Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
“This is lovely, thank you,” Valerie said, cradling her cold hands around the cup of steaming hot tea.
The butler, who had finally introduced himself as Mr. Jarvis, could not have done more for her once he had deposited her in the promised drawing room.
He had lit a fire for her, fetched her a pot of hot tea with a fruit scone on the side, offered her soft woolen blankets, and generally seemed more at ease with her presence.
“You’re welcome,” he said, returning to the fire to coax it into higher flames. “I’m sorry it’s so cold in here, but it will warm up in no time.”
She sipped the soothing tea. “No, no, do not apologize. I am the one who unexpectedly intruded; I am just grateful to be indoors instead of out in that storm.”
Not rain, as she had expected, but heavy snow had begun to fall about a minute after Valerie had been permitted into the entrance hall of the castle.
It was a somewhat rustic foyer that seemed not to have been changed in decades, if not centuries.
A hall of stern-faced portraits and dusty stag heads, and dulled swords that had not been swung in at least a few generations.
As for the drawing room, it could have used some reupholstering, a less oppressive choice of wallpaper, and a lighter wood for the wainscoting, but it was otherwise inoffensive. Pleasant, really, and becoming more pleasant with each wave of warmth that began to ripple from the fire.
“We don’t have visitors, you see,” the butler said by way of explanation.
“Ever?” she asked, laughing, certain he had meant to say they didn’t have many visitors. “Or not in winter, when sensible people stay at home?”
Mr. Jarvis looked at her with utter sincerity. “Ever.”
“Oh…” Valerie’s laughter tapered off into an awkward cough.
As the daughter of a less-than-popular Baron, she was accustomed to households that did not have many visitors, but to have none? She had never heard of such a thing. Even society’s recluses were called upon from time to time, mostly out of curiosity.
Has this recluse slipped through the net? She had to admit, she could not recall ever hearing about a Duke of Norwood. Then again, she did not know too much about the northern gentry, aside from those who wintered in London.
“That is why you must stay in this room,” the butler said. “I apologize that I can’t offer you a bedchamber, as would be befitting, but… the duke doesn’t like guests. Nevertheless, I think you’ll be comfortable here, and you won’t be disturbed as long as you—”
“Do not leave this room,” she interrupted with a smile. “I quite understand, Mr. Jarvis.”
The weary, gray-haired man sighed. “Apologies, Miss Wightman. I don’t mean to repeat myself so much. As I said, we never have guests; I have forgotten how to receive them, or so it seems.”
“You are doing excellently,” Valerie assured, taking another sip of her comforting tea to prove the point.
He seemed pleased by the remark as he put the poker back and dusted off his hands. “I’ll fetch some bed linens for you,” he said, hesitating. “And… soup, perhaps? Would you care for some soup? I always find it to be the best thing on a snowy night.”
“That would be perfect,” she replied, her stomach growling in agreement. “Thank you kindly.”
“You are very welcome, Miss Wightman. I shall return momentarily.” The man bowed his head and departed, leaving in such a flustered hurry that he left the drawing room door ajar.
Watching him go, Valerie felt a little sorry to have caused the butler so much trouble; even though he had gone, his anxiety remained like a chill in the air.
What sort of duke would be so severe about guests?
She shook her head, for who could ever understand the entire breadth of human character?
It was not her place to judge someone for not liking company.
A time or two, she had envied the life of hermits and recluses, wondering how she might go about hiding herself away in a quaint cottage somewhere.
A place where no one, no duty, no expectation, would find her.
She rose from the timeworn yet surprisingly comfortable settee and wandered to the long casement windows, leaded in a diamond pattern.
“You would love this,” she murmured, gazing out at the snow as she held the warm cup of tea, feeling rather cozy. “A castle in the snow. Oh yes, you would adore this.”
Her heart squirmed with an uneasy guilt that she had left her younger siblings behind in London.
Cecil and Nora, ten and eight respectively, had given their blessing for her journey northward and had been the only ones to wave her off.
Still, they had never really known any motherly figure but her, and she worried about how they would fare without her.
“I am sorry, my sweetlings,” she murmured.
The children cherished this season more than any other, each morning peeking out of the window to see if it had snowed and, better yet, if it had stuck.
And though the family never had anywhere to go for the festive season, no invitations to spend Christmas at one country estate or another, Valerie had always made it a special occasion.
A time that the children delighted in and looked forward to each year.
This year, however, she didn’t know if she would return to Gramfield in time. It all depended on how her journey to Scotland went.
But this is pleasant, she told herself, marveling at the fat, fluffy flakes that silently descended, a sea of icy blossoms to blanket the lawns and trees.
Was there anything more comforting than being in the warmth while it snowed, a roaring fire crackling merrily, with the promise of hearty soup to thaw the last bit of frost from one’s bones?
She stayed there for a long time, watching the darkened world turn whiter, enjoying the peace of it all. When she finished a cup of tea, she returned to the pot for more and wandered back to the window to take in that magical sight.
Indeed, it was only when a trickle poured out of the teapot, stone cold, that she realized how long it had been since the butler left. The carriage clock on the mantelpiece confirmed it: Mr. Jarvis had been gone for over an hour.
“He said he would be back momentarily,” she mumbled, frowning at the clock to ensure her eyes were not playing tricks.
Has something happened to him? She moved to the door that had been left ajar and listened through the crack for any telling sounds.
All was silent. What if he has injured himself in the kitchens, and there is no one around to help?
What if he is unconscious and cannot call for help… and all because I agreed to some soup?
The dreadful possibility took her out of the drawing room door in an instant, throwing aside the promise she had made not to leave.
Surely, in the case of the butler being in some difficulty or danger, she could be forgiven for breaking the rule.
What else was she supposed to do when he had assured her that he would be back soon and had not returned?
The drawing room was tucked away down an unlit corridor, which led her to assume it was not the main drawing room but a secondary, barely used one. Keeping her hand to the wall to orient herself, she advanced upon the faint glow of the entrance hall.
There, in the low glow of a sparsely populated chandelier, a blank-eyed stag stared at her judgmentally from the far side of the foyer, as did the grim-faced old men in the portraits that did anything but brighten up the place.
To her right, two stone staircases curved out of sight, presumably leading to opposite wings.
“Now, if I were a castle kitchen, where would I be?” she whispered, the dead silence of the castle too oppressive to bear.
Across from her gaped the mouth of another hallway, a few lanterns hanging off hooks at lengthy intervals. But they were alight, where the rest of the castle—what she could see of it, anyway—was not. To her mind, that meant she was on the right path.
She tiptoed to that eerie archway and crossed the threshold, feeling a strange sensation of no turning back now. The same feeling that had pushed her onward through the tunnel of leaning oaks instead of immediately racing back to the broken carriage, the moment her lantern had shattered.
Removing a lantern from the wall, she held it out in front of her and, trying to remember to breathe, she proceeded into the gloom.
“Mr. Jarvis?” she whispered as she went, pausing at each door that jumped out of the darkness between lanterns. “Mr. Jarvis, are you there? Did you fall asleep? Are you hurt?”
She repeated the same words over and over as the hallway stretched endlessly ahead of her, until she began to wonder if she had misunderstood the way a castle was designed.
She was assuming it was the same as a manor, each door belonging to a room, but what if there were more hallways and passages behind those doors?
Countless passageways? A whole labyrinth that she could not hope to explore without getting lost?
To test her theory, she stopped at the next door she came to, hand shaking a little as she grabbed the iron ring that served as a handle. She turned it, wincing as the grate of hinges sent a piercing shriek down the hallway.
Her heart almost stopped as a matching reply echoed back, another door opening somewhere along the corridor.
She turned and held up her lantern, praying it would be Mr. Jarvis.
He will understand if I explain that I was afraid for his welfare.
“Who are you?” a booming voice thundered toward her, so deep it seemed to rattle the walls; not at all the shy, anxious, but decidedly friendly voice of the butler. No, this was a growling accusation. “And what are you doing in my home?”
She held her breath as a shadow moved down the hallway, so imposing in height and breadth that it blotted out the glow of each lantern it passed. He passed.
The door in front of her, open slightly, seemed to plead with her to dart into the safety of whatever lay beyond. Slam the door behind her and lock it before this unknown man could reach her.
But her hand was immobile on the handle, her feet rooted to the flagstones, her attention incapable of drawing away from the approaching figure.
She had always assumed that if she were ever in terrible danger, she would be the sort of woman who ran for her life, but it appeared she was mistaken; she was the rabbit, frozen stiff in fright, while the poacher fired their rifle.
With each lantern he passed, she caught flashes of the man’s face: a glinting, dark-eyed glare; the shine of jagged scars; the twist of a snarling mouth; the face of a devil who had come to punish her for her sins.
Her heart pounded wildly, every breath a struggle as she willed herself to do something to save her own skin. Whoever this man was, he was not pleased to see her, and as no one but the driver knew where she was, it was not the most comfortable situation she had ever been in.
The man stopped in the apricot glow of her lantern, and the glimpses she had seen of him pieced together to reveal the whole picture.
Oh… oh my…
He might have been the most handsome gentleman she had ever seen.
His eyes were not black at all, but the kind of blue that made her think of summer dusk: a warm color, despite the frosty expression upon his face.
His hair, however, was crow-black and far shorter than the fashion of society’s gentlemen: close-cropped at the sides and almost tufty on top.
A severe, warrior-like cut for a severe and warrior-like man, if the muscular bulk of his body was any indication of his ability to fight.
Full lips with a deep bow might have appeared feminine on another man, but on him, they were the most captivating, handsome lips she had ever seen. So much so that she could ignore, for a moment, that they were curled in a sneer of displeasure.
The man was blessed with the sort of bone structure and strong physique that would have inspired an entire collection of sculptures that hordes of society women would have flocked to in the name of admiring art.
Not the sculptures on public display, either, but the ones tucked away in private galleries, so as not to make the ladies faint at the shocking sight of the male form, stripped bare.
I imagine it is as impressive a sight beneath those clothes as it is with them on, her wayward mind mused, the thought hastily pushed out of her head before she started blushing.
She forced herself to keep her eyes up, the glow of the lantern highlighting sharp cheekbones and a square jaw shadowed with stubble, his strong features matching the strength of that most distracting physique.
Yes, he would certainly have been the most handsome man she had ever seen, outside of her imagination, had it not been for the scars that seemed to want to mar all of that divine artistry.
Although she thought, even those did not truly detract from his beauty; it was the scowl, the scorching rage in those blue eyes, the look as if he wanted to do her harm, that took away from his handsomeness.
“I was… searching for the butler,” she managed to croak. “I thought he might be hurt.”
The man took a step closer, the flame of the lantern reflecting in his eyes like two infernal bonfires, like he had stepped out of hell itself. A beautiful demon, come to deliver swift and fiery punishment.
“You did not answer my question,” he growled. “What are you doing in my home?”
A strong, rough hand curled around her wrist, and she knew, without doubt, that her time in the warmth had come to an end. Indeed, he did not even need to introduce himself, for she knew the villain in a story when they appeared: this was the Duke of Norwood.
Perhaps, it was not ghosts she should have been warned about.