The coach rolled over hills and through shallow dales. Davina gazed out the window, beset with excitement. She had been here with her father once, and she was sure she recognized this road and the low cottages visible across some fields.
The road widened as they went up a low hill, then turned at the top. From her window, she saw Teyhill below. The ancient ruins of a tower house served as a sentry to the approach to the current building. It would be handsome, even impressive in its stone four stories, if half of it were not a ruin too.
A fire, they had been told by their servant girl. A huge fire one night, one so hot it cracked stones and gutted the entire interior of everything there. Only a heroic effort by the servants had spared the eastern half, but even there the smoke had ruined most of the furnishings.
She stretched her neck so she could stick her head out the window. Up ahead, Brentworth rode his horse silently. They’d had a row last evening, when she insisted on seeing the house, and accused him of trying to keep her from it because he did not want to admit it had burned and he had simply left it that way.
There is nothing of use to you there, Davina.
Perhaps not, but she demanded to see it anyway. It was hers, after all. Or should be. Did he really think she would come here and not even gaze upon her ancestral home?
Steel and ice, that was what he had become when she had pestered him on the point. He’d left dinner in the upper apartment abruptly in his pique. Then, this morning, a servant had brought the note that said they would leave at ten o’clock to visit the estate.
She feasted her eyes on the building she had only seen once before, sneaking about with her father. There was nothing fancy about it. A big block of gray stones, it rose high over the treeless land. There had been a garden in the back when she last visited. She hoped that had not been left to ruin too.
The road became a drive and curved toward the house. She scooted to the other window so she could watch. The fire’s devastation became visible soon. No roof and black stones and splintered, long wooden beams sticking every which way. No one had even cleaned it out. Brentworth had left it the way it was when the last embers died.
Despite its state, her heart warmed just on viewing it. A new contentment settled in her heart. She knew then that any misgivings she might harbor about her cause were misplaced. She belonged here. She knew it in her soul.
Mr. Napier opened the door after the coach stopped. Brentworth was handing over his mount when she stepped out. He strode toward her just as a big blond man appeared outside the entrance.
“That is Mr. Roberts,” Brentworth said. “He is the steward. He cares for the estate.”
“From the look of things, he has not cared for it well. Half of the building is still a burned-out derelict.”
“He, of course, must obey my commands about what is done.”
“So the fault is yours.”
He gazed at her steadily and silently.
“Why did you leave it like this, Brentworth? When I accused you of neglecting the property, I had no idea it went this far.”
“I chose to. That is all you need to know. It is mine, and I chose to. Now, let us go in. I am sure you will insist on a tour, so I will be agreeable on that from the outset.”
He introduced Mr. Roberts. She liked this man. Not only was he quick to smile, and so very Scottish in his form and speech, but he looked at Brentworth more man-to-man than she expected. She admired him for that. He did not defer much, and actually carried some warmth in his eyes when he gazed upon the duke. She did not think that whatever loyalty he felt was merely a servant’s gratitude for a good situation.
“Miss MacCallum would like to see the house,” Brentworth said.
“I am more than glad to take her around myself, Your Grace. And the cook has some refreshments prepared for later. Would Your Grace be joining us as we take a turn through the property?”
Brentworth had actually taken a few steps away when that question came. He paused. “I think I will.”
After that, Roberts gave her all his attention. “There’s no need to explain that we won’t be going that way, Miss MacCallum.” He pointed toward the ruined side. A large, heavy curtain hung at what must have been the entry to that wing. “We will start in the library, on this side.”
* * *
Entering the house yesterday had been hellish. Today, Eric discovered he did not mind as much. He had ridden here beside the coach as if his body was a taut bow, and braced himself yet again when he dismounted from his horse. But actually walking inside did not affect him the same way.
He had chosen not to stay long yesterday after being greeted by the servants. He certainly had not paced through every room. He did so now, in Roberts and Davina’s wake. Into the library, replete with new furnishings he had paid for but never seen before. Back to the morning room, where he had eaten many morning-after breakfasts in the early afternoon light, temporarily sated but already anticipating more. Up to the drawing room, now decorated in a somewhat medieval style that suited the structure better than the forced classicism of before.
The ease with which he experienced it all fascinated him. Had he dreaded this place too much, for too long? Were the new furnishings enough to blunt memories? Had time worked its magic and absolved him?
Their party halted near a window outside the drawing room, while Davina took in the prospect. “I can see farms in the distance. Are those tenants?”
“They are,” Roberts said. “The long, low building closer to us is a stable.”
“Is there a garden down below?”
