Parting the Veil by Paulette Kennedy
CHAPTER 6
Despite Lydia’s many attempts at turning the conversation, Lord Eastleigh’s favorite subject at dinner proved to be the same as it had been at tea—himself. His stories of manly prowess were tempered only by his demands for wine. One decanter was drained well before the bouillabaisse went cold, and while the earl was rather more florid in complexion than he had been on arrival, he was demonstrating he could drink any man, or woman, under a table.
As for Eliza, her eyes were fixed on her hard-won cuckoo clock in the hallway. They’d served dinner an hour early to avoid a confrontation between suitors, but the time of her outing with Lord Havenwood was drawing perilously near. Time to get things moving.
After they finished the final course, Eliza rose, her wineglass held high for a toast. “To you, Lord Eastleigh, for illumining us with your wit and irrepressible . . . confidence.” Eliza smiled tightly, tapping the toe of her slipper on the rug. “Now, shall I see you to your carriage?”
Charles gulped down the last of his wine, setting the goblet hard on the table. “Indeed, Miss Sullivan. There’s a matter I’d like to discuss with you in private.” He gave an obliging nod to Lydia and offered his arm to Eliza. As they went outside, he turned and took her hand. “Some concerning things have come to light, and I feel I must be frank with you, for your own benefit.”
“Oh?”
“I hear I may not be your only suitor.” He paused, fixing her with his cool gaze. “I’ve heard Havenwood means to sink his talons in.”
“Why, I’ve only met Lord Havenwood once, at Lady Gregory’s ball. We’ve barely spoken ten words to one another.”
“He’s a dangerous man. Ask around. You needn’t hear it only from me.”
Eliza measured the guarded anger in his words and the tension in his long-fingered grasp. He was jealous. Letting other people win isn’t my strong suit.
So. She’d become a prize. A conquest.
Eliza jerked her hand from his, heat running through her veins. “My temperament dictates I make up my own mind about people, Lord Eastleigh. As I do not know the man well, I shall refrain from thinking ill of him until he demonstrates reason to regard him poorly.”
“That’s all very admirable, but you should know the scandal has its basis in fact—that fire was no accident, and his mother’s disappearance holds suspicion of murder. She knew certain things about her son—things he’d never want revealed. There’s a darkness in him you’d do well to regard with caution.”
“And what would Lord Havenwood have to say about you, sir?”
Charles’s smile faded. “Your cheek does not suit a lady, Miss Sullivan. I’ve business to attend to in London, but I’ll be around to call upon my return. Do not entertain other suitors. Mark me—I will be your strongest ally here in Hampshire. One you’d do well to indulge if you’d see your successes manifest.” He lifted the brim of his hat, then turned on his heel to go to his coach-and-four.
Eliza exhaled, hugging her pelisse around her shoulders. As soon as he’d gotten far enough down the drive that she could no longer see the white plumes of his horses, she turned to go inside.
Lydia was standing on the terrace steps. “I heard everything. Was he threatening you?”
“I’m not sure, but it seemed that way.” Eliza hurried through the doors and took the stairs to her room two at a time. She kicked off her shoes as she struggled out of her dinner gown, sending a button skittering across the worn carpet. “He sets my nerves on edge. And how on earth did he know Lord Havenwood was calling on me?”
“It certainly wasn’t me! If I had to venture a guess, I’d say it was a certain blond-haired, blue-eyed gossip,” Lydia said, shaking her head. “If she has designs on Lord Eastleigh, she’d have reason to let him know you’ve been entertaining other suitors, wouldn’t she?”
“Our business will get around much too quickly in this little village, I’m afraid.” Eliza stepped out of her petticoats and into a pair of dark-green riding trousers, styled so they looked like a voluminous skirt. Next came a high-necked shirtwaist and a cropped velvet jacket with frog closures.
The bell rang downstairs, echoing through the house.
“He’s here,” Lydia said. “I’ll see him in. You really should have me chaperone, especially after all that. It’ll breed more gossip if you go out alone on a ramble with him. Think of your reputation! And what if he’s as bad as they say he is?”
“Don’t worry, sister. My reputation has been muddied before, and as for protection, I can handle myself.” Eliza pulled two wickedly sharp hatpins from her dressing table drawer and pinned her riding hat at a jaunty angle. “I’m not a scared little girl.”
“All right. But don’t go too far, and if you’re late coming home, I’ll send out a search party. I do mean that. With lanterns and guns and great barking dogs.”
A hiccup of laughter burst from Eliza’s lips. “And you say I’m dramatic.”
Lydia swept from the room, muttering to herself. Within a few moments, Eliza heard Lord Havenwood’s voice floating up from the foyer. She shook off her nerves and walked decisively to the stairs, her riding crop in hand.
As she turned the corner on the balustrade, she saw him. His back was to her—his shoulders broad, the rest of him lean. He was kitted out in well-worn but once-fine riding gear, with leather boots up to his thighs, trimmed with silver spurs. When he heard her step, he turned, his lips widening into a vulpine grin. Eliza’s stomach and heart lurched at once, as if she’d ridden too fast down a hill. As she drew near, she noticed the ring of amber rimming his viridian irises like fire, flaring as they took her in.
Eyes of amber and of green, a courageous heart and a noble mien. Eliza thought of the silly childhood love spell she had cast to the wind so many years ago—in the days when she still believed in magic, true love, and the fantastical.
“Miss Sullivan, how eagerly I’ve awaited this evening.” Malcolm offered his hand as she descended the stairs.
When they touched, the same powerful kick of attraction she’d felt the night they met soared through her. “Lord Havenwood. I’m ever as pleased.”
They went out, and Eliza was grateful for the coolness of the evening air on her flaming cheeks. Two horses stood tethered to the hitching posts in front of the house—one as massive and dark as fresh coal and the other as pale and fine-boned as a goat.
“This is Apollo,” Malcolm said, leading her to his horse. “He looks like the devil but he’s gentle as a lamb.”
“He’s a Friesian, isn’t he?”
“Yes. How astute of you.”
“If there’s one thing I know, my lord, it’s horses.” She stroked the arching line of Apollo’s neck and he whickered at her softly, then bent his head to snuff her other hand.
“He thinks you might have a carrot,” Malcolm said, laughing. “I’ve got him a bit spoiled.”
“Just like my Hercules. Only with him, it was sugar cubes.”
“You’ll surely conquer him if you ever offer him sugar, and I may jolly well find myself without a horse. Shall we?”
“Of course.” Eliza went to Star, Theo’s little Arab gelding. At her gentle touch on his flank, he raised his pale head and looked at her with wary eyes. Eliza stepped into the stirrups, then swung her leg over Star’s back. She took her time settling into her saddle under Malcolm’s gaze. “Still think me a lady?” she asked, arching a brow at him.
He mounted Apollo and winked at her. “I think you’re every bit my match.”
“We’ll see.” She returned his wink and nudged Star with the heel of her boots. He was off, his white tail arching into the air as she urged him on with her crop, rising up in her stirrups and racing down the long driveway. Mr. Mason jumped to attention, cranking the gate open just in time.
Apollo’s heavy stride pounded the earth behind her as they galloped into the shaded expanse of the birchwood forest. At times, the big horse’s breath was hot upon her neck as Malcolm began to gain ground—but unlike Star, his horse was meant for long journeys pulling artillery carts and carrying warriors in armor, not for speed. After running on a bit with the lead, Eliza let off her crop, content she’d proved her prowess.
As they came out onto the meadow’s wind-ruffled grass, Malcolm overtook her. He galloped on for a bit, then slowed Apollo to a high-stepping trot at the bottom of a low hillock, its edges touched with orange light from the fading sun. He dismounted as she brought Star up next to him. “You let me win,” he teased.
“Perhaps, but I’ve never had so much fun letting someone win, my lord. I’ve been longing to go on a proper ride ever since I arrived. Thank you for taking me out of that musty parlor and its endless cups of tea.” Eliza pitched forward to dismount. As she’d hoped, Malcolm grasped her by the waist as she swung her leg over the saddle, easing her gently down, just as Jacob had always done after her riding lessons.
“Are our proper English courtship rituals boring you already?” Malcolm asked, his hands lingering on her hips.
“Yes,” she said, tapping his shoulder playfully with her riding crop. “And I’m quite ready to be done with any kind of boredom.”
His lips quirked up in a smile. “We’ll not have any, then.”
“We’re already leagues ahead.” Eliza reached into the pannier buckled to Star’s saddle and brought out a bottle of claret, handing it to Malcolm, along with two tin cups. He uncorked the wine and poured as she spread a blanket on the ground and settled there, tucking her legs beneath her.
He folded himself down next to her, clinking his cup to hers. “Cheers to adventure and drinking much more wine than tea.”
They sat for a while in companionable silence, enjoying the pastoral beauty of the countryside. The sun was a sultry glow in the distance, turning the skies to a streaming, mottled fuchsia and the distant hills to the shade of plum worn in mourning. Great birds of prey shrieked and called as they chased one another, darting and diving into the feathered heads of Queen Anne’s lace and yarrow before night forced them to their nests. The wind, with its earthy midsummer fragrance, brought a redolent sensuality to the moment. Eliza reached up to remove her hat, then unbound the twist of hair from her nape, letting her thick waves fall free.
“A proper lady would never let down her hair in front of any man but her husband, you know. It’s incredibly seductive.”
Eliza lay back with a sigh. “Well, I’m not a proper lady and I’m tired of rules and etiquette. It’s all I’ve heard since I was a girl and my mother began grooming me for society.”
“Mothers only want what they think best for their children, don’t you agree?”
“You’re far too generous. My mother only wanted what was best for herself. I disappointed her as a daughter. She wanted me to marry a wealthy Creole planter from an old family—to have a fine house and well-dressed children she could trot out to her society friends.”
“And yet here you are in the hinterlands, mingling with the mongrel nobility and defying her still. You should set your sights a bit higher. A London duke, perhaps.” He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. His features were almost feminine in their fineness—there was something of the Renaissance in his face. Eliza imagined his lips pressing against her own, and her skin warmed at the thought.
“I’m certainly not an Astor. But if you happen to know a London duke in need of a wife, perhaps you could be of assistance. It seems I’m to find a husband after all, although that was the least of my concerns upon coming here.” Eliza was stunned at the flagrance of her own words. Words any suitor would take as an invitation.
“Isn’t it common for a woman of your age to be searching for a husband?”
“That’s the usual story, isn’t it?” Eliza rolled onto her side, propping herself on one elbow to regard Malcolm. “I’d always imagined myself as a bluestocking, traveling the world and taking lovers at a whim. I am irascible and decadent. A bit whiny, too. Hardly the qualities most men favor in a wife.”
“You certainly are forthright.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “And perhaps a bit spoiled.”
“One of my many flaws, I suppose.” Eliza plucked a daisy from the grass and put it to her nose, gazing at Malcolm above its petals. “What, or rather whom, do you see for yourself, my lord? An actress or an opera singer? Perhaps a continental mistress that you need only see twice a year?”
“My.” He laughed. “Your candor is outlandish, but refreshing all the same. My father wanted me to settle down with one of the local girls, but I’ve always imagined marrying someone more adventurous. Someone a bit less inhibited.”
“Less inhibited?” She gave a coquettish grin. “I’d be curious to hear how I differ from the ladies of Hampshire. And no more of this American girl business, if you please.”
Malcolm leaned back on an elbow and looked up at the sky, thinking. “I’d say it’s your snap, your disregard for propriety, and your marvelous hair.” He wound a strand of it around his finger. “It’s the color of the best kind of marmalade, and I rather like marmalade.” The coil of hair sprung from his grasp and fell back onto the striped cloth of their shared blanket. “And do you find anything at all fascinating about me, Miss Sullivan?”
So much.“Your title,” she teased. “And only that.”
“How disappointingly predictable. Do be serious.”
“You’d want me to show my hand already? Where’s the fun in that?”
He met her gaze, his eyes holding hers captive. “I’m quite adept at games, but I’d prefer not to play them with you, darling. I haven’t had cause or desire to call on a woman for quite some time. You may read my hand however you wish.”
The heady tension that had marked their very first encounter crackled between them. Suddenly shy, Eliza turned her attention to the daisy in her hands, shredding its petals, then tossing it aside. Malcolm sat up and pulled his long-stemmed smoking pipe from his jacket, and without lighting it, let it dangle from his lips. Out over the heath, a thin scrim of golden light was all that separated day from twilight.
“We’re moving into the gloaming, I’m afraid.” Malcolm gestured toward the darkening sky. “Our time together shan’t last much longer if we’re going to care at all about being proper.”
“I’m not concerned. Are you?” Eliza said.
He smiled. “Very well then. Tell me about your New Orleans. I’ve only ever been to New York, when I was just a boy.”
“It’s a strange city, unlike any other, I’d say—embraced by a great, roping river like your Thames that gives and takes life. There’s a white cathedral facing the water, with three spires and bells that chime a carillon on top of each hour. Springtime is my favorite season, when the bougainvillea begins to bloom. The petals dance over the streets, all pink and scarlet. It’s so humid in the summer that to sleep in clothing is foolish, but in wintertime, snow never falls. Autumn is horrid. That’s when the winds come. They howl and shake everything in their path. The floods come after—bringing fevers and death.”
“It sounds terribly dramatic, but you make me want to leave everything I know and go there. Won’t you miss it?”
Eliza swallowed the catch in her throat as she remembered the stench inside the Metairie farmhouse and the greedy buzz of flies in the darkened, sweltering sickroom. She shook her head. “No, my lord. There are certain things I will remember with fondness, but I will never return. I’m a bit like Lot—I’ll only push forward and dare not look back.” She shifted uneasily and studied the scuffed toe of her riding boot. “There’s nothing there for me anymore.”
Malcolm gave a remote smile, as if an old memory had chimed somewhere in his heart. “I admit I’ve wondered if I’d feel the same about Hampshire and Havenwood Manor if I ever left. Everyone sees a crumbling, tired mansion and a scandal. It all feels a bit like a jailer’s chain at times, but I remember when the manor was grand. I have hope that it will be again. Houses have a certain power, don’t you think? Almost as if they’re people—or perhaps characters in a play.”
“Your home reminds me of a house from a fairy tale.”
He chuckled. “Don’t you mean a ghost story?”
“I’d imagine it has all kinds of stories caught up within its eaves. I confess I’ve gone smitten with what might be hidden beyond your gates.”
“I promise there’s nothing more exciting knocking about Havenwood than a few squirrels and bats. Your romantic sensibilities might be disappointed if you’re expecting Northanger Abbey.” Malcolm tucked his pipe into his pocket. “Still, it’s not without its charms.” He was pensive for a moment before looking at her again, a mischievous smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Would you like to see it?”
A frisson ran through Eliza. “Do you mean tonight?”
He laughed at her girlish excitement and helped her to her feet. “It’s rather brash, but then again, so is our picnic. The scandal has already been made, I’m afraid, but I’m quite used to scandal. One truly begins living once they no longer hold the opinions of others in high regard.” He pushed a wayward strand of hair away from her eyes, and Eliza shivered under his touch. “And besides . . . I’m finding I’m not ready for our night to end just yet. Only do wind your hair up, lest the good people of Cheltenbridge think I’ve led you completely down the path of debauchery.”
Eliza did as he asked, knotting her hair back into her tortoiseshell comb with shaking fingers. They packed up the remains of their repast and mounted their horses. Malcolm led the way back over the heath and onto the lane. The moon had risen over the trees, glowing full and bright as they rode past Sherbourne House, its warm lights shining within. Eliza imagined Lydia watching anxiously through the windows—ever concerned with propriety and caution.
When they reached Havenwood Manor, Malcolm dismounted and produced a ring of keys from beneath his waistcoat. He unlocked the latch on the gate, the jeweled eyes of its twin serpents glittering, and took the reins of Eliza’s horse to lead her through. As he pulled the gate closed and locked it behind them, a brief wave of dismay rose up in Eliza at the thought of confinement and all it implied. What if the stories about him were true?
“I can see your concern. I only value my privacy, darling.” Malcolm offered his hand as she dismounted. “Despite all reports to the contrary, I am a gentleman. Your virtue is safe.”
Eliza took his arm as they made their way up a sloping rise, past a silent fountain with algae greening the curves of the maiden who stood at its middle, her hands raising a chalice overhead. The shrubbery grew close on the path, thorns reaching out to grasp at Eliza’s riding habit. Within a few yards of the gate, they emerged into a courtyard, knee-length grass sprouting between the pavers. The mansion loomed before them like a vast ship, much larger than it had seemed from her window, its chimneys pushing high into the purple sky.
The heavy door creaked open. A pale face floated in the dark chasm. “Oh, it’s only you, m’lord.”
“I’ve brought Miss Sullivan around to see the house, Turner. She believes it to be full of vampires, ghouls, and all manner of fantastic creatures.”
The butler smiled down at Eliza. “Good evening, miss. We don’t have much in the way of all that, I’m afraid, but we’ve a splendid whisky that will warm you right up. Bit of a chill in the air for June. Shall I wake Mrs. Duncan to chaperone?”
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Turner,” Eliza answered. “Although a dram of your Scotch sounds perfectly delightful.”
The butler ushered them inside, and Eliza’s eyes widened in covetous wonder. They stood in an elegant foyer, three stories high, punctuated by a skylight that shone like a great eye, spilling moonlight instead of tears. A grand staircase dominated the room and broke into two galleries over the yellow-veined marble floor. The plasterwork ceiling was as magnificent as any cathedral—vaulted arches curved from each corner and leapt with seraphim. The wood-paneled walls and dentil molding harkened back to the last century, and while there was a faint hint of must and dampness in the air, the front drawing room glowed welcoming and warm. A fire crackled in the hearth while an unseen gramophone played Puccini from another room. Eliza felt as if she’d entered a dream in which every fantastic thought of the house she’d imagined had manifested. As if she’d cast a spell and made it her own.
The butler brought their Scotch, and Malcolm poured a tumbler of the whisky for Eliza, his lips curving into a smile. “Welcome to Havenwood Manor, Miss Sullivan. I do hope it won’t disappoint.”