As he waited for someone to answer the door, he began looking around and found the house to be impossibly strange beyond just the unusual door knocker. The trees planted near the front of the house, trees that would provide shade in the summer months, were bare now, but many glass bottles—some clear, others blue or green, and all of them now frosted from the cold—dangled from the branches, tied there with strings and bits of ribbon.
The wind gusted suddenly, setting those bottles to dancing, clinking against one another with a tinkling sound. So intent was he on those bottles that he did not notice the door opening. When the bottles settled, he turned back to the door and found himself face-to-face with a fearsome creature. The woman was of middling years, with a stern face and steel gray hair that was so wiry it seemed to stick out from her head in all different directions, defying any attempt to restrain it.
“Miss Winters,” he began, “Thank you so much for your warm welcome. I am Mr. Oliver Hawthorne, Esquire. I have come from Denby and Clarkson Solicitors at the behest of your cousin, Mr. Cecil Winters-Beaton.”
“Miss Winters?” The woman all but cackled. “Not very likely, is it? As ifMiss Winterswould be answering her own door. Come in then, if you mean to! No need to let the storm in.”
“Storm?” He asked.
“Oh, aye. Tis just beginning now, but it’ll be a right’un before night falls,” the woman insisted.
He looked up. The snow continued to fall slowly and steadily, with no indication that it would be, as she had said, a ‘right’un’. Indeed, the ground was barely dusted with snow. The woman was clearly quite mad. “Well, then by all means, let us address these matters and get them settled before the storm sets in. Then I can be safely on my way back to town before conditions worsen.”
“Come in,” she said, stepping back to reveal a stingy wedge of a front hall and a steep, narrow staircase “You can wait in the parlor there. Miss Winters will be down shortly. I’ll go see what’s keeping her.”
“Is she very frail then?” he asked, picturing some poor, rickety old woman treading those treacherous stairs. Dear, heavens, do not let the poor creature fall to her death in his presence. That was the last thing he needed. A flash of guilt swept over him. Naturally, he was concerned for her, too, not just in how her death would impact him.
The woman’s eyes seemed to twinkle with merriment as she looked at him, her thin lips pursed. “Oh, aye. Terribly frail. One foot in her grave, poor dear. Just have a seat. She’ll be with you as soon as she can manage.”
Oliver nodded and moved in the direction the woman gestured. A heavy, wooden door swung inward to reveal a small but neat parlor. There was a large fireplace with a sleeping dog tucked into a ball atop its cushion. Two narrow windows were draped in a dark brocade fabric that was frayed and worn around the edges. In fact, everything in the room was a bit frayed and worn. Of high quality and luxurious fabrics, most assuredly, but it was all showing its age. Not unlike, he suspected, Miss Winters. And all of it appeared to be ready for the coming holiday. There were wreaths and garlands of evergreen and holly on every surface imaginable. It was touching to think a woman so alone in the world would go to such lengths to observe a holiday that was typically meant for family.
Oliver made a decision in that moment. Whatever occurred, he would help the aged spinster. He would see her set up in a place to live and would represent her interests with the East India Company to be certain that, given the tragedy of her brother’s death, that she was provided for. It was, after all, the least he could do given that he was playing a part in her eviction.
On a small table nestled between those two narrow windows was a framed miniature. Picking it up, Oliver examined it. The man looked strangely familiar, as if he’d seen him somewhere before. But that was impossible he thought. The portrait must have been Captain Winters in his youth. While he did not know the man’s age at his death, having reached the rank of captain, he would have to be significantly older than when the portrait was painted.
He was still studying that portrait intently when the door swung inward once more, opening silently behind him.
“My brother, Captain Claymore Phillip Winters.”
The voice was smooth, low, a bit husky… and young. It made his heart race and the blood sing in his veins. Carefully, Oliver placed the portrait back on the table. He was not a man given to superstition, yet he was hesitant to turn. He was hesitant to face this unknown woman because he had the overwhelming feeling that once he saw her, his world would be turned upside down. But he also knew that he could not avoid looking at her. Conversations would have to occur and that was impossible if he presented her with his back during the entirety of their visit.
Reluctantly and with no small amount of trepidation, Oliver turned. Immediately, he regretted it. This woman was undeniably beautiful.And young. As young as her voice had indicated, he thought. With shining dark hair and skin like velvet, she was beyond striking. Her wide green eyes were fringed with thick lashes and thin, dark brows arched delicately above them. High check bones, a small almost gamine nose, and full lips were the epitome of delicate, feminine beauty, but they were perfectly offset against a stubborn, jutting chin with the hint of a cleft. Perhaps he had misheard when he thought she’d said the portrait was of her brother. Perhaps she was a nurse or companion for Miss Winters and the older woman who had greeted him was the housekeeper. “Where is Miss Winters?” There was a hopeful note in his voice that surely could not be missed.
“I am Miss Polly Winters, Mr. Hawthorne. Welcome to Mansford Hall,” she said. “I know it’s always a bit of a surprise when one sees such a small and modest home with such a lofty name.”
She was Miss Polly Winters. The tempting siren before him, with her potent voice and the face of an angel, was the aging spinster he’d been sent to toss out in the cold. What the hell had he gotten himself into?
* * *
Polly ignoredthe pounding of her heart and the strange breathlessness that had assailed her the moment she had set eyes on him. She’d known, of course, that he would have some impact on her. After all, the cards and the tea leaves had predisposed her to having such a response—those notions had colored her perception of him. Perhaps he was not as handsome as she thought. Perhaps his tall, strong physique so perfectly displayed by his well-fitted clothing was the result of a skilled tailor and not his actual form.
Do not lie to yourself, Polly. He’s a perfect specimen of just the sort of brawny masculinity you have always liked and you have been shut up in this house with only Mavis and Hampton for far too long.
Having scolded herself sufficiently, Polly stepped deeper into the room and closer to him. It was like a thread was tied to her, invisible and impossibly strong. She was pulled, step by step, until she stood only a foot away from him. Close enough that she could see the color of his eyes. They were dark. So dark they appeared almost black. His dark hair was brushed back from a strong forehead, and the patrician features of his face marked him as being of noble birth. But it wasn’t a pretty face. There were nicks and scars, a nose that, while still noble and elegant, had clearly been broken at least once.
In his gaze, she could see the flare of interest. Those dark eyes heated as they moved over her. And she was not immune. She wanted him to reach out and touch her. To take her hand. Or, heaven help her, to simply pull her to him and kiss her until she was utterly senseless with it. She needed to do something to break that terrible tension that had settled between them, that silence that stretched out so full of promise and temptation.
“I take it Cecil has informed you of my brother’s alleged death,” she stated very directly. It was best, after all, to tackle things head-on.
He blinked at her blunt statement, clearly unprepared for the forthright manner in which she had chosen to address the subject. “Well, yes, Miss Winters. He informed our firm that the Demeter went down with all hands and that Mansford Hall will, by right, now be his.”
Polly moved away from him to stare out the window. She needed space between them. As close as she had been to him, it made her feel as if she could not breathe, as if he was surrounding her—closing in on her—though he had not moved. “The Demeter went down in shallow waters near Cawes on the Isle of Wight and several dozen remain missing. There are reports of numerous sailors from the ship having been taken aboard fishing boats or washed ashore and being cared for by villagers. The East India Company has not yet apprised me of my brother’s status nor have they completed a comprehensive list of those lost in the disaster. How strange it is that Cecil should already be in possession of such certain information when no one else is!”
He frowned, his dark brows drawing close over his dark eyes. Despite the fierceness of his expression, Polly knew him to be a kind man. She didn’t question that knowledge. After all, she knew many things without examining the source of the knowledge. It was the reason she lived alone and so far from everyone else.Her peculiarities.
Continuing, Polly explained, “And of the missing, only my brother is being prematurely declared dead.”
“Because Mr. Winters-Beaton wishes to assume ownership of this property which he presumes to have a right to,” Mr. Hawthorne surmised.
