Chapter Fourteen
There wasn’t a house in England to match the beauty of Rosecombe Park.
Not because of the size of the grounds, though they were extensive, but the air of understated elegance and lack of artifice.
The road inclined upward toward the main building, which dominated the landscape, stretching from left to right, the red-bricked facade three stories high.
What must be at least a hundred windows stared out across the land, all-seeing and ever watching.
It ought to have shrouded the surrounding countryside in an aura of oppression—and, perhaps, like most grand houses, it was most likely designed and constructed with that objective in mind.
But this particular building, though grander than any other structure for several miles, instead carried a nurturing air, like a benevolent parent standing guard over the world, harboring pride over everything in its vicinity, ready to nurture and inspire.
Not all grand houses carried such a welcoming air.
But then, not all grand houses had a mistress like the Duchess of Whitcombe, who, like the house that had been her home for two years, stood silently, serenely, in understated attire, waiting to greet her guests.
The carriage drew to a halt beside the main building, and a liveried footman approached and opened the door, placing a block on the ground. He bowed, then stepped back.
“Thank you, Charles,” the duchess said, approaching the carriage. “Colonel Reid, I’m so glad you’re come. I was beginning to fear you’d decided to remain in London.”
Stephen climbed out of the carriage and bowed. “Forgive me, Duchess, for I was delayed on the road.”
“And…your sister?” She peered into the carriage.
“Angela’s still in Town.”
“She’s well, I trust?”
He nodded. “Perfectly so, I thank you. But I decided that she should remain in London.”
“What a pity. I was looking forward to seeing her again.”
“I fear she’s not quite ready for Society. She…she acted a little inappropriately at Vauxhall Gardens.”
“And you took it upon yourself to punish her by leaving her behind? I think…” She paused then shook her head. “Forgive me, I spoke out of turn and do not have my husband here to temper my frankness.”
“I find much to admire in your frankness, Duchess,” he said, smiling. “You say that which others yearn to say, but lack the courage.”
She let out a laugh. “That’s exactly what Portia said to me this morning when I told Foxton that he was acting as if he were her father, not her brother.”
“Is Lady Portia here?” he said, aware of the tightness in his voice.
“Let me take you to her,” came the reply.
“She was most distracted earlier, and I feared for her success in the archery competition. Then, as soon as we heard the carriage, she confided in me that—” She broke off and shook her head.
“I’m doing it again, colonel. My poor husband despairs that I will never become presentable in Society. I never say the right thing.”
“That rather depends on one’s definition of the right thing,” Stephen said, fighting the urge to ask her to continue. What had Lady Portia confided to the duchess about? “I prefer honesty over propriety.”
“A quality common among your profession, I think. Soldiering requires a degree of honesty that most gentleman lack.” She turned to the footman. “Charles, would you see to the colonel’s belongings and show him to his room? We’ll delay the archery until he joins us.”
“Don’t wait on my account,” Stephen said.
Her lips curved in a smile. “Colonel, my guests—at least one guest—would never forgive me if we started without you, unless you wish to join my husband and the rest of the gentlemen? Charles can escort you to the shooting party. My husband has set aside a shotgun for you, a Westley Richards, which, he says, is one of the finest.”
At that moment, a crack echoed through the air, and Stephen flinched, fighting the image of the battlefield that rose in his mind.
Then a soft hand touched his arm.
“Or perhaps you might prefer to come to the aid of Earl Hardwick. He’s the only gentleman partaking in the archery, and I’m sure he’d appreciate a little male company.”
The garden came into view, a vast stretch of green, dotted with trees and shrubs, in a seemingly random formation, yet it gave an air of harmony. Birdsong filled the air, together with the rush of the wind through the trees. Then Stephen caught the sound of voices, punctuated by laughter.
As they turned a corner, Stephen caught sight of the party beside a vast lawn, at the far end of which, three targets had been set up, concentric circles of bright colors that shimmered in the sunlight.
Earl Hardwick and his countess sat apart from the others, who stood in various attitudes—some holding teacups, deep in conversation, such as Countess Thorpe and Countess Weston, and others inspecting an array of bows set out on a long table.
Stephen caught sight of Lady Trelawney picking up a bow, helped by Miss Whitcombe, before she set it down again.
Where was…she?
Then he spotted her. Standing at the end of the table, holding a bow, was Lady Portia.
Her hair, swept back in a simple, elegant style, shone in the sunlight, the color of a raven’s wing that glimmered with an almost blue sheen.
Her eyes, the color of sapphires, were creased into a frown of concentration as she stroked the carved wood of the bow.
Her dress, a simple gown of pale blue, was a more muted tone than the silks of the other ladies, but it emphasized the color of her eyes, rendering her the loveliest creature in the garden—nay, the loveliest thing he had ever seen.
He caught his breath and stared at her, drinking in the sight like a man dying in a desert. If only she would remain in that attitude so that he might feast on the sight all day.
Then a male voice called out, “Ah! Come to help me entertain the ladies, Reid?”
Lady Portia stiffened and looked up, and the frown disintegrated, morphing into a smile as her eyes sparkled with delight.
Earl Hardwick, who’d spoken, rose from his seat.
“I thought you might enjoy a little male company, Lord Hardwick,” their hostess said. “Ladies, we’ve another gentleman to entertain us.”
After taking Hardwick’s hand, Stephen greeted the ladies in turn, until he reached the lone figure at the end of the table.
“Lady Portia.”
She took his hand, and he lifted it to his lips.
“You greet me last,” she said, an edge to her voice, “even though you had to pass me by to speak to Olivia.”
He tempered the little devil in the back of his mind that let out a cheer. Most men would consider jealousy in a woman to be a mark of his virility. But she had no need to be jealous—how could she, when every other woman was nothing to him, compared to her?
“Consider how one eats a fine meal, Lady Portia,” he said.
“I myself prefer the savory course near the end. Once I have undertaken the duty of tasting the earlier courses—the roasted meats, soup, and some such—I can permit myself to linger on the final course in the knowledge that I am not obliged to move on to the next.”
She tilted her head to one side, and her eyes darkened. “Are you likening me to a cheese straw?”
“Lady Portia, I meant no offense. I—”
The corner of her mouth twitched into a smile. “I’m rather partial to a cheese straw.” She glanced about the garden. “I cannot see your sister.”
“Angela is still in London,” he said.
“I should have liked to see her again.”
“Even after her incivility toward you at Vauxhall Gardens?”
She smiled. “I’m not one to take offense at a little incivility from a young girl—and I’d never forgive myself if I were the reason for your not bringing her with you today.”
He took her hand. “Rest assured, you are blameless. I acted out of Angela’s benefit. I fear her impetuousness may lead her to harm. She’s not ready to attend a house party.”
“Then you must permit me to invite her to family supper once we’ve returned to Town,” she said.
“And Olivia also, of course. I should like to see Olivia gain a wider acquaintance with those who would not judge her for her birth. Her Season proved something of a disaster, and while Whitcombe seems convinced that she’ll make a successful match, I know it pains dear Eleanor to see Olivia being subjected to the spite of others.
” She nodded toward Miss Whitcombe, who was laughing with Lady Trelawney.
“Of course, there’s no such danger today—she’s in good company. ”
“The best company,” Stephen said, bowing over her hand.
“I feel a little sorry for poor Earl Hardwick,” she said.
“How so?”
“For the duration of the morning, he’s been the only gentleman among a company of women. A large group of ladies in a social gathering can be a fearsome prospect for a gentleman.”
“It depends on the ladies, surely?” he said. “Though I confess surprise at Hardwick’s deciding to forgo the shooting. He’s an excellent shot, or so I hear.”
“He’s also an overprotective husband. Lady Hardwick’s expecting their fourth child.
” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Given the history regarding Hardwick’s first wife, he is to be forgiven for wanting to remain by Beatrice’s side at all times.
He remained in her bedchamber through each confinement—can you credit that? ”
“Is that not the definition of love, for a man to act out of character?”
“I doubt Hardwick is acting out of character, but he is acting contrary to what’s expected by Society of a man of his rank.”
“Is that not the same thing, Lady Portia?”
“For most men in Society, perhaps, yes. But Hardwick possesses something that most men lack.”
“Which is?”
“The right sort of character. Whitcombe’s the same—the evidence of which is plain to see.”
“Evidence?”
She gestured toward their hostess, who was laughing at something Miss Whitcombe was saying, her emerald eyes sparkling in the sunlight.
“I don’t believe there’s a happier creature on the earth than dear Eleanor.”