Harlequin Historical February 2021--Box Set 1 of 2

by Virginia Heath

  ‘What a great achievement, my lord!’ His father’s chest puffed out at the compliment and once again her eyes flicked briefly to him before she hastily dragged them back. ‘And if I may also say, jolly well done. For both saving the family fortunes and for having the fortitude to do something to fix them in the first place. Between you and me…’ As she leaned forward conspiratorially, the old man did too, almost as if he were a besotted puppy and she his adored master. ‘I’ve never had much time for those spoiled aristocrats who rest on their laurels and bemoan the hand life has dealt them. I much prefer men of substance and action.’ His father seemed to grow several inches at that. ‘Do you speculate still?’

  ‘Of course I do!’ Because he was now a man of substance and action, ridiculously keen to impress the vixen who had bewitched him. ‘Speculating is much more exciting than the dull day-to-day estate matters which take up so much of my time.’

  ‘Once the dull things are done, what else do you enjoy?’ She picked up her pencil again and Piers noticed her hands. Long, elegant fingers which absolutely refused to remain still. No sign of any wedding ring either, although why that seemed such a huge relief, he had no earthly idea. From her pained glances his way, the judgemental Miss Brookes had already formed an intense dislike of him which was obviously so ingrained she wouldn’t sway from that opinion even if Piers managed to find the wherewithal and the words to defend himself.

  Her disgust was inevitable, he supposed.

  If these last six months had taught him anything, it was that gossip and scandal always trumped the truth and people always preferred to believe the worst. And the most tragic thing of all was he couldn’t blame them. Gossip and scandal were exciting and the absolute truth, in this case at least, was entirely depressing. For him anyway. His only consolation was that the other party in the sorry mess which had once been his marriage had been able to move on.

  And that was another predictably dreary set of traits he wished he didn’t possess!

  Piers was always gallingly gracious in defeat and irritatingly noble to his core, even when he was well within his rights not to be either. To such an extent, even he preferred the completely fictitious version of himself he read in the newspapers. If nothing else, that heartless villain was interesting and would have had no trouble spitting out a perfectly brisk and acerbic response to her daring question which told her in no uncertain terms to mind her own damn business.

  True villains didn’t stutter and flounder and reel when they shook a hand. Nearly an hour on and he still couldn’t make head nor tail of his body’s immediate and unwelcome response. It had been a great deal like lust—but lust tinged with something else. Something more potent yet strangely profound at the same time.

  Whatever it was, it was most peculiar that lust had suddenly decided to show up again after its prolonged and protracted absence. Especially as he had sworn himself off the sort of women who always inspired it. The sort who crackled with life and individuality and intelligence like the siren currently enchanting his father. Usually so sensible and level-headed, the old fool was hanging on her every word.

  ‘I love to ride… Cross-country steeplechases at our estate in Surrey rather than the sedate and sensible kind one has to do in Hyde Park.’ More bragging—but this time about his vigour. His poor father had been completely seduced. ‘I love to feel the wind on my face and the thunder of hooves beneath me as I eat up the ground.’ Good grief! Now his father was waxing lyrical. Thunder of hooves indeed. Flowery words which had never been heard in the Writtle drawing room in the history of for ever.

  ‘So you have a reckless streak, my lord?’ The vixen smiled in obvious approval as she noted that titbit down. ‘Who do you race against?’

  ‘Usually Piers. Most Sundays you’ll find the pair of us galloping around Richmond Park. Although as age advances, I suspect he pulls his punches to save my foolish pride and to make me feel as though I’ve still got what it takes to give him a good thrashing.’

  ‘Really?’ Those curious almond eyes suddenly slanted to his and his mouth dried as his tongue apparently grew thicker under her scrutiny. Like the rest of her, those inquisitive eyes were an unusual shade. Not quite blue, not quite violet, but the lashes which framed them were long and her eyebrows were expressive.

  ‘And because I am a vain and shallow old man, Miss Brookes, I like to think I can still give him a good run for his money.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that for a second, my lord.’ She thankfully glanced away allowing Piers to let out the breath he had not realised he was holding. ‘Age is but a number.’

  He made the fatal mistake of taking a calming gulp of his tea and almost spat it out when she suddenly addressed him directly out of the blue, skewering him with her stare.

  ‘What about you, Lord Eastwood? Aside from racing your father, how do you fill your leisure time?’

  ‘A better question would be when does he allow himself leisure time!’ His mother’s frustrated voice filled the void he couldn’t seem to muster the ability to fill himself. ‘My son works too hard, Miss Brookes. Every waking hour seems to be taken up with his responsibilities in Whitehall. Either he is working at the ministry or he brings the ministry home here to work on in his study. I keep telling him it is not healthy to work every waking hour God sends, but sadly my heartfelt pleas fall on stubbornly deaf ears.’

  The vixen tilted her head as she assessed him thoroughly this time and his toes began to curl inside his boots. ‘You work for the government, do you not, Lord Eastwood?’

  ‘Yes.’ Thanks to his uncooperative tongue, that lone syllable took far more effort than a mere syllable warranted, which really wouldn’t do at all when he was apparently going to be stuck with her disapproving presence for the next few months. Unless he gave up bringing work home to finish in his study and simply slept in his office for the duration. The idea had merit… ‘I work with the Secretary of State for War and the Colonies, although in the current climate, war rather than diplomacy takes up most of our efforts.’ And nearly every waking hour.

  ‘I have a former student who works in Whitehall.’ Augustus Brookes joined the fray. ‘Lord Rayne—do you know him?’ Piers nodded, hoping his lack of enthusiasm for the wastrel didn’t show.

  ‘Yes. We’ve collided a time or two.’ Usually when Piers bumped into him in a corridor because he hadn’t been quick enough to turn and walk the other way. Rayne was one of those peers who toadied around Whitehall trying to be important, and to ingratiate himself with the most powerful, but did nothing of any substance. But as the son-in-law of a cabinet member who failed to see his flaws, or saw them but didn’t want to upset his daughter, he’d been foisted from one department to the next. Last he’d heard, Rayne was doing something mundane at the Board of Trade—probably twiddling his thumbs in between all his glad handing, as that was all the fellow was good for.

  ‘He had some potential as an artist.’ Augustus Brookes smiled wistfully at the memory. ‘But perhaps not the dedication, although for a while he showed promise. A nice chap as I recall.’ They would have to agree to disagree on that score. ‘But alas he gave up his lessons in the summer of 1809 when he married. Or was it 1810, Faith? I can never remember.’

  ‘It was 1808.’ Miss Brookes now looked as though she had just sucked a lemon as she briskly skewered Piers with another glare before she interrogated him again. ‘Do you enjoy working for the ministry, Lord Eastwood?’

  ‘It is important work.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that, sir.’ She smiled as if he were a child, clearly amused by his stuffy answer. ‘But I asked if you enjoyed it?’

  Good lord, he felt stupid.

  And irrationally irritated that he felt that way. What was it about her that turned him into a blithering idiot? The way he was behaving, anyone would think he was shy rather than terminally uninteresting.

  ‘I am not entirely sure one can ever enjoy tryin
g to manage a war, Miss Brookes—but it is challenging and occasionally rewarding.’ And now he sounded crusty and staid. Old beyond his years. Exactly as Constança had always lamented. So terminally predictable, buttoned up and English it made him dreadfully dull. ‘It keeps me very busy.’

  Dull! Dull! So blasted dull!

  ‘I am sure it does.’ She turned her attention back to his father again, clearly as bored by his pitiful attempt at conversation as he was. And who, in their right mind, could blame her? He was dull. Depressingly dull, but now also a despised social pariah to boot. Not the most attractive combination of attributes for a man in his apparent prime.

  However, Miss Faith Brookes, damn her, was the complete opposite of dull and, from her easy way with everybody present but him, would be the sort of effortless social butterfly who lit up a room simply by entering it.

  Of course she was, else his long-buried lust wouldn’t have slammed into him without warning upon her mere arrival. His staid eyes had always been drawn to the extraordinary—more was the pity because Piers was only too aware the only way he ever lit up a room nowadays was by leaving it.

  From the top of her artfully curly, copper head to the toes of the brightly patterned slippers poking out from the hem of her vivid gown she oozed sparkling charisma. The dress alone spoke volumes about her character. Emerald green trimmed in gawdy cerise-pink brocade should never go together, but on her, not only did those vibrant colours look like a match made in heaven, they suited her pale complexion perfectly.

  She was extraordinary and unconventional and delightfully erudite—and therefore just about as dangerous as a pride of starving lions as far as he was concerned. Already he could hear the loud, clanging alarm bells ringing, donging out the familiar chimes of impending doom. See the bright beacon of the lighthouse warning him of treacherous rocks just off the shore, signalling that effervescent women like her weren’t compatible with dreary, dull, predictable men like him so he should steer well clear.

  He’d learned that lesson the hard way and had no intention of ever repeating his biggest mistake. So why was he already so thoroughly seduced by the minx he could barely speak?

  Clearly he was a glutton for punishment.

  Or an idiot.

  Or, more likely, both.

  Especially as she kept glancing at him as if she had something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

  ‘I think, at this juncture, it would be useful for Faith to see the proposed space for the tableau.’ Augustus Brookes waved a dainty scone in the air, addressing nobody in particular and everybody in general. ‘She likes to see the light and get a feel for the atmosphere and mood of a room before she considers the concept.’

  More artistic nonsense. As if an empty room could have an atmosphere, or bricks, plaster and furniture were capable of expressing moods. He scoffed internally, wishing he was back at work, then immediately willed the floor to open up when every eye suddenly swivelled in his direction and he realised he had snorted his obvious disdain out loud.

  His mother shot him a warning look. ‘Do forgive my son. You have caught him on an off day. He’s not normally so curmudgeonly. In fact, he can be quite personable when he puts his mind to it.’

  ‘Can he?’ Miss Brookes seemed entirely dubious this could possibly be the case and he was sure she looked down her perfect nose at him as she blandly sipped her tea.

  ‘Oh, indeed he can, dear,’ said his mother as she proffered around the cake plate forcefully, as if cake alone might erase his rude outburst and smooth any ruffled artistic feathers it might have caused. ‘He can be thoroughly charming when he puts his mind to it, but he has always been better at showing his affable side in individual conversations rather than as part of a crowd, where much to my consternation, he prefers to disappear.’

  Then she got that calculated expression she always got when she was about to do something petty but ultimately hideous to punish one of her children when they disappointed her. ‘Indulge me, Miss Brookes, and allow him to prove it.’ Two traitorous maternal eyeballs rolled leisurely to him and she smiled her most sickly smile.

  ‘Piers, darling—kindly escort Miss Brookes to the ballroom and show her the wall. There’s a good boy.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘The ballroom.’

  After making her trail after him while he marched down the hallway, Lord Beastly threw open the double doors and strode across the dance floor, the heels of his boots clicking impatiently on the polished parquet.

  In an attempt to look nonplussed rather than extremely unsettled to be all alone with him so soon after she had promised her mother she never would be, Faith clutched her notebook to her chest like a shield and forced herself to glide across the threshold. Although it wasn’t just his dreadful scandal, or his proximity she found unnerving. She was still trying to make sense of her peculiar reaction to their innocuous handshake over an hour ago. Because surely a simple handshake shouldn’t have caused her flesh to tingle or her pulse to bounce so erratically—and not with fear. She recognised attraction when she felt it and still could not fathom why her usually sensible and supremely selective female body had decided to feel an overwhelming attraction towards his!

  London’s most notorious divorcee! And another earl-in-waiting to boot, exactly like Rayne! When she had convinced herself she now preferred men of substance and intelligence. Men who had made something of themselves, rather than those who were born with it all laid out on a platter, and men who valued those same qualities in others irrespective of rank. Yet her traitorous, foolish pulse still fluttered for another callous, titled scoundrel! She was positively livid at herself for the unpalatable slip, as well as reeling at the unwelcome realisation she was still capable of one.

  To calm her nerves and reclaim her missing equilibrium, she spun a slow circle and took in the room. ‘What a lovely space.’

  The truth. Despite the slate-grey February skies outside, the room was bright and airy, thanks to the wall of French doors which separated the house from the garden and the high vaulted ceiling which was painted in stark white. The biggest chandelier she had ever seen hung suspended from its centre, composed of thousands of sparkling crystal teardrops which would be magnificent once lit and the pale striped-silk-covered walls would reflect that light everywhere. The stark, effortless simplicity reeked both class and affluence. Proof, if proof were needed, that the Writtles had money.

  As if pointing was too much effort, he gestured to the right with a curt flick of his dark head. ‘That’s the wall.’

  It was the biggest wall in the room and the only one unbroken by windows, doors or fireplaces. ‘Gracious! That is enormous.’ Much bigger than she had anticipated despite her father’s careful measurements. No wonder he desperately needed her assistance.

  He had planned a canvas of five by six feet, which necessitated painting the picture in situ as neither of them cared for separate butting panels because the finish was never quite right. But seeing the space now, she realised he had grossly underestimated. To do this room and this wall justice, it would need to be at least two feet larger either way, which would make the Writtle tableau the biggest picture they had ever created. Suddenly, the four-month timeline felt inadequate too—but, oh, what a picture it would make!

  Already she could imagine it. Rolling parkland filled with trees, pasture and acres of sky. Her Ladyship sat on a picnic blanket to one side, surrounded by her daughters while the children flew kites with their fathers closer to the centre. His Lordship on the other side, sat astride a horse, smiling at a ghostly steeple in the distance. One inscrutable, sinfully handsome dark-haired man hovering detached somewhere on the periphery, staring at the proceedings with disdain from afar…

  Exactly as he was now.

  ‘It’s quite a wall, Lord Eastwood!’ Ridiculous words no sensible woman should ever utter, but words at least when just his presence seemed to hav
e the power to completely scramble her wits.

  He gave it a cursory glance. ‘As walls go, I suppose it is.’

  He had a nice voice, drat him. Deep. Manly. Too deep and manly because the sound of certain consonants apparently had the power to create goose pimples—which really would not do at all when she was supposed to loathe him on principle. ‘I get the impression you lack enthusiasm for this project, my lord.’

  ‘My mother has decreed we must have a Brookes masterpiece, so apparently a Brookes is what we must have.’

  ‘But you couldn’t care less?’ She smiled professionally, unoffended, and because staring directly at him was disconcerting, turned to face the huge wall again just so that she did not have to look at him. ‘Are you not a fan of art, Lord Eastwood?’

  ‘I am not a fan of disruption or invasion, Miss Brookes.’

  Out of the corner of her eye she could see he had folded his arms. It made him look arrogant and ever so slightly intimidating because the stance emphasised both his height and breadth. By her best estimation he was a few inches over six feet and had the dimensions of a labourer or a pugilist rather than the spare frame of an aristocrat. There was muscle on those big bones which suggested he did—or had done—much more than sit behind a desk and waste his life with idle pursuits like the presumptive Earl she’d misguidedly plighted her troth for. It irritated her immensely that she noticed all those things, and worse, wholeheartedly approved of them, and that irritation leaked into her tone.

  ‘Because of your important work? Which I am told you like to bring home with you.’ It was especially irritating that Lord Eastwood was not a dedicated man of leisure. It was galling to have to give him points for anything substantial when she would much prefer him to have no substance at all.