More than a Mistress/No Man's Mistress (48 page)

Just two weeks ago he had not even heard of Pinewood. Now here he was on the verge of seeing it, and wondering what exactly there would be to see. A fool’s errand, Lord Heyward, his brother-in-law, had predicted of his journey. But then, Heyward was never strong on optimism, especially where the escapades of Angeline’s two brothers were concerned. He did not have a high opinion of the Dudleys, even though he had married one of them.

He ought not to have kissed that woman last night, Ferdinand thought uneasily. He was not in the habit of indulging in flirtations with innocent country wenches. And he suspected that she might be more than just a country wench. What if Pinewood Manor turned out to be very close, after all—and not in ruins? What if he should decide to stay there for a while? She might even turn out to be the vicar’s daughter. It was entirely within the realm of possibility, since she had clearly been one of the prime movers of the festivities—and she had stepped out of the vicarage during the evening. He had not asked who she was. He did not even know her name.

Devil take it, but he hoped she was not the vicar’s
daughter. And he hoped Pinewood was not so very close. That stolen kiss might yet prove an embarrassment.

Of course, she had been pretty enough to tempt a saint—and Dudleys had never been candidates for sainthood. Her dark red hair and perfect features in an oval face would give her a claim to extraordinary beauty even if one considered her only from the neck up. But when one added the rest of her to the picture … Ferdinand blew out his breath and turned from the window.
Voluptuous
was one word that leaped to mind. She was tall and slim but generously curved in all the right places. He had had evidence of that with his body as well as his eyes.

The memory itself was enough to make him uncomfortably warm.

He went in search of the landlord to ask about Pinewood. Then he summoned his valet, who had arrived with his coach and baggage in the middle of last evening, an hour after his groom had arrived with his curricle.

An hour later, freshly shaven and wearing clean riding clothes and boots so shiny that he could almost see his face in them, Ferdinand was riding across the river via a triple-arched stone bridge beyond the vicarage. Pinewood Manor, the landlord had assured him, was very close indeed. The river formed the boundary of its park on two sides, in fact. Ferdinand had not asked for further details. He wanted to see for himself what the place was like. He noticed suddenly that a number of the trees on the other side of the river were pines. Pinewood, of course. There was a footpath between the trees and the river, stretching away to his right until it was lost to
view around a sharp bend in the river beyond the village.

It all looked very promising, but he must not get his hopes up prematurely.

It did not matter anyway, he told himself. Even if Heyward’s gloomy predictions proved correct, he would be no worse off than he had been two weeks ago. All he would have missed was a week or so of the London Season and the arrival in town of his brother Tresham with his wife and children.

Ferdinand’s spirits continued to rise when he found himself riding along a winding driveway shaded by overhanging trees—a driveway wide enough to accommodate even the grandest of carriages and displaying no sign of being overgrown from disuse.

He burst into song, as he sometimes did when alone, serenading the trees around him and the blue sky above. “ ‘Now is the month of Maying, when merry lads are playing. Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-laaa. Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la. Each with his bonny lass.’ ”

But both the song and his forward motion came to an abrupt pause as he rode into the bright sunlight clear of the band of trees and found himself at the foot of a wide lawn. It was bisected by the driveway, which curved off to the left before it reached the house in the near distance.

House
. Ferdinand whistled through his teeth. It was definitely more than that. It was closer to being a mansion, though that might be something of an exaggeration, he admitted, thinking of the imposing grandeur of Acton Park, his childhood home. Nevertheless, Pinewood was an impressive gray stone manor set in a sizable park. Even the stables and carriage house
toward which the driveway turned were not negligible in size.

A flicker of movement to his left drew Ferdinand’s eyes to two men, who were busy cutting the grass with scythes. It was only then that the neat, well-kept appearance of the lawn struck him. One of the men turned to gaze curiously at him, leaning both arms on the long handle of his scythe as he did so.

“That is Pinewood Manor?” Ferdinand pointed with his whip.

“Aye, ’tis, sir,” the man agreed, respectfully touching his forelock.

Ferdinand rode onward, feeling somewhat euphoric. He resumed his singing as soon as he judged himself to be out of earshot of the grass cutters, though perhaps not with quite such cheerful abandon. “ ‘A-a-dancing on the grass,’ ” he sang, picking up the song where he had left it off. “ ‘Fa-la-la-la-laaa.’ ” He held the high note and noticed that the lawn did not stretch right up to the doors of the manor but ended before a low, neatly clipped box hedge with what looked like a formal garden beyond it. And unless he was much mistaken, there was a fountain in that garden. One that worked.

Why the devil had Bamber been so careless of such an apparently substantial property? Was the house a mere empty shell beyond the respectable outer facade? It was surely damp and horridly dilapidated from disuse, but if that was all that was wrong with it, he would count himself well blessed indeed. Why let the prospect of a little mildew dampen his spirits? He finished the verse of his song with a flourish.

“ ‘La-la-la-la-laaa.’ ”

There was a cobbled terrace before the front doors of
the manor, he noticed as he approached the stables. The formal garden, consisting of graveled walks, box hedges, and neat floral borders, was below it, at the foot of three broad steps. He was surprised, as he dismounted by the stables, to be met by a young lad coming out of one of the stalls.

The Earl of Bamber had never lived at this manor in remote Somersetshire or even visited it, if he was to be believed. He had denied any knowledge of it. Yet he seemed to have been spending money on its upkeep. Why else were there two gardeners at work on the lawn and a groom in the stables?

“Are there servants at the house?” he asked the lad curiously.

“Aye, sir,” the boy told him as he prepared to lead the horse away. “Mr. Jarvey will see to you if you knock on the door. That was a right fine display of ball throwing, if you will pardon me for saying so, sir. I could only hit three of them candlesticks myself, and they was much closer when I tried.”

Ferdinand grinned his acknowledgment of the compliment. “Mr. Jarvey?”

“The butler, sir.”

There was a
butler
? Curious indeed. Ferdinand nodded affably, strode across the terrace to the double front doors of the manor, and rattled the knocker.

“Good morning, sir.”

Ferdinand smiled cheerfully at the respectably black-clad servant who stood between the opened doors, a look of polite inquiry on his face.

“Jarvey?” Ferdinand asked.

“Yes, sir.” The butler bowed respectfully and opened the doors wider before stepping to one side. His professional
glance had obviously informed him that he was confronting a gentleman.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Ferdinand said, stepping inside and looking around with frank interest.

He found himself standing in a square, high-ceilinged hall with a tiled floor. The walls were tastefully hung with landscape paintings in gilded frames, and a marble bust of stern Roman aspect stood on a marble stand in an alcove opposite the door. There was an oak staircase with an ornately carved banister to the right, doors leading into other apartments to the left. The appearance of the hall certainly boded well for the rest of the house. Not only was it light, pleasingly designed, and tastefully decorated, but it was also clean. Everything gleamed.

The butler coughed with polite inquiry as Ferdinand strode to the center of the hall, his boots clicking on the tiles, and turned slowly about, his head tipped slightly back. “How may I help you, sir?”

“You may have the master bedchamber prepared for my use tonight,” Ferdinand said, giving the man only half his attention, “and some luncheon conjured up an hour or so from now. Is that possible? Is there a cook here? Cold meat and bread will do if there is nothing else.”

The butler regarded him with unconcealed astonishment. “The master bedchamber, sir?” he said stiffly. “I beg your pardon, but I have not been informed that you are expected.”

Ferdinand chuckled good-naturedly and gave his full attention to the matter at hand. “I gather not,” he said. “But then I was not informed that I was to expect
you
. I suppose the Earl of Bamber has not written or got anyone else to write for him?”

“The earl?” The butler sounded even more astonished. “He has never had anything to do with Pinewood Manor, sir. He—”

That was just like Bamber. To have known nothing about the place, not even that there were servants here. Not to have warned anyone that Lord Ferdinand Dudley was on his way here. But then, he had not appeared to know that there was anyone to warn. What a ramshackle fellow!

Ferdinand held up one hand. “You must be a devoted retainer indeed, then,” he said, “if you have kept the manor and grounds in such fine order when he never comes to call you to account. Has he always paid the bills without question? I daresay you have grown to think of the house almost as your own, in which case you will soon wish me to the devil. All that is to change, you see. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lord Ferdinand Dudley, younger brother of the Duke of Tresham, and the new owner of Pinewood.”

Suddenly the truth of it took on a new reality to him. This was his. And it really did exist. In more than just name. There really was a manor and a park, and presumably farms as well. He was a member of the landed gentry.

The butler stared at him with stiff incomprehension. “The new owner, sir?” he said. “But—”

“Oh, I assure you the change of ownership is all legal,” Ferdinand said briskly, his eye taken by the chandelier overhead. “Is there a cook? If not, I had better take my meals at the Boar’s Head until there is. In the meantime, you may give the order about the master bedchamber while I take a look around. How many indoor servants are there?”

The butler did not answer his question. Another voice spoke instead. A female voice. A low, husky voice, which immediately sent shivers of recognition up Ferdinand’s spine.

“Who is it, Mr. Jarvey?” she asked.

Ferdinand turned his head sharply. She was standing on the bottom stair, her left hand resting on the newel post. She looked altogether different today, dressed as she was in a dark green high-waisted walking dress, which hugged her magnificent figure in all the right places, her hair pulled back rather severely from her lovely face and braided into a coronet about her head. Today there was no mistaking the fact that she was no girl, but a woman. And no village wench, but a lady. For a moment she looked vaguely familiar, even apart from yesterday’s acquaintance, but he was not at leisure to pursue that impression.

“Lord Ferdinand Dudley, ma’am.” The butler, stiff and correct, made his name sound as if he were close blood kin to Satan.

Oh, Lord! Bamber had not given any hint about people being in residence. Had he
forgotten
? All the signs had been punching Ferdinand in the nose like a giant fist for the past half hour, but idiot that he was, he had recognized not a one of them. The house was
occupied
. And of all people, by the woman he had kissed last night. Possibly by her husband too. He had a pained mental image of pistols at dawn, grass for breakfast.

She had stepped down onto the tiled floor and was hurrying toward him, her right arm extended in greeting. She was smiling. And devil take it, but she was beautiful. He licked lips suddenly turned dry. There was no sign of a husband thundering down the stairs behind her.

“You!” she exclaimed. Then she seemed to hear the echo of what her butler had said to her and her smile faltered. “
Lord
Ferdinand Dudley?”

He took her outstretched hand in his and bowed over it, clicking his heels as he did so. “Ma’am,” he murmured.
Bloody hell
, he added silently.

“I supposed that you had continued your journey this morning,” she said. “I expected never to see you again. Do you have far to go? But how delightful that you have called on me first. Someone told you where I live? Do come up to the drawing room. Mr. Jarvey will have refreshments sent up. I was on my way out for a walk, but I am so glad you came before I left.”

Where I live
. His mind latched on to those three words. She
did
live here. She thought he had come to call on her on the strength of yesterday’s acquaintance. Lord, what rotten bad luck. He dredged up a smile from somewhere deep inside himself, bowed again, and offered his arm.

“It would be my pleasure, ma’am,” he said, instead of simply telling her what was what and having done with it.

This would teach him to avoid village fêtes and pretty country lasses, Ferdinand thought as she took his arm and led him toward the staircase. He tried to stuff aside the memory of her dancing with gay animation about the maypole on the village green, her face vibrant and beautiful in the firelight, her thick hair bouncing and swaying against her back below its confining ribbon. And of the kiss he had incautiously maneuvered, during which he had held her very shapely body flush against his own.

Devil take it!

E HAD COME! HE WAS TALL AND LITHE AND
elegant in crisply clean riding clothes different from yesterday’s. He was smiling and handsome, and he was Lord Ferdinand Dudley. She remembered how the arm through which her own was now loosely linked had felt holding her close the night before. She remembered how his mouth had felt on her own.