His Countess (Victorian Decadence Book 3) Page 6

  Alys’s hand tingled at his touch—even though there were two layers of leather between them. “That is very kind of you, my lord, but I arranged for a ride from Foxrun.” She peered at the waiting vehicles but couldn’t see the gig. It looked like Old Thomas was late. Alys supposed the doddering coachman would be one of the first servants his lordship would sack. She shivered.

  “Are you chilled, my lady?”

  Alys cut him a startled glance; he didn’t seem like the type to be solicitous of anyone’s needs but his own.

  “Would you like my coat over your cloak?” he offered, his hands going to the buttons of his navy cashmere overcoat.

  “Oh, no thank you, my lord.”

  He nodded, one of his odd, teasing smiles twisting his lips. “Don’t worry about your gig. Jackson will stay behind to manage that,” he assured her with a casual arrogance that left her oddly breathless, as if he never for a moment entertained the thought that he might not get exactly what he wanted.

  “My lady?” he said when she hesitated.

  “But my maid, Thursby. She’ll be expecting—”

  “There are two carriages, the second one for the servants and baggage.” He sounded impatient and Alys saw he was still extending his arm. She laid her hand on the navy wool and allowed him to lead her away from the train, feeling rather like a leaf carried along on a strong gust of wind as he bore her out of the station and toward a luxurious black coach—no, two luxurious black coaches.

  Before she knew it, she was installed in the carriage, a rug over her lap, and the carriage rolling smoothly away from the station.

  His lordship sat back-facing, his expression distracted in the lamp light, his gloved fingers idly drumming. He appeared to be a restless sort. Indeed, he’d somehow managed to find a way to disappear for half an hour even on a moving train. Well, he was a businessman, so she supposed he’d likely been doing something, er, business-y.

  “This is a lovely carriage,” she said, her urge to make idle chatter surprising. In general, she despised chit-chat.

  “Hmmm? Oh, yes, this coach.” He looked at her as if he’d forgotten she was there. “I ordered them delivered from Bristol but these are job horses. Which brings to mind something else—do you have a stable master who knows the front of the horse from the back?”

  “Indeed, Jonathan Silber is highly respected. He is also a younger man— a few years younger than my late husband.”

  “And how old was that?”

  “My husband was three-and-forty when he died.”

  He nodded, his jaw working back and forth, his eyes flickering to the window. Alys thought he was going to ask her age, but instead he said, “Town seems to have disappeared rather quickly.” He leaned closer to peer out the glass.

  “Have you spent much time in the country, my lord?”

  His head snapped around. “No, why do you ask?”

  “No particular reason.” My, but he was a sensitive man—and in ways Alys did not quite understand.

  He turned back toward the darkened window. “I’ve spent little time outside cities,” he admitted rather grudgingly. “It seems very . . . quiet here. What do you do for entertainment?”

  “Nothing of late, as I’m only recently out of mourning.”

  “Ah. When did the earl die?” Before she could answer he turned to her. “Or shouldn’t I ask you that?”

  “It’s not a secret, my lord. He died a little over thirteen months ago.” Sebastian had actually died a lot longer ago for her, but that was hardly something a person mentioned to a far-too-handsome-oddly-seductive-and-awkward stranger.

  Alys smiled to herself at the label.

  “Why does that make you smile?”

  Alys’s face heated. “Oh, no, it doesn’t—”

  He turned away. “Never mind; that was another rude question.”

  She happened to agree, but now that he’d agreed, she felt rather belligerent. “Do you always ask and answer your own questions?”

  He gave her one of his disarming smiles. “All right, then. Go on and tell me what you were thinking.”

  Well done, Alys. What will you say now?

  “Er, I was wondering what made you change your mind and decide to visit Foxrun.”

  His smile turned mocking. “No, you weren’t thinking that.” Her mouth opened. “But that’s all right. I decided to visit Foxrun because I was bored.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “What? Don’t you ever get bored?”

  “Not that I can recall.”

  A sharp bark of laughter escaped his sensual lips. “Oh, come now—you never get bored?”

  “I don’t know why that’s so difficult to believe. My days are full and busy.” My nights, on the other hand . . ..

  “What do you do?”

  Alys could see she’d better become accustomed to his direct questions. “I see to household and servant matters, I work in the gardens, I visit the various tenants, I’m active in parish matters.”

  He merely grunted.

  “What do you do all day?”

  He looked startled, but then a slow, sinful smile curved his lips and her own face heated in response, although she had no idea why. “I work with three other men and we purchase businesses that are failing and restructure them. We each have our own specialty. Fanshawe is usually the man who spots the venture. Chatham evaluates the financials. And Mr. Smith—well, Mr. Smith keeps things running.”

  “And what do you do?”

  “I’m an engineer. I’m good with numbers, mathematics, machinery, that sort of—”

  The carriage jostled wildly to the side, knocking Alys from her seat. Before her knees could hit the floor, strong hands slid around her torso and pulled her up.

  “What the devil was that?” he demanded, staring at her as the carriage jolted to a stop, apparently unaware his hands were still under her arms, his thumbs pressed hard beneath her breasts.

  Alys swallowed with some effort. “Er,” she glanced down.

  “Oh, sorry,” he said, not sounding particularly sorry as his hands fell away.

  The door opened. “Are you all right, my lady, my lord?”

  “What happened?” the Earl asked the groom.

  “It was a large limb—it must have only just fallen because it wasn’t on the road on the way out.”

  “Is the coach damaged?”

  “Not that I can see, my lord.”

  He grunted. “Very well, carry on, then.”

  The door closed and they looked at each other.

  “We’re almost home, my lord.” Alys murmured, wondering how long she would feel his strong warm hands on her body.

  ☐ ☐ ☐

  Gideon’s hands felt as though an electric charge had passed through them.

  He’d experienced physical attraction for women before. Hell, he experienced it at least five times a day, but nothing to compare to this. He couldn’t tell whether she’d felt it, too, or whether she’d just been offended at the way he’d handled her.

  He’d not known that hands could have their own memories, but his thumbs fondly remembered the curved underside of her corseted breasts and they kept reminding his brain of the feeling.

  Yes, she was certainly shapely.

  The carriage moved on to a different substrate—gravel, perhaps—and he saw lights flickering ahead.

  “That is the gate house. Mr. Wallace is the keeper. His wife used to live with him but she passed away a few years ago.”

  The carriage slowed and Gideon let down the window. A bent old man stood beside the open gate, his hat in his gnarled hand.

  “Good evening, Mr. Wallace—well met,” Gideon called out as they rolled past. The last thing Gideon saw before the carriage rounded a gentle curve was the man’s big, toothless smile.

  He looked at Lady Taunton—Alys—who was watching him with cool speculation. “Mr. Wallace looks as though he is barely up to managing a bowl of porridge. Hardly who I’d want holding the gates between me a
nd the Saxon hordes,” he said.

  She gave a choked laugh and Gideon felt as though he’d just achieved something—like inventing the combustion engine—by making the haughty woman chuckle.

  “Exactly what does a gate keeper do?” he asked.

  “Oh, not so much anymore, of course. But he does keep the gate in good repair as well as helping with the grounds.” She frowned slightly. “Perhaps you will think the position not worth filling but—”

  “Too hasty by far, my lady. If I’ve got a gatehouse, I’ll want to have a gatekeeper.”

  She smiled. “Oh? So the fact you have a weapon room will mean you engage a master of arms?”

  Gideon enjoyed this example of her ready wit. “A weapon room? How intriguing. And is it full of weapons?”

  “It’s rather sparse these days. There are several sets of armor that are said to be excellent examples of their type, but mostly the room just houses Sebastian’s hunting rifles.”

  Gideon experienced a frisson of something not entirely pleasant at hearing her use her dead husband’s Christian name. Sebastian? It was a name that annoyed him—he’d known a Sebastian at the orphanage and the boy had ribbed Gideon endlessly—before he’d finally taken matters into his own hands.

  A mammoth black shape loomed up outside the window.

  Gideon blinked. “Good God,” he muttered. “It’s a bloody castle.”

  There was a moment of silence before she spoke, and Gideon realized she was likely shocked by his language.

  “It began as a castle. The original structure dates to 857. Thankfully the family quarters are in a wing that was added at the end of the eighteenth century.”

  His. All this was his? Well, at least for his lifetime. The bloody thing was entailed, of course. When the carriage rolled to a stop Gideon opened the door without waiting for the footman, flicking down the steps himself and handing out Lady Taunton.

  He wanted to touch her hand, even through gloves. Yes, again he felt the odd bolt of electricity.

  Her lips curved into a lovely smile, which he at first thought was for him. But then he realized her eyes were on something behind him and turned. A rather straggly line of servants stood waiting for his inspection. Even in this low light he could see the gray and white heads were many.

  “Shall I make the introductions?” she asked.

  “Please do.” Gideon felt oddly nervous—a unique feeling for him. These people were his people. There was something about country servants that felt much more permanent. He grimaced as he realized he’d have to try and keep his fucking more private or he’d have a rash of heart attacks among this crowd of geriatrics.

  “This is Tickle and Mrs. Tickle.”

  Gideon nodded at a pair of old fossils whose bones creaked as they bowed low. “It’s an honor, my lord,” Tickle murmured in a dusty voice.

  “Thank you for greeting me in full force at such an uncivil hour,” Gideon murmured, nodding to Mrs. Tickle.

  “This is Poulson, the under butler.”

  Gideon stopped remembering names after that. For a faltering estate there were upwards of forty servants. He knew from reading the information Beeky gave him that many of them had no place else to go and had not been paid in years. It would cost a fortune in pensions to staff the place properly. Luckily he had several dozen fortunes to spare.

  When they reached the end of the line—a boot black no bigger than a minute—Lady Taunton turned to him. “I daresay Mrs. Tickle has readied the master’s chambers for you, my lord.” She hesitated and flushed. “I hope you do not mind if I continue in the mistress’s room until we can make one of the guest rooms ready.”

  Gideon opened his mouth to tell her she could bloody well stay in the master’s chambers if she wanted them. Of course they’d have him in them.

  Instead he said, “Ah. So they’re all in bad shape, are they?”

  “I’m afraid so. We’ve not hosted guests for some years. The only rooms that have been occupied were the master and mistress suites.”

  “Well, I’m sure with my money and your abilities, we’ll have plenty of habitable chambers soon.”

  She lowered her eyes. “Thank you, my lord.”

  He’d already been half-erect as he took in the grandeur—albeit faded—of his new possession. But her humble, almost submissive, gesture made his cock as hard as the stone wall of his castle. Luckily the second carriage came rumbling up and nobody noticed his bulging trouser front.

  “Would you care for tea, my lord? Or perhaps a cold supper?”

  They’d eaten a sumptuous meal in the private car—Jackson’s culinary skills were impressive, so Gideon wasn’t eager to sample the country cooking. “Tea would be nice. I’d like it if you joined me.”

  “Oh, of course. The library is quite the nicest room in the house, my lord.”

  “Tea in the library,” he said to the hovering Mrs. Tickle as he stripped off his gloves and one of the ancient footmen helped him off with his coat.

  The housekeeper bobbed a stiff curtsey and then scuttled off, leaving Gideon free to stare at the suits of armor, arched ceilings, and stained-glass windows he could see were magnificent even in the dark.

  “The library is this way, my lord,” Lady Taunton’s words called him from his gawking at the cavernous entry hall.

  “This must be very old,” he said somewhat stupidly as he followed her up the stairs.

  “Yes, this section was built when the castle was converted into a dwelling—1147.”

  The banister was as big around as his waist and intricately carved. Below his feet were stone steps with a depression in the middle, where peoples’ feet—his ancestors’—had worn down the flagstone.

  His ancestors. Gideon shivered.

  “I’m afraid you’ll find Foxrun drafty and cool even in the heat of summer. The stones retain the cold. But your chambers are on the south-facing side of the family wing, which are generally sunny and pleasant.”

  She paused in front of a set of double doors that looked to be at least eleven feet high.

  “Good God,” he muttered under his breath.

  He thought he’d spoken quietly enough, but she turned to him and smiled. “Yes, they are impressive, aren’t they? After almost a decade I still marvel at their beauty.” She traced a hand over the intricate bronze strapping and wooden carvings. “It’s even more beautiful inside,” she teased.

  Gideon laid his hand on a big bronze handle and pushed.

  ☐ ☐ ☐

  Alys couldn’t help liking the arrogant man as he gawked at his new home. Foxrun deserved to be gawked at and admired.

  “Bloody hell,” he said, standing frozen in the doorway.

  Her face heated at his vulgar language, but she certainly couldn’t fault his sentiment. The library at Foxrun was the most spectacular private library she’d ever seen. Not that she’d seen many, of course, but it was nicer than her father’s and also her grandfather’s—the Duke of Lampton—library.

  Lord Taunton’s lips were parted. “This is—” He shook his head as he turned in a circle, his eyes on the books that went up and up and up. Finally, he threw up his hands, his expression one of awe.

  Alys smiled. “It is a one-of-a-kind room.” She gestured to the almost gauzy looking staircase that led to the mezzanine level, and then up to another, far smaller platform. “I’m afraid the stairs have not been usable in many years—long before I moved to Foxrun.”

  His eyebrows descended and his angelic features became those of an avenging angel. Alys decided she would not like to draw this man’s anger.

  “I shall have to find carpenters who can replicate or repair such woodwork,” he said almost to himself. To her he said, “Is it insect damage?”

  “Yes, part of it. Some is just fragile old wood—it dates from the 1390s.”

  “You know a good deal about the house.”

  “I’m very fond of Foxrun. I daresay you’ll think me fanciful, but it has a great deal of character.”

  O
ne corner of his mouth pulled into a smile that made him look wicked. “I wouldn’t have suspected you of whimsy, my lady.”

  “But then, you don’t know me, do you, my lord?” she said archly. Before he could answer Alys added, “I beg you will excuse me for a moment. I’m going to check on your chambers but will return shortly.”

  He nodded, his attention already back on the room.

  Alys moved toward the door, realizing she’d be opening it for herself. That was something not even Sebastian—with his selfish, indulgent manners—had ever neglected to do. Still, if it came down to a choice between the new earl’s discourtesy and his plump pockets or Sebastian’s exquisite manners and debauched habits, she knew which one she’d choose.

  She opened the door and almost bumped into two young women.

  Alys frowned. “And who might you be?”

  Both women gave her smug, dismissive looks. “We’re his lordships private maids, my lady.”

  “Is he in there?” the second one—a woman with unnaturally bright blond hair and lip rouge—asked abruptly.

  Alys was shocked into silence, which didn’t seem to bother the women.

  “That sour bird Thursby said ‘e was in the library,” the raven-haired woman added, her bold eyes flickering over the double doors. “Crikey, looks like a bloody cathedral.”

  Alys gasped at her vulgar language and arrogant demeanor, momentarily tongue-tied.

  “Go on then, Sooz, I’m that knackered. Let’s find himself and see where we’ll be kipping.”

  The brazen brunette smirked and looked over Alys’s shoulder into the room before turning to her colleague. “Yep. His lordship is in here.”

  “If you’ll excuse us,” the blond muttered, shoving past Alys.

  The brunette grinned at Alys. “Sorry about Lucy, ma’am, she gets a bit crabbed when she don’t get enough sleep.” She winked and followed her friend, disappearing into the room without a backward glance.

  Good Lord! What in the world was this?

  “My lady!”

  Alys gave a small shriek and spun around. “Goodness, Thursby,” she said, her hand resting over her pounding heart. “Need you yell? You gave me such a scare.”