Lenora never had trouble sleeping at Seacliff. Though the house was several centuries old, a great brick edifice propped like an avenging sentinel over the coastline of the remote island, it had been updated over the generations until it could compete with any of the most modern houses in London. Add to that the placement of her bedroom, a spacious apartment at the front of the house that gave her the rolling lullaby of the sea as her constant companion, and more often than not, Lenora dropped off to sleep the moment her head hit the pillow.
Tonight, however, sleep would not come. It was not her recent abandonment at the altar that kept her mind spinning about like a whirligig, or the upcoming trip to Hillram’s childhood home. It was not even due to the storm without, which battered at her window and turned the sea into a great thrashing beast. No, she thought with a sinking feeling in her stomach, she knew precisely at whose door she could lay the blame for her sudden bout of insomnia.
Mr. Peter Ashford.
All through the long evening, she had found, though conversation and laughter were plentiful thanks to Mr. Nesbitt, that she was unable to keep her thoughts or her eyes from Mr. Ashford. He had not been the least bit friendly through the meal or after in the drawing room, frowning mightily at any who attempted to converse with him. His clothing, too, had been given no quarter, his hands pulling and tugging relentlessly on the unsuspecting fabric. By the time Clara and Phoebe had left for the night and the rest had made to retire, his cravat was nothing more than a limp, sad thing dangling from his neck.
Even so, Lenora had felt a constant and undeniable pull toward him. There was no move he did not make that she was not fully and painfully aware of, no sound from him that did not earn the complete attention from her straining ears.
Now the man was even disturbing her sleep.
Several of her father’s more colorful bits of vocabulary flew through her head. In a burst of frustration, she let them loose into the dark quiet of her room. She’d hoped to find a modicum of relief with it. But no, the frustration and restlessness that plagued her remained. What was it about him that unsettled her so, that made her body go feverish and aching all at once?
Throwing off her blankets in disgust, she swung her feet to the floor and donned her robe and slippers. Perhaps a cup of warm milk from the kitchens would help.
She made it down to the ground floor quickly, her slippers silent on the polished wood, her single candle throwing wavering golden light over the walls and paintings. The faces of long-dead nobles stared back at her, the dips in light and shadow giving their features a fluid cast, making their eyes seem as if they had come to life. One painting in particular caught her eye, a gentleman draped in brocade fabrics and wearing a powdered wig. It was one she had seen a thousand times before, yet now the man’s eyes seemed to watch her with eerie intensity, his fingers tightening on the saber he held in his grip.
Her steps faltered for a moment. Surely her eyes were playing tricks on her. The longer she stared at it, however, the more it seemed to shift and sway. Shaking her head, she let loose a nervous laugh. “You cannot frighten me, my lord,” she said to the portrait. She made to turn away. And nearly dropped her candle as a muted thumping echoed about the darkened hall.
Lenora froze, her eyes going wide. “Who’s there?” she tried calling out. Her throat closed, the words coming out as more of a sputtering wheeze. Before she could gather her courage to try again, the strange pounding started up again, this time accompanied by a solid bang and a very masculine curse.
Her eyes flew to the door across the hall. It was ajar, a faint glow issuing from behind it. Who in the world could be up and about at this hour? Moving closer, she peered through the opening.
A great hulking shape moved about the space. As she watched, it took up a dainty chair and began moving toward the window with it.
A burglar. The breath left Lenora’s body. If she raised a cry, help would not come in time. Hoping to catch the person unawares and debilitate them, she quickly blew her candle out and hefted the heavy brass holder high above her head. She inched into the room, praying with all her might the thief would not turn around.
Just then, however, he did.
“Mr. Ashford,” she breathed, falling back a step.
He glowered at her a moment before eyeing the candlestick, still held aloft above her head. “Miss Hartley, what were you planning on doing with that bit of brass in your hands?”
She went hot, bringing the candlestick to her chest and gripping it tight. “I thought you were a burglar,” she said, but even to her own ears the excuse sounded weak.
“A burglar.” One blond eyebrow quirked. “You thought you could stop a burglar with that? Forgive me, but that is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.”
The heat in Lenora’s face spread down her neck as embarrassment turned to anger. Perhaps it had been foolish. But she would certainly never admit as much to him. “It is not ridiculous in the least.”
“Isn’t it? A pampered society miss, so slight I could easily lift you with one arm, thinking you have the strength to lay low a burglar with nothing but a candlestick?” His gaze, made a fiery orange in the glow from the single lantern he had propped on a low table, skimmed down her body. Her angry flush transformed into something altogether different, a new heat that sent her mind to parts unknown.
But she would not be cowed by a rude brute of a man who had no more manners than a dog.
Which wasn’t the best analogy, she thought distractedly, as Freya was quite the most collected dog she had ever met. Even so.
“My intentions are neither here nor there,” she countered. “What I would like to know is, what are you doing here in the dead of night, stealing Lady Tesh’s furniture?”
He stared at her before letting loose a sharp laugh. “Stealing? Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“What else would you be doing with that chair?”
“I,” he said with precision, turning and walking to a blank spot against the wall, “am moving it.” With that, he placed the piece down and turned to face her. In the deep shadows cast by the lantern, she just barely discerned an agitated tick in his jaw.
“Why in the world are you moving Lady Tesh’s furniture?”
“Have you tried being as large as I am and sitting in something that is made like that?” He motioned to the chair with a disgusted jab of his finger.
Lenora very nearly dismissed that. A chair was a chair, after all. But something in his voice made her pause, a strange tightness to his words. She took him in, noting the fabric stretched tight over his broad shoulders, how he towered above her. She then turned to peer closely at the offending piece of furniture. For the first time, she saw it as he must. The legs were things of beauty, carved into graceful arcs that flayed outward. Yet they looked to be of no more substance than a twig.
“Ah. Yes, I do see what you mean.”
“And so you will understand why I choose to sit in something that will not collapse at a mere breath.” He moved across the room where a much sturdier—albeit much rougher and not at all attractive—chair sat waiting. He hefted it and, with impressive ease, placed it carefully down where the other had been, then stood back to look at it with grim satisfaction.
Lenora moved closer and considered it as well, though with far more pessimism. “It’s…er…”
The smile fell from his lips. “What’s wrong with it?”
Even in the dim light, the faint uncertainty in his eyes was evident. It was a vulnerability she had not expected to see, and it made her heart ache in the strangest way.
A moment later and she called herself ten times a fool. The man didn’t have a vulnerable bone in his body. It must be the light playing tricks with her, as it had with that blasted portrait. “You don’t care what I think,” she dismissed.
“Yes, I do.” His answer was quick, the ring of truth in his voice.
“Oh.” She blinked, her cheeks warming under his piercing stare as she turned to truly look at the piece to find something kind to say about it. “It looks…very comfortable,” she finally managed.
She thought she heard him exhale. In relief? Surely not.
Regardless, some frozen bit of her heart thawed. Which was not good. Not good at all. She was here on the Isle to come to terms with Hillram’s death, not to develop feelings for the man who had taken his place.
A suffocating sense of being closed in fell over her. Suddenly she was intensely aware of the heat from Mr. Ashford’s arm where it nearly touched hers, the faint sound of his breaths, that wonderful scent of spices that was uniquely his own. She took a hasty step away from him.
“Well then,” she said, pulling her thin robe tightly closed with trembling fingers, unable to look him in the eye, “I’d best be getting to bed.” Without waiting for his response, she spun about and hurried from the room.
The gradual but unrelenting absence of light, however, made her realize how foolish her hasty escape attempt was. Letting loose a frustrated breath, she turned back around, embarrassment rising up that she would now have to ask him for a light after her display.
And ran straight into Mr. Ashford’s very wide, very firm chest as he exited the room.
She stood there, stunned, feeling like she’d hit a brick wall. That feeling was intensified as she looked up into his frowning face. What little breath she had retained left her, those harsh features uncommonly beautiful for all their starkness in the flickering light of his lantern. She swayed toward him, her free hand bracing against the broad width of his chest. Immediate heat filled her, radiating through her tightly strung body, pooling low in her belly.
With a low oath, he stepped back. For a devastating moment, she felt the loss of his closeness down to the very marrow of her bones.
“Did you need something?”
His voice rasped through her, jarring in the quiet, bringing her back to her senses.
Her cheeks heated. “I haven’t a light, sir. Would you mind?” She held up the candlestick, still clutched tightly in one hand.
He heaved an exasperated sigh. “I’ll escort you back to your room. You shouldn’t be up and about at this time of night alone.”
And the surly brute was back. Annoyance flared at his patronizing tone, the change in her feelings toward him such a relief that she purposely stoked it until it burned bright. “I’m not a child, sir,” she bit out, “and am perfectly capable of seeing myself to bed. I certainly do not need your reluctant help.”
He stared at her, his eyes wide. Then his gaze softened a fraction, a small smile lifting his lips. The expression changed his looks so drastically that once more Lenora forgot to breathe.
“The princess who roared,” he murmured. “Very well, Miss Hartley, I shall light your candle and leave you to your independence.” So saying, he did just that.
Lenora watched him go, the small flame of her candle dancing with her shaky breath. With a frown, she headed back for the stairs and her room. For she knew, without a doubt, there was no amount of warm milk that would help her sleep tonight.
* * *
It had been three years since Lenora had traveled up the long drive to Danesford, the Duke of Dane’s sprawling estate and Hillram’s childhood home. The towering Elizabethan brick house with its sharply peaked gables was the same as it used to be, and had no doubt remained for centuries: an ageless, elegant home. And it would have been hers had she married Hillram. For a moment, she expected him to bound down the front steps as he used to, that wide, open smile on his too-handsome face.
She shook her head, desperate to dispel the image. God, she didn’t want to be here.
On the opposite bench, Lady Tesh and Margery talked quietly, sending her worried looks now and again. Lenora could not manage even a smile to ease their minds. She knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that they were worried about her for all the wrong reasons. She was not overwhelmed by grief over a lost love as they thought, but by a horrible guilt over not loving Hillram as she ought to have done. And worse, for wishing for a way out of their marriage before his death.
Matters were not helped by Mr. Ashford. He was seated at her side, his taut thigh pressed into her own, his clenched fist mere inches from her skirt. His proximity had her body drawn as tight as a bow. It did not escape her notice that she had never felt anything even remotely close to this heated, aching awareness with Hillram. A painful realization that sharpened her guilt tenfold.
Relief flared as the carriage finally rocked to a halt. When a footman opened the door, it took all of Lenora’s willpower not to leap from the conveyance and out of the tense miasma that currently filled it.
Clara and Phoebe were waiting for them on the front steps. “We’re so happy you’ve come,” Clara said with a smile. “Father is having a good day; you could not have picked a better time for your visit.”
Even with the hopeful news, Lenora could not help being aware of the unnatural quiet that enveloped them as they moved through the great hall. When last she’d been here, it had been just as silent and heavy with the dark cloud of mourning. Though then it had been made sharp by the stunned grief of a young life cut short. Now the sadness was gentler, waiting for a long life to pass into the next.
They made their way to the rose drawing room, a bright, cheerful room on the ground floor with towering east-facing windows. It was there they found His Grace awaiting them.
Lenora just kept herself from gasping at the sight of him. Gone was the robust man of her memories. In his place was a pale, skeletal man seated in a high wingback chair that made him appear even more shrunken and emaciated.
“Dane,” Lady Tesh said, taking a seat at his side. She reached across the space separating them to lay a gnarled hand over his. “It’s good to see you, my boy.”
He smiled warmly, though his eyes were dulled with pain. “It’s good to see you, too, Aunt. Forgive me if I don’t rise.” He chuckled and turned to their small group. “Margery, it has been too long. How are you?”
Margery smiled. “Very well, cousin. And I have brought Lenora with me as well,” she said, placing a gentle hand on Lenora’s arm.
“My goodness,” the duke breathed. “It truly is you. My girls told me you were here, but I would not believe them until now.” He held out a trembling hand to Lenora. “It’s good to see you, child. And what a beauty you’ve become. I only wish Hillram could see you.”
Lenora’s breath left her at the man’s words. Unable to speak, she forced a smile and moved close to grasp his hand and plant a kiss on his sunken cheek.
Lady Tesh motioned to Mr. Ashford. “You remember Peter, of course?”
To Lenora’s surprise, the smile left His Grace’s face in an instant. He looked on Mr. Ashford with sober eyes. “Peter. Thank you for coming to see me.”
Even more disconcerting than the man’s reaction, however, was Mr. Ashford’s response. He glared so ferociously, Lenora was surprised the duke did not burn up on the spot. In the end, Mr. Ashford inclined his head, but even that seemed reluctantly done.
There was a moment of tense silence. Clara quickly stepped in to seal the breach. She smiled brightly on the assembled guests, indicating the seats before her father. “I’ve ordered up a light repast,” she said as they all settled themselves, “after which I thought perhaps we could leave Father to rest while we take a walk in the gardens. The summer roses are blooming and are looking their finest.”
Her cheerful chatter provided much-needed distraction. Soon the majority of the assembled were talking and eating. Yet Lenora could not be easy, for as was becoming frustratingly typical with her, she was horribly aware of Mr. Ashford. Seated where she was across from him, she could not help noticing that he never, not once, let his furious gaze stray from His Grace.
Why did he appear to despise the older man? So intent was she on puzzling it out that the touch of a hand on her arm had her jumping in her seat. She looked up to find the entire party minus the duke on their feet.
“Lenora, are you coming?” Margery asked. When Lenora continued to look at her in confusion, her eyebrows drew together in worry. “We were headed out to the garden,” she continued, her voice lowered so the others might not hear, “but we can leave immediately if this is too painful for you.”
Lenora flushed, her eyes dropping from the kindness in her friend’s gaze. She didn’t deserve it. “I would love to visit the gardens,” she declared with much more confidence than she felt, turning to join the others. His Grace’s voice, however, made her pause in the process of donning her shawl.
“Peter, I wonder if you would stay behind?”
The room went still. Everyone looked at Mr. Ashford with wide, worried eyes. It was then Lenora knew, without a doubt, that the tension she had sensed between the two men had not been fabricated by an overactive imagination. Suddenly every word, every concerned glance, from the people around her took on a new meaning. They all knew what was going on, every one of them. Feeling more an outsider than she ever had here, Lenora followed the rest into the garden, willing herself not to look back as they left the two men behind.