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She was looking forward to her swim in the lake.
The evening was balmy, the air seeming to caress her skin. She went through her garden gate, which led out onto a path that took her through the woods and down to the lake.
The small stretch of water bordered her land and that belonging to Crevitch Castle. As long as anyone could remember the castle had been owned by the Linholm family, descendants of Lord Radulf, who had been one of King William’s most trusted men. Legends about him abounded and as a child Juliet had enjoyed listening to them, especially the stories of Lady Lily, the beautiful Saxon bride who had won the Norman Radulf’s heart.
In what she now considered her more foolish moments, she had imagined herself standing in Lily’s shoes by Ash’s side at Crevitch Castle. She had never told him that however; she had been waiting for Ash to mention the possibility first. In short, to ask her to marry him. He never had, and it was her opinion—eight years on—that he had never intended to.
Juliet reached the lake and stood a moment, gazing over it with a smile. The water was quite shallow—about chest height at its deepest—and therefore warmed by the sun at this time of year. It wasn’t a natural part of the landscape but had been made over a hundred years ago by one of the Linholms. The fact that it had overstepped his property boundary hadn’t seemed to bother him, and as Juliet Montgomery’s ancestors hadn’t minded either, the lake had been used by both families.
These days, with the castle so empty and so quiet, it was only Juliet who came here, and she had begun to think of it as her very own sanctuary.
She had always loved to swim. At an early age she had been taught by a nanny who believed girls were more than capable of doing most of the things boys could do. She was soon dispatched by Juliet’s father as being a bad influence on his daughter, but by then it was too late, and her Nanny’s lessons had taken root, and even her father’s disapproval had not been able to dislodge them. Juliet could swim, and she could think for herself, and now that she was home again, she had returned to her habit of swimming here most evenings, when the weather permitted.
And this evening was perfect.
Reeds grew near the stone edging that bordered the path, and there were shrubs in clumps, nicely placed so that she could disrobe in private. She preferred to swim naked. It might be shocking to some, but as there was no one to see her—none of the resident Linholms ever came down to the lake—it didn’t matter. Her evening swims were a simple pleasure she was not about to forgo. Why should she when everyone in the village already thought her a scandalous hoyden?
Quickly she undressed, setting her loose gown and slippers aside, before stepping into the water. It was chillier than she had expected but the air was so mild she knew that with exercise she would soon become accustomed. She set out with a gentle breast stroke, moving efficiently toward the other side of the lake. The Crevitch side.
Chapter Five
Summer, 1816, Crevitch Castle, Somerset
Ash had arrived at Crevitch the night before. His mother, Felicity, the Dowager Lady Linholm, greeted him with mild pleasure, just as she always did. He’d known for many years now that he was not her favourite. Simon had that dubious honour, although his brother was often rather embarrassed by it, and Ash certainly held no resentment. Being the favourite was a burden and he told himself he was more interested in being the one to inherit the estate rather than winning his mother’s love.
Uncle George was ill in bed, but arose when Ash called upon him, the old man insisting on examining the estate records with him and pointing out what needed to be done. George would have thrown off his bedgown and ridden out with his nephew to inspect his lands, but Ash insisted he stay indoors.
The fact that his uncle tamely obeyed his orders was worrying. Ash had not realised how much his uncle’s health had deteriorated. Why had the old man not written to tell him? Why hadn’t his mother? But there was no use pouring blame on other people when Ash knew in his heart that it was he himself who was at fault. He’d been selfish, his London life taking precedence, and he needed to remedy the situation.
For the remainder of the day, Ash busied himself about the estate. He rode out over his lands and visited his tenants. As he sat upon his favourite horse and gazed across the golden fields, he couldn’t help but imagine he felt a shimmer in the mists of time—so had Radulf sat here and gazed with satisfaction over this same land. A Norman knight who had come with the Conqueror, Radulf had married the Saxon Lily, and although it had been a marriage forced upon them by the dangerous times, it had turned into a love story that resonated down the ages. Their dynasty continued to this day, and Ash knew he could not be the final Linholm. He would not allow it!
Suddenly Christina Beale popped into his head—she was the reason he was here, after all—but he seemed to have lost interest in her. To his dismay he was struggling to remember what she looked like. Ash told himself that this was Monkstead’s fault. Since the earl had brought memories of Juliet back from the past he had been unable to think of other women.
Disturbingly he was having no difficulty at all in remembering what she looked like.
Ash’s manservant Truscott had dressed him for dinner as if he was attending a suave London do rather than a meal en famille. Truscott was very aware of Ash’s consequence, far more than Ash himself, and sometimes he wearied of the man’s snobbery. He only put up with him because he was so very good at what he did. Ash doubted he’d walk out of his door at Number Five looking quite so prime if it were not for the ministrations of Truscott.
However it seemed his splendour was all for nought, because when he arrived downstairs for dinner he was told his mother had retired early with a headache.
He suspected it was an excuse so that she could curl up with one of her romance novels. He knew his parents’ marriage hadn’t been a happy one, so he couldn’t blame her for seeking solace elsewhere. At least the Dowager kept her dalliances between the pages of books—other women might have found a compliant neighbour and caused a scandal. Look at Juliet’s mother and her Italian count!
The Dowager Lady Linholm had lost interest in entertaining when her two sons left home, but he hoped he could help her to regain some of that pleasure. What of the Midsummer celebrations that used to be held around this time of year? He had fond memories of the musicia
ns in the gallery overlooking the Great Hall, and guests from near and far enjoying the hospitality of Crevitch Castle. Perhaps they could resurrect that festivity at least?
Ashley sat down to the meal, but he wasn’t hungry despite his busy day, and picked at the food before pushing it away. Afterwards he retired to the library for brandy, but again he was too restless to settle.
From the French windows here, he could see across the lawns and down to the lake. The view was very familiar, although he noticed the trees had grown taller, interfering with his enjoyment. He’d have to get the groundsman to do something about that—it seemed the tasks that had been neglected were never ending. And yet he didn’t mind, this was his land and his responsibility, and it was time he assumed control.
A bird flew up by the lake, crying out as if it had been startled by something. Perhaps a fox on the prowl. There were swans down there, but he thought they could look after themselves. The evening sky was far clearer than it was in London, the stars just beginning to show themselves, and the whole prospect was suddenly very inviting for a man who wanted an excuse to work off his disquiet.
He didn’t even pause to change out of his evening wear—the thought of Truscott was too much to bear just now—but slipped out through the French windows and set off across the park.
The air was like warm milk, and as he strode across the lawn toward the perennial border and the overgrown trees, he felt as if he were walking into the past. His past. The path that ran around the lake was somewhere here, or at least it used to be. Now it was more like a wilderness, and he had to force his way through shrubs and vegetation. A thorny climbing rose caught his jacket and, when he pulled away, tore the cloth. He tried not to think what Truscott would say about that.
Ah, here at last was the path he remembered!
He stopped to admire the view. There, across on the other side of the lake, was the wild and unkempt woodland where he had spent more time than in his own home. In those days the grounds at the castle had been as neat as a pin, his uncle had seen to that, but the Montgomeries had never shared George’s need for perfection. Their property had always been rather untamed, and Ash wondered if, for him, that had been part of its appeal.
