Page 15 of The Lost Letter: A Victorian Romance

Milsom shrugged. “Might be that Miss Stafford and her ladyship haven’t rode out yet. I expect you could still join them if—”

“Damn your impertinence,” Sebastian growled. “It’s bad enough I must hear this sort of thing from my sister. I’ll not countenance it from you.”

“As you say, my lord. But seeing as how you’re the Earl of Radcliffe now—”

“Milsom—”

“And you’ll be needing a countess.” Milsom coughed discreetly. “And an heir.”

Sebastian raked a hand through his hair. “A countess and an heir,” he muttered. “Hell and damnation.”

He strode out of his bedchamber and through the doors that led to his private sitting room. It was a thoroughly masculine space, with an enormous desk of polished mahogany, a stuffed sofa and chairs, and dark, heavy wood tables adorned with glass oil lamps, inlaid boxes, and a smattering of Far Eastern objet d’art that had been collected by his father many years before.

It was where he did most of his reading and his writing now. It was also where Milsom brought his meals. He rarely saw the rest of the staff at Pershing and, except for the occasional foray into the library or the even rarer twilight gallop over the grounds, he did not often stray from his apartments. It was isolating, yes, but far from uncomfortable. Especially when compared with the accommodations he had endured in India.

But then, the Earl of Radcliffe’s apartments were large and luxurious by any measure. Along with the rest of the family quarters, they occupied a great portion of the west wing and connected, via adjoining dressing rooms, to the equally impressive apartments of the Countess of Radcliffe—apartments that had stood vacant since the death of his mother two decades before.

Apartments that, if he married, would house his own countess.

He cursed Milsom for bringing up such a thing. Not that the thought had been far from his mind since Miss Stafford’s arrival.

That first year after returning to India, he had lived on dreams of her. Dreams of holding her. Kissing her. Marrying her. Those dreams had suffered a particularly painful death, but now… to think that Sylvia Stafford was once again within his reach.

He had the wealth and the title now. And he could have her, too, if he wanted her. Perhaps not in the way he had once imagined. Not as his beloved, nor even as his friend. But what difference did sentiment make? If he wed her, she would do her duty by him and consider it a small price to pay for the privilege of having been made the Countess of Radcliffe.

The thought gave Sebastian little comfort.

Restless and irritable, he prowled the length of the room, only to stop, quite abruptly, at one of the velvet-draped windows that faced the park. Tension coiled in his stomach. Everything within him warned that he must stay on his guard. That he mustn’t give in to curiosity. Or to longing.

Naturally, such sensible internal advice had no effect at all.

Leaning his shoulder against the window frame, he folded his arms across his chest and stared, broodingly, out across the grounds toward the imposing stone outbuildings that made up the Pershing Hall stables.

There was no sign of Miss Stafford and his sister, but unless he was very much mistaken in her character, Julia would make a point of guiding her guest down the one riding path of which the bank of windows in the Earl of Radcliffe’s apartments had an unobstructed view.

He was not mistaken.

Only a short time later, he caught his first glimpse of two horses weaving along the narrow bridle path in the distance. The riders were too far away to make out just yet, but he recognized his sister’s dappled gray mare, and the gleaming, dark copper coat of Ares, the bay gelding that he had recommended for Miss Stafford.

He waited impatiently for the two women to come into view. It did not take long. There was a cluster of trees which briefly blocked the path, a glare from the sun which temporarily obstructed his vision. And then, suddenly, there they were.

There she was.

He exhaled slowly.

She was perched atop Ares’ back, wearing a dark blue riding costume that appeared to be molded to her every curve. Her cheeks were flushed from exercise, her expression oddly grave under the brim of a dashing little hat. Ares danced sideways on the path, seeming to take exception to the wind as it rustled the branches in an overhanging tree, but Miss Stafford handled him expertly. She had an impeccable seat. And, even from a distance, he could appreciate how soft her gloved hands were on the reins.

She had always been an excellent horsewoman. He had observed as much in London on the few occasions he had managed to “accidentally” cross her path when she was out for her morning ride in Hyde Park. She had ridden a bay gelding then, too. Sebastian remembered how, in the bright sunlight, the highlights in her hair had gleamed to match its coat.

He shifted where he stood, settling his shoulder more firmly against the window frame as he watched Miss Stafford urge Ares forward to ride abreast with the dappled mare. She said something to Julia—he wished he knew what it was—and then she leaned forward in her saddle and stroked Ares gently on the neck.

God, but the sight of her made him ache. As much now as it had three years ago. A painful, physical ache that he could feel in every corner of his being.

It made him uneasy, too. Even more so than it had done when she first arrived. He could not think why. Unless it had something to do with the way she was dressed. The fashionable, blue habit she had on was startlingly different from the drab, shapeless gown she had worn yesterday.

And he was startled.

She no longer looked like a governess, he realized. She looked instead very much as she had once looked in London.