“You called his bluff,” Giles said.
“In a fashion.”
Minerva glanced up at Giles to see his eyes misting over. Only then did she realize how deeply he’d feared the outcome of Newmarsh’s threats. He had never let on. But then, that was Giles.
“Thank you,” he said in a choked voice as he seized Lord Ravenswood’s hand and pumped it furiously. “You don’t know what you’ve done.”
“Oh, I think I do,” Lord Ravenswood said. “I’ve just ensured that the Crown has an excellent King’s Counsel on the bench. At least that’s how my superiors look at it.”
As soon as he was gone, Giles lifted her in the air and swung her around. “We’re free, darling! The past is really in the past this time.”
She laughed giddily as he lowered her to the ground. “You see what happens when you trust people? Sometimes they come through.”
“I have you to thank for this,” he said.
“In what way?”
“You made me want to change my life so badly, I was willing to take a chance. And as a result, I got everything I wanted.”
Looping her arms about his neck, she smiled up at him. “Well, that’s only fair, since I got everything I wanted.”
“You mean being forced into marriage to a scoundrel, thus losing your opportunity to thumb your nose at your grandmother’s demands?”
She thrust out her chin. “I was not forced into marriage, I’ll have you know. I wanted to marry you from the time I was nine. It just took me a while to get there.”
“About that,” he said, a sudden gleam in his eye. “I’ve been thinking about you and the novels, and it’s occurred to me that perhaps you didn’t just write them because you were angry at me. Perhaps, deep down, you were hoping I’d read them and behave exactly as I did.”
She searched her heart and realized he was probably right. The books with Rockton in them had almost certainly been her cry to him—see me, notice me, love me. “So you’ve uncovered my dastardly plan. Oh dear.”
He drew her into his arms. “But perhaps there was even more to it than that. Perhaps I didn’t tell you the truth that night because I wanted you to wonder about it and keep me in your mind all those years. Perhaps it was all just part of my dastardly plan to woo a most reluctant lady.”
“My, my,” she said with a grin, “that really is a convoluted plot. You should be an author.”
“No thank you. I’m perfectly content to be married to one.” He shot her a teasing look. “But you may use it in a book sometime, if you want.”
And as he took her in his arms and kissed her oh so sweetly, she smiled to herself, partly in joy, and partly with pleasure at what he would never know.
She would be using all of this in a book. He wouldn’t recognize it, nor would anyone else. Sometimes she wouldn’t even recognize it herself. But it would be there—the danger, the fights, her mad family . . . the love. Because the best things in life always deserved celebrating.
And how better to celebrate them than in a book?
Epilogue
Two weeks had passed since Lord Ravenswood had told Minerva and Giles the good news. It was Gabe’s birthday, so Minerva had dragged Giles out to Halstead Hall for a weekend visit. But Giles suspected she had an ulterior motive.
And he was right. Her book was finished. And now she had forced him and Maria, the biggest supporter of her novels, to sit in separate rooms reading her only two copies of it at one sitting. She’d practically locked them in, begging them to tell her what they honestly thought once they were done.
He supposed he couldn’t blame her. Ever since he’d been made a King’s Counsel, time was something he could ill afford. But reading her latest made him nervous—if he hated it, how was he to tell her?
The further he read, the more nervous he got. After reading a few hours, he poked his head out of the door of Oliver’s study to find Minerva sitting in a chair reading someone else’s novel as she waited for their verdicts.
She glanced up in surprise. “You’re done already?”
“Halfway through. I thought you were going to kill Rockton off. It’s looking more and more like he’s the hero of this particular book.”
“He is.”
“But do you think it’s wise to—”
“Keep reading.”
With a shrug, he went back into the study and closed the door. It was a good book, but he couldn’t believe what she was doing with Rockton. He kept waiting for her story to head in another direction, but it soon became clear that she was doing the unthinkable.
It was nearly evening when he finished, and when he came out into the hall he got right to the point. “I can’t believe you didn’t kill him. I kept waiting for the ax to fall, and it never came!”
She watched him warily. “I never said for sure I was going to kill him.”
“So you married him off instead?” He shook the manuscript at her. “To a woman named Miranda? Don’t you think people will notice how close the name ‘Miranda’ is to ‘Minerva’?”
Before she could answer, Maria came running up. “This is so sweet of you!” She hugged Minerva. “You gave Rockton a wife just like me!”
Minerva smirked at Giles over her shoulder, but all he could do was gape at Maria. Couldn’t she see that it was about him and Minerva? It was so obvious!
Maria drew back, wiping tears from her eyes. “Oliver will be so touched that you reformed him.”
“I seriously doubt that,” Giles muttered.
“Oh, but he will! He’s always been a little hurt that Minerva would portray him as such a rank villain. And now he gets to be the hero! It’s truly delicious, Minerva.” She smiled shyly. “I like to think that I played a small part in your decision to reform him in the book.”
“Absolutely,” Minerva said, casting Giles a minxish glance.
He snorted.
“It’s hard not to notice that the heroine is short and plump—just like me,” Maria said. “And that is why you named his heroine Miranda, isn’t it? Because I like Shakespeare? And for the M in my name, too, of course.”
“Of course,” she said cheerily.
The little liar.
Clutching the manuscript to her chest, Maria gave a sad sigh. “But I suppose this means there will be no more Rockton in the books.”
“I’m afraid not.” Minerva glanced at Giles, eyes gleaming. “Reformed villains don’t have the same oomph, you know. I’ll have to find a new favorite villain.” As Giles raised his eyes heavenward she added, “Originally, I considered just killing him off—”
“Oh, no! That would have been awful. Your readers would never have stood for that.” Maria patted the manuscript. “But they’ll love this. It’s truly wonderful. And parts of it were so poignant, even poetic. Some of your best writing ever.”
“Thank you,” Minerva said, glowing beneath the compliments.
Pressing a kiss to Minerva’s cheek, Maria said, “I have to go tell Oliver. He’ll want to read it, too.”
And off she went.
As soon as she left, Giles approached his wife with a dark scowl. “You knew she would react that way.”
The chit had the audacity to laugh. “I had some idea, yes.”
“And I suppose your other readers will do the same. Everyone will say it’s about Oliver and how his new wife reformed him. Rockton will forever become your brother in readers’ minds.”
Her eyes twinkled at him. “Probably.”
“They’re not going to guess that it’s you and me at all, are they?”
“Probably not.”
“So why didn’t you warn me before I read it?” He tossed the manuscript onto a hall table. “I lost half a lifetime when I saw you’d named his heroine Miranda. Clearly you’re trying to give me heart failure so you can run off with Pinter.”
Her running off with Pinter had become their little joke, though Giles still bristled a bit whenever he saw the fellow.
“But tell me honestly—what did y
ou think of the book?” she asked.
“Well, you gave Rockton far too little to do for my taste, and his heroine should have been taller, but all in all . . .” He paused just to torture her, then laughed when she made a face. “It was a splendid novel.”
“So you liked it?” she pressed him.
“Of course I liked it. You wrote it.”
Cocking her head to one side, she eyed him with suspicion. “You’re not just saying that to be nice, are you?”
“Darling, if I’ve learned anything in the past few months, it’s that lying to a woman as clever as you is just asking for trouble.”
“Because you end up as a villain in my books?” she teased.
“Because I break your heart. There was one scene that I know was drawn from life—the one where Rockton lies to Miranda and hurts her deeply. I even know when you wrote it. In Calais, right?”
“Giles—”
“It’s all right. I understand.” He drew her into his arms. “But I want you to know I will never again give you cause to write a scene like that. You’ll have to find something else for your inspiration. I may annoy you or frustrate you or make you want to scream—but I will never break your heart again. That’s a solemn promise.”
Her eyes bright with tears, she looped her arms about his neck. “I know. I trust you.”
He kissed her thoroughly, wondering how he’d been so lucky as to snag this woman, whom he loved more than life, who made his days sparkle and his nights soar.
When he drew back, heat shone in her face, and her eyes held a mischievous glint. “Now, about your making me want to scream—”
He burst into laughter. Then he took her upstairs to their bedchamber and did precisely that.
The Hellions of Halstead Hall . . .
See how it all began
with
The Truth About Lord Stoneville
and
A Hellion in Her Bed
by New York Times bestselling author
Sabrina Jeffries
Now available from Pocket Books
The Truth About
Lord Stoneville
Asudden cry of “Stop! Thief! Stop him!” from inside the house jerked Maria up short. Oh no, surely Freddy had not . . . he wouldn’t have . . .
But of course he would have. Freddy didn’t think.
Racing up the steps with sword in hand, she hurtled inside just in time to see a man block Freddy’s path on a staircase as Freddy clasped the satchel to his chest like a shield.
“We’ve got you now, thief,” said the man.
Her heart plummeted into her stomach.
Several steps above Freddy stood their quarry, red-faced and half-dressed, and behind him other men crowded around the stairs to see what was happening. Meanwhile, women in various stages of undress emerged into the hall.
“Polly, go fetch the constable,” the man called to one of the women.
Oh no! This was a disaster!
The two men closed in on Freddy, with him stammering that he just “wanted a look at it, is all.”
Hefting Freddy’s sword, she brandished it at the nearest fellow. “Let him go! Or I swear I’ll spit you like an orange!”
To her right, a voice drawled, “An orange? That’s your dire threat, my dear?”
Panic seized her as she caught sight of the tall man who’d emerged from the front room. He wore no coat, waistcoat, or cravat and his shirt was opened down to the middle of his chest, but his commanding air said he would be in control of any situation, regardless of his attire. And he stood much too close.
“Stay back!” She swung the sword at him, praying she could actually use the curst thing. She hadn’t realized that swords were so heavy. “I merely want my cousin, sir, and then we’ll leave.”
“Her ‘cousin’ tried to steal my satchel, my lord,” cried their quarry.
My lord? Her pulse faltered. The tall fellow didn’t look like the elegant men she’d imagined from Miss Sharpe’s novels, though he did seem to possess their arrogance. But his skin was darker than she would expect, and his eyes bore a deadly glint that shot a chill down her spine. If he was a lord, then she and Freddy were in even bigger trouble.
“You take the woman, Lord Stoneville,” said the other fellow, “and we’ll seize the man. We’ll hold the thieves until the constable arrives.”
“We’re not thieves!” She swung the sword between the two men, her arm aching from its weight as she glared at the man at the top of the stairs. “You’re the thief, sir. That satchel belongs to my fiancé. Doesn’t it, Freddy?”
“I’m not sure,” Freddy squeaked. “I had to bring it into the hall to get a look at it. Then this fellow started shouting, and I didn’t know what to do but run.”
“A likely tale,” their quarry sneered.
“I tell you what, Tate,” Lord Stoneville said, “if Miss . . .”
When he arched one raven eyebrow at her, she answered without thinking, “Butterfield. Maria Butterfield.”
“If Miss Butterfield will hand me the sword, I promise to arbitrate this little dispute to everyone’s satisfaction.”
As if she could trust a half-dressed lord in a brothel to arbitrate anything fairly. The English lords in books fell into two categories—honorable gentlemen and debauched villains. This man seemed more of the villain variety, and she wasn’t fool enough to put herself into that sort of man’s power.
“I have a better plan.” With her heart thundering in her chest, she darted forward to thrust the point of the sword at Lord Stoneville’s neck. “Either you tell them to let my cousin go, or you’ll be wearing this sword in your throat.”
He didn’t even flinch. An unholy amusement lit his face as he closed his hand around the blade. “There’s no chance of that, my dear.”
She froze, afraid to move for fear of slicing his fingers.
“Listen well, Miss Butterfield,” he went on in a voice of frightening calm. “You’re already guilty of attempted theft, not to mention assaulting a peer. Both crimes are punishable by hanging. I’m willing to be reasonable about the assault, but only if you release the sword. In exchange, I’ll let you argue for yourself and your ‘cousin’ concerning the theft.” He said the word “cousin” with skeptical sarcasm. “We’ll sort this out, and if I’m satisfied you’re blameless of theft, you and your companion will be free to go. Understand?”
He had her now, and clearly he knew it. If she hurt him, her life would be worth nothing among this crowd.
Trying not to let her fear show, she said, “Do you swear on your honor as a gentleman to let us go if we explain everything?” If he agreed to be reasonable, then perhaps he wasn’t a villain. Besides, he gave her little choice.
A faint smile quirked up his lips. “I swear it. On my honor as a gentleman.”
She glanced to Freddy, who looked as if he might faint. Then she met Lord Stoneville’s gaze. “Very well. We have an agreement.”
“EXCELLENT,” OLIVER SAID, releasing a breath. Until that moment, he hadn’t been sure he would prevail. Any woman brave enough to thrust a blade at him was unpredictable at best, and dangerous at worst. “On the count of three, we both release the sword. All right?”
She nodded, her blue gaze dipping to where her hand gripped the hilt.
“One. Two. Three,” he counted.
The sword clattered to the floor.
Instantly, Porter and Tate seized the stripling she’d called Freddy. When the chap let out a cry, she whirled toward them in alarm. Oliver bent to retrieve the sword, then handed it off to Polly, the brothel owner, who carried it to safety.
“Bring him in here,” Oliver ordered, nodding toward the parlor as he caught hold of Miss Butterfield’s arm and urged her in that direction.
“You needn’t manhandle me,” she hissed, though she didn’t fight him.
“Trust me, Miss Butterfield, you’ll know when I’m manhandling you.” He stopped before a chair. “Sit,” he commanded, pushing her into it. “An
d try to restrain your urge to attack people for half a moment, will you?”
“I was not—”
“As for you,” he growled at her companion, “give me the satchel that caused all this furor.”
“Yes, sir . . . I mean, my lord.”
Oliver took the satchel from the young man, whose face was drained of all color. Clearly, he lacked his companion’s fierceness.
The satchel appeared ordinary—made of decent leather, with the usual brass fittings. Though it contained a number of banknotes, that didn’t necessarily mean the lad had been trying to steal it. Most thieves would have removed the money and left the satchel, if only to keep from alerting anyone.
“Where did you get this, Tate?” Oliver asked.
“At the pawnshop round the corner. I bought it months ago.”
When Miss Butterfield snorted, Oliver shot her a dark glance. “You claim that it belongs to your fiancé?”
“If you’ll check the lettering,” she said loftily, “I daresay you’ll find his initials, ‘NJH,’ stamped on one side, and the words ‘New Bedford Ships’ on the other. I had it specially made for him myself.”
“Did you now?” Though she was right about the lettering, it didn’t prove much. A couple of clever Newgate birds would have scouted the item before attempting to steal it. They would already know what was engraved on it.
Still, this pair didn’t seem like Newgate birds. They dressed too well for that, in what looked like deep mourning. New Bedford was in America, and they were definitely American, judging from their accents.
That might account for the chit’s boldness. He’d always heard that American women were saucy. But saucy was one thing; bold enough to brave a brothel and put a blade to a man’s throat was quite another. They might merely be a higher class of thief. If so, wearing black was a nice touch. Who would suspect a woman in mourning of anything criminal?
How to Woo a Reluctant Lady Page 31