Bound by Honor

Chapter 16

Then the sight that greeted her in the hallway pushed that thought aside.

Josepha stood in front of one of the portraits, her slender hand resting on

the Boulle chest to her left. Sir Giles—Letitia had already learned the

names of the sitters and their connection to the family history—stared

down fiercely from his portrait at a man in riding clothes facing Letitia’s

companion.

He was almost as tall as Sir Percival and about his age. His tousled

light-brown hair had plenty of sun streaks, betraying the outdoor

inclination. His voice reverberated between the stone walls while

Josie—her always prudent Josie—grinned at him.

“It will be a great pleasure, Miss Fourier,” the charmer was saying. “If you

come early in the morning, I will show you the hothouses before they heat

up beyond comfort.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Petre. Perhaps I will come. And thank you for the

offer of a potted plant for my room.”

So this was the steward? Letitia appraised him with interest.

“My pleasure,” he replied, bowing slightly. “I shall return later in the

afternoon to speak with Lady Letitia about the changes in the orangery.”

“I cannot tell for certain when she will— Oh, here she is.” Josepha noticed

her presence at last, having momentarily taken her eyes off the steward.

“Mr. Petre has come to find out what you wish to do with the orangery.”

“Mr. Petre.” Letitia extended her hand to him, and he bowed over it with all

the gallantry one would expect from the sixth and youngest son of a

viscount. “Let me show you what I have in mind. Josie, would you please

bring my sketchbook from the sitting room?”

Josepha nodded and turned toward the staircase.

Letitia headed toward the corridor leading to the library. “How soon can

you begin, Mr. Petre?” she asked.

“On Tuesday, ma’am,” he replied, sending a fleeting glance toward the

stairs.

Sir Percival waited for her at the bottom of the staircase when she

descended on the morning of their wedding breakfast. Dressed in the

same clothes he had worn to the church, he presented an image of

strength and self-confidence. A sliver of sunlight that gleamed through the

dome highlighted his dark hair. Letitia noted again the fine lines of his

features and the sensuousness of his mouth. An unexpected longing

washed over her, together with the renewed desire to paint his face.

Sir Percival let his gaze sweep over her figure. Apparently, she passed

inspection, because his eyes smiled when they met hers. He offered her

his arm once she reached the last step.

“It is going to be a long day,” he remarked. “Are you ready?”

“Certainly,” she said, looking around the hall. The flower arrangements on

the commodes filled the space with heavenly scents and an effusion of

colors. Even the figures in the portraits seemed to have lost some of the

rigidity of their stance. Sir Giles’s silver breastplate shone under the long

line of sunlight stretching from his left shoulder and across the canvas all

the way to that warped bottom corner of the frame Letitia had noticed while

going over the inventory with the housekeeper.

A thought struck her. “Are there any relatives of yours among the guests

today?”

“No,” Sir Percival said. “My aunt and her family live in Devonshire.”

“Do you ever see her?”

“I visit her and my uncle every year,” he replied. “We were once very

close. They took care of me after my parents died.”

His parents died so long ago? She was stunned by his admission. “How

old were you when that happened?”

“My mother died when I was five. My father followed her within a couple of

years.”

“I am so very sorry,” she said spontaneously and with sincerity. The

familiar, unrelenting regret and sense of loss that overpowered her

whenever she thought of her brother and mother washed over her

uninvited.

Sir Percival nodded. “I am fortunate to have caring relatives who spared

no effort to care for me and my inheritance,” he said. “I owe my aunt and

uncle a great deal more than I can ever repay.”

Letitia’s chest constricted when she imagined a little boy leaving his home

for the last time. But there couldn’t be a more awkward time to tell him how

sorry she felt for the child he had once been. They were about to greet

their guests. She realized she was squeezing his arm when he covered

her hand with his and patted it.

“It was a very long time ago,” he said. “Speaking of my aunt, there is one

of her friends, Mrs. Baillie. She moved to the village here and bought Rose

Cottage after her husband died in the American War. I think you will like

her.”

An elderly lady in a flowing dress and a straw bonnet adorned with roses

floated toward them, her arms outstretched and a broad smile on her face.

“Percy, my dear!” she exclaimed before hugging Sir Percival and kissing

his cheeks.

He stepped back and kissed her hand.

“So, you are a married man again. God bless you both.”

She turned to Letitia.

“You, my dear, must promise to visit me often,” she said, taking her

hands. “An old woman like me could use young company. And I want to

get to know you better, now that you are part of us.”

“Thank you.” Letitia smiled. There was warmth in Mrs. Baillie’s demeanor

that managed to melt away even some of the sternness in Sir Percival’s

countenance.

“You, my dear child, are the envy of a number of young ladies who set

their caps on Percy.” Mrs. Baillie squeezed her hands and smiled back. “I

am glad for you. And you too,” she added, turning a motherly gaze on Sir

Percival. “Make the most of your good luck, my dear.”

He bowed his head in response and indicated the door.

Mrs. Baillie sent Letitia another warm glance before going in.

Meanwhile, Sir Percival turned to greet the family that had just

dismounted from their carriage. “The Fogerhills,” he murmured into

Letitia’s ear as they watched the approaching couple, two girls behind

them.