2. An Earl Scolds Himself

CHAPTER 2

AN EARL SCOLDS HIMSELF

M eanwhile, in the study at Ritchfield Park

“Coward,” Robert murmured to himself as he leaned against the closed door to his study and banged the back of his head against the hard wood panel. Of all the people who might have paid a call at his country estate in the middle of the worst winter on record in England, the very last person he expected to arrive was his wife.

He was sure she preferred London for Christmas. Or perhaps it was Bath? Certainly not Brighton. He couldn’t imagine spending Christmas in Brighton, and most certainly not this year.

Perhaps that’s where he should have gone instead of making the trek to Ritchfield Park. Even Graves had been surprised to see him upon his arrival the day before, as if he had been a ghost of Christmas past come to haunt him. Given the flurry of snow surrounding his arrival, he probably looked like a ghost.

Not like Ivy had, all covered in snow and looking like an angel, her hair still coppery red and her cheeks rosy from the cold. She might have been wearing rags and she would still have his breath catching as it had the very first time he saw her.

Dressed in a white velvet court gown festooned with satin bows and her red coiffure crowned with a white ostrich feather, she has been accompanied by her mother as she was presented to the queen. The ruffled neckline barely hid her rising moons, and he remembered wondering if those moons might escape the confines of her stomacher when she curtsied.

They hadn’t, of course, but the thought of tracing her neckline with a fingertip, the skin so soft and warm, had his index finger twitching even now.

Ivy had always had glorious breasts. Full and fleshy, topped with rosy nipples, they had provided a pillow for his head after they made love and a cushion when he had her pulled against him on cold winter nights. He had never tired of holding them, stroking them, kissing them, or of suckling their engorged nipples.

Although gravity might eventually have its way with them—perhaps it already had—there wasn’t another pair on the planet he had adored like hers.

Nor was there anyone else with that particular shade of red hair. The color of flames when under the sun and shades of dark copper when indoors, Ivy’s hair shimmered as if it was made of metal. It was soft, though, like silk, and wavy when it wasn’t bound into the elaborate coiffures her lady’s maid constructed every morning before breakfast and every night before dinner.

At one time, he had enjoyed removing the pins that held up all those waves, plucking them out one after another, silently counting to be sure he found them all. He had made a sort of game of it, careful to remove as many pins as possible without disturbing the coiffure until finding the one pin that would send it all crashing down at once in a mass of coppery waves and curls.

Remembering how she had looked upon her arrival a few minutes ago, he wondered how many pins her lady’s maid had used that morning. He also wondered how often she came to the country estate.

From the manner in which she had arrived, Robert knew immediately she spent far more time at Ritchfield Park than he had over the years. She knew the servant’s names, gave orders that sounded more like requests, and... what was that about seeing to it Perkins had more pay at the end of the month? Simply because the footman retrieved her trunk on an especially snowy day?

He wondered how much she expected the coach driver to receive for bringing her here all the way from London.

Robert considered his own experience only the day before.

To have paid witness to Graves’ visible reaction to his arrival was almost worth the inconvenience of having traveled on what had to be the worst winter day in history. He was quite sure the butler hadn’t so much as moved a facial muscle in his five decades, so seeing his widened eyes and opened mouth had been rather amusing. After all, it hadn’t been that long since he’d spent time at his country estate.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true. A year at least. Maybe three. More like...

Robert shook his head. Could it have been five years since his last visit to Ritchfield Park? It was no wonder he was feeling out of sorts of late. Bored with life in York. Bothered by the ghosts of his past.

Lonely.

He drew a hand down over his face, wincing when he felt the telltale signs he hadn’t shaved that morning. He would have had his valet do it, but he had left the servant behind in York .

He wasn’t sure now why he thought spending the Christmas holiday at Ritchfield Park would be a good idea. Rattling about in Gladstone Hall, the large manor house his family had owned for over three centuries a mile south of the walls of York, had felt as if he was communing with ghosts.

Then there had been the moment he noticed the housekeeper. Seeing her bruised face had truly brought out the ghosts of the past as well as a rage he didn’t know he possessed. All that anger channeled into his fists until the butler was left battered on the floor of his office.

If he hadn’t been a peer of the realm, he would have been arrested for the assault—that is, if Hartfield had even told anyone why he was dismissed from Gladstone Hall.

In an effort to recover his wits, Robert had retreated to his study. A different sort of ghost haunted him when he found a stash of long forgotten letters.

Letters from her.

A change of scenery—a change of venue—was necessary.

G lancing out the frosted study window to see only white was definitely a change. Robert didn’t think he had ever seen so much snow in his entire life. Given the bone chilling temperatures beyond the wavy glass pane, he knew the stuff wasn’t about to melt anytime soon.

At least the study was warm. Graves had seen to a roaring fire, the split logs a welcome change from the coal he had come to despise in York. Out here, wood fueled the fires that kept houses warm.

Coal might have made his earldom rich, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

Settling into the worn leather chair at his mahogany desk, Richard helped himself to a finger’s worth of brandy from the crystal decanter behind his desk. His thoughts once again went to his wife as he took the first sip.

Why had she come to Ritchfield Park? She had to have left London on one of the worst days of winter and spent at least three nights at coaching inns along the way. He had a thought most were closed this time of year, although the mail coaches probably kept a few in business.

Then there was always the risk of running into a highwayman, of being robbed at gunpoint. They probably weren’t so much of a problem in the winter, he thought, the reduced traffic on the roads along with the snow, cold, and wind all factors to discourage a would-be thief.

So why had Ivy made the trek in the first place? Why put her driver at risk of frostbite or worse? Risk the horses and her traveling coach?

She obviously hadn’t guessed he would be in residence. Not that she would mind, he supposed. They always managed a rather civil union when they were both in residence in London. They were cordial over dinner and at entertainments when invitations forced them to attend together. They never raised their voices with one another. Never argued or fought.

They just... were.

He glanced over at the stack of papers and ledgers he had brought with him from Gladstone Hall. Most were invoices—expenses for the two coal mines, household bills from both Gladstone and Ritchfield Park, and one from his tailor. Thumbing through them, he paused and wondered at the lack of invoices from a modiste or frippery shop in London.

Opening a ledger covered in worn leather, he paged through the past year’s entries in search of anything Ivy might have purchased and discovered that other than her monthly allowance, there wasn’t a single expense he could attribute to her.

Was she actually using her pin money to pay the modiste? To pay for hats and gloves and shoes? From where had she procured the beautiful redingote she had been wearing upon her arrival? The hat, both ridiculous as well as stunning given how well it matched her traveling clothes?

Robert was about to call for Graves to request she come to the study before he caught himself.

She hadn’t sent word ahead she would be at Ritchfield Park—at least, if she had, Graves hadn’t said anything about it. Surely the butler would have mentioned her imminent arrival had he known.

Did she usually come to the country estate for Christmas?

He shook his head, deciding he would discover the answer over dinner that evening.

After seeing to writing a number of cheques for the invoices, updating the ledgers for each property and the coal mines, and preparing the payments for the post, he leaned back and finished off his brandy.

His thoughts once again turned to Ivy. Curiosity finally getting the better of him, Robert moved to the door and called for Graves.

The butler appeared a moment later. “My lord?”

Robert motioned for him to come into the study and then shut the door, noting how the butler’s eyes widened with alarm.

Did the servant think he was about to be sacked?

Robert kept his voice low when he asked, “Did you know her ladyship would be in residence this week?”

Graves shook his head. “I did not, my lord. She has come here for Christmas in the past, though. Many times. But if she sent word ahead she would be here this year, it did not arrive before the snow. We’ve not received the post in two days.”

Furrowing a graying brow, Robert considered this bit of information for a moment before he asked, “Will it be a problem? For the cook, I mean?” He allowed his concern to show. “I apologize for not having given it a thought before, but is there enough in the pantry to feed us and all the servants for... say a fortnight? Enough wood for the extra fires?”

Apparently relieved by the line of questioning, Graves relaxed and said, “Oh, yes, my lord. Her ladyship brought provisions from London. Several crates from Fortnum and Mason along with gifts for the household staff.”

“She did?” Robert couldn’t help the tone of incredulity that sounded in his voice.

“Oh, yes, my lord. She was concerned the winter weather might have prevented cook from securing what she needed for this week’s dinners and for the Twelfth Night festivities.”

For a moment, Robert felt a stab of guilt over not having given his last-minute visit a thought as to how it would affect the staff at Ritchfield Park. “And the gifts?” He hadn’t thought about those, either.

“The footman brought a ham, a side of beef, and a variety of vegetables we don’t usually find here,” Graves explained. “There are a number of other gifts, too, but they’re to be placed in pasteboard boxes, my lord.”

Robert glanced back at the desk. He couldn’t recall any invoices from the high-end London grocer nor from any butchers. “And yet I rather doubt I’ll be receiving an invoice for any of it,” he murmured absently.

“My lord?”

“Nothing,” Robert said, giving his head a shake. “Actually, what might be put inside those pasteboard boxes?” he asked in a quiet voice.

The butler seemed reluctant to answer at first, but then he leaned forward and whispered, “Oranges, my lord. Three in each box.” He straightened. “There’s another crate of oranges, as well, my lord. Always a favorite here at Ritchfield Park. ”

Robert furrowed a brow, but tried not to appear annoyed. “Where might I find her ladyship now?”

Graves appeared uncertain of how to respond. “She has been upstairs in the mistress suite since her arrival.” He paused, his gaze darting to the side. “She had some concerns regarding your presence, my lord. Asked if you were entertaining a guest or if you might be expecting one or more to arrive for the Christmastide,” he explained. “I told her I was not made aware you had invited anyone.”

It was apparent the butler was curious, and Robert knew Graves would never ask him outright about his plans to entertain. House parties at Christmastide were rather unusual, though, and of course he would have warned the staff had he intended to host some friends.

He suddenly reconsidered the butler’s words and felt heat color his cheeks. Had Ivy actually thought he would bring a doxy to Ritchfield Park? Or expect one to show up? “Is she expecting someone?” he asked, suspicion evident in his voice.

“She is not, my lord. Said the younger boy is still away on his Grand Tour, the older one has only recently returned, and that your daughters would be spending the holidays with their families in Devonshire and in Rome this year.”

A stab of guilt had Robert nearly rolling his eyes. Both his sons, Michael and Charles, had graduated from Oxford in the last couple of years, and given the war against France, Michael had left on a ship bound for Greece rather than take the land route over the Continent. A year later, Charles, in an effort to avoid the wars, had joined his brother in Athens for a time before Michael returned to England. Charles was now concentrating his travels in countries along the coast of the eastern Mediterranean.

Meanwhile, the two daughters, both older than their brothers, had married heirs of the aristocracy. Charity’s husband was a duke’s son while Grace was married to an earl. Both had already become mothers.

Although he had met one of the grand babies—a future duke—he hadn’t yet been introduced to the future earl. Grace and her husband were still on their wedding trip. The last he had heard, the couple had adopted Rome as a temporary home and were waiting to return to England until after their second baby was born.

If they weren’t careful, she would be expecting her third on the way back to England.

Rome seemed to have that effect on young couples.

“Her ladyship is prepared to return to London should you wish to have the house to yourself, my lord,” Graves said, interrupting Robert’s brief reverie.

Robert scoffed. “I’ll not have her traveling in this awful weather,” he responded.

“I’ll inform her?—”

“I’ll do it,” Robert stated. “I have matters to discuss with her. ’Bout time I spoke with her in person.”

Graves seemed momentarily confused. “Yes, my lord. Will there be anything else?”

Robert was sure he was missing something. At his townhouse in York, the housekeeper saw to all the particulars of running the household. “We’ll need a menu for dinner,” he remembered.

“Her ladyship has already provided cook with menus for the next fortnight, my lord,” Graves replied.

Robert resisted the urge to roll his eyes again. “Of course she has,” he murmured. He turned and indicated the pile of envelopes on the silver salver on his desk. “Should a mail coach manage to make it here through all the snow, those are ready for the post.”

“I’ll see to them, my lord.” Graves helped himself to the salver and hurried toward the door .

Remembering it was nearly Christmas, Robert held up a finger. “What about greenery and... and a Yule log for the fireplace?”

Graves stopped in his tracks. “Already cut and ready to be brought in on the morrow, my lord.”

Impressed, Robert crossed his arms and regarded the butler with appreciation. “In all this snow?”

Graves lifted a shoulder. “I had the footman see to it before the snow worsened, my lord.”

“Good man,” the earl stated. “I suppose I didn’t come here for Christmas for it not to look like Christmas,” he murmured.

“Of course not, my lord.” Graves bowed his head and took his leave of the study.

Robert watched the servant depart and realized he no longer had any excuses to avoid Ivy.

Girding his loins, he headed for the stairs.