Anne Barbour (2 page)

James Wincanon, she considered in disgust, would take one look at her and dismiss her as a scatterbrained tomboy. And who could blame him? How could he know that beneath her hoydenish exterior reposed the soul of a scholar?

It would help, she supposed, if she could dress in clothing more suitable to a female of superior intellect, but her father insisted she affect the frills and furbelows he considered appropriate to a gently bred maiden on the hunt for a husband. She was not always so dutiful, but Papa had been supportive of her academic interests, so that she felt she must give in on what was, after all, a fairly minor point. Still, she hated appearing before the world looking like a circus pony in a gown of pale blue sarcenet, trimmed with several tiers of ruffles and embroidered with enough flowers to deck a church.

She jerked as yet another hairpin was thrust into the arrangement of curls that teetered unsteadily atop her head.

“Emma,” she said at last through gritted teeth, “I am as presentable as you can make me. Mister Wincanon has probably already arrived, along with all the other guests, and Father will be wondering what has become of me.”

“Humph,” grumbled Emma. “I don’t see that you can afford to pass him over sight unseen, for you’re not getting any younger.”

Hilary bit back a retort. Really, this was most unbecoming— brangling in such a manner with her own maid.

“If you’re quite finished with me,” she said frigidly, glancing into the mirror once more, “I’ll take my aging, decrepit self off. Mister Wincanon is probably striding up the front steps right this minute.”

Turning a darkling glance on her maid, she hurried from the room.

* * * *

As it happened, James Wincanon was still some distance from the front steps of Whiteleaves, to which stately residence he had been invited for dinner. He was, in fact, traveling in his curricle at a somewhat desultory speed along the road that connected his new home, Goodhurst, to that of the earl. It was apparent from the slight frown that marred the gentleman’s aquiline features, that he was not looking forward to the evening’s festivities.

And why should he? he mused sourly. It was bound to be a replica of a hundred other evenings he had suffered through since he had come in to his majority some ten years ago. Among the phalanx of neighbors to which he would be presented there would be at least three unmarried females present—eager young damsels, attended by calculating mamas, all of them ready to pounce like vixens on a plump rooster dropped in their midst.

His unease did not spring from an inflated estimation of his own attractions. He knew himself to be endowed with an eminently ordinary set of features. He was of reasonably upright moral character, and possessed of a personality that could hardly be called scintillating. Thus it might be difficult for some to account for his unvarying success with the fair sex. He smiled cynically. Ah, the blessings of wealth and exalted connections.

He sighed. He had been pleased at the opportunity to purchase Goodhurst. He had been after the estate for years, ever since he’d learned of the Roman villa that lay in its forested hills. Having now acquired the property, he anticipated bringing his treasure to light.

His plans for his stay in Gloucestershire did not include socializing with the local gentry. He would lose no time in donning the aspect that had served him so well over the years—that of an eccentric recluse. He would make it clear that while he would accept whatever community responsibilities were required of him, he was not in the market for a bride, and, after these few initial forays, he would not be available for appearances on the social scene.

“Ho, guv’nor, that looks to be the place, up ahead.”

Thus recalled by his tiger, James turned his curricle at a massive set of gates, flanked by stone pillars. A few moments later, after traversing a winding drive, bordered by flourishing beeches, he arrived at his destination, a sprawling manor house of Tudor origin. As he mounted the front steps, the door swung wide before he could lift his hand to the bronze knocker that adorned it, and a butler of imposing mien ushered him into a hall that, while it featured the requisite suits of armor and the odd halberd or two on the walls, bore a welcoming air.

Smiling benignly, the butler guided him up the staircase that ascended in a flowing crescendo of marble and wood, and, ushering him into a spacious salon, announced him in mellifluous tones to those assembled inside.

He recognized his host immediately, one of the few persons in the room he had already met. The earl hurried toward him with hand outhrust. He was a tall, hearty man with graying hair and a benevolent expression. As he moved across the room, he beckoned to a young woman who stood near a window, chatting with a group of ladies. A very young woman, indeed, surmised James as she approached. She could not possibly be his hostess, was his next thought, unless—A sense of foreboding swept over him.

“Mister Wincanon!” exclaimed Lord Clarendon. “Welcome to Whiteleaves. May I present my daughter, Lady Hilary?”

Chapter Two

“Charmed,” James murmured colorlessly, brushing the girl’s fingertips with his lips. Was there no Lady Clarendon, then? Was this infant one of that most dreaded of species, an unmarried daughter?

“Mr. Wincanon,” said the girl in a high, breathless voice, “I have been so looking forward to meeting you.”

James groaned inwardly. He might have known. No wonder Lord Clarendon had made such a point of inviting him to his home. Lord, was this awkward little gamine with the incendiary hair and huge amber-colored eyes the earl’s only daughter, or were there more lurking, waiting to pounce? To his vast relief, a matronly female approached, with a young man in tow. She was introduced to James as Mrs. Horace Clapham, wife of a neighboring squire.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,” Mrs. Clapham bellowed jovially. “Say hello to my son, Freddie. He ain’t good for much yet, but he’s a decent lad.”

Freddie Clapham’s cheeks flushed dully.

“Mama, please,” he whispered in an anguished tone.

“Well, and you are, then,” his parent roared. “Or at least you will be, as soon as you give over wearing those ridiculous clothes.”

James surveyed the young man. His high shirt points were wilting visibly under the weight of his mortification, and his fobs clinked disconsolately from where they dangled in ornate profusion from a brilliantly embroidered waistcoat.

“I think you’re looking quite fine today, Freddie,” interposed Lady Hilary.

James smiled inwardly. Naturally, a damsel raised in the depths of Gloucestershire would consider this unformed sprig the epitome of manly perfection.

Actually, Hilary’s motive in speaking so to Freddie was one of simple kindness. Privately, she thought him absurd in his sartorial excesses, but she had been acquainted with him since his birth and knew him to be a nice young man. His parents, a rough-hewn squire and his wife, were the bane of his existence.

Having attempted to see Freddie at his ease, she turned back to Mr. Wincanon, whose gaze traversed the room in obvious boredom. Her eyes narrowed. He looked remarkably as she had pictured him. Tall and angular, and definitely scholarly. On second glance, however, he seemed surprisingly authoritative for one whose passion was intellectual pursuits. He bore an air of strength—almost of command—that was both reassuring and vaguely unsettling. He was slender of build, but by no means slight, for she could not help but be aware of the muscled frame beneath his evening dress. His brown hair waved over a wide brow and aquiline features. His eyes, of a deep, velvety, chocolate brown, were penetrating and oddly compelling, and contained an expression of disillusionment. A disdainful smile curved lips that were surprisingly full and sensual. Altogether, he did not give the appearance of a pleasant gentleman, but then, she was not looking for charm in a prospective colleague.

For some minutes, the conversation was dominated by Mrs. Clapham, who attempted unsuccessfully to bludgeon Mr. Wincanon into a promise of participation in an upcoming church fete. Eventually, the lady accepted defeat, propelling her hapless offspring toward another group of guests.

She was replaced almost immediately at Mr. Wincanon’s side by Mrs. Horace Strindham and her daughter, Evangeline. Evangeline was some five years Hilary’s junior and had recently returned from a successful Season in London. She was acknowledged as the neighborhood’s reigning beauty, possessing the luxuriant dark hair currently in fashion. Her eyes, too, were dark, and her lashes swept in flirtatious profusion over exquisitely curved cheekbones.

Both Evangeline and her mother, after a single glance at Hilary, apparently forgot her existence.

“I believe I am acquainted with your aunt, Mr. Wincanon,” said Mrs. Strindham, in the manner of one firing an opening salvo.

“And which aunt would that be, ma’am?” the gentleman queried, his gaze resting on Evangeline in bored appreciation. “I have so many, you see.”

Mrs. Strindham remained unscathed. “Why, Lady Mary Waters, of course. We met not long ago when we were in London. Of course, we met so many people. My little girl”—she gestured fondly toward Evangeline—”was such a gadabout, we scarcely spent one night in our own home the whole time we were there. At any rate, I think it must have been at Lady Wolverhampton’s ball—or no, perhaps at one of the Duchess of Mortlake’s at-homes.” She tapped Mr. Wincanon’s wrist playfully with her fan. “You know how it is when one’s daughter becomes wildly popular.”

“Mm, no, I’m afraid I do not, ma’am,” Mr. Wincanon replied with such blatant disinterest that Mrs. Strindham flushed.

“At any rate,” she continued hastily, “Lady Mary is such a lovely person.” She turned to propel Evangeline forward. “By the by, may I present you to my daughter, Mr. Wincanon?”

Evangeline extended her hand, treating Mr. Wincanon to the full force of a blatantly coquettish gaze. Mr. Wincanon smiled dutifully.

“Charmed,” he murmured again, releasing fingers that remained in his a fraction of a second too long.

“I am so pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.” Evangeline’s voice was sweet, yet slightly husky, belying the blush that spread over her cheeks. “My papa says that you are a renowned scholar.” She breathed the words reverently, as though scholarship was the quality she sought above all in a man.

Mr. Wincanon merely inclined his head.

In the awkward pause that ensued, Mrs. Strindham hastily drew aim once more. “We are having a musicale in two weeks’ time, Mr. Wincanon. Nothing elaborate, of course, just a few friends, but we would be delighted if you would join us.”

“Oh, yes,” added Evangeline shyly, allowing her incredible lashes full rein. “Do please come.”

“I am afraid that will not be possible.” Mr. Wincanon’s voice was smooth but very firm. “I find that there is much to which I must attend right now, so that I cannot permit myself any social distractions.”

Evangeline’s expression of blank disbelief was almost comical. It had no doubt been a very long time since a man had refused her beckoning.

“Oh, but—” began Mrs. Strindham.

“Surely you can’t mean that, my dear man!” The voice came from a lady who had inserted herself into the small group that now encircled Mr. Wincanon. She placed a graceful hand on her breast. “Emily Houghton,” she said, smiling coquettishly. “We met the other day in the village. My Charlotte and I came in to choose some embroidery floss.”

“Of course.”

“Charlotte is right over there, speaking to the vicar’s wife.” Mrs. Houghton waggled her fingers to attract her daughter’s attention.

Was she only imagining it, thought Hilary, or had a certain desperation crept into Mr. Wincanon’s expression?

“I do hope you are not serious about avoiding social obligations,” continued Mrs. Houghton, “for I am planning an alfresco breakfast for a week Tuesday. I do hope the weather will continue fine, for—”

“No!” The word burst from Mr. Wincanon like an expletive. “That is”—he went on in a milder tone—”I appreciate your, er, kindness, but I really must refuse. Now, if you will excuse me ...” He turned away abruptly.

What a very rude gentleman, Hilary thought with some asperity. At least, she reflected somewhat smugly, she herself would not suffer such a rebuff when she approached Mr. Wincanon. The gentleman would, of course, be pleased that at least one female present was not a simpering lack-wit.

But never mind that now. Hilary bustled to where Mr. Wincanon had once more taken up a position, this time in conversation with Mr. Roger Whittlesham and two other men. His expression was pained as Whittlesham threw back his head in laughter at what was no doubt an extremely coarse witticism.

Hilary sighed, but, persevering, she made her way forward. As she reached Mr. Wincanon’s side, the laughter suddenly ceased. Mr. Whittlesham and his friends drifted off for conversation elsewhere, leaving Hilary alone with her prey.

“I understand, Mr. Wincanon,” she began, “that you have come here to-”

She was interrupted by the entrance of Dunston, the butler, who announced in stentorian tones that dinner was served. Blast! Mr. Wincanon, she knew, would be seated at her father’s right hand during the meal, while she would take her place at the foot of the table. Between them would lie yards of napery, tableware, and guests. She would just have to wait until later to engage the famed antiquary in a meaningful discussion of her efforts at his villa.

Later proved to be well after dinner. As the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room, Hilary, by dint of some extraordinarily deft footwork, outmaneuvered no less than four female guests to seat herself next to Mr. Wincanon. Marshaling her patience once more, she turned her attention to the pianoforte, where a procession of ladies and gentlemen, herself included, participated in a musical program. It was many minutes before Miss Cecily Broom lifted her fingers from the pianoforte, signaling the conclusion of the program. The guests, including Mr. Wincanon, applauded politely as one by one they rose, some drifting off to play cards, some to gather in conversational groups around the chamber.