“The oldest parts of the castle date from the fifteenth century,” she began. “The first duke was given the land for his service to the crown. He was by then a rather elderly gentleman, but his grandson, the second duke, built the central part of the castle.”
“The Cavendish family has been in Dorset a long time.”
“Yes.” Viola opened the door they had reached. “This wing of the castle is relatively new, added only fifty years ago and hence quite modern. Here is the billiard room. Some of the young gentlemen have taken to playing in the evening.”
“A fine room,” the earl said approvingly, studying the carved mahogany table. It was a very masculine room, done up in the highest quality. Viola remembered her first reaction on realizing the castle held a room dedicated solely to one game—a game no one in the family played much—and quietly closed the door.
“I couldn’t help but notice your name is also Cavendish,” Winterton remarked as they walked onward.
Her shoulders stiffened involuntarily. She was used to this question, but he must know the answer. She was hardly the first poor relation to be taken in by a family, but it still stung, that reminder—even unintentional—that she had once been mistress of her own home instead of a servant in someone else’s. “Yes. My late husband, actually, was a cousin of His Grace.” She lowered her voice and gave a rueful smile. “A very distant cousin, not one tenth as grand.”
“Ah—no. I didn’t mean . . .” He grimaced, but with a sheepish grin that made her want to smile back. “I was contemplating how difficult it is to speak to my nephew, and wondering if perhaps you had any suggestions to offer me, since you seem to be in a similar position. Having to advise and reason with your younger relations, I mean.”
“Oh!” She made a small motion with one hand, embarrassed but also pleased. “I wish I could say yes, but it’s not really the same at all. We’re only distant relations, the young ladies and I, and they rightly look to their mother the dowager duchess, or even to the duchess herself, for advice.”
“But they don’t openly wish for you to leave the room,” he pointed out. “At least not in your hearing.”
Viola laughed. “Perhaps that’s because I have no real authority over them. It renders me utterly powerless to spoil any schemes or plots they may have.”
The earl tipped his head in thought. “Perhaps there’s something in that. On the other hand, Newton has only held his viscountcy for a few months. He’s in desperate want of counsel, whether he admits it or not.”
“I have long noticed that often, the more desperately someone needs guidance, the better it is to wait for him to ask for it. Urging your excellent thoughts and ideas upon him only gets the bit between his teeth, so to speak, and sets him against everything you say.”
“I see.” He gave her an appraising glance. “And do you sit by and watch as they make a muddle of things?”
Viola smiled. As if she had any choice, when it came to Serena, Alexandra, and Bridget. “I find it helps me hold my tongue if I think of the things I did and said when I was that age. It usually quashes my righteous disapproval.”
“Good lord,” he murmured with a rueful expression. His lips quirked as he gazed at her. “Quite right it would.”
Viola could have stood there all day smiling back at him. The realization made her blink and turn away; do not be too familiar with an earl, she told herself. She opened the wide double doors to the gallery. “The formal gallery. It contains a portrait of every duke and duchess as well as many other family portraits and mementos. Would you care to see?”
He inclined his head, so she led the way into the long, narrow room and opened some of the shutters for light. No doubt he had a similar room at his own family seat, but he gave every appearance of interest. In the best of circumstances it was a dramatic room, reflective of the wealth and power that had concentrated in the person of the Duke of Wessex over four hundred years. Today it was gray and dim, the snow casting its pall through the tall windows. Viola returned to the door as Winterton strolled the gallery. She didn’t want to spend any more time in the chilly room—no fires had been laid in here—but a wicked part of her also took advantage of the opportunity to watch the earl openly.
It was unfair for one man to be so handsome. Lord Gosling was beautiful in a boyish way; the Earl of Winterton was a mesmerizing man in the prime of life. His dark hair was a rumple of unruly waves today, curling over his brow like a classical statue. He paused in front of a portrait, raising his chin to study it, and Viola’s eyes skimmed over the lines of his profile. His nose was straight but not large, his jaw firm. He turned to continue his circuit of the room and her gaze drifted lower over broad shoulders, clad in a royal blue coat. His hands, still clasped behind his hips, were elegant, long-fingered and strong. Viola tore her eyes away but not before noticing that his backside was also rather perfectly shaped. She fixed her gaze on the vase on the mantel and kept it there as his footsteps echoed softly in the silent room. Do not ogle an earl, she scolded herself. What had come over her?
“A veritable museum of Cavendish history.” Lord Winterton returned to her side.
Viola smiled. “Yes. The dowager duchess take a particular interest in maintaining it.”
“The lady above the fireplace, I take it.” He turned toward the portrait in question, and Viola’s attention snagged once more on the sensual set of his lips before she yanked her gaze away.
“Yes. Miss Alice Penworth, when that was painted soon before her marriage.” In the painting the dowager duchess was young and beautiful, glowing with love and happiness. It was no secret her marriage to the late duke had been one of love, which had ended tragically some seventeen years ago with the duke’s sudden death, when Bridget was a baby.
“Her youngest daughter has her looks.”
Viola nodded. “All the young ladies do, to some extent. They have their father’s coloring. His Grace looks very like his father, though.”
“Does he?” He scanned the walls. “Which is he?”
She glanced at him in surprise. The portrait of the late duke looked almost exactly like the current duke; Wessex was the image of his father, from his deep-set eyes and stern face to his height and build. “There.” She indicated the portrait between the windows, at an angle from the dowager’s. The arrangement and their respective poses made it appear that the late duke and his wife were gazing in adoration at each other across the room.
“Of course.” Winterton went to stand in front of it. “It’s very like Wessex, you say?”
Slowly she followed him. “To the life.” She hesitated. “Are you not acquainted with His Grace, then?” She had assumed he must be a rather close friend, for the duke to invite him to Kingstag at Christmastime. Wessex was devoted to his family and guarded his time with them closely. The dowager duchess was the one who had planned the house party, and only then because of Serena’s recent heartbreak.
“Not really, no,” said the earl. He seemed absorbed in the painting. “He’s a stern man, I take it.”
Oh dear heaven. Had she let a perfect stranger into the castle? The earl claimed to have an appointment, but he’d offered no proof and Viola had never heard warning of his visit from Mr. Martin, who normally kept her apprised of things like that. The duke and duchess preferred their schedules be kept aligned. Her spine stiffened and she said, “I suppose you’ll have to form your own opinion.”