seemed to Rosie Courland in her cold and prickly hiding place as if he had somehow seen all three of them, bunched together spellbound in the darkness as they watched the new arrivals play like boys, then be welcomed as men.
That younger Roxanne had held her breath as if he might hear such a soft sound over the yards that separated them and decided that, one day, she was going to marry Charles Afforde, when she was properly grown up and beautiful and he’d become a great admiral, easily as famous as the great, much-mourned, Viscount Nelson. For that minute at least, she’d known that he had seen her and acknowledged their meeting was deeply significant to both of them. Even when he largely ignored her during that Christmas season in favour of Joanna, Maria and the vicar’s Junoesque eighteen-year-old daughter, she’d still been convinced he was amusing himself while he waited for her to be ready for marriage. She would wait for him, she’d decided with all the fervent passion of her headlong nature, but instead she’d grown up and discovered fairytales were just that.
Roxanne’s lips twisted into a grimace of distaste and impatience at her young and over-romantic self. Sir Charles Afforde was indeed a lion nowadays; successful, courageous and independently wealthy from prize money and the family trust he’d finally taken control of, according to David’s sporadic letters. Then there was that baronetcy he’d won by his own efforts, bestowed on him by a grateful country for gallant service in the late wars. His elevated naval rank of commodore might revert to a mere captaincy when he was on land and no longer in command of his squadron, but no doubt at all he’d have been made admiral if he had stayed in the navy when Bonaparte was finally defeated, even if the Admiralty had had to promote a dozen senior officers to flag rank ashore on half-pay to give such a capable and proven captain his admiral’s flag.
On the other hand, Miss Roxanne Courland had fulfilled her early promise by growing up to be as dark as the fashion was fair, and far too decided a character for the ridiculous mode that demanded a lady should pretend extreme sensibility and embrace idleness. Little wonder few gentlemen had the nerve to so much as dance with her, let alone lay their hands and hearts at her impatiently tapping feet.
Just as well she’d long ago given up her secret dream of capturing Charles Afforde’s fickle heart then, for no doubt he’d choose a sophisticated beauty when he finally took a wife and not a countrified beanpole of four and twenty but, considering she doubted he possessed a heart to lose, wasn’t that just as well?
She was happy enough as Aunt Roxanne now Joanna and her Tom Varleigh had made her so three times over; and she was just good old Rosie to her brother, the spinster sister who held the reins of Hollowhurst in her capable hands while he travelled to the furthest corners of the earth. So the real question was what on earth could that dashing hero Sir Charles Afforde want with her humble self? His letter lay on the delicate rosewood desk that she used for her correspondence and she cautiously considered it through the gathering darkness, as if to get closer might somehow conjure him up out of the dusky shadows.
The wretched thing had done nothing but disturb her since it arrived two days ago, its terse content worrying away at her customary serenity until she was tempted to throw it in the fire and have done with him, even if she couldn’t bring herself to actually do it. Maybe something remained from the old days, then—not the illusion that she could tame the wild rover under all that rakish charm, but a dream dead and done with that was reminding her a much younger, ridiculously romantic Roxanne would probably hate the person she’d become.
Chapter Two
With an impatient sigh, Roxanne decided to put Sir Charles Afforde out of her mind until he called and told her what he actually wanted with her after so many years. There was plenty to divert her, after all, for times were hard since the end of the war and it was proving a struggle to keep Hollowhurst untouched by it all, and then there was Davy’s latest letter. She shivered, sensing something new and worrying behind her brother’s evasive reception of her ingenious solution to some vexing estate business.
Instead of carelessly agreeing to anything she proposed as usual, Sir David Courland wrote instead of the many charms offered by his latest landfall. Despite the late war between Great Britain and the American States, he seemed very welcome in New England and wrote enthusiastically of its many beauties, particularly those of a certain Miss Philomena Harbury, whose virtues apparently knew no bounds. Her brother was obviously fathoms deep in love, and Roxanne hoped her family would not stand in their way.
David might be a baronet and wealthy landowner, but his constant racketing about the world would make him a challenging husband, even without the fact of him owning Hollowhurst to ensure they would be parted from her kin by a vast ocean sooner or later, if he and his Philomena married. Given that the girl would have to give up so much to marry him, how could Roxanne expect the new Lady Courland to share her strange new home with a sister-in-law accustomed to ruling it unopposed?
She’d learn to love Mulberry House, Roxanne reassured herself, picturing the neat and airy dwelling in Hollowhurst village that her uncle had purchased lest his nieces were unwed and now left to her because she was going to need it. The mistress of such a fine house would command respect in the area, as long as she learned to behave more like a lady and less like the lord of the manor. Yet she watched the quaint old gardens fade into darkness and sighed as she tried to visualise herself occupied with planning rosebeds, visiting her neighbours and good works. She’d have time to stay with her favourite aunts in Bath at last and at Varleigh with the ever-expanding Varleigh family, maybe even a duty visit at Balsover Granta with Maria, now Countess of Balsover, followed perhaps by the heady delights of London for the Season. Roxanne shook her head and wondered how she’d endure a life of idle uselessness.
‘You’re very lucky, my girl,’ she chided herself out loud. ‘You should be counting your blessings.’
‘Should you indeed, Miss Courland?’ a deep voice spoke out of the darkness and nearly made her jump out of her skin. ‘I always considered that a sadly futile exercise when ordered to do so by my tutors.’
‘Who the deuce are you?’ she snapped back, although she would have known his deep voice anywhere.
‘What a very good question,’ he replied, the devil-may-care grin she remembered so well becoming visible as well as audible when he stepped out of the shadows and into the dying light from the bay windows. ‘I remember you very well, ma’am, but no doubt I’ve faded into the mists of your memory by now. Charles Afforde, very much at your service, Miss Courland.’
‘Sir Charles,’ she acknowledged absently, still struggling to settle the errant heartbeat the mere sound of his voice provoked.
‘Perhaps you remember me, after all, considering you take such a flattering interest in my humble career, Miss Courland?’
‘My brother writes of you in his letters, and reports of your daring deeds reach us even in a backwater like Hollowhurst, Commodore Afforde.’
‘The navy and I have parted company, so I don’t use my rank, and I was only ever a commodore when in command of my squadron, you know.’
‘Do you miss it?’ she asked absently, then told herself crossly not to ask such personal questions on the strength of the merest acquaintance. ‘I beg your pardon, that was impertinent of me.’
‘Not at all, our families have been friendly since before the Flood and your eldest sister is my cousin’s wife, so I think we may presume on both connections and friendship, don’t you? And the answer is, yes, I miss the limitless possibilities of the sea, but a battle is as grim a business at sea as on land and I’d been fighting them for far too long. They do say a true sailor only retires when he’s safely underground, or underwater, so life on shore might pall one day, I suppose.’
‘So you’re giving shore life a try out, then?’ she replied sharply, for his easy assumption that he could spring up out of the shadows in her own home and be offered a warm welcome was annoying now the shock had abated.
‘You think me presumptuous perhaps, Miss Courland?’ he asked, apparently unmoved by her sarcasm.
‘I think you’re likely