Page 11 of My Wicked Earl
Bushy gray brows drew up to the butler’s hairline. “Greetings, Lord Kilmaire. Lady Cambourne is expecting you.” Bowing as much as his age would allow, he waved Colin inside and slowly shut the door, grunting a bit with his efforts. Lifting trembling hands, the butler took Colin’s cloak and hat, handing the dripping garments to a waiting footman. Moving at a snail’s pace towards the double staircase at the end of the foyer, the butler turned his head slightly to make sure Colin followed.
Christ, I can hear his spine creak. Colin ran a hand through his hair, droplets of rain falling from the shoulder length strands to sprinkle his coat, while he surveyed the foyer. It had been many years since his last visit to Cambourne House. He’d not even visited when Cam and his wife were in residence the month prior.
The hall still smelled of beeswax from the battalion of maids who kept Cambourne House spotless. He could hear them even now, scurrying about like mice within the walls, ensuring that not a speck of dust would mar the bannister or a cobweb hide in the corner of any room. The foyer was painted a mellow cream color instead of the pale green it had once been, but the fine carpet covering the floor was the same. An expensive looking vase filled with pink roses, probably cut from the extensive garden behind the house, filled the air with their perfume.
He remembered the Marquess of Cambourne’s garden well.
I choose you, Colin Hartley.
The seductive words lingered in the air like the scent of the roses.
“This way my lord. I am Bevins, by the way.” Bevins dipped his head as he started up the stairs, his knees popping with each step.
Bevins. How could Colin have forgotten?
Pausing halfway up the stairs, Bevins stopped to catch his breath. “Lady Cambourne will receive you in her private sitting room.” A spiderlike wave of his hand urged Colin forward.
Colin took a hesitant step. The last time he’d been in this house had been just before the gypsy’s curse began to unravel his life and his family. He’d been very successful in avoiding London since, and had no intention of ever returning, but for the fact that his financial situation required such.
And he missed his friends.
The solitary life he’d embraced at Runshaw Park grew tiresome. He had assumed, wrongly, that she would no longer be at Cambourne House. That she would be a duchess just as she wanted. Married to another man with a passel of brats around her skirts.
I was too much of a coward to ask Cam.
Seeing her in the Duke of Dunbar’s study was akin to being punched in the gut. Hungrily his eyes trailed over the curves of her body as her scent, lavender and honey, filled the air around him. The silk of her skirts whispered to Colin seductively, a delicious plea for him to come closer. Her lovely green eyes, the color of a fresh grass in spring widened in surprise, and for an instant he saw his own hunger reflected. It wasn’t until one of the footmen addressed her that Colin realized something.
Not married.
“My lord?”
Bevins opened a carved oak door with no small amount of effort and ushered Colin into a sitting room that faced the gardens of Cambourne House. The view was stunning for the Cambournes were known to employ the very best gardeners both in London and Gray Covington, the family estate outside the city. His eyes searched out the tiny white gazebo. Colin wondered if the bench was still there.
Bevins beckoned Colin to enter the room, bowing slightly as he did so.
The entire room was painted in pale yellow, the exact color of buttercups lining the fields every spring. Whimsical butterflies and birds hovered against the walls, so realistically painted that when combined with the view, it gave one the impression that the room was just an extension of the gardens.
Bowls were placed at strategic intervals around the room, all filled with roses and lilies. Two comfortable, slightly worn chairs sat before a merrily crackling fire. One chair held a discarded embroidery hoop and a book of poetry while the other sat empty in invitation. There was no doubt that this room was the private abode of the Dowager Marchioness, for the room carried the very essence of her.
Colin had always adored Lady Donata, the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne and his friend Cam’s grandmother. The Dowager lavished Colin with affection when he visited Gray Covington, seeming to know that the Mad Countess cared little for her son. She treated Colin as a member of the family, fussing over him and never forgetting his birthday.
She was also quitefierce.
Turning to ask Bevins how long the Dowager would be, Colin was instead greeted with the oak door shutting behind him with a discreet click.
Colin moved towards the empty chair and the warmth emanating from the fireplace. Perhaps he could dry himself out a bit before the Dowager received him. He could think of worse places to await his fate then this cozy room.
Halfway across the room Colin stopped, nearly upending a side table with a large vase of hyacinths.
A cloud of hair, as black as ink, cascaded over the arm of a small, green tufted couch set off to the side of the room. Unbound and unruly, the curling tendrils nearly brushed the floor.
Colin’s hands splayed against his thighs of their own accord, remembering the feel of those dark strands trickling through his fingers like silk.
A small table sat just behind the head of the couch’s occupant holding a tray laden with tea and a plate of raisin cakes. The tray was pushed up against the arm of the couch so as to be within easy reach.
She’s still enamored of raisin cakes.
Colin’s breath caught painfully.
