The Cynfell Brothers

by Samantha Holt

  “Rest.”

  She tried to struggle up again but a sneeze had her fumbling for the handkerchief again. Julian thrust it out for her and she blew her nose, giving him an apologetic look. “I don’t know what happened.”

  “The rain most likely.”

  “I was so fatigued after the train journey. When did I come to bed?”

  “Shortly before dinner. You collapsed, Viola.”

  Viola. Her name on his lips, so etched with concern had her heart thumping like gunshots in her chest. He was still Julian to her but should she be bold enough to say it aloud? The fog in her head prevented her from making serious decisions, like how soon after meeting was it acceptable to address a lord by his given name and how did you appear refined and ready to be a marchioness when your nose was running and your voice sounded like gravel?

  “I’ve never done that before. I fell asleep shortly before dinner but I don’t remember that at all.”

  “You had a long day,” he said simply. Julian leaned in to peer at her and a crease of concern sat between his brows. “You feel better though?”

  “Yes, though my throat and head are sore.”

  She supposed that wasn’t all that better really, but she didn’t feel on the verge of collapse anymore. The sleepless nights of travelling and the long boat journey here must have taken their toll. Add to that being soaked to the skin and bathing in that awful tin tub and she supposed she could almost be forgiven for swooning.

  “Excellent.” He stepped back and his body seemed to shake loose. “I’ll request that the doctor visit as soon as possible. He came last night but you were very unresponsive.”

  “I am sorry.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t be foolish. What have you to be sorry for?”

  Viola thought back to her father’s annoyance when she was sick as a child or how her brothers would tease her that she was making it up so she could stay in bed and avoid working on the farm. But Julian didn’t seem at all annoyed with her, in spite of her missing dinner and being quite the inconvenience. His mood had certainly improved since the previous day. Perhaps this was the Julian to whom she’d been writing and he had simply needed time to emerge.

  “I hope I’m not an imposition.”

  A moment passed before he shook his head again and a sinking feeling wiped away the slight warmth that had filled her chest at the idea of seeing the true Julian. She was an imposition. He just didn’t want to say as much.

  “Once you are better, we’ll discuss your stay in Warwickshire.”

  Her stay in Warwickshire. Not in his house. Did he still want her out of Lockwood Manor? Was it really so shameful to have her here? Unfortunately even reading Debrett’s over and over and picking up books on etiquette couldn’t erase the farm girl or the American in her. She simply didn’t understand the rules and regulations of English society well enough.

  A tiny throb in her chest made her long for the more relaxed rules of the families she knew in New York. Not that there wasn’t snobbery. Being new money didn’t ingratiate them to many people but New York society were steadily having to accept that there were men out there making their own way in the world and working hard for their money. These men were leaving their mark and it was either accept them or fall behind.

  He rocked back on his heels, looking as though he couldn’t decide whether to stay or leave her be. “You must be hungry.”

  She considered her stomach. “Yes, ravenous actually.”

  His eyes widened a little. If she thought hard, she recalled one of the books stating ladies did not speak of their bodily needs. But how did you ever get fed if you didn’t declare your hunger? She might waste away for the sake of etiquette. Oh, would she ever learn to fit in with English society?

  “I’ll have Mrs Whittleworth arrange for something to be sent up as soon as possible.”

  “Thank you.”

  The air grew thick and cloying as silence lengthened the minutes. The tick of the mantel clock emphasised the awkwardness. How she wished for the easy tone they had in their letters.

  Lord Lockwood cleared his throat. “Well, I am glad to see you are well. I shall just...” He gave a jerky bow, righted himself and retreated.

  Leaving Viola staring at the door and pondering him. He really was quite different to how she’d imagined him. Admittedly, her dreams had been a little foolish, but his letters had been so beautiful and heartfelt.

  A tickle in her nose prevented her from thinking any further on Lord Lockwood and his puzzling behaviour. A rash of sneezes seized her, continuing so that when Jenny entered the room, she looked a little taken aback.

  “Oh my, you really do have quite the cold, miss.”

  Viola nodded and blew her nose on the hanky before one last sneeze attacked her. She sank back against the pillows and winced as her head pounded in response to the outburst.

  “I brought you up some soup.” Jenny placed the tray down on the table and helped Viola to sit up before laying the tray across her lap.

  The scent of chicken and herbs managed to work through her stuffy nose and she sighed. “It smells wonderful.”

  “Miss B works wonders in the kitchen.” She waited for Viola to take a sip and nodded approvingly. “I’m glad to see some colour in your cheeks. Lord Lockwood was terribly worried for you. Thought he was going to have to bury another woman, I reckon. Though I told him it seemed to be just a cold.”

  “Oh, yes. Did his wife die of illness? I am sorry I put him through so much worry.” She supposed that might explain a lot of his rigid attitude. He might have even been reliving his wife’s death. How awful.

  “Well, the first one did. The other two—”

  “There were three?” She paused with the spoon partway to her mouth.

  “Oh, yes, I thought you knew what with always writing to him. All three went to their graves, I’m sorry to say.”

  Viola lowered her spoon and sank back against the pillow a little. “Goodness.”

  Jenny strode over the fire and stoked it with the poker before laying out a blanket at the end of the bed. “Just in case you need it,” she said. “And do ring the bell if you need anything else.”

  She didn’t resume eating until the maid had left. The temptation to ask her more about Julian’s wives niggled at her but surely if Julian wanted her to know all the details, he would have told her. Perhaps the incidents were too painful for him to speak of. She took a sip and lowered the spoon to stare at the portrait of one of his ancient ancestors that dominated the opposite wall.

  Poor, poor man. Her heart stretched for him. How dearly she would like to help him get over his pain. She allowed herself a smile in spite of the headache consuming her. He might not be dashing and bold as she had hoped but he was hurting and a little bit broken. Someone she could fix perhaps. The idea certainly appealed.

  Chapter Five

  Julian cursed at the ink splot on his letter. Damnation. He couldn’t concentrate knowing she was in his house. He hadn’t shared his house with a woman—oh his staff didn’t count—for a while and his last wife had avoided being home with him at all costs. His complaint to the Atlantic Telegraph Company would have to wait. He couldn’t help but release a grin as he laid down his pen and lifted his legs up onto the desk. If it hadn’t been for writing a letter of complaint to Viola’s father, she never would have written back, explaining his illness and how she was taking care of his correspondence. He couldn’t help but soften at her charming turn of phrase and his complaints had soon been forgotten. Before long, he’d found himself talked into what could turn out to be a profitable business scheme.

  A noise outside the library had him guiltily shifting his feet from the table and sitting upright. His pulse thrummed in his ears while he stared at the open doorway that was framed by shelves of books. The tension slowly coiling into his belly was nothing new. He had been feeling this way since Viola had arrived three days ago. Knowing she lay in bed, in his house, made him feel as though he was walking o
n hot coals everywhere. Frankly, he didn’t know what to do with himself.

  And while he had visited with her, the moments together had been awkward and stilted. She expected him to be something more than he was—he knew it. She had anticipated the eloquent man from the letters. Julian snorted and rubbed his forehead with two fingers. He wasn’t sure that man existed anywhere other than on paper. Expressing himself in the written word was much easier than doing it in real life.

  His tense posture hadn’t been for nought. She slipped in through the door and the pounding in his ears increased. Even in the low light of the library, he noted she had regained a little colour. Wearing a slim-fitting skirt in a deep plum shade with a white shirt and her hair wound up into some complicated hairstyle, she looked quite unlike the woman he’d found on his doorstep two days ago.

  But just as devastatingly beautiful.

  “There you are.”

  Her familiar tone made him stiffen. He couldn’t recall the last time someone had greeted him like that. With an almost excited manner. Even the servants who knew him well tended to regard him with apprehension, perhaps expecting his latest outburst. And his brothers... Damn, those men. They came by when they needed something. A more dissolute, reckless bunch, he’d never met. How was a man meant to relax when he had six brothers throwing the family name to the wolves?

  But of course, society didn’t mind dissolute rakes. It was he who was the one to avoid. Heaven forbid he might attend an event and bring his touch of death with him.

  Julian stood and waited for Viola to approach the desk. She paused and did a rotation, lifting her gaze up to eye the walls stacked with books. The library at Lockwood was one of the finest in the country and one of the few places he enjoyed spending time. The scent of leather and old paper never failed to soothe him, even in his loneliest hours.

  “You’re feeling better.” He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. It was clear by the sparkle in her eye and hints of pink skimming her creamy cheeks.

  “Much better, thank you.” She didn’t look at him. Her gaze followed the lines of the carved spiral staircases and then she tilted her head up to stare at the painted ceiling. “This is the most incredible room.”

  For a moment, Julian forgot to do anything but eye that expanse of neck that begged to be touched by a man’s lips. No, not a man’s lips. His lips.

  A few curls escaped down her back and he flexed a hand. It had been so long since he’d felt the soft touch of a woman’s hair under his fingers or tasted the arch of her neck. Mabel, his last wife, had avoided touching him at all costs and a bedding with her had been perfunctory—a mere duty to try to get her with child.

  “No wonder you spend so much time in here.” Viola met his gaze head on.

  “How do you know I spend a lot of time in here?”

  “Jenny said as much.”

  Damn his servants. He didn’t like the idea of them discussing him, even if he was aware there was no preventing servants from gossiping. What else did they talk of? His wives? How he had brought them nothing but bad luck? Julian clenched his jaw and watched her approach his desk

  Viola skimmed a hand over the mahogany surface. She traced the curls and indents of the engraved wood and lifted her head to smile at him. “This is where you write your letters?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where you used to write to me?”

  “Yes.”

  Those fingers paused and came away from the wood. He’d never wanted to be a piece of furniture so badly. Would her touch be soft and gentle or bold and brash like her? He’d never met anyone so open. Sybil had been open and honest with him but only behind closed doors, in very private moments. Never anywhere the servants could hear or in any of the public rooms. In those moments, his second wife was every inch the reserved English woman. He’d often lamented the change in her, wishing she would be the wife he adored all the time.

  Damn it, his necktie was making a fair attempt at strangling him. Why had he even worn one? Yes, he hadn’t gone as far as shaving for her but he’d felt some need to impress her. Why that was, he didn’t know. Julian seldom received visitors and rarely put on a show for them.

  “Have you read all these?”

  Julian lifted a brow and gave the thousands upon thousands of books a glance. “Hardly.”

  “What of Nicholas Nickleby? Do you have a copy of that?”

  So she remembered. It seemed he wasn’t the only one absorbing every snippet of information she told him in her letters. It pleased him far too much.

  “I have several on the upper level.” He pointed at the narrow balcony that ran around three sides of the room.

  “Will you show me them?”

  He stared at her for a few moments. That pleading look to her expression couldn’t be denied. Clearly, he was a bit of a fool for this woman whom he hardly knew. He certainly didn’t believe that a few letters could properly acquaint one with another person. Hell, he’d known Mabel for eight years and he hadn’t known her properly or else he could have prophesised that their marriage was doomed.

  “This way.” He strode over to the spiral steps on the right and waited for her to follow. The carved wooden staircase was narrow and wound tightly. “You had better go first.” He didn’t want her falling and that skirt certainly wasn’t made for climbing steps.

  She stepped past him and began her ascent. Julian realised his mistake instantly. If he wanted to ensure she came to no harm, he’d have to follow closely and he had the perfect view of her rear. Without the enhancement of a bustle or heavy skirts, he could make out the gentle curve of it. A faint moment of amusement tickled him when he wondered how she’d react if he leaned forward and bit into it.

  She’d likely scream and slap him. Not that he would ever do such a thing. Christ, she might have a proper fall and break her neck. Knowing his luck that was quite likely.

  Viola paused at the top and waited for him to join her. She shuffled back on the balcony to accommodate him, but the narrow confines meant they ended up nearly chest to chest. Her height surprised him. He’d been suffering too much from the vestiges of the previous night’s excesses to really notice upon their first meeting and one couldn’t judge the height of a woman when they were lying down. Julian tried not to groan aloud. He didn’t need to be thinking about Violet Thompson lying down. He still needed to address getting her out of his house and finding out how long she intended to stay in England now she was recovered.

  Warmth stirred in his veins as she tilted her chin to view him.

  “You had better go first.”

  Her words were breathy. They made him wonder how she’d sound in bed. She spoke with firm clarity but would she be like that when she had a man between her thighs? Would she release small mewling sounds perhaps or strong demands for more?

  Bloody hell, he needed to get a grip of himself. This was a vulnerable young woman who—whether he wanted her to be or not—was under his protection whilst under his roof.

  It was the way she carried herself and how she spoke, he decided. And his knowledge of her intelligence. It made him think she was more mature than her years.

  Julian slid past her, not unaware of how her breasts brushed his chest. “Over here,” he said gruffly.

  Hand to the wooden railing, he led her around the corner to the rear of the room. When they stopped, she leaned over to view the rest of the room. His heart gave a small hiccup of fear.

  “Careful.”

  “I can see why you spend so much time here. It’s a wonderful room.”

  Anxious to keep her away from the banister and the drop to the floor, he motioned to his collection of Dickens’ titles. “Here they are.”

  She leaned forward and peered at the leather-bound books. Up near the roof, the meagre light of the lamps didn’t reach and he only kept a few lit in the library for fear of fire. The golden lettering on the spines was only just visible. Unfortunately for him, the faint flicker of light that had managed to reach them skimmed over her
features, making them all the more appealing. The shadows made her face interesting while the golden glow made her skin smooth and he itched to stroke it. To him, Viola had always been fascinating on paper, but apparently he found her just as enthralling in person.

  When she glanced back at him, she gave him a coy smile. He’d been caught watching her. She certainly didn’t seem embarrassed by that, however. Did she have any inkling of this attraction that was steadily burning through his body? Did she feel the same? Had she torn open his letters with eager anticipation and devoured each word?

  He turned away and motioned to the other side of the room. “I have some Austen titles here.”

  Admiring her at a distance had been fine. It had been safe. This, however, was not, and he didn’t like the heavy sensation filling his chest. He’d felt like this about Sybil and look how that had ended. He’d lost her and his child in one fell swoop.

  Julian drew out Pride and Prejudice and handed it to her. She stroked the cover and opened the book to flick to the opening chapter. He watched her mouth the first few lines. He’d never seen anything like it. The pure, utter joy she received from holding a book seemed to transcend the minute distance between them and pull him close. When she closed the book, he was near enough to inhale the gentle hint of vanilla emanating from her. She reminded him of freshly baked cakes or vanilla ice cream.

  And he’d never been so hungry for a taste.

  “I love this book.” Her words were soft, distracted. She kept her gaze on his.

  “I know.”

  More space vanished between them. He felt as though his lungs might collapse, as though the air had thickened.

  He had no choice.

  He closed the gap. His lips touched hers. Shards of sensation bolted through him and she gasped. Sweet and breathy. That’s how she’d be. Loud and outrageous outside of the bedroom and then she’d whisper his name and make him come undone inside it. He knew it as sure as he knew he was the Marquess of Lockwood.

  Drag him to hell and roast him on a spit. He didn’t care. She tasted better than ice cream. Her lips parted and her fingers curled around his arms, digging into his jacket. A hand on the back of her head, another to the base of her spine, Julian let his tongue slip in and he tasted the warmth there. Taking another sample, savouring it, he withdrew and dropped his hands from her. She released him at the same time.