Page 2 of An Amiable Foe
She took a breath and stepped into the room.
Mr. Osborne was in the process of examining her father’s collection of nacre snuffboxes on the mantelpiece, his back to her. He turned at the sound of her entrance, and the measure of his surprise was betrayed only by the lift of one of his eyebrows. He held her gaze as he strode across the room, then bowed.
“Sir.” Marianne dipped into a curtsy, her heart racing anew at this long-dreaded envoy from the new heir, propelled by the whisper of fear over what awaited her should he announce that Lord Steere had decided to take up residence in the castle. One thing was clear. If Lord Steere took immediate possession of Brindale, there would be no place for her in it.
“Miss Edgewood, I presume. How lovely to make your acquaintance.” The initial impression Mr. Osborne had given led her to expect him to do no more than pass a cursory glance over her, but he held her gaze quite steadily. And what did she read in it? Was it accusation for her lapse of gentility in working outdoors like a servant would? Condemnation? But what, then, was that quirk of the lips that was gone as soon as it had appeared?
So he would not refer to their first meeting. Marianne’s breath quickened as an unexpected urge to laugh came over her. His behavior showed either a delightful and well-hidden vein of humor or a pompous refusal to acknowledge anything but the most correct behavior between a gentleman and a lady. She hoped for the former and suspected the latter, but only time would tell.
“Will you have a seat, sir?” Marianne peeled her gaze from his firm jaw and the gray eyes that seemed to read her too intimately. He would not find her so easy a conquest of his charm, if that was his objective. She moved into the middle of the room where there was a green quilted sofa flanked by two wooden chairs with embroidered cushions and armrests. In the middle was a table set to hold refreshments, though the castle had not welcomed a formal visitor in ten years.
Mr. Osborne followed and sat where she indicated, waiting until she was seated. After a moment’s silence, which Marianne refused to fill, he crossed one leg over the other, rubbing his chin, then resting it in his hand as he continued his regard in a disconcerting way that raised her hackles.
“I am to understand from my uncle’s man of business that you have resided at Brindale since your parents’ untimely death.”
“I have resided at Brindale my entire life, sir.” Ten years was enough time that the mention of her parents’ death and the subsequent uncertainty as to her future should not have caused any sudden surge of emotion, but her voice hitched at the end of her sentence. This was her home, yet he’d hinted that she merely stayed here as though she were some passing visitor.
“And who is the trustee looking after your affairs?” he enquired. “My uncle did not mention one, although I must own, he gave me little information of things pertaining to the estate before I set off.”
Although Mr. Osborne’s voice was perfectly civil, his manner of tossing questions at Marianne left her wishing she could toss something at him in return. Instead, she commanded the corners of her mouth to turn up in a polite smile.
“Mr. Mercy, Brindale’s steward, has continued to oversee all matters concerning the property even after my uncle’s death, and he consults with me on what must be done at Brindale.”
Mr. Osborne’s manner of drawing back before snapping his brows together showed that he found this both curious and appalling. “You make decisions for a property you do not own?”
Marianne was, in general, a rather timid thing. But if there was one area where courage seemed to spring up from nowhere, it was that which concerned her castle. “Would you have me allow it to go to rack and ruin because the new owner is not in place to approve a steward’s decision to trim the hedges or repair the gates?”
“Why should you have any say in the matter at all?” Mr. Osborne stopped short as though catching himself and continued in a milder tone. “The land steward should have corresponded with my uncle about these details.”
“And what should the steward do if he has sent no less than four letters, not one of which received a reply that gave indication of Lord Steere’s wishes?”
The baron had answered two of the letters, but one was only to say that he was still reflecting on what he wished to do with the castle that had been unexpectedly bequeathed to him, and the other was to say that Mr. Mercy would shortly be hearing from the attorney attached to the estate.
Mr. Osborne turned his gaze to the window, where a thick iron framework held tiny panes of glass that allowed little light to come in. The drawing room was situated in the northern part of the castle, close to a grove of towering trees, and it therefore received little light. The wall near the rounded tower held the portraits of her parents, which gave the room a welcoming air, although the modern paintings had been set in oppressive black frames. The drawing room was also the first place Marianne’s father had looked for her when they played hide-and-seek.
“He has left it completely up to me, then.” Mr. Osborne spoke the words more to himself, though it brought her back to the present. He allowed a silence to fall that Marianne did not break.
His words had confirmed her worst fear. He had come to prepare for his uncle to take immediate possession of Brindale. Until now, she’d had one ambition in life, no matter how impossible such a thing was to achieve: to remain at Brindale Castle, the place which held her only ties to this earth. Mr. Osborne’s sudden appearance made her see how foolish a hope it was.
At last, Mr. Osborne seemed to come out of his reflections. He looked around him, his brows lowered. “This is a singularly ugly room.”
His words hurt and showed how little worthy he was to even visit her castle. Marianne folded her hands on her lap and sat up straight as she brought her eyes to his. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, sir?”
The lift of the eyebrow was back and his reply was given in a smooth voice she could easily grow to detest. “I should think the answer would be obvious to you, Miss Edgewood. I came to look over the property.”
Marianne could bear it no more. She stood, causing Mr. Osborne to hasten to his feet. “Have you? Perhaps you will explain what right you have to do so. I have been awaiting Lord Steere’s pleasure to come examine his bequeathment, and instead I must receive a strange gentleman whose name I have never before heard and who did not see fit to inform me of his visit. If someone is to come and look over the property, should it not be Lord Steere himself?”
Mr. Osborne froze in surprise at her outburst, before his features relaxed and understanding dawned. “But Miss Edgewood,” he replied in a voice that was maddeningly complacent, “Lord Steere is not in possession of the deed to this castle—I am.”
CHAPTERTWO
Peregrine Osborne—Oz to the gentlemen at the clubs and Perry to his intimates—had worked hard to arrive at his current level of standing. He had overcome the stigma of possessing a wastrel gentleman of a father and a mother who had not been given the upbringing of a lady. He had endured the scorn at Oxford of having been educated by the local clergyman and having no knowledge of the sporting disciplines. This led him to study all manner of the Corinthian arts as much as he did his classes at university and put every cent he had into turning himself out in proper rig. But it was not until the unexpected acknowledgement of his uncle, who had lost his only son and heir, that he had been received at the clubs in London. With Brindale as the first piece of property rightfully in his own name, Perry would live up to every expectation he had set for himself.
He now observed the young woman standing before him. Even without the servant’s attire, she could not be described as fashionable, and her hair was much too heavy for her slight face. She was an odd mix of timid and defiant. However, he supposed the fair Miss Edgewood had a right to be irritated—a sentiment that brought out her flashing blue eyes, one could not help but notice.
But what could he have done? No sooner had he left the meeting with his uncle, where he’d been handed the deed to the castle with instructions to make something of it, than he set out to look over his new property, stopping first in London to boast of his inheritance in the clubs. His uncle had mentioned something about the daughter, or niece, or some such thing of the last heir being still in residence, but he’d promptly put it out of his mind.
It was only now that he saw with perfect clarity that of course she could not have known about his uncle’s gift. His name would have meant nothing to her in relation to the castle.
