The duchess’s eyes widened as she froze mid-exclamation. ‘Pardon?’
‘My uncle taught him that word every time Aunt Rowan cameinto the room to annoy her. My aunt is quite stunning. She is Sir Robin’s favourite. He only uses that word to describe her. It is a real honour, Your Grace.’
‘Stunning,’ Sir Robin chirped. ‘Fancy girl. Stunning.’
Lady Langley lifted her chin, looking from Clio to Sir Robin and back again. Her cheeks darkened to rose as her lips curled in a slow smile. ‘Stunning, you say?’
Sir Robin clacked his beak.
The duchess turned to Cynthia. ‘I must say, you have the most interesting relatives. We certainly shan’t have a dull time while you’re here.’
Both Thomas and Cynthia exhaled in tandem. Thomas shook out his hand, which had inadvertently tightened into a fist.
‘Come along. Everyone’s waiting at Blackthorn Manor. Cook has outdone himself, even if he is French.’ Lady Langley said the last as if the word tasted of bitter hemlock. Looping her arm in Cynthia’s on one side, and Clio’s on the other, the duchess pulled them along with Thomas trailing behind.
Sir Robin turned his head, catching Thomas in his obsidian gaze. He could have sworn the bird winked. Which was impossible.
Or magic.
Clio’s afternoon had been an endless lesson in opulence, starting with their arrival at Blackthorn Manor.
The gravelled drive they rolled over was lighted by gilded lamps set five feet apart, reminding Clio of enchanted fairy orbs leading her into another land. As they passed through a stone archway, the gate of black iron was pulled aside by two groomsmen whose only job seemed to be waiting for carriages to arrive and depart.
Lady Langley had an affinity for the French Renaissancebuilding style. Her palatial home sported spiked gables too numerous to count, rising into a sky painted red and purple by the setting sun. It was breathtaking, and Clio worked hard to school her expression into one of polite interest instead of absolute awe.
The manor sat in the centre of a velvet green lawn dotted by topiaries, statues, and expertly pruned gardens that would be an assault of colour and scent in the summer but were dormant so early in the year. A master sculptor created a fountain of satyrs in fearful pursuit of cavorting nymphs. It stood in front of a large lake with mute swans, as white as purity and as graceful as ballerinas, gliding in lovers’ pairs.
On the other side of the lake, the drive led directly to the recessed entry of the house. It was framed by elaborately carved columns reaching four stories from the stone entry to a turreted roof. The entire staff, dressed in smart black and white uniforms, with green and gold livery for the footmen, lined either side of the entry.
Clio was no stranger to the finer things in life. While her youth had been spent in a modest cottage in the Scottish midlands, when Aunt Rowan brought them to London, wealth had found them quickly. It wasn’t long before she forgot the exact smell of peat once permeating every dress she owned. Bathing in the brook near the village seemed like a story told by someone else as she soaked in her Parisian tub full of steaming, scented water. The gnawing ache of an empty belly or the numbing pain of frozen fingers and toes were mist and memory. But she never completely forgot the fear of it. She knew she was blessed, and she thanked the goddess for it each day.
But sitting in Lady Langley’s carriage and viewing Blackthorn Manor in all its glory made it very clear, Clio might not have known absolute poverty, but neither had she ever experienced true luxury.
‘Oh my,’ she breathed.
Grey shifted closer to her. She glanced at him, hoping he hadn’t noticed her awe. His green eyes glinted in the waning light, and heat crept up her neck to flood her cheeks.
Of course he noticed. The man notices entirely too much.
‘It’s quite spectacular. But don’t forget,dear cousin, it’s made of the same stones and wood as every other home, including yours. The grand and common are not so dissimilar at the core.’ The small smile, curling higher on his left side than his right, only fanned the flames of her ire.
She tightened her spine. ‘Are you calling me common, Grey?’ She spoke in a whisper, but there was no mistaking the warning in her tone.
‘Only a fool would believe there is anything common about you.’ His gaze flicked to her lips, and Clio felt a corresponding tingle. Which was completely unacceptable. Something had changed over the duration of their train journey, and she didn’t trust this new, charming version of Lieutenant General Grey any more than the brooding, taciturn Grey she knew in London. He was up to something, that was certain, but she would not be duped by him. She foundnothingabout Grey appealing in the least. In point of fact, every aspect of the man inspired disdain.
Sir Robin, who had dozed off during the ride with his sleek head tucked under his wing, was roused from his slumber, hopping from the seat to her lap. She absently ran her fingers over his smooth feathers, taking comfort from his weight.
‘Only a fool would believe a line delivered with such obvious practice. Lady Langley seems to think you are no rogue, but I have my doubts. Whatever you are playing at, desist immediately.’
‘You wound me, dear cousin.’
‘Not yet, Grey.’ Her words were harsh, but instead of pushing him away, he drew closer.
‘How would you come for me? With daggers and guns, or something else? Something far more devilish?’
‘With flame and fury.’ Her voice lowered into a husky rasp she barely recognised.
Dear goddess. Are we fighting or lollygagging?
