“And why would he want me? He cares nothing for us, and you know it. We haven’t seen him in five years,” Lissa stated, her voice painfully even. “He’s been living quite a luxurious life in London and, I daresay, he never gives us a moment’s thought. Nor should he,” she conceded, “for we’re peasants in his eyes now. Things have changed. And everything that once happened . . . was so long ago . . . and . . . everything’s different now . . .” Her voice trailed off. She became silent as she looked out the window at the brown foliage that had once been pink petunias in the window box.
Ivan Tramore. She could hardly think the name, let alone say it. Damn him anyway! Why did he have to come back to Powerscourt just when they’d been cut off! Lissa closed her eyes. She could already picture his smug satisfaction at finding them destitute. If anything, he’d most likely be delighted to make their situation worse. And why was he coming back? Was it for her? Was it for revenge? She opened her eyes. Beneath her dark lashes, her blue eyes glittered with fear.
“I shouldn’t have mentioned him,” Evvie finally said.
“No, it’s all right.” She turned to her sister once more, her face a beautiful mask of control. “He’s coming back. So we must deal with his presence eventually—though I doubt, because of our station, we will see much of the grand Marquis of Powerscourt.” Lissa let out a well-rehearsed laugh. “So perhaps our poverty is a blessing in disguise.”
“You would have made a splendid match—”
“Father was not about to see me married to my stableboy, especially one,” she said, lowering her voice, “who was born on the wrong side of the sheets.” Her brow
furrowed. “So now let’s not speak of it further. It’s in the past. And Wilmott Billingsworth is in the future.”
“No, Lissa, no,” Evvie groaned again. But this time their contentions went no further for George abruptly burst through the door, arriving home from school.
Their little brother was a handsome boy. Lissa knew he would devastate the ladies once he became a man. Just nine years old, he already had Alice Bishop, the Bishops’ granddaughter, completely smitten with him. Alice was quite free with the horehound candy from her grandparents’ store whenever George was about. And though George tried to be manly and aloof, he was inevitably taken in by a sweet, toothless smile and the offer of candy.
As if she were his mother, Lissa went to him and took his school bag. She ran her hand lovingly through his coal-black hair, so different from her own blond tresses and Evvie’s brunette ones.
“So how was school today? Are you hungry?”
“It was fine,” George answered glumly, then he brightened. “But I read about Africa. Did you know there are tribes there who can kill you with a poison dart? And they stretch their lips like this . . .” He walked to the tea service, pulled out his lower lip, and tried to place a tea saucer inside it.
“No, George. Not with Mother’s Copeland Spode.” Horrified, Lissa immediately took the precious saucer from his grasp. “Eat something,” she ordered.
She gave him some tea she and Evvie had made earlier. There were some scones on a plate, and he eagerly reached for two.
“Any teasing today?” Evvie asked lightly.
George scowled. His heavily lashed, dark-brown eyes darted to Lissa.
“Well?” Lissa probed.
“No.” He began swinging his legs.
“No one said anything. Not even Johnny Miller?”
“No.” His legs swung harder.
“Well, that’s a relief.” Evvie began to knit once more. The clicking of her needles was soothing, but Lissa frowned, her gaze on George’s swinging legs. She looked him in the eye, but when she did, he sheepishly looked away.
Brave child, she thought, then sighed and watched him devour a third scone.
The next morning Lissa was out in the side yard hanging laundry. She was hurrying for she needed to go to Bishop’s to price fabric. Though they could hardly afford the expense—particularly now—she had convinced herself that she would need a new gown in order to call on Wilmott. Evvie was still in despair over her plan to marry the elderly man, but Lissa was determined to go forward.
It was a blustery fall day that held the threat of storms. However, once washed, the linens had to be hung, so Lissa quickly pinned the sheets, all the while glancing balefully at the sky, as if she were daring it to rain.
Without her crinoline, her long blond hair tucked in an old purple kerchief, and the sleeves of her faded pink calico pulled up to her elbows, she certainly felt as plain as an old washwoman. But the wind had chaffed her cheeks, making them a rosy pink, and her eyes sparkled vibrantly from their seductive azure depths. Many a gent had tipped his hat passing Violet Croft while she was in the yard. Unaware that they found her a fetching sight, Lissa merely nodded back demurely, uncomfortable with their attention.
She was almost done with her task when a commotion drove her to the front yard. Down the lane, the Johnsons were all stepping from their cottage, excitedly pointing in the direction of town. Several travelers on the road bade their horses pause as they, too, watched the bustle.
A coaching party, consisting of scarlet-liveried outrid
ers, blue-and-silver bedecked postillions, satin-clad coachmen, eight Irish Thoroughbreds harnessed with silver fittings, and last, a gleaming black-lacquered coach bearing the silver-and-black Powerscourt crest on its door, made its way through town, ultimately heading for the castle up the knoll.
Peering toward the main thoroughfare of the village, Lissa gasped at the magnificent sight. Then she felt her heart lurch in her chest when she realized what it meant.
Ivan had returned.
How she had dreaded his arrival—dreaded it like a specter that had haunted her for five years. And now he was here. That thought left her almost in a swoon, but as she continued to watch the glorious entourage wind its way up to the castle, she couldn’t help the small thrill of pride that ran down her spine. Her stableboy had come home triumphant. And somehow, by fate or simply by sheer dint of will, he had shown them all.
Suddenly she had the urge to laugh. Her terror now seemed absurd. The man who possessed this elaborate conveyance was not likely to spend his time seeking the company of two pauperish spinsters.
She thought of him sitting inside his coach as it rocked and swayed. Even now she found her imagination trying desperately to picture him. Was he still handsome? Did his eyes still twinkle when someone made him laugh? Did his face still bear—
“What is all the bustle about?” Evvie called to her from the front door. “I could hear the Johnsons exclaiming in the parlor.”
Lissa could hardly speak for the emotion caught in her throat. “Lord Powerscourt has arrived.”
All at once she felt tears of panic and guilt spring to her eyes. Acting like a madwoman she rushed past her sister into the house. There she began to change her clothes for a trip to Bishop’s. Suddenly her courtship with Wilmott could not wait.
It was several hours later when Lissa came trudging home from the Mercantile. Disheartened, she had looked at every bolt of silk Mrs. Bishop could dig out for her, but there was not a yard in one of them that she could afford. There was always linsey woolsey, or worse, hopsacking, but she needed something appropriate for tea or, perhaps, a quiet dinner at the Billingsworth estate. And even the least expensive machine-made horror was still beyond the price she could pay.
So with this dismal revelation, she walked through the village, her mind all the while scouring her wardrobe in hopes of finding a gown that could be modernized with some lace or cording. When she turned the corner to go home, she had just decided that her gray-blue serge could be refashioned. Her thoughts elsewhere, she absently looked down the path to her cottage. There, to her horror, she saw the coach.
She stumbled forward in disbelief. It had to be some terrible mistake! The coach in the distance could not be the same one she had seen hours earlier. But, running, she soon confirmed that it was indeed the same. There were the postillions sitting idly on the Thoroughbreds, their silver-corded coats glinting in the fall sunshine. Two coachmen were leaning on the back of the cab, polishing their silver buttons and laughing, no doubt over some bawdy joke.
Bewildered, Lissa came to a halt, then put her hands to her flaming cheeks. Panic again welled in her breast. This couldn’t be happening! It couldn’t, she told herself as she neared Violet Croft.
But it was happening; the coachmen told her so as they met her arrival with a long, perusing stare; the weather told her so as she felt several drops of rain bring her back to reality. Ivan Tramore was at her house. Her entire world spun before her.
Slowly she walked to the door of the cottage and grasped the heavy iron knob for support. Her hand went
to her waist to make sure her spencer was properly pulled down. When she was sure her chemise was hidden, her hand then went to her throat. Dismally she felt the scratchy machine-made lace at her collar. How she’d wished she’d worn anything else this day! She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. There was nothing she could do about it. Resigning herself, she twisted the doorknob and entered her home with utmost trepidation.
Evvie was on her feet the second she walked to the parlor door. Unable to breathe, Lissa dared not look around. Instead her gaze fixed on their mother’s pink and green tea service, which was laid out on a linen tea cloth Evvie had blessedly used to cover the scratches on their old rectory table. Feeling a bit more brave, she looked at Evvie, who was pale in spite of the glitter of hope in her eyes. Too terrified to move farther into the room, she simply looked at her sister and waited for her to speak.
“Lissa, dear,” Evvie began nervously. “You’ll never guess who’s come to call.”
But she knew, all right. Lissa suppressed the overwhelming desire to flee and just continued to stare at her sister. She was unable to let her eyes search the room for
him.
“Come and have tea with us.” Evvie held her hand out in the direction of the parlor entrance. “Ivan . . . uh, I mean, of course,
Lord
Ivan, has just been telling me of his trip from London.”
When Evvie mentioned his name, the man Lissa had dreaded seeing for five long years finally rose from his seat. His chair had been facing away from the parlor entrance, so the first glance she had of him was just the top of his dark head.
When he finally faced her, Lissa turned fearful eyes upon him. As she dared to look at him fully, she almost gasped at how much he’d changed and yet how much he had not. He was taller than she remembered, his shoulders broader. Though she had never seen him so attired, his
fine masculine form looked quite at ease in the expensive marine-blue topcoat. His hair was still as dark as a raven’s wing, but now he wore it cropped in a fashionable style. His eyes were just as beautiful; gypsy eyes she had once called them, and though most believed Ivan Tramore’s eyes to be black, Lissa knew all too well that they were blue, as dark and mysterious as the sky at midnight.
Her gaze swept his face, and she found it even more devastatingly handsome than the day he had left her. There was only one addition to it, however, and seeing it, her heart skipped a beat. She saw the scar on his left cheek, a white, angry scar. In morbid fascination, she stared at it, mesmerized.
Deep in her thoughts, she barely heard Evvie clear her throat. It took all her effort to tear her gaze from the scar, but she was finally able to. She then turned to Evvie and said as graciously as she could, “Isn’t this an unexpected delight.” Yet even to her ears, the words sounded forced.
Uncomfortable beneath Lord Ivan’s dark perusal, Lissa nervously made her way to the sofa. When she took her sister’s hand, Evvie released a little laugh, unable to bear much more of the tension. To Lissa’s horror, her sister blurted out to their guest, “Lord Ivan, your silence dismays me. Could it be that my sister is not as beautiful as I remember her to be?”
Hardly believing that Evvie would ask such a thing, Lissa blushed furiously. With Tramore still scrutinizing her, she felt horribly self-conscious. Nervously she reached around and pulled on the waist of her spencer.
“She’s more so.”
With Powerscourt’s unexpected words, she was brought upright. Unwillingly she met his stare, and as her azure eyes locked with his, she saw the shadowy glimmer he held in them just for her. Feeling as if a knife had passed through her heart, she suddenly knew, without any doubt at all, that he’d come back for revenge.
If she had been the type to faint, she would have fallen right then to the floor in a glorious heap of skirts and crinoline. But she was not the type to faint, so instead she took a deep breath, put on her iciest façade, and sat down to tea.
“Please sit, Lord Ivan. More tea?” she asked him coldly, taking over the role of hostess from Evvie.
Lord Powerscourt gave her a sardonic smile and sat also. He nodded to the tea, then his gaze took liberties with her figure that no other man had ever dared.
She knew that arrogant stare only too well, and she endured it as best she could. But when she couldn’t stand it a second more, she blurted out, “
So
what has brought you calling on Evvie so soon after your arrival . . . ah . . . my lord?”
“I thought it my duty to offer your sister my condolences. I was quite sorry to hear about her ‘difficulties’ in the time I’ve been away.”
Lord Ivan watched her pour out. She damned his look of satisfaction when he saw her hand shake.
“Shall we have more biscuits?” Evvie suddenly stood. She put her hand on the empty biscuit plate. Picking it up, she frowned worriedly in Ivan’s direction, then made her way through the maze of furniture to the kitchen.
As Lissa watched her go, she regretted those long painstaking days when she had taught Evvie how to get about in the house. She had always been so proud that her sister was able to take care of herself at Violet Croft, even so far that she could make and serve tea to their few guests. But now she damned all the lectures to George about keeping the chairs out of Evvie’s path, she damned all of Evvie’s bruised shins, and mostly she damned herself for teaching her sister self-reliance to the point that Evvie was the one allowed to leave this terrible scene for more biscuits, and not herself.