Synopsis | Reviews | Excerpt
He could not
forgive her deception. She could not resist the desire they shared. When a
scandal forces them to marry, their passions lead to dangerous secrets.
Deverell regarded his beautiful
bride dispassionately. He had begun to think—hope—he could find in her what
he’d never had before.
That had disintegrated into ashes
when she tricked him into marriage.
Now, the wedding breakfast done,
the revelry just beginning, she gave him a nervous glance from where she stood
near the arbor. He returned her gaze, took note of the wreath of baby’s breath
and pink roses atop her head, the Belgian lace train cascading from her
shoulders and draping loosely over her bare arms before falling to the hem of
her gown, and felt nothing. She was beautiful; fairy-like; virginal. Deceitful.
A changeling, he told himself.
She’d undergone so many transformations since he’d first met her that he wasn’t
certain who she really was. Except that now she was his wife.
Deverell excused himself from
Craven and strode to his bride; saw her instant wariness as he approached. The
past fortnight had not endeared him to her, no doubt. Fitting enough, he
supposed, since her actions had not endeared her to him either.
"So, my lovely bride,” he drawled, taking one
of her hands and drawing her away from her companions, "I trust all has gone
according to your wishes.”
Apart from the others, she tried
to pull her hand free but he held it firmly. She flicked a glance at him from
beneath her lashes, a maiden’s trick that had never worked on him. He’d had
ample time to study the female strategy. Yet he had still been conquered by
treachery. A galling admission of defeat.
"If it had gone according to my
wishes, your grace,” she retorted, "I would be quite far from here, I assure
you.”
"Somehow, I doubt that, my sweet,” he said
softly. He lifted her gloved hand to his lips as if to press a loving kiss to
her palm and murmured, "I think you’ve had things your way far too long.”
Virginia
Brown is the author of more than fifty novels in historical romance, mystery
and general fiction, including the bestselling Dixie Divas mystery series.
Coming soon!
Chapter One
Hampton
Roads, Virginia—October 1815
"LET
MY SISTER be the Earl of Eastland.”
"I
am afraid that is impossible,” the old barrister said quietly. "I think you
must do what is expected of you.”
Nicholas
Trenton eyed him coldly. "I do not give a fig for what you think, sir.”
Master
Hornbeak cleared his throat; his smile was placating. "Master Trenton—my Lord
Eastland—you are just seventeen. Your life is ahead of you. I see you are
upset, as you have every right to be, but—”
"I
refuse. I’m an American.”
"Your
father was an English citizen, heir to the Earl of Eastland, and became earl
upon his death. You are your father’s only heir and next in line of
succession.”
"We
just trounced the British in a war. They burned the White House. I will
not turn traitor.” Nicholas looked away from the barrister to his twin sister.
Alyssa
stood next to him, dazed by the shocking news, her eyes focusing at last on her
brother. His expression was defiant; blue eyes glittered with outrage, black
hair tumbling loose from the tie at the nape of his neck as he shook his head.
They were so much alike in appearance, yet so often different in nature.
She
pleated the folds of her cotton gown between her fingers and plucked uneasily
at the blue ribbons that streamed from just under her bodice. The hood of her
red cape was thrown back, wool folds keeping her warm in the cold air of the
barrister’s office. The news he had just imparted was difficult to absorb. She
drew in a deep breath and attempted to soothe her brother.
"Nicky,”
she said calmly, "perhaps we should consider it.”
He
looked at her, his jaw clenched. "Do you like the idea of being shut away in a
convent for the next few years?” he asked. "That is where he said you’ll have
to go.”
Alyssa
looked back at the barrister, who was mopping his face with a handkerchief. A
dim lamp shed patchy light in the dark cubby he called an office. "Is this
true?” she asked.
Hornbeak
smiled; he spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Only until you marry,
my dear. And it is not a convent, but Mrs. Porter’s Religious Academy for
Well-Bred Young Ladies. It is all that can be done, you understand. The
unexpected death of both your parents...” He paused when
Alyssa pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob. His voice softened as he continued,
"Aye, ‘tis unfair for death to claim them both in a bout of fever and leave you
behind with no one to care for you, but life is rarely fair. According to the
terms of your late father’s first will, Miss Trenton, you will be given a small
legacy that will allow you to live quietly at the academy. Until such a time as
you wed, of course.”
Mrs. Porter’s! The establishment
was notorious for separating young orphans of some means from their meager
inheritances, all in the name of religious charity. Any monies went to the
pockets of the administrators, not to the unfortunate residents.
She
cleared her throat. "What is this about a first will? Does that mean there is a
second will that replaces it?”
After
a brief hesitation, the barrister said, "Your father was only newly made aware
that he had inherited his father’s title and estates. He procured me to write
his response, and I advised him to make a new will before undertaking a journey
across the Atlantic. I am afraid that in my zeal to protect your father’s
future, I made no provision for yours. Your brother, however, as your father’s
first-born son, inherits whether there is a will or not.”
"Then
why is some duke involved?” Nicholas demanded. "If I am to be the new earl, do
I not make my own decisions?”
"Yes.
As soon as you reach your majority. Until then, the duke is your guardian.”
Alyssa
pulled her cloak more tightly around her, shivering slightly, but managed to
keep her voice steady. "Am I to have no guardian?”
Master
Hornbeak sighed. "His grace, as guardian by the terms of your grandfather’s
will, will guide you both to your majority. He has stipulated that you abide by
your father’s wishes and enter a religious academy that I have chosen for you.”
"Damned
nonsense, if you ask me,” Nicholas snapped.
Hornbeak’s
veined hand shook with agitation as he spread the letter out on the scarred
desk. "Young Master—my lord,” the aging barrister tried again, "your father had
the utmost faith in my judgment. Look at your situation. The house is falling
to ruin after this last storm; your only retainers are old and have been
pensioned for good and faithful service. The estates here have dwindled because
of bad crops, death duties, and high taxes—but you have now been given a gift.
One cannot get on in this world without a proper education, and for a young man
of your now limited means... surely you see the sense in
compliance.”
Nicholas
shook his head. "Am I to answer to some English duke I do not know? This is not
what I planned, not what my father planned for me. I was to attend West Point,
then take a commission, not go off to England to serve the mad king. No. I
would rather starve.”
"And
your sister, do you wish that for her, too?” Master Hornbeak pressed his
advantage when Nicholas glanced at Alyssa and didn’t respond. "Think of it. An
extensive tour abroad, an excellent education, a title, all that wealth and
position can offer, and it will be yours.”
"But
not Alyssa’s,” Nicholas pointed out, and the barrister’s thin face darkened
slightly.
"She
will thrive at Mrs. Porter’s and be given every opportunity to marry well.” He
coughed delicately. "The duke has expressed his preference for not being
saddled with a young female. Surely you can understand that. He is an unmarried
gentleman of some worth and would find it...” He paused,
obviously searching for the right word.
"Annoying?”
Alyssa suggested, unable to keep quiet a moment longer. "Inconvenient?” Her
cheeks flushed with heat. "I do not care to be shoved into an academy and
forgotten, Master Hornbeak, and you can inform the duke of my decision. I will
remain in my parents’ house.”
Hornbeak
looked startled. He’d obviously thought—until that moment—that a young girl
would be much more tractable than her brother. She could have told him she was
not.
His
lantern jaw tightened, and his voice was unhappy. "You have few choices, my
dear, as does your brother. Unless you fall in with the duke’s plans, no monies
will be advanced. The house and land will be sold for taxes.” He let them
absorb that for a moment before he added, "Your dear departed father would be
pleased that his only son has inherited the title and sizable legacy that was
to be his, and—”
"I
don’t think so,” Nicholas interrupted harshly. "He did not think enough of it
to ever mention that he had a father who was an English earl.”
Heavy
silence greeted this statement. "I believe there was a disagreement when he did
not return to England,” Master Hornbeak finally said. "The earl was distressed
that his youngest son had remained in the Colonies.”
"Then
he would definitely be upset that a Colonial has inherited his estates and
title,” Nicholas pointed out. "It sounds illegal.”
As
the barrister began a lengthy explanation of the English system of inheritance,
Alyssa simmered with hurt, outrage, and rejection. It seemed as if Master
Hornbeak was right, and that there was little they could do. But she and Nicky
had never been separated in all their seventeen years, and it seemed so cruel to separate them
now, with their parents dead a few months. Just the thought of them made her
throat hurt, their loss a stabbing pain that nearly took away her breath when
she let herself dwell on it. How could she bear to be separated from Nicky? He
was all she had left of their family.
She
knew he sensed her distress, because he put an arm around her shoulders. He was
taller than she by several inches, his body already filling out in the chest
and arms. His voice was deeper, his anger now tempered with resolution.
"No,
Master Hornbeak, we refuse. We’d rather make our own way than live as what we
are not. I can go to sea and support us.”
Master
Hornbeak said rather sharply, "You have no other option, young sir. While you
may think it a fine lark to go off on your own, think of your sister. She would
not have as fine a time of it. She would be left behind, a maiden alone,
defenseless from the cruel mercies of the world.”
Nicholas
hesitated, and when he looked down at Alyssa, she saw the doubt in his eyes.
"We
will be fine,” she reassured him. "I shall be with you, and perhaps Mrs.
Pomfrey will let me stay with her while you are gone to sea. She has that small
cottage she can share.”
"Ah,
Ally. Mrs. Pomfrey is near eighty. What if she dies while I am out to sea? Then
what would you do? You would be alone and unsafe. Perhaps Master Hornbeak is
right.”
Panic
clawed at her so that she could hardly speak, desperation forcing words out as
if they came from someone else. "No. No, we’ve never been separated. Not for
long. Not for as long as it would be if you lived in England and I stayed here.
It’s so far and I might never see you again. No, if you leave, I’ll go with
you.”
Master
Hornbeak spoke up in alarm. "Don’t do that, oh, no, that would be disastrous. I
shudder to think what the duke would say if I were to allow you both to turn up
on his doorstep.”
She
turned toward him, sick with disappointment, terrified, angry, and desperate to find a resolution. "You have
never met him. Why do you care what he might say?”
"The
duke’s influence reaches far, my dear, very far.” Hornbeak pressed the
handkerchief to his face and shook his head. "Even in America, he has powerful
connections.”
Nicholas
muttered an oath under his breath, rubbed his hand across his jaw, then swung
his attention back to the barrister. "I have never heard of the Duke of Deverell.
Until today I had no idea he existed. He cannot be that powerful a man.”
"Young
master, suffice it to say that if the duke wished to have you brought to him in
an apple barrel, that would be how you arrived.” Hornbeak shook his head again.
"There is no point in raging against your fate—it has been decided, yes, and
your sister’s, too. I am sorry, but that is the way of it. No magistrate would
sanction any other decision. By law, you must comply.”
Alyssa
sucked in a deep breath, tasted the musty air of the dank office, blinked away
hot tears pressing against her eyelids, and tucked her hands into the warm
folds of her cloak. It was definite then. She was to be locked away until she
reached her majority, then offered as a wife to whoever asked for her hand. She
kept her back straight, her chin up, her trembling hands hidden, and it wasn’t
until she looked up into her brother’s eyes that she had the first glimmer of
hope. He has a plan...
"BUT
NICKY, THIS seems like madness,” Alyssa protested. "It cannot succeed.”
They
stood beneath the skimpy shelter of the arbor some distance from the main
house. It, too, had been wrecked by the recent storm, indicative of their
shattered circumstances. The wind caught a dead vine and rattled it, and
Nicholas jerked it free with an impatient twist of his hand. He barely looked
at his sister’s pale, upturned face.
"Even
madder would be trotting meekly over to England to do the old duke’s bidding,”
he muttered. When he finally looked down at her, she managed a faint smile. He
sighed. "Don’t look at me so tragically, Ally. This is for the best.”
She
shivered and flinched against a gust of icy rain that whipped into her eyes.
"But... but when will I see you again?”
"As
soon as we reach our majority,I can come to England. We will be eighteen in only a few months. Once we are
old enough to make our own decisions by law, no one can tell us what to do.”
"If
only I knew what was best. This is such a risk. What if I cannot do it? What if
Master Hornbeak sees through the disguise and calls a magistrate? What
if—”Another harsh gust of wind caught her, and she clutched at the side of the arbor.
Nicholas
reached out quickly to grab her arms. "Don’t swoon on me now, Ally. I have to
go. The captain won’t wait long on me, and I had a devil of a time finding an
open berth. It’s the Sea Gypsy, one of the best merchant ships to sail
the West Indies.”
Alyssa
coiled her fingers around his upper arms, digging into the wool of his coat to
give him a little shake. "Have I ever swooned?”
"No.
I don’t think you have.” Nicholas smiled. He braced her with an arm behind her
back; his face went taut with suppressed emotion. "So you will do what we
planned, right?”
She
gave a sigh of surrender. "Yes. I will do what we planned. If it doesn’t work, you can look for me hanging from a
gibbet by the seawall.”
He
laughed. "I don’t think any judge would hang you.” He bent, picked up his sea
bag,and hefted it over his shoulder, then caught her in a one-armed embrace. His
voice was strangely gruff when he put his lips close to her ear and said, "I
will come for you soon, Ally.”
She
followed him as far as she could go, stopping on the sand spit overlooking the
docks to stand for a long time. She watched his silhouette grow smaller and
smaller, until he disappeared completely in the fog and mist that rolled in
from the sea. Then he was gone, and she trudged back to the empty house.
ALYSSA
STARED into the cheval mirror. She held long shears in one hand; dark, silky
lengths of cut hair draped from her other hand. Close-cropped curls now crowned
her head; her blue eyes were rimmed with dark circles, and the resemblance to
her brother was marked if not exact. Her features were too feminine. Where his
jaw was square, hers was rounded. His mouth, so quick to turn up at the corners
in a smile that reached his eyes, was more masculine. Her lips looked softer
somehow, not as quick to smile. Nicky was much taller, having grown half a foot
in just the past year, she was sure. She had donned a pair of snug-fitting
buff-colored wool trousers he’d worn the year before, and they drooped over her
heels in the back. The white muslin shirt was baggy, and the colorful scarlet
waistcoat hung past her much smaller waist.
"Maybe
if I put on his coat,” she murmured and shrugged into a large, unfitted coat
with claw-hammer tails. Fortunately, the shirt and waistcoat hid her more
feminine attributes and kept her secret from being readily guessed. It was, she
finally decided as she stood in front of the mirror, a passable imitation.
Nicky’s old greatcoat would complete it.
The
final test would be in the morning when Master Hornbeak arrived to escort her
to the Hampton Road docks, where she would board the ship for England.
But
the next morning, Alyssa realized she had overlooked one important detail: her
footwear. She was forced to pull on a pair of Nicky’s old boots and stuff
handkerchiefs into the toes to keep them from coming completely off her more
narrow feet. The final effect was a rather odd one when she hobbled from the
house, afraid she would lose a boot with each step.
"Where
is your sister, lad?” Master Hornbeak asked when she climbed clumsily into the
waiting carriage. He was muffled in a greatcoat and scarf with only his eyes
showing, as it was a blustery, gray day. Then he leaned forward to stare at her
with a frown. "Are you well?”
"No.
I have a cold,” Alyssa said in a gruff tone and handed him the folded letter
with her own writing on it. The letter stated that she had departed early for
the religious academy and that she thanked him for his kind assistance with her
parents’ estate. For a moment,she thought he must know of the deception; he did not immediately read the
letter. Her heart thumped, a sick feeling gnawed at her stomach, and she wished
she had not eaten the last bite of pork pie.
Hornbeak
finally turned his attention to the coachman, who loaded her trunk onto the boot and
signaled he should go. The carriage jerked forward, hooves sounded loud against
the cobbled street, and the house where she had lived for seventeen years grew
smaller and smaller, then disappeared as the horses picked up the pace and
rounded a corner. Her journey had begun; the life she had always known ended.
The
barrister opened the letter and squinted at the painstakingly worded lines. He
gave a satisfied nod. "Ah, she is a good sensible lass. Now, here is your
letter of introduction. Go to the shipping office when you arrive in
Southampton, and the duke’s man will meet you there.
"Keep
in mind that the duke may deal harshly with hotheaded, impetuous young men, so
school your temper. Once you arrive in England I have fulfilled my obligations
to the duke, and you will be under his charge. Do you understand? Excellent.”
He rubbed his gloved hands together briskly. "Now we must get you on that ship
so I can get back to a warm fire. It’s been uncommon cold this season.”
Before
she dared believe that the first part of Nicky’s plan that she had called "a
grand, mad scheme” had succeeded, she stood aboard the Fairwinds. She
hoped the ship’s name was prophetic. Docks were loaded with barrels of grain,
corn, and whisky; stacks of dried tobacco; and crates of goods imported from
England, France,and Spain. Drays pulled by massive horses rolled noisily from wharves to
warehouses. Heavy sails flapped overhead like giant birds of prey, and she looked up. Three thick masts
speared the gray sky, wrapped in rope and canvas. Seagulls rode air currents
with white wings spread wide, seeming to drift lazily, their cries filtering
down. The salt air was brisk, cold wind whipped at her coat, and she wondered
if Nicky felt the same sense of desolation that she felt now.
There
was no turning back.
Chapter Two
SOUTHAMPTON
LAY under a thick blanket of fog, the wind occasionally revealing gray stone
buildings and tall spires. The Fairwinds had ridden in on high tide
right at daylight and anchored at the teeming docks. Alyssa grabbed at the rail
to steady her balance. A good headwind had gotten them to England in just under
five weeks, but it felt more like five months. The gangplank from ship deck to
wharf bumped and scraped against the quay with the ship’s motion. Passengers
queued up at the rail, disembarking slowly, while sailors scrambled up narrow
lines to the rigging high above the decks. She couldn’t watch. It made her
stomach lurch most unpleasantly. Ropes creaked; the ship swayed; seawater
sloshed in white spumes that sent a fine mist into the air. She hadn’t felt dry
since leaving Hampton Roads. Salty air that smelled like fish, smoke, and a
dozen other scents she couldn’t identify—and didn’t know if she wanted
to—permeated everything. She held tightly to the small velvet bag she had kept
out from her leather trunk. It held her letter of introduction, her mother’s
Bible,and her father’s pipe. Precious items.
A
woman with two small children walked gingerly down the gangplank in front of
her. When one of the children—a little girl in a white cap—reached the dock,
she promptly bent over and vomited. Alyssa felt like doing much the same once
she reached solid ground; she walked awkwardly with the sudden absence of
constant movement. A step, then a stagger sideways, then another step, then
stagger—she muttered a curse she had heard her brother use.
"Still
got yer sea legs, eh laddie?” a sailor asked with a chuckle as he passed.
"Aye,”
she answered gruffly.
The
sense of freedom in having fewer expectations as a young man than there were
for a young woman had been first surprising, then exhilarating. No one asked
questions if she strolled the ship’s deck unescorted; no one had made inquiries
if she stayed in the tiny cabin that was no larger than a packing crate. Her
brief forays out to empty her chamber pot went unremarked, as did her solitary
meals. Five weeks of being someone she wasn’t taught her that she could be who
she wanted if she were clever enough.
This
new resolve took her across docks churning with activity. She strode
confidently to the shipping offices, pushed open the door, and was welcomed by a blast of warm
air. She stood for a moment, enjoying unexpected heat. If not for her brother’s
greatcoat and several layers of clothing, she no doubt would have frozen to
death on the voyage. Ships were not noted for hot stoves in the cabins. The
only heat source had been in the main dining hall, carefully tended by a crew
member. A disadvantage of her borrowed gender was that women and children sat
closest to the stove. So she had huddled with the men on the colder fringes of
assembled passengers.
Several
men stood near the fireplace in the shipping office; heat emanated outward in a
circle that lured her closer. One of them looked up, and she reached in her pocket for the
letter of introduction. When she pulled it from the velvet bag and handed it to
him, he unfolded it, read it, then nodded. A runner was sent to fetch the
duke’s steward from a nearby tavern. She remained in the shipping office, close to the fireplace, until he arrived.
Carrick,
as he was introduced, was a man of medium height, middle age, and extreme
courtesy. He had her trunk carried to the waiting carriage and led the way
across the docks, sidestepping piles of horse manure, mud puddles, and other unsavory things, while she followed behind. The duke’s
four-wheeled carriage was pulled by four matched horses and driven by a
coachman in a high box at the front. A footman garbed in dark blue livery
opened the carriage door for her, and Carrick politely asked if she required
refreshment before they set out.
"It
is some distance to Deverell Hall, my lord,” he said, "so I took the liberty of
providing a basket for you. We will stop at an inn along the way, but it is also some distance.”
"I
am not hungry, thank you,” she replied. It was true. Her stomach had yet to
calm.
A
little dazzled by the thick velvet cushions of the seats, matching draperies at
the coach windows, and the uniforms of the footmen and coachman, she settled
inside,and the door shut. Alone in the carriage, she wondered what Nicky would say if
he saw her sitting like royalty in a coach that no doubt cost more than their
family home. A small metal box of hot coals cleverly tucked beneath the seat
provided heat, and as the vehicle rolled past warehouses, more quays, huge
stone bridges, churches with tall steeples, and then half-timbered buildings and taverns,
she yawned. Other carriages rocked by, dogs barked, people scurried down rutted
streets, and single horsemen passed at brisk speeds. Then the city was behind
them,and lonely stretches of winter-brown fields interspersed with villages of
thatched-roof cottages provided the scenery.
It
wasn’t very long before they rode through the bustling city of Portsmouth,
another port of call, with a round castle on the harbor and tall church spires.
Then they were out of that city and into the countryside again, leaving behind
the paved roads. The carriage rocked whenever it hit a rut. She dug into the
basket and took out a half-loaf of bread, some cheese, and a small bottle of
ale. No sooner had she eaten than she became too drowsy to keep her eyes open.
Though the hot coals had cooled to embers, it was still fairly warm inside, and she let sleep overtake her.
She
dreamed someone called to her in a vaguely familiar voice, but he didn’t call
her by name, instead saying, "Lord Eastland. Lord Eastland.” Then a
light touch on her shoulder jerked her fully awake. The carriage door stood
open,and Carrick waited politely. It took a moment to realize night had fallen.
Harness chains rattled, a horse snorted, and the coach swayed slightly.
She
sat up. Nicky’s bulky coat had twisted uncomfortably under her; the cravat
half-untied and buttons undone on her waistcoat.
Carrick
cleared his throat. "I trust you slept well, my lord.”
"Indeed,”
she said in the gruff tone she had cultivated as her disguise. "Are we already
at the inn?”
"Yes,
my lord. Should you wish to walk about or refresh yourself with food and ale,
we will be here for a short time.”
She
strode past Carrick to The George, an old pub that squatted between the
Petersfield Road and the River Meon. Two stories high, the brick building faced
the road; an old stone church marked the village with a tall, square tower.
Patrons stood outside the inn, some waiting to board the coach that had just
changed horses and stood in front. People crammed inside, and other unfortunate
souls were left to climb on top and cling to the roof. It was cold enough that
frost clouds formed around the snorting horses, hovering in front of passengers
who had paid only a shilling to ride atop (three shillings to ride in the
comparative comfort of a crowded crate). The coachman sat on his high box, clad
in a bulky greatcoat and boots.
Inside,
the inn was just as crowded; people huddled near the fireplace or hunched over
tables. It reeked of stale sweat and the press of bodies, hot bread, and ale. Carrick commandeered a table,
and one of the duke’s footmen brought her a slab of roasted beef, bread, and a
tankard of beer. The beef was stringy and overcooked, but the bread was fresh, and the beer tasted strongly of hops.
She ate and drank sparingly, grew drowsy by the warm fire, and was glad when
Carrick came for her again.
Night
had fallen, but the box of glowing coals had been replenished, and the interior of the carriage was
warm. Before long she fell asleep again, exhausted from more than a month of
days and nights interrupted by the constant heaving of the ship and frequent
storms that had left her shivering in terror and wondering why on earth her
brother had thought going to sea would be an adventure. It was a nightmare.
When
next she saw Carrick, he stood at the opened door of the carriage.
"Another
inn?” she asked, still sleepy as she sat up and glimpsed a blaze of lights.
"No,
my lord. We have reached Deverell Hall.”
Instantly
aware of her appearance, she did a surreptitious check of her clothing to be
certain nothing was revealed, straightened her cravat, buttoned the waistcoat,
grabbed her small velvet bag, and descended from the coach. She almost lost one
of the boots as it slid over her heel, paused to stick her foot deeper into the
worn leather, then blinked up at the lights that illuminated the high walls of
Deverell Hall.
Mellow
brick gleamed dully under countless lanterns. Two staircases—one at each
side—angled upward; Corinthian columns supported a pitched roof fronted with an
ornate frieze. She had a vague impression of two wings curving east and west
from the central building; a forest of chimneys and spires jutted up from the
roof, dark silhouettes against the clear night sky. Venetian windows with
gilded sash frames and glazing bars relieved the stark simplicity of the house.
More lights brightened part of a long, curving drive that disappeared into dark
shadows and stately trees. In the distance, faint glimmers indicated a gatehouse. It was a
bit disconcerting.
The entire town of Hampton Roads could fit into this
house...
She
mounted the stairs behind Carrick, mindful of the gross misconception she had
entertained when still ignorant of the scope of the duke’s influence. A man of
his consequence had to wield great power. Her heart gave a hard thump, and the
queasiness she had hoped to leave behind on the Fairwinds roiled. Her
shiver had little to do with the harsh bite of the wind.
Nicky’s
boots echoed loudly against the black-and-white marble in the vast entrance hall as she
followed the steward. Carrick’s boots didn’t make a sound as he crossed the
floor to a corridor that led into one of the wings. She followed silently.
Life-sized
Greek and Roman statues peered from niches at discreet intervals. A row of
crystal chandeliers dangled from the corridor ceiling; painted murals of
mythical gods edged in glittering baroque scrolls caught the candlelight. At
the far end of the corridor,an apse held a statue of Zeus mounted on a sculptured dais. Papa had taught her
Greek and Roman mythology, saying that just because she was female it did not
preclude knowledge of the finer arts. Her mother had taught her manners
befitting a young lady: how to embroider linen, dance a fine step, and play the
pianoforte. Her parents had taught her all she needed for her future, save one thing: how to survive their
untimely deaths.
Neither
Catherine nor Stephen Trenton had ever mentioned his father was an earl; he
never said he missed England, and he had been so in love with his wife that he
died only days after her. Now she knew he had left behind a life of privilege
to follow his heart and never looked back. It was a romantic tale of love
worthy of Miss Jane Austen, and one she could never hope to equal.
Carrick
led her through an arched doorway; her footsteps echoed loudly on marble
floors. Muted brocade wallpaper covered some walls, and though not especially
flamboyant, it was quietly elegant. Massive pieces of furniture were scattered
regally throughout the rooms.
She
felt like an interloper, a shabby intruder. Her overlarge boots slid up and
down on her heels,even with two pair of stockings, and when Carrick turned back to her, his brow
furrowed.
"Is
there a problem, my lord?”
"I
beg your pardon?”
"Your
gait is rather... hesitant.”
"Oh.
I lost my boots aboard the ship, and these are not mine. They’re borrowed.”
Carrick
nodded. "I see, my lord.”
A
half-truth is as wrong as an entire lie, her mother used to tell her, but she
thought there must be extenuating circumstances on occasion. It would hardly do
to explain that she wore her brother’s boots in order to perpetuate a colossal
lie. What would she say to an English duke who considered her very existence an
inconvenience? It could be nothing but lies if she wished to escape ending her
days in an isolated religious academy with other unfortunate females. She had
to hold tight to her resolve. Perhaps the duke would be too old or busy to
notice the deception.
Carrick
paused at last, his hand on a tall door, and said softly, "You may wish to
adjust your cravat and waistcoat, my lord.”
As
he swung open the heavy door,she tugged at her waistcoat and rearranged her cravat into what she hoped was a
tidy knot. A thick carpet covered the floor of the small room, a brass lamp
shed light, and a mirror set in a gilt frame went from floor to ceiling. She
quickly checked the state of her clothes as Carrick stepped to another door and
rapped twice. Clenching her velvet bag tightly in one fist, she inhaled deeply.
Thrumming apprehension tightened her nerves.
Then
Carrick motioned her forward; she took another deep breath to steady her resolve
and strode clumsily across the rich carpet and into the next room. She had a
brief impression of elegant furniture; floor-to-ceiling bookcases; landscape
paintings; tall, mullioned windows with heavy drapes; and solid silver
candlesticks. Then she saw the man behind a huge walnut desk.
Her
heartbeat escalated rapidly; the breath caught in her throat. The Duke of
Deverell—what on earth was his real name, she wondered wildly—was not old at
all. And he was quite possibly the most attractive man she had ever seen in all
her seventeen years. Why had she and Nicky assumed he was in his dotage? He
most definitely was not. He didn’t look to be even ten years older than she was
now.
The
duke stood behind the desk and looked up as she approached.
"Your
grace,” Carrick said from somewhere behind her, his voice quietly respectful,
"may I present to you The Earl of Eastland.”
Alyssa
curled her hands tightly around the velvet bag and summoned every scrap of
courage she had left. I am Nicholas Trenton, Earl of Eastland, she
reminded herself, Nicholas Trenton from Hampton Roads...
The
duke looked at her with a slightly lifted brow, as if he had already judged her
and found her lacking. She wavered between fear and awkwardness. Since he had
not yet spoken, she didn’t know if she was supposed to speak first, if she was
supposed to bow, or even prostrate herself on the floor.
When
he remained silent, her fear and awkwardness quickly melded into a defensive
irritation. She lifted her chin slightly and stared right back at him. Tall,
with broad shoulders that filled out an open-necked white shirt, a striped
waistcoat buttoned over a lean waist, and buff-colored long trousers that no
doubt tucked into highly polished Hessian boots, he gave every appearance of
one of his Greek statues. Cold perfection. Lamplight glinted on blond hair
thickly blended with brown, close-cropped, and feathered slightly over his ears
and on the back of his neck. Brilliant green eyes beneath dark brows caught her
gaze and held her frozen in place.
"Have
you done gawking, Eastland?” the duke asked finally.
She
heard the disdain in his deep voice; it summoned a hot flush and quick reply:
"Have you?”
Carrick
politely stepped into the breach. "Your grace, perhaps Colonials don’t
understand proper protocol.”
Deverell
did not look at him. "I am well aware of the lamentable lack of manners
peculiar to ill-bred Colonials, Carrick. I find such an absence of basic
courtesies abhorrent.”
Her
chin lifted higher, resentment flaring, as she met the duke’s scathing gaze. "If you
always address guests in your home so rudely, sir, I can well imagine that you
have been treated to some ill manners in your time.”
Carrick
stepped forward,and Deverell waved him aside with a negligent hand.
"Leave
us, Carrick.”
The
steward immediately inclined his head and murmured, "Your grace,” as he stepped
backward, pausing by Alyssa just long enough to repeat in a whisper, "Your
grace.”
She
realized that she was to address the duke as such, but his obvious contempt of
her circumstances checked her tongue. She said nothing.
Deverell
regarded her with grim appraisal in his eyes. "Feisty little beggar, aren’t
you?” he murmured, and stepped around the edge of his desk. He paused, leaned
back against the heavy surface,and crossed his legs at the ankles in an indolently graceful motion. She had
been right about the boots, although instead of the Hessians she imagined, he
wore glossy black top boots. He seemed relaxed, while her nerves stretched so
tautly she felt she might shatter into a thousand pieces at any moment.
Unnerved, she lowered her gaze to stare at the carpet.
Somewhere
a clock ticked with slow, sonorous clicks, and with each passing moment it
sounded louder and louder in the quiet room. Finally he drawled, "You may be
presentable once you have a decent wardrobe. You seem game enough.”
She
lifted her gaze to his narrowed eyes. "Do I?”
This
was going very badly. Her chest ached from holding her breath, and if she
hadn’t been certain her legs were too shaky to work properly, she might have
fled from the room.
The
duke’s voice was terse when he said, "Yes, you cocky little upstart, you’re not
only game, you’re insolent. Who taught you your manners, pray tell? They don’t
speak very well for your parentage, that much is certain.”
Despite
anger mixed with apprehension, she recognized the truth in what he said. "My
parents would be appalled if they heard me be impolite, sir—your grace. They
didn’t condone ill manners to even the most boorish of louts.”
A
muscle leaped in the duke’s lean jaw, but his voice was soft and even. "I find
that less than comforting at this moment.” He straightened and levered his body
away from the desk in a smooth motion. "I see that you won’t need a nursemaid.
You seem well equipped to handle yourself in verbal spars, at least.” His gaze
raked her again, and she stiffened warily. "A little restraint and improved
manners and you’ll do, I suppose. Damned inconvenient of old Eastland to leave
me with this task, but that’s what I get for being such a good-natured fellow.”
Good-natured
was the last epithet she would have thrown at the duke. And he did not sound at
all friendly, or even remotely civil, when he met her wary gaze and continued
to reprimand her.
"As
of now, Lord Eastland, you’d best learn to whom you should prove your mettle
and whom to avoid like the plague.”
"I
believe I have already learned the last, sir—your grace,” she replied shortly.
"Somehow,
my boy, I doubt that,” Deverell said evenly. "You stand in danger of a thorough
caning, and I assure you that it would give me great pleasure to administer it.
But I will be lenient this evening, as I realize how tired you must be.”
Wisdom
bade Alyssa hold her tongue. She recognized in the duke’s tautly held posture
that she had, indeed, frayed his temper. He eyed her for a moment as if waiting
for her to say something, and when she remained silent, he strode past her to
the door and opened it.
"Have
this impudent young pup shown to his chambers, Carrick,” Deverell instructed,
as the steward came back into the room. "And begin his lessons early tomorrow.
I intend to enroll him in the Lent Half at Eton. It appears that we have to
make up for a great deal of lost time if he is to be properly educated and
formed into a decent Englishman.”
Alyssa
had already turned to follow Carrick, but at that last, she whirled around to
glare at the duke. "I am not an Englishman. I am an American,
sir, and will always be so!”
Carrick
paused, waiting, but the duke’s gaze rested on her heated face for a long
moment, no doubt assessing her fate.
"As
detrimental to your inheritance as that would be, it should be interesting to
see how an American compares to an Englishman,” he drawled at last, his tone
deceptively mild. "So far, your manners as an American are definitely lacking.
Now leave me, before I lose my temper entirely and give you the thrashing you
so richly deserve.”
She
backed away a step, keeping a wary eye on the duke. He was coldly but visibly
angry with her; it was hardly surprising. She had let her temper overrule
common sense. If not for the fact that she was certain she’d never succeed, she
would have fled England at once.
As
she turned to follow Carrick, Alyssa stepped out of her overlarge boot and had
to pause. Her face flamed as she tried to wedge her foot back into it, half-stumbled, and was forced to bend to straighten
the crumpled boot top. In her efforts to do so, she dropped her velvet bag, and
it slid across the highly polished floor before she could catch it.
"Good
God,” she heard the duke mutter. "What a clumsy pup.”
Carrick
came to her rescue, murmuring, "Here, my lord, allow me to assist,” and knelt to help push her foot back
into the boot. That done, he retrieved the bag, gave it to her, and quickly led
her to the open door and escorted her through it as if fearing she would
somehow do something else to incur the duke’s wrath.
When
the door closed behind her, Alyssa’s knees were shaking, and her hands trembled
so badly that she shoved them into the deep pockets of the coat. She looked up
to see Carrick’s dismayed gaze on her and said faintly, "I don’t think he likes
me.”
Carrick
cleared his throat and seemed to gather his composure. "I hope that is not
true, my lord. I must say, however, that after a light repast and a good
night’s rest, matters will greatly improve.”
"Do
you really think so?” Alyssa murmured as she followed Carrick up a wide flight
of stairs and through a confusing maze of hallways. "I have the feeling they’ll
only get worse.”
