Society's Most Disreputable Gentleman. Julia Justiss

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СКАЧАТЬ beading his forehead from the effort, he was congratulating himself on his success at reaching the stately entry hall when an older, balding gentleman walked forwards and bowed. ‘Mr Anders,’ the man said, giving him a strained smile. ‘Delighted to welcome you to Ashton Grove.’

      The gentleman’s expression was so far from delighted that Greville bit back a smile before the unmistakable, swishing sound of skirts trailing over polished stone prompted him to carefully angle his head left.

      That uncomfortable manoeuvre was rewarded by a vision lovely enough to raise a red-blooded sailor from the dead. A category into which, after the Illustrious’s action with that Algerian pirate vessel off the coast of Tunis, he’d very nearly fallen, he thought wryly before giving mind and senses over to the sorely missed pleasure of gazing at a beautiful woman.

      For the first time in a long while, parts of his body tingled pleasantly as he took in an angelic vision of golden hair and a petite form wrapped in a flattering gown, just a hint of décolletage tempting one to peek down at an admirably rounded bosom. As he raised his gaze to the perfect oval of her face, large blue eyes stared back at him over a small, pert nose and plump rosebud-pink lips that were currently pursed. She frowned.

      Greville suppressed a sigh. Angels generally did frown at him.

      Long-inbred habits of gentility prompted him to attempt a bow, awkward as it was with the thick bandage still binding his chest and the fact that his equilibrium hadn’t yet adjusted to having a surface beneath his feet that remained firmly horizontal. ‘Lord Bronning, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘And …?’

      ‘My daughter, Miss Neville. Welcome to our home. I trust Lord Englemere made your journey as comfortable as possible—under the circumstances, of course,’ Bronning said, casting him a troubled glance.

      The lovely daughter merely inclined her head, her frown deepening. Greville hadn’t seen his own face in a glass for months, but in his ragtag sailor’s gear, with an unkempt beard and what he supposed must be the pallor induced by his lingering fever, doubtless he looked nothing like the sort of gentleman Miss Neville was accustomed to receiving in her father’s grand hall.

      ‘Miss Neville, my lord,’ he replied, acknowledging the introductions. ‘Yes, Lord Englemere did … all that was necessary.’ Given his already disreputable appearance, he thought it best not to mention that his passage from Spithead through Portsmouth and thence by coach to Ashton Grove had passed in such a laudanum haze that he had little memory of it. ‘I thank you, Lord Bronning, for receiving one so completely unknown to you.’

      ‘Not at all,’ Bronning replied quickly. ‘I’m happy to oblige Lord Englemere—and your sister, Lady Greaves, of course. Her husband, Sir Edward, is a valued acquaintance. But we won’t keep you standing here with the evening chill coming on! You must be exhausted from your travels. Sands will have a footman show you to your room.’

      His room. A real chamber with a bed that didn’t sway with the roll of the ship, doubtless located in a private space he wouldn’t share with a score of noisy, tar-begrimed, sweating sailors.

       Heaven.

      ‘I should like that, thank you,’ he said, summoning his waning strength for the task of climbing the forbiddingly tall stairway towards which a footman was leading him.

      ‘And, Mr Anders,’ Bronning called after him, ‘please don’t feel obliged to join us for dinner. Cook will be happy to prepare you a tray, if you’d prefer to remain in your chamber to rest and repose yourself after your long journey.’

      Rest and repose. He clung to the notion as a drowning man clutches at a spar after a shipwreck. Rest to finish healing his battered body, repose in which to put his fever-dulled wits to examining the implications of his abrupt transition from deckhand on a man-of-war to guest at an elegant English estate.

      ‘Thank you, my lord, I may do that,’ he said, reflecting as he tackled the stairs upon the irony of greeting the notion of solitude with such pleasure, he who not so very long ago would have done almost anything to avoid the boredom of having only himself for company.

      Gritting his teeth in determination, Greville made his way upwards, Miss Neville’s soft floral fragrance still teasing his nose.

      Amanda Neville felt disappointment and an entirely illogical sense of being ill-used replace her initial shock, as she stared after the newcomer hobbling up the stairs behind the footman.

      Ever since Papa had told her they were to house a relation of the Marquess of Englemere, she’d been bubbling over with anticipation, hoping he would be someone she could meet again in London this spring when she made her long-delayed come-out—mayhap even a handsome young man who might be a potential suitor. She’d had Mrs Pepys prepare the best guest bedchamber and instructed Cook to create a sumptuous meal for the night of his arrival.

      Stunned into silence by the appearance of the man who’d limped over their doorstep, she’d barely been able to nod a greeting. That grimy, battered man dressed like a common sailor was their guest? she thought again, still aghast and scarcely able to comprehend such a conundrum. Whatever had Papa been thinking, to agree to house such a person?

      Before she could utter a word, however, her father grabbed her arm and steered her down the hallway towards his study. ‘Don’t give me that look, puss, until I can explain,’ he said under his breath. ‘That will be all for now, Sands,’ he added, dismissing the butler who trailed after them, interest bright in his eyes.

      ‘Really, Papa, I know better than to gossip before the servants,’ she protested after he’d shut the study door behind them. ‘But when you told me you were to host Lord Englemere’s relative—why, he’s a Stanhope, head of one of the most prominent families in England! Are you sure this … sailor is truly his cousin?’

      ‘He gave the name “Anders” and arrived in a private coach, as I was led to expect, so he must be. Though I confess, I was as shocked by his appearance as you.’

      After depositing her on the sofa, her father took an agitated turn about the room. ‘Now that I think on it, though naturally I assumed so, the note from his lordship’s secretary never precisely said Mr Anders was an officer.’

      ‘He looks more like a—a ruffian!’ Amanda exclaimed, still feeling affronted. ‘A drunken one, at that! How are we to go about entertaining such a person? Is he to dine with us, be presented to our acquaintances?’

      Lord Bronning’s troubled frown deepened. ‘Dear me, I hope I haven’t made a terrible mistake, allowing him to come …’ His voice trailed off and he grimaced.

      ‘Now, Papa, you mustn’t upset yourself and bring on one of your spells,’ Amanda said quickly, concern for her father, who had not been in the best of health of late, quickly overshadowing her irritation and chagrin. ‘Come, sit, and let me pour you some wine,’ she urged, hopping up to guide her father to a chair and then fetch him a glass of port. ‘What precisely did his lordship’s note say?’

      ‘Only that Mr Anders had been serving on a warship and was being furloughed back to England after being wounded during a skirmish with privateers,’ her father replied, easing back into the cushions. ‘Apparently naval men injured too severely to perform their duties are sometimes posted to the Coastal Brigade while they heal. Having learned that Ashton Grove was not far from one of their stations, the marquess begged me to offer his cousin accommodations while he recuperated. Naturally, one does not say “no” to a marquess, especially one who writes so politely.’

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