Whispers on the Wind Page 3

  Billie acknowledged his introduction with a nod.

  “. . . Weren’t expecting you tonight, though your message indicated such. We assumed the storm would delay you.”

  Billie struggled to remove her sodden gloves, giving up after several useless attempts and focused instead on the disposal of her bonnet. “Being from Nantucket, Massachusetts—where a storm is no stranger—I decided the foul weather would not delay my journey here.”

  Pembrooke coughed, clearing his throat as though he hesitated to speak. He accepted her bonnet that she held out to him. “Excuse my directness, m’lady, but Matilda, myself—and Mr. Hillard to be sure—were expecting a gentleman.”

  Billie sighed wearily. She wasn’t up to another explanation. Tomorrow was soon enough to clarify her ownership. “I will gladly set yours, Matilda’s and Mr. Hillard’s mind to rest concerning my identity tomorrow. But tonight I am wet and tired and would like very much to retire to my room.”

  “I am sorry, m’lady, you must think me not only rude, but incompetent,” Pembrooke said, accepting the wet gloves she had finally managed to disengage from her fingers.

  “Not at all,” Billie offered. “Anyone could announce themselves the new owner. It was wise of you to question me. And if I wasn’t so exhausted I would produce the necessary papers to prove my identity.”

  Pembrooke spoke sternly. “Nonsense. I shall see you to your room at once. Tomorrow is time enough to conclude the legal matters. Please follow me and I will have you settled in no time.”

  Billie, her legs aching and her body bone-tired, followed the servant, though his steps were too spry for her to keep up. Her interest in her surroundings also did much to slow her pace.

  The foyer, she had observed from a quick glance, was impressive: a white marble tile floor, brass candle wall sconces, pictures in gilt frames, pieces of dark furniture heavily polished to a high shine and a cherry wood staircase that ascended up to the center of the second floor and branched off to the left and right.

  Billie paused at the top of the steps and took a quick peek at the huge oval window that was centered on the landing. Its thick glass panes were being heavily hammered by the raging storm outside. She hurried off to the right, having noticed Pembrooke turn that way. It wouldn’t do her any good to get lost, especially in a supposedly haunted manor.

  Lightning, angrily persistent, struck again and flooded the window and hallway with a brief but startling shot of brilliant light.

  Billie turned to shield her eyes from the bright flash only to be greeted by an unexpected and formidable face that made her catch her breath and tore a strangled scream from her throat.

  Pembrooke rushed to her side. She stood pinned against the wall opposite the portrait that glared down at her. She purposely avoided contact with it, keeping her eyes fixed on Pembrooke.

  “Wh-who—” Billie bit her lip for a second to gain control of her nervous tremors. “Who is he?”

  Pembrooke held the brass candlestick high; the flame’s light illuminating the portrait once more, but not as sinisterly as the sharp lighting had done. “That is Lord Maximillian Radborne, God rest his soul.”

  Billie dared not step forward, though her eyes dared another peek. The life-size portrait of the man intimidated in every sense of the word. The artist surely had exaggerated his size and his features. No man alive possessed such blatant good looks. His nose was painted too finely, his lips stroked too temptingly, his cheeks too high and prominent, his chin too strong in character and his eyes . . .

  His eyes were like the sea, a blue-green in color, and turbulent, yet haunting in their hypnotic beauty.

  She shivered an icy chill racing straight through her. Had Marlee’s description of Lord Radborne been correct, or had the artist unleashed his talent and imagination to embellish the portrait in order to please the man who had posed for it?

  “Come, m’lady, it is bed you need and perhaps some hot tea or milk to soothe your fatigue,” Pembrooke offered, stepping in front of her and breaking the mesmerizing contact of the portrait.

  “Thank you, Pembrooke,” she said, clearing her fuzzy head with a shake. “But bed is all I need right now.”

  “Very good, m’lady,” he answered and continued on until he stopped at the double doors at the end of the hall. He pushed them open and walked in, quickly lighting candles throughout the room.

  Billie entered and for an instant felt a brisk breeze rush over her. She hugged her arms around her.

  “A fire will warm up this room in no time,” Pembrooke assured her and busied himself at the hearth, lighting the waiting logs.

  Billie hurried in the rest of the way and cast a quick glance about. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. The furnishings were too dark and heavy for her taste, and the drab plum drapes and bed coverings matched the somberness of the large, uninviting room.

  “Is there anything else I can get you, m’lady?” Pembrooke inquired, standing near the door.

  Billie looked at the hearth. A joyful dance of flames cast warmth and light into the room and added the only bit of welcome. “Nothing, Pembrooke. You have seen to everything. I shall speak with you and your wife, Matilda, in the morning.”

  “As you wish. And welcome to Radborne Manor,” he said and with a curt nod and a brief grin, he closed the door.

  Tired and anxious to climb into the large bed, Billie hurried over to the hearth and peeled her wet clothes from her body until only her white cotton shift remained. She arranged her dress and underclothes on two chairs near the fire to dry. She took her night rail from her traveling case and shook the wrinkles out before draping it over her arm. Then she returned to the bureau where she had spied a stack of towels. After depositing her night rail on the edge of the bed, she snatched up one of the towels to dry herself.

  The journey had been long and tiresome, her arrival not at all what she had anticipated. She had had doubts that her decision to come to St. Clair had been a wise one and within the last few hours those doubts had threatened to destroy her confidence completely. But she was finally here in her new home. Here she would begin her new life, make friends, perhaps even meet someone, fall in love and marry. She anxiously looked forward to her future.

  Billie’s courage returned. Blaming fatigue for her previous worries she set about to ready herself for bed. She slipped her shift’s straps from her shoulders, pushing the material down to her waist and exposing her full breasts. Her rosy nipples responded sharply to the wet cotton being brushed over them and they instantly puckered.

  She toweled her upper body dry, sighing as she rotated her shoulders back to ease the weariness from them. A sudden gust of cool air swept through the room and blew out several of the candles, leaving only the two on the bureau near where she stood lighted. Marlee’s tale of Hester, the manor maid, came back to haunt her and for a moment she stood frozen in place, the towel hugged tightly to her breasts.

  Turn you fool, she silently admonished herself. There are no such things as ghosts. No one is standing behind you. Lord Radborne is dead, drowned and buried in a watery grave.

  Her head thrown up in confidence and her legs trembling, Billie swerved around. She sighed with relief. No apparition haunted the mantel. The crackling flames were her only company.

  Nonetheless, she hurried into her night rail, shaking out of the rest of her shift as she pulled the night rail over her head to cover her suddenly chilled body from neck to toes.

  She blew out one candle and grasped the other candlestick so tightly in her hand that her knuckles turned a pale white.

  Once again a cool breeze blew into the room, only this time the air that drifted around her stung her nostrils with the pungent scent of salty seawater.

  Her legs trembled badly, her skin crawled with gooseflesh, her heart beat at a marching rhythm and she pressed her eyes shut tightly.

  “I won’t look. I won’t look,” she mumbled under her breath. “I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  The scent of sea air engulfed her and she shook her head and wrinkled her nose against the obvious. She had to turn around. She had no choice. If she didn’t think about it and just—

  As Billie swung around, the flame of the candle she held flickered wildly.

  Her eyes instantly focused on the mantel. She gasped and the candlestick she held fell from her hand, extinguishing the flame with a whoosh.

  Lord Maximillian Radborne stood in all his splendor and glory, his arm resting negligently on the mantel, his sea-colored eyes intent on her, his starkly handsome features even more striking than in his portrait if that were possible. He wore black breeches and boots and nothing else. His chest, hard and heavy with muscles, glistened with dampness from the fire’s light and his dark, wet hair reached his shoulders. He was without a doubt a magnificent ghost.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing in my room?”

  Billie, stunned that he spoke and with such a temper, took a step back.

  He took a step toward her.

  “Go away,” she shouted and waved at him. “Go back where you belong.”

  He grinned, though barely, and advanced another step toward her. “I belong here. This is my room and that is my bed.”

  Fear prickled Billie’s cool flesh and she spoke with a courage she didn’t feel. “I demand you go away. This is now my room and that is now my bed.”

  His barely noticeable smile faded. “This,” he enunciated strongly while stretching his hand out around the room, “belongs to me and that” —he pointed to the bed— “is where I sleep.”

  He smiled then, wide and wickedly and with each word he advanced on Billie with sure and steady strides. “And you, madam, are most welcome to join me.”

  Billie’s eyes widened with each ste
p he took toward her. The air grew heavier with the scent of the sea, the blaze in the hearth hissed and Lord Radborne reached down at the fastening to his breeches when he was but two steps away from Billie.

  Billie felt her breath catch, her legs give way and darkness engulf her as she dropped to the carpet in a dead faint.

  Chapter Four

  Maximillian scooped her slender body up into his arms before she could hit the floor. She felt more ethereal than real, so light was she in his powerful embrace. Her complexion remained pale as Maximillian walked over to the bed and rested her down upon the mattress.

  Her nightdress had tangled up around her thighs exposing her slim legs and Maximillian hastened to slip the linen gown down. His hand quickly ceased the action when his fingers accidentally slipped along her naked thigh.

  Soft. His mind cried and his fingers felt. He caressed her thigh, so silky and warm to his touch. Her naked skin invited more intimate exploration. After all, she had invaded his bedchamber. And any woman who found her way into his bedchamber always found herself in his bed. His reputation with women was notorious. He was an expert lover and a first-rate rake. And if this woman insisted on occupying his bed, then she would learn soon enough that she wouldn’t occupy it alone.

  Maximillian slowly stroked down along her calf, taking note of her small feet. She was a tempting morsel and he was feeling hungry.

  He shook his head, hastily making a decision and with swift agility tucked Billie’s night rail down over her legs and pulled the counterpane up beneath her chin. He had more pressing matters on his mind.

  He stepped back from the bed and dropped into the nearby chair. He stretched his long legs out in front of him, steepled his fingers against his mouth and studied her by the candle’s flickering glow. She possessed a rare type of beauty that made people stop and take notice. Her long, shiny hair was a strange combination of dark and light blond as if one color warred with the other for dominance and her deep brown eyes, so intoxicating in their darkness, had glared at him with strength and courage.

  Maximillian grinned, recalling how she had stood in defiance and had challenged him. Him. The lord of Radborne Manor. She even had the audacity to order him to leave and go back to wherever it was he belonged.

  Maximillian laughed softly, remembering the telltale shiver of uncertainty that ran through her when she spoke. But still she had faced him with more courage than most; of course, that was until he approached her and had purposely reached for his breeches.

  That was rather naughty of him, but then he did want to see her reaction and she had reacted. She had fainted.

  He had expected to be sitting here speaking with his Uncle Henry. He had never considered the possibility of his uncle’s death and his heir arriving at Radborne Manor, especially an attractive female heir who would occupy his bed and tempt his wayward soul.

  Billie moaned softly and turned on her side.

  Maximillian stood in a flash and backed up slowly, allowing the shadows in the room to devour him. He watched Billie stir restlessly and knew he must take his leave.

  Fate had delivered him an unexpected twist, but he was accustomed to handling the unexpected. And a woman really presented little challenge. He smiled confidently. He would easily handle this minor inconvenience. He anxiously anticipated further encounters with her.

  “Until next time, my sweet,” he whispered and bowed with gentle grace before disappearing into the darkest shadows of the night.

  o0o

  The early morning sun flooded Billie’s bedroom, tickling her eyes to wakefulness. She yawned and lazily stretched her arms above her head.

  She shot up in bed and surveyed every inch of the room with watchful eyes. Everything looked to be in place and no candlestick and half-burned candle lay spilled on the floor. Had the ghost been real or an illusion caused by her exhausted state?

  “No reason to waste the beautiful day on nonsense,” she admonished herself and cast the covers aside to hurry out of bed.

  She paused a moment and cast a suspicious glance down at the carpet. No boot print blemished the dark-gray wool carpet. Had her imagination actually gotten the better of her? She shook off her last ounce of doubt. With so much to do and see, she was wasting time on nonsensical thoughts of restless spirits.

  Since it was early March and the weather still had a bite to it, Billie was glad she had chosen wisely and packed her wool dresses. She snatched a soft lilac garment from her traveling case, shaking out the few wrinkles before draping it over a chair.

  It didn’t take long for her to wash the sleep from her face, and pile her long hair into a riot of curls atop her head. Why she bothered to fuss was a puzzle to her. In a short time the blond strands would fall loose and tease her neck, forehead and cheeks just as they had always stubbornly managed to do. She in turn chose to ignore her hair’s mulish nature and overlook its usual unkempt state.

  She pulled her gown over her head and wiggled it down her slim body. The popular Grecian style was girdled just below her bosom, with a low square neckline and puffed sleeves that slimmed to hug her slender wrists. She quickly slipped her white stockinged feet into her pumps and was out the door, rushing down the hall to find Pembrooke, until she halted abruptly at the portrait of Lord Maximillian Radborne. Tilting her head, she concentrated on the life-size painting and decided the man was just as intimidating in the bright sunlight as he had been last night in the wake of the storm.

  “Imagination,” Billie mumbled, convincing herself that besides talent the artist had possessed a vivid—if not wild—imagination.

  Pembrooke was at the bottom of the staircase, a silver tray in hand. He was about to ascend the steps when Billie rushed down to meet him.

  “Good morning, Pembrooke,” she said and hurried on, allowing the man no time for response. “Is that for me? How thoughtful, but unnecessary. I’ll take my breakfast down here.”

  “As you wish, m’lady.” He delivered an affirmative nod with his response and turned, walking stiffly toward two wide open doors.

  With quick steps Billie caught up with him. And with just as quick a glance about the room, she gave her head a decisive shake. “How depressing.”

  “I beg your pardon, m’lady?” Pembrooke said, having placed the tray at the head of the highly polished rosewood dining table.

  Billie pointed to the walls. “The color, what is it?” The somber walls appeared lifeless, the drab color robbing energy and spirit from the room. A room that could certainly, with the right touch, be breathtaking.

  “Pewter gray,” Pembrooke answered with an indignant flare to his wide nostrils.

  “Pewter gray,” Billie repeated. “Was Lord Radborne partial to drab and muted colors?”

  “His taste was impeccable. People often commented about the house.”

  A faint smile tempted Billie’s lips. “I imagine they did.”

  “When Lord Radborne was alive, visitors came from far and wide,” Pembrooke informed her, taking the silverware from the tray.

  Billie realized his intention was to set a place for her at the long table, which could clearly hold twenty people, and she gently tapped him on his arm.

  Pembrooke stared down at her poking finger and then looked directly up at her.

  Billie ignored his acute glare. “I’ll take my breakfast in the kitchen.”

  Affronted by her suggestion, Pembrooke took a step back and repeated her strange request. “You wish to breakfast in the kitchen?”

  “Of course,” Billie answered, not at all perturbed that he found her instructions offensive. “I wish to meet your wife, Matilda. After which I intend to go to the village and speak with Mr. Hillard. So let us not waste any more time. Where is the kitchen?”

  Pembrooke was about to protest when Billie reached for the serving tray. Aghast by her improper behavior, Pembrooke snatched it from her grasp and marched out of the dining room with a gruff “Follow me.”

  Bright white walls greeted Billie when she reached the kitchen and she smiled. Copper pots hung on overhead hooks above the worktable while herbs hung in bunches on the drying rack near the hearth. Clay pots of flowering herbs lined the wide shelf beneath the lone window under which sat a trestle-table and two accompanying benches.