she was. The brief glimpse he had had of the gentleman the previous evening had struck a chord in his memory. He had met him somewhere before but, for the life of him, he could not recall where. He certainly could not place the name, nor that high-pitched voice. Thomas-Smith, not an aristocratic name, not a memorable name, but the face, that was different. He never forgot a face. ‘I believe I met Sir Arthur last evening, a portly gentleman of middle years.’
‘Yes. He is devoted to Lydia and will curb her exuberance, you may be sure. And he has the means to support her. Annabelle, who is very pretty and biddable, will soon find a suitor, especially as Sir Arthur has indicated he will provide her with a small dowry…’
‘I understand.’ He understood very well. Lydia was to be sacrificed. When he had last seen her, she had been no more than a child, a nuisance to two young men bent on enjoying themselves. But even then there had been something about her that was different. Independent, her mother had described her. Would such a one marry a man old enough to be her father? Well, it was not his business.
‘Then you will give us a little more time?’ she asked, watching his face.
He looked at the woman sitting so still on his drawing room sofa and, though he could not even begin to forgive her son for forcing him into that duel, and he was equally certain she did not forgive him for what he had done, he could afford to be magnanimous, especially as Freddie was not at home. Somehow, the knowledge that his erstwhile friend had suffered the same fate as he had in some measure mitigated his raw hatred, though he would not go so far as to say it had disappeared totally. You could not harbour the resentment he had for over ten years and lose it in the space of a short interview with a plausible woman. But she was a mother, and knowing what his own mother had suffered set him thinking. ‘Very well. You may stay until Lydia is married. And I hope she may be happy.’
‘Do you mean that?’
‘I am not in the habit of saying things I do not mean, madam.’ He had done what he could, given the circumstances, and he would take care to avoid the path that led to the dower house until they had gone.
She rose and curtsied. ‘Then I thank you and I shall convey your good wishes to Lydia and Annabelle.’ He bowed in response and a moment later she had glided noiselessly from the room and he was alone once more.
He must be going soft, he told himself as he strode upstairs to change into something more suitable for a visit to Chelmsford. He had been told there was a builder there who could do the repairs to his tenants’ houses at a reasonable price, and the sooner they were put in hand the better. Even if he decided not to stay in the village, he could not lease or sell the estate as it was.
Was he going to stay? he asked himself as his well-sprung coach took him through the lanes of Colston where the leaves were just appearing on the trees and the air was balmy with the promise of spring. It was not the family coach, which like everything else had been neglected, but the one he had bought in London when he landed from India. Could he pick up his life where he had left it ten years before, and carry on as if nothing had happened? But how could he?
For a start, he could no longer expect to marry a duke’s daughter. He had been sufficiently in touch with the London gossip, even on the other side of the world, to know of the advantageous marriage Juliette had made only a year after his exile began. But he ought to marry or what was the point of coming home? Who would have him, given that the scandal seemed not to have died? He was immensely rich, he could take his pick. He smiled. That unknown beauty he had met in Chelmsford, perhaps. She had been with Sir Arthur last night—his daughter, no doubt. No, he contradicted himself at once. If he were to marry her, it might make Lydia Fostyn his mother-in-law and the idea of that was laughable
His business done, he was almost home when he became aware that it was raining again, spattering on the roof, and reminding him of the girl he had met in Chelmsford. Why did his mind keep returning to her? Why, even in the middle of talking bricks and mortar and broken walls, had she kept invading his thoughts, stirring his body into a tingle of desire? He had even been fool enough to take a stroll round the streets of Chelmsford, hoping he might meet her again.
At the junction where the road separated, one arm going to Malden and the other to Southminster and Colston, the coach passed the entrance to Sir Arthur Thomas-Smith’s new mansion, which set him wondering about the man all over again. Two minutes later they slowed to pass a woman in a grey cloak, who stood aside to let it overtake her. Glancing casually from the window, he realised she was his nymph! He banged on the roof to tell the coachman to stop.
Chapter Three
L ydia had spent a long time in the library, trying to find some suitable uplifting book which might make her calmer, more in control of emotions and, having found a volume of sermons which she thought might fit the bill, set out for home.
On the outskirts of the town, she had to pass the gate of Sir Arthur’s newly built mansion. It stood in about two acres of land, shielded from the crossroad by a high wall. She stopped to peer along the drive through the ornamental gates. It was a large building, but box-like, with a central door and tall portico on Corinthian columns. Either side were evenly spaced long-sash windows. Because it was so new, no creeper grew up the walls to peep in at the windows, no moss had invaded its roof. The gardens, in the latest landscape design which had yet to mature, had no flower beds and no large trees, though some saplings had been planted here and there. It was a house without character, unlike the dower house which was even more ancient than the Hall itself.
She shook herself; how could she regret leaving the house she now lived in, so close to Colston Hall and its detested occupant? She should be glad. She might enjoy adding her own touches to this place, making a home from bricks and mortar. Slowly she pushed open the gate and began walking towards it, not even thinking what she might say if Sir Arthur or a servant were to see her and ask what she was doing there.
There was no sign of life, no open windows, no children or dogs. It was silent as the grave. She turned away from the front door with its lion’s head knocker and went round the side of the building. Here was a long low wing at right angles to the main building and a separate stable block in the same brick as the house. A horse snickered and she heard men talking in low voices and it was enough to bring her to her senses. Hurriedly she turned to go back the way she had come.
‘Miss Fostyn.’ The voice behind her was undoubtedly Sir Arthur’s. She turned to face him, her face on fire with embarrassment. He was dressed in a brown cloth coat, buckskin breeches and riding boots.
‘I…I went to the front of the house. No one came to the door.’ That was true, no need to tell him she had not even knocked.
‘Then I am sorry for that. My sister who keeps house for me is out and no doubt the servants were busy in the kitchen and did not hear you arrive. Where is your mama? Have you left her in the carriage?’
‘No, Sir Arthur, I am alone and I walked.’
His eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he did not comment. ‘Then, please come in.’
She could do nothing but retrieve her scattered dignity and follow him into the marble-floored hall with its intricately carved oak staircase, where he summoned a servant to take her cloak and fetch refreshments before turning back to her with a polite smile and escorting her into a drawing room where he invited her to be seated, standing himself with his back to the new Adam fireplace.
‘I was not expecting you, Miss Fostyn, or I would have been better prepared to entertain you.’
She sat on the edge of a chair, surveying the room and searching her mind for an excuse
