by Anna Bennett
“Pshaw. I’m not worried.”
“Well, I am. You must take extra care while you’re here.” He paced in front of the fireplace, making a mental note to check the furniture in her bedchamber later.
“I promise to,” she began slyly, “if you’ll answer my question. Why did you invite these particular young ladies?”
Why indeed? “I invited the Hartley sisters because…” The older one proposed marriage and kissed me in my carriage. And though it’s the height of idiocy, I find myself inexplicably attracted to her. “They seem like they could use a few friends.”
His grandmother narrowed her eyes and nodded sagely as she pondered his words. “I see.”
“But you’ll be able to form your own opinion of the ladies very soon. They’ll arrive this afternoon, as will the gentlemen.” Gray had invited Kirby and his father, Lord Dunlope, because they both loved to hunt and if there was one amenity that the Fortress could offer—the only amenity, actually—it was an abundance of pheasant and grouse.
Gray had also extended an invitation to Lord Pentham, a friend from his club. The marquess seemed a decent sort. He didn’t drink or gamble excessively. Didn’t put on airs. Even-keeled and steady, he’d provide a fine counterbalance to Fiona’s passionate personality. Perfect husband material.
A far better match for her than Gray.
If Fiona agreed with his assessment—and there was no reason she shouldn’t—Gray would no longer be her target and he’d be able to move on with his life. Fixing the Fortress. Doting on his grandmother. Proving himself to Helena and the rest of the world.
He only had to endure seven days of playing host and entertaining.
And given the current shoddy state of his home, it would be a miracle if his guests lasted half that long.
* * *
“Thank heaven,” Mary said, holding up one of Lily’s pink silk slippers. “I feared I’d failed to pack both shoes, but this one was hiding near the bottom of the trunk—beneath the petticoats. ’Twould have been a disaster if it had been left at home.”
Fiona chuckled. “Hardly. Mama made certain we have enough shoes to wear a different pair each day.”
The maid bustled about the cavernous bedchamber that Fiona and Lily were to share for the duration of the house party, unpacking ball gowns, undergarments, nightgowns, and accessories.
“Why don’t you let Lily and me see to the rest of the unpacking?” Fiona suggested. “You can go help Mama get settled.” Their stepmother had her own room just down the hall, near the bedchamber Lady Callahan and Sophie shared.
“If you’re certain,” Mary replied. “She’ll be wanting a tincture to calm her nerves.”
Long drives always made Mama queasy, and the prospect of living under an earl’s roof for a week was as terrifying as it was exciting—although she’d sooner eat her bonnet than admit it.
“Yes, do go,” Lily agreed. “And once Mama is resting, you can settle yourself in your quarters.”
“Very well.” Mary cast a critical eye around the room as she went to the window and pulled back the curtains—revealing a pane with a large crack. “Oh my.”
“Did I mention the earl intends to make improvements to the property?” Fiona said brightly. “He’s already begun.”
Lily scrunched her nose. “I think he should have started with furniture, personally. There aren’t enough pieces to properly fill the room. I feel like I’m in a medieval castle. Perhaps we’ve time for a jousting match before dinner in the banquet hall?” She shrugged her delicate shoulders. “I wouldn’t mind meeting a knight in armor—shining or otherwise.”
“Granted,” Fiona conceded, “it’s not quite as elegant as our house in town, but we’re terribly spoiled. And these walls must hold so much history. Imagine the tales they could tell.”
The maid clucked her tongue and made her way toward the door. “If I hear any walls talking, or see any ghosts floating for that matter, I’ll be on the first coach headed home.” She paused at the threshold and smiled. “But assuming the house is not occupied by disgruntled spirits, I’ll return in plenty of time to help you dress for dinner.” With a bob of her capped head, she scurried off.
Lily pulled a sprigged muslin gown from the trunk and handed it to Fiona to hang. One of the armoire doors hung open, but when Fiona attempted to pull open the other it refused to budge, no matter how hard she yanked on the handle.
Arching a brow, Lily said, “I wonder what’s hiding in the dark recesses of that wardrobe. Actually, I don’t think I want to know.”
“The wood is a little warped, that’s all,” Fiona said. She reached around the stuck door and placed the morning gown on a hook, praying the inside of the armoire wasn’t infested with spiders. “Granted, the room is sparsely furnished … and lacking the luxuries we’re accustomed to. But it does appear to be clean. And it’s not as though a little dust or dirt would hurt us. Remember the days when we sat on the floor of Papa’s office playing game after game of knucklebones?”
Lily smiled softly and handed Fiona another gown. “And when he’d take us out walking in the rain? We managed to tromp through every puddle, and even though our frocks were splattered with mud, Papa laughed as hard as we did.”
“Yes,” Fiona said wistfully, sad that she’d all but forgotten the sound of her father’s laughter.
“I miss him,” Lily said, and Fiona knew she missed more than his physical presence. She longed for the way things used to be. Before he’d remarried. “I wish he’d been able to come with us.”
Fiona did, too. Maybe a few days’ respite from his work would have allowed him to truly connect with his daughters—and be the type of father he once was. “Let’s write him a letter,” she suggested. “We’ll tell him all about this sprawling house and the plentiful game and the cigar-smoking gentlemen. Maybe he’ll be persuaded to come.” But Fiona doubted it, and Lily’s wan smile suggested she was equally skeptical.
“We’ll make the most of our time here, whether Papa joins us or not,” Lily said resolutely. She clutched one of her newly updated gowns to her chest and twirled. “I do hope there’ll be dancing one evening.”
“I wouldn’t count on it.” Fiona placed their jewelry on a starkly barren desk, which, in the absence of a proper vanity, would have to serve as a dressing table. Thank heavens they’d tucked a small mirror into their trunk. “The earl was emphatic that we should not expect lavish parties or entertainment.”
“What a charming host,” Lily said dryly. She hung her gown, then hoisted Fiona’s valise onto the large bed where they’d both sleep. She reached in and extracted an armful of books—including Fiona’s diary. “Where shall I put these?”
Oh dear. “I’ll take them.” Fiona hurried over and relieved her sister of the stack, questioning the wisdom of bringing the journal with her. She’d assumed she would have her own bedchamber, and while she trusted Lily not to snoop, she couldn’t be too careful—especially since the latest blackmail note was hidden between the diary’s pages.
The second note had arrived that morning, shortly before they’d departed London, and Fiona had barely had a chance to read it before joining her sister and Sophie in the carriage. She thought that perhaps if she studied it, she’d find a clue as to who the blackmailer was, or at least a hint as to how he—or she—came to learn the secret about Lily. Fiona had tucked it into the diary before packing it in her valise, hoping she’d have a solitary moment to analyze it during the house party. Now she was not so sure.
Fiona placed the small tower of books on a bedside table—except for the journal, which she whisked behind her skirt. Then she picked up her sketchbook and used it to conceal the diary, sandwiching it between the large drawing pad and her chest.
Lily’s bemused expression said she knew precisely what Fiona was hiding.
Only she didn’t.
Fiona would let Lily read every page of her diary aloud in the public square before she let her sister see the extortionist’s note.
Lily smiled knowingly. “You go ahead. I’ll check on Mama and visit with Sophie for a little while before dinner. Will you return in time to help with my hair? I’ve a feeling Mary will have her hands full with Mama.”
“Certainly.” Fiona slid a pencil behind her ear and threw a shawl around her shoulders. “I won’t be more than an hour. Just long enough to check the grounds for knights, ghosts, and fairies.”
“Very good. I shall expect a full report.” Lily grinned. “Especially about the knights.”
Chapter 9
Fiona encountered no one on her way to the garden at the rear of the house, which was just as she’d wished. She required a few moments alone—to reread the latest letter, sketch a bit, and regain her equilibrium before facing the earl at dinner.
She followed a stone path that led to a large semicircular terrace with marble benches around the perimeter. The flagstones were bare, save for a few shaded areas covered with moss. No colorful flowers or sprawling ivy softened the cold hardscape; no fanciful lanterns adorned the bare branches of surrounding trees.
But the garden beyond was everything that the terrace wasn’t—wild, alive, intriguing. It was the opposite of a well-manicured English garden. Bushes that refused to be trimmed into clever little shapes. Trellises that bowed under the weight of overgrown vines. Flowers and weeds that hadn’t seen pruning shears in at least a decade. Listing, cracked sculptures of cherubs and nymphs peeked through leaves and brush–like spies from some lost civilization.
Fiona loved everything about it. Her fingers itched to capture the scene on paper, so she waded through the long grass, found a large rock to perch on, and flipped to a clean sheet in her sketchbook. She usually preferred to draw portraits, where she could peel away a person’s layers and reveal something new, but this garden seemed to pulse and breathe with a personality all its own. Every lush nook hinted at a mysterious history—and a myriad of secrets.
She narrowed her focus to a defunct fountain with an alabaster mermaid holding court at the center. Once, freshwater would have gurgled and flowed around the siren’s tail, but now she was forced to content herself with a shallow puddle of rainwater sullied with leaves and twigs. Fiona sketched it all: the encroaching shrubs, the waning light, the chipped plaster. But as she drew the mermaid, she also saw hope—and fierce determination. Fiona channeled those emotions, spilled them onto the page, lost track of time.
And when a long, dark shadow slanted across her sketchbook, she started.
“Miss Hartley.”
Fiona recognized the deep, smooth voice even before she looked up at the devilishly handsome face. “Lord Ravenport.”
How many hours had she lost? She prayed the earl wasn’t part of a search party sent to retrieve her. Suddenly frantic, she looked at the ground near her feet for her journal and found it there, still closed, thank heaven. But she wasn’t at all comfortable with the diary and the earl being in the same vicinity. It was rather like storing a tinderbox in a straw house.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked, half-curious, half-accusatory.
She slammed her sketchbook shut. “Just soaking up the raw beauty of your garden. It’s lovely.”
He snorted at that. Snorted. “I’m fully aware of the garden’s shortcomings. But please, by all means, feel free to mock me—at least that’s one form of entertainment I can offer you during your stay.”
* * *
“I wasn’t mocking you—or your garden, my lord.” Miss Hartley shook her head, as though confused. The consummate actress. “I truly like it. In fact, I was sketching your fountain.”
Gray maintained a calm exterior, but beneath the surface he seethed. “If our relationship has one thing to recommend it, it’s our ability to be frank with one another.”
“I completely agree.” She sat on a rock like a woodland sprite while the evening breeze blew the soft curls framing her face, making it difficult for him to remain angry. But he was doing his damnedest.
“Then do not insult me by being disingenuous,” he said. “You elected to draw a waterless, broken, filthy fountain. Why, exactly? So you could show your sketch to friends in town and snicker at this travesty of a garden?”
“I would never do that.” She flushed as though she was offended. Or perhaps guilty.
Stupidly, he’d thought she might be different from Helena. Less shallow. More open-minded. But she’d wasted no time in proving him wrong. “This garden was once fit for a royal palace—my grandmother’s pride and joy. It is obviously in dire need of improvement, but I will make it beautiful again, even if I have to tear out every living thing by the roots and start from bare soil.”
She frowned as she slipped her pencil behind a delicate ear. “You may not see the beauty in this place, but I do. It’s different and daring. It doesn’t follow the rules.”
“That’s what happens when shrubs are left to their own devices for two decades or so. They become very rebellious,” he said dryly.
She scrambled off the rock and perched a fist on one hip. “You accuse me of mocking, but you are the one who is being snide.”
Maybe he was. Might as well add bitter and cynical to the list. Better to be all those things than a fool. “Fine. I am snide. But you … you are going to be late for dinner.”
“Dash it all,” she muttered to herself. “I knew it. Lily must be worried.”
“Allow me to escort you out of the wilderness and back to the house,” he said coldly. In spite of her apparent callousness, she tempted him. More than he cared to admit. Even now, he was picturing her with her hair falling around her shoulders and her gown puddled at her feet like some erotic version of Eve. He could easily imagine laying her down on the verdant ground and kissing her, touching her, till they were both breathless with desire.
Instead, he offered her his arm.
“Wait.” She swallowed nervously, then let out a long breath. “We’ll go in a moment. But first I want you to see my drawing.” She flipped open the sketchbook and turned the page toward him.
Gray planned to give it a perfunctory look and make the obligatory response, so they could get the hell out of this godforsaken Eden—before he did something he’d regret for all eternity.
But the picture, with all its bold strokes and subtle shading, its varied textures and dramatic lighting, drew him in. Made it impossible to look away. The mermaid appeared less like stone and more like a living, enchanted creature. She wore a flirtatious, satisfied smile—as if she were queen of the lush, wild paradise that surrounded her.
Gray stared, mesmerized. By the drawing, certainly. But also by all it revealed—about the garden, Fiona … even him.
“It’s very rough,” she said, pulling the sketch pad back. “I don’t normally draw landscapes, so it’s not my best—”
“I owe you an apology.” He reached for the sketchbook and examined the drawing more closely. “I assumed you saw what everyone else sees—an assortment of dead and overgrown plants, choked by weeds. But you saw something different. More. Something even I didn’t see.”
Her eyes welled. “Thank you. Sometimes the greatest beauty hides in the most unlikely of places.”
Gray gazed at the auburn glint of her hair, the thick fringe of her lashes, and the random pattern of freckles dotting her nose. “Indeed.”
Before he knew what he was doing, he’d set the sketchbook on the rock and picked a purple flower from the bush beside it. He stood toe to toe with her, holding the blossom between them. “I’d wish I could tell you this is a rare, exotic flower. But it might well be a weed.”
She smiled. “Then it is a pretty weed.”
“Please accept this unidentified flora specimen as a humble but sincere peace offering.”
Her eyes crinkled at the corners, and she nodded as though all was forgiven. “Of course.”
When she would have reached for the flower, he shook his head. “Wait. I’ve a better idea.” Gently, he removed the pencil that was tucked behind her ear and replaced it with the blossom. He let his hand linger near the shell of her ear, let his knuckles graze the sweet curve of her neck.
Her lips parted, and her breath hitched; her eyes darkened with desire.
He suddenly felt like he was tumbling headlong down a hill, rolling too fast to stop himself.
Shit. He was going to kiss her.
He took a step toward her, and she toward him. Their bodies collided—hers pliant, his unyielding. He dipped his head and tipped his forehead to hers, letting them both savor the awareness—and inevitability—of what was to come.
With a sigh, she melted into him. He speared his fingers through her silken hair. His heart galloped, his lips found hers … and he was gone.
This kiss was everything the last one had not been. Raw, primal, uncivilized—just like the garden around them.
Gray traced the seam of her lips with his tongue and tasted her as he’d longed to since that first awkward encounter in his carriage. He’d suspected that when it came to passion, she’d be a quick study—and she was. Her tongue eagerly tangled with his; her bare hands wound their way around his neck and caressed his nape, stoking his desire—as if he needed further encouragement.
She tasted sweet, like honeysuckle plucked from a branch. Her scent mingled with the fragrances of the flowers and greenery that surrounded them, like some potent, ancient aphrodisiac. She was a siren, just like the one she’d drawn—an unexpected, dazzling beauty. Even a saint would have succumbed to temptation such as this.
But Gray couldn’t. Not when there was no future for them. Instead, he’d content himself with one perfect, utterly enchanting kiss.
Just when he was congratulating himself on regaining a modicum of control, she tentatively, inexpertly, traced a path along his jaw and down his neck, loosening his neckcloth. Daring him to deepen the kiss.