A Scandalous Situation. Patricia Rowell Frances

wet wraps with him. His lordship opened the door to a comfortable room off the entryway. Books lined the walls, and more books and scrolls lay in piles and in crates. Some of them displayed covers of soft leather with exotic art, but a few had no covers at all.

      “Forgive my disorder. I am in the process of integrating my own collection with my father’s library.” He set a chair near the fireplace and ushered her to it.

      “I have found many interesting volumes in the East, some of them very old. I have been studying the various languages in order to read the texts.” He pulled up a chair for himself and sat, extending capable-looking hands to the fire.

      Iantha clasped her own hands together in her lap and cleared her throat. “Lord Duncan, I feel I should say… Please forgive me if I have seemed ungrateful for your help. I found the situation very…very disturbing.”

      His lordship raised one eyebrow. “Apparently.”

      “I am appreciative. Truly I am.” She looked into his face—which displayed a hint of a wry smile and a twinkle in his coffee-brown eyes. A very good-natured response, indeed, to what she’d put him through. “What I would have done had you not arrived when you did, I don’t know. I had not realized that there was so much snow in the fells—and certainly not that another storm was brewing.”

      He nodded. “A deceptively mild day. I succumbed to the temptation to get outside myself. Very unusual to have so much snow this early in the year.”

      Iantha mustered a smile. “And I am very sorry to impose on you.”

      “Not a bit in the world, Miss Kethley. My only concern is for your comfort. This is a very awkward situation for you. I regret that I do not even have a housekeeper, let alone a maid, to assist you at present. I returned somewhat earlier than my agent expected, and he has not yet assembled a permanent staff. Fortunately, he had already ordered a thorough cleaning, so at least you will not be choked with dust, and there is food aplenty stored in the cellars.” He turned as the door opened. “Yes, Burnside?”

      “I thought the lady might be the better for a cup of tea.” Burnside edged through the door and awkwardly set a large tray with teapot and cups on a table.

      “Very well thought of. Thank you.” Lord Duncan swiveled to face his henchman, grinning. “And what is offered for dinner? I’m expecting at least three courses.”

      Burnside winked at a very startled Iantha. “Me lord is only funning. He knows that from me he gets plain fare—good hearty north country cooking with a few Indian tricks added in.” He bowed to his employer, heading to the door. “The fire is made upstairs, me lord, and hot water on the hob when Miss Kethley is ready.”

      “Thank you. We will wait a bit until the room warms.” Burnside departed and his lordship turned back to Iantha. “Burnside’s cooking is plain, as he said, but quite good. At least you won’t starve.” His lordship eyed the tea tray askance. “Would you do me the favor of pouring, Miss Kethley? I’d very likely make a mull of it.”

      What a strange establishment! Feeling a bit bewildered, Iantha picked up the pot. “I’d be happy to. Milk?”

      “No, thank you.”

      She passed him the cup and poured one for herself. As they were treating the situation as a social occasion, and conversation was the inevitable accompaniment to tea, Iantha made a strong effort to marshal her thoughts. “How long did you live in India, my lord?”

      “Thirteen years.”

      “With the East India Company?”

      “No, I went as a private merchant. The Armstrong fortunes had fallen on hard times, and my father felt even going into trade justified by the circumstances.”

      “I see.” Iantha pondered this information as she sipped the warming tea. An unusual step for a nobleman, but better, no doubt, than genteel poverty. “Did you not care for it there?”

      “Oh, aye. It suited me very well. So much to see, to hear, to smell and touch.” He smiled at her over his cup, eyes crinkling at the corners. He really had a very engaging smile. “The Orient is a veritable feast for the senses. New foods, new textures, bright colors. More new experiences every day than the English mind can conceive.”

      “But you came home.”

      He stared into the fire for a heartbeat before looking at her. “One always wants to come home.”

      Finding nothing to add to that, Iantha sipped in silence. Lord Duncan drew a deep breath. “There were other reasons, also.” He paused, then went on, leaving Iantha with the impression that he had left something unsaid. “For one, profit has become too dependent on the opium trade with China. The East India Company holds the monopoly on cultivation only in Bengal, but I could not stomach selling it in any event. If you could but see the poor devils… Er, excuse my language, but enslavement to opium is indeed a damnable condition.” He set down his cup and stood. “But I can bore on forever about India. Have you finished your tea? I’ll escort you upstairs.”

      Iantha followed his example, and after only a second’s hesitation, took the arm he offered, walking as far from his side as the arrangement allowed. His other hand closed over the sleeve of her dress. “I fear your gown is still wet. You will need a change of clothes.”

      Iantha glanced down at the muddied hem of her white wool dress. “That would be a great relief, but I don’t see how it can be accomplished.”

      “I believe there are some clothes in the bedchamber we are preparing for you, but they belonged to my grandmother.” He looked down at her and grinned as they made their way up two broad flights of stairs. “She was quite the fashionable lady in her day, but alas, that time is a long way in the past. She was also very thrifty—kept everything. You should find something clean and dry, but you will hardly be a model of mode.”

      For the first time since the heap of snow had inundated her vehicle, Iantha chuckled, but then the full realization of her situation dawned. At all appearances she would be here for an extended stay.

      Great God in heaven! How would she survive it? How could she tolerate a whole household of men—strangers—for so much time?

      Control. She must rely on her control, her intellect.

       Chapter Two

       A fter a prolonged struggle with the buttons up the back of her bodice, Iantha finally slipped out of the soiled dress with a sigh. Gratefully dipping a cloth into the warm water, she smoothed it over her arms, face and neck, relaxing the tense muscles. What a comfort to her chilled skin and somewhat battered body! A full, hot bath would have been heaven, but she could hardly request one under the circumstances. Lord Duncan had been more than courteous, and she did not want to create a problem for his small staff.

      Or find herself completely naked in a house full of men. The bedchamber to which his lordship had conducted her, decorated in feminine pastels and smelling of old wood, had but two doors, both provided with working keys. After a quick peek into the adjoining sitting room, Iantha firmly locked both, imposing strict control on her uneasiness.

      Her petticoats had fared no better than her gown, and she let them fall to the floor with it. Her tightly fitted boots presented more of a problem, but after a brief tussle, she got them and her stockings off. Never again would she take the services of a maid for granted. In fact, she would make it a point to give Molly a nice gift when she got home.

      If she ever got home. The briefest glance at the window revealed nothing but blinding snow and the wind crying at the casement. They were extremely fortunate to have made the shelter of the stable when they had.

      Calming her panic with a deep breath, Iantha opened the wardrobe and concentrated on its contents. It did, indeed, contain a welter of silks and satins. She pulled out a gown of pale blue brocade with falls of white lace and spread it out on the bed. Truly lovely. But of a style that required a large hoop. That wouldn’t do. She would never be able to get into it by herself, let alone manage hoops.