Rules of Attraction Read online

  Alfred shrugged. “It’s yer funeral, miss.”

  Such a cheerful fellow! “How much longer until we’re there?”

  “We’re at th’ top o’ th’ tor.” He pointed ahead as if she could actually see the landmark he showed her. “There’s th’ gatehouse. Th’ moat’s been filled in these two hundred years. We’re in th’ courtyard now.”

  The lights of the castle loomed out of the mist in shocking suddenness. The wooden wheels rattled as they rolled across paving stones and stopped in the middle of the drive. Tilting her head back, Hannah looked up as far as she could, stunned by the massive pile of granite that rose so abruptly out of the ground. Somehow she’d been transported back in time and even now drove up to a castle that looked no different than it had in medieval times, when the windows had been nothing more than slits and every feature had been designed with defense in mind.

  “Almost seven hundred years old, parts o’ it. Many a child born here, many a life snuffed.” Alfred turned and looked at Hannah, and his rheumy eyes shone moist and morose. “Good fortune t’ ye, miss.”

  A door opened and a large square of light shone out, and against it she saw silhouetted several shapes, four male, one female.

  A woman’s voice blending a faint Lancashire burr with gentility, called, “Did ye get her, Alfred?”

  “Aye.”

  “About time. The master’s been fretting this last hour.”

  The female and three of the males, two with lanterns, hurried toward the cart, the female burbling with speech. “Miss Setterington? I’m Mrs. Judith Trenchard, and I beg yer pardon for the mode of yer transport. There was a…misunderstanding.”

  A misunderstanding? How interesting.

  “I hope ye haven’t been inconvenienced,” Mrs. Trenchard said.

  “Not at all.” A footman placed a step for Hannah and helped her from her seat and onto the ground. “But I would beg for a maid to brush out my clothing.”

  As the footmen lifted their lanterns, dismay showed on Mrs. Trenchard’s plump, lined face. She carried perhaps sixty-five years, and she exuded an air of competence and energy that contrasted with her apologies and confession of error. “I’ll certainly assign you a maid. Come in before the damp settles into your bones.”

  Too late, it appeared. As Hannah stepped across the threshold into a dim cavern, she shivered, then found she couldn’t stop.

  Mrs. Trenchard clucked. “Billie, bring Miss Setterington a blanket. Aye, miss, ’tis an evil night to be out. I don’t know what those new-fashioned railroads are thinking, to deliver at such an hour. Mark my words, they’ll never catch on in Lancashire if they continue with such wrong-headed behavior. Thank you, Billie.” Wrapping Hannah in the warm, clean wool spread, she hurried her toward the stone stairs that wound upward. “The master’s waiting for ye.”

  Mrs. Trenchard was taller than Hannah, an unusually great height for a woman, and heavy-boned and broad-beamed. She clattered as she walked, the iron ring at her belt full of the keys that were the badge of her station. In her clasp Hannah felt like a leaf swept along in a great and powerful wind. “I’d like to freshen up first,” Hannah said.

  “Ah, no. We don’t keep the master waiting here.” Mrs. Trenchard sounded quite stern. “He’s not as dread as they say, but severe and likes his way. I don’t cross him and ye’re already past the time he expected ye.”

  Hannah wanted to point out that that wasn’t her fault.

  But Mrs. Trenchard talked on as she pushed Hannah up the stairs. “The master wants to change the entrance so that guests enter a foyer on the second level. The kitchen’s no way for visitors to first see Raeburn, and this stairway is so old and worn ’tis easy to take a tumble. In fact, the previous lord…but no matter.” Stopping in the middle of the stairway, she leaned against the wall and, grimacing, held her side.

  Looking down the spiral of stone steps, Hannah was alarmed. Taking Mrs. Trenchard’s arm, she asked, “Are you ill?”

  “Nonsense.” Mrs. Trenchard shook her off and pushed her along once more. “Never been ill a day in my life. Hardy stock, that’s me. My mother passed on just five years ago at the great age of eighty-nine.” She pointed toward the glow of light from above. “Now, once ye’re out of the kitchens, it’s a beautiful house.”

  Hannah nodded. Perhaps Mrs. Trenchard had just had a bad day. Certainly she seemed strong enough.

  “After the old lord died, the next two masters started fixing up the place and the last master, rest his soul, even put in stoves that heat twice as well as a fireplace. This lord was busy when he got the title, but now he’s restoring the tapestries and cleaning the woodwork and replacing all the old parts. It’s grand. Ye’ll see.”

  “I’m sure I will.” Hannah didn’t know if Mrs. Trenchard always spoke so freely or if she were nervous, but as they reached the top of the stairs she realized the housekeeper told the truth. The cruder part of the castle had been lacquered over with a combination of modern furnishings and beeswax. The arched corridor widened, then opened onto a large, beautiful, well-furnished room that blended the ancient with the modern. The ceiling soared so high the illumination of the flickering candles could not reach into its heights. Dark wood paneled the walls, and polished shields alternated with old-fashioned gold-and-scarlet tapestries. Yet the furnishings were both comfortable and new, and for the first time since she’d come to Lancashire, Hannah saw a bit of the current mode that ruled London.

  “The great hall,” Mrs. Trenchard announced with great pride.

  “So handsome!” Hannah replied. Her teeth still chattered.

  She hated that. At this, her first meeting with the staff, the master and the elderly aunt, she wanted to appear strong.

  Mrs. Trenchard turned down a dim gallery. Paintings lined the walls, doors opened off its length and at its end, Hannah could see a broad stairway that disappeared in the gloom. Yet everything was luminous and well-cared-for, and one of the doors stood, not opened, but propped against the wall.

  As they passed, Mrs. Trenchard gestured inside. “The master is having the library refitted with all new oak bookshelves painted a pale yellow. He says it’ll lighten the room, and I say it’s fine.”

  “It sounds lovely.”

  “Then there’s some that say we should leave well enough alone. The old ways are the best, they say.”

  She sounded interested in Hannah’s opinion, although Hannah thought herself too new here to venture one. So she tried to straddle the issue. “Of course it’s necessary to preserve some of the old things, but I’m sure it’s easier for you if the castle is new and shining.”

  Mrs. Trenchard rounded on Hannah. “Why?”

  “Because you’re the housekeeper and the older possessions are fragile and harder to clean?” Hannah ventured.

  Mrs. Trenchard studied at her with a hint of suspicion. Her eyes were a light color, although Hannah couldn’t see them clearly in this light, and although she wasn’t as old as she’d first appeared, the perpetual lines of worry aged her.

  “Ye might be right. I don’t know yet.” Still unmoving, Mrs. Trenchard said, “If ye don’t mind me saying—I’ve worked in this castle my whole life, and I’m right fond of his lordship’s aunt. All of us who work here are.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it.” Pleased to hear her charge was congenial. Even pleased that the servants liked her enough to interrogate Hannah.

  “If ye don’t mind me asking—the lord says ye have experience minding elderly ladies.”

  “I spent six years caring for Lady Temperly.”

  “She liked ye?”

  “There was a mutual respect between us, and she was very kind. She left me her house. In that house I was able to start the Distinguished Academy of Governesses. I will always remember Lady Temperly affectionately.”

  Mrs. Trenchard studied her for another minute, then nodded. “The master’s picked a good one, then. There’ll be no turning back now.” She led the way to a dark, ornately carved wooden door.
“Here ye go. The master’s inside the drawing chamber. He frightens some, but he’s ne’er been aught but polite to me. Ye’ll get used to his abrupt manner soon enough. Chin up, now, and stop yer trembling. It’ll be warm inside.” Mrs. Trenchard whisked the blanket out of Hannah’s grip and looked her over. Apparently she found little of which to approve, for she muttered, “No time to do more.” Opening the door, she stepped inside.

  Hannah followed her in and with a brief glance took in the small, comfortable surroundings. A fire burned on the hearth. Fresh flowers nodded in vases. A few books were scattered on a table beside a large, green brocade armchair. Paintings in the newest soft and delicate style warmed the plaster walls—and a gentleman stood with his back to the room, gazing out of the shiny, glass-paned window where beyond only black night and endless fog were visible. He was tall, broad-shouldered, long-legged, wore stark black and white and clasped his hands behind his back. His black hair hung over his collar, and for all the notice he took of Mrs. Trenchard and Hannah, he might not have heard their entrance.

  Certainly he did not turn when Mrs. Trenchard curtsied and announced, “Miss Hannah Setterington, my lord.”

  For one moment he stood stiffly, a lonely figure waiting for…something. Then in a low, deep voice he commanded, “Leave us.”

  Hannah’s breath caught.

  That voice. That tone.

  Her heart gave a thud. Then another. Then another, marking each second, each excitement, each fear.

  From the back he looked like…and the reflection in the glass seemed to be familiar.

  But she knew how wrong she could be. When he dwelt in her thoughts, all men looked like him.

  And yet…and yet…

  Vaguely, she heard the door shut. Slowly, he turned to face her.

  And the foreboding which had haunted her for nine years became reality.

  This man had never killed his wife.

  Because she was his wife.

  2

  Dougald. Dougald Pippard. Not the marquess of Raeburn. Plain Mr. Dougald Pippard, a wealthy Liverpool gentleman and entrepreneur.

  But he stood with his back to the window, and there could be no doubt. This was her husband, for his vivid eyes glowed with triumph. He had always been a keen observer of human emotions; now, she knew, he marked the winds of recollection and shock that swept her.

  Yet when she had caught her breath, he said only, “You’re late.”

  Late. Yes, nine years late for a meeting with the man she had married. Married despite her misgivings, and only after she had run away for the first time. She had caught a train, he had caught her and…“You’re not the earl of Raeburn.” Her voice didn’t sound like her own. Too deep, for one thing, and very steady, considering the circumstances. “You can’t be.”

  His lips, the narrow, chiseled lips over which she had once loved to linger, moved in slow, precise enunciation. “I assure you, I am.”

  “How? But…how?” A shudder rattled her.

  His eyes narrowed. “Come to the fire.”

  She didn’t wait to be told twice. Her instinct might be to flee, but her good sense told her he had set this trap with care and guile, and he would relish the chance to do whatever a man did to his runaway wife. So she would not incite him.

  Besides, she was cold.

  But her defensive instinct could not be denied. She couldn’t persuade herself to take her gaze off of him for even so long as it took her to walk to the fire. So she sidled toward the cluster of chairs and tables around the hearth, watching him endlessly.

  The years had wrought changes. So many changes.

  When Hannah had first come to live under his roof in Liverpool, her mother had gone to work as his housekeeper, and she had been a skinny, wide-eyed twelve-year-old. Yet even then she had been fascinated by his face: the bold, French cheekbones, the strong jaw, the plain, short nose and the large ears. His skin had been brown, but his eyes were a beautiful gold-speckled green that bespoke some Scottish ancestry. His lashes were long and black and silky. His hair was fine and black and shiny. And he had been so tall: To the youthful Hannah, he had been the essential mix of Viking and Celt and salt-of-the-earth English. His genteel family had lived in the Northlands for two thousand years. They had adapted and adopted every new wave of migration while retaining their own Celtic roots, and Dougald liked to boast he was related to every family north of London.

  Now time and experience had refined his features, giving them a bleakness that matched the bare, grim rock of the castle he called his own. His skin seemed stretched thinly across his bones, his gaze chill with intent, and his hair…dear God, a streak of white iced each temple.

  The past nine years had not been kind to…whatever title he called himself.

  Yet beneath her fright and dismay, treacherous desire rose in her.

  Did he want her still? Would he want her tonight?

  And would she fight, or would she want him in return?

  She tripped on the fringe of the carpet, and that brought her back to the here and now, to the reality of the predicament in which she found herself and to the relentless observation of…her husband. She wasn’t really close enough for the fire to do her any good, but the scent of the burning wood filled her lungs with the promise of warmth. If she remained where she stood, she could keep an armchair between them. A feeble defense, but at least a defense. Clutching the upholstery in her trembling fingers, she asked, “Tell me. How can it be that you are the earl of Raeburn?”

  “I was fifth in line for the title. Somehow, the others died, and here I am.”

  He had always smiled before. He’d always had charm and confidence. The confidence was still there, but the charm and smiles had disappeared as if they’d never been. She should know him, but seeing him was like facing a stranger…a stranger who held rights over her. A stranger who had watched her grow up and who knew her only too well.

  But she wasn’t an overly polite, tentative eighteen-year-old anymore, either. She held advantages of experience and composure he could scarcely guess at. Schooling her expression and her tone to match the one she used to interview prospective governesses, she said, “You were a cotton merchant.”

  “I still am.”

  “You invested in railways.”

  “A risk which paid off royally.”

  “You weren’t in line for any title.”

  “Obviously I was.” He gestured around him. “I’m also the fourth in line for a barony.” He shrugged, his broad shoulders moving up and down in a gesture of disdain. “Yet I can’t imagine anything more pathetic than a man who gets his self-respect by boasting of a distant, noble connection.”

  She could. During the time she’d run the Distinguished Academy of Governesses, she’d met plenty of men who thought an obscure connection to William the Conqueror made them respectable enough to do whatever they wanted with her girls—or with her. She had always disabused them—vain, selfish gentlemen that they were. Too bad this lord was forged from a different metal. A little vanity and selfishness made a man easier to handle.

  “You’re late,” Dougald repeated his earlier complaint. “I expected you over an hour ago. And don’t tell me the train was not on schedule. It always runs on schedule.”

  “Your man failed to meet me promptly.” She shivered again, chilled by a sense of lingering cold and the frost emanating from Dougald.

  “My man?”

  “Alfred.”

  “Alfred met you?” His voice didn’t rise, but his tone didn’t bode well. “In his cart?”

  She remembered only too well his temper, so she carefully explained, “Mrs. Trenchard said there was a misunderstanding.”

  “Yes, I would say there was.” Ruddy color lit his cheeks.

  For a moment Hannah thought he looked much as the young Dougald had before he flew into a rage, and she took comfort in sighting the man she had known so well.

  Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t know.

  Then he
took a moderating breath. “My fault. I’ve been here only a year, and Mrs. Trenchard doesn’t yet know which of my comments she should disregard.”

  The man she had married seldom acknowledged fault. Now he accepted blame, yet the housekeeper feared him so much she’d abused a fellow employee. “What did you say to her…about me?” Hannah asked.

  “The truth.”

  Uncomfortable, to know yourself discussed before your arrival. “Did you tell her I was your wife?”

  “Haven’t you heard? My wife is dead, murdered at my own hands.” He held them up, fingers shaped as if they cupped her neck. “I wouldn’t deprive the people hereabouts of the pleasure they gain in repeating the tale.”

  Gruesome, to hear her own death discussed in such an inimical tone. “Why…how did such a story start?”

  Unmoving, he ignored her question while measuring her with his gaze. “Sit down.”

  “Dougald, how could you have let such horrible gossip spread?” she insisted.

  “Take off your hat. Remove your gloves and your wrap. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. You’ll be here for a long, long time.”

  Straightening her shoulders, lifting her chin, she said with chilly, preemptory precision, “I don’t intend to stay.”

  His jaw hardened and he pressed his lips together. Abruptly, he strode across the room, taking huge steps, right toward her. Chills chased up her spine, but she held her ground. He halted in front of the chair, blocking out the fire’s light. “You keep this chair between us like a shield that will protect you.”

  His large hand reached out to her. She watched it and schooled herself not to flinch as he touched her. Touched her for the first time in so many years.

  He cupped her jaw, his blunt fingertips brushing her ear, his palm lifting her chin. He wasn’t rough. He touched her as if she were still the tall, impressible girl he had married, and that one, meager contact brought her a pleasure as sharp as pain.