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“Then if you are ready, my lord?” Allegra said, setting down her cup and reaching for her cloak.
Torn by a divisive mix of eagerness to be alone with her and humiliation at the prospect of displaying his disintegrating home, Will said, only a touch of irony in his voice, “’Twill be my pleasure.”
It was a testament to how rattled Mrs. Randall had been by her unorthodox reception that she didn’t think to ask for a maid to serve as Allegra’s chaperone. That, or she figured the prospect of rotting floorboards and crumbling banisters would inhibit him from attempting to ravish her charge, Will thought acidly.
Silently he led Allegra from the warm parlor up a set of cold, narrow stairs to the first floor. “Behold the gate to my castle,” he said, waving toward the entry.
She gave him a slight smile, her dark eyes doubtless taking in every detail of the dust-dulled marble floor, the wide oaken entry door and scarred wooden stairs draped with cobwebs that drifted down from the mullioned ceiling like ghostly scarves.
Best get this over with quickly, he told himself. Gritting his teeth, he seized her elbow and steered her to the doorway of the front parlor, its furniture muffled under heavy cotton covers, then to the mausoleum of a library with its linen-shrouded shelves, then back to the dining room and two reception rooms beyond it, all three barren of furniture, their faded wall hangings streaked with water marks and darkened by mold.
Glad now for Mrs. Randall’s lapse in decorum, as he wasn’t sure he could stand exposing himself any further, he said brusquely, “Since we have no chaperone, Miss Antinori, I won’t suggest touring the rest of this floor or the bedchambers above—which for the most part are in the same condition as the rooms you’ve already seen.” Amazing, he thought, how much of a curb humiliation was to the appetite, for he’d been able to link “Miss Antinori” and “bedchamber” within the same sentence without the least stirring of lust. “We can exit to the garden here.”
Unable to bear looking at her face and seeing the distaste he knew must be reflected in her eyes, he took her arm again, escorting her outside and down the stairs from the back parlor toward the overgrown remains of his mother’s flower garden. Allegra continued to walk silently beside him, doubtless too appalled by his ruin of a home to speak.
By now his chest hurt and he was breathing as hard as if he’d run a race. He’d never imagined it would be this painful to so baldly expose his poverty. He was surprised Allegra hadn’t already drawn away from him in revulsion, begging to return to Mrs. Randall and the carriage that would transport her back to a household redolent of polished wood, shiny brass and pristine paint instead of mildew and rot.
Then she stopped, but instead of voicing a request to leave immediately, she ran her fingers through the silver-green needles of an overgrown rosemary bush in the garden bed beside them. “How clever the design is, alternating green, silver and blue-leaved plants,” she observed. “The garden needs just a bit of care to set it to rights again.”
“It was lovely indeed in my mother’s day. Like everything else here, it’s fallen into ruin from neglect and lack of funds,” he replied, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.
“But the garden, like the manor house, is basically well-designed and sound. Oh, ’tis true the roof needs work, but once that is repaired, one need only strip off the ruined wall coverings in the back rooms and apply new paper or paint. With some cleaning and polishing, that oak and marble entryway would be splendid! The wood carving of the ceiling is both unique and beautiful. No wonder you love Brookwillow so much, my lord.”
Having braced himself to hear mockery in her voice, the sincerity of her tone surprised him so much he forgot his resolve not to look at her. Astoundingly, he found her expression to be as earnest as her voice.
“You find Brookwillow…beautiful?” he repeated incredulously.
“It certainly could be! If I were you, I should not be able to resist beginning its restoration immediately, even before I wed my heiress. There’s plenty of timber in the woods and surely a carpenter from the village could be hired for a modest fee, or perhaps the tenants might help out for a reduction in their rents. And the view from here! I can’t imagine how you ever make yourself go back to the fog and smoke of London.”
“But the house is practically a ruin!”
Chuckling, she took his arm and tugged him into motion. “You should have seen some of the lodgings we rented when traveling with Papa! Mama always said one mustn’t focus on how something appears at the moment, but rather imagine what it might become. And a restored Brookwillow could be magnificent.”
He stared down at her face, glowing with genuine admiration. She wasn’t just making polite conversation to salvage his pride. She really believed what she was saying.
His anger and humiliation faded away while something hard and cold deep within him melted in the warmth of her enthusiasm. He wanted to seize her in his arms and swing her around until she was dizzy.
Though he’d brought her here to reject him, now he wanted to hug her and never let go. It was all too easy to picture her here, her dark hair protected by a scarf, an apron over her gown, tackling every problem with her mother’s cheerful and pragmatic efficiency.
With difficulty he reined in his wildly exuberant imagining. She might make a wonderful mistress for Brookwillow, but he mustn’t forget that what she wanted was Lynton, not an invitation to help him restore his musty estate. Lest he lose sight of that fact, he’d better get her safely back to Mrs. Randall before he did something they would both regret.
To keep himself focused on that point, as he steered her out of the garden toward the kitchen, he said, “What did Lynton say about today’s expedition?”
“Mrs. Randall only told him we were going to see her friend. He doesn’t know yet that you escorted us.”
“Ah, so the fireworks will happen later.”
“I can’t predict whether he will be furious—or indifferent,” she said with a sigh. “Usually he seems to be more disapproving than jealous. But when I stay meekly at home, he doesn’t intervene at all. I’m beginning to think he truly doesn’t want me and never will.”
Though he didn’t really want to know, Will felt compelled to ask, “Do you love him?”
“I can scarcely remember a time when I didn’t adore him or seek his approval. He’s been my image of the parfait, gentil knight since I was a child. But except for keeping me from you, he seems more interested in foisting me on someone else than in claiming me himself.”
Though that was precisely Will’s impression, he couldn’t bear the sadness that clouded her eyes as she confessed that conclusion. Even as he damned himself as an idiot for encouraging her hopes of wedding someone else—a hope he believed vain, to boot—he replied, “Most likely he’s being noble, wanting to give you time to meet other gentlemen and make your own choice.”
She rallied herself to smile. “I suppose when we get home and he learns you escorted us, we shall see.”
“Even if Lynton doesn’t offer for you,” Will made himself point out, “I doubt you’ll lack for admirers, despite Lady Lynton’s efforts to discredit you.”
She shrugged. “I’ve not met any other gentleman who so excited my admiration that I would willingly endure life in the ton to marry him. Indeed, every day I understand better why my mother chose to leave society and follow the man she loved. If…if Rob cannot return my affection, I think I shall quit London and use my inheritance to purchase a small country estate.
“Like Brookwillow,” she continued, pirouetting as she gestured toward the house, barns, fields and woods. “I’ll plant a fine garden like this one. Raise chickens,” she added with a smile, skirting a squawking cluster of hens that had escaped the poultry yard to approach them, perhaps hopeful they carried a handful of grain.
“A lady who’d rather raise chickens than spend a ton husband’s blunt—amazing!” he said, admiration for her courage and independence resonating under the teasing tone. “I’m sure you’d make an excellent estate manager. Though I trust you’ll purchase one in better repair.”
She pressed his arm to halt him and turned her intent gaze up to his. “You mustn’t despair! In the very timbre of your voice when you speak of it, one can hear how much you love Brookwillow. Somehow you will find the means to restore it.”
She raised her hand and for a heart-stopping instant, Will thought she meant to stroke his face. Breath catching in his throat, he closed his eyes, every nerve alive with eagerness. Instead, he heard the small rustle of her gown as she let her hand fall back to her side.
He opened his eyes to see her curling her fingers into a fist—resisting the urge to touch him, perhaps?
“I think your lessons have progressed to the point where you may apply yourself more assiduously to finding that heiress,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “We should start back to the village before the dusk is upon us. Thank you for bringing me. I understand better now why you decided to endure the shallowness of the ton in order to find the means to return Brookwillow to its former glory.” Letting go his arm, she walked toward the kitchen entrance.
