“I am no lawyer, and old Becksbridge would not dare make me his executor. Heaven forbid he should have saddled me with that burden too.”
He finally stepped out of the arbor, into the sunlight. The perfection of those boots became visible again, and also that of his frock coat and other garments, and the artistic cut of his tousled hair. Brown eyes, with golden lights that flickered like devilish fire, surveyed her from head to toe once more. A touch of gold streaked through his brown hair too.
He was a handsome man, that was certain, made more compelling by a sartorial style that appeared both costly and effortless. A lithe strength marked his posture. He made an impressive figure, in part by appearing utterly indifferent to whether he did or not.
She had no idea who their common friends might be, but he did appear vaguely familiar, as if she had seen him once from a distance at least. She searched her mind, trying to place the memory that nibbled at her. Not so much his face pricked her recollection—more the way he carried himself and his air of arrogance and bored indifference that probably could be felt from the other side of the garden.
“I had no idea Mrs. Joyes was so young,” he said, coming toward her on the path, bemused and curious. “I pictured a woman of more mature years, with a reformer’s severe expression.”
“I am mature enough and can be severe when warranted.”
“I am sure you can be.” He flashed a smile. A rather familiar one. Almost flirtatious. He acted as if they shared a special secret. She could not imagine what he thought that secret might be.
Slowly, languidly, as if he had all day for the tour, he strolled around her as if she were a statue set amid the flowers for viewing.
She wished she could pretend that she did not know what he was thinking as he took his little circular turn. Unfortunately, it flowed through the air. She did not turn to keep an eye on him, but she did not have to. She felt his every step and change in location, and his gaze all but burned through her clothing.
“If you are not a lawyer involved with the estate, just whom am I addressing, sir?”
His casual path brought him to where he faced her again. “I am Castleford.”
Castleford? Dear heavens—the
Duke of Castleford
?
“Are you unwell, Mrs. Joyes? You have been extraordinarily composed thus far, but now you appear close to fainting. If my failure to identify myself earlier has distressed you, I will be undone.”
His devilish eyes belied his smooth tongue. He was delighted to have flustered her. She prided herself on the composure he mentioned and on an even temper that permitted her to always maintain her poise. All three, she had learned, kept one from being at a disadvantage with others in the world.
She swallowed her surprise. “I am not distressed or even discomposed, so do not concern yourself. I am merely confused as to what connection you could have with the settlement of the estate, Your Grace.”
“Ah.” He scratched his head and tried to appear confused too. “Well, it appears I am the new owner of this property. For reasons unknown, Becksbridge left it to me.”
For a moment her mind refused to comprehend what he said. Then his words settled in, and composure, poise, and good temperament truly deserted her. For the first time in years, in
memory
, an unholy wrath broke like a storm in her head.
Becksbridge had left this property to
him
? To
Castleford
? To a man so rich he had no use for anything more? To a besotted, notorious libertine who did not give a damn about anyone or anything?
Becksbridge, you insufferable, lying scoundrel.
Chapter Two
M
rs. Joyes was in high color now. Her gray eyes, as cool as an overcast winter sky mere minutes ago, fairly blazed. Castleford thought it probably a good thing that the pistol she owned was not nearby.
Not that these fires were directed at him. Pity, that. He wondered if she ever released them in bed, to a different purpose.
She was a stunning woman, so he had begun erotic speculations about her almost immediately. Tall and elegant, with a pale beauty of a sort rarely seen, she appeared a palette of whites tinged slightly with color. A touch of yellow in her very fair hair. A drop of ochre, no more, in her ivory skin. Gray in those intelligent eyes. The pale blue dress she wore completed the composition. He had seen porcelain figurines colored that way.
She was not a woman he would fail to notice or forget seeing or not want. And so, as she had approached on the garden walk, he was sure he had seen her before. He could not place where. Perhaps they had only passed on a London street.
Now, of course, there was a good deal of pink on her cheeks too, and countless dark glints flickered in her eyes. He welcomed the evidence that she was not as cold as the palette and her manner implied. Passion became her. She did not seem to know what to do with the rage flexing through her, however, so he doubted she permitted herself high emotion of any kind very often.
He gestured to the arbor. “Perhaps you should sit, Mrs. Joyes, while you accommodate yourself to this revelation.”
She strode over, sat on the bench like an iron rod held her back, and grasped its edge on either side of her hips with tight, beautifully tapered fingers. She stared at the ground. He could see her trying to force calm on herself. It did not work well. He could almost hear the thunder.
He stayed at the arbor’s edge, where the climbing rose’s leaves fluttered over the last slat of wood. He noticed that the breeze was bringing in storm clouds from the west, just in time to match her mood.
“You expected Becksbridge to give you this property, didn’t you?” he asked when some of the tenseness left her posture.
She looked up with a withering glare.
“Did he promise he would?”
She hesitated, stared back down at the ground, then, almost imperceptibly, shook her head.
Castleford suddenly remembered where he had seen her before. Years ago, at a garden party at Becksbridge’s London house. It was before he had broken with Latham. Late in the party, Becksbridge’s daughters by his second wife had come out on the terrace with their governess.
He looked into the arbor and saw Mrs. Joyes laughing with those girls. Not so cool back then. Not much more than a girl herself.
She had been in service to Becksbridge, and now she lived on his property for nominal rent. She was a tenant in whom he claimed a “committed interest” but whom he did not want to name in his testament or reveal to the other paragons hanging from his branch of the family tree.
She had expected to receive the property for good in the will. And, unless his eyes failed him, the color in her face now came less from anger and more from embarrassment.
Well, well.
Becksbridge, you unbearable, hypocritical ass
.
“I
f it offers any relief to your distress—”
“I am not distressed. I am only surprised, Your Grace.”
“I can perhaps alleviate this
extreme
surprise by explaining that the duke did indicate his wish that you remain here as in the past, as long as you choose.”
That was something, at least. Not what she had expected. Not what had been implied. And at least the new Becksbridge would not be getting this property.
Counting her blessings did not help as much as she wished. She still battled the almost uncontrollable urge to hit something. Castleford, for example. Not only was he bearing sorry news, but he also seemed to be enjoying her
extreme surprise
to an unseemly degree. For all of his solicitous concern, he watched her the way the eyes in a crowd watch a burning building.
She calmed enough that the precise words of his last statement sorted themselves out in her head.
“You say the duke expressed the wish for all to remain as it was. Is it your intention to honor that wish?”
Castleford ruminated on the question. “I have not decided.”
“You can have little use for a small bit of land like this, with all your other holdings.”
“One never knows.”
Was he teasing her? Goading her to more extreme surprise? “If you regret the loss of income, I could pay a higher rent. I would want a proper lease, however.”
“Mrs. Joyes, I am not looking to negotiate by delaying matters. I have not decided only because I have a way of making decisions that serves me well. I save all the boring ones for one day a week. This is not that day.”
“You intend to leave me dangling simply because it is not Tuesday?”
He strolled the few steps to the bench and sat. He made himself comfortable in the extreme. Back angled and shoulders propped as before, legs extended and arms crossed, he lounged beside her. She had to turn to see his face.
“You know about that, do you? About Tuesdays?”
“We do have those mutual friends. I have been treated to a few Castleford stories.”
“How indiscreet of them.”
“I do not think you mind. If you did, you would have long ago reformed your reputation.”
“And become as boring as our reformed mutual friends? I hope I die first.”
“From what I hear, that is likely. Which is why I would like that lease no matter what the rent. A very long one.”
“I see you are feeling better. I hope that when you are more yourself you do not have a tendency to be a scold.”
“It is not for me to scold you, sir. My interest is not with your behavior or health but with my future and with how your drinking and brawls and duels might cause trouble for that.”
“Did they tell you anything else about me? Besides the drinking, brawling, and dueling?”
They had told her plenty, and the scandal sheets had added many salacious details. “That you delight in being incorrigible.”
“Well put, and the telling of it explains me well enough. After all, have you ever heard it said that someone delights in being an epitome of virtue? There is little fun in that, and no delight at all. Just repetitive goodness.”
“Is your badness so varied that it is still delightful? I expect anything gets boring after a while.”
He looked at her with interest. “How perceptive you are. It takes a good deal of effort to keep badness from being boring. One must seek out new experiences and challenges. Our mutual friends may think I have an easy life, but being notorious is grueling work after a few years.”
She had to laugh. That seemed to please him.
“What a delightful visit this is proving to be, Mrs. Joyes. Good country air, a lovely woman overcome by surprise, and pleasant conversation. If I had known what waited, I would have come down sooner. I hope my visits to the other properties are as enjoyable.”
“Other properties?”
“Four in all.”
She barely resisted the impulse to query him further about those other bequests. Their existence troubled her, however. They suggested that Becksbridge’s arrangement with her had not been unique. She had long suspected as much. She doubted she could quiz Castleford on it without him finding her curiosity peculiar, unfortunately.
“Why would you bother with such a small matter? You must have servants who could learn all that you have.”
“I doubt that. I decided to see to it myself because the bequest piqued my interest. Becksbridge disliked me heartily and disapproved even more. So I thought to see what it was all about. And now I know.”
There was no accusation in that last sentence, but she understood his assumption about why Becksbridge had allowed her to live here, and that he now believed he would find the same thing on the other spots of land.
The sky had darkened considerably. In the distance beyond the greenhouse roof, a flash of lightning heralded the approaching storm. She stood.
“I have kept you too long, Your Grace. You risk a drenching if you ride back to town. The inn at Cumberworth might be a wise choice for the night. I will await word from you, regarding your decision, after next Tuesday.”
He pulled himself to his feet and stepped out of the arbor. He checked the sky and dark clouds. A few large drops of rain splashed down on the path.
“Hawkeswell says the inn at Cumberworth has bedbugs. I clearly remember that warning, although I’ll be damned if I recall when or why he gave it.”
“Two miles east there is the town of—”
“I think that I will stay here instead.”
She searched his expression, wondering if this was another odd and inappropriate joke. He merely gazed up at the house with curiosity.
“We are a household of women, Your Grace. It would be—”
“—generous and gracious of you to offer hospitality. I know you have allowed male guests before. Our mutual friends have told me a few stories too. Besides, it is not shocking for a man to stay in his own property.”