Was everyone in Cuckfield waiting for her to inherit, waiting to approach with cap in hand?
“Good God, man,” Lord Randall said sharply. “A lady does not discuss money in public. A lady does not discuss money at all.”
Mr Gilligan bowed repeatedly. “Forgive me. When Miss Lovell spoke of hope, I assumed—”
“Hope that things will change now Lord Greystone has returned,” Lydia clarified.
Mr Gilligan froze. For a moment she thought he’d stopped breathing. His eyes glazed, and he stared right through her.
“I beg your pardon?” Mr Gilligan gulped. “Who has returned?”
“Lord Greystone.”
“Greystone is back?” Lord Randall asked with some surprise, but his expression soon reverted to one of cool indifference.
Mr Gilligan chuckled nervously. For the first time since making his acquaintance, his wide grin faltered. “My dear, you must be mistaken.”
Lord Randall sighed and examined his fingernails. “Have you finished with the steward, Miss Lovell? I did not travel all the way from London to stand about idle.”
Lydia ignored him. “I can assure you, Lord Greystone arrived at the manor two hours ago. I had the misfortune of meeting him on the road.” She chose not to reveal any more information. Arabella was already casting the evil eye.
Beads of sweat broke out on the steward’s brow. All colour drained from his face leaving him pasty white. The shaking began at his head and rippled through his body until his toes were tapping.
“Lord Greystone ha-has returned?” Mr Gilligan said, his crooked teeth chattering.
Bless the man. He looked positively petrified.
“For goodness’ sake, pull yourself together,” Lord Randall said.
The lord really was most unhelpful.
“The devil you spoke of has come home.” Lydia placed a comforting hand on the steward’s sleeve. “But rest assured, I shall help you tackle the problems with his tenants.”
Mr Gilligan winced. “No. It cannot be. Lord have mercy. You’re sure it was—”
A loud bang resonated in the hall as if a mighty gust had ripped the front door off its hinges. The slow clip of booted footsteps on the tiled floor rang like a death knell.
“Heaven help me.” Mr Gilligan clutched his throat. “He’s here. I know it. He’s come for me.”
“You must calm yourself, sir. It is just a latecomer.”
The stunned silence filling the room said otherwise. Lydia turned to the doors leading into the main hall and almost swooned at the sight.
Lord Greystone’s broad shoulders filled the doorway. His dark hair hung rakishly over his brow. Raw, masculine power emanated from every fibre of his being. One word from him would strike a man dead where he stood.
“Greystone is here,” she whispered as she watched him scan the sea of faces, watched his gaze narrowing like a wolf hunting its prey.
People stopped and stared and gaped at the shocking spectacle. Ladies cowered behind their husbands. Though the room remained quiet, the air was alive with an intensity that stole Lydia’s breath. Alive with a vibrant energy that stimulated the fine hairs at her nape. Alive with a force that sent her stomach fluttering up to her throat.
“Gilligan!” Lord Greystone shouted, dragging gasps from the open-mouthed onlookers. The lord’s penetrating gaze bulled through the crowd and came to settle
on the steward. With an arrogant curl of the lip, Greystone prowled towards them.
Like all deadly predators, Greystone’s movements were sleek, almost graceful. The dark and dangerous look in his eye held Lydia captive. She was in no doubt that this gentleman could hold a candle to the devil.
As Greystone came to a halt in front of her, their eyes met. Heat flooded her stomach before journeying southwards to pool in a new and uncharted region.
“Lord Greystone,” she said, the hitch in her breath unmistakable.