jacket with buttons down both sides of his rather lean chest, gray breeches and highly polished black boots. He carried a small sign with “Porter” written on it.
Relief brought a small smile to her lips.
“That’s me,” she said as soon as she came close enough to him.
He actually bobbed his head and touched the visor of his cap. Abby grinned.
“Miss Abigail Porter of Nutley, New Jersey?”
She nodded.
“I was led to believe there would be a gentleman accompanying you,” the distinguished old gent said.
Abby remembered “the list” and shook her head. “That’s a long story. A real long story.”
A look of confusion passed over the man’s face, replaced immediately by one of unflappable attention. “This way, miss,” he said. He, too, looked for her luggage.
Abby shrugged. “That’s part of the story.”
Riding in a chauffeur-driven Bentley had to be the most luxurious way to travel, Abby told herself. The venerable old car was immaculate, a testament to the driver, who said she could call him John when she asked.
“Just John, miss,” he’d said after holding open the door for her and making sure she was seated comfortably. Too tired to ask anything else, Abby succumbed to the sleep that she had so desperately needed on the plane and the old car rolled elegantly away from the airport.
Abby woke up when she sensed the car had stopped. The light disoriented her. Surely she’d slept into the evening. This wasn’t Nutley. Not Lower Manhattan, either. And it certainly wasn’t the middle of the night.
Like words appearing on the bottom of a Magic 8-Ball, the realization of where she was slowly materialized in her brain. She’d flown through the night. She was in England. It wasn’t home; it wasn’t evening. It was just England.
Holy cow, she thought, I’m in England!
London! Yorkshire dales! Colin Firth! Stonehenge! She wanted to see all of it and here she was! Cool, cool, cool.
A light tap on the window startled her, jerking her out of her daydreams.
The most beautiful, fresh-faced young lady smiled at her. Abby took one look at that lovely, clear-skinned face and, suddenly, felt rumpled and worn out.
“Hello,” said the young woman as she opened Abby’s door. “Welcome to Bowness Hall. I’m Letitia Wincott. You must be Abigail Porter.”
Talk about your classy accent!
Abby returned the smile, then slid back in the seat as a huge dog nosed into the car.
A cursory sniff, a tail wag, and a sloppy kiss and the dog backed up a bit, allowing Abby to exit the Bentley.
“Leave the lady alone, Tugger!” Letitia hauled the giant wolfhound back and shoved it away.
“I’m Abigail Porter, all right. Good thing I love dogs.”
“He’s a beast, and I’m sorry. He’s quite harmless.”
“Then he and I will be good friends,” Abby laughed as she watched the dog race after a squirrel. She wiped at her face, then smoothed her hand over her wrinkled jeans, trying to keep her tone as sincere and carefree as Letitia Wincott’s. She waited for the kid to look behind her, knowing full well she would be looking for Lance.
The girl’s face fell. “I thought you were bringing along a gentleman friend.”
Straightening and twisting her back to get out the kinks, Abby stalled while trying to think of a way to explain all that had happened. This might call for a bit more finesse than she usually employed. Watch your mouth. Keep it civil. You’ve got to get your money back.
“Long story.”
She didn’t want to air her dirty laundry in front of the pillared magnificence of the palace behind this kid. Nor did she feel like launching into an explanation of what a failure at male/female relationships she was when she could be staring at the facade of the majestic old home. Her jaw went slack as her eyes traveled over the structure.
“Oh, my.” She turned to Letitia. “This is stunning.”
Behind her, she heard a pointedly soft throat clearing. Her young guide smiled sheepishly and stopped. “Oh, dear, how rude you must think me. This is Mrs. Duxbury, Miss Porter. She is the housekeeper at Bowness Hall.”
Abby met the gaze of a smiling, slender, silver-haired old lady who looked fragile and elegant in a crisp dark dress and white apron.
Mrs. Duxbury bobbed her head in greeting. “Glad you could come to stay with us,” she said, her voice sounding as frail as she looked.
The old lady gave off good vibes. Abby shot a quick look at Letitia and saw love reflected in her young, beautiful face.
“Thank you, Mrs. Duxbury. I’m thrilled to be here.”
John the chauffeur hustled them up the stairs by reminding the ladies that Miss Porter would probably want to see her room and freshen up after her long flight. But Abby only made it through the massive front door before stopping dead in her tracks.
Up on the ceiling, angels and goddesses cavorted in pastel colors from vault to vault, while huge male figures in ancient golden armor drove chariots hither and yon. The foyer, bigger by far than the entire Porter house in New Jersey, contained a few elegant, thin-legged pieces of furniture; some huge jardinières; and several large oil paintings in thick gilt frames.
The floor, white marble veined with soft blush hues, contrasted superbly with the intense Wedgwood blue of the walls.
It all smelled rich to Abby. Rich and elegant and very, very old.
For the first time in her twenty-six years on earth, Abby Porter felt sheer, speechless awe.
Beside her, Letitia breathed out a soft laugh. Slowly Abby became aware of her own bad manners.
Coming round, she uttered a heartfelt “Sorry.”
Her hostess smiled warmly.
“Do you like it?”
Abby nodded, feeling like a hick, a definite, bona fide bumpkin straight from the sticks. She tried desperately to regain some semblance of sophistication, shutting her mouth and remembering not to gawk. After all, in her study of art history, she’d seen lovely old houses before, just not of this magnitude.
Get a grip, she warned herself. They’ll think you’re a peasant.
Her voice came out rather quiet for once. “I think it’s lovely. Quite the most glorious way to enter a house.”
Mrs. Duxbury promised to show her the rest of the house as soon as Abby felt up to it. The woman’s knowing look, the sympathy in her voice assured Abby that she wouldn’t be expected to do much more than rest this day.
“I’ll be happy to show our guest around the Hall later.” Letitia’s blue eyes flashed merrily. “I can help you unpack your things, too,” she added. Then, as if remembering that Abby had no “things,” her eyelashes fluttered and she lowered her head.
“I’d appreciate your help in finding my room.” It was an effort to speak coherently, but the ancient house called to her. She watched the grin return to her guide’s face. Letitia indicated the proper direction at the end of the foyer and off they went, leaving the chauffeur and housekeeper standing in the vast, now echoing entry.
“Oh, dear,” whispered Mrs. Duxbury as the younger women walked away. “Where is her young man?”
John Duxbury shook his head from side to side slowly. “Don’t know, Duckie. She was the only one at the airport and when I asked, she said there was a long story involved. My guess is, the fellow left her at the altar or something like that.”
Duckie’s