Читать книгу Lord Stanton's Last Mistress - Lara Temple, Lara Temple - Страница 12

Chapter Three

Alex held his bay purebloods steady as he turned his curricle through the gates of Stanton Hall. It was usually at this point in the drive from London that his conflicted emotions reached their peak. He loved London and the excitement of his work at the Foreign Office, but there was something about coming to Berkshire and to his own wing at the Hall that calmed him, in particular when his father wasn’t in residence. It wasn’t that he disliked his sire and he certainly cared for Sylvia, his stepmother, and had a real and deep love for his two half-sisters, Anne and Olivia, but when they were away he revelled in having the Hall to himself. Then he could lower his guard and forget about duties and policies, Stantons and Sinclairs. Almost.

This particular return, however, was overshadowed by the unwelcome guests awaiting him.

‘Have my uncle and guests arrived yet, Watkins?’ he asked his butler as he came downstairs after changing out of his driving clothes.

‘Yes, my lord. You were not expected until tomorrow and Count Razumov and Graf Von Haas and their entourages recently arrived and are resting in their rooms, but I believe his Majesty and the Princess and her companion, Miss James, have gone with Sir Oswald and Lady Albinia to inspect the gardens. Apparently his Majesty also has an interest in horticulture.’

‘Oh, God help me.’

‘Indeed, my lord. I presume you will join them outside?’

‘Not for the prospect of world peace, Watkins. I have work to do. They will manage without me until dinner.’

He entered the library, a generously proportioned room overlooking the lawns and lake. He had his own study on the other side of the house, but he liked the combination of space and leather-bound warmth the library offered, with its deep, cushioned and curtained window seats overlooking the lake.

Halfway to his desk he noticed a pair of pale yellow kid shoes on the carpeted floor by the curtains drawn over the far window seat. There was nothing peculiar about them except their very presence in the library when his sisters were away. He moved towards them but stopped when the curtains twitched and two stockinged feet peeped out below, moving slowly towards the discarded footwear, like a cat trying to escape detection. He remained silent, watching with appreciation the elegant line of foot and ankle, the slim calf, and with regret the appearance of the hem of a muslin skirt as the feet finally encountered the shoes and slid into them, sneaking back just as stealthily behind the curtains.

‘I’m afraid it is a bit late for concealment,’ he said, trying not to laugh. He had no wish to embarrass anyone, especially not if this was the Princess. ‘I am Lord Stanton. Will you please come out so we may introduce ourselves?’

There was a moment’s silence and then the curtain was pushed aside. A young woman stood up, shaking out her skirts, her finger still held between the pages of a book.

She was clearly embarrassed, her cheeks hot with colour, but she was just as clearly not the Princess. The Princess had been a child with black hair and brown eyes, not hair the shade of dark mahogany and eyes of a peculiar teal blue. His uncle had also claimed the Princess was exceedingly pretty and he was a stickler for accuracy. The woman facing him didn’t evoke the overused epithet ‘pretty’, but her features had a compelling harmony and her large, wide-set eyes were like staring into the distant shadowing of the ocean, the kind that fuelled travellers’ anticipation and fear. Then reality returned and he recalled Watkins’s words—this must be the Princess’s English companion.

‘I am sorry,’ she said, her voice low. ‘When I am reading, I forget myself. I hadn’t even realised I had taken off my shoes until I heard someone moving in the room.’

The silence stretched as he tried to focus on her words, but they faded away from him, like a vaguely familiar foreign language. All that reminiscing with Hunter and Raven was clearly having some ill effects on him—for a moment he had been dragged back in time to a very different room. He struggled to regain his footing.

‘There is no need to apologise. You are more than welcome to use the library, Miss...’ He groped for the memory of the name Watkins had mentioned. ‘Miss James?’

She smiled and her face transformed for a moment, solemnity disappearing under the weight of embarrassed amusement, quickly checked. It was a powerful transformation, like sun breaking through clouds above a stormy sea. He might have to reassess his initial impression—she might not be a beauty, but there was something about her features that went beyond classical features and made it difficult to look away.

‘I apologise, Lord Stanton. We were told you weren’t expected until tomorrow. I wouldn’t have come to the library if I had known you were arriving sooner.’

‘And why is that?’ he asked, moving closer. Surely if this was the girl who had nursed him she would say something, show some sign of recognition. But her eyes showed only embarrassment as she hugged the book to her.

‘Lady Albinia said the library is your domain when you are at the Hall. I meant to take a book upstairs with me, but then I saw the window seat and forgot. I don’t think I could have conjured a more perfect place.’

He glanced at the window seat, at the cushions arranged into a little nest in the corner, still bearing the outline of her body. She turned and began arranging the cushions, plumping them back into shape, her skirts falling forward to accentuate the soft curves of her hips and behind. There was nothing intentionally provocative about her actions, any more than the surreptitious manoeuvre with her shoes had been calculated, but his body wasn’t in the least concerned with intentions. It was focused on actions and on curves and was heading deep into unrealisable potential when she finally finished and turned, her cheeks flushed and the apology still in her eyes.

‘There, now you won’t even know I was here.’

He searched for an answer, something polite and non-committal and removed from the impressions his mind was struggling to master and the messages his suddenly rebellious body was sending.

The silence began to sag in the middle and then, thankfully, there was a movement in the window and he forced his gaze to the sight of his uncle and aunt coming up the path from the gardens with the King and Princess. He grasped at the opening they offered as he would at a rope in a stormy sea. It made no difference whether this was the veiled girl or not. She was the Princess’s companion and a guest. His guest. Everything else must be put aside to be dealt with later, if at all.

‘Your solitude is about to be interrupted anyway. Why didn’t you join them? Don’t you like gardens?’ he asked, more bluntly than he might have intended, but Miss James didn’t appear to find anything strange with his question. She answered it as given, glancing down guiltily at the book she held.

‘I do, but I love books more. Please don’t tell Lady Albinia, I know how she adores her gardens and I would hate to offend her.’

‘Of course not. You are more than welcome to use the window seat when you wish, whether I am at the Hall or not. The only time I am afraid the library is out of bounds is when we will be busy with the negotiations in the stateroom, which is through those doors. Other than that you are welcome here.’

He wondered what on earth he was doing, trying to make her comfortable when the last thing he wanted was to have his privacy invaded any more than absolutely necessary. As they watched, the group in the garden turned on to the lake path.

‘Well, you have just earned another half hour. My aunt is probably taking them to see what remains of the water lilies on the lake. So, what are you reading? Won’t you sit down?’

Embarrassment was often very useful. Now that he was overcoming his initial discomfort he resolved to make the most of hers. People revealed more when off balance and he wanted to know what he was dealing with here. He indicated the window seat again, using his superior height to press her back. She sat down but her eyes narrowed at the manoeuvre. She was a peculiar combination—her expression was cool and calm, but something in the blue depths contradicted that assessment. He stepped back and pulled over a chair, suddenly noticing she held Bruce’s Travels to Discover the Source of the Nile. The veiled nurse had had a preference for agony columns, he remembered.

‘This is a rather unusual choice of reading material. There are shelves of novels in my sisters’ parlour next to the conservatory, you know.’

‘I love novels, sometimes I think they are the anchors of my sanity. But I love tales by people who have seen the world and been stretched to their limits. I hadn’t even realised how much time had gone by.’

Her face had descended into a serious look, but then another smile dispelled it almost immediately. It was like light reflecting off conflicting currents in a lake, confusing hints of forces at work beneath the surface, shifting as soon as the eyes settled on them. Once again his concentration shattered, but the certainty that had struck him when she had first spoken was fading. Her voice was already her own and he couldn’t for the life of him remember if it resembled that young woman of six years ago or whether it had been a trick of his own memory. Perhaps he should just ask her...what? Were you the girl who saved my life? Remember? I’m the idiot who made a fool of himself and asked you to run off with me?

‘That has effectively stifled all conversational gambits, hasn’t it?’ she said into the silence, the amused self-mockery in her deep voice rousing him from another round of uncharacteristic stupor. He shook his head, trying to keep to the surface of the conversation. It should have been easy, but he felt himself struggling to find the anchor of polite patter that was second nature to him and usually took up no more than a tenth of his mental effort while the rest of his mind was engaged on more momentous matters.

‘Does the Princess share your interest in tales of adventure?’

‘No, she is much saner than I. We are currently reading Mrs Carmichael’s Hidden Heart. But you wouldn’t like her.’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’ he asked. But his hope that the conviction in her statement might indicate an admission of familiarity faded with her next words.

‘Most men despise novels, don’t they?’

‘Just as most women love them? Isn’t that simplistic? I have very little time for fiction, unfortunately, but with two sisters I have been exposed to more novels than I can remember and I certainly don’t despise them. Hers haven’t come my way, though. Are they any good?’

‘I like them; they are almost as good as my dreams.’ Her words ended on a little surprised sound as if she had remembered something or merely realised that she was being a tad too honest. She stood up abruptly and handed him the book.

‘Thank you for the use of the library and your book.’

He stood up as well, taking the book automatically. Between his bulk and the chair he knew he was impeding her exit, but he wasn’t quite ready to conclude this conversation.

‘Formally it is my father’s library. Why are you convinced it is not his book as well?’

She had to look up at him, her head tilted back, accentuating a very stubborn chin. Then she smiled again.

‘I guessed,’ she said simply and slid past him in the manner of a child slipping past a strict parent and he found himself turning as if he could capture her scent as she passed.

This time it was his memory that took precedence, just a flash, a moment from when he had still been caught in the fever of the wound, perhaps the first time he had really been conscious of her, or of her scent. He hadn’t thought of it since, but the memory had somehow remained—like a soap bubble that had formed years ago about the girl’s essence and had only now burst. Wildflowers deep in the woods. At his desk he placed the book on the blotting pad and smoothed unseen wrinkles on the leather binding. It was warm and supple, as leather is after being handled, not surprising if she had been curled up with it in that sunny corner.

Almost as good as my dreams... What a strange thing to say, whether she was that veiled nurse or not. What on earth would she have done if he had asked her to describe those dreams? She might be peculiar, but that would probably have stymied even her. Possibly. Maybe not.

He pushed the book to the edge of the desk. He had work to do before he had to play host to his problematic guests. Whatever she was made no odds. He had a task to complete and that was the sum of his interest in the King’s affairs or employees.

Damn Oswald.