With the usual contrariness of fate, that point was now a very strong argument urging her to accept him.
If she did, she’d be safe from Fabien.
But at what cost?
That, she told herself as she glimpsed a pair of imposing gateposts ahead, was what she had to learn.
Her first sight of Somersham Place, principal residence of the Dukes of St. Ives, distracted her. The coach rumbled through the open gates, then bowled along a well-tended drive bordered by trees, short stretches of lawn, and shrubs. Then they rounded a curve and left the trees behind—and the house stood before them, pale in the weak light of the winter’s day.
Immense, imposing, impressive, yet not cold. Helena studied it, trying to find the right words. Built of sand-colored stone, the façade and all the walls she could see had stood for many years; they were solid, established, and had mellowed, settling into the landscape that had been created around them. The wide lawns, the size of the trees that dotted them, the way the lake she glimpsed beyond the lawns sat so perfectly within the vista, testified that both house and gardens had matured and reached a certain harmony.
Accustomed to the heavily structured, geometrically exact surrounds of French noble houses, Helena was intrigued by the lack of all such formality here. Despite that lack, the result was magnificent, palatial—unquestionably the home of a wealthy and powerful man. Yet there was more, something else. Something unexpected.
The house was welcoming. Alive. Oddly warm—as if the stone façade were a benevolent defense protecting some gentler existence within.
A bemusing observation, yet as the coach halted before the sweep of steps leading up to the front door, she couldn’t shake the conviction.
Thierry descended first, then handed her down. Moving past him, she fought at least to mask the eagerness that seized her—to hide it from Sebastian, who had come out of the door as the carriage rolled up and was now descending the steps with his usual languid grace.
She offered her hand; he took it and bowed, then straightened and drew her to him. Turning with her, he let his gaze travel along the handsome façade, then glanced at her, archi
ng a brow. “Dare I hope my home meets with your approval, mignonne?”
The curve of his long lips, the light in his eye, suggested he knew that it did.
Helena lifted her chin. “I have yet to see beyond its façade, Your Grace. It’s common knowledge façades can be deceiving.”
Their gazes met, held, then, his smile deepening, he inclined his head. “Indeed.”
Turning, he greeted Thierry and Marjorie, exchanged a nod with Louis, then led them indoors.
In the front hall Sebastian introduced her to his butler, Webster, and the housekeeper, a Mrs. Swithins. The latter was an unflappable, matronly woman; on learning of Helena’s lack of a maid, she promised to send a girl up. “I’ll have your bags taken up and unpacked the instant they arrive.”
“Until then,” Sebastian said, “we’ll repair to the drawing room.”
“Indeed, Your Grace.” Mrs. Swithins bobbed a curtsy. “Tea will be ready—you need only ring.”
Sebastian inclined his head, apparently unperturbed by the woman’s familiarity; Helena inwardly shook her head. The English were different in many ways. She found their easier manners relaxing.
As Sebastian ushered them across the hall, she struggled not to look this way and that, to stare about her. Despite the fact that it was still weeks to Christmas, the scent of evergreens hung in the air. A holly wreath sporting bright red berries was mounted over the huge hearth at the end of the hall.
She’d fully expected that odd promise of warmth to be merely a feature of the façade. Instead . . . it wasn’t warmth, real warmth, but rather a lingering sense of peace, of harmony, of happiness past, present, and anticipated that radiated from the walls, enfolding her in its welcome.
Fabien’s fortress, Le Roc, was cold and barren; she’d never sensed any warmth there. Her own home, Cameralle, was . . . cool. It might, she thought, dredging her memories of the time her parents had been alive, once have held a similar sense of peace, but that had faded, dissipated; the long halls were now filled with a quiet sense of waiting.
Here there was a sense of waiting, too, but it was different—expectant, confident, as if happiness and joy were assured.
A footman opened a door; Sebastian ushered her through. She put aside her fanciful thoughts as a short, plump lady with brown hair and soft brown eyes rose from the chaise, laying aside the book she’d been reading.
“Allow me to present my aunt, Lady Clara.”
Clara smiled warmly and clasped her hand. “Welcome, my dear. I’m delighted to meet you.”
Helena smiled back. She would have curtsied, but Clara stopped her, tightening her grip on her hand.
“I’m not at all clear, dear, who has precedence. Let’s not confuse the issue—I won’t curtsy if you won’t.”
Helena laughed and inclined her head. “It will be as you wish.”