CHAPTER 1
A shake to his bad shoulder brought Greville Anders awake
with a gasp. Through the stab of sensation radiating down
his arm, he dimly heard the coachman say, "Here we be, now,
sir. At yer destination. Ashton Grove."
Trying to master a pain-induced nausea, Greville
struggled to surface a mind he’d submerged in soothing
clouds of laudanum to ease the agony of a long, jolting
coach journey. The late winter air spilling through the
door held ajar by a man in footman’s livery helped clear the
dissipating mental fog.
England. He must be back in England. No place else on
earth had this combination of chilly mist and scent of damp
earth.
Like a tacking sail that suddenly catches the wind, his
vacant mind filled. Yes, he was in England, at Ashton
Grove, the home of Lord Bronning. The manor where, at the
intervention of his noble cousin, the Marquess of Englemere,
he was to stay after being transferred from his berth on the
"Illustrious" to the Coastal Brigade, while the Admiralty
sorted out the matter of his (illegal) impressment. And he
finished healing.
Unfortunately, that also meant he must now attempt to
convince his unsteady limbs to carry him from the vehicle
into the manor, hopefully without having his still-roiling
stomach disgrace him. Taking a deep breath, he staggered
into the early evening dimness, then proceeded at a limping
gait up to the entry and through a door held open by the
butler.
Perspiration beading his forehead from the effort, he was
congratulating himself on his success at reaching the
stately entry hall when an older, balding gentleman walked
forward and bowed. "Mr. Anders," the man said, giving
him a
strained smile. "Delighted to welcome you to Ashton
Grove."
The gentleman’s expression was so far from delighted
Greville bit back a smile before the unmistakable, swishing
sound of skirts trailing over polished stone prompted him to
carefully angle his head left.
That uncomfortable maneuver was rewarded by a vision
lovely enough to raise a red-blooded sailor from the dead.
A category into which, after the "Illustrious’s"
action with
that Algerine pirate vessel off the coast of Tunis, he’d
very nearly fallen, he thought wryly before giving mind and
senses over to the sorely-missed pleasure of gazing at a
beautiful woman.
For the first time in a long time, parts of his body
tingled pleasantly as he took in an angelic vision of golden
hair and a petite form wrapped in a flattering gown, just a
hint of décolletage tempting one to peek down at an
admirably-rounded bosom. As he raised his gaze to the
perfect oval of her face, large blue eyes stared back at him
over a small, pert nose and plump rosebud-pink lips—that
were currently pursed into a frown.
Greville suppressed a sigh. Angels generally did frown
at him.
Long-inbred habits of gentility prompted him to attempt a
bow, awkward as it was with the thick bandage still binding
his chest and the fact that his equilibrium hadn’t yet
adjusted to having a surface beneath his feet that remained
firmly horizontal. "Lord Bronning, isn’t it?" he asked.
And…"
"My daughter, Miss Neville. Welcome to our home. I
trust Lord Englemere made your journey as comfortable as
possible—under the circumstances, of course," Bronning
said,
casting him a troubled glance.
The lovely daughter merely inclined her head, her frown
deepening. Greville hadn’t seen his own face in a glass for
months, but in his ragtag sailor’s gear, with an unkempt
beard and what he supposed must be the pallor induced by his
lingering fever, doubtless he looked nothing like the sort
of gentleman Miss Neville was accustomed to receiving in her
father’s grand hall.
"Miss Neville, my lord," he replied, acknowledging the
introductions. "Yes, Lord Englemere did…all that was
necessary." Given his already disreputable appearance, he
thought it best not to mention that his passage from
Spithead through Portsmouth and thence by coach to Ashton
Grove had passed in such a laudanum haze that he had little
memory of it. "I thank you, Lord Bronning, for receiving
one so completely unknown to you."
"Not at all," Bronning replied quickly. "I’m
happy to
oblige Lord Englemere--and your sister, Lady Greaves, of
course. Her husband, Sir Edward, is a valued acquaintance.
But we won’t keep you standing here with the evening chill
coming on! You must be exhausted from your travels. Sands
will have a footman show you to your room."
His room. A real chamber with a bed that didn’t sway
with the roll of the ship, doubtless located in a private
space he wouldn’t share with a score of noisy,
tar-begrimmed, sweating sailors.
Heaven.
"I should like that, thank you," he said, summoning his
waning strength for the task of climbing the forbiddingly
tall stairway toward which a footman was leading him.
"And Mr. Anders," Bronning called after him, "Please
don’t feel obliged to join us for dinner. Cook will be
happy to prepare you a tray, if you’d prefer to remain in
your chamber to rest and repose yourself after your long
journey."
Rest and repose. He clung to the notion as a drowning
man clutches at a spar after a shipwreck. Rest to finish
healing his battered body, repose in which to put his
fever-dulled wits to examining the implications of his
abrupt transition from deckhand on a man-of-war to guest at
an elegant English estate.
"Thank you, my lord, I may do that," he said,
reflecting
as he tackled the stairs upon the irony of greeting the
notion of solitude with such pleasure, he who not so very
long ago would have done almost anything to avoid the
boredom of having only himself for company.
Gritting his teeth in determination, Greville made his
way upward, Miss Neville’s soft floral fragrance still
teasing his nose.
Disappointment and an entirely illogical sense of being
ill-used replacing her initial shock, Amanda Neville stared
after the newcomer now hobbling up the stairs behind the
footman Sands had summoned.
Ever since Papa had told her they were to house a
relation of the Marquess of Englemere, she’d been bubbling
over with anticipation, hoping he would be someone she could
meet again in London this spring when she made her
long-delayed come-out - mayhap even a handsome young man who
might be a potential suitor. She’d had Mrs. Pepys prepare
the best guest bedchamber and instructed Cook to create a
sumptuous meal for the night of his arrival.
Stunned into silence by the appearance of the man who’d
limped over their doorstep, she’d barely been able to nod a
greeting. That grimy, battered man dressed like a common
sailor was their guest? she thought again, still aghast and
scarcely able to comprehend such a conundrum. Whatever had
Papa been thinking, to agree to house such a person?
Before she could utter a word, however, her father
grabbed her arm and steered her down the hallway toward his
study. "Don’t give me that look, puss, until I can
explain," he said under his breath. "That will be all for
now, Sands," he added, dismissing the butler who trailed
after them, interest bright in his eyes.
"Really, Papa, I know better than to gossip before the
servants," she protested after he’d shut the study door
behind them. "But when you told me you were to host Lord
Englemere’s relative—why, he’s a Stanhope, head of one of
the most prominent families in England! Are you sure
this…sailor is truly his cousin?"
"He gave the name ‘Anders’ and arrived in a private
coach, as I was led to expect, so he must be. Though I
confess, I was as shocked by his appearance as you."
After depositing her on the sofa, her father took an
agitated turn about the room. "Now that I think on it,
though naturally I assumed so, the note from his lordship’s
secretary never precisely said Mr. Anders was an officer."
"He looks more like a-a ruffian!" Amanda exclamed,
still
feeling affronted. "A drunken one, at that! How are we to
go about entertaining such a person? Is he to dine with us,
be presented to our acquaintance?"
Lord Bronning’s troubled frown deepened. "Dear me, I
hope I haven’t made a terrible mistake, allowing him to
come…" His voice trailed off and he grimaced.
"Now, Papa, you mustn’t upset yourself and bring on one
of your spells," Amanda said quickly, concern for her
father, who had not been in the best of health of late,
quickly overshadowing her irritation and chagrin. "Come,
sit, and let me pour you some wine," she urged, hopping up
to guide her father to a chair and then fetch him a glass of
port. "What precisely did his lordship’s note say?"
"Only that Mr. Anders had been serving on a warship and
was being furloughed back to England after being wounded
during a skirmish with privateers," her father replied,
easing back into the cushions. "Apparently naval men
injured too severely to perform their duties are sometimes
posted to the Coastal Brigade while they heal. Having
learned that Ashton Grove was not far from one of their
stations, the marquess begged me to offer his cousin
accommodations while he recuperated. Naturally, one does
not say ‘no’ to a marquess, especially one who writes so
politely."
Amanda bit her lip. "Nor, after installing this ‘Mr.
Anders’ in the best guest bedchamber, will it be easy to
move him elsewhere. In any event, he didn’t seem fit enough
to appear in company, so for dining and entertaining, I
suppose we shall wait and see."
"That would be best, I expect. Besides, he is also
brother to the wife of Sir Edward Greaves, and after
that…unfortunate incident last spring, I should not wish to
do anything that might offend Sir Edward."
Amanda felt her face flush. "I am sorry about that,
Papa."
Smiling fondly, her father patted her arm. "Never you
mind, puss. You can’t help that you are just naturally too
lovely and charming for any sensible gentleman to resist."
Though Amanda felt a pang of guilt, she didn’t correct
her Papa. The truth was, she had quite deliberately sought
to be at her most enticing when, after last year’s
agricultural meeting at Holkham Hall, Papa had brought home
to visit a man he’d often mentioned as being one of the most
forward-thinking gentlemen farmers in the realm. She’d only
thought to flirt a bit, seizing one of the few opportunities
that came her way to practice her wiles on a single
gentleman of noble birth.
Who could have imagined the quiet, rather stodgy Sir
Edward, who had barely spoken to her of anything beyond a
boring narration about crops and fields, would have
possessed sufficient sensibility to become smitten?
She’d been surprised--and a bit ashamed--when Papa told
her, after Sir Edward’s sudden departure, that the baronet
had made him an offer for her hand. Thankfully, knowing
well that the very last thing she wanted was to buckle
herself to some gentleman farmer and spend the rest of her
years immured in rural obscurity, Papa had spared her the
embarrassing necessity of refusing him.
However, she reassured herself pragmatically, since Sir
Edward had married within six months of his departure from
Ashton Grove, she could not have wounded his heart too
severely.
Still, she could not help but regret that her flirtation
had put a rub in her father’s friendship with the man.
"Of course, Papa, I’m as anxious as you to make amends
to
Sir Edward and dispel any lingering…awkwardness. Have you
any idea how long Mr. Anders is to be our guest? And…surely
I am not called upon to nurse him!"
"Of course not!" her father assured her. "Even
if it
were not most improper, I would never ask you to do
something so expressly designed to bring back…unfortunate
memories."
Abruptly, they both fell silent. Despite her Papa’s hope
to avoid it, she found her thoughts sucked inexorably back
to the terrible spring and summer just past. Nightmarish
visions chased across her mind: Mama’s cheeks flushed with
fever; Aunt Felicia thrashing in delirium; both faces fixed
in the still cold pallor of death.
Shaking her head to dislodge the images, she turned to
Papa and saw, from the stricken look on his face, that he
must be remembering, too. Anxiety instantly replaced grief;
Papa’s own health had nearly broken under the strain of
losing both wife and sister, and he was still, she feared,
far from recovered.
Before she could hit upon some remark that might distract
him, Papa said, "Of course, Mr. Anders is welcome to stay
as
long as he may need. Should it turn out that he requires
further care, I shall consult with Dr. Wendell in the
village to obtain a suitable practitioner. But do not
worry, puss," he reached out to pat her hand, "However
long
our visitor tarries, I promised your dear Mama I would let
nothing else delay the Season for which you’ve waited so
long and so patiently."
Amanda smiled her thanks and tried to refocus her mind on
that happy event. London, this spring! Dare she even hope
this time, it would finally happen? The Season which she
and her mama had planned and anticipated for so long had
been delayed by such a series of unfortunate events that
sometimes it seemed Fate itself was conspiring to prevent
her having any opportunity to realize her dreams.
Still, with her last breath, Mama had made Amanda
promise, too, that she would go this year, come what may.
So perhaps the visit would take place after all.
Oh, to finally be in London, that greatest of English
cities, where she would not have to pore over accounts of
events already days or weeks old by the time the newspapers
reached them. London, where her future husband, a man of
substance and influence in his party, would sit in the Lords
and help direct the affairs of the nation. Supported, of
course, by his lovely wife, whose dinners, soirees and balls
would bring together all the influential people of the
realm, where policy would be discussed and settled over
brandy and whispered about behind fans.
If no further disaster occurred to prevent it, in a few
short weeks, she would be there. She could hardly wait.
Suddenly the study door opened on a draft of cold air and
her cousin Althea dashed in. "Is he here yet? Have I
missed him?" she demanded.
Amanda swallowed the sharp words springing to her lips
about the decorum a young lady should employ when entering a
room—after knocking on the closed door. As she’d learned
all too swiftly after Althea joined them at Ashton last
spring just before the death of her mother, Amanda’s Aunt
Felicia, the cousin who had once followed her about like an
adoring puppy now seemed to resent every word she uttered.
Ignoring, as usual, the girl’s rudeness, Papa only said
mildly, "Missed who, my dear?"
His own bereavement had made him more indulgent than was
good for the girl, Amanda thought a tad resentfully. Papa
never offered her tempestuous cousin the least reproof, no
matter how deplorable her speech or actions, though he was
perhaps the only one who might be able to correct her highly
deficient behavior.
"Why, Mr. Anders, the Navy man, of course!" Althea
replied. "He has arrived, hasn’t he? I saw a rum fine
coach being driven round to the stables, one done up to a
cow’s thumb!"
The girl must have been hanging about the stables
herself, to have picked up that bit of cant. Swallowing a
reproof on that point, Amanda said, "I fear you’ve missed
him. Mr. Anders did indeed arrive and has just gone up to
his room."
"Fiddlesticks!" Althea exclaimed. "I suppose I
shall
have to wait to meet him at dinner."
A sudden foreboding filled Amanda, sweeping away her more
trivial concern over their genteel neighbors’ probable
reaction to having Mr. Anders thrust among them. What if
Althea, who already seemed eager to seize upon anything of
which Amanda disapproved, decided to befriend this low
sailor? Considering her current behavior, it seemed exactly
the sort of thing she would do.
Though normally she would never wish anyone ill, Amanda
couldn’t help being thankful that, for tonight at least, Mr.
Anders appeared to be in no condition to join them for
dinner.
"I don’t think he will be coming down to dine. He
appeared much fatigued from his journey."
"Fatigued—from riding in a coach? What a plumper!"
Althea replied roundly. "Not a Navy man! I’ll wager Mr.
Anders has steered his ship for hours in a driving gale and
survived for months on hardtack and biscuits! More likely,
he’ll be sharp-set enough to eat us out of table."
While Amanda gritted her teeth anew at Althea’s
vocabulary, Papa replied, "Perhaps, but he was wounded and
is still recovering."
"Wounded in battle?" Althea demanded, her eyes
brightening even further. "Oh, excellent! Where? When?"
"I believe it was off the Barbary coast, some weeks
ago,"
Papa responded.
"How exciting! He must be veritable hero! I cannot
wait
to have him tell us all about it. What a joy it will be to
speak with a truly interesting person, someone who’s had
real adventures, who doesn’t natter on and on about gowns
and shops and London!" she declared with a defiant glance
at
Amanda—just in case she was too dim to understand the jab,
Amanda thought, struggling to hang on to her temper.
"Uncle James, have you any books in your library about
the Navy?" she said, turning to Lord Bronning. "Oh, never
mind, I shall go directly myself and look!"
At that, with as little ceremony as she’d displayed upon
her precipitate arrival, Althea bolted from the room.
In the wake of her departure, Amanda sent her father an
appealing look. "Papa, you must warn her off about Mr.
Anders. If we’re not careful, she’ll be painting him as
another Lord Nelson!"
"And doubtless urging him to recite details of shipboard
life in language not fit for a lady’s ears," Papa agreed
ruefully.
"I know you feel for her, having lost her mama so soon
after her papa, but truly, you must counsel her about this.
Heaven knows, I don’t dare say anything for fear she will
immediately take that as a challenge to parade with him
about the neighborhood."
Papa nodded. "She does seem to take umbrage at
everything you say. Which I find most odd, since during
Felicia’s visits when you girls were younger, Althea used to
hang on your every word and copy everything you did."
Amanda sighed. A smaller but no less stinging wound to
her heart this last year was the, to her, inexplicable
hostility with which her cousin now seemed to view her.
"Truly, Papa, I have tried to be understanding. I don’t
know why she seems to resent me so. Perhaps I did criticize
her conduct overmuch when she first arrived—I really can’t
recall, but with Aunt Felicia so ill and the house in such
an uproar, and then Mama falling sick--"
"There now, you mustn’t be blaming yourself," Papa
said,
patting her arm. "You were a marvel through that trying
time, taking over the household so your dear Mama need
concern herself only with Felicia…" His breath hitched and
his eyes grew moist before he continued, "So strong and
capable, I couldn’t be prouder of you. But Althea is young,
and perhaps chafed at authority being assumed by one she’d
considered almost a peer. Distraught, and bereft, and
grieving—not a felicitous combination for any of us."
Amanda blinked the tears back from her own eyes.
"Indeed
not, Papa." Papa might think her strong, but in truth she
had barely managed to hold the household together and was
still trying to recover her spirits.
Though her younger brother had lately arrived to add to
her anxieties, Althea remained the most acute of her
burdens. Her own feelings depressed and on the raw after
Mama’s death, Amanda couldn’t help wishing she might be rid
of the troublesome girl—a desire Althea probably sensed and
which did nothing to ease the tensions between them.
All her life, she reflected with another pang of grief,
she’d been wrapped in a protective cocoon of love and
affection spun by her mother and grandmother, buoyed along
the floodtide of events by a happiness and security she’d
taken for granted until the catastrophes of the last two
years—losing first Grandmama, then Aunt Felicia, then
Mama—had stripped it from her. Her longing for supportive
female company had been sharpened by her difficult relations
with her cousin, the only female relative left to her.
Small wonder she yearned to reach London, where she would
be staying with Lady Parnell, her mother’s dear friend whom
she’d had known since childhood. Perhaps the affection of
this companion from Mama’s own debut Season might ease her
grief and fill some part of the void left by the last two
year’s devastating losses.
Between her irresponsible brother and her sullen cousin
and having to watch Papa drift around the halls and fields,
a wraith-like imitation of his former hale and hearty self,
was it any wonder she longed to leave Ashton and throw
herself into the frivolity of London? Where the most
difficult dilemma would be choosing what gown to wear; her
most pressing problem fitting into her social schedule all
the events to which she’d be invited. Where her day would
be so full, she’d tumble into bed and immediately into
sleep, never to lie awake aching and alone, yearning for the
love and security so abruptly ripped from her.
Oh, that she might swiftly make a brilliant debut,
acquire a husband to pamper and adore her, and settle into
the busy life of a London political wife, seldom to visit
the country again!
She only hoped, she thought as went to search out Cook
and rearrange dinner, that their unwanted guest would not
make the last few weeks before she could set her plans in
motion even more difficult.