He’d never asked anyone to marry him before. What would a chap like Maximillian Norwich do? There was no Seine to row her about in, just the ocean, and she was afraid of it. No Rembrandt to stand in front of, just a grotesque grotesque. He wasn’t offering her much—he was poor, half blind, and half deranged. She was right to not fall at his feet in gratitude.
“I won’t pressure you, Louisa. Just think about it. I realize we don’t know each other all that well, and you might suspect me of being a fortune hunter. But I can be a real Maximillian Norwich, be a buffer between you and your family. I wouldn’t expect anything in return.”
“Why? If you don’t love me.”
He stiffened. “I hold you in the highest regard.”
“I won’t have you feeling sorry for me. I can fight my own battles!”
“Yes, yes, of course you can.” He’d offended her somehow when all he wanted to do was help.
The argument was interrupted by the distant sound of a motor. “Is that a car?” Charles asked.
“The road is not far. We should be getting back.”
That was that. Louisa leaped up on Emerald with no assistance and took off. It was up to Charles to pack up the glasses in his saddlebag. He left the empty bottle at Randolph’s feet as some sort of offering. He doubted the gargoyle had any sway over Louisa. It would take more than a granite creature to inspire Louisa to reform.
Chapter
22
Charles found his way back, navigating by the dust Emerald threw up as Louisa raced her home. The joy of the day had been snuffed out, and it was his fault entirely. What the hell was he thinking, proposing marriage to an heiress like Louisa? He thought of Tom and Fred gawping at Rosemont’s six turrets. They’d beat him to a pulp all over again for trying to rise above his station.
What would Louisa think if she saw where he grew up? Could he ever bring her home to his brothers and their wives? Not unless she wanted to be lectured about workers’ rights and the evils of capitalism.
The odd thing was that Louisa might very well agree with Tom and Fred. She had far too many radical ideas. Hell, she wouldn’t make anyone a comfortable sort of wife at all, despite her fortune. A man would long to be deaf within hours of the ceremony. She did talk so.
Charles resolved to take a vow of silence himself. Speak only when spoken to. Let the household think Maximillian Norwich was a man of mystery. He’d already said too much to Louisa and did not want to dig himself a deeper hole.
His good intentions shattered as he entered the stable yard. Louisa was still mounted, talking down to a handsome blond fellow who leaned negligently against the Daimler, a suitcase at his feet. Robertson hovered, probably waiting to rub off the smudge to the car’s luster. He must have just come from picking up the guest at the railway station.
“Ah! There is your bridegroom now. I trust no harm has come to my horse, Norwich?”
Charles slid from the saddle in what he hoped was stunning grace. Foolishly pleased to see he topped Louisa’s cousin by a few inches, he extended his hand.
“Hugh Westlake, I presume? Delighted to meet you.” He squeezed and pumped with unnecessary zeal. “There was, in fact, a bit of a mishap with Pirate earlier. His blanket was laden with some screws. But no harm done.”
“Screws? What the devil! Jimmy!”
“Gone to the village for his grandda,” Robertson said in his Scottish burr. “Angus with him.”
Hugh Westlake fussed over his horse, forgetting Louisa and Charles completely.
“May I help you dismount, darling?”
“I can get d—oh, yes. Of course, dearest.” An old man Charles hadn’t seen before came out for the horses, Hugh blistering him for the screw incident. The fellow didn’t look like he understood a word of Hugh’s tirade. Either he was innocent, or a very good actor.
Charles was beginning to think no one was as good an actor as he. He pretended touching Louisa did not affect him in any way.
“Well, this is good news,” he whispered into Louisa’s shell-pink ear. “Hugh seems to prefer his horse to you.”
“Just as I prefer Emerald to you,” she replied sweetly, taking his arm.
“Is that so? You may ride me anytime you like and discover my superiority.”
She had sharp elbows for one so plush. “Charles!”
“You mean Max. Watch yourself, my lovely.”
“Max, then. Let’s escape while we can.”
Arm in arm, they nearly ran around the corner to Rosemont’s imposing entrance. Griffith stood, waiting. They almost made it to the open front door before Hugh came huffing up behind them.
“A word, Norwich. If you would be good enough to meet me in the library in an hour, I would appreciate it.”
Charles turned to Louisa. “Darling, are we free?”
“Louisa’s presence is not required.”
“I’m sorry, Westlake. I don’t do much of anything without Louisa at my side, particularly since there have been a few odd occurrences here since we arrived.”
Louisa made a great show of yawning. “It’s all right, Max. I think I’ll have a nap before I dress for dinner.”
“Coward,” he whispered. “But something for me to look forward to after my talk with your cousin.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.
Elbowed again.
“If you have no objection to the scent of horse and leather, why don’t we just get to it now, Westlake?” Charles asked.
“Very well.” Hugh looked Louisa up and down with an insolence that made Charles want to pummel out of him. “Louisa, I see you’ve lost none of your nerve. Trousers? Really?”
“Doesn’t she look divine in them?” Charles interrupted before Louisa could fly off at Hugh. He hugged her and kissed her forehead. “Pleasant dreams, my dear. I’ll be upstairs before you can miss me.”
To his delight, Louisa brought his face down so she could give him a very thorough, very public kiss for the benefit of her wretched cousin. A kiss that involved her gifted tongue invading his surprised mouth just long enough to garner a disgusted snort from Hugh. Griffith was much too well trained to respond in any way.
“Hurry, Hugh. I can’t bear it when Max is not with me.”
All three men watched as she ran up the stairs, her hips wiggling shamelessly. Louisa Stratton was a handful who would drive the average man to drink. Hemlock, if it was handy.
“She hasn’t changed a bit,” Hugh mumbled.
“Why should she?” Charles asked cheerfully. “She’s nigh on to perfect.”
“If you think that, I have a large clock to sell you at Westminster. Come, let’s talk in the library over a brandy. Griffith, I presume the drinks cabinet is stocked?”
“Of course, Mr. Hugh. Would you like me to pour?”
“No, we’ll need our privacy. See that we’re not disturbed.”
Charles followed Hugh down the marble hall, passing enormous rooms filled with blinding gilt furniture. Everything at Rosemont was far too grand. Maybe Louisa was right—she could build a cozy Arts and Crafts cottage, surround herself with comfortable furniture and painted pottery instead of Versailles reproductions and Sevres.
The library walls were lined with at least a thousand books. If Charles hadn’t been asked to sit down, he would have roamed by the shelves with genuine interest. Hugh sat behind the massive mahogany desk, which must have belonged to his grandfather. Very lord of the manor. Charles curbed his annoyance and waited. He who spoke first lost, so they said. He was hoping that was true.
“Oh! The brandy. Be a good chap and fetch us some. It’s just over there.”
And now Hugh was trying to reduce him to servant status. Little did he know how true that was.
“I’d just as soon keep my wits about me, Westlake. It’s early in the day. But you help yourself if you want.”
Hugh grimaced.
“Never mind then. I don’t expect us to bond over brandy. I don’t expect us to bond at all. I’ve had you investigated, Norwich. No one seems to have heard of you in France.”
Louisa should have expected as much. Charles shrugged. “It’s a big country. I assure you, I exist.”
“My cousin is headstrong, and hopelessly naïve. You look like just the sort of adventurer that would take advantage of a helpless woman.”
“Familiar with the type, are you? Louisa’s told me some interesting tales of her girlhood.”
Hugh’s face darkened. “Don’t believe everything you hear. She’s not a very reliable source.”
“I spoke to your mother this morning as well. No matter what either one of you has to say about Louisa’s character, I am not interested. She is my wife, and I—” He paused. He was about to say “I love her.” Well, why not? “I care for her very deeply. It seems to me neither you nor her aunt have similar feelings, which is why your time at Rosemont will be coming to an end.”
“W-what?” Hugh sputtered.
“If Louisa and I are to live here, she doesn’t need to be saddled with daily reminders of her unhappy past. This is her house. If you both hold her in such aversion, why would you even want to stay here? You and your mother cannot tell her what she can and cannot do anymore. She’s twenty-six, not still a girl to be bullied by those who do not have her best interests at heart.”
“What would you know of anything? You’re a parvenu, a jumped-up fortune hunter! I assure you my mother did the best she could through Louisa’s stubbornness and scandals. She managed the family fortune well enough to attract you, didn’t she? If Louisa thinks she can just throw us out—”
“That is exactly what she thinks. What I think as well. No amount of threats or ‘accidents’ will make us change our mind. Enjoy this Christmas at Rosemont, Mr. Westlake, because it will be your last one.”
Hugh shot up, knocking over the desk chair. “We’ll see about that.”
“Yes, we will. Louisa’s new solicitor will be contacting you.” Charles would write to Mrs. Evensong himself to inform her of the urgency of the matter. “Now, if you have nothing else to discuss, I believe I’ll join my wife upstairs. Good day.”
Well, Charles was earning his pennies today. Two unpleasant discussions with Louisa’s relatives, a hard fall on his arse, and a severe case of blue balls. Perhaps the latter could be attended to once he returned to the bedroom suite, but he wouldn’t count on it. Louisa’s mood had been mercurial all day, almost odd enough for him to believe the aspersions cast against her.
Charles had an urge to take a bath to wash Hugh Westlake’s blond perfection away. He would do so after he reported to Louisa. But once he entered the sitting room, he found the bedroom door locked against him. Vixen.
She couldn’t possibly be asleep yet—he’d made very short work of his talk with Hugh, going in with guns blazing, no subtlety whatsoever. At least everyone knew where they stood now. It would be entertaining to watch it all play out over dinner if he didn’t have to don confining evening clothes to do so.
Charles turned back into the hall and entered his own chamber. Everything appeared to be in order just as he’d left it, but the superstitious part of him ran a hand under the covers and pillows, looking for more screws, or something even more dangerous.
Nothing. That was good so far. Maybe the pranks would be limited to one a day. He picked up a book from the pile at his bedside and flipped through the pages, unable to concentrate. A lot had happened in the brief time he’d arrived at Rosemont, and so far he wasn’t making much sense of any of it.
Time to wash his jumpiness away. Charles entered the echoing white-tiled bathroom and turned on the tap. Hot silver water splashed into the immaculate porcelain tub, quite a difference from the communal pump at his family home, or bathing in leech-infested waters in Africa.
It would be summer there now, the sun hot, the flowers blossoming where they hadn’t been trampled. All the fires of Kitchener’s army must have brought cleansing and growth to the empty savannah. His first Christmas in a tropical climate with thousands of men had been a strange affair, but no stranger than the Christmas of 1903 was bound to be at Rosemont.
Charles shed his riding clothes and eased his sore body into the bathtub. He’d used muscles today he’d forgot he had. Likely the stableboys would be cautioned not to let him ride Pirate Prince again now that Hugh was home, but there were plenty of other animals to choose from. Rosemont had everything.
Too much. Every bibelot and boulle cabinet was a testament to Louisa’s grandfather’s success. There were things everywhere—the house must be a nightmare to dust and polish, Charles thought, chuckling as he pictured Louisa in a starched white apron with a feather duster. She might even be game, but there was a fleet of well-trained servants to handle the domestic chores. Running an operation like Rosemont was not for the faint of heart—no wonder Grace Westlake made such a good job of it.
Charles plunged his head beneath the water to clean his wound, then soaped himself. He took a sniff. Violets. He’d smell like Louisa. His own body would drive him mad with unquenched desire. He lay back in the tub and closed his eyes, fisting his bobbing cock. Just the thought of her made him hard. In breeches, her pert bum rising above the saddle. Certainly out of breeches, her golden hair tickling his chest as she glided over him, her own eyes closed in bliss.
He was close to his peak when the doorknob turned.
Chapter
23
Robbie pretended he didn’t see Kathleen crossing the courtyard, her arms folded over her lovely little bosoms. He was about to experience her Irish temper again—twice in one afternoon!—and it wasn’t fair. He’d tried—it was a damn stroke of genius to fiddle with the horse blanket on such short notice.
That captain fellow was too hard to hurt.
All afternoon Robbie had expected Miss Louisa to come flying home on Emerald in a tizzy. He’d been prepared to drive the motorcar as a makeshift ambulance to carry the poor fellow home. The captain was young—his bones would mend in no time. What was the harm to a broken arm or dislocated shoulder?
But no. The man had fallen on his rump in the soft sand, almost immediately after mounting Pirate Prince. Kat had come to tell him after she put her mistress to bed for the afternoon, practically hissing and spitting like her namesake. She’d had several hours now as twilight stole upon them to stew over his inability to put Louisa’s hireling out of commission.
Well, he’d stewed, too. Mr. Hugh was home, and they’d all better watch out.
“There’s been another telegram. I told Griffith I’d come find you. Mrs. Westlake wants you to pick up Mrs. Lang on the evening train.”
“Damn. The old bat.” There went Kathleen’s freedom.
“I have an hour before I get Louisa dressed for dinner. If you can stop cleaning the car long enough.”
“Is that a proposition, Miss Carmichael?”
“It is not. I thought we should strategize. Just talk.”
Robbie tossed his chamois cloth on a bench. “You can’t come up to my room. Someone will see.” The yard was crawling with grooms, and old Hathorn, the stable manager, was a Westlake loyalist. They’d both be out on their arses if it was discovered Kathleen had a follower.
“Meet me on the beach in five minutes.”
“We’ll bloody freeze to death. The sun is low in the sky and the wind’s picked up.” The day had been unusually mild for December, but the temperature was dropping as night fell.
“Button up, Robbie.” Kathleen turned on her heel and left him standing there.
He should just leave Rosemont before he got into trouble. Kathleen was trouble. Her mistress was trouble. He was a fool to let a skinny freckled redhead lead him around by his pecker.
Unfortunately he loved her. The last year had been hell without her, but Robbie was afraid all his fu
ture years would be hell with her, too.
If he wasn’t hanged so he could live them.
Robbie tied his scarf tighter to remind himself of what might happen to his neck, and squashed a cap on his head. He slipped away from the garage and ambled across the spacious lawn, hoping there were no prying eyes up at the house. There were about a hundred windows and anyone might see him skulk down to the shore when he should be working, or trying to look as if he was.
The stone steps to the beach led him straight to Kathleen, who was wearing a track in the sand.
She shook off his embrace. “Took you long enough.”
“I went by my watch.”
“I didn’t mean five exact minutes. Walk with me.”
They headed toward an outcropping of rocks. Gulls cried and circled overhead, and Robbie was reminded of his awe when he first took this position. He couldn’t believe his luck—an estate like Rosemont right on the water, a young heiress and her maid to carry about. But then Louisa had run off and taken Kathleen with her. The ocean lost its luster while the mostly unused car shone as if it were still in its showroom. Driving Grace Westlake’s son back and forth to the London train was not the pleasure he’d dreamed of.
Once inside the circle of stones, Kathleen stamped her foot. “I don’t know what to do! I think she’s falling in love with him! After just a handful of days’ acquaintance! She says the stupidest things against him, but I know she doesn’t mean a word. It’s like that saying from Shakespeare—‘the lady doth protest too much.’”
Robbie had never read Shakespeare, but he knew all about Lady Macbeth—what Scottish lad didn’t know about the Scottish play? He didn’t want any more of Cooper’s blood on Kathleen’s hands. “Maybe you—we—should do nothing and let nature take its course. I fell in love with you, too, in less than a week, remember. Fool that I am. I can’t keep dreaming up ways to incapacitate him. You should give me credit, really—I thought the bit with the horse was genius on such short notice. Jimmy’s not easy to distract.”
In the Arms of the Heiress (A LADIES UNLACED NOVEL) Page 17