A Scandalous Situation. Patricia Frances Rowell
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with it. Her tightly fitted boots presented more of a problem, but after a brief tussle, she got them and her stockings off. Never again would she take the services of a maid for granted. In fact, she would make it a point to give Molly a nice gift when she got home.
If she ever got home. The briefest glance at the window revealed nothing but blinding snow and the wind crying at the casement. They were extremely fortunate to have made the shelter of the stable when they had.
Calming her panic with a deep breath, Iantha opened the wardrobe and concentrated on its contents. It did, indeed, contain a welter of silks and satins. She pulled out a gown of pale blue brocade with falls of white lace and spread it out on the bed. Truly lovely. But of a style that required a large hoop. That wouldn’t do. She would never be able to get into it by herself, let alone manage hoops.
Iantha replaced it and drew out a soft lavender silk that would reflect her eyes and complement her delicate features and fair skin. Much better. The fitted bodice laced up the front, so she could fasten it herself, and the square neckline did not reveal as much bosom as current dinner gowns. Further search revealed enough petticoats to hold the full skirt out sufficiently so that she would not trip. Luckily, the former Lady Duncan seemed to have been a bit shorter than Iantha.
She donned the gown and replaced the hidden pistol under her skirts. A short session with the comb found on the old-fashioned dresser got the snarls out of her shining hair, and she arranged it simply, with her own silver combs holding part of it high on her head. The rest fell in soft curls. At least when it had lost its color, it had not lost its curl.
Feeling rather as she had as a child playing dress-up in her own grandmother’s clothes, Iantha opened the door and peered into the corridor. Seeing no one about, she set off down the hall in the direction she thought she had come with Lord Duncan. She had almost decided that she had come the wrong way when she turned a corner she did not remember and almost collided with the most astounding apparition.
Iantha gasped and jerked back.
The apparition did likewise.
And then it bowed.
“Forgive me, madam. I have startled you. I am Vijaya Sabara.”
Iantha found herself staring at a slender man of medium height, his head wrapped in an elaborate silk turban, and a neat black beard covering olive cheeks and chin. A huge sapphire fixed to his headdress dangled in the middle of his forehead. And his clothing… She could only gaze in wonder. So colorful. So rich. So…
So barbaric.
“I…uh… How—how do you do?” So utterly inept! The man would think her a fool. Iantha flushed.
“Very well, thank you.” His brow wrinkled in puzzlement. “I did not know we had a lady in residence.”
“Lord Duncan rescued me from the storm. I am Iantha Kethley. Can you direct me to the dining room?”
“Ah. Please allow me to guide you. You are going in quite the wrong direction.” The apparition did not offer his arm, but with a sweep of his hand indicated that she should retrace her steps. She turned and accompanied him back the way she had come. What a sight the two of them must make, she in her antique dress, he in his soft, jewel-adorned silks. Like guests at a masquerade.
Iantha’s head spun. She seemed to be losing her grip on reality, rather like the heroine in a penny dreadful. She felt the storm had swept her away from her own time and place to…to what? Would she next encounter a specter with its head under one arm?
Heaven forfend!
A sigh of relief escaped her as she beheld the stalwart frame of Lord Duncan coming up the staircase. At least he looked English and familiar and ordinary in buckskin trousers and a neat coat stretched across broad shoulders. Reality settled once more into place.
“There you are, Miss Kethley. I was just coming to escort you to dinner. One can easily lose one’s way in this great pile.” Just as he started to offer his arm, Iantha placed a hand on the banister, pretending not to notice.
“Yes. I had done just that.” She smiled. “I seem to require much rescuing today.”
His lordship grinned. “Our pleasure. I see you have met my friend Prince Vijaya. He has come from India to England with me to learn more about our country on behalf of his father, who is a maharaja in the district of Orissa.”
At the door of a small dining parlor the Indian bowed again. “Your servant, Miss Kethley. If you will excuse me?”
With no further explanation he disappeared down the corridor. Iantha looked questioningly at his lordship.
“Vijaya prefers to eat alone.” Rob ushered her into the room and held a chair for her, then sat across from her. “Many Indians regard eating as something that should be done in private. Considering the table manners of some of our best people, one can see their point.”
A smile softened her delicate face. He had been correct in his earlier assessment. His distressed damsel was beautiful when she smiled. Extremely so. And the old-fashioned dress seemed to suit her. “That gown is very becoming to you. You make me think of the younger portraits of my grandmother with her powdered hair.” Her smile faded, and she looked down at her folded hands.
Hmm. Obviously he had erred. The lady must be sensitive about her hair. “Forgive me. I seem to have been less than tactful, but I think your hair is lovely. Do you dislike it?”
The lady wrinkled her dainty nose, but looked him in the eye. “One hardly wishes to appear so old at the age of four-and-twenty.”
“Old?” A bark of laugher escaped him. “My dear Miss Kethley, you could not look old if—” He broke off and shook his head. “Not under any circumstances whatsoever. You are much too beautiful.”
“Now you are flattering me.” She cocked her head and raised her eyebrows, but the smile hovered around the corners of her mouth.
Rob grinned. “Do you perceive me as a man who is skilled in flattery?”
She considered him thoughtfully. “No,” she said at last. “No, you seem rather to be a man given to plain speaking.”
“That I am, a plain man, and I am plainly stating that I find you unusually striking. May I serve you a glass of wine?”
“Thank you.” She nodded her acceptance of the wine, if not the compliment, but a small frown replaced her smile. “I know the storm is raging, but… Is there no way to get a message to Hill House, to my parents? They will be frantic with worry. I did not even tell them….”
“That you were going out? I wondered who allowed you to come up here alone.” Rob’s own smile faded. “I’m sorry, but I cannot set out into that blizzard. I would be dead in an hour.”
“Oh, no! I do not ask that. I only hoped…” She sighed. “I was being foolish. Forgive me.”
Rob started to reach across the table to clasp her hand, but just as the impulse struck, the slender hand slipped from the table into her lap. Hmm. It had not escaped his attention that when he had placed his hand on her back to guide her to her chair, she had quietly stepped away after the briefest contact. Nor had she taken his arm coming down the stairs. Apparently his rescued damsel remained a bit wary of her rescuer. And under the circumstances… Well, perhaps time and better acquaintance would cure that.
“Nay, not foolish—understandably concerned.” He poured himself a tankard of ale from a pitcher. “It is certainly a very bad situation, but I see no way to remedy it tonight—and possibly not tomorrow. So you reside with your parents? Since you answer to ‘miss,’ I collect that you are not married?”
“No. I am not.” She took an infinitesimal sip of wine. Little danger of this cautious lady becoming fuddled by strong drink. “I live with my family. My father is Viscount Rosley. I have two younger brothers and a sister still at home. I also have an older sister, who has married Lord Rochland, and an older brother in the cavalry.”
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