Apprehension, regret, tenderness, hope, melancholy, shame—all made their appearance. But despite the considerable pain attending each, there was yet another feeling which stood above the rest. One that had plagued him without cease—in fact, with greater increase—during the whole course of his ride.
Namely, hunger.
It was past three o’clock, and he had yet to eat a single bite of food today.
He was ravenous.
Having left Rome in early December, he’d arrived back in England only four days ago. When he finally made it to Twineham yesterday, he’d been dismayed to realize his most recent letter to his steward must have gone astray.
Instead of finding Twineham Park open and ready to receive him, he’d found it entirely deserted excepting a bewildered butler and a handful of under-servants. The rest of the staff were loaned out—a most prudent measure while the duke and his mother had been away from home all the past year, but not nearly so prudent when the duke arrived home to un-aired chambers, un-made beds, and nary a kitchen hand in sight.
No matter, easygoing Jonathan had declared. He would sup at the village inn and break his fast there the next morning, as well. By then it would be time to set off for Greystone.
But one thing or another had kept him busy all morning, until he found himself obliged to skip breakfast and begin his journey if he meant (and he very much did mean) to arrive on time.
Three hours later, he severely mourned that decision.
But through the pangs of his stomach, he was not entirely oblivious to those of his spirit. It was no small thing, returning to this place.
Ah, here was the old quarry, on a rise beside the castle. He and Claire had walked out that way one morning early in their courtship. He remembered how gamely she’d climbed these terraces, eager to show him the view. How she’d slipped on a mossy stone and he’d caught her round the waist—the first time they’d touched.
And here was the bench encircling one of the great old trees dotting the lawn. That was where he’d proposed, on a warm evening in late summer, as they’d sat watching the sun dip below the horizon.
And here, after crossing the drawbridge and passing beneath the barbican gate, was the courtyard with its circular carriage sweep. This was the last place he’d glimpsed Claire, on a cold, gray day very like the present one. He could still picture her just as she’d looked then, standing in the middle of the sweep, watching him drive away from her.
Jonathan blinked the image from his eyes as his chaise came to a halt. A pack of Greystone servants descended at once, opening his door, retrieving his luggage, directing his team toward the stables. The sober and wiry old butler, Mr. Evans, led him into the saloon, where the family had assembled to greet their guests.
A middling-sized room with with a bank of mullioned windows, the saloon was decked out in laurel garlands and silvered candles. Though a roaring Christmas fire had drawn most everybody to the hearth, Jonathan’s fancy was caught by something else: the sideboard bearing a late luncheon.
His stomach rumbled.
“Rathborne, you made it.” With a hearty clap on the back, Noah Chase called Jonathan’s attention from the luncheon. “Good man! I feared you were lost in some Roman labyrinth.”
Jonathan chuckled. “The Labyrinth was Greek.”
“Whichever.”
As they shook hands, Jonathan was surprised to find just how glad he felt to see his friend. It struck him only now that the past year had been far and away the most solitary of his life. And after spending many months far from home among strangers and servants, then defying rough seas and punishing winter roads to return, he’d arrived only to find his house dark, empty, and devoid of comforts.
But here at Greystone, with a great fire in the hearth and a warm welcome from an old friend, he felt at last that he was home.
Unfortunately, such warm feelings lasted only till the next step in the receiving line. “Your grace,” Elizabeth said frostily, her green eyes throwing icicles. “Happy Christmas.”
“Happy Christmas, Lady Elizabeth.” After a very proper bow, Jonathan judged it best to move along in all haste.
But there the line seemed to end.
Where was Claire?
A quick glance around answered his question, for a familiar figure stood nearest to the fire. He couldn’t see her face, but he would recognize her form anywhere. Willowy and regal, clothed in lavender poplin to match her unusual eyes, every glossy dark curl in its place…and enjoying the company of another man.
Though he and Claire appeared to be on intimate terms, the man was a stranger to Jonathan. He looked several years younger with fair hair, mild manners, and a boyishly handsome face. When he said something that made Claire laugh, Jonathan ground his teeth.
It wasn’t until her second show of amusement that he noticed her laugh was different. It had always been boisterous and unbridled, almost to the point of indecorum, had she not possessed the charm to carry it off.
But now she laughed with restraint, with modesty. With a demure hand hiding her mouth.
Her posture, too, seemed different: upright and conscientious where it used to be elegant and natural. Her manner was all civility, no color. No spark. The change in her was striking—just as Noah had reported in his letter.
