She pulled the dressing gown tighter around her and nearly leapt over the stile at the crumbling stone wall. The wall wasn’t quite the boundary between Humberton Hall and her own property, but she told herself to think of it as such from now on. Humberton Hall had stood empty for months. The locals called it Tumbledown Hall, which probably explained why.
With a small sigh of regret, she looked back at the overgrown path that led to the pond. She did not have a pond of her own, and she would miss it on days like this. Even if he didn’t take the house, she’d never be able to swim there again without imagining him stepping out of the trees and looking at her as if they’d ravished each other the previous night, rather than on a cool April night four years ago.
Solly was waiting for her by the bathhouse, settled on a bench in the sun with her sewing. There was another thing she ought to have done—brought her maid with her, for modesty’s sake. Evangeline almost laughed at herself on that thought. After a lifetime of bucking convention on that score, she was hardly likely to change now, not even if ten men should catch her swimming naked in the pond.
“Did you have a pleasant swim?” asked Solly as she approached.
“The water was quite refreshing.” She wouldn’t say anything about the man, and hopefully he would do the same for her. She opened the door of the bathhouse and stripped off her dressing gown again, and the shift as well this time.
“I thought you would be longer.” Solly shook out the lengths of toweling that had been warming in the sun.
Evangeline thought of what might have happened if she’d stayed longer at the pond and stepped right into the plunge bath.
The frigid water took her breath away. Teeth chattering, she dunked her head twice, running her fingers through her hair to rid it of any leaves. Usually she loved the sudden shock of the plunge bath, where the icy water left her heart racing, her skin tingling, and her mind clear.
But not today. Today, nothing seemed likely to erase the image of Richard Campion, staring at her with desire in his eyes.
A fortnight later,Richard was installed in his new house, which he had learned bore the pretentious name of Humberton Hall. He’d heard someone in the solicitor’s office whisper that it was a wreck. No matter. He didn’t care if every chimney smoked, the roof leaked, and the whole place was haunted. Now that he’d found Evangeline, he wasn’t about to lose sight of her again.
She had to live nearby. She’d walked to that pond in a dressing gown. Sure enough, a few casual queries to Mr. Fields, the estate agent, cleared it up. Lady Courtenay owned a comfortable manor house called Wyndham House two miles from Humberton Hall. In fact, the two estates bordered each other. The agent was more anxious to tell him about the other local gentry, and Richard was forced to listen to it all, because Clemency was there and delighted by his apparent interest in his new home.
“Just think, you can now hold your own salons,” she enthused. “And dinner parties!”
“I hardly think so.”
She waved it away. “I will be your hostess, naturally. Leave it all to me, Richard, I will only invite the best people!”
“That is what I fear,” he said, and she laughed.
Clemency, Richard had to admit, was very happy. He overheard her and Gerhard, a few times, puzzling over why he’d chosen this particular house, with its small rooms and poorlight and hideous wallpaper, but she’d spoken not a word of doubt to him. She simply unleashed a small army of servants and tradespeople on the place to repair and paint and polish everything, and then somehow filled it with furniture, whence he knew not where. She found a Viennese woman called Frau Loretz to keep house for him, and a marvelous chef who’d spent a decade in the Piedmont. Richard supposed she feared that any delay or inconvenience would give him time to change his mind and wriggle out of the lease, but he did not enlighten his sister.
The first fine day, he told Clemency he was taking a walk to explore his new grounds, and set out to find Wyndham House, leaving Hercule shut up in the parlor. He discarded the idea of trying to follow the path from the pond, not knowing where on Lady Courtenay’s property it might lead him. He intended to walk up the front drive, very respectably, and call on the lady. The way he’d intended to do years ago.
Along the way he took the opportunity to gather a bouquet of wildflowers. Not only did it conceal his motives from Clemency, it felt spontaneous, almost romantic. Even if he did have to tramp through more than one field in search of a pleasing variety of flowers.
Eventually he came upon the winding drive, leading to a comfortable manor tucked out of view of the road, surrounded by trees and a garden that rambled out of its confines. He studied the facade and decided it looked almost Viennese, with the baroque window surrounds. Wisteria climbed one side of the house. It gave the air of a dreamy retreat, as if the owner wished to hide away. Instinctively he liked it.
He strode up the drive, suddenly a little nervous. They hadn’t really conversed at the pond, and it occurred to him only as he came near the house that he didn’t know if anything he’d learned about her four years ago was still true. Was she still unmarried? Was she still unattached? Was she still attracted to him? He’dbeen gone for four years, and while he’d thought of her a great deal, perhaps she had forgotten him.
Well. Too late now. Fortunately he was accustomed to making his way along one step at a time, with no certainty where the next step would land. At least this time there was no icy crevasse yawning in front of him.
The front door of the house stood open to admit the breeze. He rapped the knocker, twice, then cautiously stepped inside when the echo had died away and no one responded.
It was a wide hall, clear of furnishings and fuss. The floor was worn stone, the walls a bright yellow. Another door stood open opposite to let the breeze blow through, leading into the rustic garden he could see beyond it. As he hesitated, a woman walked in that door, striding toward him, her attention on the small dog trotting at her feet. He must have made a sound, for her head came up and she stopped.
“Oh, dear,” said Lady Courtenay in surprise.
He bobbed his head, transfixed yet again. She was fully clothed today—introusers, that clung to her hips and thighs and were tucked into tall riding boots such as a man would wear. Her fitted jacket was a traditional woman’s riding coat, but the flare at the waist only emphasized the swell of her hips. He remembered vividly how lush those curves looked, draped in soaking wet muslin... and how they felt, bare under his hands.
“Yet again you have caught me unawares, sir,” she said with a rueful sigh. Her dog, a little ball of orange fluff, gave a sharp yap, but sat at a look from his mistress.
“I apologize,” he managed to say, never less sorry for anything in his life.
She smiled wryly. “I shouldn’t be surprised. You appear to have a talent for it.” She looked down at herself in some chagrin. “I was just returning from my morning ride. I didn’t hear your horse.”
Richard had to clear his throat to speak. “I walked.”
“Of course,” she said, coloring slightly. She was remembering how they had last met, he knew it.
