Page 10 of The Matrimonial Advertisement

Mr. Thornhill had described it in one of his letters as being a Gothic nightmare of a house and he hadn’t exaggerated. It had been built on the remains of a twelfth century monastery, some of which was still standing. There was a tower and a stone stable block which, despite their age, seemed to have needed only minor repairs. The rest of the structure, with its steeply pitched roof and high, pointed arches, appeared to be of a much later date. Helena saw evidence of recent construction, as well as piles of new stone and tools at the ready. She wondered how much of the Abbey’s restoration Mr. Thornhill had undertaken himself.

“Have you been here before, Bess?” she asked.

Bess’s eyes were very wide. “Oh no, miss,” she said in an awed whisper. “No one comes up here.”

Before Helena could question Bess further, Mr. Thornhill opened the carriage door. The roar of the sea fairly vibrated in the air around him, and she could hear the mournful cry of seagulls circling above. She lifted her heavy skirts in one hand as he assisted her down the carriage steps. The wind was so strong it nearly swept her off of her feet.

He tightened his grip on her hand to steady her. “Careful.”

“Thank you.” She stepped to the ground. “I’m all right now.”

He nodded and turned to help Bess down.

Helena didn’t know many gentlemen who would have troubled themselves with assisting a servant. That Mr. Thornhill did so now struck her as being further evidence of his exemplary character. Mr. Finchley had said he was a good man—a kind man. And, despite Mr. Thornhill’s gruff exterior, she was beginning to believe it.

She moved back from the carriage, looking all around her. The wind whipped at her bonnet and the skirts of her gown. The cold air stung her face. She was a trifle breathless. Even more so when she felt a large, powerful hand rest briefly on the small of her back. She looked up with a start into Justin Thornhill’s smoke-gray eyes.

“You were swaying like a reed in a storm,” he said.

“Was I?”

“Take care the wind doesn’t carry you away over the cliff.”

An icy shiver of fear raced down her spine. The prospect of flinging herself from the cliffs had been at the back of her mind since she boarded the train in London. She didn’t know if she would ever have been brave enough—or foolish enough—to do something so rash, but the thought of it had given her comfort in her darkest moments. Now, so close to the jagged cliffs and the raging sea beneath, she couldn’t help feeling sick at what she had contemplated.

“Here,” Mr. Thornhill said. “Take my arm. I’ll not let you fall.”

She did as he bade her and, along with Mr. Boothroyd and Bess, they made their way toward the house. As they approached, the front door opened and two enormous black mongrels charged out. The figure of a large man emerged in the arched doorway behind them. He called out, but his words were lost in the wind.

To Helena’s horror, the dogs headed straight for them, barking as they ran. They were as large as mastiffs. The kind of dogs that, between them, could easily tear a person to ribbons.

“Down,” Mr. Thornhill said sharply as one leapt toward her.

Helena pressed her face instinctively into his arm.

“Are you afraid of dogs?” he asked.

Her heart pounded in her throat. Afraid? She was terrified beyond belief. She nevertheless forced herself to turn her head from Mr. Thornhill’s sleeve and face the two giant beasts. “I don’t know. Should I be?”

“Not of these. Here.” He took her gloved hand very gently in his and extended it toward the first dog. The great beast padded forward and tentatively sniffed her fingers. “His name is Paul.”

“Paul?” she echoed, still clinging to Mr. Thornhill’s arm. “And that one?”

The other dog stood at a distance, watching the two of them. He was growling.

“That’s Jonesy,” Mr. Thornhill said. “You can make his acquaintance later.”

Helena cast a wary glance at the unwelcoming hound as Mr. Thornhill led her up the steps and into the house.

The man who’d let the dogs loose stood in the flagstone entryway, twisting his cap in his hands. He was a strapping fellow of indeterminate years with close-cropped blond hair and a slightly vacant expression in his pale eyes.

“Neville,” Mr. Thornhill said. “This is Miss Reynolds. She and her maid will be staying for tea.”

Neville bobbed his head at her. “Ma’am.”

She inclined her head in return. “I’m pleased to meet you, Neville.”

His face reddened. He gave another stilted bow and then, with a wary glance at Mr. Boothroyd, disappeared back into the house without a word. The two dogs loped after him.