Authors: Beth Trissel
“There he is.” Mrs. Hensley spoke with whispery reverence. S
he gestured at the full-length portrait on
the wall across from the bed.
“Pai
nted shortly before his death.
His father, Charles Wentworth, was married to Lady Pembrook, t
he daughter of a British Earl.
And Mr. Cole looks a true nobleman, doesn’t he?”
Julia halted.
His presence was a soft breath on her neck that warmed and
chilled her at the same time.
The current running through her doubled tenfold as
she looked up at the young man
and his gaze projected eerily back as if he knew she were there.
The artist had captured the intensity in Cole’s dark brown eyes allowing the
force of his
personality to shine through.
His smooth forehead, slightly long nose, and clean-shaven chin balanced
the three elements perfectly.
He even had a small cleft in his chin as she’d imagined a nobleman would and his mouth was captivating, full, yet not too full.
Wavy chestnut hair met the white cravat circling his neck and made her w
ant to reach out and touch it.
She felt like a schoolgirl sighing at the poster of a film star, only th
is was so much more than that.
Her awe at the house paled in comparison to the wonder rising in her as she ran her eyes down the length of the masterful portrait.
She couldn’t be certain of Cole’s height, but he appeared tall standing beside a splendid thoroughbred, his stunning figure clothed in an elegant scarlet coat fitted across his broad shoulders and cut
away in front to reveal creamy
white breeches molde
d to his thighs and long legs.
He held a plaited leather whip with a crooked handle of carved ivory or bone like a stag’s horn and the
thong looped in his left hand.
The reins were casually circled around the tapered fingers of his right.
Maybe it was the sheltered life Julia had led, but it seemed to her that Cole embodied everything a man should.
“I see his appeal’s not lost on you,” her companion said.
She’d nearly
forgotten the woman was there. “No.
Cole
Wentworth is––was––remarkable.
What do you know of him?”
“He was passionate about horses and unbeatab
le in a race.”
Mrs. Hensley nodded her capped head at several smaller gilt frames displaying portraits of hunting dogs and horses so beautifull
y done they appeared lifelike.
“He
was a gifted artist, as well.
We have other paintings by him in the house, but most
are
here, where he was killed.
Tragic.”
A cold finger laid its icy touch on Julia and ran
down the length of her spine.
“How did it happen?”
“He’s said to have been run through by the very man who made that m
ark on the door.
A Mr. Cameron.
Scott
ish fellow he was, back in...”
Mrs. Hensley
pursed her
thin lips, blue eyes distant. “Ah, yes, 1806.
Some fuss over a woman.”
“How dreadful.
What about Mr. Cameron?”
“The fr
iend of a neighbor, I believe.
H
e escaped and was never found.
No justice was ever done in the matter.”
Julia hesitated, then asked, “And the woman?”
“Heartbroken, poor thing. She returned to England.
She was a guest of the Wentworth family
and greatly enamored of Cole. All the young ladies were.
But he had a particular fascination with this girl.”
“Why was she so special?”
“Ap
art from her legendary beauty?
She had
an angelic quality about her.
Or so the story goes.”
An irrational jealousy tw
anged a jarring note in Julia.
In the space of a few short minutes she’d fallen in love with the man in the portrait––typical of her impractical nature and unlikely to adva
nce her nonexistent love life.
And yet, she couldn’t help plunging into this sweet madness.
She to
re her eyes from the portrait.
“Do you recall the lady’s name?”
Mrs
. Hensley gave a little laugh.
She tapped a finger to her furrow
ed forehead.
“Isn’t that odd?
It was Julia something...
hmmmm
.”
Was Mrs. Hensley teasing her?
She had to know.
“I’ve got it.
Ju
lia Maury.
”
The guide
arched graying brows.
“You’re from
Eng
land, aren’t you, Miss Morrow? Tread with care here, my girl.
We don’t wa
nt you stirring up any ghosts.
Foxleigh has enough already.”
“No.” Julia reached
out to
the dresser to steady herself.
Without meaning to, she suspected she’d already stirred up some force beyond her understanding.
A man spoke from the hall. “Charlotte, I need to ta
lk to you about the new staff.
Ah––I see she’s arrived.”
Julia startled at the low, uncannily familiar voice and whirled around to find
none other than
Cole Wentworth poised in the doorway.
Her jaw dro
pped and she stared up at him.
He was tall, al
l right, easily over six feet.
The rational part of her knew this couldn’t possibly be Cole, but dear Lord, they were much alike, down to the small cleft in his chin...though the expression in his dark
eyes was far less impassioned.
He even appeared to be the same age as Cole in the portrait, in his late twenties.
She’d had l
ittle experience with sensuality. S
trict education at home under tutors and her eccentric p
rofessor father had seen to that.
S
he hadn’t chafed under the restrictions as another
girl
would’ve done
, though
. Something more, a sense of waiting, as if she inhere
ntly knew the right man
was
out there
somewhere
,
had
enab
led her to
bide her time. N
ow,
a
ll of
that was at an end.
H
e
re he
s
tood
. Every latent sense within her awakened in a swelling rush
.
But he couldn’t be real.
Mrs. Hensley chuckled
.
“He’
s not the ghost.
Julia Morrow, meet William Wentworth, former attorney in Richmond, now manager of Foxleigh.”
His
name struck a familiar chord
as
Julia stood gaping at her new employer, not at all the i
mpression she’d hoped to make.
His thick wavy hair was shorter than that of the figure in the p
ortrait and the hunting costume
replaced by
a burgundy shirt and Levis stretch
ed across his muscular thighs.
Instead of mahogany topped riding boots, he wore brown leather shoes.
He looked at her with
a sardonic glint in his eyes.
“I trust you don’t intend a repeat of this performance each time we meet,
Miss Morrow?
It’s flatt
ering, but somewhat unnerving.
You’ll frighten the life from our visitors.”
Julia shook her head
to break the
spell
she’d fallen under
.
This most certainly w
asn’t the man in the painting.
But, oh, h
ow dearly she wished he were, u
nreasonable, as that might be.
And she wondered, was he anything like
his achingly handsome ancestor?
If so, her heart was in a great deal of trouble.
Will took pains to conceal the
sudden hammering in his chest.
Julia Morrow
was a rare beauty, but she stared
enough for them both, her head til
ted back, eyes riveted on him.
Innate reserve kept his sharpened awareness of her in check.
He doubted she was
a day ov
er twenty
-two
and
showed her youth in more wa
ys than one.
It wasn’t only the
girlishly sweet face
that betrayed her age
, an inner purity sh
one in her vibrant green eyes.
If
the
beguiling
scent
of roses clinging to her
didn’t do him in, th
at mass of coppery hair would.
It fell over her bare shoulders and down across a scant sundress revealing a slender but nicely curved figure
and long shapely legs.
Now, why was it
her desirable femininity irritate
d the hell out of him?
H
e supposed
because he was weary of comparisons to his illustrious ancestor
,
and their similarities surely accounted for her fixation on him now.
Will sensed another reason deep down; the sight of her wrenched him back to a forgotten pla
ce he had no desire to recall.
The past was a weighty burden, riddled with pain––the early death of his par
ents
and some troubling darkness he couldn’t put hi
s
finger on and didn’t care to.
Nothing, and no one, would entice him back to that shadowed realm.
“
Please follow me, Miss Morrow.
There’s nothin
g for you in here.” He turned away and
strode out the door
.
Her heels clicked over the floor behind him.
“Yes, Captain Wentworth.”
He caught himself short of stumbling, not s
ure what to react to first, her
musical accent, or the fact
that she’d called him Captain.
A legion of Captain
Wentworths
had gone before him, including Cole
.
But h
ow had she known that?
He paused and her
soft
warmth brushed his back, sending a
rousing charge down his spine.
He steadied his voice and struggled to maintain a sar
castic edge, his best defense.
“It
’s Mr., or Sir, if you prefer.
I suppose I’ve some claim on being lord of the
manor, but I’m not a Captain.
At least, not anymore.”
“That’s so, my lord,” Charlotte Hensley quipped, waddling ahead of them as they reentered the great hall.
Charlotte seemed unaccountably refreshed for one nearly pr
ostrate earlier from the heat.
Julia’s coming must have revived her.
Julia stepped to Will’s side.
He str
ove to keep his eyes from her. What was it with this girl?
He’d never felt himself succumbing so quickly––or strongly––to any woman.
Charlotte
glanced over a well-padded shoulder
.
Her percep
tive gaze passed between them.
“I’m off home now, William, unless you need me?”
Desperately. As a buffer.
He s
hook his head. “No thank you.
I’ll finish showing Miss Morrow around and see her settled in
her quarters.
You and Jon go on to the Historical Society banquet without me.”
“You ought to accept the award,” Charlotte argued.
“Accept
it
for me, please.
You know I despise these drawn out affairs. Besides, you two have had quite a hand in Foxleigh’
s restoration.
The Queen Mother and I are grateful,” he said, using the term he’d adopted for his high-handed grandmother.
C
harlotte cocked an eye at him.
“Think Mrs. Wentworth will pay Foxleigh one of her royal visits anytime soon?”
“She rarely leaves the retirement home these days, but I don’t doubt she’ll turn u
p here, demanding perfection.”
A state Will wasn’t feeling equal to just now.