Just This Once (12 page)

“I do.”

“Even though he’s rude to you, he is
arrogant, insufferable, and orders you around.”

“Here we are.”

Panic squeezed Josie’s heart and she forgot
all about Latherby as she turned stricken eyes to the window and
gazed out at the long gravel drive. The horses were flying along it
far too quickly. When she saw the house looming up out of the fog,
her throat constricted.

This was to be her new home. Temporarily.
But, of course, temporary was the only kind of home she’d ever
known.

It was a great house, huge beyond words,
beyond anything her imagination could conjure. She had an
impression of vast spaciousness, of lofty white stone that gleamed
like pearl in the night, of graceful columns and arched windows, of
tall, ghostly trees and damp rolling lawns. Through the swirls of
mist she glimpsed the outline of gardens, of bordered flower beds,
shrubs, statuary, and thought she could make out the shadows of the
vast luxuriant park Mr. Latherby had described to her while they
were at sea. Leaning forward on her seat, she thought she saw in
the distance the silver-blue glimmer of a lake.

She had only a glimpse of everything, an
impression, but she saw enough to know that it was finer, grander,
more awe-inspiring than anything she could have dreamed of—like
something out of a storybook.

Before she could collect her wits, the
carriage door was flung open by her husband, and Ethan swung her
down without ceremony. She had no sooner recovered from the
sensation of his warm, strong hands clamped around her waist than
he gripped her arm, as if afraid she really would bolt, and he was
half dragging her toward the battalion of servants who had streamed
out of the great white house upon hearing the sounds of their
arrival.

The Sussex country air smelled of rich damp
earth and grass and roses as Ethan propelled her toward the line of
servants. For one brief moment Josie lifted her face to the mist
and let it soak into her upturned cheeks, hoping it would revive
her. She felt faint. Despite the fringed cloak that enveloped her
in such luxurious warmth, she felt as cold as the icy churning sea
she’d crossed to reach this destination.

Ethan Savage greeted his obviously atwitter
staff with a curt nod, his handsome face a dark mask locked in
frozen civility. He proceeded to present his wife with a swift
series of introductions. Josie nodded inanely at Perkins, the
butler, who studied her with somber, knowing eyes that seemed able
to pierce her soul and see at once that she was as phony as the
thin smile he bestowed on her. Dry-mouthed, she moved on, murmuring
“how do you do” to Mrs. Fielding, the housekeeper, who beamed at
her with real warmth. Despite her nervousness, Josie found herself
beaming back.

But then disaster struck. Lulled into a
false sense of security at having gotten past the first two members
of the staff, Josie unthinkingly began to return the curtsy of
Agnes, the cook, sinking into a curtsy of her own before she heard
the collective gasp of those watching and Ethan seized her elbow
with a fierce pinch.

She jerked upright, the enormity of her
error striking her. A gasp of horror escaped her lips, and her pale
skin turned red as a strawberry. As her eyes met those of the
astonished cook, Josie saw reflected the same stupefaction now
mirrored in the gazes of the rest of the assembled staff.

“I—I—” she stammered, fumbling for a way to
explain, but Ethan, tight-lipped, merely yanked her ruthlessly
forward, and she realized too late that explaining herself to a
servant was every bit as improper as curtsying to one.

“My wife, Lady Stonecliff,” Ethan muttered
grimly to a bow-kneed little man with eyes that were no more than
mud-colored slits. “Ostley, our groundskeeper.”

“How do you—”

But before she could even finish murmuring
the words, he hauled her forward yet again to nod dimly at a pair
of grooms. Her spirits sank down to her kneecaps as she realized he
didn’t even want her to risk saying anything to these people, that
she had already teetered out on shaky ground, and all he wanted was
to get this over with as quickly as possible.

There was scarcely time after that to nod,
much less smile or try to speak as Ethan drew her along past an
assortment of staring footmen, housemaids, scullery maids, and
gardeners who bowed or curtsied respectfully, and whose names and
faces were immediately after an indistinct blur. As they finally
reached the end of the line, Josie heaved a sigh of relief. Ethan
nearly dragged her up the stone steps and through the handsome
carved portals of Stonecliff Park.

Then she was inside a magnificent towering
hall nearly as large as the entire main room of the Golden Pistol
Saloon. A dazzling crystal chandelier, marble floor, and lovely,
intricately carved furnishings surrounded her with timeless
beauty.

“Mrs. Fielding, kindly see to my wife.”

Ethan threw Josie the briefest, most
disinterested glance before shrugging out of his coat and handing
it and his hat to a waiting footman.

“Yes, my lord.” The housekeeper’s face
beneath her white lace cap was wreathed in smiles. “Allow me to
show you to your rooms, my lady.”

Feeling almost numb, Josie allowed Mrs.
Fielding to lead her toward the wide central staircase. Ethan was
already disappearing into one of the drawing rooms, followed by Mr.
Latherby.

Josie concentrated on reviving her composure
as she was bustled upstairs, through a stately portrait gallery,
and along a series of elegant gaslit corridors where an occasional
potted palm, gilt chair, or mahogany table adorned with a vase of
flowers broke the pleasant monotony of gray-painted walls and rose
and gray carpet.

At last Mrs. Fielding ushered her into an
enormous bedchamber and sitting room furnished in pale yellows and
creamy whites. Everything was so lovely, Josie could only stare in
wonder. Though it was summer, a cozy welcoming fire in the marble
hearth filled the room with lovely radiant warmth against the chill
of the fog-laced night.

“You’ll want a tray sent up, my lady, with
some tea and biscuits and perhaps some soup after your journey,”
Mrs. Fielding said kindly. “Ah, it’s dreadful to have to be
traveling the roads on a night such as this.” She tsked regretfully
and moved a chair closer to the fire. “Especially with some of the
dark doings that have been going on of late. I’m sure you’ve heard
of Pirate Pete and his gang of cutthroats. Nasty scoundrels whose
grandfathers were buccaneers, they say—they fancy themselves as
pirates who do their plundering on land. They’ve been crawling out
of the slums of London where they belong to rob decent city folks
in their homes—and now some say they’ve even ventured into the
countryside, if you can believe that.
I
wouldn’t want to be
out and about on a night like this, with the likes of them roaming
about.”

She caught herself up quickly as she saw the
surprise on Josie’s face. “Oh, I beg your pardon, my lady. Don’t
you pay any heed to my rattling on.”

“The roads are not safe?” Josie asked,
surprised because she had thought that compared to life on the
western frontier with its outlaw gangs, Indian raids, gunmen, and
wild, lawless towns, England would be tame and peaceful and
quiet.

“Oh, yes, quite safe,” Mrs. Fielding assured
her instantly. “And especially here in Sussex. We’ve never had a
bit of trouble. Ah, here’s Devon now, to take your cloak. My
goodness.” She chuckled as she helped Josie slip out of the garment
and then handed it to the slender, pink-cheeked housemaid who
looked to be no more than sixteen. “His lordship did not even give
us a chance to take it from you in the hall, but never mind that.
Here, come sit before the fire, you’re quite chilled, and I’ll go
fetch that soup. If there’s ever anything you need, only tug this
bellpull here, my lady. In the meantime, Devon is to wait upon you
and I’ll bring your tray up myself directly.”

Josie stood with her hands leaden at her
sides, her feet seemingly planted into the floor. Both Mrs.
Fielding and Devon were watching her expectantly.

Say something. They expect you to say
something.

“Th-thank you, Mrs. Fielding. I hope it’s no
trouble.”

“Trouble?” The housekeeper beamed at her.
“Of course it’s no trouble. Not a bit of it.”

If the woman thought it strange that the
earl’s bride seemed stiff as a board and her shoulders were
trembling beneath the fine blue-gray faille traveling dress with
its black lace trim, she gave no sign of it. Josie smiled
gratefully and allowed herself to be led to the comfortable chair
by the fire. Sinking down upon the soft cushions, she couldn’t help
but think that the less she said to Mrs. Fielding or anyone until
she was more sure of herself, the better.

Actually, though Josie did not know it, the
housekeeper was already forming a favorable opinion of her. Mrs.
Fielding had a sympathetic heart, and she had already concluded it
must feel strange for a lady to come to her husband’s home for the
first time. Especially when that lady was no doubt fatigued and
half frozen.
And
, the housekeeper thought regretfully as she
threw her drained-looking mistress one last glance and headed
toward the door,
my own foolish tale of Pirate Pete and his men
probably frightened the poor fragile thing to death.

“You just rest a bit and let the fire warm
you, my lady. I won’t be but a twinkling.” She went out, thinking
how good it was to have a master and mistress here at Stonecliff
Park once again, and imagining the happy day when children would
once more race through the nursery wing and play hide-and-seek in
the gardens.

For perhaps the next hour Mrs. Fielding and
Devon fluttered around Josie, serving her, seeing to her every
wish—or what they perceived as her every wish. Her real wish was to
be alone. To have a chance to take in what was happening to her,
around her.

This house, for one thing. Ensconced in
surroundings far more luxurious even than Mr. Latherby had prepared
her to expect, more than anything she could possibly have imagined,
she felt swallowed up. The enormous four-poster bed had pale yellow
silk hangings and masses of deep, gold-fringed pillows. The
dressing table with its white lace antimacassar was made of carved
ivory, the mullioned windows were wide and high and draped in white
and yellow floral silk. There was a silk sofa in the sitting room,
and deep comfortable chairs, and seascapes on the walls and vases
of roses, bowls full of floating lilies.

And then there were the servants.

A short time ago Josie had been scrubbing
pots and pans in the grimy kitchen of the Golden Pistol. She’d
fried eggs, boiled coffee, made soup and steak and bread for an
endless succession of strangers—a servant herself. And before that,
she’d once worked as a chambermaid in a seedy Kansas hotel,
changing soiled bed linens, sweeping floors, dusting old, scarred
furniture in musty little rooms.

Now she was to be waited on. Pampered in
this lovely bedchamber, helped into a lilac silk wrapper, her hair
brushed till it shone. The shock of it worked its way strangely
through her stunned system.

She was being readied for her husband, Josie
realized belatedly, as her tired and stunned mind clicked onto the
careful ministrations of Mrs. Fielding and Devon. It was the newly
returned master’s first night at Stonecliff Park with his
bride.

“That will be all, Mrs. Fielding,” she said
abruptly, jumping up from the chair before the dressing table and
twisting her hands together. The heady scent of roses from the vase
on the dressing table filled the room, sweetly at odds with the
sudden unease in her stomach. “It’s late. I’m sure you and Devon
are ready to get some shut-eye... I mean to retire,” she added,
remembering Latherby’s careful coaching in Things to Say to
Servants.

Devon smiled and bobbed a curtsy. Mrs.
Fielding smoothed one last chair cushion on her way to the
door.

The housekeeper thought she knew just what
was unsettling the new lady of the house. She guessed that the
lovely young countess was anxious for the Earl to come to her, to
draw her into his arms and lead her either to his own massive
bedchamber, which adjoined the sitting room, or else to the bed in
her ladyship’s own room. It was growing late—well past time for the
Earl to officially welcome his bride to her new home.

Mrs. Fielding, always a romantic, though she
herself had been a widow for the past nine years, blew out a gusty
sigh as she closed the bedchamber door behind her and the maid.

Yes, it was easy to see that the Earl and
his Countess were perfectly made for one another. Their love must
be quite sublime. The young man they had last seen so many years
ago had grown even more handsome over the years, with a keen,
almost dangerous edge to him that somehow only added vastly to his
appeal, to her way of thinking.

And his bride... Well, the Countess was so
beautiful with her gleaming hair and those dainty features and
mesmerizingly brilliant eyes.

Mrs. Fielding experienced a tiny quiver in
her throat as she reflected upon how lovely a moment that would be
for both of them when Lord Stonecliff came upstairs to claim his
bride.

* * *

The bride was quivering too. But not from
heady anticipation. Alarm quivered through her bones and jangled
her nerves.

Would Ethan Savage dare come here tonight?
Now that they were here in his ancestral home, safe in the world he
knew and that was totally unfamiliar to her, a world where he was
master and everyone here would scamper to do as he bade, would he
honor his end of their agreement and leave her be?

She’d scarcely seen him in New York, or on
the voyage across the Atlantic. True to his word, he’d had Mr.
Latherby arrange for separate staterooms, and they hadn’t even
dined together, for he’d ordered most of her meals sent in to her
stateroom—hiding her from society, she guessed, for as long as he
was able. When she’d ventured out on deck, she’d been accompanied
most everywhere by Mr. Latherby, who used every opportunity to
teach and lecture her about the do’s and don’ts of proper
etiquette.