Simply Scandalous (31 page)

Juliet frowned at him. "Redfylde isn't there, but
Lady Serena is and your sister, of course, and her husband, Colonel Fitzwilliam. Indeed, I wonder if you
would not be more comfortable staying at Silvercombe."

"I have not been invited to stay at Silvercombe," he
pointed out. "I have been invited to stay here, and I
have accepted your brother's kind invitation. Besides, you have already spoken to the cook about the
savory. It would be churlish of me to leave you now."

"No one could ever say Lord Swale was churlish," she
remarked dryly. "It is three hours until dinner ...

"I am at your disposal, Miss Wayborn," he said
quickly.

Was he practicing lines on her that he meant to
use later on his ladylove? she wondered in a fit of ill
temper. `Would you care to see the house and grounds,
my lord?" she asked stiffly.

He accepted the grudging offer with enthusiasm.
"I've already seen the terrace. Most impressive. Another
few days and the rhododendrons will give a lovely dis play. Remember the rhododendrons at Tanglewood Vicarage? Where you explained to me the folly
of having something particular to say? I think of those
rhododendrons fondly."

"Actually, we have two terraces," she told him
briskly. "But this one has a view of the lake."

"Man-made?" he inquired politely, following her
back into the house.

"I have no idea," she sniffed. "It is simply the lake.
It's always been there. This is the drawing room,"
she continued, moving quickly through the room.
"These are the tables. Those are the chairs. Paintings,
as you see, on the walls. That one is Benedict's prizea Constable. Rugs on the floor."

"A Constable, Miss Wayborn?" he said, squinting at
Sir Benedict's prize painting. "I think not. It appears
to be a landscape with some sheep."

"Constable is the name of the painter," she told him
acidly. "Don't you know anything about the arts?"

"I'm fond of music," he answered, "but I daresay I
couldn't tell you a thing about art."

She rushed out of the room before he could betray
any more of his appalling ignorance. In similar style,
she showed him the morning room, the breakfast
room, the dining room, the main library, and then
she brought him upstairs to show him the smaller informal library.

"And I brought books to this place," he said ruefully.
"Like coals to Newcastle, I see."

"Our serious books are in the library downstairs,"
she told him. "This book room is devoted to plays,
novels, poetry." She ran her fingers over the volumes
on a shelf. "Some old journals. My aunt is inordinately
fond of horrid mysteries. You're welcome to read anything you like. We generally get the London
papers by noon each day."

"Excellent," he said cheerfully. "That is what I call
an easy distance."

Lady Elkins's bedroom was next to the upstairs library, then Juliet's own room, then Cary's. She passed
all three of these rooms, then opened the door to the
fourth. "This is Quebec."

Quebec was a large, octagonal room with windows
overlooking the lake. The walls were paneled in dark
green watered silk, and a huge black bearskin lay on
the parquet floor before the white marble hearth.
Huntsmen's trophies lined the walls. The only other
ornament was a large painting of a military gentleman
that hung over the mantle. "Sir Roger Wayborn, the
first baronet," Juliet explained. "The fifth son of the
third Earl Wayborn. He went to Canada with Baron
Dorchester in 1759. They fought together in the
Battle of Quebec, hence the name of the room."

Swale was looking at the large head of the animal
mounted opposite Sir Roger's portrait. It had the
largest, strangest antlers he had ever seen. "That is
called a caribou, I believe," he said. "And the smaller
head next to it is a beaver's."

"I think you are right," she said, surprised.

He stood under the head of a large, snarling cat.
"This, of course is a mountain lion. I have been to
Canada. Oh, not in a military capacity," he said
quickly when he saw her eyes light up. "One of my disreputable cousins has an estate on the St. Lawrence
River. I spent an enjoyable six months there when I
was seventeen, paddling around in a canoe with an
Indian guide. Do I get points off in your accounts,
Miss Wayborn?"

She laughed. "For paddling in a canoe?"

"For being sent down from Oxford. That's why I was
sent to Canada in the first place."

"Yes, indeed," she said. "But points back on for
the canoe-paddling scheme."

He grinned at her. The bed in Quebec, he could
not help but notice, was a huge carved box of walnut
topped with a thick feather mattress and hung all
around with heavy curtains of green and gold brocade. "Sir Benedict's chamber, I daresay," he remarked. "Very handsome."

"Quebec," she told him, "is one of our guest rooms.
You're wondering why I didn't put you in Quebec,"
she guessed, toying with the polished brass door
handle.

"It does seem a comfortable chamber."

"Yes, but unfortunately, it's haunted," Miss Wayborn apologized.

"By the first baronet, Sir Roger?"

"Certainly not," she said. "There are no ghosts in my
family, thank you. It's the caribou. The last person to
sleep here was butted out of the window by the caribou."

"The ghost of the caribou."

"M-m-m," she smugly agreed. "So you see, I could
not in good conscience put your lordship in Quebec.
If the caribou were to take you in dislike ..."

"Now, Miss Wayborn," he chuckled. "Do you really
expect me to believe you don't wish me to be butted
out of the window by the ghost of your caribou?"

"There is a tree outside the window," she explained,
moving smoothly out into the hall, "so it is not as
though you'd break your neck."

The next bedroom she showed him was Agincourt.
Her pride was evident, and he could easily see why.
The carpet was dark blue with the gold fleur-de-lis of
France, while the bed hangings were the red and gold of the English king. The scarlet walls were hung
with tapestries depicting the famous victory of Henry
V over the French at Agincourt in 1415.

"Splendid, isn't it?" she said. "I did think of putting
you here, but as a matter of fact, this chamber is reserved for my cousin, Captain Cary."

"And a fire has been lit," Swale observed. "Do you
expect him momentarily?"

"Oh, "Juliet said airily, "there is always a fire in Agincourt in honor of our ancestors who fought there."

Runnymede was on the opposite side of the house,
up the western staircase, just three doors from Hastings. While not as splendid as Agincourt, it was a
handsome, comfortable chamber with dark blue
hangings around the bed and a view of the rolling
green farmland of Surrey from the tall windows.

"One of your illustrious ancestors was at the signing of the Magna Carta, I collect?"

"Baron Wayborn," she affirmed. "There is a lovely
effigy of his lordship and his wife atop their tomb in
the family crypt, if you're interested in effigies."

"Not as a general rule."

"Baron Wayborn's great-grandson became the first
Earl Wayborn in the reign of James I. The Earl was
granted his father-in-law's estate in the Midlands,
but his younger brother remained here in Surrey
without a title until Sir Roger was made a baronet in
1760. There have always been Wayborns in Surrey."
She cleared her throat. "I would have put your lordship in Runnymede, but then Sir Benedict would
not have a place to put a friend if a friend were to visit
him unexpectedly. You understand."

"Certainly. Don't give it another thought."

"And this," she said, throwing open the door to the
last chamber on the hall, "is Hastings."

The room was cold and dark and cramped. There
was a faint smell of mold clinging to the bed hangings.
Swale entered cautiously, the floorboards creaking
under him, and upset a collection of old cricket bats
set on one side of the door. "I take it one of your ancestors was also at the Battle of Hastings in 1066?" he
inquired with forced cheer.

"Yes," she replied, remaining at the door. "But we
lost that one."

Swale looked around slowly, taking in the narrow,
lumpy bed that sagged in the middle, the hideous, unupholstered black chairs and benches that were the
only furnishings. In one corner was a stack of boxes.
"The room is not yet ready," he guessed.

"What do you mean?" she asked innocently. "Here's
your trunk now," she added as two footmen carried
Swale's trunk into the room. "Open the window,
John," she instructed one of the footmen airily. John
obeyed, opening a tiny window choked with ivy. "This
is a most convenient chamber to put guests in, my
lord," she told Swale. "The footmen are in the room
directly above you."

Swale suddenly chuckled. "This is where I lose my
temper and start throwing things, is that it, Miss Wayborn? You're testing me."

Juliet inclined her head. "Why should I test you, my
lord?"

He tapped his nose. Naturally, his Juliet would not
be inclined to discuss personal matters in front of the
servants. He had always been raised to ignore servants,
but Juliet evidently worried about wagging tongues.
"Right," he said. "Mum's the word. Test away."

"Would you like to see the grounds now?" she inquired coldly.

"Passionately," he said, lavishly tipping the footmen.

"May I suggest we ride?" said Juliet. "You do ride,
don't you?"

"The question is not do I ride," he informed her,
"but can you keep up with me?"

Twenty minutes later, he met her downstairs in
the circular entrance hall; she was dressed in a dark
green riding habit and no hat, he in buckskins and
a simple black coat. The horses were brought to the
front steps, and he balked when he saw the nondescript brown mare she expected him to ride.

"I'm not riding that," he said stoutly. "I see you have
something nice for yourself," he added resentfully,
nodding toward the dancing black mare the groom
was walking up and down.

"Dolly is mine," she told him irritably. "The black
mare is Cary's. As you are his guest, you may ride
his horse. She's very fresh. You'll probably break
your neck."

They agreed to race for a half mile to the crest overlooking Silvercombe. To her chagrin and despite his
weighing sixteen stone compared to her eight, he
reached it first. "You ride well," she said grudgingly
as she overtook him.

"I had the better mount," he said truthfully. "I
wonder your brother hasn't found you a better horse.
That brown mare is no longer young."

"I know," she said, leaning forward to pat Dolly's
neck. "Cary bought me the prettiest saddle horse
for my nineteenth birthday, but Benedict made him
send her back. He was certain I'd break my neck on
her-as though I should! " She sighed as she thought
of the beautiful, swift black mare that had been hers
so fleetingly. "Benedict doesn't ride, so he's not the
best judge when it comes to horses."

He nodded absently as he looked out over the valley, observing avast white house with spires and battlements
that reminded him of a wedding cake. "Silvercombe
appears to be a large, handsome house with a very fine
prospect," he remarked. "Is it really for sale?"

"I expect you would like to buy it for a certain lady,"
she said sourly, "as a wedding present."

He stared at her, amazed by this unexpected boldness, his heart pounding. Before this moment, he had
been uncertain as to the feelings of his Juliet, but this
must remove all doubt. When a lady asks a gentleman
to buy her a country house for a wedding present,
then the gentleman is on solid ground indeed! His
battered heart filled with gratitude; while he had
been dreading all those humiliating declarations that
must accompany the courtship of any well-bred young
lady, Juliet had apparently judged it best to dispense
with all that and move straight to the wedding gifts.
For sparing him the indignities of going down on
bended knee and pleading in the wettest terms his violent love, he considered a country estate of some six
thousand acres not too extravagant a tribute.

"I daresay I will," he said, smiling brilliantly. "If a certain lady desires me to purchase Silvercombe, I will
of course be commanded by her."

Juliet was trembling with rage. The thought of
Lady Serena-Lady Swale-as mistress of Silvercombe
made her positively ill. "You would do that to me," she
said bitterly. "You'd buy a house not a mile from my
brother's door, and-and live there!"

"Possibly not," he said, now thoroughly confused.
"I am fond of Sir Benedict, but I suppose it is possible to be settled too near him."

"Quite! "

"Then I shall look for something farther afield,
shall I?" he asked cautiously.

"Indeed!" she snapped, turning her mild brown
mare back toward Wayborn Hall. "I must return to the
house now, but you mustn't let me keep you from
paying your respects. Just keep to the path; Silvercombe is less than a mile. You must be most anxious
to see your sister and your-your friends."

"Why don't you come with me?" he suggested.

Juliet snorted. Lady Maria Fitzwilliam would certainly be confounded if the notorious Miss Whip arrived at Silvercombe in the company of Lord
Swale-she could hardly claim not to be at home to
her own brother! And her ladyship's displeasure at
being forced to receive Miss Wayborn would be richly
worth savoring.

Reluctantly, she shook her head. However rude
and insolent the Silvercombe ladies had been, she
would not retaliate with behavior that would make Sir
Benedict cringe. "I can't leave my brother's property without telling anyone where I have gone," she
said. "Besides, it's nearly six o'clock now, and we
dine at six-thirty."

"Country hours," he remarked. "It is rather late for
a visit, I suppose. If I were to call now, Serena might
feel obliged to invite me to dinner."