The latter was Elizabethan, if she had to guess. But the age of the place mattered less than its striking effect. Like overlooked relics from the past, the smoky stone tower and the bleak redbrick additions blended in with the rest of the lifeless surroundings.
With a shiver, Julia stepped out of the faint shadow cast by the embattlements.
Rayne strode across the courtyard, cupping his gloved hands and blowing into his fingers.
“Well,” he said, lifting his brow. “Have you any first thoughts, Lady Rayne?”
Yet another question-trap. “It’s…” She searched for a word.
“Foreboding?” he supplied. “The desired reaction, I believe. That, if you haven’t already surmised, is a twelfth-century Pele Tower. A fortification against our neighbors to the north. The iron basket for the signal fire is still up there”—he paused—“should you wish to send a signal of distress.”
She forced a swallow. “May we go inside?”
He planted his hand on the small of her back. An unconscious gesture, no doubt. Yet, one she relished this time more than ever—the single point of warmth in a frigid sea.
“The impression from the other side is slightly more pleasant,” he explained. “My grandfather planned a modern Georgian wing but died not long after renovations begun. The aspect you can see from the front is…” He cleared his throat. “Just a facade.”
“Didn’t your father finish the work?”
He cast a downward, sideways glance. “My father had no interest in wasting coin on something so impractical as comfort.” His voice had gone frighteningly flat. “Inside is every bit as welcoming as you might expect.”
“So we’ve come around to the back?”
“Worst first, so I thought.” His bright blue eyes glowed vivid against the white background of low-hanging clouds. His face emptied of sentiment—no lascivious twinkle, no half smile, not even a mocking sneer. Only impassive hardness. “I ask yet again…regrets, Lady Rayne?”
She tamped down her unease. This was a test. A peek over the edge. One last chance to change course before the rapid descent.
By now, he ought to know better.
Every madcap risk had led her here. The Grange was hers.Hewas hers. Just as she’d always known he would be. Whatever lay ahead, she was fully up to the task.
“No regrets.” She squared her shoulders. “And you might as well stop asking, because my answer will remain the same.”
Something flashed behind his eyes—the smallest of hopeful flickers. He turned to face the orange door and felt his way across the mantle until he located a key.
Julia frowned. “I thought you said you’d written ahead.”
“I did. And, as I asked, Mr. Wheeling left the key.”
To Julia’s surprise, the rusted lock clicked.
Rayne released the latch, and the door opened, moaning in protest. In fact, as he guided her through the oldest part of the house,everythingmoaned in protest—floorboards, stairs, chimney flues. Even the walls emitted a repellant, musty scent, as if the manor itself was warning her away.
The Grange boasted no window curtains. No papered walls. No rugs. No pretty landscape paintings. Nothingprettyat all. Just room after room of stone, dark wood, and brick.
Not a single room contained any hint of a feminine touch.
Not even the library managed to cheer.
She stared in horror at the empty shelves. “Where are the books?”
“I suspect the steward Clarissa hired has taken the estate ledgers to his offices.”
“Not the ledgers—thebooks? Parliamentary records. Maps. Histories. Farming journals.Novels.”
“My father had some of the latter.” He stared at the empty shelves. “Clarissa must have taken what she wished and sold the rest.”
Bleak hopelessness was one matter—but nobooks? She felt the skin quiver at the base of her throat.
