Alice, taking in the plainness of his garb, the modest plume in his hat, let disapproval tinge her voice. ‘A Puritan, although a fine figure of a man for all that.’
‘Another lawyer, by his bands. I doubt he’s a cleric.’ Henrietta ignored the latter part of her maidservant's observation, but something about the figure on the horse prompted her to lean forward and tug at Alice's shoulder. ‘Do come in, Alice. It is unseemly to stare so.’
The sharp urgency in her tone must have carried to the courtyard below. The man reined in the powerful grey and looked up to the open casement, his eyes meeting Henrietta's with the directness of a touch.
Her face burning, she stepped back, one hand to her throat. To be caught gaping like a serving girl at an inn window, and on the very day whe
n she expected to have her legal right to Winterbourne affirmed, was shaming. She snapped at Alice, ‘Get down to the kitchens and order refreshments for our guests. Tell Martha to prepare the Spanish chamber for Lawyer Stone as usual, and a room for his clerk and that other man as well. Quickly, girl. I will tell my aunt they are here.’
Alice gathered her skirts around her with an affronted sniff and swept out of the room in a passable imitation of Henrietta at her most dignified.
Despite her embarrassment and irritation at being caught in such an undignified attitude Henrietta couldn't resist a smile at Alice's injured dignity.
Hastily she turned to her dressing-table, lifting the lid on her dressing-case to reveal the tarnished silvered mirror inside. She bent down, patted the ringlets in front of her ears into order, checked with a turn of her neck that the knot of hair at her nape was still confined in its ribbon net. She tugged gently at the upper edge of the collar, arranging it more becomingly across the swell of her bosom, then on impulse tilted the pink liquid in one of the glass phials on to her fingertips, filling the cool air of the room with the fragrance of rosewater. Henrietta traced her wet fingertips behind each ear and at each pulse-point at her wrists, then caught herself in the action.
Why go to such trouble for old Lawyer Stone whom she had known all her life? Provided she was dressed neatly and decently she very much doubted he could say five minutes later what she'd been wearing. No, the impulse behind this careful toilette was the tall dark horseman. Cross with herself, Henrietta snapped down the lid of the dressing-case. Indeed, she must be seeing a surfeit of young sprigs if the prospect of conversation with a mature man, even a sombre lawyer, had this effect on her.
Impatient, she waited for Alice to return, listening to the sound of voices from below and the stirrings of the household as it prepared to greet the unexpected visitors.
When Alice came back she was breathless and flushed. ‘Your aunt is receiving them in the Long Gallery,’ she reported. ‘Mary is bringing refreshment to them there and Kate and Martha…’ she paused to catch her breath and rattled on ‘…are preparing the Spanish chamber and the red bedchamber.’
‘Good.’ Henrietta nodded in satisfaction that her household was rising to the occasion.
‘You were right,’ Alice added slyly as they walked down the panelled corridor to the long gallery. ‘The rider is no cleric. By his bearing and his clothes he's a gentleman, and a fine one at that.’
‘Your hair is loose,’ Henrietta chided, trying to ignore Alice's gossip. She needed to collect herself before meeting a stranger. ‘Tidy yourself before we go in to our guests. Do you want them to think we are country bumpkins?’
The door stood open and from within came the soft tones of her widowed aunt offering drinks. ‘A glass of Canary, Mr Stone? Or perhaps some of our own cider you enjoyed so much last time we had the pleasure of your company?’
‘Thank you, madam,’ the lawyer's rich courtroom voice filled the big room. ‘A draught of cider to wash down the dust would be most welcome. I cannot recall such a dry spring for many a long year.’
‘And you, sir?’ Aunt Susan said as Henrietta entered the gallery, Alice a correct two paces behind her. ‘Will you have cider or wine?’
‘A glass of Canary, if you please – ’ The stranger broke off and turned at the sound of Henrietta's footstep on the polished boards.
He said nothing but his mouth curved into a smile and his eyes… His eyes as they rested on her held heat and a very masculine awareness.
Chapter Two
Henrietta gave the stranger a frosty stare and swept into the room as Lawyer Stone heaved himself to his feet from the fireside chair and beamed as he always did at the sight of her.
‘My dear child!’ He came and took her hand, kissing her on the cheek with the familiarity of a man who had known her from the cradle. The shrewd eyes scanned her face. ‘There are blue smudges under your eyes, my dear, and you haven’t been eating properly have you? But you are in fine looks,’ he added softly, ‘A woman now, not a girl. And the grief will pass in time.’
Henrietta was touched by such gentleness from a man usually bluff and businesslike. She returned the pressure of his hand and smiled her thanks. ‘You are right, sir. Hardly an hour passes without my thinking of Francis, but I can remember without anger for his death now, and without doubts as to the rightness of his being an exile in the Low Countries.’
Stone patted her shoulder, and walked heavily back to his chair, pausing as if he suddenly remembered his silent companion. ‘But I am forgetting my manners in my pleasure at seeing you, Henrietta. Allow me to present your… my colleague in law, Matthew Sheridan. Sheridan, Mistress Henrietta Wynter.’
Henrietta kept her eyes modestly lowered as she dropped a slight curtsy to the stranger, aware only of the long, booted legs, the elegance of his bow in contrast to the plainness of his dress.
‘Madam?’ The deep voice turned the single word into a question.
‘Sir,’ Henrietta replied coolly. When she lifted her gaze to his face the question was still there in his eyes. What he was so silently asking she had no idea, but she felt the colour rising in her cheeks, the breath constricting in her throat.
Without the shadowing brim of his hat she could see his eyes were green beneath brows as dark as his hair. His face was tanned, lean and serious, the face of a thinker. Yet Henrietta could not deceive herself that here was a scholar, locked away in his study from the world. Those green eyes spoke of experience and action.
She held out her hand, maintaining a formality at odds with the reaction he was evoking in her.
Matthew Sheridan took it in a light grasp, bent his dark head, briefly brushed her knuckles with his lips and as briefly released her, stepping back to accept the glass of Canary from the maid.