Page 46 of My Wicked Earl
Walking down the corridor he had paused at Miranda’s door, sensing her presence on the other side. Placing the flat of his palm against the door, he willed her to open it. Since the day in the Dowager’s sitting room at Cambourne House, Colin found it increasingly difficult to hold on to the anger that had sustained him for the last six years. Especially after seeing the pain in Miranda’s face earlier.
Colin purposefully came down to the drawing room a bit early, hoping that Miranda would appear. Instead he found only Lord Hamill curled into a large wing-backed chair, snoring softly in his evening clothes.
The attendees of the Dowager’s house party slowly filtered in and flitted about, admiring the formal drawing room of the Marquess of Cambourne. Tapestries and objects d’art were littered about, so much so that the room resembled a museum more than a place for gathering. This was not a room that the family used often for themselves. The drawing room was specifically designed to inspire awe in anyone visiting Gray Covington. Every alcove, painting, and tapestry fairly resonated with the wealth and power of the Cambournes.
It was a beautiful room.
High vaulted ceilings gave way to gentle arches through which one could spy tiled hallways. One hallway led to the formal dining room, the other, to the conservatory. The ceilings were painted by a gifted artist, for only someone with such talent could have created the scene above his head. If one were to lay on the back lawn of Gray Covington and tilt their gaze to the sky, one would see the same view. The ceiling mimicked the sky above the estate at twilight, with the sun beginning to set just over the arch to the dining room. Fluffy clouds and a flock of ducks dotted the darkening blue sky as the edges of Gray Covington’s magnificent gardens could be seen.
Tapestries, ancient and mellowed with age, hung from the walls, each panel depicting a Greek myth. The designs were so intricate, Colin often marveled at the skill of those long ago Cambournes responsible for such beauty. The remains of an old castle lay entombed at the far end of the woods and Colin imagined these tapestries once hung there. The Cambourne family stretched back to the time of William the Conqueror, holding this land since the arrival of the Normans in England. Once upon a time, Colin had fought the Battle of Hastings with Nick and Cam at that old castle.
He adored this room. When visiting Gray Covington Colin would sprawl out on his back against the Persian rug that now lay beneath his feet. Imagination running wild, he’d invent stories, only to scratch them out later in his journal. Even the tapestries spoke to him. On one wall, the Kraken threatened Princess Andromeda as Theseus, his sword drawn, hastened to save her. The trials of Hercules, including his battle with the hydra, took up most of the left side towards the entrance to the conservatory while Persephone’s marriage to Hades hung at the far end of the room. A pomegranate lay next to Persephone’s sandaled feet while the god of the underworld lurked over her shoulder. He could still hear Miranda’s footsteps as she trailed behind him, adoration shining from her eyes as she clutched a raisin cake to her chest. She would break off a piece and offer it to Colin if only he would tell her the story of Persephone again. Just one more time.
Self-important lad that he was, Colin often shooed her away.
Loss crashed over him like waves against a rock. His anger towards her, once so fierce and thick, had softened. His bitterness still festered, but the edges frayed. Colin’s gaze lingered over Persephone’s beautiful, doomed face. Had Persephone truly forgiven Hades forhisdeceit?
“What a lovely room,” Lady Cottingham, standing just to his left, uttered in her annoying, breathless way. “So grand and majestic. Why it’s absolutely breathtaking.”
Colin steeled himself for the embrace of the ladies Cottingham.
Lady Aurora Cottingham and her daughter, Lady Helen Cottingham immediately sought Colin out after entering the drawing room, reminding him of a pair of bloodhounds about to corner a rabbit.
Towering over her smaller daughter, Lady Cottingham’s stout build and thick fingers betrayed her more common beginnings. Swathed in a gown of deep violet, her dimpled figure rippled beneath the thin silk. A headpiece of precious stones sat perched atop her faded yellow hair, twinkling in the candlelight.
Lady Cottingham reminded Colin of a giant blueberry. A very determined blueberry.
The descriptions of Lady Helen did not do her justice. Pale golden hair the color of spring wheat was coiled about her head with a tiny cascade of curls gently touching her perfect ears. Her features were delicate and refined, at complete odds with her mother’s appearance. Cornflower blue eyes gazed at Colin with frank appraisal.
“Lord Kilmaire.” Lady Helen bobbed, taking her time in straightening up. All the more to give him a view of her more than generous bosom.
“Lady Helen.”
No virgin should exude such raw sexuality, if indeed she was one. Colin doubted it the moment her falsely innocent eyes ran down the length of him. He surmised that Lady Helen, if not already compromised, was well on her way to ruination. Lady Helen reminded Colin of an over-ripe peach begging to be plucked.
No wonder her parents wanted her married as soon as possible.
“I must tell Lord Cottingham how marvelous it would be to have tapestries such as these hanging in our drawing room at Crestmont. I’m in the process of remodeling parts of the estate as Lord Cottingham’s cousin’s taste was not our own. I imagine Runshaw Park has a room such as this.” The faded gold curls at her temple wiggled in anticipation of his answer.
“I’m afraid this room is rather unique to Gray Covington. Runshaw Park pales in comparison. No tapestries of such beauty, I’m afraid.” Colin bestowed a polite smile on the her.
My father sold all the tapestries at an auction before I turned twelve. And no amount of paint or plaster would hide the cracks in the ceilings of Runshaw Park.
“Oh, that is a shame, Lord Kilmaire.”
Colin nodded. There was not a doubt in his mind that in addition to knowing more about the state of disrepair of his estate, Lady Cottingham could probably recite the whole of Colin’s dubious pedigree. She probably fell asleep each night with Derbett’s Peerage clutched to her chest like a talisman. Lady Cottingham, formerly a dairy farmer’s wife, would note that the earldom was one of England’s oldest and ignore the fact of Colin’s mad, Irish mother. She would tell herself that Colin’s scar was the result of a duel, and not a carving knife. She would strive to ignore the string of tragedies that marked the Earl of Kilmaire and his family.
Lady Cottingham’s gaze traveled over his left cheek before lifting to examine the ceiling once more. “I cannot imagine how such was painted.”
Oh, how she wanted to ask him about that scar. He could see it in every small twitch and shuttered glance. She was horrified yet titillated, only her determination to present herself as a woman of good breeding prohibited her from questioning him. The dairy farmer’s wife that she had been not so long ago wished to gape at his puckered flesh and boldly ask if the Mad Countess were truly insane.
Perhaps I should trade her the story of the scar for some advice on the dairy cows at Runshaw Park.
Lady Cottingham looked at him with expectation, no doubt waiting for him to enlighten her.
“I’m told the artist,” Colin said, trying not to sound bored, which he was, “spent the better part of a year on the project,” he looked up, “lying on his back to paint it. Very much like Michelangelo.”
The giant blackberry before him quivered. Confusion clouded Lady Cottingham’s face for a moment.
