As he thought of the man responsible for causing his beloved sister so much misery and heartache Doyle’s jaw clenched, only to slowly release when he saw Aurelia’s eyes widen.
‘How many times?’ he wanted to demand. ‘How many times did he strike you?’ But of course he did not for the last time - the only time - he had brought up the topic of Aurelia’s estranged husband she’d gone white as a ghost and fainted dead at his feet.
It was not an experience he wished to repeat.
Taking great care to keep his countenance neutral, Doyle slipped his arm around his sister’s painfully thin waist and gently guided her up the stone drive. Knowing Aurelia would need time to settle her nerves, he’d requested his coachman deliver them to the far entrance instead of dropping them off directly at the front door. “I am glad to be back,” he said. At Aurelia’s dubious glance, he chuckled softly under his breath. “Well, perhaps ‘glad’ is a bit of an over exaggeration. But it is time we both came home. This will be a good thing, Aury. You shall see. In no time at all you will begin to feel like your old self again.”
She stiffened. “And you are sure he cannot come here?”
The bloody bastard can try, Doyle thought grimly.
“I am certain. You are safe, Aury.” Having reached the main entrance - pillared marble steps that led up to an intricately carved wooden door - he stopped and turned to face her, taking both of her hands firmly in his. “I only wish you had told me what was happening sooner.”
“I-I tried.” She dropped her gaze. “But I did not know how. The children-”
“The children will be safe as well. I am sure they are eagerly awaiting your arrival.”
Aurelia’s twin boys, Harry and Reggie, age five, had already been living at Longmeadow for two weeks under the watchful eye of Mrs. Prigmore, their nanny. Doyle knew his sister would have come sooner if she was able, but she’d needed time for her injuries to heal. Injuries caused by a man she still called her husband. A man Doyle would gladly shoot on sight if he took but one step onto the estate.
If only he’d suspected something sooner…
With an inward shake of his head, he dismissed the regret from his mind. It was no use to think of what could have been. Aurelia was safe now, his nephews were safe, and no one - least of all Lloyd Chesterfield, Earl of Waverly - was going to harm them again.
He would have liked to settle the matter once and for all with pistols at dawn, but Aurelia had begged him not to and after all she’d been through he’d been loathe to upset her further. Thus he’d done the only thing he could: offered his complete and total protection. For as long as she wished, Aurelia and her sons would be welcome at Longmeadow.
Such was his vow to her.
“It has not changed at all, has it?” Aurelia murmured as the door opened and she stepped over the threshold; a threshold neither one of them had crossed in eight long years. Bracing himself Doyle followed, the fine hairs on the back of his neck rising as the butler, a bald man whom he did not recognize, closed the door behind them.
Gargantuan in its size, Longmeadow Manor boasted three stories filled with fifty-seven rooms. It was divided into four massive wings, each one closed off from the others by a series of doors and hallways. Heavy wood paneling covered the walls and ornate chandeliers dripped from the high ceilings. Stepping further into the foyer, Doyle marveled that everything was exactly as he remembered it down to the hand carved zebra wood chair his mother had always insisted remained at the foot of the grand master staircase.
The heels of his boots echoed on the black and white marble as he crossed the room and sat down in the chair, folding one leg over the other and lifting a brow in an imitation so like their late father Aurelia couldn’t help but smile, albeit reluctantly.
“You look just like him, you know.” Pulling off one glove and then the other, she began to untie her hat. “Although perhaps not quite as stern. Harry takes after him as well. I wish they could have met.”
“Father would have no doubt terrified him.”
“No doubt,” she agreed, for they both knew better than anyone just how terrifying the late Duke of Greenwood had been. A stern man, he’d always been more prone to anger than affection. “But as Harry takes after you in manner, he would have most likely stuck out his tongue and laughed in Father’s face. Where are they?” Suddenly anxious, she twisted her hands together, mindlessly crumpling the hat she’d just removed. “The boys, that is. I would very much like to see them.”
“Of course.” Shooting to his feet, Doyle gave the nearest bell pull a hard yank, signaling for a maid. When one arrived, looking a bit flustered and out of breath, he had her take Aurelia immediately up to the second floor nursery with a promise to follow in just a little while.
Left alone - or at least as alone as one could be with a household staff of twenty hurrying about - Doyle wandered into the drawing room and stopped in front of the fireplace. Even dormant, it still smelled vaguely of ash. Or perhaps the scent was one invoked from memory. After all, countless nights had been spent in this room. First as a boy curled in his nanny’s lap reading books and then as a young man learning how to tally ledgers, a skill his father had required of him even though the family fortune extended far beyond being able to afford an accountant.
Never hire someone to do something you can do yourself, the late duke had been fond of saying.
He’d said other things, little tokens of wisdom imparted over the years that Doyle wished he had paid more attention to. Then again, he’d never expected to lose both of his parents at such a young age…and at the same time.
The late Duke and Duchess of Greenwood had been in London when it happened. Or, to be more precise, out on the Thames when a storm - a quick brewing tempest of epic proportions - blew in without warning, turning the calm river in a frothy sea and whipping the winds into a frenzy. The boat they’d been on had capsized, throwing everyone onboard into the water.
No one had made it ashore.
He and Aurelia had received the news at Longmeadow. He’d been a brash, devil-may-care man of twenty-one, she a young, outgoing girl of fifteen. It took nigh on a month for the full impact of their parent’s death to fully sink in, but when it did Doyle realized he’d not only inherited his father’s title, but all of the responsibility and influence that came along with it as well.
His first act as the new Duke of Greenwood had been to leave Longmeadow and take up residence at a smaller, more manageable estate only a few miles outside of London. His second act had been chaperoning his sister as she made her season debut, a duty he could now see he’d taken far too lightly for surely if he had been paying any attention at all he would have spotted Chesterfield for the rake and the rogue that he was instead of giving him permission to court Aurelia and, when the time came, to marry her.
Stupid, Doyle berated himself as he went to the one of the many windows overlooking the rolling front lawns and gripped the sill so hard his knuckles gleamed white in the soft morning sunlight. So bloody stupid. If I could only get my hands around Chesterfield’s throat…
As he felt his temper begin to boil and fester, he forced himself to take a deep, calming breath and thought, as he often had over the past few weeks when his anger threatened to overwhelm his common sense, of a dark-haired beauty with shimmering green eyes and a tongue so sharp it could have cut glass.
Much to his annoyance, Doyle still didn’t know the girl’s name. He’d tried to imagine what it might be, but nothing he came up with seemed to fit. Contrary to what he had said on the night they met at the Farcott Ball, she wasn’t a Betsy. Nor was she a Susan or a May or a Veronica. He wanted to know who she was. He needed to know who she was, if only for the fact that he’d told her the truth. He did intend to make her his wife, but for that to happen he needed a name.
And he needed to find her.
CHAPTER TWO
“Have you ever seen the like of it before?” Eyes wide, rosebud mouth gaping open like a fish out of water, Mary
clung to the window as their carriage turned off the road and onto the long, winding drive that led to Longmeadow Manor. Towering oaks, so massive in size their tops were lost to the clouds, framed the stone drive. Off to the left sunlight reflected off a pond where three swans swam, their necks regally arched as though they somehow knew they belonged to a household of great importance. To the right were the stables and behind them rolling fields of green and yellow stretched across the horizon as far as the naked eye could see. “It is enormous.”
“It is a fair size,” Harper said grudgingly, even though she really never had seen the like of it before. Longmeadow Manor wasn’t just enormous. It was a castle, built of stone and wood and brick that put even her Uncle Reginald’s estate to shame. All things considered, she wouldn’t have been surprised in the slightest to see a moat.
As the two horses pulling the carriage slowed to a walk, Mary whipped around in her seat and patted her cheeks. “Is my face flush?” she asked, looking first at Harper and then at her mother who sat across from them, looking every bit as dazed by the surrounding opulence as her daughter did. “It feels a bit flush.”
“Probably because you’ve been talking nonstop since we left,” Harper couldn’t help but point out. “Best save your words. You wouldn’t want to run out of them when we meet the duke.”
“Can you truly run out of words?” Mary asked, looking aghast.
“No dear,” Mrs Hartley said with a warning glare at Harper, “one cannot run out of words. Your dear friend was merely making a tiny jest at your expense.”
Sinking low in her seat, Harper bit the inside of her cheek in an effort to contain her retort. She’d never very much liked Mrs Hartley and the feeling was quite mutual. To her mind Mary’s mother was far too controlling of everything Mary did, wore, and said. As a result Mary, though infinitely kind hearted and sweet, often struggled to form ideas and opinions all her own.
For her part, Mrs Hartley made no attempt to disguise the fact that she thought Harper would do well with some more control, and often attempted to place the same rules and restrictions on her as she did her own daughter. Rules and restrictions Harper had no intention of ever obeying for she had her own mother, thank you very much, and the idea of listening to two overbearing women was more than she was capable of handling. Although to her credit, Harper’s mother - Lady Olivia Radnor - had been much more lenient and cordial than usual as of late, no doubt due to the fact that she was expecting a grandchild in six months’ time.
“We are here!” Mary squealed as the carriage drew to a neat halt in front of the main entrance, a cascade of marble steps guarded on either side by tall ivory pillars. “We are really here! Oh, I cannot believe it!”
“And now we won’t even need the footman to announce us,” Harper said with a wince as she slipped a hand beneath her bonnet and rubbed her ear.
“Breathe, dear,” Mrs Hartley instructed her daughter as they departed from the carriage one after the other. “You must remember to breathe.”
As they climbed the marble stairs and were ushered into the foyer by the butler, an expressionless man with a shiny head and medium build, Harper felt an unexpected tightness in her chest. The tightness only intensified as she untied the silk ribbons underneath her chin and pulled off her bonnet, revealing the simple chignon beneath. Unlike Mary and Mrs Hartley who were both wearing their newest and best morning dresses, Harper had purposefully selected an older watery blue frock with dated lace trim and a high, rather matronly neckline. She may have been calling upon the Duke of Greenwood, but she didn’t want him to think she was trying to impress him. Considering the forward way he’d acted during their first meeting - following her outside, demanding she dance with him, touching her intimately - he was the last man on earth she would ever want to impress. She was using him for research. Nothing more, nothing less. Although if that was completely true, then why did she suddenly feel so nervous?
“Is it warm in here?” she asked, gaze darting up to the vaulted ceiling and down to the black and white tile floor before settling on Mary. “It feels rather warm.”
“It feels fine to me,” her friend said cheerfully. “Although now that you mention it, you do look a bit pink in the cheeks.”
Harper frowned. “Maybe if we opened a window-”
“His Grace has asked me to escort you into the front parlor,” the butler interrupted as he returned to the foyer, having presumably delivered Mrs Hartley’s calling card. “He will be with you in a moment. Would you care for some refreshments?”
“Crumpets would be lovely,” Mary said. “With honey and a bit of raspberry jam.”
“And lemonade,” Mrs Hartley added. “But not too tart, if you please.”
The butler nodded. “And you, my lady?” he asked Harper.
“A cold glass of water, thank you.”
“Certainly.” Allowing Mrs. Hartley to take the lead, he followed them into the parlor and waited until they were seated - Mrs. Hartley and Mary side by side on a green and gold striped settee, Harper on a brown velvet chair - before he excused himself. Left alone, the three women made idle conversation while they waited for their host. Unfortunately, it proved to be quite a long wait, and the lemonade and crumpets were nearly gone by the time the Duke of Greenwood finally chose to grace them with his presence.
“My apologies,” he drawled as he stepped into the parlor, his sudden appearance causing Mary to nearly upend her plate as she jumped to her feet. “I would have been here sooner, but I was detained in the stables.”
“Really?” Harper remarked, too annoyed at having been made to wait for nearly an hour to watch the sharp bite of her tone. “You do not look as though you’ve just come from the stables. If I had to guess, you’ve been lounging upstairs hoping we would leave.”
“Lady Harper,” Mrs. Hartley hissed through clenched teeth. “Do stand up and greet His Grace accordingly.” Turning to Doyle she said, “I apologize, Your Grace. I am afraid Lady Harper has not been feeling well this morning and it has caused her to be a bit more irate than usual.”
“I must say, I find her behavior to be quite on point.” Doyle’s eyes - the same rich brandy color Harper remembered - flashed with amusement as he skimmed her from head to toe before meeting her temperamental gaze. “Lady Harper, is it? I admit, that sounds much better than Betsy.”
They stared at one another for a moment longer before Harper forced herself to look away, irritated that she’d allowed herself to be provoked into losing her composure. It wasn’t as if Doyle had said anything untoward. His very presence was enough to set her teeth on edge. Still, it wouldn’t do to be rude. At least not with witnesses looking on. Standing gracefully, she folded her hands behind her back and said in her sweetest (albeit most fabricated voice), “It is a pleasure to see you again, Your Grace. I should like to introduce my dear friend, Miss Mary Hartley and her mother, Mrs. Hartley.”
“Mrs. Hartley. Miss Hartley.” Kissing the back of their gloved hands in turn, Doyle smiled and said, “I fear I must apologize once again for keeping you waiting. It was not my intention.”
Mrs. Hartley glowed.
Mary beamed.
Harper snorted.
“That is quite all right,” Mary said, batting her eyelashes so furiously Harper couldn’t help but wonder if she’d developed a twitch. “You were worth the wait, Your Grace.”
“Do be seated,” Doyle said, gesturing at the settee, “and tell me a bit about yourselves. I must confess, you are the first - not to mention the fairest - neighbors who have come to call.” When Mary and Mrs. Hartley rushed to obey, he lifted a brow at Harper. With a little sigh she sat as well, though kept to the edge of her chair, the better to jump up and run from the room if Doyle’s arrogance became too overbearing.
Coming here, she realized darkly, had been a mistake. Thinking she could conduct research objectively had been an even bigger mistake. She didn’t know why, but Doyle positively infuriated her. When he looked at her, the most peculiar
thing happened. It became difficult to breathe and her heart rate accelerated, making her feel as though she’d just finished a brisk ride on Jewel, her prized thoroughbred mare.
Were Harper more experienced in the ways of seduction she would have recognized her symptoms as what they were: bold, unbridled attraction. But as it stood she knew only that when she was around Doyle she felt different. And not necessarily in a good way.
A mistake, she thought again as she fought the urge to squirm in her chair. One of the worst I’ve ever committed.
But not one that wasn’t unfixable. She simply wouldn’t come back to Longmeadow Park again.
Ever.
“...congratulations are in order, Lady Harper.”
“I - come again?” she said, looking up and catching Doyle’s stare. One corner of his mouth lifted.
“I was giving you my congratulations.”
She blinked. “For what?”
“Your brother was just married, was he not?”
“Oh. Yes. Well, two months ago.”
Miles and Dianna had been married at the local village church with only family and close friends in attendance. Given that they had been engaged for over a decade, it was a wedding many people - including Harper - had feared would never take place. But against all odds true love had persevered, and Lord and Lady Radnor were now happily ensconced at Winfield eagerly awaiting the arrival of their first child.
“Your sister is married, is she not, Your Grace?” Mrs. Hartley queried. “To Lord Chesterfield, if memory serves.”
Doyle’s smile vanished in the blink of an eye. “They have recently separated,” he said curtly.
“I-I am sorry to hear that,” said Mrs. Hartley.
“Would you care to take a turn about the gardens?” he asked. “The roses are nearly in full bloom.”
London Ladies (The Complete Series) Page 59