Reckless Viscount (32 page)

He would have liked to brush off her question with a light remark, but he remembered his commitment to always being honest with her.

“My past is filled with women like her. You will have to get used to the fact that we will encounter them on occasion.”

“I understand,” she replied, “it is just that you seemed upset as you were talking with her.”

Leave it to his Irish to be far too perceptive.

Grinning widely to keep her from delving much further into the unpleasantness introduced by Lady Carlisle’s presence, he responded lightly, “She is no cause for concern, Irish. You can trust me on that.”

“I do trust you,” she replied, though he could see he had not completely dispelled her concern.

For the rest of the night, Abbigael seemed to regard him with a certain degree of curiosity. He did what he could to act as if nothing untoward had happened, but he could not disguise his relief when she touched his arm and asked if they could return home.

He had had more than enough of the scrutiny and judgment of the ton that night to last him a lifetime. The carriage ride back to the townhouse passed quickly. Though he sensed Abbigael wished to say something to him, she did not speak until they stood in his front hall. Then she turned to him with a look of soft anticipation.

Before she could speak, he stated in a voice he hoped did not sound unkind, “You look tired. You should go on up to bed. I have some things to attend to.”

“I do not mind waiting for you,” she said quickly. Her obvious expectation caused a band of discomfort to tighten across his lungs.

“There is no point,” he assured her. “I will be quite late.”

She tried hard to hide her disappointment, but Leif saw it in the way her lashes swept down to shield her lovely eyes.

“Good night then,” she replied as she turned to ascend the stairs alone.

Leif watched her slim form for long moment before he added, “By the way, I will be leaving for Sussex first thing in the morning.”

Abbigael turned, surprise lighting her face.

“But I will never be packed in time. Will this be an extended stay?”

“If you would prefer to stay on London—”

“I do not,” she interrupted boldly. Her eyes flashed briefly with annoyance.

He had to resist the urge to smile at her flare of temper. “Then you may follow at your leisure, though I warn you, the accommodations at Dunwood Park will likely leave much to be desired. How long you wish to stay there will be entirely up to you.” He gestured with a tip of his head toward the upper floor. “Now go on up to bed. It has been a long night.”

She hesitated for a long moment and Leif could see that she warred with herself over whether or not she should say more. But then she did as he said and turned to continue up the stairs.

Leif turned to his study before her form disappeared into the shadows above and blamed the uneasy feeling in his stomach on the wine he’d had that night.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The carriage rounded a bend and the trees that had been closely lining the drive cleared away to provide Abbigael with her first glimpse of Dunwood Park.

For the last hour, the curving dirt road had led past small tenant farms, many of them rundown and abandoned, and fields that had not been planted. But upon clearing the copse of trees, the dirt of the country lane turned to crushed gray gravel, thinned and spotted with patches of grass. Up ahead, a sheep-dotted pasture stretched modestly before a sprawling architectural hodge-podge. In the heavy grey light of the rain-soaked day, the unusual structure lounged with imposing defiance against the pastoral scene.

It was pieced together with several different architectural styles built around and on top of each other, assumedly over countless generations and several centuries. The most visible section of the edifice, constructed of honey-colored brick, was Elizabethan. Stretching in horizontal symmetry and rising four stories, it displayed its regal influence with boastful pride. Expansive windows spanned the front of the structure, likely covering the walls from floor to ceiling inside. The leaded glass was smoky and dark and Abbigael doubted they had seen a cleaning cloth in decades.

Wide, sweeping steps flowed from the drive up to the front doors. They were cracked and crumbling with patches of green moss that had claimed hold of the damp corners. Stone pillars flanked the steps and had likely once been pedestals for statuary, but now stood cold and empty.

Extending to the north and south of the Elizabethan centerpiece, the walls of an ancient castle rose with solid conviction and towered unabashedly over the newer structure. Made up of large crudely shaped stones that were beaten and rounded about the edges and containing narrow, deep-set windows spaced widely apart, the outer structure appeared to be the remnants of a medieval fortress. One stretch of the southern wall displayed a row of crumbling crenellations across the top that had Abbigael wondering if there might still be an existing parapet.

Interspersed between the rough-hewn walls of the original fortress and the elegant mansion were elements of Gothic influence. Scrolling limestone lattice, pointed arches and wheeled windows were tucked here and there, like surprising showpieces. Three rounded towers of differing width and height, topped by ornate pointed spires, jutted into the sky like three ancient knights, worn and weary, but determined to defend their prize.

And everywhere around the castle, trees and bushes that at one time must have been beautifully sculpted, had grown wild and unruly.

The estate seemed to Abbigael to hold a sort of sleeping magic. The place had clearly been neglected, but an atmosphere of anticipation hovered around the formidable building and the surrounding landscape, as if it waited patiently for something or someone to bring it back to life.

The carriage finally rolled to a stop, and at the sudden lack of motion after so many hours of jostling and rocking, Mrs. Helmstead snorted into wakefulness.

“Wha…huh. Where…?”

Abbigael turned back and smiled at the older woman, who had been a wonderful source of distraction during the trip if not a great help in the duties as lady’s maid. Her white servant’s cap had dropped over her left eye while she had snored in the corner and she shoved it back to perch more sedately on top of her grey curls as her sleep-bleary eyes darted about the interior of the carriage in confusion.

“We have arrived at Dunwood Park, Mrs. Helmstead.”

The old woman turned to look upon Abbigael with the innocent smile of a child.

“Of course we have, dear. I would know my childhood home from miles away, though it has been nigh on forty years since I’d been here.”

Abbigael opened her mouth to correct the poor woman’s mistake, but if she had learned one thing in the days of traveling with the whimsical scatterbrain it was that such interventions were useless and for the most part, unnecessary since the old woman rarely held to one misconception for long before jumping capriciously to the next.

Smiling instead, she took a moment to straighten her own appearance before Jack opened the door and offered a hand in helping her from the vehicle.

“Welcome, my lady. ’Tis a beautiful day in Sussex.”

Abbigael gave the sometime footman a skeptical look since the overcast sky had just then chosen to release the rain in an unrepentant drizzle.

The servant’s answering grin was a bit too open and his tone a mite too familiar, but Abbigael had gotten used to his unusual manner and sarcastic humor. She had garnered from Mrs. Helmstead’s near-constant prattle that Jack was a man of many talents and duties and that he was not confined to steady service as Leif’s footman. He served as needed and could fill the spot of footman, messenger, even valet if that was what Leif requested of him.

Though his impertinence left something to be desired in a servant, Abbigael couldn’t find any fault in Jack’s obvious loyalty to her husband.

Once on solid ground, Abbigael took a few steps toward the stone steps stretching before her, then stopped and tilted her chin back to feel the cooling wash of rain on her face. The sheep bleated their annoyance at the visitors and birds called to each other from the forest that surrounded the castle. By contrast, the sprawling structure before her was eerily silent and stoic. She scanned left to right across the immense front face of what she acknowledged with sudden acute anxiety was to be her new home.

She had an illogical but almost visceral fear that she would be completely swallowed up by the place.

Mrs. Helmstead exited the vehicle behind her and took a deep breath that swelled her bosom. Her bright eyes assessed the startling mash of architecture with obvious adoration. “Such a grand and interesting location, I’ve always thought,” Mrs. Helmstead asserted. “So much potential.”

There was still no sound about the place and no indication that anyone within was yet aware of their arrival. They ascended the wide stone steps together and when they reached the large double doors, worn and desperately in need of fresh paint, Abbigael hesitated.

Looking back over her shoulder, she saw that Jack and the driver were busy addressing the tack of one of the horses. Rather than call down to them, Abbigael turned back to the door and lifted the heavy brass latch with one hand while flattening her other palm against the surface. With a deep breath, she gave a hearty shove.

The door gave a horrible groan and shudder as it surrendered to her will. Abbigael ignored the foreboding sound as she pushed her way into the dusky gloom of a very large front hall.

“La,” Mrs. Helmstead breathed in surprise behind her, the sound echoing through the barren hall.

Abbigael wasn’t sure if it had been an expression of delight or disappointment.

The hall was expansive, and though it had likely been quite grandiose at one time in its history, it was now a cold cavern coated with the dingy veneer of age and disuse. Their traveling boots resounded on the hard floor Abbigael suspected was made of marble as they tentatively made their way farther into the space. Abbigael intentionally left the door open in spite of the rain that pelted over the threshold since there was no interior light source to illuminate the space.

Stopping in the center of the hall, Abbigael made a slow turn, perusing her surroundings. She squinted her eyes, narrowing her gaze until the details faded away and all she saw were the general outlines of the majestic curving staircase that rose on one side of the hall and turned beneath an enormous chandelier hanging from a vaulted ceiling to continue to the second floor. At the back of the hall, directly opposite the front doors, there was a fireplace wide enough and tall enough for five men to stand within. Large doors made of dark mahogany flanked the fireplace. They were currently closed tight, but Abbigael imagined they might lead to a library perhaps or the lord’s study. Continuing in her slow circle, Abbigael saw more imposing doors lining the right wall. A dining room, perhaps? A parlor or armory?

The possibilities were endless in a place such as this and they had only gotten into the front hall. Remembering the sheer size of the place from the outside, Abbigael could well imagine it could take weeks to truly explore every secret Dunwood Park held in its shadowed depths.

A spark of inspiration flared to life in her chest.

Making another circle in place, this time she imagined the place lit by a thousand candles in the chandelier above, the floors waxed and polished, the rich wood paneling and doors gleaming, the fireplace lit with glowing flames casting warmth throughout the space. She saw antique tapestries on the walls and mirrors in gilded frames. She saw the many doors opened to beckon guests into the rooms beyond.

By the time she finished the second turn, excitement burgeoned with unexpected force within her, quickening her pulse, and a strange twinge of rightness settled into her bones.

Swift footsteps sounded from the back of the hall and Abbigael turned to see Leif striding from the darkness that reached behind the grand staircase. He headed across the hall with direct purpose, slowing only when he noticed the front door wide open and the steady rain beyond. He altered his route to head to the door and his scowl of annoyance flipped to one of startled shock when he finally noticed Abbigael and Mrs. Helmstead standing silently in the center of the hall.

His steps slowed and his expression shifted again into a placid expression of welcome.

He was dressed casually. In spite of the chill that pervaded the house, he wore no coat. His buckskin breeches and mud-caked boots suggested he had just come in from outside and was confirmed by the fact that his hair was damp and mussed, as if he had just rubbed a towel over it.

He looked so far removed from the polished London rogue that Abbigael experienced a rushing onset of nervousness, as if she were meeting a near stranger rather than her husband and lover. Had it really only been four days since they had danced together at the ball?

“I wasn’t expecting you until later this week,” he said as he started toward her.

There was so much formality in his tone, a strange distance. Abbigael smiled past the trepidation that filled her at the lack of warmth in his reception.

“We made good time, I suppose. I was anxious to arrive.”

Leif arched a brow ruefully and gestured with his hand in a circular motion that generally indicated the space around them.