He was a hard-working man, was Mr. Peter Grant. She understood his dry wit, his bashful self-mockery.
In the cane stand near the front entrance, curled into a scroll and tied with a slender red ribbon, this note: Edwards believes the house is his, not without reason, and can become quite dictatorial when determining who enters and who does not. I fear I must admit to bowing to his judgement, which Percival never did.
Percival was a lout and a fiend and had thrown his family honor and his family’s funds into the gutter, this she knew. That Edwards also knew, and that Edwards preferred Peter, and who would not, raised dour Edwards in her estimation. She found herself determined to win Edwards high regard, and in trusting Edwards unspoken opinion as to whom they should socialize with and whom to avoid. They were new to London Society. Edwards had lived here all his life. Edwards could be a powerful ally in her husband hunt.
In the center of the dining room table, resting on the gleaming fruit compote, this note: During dinner one evening, I found myself half in love with a girl whose family home is on Grosvenor Square. She sat in the center chair, her back to the painting of the hunt. There was something about that composition of girl and candlelight and color that bewitched me. When I saw her after dinner in the green salon, the illusion was broken. When dining, choose your chair accordingly.
He had been half in love? With a girl who lived on Grosvenor Square? Whatever Peter had been trying to convey was lost in this list of facts. Who fell out of love with a girl from Grosvenor Square? Did she still exist? Was she still unwed and available?
Ridiculous. Peter could not afford a wife from Grosvenor Square. He could not afford a wife who was renting a house on Portman Square, that was the bare truth of it.
Oddly, Julia did not feel any better, acknowledging that. She had the strongest urge to crush the dining room note in her hand. Instead, she stacked it carefully with the other notes just reviewed.
Under a sofa cushion in the library, peeked this note: When the world turns cold and harsh, a fire in this grate, a brief lie-down on this sofa, a small brandy in venetian glass, calms all fears and shrinks all woes.
He had been dealt a brutal hand. Percival Grant had been a miserable sort of brother and an incompetent heir. He had left Peter with a world of trouble and Peter, a small brandy his only solace, was tackling one trouble at a time, lifting he and his mother up into peace and prosperity once more. It was a valiant fight, done in a quietly, modestly heroic way.
Of course, he might have left her the note to warn her of her own harsh and cold reception into London Society. It was possible that she and her family would not be welcomed with any resemblance of enthusiasm. The Duke of Danby’s nieces? It couldn’t be possible. Yet the invitations had not arrived.
In the breakfast room, another scroll tied with a delicate red ribbon was curled behind a plate on display. After a long night in London with your best face forward, Baker will revive your spirits and your strength to fight another round.
Baker must be the cook. Julia liked this note the least. Why had he included it? It was not charming, not clever, not even kind. It was a blatant warning that she would need rearming every day, every morning, or what passed for morning during the London Season, after a night out in Society. Peter must know of what he spoke. He had lived in this house all his life, until now, until London Society and London’s pastimes had ruined his brother and his bank balance.
She wanted a London Season. She wanted a London husband, or better put, a rich English husband. The London Season was the ideal, indeed, the only hunting ground for that particular quarry. What else was she to do? She had to find her future husband out there, somewhere. She wanted to marry. There was nowhere else to look, and she was not going to permit Danby to look for her.
The final note she and Judith had found was tucked behind a vase on a side table in the corridor leading to the back garden. I must have imagined myself the next Capability Brown for I planted jonquil bulbs one year, to Mother’s horror, and they have run quite completely rampant through the garden ever since. I have allowed the jonquils to run freely where they will. I find I do not have the will to force them to conform within set boundaries.
Julia left Peter’s bedroom and walked as quietly as she could so as not to alert Judith down to the main floor and out to the back garden. It was late afternoon and the sun was hanging big and bright just above the tree tops in the far distance. The house garden seemed quite large to her now, her only comparison was to the Danby House garden, set more deeply into the more populated portion of London. Portman Square was a bit further out, with more air between things, more quiet, more of raw nature still to be seen.
The jonquils were blooming wildly in deep drifts, in spotted singularity, in huddled clusters of two and three blooms, in any way they could, without form and in complete havoc. It made her smile just to look at them. Peter the child had crouched on his knees and planted a bulb or two, or perhaps ten or twelve bulbs, and look what his efforts and the years had wrought. Gleaming, golden yellow flower heads, dipping in the breeze, casting tiny bugle-shaped shadows upon the ground, silently shouting golden yellow joy to the sky.
It was like him to do this.
“You are reviewing the fruits of my crime,” he said.
Julia turned her head and stared at Peter. She was not surprised to find him here; it seemed pre-ordained and right, so deeply right that he should be here, with her, just now.
“I came in through the garden gate at the back. Trespassing, I suppose,” he said.
She could only stare at him. He wasn’t close. She was on the terrace, above him, and he was down in the depths of the garden, on the gravel path, jonquils strewn about him.
“This will always be your home,” she said. “I should hope you know that you will always be welcome here.”
“That is kind of you to say.”
Had anyone ever accused her of being kind? The idea was laughable. She did not laugh.
“I, my sister and I, we found your notes,” she said. “That was kind of you.”
“I felt I had to warn your sister about the pigeons. They can become so demanding.”
“To say the least,” she said.
The clouds moved and the sun was reduced to a beam that lit the jonquils behind him. Birdsong, perhaps larks, exploded around him. The Faerie Prince, come to claim . . . not her. He could not claim her. He had no money.
“How many notes did you find?” he asked.
“Six.”
He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “You must have looked quite diligently, right away.”
She would admit nothing. “Did we find them all?”
“Should I tell you? It might ruin the game.”
“Is this a game?” she said softly, just barely aware that she had spoken at all. It could be a game, a harmless game, yet it did not feel like a game to her. What was wrong with her?
Everything.
“No,” he said. “None of this is a game to me.”
He had taken a few steps nearer. The sun beam seemed to follow him. She half expected the birds to drop a floral wreath upon his head like a crown.
She did not move. She was certain she had not moved, yet she was down upon the gravel path and the sunbeam touched her, the birdsong surrounded her. She looked down at her hands and was stunned to find him holding her hands in his. Then she looked up and was staring into his remarkable blue eyes, the silver gleaming, his golden-sparkled hair lifting in the soft spring breeze.
“I wrote seven notes,” he said. “The seventh is here.” He opened the palm of his hand and a small piece of paper was crushed into his palm.
“How could I have found it there?” she said.
“I could not think where to hide it. I thought of hiding it here, in the garden, but the rain would have defeated you. I had to make it fair.”
“Yes, you did have to make it fair.”
Nothing about this was fair. She could not marry a pauper. He was nothing t
hat she wanted. The problem was, she could not remember anymore what it was she said she’d wanted.
“Take it. Read it,” he said.
Her fingertips brushed his palm as she took the note. A shiver rocked through her. Before she could open the note, before she knew anything at all, Peter lifted her chin with both of his hands and kissed her softly on the mouth.
It was entirely unexpected.
It was exactly what she wanted.
In fact, she knew instantly that she’d needed this all her life and had only been waiting to be drawn into an English garden by a Faerie Prince who had nothing but golden jonquils and silvery lark song to his credit.
He ended the kiss before she was quite finished with him, so like a man.
“Read it,” he said.
Oh, the note. She had forgotten about the note. She opened it slowly, the paper horribly crushed first by his hand and then by hers.
With your father’s lease agreement signed, the debts incurred by Percival will be paid in full by the end of the year. I will then own the Portman Square house in freehold, a 2000 acre estate in Yorkshire from my mother, a mother who is embarrassingly eager for me to marry. Will you take us on, Julia? As a matter of honor, I must mention the fearsome fishmonger who is owed eight quid. He carries a knife.
Julia smiled, tears in her eyes, then she laughed, a bubbling laugh that covered them both like rain. Peter looked at her, his heart in his eyes.
“Yes. Yes, I will,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck and breathing in the clean smell of him. He held her, his arms tightly about her waist, for a spectacularly long time. When he pulled back, again, too soon and just like a man, she said, “You really must learn to bargain more ruthlessly, Mr. Grant. I would have agreed to your proposal for the Portman Square house alone, as must be obvious to you. To then tempt me with a bargaining duel against a knife-wielding fishmonger was really more than any woman could refuse.”
“I knew you were the girl for me,” Peter said. “I pity the poor fishmonger, almost.”
“Is there anything else I should know? Any other warnings I should heed? You don’t have another brother, I hope.”
“No, but I did mention my mother,” he said. They had turned and were walking deeper into the garden, finding their own path among the jonquils. She kept touching his sleeve, his shoulder, any part of him she could reach without undue scandal; she simply could not keep her hands off of him. She was saved from mortification by the fact that he seemed to be suffering a similar plight. He kept laying his palm upon the small of her back where it rested with authority and possession. She had a difficult time not laughing; as it was, she could not stop smiling. “She is in Yorkshire now and there is no way around the bald fact that she and Danby are neighbors and friends, I fear,” he added.
Julia sighed. “I begin to wonder how far Danby’s reach extends.”
“To my mother, certainly. They have known each other for decades, if not centuries.”
“We have been manipulated?
“I cannot but wonder,” he said. “How did you hear about 12 Portman Place being for let?”
“From one of my cousins, I seem to recall, and I do think it was a fact known by my father early on. Danby is his brother, you will recall.”
“Of course I recall. Do you mind terribly?”
“Of course I mind,” she said. “I shall deal as sharply as I may with Danby when next I see him. I shall make it very clear to him that his days of managing me are quite at an end.” They were at the end of the garden, the cultivated fields and pastures of England stretching out in front of them almost as far as the eye could see. She lifted his hand and kissed the palm. He gasped in pleasure; she was quite certain it was pleasure. “Then I shall kiss him on his withered cheek and thank him very much for making certain in his devious way that I found myself married to the man who owns the most spectacular house in London.”
“I am flattered beyond words that I rated mention before the house. You are going soft, my dear girl. One wonders if seconds should be called for the fishmonger duel.”
“Do not insult your betrothed, dearest. I shall get him down to six pounds. I am quite convinced you were overcharged.”
“The poor man. One almost feels some pity for him.”
She smiled at him, marveling at the beauty of his face and form. He was the most remarkable looking man, with the most charming manner. How had she ever thought him ordinary? He made her feel as if butterflies were fluttering above every vein.
He kissed her once more, briefly, on the mouth, a lingering, soft, gentle kiss of promise.
“You will marry me,” he said, his mouth whispering against her forehead. “You love me.”
“But of course I will. I was helpless to resist you,” and when he grinned with just a bit too much arrogance, she added, “and surely you have always known how I feel about your house,” she said, pulling his face down to hers for a thorough kiss.
The larks sang an extra chorus, just for them.
About Claudia Dain
USA Today bestselling author Claudia Dain has been published in historical romance since 2000. She is a two-time Rita finalist, the award for excellence in romance fiction bestowed by the Romance Writers of America. She is a native Californian, lived for a decade in Connecticut, and now calls North Carolina home. She writes Women's Fiction as Claudia Welch.
Connect with Claudia
@ClaudiaDain
Claudia-Dain-282150254267
www.ClaudiaDain.com
Also by Claudia Dain
To Burn
The Holding
The Marriage Bed
The Willing Wife
The Temptation
The Fall
Tell Me Lies
A Kiss to Die For
Much Ado About Dutton
Encounters of the Ardenzy Heiresses
Accidentally In Love
Chasing Miss Montford
Look to the Stars
Olivia Kelly
Chapter 1
Mayfair, London
April 1817
Miriam Rosenbaum swallowed the deep sigh she longed to let loose, and folded her hands neatly in her lap. She must have patience. Though she'd wanted to head straight to the London Academy of Astronomical Sciences as soon as she disembarked the ship she'd arrived on from New York the previous afternoon, she understood it would still take some convincing for Mama to allow her that freedom.
Restless squirming and heavy sighs would not tip the scales in her favor.
The only reason Miriam agreed to accompany her mother and younger sisters on the visit to an old family friend in London was to meet Joanne and Charles Minsky. The sibling scientist duo was taking the world of astronomy by storm, discovering new and exciting heavenly objects every fortnight, it seemed.
When Miriam had read a short article in the papers about the English brother and sister, she'd been immediately moved to write to Miss Minsky, explaining her own passion for the stars. The young woman, less than ten years older than Miriam, was an inspiration. Instead of marrying as expected, she lived with her brother and was a vital part of his work, not to mention her own trailblazing research.
Not that Miriam wasn't interested in marriage. Someday. Perhaps. There was so much to do before she settled down and had children, tied herself down with family responsibilities.
The two women had struck up a warm friendship through correspondence over the last year, based on science and the frustrations with the limitations placed on their sex. When Miriam 's mother suggested the trip to London, she leapt at the chance. If she must suffer through never ending balls and afternoon teas with English aristocrats in order to see her friend, and hopefully assist with her research, then every moment of those lost hours would be worth it.
The Minskys were charting the night sky, expanding the universe bit by bit, and she wanted to be part of it.
At least Mama's childhood friend, the Countess of Pennyworth, was in town fo
r the Season, and not on her country estate. It would have been much harder to see Miss Minsky and her brother, had Miriam been staying in Somerset.
"...isn't that right, Miss Rosenbaum?"
Miriam blinked, pulled out of her thoughts at the countess's question. While she'd been drifting, Mama and her friend had been having a conversation they clearly expected to be followed. Oh dear. A flash of panic made her smile wobble, but Miriam just clenched her fingers together tighter and tilted her head in deference to the older woman.
"Of course, my lady," she murmured, praying her response had been the correct one. The countess's eyes twinkled, as if she knew Miriam didn't have a clue what she was agreeing to, then nodded and continued her conversation. This time, Miriam listened, realizing it had something to do with her and her sisters.
"Well, that will make things so much easier. What an agreeable daughter you have, Lydia. Would I have had such a child myself. Leo is a sweetheart, but a trial at times. Stubborn, like his father." Lady Pennyworth poured fresh tea as she spoke, her movements graceful and sure, as if she'd been born to be a countess.
Perhaps she had, just as Miriam's mother had been. Both women came from old English aristocratic families, but only Mama had defiantly fallen in love with an American businessman and moved across the ocean with him to start a family.
Miriam 's mother raised one eyebrow, her lips twitching into a wry smile as she glanced over at her daughter. "Wait until you know her a little better, Katherine, before pronouncing her biddable. Miriam has quite the independent streak. She's fallen in love with studying the stars, and is always ducking out of ballrooms to stand on the balcony and stare at the night sky instead."
"Astronomy, Mama, and the stars are far preferable to some of the gentlemen I've met inside those ballrooms."
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