He grinned, held the door wide, and stepped aside.
Her heart skipped a beat. His smile softened his chiseled features, and she found herself stealing glances at his profile beneath lowered lashes.
They descended the front steps and strolled past the fountain. The flagstone path led to the formal gardens with its box hedges, blooming azaleas, and floral borders. Spring had arrived, and the sky was a brilliant blue with a few puffs of cloud. Bella raised her face, and the afternoon sun warmed her cheeks. A hawk soared above, precise and mindless, a part of things. How she envied its blissful freedom.
“Tell me how you first came to see Wyndmoor Manor,” he asked.
“There’s not much to tell, Your Grace. I was passing through St. Albans when I spotted the place. We stopped at the Twin Rams, and when I inquired I learned the property was for sale.”
“Must we be so formal? Please call me James. No matter the circumstances, we are living together. Besides, the title is new to me.”
He insisted she call him James, but use of his Christian name was horribly improper despite the fact that they were sharing a residence. She didn’t want to think of him as James. It was one step closer to thinking of him as a man rather than an aristocrat who desired to drive her out of her new home.
At her hesitation, he said, “It is not much to ask, and if we are in public, then you may certainly address me by my title.”
She could hardly refuse without sounding churlish or intimidated, and she didn’t want to appear either. “Only when we are in private then.”
They headed away from the house and the formal gardens and crossed an open grassy field dotted with wildflowers of every color of the rainbow. The air was heady with the fragrant scent of their perfume. Succumbing to a fanciful impulse, she stopped and picked a handful of the delicate-looking blooms.
They walked for some time before stepping onto a tree-lined path with sun-shot leaves that arched overhead. It was a warm May afternoon and the foliage provided refreshing shade. Blackwood knew where he was headed and soon the sounds of a nearby brook could be heard above the chirping birds.
They cleared the trees and she realized it was not a brook but a stream with a small waterfall. She gasped as a pair of swans floated past, their pristine white feathers and curved necks as graceful as ballet dancers. The lovely vista beyond the stream was a picture of treetops and rolling hills that had enthralled her the first time she had laid eyes on the land.
When Bella had offered to buy the property from Sir Reeves, she had pictured herself venturing out into the closest town of St. Albans. Before her marriage, she had enjoyed strolling through Plymouth’s shopping district and discreetly observing people. She had scribbled notes about their mannerisms and speech and had poured every detail into her writing.
Her father had encouraged her ambitions. He had loved books of all kinds, especially those of history and politics, and her childhood home had been cluttered with newspaper clippings and books on foreign affairs and domestic social reform. Over the years she grew to find the topic of social reform fascinating. The strife of the poverty-stricken and laborers in London had caught her interest. She’d researched the child labor laws and the increase in crime from the destitute and oftentimes injured soldiers that had returned from Waterloo, and she had started writing her own articles.
Then one day Roger Sinclair had visited her father and expressed interest in Bella. He had been respectful and reserved, and when Bella had mentioned her own ambitions to submit her work to the London newspapers in hopes of getting published, Roger had nodded with feigned enthusiasm. It was her first taste of his remarkable talent for deception.
Soon after her marriage, Roger had found her addressing an envelope to The London Gazette. He had ripped her work out of her hands and torn it into pieces. “No wife of mine will ever engage in such unacceptable activities,” Roger had spat. Writing and politics, he insisted, were for men. When Bella had argued, Roger had immediately threatened, “Harriet is old and slow. Servants should be useful. I’ve a mind to cut her without a reference.”
Roger had known quite well that at Harriet’s age she would never find new employment and would starve, and Bella would do anything to protect her. With no more than a curt slash of his hand, Roger had destroyed her aspirations as a writer. He had been an adept liar, and he had woven tales of his wife’s “fragile mental state” until people eyed her warily on the seldom occasions she had been seen. Some had even offered Roger their admiration for not committing his mad wife to an asylum.
She was now a widow and the owner of Wyndmoor Manor. She could pen political articles or even short love stories that struck her fancy and, under the guise of a pseudonym, send them to any London newspaper or publisher of her choosing. The people of Hertfordshire had no knowledge of her past—a fact that added to Wyndmoor’s charm—and she was free to join a poetry group, a book discussion group, or the church choir, and even attend the occasional afternoon tea or country fair.
After seven tumultuous years bound to a cruel spouse, she could peacefully spend the rest of her life here, and it had seemed as if fate had finally smiled upon her.
Or so she had thought.
She glanced at the man beside her. With his compelling blue eyes, his firm features, and the confident set of his shoulders, he exuded masculinity and command.
He shed his jacket and spread it out on the grassy bank. “Shall we?”
Gathering her skirts, she sat and placed the wildflowers on her lap. He sat beside her, stretching his long legs out before him.
“I’ve told you about my reasons for wanting Wyndmoor Manor, but I am uncertain as to yours. Why do you insist on keeping it?” he asked.
“Because it’s mine,” she said. Because no man will ever dictate my desires again.
His brow furrowed. “You do realize the longer you stay here with me, the more damage to your reputation.”
“I’m a widow, remember?” she retorted.
“No matter. We cannot reside together indefinitely.”
He picked up a flat stone by the bank and turned it around his fingers. Then in one sweeping motion, he threw it toward the lake and watched as it skipped across the water’s surface like a jumping bean before finally sinking with a soft splash.
“Were you serous about seeking legal advice?” he asked.
She raised her chin a notch. “Yes. I plan on hiring my own barrister.”
“You mean a solicitor. There is a difference. If the solicitor finds the matter needs to be resolved by a judge and jury, he contacts a barrister who alone handles matters in the courtroom.”
She knew there were differences, of course, but she hadn’t truly understood their functions. She had never needed to avail herself of the legal system before.
“You do realize you would be up against an experienced legal professional?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I always win in the courtroom, Bella.” There was a spark of some indefinable emotion in his eyes. Anticipated challenge, perhaps?
She remained silent, but his words echoed in her head, tormenting her mind. I always win in the courtroom.
Life had taught her only the strong survived. But would it truly come to that?
Chapter 7
“I know very little about you other than the fact that you are a widow. Were you born in Hertfordshire?” Blackwood asked.
Bella leaned back on her hands in the soft grass. “No. I was born in London, but my father moved to the country when I was seven. We settled in Plymouth when I was sixteen, and I was married a year later.”
“Did you remain in Plymouth after your marriage?”