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  But then they reached the crossways, where they met—

  “Isabella!” Amy exclaimed in surprise.

  The other young woman visibly started, then colored. However, she quickly caught herself. “Amelia.” She raised her chin. “And Mr. Stapleton.”

  Amy goggled at her. “Whatever are you doing out here? Didn’t you say the vaporous air—”

  Isabella sniffed. “I took my watercolors.” She held up the rumpled bag she was carrying. Glass clicked against glass. At the sound, her blush returned. Hastily she dropped the bag and let it dangle down her side once more. “Well,” she said, “I must be going. All that wet weather…” And she marched off.

  Perplexed, Amy stared after her. “Whatever has got into her?” She looked up at Fox, but he only shrugged.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Well, on the other hand”—he flashed her another of those devilish grins—“we might simply have shocked her witless.”

  Amy narrowed her eyes at him. “How so?”

  “Well,”—he cleared his throat, then leaned down to whisper confidentially—“given that you look utterly ravished…” He burst out laughing as she punched his arm. Still laughing, he slung an arm around her shoulder and pressed her to his side, so her mortified groan was muffled against the sleeve of his coat.

  Chapter Eight

  In the afternoon, Lady Rawdon showed Amy and Isabella around the house. “The original structure of the house is Jacobean,” she told them. “Before that Rawdon was a simple, small manor house, but when Sir Henry Stapleton bought the property in the early decades of the seventeenth century, he was determined to convert it into the most magnificent aristocratic house of his time—never mind that he was only a newly created baronet!”

  They entered a long room lined by portraits all set in polished black frames. These formed an intriguing contrast to the walls done in terra-cotta red.

  “The Red Picture Gallery,” the countess explained, “where all members of the Rawdon family are neatly lined up.”

  “Like hens on a perch.” Amy grinned. Allegedly, her uncle’s house, Three Elms, had once sported such a picture gallery too, until a spell gone wrong had bounced through the gallery and the paintings had come alive—in a manner of speaking. Afterwards the people in the paintings and portraits had developed the uncanny habit of ogling everybody who walked past. As if this weren’t bad enough, one from the sixteenth century, showing a seedy fellow with a moth-eaten beard and an eye patch, had whistled after the maids, while another, Uncle Bourne’s great-great-something-aunt, had screeched, “My kittens! My kittens!” whenever it spotted somebody coming its way. It had been enough, Aunt Maria used to say whenever the conversation turned to the Bourne portrait gallery, to unnerve the bravest soul. In the end, she had banished all of the portraits to one of the rooms in the attic and had conveniently lost the key.

  Amy had always suspected the story was concocted by her aunt in order to get rid of portraits that she had never liked in the first place.

  Lady Rawdon chuckled. “Exactly like hens on a perch.”

  At the repetition of her words, Amy’s amusement momentarily abated. Why did this phrase sound so eerily familiar? Almost as if…

  She frowned.

  Almost as if she had said it once before.

  She shook her head, annoyed. Gracious, one could be led to assume that her head was full of cobwebs! And so she smiled wryly and stepped up to Lady Rawdon and Isabella, who had stopped in front of a small, dark portrait.

  “And here he is: Sir Henry.” The countess grimaced. “He looks a rather disagreeable little man, doesn’t he? The conversion of Rawdon Park ruined him. He simply didn’t have enough funds to see it all through.”

  No wonder then that Sir Henry made such a sour face in his portrait!

  “However, he did hire one of the best architects of his time, Robert Lyminge, who also built Hatfield House for the Earl of Salisbury and later converted Blickling Hall. Indeed, Rawdon Park looks remarkably like Blickling.” The countess heaved a small sigh. “Unfortunately, Sir Henry died before everything was finished.”

  “And then?” Isabella asked as they continued walking.

  “His son”—the countess pointed to the next portrait in line—“had the building work stopped at once. I assume the family regarded Rawdon Park as a burden. But because it was the only estate they had, they couldn’t very well sell it. In subsequent years the family kept a low profile.”

  “Good for them during the Civil War, I assume.” Amy looked at the portraits that followed: men with large, ruffled collars and women with voluminous, glittering dresses with lace at the necklines and sleeves. Many of them were depicted with their favorite dogs and their small children, the sex of the latter made undistinguishable by infant skirts and caps.

  “Quite so. The family came through the Civil War and the Protectorate mostly unscathed.” The countess contemplated the next two portraits. “In those days the Fens were still undrained in large parts and quite unnavigable if you didn’t know the land. So the Stapletons ducked their heads and”—a mischievous smile played around Lady Rawdon’s lips—“stayed put.”

  “But how did they become the Earls of Rawdon?” Isabella asked, and for the first time she seemed genuinely interested.

  Lady Rawdon stopped in front of the next picture, a larger-than-life portrait of a beautiful woman clad in splendid silks and muslin, with skin as pale as milk, a full rosebud mouth, and ebony dark hair laid in tight ringlets. Next to her stood a young black girl who offered her a large shell full of pearls. “That was all due to her, Henrietta, the sister of the fifth baronet, and mistress of George II.”

  Isabella looked scandalized. “You mean—?” she spluttered.

  Lady Rawdon sighed. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Oh dear.” Amy bit her lip to suppress a giggle. From baronet to earl—all on account of one lusty sister! “Who is the black girl?”

  “Flavia, her serving maid.” Thoughtfully the countess regarded the young maid. “It is said that the king bought her for Henrietta from the captain of a slave ship.”

  A shudder ran down Amy’s spine. She was more than glad to leave the picture gallery behind and to be shown through the salons and the formal Brown Drawing Room.

  The main house of Rawdon Park was built around a courtyard, with towers on all four corners and an additional clock tower rising over the main entrance at the front. The heart of the latter consisted of a wooden construction that seemed alarmingly fragile as they climbed the narrow staircase to the small platform underneath the bell in order to enjoy the view.

  Yet what met them at the top were two small boys with guilty faces.

  “Mother!”

  “I say!” The countess put her hands on her hips. “Were you not told to stay with your sister’s nursery maid as long as Mr. Ford is away?”

  Not meeting her eye, her sons looked down and scraped their feet over the floor. “Mmhm.”

  Lady Rawdon sighed. “Well come then, you two rascals.”

  Shamefaced, Dick and Pip trotted after their mother as she marched down the stairs of the clock tower. Isabella grimaced and followed, but not without muttering something about unruly brats under her breath.

  Amy rolled her eyes. Trust Isabella to find fault even with children! For a moment she allowed herself to enjoy the view from the clock tower before she hurried after them.

  When they reached the Long Gallery, the countess stopped and turned to her sons. “And what can you tell our guests about our library?”

  Her eldest threw Amy and Isabella a skeptical look as if he could hardly believe anybody might be interested in an old library. He took a deep breath. “Great-grandfather had the bookcases installed. He liked books.”

  “But the ceiling was there long before great-grandfather.” Pip craned his neck. “There are allegories of the five senses—look, there’s the sense of smell.” He pointed.

  Amy looked up to admire the intricate stucco work. “I see.”


  Pip skipped a few paces ahead. “And here’s the fireplace. Grandfather had all fireplaces converted to fit Rumford grates.” He beamed at them, which prominently displayed his gap-teeth. The pride he took in the new, modern grates was endearing.

  “Much to our delight.” Lady Rawdon smiled. “If you like reading, Miss Bentham, Miss Bourne, do feel free to help yourselves to the books in our library.” She winked at them. “We also have a very nice selection of gothic novels and Minerva Press books.”

  “And chapbooks, of course,” Amy said cheerfully.

  “Of course.” Lady Rawdon laughed. “How do you like The Horrible Histories, Miss Bourne?” They continued walking down the gallery.

  “Exceedingly well,” Amy responded. “I’ve just reached the episode in which Markander slays the horrible three-headed monster poodle by hitting it over the head with The Historie of Britannia, and is granted knighthood as a result of it.” She chuckled. “The question of course is whether he hit the poodle only over one head or over all three of them!”

  The countess’s lips twitched. “A grave and serious question indeed!” She turned to Isabella. “Do you also enjoy chapbooks, Miss Bentham?”

  “Chapbooks!” The young woman’s horrified face was almost comical. She made it sound as if reading chapbooks were akin to running naked through the streets. “Indeed I do not!” she said.

  Lady Rawdon seemed taken aback. “Oh.”

  There was an awkward pause.

  Amy cleared her throat. “Speaking of slaying beasts by hitting them over the head with a book, didn’t an Oxonian kill a boar that way?”

  Pip, who was skipping alongside her, crowed, “Uncle Stapleton went to Oxford!”

  “Did he?” Amy couldn’t help that a broad smile spread across her face. How extraordinarily pleasing to learn new things about her beloved! So pleasing in fact, that she wanted to hug herself with joy.

  Dick made a face at his brother. “Father went to Cambridge. And grandfather, too! And great-grandfather—”

  “Went to Cambridge as well,” Lady Rawdon finished as they walked past the staircase that led to the guestrooms on the floor above. “No doubt, in ten years’ time you will be the next generation of Stapletons at Cambridge.”

  It made Amy wonder why Fox had chosen to go to Oxford instead. Had his real father attended university there, perhaps?

  They entered the next room—The King’s Salon, the countess called it. Done in pale greens, the chamber was dominated by a large portrait of an aging Charles II. The coal black curls of a wig framed his face and formed an intriguing contrast to the lines age had burrowed into his skin.

  Pip stopped in front of the portrait and peered up at the larger-than-life man, then threw a look back over his shoulder. “When the king visited Norfolk, a wheel of his carriage broke and Rawdon Park was the nearest house. And so he spent the night here."

  “He liked the food here so exceedingly well that he stayed a fortnight,” the countess added, a little wryly. “He sent this portrait as a thank-you present.”

  “There’s a naked lady, too.” With a mischievous grin Dick pointed at a portrait in the portrait.

  Isabella gasped, and for a moment Amy feared she was going to faint again. But Isabella must have thought better of it given that there was no Lord Munthorpe present to catch her.

  Shaking her head, Amy stepped next to the boys and gamely inspected the naked lady in the small oval portrait that leaned against a wall and was half hidden behind the king’s left leg. At the saucy, provocative look on said lady’s face, Amy couldn’t help chuckling. “Charming.”

  “We think it might be Nell Gwynne, the actress,” Lady Rawdon said. “Or perhaps the fashionable Barbara Castlemaine. Did you know that she was his favorite mistress by the time he married? Makes you feel pity for poor Queen Catherine, doesn’t it? Even though she was Catholic, of course. Now, if you will come through here?”

  They walked through two more rooms before they reached the spiral staircase of one of the towers. In contrast to the beautiful and elegant trappings of the rooms they had seen so far, the walls here were only whitewashed, with the brickwork still shining through. “This used to be one of the back stairways,” Lady Rawdon explained, “but we decided to put the nursery and the schoolroom up in the second floor because these are among the sunniest rooms in Rawdon Park.”

  They left young Richard and Philip upstairs with the nursemaid and little Annie, who waved and shot a beaming smile at Amy. “Another hour of Latin vocabulary,” the countess instructed cheerfully. “Your father will test you this evening. Huh,” she added as she closed the door on the children, “I will be glad when Mr. Ford comes back. He has a firm hand and has so far managed to rein in my sons’ more unruly moods.”

  The rest of the tour passed without interruption, and they concluded it an hour later in the South Drawing Room, where tea and light sandwiches already awaited them.

  And Fox.

  Amy’s face lit up, and she thought she must surely have floated to his side. Smiling down at her, he pressed her hand. “Missed me?” he whispered.

  “Always,” she whispered back. How could she not?

  ~*~

  Over the next few days they settled into a comfortable routine as all house parties are wont to do. Fox got used to country hours again, and in the mornings he and Amy always took a stroll around the park and gardens. They briefly talked about their wedding plans—a spring wedding it should be—but it all seemed part of a too distant future. The present proved a much greater lure: they lost themselves in the moment, in each other—and made good use of the small pavilion. Fox had not tried to kiss Amy’s foot again; instead he had shown her the delight to be found in kisses strewn across her neck and throat and the curve of her shoulder. Once he had even talked her into wearing a rather low-cut dress—much too low-cut for taking a walk at this time of the year. Still, her pelisse had kept her warm until they had reached their pavilion and he…

  And he…

  And he had unbuttoned the pelisse, torturously slowly. Was it any wonder then that by the time the garment had fallen open, her breath had been coming in short, sharp puffs? With infinite tenderness he had trailed the backs of his fingers across her upper chest, raising goose bumps and making her shiver. Finally, his forefinger had slipped into the valley between her breasts to tickle her there. Laughter and lust had melted into one, and their mouths had fused with hungry passion.

  At the back of her mind a voice clamored that she was behaving in the most improper fashion, but the delight Amy found in Fox’s arms quickly quieted that annoyance. Perhaps it might be considered strange how effortlessly she cast off her inhibitions when she was with Fox, but then she loved him—oh, how she loved him! Propriety and common sense might dictate that she should not grant him any liberties until they were husband and wife so as not to court possible ruin. Yet this was Fox. So why wait when love, the most sacred emotion of all, already bound them together forevermore? Nothing could ever part them.

  And so they kissed and caressed, and deep in her bones she knew that soon mere kisses and caresses wouldn’t be enough. For day after day, her hunger for him increased like a burning fever in her blood. Thus, day after day, propriety and common sense became less and less important. Amy sometimes wondered that none of the others seemed to see. It appeared to her that all her love and passion must be a flame that lit her from the inside out.

  But no, to all appearances none of the others noticed anything unusual. The world around Amy and Fox revolved in a comfortable country house routine.

  In the afternoon they usually all came together in the South Drawing Room and played cards or read. Isabella found a fortepiano and chose to brutalize Beethoven. In the late afternoon the children were sent in, and while Fox taught Dick to play chess, Pip played hare and hounds with Amy. Annie, doll clutched to her side, sat next to them and watched the proceedings with wide eyes.

  One evening Sir Richard Bedingfield and his wife were dinn
er guests at Rawdon Park, and a few days later he returned the compliment and invited them all to Oxburgh Hall. He also had invited other guests, so there was a big enough party for impromptu dancing after dinner. Footmen rolled up the carpet in the drawing room, and one of the ladies sat down at the piano. Because it was such an informal affair, nobody appeared scandalized when Fox stayed glued to Amy’s side through most of the evening. Daringly, they even danced the waltz together. While they swirled through the room in three-four time, Amy had ample opportunity to feast her eyes on his face, on the sprinkle of freckles, on his blue-gray eyes, which shimmered softly in the candlelight. At that moment it seemed to her that she must have done this once before. Indeed, she was almost certain she had, yet the memory remained hazy.

  She frowned.

  Why, she almost thought she had been put out that first time! How extraordinarily strange!

  She shook her head to clear the cobwebs from her brain, but then the waltz ended and Lord Rawdon laughingly stepped up to them and demanded the next dance with his future sister-in-law. Afterwards she danced with the admiral, then with Sir Richard, before Fox came to reclaim her with obvious, and rather satisfying, impatience.

  On another day Lady Rawdon, Amy, and Isabella went out in an open carriage in order to enjoy a turn about the flat countryside. Unfortunately, it soon started to drizzle and they were forced to turn back. They had more luck on the day they visited the Roman ruins. The wide arch of the sky remained bright and clear while they admired the architecture of bygone ages.

  A few days later, however, the drizzle turned into fat snowflakes that dusted the land like glittering flour.

  “Oh dear,” Amy sighed as they took their walk in the gardens that morning. “I’m afraid we will have to do without our pavilion today.”

  “Miss Bourne!” Fox breathed in tones of deep shock. “You surprise me. That a respectable young lady like you would—”

  Amy thumped his arm, which only resulted in making him grin.