Halted by his tall form, Sydony breathed his name against the soft lapel where she buried her face. A vague memory of security blossomed into a reassuring sense of safety. It was no wonder, for the hard body she clung to was as strong and solid as an oak. It smelled good, too, like horses and leather and something else. She had never noticed Barto’s scent before, but then, she hadn’t been this close to him in years.
And with that thought, Sydony realised just how stiffly her rescuer was standing beneath her grip, his chin lifted and his arms rigid at his sides. Far from giving her comfort, he was uncomfortable himself, a discovery that sent embarrassment knifing through her. Sydony stepped back, away from him. Yet even as she loosed her hold, Sydony felt a pang, as though she were letting go of something vital and precious.
Or perhaps one night in this medieval monstrosity had completely unhinged her mind. It had certainly affected her behaviour. Trying to regain her good sense, Sydony drew a deep breath of autumn air that bespoke recent rain and dead leaves, instead of Bartholomew Hawthorne.
‘Pardon me,’ she said, though her behaviour was unpardonable. It might have been accepted, or at least tolerated when she was a small girl tagging after her brother and his best friend. But that friend had drifted away and had grown into a man. And not just any man, mind you, but a lord of the realm: Viscount Hawthorne.
Sydony could feel her face flame. ‘Something gave me a fright, a bird probably,’ she muttered. But even as she spoke, she knew how ridiculous that must sound to someone who had once known her well. She had been resolutely fearless in her younger years, and now she was running from a bird?
Barto’s cool gaze flicked over her, making Sydony raise a hand to her hair. Something had flown at her, for it was in disarray that no amount of surreptitious smoothing could remedy. Under her visitor’s impas-sionate scrutiny, she realised just how unkempt she must appear. Her simple day gown was mussed and dirty, and smudges marred her skin. All she needed was an apron to complete her impersonation of a scullery maid. Still, there was no need for Barto to look at her in such a condescending fashion. Stung, Sydony raised her chin.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked baldly.
Instead of appearing dismayed by the question, Barto simply lifted a dark brow, as though remarking on her poor manners. When had he become so aloof? Sydony wondered. Even more disconcerting, when had he become so attractive? Barto had always been handsome, but then, so was Kit. Girls had always gaped at them, but Sydony had taken little notice. Until now.
Had he grown into his face, maturing into this masculine beauty, or had familiarity blinded her to his looks? If so, that familiarity was long gone. Sydony had seen him at her father’s funeral and at his father’s, as well, but only for brief moments, and before that, it had been years since she and her brother had spent long, careless days in his company.
He was tall now, towering over her, despite her own height, and his shoulders were wide. His deep brown hair was burnished and well cut, although a little too long to be fashionable. But it was his face, at once known and yet different, that made Sydony’s heart beat faster. Unfortunately, its dark perfection was marred by the mocking tilt of his lips, which told her he was well aware of her study.
‘My mother said that you had moved. She misses you, of course, and was naturally concerned that your new home be as you’d hoped,’ he said, finally, in answer to her question.
‘Well, it isn’t,’ Sydony said, irritated by the glint in his eye. Barto probably knew all too well just how handsome he was, and she refused to flatter him with any further study.
‘The residence is deserted, with no staff at all, so we could hardly provide the hospitality to which you are accustomed, my lord Viscount,’ Sydony noted. She had intended to scorn his fine title, but the oddness of addressing Barto by his father’s name took the force from her words.
Barto’s dark brows lowered, and Sydony remembered his temper, although she saw no crack in his elegant façade. ‘I assure you that I am not made of spun sugar,’ he said, coolly. ‘Nor will I melt away without the benefit of luxuries.’
Sydony doubted that. Once upon a time, she had fed this man mud pies, but now he was used to the best of everything, and she could not even offer him biscuits. If she had seen some hint of her former companion, Sydony would have given little thought to the change in circumstances, but there was no warmth in this meeting. And if he treated her so coldly, what if he looked down his aristocratic nose at Kit, flush with excitement over his property?
‘I’m sorry, Ba—my lord,’ Sydony swiftly amended. ‘We are not at home to visitors, as yet. But do give your mother my greatest regards and tell her that we are well and arrived safely.’
Sydony tendered a terse smile, but Barto obviously would not be dismissed on the threshold like some tradesman. Again, though the exterior remained unchanged, Sydony saw the flash in those dark eyes, and she was tempted to shut the door, rather than face his displeasure. Yet she stood her ground, her own temper flaring at the untenable position he had put her in. A gentleman would take her rebuff with good grace.
But Barto had never been a gentleman.
Well mannered when he chose, he was too used to getting his own way to have the natural charm of someone like Kit. And right now the set of his mouth made her suspect he was going to argue with her, rather than give way. She was wondering how on earth to get rid of him when the decision was taken out of her hands.
Indeed, they had been so intent upon each other that neither one had noticed Kit’s approach. But now Sydony heard the sound of a team driven a little too fast. No doubt Kit was concerned to see her alone with a visitor, for he slowed as soon as he neared Barto’s coach, the crest clearly visible. Jumping down from the carriage, he bounded up the walkway with an grin of delight. Sydony tried to catch his eye, to warn him against effusive greetings, but it was too late.
‘Barto!’ Kit exclaimed, reaching out to thump the new viscount on the back in the friendly gesture of boon companions. ‘This is a welcome surprise!’
Good-natured Kit probably took no notice, but Sydony saw the stiffness in Barto’s stance, as well as his blank expression, and she bristled. If he had no intention of pursuing an old acquaintance, then why did he not take his leave? Surely his mother would demand no more.
‘I’d invite you to stay, but I’m afraid we’re a bit at sixes and sevens here,’ Kit said.
‘So your sister explained.’
‘But I stopped by the solicitor’s, and he is to follow shortly,’ Kit said, turning to Sydony. ‘I insisted he come out here as I didn’t want to leave you alone any longer than necessary.’
Barto shot her a strange look. ‘You were here alone?’
‘I told you the place was deserted,’ Sydony snapped.
A dark brow lifted, perhaps a signal of astonishment; in the world of Viscount Hawthorne, ‘deserted’ probably meant a staff of twenty.
Ignoring the exchange, just as he had their past squabbles, Kit continued, ‘And he has the household goods we sent on ahead, which he didn’t think should be stored here.’
‘Certainly not when the door is open to all and sundry,’ Sydony said.
‘And you here alone,’ Barto said, his lips curving downwards. He eyed Sydony in a manner that disconcerted
