A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(57)

“I don’t know.” Her tone was light. Falsely so. “I don’t know that I was ever full of mischief.”

Nor carefree, he supposed. A hint of sadness pulled at the corner of her mouth, and Toby found himself wishing he could perform the truly impossible—reach back in time to slay the dragons haunting her past.

She toyed with the end of his cravat where it hung loose about his neck, then looked off into the distance for a moment. A heartbeat later, those wide, dark eyes flashed up at him again.

“Perhaps you’re seeing her now.”

With that, she plucked the cravat from his neck, ducked under his arm and ran off—charging

up the hill, scattering laughter on the breeze behind her. Toby gave chase. Despite her head start, he gained on her quickly. He caught up to her at the crest of the hill, where she’d stopped in her tracks with her back still to him. The cravat fluttered in her dangling hand.

“I’ve caught you now.” He whipped one arm around her chest and reached for the cravat with the other. “Give it here, you minx.”

He encountered no resistance as he yanked the neck cloth from her grasp. She didn’t even turn to look at him. Instead, she simply reclined against his chest and stared down at the valley below.

“Oh, Toby,” she said in a tone of breathless awe. “What is it?”

Smiling through his labored breaths, he hugged her tight. He’d been wrong. He did have one last trick up his sleeve, and this the most impressive one yet.

“Why, that’s our home.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Isabel had always been a grateful sort. She had always been aware that her life situation was one of great wealth and comfort, relatively speaking. But if she had felt one source of deprivation in her girlhood, it was that she had grown up in a house with very few books. Very few books of interest to a young girl, at any rate. Still, she read any volume she could, several times over. There had been a book of fairy stories she could probably recite by heart even now, if she tried. And the frontispiece of that book was permanently engraved upon her memory. It depicted a castle. A smallish one, though stout. Fortified with a turret and moat, but made friendly by the ivy clinging to its stone face and the manicured gardens in its shadow. As a girl, Isabel had stared at that etching for more hours than she could count, imagining the homelands of her parents, dreaming of centuries long past, missing her brother when he was at Oxford, and sometimes simply wishing to be anywhere far, far away.

And now—here it was. Her castle. Moat, turret, ivy, gardens … it was an exact rendition of her girlhood dream, washed in brilliant color. Real.

“How can it be?” she asked.

Toby’s arms tightened around her waist. “I told you we’d be here soon enough. It isn’t a long walk.”

“No, I mean … I’ve seen this place before. This very house, in a book.”

“Really?” She felt him shrug. “I don’t doubt it. More than one artist has painted this prospect. When my great-great uncle had it built, he was excessively proud of the place. Invited just about everyone in England to come visit.”

“You mean it hasn’t been here for centuries?”

“Oh, no. Not even one. It’s only built in the medieval style, but it’s quite modern inside. The old man had a rather romantic imagination, wouldn’t you say?”

Twisting her neck, Isabel looked up at him. “I would say he shared the family talent for impressing young ladies.” She looked back down at the fairy-tale vista. “And you truly live here?”

“We truly live here. And you, my dear, are the lady of the keep.” He released her waist and stepped to her side, kissing her hand gallantly before tucking it into his elbow. “I’m near famished. Shall we go home?”

Together they picked their way down the gentle slope and through the hedge-rimmed gardens. As they approached the castle, Isabel was surprised to discover how much smaller it was than she’d first thought. The proportions had been carefully designed to give a grand appearance from a distance. Up close, however, the house had a human scale that made it welcoming, rather than imposing. The moat was a clear, shallow pool dotted with lily-pads, and Toby was able to open the arched wooden door with one hand.

“Welcome to Wynterhall,” he said. “Hope you don’t find it too fanciful for your tastes.”

“It’s … it’s enchanting.” Truly, there was no other word. Bel stood gaping at the grand hall into which they had entered. It was oval-shaped, and capped with an oval skylight that, with the blue sky shining through, gave the appearance of a cabochon sapphire set in gold. The floor was tiled in an intricate pattern of black and white marble.

Toby led her toward a narrow stone staircase. “Our chambers are upstairs.”

As they ascended the steps, Bel was conscious of how their footfalls echoed through the silence. “Is there no one else here? Have you no servants?”

“We have an army of servants,” he replied as they reached the top of the staircase. He led her down a wide, carpeted hallway. “They are led by Mrs. Tremaine, the housekeeper, a woman of unflagging good spirits and infinite energy. I’m sure she’s prepared a completely overwhelming display to welcome you—food, décor, music, every comfort you could imagine. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’s taught the parlormaids and footmen some sort of song and dance routine in your honor. That’s why I sent word with the driver that they were to clear out for the afternoon. You’ve had a trying day, and I thought a bit of restful quiet was in order. Meeting the servants, touring the estate—all that can wait.”