dangerous. I’m a dangerous man, Adele. You think you’re safe with me,but you’re not. I’m not like Harold. He should not have sent me.”
She stared at him, speechless. “No, he was right to send you. I’m alive, aren’t I? And we’re almost home.”
He walked to the door, shaking his head. “I’ll return to my room first, then arrange for breakfast to be sent up to you. I’ll see you downstairs in an hour.” He paused in the doorway. “I’ll deliver you to your mother today, then you’ll be reunited with Harold a few hours later. I’ll never mention any of this again, Adele. You have my word. We’ll forget it ever happened.”
He walked out and closed the door behind him.
Chapter 8
T he Osulton coach, with an impressive liveried driver at the reins, rolled swiftly and smoothly across the lush, green English countryside behind a thunderous team of galloping grays.
Inside, Adele sat quietly with her mother, Beatrice, her sister Clara, and baby Anne, while a second coach was coming later with their maids, their luggage, and Anne’s nurse.
Adele had met her mother two hours ago at a village inn. As soon as Damien had dropped Adele off in the reception room and had been assured that her mother was indeed in the building, he had taken his leave without waiting to be introduced, and had ridden off in another direction.
Adele had been glad to see him go, very glad and very relieved. Yet at the same time, she had been mystified by the frustrating well of misery that curled like a snake around her gladness and relief.
She should not be mourning their parting, she told herself for the umpteenth time as the coach passed through the village just north of Osulton Manor. She was promised to Harold , and besides, Damien was not the kind of man she would ever want to marry. Yes, he had been her hero during their journey together, but in real life, he was in love with his mistress and was known to be irresponsible. She had to keep her head on straight about what had happened between them, and accept what he said as true: it had been a temporary madness.
So she anticipated her approach to the manor with the sensible hope that she was at last returning to the real world and the familiarity of her life. The adventure, thank heavens, was over.
Upon peering out the window, however, she discovered most disagreeably that one’s expectations could often be lost in the wind. As the carriage passed through the massive stone gateway—which, emblazoned with a dramatic coat of arms, resembled the Arch of Constantine in Rome—she recalled telling Clara that she did not crave adventure. She only wanted to marry the man who had proposed to her, and move forward through life as she had intended.
Now she was facing another astonishment. This place—this massive country estate—wasnothing like what she had expected or imagined. She had thought she would be living in an ivy-covered cottage in the English countryside, in the Tudor style perhaps, because Harold, as it were, had described his home as an “old and quaint country house.”
Quaint? Perhaps Harold needed a new dictionary.
Osulton Manor was no quaint country house. It was a great, white palace, baroque in style, with large flanking octagonal turrets and a spectacular center skyline of smaller cupolas and domes. It stood on top of a high hill, surrounded by wrought iron fences and ancient English oaks that watched over the property like great lords themselves.
It was a palace fit for kings and queens, and Adele would be mistress of it all. She felt an unexpected tightening in her chest, as if this entire continent were pressing down upon her. A strict manner of behavior beyond her years and experience would be expected of her. How in the world would she learn all that she needed to learn to run a household on a scale such as this?
She pulled her gaze from the window and stared blankly down at the floor of the coach. Harold had not prepared her for this. He had
She stared at him, speechless. “No, he was right to send you. I’m alive, aren’t I? And we’re almost home.”
He walked to the door, shaking his head. “I’ll return to my room first, then arrange for breakfast to be sent up to you. I’ll see you downstairs in an hour.” He paused in the doorway. “I’ll deliver you to your mother today, then you’ll be reunited with Harold a few hours later. I’ll never mention any of this again, Adele. You have my word. We’ll forget it ever happened.”
He walked out and closed the door behind him.
Chapter 8
T he Osulton coach, with an impressive liveried driver at the reins, rolled swiftly and smoothly across the lush, green English countryside behind a thunderous team of galloping grays.
Inside, Adele sat quietly with her mother, Beatrice, her sister Clara, and baby Anne, while a second coach was coming later with their maids, their luggage, and Anne’s nurse.
Adele had met her mother two hours ago at a village inn. As soon as Damien had dropped Adele off in the reception room and had been assured that her mother was indeed in the building, he had taken his leave without waiting to be introduced, and had ridden off in another direction.
Adele had been glad to see him go, very glad and very relieved. Yet at the same time, she had been mystified by the frustrating well of misery that curled like a snake around her gladness and relief.
She should not be mourning their parting, she told herself for the umpteenth time as the coach passed through the village just north of Osulton Manor. She was promised to Harold , and besides, Damien was not the kind of man she would ever want to marry. Yes, he had been her hero during their journey together, but in real life, he was in love with his mistress and was known to be irresponsible. She had to keep her head on straight about what had happened between them, and accept what he said as true: it had been a temporary madness.
So she anticipated her approach to the manor with the sensible hope that she was at last returning to the real world and the familiarity of her life. The adventure, thank heavens, was over.
Upon peering out the window, however, she discovered most disagreeably that one’s expectations could often be lost in the wind. As the carriage passed through the massive stone gateway—which, emblazoned with a dramatic coat of arms, resembled the Arch of Constantine in Rome—she recalled telling Clara that she did not crave adventure. She only wanted to marry the man who had proposed to her, and move forward through life as she had intended.
Now she was facing another astonishment. This place—this massive country estate—wasnothing like what she had expected or imagined. She had thought she would be living in an ivy-covered cottage in the English countryside, in the Tudor style perhaps, because Harold, as it were, had described his home as an “old and quaint country house.”
Quaint? Perhaps Harold needed a new dictionary.
Osulton Manor was no quaint country house. It was a great, white palace, baroque in style, with large flanking octagonal turrets and a spectacular center skyline of smaller cupolas and domes. It stood on top of a high hill, surrounded by wrought iron fences and ancient English oaks that watched over the property like great lords themselves.
It was a palace fit for kings and queens, and Adele would be mistress of it all. She felt an unexpected tightening in her chest, as if this entire continent were pressing down upon her. A strict manner of behavior beyond her years and experience would be expected of her. How in the world would she learn all that she needed to learn to run a household on a scale such as this?
She pulled her gaze from the window and stared blankly down at the floor of the coach. Harold had not prepared her for this. He had
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