Practical Widow to Passionate Mistress (Transformation of the Shelley Sisters 1)

‘I need to know whether you want everything left exactly as it is or whether I may move things around, make changes. I need to know if there are any changes you wish to have made—any redecoration, for example. I am not certain what I can achieve in a few weeks, but I will do my best.’

‘A few weeks?’ He regarded her quizzically and she stared back, defiant. ‘No. Nothing.’ He looked around, apparently indifferent to his environment. ‘Do what you like, spend what you like.’

‘You told me to economise,’ she pointed out, her heart sinking at the apathy that had come back into his tone. He did not care. Or perhaps he cared too much and was erecting barriers against memory and familiarity in this house that had once been such an unhappy home.

‘I was being sarcastic. Check with me before you actually demolish and rebuild anything, otherwise I really have no interest.’

‘Very well.’ Somehow she must make him take an interest, make him care, or one day there would be nothing of the man left, just a cold, dead shell, quite safe from pain and pleasure alike. Meg opened the book and found her place. ‘Chapter two,’ she began.

Chapter Nine

It was eleven o’clock before Meg retired to bed. She had read two chapters to Ross, then removed herself, conscious of his heavy-lidded gaze on her as she went through the door. Neither of them had forgotten that kiss, it seemed, nor his promise to wait until she came to him as his mistress. Those memories seemed to be in the room with them like a third person. She could not delude herself he had not meant the words.

Mrs Harris was in the kitchen, pouring tea for Perrott and for Heneage who was comfortable at the table in a loose frock coat over his striped waistcoat and knee breeches. Meg accepted a cup gratefully. The warm, fragrant kitchen shared with the two middle-aged people at their ease and the amiable young valet felt like coming out of an emotional storm into tranquillity.

Damaris had changed the bed linen and brought her hot water and she had asked for her morning tea at six. But despite the luxury of a bedroom that did not rock under her feet and that had room to move about and the promise of a bed that was all hers to rest in, Meg found that she was not sleepy. Tired, most certainly, but her mind was running in circles like a dog in a spit-wheel.

She put the bunch of keys on the dresser, opened the window a little and sat by it with a notebook and a candle. Perhaps making lists would help her stop thinking about Ross as a man and not as her employer.

Clothes. Urgent! Falmouth shops, she wrote at the top. Or perhaps Penryn, which had seemed to have shops suitable for ladies rather than the needs of sailors. She must ask Ross for an advance on her salary if she was to wear something other than a sun-faded cotton gown. She would also ask him for the direction of his solicitor who would probably be the best person to ask about an enquiry agent. Solicitor, she added. Then she must hurry back to the house and explore from top to bottom and get to know the staff and the routine. House. Then there was the question of housekeeping. Mon—

Outside something moved across the courtyard entrance where it opened out into the gardens. She had the impression of a big man, moving in the moonlight without lantern or candle. Ross?

Meg sat for a moment after he vanished, wondering why she felt so uneasy. Why should he not walk around at night? They were his grounds, after all. She had not explored yet, but she realised they were virtually on the coast and that this side of the house must look out towards the sea.

She could not settle to her orderly list-making again. Meg got up, threw her shawl around her shoulders, took the key for the back door off her ring and went out into the darkened passage. At least being on the ground floor meant it did not take her long to get outside. She locked the door behind herself and ran across the courtyard, her skirts brushing the herbs in the central bed and sending a cloud of fragrance into the still air.

She found herself at the side of the house on a sweep of terrace that gave directly on to a sloping lawn. And, yes, now she was in the open, there was the sound of the sea and a breeze bringing the smell of it. In the distance the lights of a fishing village twinkled.

The tall figure in its fawn-coloured greatcoat was still in sight, limping. Yes, it was Ross. Was he all right? The pain and guilt in his voice when he had told her about his brother came back to her. Should he be alone? As she watched, he crouched down and vanished, all but his head, and she realised there was a ha-ha separating lawn and fields, an invisible wall to keep the cattle in their place.

Meg picked up her skirts and ran, her light shoes making no sound on the scythed grass, the moonlight showing her the dark line that marked the drop. It was easy enough to scramble down, provided she had no care for her old gown or the nettles at the bottom of the wall. Sucking her stinging hand, Meg walked on more cautiously now. The grass was rougher and the evidence that the cattle had been there was difficult to make out until one almost trod in it.

Ahead was the edge of a wood, a rarity on this windswept peninsula. In the moonlight the trees looked strange and gaunt, shaped by the wind and twisted by winter gales. Ross entered it and disappeared into the darkness. When Meg reached the place she found a narrow path descending quite steeply into a gully. Telling herself that English woodlands held none of the terrors of Spanish ones—wolves, bears and French snipers—Meg hurried on, wondering how far ahead Ross was. He made no noise at all, despite his size and his wounded leg, whereas she was all too aware of twigs snapping under her feet.

The path led her down to a stream, over a plank bridge, over a fence, up and into a wilder, denser patch of trees. The path became narrow and steeper—any moment now she would be out on to the low cliff top, surely?

Just when Meg decided she must have lost him, that her vague uneasiness was foolish and that any prudent woman would turn round and go back to her bed, she saw a light through

the trees and realised there must be a cottage ahead.

Taking great care where she trod, Meg crept forwards and found herself on the edge of a small clearing with a tumbledown dwelling in the centre that resembled nothing so much as some large woodland creature’s nest. Its owner was outside, and must have been sitting by the fire that blazed halfway between the cottage and the edge of the wood. But he was on his feet now, turned to face Ross who had stopped, perhaps four feet from him, as though uncertain of his welcome. Meg could see clearly in the firelight that he was a small man, whiplash thin with a brown, wrinkled face and grey hair that straggled from under a battered felt hat.

He must be Ross’s poacher, she guessed, as the two stood there, silent.

Then the old man spoke, his accent so broad that Meg had to strain to understand him. ‘You’ve been gone a powerful long time, boy.’

‘Aye, Billy. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It’s made a fine man of you.’ And the poacher stepped forwards and pulled Ross’s head down to kiss him on both cheeks.

The prodigal son, Meg thought, tears blurring her vision for a moment, then Ross straightened up and she saw his face and realised that he could smile, could be happy, and that there was still one person on this earth that he loved.

That’s all right, then. She swallowed hard, then turned to creep away as the baron hunkered down beside the poacher and began to talk. While that old man lived, Ross had someone to live for. But there had to be more to root him here and take the darkness out of his soul.

Ross buried his face in his hands, then raked his fingers through his hair, muttering obscenities in Spanish under his breath. Two solid hours of studying the estate books that had been deposited on his desk by Tremayne, his steward, had done nothing but make his head spin and the man’s stolid explanations were not much help.

Livestock prices, feed prices, manuring schedules, stone-walling repairs—it might as well be in Russian. One thing was sure—he was never going to get a grip on this by staring at books.