Five
THE CRISP MORNING air of Gladstone usually soothed Christopher’s nerves, even though clouds were gathering, promising rain. But today, the knot of anxiety didn’t want to loosen. Not when he was waiting for his guests. Amelia, Julia, and Mrs Armstrong should arrive any moment. He’d sent his best coach and footman to fetch them from the station. There wasn’t much he could do but wait.
He paced along the gravel path that winded across the garden. A soft rain dampened the hedgerows and the white roses. The flowers grew at the base of the marble statutes his mother had placed close to the orangery and the fountain, but their spiky stems were crawling up the legs of a nymph. Not to mention the grass and stinging nettles sneaking through the flowerbeds and the birdbath fountains. The whole picture looked like a dishevelled old man, who didn’t bother to change clothes.
Probably dismissing the gardener weeks ago hadn’t been a brilliant idea. But back then, he hadn’t had a clue he would’ve invited three women he barely knew in his house. How had things changed so quickly in his life?
Christopher touched a pink petal covered in glittering dew and wondered if Amelia’s lips would feel so soft under his fingers. If she’d ever let him touch her, that is. And why was he thinking of her?
Grimacing at the pain in his leg, he spun and headed towards the front yard from where he could keep an eye on the road. The white marble of the fountain had turned green and dull with time. A four-foot tall statute of Neptune surrounded by adoring mermaids towered in the middle where sprays of water cascaded over the god of the sea’s shoulders and the mermaids’ hair. Moss and humidity stains covered their perfect bodies where rain and wind had battered the marble.
A pang of guilt stabbed his heart. His mother would be horrified by the state of the garden and especially of Neptune’s statue. Next to the fountain, Father had proposed and given her first kiss. It’d always been a special place for them. Theirs had been true love, not an arranged marriage. And they’d died together, in a way. Father had died of a heart attack, and Mother, stricken with grief, had followed him to the grave.
Until death do us part.
But he wagered not even death could part his parents.
“Sorry, Mama,” he whispered, brushing off a few dead leaves from the edge of the basin.
Weeds choked the daffodils and the petunias that had been Mama’s pride. Dark patches dotted the walls of the mansions, and the conservatory had more dead plants than a barren land.
Maybe Benedict was right. Christopher had let himself go, and even the house seemed prey of a disease that sprouted from the ground and crawled up around it.
The rattling of a carriage made him gaze up. His brougham was riding along the driveway, and his heart gave a nervous squeeze. It was time to face his guests.
Limping on the slippery cobbles, he headed towards the porch. Years spent in military barracks, surrounded by hardened soldiers, had made him forget the etiquette. He wasn’t sure it was appropriate for the lord of a mansion to wait in the doorway for his guests. Not that he cared to impress them, but he didn’t want to appear weak, too. His leg wound and his scar gave enough reasons to pity him.
Yes, probably Mama would have a thing or two to say about him waiting like an eager lad on the porch. Before the brougham arrived, he rounded the corner and stopped next to an oak. Dammit, it was too late to enter from the front door, and to walk to the rear door, he would have to pass in front of the brougham. The best thing was to wait under the oak. The long and bent tree branches formed a protective curtain from prying eyes.
The brougham rolled to a halt. His footman seemingly appeared out of nowhere and unfolded the steps for the ladies.
A small foot clad in a pale-yellow slipper appeared, then a fluffy mauve skirt.
Amelia raised a hand to her eyes against the sunlight and glanced up at the mansion. “It’s impressive.”
Julia hopped down the steps and arched a brow. “The state of neglect of this estate is impressive. I’ve seen ancient Greek temples in Italy in better conditions.”
Touché. Christopher gnashed his teeth.
A woman with grey-striped hair at her temple emerged from the carriage. She had to be Mrs Armstrong. The strict black she was wearing meant she’d lost her husband. Her nose scrunched when she regarded the garden. “Good gracious. I knew Lord Lyons was a mutilated hermit, but I had no idea he lived in filth. The house seems abandoned.”
The words were nothing new. Still, it didn’t mean he liked them.
Amelia stiffened, her chest out. Even from where he was observing . . . well, spying the scene, the red blossoming in her cheeks stood out.
“I think the house simply needs some attention to be restored to its former glory,” she said in a clear and high tone. “And I find Lord Lyons quite handsome.”
Did she now? Christopher leaned against the tree trunk, a stupid smile tugging at his lips. Maybe she’d said it only to spite Mrs Armstrong, but he couldn’t deny the warmth spreading in his chest.
The gasp from Mrs Armstrong was partially covered by the noise of the footman and the driver dropping off the luggage.
“A true lady shouldn’t express her impressions upon a gentleman so easily, Miss Amelia.” Mrs Armstrong tightened her black shawl around her shoulders. “I’d suggest you be more careful about what you say.”
Grinning, Christopher withdrew towards the back of the garden until the ladies were inside. He’d heard enough and—
“Hellfire, are you smiling?” Benedict’s voice sounded half-alarmed, half-amused. He stood in front of Christopher in his dark riding attire, mouth hanging open. “What happened? I thought you forgot how to smile.”
“I do smile. You aren’t around when I do.”
