Page 15 of Adeline

“Has the roasted goose been taken in?”

“Ye may go in and check, m’lord.” The servant dipped into a curtsey. “I fear I be forget’n all that be served.”

With a snort, Jasper turned to Abbington. “Can you summon Mrs. Hutchins, please? I would speak with her about—“

“My lord, Jasper,”—his butler sighed in resignation—“from all I’ve heard, Miss Adeline is a nice enough young woman. Do join her for her meal.”

“I have already eaten.” Jasper’s excuse was empty, even to his own ears. “Besides, I need to check if her carriage has been brought to the stables as yet.”

“I will send word when I hear.”

“But I must begin the necessary repairs immediately if she is to depart in time to reach London by nightfall.”

“Again, I can send word when Watson and his men—“

A bolt of lightning lit the corridor, followed by the boom of thunder far too close for Jasper’s liking. Something slammed in the dining hall, followed by the resounding shatter of glass. A high-pitched scream echoed through the thick door.

His jaw clenched as the sound reverberated in his head, his legs weakening for the span of a mere heartbeat.

Jasper pushed through the double doors as they slammed against the wall behind them. Wind assaulted his face when he scanned the room, searching for what had caused Miss Adeline to shout in terror. It was as if a cyclone had moved through the dining hall—two of the candelabras were blown over, their light extinguished, and another closer to the tall windows had been snuffed. The drapes blew into the room from the open bay windows, shards of glass littered the floor in every direction. Miss Adeline stood, her arms wrapped around herself, her chair overturned behind her.

“Miss Adeline!” Jasper stopped only a few feet into the dining hall.

Abbington shuffled around him into the room, attempting to secure the windows to keep the rain from pouring in, but the latch had been broken.

The woman’s back was to him, and she shivered. “Are you injured?”

Jasper should not have raced into action, but instead allowed Abbington to handle the situation. It would have been far wiser to depart and send for a footman to clean up the mess of the shattered window, but still, he stood frozen, his glare on her back as she slowly turned to face him—just as another lightning strike illuminated the room and his marred neck and arm.

His years living with his deformity from the fire should have prepared him for her reaction. He should have been primed for her recoil. He should have anticipated her loud gasp. He should have predicted the look of wide-eyed terror that followed.

However, even after fifteen years of enduring such responses to the scars that covered the side of his face, neck, and down his arm, Jasper was never able to steel himself against the inner pain that coursed through him as others witnessed his outer damage.

To her credit, her shock lasted less than a few seconds before her poise returned and she sighed in relief, glancing toward the now closed windows as Abbington used a cord from the drapes to tie the handles together. Wind and rain still made their way in through the broken pane, but the worst of the storm had been pushed back outside.

Jasper itched to assist Abbington with the mess that had been created.

“Lord Ailesbury?” Miss Adeline asked tentatively.

She hadn’t seen his face the previous night. Therefore, she could think him anyone. With his simple white linen shirt and sturdy, brown trousers, Jasper appeared anything but the master of Faversham Abbey. He did not stand on pomp and ceremony in his household. Never did he wear a neckcloth or style his hair in the latest gentlemen’s fashion.

He could escape now, repair her carriage, and send Miss Adeline on her way without them crossing paths again.

He should flee.

Chapter 6

There was no mistaking the man for anyone but the Earl of Ailesbury—lord of Faversham Abbey. His size with his broad shoulders and muscular legs spread in an authoritative stance were distinctive and brought to mind the man who’d rescued Adeline from the roadway the previous night. That he was attired in such informal shirt and trousers did not strike her as odd in any way.

It fit him. Perfectly.

And she would recognize him anywhere, no matter if he wore a cloak to hide his scarred countenance or remained in the shadows of the room.

Every inch of her was drawn to him, no matter the apprehension coursing through her at the initial sight of him.

“Lord Ailesbury?” He’d scared her far more when he barged into the dining hall than the commotion from the broken window latch, the shattering of the windowpane, and the subsequent destruction when the wind sent the candelabras falling in every direction.

Thankfully, the wicks had been snuffed in the gust before they lit the fine tablecloth ablaze.