by Avery Flynn
A loud bang sounded from the direction of the great hall.
The earl jerked up his head. “And what exactly was that?”
She cringed, not wanting to deliver the news bound to make the earl’s head explode. “Mr. Vane is working on a project.”
“What kind of project?”
Of course, he wouldn’t let it go with that vague explanation. “The fireplace in the great hall.”
The earl’s face went blank. If it weren’t for the grim way he pursed his lips together and the resulting white line of displeasure around his mouth, she wouldn’t have thought he’d heard her at all.
She took a deep breath, and the words came out in a rush. “The one that gets stopped up no matter how often the chimney sweep comes.”
His look grew darker, but she pressed on anyway.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. “He’s putting in some type of contraption he rigged up to help keep the flume free from blockage.”
“Is he mad?” The earl crumpled the latest in a long line of overdue invoices littering the top of his desk that no one knew about besides herself and the earl. “Does he not realize the significance of that fireplace?”
The earl stormed out of the room before she could explain the she had indeed told him that Queen Victoria herself had gifted the mantel to Dallinger Park. The pinch of annoyance around the earl’s mouth had been a near-exact replica of the one Nick had displayed when she’d informed him that the fireplace clogged up several times a winter. That was one of the many reasons why they didn’t open the house to paying visitors, as many of the other great houses in Yorkshire and across England had done to help finance the expense of running them. The main reason, of course, being the earl’s steadfast refusal to admit the funds were desperately needed.
She really should go out there and run interference between the two men. Calming things before they went to roaring level with the earl and whomever he was furious with wasn’t written in her job description, but it might as well have been. Still, she lingered in the room, taking a long look out the window at the spires of the village church barely visible in the distance. Tourists coming to tour the big house and leasing it out for movies and television would mean an increase in revenue for the pub, the sandwich shop, the weekend market on high street, and the local inn. If only she could get the earl to understand, but he hated change and was committed to pretending that it could always stay the same in their tucked-away hamlet. She wouldn’t be surprised if part of it was the need the earl had to exert control over his domain while he still could. The ghost of dementia making its presence known.
No matter what the reason for the earl’s attitude, though, that didn’t alter the facts. Something had to be done—and soon—or it would be too late for Bowhaven, McVie University, and Dallinger Park.
Straightening her shoulders with a sigh, she headed out into the hall where things, no doubt, were about to reach a boiling point.
…
Nick put the hammer down on the coffee table in front of the fireplace after delivering home the final blow to reattach the mantel and faced off against his grandfather. It was weird to think of the truly pissed-off man in front of him as that, but less weird than thinking of him as a ticked-off earl. The title thing was just…odd.
Gramps’s face was granite hard and just as impervious as he started in on Nick again. “When Queen Victoria—”
“I know, I know,” Nick interrupted, his palm stroking the carved surface of the mantel that could really use some quality time with wood oil, mentally adding it to his list of shit to do so he didn’t lose his mind in this worn-down museum. “She gifted this beautiful mantel, but it’s not going to do a damn thing for the place if it burns down around it because this wreck of a place goes up in flames.”
Frustration bloomed like a Virginia sunset on Gramps’s face. “You will not refer to your ancestral home as a ‘wreck of a place.’”
“But it is.” How could the man be in this much denial? “The wiring’s a mess. You’re losing a ton of heating through drafty windows. Maintenance needs to be done.”
“It’s not your place to do it,” the other man said with imperial finality.
That tone of voice had always gotten Nick’s back up. It was the same one the adults at the group home had used and that the judge had used when he’d handed down his decision to send an angry, grieving teenager to that dump. And why had he ended up there? Because of Earl Head In the Sand, who stood right in front of him as if he was lord of the manor. Which, technically, he was. And someday it would be Nick, if Gramps had his way. Not gonna happen. Lucky him, now was the perfect time to rub his face in that bit of fantasy.
“According to you, that’s exactly my place, or should I be watching it inch toward total dilapidation like you are?”
Brooke let out a little gasp from her spot on the other side of the coffee table where she was observing the spectacle like a woman driving by a car wreck. He didn’t like that. Usually she was ballsier than this, calling him on his shit and demanding he pay attention to all her how-to-be-an-earl lessons. As soon as Gramps appeared, though, she’d fallen into her subservient role. Sure, she was a pain in his ass in her Lady Lemons guise, but he did not get this deference to someone who was supposedly better than her because of an accident of birth. The English were weird.
Gramps walked over to the mantel, caressing the wood with his age-spotted hand. “Don’t be impertinent.”
“Really? That’s what you’re going with here? Calling me impertinent?” Shit. If he was the type to get his feelings hurt by names, growing up being called a bastard repeatedly from the age of five on sure would have left him curled up in a ball on the floor. It hadn’t then and it wouldn’t now.
After assuring himself of the mantel’s still-pristine condition, the older man turned and addressed Nick in a tone that reeked of upper-class snobbery. “People of our class don’t do manual labor.”
“Well thank God I’m American and not a classist asshole above doing what needs to be done.”
The vein in Gramps’s temple bulged as it beat out a fast rhythm and he narrowed his eyes. Nick prepped for the blow. It would be verbal, but Nick could take whatever the man who’d helped break his mama’s heart dished out. Bring it on, old man.
Instead of firing off a bomb, though, the other man made a sharp turn to face Brooke. “Ms. Chapman-Powell, your services will no longer be needed at Dallinger Park. I see that you aren’t up to the task of taking responsibility for my heir.”
Brooke’s blue eyes went wide and a little watery.
Oh hell. This was not where Nick had been going when he’d pushed every one of Gramps’s buttons that he could reach.
“I never agreed to be your heir.” The words shot out, redirecting the older man’s attention back to him and away from the woman whose shoulders had sunk.
“One doesn’t have the choice when it comes to one’s family.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Brooke take a step toward the door. He could just imagine the talk down in the village when they found out that the local try-hard got fired. Fuck. The woman was as tightly wound as a clock spring about to snap, but despite the resistance to her ideas from Gramps and the locals, she was dedicated to Dallinger Park and Bowhaven for some reason he’d yet to figure out.
“You get rid of Lady Lemons—I mean Brooke—and I’m on the first flight out of here.”
The words just sort of came out. He wasn’t sure which of the three of them was more surprised at the pronouncement. Brooke’s jaw dropped. Gramps’s stiff upper lip disappeared into a thin white line.
“Are you blackmailing me?” the old man asked, the first to find his voice.
He didn’t see any reason to deny it, even if he had no clue why he was doing it. “Yes.”
“How very American,” the earl said, his tone snide.
&n
bsp; Nick snorted. “Like you don’t have assholes in England when our family history proves otherwise.”
His grandfather’s nostrils flared. “She can stay on only if you stop this ridiculousness and agree to take your proper place here as my heir.”
If Nick had been the kind of man to back down, this would have been when he’d done it. He wanted to. Hell, he should have. Instead, he dug his heels deeper into the well-tread floorboards of Dallinger Park’s great hall.
“I’ll be your heir, but I’m not staying in England.” He had a life back in Salvation. Sure, he could do his job from anywhere, but the lake was in Virginia.
Red splotches colored the earl’s cheeks. “Every Earl of Englefield has lived in Dallinger Park since it was built.”
“Times change,” Nick said, refusing to back down. “I’ll be your heir, but I’ll live in America.”
Where in the fuck did that come from? That wasn’t the plan. He wasn’t even supposed to be here for this long.
The earl stepped closer and examined the fireplace mantel as if none of what they were discussing mattered in the least. Nick wasn’t fooled.
After running his fingers across the detailed woodwork, the old man turned to him, his chin lifted at a stubborn tilt. “You’ll remain in residence nine months out of the year.”
“Three.” Shut up, Vane. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.
The earl smiled, a devious, snotty little smirk that did not look good on a man of his age. “Six.”
“Only if Lady Lemons stays…and you start doing a little more to help Bowhaven.” Why was he negotiating on her behalf? He and Brooke weren’t lovers. They weren’t even friends. And Bowhaven? It was just a middle-of-nowhere place determined to village-nap him. He risked a glance over at Brooke, and the sparkle of hope glimmering in her eyes hit him like a punch to the gut. He knew that look. He’d been naive enough to wear it himself a time or two before he’d learned that other people always disappointed and that the best plan was to leave before they got a chance.
The earl’s already rigid spine snapped to attention. “How dare you try to tell me how to—”
“Yes or no, Gramps?” He relaxed his shoulders, putting on the practiced nonchalance that would burrow under the old man’s skin like an electric buzzer. “Just how much do you really give a shit about the family legacy? Because I don’t care at all. I could walk away tonight and never look back.”
“Six months out of every year and you agree to doing what it takes to ensure the family name will continue.” He leveled an imperious glare at Nick. “I’m sure we can find you a proper English bride who will overlook your heritage in exchange for a title.”
“No more American bastards, huh?” he shot back.
“Exactly,” the earl said without a drop of irony or shame.
“Deal.” The word was out of his mouth before he had time to consider.
And he lost his chance to say anything to mitigate it when the housekeeper knocked on the open door, interrupting their war of wills, and announced dinner was served. Without a second glance at anyone in the great hall, Gramps strode from the room, his head high and his steps stiff.
Nick stood glued to his spot in front of the fireplace that now wouldn’t smoke up the joint and possibly burn the whole place down. What in the hell is going on, Nicky boy? Fuck if he knew, but if he had to guess, he’d just blackmailed a relative and had insinuated that he’d stay in this gloomy country six months out of every year and get married. Someday. The wily old English asshole should have negotiated an end date to that. So much for getting off one plane, telling the old man to fuck off, and getting onto another. Christ. This whole thing was a clusterfuck. His mama had no clue how lucky she’d been to have been rid of these people.
A soft sniffle drew his attention away from the door Gramps had just walked through to the woman standing near it. Brooke’s nose was red and there was a cherry splotch at the base of her throat, but her chin didn’t dare to tremble. She drew in a deep breath and transformed before his eyes from a stoop-shouldered woman who’d been metaphorically kicked in the balls to the epitome of an iron lady with the proud posture to go with it. If he hadn’t seen the change himself, he wasn’t sure he’d have believed Lady Lemons had a single solitary hurt feeling. She was made of stern stuff, as his mama would have said.
He took three steps toward her before he realized he was moving in her direction. Why? Like everything else that had happened since he’d stepped off the plane, he had no fucking clue.
As soon as he was within range, she held out her hand. He gripped it on autopilot, and she shook it with a firm grip that managed to send a jolt up his arm and straight down to his gut. He wasn’t going to like what was about to come next.
“While I appreciate the gesture,” she said, her voice not giving away any emotion, “I won’t stay where I’m not wanted. Thank you and good luck. I’m sure you’ll be brilliant.”
She released his hand, but he didn’t let go. “I want you.” Where in the hell had that come from? “I mean, you can’t leave me alone with that man.”
The words came out more gruffly than he intended, but he was a boat on the lake without any oars at the moment. She tugged at her hand again, and he let it go, not liking the fact that he didn’t want to—not in the least.
She flexed her fingers as if she’d felt the zing from the touch as well but never dropped eye contact. “The earl is your grandfather.”
“That may be so, but it doesn’t mean I have to like him. He’s a prick, and he treats you like shit.” Which shouldn’t bother Nick, but it did. “And six months will last a lifetime if I have to spend it alone with him.”
Curiosity lit up her face as she gave him an assessing look. “Is that why you agreed to his terms?”
“No. I… I…” He fumbled for something to say. “You’re just better than the alternative.”
“I’m better than leaving or marrying some posh London heiress?”
There was a trap there. One he didn’t know how to wiggle out of, so he retreated back to the lazy charm that usually worked so well with women—everyone but the one in front of him.
“You know what I mean,” he grumbled.
She nodded and took a steadying breath, the first hint of a smile curling her lips. “So I’ve won the bet and you’re staying.”
The woman was like a cat stalking the red dot from a laser pointer—she did not give up. “Only for six months every year.”
She took a step forward, not enough to touch him but enough that he could feel the air change around them. “I’m sure it’ll be a sacrifice.”
What in the hell had he agreed to? He wished to fuck that he knew. “It’s cold here in August.”
Lame much, Nicky boy?
One eyebrow went up. “You like to be dripping in sweat?”
No, he did not, which was why he lived next to a lake that he could sink into any time he wanted. “People drive on the wrong side of the road.”
“That is incorrect.” She waved a hand dismissively, her fingertips almost brushing his chest and leaving a trail of little sparks across his skin. “And anyway, when we drive, we are surrounded by gorgeous scenery at every turn.”
“The metric system is the worst.” That was a lie, but he was sticking with it.
“And that’s why almost the entire globe uses it except for America?”
He barely moved, but he was suddenly so close to her, she had to crane her neck to maintain eye contact. The fact that she refused to give even an inch—or a centimeter for that matter—had anticipation rushing through him. His gaze flickered down to her mouth as her lips parted, not for more words but for a soft little sigh that shot straight to his dick.
“English women are stubborn and think they’re always right.” One in particular especially.
The tip of her pink tongue snuck out and wet her lips. “Th
e phrase you’re searching for is ‘women are always right,’ as I do believe nationality has nothing to do with it.”
The urge to dip his head down and claim that sweet mouth was a hot firebrand against his skin, a yearn he couldn’t escape.
“I’m related to a total prick who thinks he is the king of his own personal fiefdom and wants me to take the reins.”
“My father names each one of his racing pigeons after Harry Potter characters and calls the opposing teams’ pigeons Muggles. Out loud. In public.” The pulse point in her throat was beating like wild and her eyes had gone a little hazy. “We don’t get to choose our family; we have to accept them for who they are.”
The air crackled around them, hot and full of promise. In another place, with another woman, that had always led to no-holds-barred, barely-get-your-clothes-off sex. He was teetering on the edge here, wondering how improper it would be for the earl’s heir to press the old man’s personal secretary up against the doorframe and see just how proper Brooke really was. He was betting that when she let go, it was fucking phenomenal. God, he wanted to see it. He wanted to be the reason for it.
“I don’t want to stay.” It was a warning and a promise, but for which one of them?
She pressed a palm over his racing heart before snatching it away, as if she couldn’t understand why she’d done that.
Welcome to the club, Lady Lemons.
She took a nearly imperceptible step back, but he couldn’t miss it. The extra space between them felt like a mile.
“Then why does it matter if I’m employed here or not? Or if the earl, as you said, helps out Bowhaven more?” she asked.
If he had an answer for that one, he would have offered it up without hesitation. As it was, he just returned her questioning stare with a glower.
The click-clack of sensible heels hurrying down the hallway from the direction of the dining room broke the moment, and by the time the housekeeper, Kate, made it to the doorway, he and Brooke were standing a good three feet apart.
Looking frazzled, the woman stopped and delivered her report. “The earl requested that I tell you that the first course is getting cold.” She looked at Brooke, and her throat bobbed with a nervous swallow. “His lordship requested your presence as well, Brooke.”