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‘I am clever.’ She bit her lip. That was just the sort of quick retort men did not like. A habit of bravado honed in the schoolroom.
He didn’t seem to notice. ‘Follow me.’ He strode past her down the corridor, the dog following at his heels, leaving her to trot along behind as best she might.
He took a flight of stairs down and then passed along a stone corridor that smelled of must and damp. She was sure she had not come this way.
He hesitated at yet another intersection of passageways.
She huffed out a breath. ‘Don’t tell me, you are lost too.’
He gave her a scornful look. ‘I never get lost.’
Doubt filled her mind. ‘Have you ever been to this house before?’
‘North is this way.’ He set off once more with the dog padding beside him.
Hah. Avoidance. He was just as lost as she was. More lost. Because she was quite sure from the increasingly dank feel to the air that they were now in the cellars. The sea growled louder too. Typical. Why would men never admit to being lost?
About to insist they stop, she was surprised when he took off up a circular flight of narrow stairs she hadn’t noticed. At the top, he turned left and there they were, at her chamber door. How irritating. And she still had no idea how she got here. It didn’t matter. She had no reason to learn her way around, since she would be departing at once.
‘Thank you, my lord.’ She dipped her best curtsy and prayed he would not hear the wry note in her voice.
He held his candle high and caught her chin in long strong fingers just like the old man had done. But these fingers were warm with youth and strong with vigour and, while firm, they were also gentle. She jerked her head, but he held her fast.
She stared up at his face, at the beautifully moulded lips set in a straight line hovering above hers. His head dipped a fraction. Angled. She could feel his breath, warm on her cheek, inhaled a hint of cologne, something male, mingled with leather and horse and briny air that made her feel dizzy.
She drew in a deep breath as his gaze fell on her mouth, lingering there, until she thought he would kiss her. Longed that he would to break this dreadful tension between them.
Nervous, she licked her lips.
His eyes narrowed and he raised that piercing gaze to meet hers as if he would read her mind. Stroked her chin with his thumb and, she shivered. He leaned closer and for a wild moment, she thought he really did intend to kiss her and her body hummed at the thought.
Instead, he spoke. ‘Who are you?’ he rasped softly.
‘Mary,’ she managed to gasp in a breathless whisper, her breathing beyond her control. ‘Mary Wilding.’
‘Wilding?’ A brow went up. ‘And what brought you here, Miss Wilding?’
She swallowed. ‘I was invited. By the earl.’
‘The late earl.’
She nodded.
He stepped back, releasing her face. ‘And what is your purpose here, I wonder?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I will be leaving first thing.’
‘I see. Well, Miss Wilding, I bid you goodnight. We will talk before you go.’
She remained frozen as he disappeared back down the twisting stairs and she was left alone, in the silence, not hearing even his footsteps and feeling strangely giddy.
Breathless, from … fear? The fluttering in her belly, the tremble in her hands, could be nothing else. Though what made her fearful, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps her reactions? To him? Would she have actually let him kiss her, had he wanted to do so?
Could she have stopped such a powerful man taking whatever he wanted? A little thrill rippled through her. Perverse. Unwanted.
All he had wanted was to question her.
She pressed cold fingers to her hot cheeks and hauled in a deep breath before stepping inside her small chamber. While thanking her benefactor had been one of the less pleasant experiences of her life, meeting the new earl had been something else entirely. Disturbing and exciting. It might be as well to avoid him before she left.
Coward.
Chapter Two (#ulink_1cced893-082f-5d49-a5b1-aae21072585d)
The maid Betsy, assigned to help Mary dress, arrived at nine the next morning.
Mary didn’t needed help dressing. Just as always, she’d been awake and dressed by six, before light touched the grey wintery sky. At school, it was her task to see that the girls were washed and dressed before they came to breakfast. The maid had to content herself with drawing back the curtains and putting coal on the fire. ‘This room is always cold,’ the girl announced cheerfully. ‘Will there be anything else, miss?’
‘I would like a carriage to take me to St Ives.’
‘You will need to speak to Mr Manners,’ the girl said, her Cornish vowels hard to decipher.
Of course. The butler. He would be in charge of such things. ‘Where will I find him?’
The small brown-eyed girl raised her brows. ‘In the breakfast room. Serving the family.’
The grieving family. She wanted nothing to do with any of them, especially the new earl. But since she needed to order the carriage, she straightened her shoulders and smiled. ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to guide me there?’
Betsy bobbed a curtsy. ‘Follow me, miss.’
It wasn’t long before she was deposited in front of a large oak door off the entrance hall. ‘In there, miss.’
‘Thank you.’ Mary sailed through the door as if she had been making grand entrances all her life. Or at least she hoped she gave that impression.
What a relief. No brooding earl awaited her in the oak-panelled room with its polished furniture and gleaming silver. Only his cousins sat at the table. Blond and handsome, they rose to their feet as she entered.
‘Good morning,’ she said.
‘Good morning, Miss Wilding,’ they replied gravely.
The older one, Mr Jeffrey Beresford, gave her a swift perusal. A slightly pained expression entered his vivid-blue eyes. No doubt he thought her dreadfully shabby in her Sunday-best dress, but it was grey and she’d thought it the most appropriate under the circumstances. The younger one nodded morosely.
Both young men wore dark coats and black armbands. Of Mrs Hampton there was no sign. No doubt she preferred to breakfast in her room on such a sorrowful day.
‘Miss Wilding,’ the butler said, pulling out a chair opposite the Beresford cousins. She sat.
They followed suit.
‘Did you sleep well, Miss Wilding?’ Mr Beresford asked, assuming the duty of host in the earl’s absence.
‘Yes, thank you.’ She certainly wasn’t going to admit to her mind replaying the scene with the earl outside her chamber door over and over as she restlessly tossed and turned.
‘Really?’ Mr Hampton said, looking up, his face angelic in a shaft of sunlight that at that moment had broken through the clouds and found its way into the dining room to rest on him.
‘Is there some reason why I should not?’ she asked a little stiffly, surprised by his sudden interest.
He looked at her moodily. ‘They do say as how the White Lady’s ghost haunts the north tower.’
‘You are an idiot, Ger,’ the other cousin said. ‘Don’t listen to him, Miss Wilding. It is an old wives’ tale.’
‘‘Tis not,’ Gerald said, his lips twisting. ‘One of the servants saw her last week.’
‘And that is a bouncer,’ his cousin replied repressively. ‘One servant saw her fifty years ago.’
The younger man scowled.
Mary felt sorry for him. Boys liked their ghost stories as much as foolish young girls did, no doubt. ‘It would take more than a ghost to scare me,’ she said calmly, ‘if I actually believed in them.’ It would take a tall dark earl with a sinful mouth to make her quiver in fear. Or quiver with something.
The young man looked a little insulted. ‘If you see her, you will tell me, won’t you? I’ve been keeping track of her sightings.’ He pushed his food around with his fork. ‘They say she appears when there is to be a death in the house.’ The utter belief in his voice gave her a strange slithery sensation in her stomach. It also reminded her of last night’s events with a pang of guilt.
‘Although I had never met your grandfather before last night, I hope you will accept my deepest sympathy for your loss.’
Both young men nodded their acceptance of her condolence.
‘Coffee, miss?’ the butler asked.
She usually had tea in the morning. And only one cup. But there was another scent floating in the air, making her mouth water and her stomach give little hops of pleasure. ‘Chocolate, please, Manners.’ She’d had her first taste of chocolate this morning when Betsy had brought her tray and really couldn’t resist having it one last time.
The man poured a cup from the silver chocolate pot on the sideboard and added a generous dollop of cream. Such luxury. Wait until she told Sally. Her friend and employer would be so envious. Chocolate was one of those luxuries they dreamt of on a cold winter’s night.
The butler brought her toast on a plate and offered her a selection of platters. Deciding to make the most of what was offered—after all, she was an invited guest—she took some shirred eggs and ham and sausage and tucked in with relish. Breakfast at Ladbrook’s rarely consisted of more than toast and jam and porridge in the winter months. Ladbrook’s School for Young Ladies was rarely full to capacity and the best food always went to the paying pupils. As a charity case, she had managed on leftovers. Since becoming employed as a teacher things had improved, but not by much.
Hope of improving the school was why she had agreed to travel all the way from Wiltshire to meet the late earl. If he had proved to be a distant relation, she had thought to convince him to provide funds for improvements, to make it more fashionable and therefore profitable, as well as enable the taking in of one or two more charity boarders like herself.
She let go of a sigh. The earl’s death had put paid to all her hopes, including any hope of some family connection. She ought to speak of the school’s needs to the new earl, she supposed, but his behaviour so far had led her to the conclusion that, rather than a man of charitable bent, he was likely to be one of the scandalous rakes one read about in broadsheets and romantic novels.
‘What do you think of the Abbey, Miss Wilding?’ Mr Hampton asked.
‘It’s a dreadful pile,’ his cousin put in before she could answer. ‘Don’t you think?’
Tact seemed to be the best course between two extremes. ‘I have seen very little, so would find it hard to form an opinion, Mr Hampton.’
‘Call me Gerald. Mr Hampton was my father. That pink of the ton is Jeffrey.’
His older cousin inclined his head, clearly accepting the description with aplomb. Mary smiled her thanks, not quite sure what lay behind this courtesy for a virtual stranger.
‘What shall we call you?’ he asked. ‘Cousin?’
She stiffened. Had they also formed the mistaken impression they were related, or had they heard the earl’s mocking reply to her question and thought to follow suit? Heat rushed to her cheeks. ‘You may call me Miss Wilding.’
Gerald frowned. ‘You sound like my old governess.’
‘I am a schoolteacher.’
Jeffrey leaned back in his chair and cast an impatient glance at Gerald. ‘Miss Wilding it is then, ma’am. At least you are not claiming to be a Beresford.’
Mary caught her breath at this obvious jibe at his absent older cousin. She had heard some of his conversation with the old earl and gathered there was some doubt about the legitimacy of his birth. She hadn’t expected the issue addressed so openly.
Last night she’d had the sense that the old man’s barbs had found their mark with the heir. Not that he’d had shown any reaction. But there had been something running beneath the surface. Anger. Perhaps resentment. And a sense of aloneness, as if he too had hoped for acceptance from this family.
She certainly did not approve of sniping at a person behind their back and their family quarrels were certainly none of her business, so she ignored the comment and buttered her toast. She had more important matters on her mind. Getting back to school. Preparing her lessons. Helping Sally find ways to reduce expenses still further if the earl’s munificence was indeed ended.
She smiled at the butler as he added chocolate to her cup. ‘Manners, may I request the carriage take me to St Ives after breakfast? I would like to catch the stage back to Wiltshire.’
‘I can’t do that, miss,’ Manners replied stone-faced.
Startled, she stared at him.
Gerald frowned. ‘Why not?’
‘His lordship’s orders. You will have to apply to him, miss.’
The heat in her cheeks turned to fire at the thought of asking his lordship for anything.
‘Damn him,’ Jeffrey said with more heat than he seemed wont to display. ‘He hasn’t been here five minutes and already he’s acting …’ His voice tailed off and he reddened as he realised Gerald’s avid gaze was fixed on his face.
‘It isn’t fair,’ Gerald said. ‘You should be the heir. He should have the decency to withdraw his claim.’
‘He can’t,’ Jeffrey said. ‘The heir is the heir. The proof is irrefutable.’
‘It still isn’t right,’ Gerald muttered.
Jeffrey gave Mary an apologetic smile. ‘Gerald takes things too much to heart. And I am sorry about the carriage, Miss Wilding. Would you like me to speak to … to his lordship?’ He stumbled on the last word as if he was not quite as sanguine as he made out.
‘I would certainly hate to inconvenience anyone,’ Mary said. ‘Perhaps I shall walk.’
‘There’s a path along the cliffs,’ Gerald said. ‘I’ve walked it often. Take you a good while, though.’
‘I advise you not to try it, Miss Wilding,’ Jeffrey drawled. ‘The Cornish coast is dangerous for those who do not know it.’
Another roadblock. Her spine stiffened. She gave him a tight smile ‘Thank you for the warning. Perhaps I should seek the earl’s permission to take the carriage, after all.’
Or not. How difficult could it be to walk along the coast? Sea on one side, land on the other and no earthly chance of getting lost. Unlike her experience in this house. And she had absolutely no intention of asking his lordship for anything. The thought of doing so made her heart race.
‘Where is the new lordship,’ Gerald asked, his lip curling with distaste.
‘I believe he rode out, sir,’ the butler said. ‘More coffee?’
Gerald waved him off.
