The Viscount and the Hoyden Page 2

  The viscount sat at his ease in the chair farthest from the fire and explained to John and Sir Thomas that he had only taken to his horse the last few miles because he had felt cramped from the long carriage ride. “And it’s beautiful country here,” he added, a description bound to please his hosts. “The light covering of snow was just what we needed to make it feel like winter. I noticed that your pond was solidly frozen.”

  Hally’s eyes sparkled. “Yes, and you shall come to skate with us tomorrow. My younger brother and sister and I have made plans already.”

  Lord Marchwood held up a defensive hand, laughing. “Oh, no. I haven’t been on skates since I was a boy, Miss Porchester. You must excuse me.”

  “Pshaw,” she declared, “one never forgets how to skate, sir. Don’t be so stuffy.”

  “Hally,” her father said warningly, “his lordship isn’t here to break his neck on the ice.”

  Hally’s nose went up fractionally. “Well, I for one shall think he is a poor sort of fellow if he doesn’t come skating with us.”

  John hastened to change the subject. “I had hoped Lord Marchwood would join us in gathering the greens for the Hall tomorrow. Tame sport, perhaps, but it is one of our traditions here. We take a jug of hot spiced cider with us, and hot chocolate for the younger ones.”

  Hally could not detect any condescension in the viscount’s ready acceptance. It wouldn’t be as much fun having him along, though; usually they sang Christmas carols and danced some circle dances in the woods as though they were sprites. She could not picture Lord Marchwood, even after a few glasses of cider, wishing to participate in their youthful fun. But Mary Rose would be there and perhaps he would want to please Mary Rose.

  Her father was saying, “My daughter will give you a tour of the house before the light entirely fades, Lord Marchwood. The Hall is not so large that you could get lost, but I always found that I appreciated knowing the lay of the land when I visited far afield.”

  Hally hadn’t the faintest idea when last her father had visited any spot farther than twenty miles from the Hall, but naturally she made no remark to that effect. “I would be honored to show his lordship around the Hall,” she said grandly, which made her brother regard her suspiciously.

  Showing people around the Hall was actually one of Hally’s favorite duties as de facto mistress. The modest but beautiful Palladian mansion had been designed almost a hundred years previously by Colin Campbell after the previous structure had burned to the ground. Hally led Viscount Marchwood through a succession of rooms on the ground floor, filling in a little family history as she went. With a wave in the direction of the west wing, she said, “My grandfather had the kitchen wing attached to the house because he was tired of his food arriving cold.”

  “An eminently sensible move,” the viscount agreed. “I’m afraid we haven’t made that kind of progress at Millway Park.”

  She blinked at him. “You haven’t? But how do you keep the food warm?”

  “We invested in a monumental stock of silver covers, I believe. Kept the industry alive years after it should have failed.”

  A chuckle escaped her. “Well, I’m surprised you haven’t done something to rectify the situation. Our neighbors the Carsons still have a separate building for the kitchens, and I can tell you it is a dreary business dining there. Even when they have company, they cannot manage to bring a warm roast of beef to the table. It’s very discouraging.”

  “Yes, indeed. Too much of this sort of thing is carried on in the name of tradition. My mama will have it that it has always been done that way and that it should continue. One does not wish to discompose one’s mama, even for a warm meal.”

  Hally could not tell if he was teasing her, despite the wicked gleam in his eyes, so she merely sniffed and pushed through the door into the hall. “I believe your mother and mine were close as young women.”

  “Bosom friends from what I hear.”

  He had continued to regard her with an absorbed interest that surprised her. Not that there was anything so crass about his brown-eyed gaze as to be impolite. It was merely that he never took his eyes off her, and he seemed to approve of what he saw. Hally felt slightly self-conscious. “And your mama probably thought I would be something like my mother.”

  “I imagine she did.”

  “Well, I should tell you that I am not at all like my mama. Your mother would be greatly disappointed. My mother was a very sweet and gentle woman, by far too accommodating to everyone around her. I have an entirely different disposition.”

  “So I see.”

  “I believe, in fact, that I was named Alice after your mama, though as you have heard, my family calls me Hally. Another disappointment for your mama, no doubt.”

  “Oh, I think she would be able to handle such a setback,” he said, reaching past her to adjust a candle that she had inadvertently knocked to a precarious angle. “My mama is by nature an imperturbable woman. I think you would like her.”

  “Well, as to that, I don’t remember.” Hally was beginning to wonder, though, if the particularity of his interest had anything to do with Ralph’s suggestion. Surely that was absurd! If the viscount’s attention had wandered, or his gaze wavered, she might have dismissed it entirely. But the dark eyes, under the darker brows, remained locked on her face.

  “The main hall serves as our gallery,” she said. “There are family portraits from as far back as the fifteenth century. They were the first thing the baronet at the time thought to save when the house was burning. Imagine!”

  Marchwood bent his head slightly toward hers and asked, “And what would you save in the event of a fire, Miss Porchester?”

  “As to that, only the portrait of my mama. Other than that I would save the people and the animals and maybe a few personal treasures that I could get my hands on.”

  “Did people die in the fire then?”

  “No, but they might have,” Hally insisted. “I’m sure the baronet didn’t manage all these heavy old portraits by himself. He must have kept the servants carrying them out well past a time when it was dangerous.”

  He grinned. “I see. You’re speculating.”

  “A very reasonable speculation it is, too. Just for the sake of some family history.” Hally tugged at the sleeves of the lavender gown, “Surely you can picture the scene yourself.”

  “My imagination is not so fertile as yours,” he admitted, turning to study a dark, stern-faced man in the portrait at his elbow. “I would be tempted myself to save paintings as old and fine as these. The ones at Millway Park are from a more recent period. But show me the portrait of your mother, Miss Porchester.”

  Suddenly Hally wasn’t sure she wanted him to see it. He seemed so sure of himself, so ready to claim a relationship with her mother through his own. The portrait, though done locally, was remarkably good in its resemblance to its subject and in the artist’s skill. She hesitated, but eventually moved to the foot of the staircase, indicating that the painting was on the first landing.

  “It was done two years before she died. About the time your mother must have been here, actually. Papa says he likes to pass it every day as he comes down or goes up the stairs. And it’s good for Brigid to see it, since she never knew Mama. At first, though, it was . . . well, never mind.” What had she been about to tell this stranger, anyhow? What did he care for her feelings about the portrait?

  Marchwood had climbed the stairs and stood easily before the full-size painting. “Is it a good likeness?”

  “Yes, very like.”

  “Then I can see some of her in you. She was a beautiful woman, with such an angelic smile.”

  “You certainly don’t see that in me!”

  Marchwood turned to gaze down at her, wearing a rueful look. “Not the angelic smile, perhaps.”

  Hally felt a flush rise to her cheeks. Had he just called her beautiful? Surely not. She didn’t really look at all like her mother, aside from some similarities of coloring and facial shape. He was, pe
rhaps, teasing her again. Hally was finding it very difficult to understand what was happening.

  “Lord Marchwood, why have you come here?” she asked, blunt to the point of rudeness, perhaps, but unable to restrain her need to know.

  “My mother asked me to come. She was especially curious about you. She remembered you very well from when you were a child, and she wanted to know what had become of that spirited little girl. You see, I was the only child she ever had, though she would have liked a daughter, too.” He cocked his head to one side, regarding her seriously. “She wondered how your mother’s death had changed you and whether you had become more like her as you grew up. I’m expected to drink in every detail and report back to her.”

  Hally was only partially convinced by this explanation. She suspected that there was more to the story than he had related, but that he was unlikely to be more forthcoming at this point. “I’ll just show you the library and the common parlor on the first floor,” she said.

  There were six bedchambers on the first floor as well as the common rooms. Hally made certain to point out the corner where her father was installed in the master suite, next door to the chamber given over to Lord Marchwood.

  “And on the other side is my brother John’s room and then mine, which shall be Mary Rose’s for the fortnight. I’ll stay on the second floor next to Miss Viggan. She’s our governess. Perhaps you met her.”

  “No, I don’t believe so.” Lord Marchwood had paused outside his own chamber. “Perhaps Miss Nichols could have this room, and I could take the room on the second floor.”

  “Surely you jest,” Hally mocked him. “And put you beside Miss Viggan? Why, her reputation would not be worth a fig after a night of that.”

  Marchwood laughed. “Very well. I can see that you’ve taken everything into consideration, Miss Porchester. But I hate to think of you being dispossessed of your room on my account.”

  “It’s really on Mary Rose’s account, and I could not be doing it in a more worthy cause.”

  He gave her a slight bow, that same gleam in his eyes. “You are all kindness.”

  “I think you know better than that.” Hally turned away quickly and led him down the hallway to the library. The room was a treasure of leather-bound volumes, with comfortable chairs and tables, a grate set with logs for a fire, and a generous supply of candles. At his murmur of pleasure, she said, “Please make yourself at home here. My father and John seldom use the room.”

  “If they don’t use it, then you must,” the viscount surmised. “Because I’ve seldom seen a room with the look of comfort and convenience this one has. My own library isn’t half so welcoming.”

  Hally, under his renewed scrutiny, flushed again. “I come here sometimes,” she admitted, backing out of the room. “It’s a pleasant place to sit and read.”

  “What is it you read here?”

  She shrugged. “A bit of everything. Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels. Books on brewing beer. Biographies of famous people. I don’t have a disciplined mind, Lord Marchwood. If something interests me, I take it down from the shelf and read it.”

  “My mother would be enchanted,” he murmured, just loud enough for Hally to hear.

  She closed the door of the library behind them, rather sharply, vowing to avoid the room while he was at Porchester Hall. Let him enjoy the full use of it; it was only a fortnight out of her life, after all. She would spirit a few books up to the second floor when she knew he was occupied elsewhere.

  “We dine at seven. I suppose that seems early to you, but it is our way in this part of the country.”

  “My dear Miss Porchester, we dine at six at Millway Park. And I shall be delighted to try some of your culinary experiments if they are half as tasty as the walnuts on buttered bread.”

  “Did you really like that?” she asked, surprised.

  “Very much. One day I’ll treat you to my own speciality.”

  “What is it?”

  “No, no.” He wagged a playful finger. “You’ll have to wait and see. But I should let you go. I’ve taken up more than enough of your time. Thank you for the fascinating tour.”

  Hally readily left him standing there in the hallway, watching her retreat. Really, a most unaccountable man. He was not at all what she’d expected, and he seemed to have some deeper motives than those he claimed. Surely not marriage. And yet, those eyes. That incredible attentiveness to her. Really, it was very distressing. But also intriguing, she admitted to herself as she wandered off to her room to change for dinner.

  Hally had arranged for Miss Viggan and her younger brother and sister to join them for the evening meal. Marchwood was seated to Hally’s left. She had placed Brigid on his left and Ralph across from him, with Miss Viggan beside Ralph. The two youngest members of the party regarded the viscount with wide, curious eyes. Miss Viggan had obviously instructed them in their manners, for they remained unnaturally quiet until Marchwood spoke to them.

  When Ralph was asked if he was at school, he shook his head emphatically. “I don’t wish to go to school. The masters are mean and the other boys are rough, and I can’t have my pony with me,” he said.

  The viscount nodded. “That’s what I thought before I went, too.”

  “Well, it’s true enough,” Ralph insisted. “John was beaten several times when he was at Harrow, and all for the stupidest things. I shouldn’t like that at all!”

  “No, it’s certainly not pleasant to be beaten,” the viscount agreed in all seriousness.

  Hally expected that at any moment he would lay out the beneficial aspects of school life, but he remained mute, awaiting Ralph’s next remarks.

  “And the boys were mean to him when he first came. They made fun of his clothes and kept him from playing on teams with them,” Ralph pursued.

  John felt it necessary to protest this description. “Only until I showed them how well I played,” he pointed out to Ralph. “It’s all part of hardening you up.”

  “I don’t wish to be hardened up,” Ralph muttered mulishly. “What’s the point of that?”

  The viscount took a bite of the fowl and a startled expression registered on his face. Hally, who had been watching him with interest, laughed. “I believe John warned you about the curried fowl, my lord. Sometimes it’s best to eat it with a goodly quantity of small beer.” She pushed her untouched glass to him, and he gratefully took a long sip. “That’s how they make the curried fowl in India, I’m told. Very spicy.”

  “Indeed,” he murmured.

  “I told you you shouldn’t have served it,” John insisted, glaring at his sister.

  “No, no, I was just taken by surprise.” Marchwood helped himself manfully to another bite, which sent him for another long draft of the small beer. “Actually it’s quite tasty. One need only accustom oneself.”

  “One is better off skipping that dish,” John suggested, though he had himself taken a small portion. Both Ralph and Brigid were so used to the curried fowl that they downed it without even the aid of small beer.

  “Well,” the viscount said, turning back to Ralph, “you would have no difficulty with the food at school.”

  Hally took exception to this. “Are you suggesting that if he is so lacking in taste as to enjoy the curried fowl, nothing they could prepare at school would bother him?”

  “Something like that,” the viscount admitted, “though you have put it in rather a different light than I should have. I meant that if Ralph is accustomed to eating a variety of unusual dishes, he would probably tolerate the school food better than most.”

  “I’m not going to school, so it doesn’t matter,” Ralph said.

  Abandoning this lost cause for the moment, Marchwood turned to Brigid. “And, Miss Brigid, what are you learning from Miss Viggan?”

  “She has made me a set of piquet cards with names of English towns and rivers on them. I can find them all on the map now,” Brigid said proudly. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair and added, “But I think Hampshire must be much
nicer than Somerset for it has the downs.”

  “Well, Somerset is lovely, too, with its moors. Do you go for long walks on the downs?”

  “Almost every day,” Brigid said. “Miss Viggan says the exercise is good for me. She doesn’t approve of running, of course, but Hally and I do it sometimes just for fun when she’s not there.”

  Marchwood shared a rueful look with the governess, who made no comment, though she appeared pleased by the viscount’s notice. It was Ralph who added, “Hally is quite the fastest of all of us. And she skates like the wind. She beat Francis Carson in a race today.”

  “Did you, by Jove?” Marchwood murmured, intrigued. “Then perhaps I shall have to try on a pair of skates after all. Tell me, Miss Porchester, how do you keep your skirts from tangling with your legs.”

  “I wear an old gown of my grandmother’s which has stiffened skirts that don’t cling. They sway back and forth like a bell, but they don’t get in my way.”

  “Ingenious.”

  “Don’t you skate in Somerset?” Brigid asked.

  “There’s a pond that freezes solid almost every year, but I have to admit it hasn’t occurred to me in years to skate.” He glanced at Hally. “My mother used to skate.”

  “Mine did as well. Papa and Mama and John and I skated together years ago.” She smiled fondly at her father. “Remember the year the tree fell at the edge of the pond, and we had a log to sit on in the perfect spot?”

  Her father nodded, a reminiscent smile tugging at his lips. “Jane could almost dance on the ice. She would spin around without falling down, and glide in loops like a country dance. You could hear her laugh like a bell tinkling across the pond.” He sighed, cleared his throat, and took a sip of his wine.

  Brigid tugged at Marchwood’s sleeve. “Why doesn’t your mama still skate?”

  He bent his head to her. “I’m not sure. I suppose she feels too old to skate, though she will still stand up with me at the local assemblies. I shall have to ask her.”

  “They have assemblies in Somerset?” Brigid asked.