My Lord Wicked (Historical Regency Romance) (3 page)

As her gaze flicked once more to her guardian, he looked up, his black eyes holding hers. Embarrassed, Freddie quickly averted her gaze and rubbed her arms for warmth. The chill seemed to intensify by the howling winds outside the carriage. A pity her pelisse had worn so thin.

Now off the major posting roads, Freddie inhaled the scent of peat bogs and was able to observe the moors up close. How very well the solitary landscape suited her. Not even a tree grew here in the craggy land of wailing winds. Nor were there any stone cottages or low stone walls here like she had seen scattered around Yorkshire. The forlornness was unlike anything she could ever have imagined growing up among the sunny meadows of Sussex.

This was not the place for delicate flowers. The biting winds demanded the hardiness of the spiny gorse and thorny thistle that shimmered and waved along the rippling moors. She would never have been able to imagine how such a landscape could hold such vast allure for her, but it did.

Without being told by her stone-faced companion, Freddie knew when the abbey came into view. From her coach window she saw its gray mass rising from the top of a rocky hill. The ancient fortress-like structure had to be Marshbanks Abbey.

The building did not seem to be unmanageably large — just two stories with small, gothic windows punctuating solid stone walls that had undoubtedly remained unchanged for centuries. A clock tower with medieval spires marked the midpoint of the front of the building.

As the coach came to a stop on the abbey's gravel drive and the coachman let down the steps, Lord Stacks departed the chaise first, then turned back to take Freddie's hand. He led her up the steps, through a timbered doorway held open by a footman in lime green livery, then into a vestibule constructed of huge blocks of gray stone.

"This is the great hall," he informed her as they entered a room twice as large as Freddie's home chapel.

"Before the Dissolution it was a church, but one of my ancestors persuaded the king to give him the abbey in exchange for services rendered. I expect that's how it escaped being destroyed. My kinsman removed all the ecclesiastical trappings. In former times the present clock tower held a church bell."

She had always thought great halls to be banqueting rooms, but this was a reception area, with various furniture groupings scattered within the room. Here a pair of Jacobean sofas on a Turkey rug. Over there a game table of fine oak turned nearly black with the patina of age. A lovely three-legged pianoforte hugged a wall. A pair of large, throne-like chairs faced the chimney. She could almost imagine a whole ox roasting in its huge pit.

A lady in black servant's garb noiselessly entered the vast room. The slightly built woman had brown hair generously threaded with gray.

Lord Stacks’s gaze swung from her to Freddie. "Miss Lambeth, I should like to present my housekeeper, Mrs. Greenwood."

The woman curtsied but did not smile either at her employer or at Freddie. The expression on her face was more akin to scorn than to welcome.

"I will show my ward to her rooms," Stacks informed Mrs. Greenwood, who merely inclined her head.

The two of them walked across the chilly room, her guardian’s boots tapping on the cold stone floors like a blacksmith striking an anvil.

"We'll pass through the tapestry room on the way to the library," Stacks said.

The walls there were almost entirely covered with tapestries, each of which was large enough to roof her entire cottage back in Chelseymeade. They depicted hunt scenes and the Nativity and celestial celebrations.

Next, Lord Stacks led her to the library, another room of massive proportions, but this one less chilly due to the red carpet which stretched from wall to wall. Like in the great hall, the ceilings here reached the full two stories, but the rich wood bookcases lined with leather volumes gave the room warmth. A spiraled ladder curved up to a catwalk that ran along an upper gallery of books. The room itself had two fireplaces, a game table, several sofas and a large rococo desk.

Freddie thought Lord Stacks would stop here for the room looked lived in, but he kept walking. Beyond the library they entered the outdoors where cloisters formed a square surrounding the quadrangle.

Marshbanks Abbey was much larger than it appeared from the front.

Lord Stacks pointed out the heavily vegetated quadrangle. "That is where I spend most of my time. Botany holds great interest for me."

She recalled her father's words: "Stacks is the most intelligent man I have ever known."

They walked under the timber-roofed cloister and past several doors. "I fear you will find Marshbanks Abbey hopelessly out of date," Lord Stacks said. "The rooms are much the same as they were when this was an abbey. Your room is a former Cistercian monk's." He came to a stop and grasped the old black iron handle on a door. "These are your chambers, Miss Lambeth."

She stepped into a warm chamber, her eyes sparkling as she strode across more red carpet. Unlike the rest of the abbey, this room was small and offered a genuine coziness. There was a high tester bed draped in deep crimson velvet and a writing desk with a comfortable-looking arm chair pulled up to it. A fire blazed at the modest hearth. "This, my lord, does
not
look like a monk's room."

The adjoining room had been apportioned for a dressing room, and her valise was already there — empty — a man servant placing her meager garments in the linen press.

Lord Stacks watched the servant. "We must secure a maid for you."

"That won't be necessary," she said. "I assure you I am quite accustomed to seeing to my own needs."

Glancing at the bed, then to Freddie, Lord Stacks started backing up. "I don't seem to have considered the impropriety of being here with you." He was almost at the door.

Freddie studied the well worn shoes poking out beneath the hem of her dress.

"We keep country hours at Marshbanks Abbey," he stammered. "Dinner is served at four. Are you certain you don't need me to send up a maid to help with your hair or anything?"

"I'm certain."

***

Stacks strode angrily into the library, pulled the bell rope and flung himself down at his desk. When Eason appeared, Stacks said, "Bring me a glass of Madeira."

As Eason moved toward the door, Stacks amended his order. "No, make that a bottle."

Damn Frederick
, he thought. Why hadn't the man told him his child was not a son? Stacks tried to think back to when Frederick had besieged him to stand as guardian to his child. It was so very many years ago. Just after Elizabeth died. Frederick had said
since you have no children of your own, you would be a most desirable guardian for my own offspring--Freddie--provided you would be so gracious as to consent.
That was it. Stacks had been flattered and immediately agreed, but never again did Frederick mention his child.

All these years Stacks had assumed young Freddie was what his name implied: a male. And now he had invited the youth to live at Marshbanks Abbey! That, of course, would never do. A bachelor most decidedly could not have a young maiden living under his roof. Especially a bachelor of his repute.

He would have to send her back. The thought of rejecting her ignited feelings of guilt. Damn that pathetic letter she had written. She had so carefully tried to sound proud and independent, but had in reality been so very vulnerable
. Since it is so terribly crowded here at my uncle's house
, she had written,
I thought perhaps a visit to Marshbanks Abbey would give them relief from what is undoubtedly my burdensome presence
.

In his mind's eye, he pictured the girl. Proud and tall in her shabby clothes. So very plain looking with her nondescript light brown hair slicked away from her face. Her eyes, too, were so ordinary. A cat's eye green. A scattering of freckles across her straight nose lent her only touch of youth.

At least he could deck her out in unaccustomed finery before sending her back down South. Tomorrow, they would leave early and go to York. There she could be outfitted in lovely clothes. Perhaps with suitable dresses and a fashionable hair arrangement, she could attract a husband, thus releasing him of responsibility toward her. He might even settle a modest dowry on the poor orphan.

Tonight he would tell her he was sending her back. With those thoughts, and three glasses of Madeira, the anger began to drain from his tense body.

***

At four o'clock Freddie strolled through the abbey to the dining room as if she knew very well where it was located. She was much too proud to ask any of the hovering footmen where to find the room. If the tapestry room and library were located on one side of the great hall, she reasoned, the other common rooms would surely be found on its other side in the symmetrical abbey.

Her instincts were correct. The first room on the sea side of the great hall was a generous Elizabethan dining room where Lord Stacks sat at the head of the long mahogany table.

"Come sit beside me, Miss Lambeth," he said.

Though she wore her best dress, she felt terribly shabby to be dining in so formal a setting. Her dress was an outmoded one of faded rose silk that had been her mother's during the 1790's. Of course, Freddie had been obliged to let out the hem. As she crossed the room and sat down beside her guardian, Freddie willed herself to look composed.

To avoid staring at her host, her gaze scanned the room but came to a stop on the wall behind Lord Stacks. There hung a portrait of the most beautiful woman Freddie had ever beheld. From the woman’s empress-style dress, Freddie knew the painting could not date back much more than ten years, knew the flawless woman in the dress had to be Lady Stacks. The lovely lady oozed an elegance that obviously came easily to her despite that at the time the portrait was painted she could not have been much older than Freddie was now. There was about her well-favored face a confidence, a sense of playful mischief.

Freddie studied the painting as if it were some curious phenomenon to never more be beheld by mortal eyes. Though all the lady's features if taken individually would have been considerably beautiful, the whole was mesmerizing, unforgettable. Freddie's gaze flicked to the exquisite creature's flaxen hair, the indigo eyes, then whisked over the pearly skin, the graceful neck.

Just looking at her perfection made Freddie feel even more uncomfortable.

A footman silently appeared beside Freddie, filling her glass with wine. How ridiculous it was to have two footmen for two diners, she thought. And she was stunned over the number of tapers lighting the room--enough to have lighted her old cottage for a year. Her thoughts immediately turned to the parsimonious Aunt Dorothea. She could almost hear the woman bemoan the cost of the tallows.

"I trust you rested well after your tedious journey," Lord Stacks said as a footman spooned soup into his master's bowl.

"Yes, my lord. The bed is quite the most comfortable one I've ever used." She thought back to the straw mattress she had slept on back at Chilton Manor.

"I must extend my sincerest apologies for not treating you with the accordance a young lady deserves. I regret that you had to travel by post chaise. Had I known you were not a young man--"

"Pray, do not give it another thought. I assure you I am not accustomed to being treated as a lady."

His brows rose. "It is my ardent desire you be accorded every courtesy here at Marshbanks Abbey."

"You are much too kind, my lord."

She kept looking at the portrait which must be of Lord Stack's dead wife. It dominated the room like a full moon in a black sky. She was drawn to the woman's clear blue eyes that seemed to dance with mischievous delight. Unconsciously, Freddie sensed the woman's closeness. She could almost feel the sheer fabric of her elegant gown. She could almost hear the soft chink of pearls at her smooth throat as she tossed her head in laughter during a jolly gathering around this very table. Undoubtedly, her conversations had been clever and gay. Not silent and plain like Freddie.

Freddie felt more self conscious than ever. How dull she must appear when he was used to someone who sparkled like the woman in the painting.

The footman cleared away the soup bowls and placed a dozen or more covered serving dishes between Lord Stacks and Freddie.

She was astonished over the plentitude. Mutton chops. Boar's head. Beef rounds. Pheasant pie. Haddock. And every vegetable that was currently in season, many of these swimming in French sauces. Did all noblemen eat like this?

If the lovely woman of the portrait had not succeeded in making Freddie feel like a fish out of water, the richness of Lord Stacks' table certainly did.

Freddie lifted first one cover, then another, dishing modest portions onto her fine porcelain plate, wondering if the vast amount of leftovers would later serve the legions of servants.

After dinner—mostly eaten in silence—Lord Stacks invited her to join him in the great hall.

"You must play for me," he encouraged when they reached the room.

Her heart beat wildly. "I fear I cannot, my lord."

"Come now, Miss Lambeth. You obviously display feminine modesty."

She met his gaze squarely. "I assure you I have neither the desire nor the patience for such coquetry."

"Very well," he said, thumbing through a stack of sheet music. "Play something simple so your lack of skill will not be apparent."

"I cannot."

He dropped the dog-eared pages and spun to face Freddie. "You mean you do not play at all?"

She slowly nodded. "I know nothing of music."

He looked at her, his expression puzzled, then soft, as if he pitied her. "Your home must have been quite somber without music."

Defiance flashed in her eyes. "Quite."

"Tell me, what did you do for amusement in the evenings?"

"Like my father, I am rather fond of parlor games."

"Indeed? If I remember correctly, Frederick was extremely competitive in his play. And you?"

"I fear I'm unfemininely competitive." It seemed everything about her lacked femininity. Not like the woman in the portrait.