“Alec! We cannot,” she scolded in a tone of mock indignation, though in fact the thought of his wet soapy hands on
her body set up a distinct twinge in her nether regions. “We must be on our way; there is no time for what you’re thinking.”
“There is always time for what I’m thinking,” he retorted. And, indeed, it turned out that there was.
It was a great while later (and with a good deal of water splashed on the floor) when they emerged, clean and smiling, from the tub. Damaris was by now no longer surprised to find that Alec had also managed to procure clean clothes. She deemed it prudent not to ask where he had obtained the dress he handed her, but its low neckline led her to suspect that among the people Alec knew well in Newcastle were some women of less than good repute. Still, it was, at least, not gaudy in either color or material, and a lace fichu from a notions shop soon made the bodice respectable. He finished off his catch with gloves and a rather fetching little hat, and Damaris breathed a sigh of relief that she would not arrive at his home looking like a ragamuffin.
“You really are the most perceptive of men,” she told Alec as he handed her up into their post chaise.
“Am I?” Alec widened his eyes in surprise and sat down beside her. “I believe you are the first woman to espouse that notion.”
Damaris wrinkled her nose at him. “I know you like to pretend that you are cold and uncaring, but no woman who has been around you for any length of time would believe that. You obviously knew how uncomfortable it would be for me to wash up on your doorstep, ragtag and travel-stained, and
you went to a lot of trouble to ensure I would have something suitable to wear.”
Alec took her hand in his. “Perhaps I am merely gratifying myself. I like looking at you in that frock—though I do think you could have left off the scrap of lace.” He reached out and drew a finger across the top of the neckline.
Damaris slapped his hand away playfully, but she could not disguise the shiver his touch sent through her, nor did she object when he leaned over and kissed the soft slope of her breasts hidden beneath the lace.
“You are insatiable,” she murmured, running her hand over his soft, shaggy hair.
“I know.” He raised his head and smiled at her with unapologetic desire. “’Tis the effect you have on me. Every time I look at you, I am filled with lust.” He sighed and shifted over to the seat across from her. “However, I feel sure you have no desire to arrive at Cleyre looking as if you have been making love in a post chaise, so I shall have to rein in my base nature.”
They rode along with the curtains pushed back, gazing out at the countryside. Damaris could see the pride and affection in Alec’s face, and it grew stronger as they drew nearer to his own lands. The sun was in the west when they clattered across a stone bridge that obviously meant something to Alec. His eyes brightened, and he sat down beside Damaris so that he could more easily see ahead.
As they rounded the next curve in the road, he said, “There it is. That’s Castle Cleyre.”
Damaris leaned over to look out the window, and she drew in her breath sharply. “Alec!”
She had thought she knew what to expect, but it was clear that her imagination had fallen far short. Alec’s home was a fortress. It stood on a commanding hill above a curve in the river, almost as if the gray ribbon of water had been forced to wind around the castle’s solidity. High gray battlemented walls faced the land, anchored at either end by a square Norman tower. Behind them rose the towers, both square and round, and the walls of the castle itself. Huge wooden gates stood open, and above the smaller gatehouse towers waved blue flags bearing the arms of the Earl of Rawdon. Damaris felt almost as if they had been transported back five hundred years.
“You grew up here?” she asked, looking at him.
He nodded. “’Twas a wonderful place for a boy, full of forbidden rooms to explore and all kinds of nooks and crannies to escape one’s governess.”
Damaris could not help but think of Alec’s tale of hiding from his father and his birch rod, but she did not mention it, only slipped her hand into his, offering comfort as much as seeking reassurance at the overwhelming sight of his birth-place. He squeezed her hand lightly.
“Don’t worry. You won’t get lost. ’Tisn’t as confusing as it looks, and most of it is never used, anyway.”
The road they were on curved around the bottom of the castle hill toward the distant spire of a church, but their vehicle took the narrow driveway up to the castle. It was a
slow climb for the horses up the long, low hill, but finally they clattered over a wooden bridge built across the long-dried-up moat and into the inner ward of the castle.
Damaris could see off to the right that most of that portion of the outer wall had fallen or been removed, replaced with staggered terraces of gardens leading gently down the hill. In front of them, the drive continued through a wide green lawn to curl past the front steps of the castle and on to the stable yard beside it.
By the time the chaise had pulled to a stop in front of the house, both of the imposing doors had been flung open, and a flurry of servants poured out. Footmen and maids dressed in neat black and white formed a line leading from the carriage to the front door. A majestic figure sailed out of the front door, his wide girth encased in a black jacket, a snowy white shirt showing between the lapels.
“Oh, my.” Damaris’s stomach felt suddenly cold as she gazed at the display. “How very… regal.”
Alec chuckled. “It used to be even more so. Grandmother still had the footmen in livery before I countermanded that. Parsons—he’s the fellow in front—finds me a poor sort of employer, I fear; he preferred my grandmother’s sense of what is due the lord of Rawdon.”
Alec stepped out, turning back to hand Damaris down from the carriage. She could feel the weight of a host of curious eyes turned on her. She was, she thought, beginning to understand much better the hint of arrogance that clung to Alec like a perfume.
“My lord.” The butler stepped forward, bowing. “Allow me to welcome you home, sir. I fear you will find us sadly disorganized. Had we but known you were coming…”
“Yes, Parsons, I apologize for not letting you know,” Alec told him, acknowledging the faint note of reprimand in the butler’s statement. “In truth, I did not know myself until a few days ago, and it hardly seemed worth the bother, since I would have arrived with the notice, if not before.”
“Your room, of course, sir, is always ready for you.” Parsons glanced discreetly toward Damaris before adding, “Which other room should we prepare?”
“The blue chamber should do for Mrs. Howard,” Alec told him.
They started down the line, the butler giving the plump woman at the head of the line the honor of introducing her by name, Mrs. Cuthbert, which Damaris took to mean she was the housekeeper, second in importance in the household only to Parsons himself. After that followed an array of servants who, Damaris was amazed to notice, were each greeted by name by Alec, often with a comment or question thrown in. They had reached the last maid and were approaching the broad stone steps when a charcoal gray and white animal came running around the corner of the house toward them.
Damaris pulled up, barely stifling a shriek as he charged, long hair flying, ears flapping, lips pulled back to expose long, curved teeth obviously meant for tearing apart his prey. But Alec laughed and spread his arms, bracing himself as the huge dog reared up to set his front paws on Alec’s shoulders.
His head reached Alec’s chin; he would have been taller than a man of more ordinary height. His tail wagged furiously and he whined with delight as he wriggled and tried to lick Alec’s face.
“Shadow! Down!” Alec laughed, shoving the dog back down to all fours. “Mrs. Howard will think you are tragically ill-behaved. Damaris, I would like to you to meet Shadow.”
“Your wolf?” Damaris asked drily.
“My wolfhound,” Alec corrected, scratching a spot behind the dog’s ears that seemed to send him into ecstasy. “He is descended from a line of wolfhounds given to my great-grandfather by Lord Kerry. Aptly named, since he is, sad to say, a mere shadow of those warlike animals.”
Shadow, in his delight at being reunited with Alec, began to jump and whirl and fling himself at Alec’s feet, where he promptly rolled over and waited expectantly for his stomach to be rubbed. Alec complied, but after a few minutes, he gave the dog a final pat, and they set forth again for the front door. Shadow fell in happily beside them, darting forward now and then to whip around and look at Alec, tail wagging, as if waiting to see what wonderful thing Alec would do next.
They stepped into a cavernous entryway. A long gallery ran off to one side, hung with gloomy-looking portraits, and two other corridors stretched away in other directions. A collection of swords hung in a circular design on one stone wall beside a suit of armor. On the wall opposite the front door hung a huge, ancient-looking tapestry filled with medieval
figures doing something, though Damaris could not immediately discern what that activity was.
“Alec! Dear boy!” A short, plump woman hurried down the wide central staircase of the house, beaming and holding out her hands to Alec. “What a wonderful surprise!”
“Aunt Willa.” Alec grinned and swept her a bow before he kissed her on the cheek.
“I could scarcely believe my ears when the maid told me you had arrived. You only just left, didn’t you?” She gazed up at him through round spectacles, her gray eyes puzzled. “One does so lose track of time.”
“Yes, I know, but you needn’t worry,” Alec assured her. “You are right. I have been gone only a few weeks. I had to return, you see; I fear I missed you terribly.”
His aunt giggled and gave his arm a playful push. “Such nonsense as you do say!” She glanced curiously toward Damaris.
“Aunt, allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Howard. Damaris, this is my aunt, Mrs. Hawthorne.”
Aunt Willa took Damaris’s hand in hers, smiling sweetly up into her face. “Oh, my, what a lovely girl you are. I should very much like to paint you.”
“Oh.” Damaris blinked. “Of course.”
“Aunt Willa is an accomplished artist,” Alec told Damaris, with a proud smile for his aunt.
“Silly child, I am nothing but a putterer, I’m afraid. But I do love it. Not watercolor, I think; that’s much too pale for you. No, that coloring is meant for oils.”
“Careful,” Alec warned. “She will have you posing for hours if you let her.”
They continued bantering as they strolled to the drawing room, where the butler himself soon carried in a tray of reviving tea for the travelers, along with an assortment of scones, cream cakes, and other delicacies. The interval apparently allowed the servants time to whip Damaris’s room into proper readiness, and after teatime, Alec’s aunt led Damaris up the stairs and along the hallway to her room.
“Here you are, dear,” the woman said, smiling at Damaris in her sweet, vague way, and patted her on the arm. “Mrs. Cuthbert will send one of the maids to help you. I am sure you should like a bit of time alone to freshen up.”
Willa left, closing the heavy door behind her, and Damaris turned to face the room. There was a marble-manteled fire-place on one end, with a comfortable-looking chair set cozily before it. Two long windows overlooked the side gardens, and centered on the wall between them was a large bed with a tester covered in blue damask above it. Blue draperies at the window and corners of the bed obviously gave the room its name. The room was so large that it also held a dresser, vanity table and chair, and massive armoire, without seeming in the least crowded. A high ceiling added to the general sense of enormous space.
Damaris went to the window and looked out. Her room lay in the wing facing the gardens that spilled down the hill-side, and her view was open all the way to the sheen of the
river curving in the distance. She shivered, feeling suddenly quite lonely.
She had known that everything would be different when she and Alec reached the safety of his home, but she had not expected this degree of grandeur and formality. She thought of the long stretch of corridor separating her bedchamber from the one Aunt Willa had pointed out as the earl’s. She thought, too, of his aunt and the myriad servants that would be around them. The cozy intimacy of their days pretending to be husband and wife were clearly at an end.
The castle had also brought home to her just how far apart she and Alec were in their backgrounds and manner of living and, well, almost every other way she could think of. This was his life, not only great wealth but also great position. He had been raised as the heir to an old, powerful family, the sort of people who likely regarded the royal family as mere German upstarts. This was Alec’s life, and clearly there was no room in it for the bastard daughter of Lord Sedbury and his actress mistress.
Tears prickled at Damaris’s eyes, and she hastily wiped them away as the door opened to admit a neatly dressed upstairs maid, loaded down with an armful of dresses. “His lordship sent me to bring you these, mum. ’Tis some of Lady Genevieve’s frocks that might suit you.”
Damaris was reluctant to borrow Alec’s sister’s clothes without her even knowing, but she knew Alec was right. She had nothing to wear besides what she had on and the simple dress Alec had gotten for her in Gravesend. Neither was anything
she could appear in at a formal dinner in this house. She would have to wear borrowed clothes while she was at Castle Cleyre. So, with a little sigh, she helped the maid to sort through the gowns, picking out those that best suited her coloring. Though Genevieve was a little taller and slimmer than she, the clothes would fit well enough with some hemming, though her breasts might strain at the bodice a bit more than was entirely modest. That aspect of the gowns, she thought wryly, would probably suit Alec quite well.