The Importance of Being Wicked (Millworth Manor) (33 page)

Lucy was not merely a sensible choice but the right choice. She would indeed make a perfect countess, consummate hostess and model wife. To be by his side for the rest of his days. Every day, every night. Until the moment he breathed his last. His stomach twisted. He ignored it. After all, what man didn’t experience a twinge of anxiety at the thought of his impending nuptials? This was nothing more than that.

Odd that his father had never asked about love. But then it was no doubt apparent this was not a love match although Win did like Lucy a great deal. He fully expected the affection they now shared would grow with the years. After all, hadn’t he witnessed the very same thing among many of his friends who had married for convenience or duty? As most men of his acquaintance had done. A love match was to be desired, of course, but certainly wasn’t necessary.

No, his father hadn’t mentioned love. But then again, neither had he.

“There it is.” Win slipped off his horse and gazed with pride and a certain amount of affection at the small, open-sided structure that seemed at once out of place and yet entirely natural. He turned to Lucy to help her dismount. In her green riding habit, that precisely matched the color of her eyes, with a hat sporting two long feathers nestled in her blond hair she was indeed the perfect picture of a future countess: elegant, fashionable and eminently proper. “What do you think?”

“That depends I suppose,” Lucy said cautiously. “What exactly is it?”

He laughed. “A replica of a temple, I believe, or someone’s idea of a temple more likely, but it’s always been referred to as a folly. It scarcely matters what we call it, I suppose.” The building was little more than six stone columns on a slightly elevated six-sided platform, supporting a domed roof. Stone benches curved between two pairs of columns. “In truth it’s a testament to love.”

“It doesn’t look like a testament to love,” she said under her breath. “It looks like it might well collapse at any minute.”

“Admittedly, it is in some disrepair.” He studied the structure with a critical eye. The folly sat in a clearing some distance away from the manicured grounds and gardens of Fairborough Park in a small copse of trees and sadly overgrown brush. As such, it escaped notice unless one was deliberately seeking it, probably the very reason why it had been built in this relatively isolated spot. But in spite of its need for cleaning and assorted repairs, it retained a quiet sort of dignity. He’d loved it since the first time he’d stumbled upon it as a boy. It had struck him then as a place of magic where very nearly anything could happen. And indeed it had.

Lucy tilted her head and studied the small building. “It’s leaning, isn’t it?”

“No.” Win scoffed, although it did seem a bit off-kilter. “It’s simply that the ground here is somewhat uneven. I shall make a note to have it inspected.”

She glanced around and wrinkled her nose. “The grounds need maintenance as well. It’s quite overgrown here. You should add that to your list.”

He chuckled. “I don’t really have a list.”

“You should, you know. Lest you forget.”

“Perhaps.” He moved closer to the folly, Lucy trailed behind him.

“Winfield.” Speculation sounded in her voice. “I daresay those stones, marble aren’t they?”

“I believe so.”

“They could be put to a more practical use elsewhere on the estate. Why don’t you simply have this torn down? It’s so far from the house, it’s really of no use to anyone.”

“Oh, we couldn’t possibly do that,” he said absently. The structure didn’t really look all that bad, although, admittedly, his perception might be colored by affection. “It’s had repairs through the years, but it’s holding up exceptionally well, given its age.”

“How old is it?” she asked, slapping away a fly.

“Oh, some two hundred years, I think. There’s one exactly like it on the grounds at Millworth Manor.”

Her brows drew together. “Why?”

“Fairborough Hall and Millworth Manor were originally built by members of the same family nearly three centuries ago.” He circled the structure, making notes to himself about a crack here, a shifted stone there. “Fairborough, as you may have noticed, has remained virtually unchanged, although Millworth has seen any number of structural changes, additions added at the discretion and needs, some might say whims, of the owners.” He shrugged. “Perhaps because Fairborough has been in my family since it was first built, whereas Millworth has changed hands any number of times throughout its history.”

“And the follies?” A touch of impatience edged her voice.

“I was coming to that, but it all ties together, you see.” No, with proper care the building could last forever. As it was intended to. “The folly at Millworth is older than this one and was built by a lord, whose name escapes me now, for his wife. His son, I believe his name was Thomas, fell in love with a Fairborough daughter, Anne. According to the story, legend now really, she loved the folly at Millworth. They would often slip away and meet there. Thomas had this one built in the dead of night for her as a betrothal present, to remind her of him when they were apart. Which is why it is so far from the house. He intended it to be a surprise.”

“How charming. If that’s it then . . .” She turned back toward the horses.

He laughed. “Not quite. There’s more.”

“Of course there is.” She sighed and brushed away another insect. “Do go on.”

“Before they could wed, the young Lord Thomas was forced to leave England on some sort of urgent business for the Crown, the details of which have always been vague. It all happened some two hundred years or so ago. He promised to return no later than a year and meet her here on this very spot. He vowed that nothing would keep him from her as she was the true love of his life.”

“And of course he returned and they had a dozen children and lived quite happily for the rest of their days.” She cast him a pleasant smile. “Now may we leave?”

“I’m afraid that’s not how the story ends.” He shook his head in a mournful manner. “The year was nearly up when Thomas’s ship was lost at sea. Anne didn’t believe it, fate wouldn’t be that cruel. So she waited for him here, every day through all sorts of weather. Another year went by, and another. . . .”

“Rather silly of her really, to wait for a man who was surely dead. She should have gone on with her life.”

“How could she? He was her life.” Win heaved an overly dramatic sigh. “For more than two years she waited until she fell dreadfully ill—”

“No doubt from being out here in all sorts of weather.” Lucy shook her head. “Foolish girl.”

“And died.”

“How very sad. Shall we go now?” Lucy cast him a hopeful smile.

“That’s not the end.”

“Then do get to it, Winfield, before I am eaten alive.” She huffed.

“As I said, Anne died. Not a fortnight later . . .” He paused for effect. He’d always enjoyed telling this story. “Thomas returned, as she always knew he would. He had been shipwrecked and badly injured. It had taken him all that time to make his way home. When he discovered she had died, he was inconsolable. He came here and begged for her to return to him.” He lowered his voice. “They say he was quite mad with grief.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s not the end though, is it?”

“I’m afraid not.” He shook his head. “His family and hers tried to reason with him. When he refused to leave the folly, they brought him food, which he ignored. A few days after his return, they found him dead. Some say by his own hand.”

“Then he was as foolish as she was,” she snapped.

“But some say it was foul play. That he was killed by a rejected suitor of Anne’s who blamed Thomas for her death.” Win glanced around the clearing. “They’re supposed to be buried near here somewhere, according to the story. I have no idea where. I’ve never seen any evidence of graves. It’s said . . .”

“Oh good, there’s more.” She rolled her gaze toward the heavens. “I was afraid you were finished.”

He ignored the sarcasm in her voice. “It’s said in death Anne and Thomas were finally reunited, here, where they were last so happy.” He glanced from side to side suspiciously. “It’s said as well they have never left.”

“Ghosts, you mean?” She scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It’s not the least bit ridiculous,” he said staunchly. “There have been numerous sightings here of a couple in the clothes of another time who simply vanish after a minute or two. Not only here but at the folly at Millworth as well. As if the lovers can’t decide if they want to be where they were happiest or where their dreams ended. There is quite a bit of documentation to that fact as well.”

“Oh, come now. Ghosts? Really, Winfield.”

“I have seen them myself,” he said without thinking, and at once realized he should have kept that piece of information to himself. “My cousin Gray and I saw them some years ago.”

“I have no doubt you saw something and your imagination simply—”

“We saw Thomas and Anne.” His jaw tightened. “You don’t believe me.”

“Of course I don’t believe you. What utter foolishness.” She turned on her heel and started toward the horses. “There are no such things as ghosts.”

“I know what I saw.” He hurried after her. “It may be unusual, but I don’t think foolish—”

She swiveled back toward him. “What is foolish is this, Winfield—you and me.”

He stared. “What do you mean?”

“I was a fool to think that we suited. It’s obvious now that marriage to you would be an enormous mistake. One I have no intention of making.”

He drew his brows together. “Because I saw a ghost?”

“No, of course not, although I do think your insistence as to what you saw is silly.” She waved off his comment. “But you are not the man I thought you were. May I say you are an entirely different person in London than you are here.”

“I am not!”

“In London you are serious and dignified, concerned with matters of finance and business. You are quite responsible as well. Here you are . . . you are . . .” She struggled to find the word. “Frivolous! That’s what you are. You’re frivolous.” She shook her head. “I am sorry, Winfield, but I cannot marry a frivolous man.”

He ignored the immediate sense of relief that rushed through him. “I’m not at all frivolous. Perhaps I was when I was younger but I’m certainly not frivolous now.”

“People warned me about you, you know. You have a most disreputable reputation.”

“
Had
a most disreputable reputation,” he said firmly. “I have reformed, for the most part. Indeed, I have been entirely too busy acquiring the skills necessary to manage my family’s interests to be disreputable.”

“And now that you have acquired those skills?”

“Now, I am going to be married!”

“Not to me.” She shook her head. “Goodness, Winfield, do you realize there have been times this week when you have appeared improperly attired? Without a coat?”

He gasped in mock horror. “Good God, not that!”

“Blasphemy is not the answer, Winfield. Nor is sarcasm.” She squared her shoulders. “I cannot marry a man who disregards the tenets of proper dress simply because he is in the country.”

“That’s absurd.”

“It’s not the least bit absurd and that’s not all. You are entirely too lax with your servants. Indeed, you treat them to a certain extent as if they are members of your family.”

“As they are.” He drew his brows together. “Many of them have been in our employ for most of my life.”

“Even so, they should be treated as befits their stations.” She raised her chin. “I have certain standards I adhere to, proper rules of behavior, if you will, and I have no intentions of allowing those to fall by the wayside.”

He drew a deep breath. “Lucy, this is—”

“And my name is not Lucy!” She glared. “I have told you that over and over again. I do realize you think it’s a sign of affection to call me by an abbreviated version of my own name but I do not like it. It’s Lucille, not Lucy. Lucy is the name for a scullery maid. Or a spaniel!”

“My apologies,” he said slowly. “I didn’t realize it was that important.”

“Neither did I. In truth, I found it rather sweet the first time you called me Lucy. And perhaps the second. But by the third . . .” She huffed and tucked a strand of hair that had had the temerity to escape, under her hat. “It’s silly perhaps, I do realize that, but honestly, Winfield, it drives me quite mad. And it’s only one of many things I have noticed since our arrival.”

“Do tell, Lucy.” He crossed his arms over his chest and glared. “Where else have I fallen short this week?”

“Well . . .” She stared at him for a long moment, then drew a deep breath. “You’re entirely too witty for me. There, I’ve said it. I know it sounds odd, but it’s true.” She shook her head. “Sometimes you say things that you, and other people, think are most amusing and I just think they’re silly.”

“I gather your late husband was not especially witty.”

“Absolutely not. Charles was never amusing.” Indignation sounded in her voice. “Charles was serious and somber, steadfast and stalwart. He was concise and intelligent. He was eminently proper and had never been touched by so much as a breath of scandal—”

“He sounds fascinating,” Win said under his breath.

She ignored him. “Charles had no need for reformation as he did not have a past to live down.”

“And I do.”

“You say you have reformed and I have no reason to believe otherwise, although . . .”

He raised a brow. “Go on?”

“Well, one does have to wonder, given all the other flaws in your character, if your reformation is truly permanent.”

“Good Lord, Lucy—Lucille!” He stared. “Just because a man doesn’t always wear a coat in the privacy of his own home or is more witty than you think proper doesn’t mean he will take up with every tart that passes by.”

“No, I suppose not,” she said without so much as an iota of conviction. Her firm gaze met his. “I did think you and I were perfectly suited, but it is now obvious to me that I was mistaken.”

As much as he did so hate to lose another fiancée, she was right. All things considered, it was for the best that she had reached this conclusion, even if he had begun to realize much the same thing himself.

“Very well then.” He studied her for a moment. “I am curious though, given that I have these numerous flaws that have driven you mad, what was the final straw?”

“You mean aside from dragging me out to the middle of an insect-infested nowhere to see a crumbling ruin?”

“It’s scarcely crumbling, but yes.”

“It was the story, I suppose.” She heaved a long-suffering sigh. “That endless story. You fancy yourself a fine storyteller, indeed you have a great deal of dramatic enthusiasm, but I find your stories only passably interesting.”