Chapter Seventeen
The rain haddiminished to a light drizzle by the time Harry’s coach rumbled in at the substantial gates of Thornby Grange. Glancing out of the window in curiosity, Harry saw it was a rather forbidding looking house made of dark brick that not even the generous amount of lights set around its front door could render inviting.
Joe Miller brought the horses to a standstill on the gravel in front of the door and Harry felt the coach rock as young Archie jumped off the back to hurry round to let the step down and open the doors.
A little awkwardly, as he’d elected to travel without the support of his cane, Harry descended from the coach and then turned back to assist his ladies down. The moment Miranda set her hand in his, a sizzle of excitement ran up his arm and diffused throughout his body, leaving him almost breathless. Thank goodness she appeared not to have noticed. No such thing happened when it was Lissy’s turn to descend.
Determined to ignore the way his body was behaving, Harry offered his arm to Miranda as the Millers dealt with the coach, and, to his cautious delight, she slipped her hand into its crook. Where it felt as though it was meant to be, burning through the cloth of his coat and shirt like a brand on his skin. He drew in a deep, steadying breath. He had to stop this or she was going to notice.
With Lissy following behind, where a daughter should be, theynegotiated the wide stone steps up to the open front door where a solemn-faced footman was awaiting them.
Inside, Thornby Grange was almost as forbidding as it had looked from the outside. Dark oak panelling covered every wall, decorated here and there with somber portraits of gloomy Horncastle ancestors, many of whom sported the trademark ginger hair of the latest incumbent. In between the portraits hung weapons of many types from swords and spears to pikes and axes. Two full suits of armor stood at the foot of a staircase that rose into the deep shadows of the first floor. Not at all a welcoming house.
Sir Julian must have been lurking waiting for them, for no sooner had they stepped inside and the footman offered to take their cloaks and Harry’s hat, than he almost popped out of nowhere, a rather wild gleam in his pale eyes.
“Sir Henry, I’m so pleased you could come,” he fairly gushed in a surprising demonstration of bonhomie. “And Lady Madeley, you look utterly charming. That dress shows off your lovely eyes so well. And Miss Madeley.”
He was clearly not in the least bit interested by Melissa, which Harry had to think could only be a good thing. He might not be interested in the young lady himself, but she was such a pretty girl it would not have surprised him in the least if their rather lecherous-seeming host didn’t have an eye for her as well as her mother.
Harry made a bow. “Sir Julian.” But the man was also not interested in him. His entire demeanor seemed centered on Miranda.
“Do come into the drawing room and meet my other guests,” Sir Julian said, to Miranda rather than either Harry or Melissa. He put a hand at the small of Miranda’s back the better to usher her inside.
Harry glanced at Melissa, who wrinkled her nose at him as though disgusted, and followed Sir Julian into the drawing room.
It was not a large party. Thank goodness. He’d been rather worried that he’d be on display to strangers from far and wide, but, as faras he could see, there were only two couples awaiting them. Two couples with several offspring in attendance.
“Let me introduce you, Sir Henry,” Sir Julian said, with a smile that could only have been described as oily. “Our local magistrate and an ex-military man, like yourself, Colonel Letwin-Jones. Mrs. Letwin-Jones and their charming daughter, Miss Emmeline Letwin-Jones.”
Colonel Letwin-Jones was almost a caricature of what most people might think an ex-army officer should look like. Large, portly and balding, he sported side-whiskers so abundant he appeared as if his hair had migrated south from the top of his head. His wife, by contrast, was a thin stick of a woman with a hopeful, and possibly greedy, expression in her brown eyes.
The reason for this became obvious within seconds. Miss Letwin-Jones was very like her mother in appearance, being thin, with soft brown hair, wide brown eyes and a rather hunted expression. This last was possibly due to the acquisitive gleam in her mother’s eyes as she beheld an eligible man within easy reach.
Mrs. Letwin-Jones smiled sweetly at Harry as she propelled her daughter towards him as though aiming a howitzer at its target. “My daughter is most accomplished, Sir Henry, and fluent in several languages. Perhaps after dinner you might like to hear her play the piano forte? People have been known to cry on hearing her rendition ofThe Soldier’s Adieu.”
Miss Letwin-Jones blushed a pretty shade of pink and examined her own feet. In her way, she was a pretty girl, but girl she was, and only a pale shadow when compared to Miranda.
Nevertheless, Harry bowed to her. “I should be honored to hear you play, Miss Letwin-Jones.” And Sir Julian swung him away towards the second party.
“Mr. and Mrs. Skeffington from Naseby, their son and heir, Robert, and their daughter Miss Beatrice Skeffington.”
Harry bowed to them all, wishing even more fervently that hehadn’t accepted this invitation. It took absolutely no perception to work out that these two couples had brought their daughters to parade in front of someone they saw as a very eligible bachelor. This possibility had never occurred to him when he’d accepted the invitation.
Miss Beatrice Skeffington was, like Miss Letwin-Jones, a passably pretty young lady, although she had about her mouth a rather pinched look that spoke of discontent. However, she smiled brightly at Harry, no doubt as she’d been instructed to do, and bobbed a neat curtsy.
As with the Letwin-Joneses, the wife took the lead. “I gather you fought at Waterloo,” she began. “My daughter has evinced such an interest in following the war it will be most interesting for her to talk to someone who was there.”
Feeling hemmed in as Miss Letwin-Jones and her mother also approached, Harry glanced over his shoulder, but Miranda had been buttonholed by Sir Julian, and Melissa by Robert Skeffington. He was all alone with a group of predators far more skilled in social situations than he was.
“You cannot imaginewhat a pleasure it is for me to once again be able to welcome you into my home,” Sir Julian said to Miranda, still with one hand on her back as he steered her away from his other guests who seemed to have surrounded Harry like vultures on a freshly killed corpse.
“Thank you,” was all she could think of to say in reply. But it was enough. She didn’t want to encourage Sir Julian.
He was smartly dressed in immaculate evening wear, his ample stomach giving the appearance of mechanical controls having been installed. The horrid image of what that stomach might look like naked leapt unbidden into Miranda’s head and made her shiver.
“Are you a little chilly, Miranda?” he asked, all concern. “Do come and stand closer to the fire.”
“I am quite warm enough, thank you,” Miranda said, itching to gethim to remove his hand which was damp and far too hot. Thank goodness for stays which prevented him from getting any closer to her actual skin.
