I Adored a Lord (2 page)

 

Chapter 2

The Kiss

10 February 1818

Combe Park

Dear Sir Beverley,

I have received a letter from Mr. Pettigrew that gives me great sorrow. He writes that Beast is gone and my sister stricken. While I have begged her to come to Combe, she does not respond. I know you will agree that a change would be best. And so I have a proposition for you. I have learned through my husband's dear friend, Reiner of Sensaire, that Prince Sebastiao of Portugal will gather a party in France next month. Will you escort Ravenna to this party? There will be a castle and a great many horses and other creatures, I have no doubt, which might give her some measure of consolation. I have already secured invitations to the party for you, her, and Mr. Pettigrew. I beg you to accept.

With my fondest wishes &c.,

Arabella Lycombe

From behind the mullioned window of a turret above the forecourt of Chateau Chevriot, Ravenna peered down onto the drive, pebbled and crisply gray as a drive in the midst of winter would inevitably be. A man garbed in a coat of military style with tasseled gold epaulets and plentiful medals of honor stood directly beneath her. A young man, Prince Sebastiao possessed a long nose, reddened eyes, and an aspect of begrudging dissipation. He had been educated in England during the war and spoke English as well as any spoiled young wealthy Englishman, and apparently behaved as poorly as any of them as well. That a member of the Portuguese royal family—­albeit a lesser branch—­considered a medieval fortress situated in a mountain crevice an appropriate venue for a party in a season far too early to comfortably be called spring caused Ravenna no little wonder.

“Despicably wealthy ­people do anything they like at any season they like, my dear,” Petti said. “Delightful to be friends with them, I say.”

Prince Sebastiao's other delighted friends had been arriving all day in carriages marked with mud and dust from long travel yet still fantastically elegant. The parade of mobile wealth had Ravenna's nose pressed to the window in the sort of horrified fascination one has for one's own execution.

“Who is that?” She poked a finger against the window. Sir Beverley stood beside her. No one below had yet noticed them spying, and she thought that her former employers must know everyone in Europe.

“The Earl of Whitebarrow,” he said. “Ancient title, and the family is very wealthy.”

“Hm.” Beyond the guests and past the forecourt, the prospect of the mountain ascended sublimely. As she had walked along the river that morning, winter birds fluttered about bushes, a pair of hawks circled above, and two dozen deer ambled up into the spruce and pines that climbed to the mountain's peak. This collection of fashionable ­people being disgorged from carriages seemed entirely out of place here.

“Are those his daughters?”

“Ladies Grace and Penelope.”

“Twins.” Dressed in pristine velvet cloaks, their hands encased in white fur muffs, the two sylphlike blondes turned porcelain faces toward another guest: a young lady who stood alone by a traveling carriage as though she'd been forgotten there. Mousy and trussed to her neck in a long pelisse with not one or two but three rows of furbelows, she stared at the drive with round eyes. Nearby, a pear-­shaped matron with similarly ruffled garments chatted gaily with another lady.

Studying the mouse, one of the Whitebarrow blondes lifted her brow. She and her sister shared words, and their lips curled.

Ravenna's throat prickled. She should not have come. But when the invitation to the prince's party had arrived weeks ago, Petti insisted he always wanted to visit the French mountains. As he simply must bring Caesar, Georgiana, and Mrs. Keen on the journey (the other pugs preferring to remain at home), she must allow them a few more months of her company before she left them entirely for her sister's ducal home. When she objected to the distance, he had patted her on the hand and said he understood that it was difficult for her to even come indoors some evenings and leave Beast in the dark by himself beneath that old oak tree.Her old friend, Petti said, would be as well in her absence in France as when she removed to Combe; he was beyond hurt now.

But that was not the truth of it. Beast had loved the shade of that oak and the field around it bursting with wildflowers. It was she who could not bear being indoors without him.

Now she studied the mouse alone and forgotten on the drive. “Who is that girl?”

“Miss Ann Feathers. Her father, Sir Henry, has made a fortune in breeding Thoroughbreds. Prince Sebastiao's father, Raynaldo, breeds Andalusians. He won't be attending the party, but the prince is to negotiate a joint venture in his stead.”

“And that lady?” A girl of exquisitely delicate ivory-­and-­ebony beauty walked upon the arm of a young gentleman toward the front door.

“Mademoiselle Arielle Dijon. She is daughter of the famed French general Dijon, who saved his troops from utter decimation in 1812 when the Cossacks scorched the earth. He was disenchanted with Napoleon after that fiasco—­”

“Understandably,” Petti interjected. An hour earlier he had ensconced himself in a cushioned chair and commenced snoring. Three soft, chubby pugs at his feet snored as well.

“After the treaty he left the army,” Sir Beverley continued. “He took his family to America. Philadelphia, I believe.”

A tiny white dog peeked out from Mademoiselle Dijon's cloak, and she stroked its brow with great tenderness.

“I like her already,” Ravenna said.

Another girl, tall, with fiery locks neatly contained by her bonnet, descended from the last carriage. She was astoundingly beautiful, with an air of barely contained energy and bright, seeking eyes. A gentleman dismounting nearby moved to her side, drawing off his hat and offering her a deep bow.

“That is Lady Iona, who has come with her widowed mother, Duchess McCall,” Sir Beverley murmured. “She's come a long way to woo a prince.”

“To woo a prince?”

Petti chuckled.

Ravenna swung around to peer at him. “To woo a prince?” she repeated.

“You didn't tell her, Bev?” His cloverleaf eyes twinkled.

“Tell me what?”

“This party, my dear,” Petti said cheerily, “is not an idle holiday in the mountains.”

She looked between them. “Then what is it?”

“Prince Sebastiao seeks a bride,” Sir Beverley replied.

“A bride-­hunting party, my dear!” Petti concurred. “Isn't it marvelous?”

It required few moments for Ravenna to understand.

“You know about the fortune-­teller?” she uttered with dark disapproval.

“What fortune-­teller?” Petti stroked a pug's rippled neck.

“The Gypsy fortune-­teller who told Arabella that one of us must marry a prince or we would never know who our real parents are. She did tell you, didn't she?”

“You told us yourself,” Sir Beverley said. “Years ago.”

“Then I must have told you in the hopes of making you split your seams with laughter. And now you have both betrayed me.”

“Perhaps you are overstating it,” Sir Beverley said with a hint of a smile.

“Your sister wished to put you in the way of a prince, dear girl. We merely agreed to help.”

Ravenna could say nothing. Arabella had married a duke but remained determined to find the parents they had lost decades ago.

Her gaze darted to the door, then to the window, to the drive and the trees and mountain beyond.

“Oh!” she said, snapping her attention to Sir Beverley. “I'm afraid all your matchmaking plans are for naught. You see, in order to wed a prince I need—­”

“This?” Sir Beverley produced from his pocket a thick man's ring of gold and ruby.

Ravenna stepped back. “She gave that to you?”

“To give to you.” Sir Beverley cupped her hand in his and pressed the ring into her palm. It was heavy and warm as it always had been, even on that day Arabella took it to a fortune-­teller and heard the prophecy—­that one of them would wed a prince and upon that day discover the mystery of their past. This ring was the key to it all.

But Ravenna didn't care about the mystery of their past. An infant when her mother abandoned them, she had never cared. Finding the prince had been Arabella's dream. But now Arabella was wife to a duke. Ravenna had no doubt as to why Arabella had not bestowed the dubious honor of prince catching upon their elder sister, Eleanor. They never spoke of it, but they both knew the true reason Eleanor had not yet married, and it was not her devotion to Papa.

“Do cease fretting, my dear,” Petti said comfortably. “A lady in your sister's delicate condition must be humored.”

“I am not fretting.” Ravenna dropped the ring into her pocket. It made a hard bump against her thigh. “I gather that all these girls—­ladies of enormous beauty, wealth, and status, and every one of them years younger than me—­they are all to be my
competition
for the prince's favor?”

“It does seem a shame any of them bothered making the journey here.” Petti winked.

“Lady Iona McCall is one-­and-­twenty,” Sir Beverley said. “Only two years your junior.”

“You are both batty as belfries. And my sister too.” She turned to the window and stared down at the beautiful, wealthy ­people below. “I do not wish to marry a prince, of course.” Or anybody. “Who is that very handsome man taking Lady Iona's arm?”

“Lord Case, heir to Marquess Airedale,” Sir Beverley said. “I've no idea why he is here. He hasn't a sister, only a brother no one has seen in years.”

“Perhaps Lord Case is looking for a bride too and has heard this is the place to come for one,” she said. “No wonder his brother plays least-­in-­sight, with a sibling of such wise forethought.”

“You are still an impertinent girl.” Sir Beverley said with a crinkle of his eyes, then returned his attention to the drive below. “Very handsome, you say?”

“Fancy yourself a noblesse, my dear?” Petti said.

“About as much as I fancy myself a princess.” She went toward the door. “Now that all the potential brides are here, when does this party begin in earnest? And do you think there is yet time for me to have the carriage readied for an escape before the snow?”

T
HAT NIGHT IN
a bed made with the softest linens and brocaded silk the likes of which she had only ever touched in Arabella's new ducal home, Ravenna lay on her back, aching inside. In two months she had not yet become accustomed to the empty place by her side. No hard spine pressed against her hip, forcing her to the edge of the mattress. No harrumphing half yawns woke her from dreams. No warm breath stirred her to wake in the morning and set off across the park while the sun rose over the hills. Beast would love the softness of this bed. The ropes were so well tied it didn't squeak when mounted.

She squeezed her eyes shut and wanted warmth and a body beside hers to hold.

The stables beckoned. Buttoning herself into an old gown that wouldn't shame Petti too much if anybody else saw her now, she made her way from her bedchamber.

On the exterior, Chevriot imposed, an elegant mass of gray-­brown limestone surrounded by an uncompromising wall, with heavy towers and unadorned roofs. But inside the chateau, luxury reigned. Thick rugs running the length of the corridors swallowed the patter of Ravenna's footsteps. Her lamplight danced over a footman sitting on a chair at the head of the grand staircase, who nodded as she passed.

Slipping into the servants' stair through a door hidden in the wall, she descended to the kitchen and followed a thread of frozen air to the door to the kitchen yard. The night smelled of snow, clean and sharp. Throughout the afternoon she had watched the clouds gather in gray-­white folds upon the nearest peak. It would come by morning, then she would be good and well trapped.

She let herself out of the yard through the gate and followed the cemetery wall along the edge of the forecourt to the carriage house, then to the stable.

Within the stable, all was cold and still. A single lantern lit the central corridor and her feet padded silently along the clean-­swept floor. Blooded beasts slumbered in stalls to either side, like in Sir Beverley's stables, like at home, Shelton Grange, where she and Beast had played and worked. Where he would remain forever. Where she did not belong now because her beautiful, courageous sister had married a duke.

A tear dashed upon her cheek like a tiny scalding slap. Another followed. A third caught on the corner of her mouth. A lone brown cat stared at her from a shadow, condemnation in its glowing eyes. Ravenna shoved the back of her hand across her jaw.

A noise arose from a stall ahead—­soft, squeaky, sharp then long, desperate then miserable and weary. The cat slunk away. Ravenna smiled. Nothing else in the world sounded like puppies.

She followed the sound to a room not meant for horses but equipment. Upon the near wall hung a pitchfork, an axe, and a shovel, with a bucket and brushes arranged neatly on a bench. Straw layered the floor thickly, with the pups in the corner. Someone had made a temporary home for them.