Whisper of Magic by Patricia Rice Page B

would have gone to
the back door.
    “The lady sent a note saying they will arrive before
evening. We have been arranging suitable accommodations,” Jamar said, striding
toward the foyer.
    Erran followed, interested in seeing who dared knock and how
they would react to a black giant in gentleman’s clothes opening the door. A
footstep from above caused him to glance up the stairs.
    The lady was hesitating on the landing, frowning as she,
too, waited. She’d most likely been watching from the front window and had seen
their visitor arrive. Dressed in drab gray—although of excellent cut on her
slim figure—she caught his eye and flattened her lips in disapproval again. His
cheek stung in memory of last night. Would he ever land on her good side?
    Jamar opened the door. A woman shrieked as if the house had
fallen on her, and a man exclaimed in irritation. Erran stepped up, allowing
Jamar to retreat into the foyer, out of the public eye.
    On the doorstep, a footman in elegant livery cursed and
attempted to hold up a beribboned and frilled lady of larger girth than
himself—who had apparently fainted at sight of Jamar. Erran was reluctant to
lay hands on a woman he didn’t know, but he felt sorry for the poor fellow
dealing with foolish vapors.
    “One would assume the populace of a city as large as London
would be a little more sophisticated,” he muttered under his breath, taking the
female’s other arm and lifting her upright. Aloud, he asked in annoyance,
“Shall we escort her back to her carriage?”
    “No, no, I’ll be fine. I just need to sit down.” The new
arrival abruptly straightened, taking her weight off the young footman, much to
his evident relief. She waved a lace handkerchief under her nose. “Where is
Lily? My smelling salts, please.”
    A tiny, terrified maid peered from behind the hedge.
Apparently relieved that no foreign entities darkened the doorway, the maid
scurried to help her mistress.
    Feeling mean, Erran released the lady’s arm and blocked the
doorway with his bulk. “Perhaps we could provide you with direction?” he
inquired in his coldest, most aristocratic tones.
    “I’m here to see my dear, dear sisters and little brother,”
the lady protested. “Lily, give this person my card. I’m sure they will be
eager to see me.”
    “This is the home of the Marquess of Ashford,” Erran
informed them with hauteur. “He has no sisters.” He took the card proffered and
added with disdain, “Mrs. Guilford.”
    At last, Miss Rochester joined him at the doorway and elbowed
him to one side. Erran rather enjoyed the intimacy her touch produced—he
thought she must be feeling more comfortable in his company to dare strike him
again. He inhaled her delicate floral scent as a reward for his rotten day, and
fought a proprietary urge to place his hand at the small of her back.
    His hostess wasn’t smiling in welcome, however, as she
snatched the card from his hand. “Come in, Charlotte,” she said curtly. “We may
call you Charlotte, may we not, since we are sisters? I am Celeste. We have
corresponded.”
    The difference in the ladies was so striking that Erran had
difficulty believing there could be any relation at all. Mrs. Guilford was
obviously older, with the plumpness of childbirth and fine dining. But she was
also built sturdier and closer to the ground than the taller, more willowy Miss
Rochester. The older sister had frizzed her yellow hair to disguise the pasty
roundness of her face. Whereas Miss Rochester’s sleek mahogany hair was drawn
severely back, deliberately exposing sun-browned high cheekbones and those
wicked, slanted, blue eyes.
    Accepting the invitation, the newcomer deliberately ignored
the amused Jamar in the hall and waddled in the direction of the front parlor.
    “Oh, no, Charlotte, dear. We must go upstairs to the family parlor. The front is for the
marquess’s distinguished guests,”
Miss Rochester said in polite tones that Erran could swear hid a solid