I daresay I could have invited half the regiment.” The name Grange had a homely sound, and Chris was unprepared for the mansion that awaited him when he turned in through the gates. Half hidden by a pillared portico, the massive central block was topped by a dome, while on each side lower wings sported arches, parapets and cupolas. There was an air of newness about the building, every line clean cut with no evidence of weathering. He drew up his horses and stared at his inheritance. “I’d say your predecessor must have built it,” Bernard said. “It looks like one of Adam’s designs.” “It’s a great deal too grand for a simple soldier. I am quaking in my shoes at the thought of meeting Lady Farleigh.” The imposing butler—his butler, Chris reminded himself—ushered the gentlemen into a magnificent drawing room, all gold and green. The dowager countess, a tiny, white-haired lady, was ensconced in a wing chair with her feet on a footstool. Her bright eyes took in at a glance Bernard’s limp and his pale face.
