“My dear godmother,” Ellisfield replied, bowing respectfully. “Please forgive me. I’m bored and, perhaps, have been imbibing too much.”
“Perhaps?” Lady Orpington queried. “The fumes are all around you. Come, I have a footman who has been injured by your sporting fun. We need to find him help.”
“I will be happy to accompany you,” his lordship said. “And Miss Lanscarr, the pleasure is mine to meet you. I have heard of the Lanscarrsisters. They did not exaggerate when they acclaimed your beauty.”
Beck cringed at the flowery words that tripped off Ellisfield’s tongue. They sounded false to his ear and too ingratiating.
However, to his horror, Gwendolyn made a small curtsy, lowering her lashes down over her eyes so they brushed her cheeks. “You are most flattering, my lord.”
Ellisfield was smitten.
Beck could feel it in the air. Gwendolyn had effortlessly conquered him.
He should have busted his lordship in the nose when he’d had a chance. That would have changed his looks.
“Come, let me accompany you to the house, Godmother, so that we can see to your man.” Ellisfield helped Lady Orpington and Gwendolyn into the coach. He threw over his shoulder, “Come, lads.” His friends moved their horses forward as if they were cavaliers accompanying the King of France. Ellisfield squeezed himself into the overpacked coach—right next to Gwendolyn.
Lady Orpington suddenly leaned out the window. “Ellisfield, I almost forgot. I want to introduce you to my nephew, Nicholas Curran.”
From inside the coach, his lordship’s voice called out. “Pleasure is mine, Curran. See to my horse, will you? Ride him to the house, and a stable lad will take care of him.” Lady Orpington trilled a laugh as if Ellisfield was clever and gallant... in giving Beck orders. She ducked back inside the vehicle.
Beck watched the coach roll away in disbelief.His bay had been tied to the rear of the coach, and even he went happily along with Lord Ellisfield.
And he was stuck with the chestnut.
Raking his fingers through his hair, Beck wondered where the devil the hat he’d paid a small fortune for had disappeared. He walked back to Ellisfield’s horse and took the reins. The animal was sweaty, its head low as if exhausted. Beck took the reins. He found his hat beside the road. A horse had stepped on it.
He slapped the hat back into shape, put it on his head, and mounted the chestnut. After a few steps, he dismounted. The animal was limping slightly as if it had come down wrong after taking that jump. With a heavy sigh, Beck began leading the horse to the house. The chestnut bumped him with his nose as if in gratitude. “I’d be thankful not to have that arse on my back, too,” Beck muttered in agreement.
The road took them up a knoll, and at the height of it, Beck came to a halt.
Colemore was spread out before him. His father’s home.
A palace would be smaller. However, it wasn’t the size of the manse that made him think of royalty. It was the whole scene—sunlight bouncing off a pair of stone gates leading to a stately yellow brick home with sizeable wings off the main building. A row of white columns framed the facade. The front drive was busy with guests, servants, and dogs. A bevy of footmen came running to meet Lady Orpington’s coach. Beyond the house were gardens, trees, and a pond in the distance.
And this could have been his home, if he’d been born on the right side of the covers.
He stood, wondering if he should be feeling jealousy or anger. Or even a sense of homecoming. Would they not be understandable emotions considering history and his station in life?
No. All he experienced was a rather detached interest, the sort of feeling any traveler would have upon reaching his destination. The house was grand and admirable for what it was. However, Colemore didn’t call to him. There was no filial yearning deep in his soul or sense that, at long last, he was where he was destined to be.
Instead, Beck watched as Lord Ellisfield helped first his godmother, then Mrs. Newsome, and finally Gwendolyn out of the coach. The man hovered around her as he walked her toward the door, his step apace with hers. He placed a gloved hand on her elbow as if claiming her. That sparked an emotion in Beck.
“Bastard,” he muttered.
The chestnut gave him another agreeing nudge.
Beck made his way down the knoll and through the stone gates of Colemore. A young stable lad ran up to him to claim the horse. “His lordship said you were coming,” the boy said. Beck handed over the reins and began walking toward a massive wooden door beneath the house’s center columns.
A woman stood in the doorway, greeting guests and directing servants. She was elegant, stately, and completely in her element. The sun that lit the planes of the house caught the fadingstrands of gold mixed in through the white of her hair, and yet there were few lines on her face. She had light blue eyes, much like Ellisfield’s. Beck knew just by her sense of command that this must be the Marchioness of Middlebury.
And his immediate reaction to her was intensely visceral, to the point he took a step back.
He did not like her. He didn’t know her, but he would not trust her.
Almost as if she sensed his presence, she slowly turned. Their gazes met, and her smile widened... but it did not meet her eyes. There was no greeting for him in them. If anything, she had the calculating look of a French general deciding where to set the bayonet line.
“Welcome to Colemore, Mr. Curran,” she said as if she’d been expecting him. Her tone was cultured. She enunciated carefully.
