Clarehaven was built sometime in the sixteenth century,” Becca said as she led Eliza through the house. “Legend has it that when the original duke showed the land to his new wife, who was of Scottish descent, she declared it to be ‘Clear Heaven.’ The architect accompanying them misunderstood, thinking she’d said ‘Clarehaven.’ He assumed it went with the ducal name of Claremont and wrote it down on the plans. The moniker stuck. This estate has been known as ‘Clarehaven’ ever since.”
Eliza fingered the heavy wooden banister of the stair railing as they passed through the main hall. “It’s marvelous. I can’t imagine growing up in a place so grand. I can’t believe I’m standing in one, to be honest.”
Marble columns flanked the hall, and an intricate, inlaid mosaic of birds and flowers covered the floor. Eliza half- expected a museum guide to pop out. She stuffed down the urge to ask where the gift shop was.
Becca swished her dress from side-to-side, eagerness radiating from her. “Would you like to see the stables now?”
“She’s seen but one wing, Becca. Patience,” Emmeline said. “Your horse will still be there.”
Becca’s lip jutted out in an adorable pout, but she trailed after her sister as Emmeline led them into another room.
“This is our drawing room, though we rarely entertain morning callers in the country,” Emmeline said. “That’s why it’s such a delight to have so many guests here at the moment; Clarehaven is quite dull otherwise. I cannot wait to remove back to Town.”
Eliza couldn’t imagine ever finding such a magnificent home dull. These sisters didn’t know what they had. Several of the rooms were nearly the size of Eliza’s apartment.
Emmeline’s last words suddenly registered. Eliza stopped walking. “We’re not in London?”
The two sisters gaped at her. “You must be teasing,” Becca said after a pause.
Great, Lizzie. Way to keep suspicion away from you and blend in. Eliza’s thumbs wrestled with each other as she fought back a nervous giggle. “Um, well, of course.” She wanted to kick herself. Not that she’d been near many windows this morning—and last night was dark—but surely something should have clued her in that they were not in the city. The lack of outside noise, perhaps. On the other hand, Clarehaven was so monstrous, and so solidly built, was she wrong for assuming it insulated them from everything? “I, uh, slept some in the coach yesterday. I must not have realized how far we traveled.” How far were they from London?
“You must have been quite exhausted to be able to sleep in a traveling coach,” Becca said. “I never can.”
“You would have been, too, had you just spent weeks on a ship,” interjected a deep voice as Deveric strode into the room.
It was all Eliza could do to keep her mouth from dropping open. Damn, the man could give Colin Firth a run for his money when it came to sex appeal. Regency sex appeal, that was. He wore buckskin breeches, a shade darker than those of the day before, perhaps, but still molded to his thighs, and high riding boots—top boots, Eliza recalled, the type modern English riding boots liked to imitate, with that distinctive brown upper, black lower half. She loved them. His tailcoat was less formal this morning, cut of deep rich forest green velvet that made his eyes pop, his waistcoat ivory underneath. All was immaculate. And, oh, that wind-blown hair.
Drooling. I’m drooling. Reading about a hero in a novel was nothing compared to the sheer physical impact of standing face-to-face with one. Though she wasn’t truly face-to-face with him; he was across the room. And likely didn’t think of himself as a romantic lead. He cocked an eyebrow at her and shot her a smile. Or maybe he does, given that smug look on his face.
This man? This vision of perfection? I’m supposed to get him to fall in love with me? Little old pudgy Miss Nobody me? Eliza’s heart raced, nervousness feathering out over her skin. She tugged on one of the tendrils hanging near her ear and stared at the floor. When she peeked up again, his eyes were fixed on her.
“Oh, were you riding, Deveric?” Becca exclaimed, her eyes lighting up.
“You know I ride every morning. I’m sure you’re chafing at the bit—no horse humor intended—so go and change into your habit. I shall continue the tour with our ... cousin.”
Becca gave a little excited hop and raced from the room. “Thank you!” she called as she left.
“I have never known any woman to be so besotted with horses.” He strolled across the room. “Do you like to ride, Mrs. James?”
Was that a suggestive undertone in his voice? Surely not. “No. To be honest, I’ve never been on a horse.”
Both brother and sister stared at her. “What? You’ve never ridden a horse?”
“Well, no. They scare me, actually.”
Emmeline clasped her hands together. “I fell off my pony when I was ten. Ever since, I’ve been nervous, as well.”
“They don’t have horses where you’re from?” Deveric’s tone assured Eliza he hadn’t forgotten their conversation the night before—and that he didn’t believe her claims.
“Oh no, they do. Most people just, um, don’t ride them anymore. We, uh, walk or ... use other means.”
“Other means?” Deveric challenged.
Shoot. How am I going to get myself out of this one?
“I mean, we often use a ... wagon.”
Emmeline nodded, satisfied. “Frankly, I prefer to walk; coaches and the like can be so jarring. Our curricles and rigs are well-sprung, so they’re not bad, as long as my brother doesn’t make us go too quickly.”
“What can I say? I like speed.”
Eliza grinned at him. Oh, if only you knew. A horse was nothing compared to zipping down the interstate at seventy miles an hour. Or flying across the ocean in a matter of half a day.
His eyes twinkled. He seemed ... relaxed. How could he be, when every inch of her was aware of him, of how immensely attractive he was? This isn’t fair. Self-doubt crept in again. Maybe she wasn’t his type. Maybe he preferred tall, willowy brunettes. Ones bred for the role of an aristocrat. Crud.
Nope. Not going there. Cat said he’d be attracted to you, and last night, you could tell he was. Yeah, but that was last night, the other side of her screamed. Maybe today he’s decided you’re a nutter, and he’s calm because he’s about to toss you out on your ear.
“Emmeline?”
Eliza turned to see a dark-haired woman enter the room.
“Oh, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Nonsense, Grace,” said Deveric. “I’m glad you are here. Are you feeling better? Amara said you had the headache last night.”
Emmeline’s lips tipped up in a grin. “More likely she was reading that book again and didn’t care to make an appearance at the ball.”
“It’s a wonderful book,” protested Grace as she walked farther into the room. “I quite like the character of Elinor.”
Eliza couldn’t help herself. “Are you talking about Sense and Sensibility?”
Grace’s eyes lit up. “You have read it? Is it not delightful?”
“It’s wonderful. I adore Jane—,” Eliza answered automatically, and then bit her lip, hard. Jane Austen originally published her works anonymously. Few of the general public knew her as an author until after she had passed away. Crap. I’ve got to stop messing up like this.
Grace looked at her. “Jane? I don’t recall that character.”
“I must be mistaken. I meant the ... younger sister.”
“Marianne? Truly?” Grace wrinkled her nose. “Think you not she’s a bit rash, hasty to action?”
Yes. Much like me.
“You’ve read the novel already? In America?” Emmeline’s face reflected her puzzlement. “My brother procured Grace a copy in November and said it had only recently been published.”
Deveric said nothing, his eyes watching her intently.
Way to help me out, dude.
“Uh-h,” stammered Eliza. “Two women on the coach yesterday discussed it at length.”
“When you weren’t sleeping, of course,” said Emmeline, her brows knitting together.
“Yes, exactly. Perhaps one of the ladies in the coach was a Jane and I confused her name with the book. I was quite tired and often dozing, of course.” Sweat pooled in her armpits. Thank goodness the dress and undergarments were thick enough to hide it. Antiperspirant. Another thing I took for granted.
Grace looked first to her brother and then dipped her head toward Eliza.
“My apologies,” Deveric said, taking a step closer. “I forgot you had not yet been introduced. Grace, please meet Mrs. Eliza James, a Virginia cousin. She survived the fire and is to stay with us for ... a while. And E—Mrs. James, this is Lady Grace, my sister.”
He’d nearly called her by her first name. Again. No one else had noticed, but it pleased Eliza for some stupid reason, that slip. At the same time, she’d noticed his hesitation at “a while.” Panic seized her again. He did mean to get rid of her.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. James,” said Grace, her voice shy.
“You, too, Lady Grace.” She wanted to say, “Call me Eliza,” but refrained. She needed to do a better job of adhering to protocol, whether she wanted to or not. Her eyes drifted to Deveric. “How many sisters do you have?”
She supposed that was likely a rude question, but what the hell. At this point, what did she have to lose?
“Five. And one scamp of a brother, whom you’ve already met. Lady Cecilia is now at Cove Lawn with her husband, the Marquess of Amsfordshire.”
“And their darling daughter,” added Emmeline.
“Yes. Their daughter.” Pain creased Deveric’s face momentarily.
Emmeline’s hands flew to her mouth. “I am sorry, Dev. I wasn’t thinking.”
“I rejoice in their healthy daughter,” Deveric said, his face once again a stoic mask. “Please never think otherwise.” He stiffened his shoulders, his back unnaturally straight, his gaze not quite meeting anybody’s eye. “If you’ll excuse me, I have business to which I need to attend.” With that, he strode out of the room.
Emmeline’s face crumbled. “I didn’t think, Grace.”
Grace took her sister’s hand and rubbed it lightly. “You were not inappropriate, Emme. Our brother truly does take joy in little Mary.”
Emmeline shot Eliza a glance. “Shall we continue?” she said, beckoning Eliza forward, clearly eager to drop the topic of their niece.
Eliza would much rather have gone after Deveric but turned to follow Emmeline, leaving Grace to submerse herself in the book she pulled out from under her shawl.
Just wait until she reads Pride and Prejudice. Eliza was ecstatic to meet a fellow Austenite and bookworm, even if Lady Grace was rather shy. Cat was an introvert, too. Eliza could deal with that.
What woman wouldn’t fall in love with Darcy? At that thought, an image of Deveric in those breeches and boots, his face remote, his attitude arrogant, leapt into Eliza’s mind. What woman, indeed?
Deveric paced his study, the study to which he’d retreated for the second time in twenty-four hours. Coward.
Both times were on account of a woman; the first, in an effort to dampen his desire for Eliza James—an effort that had failed miserably, given his reaction to seeing her this morning. His whole body had lit up, an unusual feeling of happiness infusing him upon seeing her delicate face. The second, however, had been in a desperate attempt to stem his emotions, lest his sisters witness him lose his composure.
Guilt consumed him over how little he’d seen Cecilia and his new niece, Mary. But in truth, he couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear to see those chubby little cheeks, those sparkling eyes, so full of life. Of course, he didn’t begrudge his sister her happiness. She deserved it, deserved that darling little girl.
But for Deveric, Mary was a nearly unbearable reminder, a painful contrast of glowing health in comparison with his little Louisa. So pale, so lifeless. His daughter had never drawn a breath, never looked at him with those impossibly small eyes, never grasped his finger with her tiny one. He’d held her, held her for hours, tears streaming down his face. Until the doctor had come and told him Mirabelle was gone, too.
He hadn’t been with his wife, as he ought. Relations had long been strained, to be true, but he should have attended her, not just their daughter. His mother had insisted it wasn’t his fault; that it would have been unseemly for him to be there as the doctor had attempted to stem the bleeding, to save her life.
But Deveric knew. The guilt gnawed at his heart. He hadn’t given a thought to Mirabelle; the grief over his daughter had been all consuming. He would forever carry that burden, knowing that not only had he caused his wife’s death, but he hadn’t been there, hadn’t even thought of her while she lay dying.
He took a swig from the nearly empty brandy bottle. It was early, but he didn’t care—plus, nothing worked better to cure a hangover than a bit of the poison that ailed him. Nothing worked better to ease pain than drowning it.
At that thought, he set the bottle back down. He’d almost gone down that path, almost given himself over to the darkness of his despair. Until Cecilia had come to him, had reminded him his son needed him, his family needed him. She’d pulled him from the depths.
And so, he’d thrown himself into managing the estate, into improving the lives of those dependent on him, into strengthening the land and increasing profits. If he couldn’t save his wife and daughter, by God, he’d make sure no one else in his care suffered.
That was why he must steer clear of Mrs. Eliza James. He couldn’t risk it, couldn’t risk her. Even if it were an option, she was not the kind of woman he could tumble, a woman he could bed and forget, like the occasional mistress. No, in his bones he knew she’d never be as simple as that. And so he had to stay away.
After he got answers, of course.