Immense, imposing, impressive, yet not cold. Helena studied it, trying to find the right words. Built of sand-colored stone, the façade and all the walls she could see had stood for many years; they were solid, established, and had mellowed, settling into the landscape that had been created around them. The wide lawns, the size of the trees that dotted them, the way the lake she glimpsed beyond the lawns sat so perfectly within the vista, testified that both house and gardens had matured and reached a certain harmony.
Accustomed to the heavily structured, geometrically exact surrounds of French noble houses, Helena was intrigued by the lack of all such formality here. Despite that lack, the result was magnificent, palatial—unquestionably the home of a wealthy and powerful man. Yet there was more, something else. Something unexpected.
The house was welcoming. Alive. Oddly warm—as if the stone façade were a benevolent defense protecting some gentler existence within.
A bemusing observation, yet as the coach halted before the sweep of steps leading up to the front door, she couldn’t shake the conviction.
Thierry descended first, then handed her down. Moving past him, she fought at least to mask the eagerness that seized her—to hide it from Sebastian, who had come out of the door as the carriage rolled up and was now descending the steps with his usual languid grace.
She offered her hand; he took it and bowed, then straightened and drew her to him. Turning with her, he let his gaze travel along the handsome façade, then glanced at her, arching a brow. “Dare I hope my home meets with your approval,mignonne ?”
The curve of his long lips, the light in his eye, suggested he knew that it did.
Helena lifted her chin. “I have yet to see beyond its façade, Your Grace. It’s common knowledge façades can be deceiving.”
Their gazes met, held, then, his smile deepening, he inclined his head. “Indeed.”
Turning, he greeted Thierry and Marjorie, exchanged a nod with Louis, then led them indoors.
In the front hall Sebastian introduced her to his butler, Webster, and the housekeeper, a Mrs. Swithins. The latter was an unflappable, matronly woman; on learning of Helena’s lack of a maid, she promised to send a girl up. “I’ll have your bags taken up and unpacked the instant they arrive.”
“Until then,” Sebastian said, “we’ll repair to the drawing room.”
“Indeed, Your Grace.” Mrs. Swithins bobbed a curtsy. “Tea will be ready—you need only ring.”
Sebastian inclined his head, apparently unperturbed by the woman’s familiarity; Helena inwardly shook her head. The English were different in many ways. She found their easier manners relaxing.
As Sebastian ushered them across the hall, she struggled not to look this way and that, to stare about her. Despite the fact that it was still weeks to Christmas, the scent of evergreens hung in the air. A holly wreath sporting bright red berries was mounted over the huge hearth at the end of the hall.
She’d fully expected that odd promise of warmth to be merely a feature of the façade. Instead . . . it wasn’t warmth, real warmth, but rather a lingering sense of peace, of harmony, of happiness past, present, and anticipated that radiated from the walls, enfolding her in its welcome.
Fabien’s fortress, Le Roc, was cold and barren; she’d never sensed any warmth there. Her own home, Cameralle, was . . . cool. It might, she thought, dredging her memories of the time her parents had been alive, once have held a similar sense of peace, but that had faded, dissipated; the long halls were now filled with a quiet sense of waiting.
Here there was a sense of waiting, too, but it was different—expectant, confident, as if happiness and joy were assured.
A footman opened a door; Sebastian ushered her through. She put aside her fanciful thoughts as a short, plump lady with brown hair and soft brown eyes rose from the chaise, laying aside the book she’d been reading.
“Allow me to present my aunt, Lady Clara.”
Clara smiled warmly and clasped her hand. “Welcome, my dear. I’m delighted to meet you.”
Helena smiled back. She would have curtsied, but Clara stopped her, tightening her grip on her hand.
“I’m not at all clear, dear, who has precedence. Let’s not confuse the issue—I won’t curtsy if you won’t.”
Helena laughed and inclined her head. “It will be as you wish.”
“Good! And you will call me Clara, won’t you?” Patting her hand, Clara turned to greet Marjorie with the same rather vague benevolence, then waved them to seats.
“Do ring, Sebastian, and ask for tea.” Subsiding onto the chaise, Clara waved him to the bellpull, then stopped, considering Thierry and Louis. “But perhaps the gentlemen would like something stronger?”
Thierry smiled and shook his head, assuring her that tea would suit him admirably.
Louis had blanched at the mention of sustenance. He waved his hands. “No—I thank you. Nothing for me.” He retreated to a chair a little way from the group, summoning a weak smile as he sat.
Sebastian obeyed and, when Webster arrived, ordered the tea to be brought in; he seemed unperturbed at being the recipient of Clara’s orders. His aunt was clearly another who did not go in awe of him.
They sat down to conversation and tea served in exquisite bone china; Helena was tempted to check—she suspected the set was de Sèvres’s. Marjorie and Clara had settled into an easy patter. The china tweaked Helena’s curiosity; she glanced around the room with newly opened eyes.
It was as she’d guessed; every single item her eye alighted on attested to its owner’s wealth. But not only that; most pieces were not new. They spoke of the family’s long-standing prominence, of the luxury and affluence Sebastian and Clara doubtless took for granted. Indeed, it was the same state of worldly grace into which Helena herself had been born, in which she felt most at home. It occurred to her that in the space of an hour she already felt comfortable here.
Her gaze slid to Sebastian. He sat elegantly relaxed in an armchair, apparently listening to Thierry satisfying Clara’s request to be told of the masquerade, yet his eyes, under their hooded lids, rested on her.
She looked away, sipped her tea, then set down the cup. Looked again at its delicacy. Felt the padded softness of the velvet cushions at her back, the thickness of the Aubusson carpet beneath her shoes.
Seduction took many forms. Sebastian, she was sure, knew them all.
Shortly after, he took pity on Thierry and Louis and offered to show them around the house. The instant the door closed behind them, Clara turned to her. “Now, I daresay you’d like to hear about the Place.”
Helena blinked, then nodded. “Please.”
Within minutes she realized she had a firm supporter in Clara, that the older woman had, apparently on sight, decided she was the perfect wife for Sebastian, on whom, it quickly became apparent, she doted. She was his paternal aunt; she’d married young and been widowed early. Having spent most of her life at Somersham Place, she was acquainted with every aspect of running the great house.
It all poured from her; Helena listened and found herself pulled in, asking questions, drawing on Clara’s knowledge. Managing a house this size—and the estate was formidable, too—was precisely the challenge she’d been raised and trained to meet, the challenge that, until now, Fabien had denied her. She might own vast estates and a château as well, but, unmarried, she’d lived under her guardian’s auspices, for the most part under his roof. Cameralle was open but barely staffed—just enough to keep the house functioning for Ariele, who often retired there.
She’d never been a hostess, never had the chance to test herself in that arena, never tasted the joy of social triumph. As she listened to Clara paint a glowing picture of the purview of the Duchess of St. Ives, Helena hungered for the opportunity, thirsted for the position. Even knowing that Sebastian’s machinations had probably extended to foreseeing such an outcome didn’t dim her desire.