Giving her eyes time to adjust to the dimness, Vivien walked slowly into the third-floor nursery at Stokeford Abbey. In the center of the long chamber loomed a table with three inkstands and three straight-backed chairs. Shelves crammed with books and knickknacks filled one entire wall. On the mantelpiece stood a clock that had long since ceased ticking.
Harriet Althorpe had ruled here many years ago. Closing her eyes, Vivien tried to feel the presence of the woman who’d given birth to her, some lingering spirit in this forgotten chamber. But she detected only the odors of dust and neglect, the cool mustiness of air too long shut up.
And the presence of Michael Kenyon, the Marquess of Stokeford, behind her.
“As you can see, the schoolroom needs an airing,” he said crisply. “However, a team of housemaids should have the place ready by tomorrow.”
He stood close to her. So close the warmth of his breath stirred the fine hairs on her neck. Skittish, she spun around to face him. “Her ladyship asked me to examine these rooms. To confirm that your nursery isn’t suitable. She’s perfectly happy to keep her great-granddaughter with her.”
“If Amy is to stay for a brief visit, then she’ll live here with me at the Abbey.”
Vivien frowned at his implacable expression, superior and confident in the murky light. Bunching her fingers in her skirt, she said, “I don’t understand why you wish to keep Amy from your grandmother. They love each other, and they belong together.”
“Grandmama may visit Amy as often as she likes. I’ll say no more on the matter.”
Pursing her lips, Vivien had another flash of intuition that he was hiding something. Whatever it was, he wanted to keep her away from Amy, too. That, at least, she could comprehend. A snob like Michael Kenyon wouldn’t think a woman of the Rom respectable enough to associate with his daughter.
Or perhaps he had a more nefarious purpose. Perhaps he saw another opportunity to seduce her.
Keeping a vigilant eye on him, she edged toward the table, tracing her fingertip over the webwork of scratches in the wood. She couldn’t imagine how a cold man like him could have sired such a wonderful little girl. Back in Lady Stokeford’s bedchamber, she had told Amy a story about a magical land where trees could talk and flowers could sing, and afterward, she’d cuddled the girl close while she fell asleep, her thumb stuck in her mouth. Vivien had marveled as she always did at the beauty and innocence of youth. She’d missed having the children of the Rom gather around to listen to her tales. Holding Amy had brought her a poignant pleasure, the ache for a child of her own.
P’rhaps you can be my new mama.
Amy didn’t know it, but nothing could be less likely to happen. The Marquess of Stokeford would never offer marriage to a woman raised by Gypsies. And she would never want as a husband the most offensive, arrogant, depraved, and sinfully handsome gorgio lord who had ever walked the earth.
When she’d tiptoed out of the bedchamber, leaving Amy sound asleep with Miss Mortimer quietly tatting lace, she’d gone downstairs to find Michael quarreling with Lady Stokeford. The dowager had asked Vivien to accompany him here, and Vivien hadn’t argued. She was drawn by the chance to view the place where Harriet Althorpe had once reigned. And in a secret, loathsome, foolish part of herself, she had yearned to be alone with Michael.
Walking briskly to the windows, she drew back the draperies and sneezed from the dust that filtered down from above. She tried to push open the casement, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Allow me.”
Michael brushed against her, and she quickly stepped aside, her heart fluttering like the wings of a sparrow. Develesa, she mustn’t let him fluster her so. She mustn’t remember that glorious, carnal embrace or the disgraceful lust he stirred in her. He was an amoral nobleman who wanted to use her. And to her shame, she didn’t quite trust herself not to let him.
With a raucous squeaking of hinges, the window opened. Cool, damp air poured into the nursery and she breathed deeply, relishing the freshness. She didn’t know how these gorgios could bear to be shut up all the time.
“Library paste,” Michael said, his dark head bent low to examine the windowsill.
“Pardon?”
“One of my brothers put library paste in the crack. That’s why the window wouldn’t open easily.”
Vivien ventured closer to him, picking up a piece of the gray stuff and crumbling it between her forefinger and thumb. “Are you sure you didn’t do the deed?”
“Quite. It was Gabe, most likely. He was the youngest, the last one to leave the schoolroom.”
Brimming with questions about Michael’s childhood, she said, “He’s exploring in Africa, isn’t he? Lady Stokeford has mentioned him.”
Michael nodded. “Gabe is charting jungles that have never seen an Englishman, drawing flora and fauna and strange beasts.”
“Her ladyship has a picture he sent her framed on her wall.” Vivien recalled the tall spotted creatures with their long, slender necks, nibbling at the tops of the trees. Giraffes, the drawing was labeled.
“Every now and then, Gabe sends me a lion’s skin or a warrior’s spear or some such. I’ve a room at my house in London decorated in his souvenirs.”
Vivien felt an odd pang as she realized that she would never see the place he called home, never touch the things he treasured, never observe his daily routine. It was purely curiosity, of course, about a man who defied her comprehension.
Clapping the dust from her hands, she said, “Her ladyship mentioned that your middle brother is in the army.”
“The cavalry. Joshua has worked his way up to the rank of captain, and he’d take great offense to hear anyone call him a mere foot soldier.”
“Do you ever see your brothers?”
“Josh sometimes stops in London on his leave before coming here to visit Grandmama. Gabe has been gone for two years, but he writes whenever he’s near a trading post or a mail packet.”
“Do you miss them?”
“Of course.” A smile of rueful affection made Michael look unexpectedly human. “We were all so eager to grow up. We never stopped to think about leaving behind the people we held dear.”
“How true,” Vivien murmured, surprised that he could feel any depth of emotion. She, too, missed her parents and the bustling familiarity of the Gypsy camp. She yearned to smell the smoke of the campfires, to chat with the women, to hear stories told by the elders. How odd to think of the haughty Michael Kenyon having his own fond memories.
As if he regretted revealing so much, he prowled across the schoolroom to a low chest, where a battalion of toy troops were arranged in precise lines. His back to her, he scooped up a tin soldier, turning it over in his long, capable fingers.
Vivien watched him a moment, picturing him as a small black-haired boy, studying his lessons at the desk or playing a prank on one of his brothers. How different his upbringing had been from hers. She’d had much freedom, little education, and few rules, for the Rom were indulgent parents who loved their children to distraction. Yet she envied Michael his brothers, for she’d always wanted the special closeness of siblings.
Going to the chest, she picked up a toy soldier, finding it surprisingly heavy. “Did these belong to Joshua?” Michael frowned slightly as if just remembering her presence. “Yes. We held many a mock battle in this room. Oftentimes real ones, too.”
She set down the figure, then touched an open tin box with its pots of dried-up paints. “And these must have been Gabriel’s.”
“He liked to draw and paint ever since he could first wrap his fingers around a pencil or a brush.”
Moving a few steps away, she examined a grouping of broken birds’ eggs arranged in several nests on a shelf. “And these? Who collected these?”
“I did.”
His laconic response discouraged further questions. But she asked one anyway. “The rocks, too?” she said, pointing to the neatly labeled rows of stones on another shelf.
He gave a curt nod. “They’ll need to be tossed out with all the other rubbish.”
“No! Amy will want to see the things that interested you as a boy.”
“I doubt that. She prefers dolls and other girlish toys.”
“All children like to hear stories of when their parents were young. And these things”—Vivien touched a yellow finch’s feather—“show that you love the land and nature. Or at least that you did at one time.”
He raised a disdainful eyebrow. “You read a lot into a boy’s shabby keepsakes.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps not.” Impatient with the worldly scorn on his face, she voiced the half-formed observation that was taking shape in her mind. “The odd thing, milord, is that both of your brothers are still following their childhood interests. While you idle away your time in London.”
For an instant, his eyes narrowed on her. Then that indulgent expression returned, and he caught her hand, his flesh heavy and warm. “Quite the contrary. I’m doing what interests me the most. Seducing women.”
His wolfish smile caused a melting sensation in the pit of her belly. Yanking her hand free, she quickly stepped back. “I can’t claim to understand your gorgio need to own so much property. But I do know that if you cherish this land, you should return here for good, and so should Amy.”
“That isn’t for you to decide.” A dangerous edge to his smile, he approached her, forcing her to retreat or risk his embrace. “But enough of your badgering. I’d rather talk about us.”
She stepped backward. “There’s nothing to say.”
“Surely you’ve wondered why I allowed a thief to enter my house. A very lovely thief.”
“I’ve stolen nothing!” she asserted, though bitterly she knew he wouldn’t believe her.
“That remains to be proven. In the meantime, perhaps you and I should become better acquainted.”
Like a stalking wolf, he advanced on Vivien, herding her backward, alarming her with his transformation from amiable man to tempting seducer. When she bumped into the wall in between a sturdy desk and an oak cabinet, she thrust up her fists. “I warn you, don’t touch me.”
“As you desire.” His eyes slumberous, he braced his palms on the wall behind her, his broad chest mere inches from her bosom. “I don’t mean to frighten you, Vivien. I only wish to have a few words with you.”
She didn’t trust that honeyed tone. Her heart thudded fast from a combustible mix of fear and longing, and she cast about for a way to distract him. “Then I’ll tell you why I came here,” she said. “To see if I could find out more about Harriet.”
He frowned. “Miss Althorpe.”
“My...mother,” she said, her voice catching. “You knew her, Michael. Will you tell me what you remember about her?”
His eyes turned cool and skeptical, but he answered her anyway. “She was tall and thin as a post. She wouldn’t abide any nonsense like botched papers or rude messages passed under the table. When we were too rambunctious, she would send us down to my father to be punished.”
“What did he do to you?”
“Gave us a stern scolding—and then offered us a glass of gin to make up for it.”
“Gin! To a child?”
He regarded her with cynical aloofness. “Miss Althorpe didn’t know about that part. However, you’ll be pleased to hear I was too young to appreciate gin, and I’d always refuse it. As did my brothers.”
Appalled nonetheless, Vivien shook her head. “A father shouldn’t corrupt his sons. You ought to have told your mother. She would have put a stop to it.”
“I did tell her,” he said with a shrug. “But she believed a wife was subordinate to her husband, and so she never questioned his judgment. She merely ensconced herself in the chapel and prayed for us.”
What a peculiar, sad family; the poor children could not trust their parents to protect them. It made Vivien yearn for her warmhearted foster parents who had always made her feel loved. Their times together had been boisterous and warm and full of laughter. “Then you should have told Harriet Althorpe—or your grandmother. They would have protected you.”
Impatience flitted across his hard features. “It was long ago and best forgotten. Besides, my experiences in life have enabled me to see the truth about people. And made me realize exactly what I want.”
He lowered his head ever so slightly, watching her with the lazy interest of a tomcat toying with a mouse. She was keenly aware of his arms bracketing her, as close to an embrace as possible without touching her. His masculine scent enveloped her, as did the heat radiating from his body.
“About Harriet Althorpe,” she began, her voice entirely too breathy. “I wondered—”
“Enough about her.” His brooding gaze dropped to her lips. “I’m more interested in you, Vivien. In this attraction between us.”
“It’s all in your imagination.”
He chuckled. “One kiss, and I could disprove that. However, I’ve no intention of giving you the opportunity to savage me again.”
To her shame, Vivien knew that she would like his roguish kisses. “Step away. I won’t be trapped by a man.”
“Nor, it seems, will you give him the chance to redeem himself.”
“If you want redemption, then go to your gorgio church.”
He laughed again, reaching out to brush a tendril from her brow, his hand disturbingly tender. “You’re far too pretty to spout such malevolence. Tell me, Vivien, why do you dislike men so much?”
It’s only you I despise. She swallowed the acid retort, remembering her somewhat unraveled plan to charm him into falling in love with her so that she could spurn him when she returned to the Rom. With effort, she shaped her lips into a mysterious smile. “Perhaps I’ve yet to meet a man who knows what a woman really wants.”
His caressing gaze moved up and down her body. “And that is...?”
“Why, my lord,” she said on a husky note. “You surely can’t expect me to reveal all to a man who has yet to prove himself worthy of my trust.”
“How, pray tell, would a man go about winning your trust?”
“By courting me, of course.”
His eyebrows lowered, giving him the hooded look of a hawk. “You mean by showering you with gifts—or more specifically, expensive jewelry.”
She shook her head. “I mean by treating me with gallantry and politeness, not with grabbing and pawing.”
His frown deepened. “I haven’t pawed you.”
“What would you term that episode in the temple?”
“A pleasurable interlude. Until you changed your mind.”
“I was never given a choice. But you’re too pigheaded to see any fault in yourself.”
“There you go again,” he said. “You’re carping about men. This Janus of yours must be a rough, slovenly fellow.”
Vivien tensed. Why would Michael bring him up? Could he be...jealous? Her lips curved into a smile designed to torment him. “Do allow me to correct your mistake about Janus,” she said, letting her voice caress the name. “He’s a fine man of excellent character. In truth, he’s far more a gentleman in his behavior than you could ever hope to be.”
A muscle hardened in his jaw. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” she said recklessly. “You gorgios know little about true chivalry.”
“And Janus does.”
“Certainly. You don’t think I could ever have any interest in a man who mistreated me, do you?” There. Let him realize that he should revere her, not ravish her.
His heavy-lidded eyes studied her with faint calculation. “So you think a Gypsy is better than a gentleman at wooing a woman.”
“Yes, I certainly do.”
Quite unexpectedly, Michael took her hand and brought it to his mouth. He kissed the back, his lips tender and tickling, making her melt all over again. Though, of course, she concealed her reaction.
When he straightened to his superior height, his half-smile held the promise of wickedness. “If you wish to be wooed, then you shall be. But in the end, darling, I shall expect my reward.”
“Ah, youth,” sighed Enid. “Such vitality they have. It makes me wish I were eighteen again.”
The Rosebuds sat in the sunlit garden of the Dower House, wrapped in shawls against the cool morning air while they watched Vivien play hide-and-seek with Amy. The chime of their laughter filled Lucy’s heart with contentment.
“When you were eighteen,” Olivia said rather dampeningly, “you were foolish and impulsive.”
“So were you,” Lucy said tartly, turning to regard her friend, whose wrinkled features still held a haughty elegance. “Myself as well. Remember the Lansdowne’s ball?”
Olivia sniffed. Enid giggled. Lucy knew they too would never forget that wonderful, romantic, mortifying night.
“Ooh, we were naughty girls, were we not?” Enid said, her plump face alight with pleasure. “We were also the most beautiful young ladies of the season.”
“Everyone admired us,” Lucy agreed. She leaned forward to clink glasses with the others; then they all sipped their sherry.
“That wasn’t why everyone stared at us,” Olivia pointed out. “We made spectacles of ourselves. How I ever let you talk me into that vulgar scheme, I’ll never know.”
“Oh, don’t be a crosspatch,” Enid said. “None of us have ever again looked at a pot of rouge in quite the same way.”
“Nor have we ever lived down the disgrace.”
“Now ladies, no quarreling,” Lucy said, tapping her glass on the iron arm of her chair. “Granted, we were silly to put rouge on our nipples. But none of us knew the ballroom would be hot and we would perspire.”
“Indeed,” Olivia said with a huff. “If we’d had the sense to wear our corsets, the color wouldn’t have seeped through our white gowns.”
Lucy smiled. “And we wouldn’t have become known as the Rosebuds.”
Enid leaned forward, her eyes dancing. “Charles was the first to notice, remember? He immediately proposed marriage to you, Lucy. On bended knee in front of the entire assembly.”
“Yes,” Lucy murmured, that long-ago joy mingling with the awareness of sorrows to come later. “We all had success in love that night.”
Enid’s bosom lifted in an extravagant sigh. “I had my first dance with Howard. He was quite a timid man and had never worked up the courage to approach me”—she giggled again—“until he saw my rosebuds.”
“He was hardly timid,” Olivia scoffed. “You were with child by the morning.” But her stem mouth eased into a smile. A smile not of ridicule, but of fond remembrance.
“You fell in love, too.” Lucy reached over to pat the gnarled hand curled around the cane. “With the dashing Lord Faversham, who had professed never to marry because no woman was fine enough to please him.”
“Roderick did have more than his share of charm,” Olivia said, her gray eyes going soft and unfocused as if she were gazing into the past. Yet there was sadness there, too, a sadness that broke Lucy’s heart.
With determined cheer, she held up her glass in another toast. “I must say, I’m quite pleased with the way life has turned out. Why, if that night had gone differently, I might have married someone else, and then I wouldn’t be sitting here, watching my darling great-granddaughter.”
Olivia’s thin mouth quirked into a rueful smile. “You always could see the silver lining in every cloud, Lucy.”
The Rosebuds fell silent a moment, savoring their wine while gazing at the small child and young woman romping in the grass. Now they played a twirling game that soon had them collapsing in a giggling heap.
Enid’s expression sobered as she turned to Lucy. “Amy is such a lovely little girl. What a pity she lost her mother at so tender an age.”
“All the more reason for Vivien to wed Michael,” Olivia avowed. “How is their romance progressing?”
“Quite well, I think,” Lucy said. “They’ve been riding every morning. And today, he sent her several books—not a very passionate gift, but she was charmed. Oh, and she bit him, too, so he must have tried to kiss her.”
“Or perhaps he attempted something even more improper,” Enid said, all agog. “You don’t suppose he’s already bedded her, do you?”
Olivia thunked her cane on the paving stones. “If the rake dares to do so, he’ll marry her immediately. I will see to that.”
“My grandson is an honorable man,” Lucy stated sharply. “Should he discover Vivien’s innocence, he’ll do right by her.”
“Where is the boy today?” Enid asked.
“Tending to estate business,” Lucy said. “But he left his guard dog on duty.” She waved her glass of sherry toward Miss Mortimer, who sat tatting lace on a bench at the other end of the garden. “Oh, I should like to hate the woman, but she is so ... so agreeable. And Amy is terribly fond of her.”
Olivia arched an eyebrow. “It seems odder than ever that Stokeford discourages you from keeping the child for a visit.”
“I always thought it was because Stokeford Abbey held so many sad memories for him,” Enid said.
“Surely in three years he’s recovered,” Olivia said, logical as ever. “We’ve all been widowed, and we’ve picked up the pieces of our lives. That is what one does in the face of tragedy.”
“I quite agree, it’s unnatural for a man to grieve so long,” Lucy said slowly, remembering the way Michael had turned away from her yesterday when she’d asked him about Grace. “For some time, I’ve had a peculiar feeling about his marriage, that perhaps there was something he wasn’t telling me. Something very wrong.”
Enid leaned forward, her brown eyes widening. “Why, Lucy. Whatever do you mean?”
“Well, we all know that even when marriages begin like a fairy tale, sometimes they don’t continue in so happy a manner.” Lucy and the other two Rosebuds nodded sagely at one another. “Michael and Grace did have a very romantic, whirlwind courtship...”
“He won her from Brandon,” Olivia said, her mouth twisting wryly. “My grandson dallied too long in making his offer.”
“Michael loved her to distraction,” Enid said. “When Lady Grace walked into the room, his face would light up.”
Lucy nodded, troubled all the more. “Then why does he always seem angry now when I bring up her name? Why does he turn away from me as if he has something to hide?”
“Men often hide their pain with anger,” Olivia stated. “In truth, men prefer to hide all sentiment.”
“Michael used to confide in me,” Lucy mused in frustration. “But this tragedy has utterly changed him. He’s shut out everyone except Amy.”
“Then the question is,” Olivia said, “why would he have stayed away from here, if not out of grief?”
“And why has he kept Amy from you?” Enid added indignantly. “Why, it isn’t to be borne.”
Her heart twisting, Lucy took a sip from her glass, turning her gaze to the little girl with the shining copper curls, who laughed and jumped while Vivien attempted to brush the grass from her white pinafore. The two joined hands and skipped toward them, Vivien’s face glowing as much as Amy’s.
“I don’t know,” Lucy said in anguish. “But I do wish to find out. In the meantime, I’ll make certain Amy stays here with me.”
“How?” Olivia asked. “Stokeford is quite adamant about keeping her all to himself.”
With a steely smile, Lucy motioned for her two friends to lean forward. “For that, dear Rosebuds, listen closely. I have a plan.”