“Yes, because you’ve had your nose pressed to the windowpane for the last half an hour. Anyone would think you’ve never seen snow.”
Hugo swallowed down his annoyance. “Have you not heard? The storm is so severe the guests will have to stay until the roads are clear.” He groaned inwardly at the thought of having to listen to Miss Harper’s shrill complaints for the next week.
“Good. Let us hope you are so thoroughly bored and frustrated that you hurry up and make a match. And the hired help is out of the question.”
He had no intention of offering for any of them. But to say so now would only make life impossible these next few days. His mother would ensure he spent more time entertaining the ladies. They would try their best to outdo one another as if he were the only marriageable gentleman in all of England.
Hugo glanced back at the breathtaking landscape. Just like the ladies seated in the drawing room, the snow appeared beautiful to the eye. Dazzling. Majestic. But only a fool would ignore the hidden dangers. One wrong move and he could fall head first into a rocky ravine, and that would be the end of the blissful life he once knew.
And so, for the next few days, he was trapped—locked in a nightmare of his own making. He should have been firm. Some men were unsuited to marriage. Else why would he be so particular, so damn fussy?
“Come.” His mother tugged his arm. “Let’s see what Miss Harper thinks of the appalling weather. I hear her brother has invested in a new shipping venture that will make him one of the richest men in the country.”
Viscount Northcott was a pretentious prig. His sister, Miss Harper, held the same air of self-importance. Oh, she gave the impression of being polite and amiable. But he refused to marry a woman who deceived others by feigning a kind and generous nature.
“Forgive me, but I must speak to Crudging about the placings for dinner.” Hugo hated lying. Thirty minutes of solitude would give him the strength needed to cope with his mother’s attempts at matchmaking. “I shall return momentarily.”
Hugo ignored his mother’s scowl and strode out into the hall. He found Crudging checking the lamps on the console tables.
“Any news on the state of the roads?” Hugo knew the answer, but he lived in hope of charging into the drawing room and informing the guests they should leave at once. “Lord Flanders will want to retrieve his carriage at the earliest convenience.”
“What with the hard frost last night and the five inches of snow today, I fear the guests will be confined to the house for some time, my lord.” Crudging’s grave expression mirrored Hugo’s sense of utter despair.
“Then we must pray for rain, Crudging.” Dance naked around a painted effigy if necessary. “A torrential downpour is exactly what’s needed to—”
The sudden thud of the heavy iron door knocker made them both jump. The sound echoed through the grand hall like a death knell.
Hugo frowned. “What fool is out walking in this weather?”
Crudging walked gracefully towards the door. “Perhaps someone has brought news of Lord Flanders’ carriage.”
Hugo followed the butler. The caller must surely have a tale to tell. One that would prove far more fascinating than the tired conversation in the drawing room.
Crudging opened the door, but the wind whipped his face bringing with it a swirling blizzard.
“What the devil?” Hugo rushed forward. “Quickly. Come inside.” He waved frantically at the figure hidden amidst the gust of icy dust. “Hurry. Before we all catch our deaths.”
The lady darted past them into the hall, huffing and panting and complaining about the cold. For fear they might never keep the storm out, he helped Crudging slam the door.
“Good Lord.” Hugo brushed the white flecks from his coat and ran his hand through his hair. “Forgive my rather abrupt greeting, but it’s far too cold to converse on the doorstep.”
“Not at all. I am grateful for an opportunity to warm my hands.” The woman’s seductive voice drifted over him like delicate fingers. She lowered the fur-trimmed hood of her red travelling cloak, exposing the mass of luxurious brown locks trailing down past her shoulders. “I must apologise for my dishevelled appearance, but I had not planned on leaving my coach.”
Hugo sucked in a breath as the muscles in his abdomen clenched. “Pay it no mind.”
The lady had no reason to apologise. Indeed, he was rather partial to the ravished-in-a-haystack look. Hugo scanned her from head to toe, looking for imperfections, something to remind him he was a man unsuited to romantic entanglements. Permanent ones at any rate. But he could find nothing displeasing about the lady’s countenance.
“From the size of the puddle at your feet, you must have walked far.” Other than the narrow lane running past his property, the nearest road was almost a mile away.
“I rode most of the way,” she said, offering an apologetic smile. “But the horse grew tired. The snow is so deep it slipped down the top of my boots.”
Hugo’s gaze dropped to her feet. “No doubt your toes are numb.” For some strange reason, his mind conjured an image of him rubbing the life back into the blue digits. “Are you travelling alone?”
She nodded. “I hope you don’t mind, but my coachman has taken my horse to your stables. He was in need of a drink and dry hay.” She gave a little chuckle. “Oh, I speak of my horse, not my coachman.”
During the last two hours he’d spent with his prospective brides, none of them had managed to raise a smirk to his lips. And yet he found this lady rather amusing.
“Then I pray a groom brushes him down and gives him a nip of brandy.” Hugo inclined his head. “I speak of your coachman, not your horse.”