passed through the center of the village, and Ivy waved back.
Once she had made the decision to visit Edgecott, her hard shell of defiance and suspicion had dropped away like the halves of a ripe walnut. Soon after she and Donal had boarded the train in York, she had cast off her fears with the impulsiveness of youth and wholeheartedly embraced the excitement of the journey.
Her enthusiasm eased Donal’s mind. Seventeen years old she might be, but her childhood had been robbed of so many simple pleasures that she devoured each new experience with innocent delight. Sir Reginald, who had chosen her as his new lifelong companion, perched on her lap and laughed with a lolling tongue, sharing her joy.
Neither girl nor dog had been in the least constrained in Donal’s presence. He had no interest in enforcing arbitrary rules of conduct, and ignored the occasional pointed stares and whispers aimed at “that wild young woman” by starchy matrons and stiff-rumped gentlemen who resembled exotic fowl escaped from their pens. Ivy had not yet been introduced to corsets; her blossoming figure was now quite apparent to Donal’s previously ignorant eye. Yet he had no desire to cut short her last days of freedom before Mrs. Hardcastle applied the shackles of rigid morals and genteel hypocrisy.
He prayed that Ivy’s courage and adaptability would enable her to accept the world Cordelia intended to make for her.
The carriage rattled out of the village and past fields and pastures bordered by light gray dry-stone walls. Soon it reached the high iron gates that guarded Edgecott’s stately park.
The gates stood open in welcome, but Donal regarded them with a shiver of foreboding. They were merely symbols of power and prosperity, harmless in themselves, but to Donal’s mind they resembled nothing so much as a cage. A part of him believed that once he passed through them, he would be caught in the snares of civilization forever.
“Look at the trees!” Ivy said. “I never saw such tall ones in Yorkshire!”
The woods of Edgecott’s park were indeed impressive. They reminded Donal of the ancient forest of Hartsmere, where his father had roamed for millennia as guardian and protector of every living thing within it. Yet most of these trees had been grown, not by nature, but by Amesbury ancestors who had planted the wood to enhance their prestige and shield their property from the eyes of lesser mortals.
Donal was so lost in thought that he didn’t see the great house until Ivy drew his attention with an exclamation of approval. She had good reason for her admiration. The main house at Edgecott was built of the fine native stone, and while it had obviously been altered over several centuries, with a classical wing and ornamentations added well after its original, Elizabethan construction, it was a handsome building as such things went.
Standing in a neat row at the foot of the stairs were several male and female servants, including footmen, maids, an older woman who must have been the housekeeper and a tall man of impeccable dignity whose demeanor declared him master of the household staff. As the carriage rounded the gravel drive, one of the footmen broke ranks and hurried up the stairs.
The coachman eased the horses to a stop before the stairs, and the footman leaped down to lower the steps. Ivy hopped out, ignoring the footman’s proffered hand, and stood gazing up at the massive limestone facade.
Donal descended more slowly, not in the least eager to deal with a bevy of servants whose only purpose was to wait hand and foot on their employers. He avoided them by going directly to the horses, thanking them for their work and examining their legs and hooves while the coachman watched curiously.
Ivy inched up beside him, Sir Reginald in her arms. “They’re all staring at me,” she whispered, glancing back at the servants. “Where is Cordelia?”
Like Donal, Ivy had taken to referring to Mrs. Hardcastle by her given name, and Donal had not discouraged her. “I’m certain she will wish to welcome you herself,” he said, giving the horses a final pat.
Ivy gripped his sleeve. “Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to come here after all,” she said. “I don’t belong in a place like this.”
“How do you know, when you’ve scarcely seen any of it?” he said. But she gave him a narrow look that suggested she knew he was every bit as nervous as she.
“You really are going to stay?” she demanded.
“As long as you need me.”
Her shoulders relaxed, but her gaze remained fixed on his face. “You like Cordelia, don’t you?”
“Of course I do, Ivy. She has been nothing but kind to you, and the animals—”
“No. I mean you like her.”
He reminded himself again that she was no child, and that her very survival in London had depended on the keenness of her observations. He pretended a sudden interest in the knot of his cravat.
“I admire her, certainly,” he said. “She is a formidable woman.”
Ivy snorted. “You’re no good at lyin’, guv. I seen ‘ow you watched at ‘er at the farm, roight enough.”
“And how did I watch her, pray tell?”
“The way ol’ Rooster Tom looks at the ‘ens after ‘e’s ‘ad ‘is fill o’ crowin’.”
“Ivy!” Heat rushed to his face, and he steered her away from the avid ears of the footman who lingered nearby. “It would be best if you abandon rookery speech at Edgecott, since Mrs. Hardcastle hopes to give you the advantages of a lady.”
Ivy thrust her nose in the air and performed a deep curtsey. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”
He sighed. “Also, consider what you say. I have no objections to your frankness, but you’ll find that it may be advisable to think before you speak.”
Ivy’s playful demeanor melted into seriousness. “It sounds like a lot of work.”
“It is work to be grown up, Ivy, no matter where you are. Whatever you may face here, it will be nothing compared to London.”
Ivy pressed her face into Sir Reginald’s warm coat. “Do you think I could be a lady, Donal?”
“I think you can be whatever you choose.”
“Then if I work hard and wear pretty dresses, will you look at me the way you look at Cordelia?”
Donal heard Ivy’s words with amazement and consternation. His cravat seemed to tighten like a noose. As he struggled to find an answer, a footman emerged from the house and held the door open for the one who followed.
Cordelia Hardcastle swept down the stairs in a rustle of deep blue skirts, a smile animating her resolute features. She walked past the servants and extended her hands to Ivy. There was no mistaking the warmth of her greeting.
“Ivy,” she said, “Dr. Fleming. Welcome to Edgecott.”
Ivy took Cordelia’s hands. “It is a beautiful house,” she said with uncharacteristic shyness.
“Thank you, my dear.” Cordelia glanced up at Donal. “I hope that your journey was a pleasant one?”
Donal inclined his head. “We found it most enjoyable.”
Her gaze lingered on his face. “I am so glad that both of you have been able to join us.”
The rote courtesies expected on such occasions flew out of Donal’s mind. Somehow he had forgotten a few small details of Cordelia’s features in the two weeks since she had left Stenwater Farm: the clean arch of her brows, the tiny dimple in her left cheek, the fullness of her lips that hinted of sensuality kept under strict control.
Those lips parted, and Cordelia’s breath sighed out as gently as the breeze stirring the leaves overhead. How easy it would be, how scandalously improper, if he were to lean down and catch her mouth with his own….
“Donal?” Ivy said.
He