he was here solely from his own sense of duty: he felt obliged to pay his last respects and would probably leave as soon as he deemed that achieved. The notion that he might go before they had even exchanged a few words, before she had even thanked him for attending, had her running.
Her black crape skirts were gripped in small white fists as she flew out into the chilly hallway and came upon him immediately, talking with the Reverend Mr Woodbridge. She stopped dead, her heart thumping so hard it was as though she had sped up three floors while searching for him in each of the fifty-two rooms that comprised Hartfield.
She paused to compose herself, noting that Jonathan Woodbridge had the appearance of a scrawny crow beside the expensively attired, athletic physique of the man who stood head and shoulders above him. He was listening with his lean, handsome face politely inclined towards the cleric’s sunken features. Both men saw her at the same time and as she moved forward again she silently gave thanks to Jonathan Woodbridge for his thoughtfulness. No doubt he had noticed the stranger in their midst and had taken it upon himself to welcome him. The people of Ashdowne were naturally hospitable folk. As she now classed herself amongst them, and was the largest landowner, she felt sadly lacking in duty. And duty was something Victoria had never shirked.
‘Mr Hardinge.’ She warmly greeted him, extending a small, gloved hand which he courteously, fleetingly touched. The extreme brevity of the contact made her withdraw it quickly and shield it amongst her stiff black skirts. But she cordially continued, ‘I’m so glad you have joined us today. It is an honour that you have travelled in such perilous weather to attend Daniel’s funeral. You are very welcome. Please come through into the warm.’ Perhaps he had misunderstood her invitation to seek the fire in the drawing room, she thought when he neither moved nor spoke, but she felt the intensity of his blue gaze prickling the top of her head. ‘May I fetch you some mulled wine? Something to eat? There is a spread upon the dining table,’ she coaxed huskily, including Jonathan Woodbridge in this invitation so she could avoid those penetrating sapphire eyes.
‘That sounds very good, Victoria,’ Jonathan said, with a twinkle to his watering eyes, his skeletal gloved hands clasping together before him as he purposely made for the drawing-room door.
Left alone in the marble-flagged hall, Victoria realised that now the parson had withdrawn there was no one else on whom to focus. She summoned a firm smile as her eyes finally raised to meet his and the breathtaking sight of him stopped her heart.
He was as she remembered but every feature, every hard, angular plane of his face, seemed more intense, more roughly hewn in maturity. There was none of the bright freshness of youth left in him. But his eyes seemed bluer, his jaw leaner, his mouth thinner—crueller, she realised. His hair seemed deeper in colour, bronze-black in the dim hallway light, and so long it curled thickly onto the collar of his coat.
‘Please have something to drink at least,’ she quickly rattled off, aware that she had been staring. ‘I would hate you to set back on the road having partaken of nothing at all.’
‘Well, I’ll accept a little refreshment, then, Mrs Hart, for I’d hate to offend you,’ David Hardinge smoothly said.
Victoria visibly relaxed and smiled at him with an unconscious sweet familiarity that hinted at their distant courtship. For a moment the charm bound him. Long fingers were raised to her face, lifting and slowly folding back the lacy veil over the crown of her hat, revealing her features.
His eyes scanned her countenance and she watched his back teeth meet, shooting his jaw out of alignment. Her smile and budding confidence faltered as she waited for a comment or sign as to how their reunion would proceed. As the silence between them tautened, she obliquely recalled addressing him incorrectly and seized on that for further conversation. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. You are now Lord Courtenay. How stupid of me to have forgotten. I knew, of course, because I attended your brother’s funeral with Daniel. It must have been…five years ago. But I didn’t see you then…you weren’t there…I believe you were abroad…the war…’ She was babbling, she realised wildly, and abruptly clamped together tremulous lips and bit down on the lower one.
David’s eyes were drawn immediately to the small white teeth gripping at that soft full curve. His lids swept down, shielding the expression darkening his eyes to midnight, and a muttered curse was hastily choked in his throat. Fat? Blowsy? Matronly? If she had children and this was how they’d left her…
She was everything he remembered, but so much more. More beautiful, if possible: she’d lost the youthful fullness in her face and now had cheekbones like ivory razors. Her inky lashes seemed lusher, her eyes more storm-violet than grey, her hair gleaming, glossy jet. Her nature seemed as sweet; that poignant melancholy she was trying to disguise with tentative friendliness made him want to do something idiotic like comfort her; cuddle her against him in a way he remembered doing so long ago…
His eyes ripped from her upturned face to stare across her dark head. The sooner he was out of here the better. He’d been a fool to come. There had been no need. A simple note of condolence would have sufficed. He’d take a glass of wine then get the hell out back to the Swan tavern at St Albans and pray that Dickie had found them some diversion to occupy his body and mind before they set off on the road back to London in the morning.
‘Lord Courtenay?’ a male voice queried uncertainly.
Victoria and David both immediately, gratefully looked about, glad of the distraction as the tension between them strained unbearably.
Sir Peter Grayson, Laura’s husband, had just entered through the great arched oaken doors of Hartfield and was clapping together his leather-gloved palms to warm them. He brushed flakes of snow from his caped shoulders and knocked them from the brim of his hat.
‘It’s snowing…’ Victoria murmured.
‘I thought I recognised you,’ Sir Peter said at the same time, directing a huge grin at David Hardinge.
David smiled as recognition dawned. ‘Peter, how nice to see you.’ He gripped the hand extended to him, while trying to block the memory of the last time this man and he had socialised. It had been about a year ago at a discreet private salon run by a personable widow. The evening of music and cards had terminated in its customary drunken orgy. The amusing memory of this young buck, cavorting naked except for his cravat, was difficult to banish.
As though abruptly recalling the same event, Sir Peter flushed, making Victoria look curiously at him. An embarrassed cough preceded Peter’s hasty, ‘I must introduce you to my wife, Lord Courtenay. Where is Laura, Vicky? Have you seen her?’ He chattered on. ‘It must be more than a year since last I spoke to you. How have you been? I rarely get to London now, you know. I spend all my time here in Hertfordshire. I was married in October of last year…and have never been happier.’
David inclined his head, acknowledging the caution. ‘Of course…’ he soothed.
‘Ah, here she is…’ Sir Peter said with a mix of relief and horror as Laura’s slim, black-clad figure drifted into the hallway from the drawing room.
Aware that a perfect opportunity for her to escape and compose her thoughts and a perfect opportunity to waylay David Hardinge longer had presented itself, Victoria appealed to her friends. ‘Please show Lord Courtenay the fire and the refreshments. I must just check that my papa is comfortable.
‘It is freezing out, Papa, and snowing again too,’ Victoria consoled her father a few moments later. ‘It is bitterly cold. Far too cold for you.’ She raised a cool, pale hand and laid it gently against his papery cheek. ‘See how chilled I still am, and I have been indoors for some while. Daniel would not have wished you to endure
