Ruth Langan (9 page)
Authors: Blackthorne
“Yes. I...Yes.” She was afraid to trust her voice. Her breathing was still too ragged.
He turned away, to avoid the confusion in her eyes. “Would you care for the rest of your tea?”
“No.”
“I’ll say good-night then.” He picked up the tumbler. “I’d accompany you upstairs, but I still have some brandy to finish. I do so hate to waste good brandy.”
“Of course.” She stiffened her spine. If he could act as though nothing had just happened between them, she would do the same. “Good night.” She turned away, praying her trembling legs wouldn’t fail her. At least until she was safely out of sight.
“Good night.” He watched her walk away, then lifted the tumbler to his lips and drank. His hand, he noted, was shaking.
He walked to the mantel and filled the tumbler, draining it in one long swallow. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d manage to drink the entire decanter. And wash away the taste of sweetness and innocence that still lingered like the finest of wines.
He stared into the flames, his thoughts as dark as the sky outside the window. Although he’d hoped to put it off a while longer, tomorrow would be a good time to begin inspecting the Stamford lands. Perhaps, if he were lucky, he could stretch the trip into several weeks. It would take a grueling journey of at least that long to ease the longing this simple little nursemaid had aroused in him.
Still, he had no one to blame but himself. He was the one who’d moved too close to the flame. And had gotten scorched in the process.
“Good morning, miss.” Pembroke greeted Olivia at the foot of the stairs.
“Good morning, Pembroke.” Olivia struggled to shake the fear that had nagged at her all night. A fear that she had once again been followed when she’d left Quenton in the refectory.
She glanced around, wondering how she would react when she saw him again. She had spent the hours pacing, seeing in her mind the passionate scene they had shared. Even now her blood heated at the very thought of how she had felt in his arms. Her body was behaving in a strange way, her breasts tingling, her heart racing as though she’d just run across the moors.
She had taken great pains with her toilette this morning, though she refused to admit it even to herself. She was wearing her blue dress and had fastened her hair back with combs. And just before she’d started down the stairs, she had pinched her cheeks, hoping to put some color in them. Vanity, she scolded herself. Simple female vanity. And all over a dour, angry man who had probably had a good laugh at the clumsy nursemaid.
. “Liat and I are going for our morning walk. I thought perhaps Master Bennett and his brother might care to join us.”
“You might check with the servant Minerva and Mistress Thornton about Master Bennett. As for Lord Quenton, he isn’t here, miss.”
“Not here?”
“Nay, miss. Lord Quenton left early this morning to inspect his lands. I expect he’ll be gone a few weeks.”
“I see.” She turned away to hide her disappointment. “I suppose I’ll have to go in search of Minerva then.”
“You’ll find her upstairs caring for Master Bennett.”
“Thank you, Pembroke.”
Olivia made her way up the stairs. The spring was gone from her step. What a fool she had been, thinking that somehow a worldly man like Quenton Stamford would be affected by something as simple as a kiss. She had somehow convinced herself that he would be standing around waiting to see her. Like a fool in love. Taking pleasure in the simple act of looking at her: For in truth, she enjoyed looking at him. He was surely the most handsome man she had ever seen. Sleek, and dark and dangerous as a panther.
She felt suddenly too warm, and touched her hands to her cheeks, struggling to sort through her troubling thoughts.
How could she feel such things for the lord of the manor? A man whose wife had met a cruel fate at the foot of the cliffs. A man who was rumored to be the father of the little boy she’d been brought here to tutor. If that were true, he was a pure rotter, who gave not a thought to his dead lover or her son.
And yet, Olivia had seen a tender side to him. A side she wouldn’t have believed had she not seen it with her own eyes. When he wasn’t ignoring his brother, he was tender and caring in his presence. Though he rarely looked at Liat, he had been fiercely protective about the boy’s safety. And though he often treated her with gruff indifference, he had been genuinely concerned about her hand when he thought she’d burned herself.
Or was it all part of a charming act? Was she simply not looking? Perhaps, she berated herself, she was looking, not with her eyes, but with her heart.
She would have to keep a very careful watch over her foolish, irresponsible heart.
She was much too ignorant to know how to deal with a man like Lord Quenton Stamford.
When Olivia ascended the stairs Pembroke returned to the library. The hound looked up eagerly, then, seeing that it wasn’t his master, rested his head between his paws and stared morosely into the fire.
“You’re looking as sad as the young nursemaid.” Pembroke bent down and absently scratched the dog’s ears. “What you need is a bit of cheering up. Come with me.”
He started toward the door and the big dog followed. At the door to the kitchen man and dog halted. Inside Mistress Thornton was berating the cook.
“There’s no reason to be cooking all this food with his lordship gone. Who’s going to eat it?”
“The staff.” Cook faced her, hands on her hips. Despite the fact that she was taller and wider than most men, with hands as big and soft as bread dough, her voice was softer than usual.
“And why should you make a special meal just for them?”
“They’ve been complaining.”
The housekeeper gave a snort of disapproval. “It’s that spleeny, hasty-witted Edlyn, isn’t it? She’s been flapping those lips and stirring up the servants again.”
“And what if she has? The lass is entitled to her say.”
“If she has her say and riles me just once more I’ll have her sent back to the village and she can support herself by slopping Lord Thane’s pigs. Now you can...” She looked up at the figure in the doorway. “Aye, Pembroke? Is there something you need?”
He hesitated, then took a step inside this foreign domain. These two were always at it. Except, of course, when the little governess dropped by. She had a way of smoothing over rough edges, and bringing out the best in people. He wished she were here now. “A cup of tea would be nice. And a scrap for poor old Thor here.”
The housekeeper’s thin lips curved into what could almost be called a smile. Her whole demeanor softened. “I think I could scare up a bit of tea. And maybe even a scrap or two for the hound. Sit down, man.”
Pembroke pulled out a chair and stretched his long legs in front of him. While Cook scowled, Mistress Thornton moved around the kitchen, pouring tea, cutting slices from a steaming roast.
In no time the butler was sipping tea and nibbling meat and cheese, while the hound lay contentedly on the floor licking up the last of the scraps.
“Now what’s this about sending Edlyn away?” Pembroke asked.
“The ill-nurtured clotpole is like a boil. Her anger always festering. She plants seeds of trouble, she does, then waits for them to grow.”
“If you’d like, I’ll keep an eye on her. See that she doesn’t...plant any more seeds.”
Surprised at his willingness to help, Mistress Thornton could only stare at him. “Now what’s brought this on?”
He shook his head, finished his tea. “I don’t know what you mean. I just thought I’d help.”
“Aye. Well, I’d be grateful.”
He nodded. “Thank you for the tea.”
“Ye’r welcome.”
As he strolled away, the dog at his heels, he pondered what had happened. In all the years he’d worked in the Stamford household, he’d never before wanted to insinuate himself in matters that didn’t concern him. Live and let live. That had been the way he’d spent his entire life. Forty-five years he had been at Blackthorne. As had his father before him. He’d started out in the stables, wielding a shovel that had been bigger than he. And then he’d moved into the manor house, hauling logs, stoking fires and doing anything he could to please his demanding masters.
By the time his father was too old to carry on, Pembroke had acquired the necessary polish to step into the exalted position of butler.
And in all these years, he had always managed to stay out of the petty skirmishes that were bound to crop up in a household of this size. So, he wondered, why had he allowed himself to be caught up in this one?
Perhaps he knew the answer. Miss St. John. Since her arrival, nothing was the way it had been. And just maybe, he acknowledged, that was a good thing.
Chapter Eight
T
he days gentled as summer covered the land with its green, green grass and soft blue sky. The gardens were a riot of color. The air was perfumed with primrose and lavender.
he days gentled as summer covered the land with its green, green grass and soft blue sky. The gardens were a riot of color. The air was perfumed with primrose and lavender.
Only the sea remained unchanged, crashing over the rocks at the base of the cliffs with a fury that resounded throughout all the rooms of Blackthorne. By day it was a symphony, punctuated by the song of seabirds wheeling overhead. By night it was a strange, haunting fugue, keeping time to the rhythmic heartbeats of a sleeping household.
Olivia and Liat were returning from their walk across the moors. Though she had never before seen such rugged, desolate country, she found herself fascinated by it. Slabs of stone, each as big as a ship, flung by the sea and leaning one against the other to form strange shapes. Gulls and wild birds haunted the cliffs, wheeling and diving, their cries echoing across the skies.
“Look, ma’am.” Liat pointed to the splendid horse and rider approaching Blackthorne at a gallop. “Is it Lord Stamford?”
“It is.” Olivia’s heart gave a series of somersaults. “Returning from his tour of his lands.”
They watched as he dismounted and one of the stable lads stepped forward smartly to take the reins. For a moment Quenton turned and scanned the surrounding hillside until he caught sight of them. Even from so great a distance Olivia felt the power of his dark gaze. The doors were thrown wide and Pembroke could be seen standing to one side as Thor bounded around his master’s feet, barking a welcome. Quenton and the hound turned away and disappeared inside.
By the time Olivia and Liat made it back to the house, Quenton was already sequestered in his grandfather’s library, going over his books and ledgers.
Later that day, Edlyn knocked on Olivia’s door, looking more dour than usual. “Lord Stamford has requested that you and the lad sup with him tonight.”
“Thank you, Edlyn. What about Master Bennett?”
“Aye. He’s to be included.” The servant gave a snort of disgust. “To hear Minerva tell it, he’s been twitching like a leaf in a storm all afternoon.”
Olivia understood completely. She was feeling slightly agitated herself. “Come along, Liat. Let’s give you a good scrubbing. We wouldn’t want you to present yourself to Lord Stamford with the dirt from the moors clinging to you.”
By the time they had washed and dressed and made their way to the dining hall, Olivia had her nerves thoroughly under control. She would be cool and composed, she decided. And not at all interested in anything except Liat’s behavior.
As always, Pembroke stood guard before the massive double doors.
“Good evening, Pembroke.” Olivia gave him a wide smile as they approached.
Liat’s hand sneaked into hers.
The houseman nodded. “Good evening, miss. Lad.” He opened the doors and stood aside to allow them to precede him.
“My lord, Miss St. John and the lad are here.”
“Thank you, Pembroke.”
Olivia steeled herself as Quenton turned from the fire. She had been prepared for the handsome, aristocratic face, the piercing gaze, the familiar frown line between his brows. What she hadn’t expected was the weariness etched in his eyes.
“Good evening, Miss St. John.”
She gripped Liat’s hand. “Lord Stamford. Welcome home.”
He nearly smiled. What a pretty picture they made. The prim and proper nursemaid and her dark-eyed, copper-skinned little charge. The lad had been freshly washed. Tiny droplets of water still clung to his hair. The dark britches and crisp white shirt framed an impish face. His hand was tucked firmly in hers, seeking, Quenton supposed, a measure of courage.
He was relieved to see that she lived up to the image that had flitted through so many of his dreams. If anything, she was even lovelier than he’d remembered. She was wearing the same blue gown she’d worn dozens of times before. It occurred to Quenton that he had seen her in only two gowns. This blue one, and a simple gray. He would have to find a way to rectify this without bruising her pride.
The hound hurried up to her, hoping to get his ears scratched. He lolled at her feet, looking dazedly happy.
“Tea, Miss St. John?” Quenton indicated a lavish tea service on a round table.
“Thank you.”
As she started across the room he nodded toward a pitcher.
“And milk for you, boy.”
Liat blinked. Then a slow smile touched his mouth. “Aye, sir.”
“Have you been studying while I was away, boy?”
Liat nodded and accepted a glass from his tutor. “I’ve been keeping a journal of all the plants and creatures I encounter on my walks. Miss St. John helps me with the words. But the drawings are all mine. Would you like to see it?”
“Very much. Perhaps later I’ll drop by your chambers and you can show me.”
The doors were opened and Pembroke intoned, “My lord, Master Bennett.”
They looked up as a stable lad carried Bennett to a chair situated in front of the fire. Minerva trailed behind, carrying his blanket. When she had seen to Bennett’s comfort, she turned to leave.
“Wait, Minerva,” Quenton called. “You’ll stay and sup with us.”
“You mean I’ll help Master Bennett with his meal.”
Quenton shook his head. “You’ll do that, of course. But you will eat as well. I noticed last time you ate not a thing.”
“My lord.” The little servant’s face grew as red as her hair. “’Twouldn’t be right.”
“Are you saying you’ve already eaten?”
“Nay, my lord.”
“Then you’ll eat. I’ll hear no more about it.”
The girl fell silent.
Olivia glanced at Quenton with new respect. He was aware that the servant had to go without dinner in order to care for his brother. Though he had barked the invitation like an order, it was plain that he was looking out for Minerva’s welfare. And doing it without making it look like an act of kindness.
Mistress Thornton bustled into the room, bullying the servants in her usual manner. “Another log for the fire, you fool-born, loggerheaded pignut.”
The rawboned youth tossed the huge logs as though they were sticks, then lumbered from the room.
“You there, you flap-mouthed flirt-gill.” She tugged the ear of a slow-moving servant whose wheat-colored hair stuck out in stiff tufts. “Set that platter down and be quick about it.”
Perspiring freely, she glanced at Quenton, who watched and listened in stony silence. “Everything is in readiness, yer lordship.”
“Thank you, Mistress Thornton.”
He led the way to the table, and stood sipping his ale while his brother was placed in a chair to his left, and Olivia and Liat took their places at his right.
“You may begin serving, Mistress Thornton.”
When all the platters had been passed, he glanced at the housekeeper. “Tell Cook that the goose was an excellent choice.”
“Aye, my lord. I told that craven, clay-brained baggage that if she even thought about mutton, I’d be boiling her hide.”
He caught sight of Liat and his nursemaid choking back giggles. His own lips twitched ever so slightly before he dismissed the housekeeper with a stern nod of approval.
“So, Minerva.” He turned to the servant. “How has my brother fared while I was away?”
“Fine, my lord.”
“Has he been in the gardens?”
The servant nodded. “Whenever the weather has permitted, my lord.”
“And has he...?” He turned a withering look on Olivia when she touched a hand to his sleeve. “What is it?”
Her voice was a whisper, for his ears alone. “Why don’t you direct your questions to Bennett? There is nothing wrong with his hearing. And he would so like it if you would speak to him as you once did.”
He glanced from her to his brother. Through gritted teeth he muttered, “Tell me, Bennett. Do you think the fresh air has improved your sleep?”
For a moment the young man seemed too stunned to do more than gape at his brother. Around the table, the others fell silent. Even Pembroke, usually so composed, stiffened and looked from one brother to the other.
With great effort Bennett pulled himself together and slowly nodded.
“Then you agree with Miss St. John that the hours spent in the gardens are beneficial?”
Again Bennett nodded, and this time he smiled as well. It was the first time that Olivia had seen him smile fully. It occurred to her that, despite the painfully thin arms and legs, he was a very handsome young man. Almost as handsome as his elder brother.
Quenton returned the smile. Then, as the others ate, he sipped his ale and stared around contentedly. Minerva was smiling and coaxing as she helped Bennett eat. Pembroke’s stern countenance was wreathed in smiles as he refilled the lord’s glass.
Quenton had believed he would never again know a moment’s peace in this house. But the smile on his brother’s lips had just erased years of pain. Of course, it didn’t hurt to have a fire at his back, and a fine ale warming his blood. These were reasons enough to be glad to be here. The fact that the strong-willed nursemaid sat close enough that he could inhale her essence of lavender didn’t hurt either.
There was a loud knock and Pembroke hurried to open the double doors. For long moments he held a whispered conversation with the housekeeper, who was looking even more flustered than usual. Then he straightened and crossed to the head of the table.
“My lord.” He handed Quenton a scroll. “There is a messenger, awaiting a reply.”
Quenton read the message, then said, “See that Cook provides him with a meal and some ale. Since the hour is so late, I suggest that he spend the night before returning with my reply.”
“Aye, my lord.”
Pembroke strode away and Quenton picked up his ale and drank. Aware that the others were watching him he said almost casually, “The king will be visiting Blackthorne.”
“King Charles?” Olivia’s fork stopped halfway to her lips. “Here?”
Quenton nodded, enjoying her reaction.
“But why?” Olivia shook her head, unable to fathom such an honor. “Why would the king come here?”
Quenton glanced across the table at his brother. “In our misspent youth, Bennett and I often spent our holidays with the royals at Greenwich Park and at Whitehall.”
“You...spent holidays with the royal family?”
He nodded, slightly amused at the dazed look in her eyes. Did she have any idea how expressive her face was? “When their father, the first King Charles was executed, the family scattered. Young Charles spent much of his time in Paris and The Hague, and I visited him frequently to cheer him. He has had a long and unpleasant time of it, awaiting his chance to be king. And now that he is, he seems to be enjoying himself immensely. He has decided to take a holiday here at Blackthorne.”
Olivia’s cheeks were suffused with color as she recalled her remarks that day in the garden. No wonder Quenton had looked at her with such amusement. Not only did he know of the king’s butterfly collection; he had probably seen it for himself many times.
How foolish she must look in his eyes. The realization that she had tried to look and sound important had the flush on her cheeks deepening. Her cousin Catherine had been right. She was nothing more than a country bumpkin.
“Will we be permitted to peer at the king over the balcony?” Liat asked timidly. “Or perhaps watch from the windows while he tours the gardens?”
“Hush, Liat.” Olivia touched a finger to her lips to still his questions. “What right would we have—”
Before she could say more Quenton interrupted. “Peer at him? I should say not, lad.” He pushed away from the table and stood. “You’ll all be expected to join the king in his tour of the gardens. And everywhere else he goes.”
This was simply too much for Olivia to grasp. Her voice was choked. “Join the king?”
Quenton strolled toward the fire, with the others following suit. At once the stable lad was summoned to carry Bennett to a comfortable chair.
“Of course, Miss St. John.” Quenton turned, and shot her a dangerous smile. “Did you expect to hide away until he departs Blackthorne?”
“I thought...” For a moment she was too overcome to speak. “He is the king. We cannot simply walk along beside him and speak and act as we always do.”
“And why not?”
“Whatever would we have to say to the king? How would we act?”
“In public, you speak only when he speaks to you first. In private, you would be expected to carry your share of the conversation. Something, I might add, that you’ve had no trouble doing since your arrival here at Blackthorne.”
She shot him a look. “I can see that you are making sport of me.” She caught Liat’s hand. “Come. It’s time for your bed.”
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