Fanning the Flame (15 page)

She stiffened her spine and started walking up the path to the massive carved front door. They stepped into the entry, and try as she might, she couldn't ignore the breathtaking beauty of the interior.

"Your home is lovely." Polished wood paneling shimmered beneath the light of a wrought-iron chandelier that hung from a white plaster and thick-timbered ceiling. Intricately inlaid wooden floors gleamed beneath her kid slippers.

"We've an estate in Kent called Woodlands that my brother and sister preferred, but I've always been partial to this place."

Surprise had her turning to face him. "You have a sister?"

"Margaret. Maggie, we call her. She's twelve years younger than I, only just eighteen, staying with an aunt in Tunbridge Wells at present."

"Unmarried, then?"

He nodded. "She made her come-out last year, but Maggie is quite the romantic. She is determined to marry for love, and apparently so far that hasn't occurred. I'm sure in time she'll come round to a more sensible way of thinking."

Sensible or not, Jillian agreed with Maggie on the subject of marriage, and she thought that she would certainly like the earl's younger sister.

A fresh shaft of guilt skittered through her. "Oh, dear. This is bound to affect your sister's marriage prospects. Even if she does fall in love, no man wishes to marry a woman marked by scandal." She shook her head. "I knew coming here was a mistake. Now your sister is likely to suffer and—"

"Maggie is an heiress and the sister of an earl. On top of that, she is lovely in the extreme. She has never wanted for suitors and I doubt she ever will."

"It's still a problem—you know it is. At this stage of her life, any sort of gossip can cause serious repercussions."

His look held an edge of warning. "The problem will disappear—once you're proved innocent."

"With your help, I shall be."

His hard mouth barely curved. "In that case, Maggie has nothing to worry about."

But it wasn't quite the truth. There remained the gossip that she had been Lord Fenwick's mistress. Unfortunately, his association with a woman the
ton
considered scarlet would not be good for his sister.

And yet she had no choice but to do as he commanded. The court had seen to that.

She waited in the entry as the earl tossed out orders, surveying her surroundings once again. It was a strong, masculine house, the halls lined with ancient iron sconces and even more wood, and yet the warm yellow glow of the lamps and the gleam of the polished dark wood softened the effect, rendering it elegant and somehow even graceful.

As much as it annoyed her, she thought that it perfectly suited the earl.

"This is Mrs. Finley," Blackwood said when an austere, brown-haired woman appeared in the doorway. "She’ll show you up to your room."

Jillian simply nodded, the grueling journey beginning to take its toll. "Thank you." She followed the fortyish female up the carved wooden staircase past the master's suite to an adjoining room on the opposite side and wondered if he worried that she might try to escape.

"The room is lovely." As she gazed into the bedchamber, she was surprised to discover that none of the age or masculine design of the house appeared in the room, which was done in a soft sea green with ivory gilt furniture. Bed hangings of sea green silk enclosed a big four-poster bed. There were draperies and carpets of the same soft hue, and an exquisite white marble hearth set into one wall, an elegant sitting area in front of it.

"Most of the upstairs rooms in this wing were redone by his lordship's mother," Mrs. Finley explained. "She always had beautiful taste." This was said somewhat wistfully, and Jillian thought of the Countess of Blackwood, no longer the woman she had been, living now in the dower house.

"Her ladyship did a marvelous job."

Mrs. Finley nodded, seemingly pleased by Jillian's words. "If there's anything you need, just let me know."

"Thank you, I'm sure I'll be fine." The room was elegant but comfortable. So comfortable, in fact, that she declined supper and had a tray sent up instead. The minute Maude helped her undress, Jillian climbed under the covers and fell asleep.

She awakened just after sunrise, restless again, wishing she were back in London where she might be able to do something useful. And yet she felt surprisingly refreshed. Choosing a yellow muslin day dress, she made her way downstairs, encountering the earl at the sideboard in the breakfast parlor.

"I didn't expect you up so early," he said, filling a plate from the silver chafing dishes arrayed on white linen. "But then I should be used to your early morning exploits by now." He gave her a long perusal that took in the yellow gown and the upsweep of her hair. Setting his plate aside, he seated her, then returned to his task at the sideboard, filling a second plate for her.

He was dressed in riding clothes this morning, his jacket draped over a high-backed chair. His hair was still damp and it gleamed in the sunlight slanting in through the window. Jillian watched the graceful way he moved, watched the way the soft white fabric clung to the muscles across his chest, the small vee of dark skin that showed at the base of his throat, and her mouth went suddenly dry.

She remembered the night she had gone into his room, remembered the naked, beautifully sculpted body that had pressed her down in the mattress, and a flush rose into her cheeks.

She turned away before he could see, forced her mind in a safer direction. "Perhaps it's the fresh sea air, or simply this lovely house, but I feel completely marvelous this morning, as if I hadn't a care in the world." It was a lie, of course. She was worried and edgy. She didn't want to be there, didn't want to be with him.

One of his fine black eyebrows cocked up. Blackwood set a porcelain plate in front of her, filled with the same eggs and kidneys he had taken for himself, along with fresh baked bread and warm applesauce. "How about some coffee? That's usually your preference, as I recall."

"Coffee, yes. Thank you." He motioned to a footman who disappeared for a moment and returned a few minutes later with a shiny silver pot.

"When we're finished, I'll show you around the house, then introduce you to my mother." He waited for the footman to fill her cup, took a sip from his own, then picked up his fork and began to eat.

Delicious smells wafted toward her. Jillian nibbled but she was no longer hungry. She would be meeting his mother, the Countess of Blackwood. It didn't seem right, somehow, given the cloud of suspicion that hung over her head.

They finished their repast, and he took her on a tour of the house, which had been elegantly furnished and meticulously maintained over the years. Most of the salons on the main floor had been recently refurbished, just before his mother's stroke, he told her.

"She always had a special knack for color and style. It took a good deal of effort on her part, but she managed to keep the charm of the older parts of the house, yet see the bedchambers made modern and comfortable."

"Yes, my room is very nice, elegant yet livable." Her steps slowed as they walked by the open door leading into a drawing room at the back of the house done in dark woods, ruby flocked paper, and heavily carved furniture.

The richly paneled walls were lined with bookshelves that held a number of artifacts from the earl's Egyptian collection. "You have some very nice pieces," she said, peering at them through the open door. "My father would have enjoyed seeing them."

"Professor Whitney was a brilliant man. I wish I'd met him."

She cast him a speculative glance, wondering if the two men would have got along.

She felt his hand at her waist. "Come. It's time you met my mother."

Jillian ignored a twinge of nerves as he urged her toward the rear of the house, passing a modern, well-lit, slightly steamy kitchen smelling of cinnamon and yeast. They stepped out the back door and traveled a meandering, flower-lined walkway off toward the two-story structure, its high slate roof appearing in the distance behind a row of yew trees.

"After my father died, Mother insisted on moving out to the dower house. She thought Carter should have the main house to himself, but I think the place held too many memories."

Her interest stirred. "Their marriage was a love match?"

He shrugged. "They cared for each other. More than that, I couldn't say."

She could read by his expression the words he hadn't spoken. "Meaning your father kept mistresses."

His gaze strayed off toward the dower house, which loomed larger as they climbed the low hill in that direction. "That is the way of the world, is it not?"

"Not in my family. I'm afraid I'm old-fashioned enough to believe a man should be true to the woman he marries."

His eyes swung to her face. "I believe our mutual acquaintance, the Duchess of Rathmore, would agree."

"Good for her. I knew I liked that woman."

A slight smile tugged at the edges of his mouth. They stopped in front of the door to the dower house, and he rapped his knuckles briefly. When no one answered, he turned the knob, shoved it open, and simply walked in. A gray-haired butler hurried to where they stood in the entry.

"I'm terribly sorry, milord. I didn't hear your knock. Please, do come in."

"Good morning, Patterson. It's good to see you."

The older man beamed with pleasure. "Mrs. Finley told us you had returned. Your mother will be delighted to see you."

"How is she?"

"The same. Your timing is good, though. She is quite lucid this morning."

"Where will I find her?"

"Out in the garden, my lord."

"Thank you, Patterson." She felt Blackwood's hand at her waist, guiding her in that direction, past a series of beautifully styled salons, all of them a testament to his mother's impeccable taste.

And so she was surprised when they entered the garden behind the house to see the Countess of Blackwood, down on her hands and knees, dirt smudging her cheek, her gray hair mussed and coming undone from its pins, planting pansies in one of the flower beds.

Blackwood seemed not to notice. "Good morning, Mother," he said softly, as if he feared he might frighten her away.

She turned, watched him walking toward her. "Carter?"

"It's me, Mother, Adam."

A smile bloomed over her face, erasing some of the wrinkles, making her appear years younger. She was tall and reed-thin, perhaps a woman of sixty, with once-strong features that had softened with age, and blue eyes that appeared slightly cloudy.

"Adam!" She reached up to hug him and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her with a warmth that Jillian found surprising.

An image of Newgate returned, of Blackwood in her cell, holding her as she cried against his shoulder. He had rescued her, and though he'd made it clear she couldn't leave, brought her to a refuge of sunlight and flowers.

Maybe not so surprising, after all.

"There is someone I'd like you to meet, Mother." He turned and Jillian stepped forward. "This is Miss Whitney. She'll be staying with us for a while."

"Oh, dear. You should have warned me. I must look a fright."

"You look as if you've been working in the garden," Jillian said with a smile. "Since I love to garden myself, it's a pleasure to meet someone who also enjoys it."

His mother looked pleased. "It's lovely to meet you, my dear. Adam says you'll be staying for a while. Perhaps you could come by sometime and I could show you my roses. I do so love roses."

"I love roses, too. I'd like very much to see them."

The countess looked from one to the other and the smile returned to her face. "I have so longed for grandchildren. I shall rest easier now, knowing my son has finally taken a wife."

Jillian's cheeks went scarlet. She tried not to look at the earl, but her gaze found his of its own accord. His jaw was set, his expression hard.

"Miss Whitney is merely a friend, Mother. You'll have to look to Maggie for the grandchildren you want."

She had known he would never consider her for a wife, but it surprised her he didn't plan to have children. She couldn't help wondering why.

"Grandchildren?" his mother said, looking suddenly fragile and more and more confused. "I have grandchildren?"

Blackwood's expression changed to one of regret. "No, Mother. Not until Maggie weds. Why don't we finish the pansies you were planting?" He knelt beside her, heedless of the dirt grinding into the knees of his breeches, dug a hole into the earth, reached over and took a cluster of flowers from the tray sitting on the ground. His mother joined him, and in minutes was immersed once more in her gardening.

Blackwood silently stepped away but his mother kept on working, humming a soft time as she dug in the rich, black soil.

With a hand at her waist, the earl led Jillian out of the garden.

"For a while she seemed her old self," he said on their way back to the house. "I always find myself hoping . . ."

"Your mother is charming."

"I know. I just wish  . . ." He took a deep breath. "With my father and Carter gone, I am fortunate to have her at all."