Page 4 of The Meriwell Legacy
At last, a break in the conversations allowed him to catch Percy’s eye. “I really must head back to the manor.”
“Oh! But you’ll be joining us tomorrow, won’t you?” Caroline asked.
“Assuredly,” Alaric returned with practiced charm. “I have no intention of missing the coming entertainments or the chance to spend time in such engaging company.”
Caroline laughed. “Flatterer.” Her smile said she was pleased.
Glynis appeared less certain, but when Alaric turned to her, she smiled sweetly and gave him her hand. “Thank you for a pleasant walk on the terrace, my lord.”
Alaric bowed with elegant grace. “The interlude was entirely my pleasure, Miss Johnson.” He smiled, taking in her expression—that of an ingénue. “I bid you a good night”—he lowered his voice to murmur, just for her—“and good luck.”
She blinked at the latter words, her expression turning faintly perplexed.
Alaric smiled more definitely; clearly, she didn’t realize how transparent she was—although, he had to admit, he as yet had no idea which gentleman she was truly interested in.
After exchanging nods with Percy, Monty, Cyril, and Walter, he made his way out of the room and into the front hall. There, he found Carnaby, Percy’s butler.
“Leaving us, my lord?” Carnaby moved to open the front door.
“Indeed. However, as I assured your master and several others, I’ll return tomorrow.”
Carnaby hauled the door wide. “For breakfast, my lord?”
Pausing on the threshold, Alaric shook his head. “No. I’ll come later.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Alaric stepped onto the front porch and looked up at the sky. The night was clear, with no clouds to shadow the black velvet in which myriad stars shone brilliant and bright.
Drawing in a deep breath, he inhaled the scent of the surrounding woodland—a scent he’d known from infancy—replacing the stale air of the drawing room and the cloying miasma of perfumes. Feeling rejuvenated, he started down the steps and heard the door close behind him. On reaching the gravel of the forecourt, he lengthened his stride and headed around the house, then diverted into the shrubbery, taking his customary shortcut to the stable.
There, he found Percy’s stableman, Hughes, holding Alaric’s horse, a huge gray hunter named Sultan, saddled and ready. “Didn’t think you’d be much longer, my lord.” Hughes ran his hand down Sultan’s long neck. “This old fellow seemed to know—all but put his own nose in the bridle.”
Alaric grinned, scratched Sultan between the ears, then took the reins Hughes offered; while Carradale Manor was within walking distance, to attend the house party’s events, he’d elected to ride, taking the bridle path that connected the two properties, stable to stable. “Thank you, Hughes.” Alaric swung up to the saddle, then raised a hand in salute. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Ride safe, my lord.” Hughes stepped back.
Alaric wheeled Sultan and set him trotting out of the stable yard, then picked up the bridle path and, allowing the big horse to choose his own pace, headed for the manor.
For home.
Two-thirds of the way along the path, on impulse, Alaric reined Sultan in. The horse stamped, then reluctantly settled. At that spot, a gap in the trees and a dip in the land afforded Alaric a view of Carradale Manor that he’d long considered his favorite vista. From where he sat, perched high on Sultan’s back, the woodland fell away, and rolling fields—all part of the Carradale estate—lay gently illuminated by the faint light of the moon. And on the distant rise, his house—his home—Carradale Manor stood framed by woodland, a comfortable manor house in excellent condition, the windows of its three stories arranged in simple symmetry to either side of the front porch; in bucolic peace and untrammeled serenity, the manor overlooked the lands some long-ago ancestor had claimed, the house’s pale-gray walls rising above the darker shadows of the lower-lying gardens.
It was a sight Alaric never tired of seeing, but it was rare to see it as it was at that moment, rendered in shades of gray and black by the lucent glow of the new moon.
Home.
Until recently—until he’d started thinking of a wife and of what was important in his life—he hadn’t consciously acknowledged how much he loved the place, how it called to something deep in his soul.
How it anchored him.
Now he’d realized that, the house had, in a way, become a touchstone for him; any lady he took to wife would have to fit—to suit the place as well as suit him. Indeed, she couldn’t do the latter if she didn’t do the former.
Sultan had grown restless; he stamped and shifted.
Alaric loosened the reins, pressed his knees to the horse’s flanks, and set him trotting once more. Generally speaking, riding deeply shadowed bridle paths at night was a foolish act, but he knew this path literally better than the back of his hand.
Not long after, Sultan clattered into the manor’s stable yard. Hilliard, Alaric’s groom, had heard their approach and was waiting to catch Sultan’s bridle.
