CHAPTER 2
AN EARL SCOLDS HIMSELF
Meanwhile, in the study at Ritchfield Park
“Coward,” Robert murmured to himself as he leaned against the closed door to his study and banged the back of his head against the hard wood panel. Of all the people who might have paid a call at his country estate in the middle of the worst winter on record in England, the very last person he expected to arrive was his wife.
He was sure she preferred London for Christmas. Or perhaps it was Bath? Certainly not Brighton. He couldn’t imagine spending Christmas in Brighton, and most certainly not this year.
Perhaps that’s whereheshould have gone instead of making the trek to Ritchfield Park. Even Graves had been surprised to see him upon his arrival the day before, as if he had been a ghost of Christmas past come to haunt him. Given the flurry of snow surrounding his arrival, he probably looked like a ghost.
Not like Ivy had, all covered in snow and looking like an angel, her hair still coppery red and her cheeks rosy from the cold. She might have been wearing rags and she would stillhave his breath catching as it had the very first time he saw her.
Dressed in a white velvet court gown festooned with satin bows and her red coiffure crowned with a white ostrich feather, she has been accompanied by her mother as she was presented to the queen. The ruffled neckline barely hid her rising moons, and he remembered wondering if those moons might escape the confines of her stomacher when she curtsied.
They hadn’t, of course, but the thought of tracing her neckline with a fingertip, the skin so soft and warm, had his index finger twitching even now.
Ivy had always had glorious breasts. Full and fleshy, topped with rosy nipples, they had provided a pillow for his head after they made love and a cushion when he had her pulled against him on cold winter nights. He had never tired of holding them, stroking them, kissing them, or of suckling their engorged nipples.
Although gravity might eventually have its way with them—perhaps it already had—there wasn’t another pair on the planet he had adored like hers.
Nor was there anyone else with that particular shade of red hair. The color of flames when under the sun and shades of dark copper when indoors, Ivy’s hair shimmered as if it was made of metal. It was soft, though, like silk, and wavy when it wasn’t bound into the elaborate coiffures her lady’s maid constructed every morning before breakfast and every night before dinner.
At one time, he had enjoyed removing the pins that held up all those waves, plucking them out one after another, silently counting to be sure he found them all. He had made a sort of game of it, careful to remove as many pins as possible without disturbing the coiffure until finding the one pin thatwould send it all crashing down at once in a mass of coppery waves and curls.
Remembering how she had looked upon her arrival a few minutes ago, he wondered how many pins her lady’s maid had used that morning. He also wondered how often she came to the country estate.
From the manner in which she had arrived, Robert knew immediately she spent far more time at Ritchfield Park than he had over the years. She knew the servant’s names, gave orders that sounded more like requests, and... what was that about seeing to it Perkins had more pay at the end of the month? Simply because the footman retrieved her trunk on an especially snowy day?
He wondered how much she expected the coach driver to receive for bringing her here all the way from London.
Robert considered his own experience only the day before.
To have paid witness to Graves’ visible reaction to his arrival was almost worth the inconvenience of having traveled on what had to be the worst winter day in history. He was quite sure the butler hadn’t so much as moved a facial muscle in his five decades, so seeing his widened eyes and opened mouth had been rather amusing. After all, it hadn’t beenthatlong since he’d spent time at his country estate.
Well, that wasn’t exactly true. A year at least. Maybe three. More like...
Robert shook his head. Could it have been five years since his last visit to Ritchfield Park? It was no wonder he was feeling out of sorts of late. Bored with life in York. Bothered by the ghosts of his past.
Lonely.
He drew a hand down over his face, wincing when he felt the telltale signs he hadn’t shaved that morning. He would have had his valet do it, but he had left the servant behind in York.
He wasn’t sure now why he thought spending the Christmas holiday at Ritchfield Park would be a good idea. Rattling about in Gladstone Hall, the large manor house his family had owned for over three centuries a mile south of the walls of York, had felt as if he was communing with ghosts.
Then there had been the moment he noticed the housekeeper. Seeing her bruised face had truly brought out the ghosts of the past as well as a rage he didn’t know he possessed. All that anger channeled into his fists until the butler was left battered on the floor of his office.
If he hadn’t been a peer of the realm, he would have been arrested for the assault—that is, if Hartfield had even told anyone why he was dismissed from Gladstone Hall.
In an effort to recover his wits, Robert had retreated to his study. A different sort of ghost haunted him when he found a stash of long forgotten letters.
Letters from her.
A change of scenery—a change of venue—was necessary.
Glancing out the frosted study window to see only white was definitely a change. Robert didn’t think he had ever seen so much snow in his entire life. Given the bone chilling temperatures beyond the wavy glass pane, he knew the stuff wasn’t about to melt anytime soon.
At least the study was warm. Graves had seen to a roaring fire, the split logs a welcome change from the coal he had come to despise in York. Out here, wood fueled the fires that kept houses warm.
