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Eyes wide and jaw slack, Vangie stared speechless and awestruck at her first glimpse of Somersfield. A majestic stone archway proclaimed their entrance to Warrick lands. Truly having no idea of Ian’s wealth or the size of his estate, she could only gawk, stunned. Stately yew trees standing at attention on either side of the neglected drive allowed glimpses of once manicured lawns, overgrown formal gardens, and untrimmed mazes.

At one time, Somersfield had been spectacular, and she made a mental note to tell Puri Daj about the yews. The trees had many medicinal uses. The coach lumbered down the half-mile long, convoluted lane. Her breath caught again when the grandiose Baroque-style manor house materialized on the horizon.

“Faith, Ian, it’s enormous. A veritable castle. Are those turrets?” She gaped, entranced.

“Indeed,” he murmured, his gaze riveted on the horizon and his mouth bent upward. Unrestrained pride glimmered in his eyes as he gazed at his ancestral home.

He loves Somersfield.

Vangie smiled again and directed her attention out the carriage window once more. At least a hundred beveled windows caught the afternoon sun, brilliantly refracting the golden rays. The building glowed as if it were alive, a living breathing entity. She was overcome with the splendor of the magnificent manor and grounds.

How was she to be mistress of such a grand estate? She didn’t have the skills or training to manage such a vast household. Worrying her lower lip between her teeth, she clasped her reticule, pressing her fingers into the woven threads. Her gaze never left the mansion.

Did Ian have any notion how ill-prepared she was for such an overwhelming task? Would he be disillusioned with her yet again?

Before the equipage rolled to a stop, two liveried servants descended the manor’s granite steps. After alighting, Ian handed Vangie down and gave her an encouraging smile, probably to ease the discomfort caused by the footmen’s openly curious glances.

Two yapping white and tan harriers, their white-tipped tails wagging fiercely, lopped across the drive, eager to greet him. Whining, the dogs bounced about his feet. “Halloo, chaps.” He patted each of their heads before the hounds turned their attention to her. The larger of the dogs nuzzled her hand.

“That’s Horace,” Ian said. “He’s a terrible flirt.”

Vangie obediently scratched the hound’s ears. The other dog circled her twice, sniffing her skirts before he sat on his haunches and raised one paw, gazing at her with woeful hazel eyes.

She giggled, and shook it. “How do you do?”

“Ah, Blake, ever the gentleman.” Ian took her by the elbow. “Come along. I have someone I want you to meet.” He guided her to the top of the stairs, a wide grin on his handsome face.

A diminutive, rigidly proper butler, attired in cobalt blue livery manned the doorway. “Welcome home, Lord Warrick.”

“Thank you, Jasper. May I introduce you to Lady Warrick?”

Except for a singular twitch of Jasper’s beetle eyebrows, the butler’s face remained expressionless, though his warm brown eyes twinkled merrily. “Indeed, my lord.”

“My lady, this is Somersfield’s majordomo, and my dear friend, Francis Jasper-Faulkenbury. I’ve called him Jasper since I was in short pants. I couldn’t pronounce Faulkenbury and my toddler attempts sounded like profanity.” Ian winked and grinned at the butler. “You don’t mind, do you, Jasper?

“Not at all, my lord.” Humor danced in the butler’s eyes, but his face remained impassive. Bowing formally, Jasper intoned, “Welcome to Somersfield, my lady.”

Vangie smiled. She liked him already. “Thank you, Jasper.”

She tried not to stare at his head. Given he was nearly her height, and he’d just bowed, providing her with a clear view of his oddly-styled hair, it was rather difficult not to, so she focused on the immense, opulent entry.

At the far end of the foyer a grand staircase split halfway up. Likely each side led to a separate wing. Four carved doors, two on either side, graced the entrance. From one of these rushed a distraught woman, garbed in full mourning attire, a piece of paper clutched in one hand. The Dowager Viscountess Warrick?

Vangie cast a quick glance to Ian.

He spoke with Jasper, his back to her. “Please send for Dr. Farnsworthy. A gunshot wound needs tending.”

“Thank God, you’ve returned, Ian. Charlotte—” Upon hearing his request, the matron stuttered to a halt. “You…you’re wounded? Shot?” Her gaze flew over his form, seeking any sign of injury.

Facing her, he shook his head, a lock of russet hair falling over his forehead. “No, Lucinda. We were set upon by highwaymen yester eve, and Malcolm suffered a gunshot wound, Not I.”

A peculiar expression crossed her thin face. Not relief exactly. For the first time, she glanced directly at Vangie, and the dowager stiffened, her eyes narrowed with unconcealed antagonism. “What is she doing here?”

The contempt in her voice and expression took Vangie aback. For once, she was certain she’d have no problem remembering a name. Lucinda. Lucifer.

The footmen entered, each encumbered with armfuls of luggage, further adding to the commotion in the entryway.

Ian reached for Vangie’s elbow, drawing her to his side. “Lucinda, it’s my immense pleasure to introduce my wife to you.”