1. A Most Unexpected Arrival

CHAPTER 1

A MOST UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL

D ecember 1815, near Castleford, Yorkshire

When the butler opened the door of Ritchfield Park, he wasn’t expecting Lady Ivy, Countess of Ritchfield, to blow into the vestibule along with a flurry of snowflakes and a biting wind worthy of a North Sea storm. He was so stunned at the sudden arrival of it all, it took him a moment to realize exactly who had crossed over the threshold.

“Oh!” Ivy said, holding her arms out as if she was having trouble keeping her balance. Until the servant managed to shut the door against the winter wind, she kept her face aimed away from the cold.

“My lady?” Graves said in surprise, stepping around to regard her with disbelief. “Is... is that you?”

His uncertainty was due to the layer of white stuff that made her look as if she had been a snowman come to life.

“Yes, yes, it’s me,” Ivy said, pulling the snow-covered hat from her head to reveal her flame-colored coiffure and reddened cheeks.

The simple act created even more flurries in the vestibule as the crystals danced about before falling to the floor. Even after she stomped her booted feet, snowflakes still encased her hunter green redingote. For a moment, she looked as if she could have been one of the evergreen trees surrounding the country estate after it had been decorated for the holiday.

“Apologies for not having sent word I’d be coming for Christmas, but I couldn’t abide another day in the city,” she explained.

“Quite all right, my lady,” Graves replied, although he didn’t sound convincing.

“I do not envy Walker’s duty on this day,” she said, referring to the coach driver who was at that very moment seeing to unhitching the four Cleveland Bays that had managed the snowy trip from a coaching inn near Wakefield.

Although the Great North Road out of London had been clear for the first hundred miles or so, snow had begun to fall on their third day of travel. By the time they departed the coaching inn where they had spent the night, the temperature had dropped enough to keep the road from becoming muddy. Conditions worsened, and at the next stop, she had suggested they spend the night there. Walker insisted he could get them to Ritchfield Park before noon, though, and so they had continued.

Ivy had a suspicion she knew why he was so anxious to reach the Ritchfield country estate. Walker had always held a candle for one of the housemaids employed there. She hoped he would be rewarded with a warm bed and a tumble later that night.

“I do hope there’s room in the carriage house for the coach?”

Graves stared at her a moment, as if he was uncertain about how to respond. “Uh... I’m sure if there is not, Walker will make room, my lady.”

“Oh, and do see to it that Perkins is given something extra in his pay this month,” she continued, unaware of his hesitation. “The poor man is already out there seeing to my trunks. Oh, and I could use some tea when you get to it. It’s been an age since I had a decent cup of tea.”

Blinking, the butler was about to ask how it was possible Perkins could be seeing to her trunks—he hadn’t seen the footman go out—when a pounding sounded at the front door. He gingerly opened it, this time standing in front lest it fly open and allow another snowstorm into the vestibule.

Upon seeing the footman, Graves opened the door wider. The snow still left from Ivy’s arrival swirled about and was joined with a new blast from outside.

Perkins wedged himself and the trunk through the opening, scoffing at the butler as the new flurry of snow whirled about. “You want me to freeze out there?” Perkins scolded. “Let me in.”

Graves murmured an apology, but his attention went back to the countess as the footman hurried past with the trunk mounted on his shoulder. He winced at seeing the wet tracks left by Perkins as he made his way through the front hall and up the stairs.

Finally aware something wasn’t quite right with the butler—he was paler than usual and seemed rather bothered—Ivy regarded him with a curious expression. “Whatever is wrong, Graves? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

The butler swallowed, his gaze going past her to the man who had appeared on the threshold of the study and had been watching them since before Perkins’ arrival. “Pardon me, my lady. I’ll see to the tea,” Graves said, before he hurried off as if shot from a cannon, leaving Ivy displaying a look of confusion.

Whatever was wrong with Graves? Usually a fastidious and efficient servant, he was none of those on this day. He hadn’t taken her hat, her redingote, or her gloves .

When Ivy turned around, she immediately understood why the servant had acted as he had.

Garbed in a most fashionable navy topcoat, a scarlet embroidered waistcoat, tan leather breeches, and a pair of black Hobys in which she could probably see her reflection, her husband of nearly thirty years was regarding her with an unreadable expression from where he stood on the threshold of his study.

Ivy was reminded of the very first time she had seen the earl. He was standing much as he was now, an impassive expression making him appear bored while he surveyed the young ladies making their presentations to the queen before the first ball of the season in 1784.

As it was now, his dark hair had been cut unfashionably short, but then he had already inherited the earldom and was required to wear a wig during Parliament. His harsh features did not make him a particularly handsome man. From somewhere in his lineage, Viking marauders and soldiers had contributed an ancient Roman nose, stark cheekbones, and slashes for eyebrows. His eyes, a piercing blue-gray, had pinned her the moment she caught sight of him, and she remembered feeling as if he could see through her gown. His tall physique was that of a fencer, lean but athletic, and time had obviously not changed it.

Nor had it changed the way her own body reacted to seeing him.

Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart had picked up its pace to the point she could hear her pulse pounding in her ears. Her breasts, already larger than most, plumped, and her nipples tightened behind her stays, the fabric chafing the tender skin. The space at the top of her thighs grew damp, and dammit if she could feel her pulse there, too.

Dammit all to hell !

How terribly inconvenient Robert, Earl of Ritchfield, should be at Ritchfield Park the very same time as she!

Well, she would just have to make the best of it. Pretend all was well. Behave in a manner befitting a countess. Be respectful. Attempt an air of friendliness.

Act as if the past ten years hadn’t left her feeling bereft and alone.

They might be estranged, only seeing one another on occasion when he was in London for Parliament, but they were not enemies. Nor were they divorced.

Seeing him like this, though—his harsh features softened in the dimmer interior lighting of the country estate—had her inhaling softly. Ivy was reminded of their second meeting in London. At the time, the enigmatic earl had been on the list of every Mayfair mother with a daughter of marriageable age—her own mother included. Although Ivy hadn’t found Robert Strathford, Earl of Ritchfield, particularly handsome, her body had reacted in a most unusual manner.

Much as it was still doing now, damnation.

How was it he could so easily have her stomach filling with flutterbies and her body begging for his touch? Her nipples tightening into hard buds and frissons skittering beneath her skin? Without so much as saying or doing anything but standing there? Looking all perfectly clothed and far too calm?

Whatever chill she had felt from the winter weather outside quickly succumbed to the fever she seemed to be suffering on the inside.

Determined to be on her very best behavior, Ivy pulled back her shoulders and made sure she displayed a pleasant expression.

Before she could say or do anything else, though, Robert disappeared into the study and shut the door.

Ivy let out the breath she had been holding in a huff. Deciding she wasn’t going to allow his presence to change her plans for the upcoming Christmas holiday, she placed her hat on the shelf, pulled off her gloves, and wriggled out of her redingote. After hanging it on one of the pegs, she wiped her feet and followed Perkins’ tracks up the stairs and to her bedchamber.

She was the Countess of Ritchfield, after all, and nothing—not even her husband—was going to ruin Christmas.