Chapter
One
The long bricked drive had been shoveled clean in anticipation of the guests,
who would arrive for the week of parties, visits, and general gaiety. Each of
the black lampposts was sporting a red ribbon. The benches round the skating
pond had been cleaned, the sleigh was polished to a high gleam and was snug
inside the carriage house to await that dash across the countryside.
But Clare’s satisfaction came from something deeper. Her brother Aaron,
Viscount Hambelton was now twenty-five, and watching him below, with a group of
his friends from
Clare, being twenty-seven now, had even then been the one person who understood
her brother’s sudden turn. She’d been grieving in her own way and had quietly
seen to the estate and other things, with the help of Sir Riley, a very old and
very dear friend of their parents.
Smoothing back her chestnut hair, Clare absently pulled down the cuffs of her
warm, rose wool gown, with its long sleeves, round neck, and full skirt.
Underneath she wore warm stockings and a cotton petticoat. At the round neck of
the gown, there was sewn a bit of lace. Since she wasn’t one for frills and
frippery, it was a gown that suited her five foot six frame. A woman of curves
and good health, Clare was thankful for that much and did not dwell most times
on beauty or lack thereof. She had been called pretty in her youth, and did not
turn heads, but seemed pleasant enough to garner a second look now and then.
Her face was angular and brows arched, her eyes were a deep gray and nose
straight, pink lips, that both set in determined lines and smiled easily, as
Clare had come to take nothing in life for granted.
Pulling on her gloves, she wiped at the frost on the window, looking below
again, and allowing her gaze to go to the still and silent form seated on one
of the benches facing the house. It was on the right, the man having had to
take the path around the house, and on to the courtyard and hedge maze. Any
time of year it was a perfect spot for admiring the mansion’s yellow brick and
green lawns, profuse gardens and statuary.
But today, in winter, its position spoke of remoteness and isolation, of being
distant from the laughing and merry group, of three men and two young women, now
building snowmen on the lawn.
Jared Burke, Earl of Winterchase was wearing his capped great coat and boots, a
silver scarf casually at the throat and a black beaver hat. Even at this
distance his tall height and broad shoulders, the darkness of his skin and
hair, made him seen more in shadow than the light of day.
Most were aware of the whisperings surrounding the brooding Earl of
Winterchase. Wherever his name was spoken, it was in a hush or with raised
brows. His face was craggy and dark skinned with eyes of deep ebony, and there
was an aura around him, of coldness and aloofness, of mystery, that fit most of
the rumors, though few knew the truth.
Jared Burke was thirty-seven and had lived several lifetimes, if rumor was
true. The sort of lives that were dark themselves and cruel in many ways. His
father was said to have been a rakehell and a hard man to tolerate, and his
mother a spoiled Spanish beauty who was faithless and shallow. His life was
continually torn asunder by his father’s recklessness and jealousy, his
mother’s affairs and scandals. Jared himself had fought many duels over both
before he’d left on his tour. When he came back and wed the girl betrothed to
him from the age of twelve, he’d found, they say, that the woman she’d grown into
was much like his mother.
There was a murder in the Burke main estate, two years after that wedding day.
The wife was found hanging from the rafters, and was apparently carrying the
heir. The father died somewhere in
The Lord of Winterchase took himself off to war; in madness, of either grief,
anger, or all, yet if he had a death wish himself, it did not come about. His
recklessness or his courage won him distinction, and he had left war by the
time Napoleon was exiled, wounded, but a high-ranking officer.
He didn’t come back to parades and welcomes, as the scandals and rumors were
too plentiful, and too well remembered. They called him the beast and worse
behind his back, laying all the sins of his parents and his wife’s death at his
door, even the fate of the unborn child.
And he had vanished for a time, after selling that cursed estate house and much
of the lands, settling himself upon his return, in the least used or known
property of the Burke’s, the old endowment, Winterchase, which had in it’s
glory been an impressive gothic structure with gardens, lawns and lakes.
Forgotten for generations, the gardens had grown wild and the woods crept
closer and more tangled, the statues and fountains aged and moss covered, the
sinister façade.
Clare knew of it, had seen it many times whilst returning from the village, the
fog hovering around the distant, dark, manor, that could scarcely be seen from
the vines tangled in the iron gates and the trees grown so tall and hovering.
The spires and griffins, gargoyles that crouched at the entry, and held up
those heavy balconies used to be a source of fascination as a child. But
somewhere along the way, the gossip had reached her ears, and she too used to
shiver passing by it, glad of the ten acres that separated it from the main
roads, keeping the secrets distant from the seeing eye.
However that was long ago and Clare was aware, though he forbade Aaron to speak
of it, and would not mention it himself, that there sat the one man, who for
some accident of fate, encountered her brother in northern England, took him in
out of the cold after a night of reckless revelry, and quietly took him under
his wing, to guide him out of the darkness and self destruction, back into
living.
At the time, Clare did not know the details, except for the cryptic notes she
received with his seal. She came to know he was at Winterchase and was tempted
to ask, but Aaron forbade any talk of it, and she was too thankful he was both
finishing his studies, and apparently learning more from Jared, who often came
to see him, her brother said, and spend many hours with the young man.
Clare had quietly seen to tenants, worked with Sir Riley, and when her brother
was on the town in London, went up to assist him in refurbishing the townhouse.
She’d watched her brother, when a youth, a lanky lad with a shock of black
curly hair and green eyes, happy until the worst happened and turned him into
to a complete stranger. The young man she’d met up with
This circle of his friends; the Lord’s Wexler and Venter, Adamson, the ladies
Holt and Meller, were people he was quietly guided to by Lord Jared. They were
wealthy heirs, intelligent and somewhat set apart from the feckless ton by
their unique circumstances, and as if weaning the man to stand at last on his
own, it was obvious that a bond of friendship formed by trust had made them
kindred spirits, so that Aaron now had his wings and could run his life.
To say Clare was surprised that the Earl accepted Aaron’s invite to Hambelton
was an understatement. In all of these years, he had never shown himself to
her, other than those things she discerned through her brother, and that bold
dark script on his missives. This gathering would be for those close to her
brother, for neighbors to stop in, and for the younger set about, to make merry
and celebrate as Hambelton Court had not seen in many a year.
As for herself, Claire had made sure the house was festive, the rooms bright
and warm, and between the staff, who was thrilled, for they loved young Aaron
and missed his presence and were more than ready for the master to take his
place here, and the neighbors, who were always affectionate to the Hambelton‘s.
It was going to be a wonderful Christmas.
Claire, in her joy at Aaron’s coming of age, was completely content to remain
in the background and observe, to see to details and enjoy the sounds of
laughter from his group. And, to help Mrs. Hansen, the housekeeper. And the
cook, Bartos, who was preparing feasts for every single day to outdo the other.
Her brother’s lady friends, the Lady Holt in particular, were very lively and
nice, they kept the staff smiling, playing music and singing, even getting the
stoic butler Oberto to grin with their goings on in the house.
But the Lord of Winterchase lingered on her mind as she smoothed her hair. She
wore it drawn back and in a white net. Claire picked up a matching full-skirted
coat of a soft cream hue, with white fur on the hood and cuffs, and on the hem
that touched the tops of her warmest fur lined short boots.
She would go down the servant’s stairs and to the kitchens. The maids and
housekeeper did not need her direction. When the others came in, they would
hurry to provide warm drinks, warm baths and assist them. The Hambelton
servants were long trained and missing the days when her parent’s were there
for holiday foolery and celebrations.
In the toasty and bustling kitchens, she spoke briefly to Bartos and the two
maids helping, then proceeded to the back doors, where her baskets and crates
set, already packed for delivery.
“The carriage be ready, miss. Are you sure you won’t have me drive?” One of the
usual drivers, old Kimball was warming himself by the large fireplace, looking
as if he’d just dried out. She knew they all helped with the fire wood cutting
and cleaning of the stables and horses, so she smiled but said, “No. Kimball,
thank you. But could you load these, please? I must speak with someone, then I
shall be directly back.”
He grabbed his coat off a peg. “No trouble a’ tall. I’ll see to it.”
She slipped out the back door, noting the mud around the well, hearing the
geese squawking, likely realizing several of their kind were missing, as they
would provide dinner. The other fowl were pecking out by the barns, and she
spied the lazy, fat, tabby, sitting on the ledge of the carriage house window,
watching birds eat the red berries from the holly hedges.
Quite warm in spite of the snow, she made her way around in time to see the
last of Aaron’s group kicking snow off their boots and hurrying in. She paused
to admire the snow men, covering her mouth a moment on a laugh, and noticing
the purple drape on the enormous snowman as Prinny, and the distinct hat on the
female, fashioned rather artfully with chicken feathers, as that of a dowager
dragon who ruled London ballrooms.
Moving on, toward that walkway, Lord Jared had arisen and was smoking a thin
cheroot, but did not look to be going in. She had to ask herself why she was
about to be assuming to a man who likely wouldn’t be gracious or thankful for
it? But her only answer was, that if their years had been somewhat bleak over
their circumstances, and if their Christmases were less than merry for awhile,
she could only imagine what his had been like. Given that they said his heart
was as cold as winter.
Not that she could blame him, if rumors were true, she told herself, that there
was no payment great enough to give him for all that he’d done for Aaron, and
that though he forbade speaking of it, or acknowledging it, that did not mean
that she had to pretend to be unconscious of it.
Clare was not a woman of flamboyant gestures and being in the forefront of
life, herself, rather she stayed productive, aware, and participated in what it
offered, embracing joys when they came, and thinking nothing of her own
kindness’. Save that it was in most of human nature to be so, and that those
around her in most ways returned the same to herself.
She paused a foot from him, clasping her hands lightly and watching his
mysterious eyes touch upon her, then away, as he tossed the cheroot. Up this
close, Clare could feel that intimidation some did, at his height and strength,
the commanding way he stood, and foremost, the set of his craggy features as
remote as Winterchase itself.
The cheroot hissed in the snow. Her gaze went to his black gloved hand before
going back up. He really was not unhandsome, she thought, for his nose was
Roman, forehead broad and lips likely semi full, when not held so tensely. He
had strong bones and a longish black mane. His experience, she decided, of
thirty-seven unpleasant years, and that kind of self-preservation, was likely
what made him appear older and more aloof. Claire understood this too, for
there was no answering a legacy such as he was part of and at that age, there was
no chance and no one to allow him to start life anew, even had one wanted to.
When his dark eyes touched her again, guarded instead of seeing out, she began,
“Though I do not normally presume upon guests. I am in need of a good hand at
the reins.” She gestured to the drive where Kimball stood holding the lead
horse. “
He did not move for a moment but shifted his feet. She assured, “If you are
cold I will await you an hour or so? And if you do not wish to stay out of
doors longer, you may decline, with no offense taken.”
She saw something flicker over that dark face, before he murmured, “Allow me to
change my gloves.”
“Certainly.” She turned, seeing for the corner of her eye when he fell in step,
an off gait due to stiffness in his right leg. His presence beside her as they
traversed the walk, brought with the normal scent of winter and wood fires, a
bit of spice and wool, some male heat that was not unpleasant. Glancing down
she watched the cadence of those steps, and no matter how much the wound
affected his grace, his boots fell measured to match her own lesser stride.
At the entry, she went for the carriage standing by Kimball, for some reason
not watching him go up the steps. But Kimball had, and murmured, “His lordship
was wounded in the war, you know?”
“Yes. I have heard.”
Kimball said, “I offered to valet for him, but he declined. I did go in with
Toby to empty the bath and lay a fresh fire, and without a shirt, his lordship
carries many more scars.”
“I imagine those inside are more painful.”
“Yes. We have said so among ourselves.” The old servant said quietly, “When the
viscount arrived and I was about helping him unpack, Kimball, he says, you and
the others treat Lord Jared well and attend him, for he will not ask a thing
for himself. Treat him kind, he says, and give him comforts, for none do and ‘tis
a great thing, having him here. For I would not be here myself otherwise.”
Clare bit her lip, well able to imagine her brother having that quiet word with
the servants.
Kimball went on. “I told the others, and from cook on, we’ve set our minds to do
all he will allow. Molly put greenery in his rooms, and Oberto our finest
brandy, and Mrs. Hansen, a bowl of fruits and nuts, and we keep the fire laid.
For he does not seem a man who has been kept warm, does he, miss? He seems
rather too used to shadows, and we’ve a mind to give him a bit o light.”
She reached and squeezed his wool-clad arm. “Thank you, Kimball. And all of
you, for being the people you are. I know you have all heard the rumors, but
let us know the man whom Aaron cares for, and try in spite of his distance,
which is self preservation, I think, to try and treat him as we ourselves would
like to be treated.”
“Here he comes.” The servant patted her hand before she dropped it.