Chapter 10

10

T he gatehouse had intrigued him since childhood. One of Orin's earliest memories was of his beloved mother bringing him here. Why, he didn't recall. Something about the particular species of roses that grew in the walled garden but refused to bloom in the more formal gardens of the castle or elsewhere.

Later it had been his and Maryn's trysting place in the most innocent of ways. The abandoned haunt had become a stage, the setting Verona, Italy, and the two of them Romeo and Juliet, first reading their parts, then memorizing them. Sometimes she would leave him letters in the garden's stone wall.

But he wouldn't tell Charis that.

"Look!" she exclaimed as they walked around the high wall to the gatehouse's noble exterior. In front was the dusty road to Duns. "Have you ever seen such blooms? Nearly the size of dinner plates and the scent is divine … "

Fragrant blush roses framed a white wooden doorway, begging a gardener's pruning. Moss and ivy grew in green profusion across the gray stone, covering the arched windows. Orin took out the key the laird had given him. The door shuddered and groaned from years of disuse as he pushed it open and they passed beneath the lintel. He left it ajar for fresh air.

"I didn't realize the place was so bare." Charis began to move about the entrance hall, a miniature of Wedderburn Castle with its tiled foyer and tapestries. The stairway's banister was whitened with dust, light from a transom window pouring in and exposing every crack and crevice.

"How many rooms did Father say were here?" she asked him.

"Parlor. Dining room. Study. Two bedchambers. Kitchen and larder."

Carpets a century old still retained their vivid hues since few feet had trod them. Spiderwebs glinted in the low beams brushing Orin's head. He waved his cocked hat to dispel them, gaze resting on the painting over the mantel. The first earl of Wedderburn stared back at him, a forbidding figure in medieval attire. Those hawkish eyes seemed to follow them as painted subjects often did, chilling his overly imaginative mind.

"Perhaps your muse could meet you here," Charis said, examining a desk below the largest window. "You may feel more a guest at the castle but this gatehouse could be yours entirely. Nary a servant to intrude on your solitude unless needed. And if you crave company you could continue to take your meals with us."

How inviting she made it sound. His gaze traveled to the maddeningly bare bookshelves framing the parlor fireplace. Had the former occupant not been a reader? "An agreeable proposition."

"There's plenty of furnishings in storage to choose from. You could even move your favorites from Hume House in London. But first, a thorough cleaning is in order."

They went upstairs, the views expansive. He wondered how the light would fall at dawn and dusk, the most hallowed times of days. By the time they passed out the back door into the walled garden his decision had been made.

Charis pulled a watch from her pocket. "I promised Mama I'd return for tea."

"Go ahead then. I'll tarry a few minutes more."

Color and scent overwhelmed him. Someone had kept the garden free of weeds, at least. Flowers were everywhere. Alone, he sat upon the bench where he'd once stood, spouting lines and trying not to laugh.

For never was a story of more woethan this of Juliet and her Romeo.

Unless it was Lady Maryn and Orin Hume.

As for her ladyship, Maryn had preferred to stay on the ground or circle the fountain in sun, rain, or snow. His gaze swung to the font in question. Had it broken? Its basin held wind-whipped leaves and flower petals but little water. Directly in back of it was that unique niche in the wall—

Dinna look, man.

The caution lasted a trice then look he did. It was impossible to ignore that part of the wall with the heart carved in stone near the rear gate. It allowed for someone to slip inside and leave a letter in the wall's crevice. To his knowledge, only he and Maryn had ever used it. A tug of curiosity and sentiment pulled him closer. She'd never responded to any of his letters after the accident. Unless …

He walked the garden's perimeter, past heirloom flowers he had no name for, daring to hope. Daring to believe after all this time and all this weather a piece of paper might be waiting, sealed with the wax he remembered. Blue wax bearing a rose. His hands felt the rough stone, fingers wedging themselves inside the slight opening. He steeled himself against the avalanche of disappointment.

The crevice was empty. Empty as his pulsing heart.

Orin found himself tolerating the season's opening ball. Partly because Lord Lovell had returned and he felt less adrift amid the sea of faces, unfamiliar and familiar. And partly because Charis seemed to be enjoying herself immensely.

Especially when playing matchmaker.

"Uncle, allow me to introduce Miss Ivory Lyon." The tap of Charis's fan on his arm claimed his full attention.

He gave a slight bow and faced the most flawless lass he'd ever seen as Charis continued, "Miss Lyon resides near the ruins of Hume Castle. She and her family are somewhat new to the Borders."

He met a pair of lively hazel eyes and wondered exactly where in the Borders. And when. He used to know all of Berwickshire.

"At Lyon Court," the lass in question said with an equally flawless smile. "Perhaps you've heard of it or if not would like to make its acquaintance." Her words were low and sultry. Inviting.

He searched for some flaw—something to say—and came up empty.

"Being accomplished equestrians, you two might well meet out riding on the Merse," Charis said in his stead.

Beyond Charis's shoulder the laird was looking on—and looking amused. Was he privy to his daughter's schemes?

"May I have the pleasure of a dance?" Orin asked as the music began.

Both Charis and Miss Lyon seemed pleased. He'd shunned the opening minuet in favor of a longways dance he could step in his sleep. Outside of etiquette-heavy London and the Court, he enjoyed dancing. Scottish ballrooms were more earthy than elevated.

Miss Lyon obliged, earning the obvious admiration of many an onlooker in the room. She danced flawlessly too and she was even wearing his favorite shade of blue. His initial reserve began to thaw just as perspiration dampened his lip. Miss Lyon did not perspire one whit, nor did she seem winded after several sets.

"Are you at Wedderburn Castle for long, Mr. Hume?" she asked as they partnered again.

"For the season," he replied.

"Your niece told me you've taken up residence in the gatehouse. A charming structure."

"I prefer it to the city."

"Country life suits us both, then."

They circled and faced outwards, finally stepping back to each other as a dozen couples swirled on both sides of them. For a moment, he forgot them all.

"You're at home near Hume Castle then," he said.

"For the past two years, yes. Mother's health is delicate and so Father moved us from Glasgow in hopes the country air might revive her. We have Berwick kinfolk. The Kerrs."

A longstanding Lowland clan. Well respected land owners and the like.

"I am a great devotee of your poetry." She smiled up at him and he realized she barely came to his shoulder. "I dabble a wee bit, though I'm quite willing to become a student of yours."

He said nothing, adjusting to the fact he was suddenly being pursued. More than one London miss vied for his affections over the years but he'd grown especially adept at remaining guarded. Politely aloof. Something told him that between Charis and Miss Lyon he was going to be less successful in future.

He met her eyes. "You subscribe to Tatler , I take it."

" The Female Spectator, too, as well as The Scots Magazine . But I'm most partial to The Queen Bee Chronicles: A Georgian Gazette for Elegance and Enlightenment. "

A well-read lass, then? "I've not heard of the latter."

"Oh? 'Tis fairly new and all the rage among the literary set, at least the ladies. The founder is rumored to be a Scotswoman."

A Scotswoman with considerable financial resources, he didn't say as they sought the punch bowl. Founding a magazine was a lofty literary achievement, especially for a female. As a poet with no annual stipend from the Crown and the last son of an earl, he'd never realized that ambition. Not yet.

"Nae doubt the mystery of its founder lends to wider circulation," he jested.

"You sound rather jaded, sir." She laughed. "Or are you jealous?"

"Mayhap both," he admitted with a smile. "Often periodicals are short lived but I wish it every success if only for your enjoyment."

She extended a lace fan and waved it about in the heated air. "Your niece is having a splendid debut. When is the following function?"

"Dunhaven Keep hosts a fête Saturday next."

"Then we shall meet again," she said, looking up at him, intention in her gaze.