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“Being the heir was never an aspiration of mine. I was quite content with being ignored.”
“Why do you resist marriage?” She looked up at him, a keen-eyed stare that seemed to see into his soul. “Is it because of your father?”
After a moment he said softly, “Perhaps it’s best if we don’t discuss my reasons. I’m not at all certain you’ll want to hear them.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” She lay the book on the table and rose to stand beside him; a gentle scent of lavender enveloped him as she placed her palm on his jaw in a light caress. “You’ll do what is right, Colter. You always have. I trust you to respect my wishes.”
It was just the sort of comment designed to make him feel like an utter bastard.
Colter left for the country the following day, and as soon as the city was only a distant haze behind him, the chains of civilization seemed to fall away. With London to the north, he took the south road through Rochester at a fast clip.
Harmony Hill in Kent was by turns an inhospitable and welcoming terrain, land where the conqueror had landed his Norman troops eight hundred years before and slaughtered the Saxon king and his army, but
where sheep now grazed peacefully on rolling slopes empty of any strife.
Chalky crags and caves lined the seaside of the Kent estate, bounded by the crashing waves of the straits that separated France and England. Less than sixty miles from London, it might as well have been in France for all the privacy it gave him—a welcome refuge.
Solitude there had eased him after his return from His Royal Majesty’s service, the fierce battles against Napoleon a grim preparation for the personal conflicts he found at home—Anthony dead, his grandfather dead, an uncle dead, all succumbing to the effects of a fever first contracted in God only knew what hellhole.
Just beyond the River Buckland, and nestled in a small dip in the hills, the house rose like a shimmering jewel in a green velvet nest as he topped the nearest ridge and paused. His mount snorted restlessly, sensing an end to the journey, hooves pawing at the damp ground.
Colter nudged the horse forward and down the slope. He was met in the stable yard by the head groom, an old man who had been at Harmony Hill his entire life.
Ancient yews shaded the stable yard, dappled light on stone. “All is in readiness, my lord,” Smythe reported as he reached for the horse’s reins. “I’ve got a nice stall ready for this beauty and he knows it.”
The bay nudged the old man as if in greeting, ears swiveled forward as nickers came from the row of stables that lined the cobbled yard.
“I think he hears old friends calling him,” Colter said as he relinquished the reins. “Tomorrow he’ll have even more company. Guests are arriving. Make necessary arrangements to stable their cattle.”
“Aye, my lord. It will be done.”
Entering the house was the closest thing he knew to peace. It was much smaller than even his London town house, a simple half-timbered structure of twenty-four rooms built around a small, cozy courtyard. Generations ago a moat had surrounded the house, but time and years of peace had ended the need for it. Now flowers and shrubs shouldered close to stone walls.
Beyond the house lay gardens with wheels of herbs and raised beds of vegetables. Towering sycamores and elms thrust mottled branches skyward, fringing the curved drive that led from the gatehouse. Stretching as far as the eye could see, grassy fields stitched with hedgerows and stone fences provided ample pasture for sheep.
Colter paused on the front step to gaze out across the land a distant ancestor had been granted in gratitude for service to a long dead king. Men were born and died, but the land would always be here. It was a form of immortality.
The front door opened, and he turned as another old retainer greeted him.
“Welcome home, my lord.”
“Thank you, Renfroe.” Colter moved past the aged butler into the entrance hall. Newly polished dark wood gleamed with dull light, and there was the fresh smell of wax in the air. “I see Mistress Barbara has been busy.”
“Yes, my lord. It is first Monday, her day to polish all the furniture and oil the wainscoting. May I take your hat, sir?”
As he put it into his hands and began to strip off his gloves, Colter asked, “Where is James?”
“In the village, sir. Will you be needing him for the week, or is your city valet to arrive?”
A faint note of disdain crept into Renfroe’s tone. It was the same here as elsewhere, the distinction between classes. Beaton was not a country man, as was James, who had been born on the estate. Renfroe was James’s uncle by marriage and considered family.
“Beaton will arrive tomorrow with the other guests. You did receive my message?”
“Yes, my lord. James is in the village engaging those people we usually use for such occasions. I trust that meets with your approval.” Renfroe followed Colter across the entrance hall and into the small study. “I understand there will be six guests arriving.”
“With their staff.” Colter paused. “One of the guests, Miss St. Clair, is to be given the green room.”
“I understand, sir.”
