Chapter 2

Lord Winter didn’t presenthimself for breakfast the next morning. Most likely, the baron’s aching head would be painful but tiny in comparison to his embarrassment over the outpouring of emotion the night before. With any luck, the older man would spend all afternoon with his daughter and change his mind about leaving her at Cottingstone.

“Lord Winter has requested a breakfast tray in his chamber, milord.”

Giles glanced at his butler. “Did he give any indication of when he might put in an appearance, Dithers?”

“No, sir. His valet was particularly close-mouthed about his employer’s habits,” Dithers remarked sounding very pleased. “A lot of loyalty there.”

As the butler fussed with the breakfast dishes, Giles studied his servant. Tall, lean, impeccable in his dark tailored suit, Giles had no idea why he was lucky enough to retain Dithers’ services. Despite his experience as a superior butler, the man had accepted the country position without complaint, allowing another to rule over the London townhouse upon Giles’ accession to the title. But even after five years buried in the country, Dithers still looked out of place.

“Hmm. Well, nothing to be done until the baron is free. Then I’ll work on changing his mind.”

Dithers made another of those disapproving noises he favored, but Giles chose to ignore it. The longer the man worked for him, the poorer his adherence to the strictures of the master-servant roles. Given Dithers’ exceptional performance in all other areas, Giles chose not to chastise him for his slips. Avoidance made for comfortable living, after all.

He took another swallow of coffee and nearly spit it out. There was no greater ill than cold coffee. He pushed it aside. “Have you seen Atticus this morning?”

“I saw his tail and not much else,” Dithers replied. “He is with Miss Winter.”

Giles could understand if Atticus behaved this way because of another dog, but from what he could gather, Lillian Winter was barely conscious. Despite Giles’ considerable unease over her presence, he wondered what she was like.

He set aside his napkin. “What about the rest?”

“The rest of what, milord?”

Giles glanced at his butler. The man had to know curiosity over the woman he might have married if circumstances had been different was killing him. Did he have to spell it out? “What are the servants saying about Lord Winter and his daughter?”

“They’re happy with Lord Winter’s decision to leave her here.”

Giles’ breakfast flipped in his stomach. “Why?” Were they all mad?

Dithers’ face hinted at a smile. “They are relieved Miss Winter will remain behind in comfort when her father departs. They have no fear for her safety.”

Giles scowled. “Servants can be an overly opinionated nuisance.”

“Of course, milord, we can surely be a trial.” Dithers grinned. “Can I fetch you fresh coffee?”

Giles glanced into the half-empty cup. “Yes. But I’ll take it in my study.”

He left the smug butler behind and strolled along the hall, thinking about his uncomfortable situation. He did not want the awkwardness of having the woman who could have become his wife under his roof. It was embarrassing.

“Did ya see the nurse’s reaction to Atticus licking Miss Winter’s hand, Daisy?”

Giles stilled beside the staircase, listening to a maid gossiping on the upper floor.

“Thought she’d keel right over on the spot. And that nurse! What a foolish woman to climb onto the windowsill when Atticus came back. I wouldn’t count on her for comfort if I was feeling poorly.”

“Well, the dog did growl when we straightened the bedding, but Miss Winter don’t notice a thing. She lay so still I was sure she was a corpse until her papa picked her up and she moaned.”

“Hush, Maisie, you’ll get us into trouble gossipin’ about the quality.”

The maids moved away and Giles considered the nurse Lord Winter had brought with him. He hoped the woman was as competent as described and that she could do her job without supervision.

As he pushed open his study door, he tried to guess Lilly’s age. The accident had happened when she was perhaps fourteen. Just below the age of becoming a woman. She would be about twenty now, he supposed.

Six years of pain and suffering had passed when she should have been dancing, giggling, and marrying. And having babies to hold. He shuddered. If all had gone according to plan, they’d have been married for the last two years.

“Is anything the matter?”

Giles spun to find his butler gazing at him in amusement. Dithers knew full well what bothered him. He would be saddled with an unwanted responsibility. Female, no less, and not one he could associate with without that shackle reattaching to his leg. His servant could show a sliver of compassion. “Nothing that concerns you.”

“Of course. Your coffee, milord.” An innocuous statement, but laced with the tremor of barely suppressed humor in his tone.

Damn all butlers to hell.

Giles took the cup, his mind still occupied by the woman upstairs. In age, Lillian Winter was a woman. But in her mind, would she still be a young girl? Giles had no interest in girls. He liked his women intelligent, initiated into love play by someone else, and independent. He did not have the patience to deal with emotional, needy women.

“Do you require anything else, milord?”

Yes, an experienced woman to take his mind off his current nightmare. “No, go about your usual duties and stop bothering me.”

The sooner he returned to London the better. Giles smiled. Perhaps Lady Huntley would hold another ball at Huntley House, the location of all his encounters with his little ghost. Given his eagerness to attend all her functions, he thanked God Lady Huntley had no daughters still unwed.

He had seen the ghost six times in total, each occasion quite memorable. The little sprite seemed unshakable, except perhaps once. Giles had shocked her then. The tryst had not been particularly decadent, but her reaction to the presence of two women cuddling up to him had spoken of disappointment and hurt. Her reaction puzzled him.

Giles sipped the strong coffee while he glanced out the window, noticing the wild gardens leading toward the southern boundary for the first time. He drew back. When had the gardens reached such a state?

The terrace doors refused to open to a light touch, so he shoved against them, wincing as they groaned in protest. Stepping outside, he stalked toward flowerbeds grown wild with nature. Weeds twined amongst the roses and delphiniums that had once been the pride of his mother’s gardens. He followed the path to the ornate pond at its center and found it clogged with weeds.

Looking back at the house, he could see the beginning signs of neglect. Vines clung to the walls where they had once feared to go. The spire on the southern turret looked bent. Had it been struck by lightning?

He soaked his boots as he followed the garden path grown thick with long weeds pushing between flagstones. He grimaced. His valet would shriek at their state when he returned, but given Giles’ usual care of his wardrobe, the man could bear the rare inconvenience.

Despite the wild, unkempt state, the grounds were still peaceful, but he should deal with the garden and the house soon. Turning, he saw the manor clearly for the first time in years: a grand old house bowing under the weight of neglect. His.

Giles liked to live his life with no responsibilities, but he did want the luxury of being able to retreat to this place for a long time to come. It may only be for his pleasure, but since he took pleasure very seriously, the house needed repair to restore it to its former glory.

Determined to correct his neglect, he walked around the old house and grounds, inspecting every detail from the disused stables to the twisting creek that flowed through the estate.

The stone bridge was still solid, built by his grandfather years earlier, its stout footings and sides impervious to the rushing water. Giles rested his elbows on the stones, watching the dark water slide beneath.

Lillian Winter had almost died in this very spot. They said she fell. He leaned forward on the high, smooth stones. It might be possible if the girl liked climbing. Despite Lord Winter’s assurances she was an angel, perhaps Lilly had hidden an adventurous nature. He only remembered her vaguely. She’d had an impeccable lineage that met his parent’s requirements for his bride and had been receiving instruction on managing a household for a number of years.

That was all he’d cared about at the time too.

He crossed the bridge and followed the river along the bank until the water flowed smoothly, less agitated by the rocks that she must have struck. Giles winced at the image, glancing back to the bridge and large boulders littering the stream.

What must it have been like for Lilly? The drop from the bridge, the insistent tug of floodwater and fabric as the heavy weight pulled her below the surface. Giles shuddered and looked about him. This was where Atticus had saved her.

He should have guessed Atticus would only respond to someone he felt protective of. When Giles had heard what his dog had attempted to do, pulling at the chit until her head remained above water long enough to be rescued, he’d been so proud. Until the moment they confessed Lilly would likely die anyway, at least. He’d feared the bites Atticus had inflicted pulling her toward the bank had speeded her demise.

But she had not died after all. She was tougher than he’d been led to believe. Yet all he knew of her were the tales told in hushed whispers and private thoughts penned carefully into a small journal he had found years after her supposed death. He still had that journal at the manor somewhere. He should at least unearth it and return it to its rightful owner.

Giles pulled a weed from the ground and twirled the stem between his fingers. From here, he could see the window of Lilly’s bedchamber. What inner devil had prompted his butler to put the woman in a room facing the scene of her accident? Lord Winter, if he ever opened the drapes and looked out, would think them cruel.

Perhaps it would be all right. Lilly would only be here a short time, and then she would go to Wales. The thought saddened him. A life without any form of pleasure—that is what Lillian Winter lived. He did not know how anyone could survive such a boring existence.

He ambled back to the manor, pausing often to consider the extent of work required. Judging by what he saw, he would need some extra hands to bring the estate up to scratch. Perhaps he should have listened to his friends more over the years, but he had never aspired to make Cottingstone a great estate. All he needed was to keep the manor in good order and receive the rents, both here and from his London properties, to live a comfortable bachelor’s existence.

A glance at Lilly’s window reminded him to find the journal, but he wondered where he had put it. In his current rooms? Or perhaps packed with his childhood mementos packed away in the attic?

Attaining the upper floors by way of the servants’ stairs was a moment’s work. At a hall window, he spied a female figure walking about the garden’s perimeter. Her gait was unfamiliar. It must be poor Lilly’s nurse, which meant Lord Winter would be visiting with his daughter now. It was the perfect time to renew his acquaintance with Lilly. Her father could act as chaperone.

Instantly, Giles quashed that idea. He had a vast dislike for conversing with chaperones hovering and dissecting his every word. And there was also the very real worry that Lord Winter might view any request for a meeting as a cause for hope for marriage between them.

When he’d learned of her supposed death, Giles had taken out Lilly’s journal and read it. At fourteen, Lilly hadn’t been completely enamored of marrying. Neither had he been, for that matter. But the arrangement was a long-standing contract from his ninth year. As he grew older, he grew less pleased with the notion of an arranged marriage, but he’d known his duty and fallen silent on his parents’ choice. Aside from the lure of her dowry and lineage, they’d promised Lilly would be no trouble to manage.

Giles pushed on the attic door. The hinges creaked, ending the silence. He shook his head again. That would never do. Another repair to see to.

Boxes of disused toys and oddments littered the walls and he scratched his head. Where might the little book be? Oh, yes. He remembered now. He had left it with the butterfly collection he’d abandoned years go, and the case still resided in the nursery one floor below. He tugged the protesting door closed, turned, and stalked to his former quarters.

He felt immediately out of place, far too large compared to the furniture in the room. His aborted butterfly collection lay on a high shelf, so he lowered it down carefully, and blew dust from the hazy glass. There it was, nestled between the dead forms of a Painted Lady and a Peacock butterfly. He had left her journal among other dead things.

Cringing, Giles opened the case, lifted out the small book, and returned the case to the shelf. He flipped the cover. Pages of childish words, moments of pleasure amidst a lifetime of loneliness. He remembered feeling rather sad by the end of reading it.

He slipped the journal into his inner pocket. Maybe Lilly wouldn’t like her father to know of her lonely musings. She had hidden the journal, after all. Perhaps it would be best if he returned them to her after the baron departed and see if she wanted it back.

“Ah, there you are, lad,” Lord Winter exclaimed, hovering in the doorway. “I thought I heard someone thumping around in here. Not exactly where I imagined I’d find you on such a pleasant day.”

Since the baron’s chamber was on the floor below, the older man had no reason to venture into the nursery either. Unless…

Giles stifled a groan. This was the last room Lillian had stayed in before her accident. Had Winter thought to wallow in memories of his daughter when she’d been in perfect health? Giles edged toward the door. He didn’t want to witness this.

“I was just reminding myself what the old house looked like,” Giles said. “I haven’t been in this chamber in years.” And didn’t plan to return. Children were not in his future.

“No need to imagine…” Lord Winter’s voice trailed off, hands clenching tightly on a slate. It still held childish writing. Lord Winter’s hand shook and the slate broke apart, smashing to pieces on the bare hardwood floor.

Alarmed, Giles approached the baron. Blood had leached from his face, but aside from that he was unharmed. “Don’t worry about the mess. I’ll send a servant to deal with it. Let’s go enjoy what’s left of the day.”

Giles guided the unresponsive man toward the door and shut it behind them. Poor man. The writing on the slate had been childish and repetitive: “I will be good.”

It wasn’t his sister’s handwriting, nor his. It matched the writing in Lilly’s journal.

By the time they reached the drawing room, Lord Winter’s color had returned to normal, but he reached for the brandy as soon as it came into view.

Giles left him to get foxed again, and turned to his letters to avoid participating in another uncomfortable conversation.

The first few he had were invitations. But a note from a friend caught his eye and he broke the seal.

Dear Daventry,

My sister has agreed to marry a crushing bore. The date is set for a month away and I’m under siege about my own wedding. I’m begging for an invitation to Cottingstone to get away from my mother and her obsession with planning the perfect wedding breakfast. Please. Help.

Yours most sincerely.

Viscount Carrington

Giles choked off a laugh, glancing at his companion to see if Lord Winter was paying any attention. He didn’t imagine Lilly’s father would appreciate levity, even if his friend’s situation was damned funny.

Poor Carrington—stuck in London with just the women of his family. They would be in an absolute frenzy of activity. Giles supposed he could save the lad from his mother’s unsubtle attempts at arranging a double wedding.

He cringed when he thought of Carrington’s intended bride. She was a dragon in the making, far too controlling for Giles’ taste. Why the viscount had agreed to the match was beyond his understanding. Especially since Carrington’s heart was engaged elsewhere.

But Giles refused to interfere.

He had meddled once, at great risk to a friendship he valued above all others. Even though that situation had turned out well, it could very easily have gone the other way. Still, he’d be more than happy to help Carrington avoid the parson’s clutches a mite longer.

Grinning, he reached for a sheet of paper. Carrington could come and, as an afterthought, Giles asked him to bring more brandy. At the rate Lord Winter was imbibing, there would be very little left in the decanter by the end of the week. He would need a lot more for when the baron returned from Wales. He had no doubt Winter would require considerable fortification to complete his plans to exile his daughter.

He returned to his stack of correspondence, picked up one, but was overwhelmed by the scent of lilac. He flipped it over and was surprised to find it bearing the address of a recent lover.

My dear Lord Daventry,

These weeks without you have been too dreadful to relate. London is so dull and lifeless. Come back soon. I miss your touch.

Very truly yours,

Lady M.

Giles shuddered. A love note? Lady Montgomery knew exactly when he was returning to London. He had been very specific. He didn’t like that she’d attempted to entice him back. Their affair was a casual fulfillment of basic bodily needs—nothing further.

If she was that starved for attention, she should find someone to take away the ache. He wouldn’t care. Hell, Sabine should rejoice in his lack of possessiveness. Apparently, though, his lover had the idea their affair had progressed beyond the simple pleasure he meant it to be.

He didn’t think a letter was the appropriate way to remind her of his indifference to permanent relationships, so he slid her letter to the side and reached for the next. Sabine’s note would feed the flames as soon as he got to his feet. Perhaps by ignoring her demands, he’d communicate the affair was well and truly run its course.