No more tears now; I will think upon revenge.
—Mary, Queen of Scots
Bloody hell!” muttered Lord Grayston, dragging a hand through his hair as he stared down at the wrought-iron latch. Had his nasty reputation preceded him even into the wilds of Gloucestershire? Or was he simply losing his touch? At that thought, he spit out a few more curses. But the door could not be intimidated into reopening.
With one final oath, the marquis shrugged, hurled his wet coat over one shoulder, and stomped off down the corridor in search of the servants’ quarters. His loins ached with thwarted lust. Blast it, the pretty widow had been a veritable pigeon eating from his hand. She’d even put her hands up his back and her tongue in his mouth! It was unthinkable he’d been refused.
But refuse him she certainly had. Well, bedamned to her. She was too golden and delicate for his sort of sport anyway. In the gloom, Grayston finally found the attic stairs. He’d not forgotten the black-eyed buxom tavern maid who’d as good as crooked her finger at him after dinner. At the time, he’d been unable to bestir much interest. Now he was randy as hell, and short a warm bed. The tavern wench would serve well enough for both predicaments.
Ah, but it would not be quite the same as bedding the ice princess, would it? Grayston admitted it as the narrow, twisting steps squeaked beneath his boots. A frisson of desire ran through him at the memory of her surprisingly full breast in his hand, its nipple peaking urgently against his thumb. Her kisses, too, had been urgent. His reputation aside, given time, he was almost sure he could have bedded her. Unfortunately, time was a luxury Grayston did not possess. He had but one day in which to finish his surreptitious tour of Gotherington’s tenancies. One day in which to decide if he’d any wish to keep his ill-gotten gains, or whether he should simply toss the place back as one might a too-small fish. So far, he was inclined to toss, unless the Onslows failed to be properly humble and hospitable.
The card game had been too easy by half. Initially, he’d meant to teach that fool Maynard Onslow to keep to a game he could handle, like ha’penny loo with his great-grandmother. A man who could not remember that there were but four aces in a pack of cards had no business in a pernicious hell like Sadridge’s. And no business laying everything he had—including his wife’s ancestral home—on the table, especially when she’d just invited a dozen guests to a house party. For that folly, Grayston had meant to be merciless.
But then he’d heard about the children. His steps slowed as he again considered it. Onslow had twin daughters. Dowerless little country innocents, much like Lenora, no doubt. But his sister had been far from dowerless, and that had been her undoing. Leaving the Onslow children homeless would be nothing compared to what his sister had suffered. And Major Maynard Onslow was going to be the means of his revenge. Lost in thought, Grayston paused on the narrow attic stairs.
Yes, blast it, it was the children. That was what his conscience kept nagging about. Oh, he’d done some cruel things in his life, but he was not sure he could leave two little girls without a roof over their heads. Since learning of his sister’s death, Grayston had oddly found himself reassessing his old instincts. Every debt he called due, every hand he forced down, and every swaggering young buck he pressed until the swagger was gone and the fellow’s bowels began to nervously rumble—oh, yes!—Grayston had begun to second-guess it all. A damned inconvenience, a burgeoning set of principles, when it was so much easier to run roughshod over fools like Onslow.
But he could not get Lenora out of his mind. What a sweet, sweet child she’d been. He’d been stunned nearly speechless tonight when he’d reached into the carriage to pick up the little girl—Henriette, the woman had called her. With her coltish legs and heavy black hair, she had looked so startlingly like Lenora. Or Lenora as she’d been a dozen years ago. Which had been just about the last time he’d laid eyes on her. But that was not his fault, was it? No, it was his father’s, and Grayston hoped the old man’s spite was keeping the devil warm in hell.
Good Lord, he was becoming maudlin again. He must get moving, focus on his plan, plot the course of his revenge. With righteous fury coursing anew through his blood, Grayston laid his hand on the attic doorknob. Tomorrow would bring another long morning. And then on to Gotherington Abbey, where another reputed beauty awaited him. Though frankly, Grayston held little hope that she would be as lovely as the one who’d just slammed his bedchamber door in his face. He just prayed to God that she had breasts half as fine. But then, God had never been particularly good about listening to Grayston’s prayers.
At Gotherington Abbey, the following day dawned golden with promise, as mornings which follow a thundershower are wont to do. Ophelia Onslow stood at one of the deep Venetian windows which lined her red and gold salon, absently watching this miracle of nature unfold, and feeling in perfect charity with the world. All was in readiness for this, her social triumph of the year, her first autumn house party at her much admired ancestral home.
For a time, it had felt as if Grandmama Hilliard might never pass on to her great reward and leave Ophelia to savor hers in peace. Of course, she’d long known that she would eventually have Gotherington, and she’d paid well for it, too. For twenty years, she had catered to the irascible old woman’s every whim, as her mother before her had done. But while Grandmama had lived—and ninety-three long years it had been—lavish entertainment had been out of the question. Grandmama had been neither the gregarious nor generous sort.
But the death of her grandson Sir Henry nearly two years past had finally sucked the wind from her sails, and permitted the family to enjoy the convenience of putting on their black but once. Henry’s entailed property, a drafty old pile in the north, had passed to a distant relation, and good riddance. His remaining properties and fortune had gone to Elise, his widow, and Henriette, his only child. But Gotherington! Ah, yes, Grandmama had kept her word, and at last the plum had fallen into Olivia’s outstretched hand. And now she meant to enjoy it, no matter the cost.
So as she stood awaiting the arrival of her brother’s widow, Ophelia watched the sun rise high over her kingdom while she studied the abbey grounds with a narrow, persnickety eye. The canal which encircled the Dutch garden had been seined of leaves, the topiary sculptures had been pruned and plumped, and the outside of the vast octagon maze had been shaped and sheared within an inch of its arborescent life. In the larder lay a small fortune in fine foodstuffs, and in the cellar sat a sultan’s ransom in wine. Ophelia bit her lip at that. A pity they had not thought to kidnap a sultan with which to pay for it.
Oh, well! Ophelia was never one to let penury spoil her plans. Maynard would think of something before the duns floated in. He always did. Suddenly, from the adjacent breakfast parlor, a small commotion erupted. Ophelia lifted up her skirts and sailed through the connecting doors, her shrewd gaze falling at once upon her sweet, golden-haired darlings, and upon their father, oblivious behind his newspaper.
“Spiteful cat!” wailed the first darling, reaching across the table to yank a yellow ribbon from her sister’s hair. “That’s mine! Mine, do you hear!”
“Is not! Is not!” shouted the second, pressing both hands against her scalp to defend her prize.
Belinda’s eyes sparkled maliciously. “I bought it not a fortnight past in Bond Street, you shrew!”
Lucinda sneered across the table. “Not this one, you jealous little witch!”
Ophelia darted toward the table with unseemly haste. “Belinda! Lucinda! Stop this at once!”
“But it’s mine!” burst the twins in unison. Still, each settled back into her chair, poking out an identical set of pouty pink lips.
Ophelia collapsed into her chair and pressed her fingertips to her chest. “Oh, vipers in my bosom!” she moaned dramatically. “How am I to find husbands for either of you?”
From behind his paper, Major Onslow harrumphed. “Can’t think who’d be fool enough to have ’em.”
Ophelia’s chin snapped up. “Maynard!”
Major Onslow simply rattled his paper and kept reading.
“You!” challenged his wife, looking daggers at the back of his newspaper. “You’d best pay a little attention to their comportment! In two days’ time their godfather will be here. Amherst is your oldest friend, and his wife is well connected.”
Belinda made a most unladylike sound. “Oh, he isn’t even a half-pay officer now!” she muttered, throwing herself against the back of her chair. “Just a pokey old vicar.”
“Foolish child,” snapped Ophelia. “He’ll be a bishop before all is said and done, mark me.”
“A bishop!” snorted Lucinda, crossing her arms over her chest. “Who gives a snap for that? It was exciting when he was a Royal Dragoon with Papa.”
“Ooh, in those snug regimentals!” Belinda leaned companionably toward her sister. “Do you not think, Lucy, that blond men look splendid in red? I’m sure he wears only black and is very dull now. Really, I wish he wouldn’t come at all!”
Their father peered from behind the paper. “Then I shall write straightaway and tell him so, girls,” he murmured, feigning solicitude. “And I shall tell him to keep his dull stepsons at home, too. Between them, they cannot have but a half-dozen titles and fifty thousand pounds a year. Not worth our notice, to be sure.”
Two mops of yellow ringlets jerked up at once. “Papa!” they gasped in unison.
Major Onslow returned to his paper. “Oh, Papa indeed!” he said sarcastically. “Hold out for dukes, the both of you. Don’t let your lack of a dowry stand in the way.”
“Maynard!” Sensing that her husband’s feelings were wounded, Ophelia leaned across the table to pat his hand. “Of course we wish to see dear Mr. Amherst and Lady Kildermore! And her handsome boys, too!”
“Boys!” harrumphed the major. “Why, the Marquis of Mercer is near twenty, and Lord Robert not much younger.”
“Oh, Maynard, my love, your cup is quite empty! Do let me fill it.” Ophelia flashed her husband an ample expanse of cleavage as she stretched toward the teapot. “Now, tell us all about their daughters. Are they darlings?”
“No idea,” muttered the major, peeking from behind the paper to eye his wife’s bosom. “Gaggle of chits with names devilish alike. Marianna, Pollyanna, Arabella. Can’t keep up.”
“Pollyanna—?” Ophelia drew her brows into a frown. “Maynard, I don’t think so. And aren’t there four?”
His answer was forestalled by a noise deep inside the salon. The butler had thrown open the door. With a shriek of delight, Henriette burst in, rushing along the red and gold carpet in a beeline for the breakfast parlor. She launched herself at the major, who promptly hurled his newspaper aside.
“Uncle May! Uncle May!” she cried as he hoisted her onto his lap. “Mama and I have had the awfulest journey ever! We stayed at a smelly inn. Oh, Aunt Ophelia, is it true? Are there to be other girls here? Do you know their names? Is Ariane to come? Can Bee and Lucy stay in the schoolroom with us?”
To their credit, Belinda and Lucinda had risen at once, one to hug Henriette, and the other to greet Elise, who was drawing off her gloves and smiling brightly as she came into the room. A flurry of activity ensued, with cheeks kissed, chairs pulled out, and tea poured all around. But Henriette was still chattering at her uncle. “And then Mama said I mustn’t bring my toy soldiers, for the other girls mightn’t like them. What do you think? Would they? I’ve a whole regiment of dragoons, now. I daresay our coachman would go back and fetch ’em for me.”
Major Onslow tweaked her nose. “Save the soldiers for me, my sweet,” he encouraged. “We’d best stick with Roll the Hoop this visit. The Amherst girls are doubtless quite tame, and Lady Ariane is too old for toy soldiers.”
Ophelia leaned solicitously toward her widowed sister-in-law. “My dear Elise, how was your journey? Will you take a bite of breakfast?”
“No, thank you, just tea,” said Elise a little breathlessly. “And the journey really was dreadful. I managed to get us lost, else we’d have arrived last night.” She turned her gaze on the major and smiled. “Maynard, you are well? Oh, how glad I am to see all of you. Belinda, Henriette tells me you’ve a new pianoforte in the music room. May I prevail upon the two of you to show her?”
“It is a Graf, all the way from Vienna,” answered Belinda, drawing herself up proudly. “With six and a half octaves. Mama says with my promise, I need the very best.”
Elise’s brows flew up as she turned to her sister-in-law. “A Conrad Graf?” she said in an undertone. “Good heavens, Ophelia!”
Ophelia’s full bottom lip came out. “Oh, pray don’t scold me again, Elise! You shall give me the megrims. Besides, it was not so dreadfully expensive, and young ladies must have a few fine things.”
The young ladies in question hastily departed, and just as swiftly, Ophelia changed the subject. “Elise,” she began. “We were just speaking of who is expected. Most guests will arrive the day after tomorrow, but I took the liberty of asking that Mr. Roth come early.”
Elise’s cheeks turned faintly pink. “Ophelia! Really! I think you are altogether too sure of yourself.”
At the head of the table, Major Onslow snorted. “Sure of that popinjay Roth, belike.”
Ophelia ignored her husband. “And of course, Mr. Amherst and his family will be here,” she preened. “And the coup of the season—Lord and Lady Treyhern have agreed to come for at least a few days! With Lady Ariane and little Gervais!”
“They are lovely people,” agreed Elise as she sipped delicately at her tea. “We have some vague connection there, do we not? I confess, I’ve never understood it.”
“It is through Uncle Henry, for whom your husband was named. He was Lady Treyhern’s stepfather.” Fleetingly, Ophelia’s brows snapped together. “Of course, her mother was not quite bon ton—but that is neither here nor there, for Lady Treyhern has since married well.”
“Ah, yes,” Elise dryly responded. “Much can be forgiven after a good marriage, can it not? Who else is to come?”
Ophelia was oblivious to the mild rebuke. “Oh, no one quite as exalted as Mr. Amherst or Lord Treyhern,” she admitted, and then she mentioned a few more names, most of whom Elise vaguely knew.
When she finished, Major Onslow rattled his newspaper again, then cleared his throat almost nervously. “Hang me if I didn’t forget to tell you, Ophelia!” he remarked. “I did invite another fellow. Invited Grayston.”
With a faint gasp, Elise sat her cup down, splashing tea across the ivory linen tablecloth.
Beside her, her sister-in-law went completely rigid. “I do beg your pardon, Maynard!” said Ophelia quite distinctly. “You did not say … oh, pray tell me I did not hear—”
“Grayston,” interjected the major, more firmly. “You’re wanting another chap to even our numbers. Invited Grayston. Expect everyone to be civil, Ophelia. Fellow’s a marquis, for God’s sake. Old money, and plenty of it. Outranks us all.”
Ophelia half rose from her chair, her legs unsteady. “B-But why? My God, Maynard! The man is hardly received.”
“Not true, Ophelia,” countered her husband defensively. “Grayston has been invited to some of the best houses in town since returning from France.”
“Blackmailed his way in, more like!” snapped Ophelia, flinging herself back down again and pressing her fingertips to her temple. “Is that not his method? Besides, I cannot think why we must have him, Maynard! Gotherington Abbey is one of England’s finest homes! The pride of my Hilliard ancestors!”
Elise thought the major had lost a bit of his color. “Knew his father,” Major Onslow explained, folding his paper clumsily. “Belonged to White’s, as does his son now.”
“Does he indeed?” challenged Ophelia. “I heard Lord Bothwill was coerced into supporting the blackguard’s membership. Besides, a country house party will be quite dull entertainment for one of his ilk.”
“It is a shooting party,” growled Major Onslow irascibly. “Grayston likes to shoot.”
“Yes, but at people!” wailed his wife. “It’s not at all the same thing as shooting pheasant or partridge! And this is a family gathering to celebrate the twins’ seventeenth birthday! I cannot think it seemly to expose them to such a man.”
“Isn’t Denys Roth to be here, Ophelia?” challenged her husband. “Are you fool enough to think him an innocent?”
Ophelia blushed very prettily. “Perhaps he has sowed a few wild oats, Maynard. What man has not? But Roth has fallen in love with Elise. If they’ve not set the date by Martinmas, it won’t be my fault.”
Major Onslow jerked to his feet, eyeing Ophelia over the tall, silver epergne which sat in the center of the table. “You always wanted to be the talk of the town, m’dear,” he warned. “And with Grayston coming, you shall.”
“Not that sort of talk!”
But the major looked grim. “I’ve an appointment with my steward at half-past.” He yanked a gold pocket watch from his waistcoat. “The marquis is to arrive tomorrow, and I expect—no, I demand—that he be treated warmly by everyone. If not, there’ll be hell to pay. Do I make myself plain?”
Ophelia sniffed miserably. “Oh, we are ruined!”
Major Onslow rolled his eyes, then turned to Elise with a bow. “My dear, I beg your pardon for shouting. Glad you’re here. I know I may count on you to make everyone feel at ease.”
“Yes, of course, Maynard,” Elise managed to answer. But her stomach was already twisted into a sick knot.
His smile tight, Major Onslow turned and strolled toward the door, but Ophelia sprang to her feet at once. “I cannot like the smell of this, Maynard! Never think that we are finished with this discussion!”
“No, no, I don’t, my dear!” The major slumped a little as he passed over the threshold. “Not in my wildest dreams!”