The Resident Evil at Blackthorn Manor by Catherine Coulter

Author:Catherine Coulter
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2016-12-05T18:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Blackthorn Manor

That evening

“We are all magnificent specimens,” Sinjun said, looking back and forth from Colin to Grayson when Colin assisted her from the Kinross coach.

Actually, Colin believed Sinjun grew more beautiful by the year. Tall, slender, her Sherbrooke hair so rich in all its colors. He leaned down, but not that far, and kissed her. “Yes, I promise I will take care around Lady Blackthorn. Dinna fash, lassie.”

Of course she would worry—she always worried when something threatened him. He’d occasionally think in odd moments how blessed he’d been when she’d chanced to see him in a crowded theater lobby in her first season and told him she was an heiress and he should marry her. He smiled. So many years, so many adventures, and blessed be, the joys outweighed the sadness that life invariable dished out, no rhyme or reason.

A new adventure, and he had to admit his blood was racing in his veins, his eyes seeing more than they usually saw. He couldn’t wait to meet the demon, this Belzaria. Demon? He was actually thinking a demon could possibly exist? And she wanted him, Grayson had said.

“Grayson,” Sinjun said to her nephew, “I must say I hadn’t realized you and Colin were of a size.”

“Thankfully,” Grayson said.

They turned to see a gray-haired man of noble stature standing at the head of the newly constructed marble steps to Blackthorn Manor. Sinjun and Colin didn’t recognize him.

Was he a demon? Grayson did as Jane had said. He looked at the man straight in the eyes, but all he saw was a hint of boredom, swiftly followed by a hint of pleasure at the sight of Sinjun. No demon, then? He bowed low, said in a rich deep voice, “Welcome to Blackthorn Manor, my lord, my lady, Mr. Sherbrooke. I am Beaufort, the Blackthorn butler. Her ladyship desires you be brought directly to her. Follow me, if you please.”

Beaufort had spoken in clipped, clear English. Yet, somehow, Grayson knew he wasn’t English. Where was he from, then? Grayson looked at his straight back as they followed him into the manor.

The ceiling of the magnificent entry hall as well as the high ceiling over the immense staircase were painted stark white with dozens of gold-painted plaster cherubs hanging off the molding, staring down at them. If he touched that stark white wall, he wondered, would he feel cold? He felt his heart begin to pound fast deep strokes when he looked up to see Lady Blackthorn gracefully making her way down the stairs toward them. He had not a single doubt it was her. She was gowned like a queen in yard upon yard of pure-white brocade and silk. From a distance, she looked older, a matron, but as she moved nearer, she became young and younger still, until she didn’t look above twenty-five when she stopped in front of them. Her gown was exquisitely cut, showing her small waist and her delightfully full bosom. She wore long white gloves and diamonds in her ears, around her throat, in her hair, and on her wrists and fingers.

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