He had to admit that some of the blame was his. He had been too caught up in his own pursuits to take much interest in the upbringing of a girl-child. In fact, he had seen her perhaps for ten minutes twice a year since that first memorable encounter, leaving it to the long-suffering Stanton and a succession of girls’ schools to do the necessary. During the past two years he had not seen Megan at all. This admission caused him a slight twinge of guilt, which he immediately banished by reminding himself of how busy he had been. As a peer of the realm, he had involved himself with issues of state, and they were certainly of more import than a child who was not even his own. And it was useless to expect Alicia, his wife, whose charge Megan should properly be, to bestir herself on the girl’s behalf. Alicia, to his certain knowledge, had not bestirred herself since the day fifteen years before, when she had achieved the crowning ambition of her life by becoming the Countess of Weston. Indeed, he doubted if he had spent any more time with Alicia over the past twelve years than he had with Megan. Both females, for different reasons, were very much on the periphery of his life. And his Aunt Sophronsia, of whom he was marginally fond, had made it clear to him from the outset that she refused to do more than be decently civil to Megan if they should happen to meet in public. In that lady’s view, he was doing both Megan and Society an injustice by elevating the child
above the lowly station to which her blood condemned her. As she was fond of saying, a lady is born, not made; providing Megan with the education and other accouterments of ladyhood was of no more use than giving a mongrel a poodle’s clip.
It had been forcibly impressed on Justin—by Stanton, of course, who had conceived a fondness for the girl—that Megan must soon be liberated from the schoolroom. As a young lady rejoicing in the dignity of her seventeenth year, and the Earl of Weston’s ward to boot, she would have to have a come-out in the near future. The mere thought made Justin wince. He had a lively dread of being forced to guide a rag-mannered, high-spirited, disobedient minx through the pitfalls of a London Season practically single-handed. His female relations would be no help. So be it. The little wretch’s latest escapade had sparked in him a determination to bring the girl to heel while it was still possible to do so.
Justin’s stomach rumbled loudly, bringing his attention back to his present miserable situation. He was so hungry that he could have eaten the nag beneath him, if there had been any more to it than skin and bone. It took a considerable amount of sustenance to keep his six-foot, two-inch, well-muscled and very active body at its best. He had had nothing but a mug of ale and a cold scone all day. No wonder his stomach was making its displeasure felt! And he was getting colder by the minute. It was impossible for him to get any wetter; the rain showed not the slightest sign of slacking off.
By the time he had crested the rise that brought him within sight of Maam’s Cross Court, it had been dark for a full two hours. There was no moon, so it was impossible to see any of the surrounding countryside, which would in any case have been obscured by the relentless rain, but he knew the way well enough and was in no danger of slipping into one of the treacherous bogs with which the area abounded. As he drew close to the house, at last, Justin was surprised to see that the place was ablaze with light. Perhaps Stanton had managed to advise the Donovans of his impending arrival, and they were waiting to welcome him?
There was no one in the stables to receive his horse. Annoyed, he unsaddled the beast himself, rubbing it down, clapping a feedbag to its nose. Lord he was hungry. Striding toward the house, he promised himself that Megan’s weren’t the only ears due for a blistering. O’Bannon, who had charge of the stables, would certainly hear about this tomorrow!
As he mounted the shallow flight of stairs that led up to the front door of the three-storied stone house, he was astounded to hear music. Irish music. Wailing. Primitive. Lonely.
The music was loud as Justin let himself into the house. The hall was deserted. Donovan, the butler, wasn’t there. He made his way down the long hall to the door of the blue salon, the source of the music. His booted feet and the irritable slapping of his gloves against his thigh brought no one to question his presence.
He opened the door. What he saw stopped him in his tracks. Astonishment kept him silent; it was hard to believe his eyes. Donovan was flush-faced, his white hair in a mad tumble, the tails of his black coat flying. His portly, giggling wife was—well, drunk. Every one of the thirty-odd people in the room appeared to be drunk. They were dancing wild Irish dances, with much foot-stomping and hand-clapping. A rag-tag band of minstrels played long and hard. The hand-loomed carpet was rolled up; the blue salon’s elegant furnishings were pushed haphazardly into corners, leaving room for the dancers to twirl madly about the center of the oak-planked floor.
Unnoticed by everyone, Justin leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest, the better to observe this foolishness. A sardonic smile played about his lips as he waited for his servants to become aware of his presence.
The musicians played a fanfare; a space was cleared in the middle of the floor. A round table was pushed into that space, a beautiful Oriental table of teak with marble inlay, and a young woman was lifted to stand in its center.
“To our guest of honor!” Donovan cried, leading a round of huzzahs. The woman, slender yet shapely, laughed and bowed in response. Then, at a signal from Donovan, the musicians struck up again; the tune they played was a rollicking Irish reel.
“Give us a dance, missy!” Donovan’s jovial entreaty was joined by a chorus of other voices. The woman
on the table tucked the hem of her blue dress into her sash, displaying a froth of ruffled petticoats and slender, white-stockinged legs. Kicking up her blue-slippered heels, she complied with a gaiety that brought a glint of appreciation to Justin’s eyes. Still unnoticed by all, he admired the girl’s truly lovely legs, which were on view up to the lace-edged hems of her pantalets.
Her hair, beginning to slip from its pins to cascade down her back in a tangle of waist-length curls, was crow black. He stared. Something tugged at his memory. She swung around to face him. He saw a willful little chin, laughing, rosy lips, a small elegantly carved nose, skin as pale and silky as a virgin’s wedding dress—then his gaze rose to meet head-on eyes as purple as pansies, set at a slant under straight black brows and fringed by incredibly thick lashes. Those same eyes widened to the size of saucers as they met his; recognition hit Justin with the force of a poleax. He straightened abruptly away from the doorjamb, an oath rising to his lips, while his ward—
his ward!
—stopped dancing with all the grace of a marionette with its strings cut.
“Get down!” he roared, striding forward to make sure she stopped her disgraceful exhibition before it could go any further. She didn’t wait for his assistance, but hopped nimbly down from the table before he could reach her, prudently skipping around behind it so that its bulk stood between them before stopping to stare at him with a mixture of unease and defiance. At Justin’s bellow, the music had come to a crashing
halt. As he stood glowering at the shameless minx, he became aware of twenty-nine pairs of eyes regarding him with varying degrees of horror. A thick silence descended over the gathering. Opening his mouth to favor Megan with a scathing appraisal of her performance, he recollected their audience and temporarily swallowed his words, although from her expression she was in no doubt of his sentiments.
“I will see you in the library in one hour!” he told her, the words forcing themselves out from between clenched teeth. She said nothing, but her chin lifted defiantly. He swung away from her before his temper could get the better of his self-control, his eyes sweeping the assembled company in a way that made them cower before him.
“My—my lord!” Donovan, trying vainly to restore some semblance of order to his person, was hurrying toward him. Mrs. Donovan, chewing nervously on her lower lip, was right behind him. The other servants gratefully yielded to the pair’s seniority, looking very much as if they wished to become invisible. “We—we didn’t expect you, my lord!”
“Obviously.”
“My lord, we—I… ” Donovan was stuttering as he tried to find a way to explain the unexplainable. Justin ruthlessly interrupted his faltering efforts.
“I require a bath in my chamber within ten minutes,” he told his perspiring butler in a tone that boded ill for everyone. “And something in the way of dinner precisely twenty minutes after that.” His
eyes moved beyond Donovan to fix on his unhappy-looking wife.
“As for the other,” Justin’s gaze flashed to the rest of the group. “I will have something to say to you—all of you!—tomorrow. For now, you will go about your business!”
“Yes, my lord,” Donovan murmured unhappily. Justin did not wait to hear more. Instead, he turned on his heel and strode from the room.
The bath materialized with amazing speed, considering that he was in Ireland. Donovan, looking suitably abashed, carried the buckets of steaming water himself. (Doubtless the other servants were quaking in their boots, afraid to face him.) While the porcelain hip-bath was being filled, Justin divested himself of his wet clothes, then sat down on the edge of the enormous four-poster bed that had cradled the Earls of Weston for generations.
“Give me a hand with these, if you please,” he said to Donovan, indicating his boots. Donovan nearly tripped over a footstool in his eagerness to obey.
“Manning isn’t with you, my lord?” the butler ventured.
Justin eyed him. “No,” he answered shortly, and thrust out a booted foot. Donovan didn’t blink an eye at the shortness of his master’s tone. Straddling the proffered leg and grasping the boot with both hands, he willingly presented his ample backside for Justin to push against with his other foot. Justin did, but the boot was wet and it was quite a while longer before
it came free. When finally the process was complete, Donovan ventured to reopen the conversation.
“My lord!” he began impressively, looking back over his shoulder at Justin, whose eyes were glinting in a manner not calculated to encourage any confidences. “My lord, I should like to explain.”
“Is there an explanation, Donovan? I should be pleased to think so.”
“Oh, aye, my lord, that there is! You see, it being Missy’s birthday and all… ”
“Missy’s birthday?” Justin echoed, not impressed with this argument. “Who’s Missy? One of the kitchen maids?”
Donovan looked around at him again, surprise written all over his face. “Oh, no, my lord! Miss Megan! Your ward,” he added in scandalized accents, as if Justin could possibly have forgotten the girl’s existence. “We were wishful to celebrate her birthday! It isn’t every day that a body has one, you know, my lord. Poor little soul, without no mother or papa to care! Not that you don’t, my lord,” Donovan added hastily, darting a look at Justin. “But with you being a gentleman and all, and busy, it is understandable that you don’t make much fuss over birthdays and such!”
Justin eyed his agitated butler coldly. “For your information, Donovan, my ward, Miss Megan, received a very handsome present from me on the occasion of her birthday—which was some three months ago. If she told you
today
was her birthday, then you have been hoodwinked.”
Donovan was looking wide-eyed. “You don’t say, my lord! Why… ”
“Yes, Donovan, I
do
say, and I promise you I shall have plenty to say to Miss Megan on that subject—and several others—later. Now, I would appreciate it if you would light the fire, see to my things, and leave me in peace. Oh, and bring up whatever food Mrs. Donovan has prepared. I’m famished! You and I will discuss this entire matter at greater length in the morning.” Justin added this last as Donovan began to look relieved at his master’s comparatively mild tone. In truth, Justin was prepared to overlook the whole incident, now that it had been explained. But it would not do to let the servants know that too soon. The secret of managing a household in which one dwelt for perhaps two weeks out of every year was to inspire a kind of fear—no, call it awe—in the staff.
“Yes, my lord!” Donovan said glumly, kneeling to light the fire. Justin sighed, wishing himself at home in London. In Ireland, nothing worked as it was supposed to! Donovan was coughing, trying frantically to get the fire going. It smoked. Justin sighed again and told the man to open one of the long windows despite the wetness of the night. Better to catch a chill than to suffocate. Donovan took himself off at last. Justin got into the tub.
The hot water felt immeasurably good as he sank down into it. Justin relaxed against the rolled lip of the tub, conscious of the first feeling of comfort he had experienced all day. The tub was far too small for
his large frame, and his knees were drawn up almost to his chest, but the warm water lapping around his legs and belly more than made up for this minor failing. He picked up the soap, carelessly lathering his arms and chest. A sudden, irresistible picture of the faces of the discovered revelers flashed before him. To his own surprise, he grinned. The whole episode was really rather funny—or at least it would have been if not for the wanton display of limbs with which his ward had entertained the company. That a lady of his family could disport herself so! Shocking! And if it were to become known, there would be no end of scandal. It was time his ward was broken to bridle. She had been allowed to run wild for too long. She must learn that his hands held the reins.
Of course, the servants had no business carrying on in such a fashion in his house, but it wasn’t their fault, not really. Ordinarily, it never would have occurred to them to behave in such a way. Oh, no, his little witch of a ward had cozened them into it, and it was she who must bear the full weight of his wrath.
When he joined her in the library, as he would do presently, he was much inclined to dispense with talking altogether and lay his riding crop about her backside. Perhaps that was what she needed to make her behave as a lady should.