The Rake of Hollowhurst Castle. Elizabeth Beacon
joyfully, as if his rider had enjoyed the tussle for supremacy that Brutus already seemed to know he’d lost from the half-hearted nature of his last trial of strength with his conqueror—until the next time.
Rosie had watched with spellbound awe as the stranger mastered the curvetting horse with ease, then leapt out of the saddle as soon as the fiery beast was quiet and produced a carrot from the depths of his greatcoat pocket, which he bestowed on the huge black stallion with an affectionate pat.
‘He’s certainly not changed for the better since I was last in England,’ the young man had shouted cheerfully at Tom Varleigh, who was watching the show with an appreciative grin on his face.
‘Why d’you think I chose the chestnut when my father offered us the pick of his stable?’ Tom replied.
‘Because you have an unfriendly wish to see me summarily unshipped into the snow, dear cousin?’ the stranger said as part of his identity became clear to the girls, who strained to see and hear all.
A cousin of well-connected Tom Varleigh, and he’d been overseas, probably with the military if the cut of that greatcoat was anything to go by. Rosie could practically hear Maria calculating his eligibility or otherwise to become her husband as soon as she could arrange it, and she had felt a primitive scream of denial rise just in time to hold it back and briefly wonder at herself, before her attention was once more fixed on the young man in front of them.
‘I’ve a far stronger one not to take a tumble myself,’ Tom had admitted.
The tall stranger responded by laughing and picking up a handful of snow to throw at Tom. They had a fine snowball battle going and all three young men looked as if they really had fallen off their horses into the heavy drifts after all when Sir Granger Courland appeared in the wide doorway and laughed even more loudly than his youthful visitors at their boisterous antics.
A smile lifted Roxanne’s wistfully curved lips now at that poignant memory of her great-uncle, enjoying his duties as master and host of Hollowhurst Castle to the full, even as she blinked back a tear that he was no longer here to do so. Uncle Granger had been born to welcome guests and throw open his generous hall to them, she decided, picturing his still tall figure that had grown a little stout over the years. Sir Granger’s hair had still been dark at sixty-five, even if his side-whiskers were grey, and his great voice could often be heard from one end of the hunting field to the other. He’d seemed so undimmed by the march of time while she was growing up that she’d made the mistake of thinking him indestructible.
‘Welcome, one and all, and the compliments of the season to you,’ he’d bellowed at the suddenly still group, she remembered, finding the past more attractive than the present again. ‘Whoever have you brought me, Davy? It’s not that Varleigh fellow we kept falling over at every turn last summer, is it?’
David had laughed and pulled Tom into the light, where he smiled sheepishly and earnestly said he hoped he hadn’t worn out his welcome.
‘Never, you’ll always find one by my fireside, lad—but who else do we have here? A circus rider, perhaps, or some damn-your-eyes cavalry officer?’
‘Neither, sir, I’m Tom Varleigh’s cousin, and only a humble sailor. Your grand-nephew invited me here for the season out of the goodness of his heart.’
‘Goodness of his heart? He hasn’t got any,’ Uncle Granger teased his heir, who was nearly as soft-hearted and hospitable as he was himself. ‘If he had, he’d have managed to get himself sent down weeks ago, for we all miss him sorely. Come on in, boy,’ he bellowed and the stranger obeyed, laughing at some unheard comment from his cousin Tom as he went.
Once in front of the great doorway and almost within sight of a warm fire and a good meal after his long day, the stranger had taken off his sailor’s bi-corn and the flaring light lovingly picked up the brightness of his curly blond hair that reflected gold back at them. From her hiding place, Roxanne had strained to see every detail of his lithe figure; a totally novel admiration she didn’t truly understand making her drink in this splendid young man, from the wide grin on his tanned face to his travel-stained boots. He bowed elegantly to his host and presented himself to be duly inspected. The lamplight twinkled on the highly polished brass buttons and the single epaulette on his dark blue coat that indicated he was a lieutenant in his Majesty’s Navy, once he’d stripped off his wet greatcoat and presented it to the waiting footman.
‘Lieutenant Charles Afforde of the Trojan at your service, Sir Granger,’ he had said in that deep husky-toned voice that sent shivers down Rosie’s spine as she peered out of the darkness, as enthralled as if she truly was under the spell of some ancient sorceress.
Little Rosie Courland had stood in her chilly hiding place and forgotten the cold and the spiny darkness, awed by every detail of this young demi-god as she fell youthfully and completely in love after all. She’d felt the deep, unknown thrill of it shiver right through her at the very thought of actually meeting such a splendid specimen of manhood instead of worshipping from afar. Miss Roxanne Courland recalled with a cynical grimace how underwhelmed he’d been by that meeting when it came and tried not to squirm for her youthful, deluded self, even as her memory insisted on drawing her back to that snowy night so long ago, as if intent on reminding her what folly extreme youth was capable of.
‘Didn’t know Samphire had a boy in the navy,’ her uncle had roared on, oblivious to the fact that his youngest great-niece had just had her world rebuilt by one careless smile into the snow-laden night from his unexpected guest.
Roxanne remembered wondering how her great-uncle could be oblivious to such a momentous moment and smiled wryly at her childish self-importance. It had certainly felt unforgettable to the silly schoolroom miss who had stood and watched Lieutenant Charles Afforde hungrily that night, as if recalling every detail of his handsome face might one day save her life or change the orbit of the spheres.
‘He doesn’t, sir,’ the blond Adonis had admitted cheerfully. ‘The last earl was my grandfather and took me in as a scrubby brat, but I’m just a mere nephew to the new earl.’
‘Well, any relative of old Pickle is welcome under my roof.’
‘Thank you, sir, although my grandfather didn’t care to be reminded of that nickname in his latter years.’
‘Grown too full of his own importance, had he?’ Sir Granger had roared gleefully. ‘I must tell you how richly he deserved it when you’re not frozen and tired half to death.’
‘And I warrant that’s a tale that’ll make good listening,’ Charles Afforde had remarked laughingly.
‘That it will, m’boy,’ Uncle Granger had replied, ‘but come on inside, all three of you, so we can shut the doors. I prefer what warmth there is from the fires we light to try and keep this great barn warm kept inside instead of taking the chill off the park, my lads.’
With a quick glance of concern for his mount, Lieutenant Afforde had obviously decided he was as well, and as bad tempered, as ever, and left the animal to his host’s head groom so that he could enter the welcoming portals of Hollowhurst Castle with a light heart. For one moment he’d paused on the threshold and it seemed to Rosie Courland in her cold and prickly hiding place as if he had somehow seen all three of them, bunched together spellbound in the darkness as they watched the new arrivals play like boys, then be welcomed as men.
That younger Roxanne had held her breath as if he might hear such a soft sound over the yards that separated them and decided that, one day, she was going to marry Charles Afforde, when she was properly grown up and beautiful and he’d become a great admiral, easily as famous as the great, much-mourned, Viscount Nelson. For that minute at least, she’d known that he had seen her and acknowledged their meeting was deeply significant to both of them. Even when he largely ignored her during that Christmas season in favour of Joanna, Maria and the vicar’s Junoesque eighteen-year-old daughter, she’d still been convinced he was amusing himself while he waited for her to be ready for marriage. She would wait for him, she’d decided with all the fervent passion of her headlong nature, but instead she’d grown up and discovered fairytales