Gwen played with her cane. “That might be yet what the child needs. She’s never been suitably courted. A kiss goes quite a way to tell how a man might perform his marital duties. Will he sweep her off her feet? Bore her with a chaste and brotherly kiss? Or slobber over her like some odious hound?”
Again, the poor footman outside was choking, and this time it was so distracting that Gwen stood.
“You there, footman. Come in here and have a cup of tea before you perish.” Gwen turned to Lady Devon. “That’s all right with you, isn’t it? The poor man’s face is bright red, and I do believe he needs it.”
Lady Devon turned to look over her shoulder toward the doorway. “Adrian, do come in and have some tea if you need it.”
The footman, Adrian, slipped back into the room, red-faced and still coughing as he hastily collected his drink and tried to dash back into the hall, but Gwen was too fast. She thrust her cane out, rapping at his chest and bringing him to a halt.
“See, this is what I’m looking for, Marrian. A lovely, handsome young buck, but a respectful and polite one.”
“But not a footman, surely,” Lady Devon said with a chuckle. “Though I must admit, Adrian is rather dashing, isn’t he? Oh, do forgive us, Adrian. We ladies are most rude, aren’t we? Speaking of your gender as if you were horseflesh. Please take your tea and return to your post. If Mr. Reeves gets on you, I shall have a word with him.”
With a bashful glance at the three ladies, the handsome footman vanished into the hall. Venetia watched him go and was still staring at his shadow outside as her grandmother coughed politely to get her attention.
“So, you do have a type of man after all,” Gwen mused, giving a smile that meant trouble for Venetia. “Dark hair and fine eyes? Well, I shall make a note of that, my dear. You shall have only the best.” Gwen walked back to her couch and sat down with a smugness that ordinarily would have left Venetia giggling. But the current situation was too dire to find even a tiny bit of this amusing.
“So, Marrian, tell us who we can expect to arrive this evening.”
Venetia rose and made her apologies to Lady Devon and Gran before excusing herself from the room. The footman was gone and the hall was empty. That was a small relief. She wasn’t sure she could face him after her grandmother’s inappropriate comments.
She wandered through the house until she found a pair of terrace doors that led outside. She took in the fresh air with relief and walked toward the distant gardens. Only then did she have a moment to enjoy Hartland Abbey. It reminded her of her beloved family’s country home, Latham House, the one Patrick had so callously sold only a month after her father had been laid to rest.
Hartland was a vision from a dream. Bathed in sunlight, the house hovered at the end of a golden autumn glade, its architecture frozen in time, the trees casting long, glorious shadows upon the well-tended lawns. The scent of fruit hung heavy in the air, and distant orchards at the far end of the garden lured visitors with their sweetness. The flowers along the walking path were drenched with a heavy dew that only now was starting to fade. Venetia adored life in a country house. This quiet world was full of golden joys, and moonlit winters were eternally present. Life and its inherent stresses were happily avoided here.
Turning down another path, she wandered out into a field to admire the vista. With an impulsive shriek of delight, she lifted her skirts and sprinted down the hill. She reached the bottom in just a few minutes and laughed with silly delight as she spun in circles and then collapsed on the ground to stare up at the clouds.
She must have dozed off in that sunny meadow because she woke to the prickling of wet, cold rain upon her face. She bolted upright and noted, with no small amount of shock, the rolling waves of rain rising up from the distant valley toward her.
She scrambled to her feet and started to run. She had made it halfway up the hill when the rain struck, and the once welcoming hillside turned treacherously slick. She slipped, scrabbling against the steep hill, and cried out as her ankle turned sharply. She felt a horrifying pop. She collapsed, her mind blank with numbing pain. She had no breath to even scream.
She rolled over onto her back, every muscle now seized with violent pain. Her mouth stretched in a silent scream until she lay shivering hard enough to rattle her teeth. All she could think about was the pain in her ankle. She could not stand, and she could not walk in the rain, which was now falling in heavy torrential waves across the field.
3
“Is there a reason you are drinking from one of Her Grace’s teacups?” Mr. Reeves’s disapproving tone jolted Adrian from his thoughts. He hastily lowered the teacup.
“I . . . I had a coughing fit, Mr. Reeves. Her Grace invited me to drink so that it might relieve it.”
Mr. Reeves raised a dark brow, his hazel eyes quite severe and his expression most stern. “I suggest you take that down to the kitchen at once and have it washed. Then have Mrs. Webster make you tea in a more appropriate cup.”
“Yes, sir.” Adrian left his position outside the drawing room, but Mr. Reeves’s admonishment was already forgotten. He was lost in dreams of that lovely young woman. He hadn’t been able to avoid overhearing the duchess and her guests’ conversation. The older woman, the Dowager Countess of Latham, was quite a firebrand. He liked spirit in a woman of any age, and humor even more. It was why he had choked on his own stifled laughter when she had been discussing her criteria in a man suitable for her granddaughter.
Adrian would have loved to be the man for Lady Venetia. She was exquisite. There were others who could be considered more beautiful, perhaps, but there was a kindness in Lady Venetia’s face and a genuineness about her that was appealing. She was shy, it seemed, yet openhearted. She was easy to read and yet not simpleminded as some ladies could be.
Not that he had any right to think of Lady Venetia in such a way. She was the daughter of an earl, a finely bred gentlewoman. No matter what he wanted, Lady Venetia could give nothing to him, not her heart, and not her body. She shone bright like a winter star. Brilliant, beautiful, and very much out of reach.
Adrian sank into a chair at the servants’ table near the kitchen in the basement of the house. He still held Lady Devon’s dainty white-and-blue china teacup. Lord William’s valet, Phillip Webster, was seated across from him, a polishing cloth in one hand and a boot in the other.
“Adrian, are you all right?” Phillip asked.
“What? Oh yes, I’m all right.”
Phillip grinned. “Having tea with Her Grace?” He nodded at the cup.
“No,” he chuckled. “But Mr. Reeves thought so. I’ll be paying for that, I’m sure.”
“He’ll make you polish the silver teapots again,” Phillip guessed.
“Probably.” Adrian laughed and then winced. The elaborate silver teapots were hard to polish because of the intricate metalwork that allowed the tarnish to set in deeply. Any servant who had been on Mr. Reeves’s bad side was often relegated to this task as punishment.
“Is your mother ready for the party this week?” Adrian asked the valet.
“Oh yes, I think so. She’s been gushing over her planned menus with Lady Devon and Mrs. Miller for the last two days. The upstairs crowd will be dining well, that’s for certain.”