Spring Skies Over Bluebell Castle Page 7

  Arthur clapped his hands together. ‘That’s settled then. I’ll speak to Betsy and track down Mrs W. She’ll pop up and see you shortly, just in case there’s anything you need.’

  Miss Kennington hesitated before nodding. ‘Thank you.’

  With a shrug of one shoulder, Arthur tucked his hands in his pockets and backed up a few steps to watch her follow Maxwell towards the upper floor. ‘It’s no trouble,’ he repeated, wanting to make it clear. ‘This will be your home for the next couple of months, so I want you to be as comfortable as possible.’

  He watched her slender figure trailing up the stairs after the butler, a strange sensation tugging at his chest as though he should be the one going with her. Would she like it here? Would she find her room to her satisfaction? Would she want to stay after she got a chance to look around the castle, or would both the castle and its owner fail to pass muster? As the dogs swarmed around his ankles once more, he found himself willing her to glance back over her shoulder. She reached the top of the staircase, hesitated with her hand on the rail, and yes! The instant their gazes met, Arthur felt something, a little zing like he’d touched a charged particle.

  Suddenly Tristan’s idea to put that advert in the paper was looking to Arthur like a very good one indeed.

  CHAPTER SIX

  From the moment the butler—the butler, for goodness’ sake!—pushed open the heavy oak-panelled door to what he’d referred to as the rose room, the reality of where she was hammered home to Lucie. Opulent velvet drapes hung in thick swathes around an honest-to-goodness four-poster bed so high she thought she might need a ladder to climb onto it. The pale cream wallpaper covered in roses of every shade and hue from palest pink to deep red it was almost black were clearly what had given the room its name. So realistically drawn were they, she might have been tempted to trace a finger over one of the buds had the butler not been standing stiff at attention beside the open door. Not sure what he was expecting, she told him the room was beautiful and he withdrew with a bow, closing the door behind him.

  Alone at last, she took a few moments to explore the rest of the room, from the heavy wardrobe carved in the same dark wood as the bedframe complete with a neat row of padded coat hangers waiting for her clothes—no nasty tangle of wire ones here!—to a matching dresser which held an old fashioned china washbasin and matching ewer. Everything looked authentic and her fingers itched to explore the delicate finials and carving. Even the thick rug covering the cream carpet next to the bed whispered of quality and age. She might still have been evaluating the age and origin of the furniture an hour later had she not poked her head around the door inset in one wall and discovered the delights of the bathroom. After that, her only thought was to strip out of her ruined suit and laddered tights, and to wash the cold from her bones.

  As comfortable as possible… Sir Arthur’s parting words slipped back into Lucie’s mind as she closed her eyes and leaned her head back under the stream of blessedly hot water cascading from the shower head. His voice had rolled through her, rich and velvety like quality dark chocolate, and the glimpses of his body she’d caught through the open front of his shirt! It was simply criminal for any man to be as good-looking as that. Lucie banged her head gently against the tiles behind her. She could not possibly fancy Sir Arthur Ludworth. She. Thump. Could. Thump. Not. Thump. Turning beneath the stream, she tilted her face up into it determined to wash any ridiculous thoughts right out of her head.

  When she’d seen the bathroom with its ancient-looking fixtures and fittings, including a vast roll-top bath offset on a pedestal in one corner, she’d worried there was an equally ancient boiler lurking somewhere in the vast expanse of the castle. To her relief, the water had blasted out of the taps in a reassuring stream when she turned them on and it was only her desire not to keep anyone waiting any longer than necessary that had made her opt for a shower rather than the luxury of a bath. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had one. The bathroom in the flat she shared with her mum held only a poky square shower stall, a sink and the toilet, and there was still barely room to swing a cat. Once she’d found her feet, so to speak, she would make time for herself and the row of luxury bath products she’d spotted sitting beside the tub, the same brand as the gorgeous shampoo that was filling the air with the zingy scents of ginger and lemongrass and putting some energy back into her tired body.

  After using the matching bodywash, Lucie rinsed the bubbles somewhat regretfully from her skin and turned off the water. Wrapping herself in a cloud-soft white bath sheet that covered her from breastbone to ankle, she was just securing a second, smaller towel around her sopping-wet hair when a knock on the bathroom door startled her. An image of Sir Arthur flashing an expanse of muscled bare chest sprang into her mind once more, her good intentions no match for the hints of a six-pack she’d seen. He hadn’t been at all what she’d expected after the research she’d done. Instead of the slightly overweight middle-aged man she’d seen in that Ascot picture, she’d been faced with some Adonis, all high cheekbones, patrician nose and with a smile that could knock a girl into next Tuesday. No, no, no! She could not, would not have a crush on her new boss. It was beyond humiliating.

  The knock came once more. ‘Hello?’ she called out in a tentative voice, hoping like hell his rich drawl wouldn’t be the one she heard back.

  ‘Miss Kennington?’

  A woman, thank God! Lucie tugged open the door and found herself facing an elegant woman somewhere around her mum’s age. With her pale blonde hair swept up into an elegant twist and a blouse and skirt straight out of a Boden catalogue, she looked the epitome of a country lady. Was this the housekeeper Sir Arthur had mentioned? Lucie cringed at the thought of the high-street and value-store brands that made up the majority of the items stuffed in her suitcase.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, I did knock on the main door but then I heard the water running. I’m Mrs Walters—Mrs W to everyone but Maxwell.’ A hint of humour twinkled in her brown eyes, softening her expression into something much warmer and Lucie relaxed in response to it. ‘I just wanted to make sure you had everything you need.’

  ‘I…I think so. Mr Maxwell said he’d arrange for my case to be brought up?’

  Mrs W tsked. ‘Don’t let him catch you calling him Mr Maxwell, dear, or we’ll never hear the end of it. And in answer to your question, yes, your case is here. Would you like me to help you with your unpacking?’ She was already stepping away from the bathroom door and back into the bedroom where Lucie’s case rested on the bed on top of a blanket which hadn’t been there earlier.

  ‘Oh no, it’s fine really.’ Lucie hurried in her wake, stepping on the edge of the bath sheet in her hurry which began to unravel. By the time she’d rewrapped herself and tucked the ends firmly in at the front, Mrs W had already unzipped her case and was lifting out that silly green evening dress Lucie was regretting having packed.

  Holding it up to the light, Mrs W gave a nod, apparently seeing nothing untoward about another member of staff—because rose room, or no rose room, that’s exactly what Lucie was—packing a formal gown. ‘I’ll hang this for now, and if the creases haven’t dropped in a couple of days then let me know and I’ll give it a steam.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ Lucie said, feeling a little desperate as the housekeeper, having hung the dress, was now lifting out handfuls of underwear and stacking them in neat piles on top of the bed.

  ‘Nonsense, Miss Kennington, it’s what I’m here for.’ Mrs W ploughed on like a perfectly-coiffured bulldozer, apparently heedless to Lucie’s growing sense of embarrassment.

  ‘Lucie, I’d much prefer it if everyone would call me Lucie.’ She scrabbled in the piles looking for a half-decent bra and a matching pair of knickers, rather than the days of the week pants her mum had bought her for Christmas one year as a joke and which she’d packed because they were hardly worn.

  ‘As you wish, Lucie. Now we don’t stand too much on formality here, so I think these slacks and
this top will be perfectly fine for dinner, don’t you?’

  Lucie could’ve kissed her for that kindness as she’d been panicking a bit about what would be acceptable since Sir Arthur had mentioned he’d been dressing for dinner when her arrival disturbed her. Embarrassment flashed through her at the way she’d dropped into the chair in instinctive response at the tone of command he’d used to order the dogs to sit. What a terrible first impression she must’ve made, cowering like a fool and dripping water all over the flag-stoned floor. She’d have to do much better at dinner. Speaking of which, there would be no time to dry her hair beforehand. Lucie sat on the velvet-covered stool in front of the dressing table and unwrapped the towel from her head. She’d just have to plait it and pin it up out of the way.

  ‘Oh, what a gorgeous colour.’ Lucie turned on the stool, wondering what could possibly have caught Mrs W’s eye as apart from the green dress, her wardrobe was a mass of neutral shades, and black. She found the housekeeper’s eyes locked on her, a hand clasped to her cheek. ‘I always wanted red hair when I was little girl and first read the Anne of Green Gables stories,’ Mrs W sighed. ‘Such a romantic colour, and with your lovely, creamy skin, I bet you were the envy of all of your friends.’

  Hardly, but Lucie kept her snort of derision to herself. ‘Thank you.’ Turning back to hide her blush at the unexpected compliment, Lucie focused on twisting and securing her hair up into a neat plaited bun at the nape of her neck whilst Mrs W busied herself with the few remaining bits in Lucie’s case.

  Only once everything had been hung up or laid with care into the dresser drawers did the housekeeper step back. ‘That’s you all sorted, Lucie. I shall leave you in peace to get dressed. Come down when you are ready, everyone will gather in the family room.’

  ‘The family room?’ Lucie wondered who exactly everyone was, but didn’t dare ask.

  ‘It’s the second door on the right leading from the great hall.’ Mrs W smiled, obviously thinking that helped. ‘Where you entered the castle,’ she added once Lucie continued to stare blankly.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ The vast, vaulted space had been more than large enough to be considered great, what with that fireplace taller than her head and the enormous table in the centre of it. ‘And, I’d get back there how?’ She should’ve paid better attention to the route Maxwell had taken, but it had been hard to concentrate when her brain had been overwhelmed by the fact she was going to be staying in a real, stand-against-all-invaders castle complete with battlements and a round tower.

  Mrs W’s smile turned sympathetic. ‘It’s a bit of a maze until you get used it. Once you’ve met with Arthur in the morning and gone over your duties, I’ll show you around the place and help you get your bearings.’ It didn’t escape Lucie’s attention that the housekeeper attached no honorific to her employer’s name, unlike the butler. ‘Turn right as you come out of your room and follow the corridor to the half-stair down to the next floor where you’ll turn left and find the main staircase at the far end.’

  ‘Thank you. Again.’ Lucie emphasised the final word with a grateful smile.

  ‘My pleasure, Lucie. I can’t wait to see what you unearth during your investigations. It’s all rather exciting.’ With a whisper of stockings definitely more silk than nylon, Mrs W swept out of the room.

  *

  A few minutes later, dressed and with just a hint of make-up to darken her lashes and put a bit of colour in her cheeks, Lucie followed Mrs W’s instructions and found herself at the top of the enormous double-sided staircase that overlooked the great hall. She hadn’t had much of an opportunity to take in the grandeur of the space during her arrival, focused as she had been on getting out of the rain, not getting knocked over by the dogs’ enthusiastic greeting and then rather more on Sir Arthur’s naked chest than she should’ve been. Pausing now at the top, she let her eyes drink in the beautifully carved vaulted ceiling beams, the grimly imposing stone walls softened here and there by thick tapestries in muted shades of green and blue. Impressive as they were now, she could only imagine how incredible they must’ve been when newly woven—not to mention the hours of painstaking work stitched into them. Between the tapestries large sconces held modern electric lights. The grey stone behind them looked to have been left stained by decades of soot as though to remind the observer of the burning torches they would’ve once held.

  Dominating it all was the enormous circular table set in the very centre of the room. She hadn’t noticed more than its sheer size earlier, but from her bird’s eye vantage point on the balcony she could see now that it was elaborately painted to resemble an enormous shield, or target, in alternating segments of green and white. A huge stylised red rose filled the centre of the table, tickling something in the back of Lucie’s memory. As she slowly made her way down the stairs, the decorations around the edge of the table morphed into medieval script and her stomach began to churn. She’d seen this before. As she finished her descent and crossed to examine it, her worst fears were realised. She was staring at a replica of an artefact which hung on the wall of the great hall at Winchester Castle.

  Fingers tracing the outline of Pelleas, the name inscribed closest to her, Lucie recalled what she’d read—and dismissed—during her research into the Ludworths about a family obsession with all things Arthurian. Pelleas, Kay, Ector de Maris, the names stretched the circumference of the table. Sir Pellinor, Sir Kay, Sir Ector, all fabled Knights of the Round Table. A bubble of laughter escaped her lips, and she clapped her hand over her mouth before it could rise into hysteria. The joke was on her, that much was for sure.

  Bloody knights of the bloody round table! She’d thought taking this job at Camland Castle would be a chance to expand her skills and perhaps even salvage her reputation a little, instead she was on some wild goose chase for the scion of a family of lunatics. No wonder she’d got the job, she was probably the only person naïve enough to apply for it!

  Furious, she marched around the table, heels clicking on the tiles in a staccato beat to match the drumming of her heart. The door to what the housekeeper had referred to as the family room stood slightly ajar and she stomped straight through it to confront the man lazing on one of a pair of matching sofas set either side of the fireplace. The brindle greyhound who’d been resting before the fire leapt up to press herself against Lucie’s thigh, but she was too angry and too focused on the object of her ire. ‘Is this some kind of bloody joke?’ she snapped.

  A dark eyebrow angled itself into a position that could only be described as haughty as Sir Arthur somehow managed to stare down his nose at her, even from his semi-reclined position. The pink shirt he was wearing tucked into a pair of indigo-blue jeans did nothing to soften the masculine hard planes of his face. ‘Are you lost?’

  ‘Lost?’ she sputtered. ‘Lost! Yes, of course I’m bloody lost! Lost in the back-end of nowhere with an arrogant idiot with wild delusions of grandeur! No timewasters, you said, and yet here you are wasting my time on some kind of fantastical wild goose chase!’

  A grin played about Sir Arthur’s lips, and, though never previously inclined towards violence, Lucie had to clench her fists against the sudden urge to punch him right on the end of his nose. ‘It’s not funny,’ she ground out between clenched teeth.

  ‘Oh, I rather think it is.’ Sitting up straighter, Sir Arthur dislodged a wheat-coloured terrier who’d been curled across his lap and folded his arms across his chest, the movement tugging the pink shirt tight across his broad shoulders.

  Pink? But hadn’t he been wearing navy when they’d met not an hour earlier? It took very little effort to recall the image of him standing before her almost half-naked. In fact, it sprang forth so readily she feared it might be permanently imprinted on her brain. ‘You changed your shirt.’ God! Why had she even said that, and what did it matter if he had? She needed to stop gawking at him and get back to the point. ‘I may be young, but I’m not to be trifled with, Sir Arthur, and I won’t be dragged into whatever nonsense yo
u’ve got in mind. I’ll be on the first train home tomorrow.’

  As the object of her ire continued to smile that irritating smile, the first clouds of her anger lifted and she took a proper look at him. Though he certainly resembled the man she’d met in the great hall earlier, it was clear—to her absolute horror—that whoever he was, he wasn’t Sir Arthur. ‘Oh. But you’re not…I just assumed…Oh my goodness, I’m so terribly sorry,’ she gasped, hands flapping ineffectually towards him.

  Grin slipping not one inch, he scratched the terrier behind one ear as he continued to stare up at her. ‘No, I’m not, and more’s the pity. I’m sure my brother will be most disappointed to hear you won’t be trifled with. If I were him, I’d have all kinds of glorious nonsense planned for you.’

  The way he said the word nonsense made it sound positively filthy and Lucie could no more stop the blush heating her cheeks than she could the sun from rising in the east. Her tendency to flush over the smallest thing had been the bane of her existence. As the initial embarrassment faded, her brain caught up with the rest of what he’d said. ‘Your brother?’

  The man on the sofa was all but laughing now, enjoying her discomfort. ‘Yes, Red, there’s two of us—well, three if you count Iggy, but she’s not a man no matter how hard she might try to outdo us. I’m Tristan Ludworth, youngest by a handful of minutes and therefore title-less and of no significance whatsoever.’ He rose to his feet, towering over her even with her heeled pumps lending a small advantage. ‘And you must be Miss Kennington.’ Reaching for one of her hands that now hung limp at her side, Tristan raised it to his lips for a kiss. ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’

  Cheeks aflame once more, Lucie tugged her hand free and spun away only to almost run into a towering figure who’d been standing almost at her back. Strong hands cupped her shoulders. ‘Hey, steady on there, where’s the fire?’ Sir Arthur steadied her for a moment before releasing his hold. ‘Miss Kennington? Is everything all right?’