Having a very large male nearly bowl her over on Lady Tesh’s front step was certainly not how Lenora had envisioned her return to the Isle. Her world tilted, the stone steps rising up to meet her.
In the next instant, strong, warm hands came about her waist to steady her. A heady scent of spices and coffee assailed her senses, tangy and mouthwatering and reminiscent of sitting before a warm fire in winter, curled up in blankets and comfort.
Flustered, she found her feet and stepped back. Whatever words she would have said to berate or thank the man, however, quickly disappeared into the ether as she caught sight of him.
Goodness, but he looked like a Viking come to life. All broad shoulders and muscles that strained against the confines of his clothes. His hair was golden, hanging in waves to his collar, wild and untamed and sinfully thick. Pale blue eyes glinted under the slash of his brows, almost too beautiful for the harsh planes of his face. A short beard framed his jaw, shining gilded in the faint bits of sunlight that were able to battle their way through the increasingly heavy cloud cover.
She swallowed. Hard.
“I’m very sorry,” he said. His voice was deep and rumbling, shivering through her in the most disturbing way.
“No harm done,” Margery said beside her. “Isn’t that so, Lenora?”
Had she been staring at him all this time? Lenora felt herself flush hot as those cool blue eyes gazed back at her. “Of course, no harm done.” And if her voice was a bit breathless, she prayed he would attribute it to her near fall.
Still the man stood there, blocking their path into the house and the blessed escape from the cake Lenora was making of herself. Her face grew hotter, her gaze trapped by those oddly pale eyes.
“Mr. Ashford, your hat, sir.”
The butler’s voice cut through the moment with all the finesse of a spoon digging through rock. There was a beat of stunned silence.
“You are Mr. Ashford? Mr. Peter Ashford, my cousin from America?” Margery asked, disbelief ripe in her voice.
The man’s eyes went glacial. One last long stare and he pushed past them, fairly leaping down the steps.
“Dear me,” Margery whispered.
Lenora stared after him, eyes wide with shock. “That man is the Duke of Dane’s heir?”
“It appears so,” her friend replied.
Mr. Ashford mounted up, kicking his horse into a gallop. Within seconds, he was thundering down the drive and out of sight.
“Perhaps,” Margery said faintly, “we’d best find out from Gran what’s going on.”
They hurried through the house, silent and tense. Their footsteps clattered on the marble floor, echoing about the expanse of the great hall. So that was the man who would become the new duke when the present one passed away. The man who had taken Hillram’s place as heir. Lenora’s stomach roiled.
They burst into Lady Tesh’s downstairs sitting room. The viscountess didn’t look up as they entered, her gnarled fingers working thread with impressive ease into her embroidery. “Have you made your decision then, Peter?”
“So that truly was Peter Ashford that we saw leaving just now,” Margery said, moving close to kiss her grandmother on her cheek.
Lady Tesh gasped, her gaze flying to her granddaughter. “Oh, goodness. Margery. Whatever are you doing here?” Her sharp eyes swiveled to Lenora, her creased face breaking into a grin. “And Lenora? Well, isn’t this a treat? Goodness, child, but how lovely you are.”
Lenora moved forward to kiss the viscountess, a familiar warmth spreading through her. Here was the woman she had visited every summer as a child, the woman who had loved her as if she were her own granddaughter. Lenora had not seen her in three long years, not since Hillram’s death. She had begun to doubt that her return had been wise. Goodness knew what guilt it would dredge up, how it would pain her to be here again.
Yet perhaps, just perhaps, she would find some happiness and peace in coming back.
“You are looking well, Lady Tesh,” she said, taking a seat in a delicate embroidered chair.
“What is this ‘Lady Tesh’ nonsense?” the viscountess demanded. “We never used to be so formal. Don’t tell me your time in London has turned you into some uptight society miss.”
A smile crept across Lenora’s face. “No, ma’am, it hasn’t.”
“Good, for I shall not put up with it. You will call me Gran, as you always used to.”
“Jasper,” she called to the butler, who had followed in their wake, “bring in a fresh tea tray for my granddaughter and Miss Hartley, if you please, with lemonade for my young friend here.” She gifted Lenora with a wink. Lenora’s cheeks warmed with pleasure as she relaxed back against her seat. Lady Tesh had remembered her aversion to tea. It was a simple gesture, yet there was a feeling of coming home in it.
“I’m sorry we didn’t write before showing up unannounced, Gran,” Margery said, peeling off her gloves. “It was a…last-minute decision.”
“Was it now?” Lady Tesh looked at Lenora. “Why do I have the feeling this has to do with the lack of a ring on your finger, child?”
Lenora’s good mood vanished in a moment, the events of four days ago crashing through her. “It is exactly that, I’m afraid.”
The lines in Lady Tesh’s face deepened. “I’m sorry to hear it.” She paused before continuing, her voice pensive, “That is three failed engagements in as many years.”
Lenora’s mouth twisted. “Yes. My father made certain to point that out as well.” Among other things. She gave a small shudder, the threat of him disowning her hanging over her head like an axe about to fall. It was an unwelcome, yet necessary, reminder that this was no pleasure visit.
Her thoughts must have shown on her face, for Lady Tesh’s gaze sharpened. “And what are your plans on the Isle?”
Ah, yes, her plans. “I’d hoped,” she said with a forced smile, “that I might visit all our old haunts, to remember the good times we had when we were young.”
“That sounds splendid, my dear,” Margery said with a soft smile. “I need a reminder of those days as well.”
Just then a scruffy ball of fur made itself known, jumping down from its spot next to Lady Tesh and approaching first Margery, then Lenora. It sniffed at Leonora’s toes a moment before, with all the grace of a queen, it placed a dainty paw on her leg.
“Well, aren’t you the sweetest,” Lenora murmured, bending forward to pat the dog on the head. The creature allowed it for a moment, bestowing a lick on Lenora’s knuckles with a tiny pink tongue, before it pranced back to Lady Tesh, jumping up and settling back against her side.
“This here is Freya,” the viscountess explained, giving her pet an affectionate scratch behind its ear.
“Freya?” Lenora said. “What an unusual name.”
“She’s named for a Viking goddess.”
Lenora eyed the small, scrappy creature dubiously. For while it carried itself as regal as royalty, its stringy, flyaway fur was almost comical. Lenora might have laughed. If she wasn’t fearful of offending the tiny beast.
She very nearly snorted at that. Worried about offending a dog? Perhaps she had needed this trip to the Isle more than she’d realized.
“I suppose you wish to know all about Mr. Ashford,” Lady Tesh said.
“Very much so,” Margery replied, sitting forward, her face pulled into tense lines. “I was not aware he was planning on returning to England anytime soon.”
“Nor I, until he showed up on my doorstep. He doesn’t mean to stay, only came to pay some debt he feels he owes me.”
“Doesn’t mean to stay?” Margery demanded. “But he’s the heir now. He cannot leave.” She sent Lenora an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Lenora.”
Lenora gave her a wan smile. She had only learned of the heir presumptive upon Hillram’s death, and the story of how his grandfather, the previous duke’s brother, had split from the family. It wasn’t often talked of, the remembrance bringing too much pain to those who had been affected by it.
“Oh, pish,” Lady Tesh scoffed. “You place entirely too much importance on status.”
Margery gave her grandmother a droll look. “This from a viscountess?”
“Yes, well.” She waved a hand in the air. “It was not my fault your grandfather fell hopelessly in love with me. He couldn’t help who he was.” It was said in an offhand manner. Yet Lenora could not miss the softened look in the woman’s eyes as they shifted to the large portrait of her late husband that graced the wall above the pink marble fireplace.
“It is not snobbish,” Margery said. “His Grace is not well, and when he passes, Mr. Ashford will be the head of that branch of the family.”
“Very true. Though I’m not sure he cares a fig for it. I thought to entice him to stay. However,” she said softly, giving Lenora a sober look, “perhaps it was for the best he refused. Lenora, dear,” she continued, sitting forward, “does it trouble you greatly that Mr. Ashford is on the Isle?”
“Of course not,” Lenora reassured her hastily, hoping the lie didn’t show. “Why should it trouble me? This is his rightful place, after all.”
That seemed to ease some of the worry that had taken hold of the other women. Soon the tea tray arrived and their conversation turned to happier matters. Yet as Lenora sipped absentmindedly at her lemonade, she found she could no longer relax. She had hoped to forgive herself on this trip, to move past that horrible betrayal that had affected everything since. Yet how could she when, instead of thinking of her dead fiancé, her mind was full of thoughts of a tall, burly Viking of a man, with eyes as blue as the stormy sea—the very man who had taken Hillram’s place?
* * *
Peter exploded into the hotel room. The door slammed back against the wall, the sound rattling the windows in their frames. “Damn stubborn woman,” he growled. Ripping his cravat loose, he flung it to the floor. The leather satchel of money quickly followed, landing with a jarring clang.
“Now why do I get the impression that your meeting did not go as planned?”
Yanking off his jacket, Peter glared at the man lounging in the open doorway. “Go away.”
Mr. Quincy Nesbitt chuckled and pushed away from the door, closing it before sauntering into the room. “If you didn’t want company, you should have shut your door. Then you could have stormed about and cussed to your heart’s content.”
Peter threw himself into a chair, busying himself with rolling up his cuffs. If he looked in his friend’s eyes and saw the humor that no doubt filled them, he would hit something. Namely Quincy. “I’m not good company. If you wish to keep your face pretty for the ladies, you will leave now.”
With an ease born of years of friendship, Quincy came close and sank into the chair opposite Peter’s. He crossed one booted foot over a knee and leaned back. “Oh, you don’t expect me to ignore this little bit of temper, do you? You’re so damned calm and controlled all of the time; this is a real treat.”
Quincy was right, of course, damn it. He truly had lost control, something he wished he could lay squarely on Lady Tesh’s narrow shoulders. Yet it was not just that woman and her manipulations that had Peter so furious. No, there was one other thing that had added to his frustration, that had pushed him over the edge of reason.
He had a quick flash of a pretty, heart-shaped face, hair gold and glinting in the fickle sun, pale green eyes with the longest lashes he’d ever seen.
He exhaled a tense breath and ran a hand over his face. The woman he’d nearly run over in front of Lady Tesh’s house had haunted him all the way back here, distracting him from the very real problem of how he would deal with the older woman’s sly reminder of his promise to his mother. But who was she? Her companion, the one with the mousy brown hair, had called him cousin. Was the blonde related to him as well?
He nearly growled. He’d done it again, allowed himself to be distracted by that sweet face. With incredible will, he pushed the image of her down and focused on the matter at hand. “Lady Tesh would not allow me to pay her back.”
Quincy’s unconcerned ennui faded away in an instant, making way for a sharp watchfulness. “What, not a bit of it?”
Peter shook his head, his nostrils flaring. He motioned to the leather pouch where it lay on the floorboards.
Eyes narrowed in thought, Quincy cocked his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “What now? Are we to get on with the rest of it then and sail back for Boston?”
“I would, and gladly.”
“Why do I sense a ‘but’ in your next sentence?”
Peter rubbed his jaw, scrubbing at his beard with his nails. “The woman had a request. No, not a request. Bloody blackmail, using the last promise my mother asked of me to get it.”
“What does she want you doing? Manual labor? Riding through town naked? Slaying a dragon?”
“Nothing so easy, I assure you.” Peter sent his friend a frustrated glare. “She wishes me to stay on the Isle as her guest for a full month.”
The laugh Quincy let loose was long and loud. Peter watched him in stony silence, unable to find an ounce of humor in the situation. His mother’s face flashed through his mind again for what seemed the hundredth time that afternoon, the guilt he’d carried since her death roaring back as well. He had a chance to see her wishes through. Yet it didn’t sit any easier on his shoulders than it had when he was a boy.
Finally his friend’s chuckles died down. Quincy wiped at his eyes. “Well, you have to give her this; she could not have found a more uninterested houseguest.”
“Regardless of my personal feelings on the matter,” he gritted, “I cannot take that much time away. Lest you forget, we have a business to return to in Boston.”
“We deserve a holiday, I’m thinking, after all the hard work we’ve put into it these last years. Besides, Captain Adams’s children are grown now and more than capable of handling things, having cut their teeth on the business.” Here Quincy grinned. “And I’ve a mind to get to know some of the local ladies a bit better. All those fine, prim English manners make me wish we’d returned sooner.” He rubbed his hands together, his expression turning almost feral with anticipation.
“You think with your cock,” Peter said with disgust.
Quincy shrugged. “It’s never steered me wrong.”
Done with the ridiculous turn the conversation had taken, Peter erupted out of his chair. “I cannot stay for a month.”
“Come now, it’s not so bad as that here.”
“You don’t know what it’s like, returning to this place.”
Quincy sobered. “But I do,” he said quietly. “Or at least enough of it. Mine was the ear you bent when you needed a friend on the crossing. The one that listened to your feverish ravings about your guilt over your mother when you grew ill.” He sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I know what that bastard Dane did, and why you hate him as you do. And with good reason. But I also know what Lady Tesh did. She doesn’t seem a bad sort. And while I think she’s mad for wanting your surly company for a month instead of a bag of gold”—here he smiled, humor flashing in his black eyes—“you can’t deny it says much about her character.”
Quincy was right, of course. Damn him. “So you would have me cave in to her demand?” he growled, holding on to his last shred of pride.
His friend leaned back. “If it will take away even a bit of the guilt you still harbor over leaving England against your mother’s wishes, then I say with complete confidence, yes, you should. Besides,” he continued, grinning, “I’ve a mind to join you.”
Peter stared at him. “You would accompany me?”
“And why the hell not? We can have a grand time, you and I. When you aren’t sulking and wreaking vengeance on a dying man, I mean.”
Caught between the desire to shake his friend’s hand and punch him in the face, Peter decided on the former. Standing, he held out his hand. “We are in it together then.”
Quincy followed suit, taking Peter’s hand in a crushing grip. “Together.” He grinned, flashing a dimple. “Though you may not be thanking me later for it.”