Chapter 2
Chapter Two
He arrived back at Westwood Hall in a towering temper.
“Hawkins!” Bellowing for his valet, he tore off his necktie on the way to his room. “To me. At once.”
Hawkins came running.
“Help me out of these clothes. They’re full of dust. Not this one—” He waved away the puce-coloured waistcoat that Hawkins held up. “The grey-striped one.”
How on earth did he manage to get a blackberry stain on his sleeve when he’d never even touched those blasted blackberries? Had the stain somehow rubbed off on him when he’d caught that girl? But that had been before she’d eaten the berries.
He changed his clothes, slipped into a fresh coat, and retied his cravat. It took him five tries to get it right before he waved the discarded neckties away.
“Her ladyship is awaiting you, sir,” a footman said.
He gave a curt nod. “Tell Lady Regina I’ll be there anon.”
He tapped on the door gently and found his grandmother in bed.
“George,” she groaned from the depths of the canopied bed.
“I am Sebastian, Nana.” He pulled aside the heavy brocade curtains.
With a pang he saw his grandmother had shrunk to half the size since he’d last seen her. She’d always been a bundle of energy, bustling about the hall, snapping orders, yet also not being too good to do things for herself about the mansion when required.
Westwood Hall was a formidable, gothic-looking mansion that dated back to pre-Elizabethan times, with countless turrets, tall, narrow windows, stained glass, and dark, heavy wooden panelling everywhere.
He found it too draughty and intimidating, but his grandmother was fiercely proud of her home and loved nothing more than taking care of it.
“There you are, my Bastian. Come here.” She lifted a hand. Her skin was thin and paper-white, and she looked like a child, small and lost amidst the pillows.
He sat down by her bed, taking her hand in his.
“When did you arrive, my boy?”
“Earlier this morning, but you were sleeping, so I took a walk around the premises.” He made a mental note to address the topic of the ruins and that they were not safe, and that people trespassed there, particularly a saucy milkmaid, at a later point.
“You are my favourite, my boy, you know?” She peered up at him through rheumy eyes.
“Yes, you are. Because you are the youngest. The world is not kind to the youngest son. Philip inherited the Penderyn land and the title. It is a heavy burden. A heavy burden, indeed. John has entered the church and will be more than well off. My brother Athanasius will take care of him. George, my handsome George, is in the military. He is the beauty of the family, is he not? A military man. Already decorated, too. Viola told me.” Her chest heaved in a rough cough.
Bastian helped her take a sip of water. She leaned back against her pillows with a sigh.
“But you, my poor boy. You will have to make your own way in this world. They have sent you to Oxford, haven’t they? ”
He shifted in his chair. “Yes, Nana. I started late, but I just finished studying Classics and Mathematics.”
“And then what?”
That was the eternal question, wasn’t it? What to do with his life when he was destined neither to carry the title nor to enter the church. The military wasn’t for him, either, though he had considered enlisting before George had talked him out of it.
“It is enough that one of us goes through this hell,” he’d told him. “You wouldn’t survive a day out there.”
Sebastian had grudgingly agreed.
“Will you become a barrister?” Nana sighed and shook her head. “I would have wanted more for you.”
“Well, as far as I see it, it is that or starve,” he said dryly, though neither prospect inspired him greatly.
“I’ll have to make my living somehow. But, Nana—” He leaned forward.
“I may not have been fortunate enough regarding birth order, but Fortuna saw fit to give me a good head sitting upon these shoulders,” he tapped his finger against his temple.
“I have sharp wits up here, an even sharper tongue and a tremendous amount of ambition. Don’t you worry about me. I shall do well enough.”
“My Bastian. I have always said that you are the brains of the family. You’ll make it far. I have decided to give you Westwood Hall, you know. You’ll be my sole heir.”
He started. “It is an honour, but I’m determined to make it on my own in life.”
“And so you shall. I am proud of you, my boy.” She reached up to pat his cheek. “And where is George?”
“He is at the Peninsula, Nana,” Sebastian said patiently.
She shook her head. “That is not good. Not good at all. Call Viola.”
“But Nana. Lady Viola is in Inverness.”
“Nonsense. Call the maid now.” She pointed at the bell pull.
“If you insist.” With a repressed sigh, Bastian tugged at the bell pull. A maid appeared.
“Tell Lady Viola I want to see her,” she told the maid, and to his surprise, she curtsied.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He frowned at the maid. Was it advisable that the domestics played along to that extent?
As far as he knew, his brother George’s betrothed was currently in Inverness.
He’d never actually met her, but George’s letters were full of her.
They met at a ball while his regiment was stationed at a garrison in Scotland.
It had been love at first sight. She was the daughter of an earl, and George had made her appear to be a veritable paragon of virtue, grace and beauty.
“I want there to be a ball,” she was saying now. “A wedding ball for George and Viola. It will be the biggest, grandest event of the year. I have decided.”
“But Nana, George and Viola—”
“Yes. I must see them married first. It will be the happiest day of my life. Only then shall I be at peace enough to go. George? Come here, my boy.”
“I’m Bastian, Nana.”
She shook her head emphatically. “But George is standing right there.”
He stared, disconcerted, at the space at the far end of the bed. “Oh Nana. George is not here. But I am, and I am Bastian.”
“Bastian.” She nodded. “Bastian. Of course. Did you call Viola?”
“I told a maid to fetch her.”
“Good,” she mumbled. “Wake me when she is here.”
He watched with a frown as his grandmother closed her eyes, and she seemed to have fallen into a brief nap.
It was far worse than what he’d feared. He was used to her confusing him with George—she wasn’t the only one who did so—for he and his brother were only a year apart.
But he was worried about how to break it to her gently that George could not come to the ball she so desperately looked forward to.
A ball in Westwood Hall. He shook his head.
With his Nana in this state, it was folly.
George would not want it either. How could he talk her out of that notion?
Footfall by the door made him look up.
It was the maid, no doubt, bearing a tea tray. He glanced up swiftly and looked away again. Then his glance crashed back.
It was her. That girl!
That impossible creature. That… “Milkmaid?”
He could have bitten off his own tongue. What the deuce was she doing here?
The girl had changed her dress to one that was clean, but of an equally simple cut. She balanced a tray that appeared heavy, and on it she had piled a teapot, teacups, and a tiered tray filled with scones and biscuits.
Her eyes, focused on her task of carrying the tray, shot up and met his. They widened in surprise. “Heaven’s above, it’s the prepossessing prig.”
Then she stumbled over a fold in the carpet, and, seeing it all coming crashing down, he braced himself to get showered with biscuits, porcelain, scones, and blisteringly hot water.
But she caught herself at the last moment and staggered about the room in an odd dance, balancing the impossibly big tray.
“Don’t just sit there, help me,” she snapped, as the tray veered dangerously to the right.
He jumped up and grabbed the tray, steadying it. Except now they were in a power fight over who was to carry the blasted thing, pulling it back and forth, back and forth.
Then she let go. The water sloshed, the biscuits jumped, but he balanced it; he had it all under control. And slowly, ever so slowly, holding his breath, he lowered the tray onto the little table by his Nana’s bedside.
“That was a close call,” the milkmaid said.
He opened his mouth to dismiss her. He’d have to talk to the housekeeper later to discover what the deuce possessed her to hire one as her when his grandmother opened her eyes and saw her.
“Finally.”
The girl picked up Nana’s hand, stroked it gently and said, “I’m here, Nana. Your Viola is here.”
His jaw dropped. “Viola?”
That couldn’t be. Viola was an entirely different person altogether from what he had been told.
But this creature, this—this milkmaid, in a crumpled, plain cotton dress, with stains on her sleeve, and her wide, saucy mouth and untidy hair—surely, surely she couldn’t be the same Viola his brother always raved about.
His brother’s love.
His brother’s betrothed.
He dropped into the chair.
What, by all that was good and holy, had George been thinking…!
“My Lola. I am so glad you are here, my child. I wanted to discuss the arrangements with you.”
“What arrangements, Nana?” She fussed over her blanket.
“The ball.”
Viola’s hand paused. Her eyes flew up to meet his. For one fraction of a second, there seemed to pass something akin to understanding between them. It disconcerted him greatly.
“Ahh. Yes. Of course. The ball.” She cleared her throat. “You see, Nana. Things turned out to be somewhat complicated, and George won’t be able to come in time for the ball. Not if it’s tomorrow. It’s a bit sudden, don’t you agree?”
“But George has to come!” Nana’s voice sounded child-like and whiny. “Where is he?”
“He is on the Peninsula, Nana.”
“What on earth is he doing there?”
“Fighting Bonaparte, of course. Someone has to put him in his place and do you know what? George is just the right man to do it. If George can’t do it, then no one can.”
“But he has to come to the wedding. And to the ball.”