The shrubbery opened up and King’s Acton lay before her. Helena ruthlessly crushed her uprising of panic. Row upon row of tall windows marched across an endless white façade. A battalion of ornamental stone spires punctuated the skyline in matching order. Carved stone medallions paraded below them, each engraved with some heraldic symbol. The front entrance would have been dwarfed by its crenellated portico had there not been an equally imposing flight of stone steps leading up to the door. Surely they were not going to live here?
“My grandfather had delusions of grandeur,” Richard said dryly. “What do you think of his fantasy?”
She felt faint. “I suppose it’s magnificent.”
“You are trying without success to be tactful, my dear. When it becomes mine, I might well burn it down.”
“You can’t be serious?”
She was to have no reply. They had pulled up before the sweep of steps. Bewigged servants in livery appeared like ants from a disturbed mound. Richard handed her down. The curricle was efficiently whisked away. She clung blindly to her husband’s arm as he led her up to the grandiose entrance. The doors opened and closed behind them. Footmen bowed silently. Their hats and gloves disappeared.
Swallowing hard, Helena glanced around. The ceiling of the hallway arched away above her head. Everything was white stone. Marble statues of Greek gods stood on tall stone platforms. Classical urns graced a row of niches at each side of the room. In front of her, two branches of a grand stairway swept in graceful arcs to the floor above.
She felt overwhelmed, desperate, as if she were drowning.
A footman was still hovering.
Richard spoke to him. “This is my wife, Manners. Have her shown to the appropriate suite.”
The charming companion of the journey was gone. Richard’s face was set as still and hard as that of Apollo on his dais. It chilled her like a frost.
He turned absently to Helena. “We eat at nine. Put on whatever is the grandest thing that you have.”
And leaving her standing alone with the servant in the hallway, he strode away.
Moments later, a maid ushered Helena up the right-hand staircase and into an echoing chamber, dominated by a four-poster with blue velvet drapes. More maids in starched caps and aprons bustled into the room. Her luggage was delivered and unpacked, and several of her things whisked away to the laundry to be washed or pressed. She was brought a tray of tea. A copper tub followed and was filled with steaming water. Helena was undressed and bathed without mercy for her modesty, and dried in a capacious towel.
The woman who came in next had obviously been trained as a lady’s maid. She sorted through the handful of dresses Helena had brought from Trethaerin.
Helena knew immediately that she had nothing grand enough.
“Have you nothing but this?” the lady’s maid said, holding up Helena’s best blue silk with the silver flounce.
Helena shook her head.
The woman sniffed. “I suppose it will have to do.”
She dropped the dress over Helena’s head and fastened the ribbons.
An older woman in black stalked into the room. “I am Lady Acton’s personal dresser, ma’am,” she said stiffly. “I usually touch no one’s head but her ladyship’s, but she directed that I attend you. The curling iron, if you please.”
This last comment was addressed to one of the maids, who scurried to obey.
“You are most kind. But please leave it!” Helena stepped over to the dresser and took up her own brush and comb. “I am content to dress my hair in my usual way.”
“But it is positively countrified, ma’am!”
“Yes, indeed,” Helena said. “And so am I. Now, please leave me be.”
The woman bobbed a small curtsy and signaled the other maids. They all sailed back out of the room, leaving Helena alone.
She took a deep breath and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her color was high and her eyes shone with indignation. Her blue silk might not be all that grand, but it was elegantly cut and the color had been her father’s favorite. With deft fingers she brushed out her hair and twisted it into her usual style. If she was presentable enough for Cornish society, then she was good enough, just as she was, for the Earl and Countess of Acton.
But how could Richard have sprung all this on her with no warning? She had married a stranger, indeed! Good heavens, she could never be a satisfactory countess.
At that moment she heard a gong, and a manservant appeared to show her to the drawing room. She was about to meet Richard’s family. If the thought had seemed enough to strip him of his good humor, what on earth could she expect? Helena threw up her chin. Whatever his reasons, Richard Acton had married her and rescued her from Garthwood. She wouldn’t disgrace him.
“Come, Helena,” she said aloud in front of the startled footman. “Strike a blow for Cornwall!”
The man left her in front of a white-painted doorway, where another footmen stood rigidly at attention. Beyond must be the drawing room. She gave the man a small nod and he began to open the door.
Helena stepped forward as if to enter, when she heard Richard’s voice. Instantly, she was rooted to the spot.
The footman froze also, with the door slightly cracked and his hand still on the knob.
“Yes, you heard me correctly the first time, my lord. I am married.”
“For God’s sake, sir! Who the devil is she? Trethaerin? I’ve never heard of it.”
“Pray, calm down, Acton.” They were the tones of a woman. “Richard has married only to please us. Heaven knows you have been after him to wed for long enough.”
“Yes, into a suitable lineage. Not to some unknown girl! What the hell was wrong with the Salisbury daughters? Does this creature have a family? Did she bring property? A dowry? Answer me, by God!”
Richard’s voice was the only one that was calm. “The answer is no on all counts, sir.”
There was the sound of the rapid fluttering of a woman’s fan. It must be Richard’s mother.
“You must admit the unknown bride is a clever one, Acton, to ensnare the eldest son of an earl.”
There was an edge to her voice that almost expressed amusement.
“God’s teeth, sir! Don’t tell me you have been caught by a fortune hunter?”
“Miss Trethaerin did not know who I was, my lord. She thought herself wed to plain Captain Acton until today.”
“She has cozened you, Richard.” The sound of the fan stopped as its owner spoke again. “Is it appropriate that I have hysterics?”
“Mama, I pray that you will not. Helena comes from a perfectly respectable home, but is orphaned. It is only through an accident of fate that she is left without property.”
“Not an entail?” the Countess of Acton said with considerable sarcasm.
The older man’s voice cut her off. He was almost shouting. “Damn your entails, ma’am! How could she be left without fortune? The girl is obviously a brazen hussy. What on earth possessed you to marry the wench, sir? Why not set her up in a place in London like your other mistresses?”
“Acton! Pray, remember the presence of your lady wife! I declare, I shall have the vapors.” The fan began to vibrate again.
“She is the cousin of Sir Edward Blake, my lord, of Friarswell in Cornwall,” Richard said, his tones like ice. “A fellow officer who died in France for his country. She is a lady.”
“Devil take me if I ever thought you would be carried away by a seductive smile attached to an empty purse, sir! Am I to have no control over your precipitate actions? You have set yourself against me ever since you were in leading strings. In every godforsaken corner of the world you have exposed yourself recklessly to danger and vice. When travel palled, you went into the cavalry, risking your worthless neck as if you were a younger son instead of my heir. You have responsibilities to England, sir, and to your name. Is this what your mother and I deserve? You can be certain to inherit my title, sir, but if it wasn’t for the entail on the property, damn me if I wouldn’t strike you out in favor of Henry.”
Richard’s voice seemed entirely unconcerned. “I am well aware of your feelings, sir. However, I am of age. I have married Helena Trethaerin. I would ask that you treat her with the courtesy due the future Countess of Acton.”
And the footman opened the door.
Richard spun around, and Helena saw his eyes widen into dark pools as he gazed at her. He looked splendid and completely unruffled. His tall frame was clothed in the most impeccable and sober of evening clothes that fit his broad shoulders like a second skin. His golden hair caught the firelight, shining as bright as gold sovereigns.
The two other occupants of the room fixed her with hostile intensity.
Had Richard not at that moment given her a smile, Helena’s courage might have failed her, after all.
“Lady Lenwood,” the servant announced.
Helena felt her feet step forward and she was in the room. Richard was instantly at her side and had taken her hand in his.
“Mama, Father, this is my wife, Helena. My dear, I would like you to meet the Earl and Countess of Acton.”
Speechless, she sank into a curtsy.
“You are late, young lady,” the earl said. “We dine at nine o’clock sharp. Please remember in future.”
There was no time for further conversation. Dinner was announced and they filed into the dining room. Richard escorted his mother. Helena was obliged to lay her hand on the earl’s arm and allow him to lead her to her seat.
The dining room was vast and paneled in oak. A table long enough to accommodate thirty held court over two long ranks of chairs emblazoned with what must be the Acton crest in the back of each. Silver candlesticks, exquisite plate, fine linen napkins, innumerable sets of cutlery, rosewater finger bowls; all were ranked like soldiers on the cloth.
Thank goodness she had attended the young ladies’ seminary in Exeter and practiced everything that was considered correct!
Helena did not speak a word as the courses were served and removed, since not a word was addressed to her. Instead, she surreptitiously studied her host and hostess.
The countess was small and dark and drowning in jewels. Helena immediately surmised that she must once have been a great beauty. Her skin was still flawless and her black eyes magnificent: Richard’s eyes.
The earl, on the other hand, was a typical big, rawboned Englishman, his face florid beneath a thatch of pepper and salt. He made Helena think of a portrait she had once seen of Henry VIII. From him must have come the fair hair, but she could see nothing else of Richard in his father.
She watched Richard as he talked calmly and politely with the earl, while Lady Acton added the occasional acid comment. The candlelight warmed his coloring to honey. Helena had known since their first meeting that he was extraordinarily good-looking. Now he shone like a jewel in its setting, absolutely the aristocrat, totally secure in his birthright.
And she had married him without recognizing that, a distinctly uncomfortable thought.
At last the countess gave a small nod and rose, and Helena followed Richard’s mother from the room. When the excuse was offered that she must be fatigued from the journey and would perhaps wish to retire early, she happily took it and went up to her bedroom.
The stream of maids instantly reappeared to remove her blue silk, comb out and braid her hair, put her into her plain muslin night rail, and fold back the covers. Had she not climbed into bed herself, no doubt they would have picked her up bodily and put her between the sheets.
There were still two maids in the room, efficiently putting everything exactly to rights, when a door at the side of the chamber opened and with blushes and curtsies the girls made a sudden exit.
Richard stood in the doorway. He had already removed his dinner jacket. His fine muslin shirt glowed amber in the dim light.
Helena instantly pulled the covers up to her chin with both hands.
“Am I disturbing you?” he asked blandly.
Helena gulped. Surely he didn’t intend—?
“No, of course not,” she said.
He came into the room and tugged at his cravat. The elaborate folds collapsed into single strip of cloth, and he opened up his shirt and rubbed at the back of his neck. His skin gleamed smoothly in the firelight.
“Who is Lady Lenwood?” Helena asked. She must make some ordinary conversation. “The footman announced her.”
Richard stopped. The black eyes filled with amusement.
“I only want to talk to you. You may relax and let go of the covers.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I have treated you shabbily, haven’t I? You are Lady Lenwood, because I am Viscount Lenwood. It’s a courtesy title always given to the oldest son. I had some wish to be judged solely on my merits, perhaps, by my comrades in the Peninsula, so I became plain Captain Acton. Though Wellington knew, of course, and my friends discovered it in due time, the habit stuck.” He reached for her dressing gown and held it out. “Here, let’s sit by the fire. It’s distinctly uncomfortable to talk to a lady who is lying in bed.”
Helena thrust her arms into the robe and slipped from the four-poster. She didn’t know how to tell him, but it was also distinctly uncomfortable to talk to a gentleman dressed in nothing but her night attire. But, of course, he was her husband. He had a right to be there.
She joined him at the fireside and he pulled a chair close to the flames, but he did not sit down opposite her.
“I hope I didn’t disgrace you this evening,” she said calmly.
He gave her a surprised look and began to pace on the Oriental rug.
“No, of course not. You have a natural dignity and in spite of refusing the services of my mother’s dresser, you looked more beautiful than I had any right to expect.”
It was small comfort. “Thank you, my lord.”
He stopped and turned to her. “My name is Richard.”
Helena gave a wry smile. “I already knew that, Captain Acton. It is the rest of the name that I am discovering in bits and pieces that disturbs me.”
“You know it all now or very nearly: Richard Arthur Lysander Acton, Viscount Lenwood. And so I am heir to King’s Acton and the accompanying earldom. Isn’t that enough?”