Page 89 of Gentleman Jim

As a boy, he’d never been admitted to the house through the front doors. He’d been obliged to use the side entrance by the kitchens. Maggie may have relented on this point, but the rest of the household had not. Nicholas Seaton was never permitted to forget his place. He’d belonged below stairs, with the servants.

“You belong with me,” Maggie had said.

The memory of her words—of her kisses—heartened him as he applied the brass knocker to the door.

“A pleasing prospect,” Allendale remarked, glancing about the grounds. “Surprising.”

St. Clare’s mouth curved. “You expected a tumbledown country pig farm?”

Before Allendale could reply, the door was opened by a footman in dark green livery. He was a young man, and one who St. Clare didn’t recognize.

“Viscount St. Clare and the Earl of Allendale to see Miss Honeywell,” St. Clare said. “We’re expected.”

The footman looked at each of them, glanced past them to the earl’s stately carriage, with its crest emblazoned on the door, and then—with a deferential bow—bid them enter. After taking their hats and gloves, he ushered them up the stairs and into the drawing room.

Maggie stood from the sofa as they entered. She was wearing a simple muslin dress with a ribbon sash at her waist. Her hair was caught up in a high knot, a few strands left to curl about her face. She looked extraordinarily young and extraordinarily beautiful.

St. Clare’s heart thudded hard. He felt the same warm, vaguely breathless feeling he did whenever he looked at her. As if his surroundings had narrowed to a point, his entire world reduced to a single person. To her.

He endeavored not to show it and flattered himself that he succeeded. It was bad enough to be accused of behaving like a lad with his first woman. He wouldn’t allow himself to act the part.

“Miss Honeywell,” he said, bowing. He swiftly dispensed with the introductions.

Not that either of them appeared to be listening.

His grandfather approached Maggie without preamble, responding to her neat curtsy with a stiff inclination of his head. “Miss Honeywell, at long last. I understand you’ve thoroughly ensnared my grandson.”

“No more than he’s ensnared me, my lord,” Maggie replied without missing a beat. She gestured for them to sit down.

Allendale sank into a chair, his attention fixed on Maggie as she resumed her seat on the silk-cushioned sofa.

“Lord St. Clare tells me that you’ve taken rooms at the Hart and Hound,” she said. “I trust you’re comfortable there?”

“Comfortable enough,” Allendale said. “Where’s that supposed nephew of mine and his mother? They’re staying here, aren’t they? Presuming on some threadbare acquaintance?”

“Indeed. My neighbor, Mr. Burton-Smythe, invited them down for the shooting. They’re out at present, visiting his father, Sir Roderick, at Letchford Hall.”

St. Clare wandered to the fireplace. His gaze drifted around the drawing room. It was a large space, richly carpeted, with silk-papered walls covered in oil paintings of horses and hounds, and furnished with elegantly upholstered sofas, settees, and chairs. Everything was just as he remembered.

But something seemed off.

It was the light. There wasn’t quite enough of it. The heavy plum-colored damask curtains were closed against the midday sun, leaving the room dim and cool.

He looked at Maggie, frowning.

“Burton-Smythe is your guardian?” Allendale asked her.

“Something like that.” She flashed a glance at St. Clare. “Will you not sit down, my lord?”

He walked to one of the rosewood chairs and took a seat.

When contemplating his visit to Beasley Park, he hadn’t considered how strange it would be. How unsettling the intersection of his past and his present. More than that, he hadn’t taken into account how Maggie might feel about his return. She wanted him, he had no doubt. Accepted him exactly as he was. And yet…

And yet the drawing room was as dark as it could possibly be in the middle of a blazing summer afternoon.

Was she so worried about what Fred might do if he recognized who St. Clare really was? If he saw him in the unflinching light of day?

The thought irritated St. Clare to an extraordinary degree.