The Earl's Enticement (Castle Bride Series) (17 page)

Dugall’s confused gaze darted from Roark to Sethwick before settling on his sister. “I’ll leave ye to yer . . . discussion.”

The giant beside him nodded his blond head and muttered, “Aye, I need to speak with Niall about, uh, something.”

The men beat a hasty retreat, casting wary glances at Adaira over their broad shoulders as they rounded the stable’s exit. She paid them no heed, but directed an irate glare at Sethwick.

His attention lingered on the door, as if he, too, yearned to escape his sister’s wrath.

“I’ve agreed to all his demands.” She pointed at Roark.

“I’ll attend his confounded house party and any others he dictates I should.” She shot him a venom laced glower. “Though, Lord knows, I’ll go out of my mind with the tedium and simpering and posturing.”

She drew in a deep breath. Roark covertly watched the rise and fall of her bosom. For one so slight of figure, she was generously endowed. His manhood pulsed.

Down, lad.

For one horrified moment, he’d feared he’d said that aloud. Except, his jaw was tightly clenched. He was learning to keep his lips firmly pressed together when not intentionally speaking to her.

She shoved a stray curl back under her bonnet. “I’ll go to London for the Season, put myself on display like a mare at Tattersall’s.”

She rested her hands on her hips. “Shall I permit the gentlemen to inspect my teeth, Brother? My hair?”

She lifted her hem, exposing her petite foot. “My feet?”

Roark’s lips curved in appreciation as her dress inched upward another pair of inches.

“My legs?” She turned sideways and stuck out her deliciously rounded bottom. “My arse?”

Oh, my God
.

Roark bit the inside of his cheek. He should be appalled. Instead, he fought the urge to laugh. Or reach and touch her tempting
derrière
.

Scowling, Sethwick opened his mouth.

She straightened, cutting him off before he uttered a sound. “What, no? Well, then I’ll smile and be gracious and pretend to be dazzled by the glitz and glamour.”

Adaira stood with her arms akimbo, tapping her foot. “I’m wearing stays and gowns, Ewan. My hair’s been tugged and tucked and pinned until I fear I might go bald. Mother’s given me enough lotions and creams to lighten my freckles and soften my hands, I might as well be a greased goose.”

Her voice had risen to a shout.

She paused in her tirade and cast a longing look at her stallion. “I’m not riding Fionn, because I don’t have a riding habit that fits, and he’s not been trained to a blasted sidesaddle.”

“I’ve got elbow length gloves on in the stables.” Tears glistened in her eyes. Her gaze dropped to her fisted hands. “I couldn’t find my short gloves.”

Adaira stomped to her brother. She wiggled the fingers of her right hand beneath Sethwick’s nose. “Fancy gloves, Ewan. In the stables! I’m even using this preposterous atrocity.”

She raised the parasol and shook it. He ducked when she nearly whacked him aside the head with the flailing sunshade.

“Enough, Adaira,” Sethwick snapped, clearly at the end of his patience.

“Enough? I’ll give you enough.” She poked him in the chest with the parasol. Then poked him again. He jumped backward when she lunged at him a third time.

Sethwick’s brows swooped into a dark scowl. “Do that again, and I’ll snap that blasted thing in two.”

Behind her, Roark choked on a guffaw. She’d done the same thing to him with her confounded crop.

With a final glare at Ewan and Roark, Adaira stomped from the stables, muttering under her breath.

Zeus, but she was splendid when in a temper. She’d outshine everyone else in London. Why hadn’t he seen it before? She was a diamond of the first water. A rough diamond, true, but he’d have her polished to blinding brilliance by Season’s start.

She was bound to snare a husband with her exquisite beauty, petite lushness, and soon-to-be impeccable behavior. And she’d a sizable dowry too, he’d learned. Some lucky chap was going to be damned fortunate.

A glower settled on his face.

Bloody hell.

That hadn’t been his purpose for taming her at all.

CHAPTER 17

Drat. Adaira hoped the outing would be postponed, or better yet, abandoned altogether.

From her chamber window she surveyed Cadbury Park. The week prior to her departure had flown by with no reprieve. If she hadn’t been so disheartened, she’d have enjoyed the bird bathing in a puddle and the colorful prisms dancing across a pond’s surface. The sun valiantly shone, a bright beacon promising an afternoon favorable for a picnic as was planned.

In the early morning hours, a summer tempest blew by, fierce but short-lived. The parched ground eagerly drank the torrential rain. The wind whipped its furious fingers through the trees. Leaves scattered and scraped to-and-fro, leaving the ground littered in a verdant blanket. Now, the sun caressed the earth with its calming rays.

The bright beams were already hard at work drying the few damp remnants of the shower. Beyond the tree tops, a vibrant rainbow glowed. Several fountains, mazes, and manicured gardens bursting with flowers of every hue imaginable were visible from her second story room.

Cadbury Park was a meticulously cared for estate.

No surprise there. Since Adaira had met the man, she’d learned the Earl of Clarendon insisted upon order and structure. For one still quite young, he was most stodgy. Everything, at all times, must be within propriety’s bounds.

How utterly dull and tiresome.

Except for his shameless behavior in the stable
.

Stop
.

She wouldn’t think of it, of his entirely disarming kisses. Why, for pity’s sake, did her body betray her at his touch? She responded to him like the wanton he’d called her. Her mind screeched
no
while her traitorous body acted the part of a light-skirt. It didn’t help that his chest and shoulders were rounded with well-defined, oh so, firm muscles that felt glorious beneath her hand.

Stop, dunderhead.

Twice now, he’d kissed her. Passionately. And she’d not resisted.
Resisted?
No, she’d clung to him like a tick on a hound. She’d even allowed her gaze to linger on his long legs and tight bum.

And the substantial bulge in his pantaloons
.

Adaira pinched the back of her hand to stop her wayward thoughts.

Enough! What is wrong with me?

It served no purpose to dwell on those moments in the stable. She needed to focus on the present and how she’d endure a month under the same roof as his lordship. He didn’t think her capable of behaving like a lady. Her ardent responses in the stable hadn’t lent to that opinion, now had they?

A smile tugged her lips upwards. She’d charm his lordship’s socks off.

Oh, you just wait and see, your Royal Pompousness
.
I’ll be the quintessence of tonnish decorum.

Her gaze returned to the immaculate grounds. Heaven forbid there be a weed or spent flower amongst the groomed beds. No doubt the earl required the deer and squirrels, even the birds and bees, to ask permission before they were allowed access to the charming gardens.

She could almost hear his condescending voice as he addressed the creatures.

Please do take care not to trod upon the flowers or leave any droppings.

Truthfully, the beautiful grounds were a startling contrast to the austerity of the mansion’s outer facade. When she’d arrived early yesterday evening, the manor had been bathed in a misty rain. The structure sat beneath the sunless sky, the same dismal shade of pewter gray as the heavens above. From without, the monstrous house appeared unwelcoming, almost hostile. Its dark windows reflected no light, like great soulless eyes. A shiver had tripped across her shoulders.

She wasn’t being fanciful. The place emanated unhappiness.

They were admitted to the manor by a one-armed, stooped shouldered butler. Despite his physical restrictions, the man bore an air of poised dignity. With an infinitesimal bending of his lips, he intoned, “Welcome to Cadbury Park. I am Westbrook.”

He bowed deeply. “If you have need of anything at all, please let me know. His lordship’s greatest desire is that you enjoy your stay.”

A stunning circular entry, complete with a glossy black marble floor and eight Roman pillars, boasted a crystal chandelier that was every bit of six feet tall. It loomed overhead, dead center of the entrance hall. Craning her neck, Adaira suppressed a gasp of astonishment. A domed window atop the entry filtered what light the late afternoon offered. The chandelier’s prisms would create a glorious web of color when the sun struck it from above.

Dual ornately carved staircases leading to the upper wings graced the opposite side of the entry. Two pocket doors, one on either side of the entrance hall revealed a drawing room and library.

A flash of movement caught her eye. Adaira surreptitiously peeked into the library.

Good heavens, was that an owl? Perched in a large cage, the pigeon-sized bird was mottled chestnut brown and white. It blinked its great dark eyes at her, then rotated its head nearly all the way around.

Two more doors, closed to curious eyes, were positioned near the staircases. Beyond the stairs were several more doorways. An assortment of luxurious chairs and glossy tables were strategically placed throughout the grand entrance. Lush bouquets graced several of the tabletops. In comparison, Craiglocky’s furnishings seemed outdated and worn.

Comfortable though, and unpretentious.

Unlike the room she’d been assigned as her bedchamber.

Decorated in shades of green, ivory, and peach, the chamber shouted opulence from the lush jade carpet she stood upon—the exact shade of the moors at dawn—to the thick peach and cream counterpane. Silk papered walls, resplendent with impossibly detailed images of tropical birds and plants, paled against the gilded gold framed paintings and mirrors. Even the furnishings, tinted a pale eggshell, were embellished with flowering vines.

“The carriages be waiting, Miss Adaira.” Maisey held a straw bonnet. The crown was adorned with a slew of pale blue, white, and lavender silk roses. They matched the lavender braiding edging Adaira’s blue spencer.

Taking the bonnet from Maisey, Adaira’s lips twisted wryly. “I look like a great confection.”

“Nae, ye look grand.” Maisey cocked her head. “Are ye sure yer jacket won’t be too hot?”

Would it?

“You may be right. Why don’t you fetch my gauze shawl, Maisey? I’ll take it along as well. Yesterday was too warm by far. I’ve no idea how much shade is available along the lake’s edge.”

Adaira searched the landscape with a blasé eye, noting several tall groves of trees in the distance near the lake. Her gaze lit on the magnificent stables and meadows a good ways from the manor house. Fionn, his sleek ebony mane streaming behind him and legs stretched into a full run, streaked across a meadow.

Braggart
.

Three mares, including the one she’d met in Craiglocky’s stables, galloped behind him.

Trollops.

Fiend seize it. She’d lost that battle. Never had she felt so betrayed by her family. Where was their allegiance? Lord Clarendon snapped his fingers, and they fawned all over him.

Forcing her to stud Fionn with the earl’s mares was outside of enough. Now, she’d forever be linked to
His Regal Stuffiness
. She ran her practiced gaze over the mares. From here, they looked to be prime steppers. That rankled. She’d hoped his lordship’s horses would be sway-backed queer prancers.

Adaira took the bonnet. Setting it on her head, she loosely tied the wide ribbon to the right of her chin.

After tugging on her gloves, she gathered her reticule, her parasol, and a book of Coleridge’s poems. She’d no intention of reading, but the book afforded her an excuse to bury her nose in its musty pages and ignore the earl. Taking the shawl from the maid, Adaira draped it over one arm.

Due to their late arrival last night, she’d been spared dining with her host. Fortune surely wouldn’t smile on her as benevolently from this point onward. Most of the guests were arriving for the ball today or tomorrow. His lordship had insisted she be present for the event. It would be one taxing gathering upon another, every day, for thirty days.

With no hope of reprieve.

Torturous.

She’d overheard one of the upstairs maids tell Maisey one hundred guests were expected to stay at least two weeks. In excess of three hundred were invited to the ball. Adaira cringed. Did he have to invite
that
many people?

Gads. It made her head spin.

Firming her lips, Adaira closed her eyes. She inhaled slowly. She could do this. God help her, she must. The perfume from two enormous vases of flowers teased her nostrils. She sneezed, her eyes popping open.

She sighed. “I’ll wear the ivory mull with the silver embroidery tonight, Maisey.”

The latest fashion, the gown was modest and sophisticated—the essence of the role she was compelled to assume.

“Aye, miss. I’ll hang it to air.” The lady’s maid dutifully headed to the wardrobe.

“Thank you.”

Adaira left her chamber, her contemplation returning to the source of her agitation. She’d insisted on introducing Fionn to Lord Clarendon’s stables. She refused to utter more than a half dozen words to his lordship as she did so.

She sighed again while slipping her reticule’s drawstrings over her wrist. Surliness was out of the question from this point onward. She was determined to be the epitome of ladylike conduct and, perchance, shorten her term of indenture.

Toward that end, she plastered a demure smile on her face and made her way to the waiting carriages. Not so much as one peevish word would fall from her lips.

She could do it.

All she had to do was avoid Lord Clarendon at every turn.

Leaning against the fence of one of Cadbury’s many pastures, Roark extended his hand. The mare greedily snatched the apple from his palm. He’d purchased the ancient nag he’d ridden into Craigcutty and turned her out to pasture. She’d never carry a rider again. She was in good company. A blind mule, a deaf sheep, and two arthritic plow horses were her new companions.

In the adjoining field, Fionn, Tenacity, and two of Roark’s largest mares romped happily. He grinned. Adaira’s eyes had snapped with fury when she led the stallion to his stall in Cadbury’s stables last evening. Roark allowed her the small concession. He didn’t need her raising a breeze her first day here.

A hard knock against the back of his knees made him grip the fencepost for balance. Guinevere’s cold nose snuffled his hand, then his coat pocket. Roark chuckled. “Yes, old girl, I’ve a treat for you too.”

He patted her shaggy head. The dog, tail wagging furiously and tongue lolling, turned her head to look at him with her good eye.

The rattle of carriage wheels on stone drew his attention to the courtyard. Helene’s driver expertly tooled the conveyance to the front of the manor where the barouche joined another pair of barouches, as well as three wagonettes, two wagons laden with picnicking supplies, and a landau.

Why were the supplies still here? They ought to have gone on ahead to prepare for his guests’ arrival. A maid scurried from the house and handed Westbrook a basket before she climbed into the wagon. Roark grinned as his diligent butler lifted the cloth and peered inside before giving a sharp nod of his head.

Evidently something had been forgotten. Westbrook returned the hamper to the maid, then spoke to the wagons’ drivers. A moment later, the vehicles lurched and rumbled down the lane.

Several guests loitered about the circular drive while others had already been directed to their seats by his footmen, Oscar and Thom. Both walked with slight limps, a result of wounds acquired during the war with the French. A few gentlemen, including Luxmoore and the Fergusons, chose to ride horseback rather than in an equipage.

The picnic party was relatively small, perhaps thirty in all. Those present consisted primarily of the local gentry. A few intended to stay at the manor, but most would seek their homes at the end of the day and return for tomorrow’s activities. The house would be swollen with guests come nightfall, however.

Roark’s gaze roved the monstrosity that was his home. Even washed in sunlight, the place reminded him of a tomb. There had been so little joy within its walls. A familiar pang wrenched his heart.

Just then, Adaira emerged from the entrance. Roark’s breath hung suspended for a moment. Breathtaking in a white and blue gown and blue spencer edged with lavender, a smile lit her radiant face. She lightly skipped down the steps, almost stumbling over a pair of frolicking kittens. She regained her balance and paused to stroke each of their mottled backs. Raising her head, she smiled and headed for the carriage containing her family.

Thom approached her saying, “Miss, over here, please.” With a sweep of his hunter green clad arm, he directed her to the landau instead. Confusion skittered across her beautiful face. She shrugged her shoulders, and waving her fingers at her mother and sisters, dutifully followed him. After handing her into the vehicle, Thom bowed smartly before making his way to Westbrook’s side.

Once Adaira adjusted her skirts, she opened her parasol and covertly scrutinized the other guests. She almost seemed shy, using the contraption as a protective barrier against the many inquisitive glances sent her way. A peculiar urge to protect her assailed Roark.

Helene spied him and began waving her handkerchief enthusiastically. She turned and said something to the balding man sitting beside her. Annoyance pinched his face. He grudgingly moved to the opposite seat, already occupied by a younger gentleman holding a squirming dachshund puppy. The men must be the Austrian relatives she’d mentioned were coming for a visit.

Roark strode toward the mansion, his lips turned up slightly. Helene expected him to ride with her. He had other plans—discussing the breeding venture with Adaira, to be precise. Confined to the same vehicle for the two miles it took to reach the lake, she’d be forced to hear him out. With the other guests also in open-topped carriages, there would be no question of impropriety.