She forced a smile. “Not at all, my lord.”
He laughed and her look darkened. Augustus had no idea why he liked to bother Miss Anderson, but he did. “Let’s find my lions.” He pulled open the door, this time with anticipation. The first time he’d seen the pile, he’d wanted to weep, even though its discovery meant that at least some of Costille House had been saved. The only time he’d returned was to show Miss Anderson that first day. He’d felt sick looking at the pile of debris, believing it impossible that the old girl could ever be restored. Now, though, with his little female wonder, he finally began to believe Costille House could shine once again. Already he could see her coming back to life, could imagine what it would be like to have her back completely. By God, Costille House would be ready for his ball and his future bride. Whoever she might be.
Miss Anderson walked past him, lifting her skirts to step over a large metal rod that he dimly recalled having been hanging on the wall in the great hall. He hoped to get a glimpse of her trim ankle, but was disappointed when only a pair of sturdy boots was revealed. As she walked, her newly free and fascinating hair bounced up and down, lovely soft springs that he itched to touch. Or push out of the way so that he could press his lips against her pale, smooth neck.
Augustus stopped still as if he’d walked into a wall, shocked by where his thoughts had gone, how his body was reacting to those thoughts. Even with that splendid hair, she was not beautiful, so he could not fathom why he was thinking about anything other than finding his lions. He certainly did not want to begin to think of his employee as an object of lust. As Miss Anderson stepped gingerly around a bit of clutter, she reached up and balanced herself by touching the barn wall, lifting and tightening her dress, revealing suddenly the enticing curves that were normally well-hidden by the ill-fitting gown. It looked as if the dress had far too much fabric, so that Miss Anderson appeared to be drowning in a murky lake of brown wool. She very well could be quite lovely beneath that ugly dress, he realized. An image of her lying on his bed, naked and pale with that glorious hair spread about around her, looking up at him…
“Lord Berkley? Were you not listening?” By God, he could feel his cheeks redden, as if she knew what he’d just been thinking.
“Apparently not,” he said, trying to make his tone neutral.
Miss Anderson pursed her lips and let out another irritated breath. “Your lions, sir, are in the very back of the pile, along with pieces of the staircase itself. They appear to be in fine shape, though one of the lions, the one who sat on the right, does have a large nick out of his mane.”
Augustus made his way to where Miss Anderson was standing, making a great effort not to look at her. For the first time in years, he was not certain he would be able to school his features and hide the unexpectedly searing rush of lust he was trying to tame. His pants were growing almost painfully tight, and he tugged down his jacket to make certain nothing of his physical reaction to her was showing.
Bloody hell, he was not a man who lusted after virgins or plain little commoners who were in his employ. What in God’s name was wrong with him?
The inside of the barn was gloomy, for no sun shined through the high windows this day, making it a bit difficult to traverse the refuse on the floor. Furniture, chandeliers, pikes, and shields seemed to have been tossed haphazardly into the room. Upon closer inspection, though the pile seemed to have been created by a careless hand, he could now see few of the articles had sustained any damage.
A tearing sound broke the silence, and then a cry of female dismay.
“I hope the damage isn’t too severe,” he called.
“Just the hem. Caught on a spear.” Then she muttered, “I wonder how many women have uttered those words.”
She was looking down at the damage, her curls hiding her face, when she suddenly lost her balance and landed on her rear, letting out a small oomph.
“Are you trying to impale yourself, Miss Anderson?”
She looked up, her beautiful eyes seeming to glow in the muted light. “You haven’t driven me to something as dire as that. Yet.”
Augustus was silent for a moment, letting her witty comment wash over him, as surprising as a rogue wave. He let out a bark of laughter and was gratified to see her smile. It took only a few steps until he was standing above her, looking down. Then he sat beside her on what appeared to be an overturned bench.
Ignoring her look of surprise, he said, “Why don’t we sit and chat a spell? As a gentleman, I can hardly continue to stand if you are sitting. Were you injured?”
“Only my pride and my dress,” she said, indicating the large rip in the hem of her dress. “I fear it’s ruined.”
“Certainly you cannot be heartbroken. It’s not a very pretty dress.”
Again, that throaty chuckle. “No, it’s not. But it is a perfect dress to wear on a damp day whilst tramping about a dusty old barn.”
Augustus rested his wrists on his knees and settled back a bit against the barn wall, then looked up at the great pile that had once graced his home. “They’re not just things, you know. They are my family’s history, our heritage. I can hardly imagine this will all be back in place in a matter of weeks.”
“It will, my lord, I assure you.”
“I do wish you would call me Gus.”
Her eyes widened as if he’d asked her to call him Beelzebub. “I could never be so forward. And even if I was…Gus?”
He let out a low chuckle. “It’s what everyone in America called me. There, I was just a man.”
“And here?”
“Here, I am something else entirely, aren’t I? My lord. Earl of Berkley. Sometimes, I think I would like to go back to America where I am simply Gus.”
Miss Anderson wrinkled her nose in distaste of the nickname.
“Come now, Gus isn’t so bad. What is your given name? I confess I have forgotten.”
“Harriet.”
“Good God,” he muttered. “I cannot call you that. It doesn’t suit, not at all. Harriet? Why on earth would your mother name you that?”
She didn’t seem offended by his comments, which was a relief. He did have a tendency to be callous. “My parents fervently wished for a boy and were convinced I was one. They picked out the name Harrison, and then out I came. I was a Disappointment. That’s with a capital D.” She let out a small laugh. “With Clara they had the perfect little girl and I supposed they wanted the perfect little boy.”
Augustus could detect no self-pity in her words, but rather resignation. “Your sister is lovely, but I’m not at all attracted to her.”
Miss Anderson shot him a look of complete disbelief. “You seemed rather taken by her at the John Knill ball. One look and you were drawn to her like a moth to a flame. I didn’t even get a chance to give you a proper curtsy.”
He remembered well that night, except for the part about meeting the woman sitting next to him. Clara Anderson was one of the most beautiful woman he’d ever met, and yet he’d been telling the truth when he’d told Miss Anderson he was not attracted to her. “Your sister is beautiful, so I cannot really say why I am indifferent to her charms. She wasn’t cold by any means, but there was something in her demeanor…” Then it came to him and he lifted his finger like a professor about to make an important point. “I’ve got it. She behaved like a woman whose heart has already been taken. It was clear that though she was surrounded by men who were interested in her, she had no interest in them.”
Miss Anderson gave him a quizzical look. “That can’t be right. You must have misunderstood. Clara’s heart is not engaged. She’s turned down more men than I can think of, and when she’d not traveling with my parents in search of a husband, she is in her garden. I think instead of a man, she might have been thinking about the best way to cross-pollinate some plant.”
They were silent for a spell and for some reason, Augustus had no d
esire to move. He took a moment to study her profile. Her nose had the smallest bump midway down and was perhaps a tad too large for her delicate features. Her mouth was clearly defined, sculpted on top and soft and pillowy on the bottom, and a tiny mole sat just above the corner. Hers was an interesting profile, not perfect by any means, but it seemed to fit her with its unexpectedly lush mouth and too-large nose. She was far lovelier than he’d realized, and he found he liked that small bump and that tiny mole. Thoughts of seeing his beloved lions had disappeared and he realized he was enjoying himself more than he had in a long time. “I shall call you…Catalina.”
“Catalina?”
“I met a cowboy from Argentina and his wife’s name was Catalina. She was exotic and dark and had the most mysterious smile.”
Miss Anderson let out an unladylike snort. “She sounds like my twin.”
He grinned at her and shrugged. “It means ‘pure’ and I think it suits you.” He let his gaze sweep across her curls. “You are mysterious, Miss Anderson.”
Her cheeks instantly reddened and she looked away. Reaching down, she fiddled with the long, thin strip of cloth that had been torn from her dress, a gesture that for some reason affected him in a strange, unidentifiable way.
“I wonder what you would do if I kissed you right now,” he said, his words coming out far more intense than he’d meant, as if kissing this woman had become vital to him.
She shot him a quick look, panic in her light blue eyes, before turning her gaze once again to the tear. “I would slap you, my lord.”
“Gus.”
She pressed her pretty lips together and he wondered if she were angry or trying not to smile. He hoped the latter. “I would slap you. Gus.”
Letting out a low chuckle, he moved his hand, very nearly touching her shoulder, then softly pulled on one of her curls. “I would expect nothing less, Miss Anderson.” Then he abruptly stood, startling her, and held out a hand for her to take.
With the smallest hesitation, she laid her hand in his and allowed him to help her up. “Now, where are my lions?”
* * * *
He wanted to know where his lions were. Harriet could hardly manage to point, so shaken was she by his question. Kiss her? Why would he say such a thing? Just to see her reaction, no doubt. Lord Berkley did seem to take perverse pleasure in ruffling her feathers, which was why she tried so hard to hide how he was affecting her.
Perhaps the worst realization was that she didn’t know what she would have done had he actually kissed her. Would she have slapped him? Part of her, a very large part of her, said no. The idea that he might was possibly the most exciting thing to have happened to her in ages.
No one had ever kissed her, nor seemed as if they’d wanted to. It was excruciating to recall the terrible crushes she’d allowed herself to have on men who were so far beyond her it was laughable. And here she was, developing a crush on an earl. He, of all the men she’d held a tendre for, was the most unlikely of all.
Yet, as they stood there, side by side, as she pointed out one of the lions, she felt his presence, as if she were somehow connected to him. It was ridiculous, so she said a silent reminder over and over, “It is impossible. It is impossible.”
Because it was impossible, for so many different reasons, not even taking into consideration that he was a peer and she was the daughter of a commoner. Lord Berkley, tall, masculine, handsome in a way that made women sigh as he walked by, was about as attainable to her as the moon or the stars. Harriet Anderson, who was pragmatic in nearly all things, had the soul of a romantic and a heart given away far too easily.
“There they are,” he said, then easily stepped over a large chair before pushing aside a carpet no doubt woven two centuries ago, to reveal the great head of the center lion. “Hello.”
And with that gentle little hello meant for a carved lion, Harriet found her heart warming. It is impossible. She thought that fervently, but the sight of this great man laying a gentle hand atop his old friend was quite endearing. When he looked back at her and grinned, her heart gave a painful little flip.
Oh, no.
Later that day, after Lord Berkley had departed, Harriet was able to relax and get back to the job at hand. It was nearly impossible for her to work with him nearby; her awareness of him was a terrible distraction. What made matters worse, she was quite certain she was the last thing on his mind, while he was all she could think of.
So when he told Mr. Billings he was leaving and likely would not return before the end of the day, Harriet sagged with relief. Construction would be completed within three weeks, and then the finer details—returning everything to its proper place—would begin. Lord Berkley’s study, now that the floral wallpaper was removed from the thick, dark paneling, was looking much more as it had. One panel contained a mural, which he’d feared had been ruined, but which was uncovered and easily restored. It was almost, she thought, as if whoever had done the changes had meant them to be temporary. Yes, the alterations had been extensive, but much of what had been removed had been stored away, and the more permanent changes had been done in a way that was fairly easy to reverse. A thought had occurred to Harriet as she watched a worker tear out an ornately carved bit of paneling to reveal the original, still intact and gleaming, that none of this had been meant to last. That perhaps Lord Berkley’s wife had been conducting some sort of elaborate prank.
Or punishment.
His study was nearly complete, the large, masculine desk and rich leather furnishings some of the first items put back into place. Such a satisfying feeling to have nearly everything again as it should be.
As she studied the room, her eyes kept returning to a particular shelf where thick old volumes had been stored. Here, there had been no change that she could note, but still, she went back, stepping closer to see if she could find what was bothering her so. Then she saw it, a thick volume, but smaller than the rest, jammed in between two books on husbandry. Closing her eyes, she looked at the pictures in her mind and realized that smaller book had not been there before.
Curious, she got on her tip-toes and reached for the book, nearly dropping it in the process. She realized almost immediately what she held—the former lady’s journal, the very item that had helped exonerate Lord Berkley during the inquiry into the lady’s death. Feeling only a niggling of guilt, Harriet opened the book to the last written page.
I realize I cannot live this way any longer. I am so deeply unhappy and I fear that if I continue in this way, I will face a lifetime of misery and regret. I have prayed nightly for an answer. Alas, I see only one.
Harriet felt a shiver go down her spine. That poor, poor woman. She could not imagine being so desperate as to take one’s own life. Had Lord Berkley been such a terrible husband that death had been her only option? The man she knew didn’t seem awful, but clearly Lady Greenwich had been so distraught over his return that she’d felt death had been her only option. Fighting tears, Harriet put the book back in its place and walked from the room, heading toward Costille House’s medieval tower, the very one Lady Greenwich had thrown herself from the night her husband had returned. The farther she walked, the more silent the house became, until she only heard her own footsteps on the wide-planked floor beneath her feet. During the tours, the tower had not been open to visitors. Nothing had been done to this part of the house. The original stone steps, worn in spots from countless footsteps, led up to the top of the tower, where arrow slits remained to tell of another age.
A brisk breeze hit her as she opened the thick, plank door that led to the top of the tower.
Outside, the sky was still overcast, but a milky sun was struggling to push past the clouds, and mist was no longer falling. Harriet walked to the edge and peered out of one of the arrow slits, then stepped back and looked up at the wall, still damp from the earlier rain. This was the very spot from which Lady Greenwich had jumped to her death on t
he cobblestones below, but it was rather curious. The wall was quite high, and Harriet wondered how on earth the lady had managed it, dressed in a ball gown such as she was. Harriet walked to the wall, which was as high as her nose. It wouldn’t have been impossible to get to the top, particularly if Lady Greenwich was an athletic woman, but it would not have been easy. Placing her hands atop the wall, Harriet gave a small jump just to see if she could shimmy up, but quickly realized she didn’t have the height nor strength to haul herself to the top. Perhaps, she thought, there had been a bench Lady Greenwich had used.
Or perhaps, as the police commissioner had initially thought, she had been pushed.
Chapter 4
Even though dusk was approaching and Harriet knew she should be returning home, she could not stop the discomfort she felt about her discovery. Unless Lady Greenwich had been uncommonly tall or fantastically athletic, Harriet couldn’t imagine the woman hoisting herself up that wall and throwing herself off. And yet, her diary made it seem as if her suicide was imminent. What better time to kill herself than when her hated husband had just returned to discover what she’d done to the house? She must have been as terrified as she was melancholy.
As she made her way back to Lord Berkley’s study, the sounds of construction became more pronounced. Somehow in the last few days, it had become a comforting sound; every pound of the hammer translating to pounds in her bank account. The study was precisely as she’d left it, but when she entered she was met by a brilliant display of raindrops on the windows glittering in the light of the setting sun. Harriet went to look out and smiled to see that the sun was finally making an appearance and creating a lovely spectacle. In the distance, she could just see the Atlantic reflecting the last of the day’s light.
While beautiful, the setting sun also served as a reminder that evening was approaching. Turning away from the scene, Harriet went to the shelf that held Lady Greenwich’s journal, and pulled the thick volume down, turning it in her hands. It was a handsome volume, carved rosewood in a lilac design with a sturdy leather binder. The wood covers were thick, almost masculine if it hadn’t been for the delicate floral design. Judging by the décor she’d left behind, Lady Greenwich had adored flowers.
The Earl Most Likely Page 8