The Beautiful One (2 page)

Recent events had taught her that hope was very, very important for getting through the day. She stirred it up now. But hopeful though Anna might strive to be, she was also unfailingly honest with herself. Viscount Grandville was important and powerful, and should it come to it, ruining her life would be as nothing to him.

“The estate is spectacular,” Miss Tarryton said, her customary tone of boredom replaced with awe.

Anna forced herself to sound natural. “Yes, it is.”

Miss Tarryton's brow lowered, so that she suddenly looked not like a spoiled, privileged young woman but a scared girl. Something occurred to Anna then.

“Have you ever met your uncle?”

“Yes. I used to see him sometimes when I was a girl because he was a close friend of my father's. But we moved to Malta when I was six.”

“And have you seen him since you came to England from Malta?”

“No, but that's of no consequence.”

Anna wasn't so certain. “Do you remember what he was like?”

“Only that he had dark hair and he was tall and kind. He's a very important man, so it's not surprising if he's been too busy for visiting.”

The girl lifted her hand and nibbled at a fingernail for a moment before she realized what she was doing and dropped her hand. She might be impatient to arrive at the home of her uncle, but she was just as nervous as Anna, if for different reasons.

“Do you think Lord Grandville…” Miss Tarryton began, then closed her mouth. Her face smoothed into the look of angelic boredom she'd worn for much of the journey, and she turned a placid gaze on the floor. The knuckles of her clasped fingers, though, soon turned even whiter than the rest of her pale, soft hands.

As close as they now were to the viscount's home, Anna knew she must finally face one of the possibilities that had concerned her during their journey: that Lord Grandville was acquainted with the Marquess of Henshaw.

That he might have seen
The
Beautiful
One
.

Will Halifax, fifth Viscount Grandville, stalked through the door to Stillwell Hall, pulling off his rain-sodden hat and coat and dropping them onto the outstretched arms of his butler, Dart. He sat down on an ornate bench, and Dart pulled off his master's extremely filthy boots.

“Your bath is ready, sir,” Dart said as Will walked past and grunted, a response to which his staff had become accustomed. On a narrow hallway table sat a letter bearing his stepmother's handwriting that had been there for more than a week, and he walked past that too. Alone in his room, he stripped off his shirt and let his breeches fall to the faded rug.

He stepped into the waiting tub of steaming water. Crunching up his long body, he sank all the way down until the water covered his dark head and filled his ears, creating a new silence, one that allowed only the thud of his heart and chased away all thought.

If only he could stay under the water, away from thought. Thought was a wild boar that harried him, and escape was futile. No amount of liquor helped. Nor had he been able to outrun grief—he'd tried running to the Continent after Ginger died, as if he could physically escape the pain of his wife's death. Nothing had helped.

There was only work now. Droning, punishing work, as physical as possible. For the time being, he had the cottages to labor over. He did not think beyond them.

Except now his mind was filling with an image that wouldn't leave of a certain bold, rain-drenched woman. He was aware for the first time in a year of sensations in his body, of its nakedness in the bath and the feel of the water against his skin when he shifted.

Reaching outside the tub, he grabbed the pitcher of cold water set out for him to drink and dumped it over his head.

He stepped out of the tub onto the old rug Dart had put down to replace the one sent to the attic along with all the other furnishings Ginger had bought. He couldn't bear them reminding him of her cheerful puttering and decision-making as she'd gone about freshening up the manor, putting her stamp on it.

As he rubbed his skin roughly with a towel, his mind again returned to the woman on the road, conjuring the image of her perched on the step of the tilted carriage. He'd been riding toward home and caught sight of the carriage just before it hit the ditch, and he'd paused. The coach door had swung upward and she'd emerged with a jaunty, boyish energy that had reminded him of a toy jack-in-the-box springing free.

Something about her had gotten to him and even now was annoying the hell out of him. It was that damned pluckiness, he thought, grinding his teeth as he dashed the towel about his head. As if she would not be defeated by anything—not weather, not accident, not even a beast of a man in her path. She was pert and tough at the same time, an unholy combination.

As they'd stood arguing in the rain, he'd noticed far too much about her: That she was pretty in an unusual, sharp way. That her gown hung badly from a slim frame that suggested the supple bendability of a willow branch. That her breasts were small and he'd wanted to know more about them.

He shouldn't have looked at her that way. He didn't allow that part of himself to exist. It
wouldn't
.

He couldn't guess what business she thought she had with Stillwell, but he hoped she now thought better of coming there.

He jerked on clean breeches and a shirt, and made the simplest of functional knots in his cravat, then used his fingers to comb his dark brown hair without looking in the glass. His whiskers had grown into thick stubble from two days without shaving, but he didn't bother to call his valet.

He went over to his desk, on which lay a carriage clock with its back off, its springs and gears spilled around it. The night before, he'd taken it apart, drawn by an old impulse to see how it worked, but he'd lost interest. Now he halfheartedly took up two of the small gears to fit the pieces back into the clock and thought of how Ginger would have teased him about the mess he'd made.

“
What
kind
of
gentleman
will
you
be
,” she used to say with a smile, “
if
you
can't bear to be idle?
”

She'd known him as nobody else ever could.

She'd been the perfect partner, friend, and wife, the woman he'd respected above all others, the person with whom he'd planned to accomplish so much of value. They'd dreamed of making Stillwell a model estate for workers, a place where the needs of all were met, where the laboring man and his family had a life as meaningful and happy as the lives of those who lived in the manor.

Ginger had been a significant part of his moral compass, and now she was gone and he had no north. All his hope and purpose and goodness had died with her.

He tossed the gears back on the desk. The leaden weight in his gut, an old companion by now, was expanding as pain and anger and self-disgust fed it. Thinking always took him down a wretched road and threatened to turn him into nothing more than a lump of a person, useless for running an estate or dealing with anything practical, and he pushed the thoughts away.

His steward, Mr. Norris, would be along soon for the daily review of his affairs, and he welcomed the intense concentration their meeting would demand.

Will left his room and reached the top of the large central staircase just as he became aware that someone was knocking vigorously at the front door. He stepped into the shadow of the corridor, in little doubt as to who it was.

Dart opened the door.

“Good evening,” said a female voice he'd heard barely three-quarters of an hour earlier. “I am Miss Anna Black, accompanied by Miss Elizabeth Tarryton, Lord Grandville's ward. Please let his lordship know she has arrived.”

What
the
hell?
Elizabeth, here? Damnation!
Why
can't people leave me alone?

Dart said nothing for several seconds, then invited the two ladies into the drawing room and came in search of his master, who was already descending the stairs.

Will hesitated before the drawing room doors, knowing he must get rid of the two women. Elizabeth was Ginger's niece, but the last time he'd seen her, she'd been a child. He'd become her guardian a year earlier, not long after Ginger died, and by then he hadn't cared about anything at all. He'd paid her bills and made it clear she was to remain at the school. He'd done her a favor by ensuring she stayed in a place where she was already known and cared for.

So what was she doing here? One thing was certain: she couldn't stay at Stillwell.

* * *

The grand drawing room of Stillwell Hall was strangely bare in the dusk light, Anna thought, as if most of its decoration had been pared away.

The room held little beyond a piano, three unwelcoming wooden chairs in the vicinity of a small, square table, and one handsome if elderly upholstered chair. A large fireplace sat alone in a great expanse of wall, as if it might naturally have been flanked by a pair of comfortable armchairs. Two landscape paintings on the long wall adjacent to the hearth were unbalanced by a significant empty space, as if a now-missing painting had once been part of the set.

Was the viscount some kind of severely religious person who felt that ornamentation was sinful? Or perhaps some furnishings had been sold to pay debts? Yet the house was in fine condition. Its dusted surfaces and clean floors looked well cared for, and the mantelpiece held a collection of exquisite porcelain figures.

Anna's gown had dried somewhat, though it was thoroughly wrinkled. The ribbons of her bonnet had become knotted and tangled with her hair, and she pushed it off so that it hung from her neck, and worked quickly at the ribbons, wanting whatever concealment it might offer in the viscount's presence.

Miss Tarryton, standing by the hearth, was staring at a group of miniatures on the mantel, perhaps looking for a familiar face.

The drawing room doors opened abruptly, the butler announced their names, and Anna had to abandon the bonnet ribbons. She barely managed not to gasp as in strode a more formally dressed version of the surly laborer she'd just met.

Though he was still not clean shaven, he no longer looked so rough and unkempt. The dark blue coat that hung from his broad, rangy shoulders and the stone-colored trousers that skimmed well-formed legs were of fine cloth and well cut, and the waves of his dark brown hair, though they were not neatly arranged, shone cleanly.

But his features bore no warmer expression than they had on the road, and now she realized why his haughty air had come so naturally to him: he was a viscount.

“You,” he said, pinning her with his dark eyes.

A number of tart replies suggested themselves to her, but she was here on Miss Tarryton's behalf. At least she could put one fear to bed: From the moment they'd met, he'd shown no sign of ever having seen her before. Whether he'd seen
The
Beautiful
One
or not—and it seemed unlikely he'd been offered a view of the book of sketches, given his dislike of visitors—he didn't know her. And there was so far no sign of his brother, nor anyone else beyond the butler who'd received them.

Miss Brickle had said that if there were no female relatives present to see to Miss Tarryton, Anna might stay for a day or two if Lord Grandville required her to do so while he made arrangements, but Anna didn't envision this difficult man asking her for help. Which was just as well, because what she needed was to return to the anonymous security of Rosewood.

“My lord,” she said, dipping her head. Even though he was the one who'd set the rude tone at their earlier meeting, Miss Tarryton would have to live with him, and she deserved a better beginning. Anna forced out words he didn't deserve. “Forgive me. I had not, of course, realized it was you with whom I was speaking on the road.”

He made no reply, unless a further hardening of his jaw could be taken as a response. She wondered why he'd been dressed so roughly earlier, and why he hadn't said who he was.

Miss Tarryton came from behind Anna to stand next to her, and as the viscount's gaze finally took the girl in, he seemed, unaccountably, to flinch.

She curtsied and practically whispered, “My lord,” then cleared her throat and said it more loudly. The girl showed no awareness that her guardian was the ill-mannered stranger, but then, she'd been in the carriage the whole time and likely hadn't seen him. “It's a pleasure to see you again, Uncle, after all these years,” she said.

The hard lines of his mouth seemed to slacken for a heartbeat as his head tipped slightly in acknowledgment of her words.

“Elizabeth. I did not expect to see you here.”

She looked taken aback at the cool bluntness of his greeting, but she managed a smile. “I was so young when last I saw you that I couldn't remember very much about you. Do I look familiar to you?”

His mouth tightened, as if her harmless question was objectionable. Clearly he didn't want to reminisce.

Anna reached into her pocket for the note Miss Brickle had given her. “I've been sent by the Rosewood School to accompany your ward on her journey here. Miss Brickle thought it best she come to you.”

She held out the note. “She has written to you.” It was a brief, polite note, giving no particulars of the reason for the girl's departure; Miss Brickle had told Anna so when she explained that Anna was not to reveal what had happened. The midnight kissing in the garden had only been, apparently, the last straw as far as Miss Tarryton's behavior.

He ignored the proffered note, his lifeless eyes resting on her. Cold-as-the-grave blue eyes in a handsome, strong face. “I'm sure you can explain succinctly why my ward is here. Clearly there has been some problem.”

Anna felt a spurt of pity for the beautiful, proud Miss Tarryton. “Miss Brickle felt that Rosewood could no longer provide the right environment for her.”

“Elizabeth,” he said, “
why
have you been sent away?”

Miss Tarryton blinked at his abrupt question, then gave a tentative smile that acknowledged the awkwardness of the situation. “Oh, my lord, it was nothing serious.” When his eyebrow slashed upward, she said, “Perhaps I had a few…disagreements with Miss Brickle.”

“You must apologize to the headmistress then, and see that nothing like this happens again.”

“I'm afraid,” Anna said firmly, “that the school has made the decision it considers to be best and must now entrust Miss Tarryton's care to you.” Miss Brickle had specified that under no circumstances could the girl return.

Some emotion traveled over the viscount's face—it almost looked like anguish, as though, strangely, his ward's arrival was a blow he could not absorb. He opened his mouth, closed it, pressed his lips into a hard line. Finally, he said, “Well, Elizabeth, if you can't return to Rosewood, you will have to go to some other school.”

His words were clearly a surprise to his niece, who'd obviously been anticipating a warmer welcome from him, but she didn't crumple, and Anna liked her the better for it.

“Please, Uncle,” Miss Tarryton said with a nakedly eager-to-please look that struck at Anna's heart. “I'd rather stay with you. I won't take up much room. You'll hardly know I'm here. And I can play the pianoforte when you want to hear it, and do needlepoint, and…” Her voice trailed off as she saw that the viscount's commanding gaze had returned to Anna, the one who'd brought this problem into his drawing room.

He crossed his arms, and Anna's eyes were momentarily drawn to his hands. He had long, lean fingers that seemed perfect for an aristocrat used to holding nothing more than a quill or a brandy glass, but they were covered in nicks and scratches. He'd been dressed as a laborer on the road, and the tale his hands told was of hard use. Odd. And yet perhaps not, for someone who seemed so bitter. Perhaps he'd been boxing, as gentlemen loved to do. Though his battered hands made him look as if he'd been boxing with a tree.