Page 19 of The Lost Lord
Like the floors, the walls were crafted of dark wood. The house’s furnishings, also wood, were carved out of heavy walnut. A console table gleamed softly in the low light. A silver bowl sat atop it, beneath a large heavy-framed mirror. Beside that stood a spindly coat rack upon which hung a battered top hat.
A large double door with heavy iron handles laid to his left. To the right, a similarly dark receiving room. It looked like the parlors and sitting rooms Richard was accustomed to seeing in the homes of wealthy families. With its oversized, heavy furniture the space looked like a belligerent commercial space designed to make supplicants feel small. The entry certainly had the effect of making Richard feel even less confident of his purpose in coming here. Only the prospect of thwarting Lizzie’s meanspirited plans kept Richard moving forward. Footsteps disappeared down a narrow hallway. A glow of light illuminated the end but nothing beyond that point.
“She’s back here,” Walsh called over his shoulder. Richard hurried after his host like a lost duckling scurrying after its mother.
The back half of the house was as different from the front as chalk to cheese. Once through the dim, imposing front rooms, the rear apartments were warm and inviting. It was as if two distinctly different people had battled over the architectural priorities and had divided the spoils. Clearly, whomever had won the front had the more visible but smaller share of real estate.
After the gloom of the entrance, Richard’s eyes needed a moment to adjust the brighter light. When they cleared, he saw a wall of casement windows that let in the afternoon sun. French doors opened onto an extended yard teeming with flowers. A slight figure in a gauzy white gown fairly glowed in their midst. Thick, glossy black curls escaped their pins on the top of her head to dance about her shoulders.
Mine,his heart whispered.My woman, my wife, my soul.
Richard coughed. Where had that thought sprung from? Miriam was none of those things. Least of all his soul. Richard didn’t have one. If he did, it would be as black as soot, not light and beauty like Miriam.
“Are you coming?” demanded Walsh. The man’s pugnacious form had settled into a shadow near the dining room where he observed Richard.
“Yes. I was momentarily blinded.” Richard forced his body into motion. Dampness condensed in the hollows of his arms and that the small of his back. “It’s very bright back here.”
“Miriam likes her garden. I ripped out the wall, as much as I could of it without the house falling down, and installed casement windows.”
“It reminds me of my father’s…” Richard stopped. Only wealthy families could claim to have a conservatory, and he had no status here, only a tenuous connection with his family in England. He could return at his brother’s word and not a moment before. That had been the agreement when Edward had sent him away.
“You were saying something about your father.”
Richard swallowed past a tight throat. “He’s dead. Almost three years ago.”
“I see,” replied Livingston Walsh, and Richard had the uncomfortable feeling he saw entirely too much. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. Shall I proceed?” Richard inclined his head toward the garden where Miriam worked unaware that she was being observed.
“Keep it short.”
Dismissed, Richard measured his approach in restrained steps. At his first footfall on the flagstone path, Miriam glanced up. The joy that overtook her features made him feel every bit the scoundrel he was. After all, he was here for her money, not for her.
“Richard,” she half exclaimed, half-breathed. “I wish you’d warned me before coming. I’m covered in dirt and—”
“You look beautiful.” Richard’s heart hammered in his chest. The vise in his throat squeezed tighter, choking off his ability to speak. He couldn’t do this. Lying was not exactly an unfamiliar habit. Witness his refusal to use the proper, demoted title ever since his arrival in America. Yet there was an honesty and softness that pulled at Richard’s protective instincts.
“You’re a dear,” Miriam blushed. She removed her gardening gloves and set them aside. “Would you care for tea?”
“Please.”
If he could swallow it past the tight knot in his throat.
“You waited so long to come, I believed you’d lost all interest.” There was no accusation in her words. Richard’s stomach flipped and sank.
“I had work to do. Impoverished nobleman on foreign shores have little choice but to earn their keep.” He remembered to take a breath, and speaking was easier after that. But he had remind himself to keep doing it. Richard had spent years seducing practiced courtesans and flirting with innocent girls when he couldn’t escape dancing with them. But never had he tried to court a woman under false pretenses. It was harder than he thought it would be, in part because Miriam had inherited her father’s directness.
Before this afternoon, Harper Forsythe, his now sister-in-law and current countess of Briarcliff, had dared to address him as an equal. Richard had disdainfully dismissed her from the moment they had met. A familiar emotion tightened Richard’s shoulders. Regret.
He was sick of it. Yet here he was, committing one more sin to cement his everlasting damnation.
A question arose in Miriam’s eyes as he settled into the iron chair beside a planter overflowing with blossoms.
You are here to seduce Miriam out of her fortune. Not to fall in love,Richard reminded himself sternly. “Your father is an intimidating man.”
It was the right thing to say. Miriam smiled conspiratorially.
“Only at first. He’s very protective of me.”
