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The horses trotted around a corner, and the house rose before them. It was a surprise—not a Palladian mansion but an older hall that sprawled in all directions, two stories high in a composite style that was neither this nor that. Constructed primarily from honey-colored sandstone with a sound slate roof, the central block faced an oval forecourt, while the wings extending to both sides rambled into leafy gardens. Roses climbed walls and wreathed around balconies in several locations.
Most windows sported shutters, although none were closed, and warm lamplight spilled through the gleaming ground-floor windows as Frederick halted the curricle before the shallow front steps that led up to a wide porch and a pair of arched oak doors.
Wide-eyed, Stacie stared, drinking in all she could see. All she could feel. The place was old enough to have developed an aura—one of peace and tranquility.
Frederick turned to her; she felt his gaze roam her face, then from the corner of her eye, she saw his features ease, and his lips curved, and he said, “Welcome to Brampton Hall, my lady.”
She drew her eyes from the house and met his gaze. “It’s lovely.”
His smile deepened. “I’m glad you approve.”
A groom had come running to take the reins; the lad bobbed and beamed at Stacie, and she smiled and nodded in reply. Frederick descended, rounded the curricle, and handed her down, and with her arm in his, she walked up the steps and across the porch.
The double doors were pulled open before they reached them. Lamplight filled the high-ceilinged hall, illuminating the staff drawn up in two rows forming a path to the bottom of the stairs.
She didn’t have time to be nervous before Frederick was introducing her to the butler, Hughes, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Hughes. To Stacie, the couple seemed a reflection of the house—eminently capable yet comfortable. Hughes was of average height and solid girth and exuded an air of competence, while Mrs. Hughes was a touch shorter—not much taller than Stacie—with apple cheeks, a round, cushiony figure, and steel-gray hair drawn back in a bun.
As Frederick had intimated, the Hugheses appeared very happy to welcome Stacie and seemed genuinely delighted at the prospect of having her as their mistress. They accompanied her down the lines of staff, not just introducing each member but giving her a snippet of information as to that member’s duties and also how long they’d been connected with the estate; Stacie noted that, for many, the latter was all of their lives.
Eventually, they reached the stairs, and Frederick reclaimed her hand, led her up two steps, then turned and addressed the staff, thanking them for their congratulations and felicitations.
Stacie gripped his hand and, smiling on the small crowd, added, “Thank you for your welcome.” She let her gaze sweep the hall, with the family’s richly colored baronial pennants and shields decorating the walls. “This is a lovely house, and I can already tell I’m going to enjoy living here. I look forward to working with you in the days, months, and years to come.”
Faces lit, and a cheer went up.
Smiling still, she let Frederick tow her on up the stairs.
When they stepped into the gallery, he looked at her. “Did you mean that? That you like the place and think you’ll enjoy living here?”
“Yes.” As he drew her along, she swung the hand she held and looked at the portraits and pictures and through the long windows they passed. “If you must know, I felt at home the instant I stepped over the threshold—it felt as if I was stepping into a community living inside an old oak tree that has sunk its roots deep into the soil and grown strong enough to weather anything that comes its way.” She paused, then added, “Some houses have an atmosphere so strong you can feel it. When I stepped into the hall…it felt as if the house embraced me.” She caught his eye and smiled self-deprecatingly. “Silly, I know, but there it is.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think that’s silly at all.” He met her eyes and returned her smile. “I prefer to live here for a reason.”
He’d led her down a long corridor. He stopped before the doors at its end, then glanced at her, a slight frown on his face. “That door”—he tipped his head at the door to their left—“leads to the marchioness’s apartments, but I honestly don’t know what state they’ll be in. I didn’t specifically tell the Hugheses to prepare those rooms, and of course, everything in there hails from my mother’s time.”
She drew in a suddenly tight breath. “Where are your rooms?”
He nodded to the double doors before them.
With a boldness that was entirely feigned, she stepped forward. “Let’s use those.”
Her maid, Kitty, was still on the road, following them down from London in a carriage, with Stacie’s trunks and boxes and Frederick’s valet for company. There was no lady’s maid to assist her to undress and no nightgown for her to don.
She doubted she would need either.
Frederick opened one of the double doors and ushered her into what was obviously his domain; the decor was a blend of golden browns that instantly brought his eyes to mind.
The large room spread across the end of the wing, with wide windows overlooking the lawns that led down to the lake. A huge four-poster bed, hung with brocades and satin in shades of gold and rich browns, dominated the left half of the room. The smaller windows flanking its head gave a view of the gardens on that side; in the last of the fading light, Stacie could just make out the pale blooms of roses bobbing on the canes of massive, old bushes.
The other half of the room contained a comfortable grouping of two armchairs and a table set before the fireplace, which was flanked by windows framing views of mature trees.
Nearer to hand, chests of drawers sat to either side of the main door, their tops strewn with an assortment of music sheets, loosely stacked, while across the room, beneath one end of the wide windows, sat a desk with several large books piled upon it.
Frederick shut the door. Stacie barely had time to catch her breath before his arm slid around her and he turned her to face him.
She looked up, into his eyes—eyes that, from the first, had truly seen her. Her gaze locked with his, and she felt warmth bloom, swell, and spread beneath her skin, not a blush but a more elemental heat.
He arched both brows at her, the faintly amused expression on his face contradicted by the intentness in his eyes. Then slowly, he drew her closer—and she went, setting her palms against his chest and letting him draw her fully against him as he bent his head.
