Samantha James (5 page)

The children halted amidst a cloud of dust—a boy and a girl. They were young, he saw. The girl was perhaps thirteen or so. He judged the boy to be eight or nine years of age. Since he’d already alighted from the curricle, he stepped forward to help them from their mounts.

The girl, a pale blonde with an elfish face, thanked him shyly, then spun toward the curricle. The boy flashed a wide, unabashed smile and did the same. By the time he turned, they had both flanked Heather on the seat.

“You haven’t visited in days,” the girl was saying. “We’ve missed you, Heather.”

Heather gave her a quick hug. “You could have come to visit me,” she teased.

“We were,” the girl said promptly.

Just then the boy piped up. He stabbed a finger at Damien. “Who are you?” he asked cheerfully. “Are you Heather’s beau? Mama says she should have a beau.”

Two spots of rose immediately flared high and bright in Heather’s cheeks. Damien found himself possessed of the oddest urge to chuckle. Instead he came to her rescue.

He clicked his heels and gave a mock salute. “Damien Lewis at your service, young sir. I am your sister’s new estate manager.”

Heather had slipped her arms around the youngsters. “My sister Christina, Mr. Lewis, and my brother, Arthur—who has apparently forgotten that he does have the good manners not to point.”

“And I,” a sweet feminine voice chimed in, “am Heather’s mother, Victoria Grayson. And this is my daughter Beatrice.” The young girl beside her gave a beaming, vivacious smile. He inclined his head in acknowledgment.

Victoria had extended one gloved hand toward him. “I’m so glad that Heather has finally engaged a new estate manager,” she was saying. “I’m sure you’ll do a fine job.”

Lady Victoria Grayson, clad in a fashionable riding habit, sat atop a spotted white mare, her hat perched at a jaunty angle on her bright blond curls. She was slender and petite, her waist as narrow as that of a woman twenty years her junior. Her daughter Beatrice had inherited the same blond hair, wide-set blue eyes and heartshaped face.

Briefly he shook her hand. “I shall certainly try, my lady, though I’ve discovered today it will be quite a task stepping into Robin’s shoes.”

Victoria Grayson laughed. “Oh, I shouldn’t worry if I were you, Mr. Lewis. Heather would never have engaged you if she didn’t have every confidence in you.” She turned her attention to Heather. “As for you, young lady, I’m almost inclined to believe you’ve forgotten you have a family.” Though her tone was mildly reproving, her expression was soft.

Heather bit her lip, her eyes conveying a silent apology. “It’s been a busy week, Mama.”

“So I see, dear. But since we’re so near Stonehurst, why don’t you stop for a bit? I fear your father will never forgive either of us if you don’t stop to say hello, at the very least. Better yet, stay for tea. And of course we’d love to have you, too, Mr. Lewis.” She cocked her head to the side. “Can you spare an hour?”

“Of course I don’t mind, Mama.” Heather’s gaze slid to Damien. “Unless it’s an inconvenience for you, Mr. Lewis?”

Damien shook his head. “Not at all.”

Indeed, he had to smother his satisfaction. Tea with Miles and Victoria Grayson. It couldn’t have worked out better had he planned it himself….

Half an hour’s time found all of them seated in the huge, sumptuously furnished drawing room at Lyndermere Park, the country residence of the Earl and Countess of Stonehurst. Miles and Victoria occupied a settee across from the fireplace. The girl Beatrice sat to their right. Heather
was in a velvet wing chair, her cane propped against the arm; Christina sat next to Heather, her head against Heather’s shoulder. Arthur had devoured his poppyseed tea cakes and was off to the kitchen to beg for more.

Miles Grayson was a tall, dark-haired man with a spare, lean build and a commanding presence. His hair was sprinkled with gray and faint grooves lined his mouth, but like his wife, there was an air of youthful vitality about him. Damien was well aware that many a highbrowed aristocrat would never have invited him—for he was, at the moment, a mere employee of his daughter—into his house, let alone his drawing room. But they did not stand on formality; Miles Grayson appeared as gracious and hospitable as his wife, Victoria, totally without pretension.

Just a few short minutes with this family had revealed much. The bond Heather Duval shared with the Graysons was not one of blood…

But one of love.

A bitter darkness seeped into his soul. He envied them, all of them. The Graysons. Heather Duval…and yet he almost hated them. For this was a setting that he and Giles would never share. They would never sit together as brothers, with their families gathered close around the hearth, laughter and voices surrounding them….

Giles had been robbed of this…as he had been robbed of his brother.

“Well, Mr. Lewis, what do you think of Lockhaven so far?” This came from the earl.

Damien shook aside his moodiness. “I’m very
impressed, It seems an extremely well-run estate.”

“You should have seen Lockhaven four years ago. Oh, the house was in fairly decent repair. But the previous owner was far more interested in leaving his money at the gaming tables in London. Fields lay fallow, and most of the tenants had moved away.” His gaze flickered to Heather. “I must say, Heather has done wonders. And, much to my wounded pride, all without my help.”

“Well, you certainly tried hard enough.” His wife frowned at him good-naturedly. “You were constantly looking over her shoulder—and trying desperately not to let her know it.”

“Oh, she knew it,” Heather injected dryly.

They all laughed, while Miles smiled feebly. “What can I say? I taught her well.”

The incredible blue of Heather’s eyes softened to a haze of violet. “That you did, Papa. That you did.”

From the mantle, a mahogany clock tolled the passing of another hour. Victoria glanced between Beatrice and Christina. “Christina, it’s time to study for your Latin examination tomorrow. Bea, the dance master will be here shortly. You’d best see that all is ready in the music room.”

Christina immediately rose, but the older girl’s full lips pouted. “Oh, Mama, must I? Please, let me stay.”

Victoria arched a brow. “No, love.”

“But he says I will never learn, that I have two left feet.”

“Ah,” Victoria said lightly. “All the more reason to practice, practice, practice.”

Beatrice sighed and murmured her good-byes. Damien smiled politely, but all the while his attention remained on Heather.

The French doors behind her were slightly ajar. The breeze blew a wisp of hair across the curve of one cheek. He knew that, if he were to touch it, it would be as velvety-soft as the petal of a rose…he could almost feel it tickling against his skin. She raised a hand to brush it aside. He remembered the feel of her hand within his, small and dainty. A heaviness settled in his loins. God help him, he wanted to make love to her even more than he had yesterday morning….

But what was this? He was immediately irritated with himself. He was acting like a green youth, as if he were smitten with the chit! Perhaps he’d been wrong last night. Perhaps he needed a woman after all. Maybe he should have taken that buxom, eager wench at the tavern. Perhaps then this fire in his blood would be quenched….

Dimly he heard Victoria speaking. “Cook was telling me the spice peddler stopped by today. It seems there’s a traveling fair passing through the shire. It’s expected any day now. I remember, Heather, you always loved the jugglers when you were a child. Will you attend, do you think?”

Damien scarcely heard her reply. The talk turned to other matters, but it wasn’t long before Heather reached for her cane. Damien wasted no time getting to his feet as well. The heat in his
loins had cooled, but the darkness in his heart had yet to lighten.

Miles and Victoria accompanied them outside. While Miles handed Heather into the curricle, Damien resumed his place beside her.

She picked up the reins, her regard on Miles. “What would you like for your birthday, Papa?”

“Your prize ram,” he said promptly.

Miles missed the wink that passed between Heather and Victoria, but Damien didn’t. When Heather laughed, a tinkling, musical sound, he felt as if he would splinter into a thousand pieces.

“Think of something else, Papa.” With a final wave, they were off.

Both were unaware of Victoria Grayson’s lingering gaze as the curricle sped away.

She linked her arm through her husband’s. “Mr. Lewis seems a very nice young man, doesn’t he?”

“Hmmm.”

Together they strolled back inside. “Intelligent, too, wouldn’t you say?”

“Most certainly. Heather’s made an excellent choice, if I do say so myself.”

Victoria’s tone was innocence itself. “Bea had confided to me that Mr. Lewis was quite the handsomest man in all England. Do you suppose Heather thinks so, too?”

Miles stopped short. “I beg your pardon?”

Victoria chuckled.

He blinked. “Heather, you say?”

She reached up to touch his nose. Her tone was
airy. “Heather is a woman full-grown, my love—and she is
not
blind. But do you know, I do believe Bea is right.”

She left Miles staring in dumbfounded amazement after her.

Heather cast a furtive glance beneath her lashes at her companion. Before she’d left for her dance lesson, Beatrice had scarcely taken her eyes off him, from the instant she’d entered the drawing room. Had anyone noticed…had
he
? Her mind raced on. He must be used to such attention from pretty females. Heather, however, couldn’t help feeling vastly perturbed with Bea—and with herself for taking note of her sister’s obvious preoccupation!

But, with forced gaiety, she displayed no sign of it as she addressed him. “Well,” she said lightly, “I do believe you’ve passed muster.”

He turned his head. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m not complaining, mind you. But when Robin died and I began searching for a new estate manager, I suspect Papa would have dearly loved it if I’d asked him to assist me in finding a replacement.”

“And you didn’t?”

She shook her head.

“Are you saying the two of you tend to cross swords?”

“Oh, no, not in the least! But, you see, my sister Bea visited yesterday after I engaged you, and I’ve no doubt the subject came up at dinner last night. So I suspect Papa has been chafing ever since, wondering whom I’d hired, if I’d made the right choice….”

“Hmmm,” he said dryly. “Then perhaps I should be glad I’ve gained Papa’s approval. I’d not want the Earl of Stonehurst after my hide.”

Heather laughed.

“But,” he went on, “even though you are of age, and an immensely capable woman, I think it’s only natural that your parents show such concern.”

His praise was oddly pleasing. “They are my family,” she said simply. “I consider myself very lucky to have them.”

“It’s obvious they feel the same.”

Heather’s expression grew soft. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

For a moment the only sound was that of hoofbeats clopping down the road. Beside her, Damien spoke. “I hope you do not think me rude or presumptuous, but I confess I’m curious…I couldn’t help but note that you carry a different surname than your parents, yet you told me you have no husband. Perhaps I misunderstood…?”

“No,” she said quickly. “My surname is Duval—I’m the daughter of Bernard and Justine Duval. When I was very young, we were victims
of a carriage accident not far from here. I was the only survivor. You see, my parents were on their way to visit Miles Grayson; they’d met him in Paris years earlier. My father was a French aristocrat; my mother, an English lady. Unfortunately, my father made some ill-timed investments and was impoverished. They had come to England to begin their life anew.”

Liar!
Damien longed to shout.
Your father is James Elliot, a murdering bastard, not Bernard Duval. And your mother was from London, but she was no lady
.

“After the accident,” she went on, “I became Miles’s ward. I believe I was about four years of age. I was eight when he married Victoria.” There was a tiny pause. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I didn’t mean to confuse you. But it’s just that I think of Miles and Victoria as my parents, and Beatrice and Christina and Arthur as my sisters and brother.”

Damien’s smile would surely crack his face. “I can see why.”

He said no more, but Heather had a distinct sense that all was not right. Perhaps the subject of family was one that distressed him; after all, she really knew nothing about his private life. She was suddenly intensely curious about his own background, yet there was something about his stoic profile that stopped her from inquiring. Puzzled, she turned her attention to her driving.

The rest of the journey back to Lockhaven passed in silence. At the stables, he leaped down,
then turned to lift her to the ground. Heather stood while he handed her her cane, feeling awkward without quite knowing why.

“There are some bookwork and maps you should review as well, Mr. Lewis. If you’d like, I’ll leave them on the desk in my study tomorrow morning. You can pick them up at your convenience.”

“I’ll do that, Miss Duval.” He inclined his head. “Good day.”

Several minutes later, she stood near the window in her room, watching him ride off in a cloud of dust. With a sigh, she allowed the dainty lace curtain to slip back into place.

Her gaited step took her across a delicately muted carpet of blue and gold, with a border of laurel leaves. She halted before a low mahogany chest of drawers fronted with rosewood accents. Occupying a place of honor atop the chest was a silver, claw-footed jewel case. Raised, polished scrollwork edged the side corners and top. Mother-of-pearl glistened as the lid caught the last fading rays of the sun. With a fingertip she traced the lettering etched within a small oval.

Her eyes grew tender. “Beloved,” she murmured aloud, then smiled wistfully. This jewel case was all she had left of her mother, Justine Duval. Miles had told her he’d always regretted that everything else had been smashed to smithereens in the accident—but for Heather, it was enough. She would treasure it always.

Yet in the next instant, her eyes grew cloudy. Feeling almost guilty, she raised the lid. Her fingers dipped within. But it was neither pearls
or jewels that she withdrew from the velvet-lined compartment.

It was the sketch of Damien Lewis.

Someday, she thought vaguely, she would like to paint him….

She studied the drawing, drawn to it by a force she couldn’t deny. She hadn’t been wrong. She could feel it in her heart, in every part of her. This was a man who had known pain, a man who knew it still….

A man with secrets?

Where the thought came from, she didn’t know. Disquieted by the notion, she bit her lip. The memory of the hour spent at Stonehurst flooded her mind.

He hadn’t seemed out of place at all, she realized. His manners were impeccable, his speech cultured. Certainly he was well-educated. Was he the son of some wealthy merchant? When he’d left this evening, he’d been so quiet. Almost brooding…Slowly she released her breath, stung by the feeling that all was not as it should be…. Who was he? Why was he here? He’d said he’d managed a plantation in Virginia. Was it true? Or did he have some hidden reason for coming to Lancashire—more precisely, to Lockhaven?

But that was preposterous. She was tired. The day had been a long one. That was all, for it wasn’t her nature to let her imagination run wild. No, she would not succumb to such whimsical musings. She would leave that to Beatrice.

After dinner, she went straight to bed. Sleep came soon and easily. But then she began to
dream…only it was not a dream of all things pleasant and restful and soothing.

She lay huddled in the dark, afraid to move, afraid of making the slightest sound…afraid of something, but she knew not what
.

She knew only that she must be quiet, for if she was not, she would be punished. And above all, she did not want that
.

Only it was so cold. A thin, tattered blanket was her only covering. The meager fire in the grate was almost out. And the floor was so hard. Dampness seeped through the floor so that she could barely stop shaking
.

Rolling to her side, she drew her knees to her chest. A tiny half-sob escaped. And then it was too late….

He’d heard her
.

Her eyes flew wide as he rose from the corner, a huge, hulking figure
.

She stifled her cry, for she knew she’d made him angry again…he was always angry. Terror iced her veins as he came to stand directly over her. Her heart pounded with fear. She wanted desperately to get up, to run, but there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. She tensed, for she dared not make a sound, not even the veriest peep. Perhaps if she lay there unmoving, he would leave her be
.

“Bitch,” came his raspy voice. “God, but I curse the day you were born.” Her eyes snapped open. She saw him then as he raised his fist high. In the glow of the firelight, his face was a twisted mask of rage….

She bolted upright in her bed. Her breath rushed from her lungs. Vivid in her mind was
that face…
his
face. In the dream, she couldn’t tell the color of his hair, yet she had the oddest feeling it was dark…but his eyes were gleaming pools of hatred…. In the dream, she knew that face—knew it and feared it.

She shuddered. It came to her at times when she was troubled, this dream. It had come to her often when she was younger, away at the school for ladies, which she’d so hated.

She wiped her palms on the counterpane. They were ice-cold and clammy. That terrible man in the dream…who was he? Was he someone she had seen before? How she wished she knew!—or did she? Perhaps it was better this way. Perhaps she was better off not knowing.

A shiver shook her slender form. She lay back down again, but this time she didn’t sleep…

For fear of dreaming.

Heather was not the only one to spend a restless night. Damien lay awake for ages; with a grimace, he finally rose from the bed. He shrugged into a robe, then poured a generous amount of brandy into a glass and moved to sit in a wing chair near the hearth.

But he drank only sparingly. For the most part he stared into the amber liquid, his mind twisting and turning. The darkness in his heart lent him no ease; the somber mood that had slipped over him at the Graysons’ persisted.

The day had been a revealing one, yet not in any way he might have foreseen. Indeed, he decided blackly, perhaps by now he should have begun to expect the
un
expected.

Perhaps it was small of him. Perhaps it was petty. But he couldn’t help but think most men would have been repelled by Heather’s lameness.

His mouth twisted. Hah! If only he were!

But there was something else as well, something he’d never bargained for, not in a hundred years. Respect for all she had accomplished in her young life. Admiration for her tenacity and ability to succeed despite her lameness.

He was reminded of Bridget—Heather’s concern for the elder woman’s well-being, her empathy for Bridget’s childless state these many years. Unless he was mistaken, such was not an idle case. Indeed, he thought slowly, it seemed that Heather possessed a goodness, a sweetness of spirit, that extended to all those she knew and cared for.

These things were real. As real as the love she bore for her family—the love they returned in full measure.

It was inevitable, perhaps. But Damien couldn’t help but think of what lay ahead for him….

A goodly portion of his voyage to England had been spent contemplating exactly that—his future. He’d spent his first ten years in Virginia devoting nearly all of his attention and efforts to Bayberry—to seeing the fruits of his labor realized. Women had been a pleasant diversion during that time, but he’d never contemplated marriage with any degree of seriousness, for no woman had captured his fancy to such an extent.

Bayberry had indeed prospered, and all he sought lay within his grasp. But it was only
recently that he’d come to a sense of his own limitations—another dimension of his deepest ambitions. He had no wish to see Bayberry—all he had worked for—pass into the hands of a stranger when he was gone. It was time he considered a family—a wife at his side. Children at his feet…

But Giles’s death had changed everything, he thought bleakly. And in that moment, Damien felt alone as never before. He hadn’t planned on inheriting the earldom; he didn’t
want
either the title or the responsibility. He’d much rather have Giles back….

But that could never be.

With a sigh, Damien set aside his glass. When this was over—when he’d found James Elliot—he must make a choice. A choice to return to Bayberry…or remain in England.

The fair Victoria had spoken of arrived several days later. Everyone in the manor house was abuzz with the news. Later that evening, Heather decided to pay a visit to the village. She enjoyed browsing among the goods brought by the various vendors. But most of all she enjoyed the gaiety and high spirits it wrought, as she had since she was a child.

The fair had been set up in the grassy meadow next to the bakery. Near the rectory, she left the pony and cart she used when she traveled alone then headed toward the meadow. She passed a cartload of fresh fish and wrinkled her nose at another of pale, sour oranges.

“Oh, come now,” shouted the vendor.
“They’re full o’goodness inside, I tell ye!” Heather merely shook her head, smiled and moved on.

“Look at this china, madam! Thin as air, mind you. Why, you can even see through it! Came straight from the tables of the Duke o’York, it did!”

She passed a tinker with braziers and grindstones, and a cart filled with crockery, then stopped to buy a dozen ells of satin hair ribbon, and spices for the kitchen. She gawked in amazement at the juggler and laughed with a group of children watching an organ grinder and his tiny monkey.

The next vendor, a tall, thin man clad in a stiff wool suit, had set out his display atop several large tables. Heather stopped curiously, for there were bottles and crocks of all shapes and sizes.

“Here’s a bargain for all you ladies, a lotion that will whiten your skin so’s it’s as fair as any beauty’s in London! You can have it for a crown—a tremendous sacrifice!”

“A crown!” one woman shouted back. “I vow it’s not worth a shilling, but that’s what I’ll offer!”

“A shilling! Why, that’s robbery! It cost more than that to make, but I’ll tell ye what. Half a crown and no less!”

The woman rolled her eyes.

He held a different, dark-colored bottle high. “How ’bout this? It’ll cure most any ailment from toothache to palsy.”

The woman walked away. Heather was about to do the same, but all at once her elbow was seized in a steely grip.

It was the vendor. “Wait, m’lady.” Gleaming eyes swept the length of her. “I saw ye come near, and I’ve a special salve, just for you. It’ll heal that leg o’yours, or my name’s not Peter Lennox.”

Something inside her seemed to shrivel. She shook her head.

“Oh, come now.” He pointed at her leg. “Ye can’t enjoy bein’ lame. Why, I used this salve on my crippled nephew, and he walks as straight as an arrow now.”

The crowd had moved on, and no one was watching. She tried to pull back, but the man’s grip was unrelenting.