Ben smiled again and went to the door. “I will see you at dinner.”
“You will be weary of my fidgets by the time the others arrive,” she said behind him. “Weary of your responsibility to me.”
“Never, my dear.”
Ben had recently made the rounds of the estate during harvest time. But he did so again, now without his steward, glad to be abroad and his mind occupied. Constance rode alongside the first day, but after that remained within, reading, she claimed.
He left the arrangements for his guests to his housekeeper, only conferring with his gamekeeper to assure that the armory was straightened, the fowling pieces cleaned and polished, the dogs well rested. It was a peculiar comfort to play his lordly role, despite the familiar tension that always accompanied a charade like the one he now orchestrated. But he might as well provide the gentlemen with a bit of sport while he got what he sought from them.
Rising early, he took Kali out to the river in the chill morning, then back along the inland route across newly cleared fields. As he approached the house, a traveling coach trundled down the drive.
Ben pulled off his gloves and hat as he mounted the mansion’s front steps. A gentleman and lady stood in the foyer, removing their coats, footmen seeing to the luggage about them.
“Well, well, Doreé,” Nathans blustered, cheeks red. “Splendid place you have here.”
Ben bowed. “Welcome, Lord Nathans.” He turned to the man’s wife. “Lady Nathans.”
The baroness narrowed her emerald eyes and extended a lily-white hand.
“Lord Doreé,” she purred through bow-shaped lips, short chestnut curls framing a face accustomed to being admired. “We are delighted to be here.”
Ben bowed over her fingers. “The honor is all mine, ma’am.” He turned to his butler. “Mr. Scott, have tea set out in the blue parlor, please.”
Nathans peered about the broad-ceilinged foyer, bending his neck to the dome above, frescoed with Baroque figures of Greek gods—Zeus with Hera at his side, flanked by a warlike Ares, and a graceful Pallas Athena amidst opulent clouds. Years earlier Jack had seen to restorations. Despite their father’s obsession, no hint of Brahma or Shiva could now be found in the hallowed halls of Fellsbourne.
Ben looked at Lady Nathans. Her sharp, underfed gaze was trained upon him.
“May I offer you refreshment after your long journey?” he said, allowing his gaze to slip to the well-filled bodice of her traveling gown. Her ruby lips crept into a cat’s smile.
Nathans swiveled around. “Just the thing, Doreé. Don’t mind if we do. Splendid lodgings you have here, I say. Splendid. Positively top drawer.”
“Forgive me,” Ben said mildly, “but I have just now come in from riding and must do away with my dust. Samuel will see you to the parlor.” He gestured toward the footman. Nathans followed, his lady sliding Ben a half-lidded glance before taking her husband’s arm and moving off.
Ben released a weary breath. It seemed too easy. Marcus Crispin’s business partner had a wife looking for mischief. He needn’t have invited them all here. He probably could have gotten the information he sought in a single night in London. But that was not how he intended to pursue matters now. He hadn’t operated in that manner since his uncle was still alive.
He had not forgotten how to, though. And now he had paved that path in case it should be needed.
He started toward the stairs.
“My lord,” his butler said, “Sir St. John’s carriage arrived in advance of Lord Nathans. The lady appeared interested in the house, so Mrs. Scott offered a tour in your absence.”
“Thank you, Mr. Scott. Where might I find them?”
“I suspect by now they will have reached the east wing, sir.”
Ben changed his direction, heading along the corridor to the public chambers. His housekeeper’s voice became audible as he crossed into the drawing room. He stopped short.
Octavia stood on the opposite side of the chamber in a pool of pale sunlight, her hair lit with a sprinkling of gold, face averted. A gown of winter white caressed her gentle curves and long slender legs, rendering her like the sylphlike image of Athena in the clouds, shoulders back, her stance perfectly at ease. The goddess come to life.
In his house.
Again.
“My lord.” His housekeeper’s voice came to him as though through cotton wadding. “The gentleman and his lady have retired to their chambers with the infant. I was showing Miss here the portrait of your brothers.”
Octavia’s head came around, her lips parted, brown eyes wide with honest dismay, and Ben knew himself to be, upon this occasion, thoroughly abandoned by all the gods.
“Good day, Miss Pierce.” He bowed.
“Lord Doreé.” Tavy could say nothing else, nor bring her shaking legs to manage a curtsy. She had not imagined she would meet him first alone at his house, or alone at all.
He was, impossibly, even more handsome than four nights ago at Lady Ashford’s, garbed now in clothing suited to the country, a loose coat, burgundy waistcoat, breeches that hugged his lean, muscular thighs, and top boots sprinkled with mud, a pair of gloves in one hand. His ebony hair was tousled as though he had just removed a hat, his face aglow from riding and his languid black eyes bright.
“It is quite a good likeness,” he said in an odd tone.
She could not form words. Or, apparently, thoughts.
He gestured behind her. “The portrait. My brothers were but twelve and thirteen at the time, but the artist captured them well.”
Tavy’s tongue would not unstick from the roof of her mouth. The housekeeper rescued her.
“How well I remember it. Masters Jack and Arthur could not be still through the sitting, fidgeting about like boys will do, like you all did once you came to live here, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Scott.” He smiled. “Has Miss Pierce yet seen the gallery?”
“No, my lord. We were to go there next.”
“Allow me to complete the tour, then. Lord and Lady Nathans have arrived and I suspect they would be best served by your capable ministrations.”
Mrs. Scott curtsied and departed. A pause ensued during which Tavy’s heart beat uncomfortably like the wings of a hummingbird and they stared at one another. Finally he filled the silence.
“The gallery offers a number of fine works.” His voice still sounded peculiar, but he moved toward the door in easy strides, motioning for her to precede him. “Including several of royals who visited Fellsbourne in one century or another.”
She tried to wet her lips enough to speak. “How interesting.” She stepped from the drawing room into a chamber lined with marble statuary.
“My father did not have a taste for European art,” he said close behind her, sending a skitter of nerves glistening along her spine. “My eldest brother expanded this collection. He was quite fond of classical subjects.”
“I see.” She did not pause to study the pieces, catching only a glimpse of a reclining Gaul, his impressive musculature covered by a minuscule loincloth, and an amorous Cupid and Psyche locked in an embrace in which the god’s hand rested upon his lady’s breast.
Tavy squeezed her eyes shut. This could not be happening. How could she have agreed to this? Any of it?
Cheeks aflame, she strode to the opposite door. It opened onto a ballroom. Pristine white walls rose to the second story, a carved balustrade running its length offering a view from above. A chandelier draped from the whitewashed ceiling, hundreds of tiny crystals reflecting the sunlight filtering through the windows, sparkling upon floorboards like a thousand diamonds. It was a spectacular chamber, but in all its glory, cold as ice.