Chapter Three

He’s not old. His shoulders aren’t stooped. There isn’t a strand of gray hair on his head. He’s not gone too fat. And he doesn’t have those bushy side whiskers so many men prefer.

Celia needed to stop staring because the man standing in the middle of the library was none other than Mr. Aaron Thompson, now the Earl of Banfield. She estimated him to be close to thirty, maybe a year or two older than her brother. His hair was a gold-brown, and his eyes a shade darker.

Although she’d never laid eyes on the man, she had not expected him to be so young . . . and tall . . . and, well, handsome. Celia didn’t do well around handsome men or beautiful women. It only made her more aware of her flaming hair and imperfect complexion.

But if Celia was being rude by staring at the new Lord Banfield, he was being equally rude by staring right back.

“Lady Celia, I presume?” His low voice held a note of surprise in it.

The sound of his voice brought her back to her senses. She dipped into a brief curtsey, not taking her eyes off him. He wasn’t exactly imposing, no, not in his second-rate suit and the scruff of evening whiskers upon his jaw. But the directness of his gaze and the tenor of his voice told her that he was a man of intelligence.

“Welcome, L-Lord Banfield,” she said, hating the tremor that had entered her voice. She’d already raged and cried and mourned, then raged some more. Unless her brother miraculously came back from the dead, the man in front of her was the new earl.

And now he was coming toward her. Did he mean to take her hand? Kiss her cheek? With wide eyes, she watched him approach. But when he stopped in front of her, he didn’t make any such advance.

“We are cousins, aren’t we?” he said. “Perhaps you might call me Aaron. I am not quite used to . . . the title.”

“I suppose not,” she said. “But I do not think it proper to call you by your Christian name.” Her pulse moved up a notch as his gaze skittered over her person. He looked at her hair, her face, her neck, her shoulders, and lower.

His eyes snapped back to her face. “What is your age?”

She swallowed. He had few manners, this new earl. “I am three-and-twenty.” Feeling bold, she said, “How old are you?”

The edges of his mouth softened, and the brown of his eyes flashed with amusement. Briefly. Then it was gone. “One-and-thirty.”

“I—I thought you’d be closer to my father’s age.” It was her turn to scrutinize him. His eyebrows were at least two shades darker than his hair, and the length of his eyelashes would make any woman envious.

“My parents had me in their later years,” he explained. “I thought you were a young girl.”

“No, I am quite on the shelf, as you can see.” She lifted a shoulder.

Again, his eyes roamed over her, and she realized this man needed lessons in manner and deportment. He’d need to learn to keep his curiosities more subdued. Granted, she was curious about him. He reminded her of a new colt who was learning to stand on his feet for the first time. She was finding it hard to continue the hatred she’d built up in her mind and heart.

“Excuse me if I am too blunt,” he said. “I am told it’s one of my downfalls. But you are hardly on the shelf, Lady Celia.”

His tone had softened when he spoke her name.

Celia opened her mouth to respond before she realized she had no idea what to say to the round-about compliment. More likely, he hadn’t meant it as a compliment at all, but was merely being “blunt.”

Then he stepped back as if he’d just remembered something.

And at that moment, Mrs. March came into the library, leading a dog.

Celia stared at the scruffy creature that looked fresh from the streets of London—and perhaps it was.

“Hello, Stanley.” Lord Banfield bent and scratched the dog behind his ears. “Are you happy now?”

Lord Banfield’s entire demeanor had transformed, and Celia had a flash of understanding of how he might have looked or acted as a young boy. The dog thumped his tail at the attention.

But the dog was a dirty thing and likely had fleas at the very least. “You brought a dog all the way to Banfield Estate? Does he hunt?” Clearly the dog was some sort of mongrel and probably wouldn’t know what a bird was.

Lord Banfield looked up, wry amusement on his face. “He doesn’t hunt that I know of. I rescued him as a pup from the streets.”

Celia considered this. She didn’t want to think of positive attributes this man might have; it was much more satisfactory to think of his negative qualities—chief among them that he was in the line of succession after her father. This man’s future children would inherit the estate next. Celia would permanently lose her home.

“We can ask the stable boy to prepare a place for your dog,” Celia said, resigning herself to the fact that Banfield Estate now had a pet.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary.” He straightened and brushed his hands. Bits of fur floated down as a result.

Celia tried to hide her shudder. It wasn’t that she was opposed to pets on principle. If they kept to the outdoors.

“Stanley will be sleeping in my room,” he said.

Celia’s mouth fell open.

Lord Banfield didn’t seem to notice her horror at his announcement. Celia wanted to argue with him, but with Mrs. March in the room, Celia didn’t dare defy the new master of the house.

Lord Banfield’s gaze went to Mrs. March. “Perhaps I can use an old blanket for Stanley’s bed? If you’ll but direct me, I can get things set up. The old dog’s used to taking more than one nap a day.”

Mrs. March smiled at the man, then quickly schooled her features when she noticed Celia looking at her.

“Lord Banfield,” Celia spoke up. “You might reconsider where you house your dog. Dog hair is difficult to manage, and what if he barks at night?”

Lord Banfield met her gaze, his brown eyes focused solely on her, as if he could read her thoughts. “Stanley doesn’t bark at night.”

Celia looked to Mrs. March for help, but the woman refused to make eye contact.

Why couldn’t Aunt Marianne be home now? Instead, Celia would have to live in this house with a new master, an old dog, and a traitorous housekeeper.

“When is the dinner hour?” Lord Banfield asked, effectively changing the subject.

Celia exhaled. Fine. They’d return to polite conversation. “Eight o’clock,” she told him.

“Very well,” he said. “I will see you then.”

Celia blinked. Had she been dismissed? Apparently so because he next asked Mrs. March to show him to his quarters. Celia watched as the two of them left the library, the scruffy dog following.

Who named a dog Stanley anyway?

Alone again, at least until dinner, Celia decided it would be the perfect time to work on her newest novel. With it raining outside, none of the staff would wonder why she was keeping to her room. As she started up the steps, Mrs. March was coming down them.

“Lady Celia,” Mrs. March said, pausing when they reached each other. “I would like to ask Kate if she’s available to come and serve as your companion.” She glanced up the staircase. “I did not know that Lord Banfield was so close to your age.”

“Neither did I,” Celia murmured. Mrs. March was right, although Celia would miss her relative freedom. As the vicar’s daughter, Kate had been Celia’s childhood friend, despite their age difference. But station had eventually created a distance between them.

Kate was nearly eighteen now, and most likely would marry within the coming year. Kate had a head full of blonde curls and a quick smile. She’d come to the house when Celia needed to get ready for an event, of which there had been very few lately due to her brother’s absence, and now his death.

“We don’t want gossip in the village,” Mrs. March continued.

“Of course not.” Celia nodded. “Yes, please send for Kate. If she arrives before dinner tonight, she can join us.”

Mrs. March agreed and continued down the stairs.

Once in her room, Celia located the locked box she kept in the wardrobe. Inside were her manuscript pages, which she kept hidden away from the world.

She sat at her vanity table and unstopped the inkwell, then dipped her quill inside the ink. She’d reached the part of the novel where it was time for the hero to kiss the heroine against a beautiful backdrop of a sunset in India. The only problem was that Celia had never been kissed before, so she couldn’t write with experience. So Celia would have to guess, especially since this kiss was an illicit kiss. One that took place before any sort of marriage proposal.

Since it was raining outside, she decided that the hero and heroine would also kiss in the rain. A very light summer rain in India, which she assumed would be warm. None of this cold winter rain.

Frederick looked deep into Lady Miriam’s eyes and only saw love. Love for him. He was sure of it. Ever so slowly, he drew her into his arms. She gasped at his boldness, but didn’t move out of his embrace. So Frederick kissed her. Lady Miriam wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him back. That was when Frederick knew all was right with the world.

There. That would do. She reread the lines a few times, made one adjustment, then set the quill down. The rain was coming down in earnest now, and Celia wondered if Kate would be able to make it to the house tonight. Surely the mud puddles were growing.

Someone knocked at her door, and Celia called out, “Yes?”

Mrs. March spoke through the door. “Lord Banfield requests your presence in the library before dinner is served. Do you need help dressing?”

Celia looked at the clock and realized it was much later than she thought. When it was only her in the house, she didn’t bother changing for dinner.

“Yes, just a moment.” Celia put away the manuscript pages, locked the box, and set it in the wardrobe. Then she went to open the door to Mrs. March.