The Heiress of Winterwood (15 page)

Weary from days of travel and lost in the unfamiliar streets of Sheffield, Graham almost passed Henry Carrington’s door completely. He backtracked and rapped on the door. Within seconds an elderly man appeared.

“Captain Graham Sterling to see Mr. Carrington.”

The butler ushered Graham through a narrow hallway to a small office. Graham ducked to miss the library’s low threshold and sidestepped to miss a haphazard pile of empty crates. Burgundy paper covered the walls, and thick brocade drapes blocked out the day’s light. Only a single sliver of light pressed through the curtains, illuminating tiny specks of dust hovering in the air.

At the butler’s announcement, Mr. Carrington looked up from behind an untidy stack of papers and fixed startling blue eyes on Graham. The old man’s gaze traveled from the top of Graham’s head to the brass buttons on his tailcoat to his gray pantaloons and Hessian boots. He pushed his spectacles down on his nose
and squinted, making no attempt to hide his assessment. His gruff voice cracked the silence. “Captain Sterling. Come in.”

Graham stepped over a sleeping bloodhound and moved to the desk. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

Carrington nodded toward a carved chair. “Pay no heed to the crates. Moving from one town to another is maddening business. Sit down there.”

Graham followed the man’s instruction, removing a dust cloth from the back of the chair before sitting.

Carrington leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m here to discuss Winterwood Manor.”

Carrington waved a dismissive hand and dropped his spectacles to his desk. “Any discussions related to Winterwood Manor will need to be addressed to George Barrett or Edward Littleton. I no longer manage its affairs.”

“Actually, Littleton is one of the reasons I am here.” Graham waited for the man to look back up from his papers before proceeding. “There’s been a change of plans regarding the future of the estate.”

The man’s unkempt eyebrows lifted. “You have my attention, Captain Sterling.”

Graham slid the letter confirming his license application from his leather satchel and held it in the air. “I’ve just applied for a marriage license.”

Carrington chuckled. “Getting married, are you?”

“Yes. To Miss Amelia Barrett.”

The old man jerked. His smirk dissolved. He pushed himself back in his chair, and a very different sort of smile crossed his round face. “Well, this is interesting. Interesting indeed. What happened to Littleton?”

Graham opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it shut. The less said, the better. “Let us say that circumstances intervened.”

Carrington slapped his hand on the desk. “I’m glad to hear it. Littleton’s a rogue.” His proclamation echoed off the plaster ceiling and caused the bloodhound to lift his head. “A blackguard, he is, not fit to muck Winterwood’s stables, let alone be its master.”

Graham would have enjoyed nothing more than a thorough discussion of Littleton’s shortcomings, but he held his tongue and returned the letter to the satchel. “Miss Barrett and I will wed as soon as possible, and I will return to my duties shortly thereafter. We will need someone to manage Winterwood’s affairs, and Miss Barrett trusts you. I’d like to reinstate you as steward. You will, of course, be able to take up residence again at the estate cottage whenever you are in Darbury. Is that satisfactory?”

“It is, sir. I must say I am gratified to hear of these developments. You will of course let me know if there is anything I can help you with in the meantime.”

Graham stood and held out his hand. “I’ll not keep you any longer. I’ll be in touch in the next few days with further instructions.”

Carrington stood, stepped over the sleeping dog, and completed the handshake. “Of course.”

“Good.” Graham turned to leave, then turned back. “This is not public information yet. It’s crucial you keep this news to yourself for a few days.”

“Will do, Captain. I am at your service.”

G
raham quickened his pace as he rounded the corner to Winterwood’s east lawn. Skeletons of rosebushes lined the walk, and his tailcoat caught on the bare, spindly branches. Shells of leaves crunched beneath each footfall as he approached the massive house. He allowed his mind to settle on a thought he had not yet dared to entertain: within the next couple of weeks, he would become master of Winterwood Manor.

The magnitude of such a role had yet to sink in. Ever since he left Eastmore Hall as a lad to make his way in the world, he had accepted that his profession would center around life at sea. He excelled at it and, yes, he enjoyed it. His plan had been to earn enough so that he and Katherine could live out their years comfortably. He had done well enough for himself, but the fortune connected with the Winterwood estate made his wages and prize money pale in comparison.

For the time being, honor and experience bound him to his ship. But should he survive the war, would he continue in his
profession or return here—to Lucy, to Amelia Barrett, and to this magnificent house?

A quick glance up at the rolling sky and a threatening clap of thunder made him regret his decision to leave his oilcloth coat at Eastmore Hall. With his still-nameless horse in the care of a groomsman, Graham was eager to get inside. At the main entrance, the butler took his hat and gloves and showed him to the library. No fire blazed in the black marble fireplace—odd for this time of year.

Miss Barrett’s smile, however, more than made up for the lack of warmth afforded by a fire. “Captain Sterling!”

Graham bowed toward Miss Barrett before turning his attention to Lucy, who perched on her nurse’s hip. He smiled at Lucy, who regarded him with indifference. He straightened. At least she did not cry. Then she grinned and waved a paintbrush in the air.

He laughed. “Been painting, have you, Lucy?”

She waved it again and held it out to him. He went to take it from her, and she snatched it back, giggling and looking proudly at Miss Barrett.

“You tricked me.” He chuckled. “Will you come to your papa today, or is it still too soon for that?”

He expected the baby to grab on to Mrs. Dunne in protest, but she did not withdraw as he closed the space between them. “Well, this is progress!” He lifted her from her nurse’s arms. “See now, I’m not quite as bad as all that, am I?”

Graham bounced his daughter and kissed her cheek. He looked up, suddenly aware of the two women’s eyes on him. “Miss Barrett, I was hoping to speak with you further about Lucy’s living arrangement.”

“Oh yes, of course. Mrs. Dunne, would you be so kind as to take Lucy to the nursery? I will follow soon.”

Mrs. Dunne dropped a wordless curtsy, her prominent brown eyes assessing him boldly as she took Lucy in her arms.

Once the pair left, Miss Barrett stepped to the door, popped her head out in the hall, and then pushed the door closed before returning. She turned, her face flushed. “We shan’t be disturbed. Uncle George is out, and Helena and Aunt Augusta are calling on the Mills.”

“And Littleton?”

Her lovely smile faded. “He is still in London, or so we presume. We expect his return within the week.”

Her pink gown made her cheeks appear even rosier than normal, but that was not what first drew his attention. A baggy canvas smock protected the front of her dress, stained with paints of every shade. Was his betrothed an artist?

Her easel faced away from him, so he sidestepped her to view her work.

No, definitely not an artist.

He nodded toward her smock. “It appears you managed to get more paint on your smock than on your easel.”

She giggled, an unguarded, happy sound that he had not heard from her until now. His gaze drifted from her golden tresses to her sparkling sky-blue eyes to the curve of her neck. After months at sea with only men for company, one tended to underestimate the effect a beautiful woman could have on a man. The weight of her gaze rendered him a fool and momentarily speechless.

She frowned at the easel. “My painting leaves much to be desired, I fear.”

“Perhaps a little.”

“Captain Sterling!” she exclaimed with mock offense. “How can you tease me so?”

He laughed. It had been so long since a genuine laugh rumbled his chest that he’d forgotten its releasing power. “What is the subject of your painting?”

“You cannot tell?” She pointed out the window. “See that grove of elms and aspens just beyond the box hedge?”

“Oh. I see.” The uneven strokes on the page bore little likeness to the vast landscape framed by the window. “Hm, where’s your brush?”

She blinked at him. “What?”

“Your paintbrush.” His gaze swept across her collection of watercolors and rags. A brush rested on the easel’s edge. He took it in his hand.

“Why, Captain Sterling,” she said. “I didn’t know you were a painter.”

“I’m not.”

She stood very close to him, so close that the sweet scent of lavender danced around him. He adjusted the brush. It seemed too tiny for his thick fingers to maneuver, but he dipped it in green paint and pressed the bristles against the canvas. For a brief moment, Amelia’s gaze fell on the scar on his hand. His jaw relaxed when she looked away again.

He cared little for painting. In fact, he hadn’t stood before an easel since school days. But if pretending to be interested in art kept a genuine smile on Amelia Barrett’s face, he would learn to like it.

A long, curly lock of Amelia’s hair slipped from its comb. She lifted a hand to return it to its place, and as she did her arm brushed his. The realization that he was enjoying his time with her made him almost uncomfortable, as if he were breaking a code of honor.

He was grateful for her abrupt change of topic. “How was London?”

“Productive. I stopped in Sheffield on the way back and spoke with Carrington.”

She looked up. “What had he to say?”

“He has agreed to resume his duties of steward and will change his residence—for the second time in a fortnight—back to his cottage here on the grounds. Good thing. I’d be no help in any matter related to running an estate.”

Amelia untied her smock and hung it on a small peg near the easel, her eyes diverted. “And the special license?”

“I have it in my satchel.”

She bit her lip as if calculating the significance of his statement. “So that means, um, that we can, well—”

“Be wed?” he finished her sentence.

A vibrant, becoming hue colored her cheeks.

“Yes.” He leaned down to the leather satchel at his foot, amused at her sudden display of shyness. After all, had she not been the person to suggest the union in the first place? He pulled out the document and placed it in her ungloved hand. She balanced the weightless vellum on her fingertips and read the words. Her full name, Amelia Jane Barrett, on one line. His full name, Graham Canton Sterling, on another.

“We may be married any day, anytime, by any member of the clergy. And in my opinion, the sooner the better.” Graham adjusted the satchel at his foot and then straightened. “Have you given any thought as to when we will inform Littleton?”

Her head jerked up. “We?” She lowered the license. “No, no. If it is all the same to you, I think I should be the one to tell him. Alone.”

“Nonsense.” He assessed her face, certain she must jest, but the firm set of her jaw told him otherwise. “I’ll not allow you to bear the brunt of such an interaction alone. After all, this is as much my decision as it is yours. He will be angry, to be sure, but he can take the matter up with me, not my betrothed.”

Graham snapped his mouth shut as the last word slid from his lips.
Betrothed.
The word echoed in the paneled room. He cleared his throat before speaking. “We’ll need two witnesses.”

Gone was the unguarded Miss Barrett. She appeared distracted, her eyes not leaving the license. “Witnesses? Yes. Of course. Mrs. Hammond, the vicar’s wife.”

“My brother can be a witness as well.” He stood up. “We’ll need to explain things to the vicar. What’s his name?”

“Thomas Hammond.”

He retrieved the license and slung the satchel over his shoulder. “I think it is best if we talk to your uncle first thing in the morning and let him know of our plans. Then we’ll go explain the situation to the vicar. We’ll deal with Littleton when the time comes.”

Graham’s eyes narrowed on her face. The sudden change in her demeanor concerned him. “Are you having second thoughts?”

“My dear Captain Sterling, I have never been more certain of anything in my life.”