’t pretend you don’t know it. You could have any woman you wanted if you set your mind to it.”

Hands clasped behind his back, he continued to gaze out the window. “Not
any
woman, Grandmama.”

She was quiet for a moment, then her eyes turned serious. “Promise me you’ll
try
this Sea
son, Damien. I know you too well. These eyes may be old, but they can still see when you are troubled. I know the desperate state of your finances, and I’ve known it for some time now.”

With a sigh of resignation, he turned away from the window to face her. “Yes.” Though there was so much more to it than just that.

“I also know how you feel about marrying for money or position, and that cynicism has held you back.”

He merely nodded.

“Please,
promise
me,” she said. “You mustn’t continue to let the deaths of your parents stop
you
from living. You deserve happiness. You were just a boy when they died. It was not your fault.”

Damien gazed down at his grandmother, looking so much older than she had the last time he’d seen her, only a few weeks earlier.

He bent forward to kiss her on the cheek again, taking her hand in his and kissing it as well. “I promise, I will try,” he said with genuine sincerity, because he loved his grandmother very much, and he knew she was right.

Then he went to dress for dinner.

The green Huntington Room, where Adele was staying, overlooked the east garden, which contained the celebrated Chauncey Maze.

It was, to be sure, a fascinating view, for the green hedges of the maze were unlike any other hedges she had ever seen depicted in photographs or paintings. The mazes she had seen
and explored in her lifetime were always square and symmetrical, while this one sported an indiscriminate, paisley design. It was quite decidedly erratic, and would be a challenge to the most enterprising of minds.

The loud dinner gong rang, and Adele swallowed nervously. She and Clara and her mother met in the wide corridor to make their way to the drawing room.

“I liked Harold very much,” Clara said, looping her arm through Adele’s. “He had a certain warmth about him. Not at all pompous, like some people can be.”

Adele pulled her sister close as they walked. “Oh, Clara, you have no idea how relieved I am to hear it. I was dreading the possibility that you might disapprove of him. I didn’t want to have to argue with you.”

“Disapprove?” their mother said haughtily. “Surely not!”

Clara smiled. “You won’t have to argue with me, Adele. I admit that I pictured an older man for some reason. I’m pleased that he’s young, and he seems exceptionally lively. I believe the two of you will be very well suited to each other. And how can I hide the simple fact that I am thrilled you will be close by? We will be separated by a mere train ride, rather than the unbearable expanse of the Atlantic.”

Beatrice quickened her steps to keep up with her tall, long-legged daughters. “Oh, must you rub salt in the wound, Clara? The Atlantic will now separate me from my youngest daughter.
My baby! The dearest, most sensible of my brood! How will I ever manage the heartache?”

Clara smiled mischievously at her mother. “You will manage just fine, Mother, when Mrs. Astor invites you to all her balls and waits with bated breath while you take your time to reply.”

They found their way to the formal drawing room and quietly entered. Eustacia was quick to greet them at the door. “Welcome! Welcome!”

Adele looked around at the dark red velvet wall coverings that repeated the paisley design from the Chauncey Maze, the matching velvet chairs and settees, the spectacular gold ceiling carved with intricate swirls and leafy patterns. With her educated eye, she recognized the French style of Louis XV.

She didn’t see Damien anywhere.

“Please come and meet our other guests,” Eustacia said, then she added with a whisper, “And Harold’s grandmother is here—Catherine, the Dowager Baroness Alcester.”

Adele glanced across the room at an old woman in a pushchair. Her snowy white hair was pinned up in a loose, elegant bun, and her black, high-necked gown complemented her coloring. She was slim, with high cheekbones, and she wore dainty drop earrings. Adele suspected she had been a great beauty in her youth.

Eustacia escorted them to her. “Mother, we have some new guests.”

The older woman raised a pair of gold spectacles to her eyes with slender hands that trem
bled. “The Americans,” she said cheerfully. Her head trembled as well.

Eustacia was about to begin the introductions, when Catherine interrupted. “I daresay, they’re all lovely. Do you gels know what a stir you and your fellow countrywomen have been causing in England?” She turned slowly to look up at Eustacia. “Times are changing, are they not?”

Adele and Clara exchanged smiles.

Catherine nudged Eustacia. “Well, get on with it. I want to know which one of these Yankees is to marry my grandson.”

Eustacia made the presentations. When it was Adele’s turn, Catherine raised her spectacles again to get a better look. She smiled and leaned back. “Now I understand what all the buzzing was about. You, my dear, are a cupcake!”

Adele laughed. “A cupcake?”

“Yes. Tell me…” She leaned forward, as if to ask a secret. “Do you plan to raise your flag outside?”

Adele laughed. “No, my lady.”

“What about the country dancing you people do? Are you going to make us learn that? I understand someone shouts out the steps.”

Eustacia bent forward to speak loudly in her mother’s ear. “Adele is not like most Americans, Mother! She won’t be
shouting!
She’s very polite, you’ll soon see! One would almost take her for an Englishwoman!”

Adele tried to take the remark as a compliment. She wanted to fit in, after all.

Catherine raised her shoulders to her ears and peered up at her daughter. “The only one shouting at the moment is you, Eustacia. I’m not deaf.”

She winked at Adele, who decided she was going to like Harold’s grandmother very well.

Eustacia led them across the room toward a handsome, golden-haired gentleman in the opposite corner, who was conversing with Violet.

“Lord Whitby, may I present Lady Rawdon, Beatrice Wilson of New York, and Adele Wilson, my future daughter-in-law.”

“Ah, yes,” he replied, turning and bowing toward them. “But we have met before, Mrs. Wilson, during the Season a few years ago, and of course at the wedding of your eldest daughter, Sophia. I am an old friend of the duke’s.”

Adele’s mother beamed. “Yes, of course! Lord Whitby! I remember your charming toast at their wedding! And the beautiful red roses you sent to Sophia not long after her London debut.”

Adele winced, for she remembered those roses. Sophia had described them in one of her letters. Whitby had clearly been making his romantic feelings for Sophia known, but he had lost out to his friend James, the duke, who had later become Sophia’s husband.

Leave it to her mother to mention that.

Whitby smiled rakishly, unruffled by the reminder. “Your memory is most impressive, Mrs. Wilson. I believe at your daughter’s wedding, I referred to our newest duchess as a rose,
for which England was to benefit from the careful American transplantation.”

Adele’s mother blushed. “Oh, Lord Whitby. You are too kind. Too kind.”

They discussed light matters for a few minutes, then Eustacia guided them toward the other corner of the room, where Harold stood with his back to them. He turned when he sensed their approach.

“And here with Harold,” Eustacia said, “we have my nephew, Damien Renshaw, Baron Alcester.”

Adele—caught off guard by the sudden shock of his appearance as he stepped out from behind a tall, potted tree fern—sucked in a quick breath. She hadn’t thought he was here.

A shudder passed through her. He looked so different. He wore a formal black dinner jacket with a white waistcoat and white bow tie, and his raven hair was slicked back in the most flattering way, complementing the strong, masculine lines of his cleanly shaven jaw and the fiery intensity of his dark eyes.

He was the perfect London gentleman, bowing politely with his hands clasped behind his back. Adele, however, had seen the rugged warrior who simmered beneath.

“Lady Rawdon, it’s a pleasure,” he said, bowing first to Clara. He greeted Adele’s mother, then turned his beautiful gaze toward Adele and raised an eyebrow.

“And what a pleasure indeed to meet
you
,
Miss Wilson. Allow me to deliver my best wishes on your engagement to my cousin.”

She was momentarily speechless, for it felt hypocritical to behave in this manner. She had woken up beside him in her bed that very morning, yet here they were, both of them, pretending they had never met.

The most outrageous part of it all was that half the people in the room knew the truth. They were aware of her kidnapping and Damien’s heroic rescue and escort across England. They knew that Damien had bandaged her thigh. They knew he had brought her to the inn where she had been reunited with her mother and sister.

Adele tried to keep her knees steady as she offered her hand to Damien and went through the motions of
meeting
him. Her blood skittered through her veins at the warmth of his touch. She prayed the others wouldn’t recognize how flustered she had become beneath the surface of her casual civility.

“I’m honored, Lord Alcester,” she said, as indifferently as she could manage, realizing, however, that what she felt for Damien Renshaw was anything but indifference. Now—back in the real world and in the presence of all these other people—she knew.

What she felt for Damien Renshaw—notorious rake and loyal cousin to her fiancé—was not a “temporary madness,” nor was it the stuff of fantasies or fairy tales. What she felt for Damien was real, very real indeed, and one way or another, she was going to have to deal with it.