Bedding The Baron (26 page)

The surrounding parkland was dotted with formal gardens, hedge mazes, fishponds, deer parks, and a formal gazebo that overlooked the lake. In the far distance lay the rich fields and woodlands that had provided a steady source of income for the Norrington family for the past five hundred years.

Riding along the lane that was lined with rosebushes, he brought his horse to a halt in front of the double oak doors. A young stable boy that Ian did not recognize raced to take the reins while Ian leaped easily to the ground and paused to gather his composure.

No, not his composure—his courage, he ruefully admitted.

This opulent house filled with its acres of cold marble and lofted, gilded ceilings had always managed to make him feel small. Inconsequential.

Precisely as his father had always managed to make him feel.

On impulse, Ian turned from the looming portico and angled his way toward a side door. He disliked the pomp and ceremony that servants insisted were a part of a viscount’s household. They were even more stiff-rumped than his father.

Quite an accomplishment.

For himself, he preferred a less formal entrance.

Slipping through the servants’ door, Ian made his way through the silent, oppressive house.

Others might have been impressed by the sweeping halls with their mural ceilings and Van Dycks lining the satin-paneled walls. Certainly most would catch their breath at the magnificent black-and-white marble floors and Roman statues that filled the alcoves.

Ian, however, barely noted the exquisite beauty. Rosehill might be considered one of the finest estates in all of England, but he far preferred the shabby comfort of Dunnington’s townhouse to such icy splendor. Or even the impersonal monotony of his rented rooms.

At least there he did not fear a mere sneeze might ruin a nearby masterpiece.

Making his way past the public rooms, Ian at last paused before the private back parlor that his aunt preferred for her tea.

He stepped over the threshold, a small smile curving his lips as his gaze skimmed over the fine Brussels tapestry that was framed on the walls and delicate porcelain that his aunt had collected over the years. Although less imposing than most of the house, it still held that unmistakable elegance that had made Rosehill famous throughout the world.

Not surprisingly, he discovered Miss Ella Breckford arranging a tea tray next to the bay window, humming softly as she cut slices of seed cake.

She had aged, he ruefully admitted. The puff of brown hair that she had dressed in pretty curls held far more gray than he remembered, and her round face held a few small wrinkles about her brown eyes. And if he was not mistaken, he would say that her curves had become somewhat plumper beneath the violet silk gown.

One thing that had not changed, however, was the vitality that crackled about her as she busied herself with her task. For all her sweet manners, his aunt could be a force of nature when she set her mind to it.

Quietly crossing the Persian carpet, Ian waited until he was standing directly behind his aunt before he spoke.

“Aunt Ella, when will you learn that you possess servants to take care of such tedious tasks?” he murmured softly.

“Ian?” Slowly turning, the woman clapped her hands to her face, her expression one of shocked pleasure. “Ian.”

He chuckled. “It is I.”

“What a wonderful surprise.” Without warning, she threw herself into his arms, tears streaming down her cheeks. “What are you doing here? Has something happened?”

“Everything is well, my dear.”

The older woman pulled back and gave a small sound as she noticed Ian’s wrinkled lapels.

“Oh . . . forgive me, I have ruined your beautiful coat.”

“It is no matter.” Ian smiled fondly as warmth filled his heart. This woman’s love was the only pleasant memory he had of his childhood. “I would ask how you do, but it is obvious you are extremely well.”

Ella gave a flutter of her hands, a pleased color staining her cheeks. “I feel extremely well, but I fear that the mirror is not so kind.”

“Nonsense.” Capturing her fingers, he pulled them to his lips for a kiss. “Your beauty is the sort that will never fade.”

“Ian.” Ella pulled her hand free, lightly patting his cheek. “You were born with a silver tongue in your mouth.”

“I seem to hear that with remarkable frequency,” he murmured before his lips twisted in a wry smile. “Although I must confess that not all women share your appreciation for my supposedly silver tongue.”

“I do not believe you,” Ella denied with stout loyalty. “There is not a woman born who can resist your charm.”

“You are wrong.” He tugged off his gloves and tossed them absently on a nearby chair. “She has not only been born, but she is currently residing beneath your roof.”

Ella tilted her head to one side. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I encountered Miss Simpson in the south meadow.”

“Did you?”

“She was quite . . . remarkable.”

“Yes, she is.” His aunt regarded him with a peculiar expression. “Mercy has not only dedicated her life to caring for her aging parents, but she is an eager student of history. Having her here has been a genuine pleasure.”

Mercy. He wisely hid a smile of satisfaction. The name somehow suited her. As did the knowledge that she would devote herself to her family and her ridiculous studies.

She was soft and utterly feminine, and yet possessed a steady, unshakable willpower that shimmered about her like the finest armor.

Devil take her, she had stood there in the meadow confronting a strange gentleman without the least hint of fear. She had even dared to chastise him as if he were no more than a harmless lad.

“That I do not doubt, but I am not quite certain why she is here.” He met the brown gaze with a faint question. “There is not something I should know, is there?”

“Something you should know?”

He reached out to gently push a stray curl from her cheek. “I know you said earlier that you were well. . . .”

“Ian, I assure you that my invitation to Mercy was extended solely out of the desire to offer a sweet and generous young girl the opportunity to fulfill her dreams,” she said firmly. “And, I suppose, I also wished for a bit of female companionship. As much as I love Norry, he does prefer locking himself in his conservatory to sharing tea with his tedious sister.”

Ian gave a short, humorless laugh. He had spent the first seven years of his life in this icy tomb, each day struggling to discover some means of pleasing his father so that the stern, distant man would take notice of him. Hell, he would have been content if the bleeding sod had simply acknowledged his presence.

But day after passing day there had been barely a glance from Lord Norrington, let alone a pat on the head or a kind word.

He might as well have been invisible in his own home.

“Yes, Father has never bothered with such things as good manners or simple decency when there is a flower to occupy his attention,” he drawled.

“Now, Ian, that is not entirely fair. Norry . . .” She deliberately paused. “
Your father
is like any other collector who becomes lost among his treasures.”

Ian gave a shake of his head. “Do you know, Aunt Ella, I believe Father could commit murder and you would find some means to excuse his behavior.”

“As I would for you, Ian,” she said as she reached up to pat his cheek.

Ian firmly thrust away the anger that always festered deep in his heart. His aunt had never been able to disguise her distress at the brittle tension that existed between him and Lord Norrington. She deserved better from him.

“Yes, I am certain you would,” he said in lightly teasing tones. “Thank God that for all my sins, I have yet to actually make a habit of doing away with my fellow man.”

“Of course you have not.” Ella’s sunny smile slowly returned. “Now, tell me what brings you to Surrey?”

“Can a gentleman not visit home without a reason?”

“Of course. You know I am always delighted to have you here.” The brown eyes held a knowing expression. Ella Breckford could be incredibly tolerant of others, but that did not mean she was blind to their faults. “It is just that you are such a creature of London that I cannot imagine you being content with our quiet ways.”

The image of wood sprites danced through his head. “Do not fear, dearest Aunt, I shall no doubt find some means of occupying myself.”

“Hmm.” A brief suspicion flittered over her countenance before she was waving a heavily bejeweled hand toward the nearby sofa. “Sit down and allow me to offer you tea.”

Ian made no objection as he settled himself on the stiff cushions and allowed his aunt to fill a plate with a number of sandwiches and two slices of the seed cake. He was a man who thoroughly appreciated his appetite. All his appetites. “Will the lovely Miss Simpson not be joining us?”

Ella took a far smaller portion of the bounty for herself. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether or not you have managed to terrify the poor girl into hiding in her chambers.”

“Poor girl?” Ian laughed as he polished off two of the sandwiches. “I was fortunate to survive the encounter. If anyone should be hiding in their chambers and licking their wounds, it is I.”

His aunt smiled, as if pleased he had been neatly put into his place by the wench.

“Mercy is a strong-willed maiden, but she has little experience with gentlemen. Especially gentlemen such as you.”

Ian assumed an expression of mock innocence. “And what is that supposed to mean? Gentlemen such as me?”

She shook a finger in his direction. “Although I am secluded here, I possess many acquaintances that are always eager to keep me informed of your exploits.”

“Oh, I am quite sure they are.” He gave a snort of disgust. “The old tabbies might grouse and complain about the wickedness of London society, but they are always the first to relish a tidbit of scandal.”

Ella took a delicate sip of her tea. “If you do not wish to be the source of gossip, Ian, then you should not be constantly courting attention.”

He opened his mouth to argue, only to give a sudden laugh. How could he possibly deny that he boldly forged his way through society, ruffling feathers and stepping upon toes whenever possible?

“Touché.” He gave a dip of his head to acknowledge her direct strike. “And to ease your mind, I will promise not to force anything upon the lovely Miss Simpson that she does not desire.” He wagged his brows. “I will not, however, promise to resist if she should choose to force herself upon me.”

Ella rolled her eyes. “I suppose that is the best I can hope for.”

“It is, indeed.” Popping the last of the cake into his mouth, Ian gracefully lifted himself to his feet. “If you will excuse me, I think I should seek a bath and change of clothes before dinner.”

“Of course.” Rising to her feet, Ella reached out to grasp his hands. “Oh Ian, I am so glad you are home.”

Home . . .

Ian bent to kiss his aunt’s cheek before she could see the bitter cynicism in his eyes.

He did not know where home might be, but it sure the hell was not at Rosehill.