Chapter 2 #3
“That gentleman with the mastiffs is my great-great-grandfather, the fifth Earl,” Lucien said, following her gaze. “He bred the first wolfhounds at Blackfen, importing them from Ireland at considerable expense. The legend claims he could command them with a look.”
“A useful skill,” Miss Hale observed. “I did notice your hounds relayed a not dissimilar intuition.”
Her reply coaxed another unexpected smile from him.
They continued down a long gallery where suits of armor stood like silent sentinels between tapestries depicting hunting scenes.
Miss Hale paused before one that showed a stag at bay, surrounded by hounds while a nobleman on horseback raised a spear.
“My ancestors were passionate hunters. They guarded these lands,” Lucien said, his voice deepening with the familiar warmth of pride that always rose when he spoke of Northwood heritage, something his father had cultivated in him since boyhood.
“The Blackfen Woods were once famous for their game. Though hunting is less fashionable now.”
She nodded, seemingly lost in contemplation of the tapestry. The corridor was narrow here, forcing them to stand close together. Lucien found himself acutely conscious of her breathing, the slight rise and fall of her shoulders beneath her damp cloak.
He grew aware of her proximity as she leaned closer to examine the faded threads.
The wonderful scent of her hair reached him, faintly herbal beneath the lingering traces of snow and woodsmoke.
The intoxicating fragrance slipped through him like a forbidden draught, loosening a tightness behind his ribs.
“The east wing is warmer,” he said abruptly, guiding her forward. “My mother prefers it in winter. The morning sun reaches her apartments, and the chimney draws better than in the older sections.”
As they rounded the corner into the newer portion of the house, they encountered Mrs. Harrow emerging from a doorway.
The housekeeper’s dark hair was coiled neatly beneath a simple linen cap, not a strand out of place.
Her face bore the quiet lines of her early thirties, etched more by responsibility than hardship.
She wore a modest gown of dark gray wool, the clean white fichu at her neck pinned with a small silver brooch.
A ring of keys hung at her waist, clinking softly as she moved with practiced efficiency.
“My lord. I see our new companion has arrived.” Her voice was calm as she curtsied to Miss Hale, her assessing gaze taking in the young woman’s travel-worn appearance.
“I’ve prepared a bedchamber close to her ladyship’s apartments, and a jug of hot water is being brought up for washing up after introductions are made. ”
“Thank you, Mrs. Harrow.” Lucien turned to Miss Hale, reluctantly releasing her hand from his arm. “I shall leave you in Mrs. Harrow’s capable care. She will show you to your rooms and attend to your needs. If you would like, you have the opportunity to refresh yourself before meeting my mother.”
Miss Hale dipped into a graceful curtsy. “Thank you for your kindness, my lord.”
Lucien inclined his head, suddenly eager to escape. The corridor felt too warm, the air too close. The young woman’s presence stirred yearnings he had not permitted himself to indulge in a long time.
“Come along then, Miss Hale,” Mrs. Harrow said, her tone brisk but not unkind. “You must be half-frozen from that dreadful journey. We shall soon have you warmed and settled.”
Lucien watched as the housekeeper led Miss Hale away, noticing how the young woman glanced back at him over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. The sight of her retreating figure stirred an unwelcome protectiveness in his chest.
He turned on his heel, whistling softly for his hounds. The three great beasts materialized from the shadows where they had waited patiently, falling into step beside him as he strode toward his study.
It would be best, he decided, to maintain a formal distance from Miss Hale. She was here to companion his mother, not to disturb the careful isolation he had cultivated. What he needed was solitude, particularly now as the moon waxed toward fullness.
Yet as Braccus pressed his grizzled head against Lucien’s hand, seeking affection, he found himself remembering the spark of humor in Miss Hale’s wit, the courage with which she had faced her fear of his hounds.
He felt the stir of that familiar, reckless ache he had spent years denying. But he had made a vow, and he would not permit himself to be seduced by hope, no matter how pretty its disguise.
Perhaps having her at Blackfen would bring some light to his mother’s fading days. But, resolving to avoid the young woman’s company whenever possible, Lucien schooled his features to indifference.
He would keep his distance and ration his words. He would be wise to guard himself against Miss Hale’s allure. The risk was too great, the price too dear.
He decided, then and there, that Miss Verity Hale would remain to him what she was hired for. An attendant, a fixture, a gentle presence for his mother and nothing more.