Impetuous Innocent. Stephanie Laurens
and cattle dotted the pastures. All was neat and pleasant perfection. As if to give its blessing, the sun struck through the clouds, bathing the scene in warmth and brightness.
Georgiana was even more impressed when they reached the park of Candlewick Hall. Two stone eagles, perched atop tall gateposts, stood guard. Between them, massive wrought-iron gates hung wide. A neat gravelled drive led onwards, curving away between two lines of beech trees. The horses appreciated the even surface and trotted easily onward. Georgiana looked about her and was pleased to approve. This was how she had imagined an English gentleman’s country residence would look, with trimmed shrubberies and manicured lawns falling away on one side to an ornamental lake, a white summer-house perched on an island in the middle. The vista had about it an air of peace and tranquillity. As the coach swept around a bend, she caught a glimpse of colour through the green of the trees—presumably the gardens, which meant the house was near. She scooted to the other side of the coach and looked out.
Her eyes grew round and her lips formed an “Oh” of delight.
Candlewick Hall rose before her, its cream stone walls touched here and there with bright creeper. Three storeys of square-paned windows looked down on the gravel court before the front steps. In the morning light, the house was cloaked in a still serenity, a peaceful solidity, which tugged oddly at her. Candlewick Hall embodied everything she had come back to England to find.
The pace of the coach was checked, and they rocked to a stop before the white steps leading up to two massive front doors. Ben swung down and came to assist her to alight. He escorted her up the steps and plied the heavy knocker.
Georgiana faced the heavy wooden doors. It had seemed much easier to claim help from an unknown lady when she had been sitting in her bed last night. But the memory of Charles’s ravings stiffened her resolve. As the sound of footsteps drew nearer, she took a deep breath and fixed a confident smile on her lips.
“Yes?”
A stately butler looked majestically down upon her.
“Good morning. My name is Georgiana Hartley. I wonder if I might have a word with Lady Alton?”
Georgiana was pleased with her tone. She sounded confident and in control, despite the fact she was inwardly quaking. If the butler was this starchy, what was his mistress like? She kept her chin up and waited.
The butler did not move. Georgiana felt her confidence draining, dissipating like the morning mist under the intensity of his scrutiny. She wondered if the man was hard of hearing, and was gathering her courage to repeat her request in more strident tones when he smiled, quite kindly, and bowed. “If you will step into the drawing-room, Miss Hartley, I will inform Lord Alton immediately.”
Buoyed by her success, Georgiana was across the threshold before she analysed his words. She came to an abrupt halt. “Oh! But it was Lady Alton I wished to see.”
“Yes, of course, miss. If you would take a seat?”
Unable to resist the deferential and strangely compelling courtesy of the impeccable butler, Georgiana found herself ushered into a beautifully appointed room and made comfortable in a wing-chair. Having ascertained that she was not in need of any refreshment thus early in the day, the dignified personage withdrew.
Feeling slightly dazed, Georgiana looked about her. The interior of Candlewick Hall did justice to its exterior. Exquisite taste and a judicious eye had chosen and arranged all the furnishings, creating and enhancing a mood of peace and serenity to match that of the gardens. Her hazel gaze wandered over the room, coming to rest on the large painting in pride of place above the mantelpiece. As a painter’s daughter, she could not do otherwise than admire Fragonard. She was intrigued, nevertheless, to find a picture incorporating numerous naked female forms so publicly displayed. A more private room would, she thought, have been more appropriate. But then, she reminded herself, she knew nothing of the latest whims of English social taste. And there was no doubt the Fragonard was an exquisite work of art.
The subtle colours of the room slowly eased her tension, seeping into her sight and mind. Georgiana smiled to herself and settled back in the chair. Candlewick Hall seemed designed to calm the senses. With a grateful sigh, she relaxed.
The effects of three late nights dragged at her eyelids. She would close them. Just for a moment.
“THERE’S A YOUNG LADY to see you, m’lord.”
Dominic Ridgeley, fifth Viscount Alton, lifted his blue eyes to his butler’s face. Around him, on the polished mahogany table, the remains of a substantial breakfast bore mute testimony to his recent occupation. But the dishes had been pushed aside to make way for a pile of letters, one of which his lordship clasped in one longfingered hand.
“I beg your pardon?”
“A young lady has called, m’lord.” Not a quiver of emotion showed on the butler’s lined face.
Lord Alton’s black brows rose. His features became perceptibly harder, his blue gaze perceptibly chillier. “Have you taken leave of your senses, Duckett?”
Such a question, in such a tone, would have reduced most servants to incoherent gibbering. But Duckett was a butler of the highest standing. And he had known the present Lord Alton from the cradle. He answered the question with an infinitesimal smile. “Naturally not, m’lord.”
His answer appeared to appease his master. Lord Alton regarded his henchman with a puzzled and slightly wary frown. “Oh?”
At the prompt, Duckett explained. “It seems the young lady requires assistance with some difficulty, m’lord. She asked to see Lady Alton. She appears to be in some distress. I thought it wise not to turn her away. Her name is Miss Hartley.”
“Hartley?” The black brows drew down. “But there aren’t any Miss Hartleys at the Place, are there?”
In response to his master’s quizzical look, Duckett graciously informed him, “I have heard that Mr James Hartley’s daughter has been visiting the Place for the past few days. From the Continent, I believe.”
“Staying with frightful Charles? Poor girl.”
“Exactly so, m’lord.”
Lord Alton fixed Duckett with a suspicious look. “You said she was distressed. She’s not weeping and having the vapours, is she?”
“Oh, no, m’lord. Miss Hartley is perfectly composed.”
Lord Alton frowned again. “Then how do you know she’s distressed?”
Duckett coloured slightly. “It was her hands, m’lord. She was clutching her reticule so tightly, her knuckles were quite white.”
Suitably impressed by his butler’s astuteness, Lord Alton leant back in his chair, absent-mindedly laying the letter he had been reading on the pile before him. Then he glanced up. “You think I should see her?”
Duckett met his master’s eye and did not misunderstand his question. No one who was acquainted with Lord Alton could fail to comprehend the delicacy of the matter. For a young lady to meet a gentleman alone, particularly in the gentleman’s house, with no other lady anywhere about, was hardly the sort of behaviour someone as conservative as Duckett would normally encourage. And when the gentleman in question was Lord Dominic Alton, the situation took on an even more questionable hue. But Duckett’s perception was acute. Miss Hartley was in trouble and out of her depth. His master could be relied upon to provide the answer to her troubles. And, regardless of his reputation, she stood in no danger from him. She was too young and too green, not his type at all. So, Duckett cleared his throat and said, “Despite the—er—conventions, yes, m’lord, I think you should see her.”
With a sigh, Lord Alton rose, stretching to his full six feet. Relaxing, he shook out his cuffs and settled his dark blue coat over his broad shoulders. Then he looked up and wagged an admonitory finger at Duckett. “If this lands me in scandal, old friend, it’ll be all your fault.”
Duckett grinned and opened the door for his master. “As you wish, m’lord.