Waltz With a Stranger (24 page)

She looked away, wondering if she would ever lose this heightened awareness of him, this consciousness of his every breath and motion. Casting about for a safe conversational topic, she said at last, “Amy loved the flowers you sent up. I’d only a glimpse of your garden this morning. Is it as fine as this all year round?”

“Flowers seem to flourish most here during spring and early summer. Although the gardeners at Pentreath work to keep the gardens looking their best, whatever the season.”

“Mama likes to garden back home. Unfortunately, Amy and I never got the knack of it.”

“My mother was an avid gardener too,” Trevenan remarked, smiling reminiscently. “Our garden at Chenoweth—our family home—was her pride and joy. She’d plant roses, daffodils, lupines, and lavender. Especially lavender; she’d make creams and lotions of it, and little sachets of dried lavender, to give to friends.”

“I love lavender,” Aurelia confessed. “It’s my favorite scent.”

“I know.”

Trevenan’s voice was soft, almost caressing, and she felt herself flush, remembering just how he might have come by that knowledge of her. Putting the memory aside, she said brightly, “So, tell me more about the Tresilians. I gather you and Sir Harry are close in age?”

“He’s just a year older. But we were inseparable as boys, and close even now. Harry’s been head of his family since he was twenty-one. His father, Hugh, was my mother’s eldest brother. My own father claimed that meeting the Tresilians—and eventually marrying one—saved him from becoming an irresponsible rogue, like too many younger sons.”

“That’s quite a compliment,” Aurelia mused. “But why did your other uncle—the late earl—object to them so? Supposedly, they were a good influence on your father, and Sir Harry does have a title, of sorts.”

“Ah, but a baronet is considerably less exalted than an earl, and then there’s the matter of the Tresilians’ involvement in trade.”

“The mine,” Aurelia said, understanding at once.

“Just so. Apparently, it wasn’t enough that my mother’s family owned a tin mine, but they had to take an active hand in its management and operation.” Trevenan’s tone was dry. “Clearly, that placed them beyond the pale for many aristocrats.”

“But, how foolish!” Aurelia exclaimed. “How can a business prosper unless the owner takes a direct hand in how it’s run?” She shook her head. “That’s one thing I’ll never understand about the English—this prejudice against a gentleman doing honest work for honest money.”

He smiled. “An American perspective that has much to recommend it. Fortunately, the Tresilians are just as pragmatic on that score—and thoroughly unapologetic about it. They’re impervious to snubs. I suspect that’s one reason Uncle Joshua found them so objectionable, though Aunt Judith thinks there might have been another reason for his antipathy.”

“Which was?”

“My mother, Carenza.” His tone warmed and softened over the name. “She was bright, pretty, vivacious—and she and my father fell headlong in love the first time they met. They married despite my uncle’s disapproval, and were very happy together. I suspect Uncle Joshua resented that his brother had the freedom to wed where he chose, and the temerity to make a success of it.”

“How sad that he couldn’t be happy
for
them instead,” Aurelia remarked.

“I’m afraid my uncle’s character wasn’t capable of that sort of generosity. Instead, he cut off most of his contact with my father, and would not receive my mother at Pentreath. And yet…” Trevenan paused, then continued in a quieter tone, “When my parents drowned in Italy on their second honeymoon, he arranged to have their ashes brought back to Cornwall and interred here. I owe him something for that—and for taking me in, difficult though our relationship was.”

“Was he your sole guardian?”

“My parents named both him and Harry’s father as my guardians,” he said after a moment. “Uncle Hugh was willing to take me in, but he’d five children at home and barely enough room for them, so it was decided that, as a Trelawney, I should live at Pentreath.”

Where his aristocratic uncle continually belittled his mother’s family, and his cousins bullied him, Aurelia thought. And where affection of any kind appeared to have been thin on the ground. A bleak situation for a boy bereft of loving parents. Aloud she said, “Pentreath is such a handsome house. I am sorry that it wasn’t a happier one, when you were growing up there.”

He exhaled. “I managed. And there were moments, even then. My father spent his boyhood at Pentreath. I felt…close to him there. And to my uncle’s credit, I was not forbidden to see the Tresilians, though I suspect Aunt Judith had a hand in that.”

“Your aunt seems wonderfully adept at managing even the most difficult people.”

“She is, indeed. Talking of which, have you encountered the Durwards at all today?”

She shook her head. “Your aunt said at breakfast that they were keeping to their rooms. And they didn’t come down to luncheon either.”

“So I noticed, though I doubt we’ll be spared much longer.” Trevenan sighed. “I daresay they’ll venture out this evening, or possibly tomorrow, if we’re lucky.”

“I don’t understand why Lady Durward dislikes you so. Is it merely that she resents seeing you in her brother’s place?”

“That may be part of it,” he replied. “But the truth of the matter is, I’ve never fully understood Helena. We got on no better than Gerald and I, though he was my chief tormentor.”

“Were she and her brother close?”

“I wouldn’t have said so, myself. They seemed united in their dislike of me, I suppose, but to the best of my recollection, they quarreled just as frequently among themselves.”

“You can quarrel fiercely with your brothers and sisters, but still fight against anything or anyone that threatens them,” she pointed out. “That happened often enough with Amy and me.”

“You and Amy? But you have always seemed to me the very dearest of friends.”

“We are. But that doesn’t mean we’ve never quarreled or competed against each other. Less so now, of course, than when we were children,” she added reflectively. “Possibly because we’ve grown up to be quite different people, who might not want the very same things—”

She broke off, struck by the irony of her own words. However much she and Amy had matured, however close they were now, the fact remained that they both wanted one thing very badly indeed: the man who happened to be sitting beside her right now.

And he wanted only one of them, Aurelia reminded herself. He wanted Amy; he was betrothed to her. This odd intimacy that she’d sensed growing between them was nothing more than a fluke—the result of propinquity. If Amy had been on the beach this morning, surely Trevenan would have unburdened himself to
her
, his future wife, rather than his soon-to-be sister-in-law. Or would he? He’d asked her not to discuss this business with Amy, after all.

Trevenan’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Well, whatever rivalry you and Amy might have engaged in back in the day, comparing the two of you to Gerald and Helena is quite a stretch. Still,” he added, “they do say blood is thicker than water. Helena claims to want justice for Gerald. And as his cousin and successor, I suppose I’m bound to find it for him—if I can.”

By now, they had reached the outskirts of St. Perran. The Tresilians lived at the bottom of a valley, Trevenan told her. Not far from the beach, though they did not have the sea at their doorstep, as he now did. As they neared their destination, a lone rider came ambling up the lane. Sighting the gig, he reined in his horse—a fine-looking chestnut—and raised a hand in greeting.

“Trevenan! Good afternoon. I hadn’t heard you were back.”

The earl halted the gig in turn. “Nankivell,” he said, after a brief pause that made Aurelia wonder how well he knew this man. “Good afternoon to you. Yes, I just got in yesterday.”

“From London, I understand? Splendid city. I wonder you could bring yourself to leave it. I always regret doing so, myself.”

“On the contrary, I am always glad to return home.” Trevenan’s tone was pleasant but slightly distant.

“And what a charming companion you’ve brought with you,” the other man went on, edging his horse forward. “Might I beg the pleasure of an introduction?”

“Miss Newbold, this is Sir Lucas Nankivell, Baronet, of St. Perran,” Trevenan said in that same neutral tone. “Sir Lucas, Miss Aurelia Newbold—one of my guests, from London.”

Sir Lucas sketched a graceful bow from his saddle. “Enchanted to make your acquaintance, Miss Newbold.”

Aurelia inclined her head and murmured a bland pleasantry in response. Despite Sir Lucas’s courtesy and polished manners, she felt acutely self-conscious as his gaze swept over her. As if every stitch of her clothing—indeed, every hair on her head—was being calculated and assessed.
Item—two lips, indifferent red, one visiting costume by Worth, one scarred cheek
…She was suddenly glad that, sitting in the gig, her limp was not visible to this stranger’s eye.

It was tempting to take refuge in shyness, to play the little mouse again.
But
a
cat
could
look
at
a
king, after all
, she reminded herself, and gazed back just as frankly. Sir Lucas was perhaps a few years older than Trevenan, and while she did not think him as handsome, he was a fine figure of a man, blessed with an athletic form and attractive, regular features. Slate-blue eyes under straight brows, slightly curling brown hair, fashionably cut. His clothes were fashionable too. He wore just the sort of riding apparel a London gentleman might favor for a morning in Hyde Park: dapper, but subtly out of place here in Cornwall. Indeed, there was something just a bit—citified about Sir Lucas, right down to his speech, which bore no trace of a Cornish accent. Indeed, if she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought him a Londoner.

“You are on your way to call on Sir Harry, at Roswarne?” Sir Lucas inquired.

“We are,” Trevenan confirmed with a brief nod.

“Well, then, don’t let me keep you. Pray, give my regards to Sir Harry—and to Miss Tresilian as well.” Sir Lucas’s eyes and voice changed subtly at those last words, becoming warmer, almost intimate.

A telling sign, Aurelia thought, as was the sudden speculative narrowing of Trevenan’s eyes. “I’ll tell them” was all he said, as he took up the reins again. “Good day, Nankivell.”

“Good day.” Sir Lucas touched his hat brim again, then kneed his horse forward.

“A friend?” Aurelia asked in a low voice as they started down the road again.

He shook his head. “More of an acquaintance. Nankivell’s one of Harry’s neighbors. I don’t know the man that well myself.”

“I don’t mean to criticize, but he strikes me as a bit of a dandy.”

“Not too surprising. I gather he has a fondness for London life.” Trevenan shrugged. “Well, not every landowner is content to spend all his time here. Cornwall’s still regarded as thoroughly provincial; some prefer to swim in a bigger pond.”

“Who’d choose a pond when they could have the sea instead?” Aurelia wondered.

That drew a smile from him. “Just so. But I’ve accepted that as a matter of individual taste, however misguided.”

“He mentioned a Miss Tresilian? One of Sir Harry’s sisters?”

“Sophie, the youngest daughter,” he confirmed. “And good Lord, I do believe she’s ready to come out next spring! It seems only yesterday she was playing with her dolls.”

“Oh, young girls tend to grow up very quickly,” Aurelia informed him. “How many sisters are there in the family? You mentioned five children in all.”

“Two sisters. There’s Harry, then Cecily—who’s now married—then John—he’s Andrew’s age—then Sophie, and finally Peter, who’s away at school. Harry became guardian to them all after my uncle died, but only Sophie and Peter are still minors.”

“Do they all still live in Cornwall?”

“For the most part, although Cecily’s husband lives on the south coast. John finished university last summer. He’s thinking about reading law, eventually, but for now, he’s home helping with the mine. And speaking of which,” he added, “here, just before us, is Roswarne.”

Cued as much by the lift in his voice as his words, Aurelia glanced ahead and saw the Tresilian home. Roswarne had none of Pentreath’s splendor, but it was a handsome residence: part brick, part timber, with the clean, simple lines of Georgian architecture.

“This was a farmhouse, originally,” Trevenan told her as they headed up the drive. “Built toward the middle of the last century. Of course, it’s been augmented over the years.”

“It looks comfortable. Not as grand as Pentreath, but it has a style of its own.”

He smiled. “It does indeed. My mother grew up here, and in some ways, this felt more like a second home to me than Pentreath.”

As they neared the front door, a dark-haired man in shirtsleeves came around the side of the house and stopped in his tracks when he saw them. “Good Lord. James?”

“Harry!” Trevenan exclaimed, breaking into a brilliant smile. “Glad to find you at home!” He brought the gig to a stop and vaulted out as the man strode forward to greet him.

“Delighted to see
you
back where you belong.” Sir Harry clasped Trevenan’s hand at once. “I’d heard you got in yesterday. I was just thinking of calling on you.”

Trevenan laughed, an unexpectedly carefree sound. “I’ve saved you the trouble, then.” He turned to hand Aurelia down from the gig, then proceeded with the introductions. “Miss Aurelia, my cousin Sir Harry Tresilian. Harry, Miss Aurelia Newbold—my intended’s sister.”

Aurelia studied the man before her. Sir Harry was not especially tall, but he was well-built, broad-shouldered, and compact. His dark hair showed glints of mahogany, and his eyes were the clear grey-green of seawater on a fine day. She could see the resemblance between him and Trevenan, the strong planes of the face as well as the dark coloring. And something more intangible—a flash of spirit and a sense of strength, enduring as the Cornish cliffs.

Now he smiled, revealing a flash of white teeth in an attractively sun-browned face, as he bowed over Aurelia’s hand. “Delighted to meet you, Miss Newbold. Welcome to Roswarne.”