Swept Away By a Kiss (30 page)

“We made each other’s acquaintance last summer before I came to London. In rather peculiar circumstances.”

“Peculiar circumstances? Yes, that sounds like him. And from what I understand, Lady Valerie”—her tone did not censure—“it sounds like you too.”

“Perhaps at one time.” Valerie could not bring herself to smile. “I would like to know why he went to America.”

Lady March laid her knitting upon her ample lap. Valerie bore her assessing regard, the crinkled eyes wise.

“Steven has not actually been in Louisiana for most of his lifetime, as rumor has it, but only a scant seven years or so,” the countess began. “He spent his childhood like any English boy of the nobility, upon his father’s estate in Kent, his summers here with me and the Captain. For most of that time he was without a mother. His father had a wandering spirit.” The countess’s gaze strayed out the window.

“I remember Rory Ashford, full of Irish pride, set loose at an early age to explore the world. He was a younger son, you see, never expected to inherit and something of a black sheep. He pursued unusual activities and kept unusual company. He was terribly handsome, but there was no real mystery about him. The greatest adventure of his life was when his father sent him to take care of some business interests in the West Indies. Before returning home, he took a tour through the Louisiana Territory, and there he found a bride entirely unacceptable to his family.”

“Who was she?”

Lady March’s brows rose. “A native of that country, a Natchez Indian, though living with a Cherokee tribe at the time, I believe. Her name—her English name, that is—was Willomena, though the family never used it when they spoke of her. She was the daughter of a native woman and a Prussian fur trader. Rory Ashford fell in love with the girl and wed her as soon as he could find someone to perform the service. She insisted upon a priest. She was a Catholic, you see. Some renegade Roman priests, it seems, will condone such an alliance,” the countess added with a sideways look that made Valerie’s palms go damp.

“Rory gained the sanction of an Anglican bishop as soon as he could, and the marriage was made licit and valid according to the Church of England. He had broken society’s rules plenty when he was a single man, but he knew them, and did not wish to take any chances with his children,” she added.

“The couple spent a few happy years in America. But when Rory told his wife finally that he wished to return to England, she refused to accompany him. She gave birth to a son, and when the boy was only a year old, Rory said good-bye to her and sailed with the boy to England. So, you see, Steven has been traveling across the ocean since practically the day he was born.”

Valerie studied the countess’s face.

“He left her in America?” Her chest felt hollow.

“Rory loved his wife,” the countess said, “and he suffered dreadfully without her. He was never quite the same after he returned. But his love for his homeland was too strong. Bless him, for good or ill, Steven did not inherit that particular trait from his father, or from his mother, for that matter.”

Valerie found her tongue. “She never joined them in England?”

“Eventually, but only when she learned her husband was dying. She wished to see him again, and she wanted to have the care of her son.” The countess’s gaze drifted once more across the parlor, unfocused.

“I met her shortly after she arrived, two years before her death. She was magnificent, beautiful beyond what I ever imagined a woman could be.” She glanced at Valerie, a distant smile in her eyes. “I was young then, and she was majestic, elegant, with raven hair and golden eyes. It was not difficult to understand what Rory saw in her. She was a strong woman too, and clever. One of the few surviving people of her tribe, she had learned at an early age to fight for what she loved. When Rory died, she battled the Ashford family for her son, standing up to their cruelty and ostracism until they relented and gave her the management of Rory’s house and the care of her own child. Steven was still under the legal guardianship of his grandfather, but he would have no other keeper. She won his heart instantly, as she had won his father’s.”

The countess nodded, as though conjuring up memories with the gesture. “She also won the Captain’s heart, and mine. When she died of fever just shy of Steven’s tenth birthday, the family made plans to send him off to school. Instead, the Captain took him under his wing and together they set off for Paris.”

“Paris?” Valerie murmured. “During the Revolution.”

“Indeed,” the countess said soberly. “The Captain and I had become betrothed that season, and he promised to marry me after he returned from I knew not where, then.” She lowered her voice as though the very air might overhear her. “You see, at the time he was engaged in some diplomatic activities which he did not see fit to share with me, the silly man.” She waved away the memory. “When he left in ’91 he took the child with him. Steven’s grandfather and uncles did not protest. He was so far from the title, and they were so little interested in their mongrel relative that I think they would have been happy to learn he perished on the Continent.

“Instead he thrived. The Captain found a home—homes, actually—in which Steven was more than welcome, and the boy flourished in the excitement and intrigue of revolutionary Paris.” For a moment Lady March’s gaze lingered upon Valerie’s warm cheeks.

“My lady?” Valerie’s fingers twisted together. The story could not be over yet. She never wanted it to end. She wished to know everything about him, to entangle herself in the intimacy of his life. Her anger had faded, replaced by need and burning desire to understand him, and to trust him.

“The Captain returned from France for the final time without Steven,” the countess said. “It was 1796 and he was only fifteen. The Captain and I had been married for several years by then, and his work was complete. He told me Steven decided not to return to England ever again.”

“But he is here now.” Valerie struggled to keep her voice steady.

“Indeed. He is here now,” Lady March folded her hands in her lap. “He appeared upon our doorstep in London just over a month ago. Oddly enough, it was five years to the very day he succeeded to his uncle’s title. We have heard from him regularly over the years, of course, but had not seen him until then. He remained in town with us only a few days, then went off again to I don’t know where until he arrived to join our party here.”

The countess looked at Valerie in frank appraisal.

“I suspect, Lady Valerie, that your curiosity is not yet satisfied.” Her tone held a light challenge.

“Not entirely, no.” Valerie set down the yarn and reached into her reticule. “I believe you have been searching for this, my lady.” She extended the worn French Bible.

Lady March glanced from the book to Valerie. “Are you certain you wish to part with that, my dear?”

“Fairly.”

“He may never tell you why.”

“I know.”

The countess took the book and slipped it into her knitting bag.

“Now, dear girl,” she said louder as a footman opened the door to admit other guests to the parlor. “You have tarried here long enough listening to an old lady’s stories.” Her needles paused and the shrewd eyes pinned Valerie again. “I wish you good fortune in your quest for answers, and when you have found them, the wisdom to know what to do with them.”

Chapter 28

R
ousing his guests, Lord March announced that the search for the Yule log would begin immediately. With only half a heart for the activity, Valerie joined the others for the trek into the woods, following her host and a burly footman bearing the Yule horn.

The merriment included a large quantity of alcohol concealed in pocket-sized flasks. As they left the yard and wended their way through the pristine green, gray, and white forest, Valerie spotted her maid sharing a bottle with a fine-looking footman. Closer at hand, Lord Michaels’s valet produced two flasks.

“I will not be outdone by my own man,” the baron exclaimed, drawing an embossed silver flask from his pocket. He offered it with exaggerated courtesy to Alethea.

“Thank you, my lord.” She laughed, drank, and coughed, but managed a smile, then handed the liquor to Lady Alverston. Anna chuckled and took a sip before passing it along. Another pocket produced another flask, and yet another, and within minutes Valerie found a bottle in her hand.

She didn’t want to drink. Her thoughts were sufficiently tangled already. But she raised the flask to her lips. Beyond her hand, not four yards away, Sylvia Sinclaire leaned upon Steven’s shoulder. He tipped his face toward hers and she whispered in his ear. He smiled.

Valerie choked, then gulped. The liquid burned, curling into her clenched stomach. She sputtered.

“Dear me, Valerie,” Cassandra said upon a girlish giggle. “If this is your first taste of spirits ever, I will be terribly disappointed.”

Valerie wanted to scream. Turning from the sight of the golden-haired beauty hanging upon Steven’s arm, she pasted on a grin and pressed the flask into her brother’s hand.

“As for her first drink, my lady,” Valentine said to Cassandra, “she took it at the age of twelve. Bramfield and I were home from school, and late one night we foolishly left a bottle unattended. It turned up empty the next day, and none saw my sister abroad until dinnertime.”

Valerie pursed her lips, certain she deserved her brother’s teasing and equally unimpressed with it, as Viscount Ashford seemed to be. His attention was all for the ruby-lipped coquette at his side.

“Lord Bramfield, is it true?” Alethea asked with a grin, “or is Lord Alverston simply trying to put his sister to the blush?”

“Alverston.” Timothy smiled. “You should not spread unsavory rumors about the lady.”

“I wager the lady herself does not consider the incident so unsavory.” Steven stepped into the small circle and Valerie’s heart tripped. He rested his glimmering gaze upon her. “Do I mistake it, ma’am?”

Alethea chuckled. Anna threw Valerie a curious glance. Valerie screwed her lips into a playful scowl, her heart pounding fiercely. With one mischievous statement he claimed to know her better than Timothy, the man everyone present knew had courted her for six months.

Of course, the faithless cur was right.

Stealing a glance at Timothy’s benign expression, Valerie forced a grin to her lips and made herself look at Steven.

“Don’t throw away your guineas, my lord. I am deeply ashamed of the episode. I took the bottle for my educational betterment. Miss Shockley’s Academy for Young Ladies offered no curriculum in spirits, you see. I was obliged to augment my education where I could.” For the sake of her audience, Valerie peered with theatrical curiosity at the flask in her mittened hand.

“I do believe that this contains some new beverage as yet altogether unknown to me. I suppose I must test it too.” She sighed and put the bottle to her mouth. The others laughed. Eventually some moved away, continuing their stroll through the woods in search of the Christmas log. Valerie released a thin breath of relief.

The level of intoxicated hilarity grew louder and cheeks turned rosy. When her head started spinning, Valerie realized she had drunk more liquor than she intended. And her wool-wrapped mind had attention for only one object.

Accompanied by Sylvia’s cascading laughter as they strolled among the snow-draped trees, he was easy enough to locate. Every nerve in Valerie’s body tingled at his nearness, though her head argued that her nerves were widgeons. She certainly knew more now about the mysterious Viscount of Ashford, but that did not mean she understood him any better. Or trusted him.

Foolishly, she had hoped to find him changed overnight, but her hopes were in vain. He did not flee her presence as he had the day before, but the sharp-witted nobleman had returned, and he was acting the part diligently now.

Sylvia’s laughter trilled through the trees, followed by his warm chuckle. Swallowing bile, Valerie squared her shoulders and moved toward Anna and Alethea. A dramatic exclamation of delight stalled the party’s progress. Everyone turned to the sound.

Sylvia stood beside a tall oak, staring into the boughs above. With both hands she grasped one of the capes on Steven’s greatcoat. Her crimson cloak perfectly matched his cashmere muffler, and her golden curls brushed his shoulder as she turned her face inches from his.

“My lord, I have told Lady March we cannot celebrate Christmas without mistletoe, and here I have found some.” She cast a long-lashed glance at the others now gathering around. “Will one of you gentlemen climb up to gather some from that branch? It will make the holiday complete.” Her pleading voice rippled.