Outshine (House of Oak Book 5)

by Nichole Van

  Fossi tucked the book against her chest and crept out of the library. She was halfway across the vaulted entry hall when a noise reached her ears. Muffled but distinct.

  Having spent so much of her life comforting others, she instantly recognized the sound of sorrow.

  Someone wept. Messy. Ugly. Sobbing as if their heart would crumble.

  The sound came from a smaller door to the right of the main staircase.

  She should just continue on up the stairs. Obviously, whoever was upset did not wish to be disturbed.

  But . . .

  When you were a connoisseur of pain, it was difficult to ignore it in others.

  Fossi set her candle down on a side table and quietly walked forward on tiptoe feet. Carefully, she peeked through the cracked door.

  Light from the fire in the hearth cast the room in long, flickering shadows. A large figure sat hunched over a desk in profile to her, fingers threaded through his dark hair, head bowed and cradled in his palms.

  Lord Whitmoor.

  A simple wooden box rested before him on the desk, the lid opened and bracketed by his elbows, as if to keep the box sheltered and safe. Lord Whitmoor’s chest heaved, air leaving him in harsh bursts—the sound of a strong man’s heart breaking.

  It was not elegantly done.

  Clearly, Lord Whitmoor had not much practice.

  Those who felt the deepest cracked into the most jagged splinters.

  He appeared so shattered. So isolated. A vast sea of emptiness surrounding him.

  A Lord Whitmoor without lies or mask.

  The man hidden in the iron tower that no one could reach.

  So . . . this was the real man, then? This broken person grieving over a wooden box, alone in the dead of night with none to witnesses the moment?

  Was it his wife he mourned—the love lost to him?

  Fossi felt her own heart constrict in empathy.

  She could easily imagine what his wife had been like—beautiful, elegant, charming . . . vibrant color inside and out. A light to illuminate his dark.

  Such a loss would be . . . catastrophic.

  Maybe all that granite and iron didn’t keep the pain out but instead corralled it inside, safe from others’ careless prying.

  Lord Whitmoor would not appreciate her seeing him like this.

  Fossi backed away from the door. One step. Two steps. Until she could turn and quietly retrieve her candle, retreating to her room, book clutched to her chest.

  “Foster Lovejoy, what have you involved yourself in?” she whispered to her dying fire. “How many secrets does that one man hold?”

  When navigating the bewildering landscape that was Fortress Whitmoor, she did indeed need to let prudence guard her way.

  Chapter 11

  Lord Whitmoor’s personal study

  Kinningsley, Herefordshire

  August 10, 1828

  Please be seated, Miss Lovejoy.” Lord Whitmoor stood and motioned for Fossi to sit at the desk. “I had Lord Linwood’s man of affairs draw up the papers yesterday evening and now have the full contract here for you to review.”

  Fossi managed a small smile and took a seat behind the enormous oak desk.

  Immediately following breakfast, she had been summoned down to the small room off the central staircase. The same room where she had watched him weep the night before.

  Odd how daylight thoroughly changed the shape of things.

  August sun flooded the room, brightening even the darkest corners, chasing all trace of shadows away.

  Lord Whitmoor was Lord Whitmoor again. Urbane in his meticulously tailored coat and trousers—both dove gray today—hair perfectly styled, that distinguished peppered-gray peeking out at his temples.

  All traces of the man wracked with sorrow were neatly tucked away. So complete was his disguise she almost wondered if the events of the night before had been a fevered dream.

  But, no. The same box sat to one side of the desk. She could not have dreamed that particular detail. It stood as silent testimony to reality.

  The box lid was closed today like Lord Whitmoor himself, sequestering away all the emotional messiness of life. Her eyes lingered on it. Did the box hold love letters between him and his wife? Trinkets of their adoration?

  And why was she so curious to find out?

  Fossi gave herself a mental shake.

  It is none of your concern, Foster Lovejoy. Mind your manners.

  Lord Whitmoor moved around the desk to stand behind her, one hand on the back of her chair. He reached around her shoulder to pull a stack of papers across the desk.

  “Here is where you sign, Miss Lovejoy.”

  He tapped the bottom of the document and nudged an inkwell and pen toward her.

  She couldn’t help but admire his hands as he did so. Long fingered, broad palms, elegant yet strong. The heat of his chest radiating against her shoulders. The smell of bay rum and peppermint eddying around her.

  Heavens.

  Unfortunately, witnessing his distress the night before had created a sense of intimacy. She had seen deep inside him, to the man hidden within, and was now helpless to stop the lure of him.

  “I should like to read the document before signing.” She was surprised her voice didn’t tremble.

  “Of course. I would strongly recommend it.”

  She nodded and proceeded to read. Or, at the very least, put on a credible show of doing so.

  The words were stubbornly determined to remain on the page, unable to pound through the thoughts whirlwinding around her brain.

  Her gaze kept darting to that box and its closeted secrets, the joy and anguish so irrevocably linked.

  From the corner of her eye, she noted Lord Whitmoor pulling over a second chair and seating himself. He leaned back and steepled his fingers, pressing them against his lips.

  Was he now staring at her? Just the thought made her heart pound faster.

  Fossi bit her lip, ordering her wayward thoughts to focus.

  I, Daniel Ashton, Lord Whitmoor, do promise to pay the sum of ten thousand pounds sterling to Miss Foster Love Among Us Lovejoy for the duration . . .

  Her mind wandered through the technicalities, while the rest of her remained keenly attuned to his every subtle movement. It was an acute sort of pain, another sense.

  Her body hummed, a tightly strung violin string.

  She was not so naive as to misunderstand what was happening.

  She was attracted to Lord Whitmoor.

  It wasn’t specifically his physical appearance (though she admired that too) or his wealth.

  It was his pain.

  The sense of another creature recognizing its own kind.

  Action. Reaction. Physics in practical application.

  Her eyes darted to the mysterious box once again.

  Fossi frowned, moving on to the next page.

  Attraction was . . . not good. It would only serve to torment her. The man clearly did not, and would not, ever return such affection. The very idea was laughable. Her energy would be better spent on longing for the moon than Lord Whitmoor’s regard—

  He cleared his throat, causing Fossi to jump.

  “You will notice the clause for a chaperone is deliberately vague,” he murmured. “I was unsure if you still wished me to engage the services of a companion to act as a chaperone. Do you find being under Lady Linwood’s watchful eye sufficient for your comfort?”

  It was a fair question. Per society’s view, staying at Kinningsley with Lady Linwood in residence was sufficient chaperonage.

  Fossi pondered it for a moment, imagining an unknown woman sitting in the corner all day, watching her as Lord Whitmoor currently did—

  She swallowed. That would be . . . uncomfortable.

  “I find the situation sufficient for now,” she said.

  “Excellent.” A pleased smile in his voice.

  Fossi risked a glance up, noting for the first time the enormous mirror across from them. The whole room reflected
in its surface.

  She nearly flinched.

  She sat behind the desk, a gray mouse of a person. Worn clothes horridly out of fashion, hair primly pulled back into a simple bun, face plain, skin dull and showing wrinkles at the edges.

  A nothing, no one.

  Lord Whitmoor rested to her side, one leg elegantly crossed over the other. Clothing expensive and neatly pressed, hair carefully styled. Charismatic, suave, every inch a man of impeccable taste and power.

  Clearly a Someone.

  The tableau was a bucket of ice water over her head.

  You are fifty ways a fool, Foster Lovejoy.

  This needed to cease. She was to be his employee for the foreseeable future. Unwanted admiration and empathy would only make her life more problematic.

  Deep breath.

  Twenty thousand pounds. You can do this.

  She forced herself to stare in the mirror a moment longer, memorizing the excruciating differences between them.

  His urbane polish. Her shabby gentility.

  The harsh contrast would be a strong physic for her, an image to pull out time and again to remind her of reality.

  Lord Whitmoor shifted beside her, the morning light catching his hair. He raised his head and, finally, noted their joint reflection. His eyes met hers in the mirror, startling cerulean blue. The barest of smiles touched his lips. If he noted the disparity between them, he did not show it.

  Was this more acting on his part? A way of ensuring she felt at ease?

  Regardless, it was too much . . . his apparent acceptance of her.

  Strangers did not just ‘accept’ Fossi and all her oddness. She was more like a brisk wind—bracing and startling at first, but then more tolerable the longer you experienced it.

  Fossi purposefully lowered her head and raised the paper she was holding, blocking the sight of them both.

  Lord Whitmoor reached over and tapped the document in her hand, continuing on as if he had seen nothing amiss. “Also note the clause requiring complete confidentiality. Unfortunate as it may seem, I cannot stress enough the importance of keeping everything we do entirely secret. That means never speaking of or demonstrating the mathematics we will utilize.”

  Ah.

  And there it was.

  Secrets. That welcome dose of reality.

  Apparently, she was to be a secret, too. No one was to know what she did here. Assuming she ever managed to figure it out herself. How could she trust a man who couldn’t even tell her why he had hired her?

  And did she find it acceptable to remain silent about the mathematics she did in his employ?

  “What if I am asked to do something against my conscience, my lord?” She had to ask at least that much.

  The question gave him pause. She lifted her eyes to his.

  “Nothing I ask you to do should create a crisis of morality, Miss Lovejoy,” he said after brief hesitation. “If for some unknown reason it does, please bring it to my attention. I would not have you distressed.”

  His gaze was sincere. He truly believed that.

  Did she believe him, however?

  Her heart insisted he was trustworthy. It dripped from his tone, from the steadfastness in his eyes. Instinct told her he was genuine.

  Her mind, however, could see it as a charade. As one more move in this giant chess game they played.

  But . . . and here her mind provided its own counter argument, Lord Whitmoor needed her cooperation. If she objected to something and refused to work, he could not force her. Not without resorting to fiendish coercion, which she supposed he could do . . .

  She hesitated too long.

  “Would you like me to have that added as a clause to the contract?” he asked. “That you shall have recourse to redress the contract should something violate your sense of right and wrong?”

  Again, he surprised her. Why go to such lengths if he was not sincere?

  Fossi sighed inwardly. Questioning his every motive was proving exhausting.

  “Yes, my lord,” she replied. “It would set my mind at ease.”

  “Then consider it done.” He gave a polite smile and nod. “I shall have the clause added and the contract redrawn up.”

  This was why controlling her attraction to him would be a chore. The innate kindness, the sense of kinship, tugged at her.

  Lord Whitmoor went to the door to summon Lord Linwood’s man of affairs.

  But still her doubts whispered.

  You don’t know him, she reminded herself, stealing another sideways glance at the box on the desk. He deals in secrets upon secrets. It could just be another mask he wears.

  Protect yourself.

  She held the contrasting image of them in the mirror, clutching it in her mind like a shield. A protective weapon to prevent her foolish heart from being needlessly hurt.

  A bustle of noise from the entrance hall interrupted.

  Lord Whitmoor looked back at her.

  “We will sign the new contract tomorrow, Miss Lovejoy.” He nodded to someone outside the door. “But for now, I do believe the dressmaker has arrived.”

  By mid-afternoon, Fossi was quite sure she thoroughly understood how it felt to be a pin cushion.

  Who knew that beauty and fashion also came with a hearty side dish of pain?

  Madame Beauford and her tapestry of muslins, silks, ribbons and scurrying assistants had been overwhelming.

  Fortunately Mrs. Arthur Knight, Lord Linwood’s sister, had arrived on the heels of Madame Beauford. Dark and petite, though not quite as small as Lady Linwood, Mrs. Knight radiated a warmth and gentle kindness quite at odds with the stern aspect of her elder brother.

  “How wonderful of Daniel to bring you here, Miss Lovejoy,” she said after Lady Linwood made the introduction. “Please, you must call me Marianne.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Lady Linwood chimed in, “and I must be Jasmine.”

  Both woman turned to Fossi with honest hope on their faces.

  It was utterly disarming.

  Fossi did not know how to respond to such genuine charm. She had been raised to view aristocrats through the narrow lens of her father’s prejudices and Sir Phillip Nobly’s arrogance.

  So far, the upper echelons of the Beau Monde had not aligned with her preconceptions.

  “Of-of course,” Fossi stammered, “and I would be honored if you would call me Foster.”

  Lady Linwood . . . erhm, Jasmine . . . and Marianne proceeded to follow Madame Beauford et al. up to Jasmine’s sitting room, dragging Fossi in their wake.

  Marianne and Jasmine sat together on a sofa, like spectators at a horse show, watching Madame Beauford fit Fossi for a new wardrobe.

  Fossi didn’t know whether to be delighted at their kind company or worried about their effrontery. For a woman unused to physical touch and habituated to perpetual privacy, the experience was decidedly rattling.

  But such thoughts were soon cast aside as she realized the scope of the wardrobe being ordered for herself.

  To Fossi, a wardrobe consisted of two day dresses, a slightly nicer dress for Sunday services, a simple evening gown for the rare occasion when she might be invited to dine out, a few underthings, a pelisse, a cloak, a pair of walking boots and a pair of slippers.

  That was her expectation when Lord Whitmoor had suggested the wardrobe clause in their contract.

  Clearly, the word wardrobe meant something far more vast to Jasmine and Marianne.

  Fossi stood in her sole worn shift as Madame Beauford measured and barked notes at one assistant while another pulled fabric samples for the ladies to chirp over.

  Fossi couldn’t keep up with their talk of morning gowns, walking gowns, carriage dresses, promenade dresses, evening gowns, spencers and pelisses.

  And truthfully, how could there even be a difference between a walking gown and a promenade dress? But given how everyone in the room froze and stared at her when she asked the question . . . apparently, there were differences.

  “Will the lady wis
h for French or Italian lace on the blue walking gown?” Madame Beauford asked.

  Not to Fossi herself, of course. That question was directed to Marianne.

  “Italian, wouldn’t you say?” Marianne turned to Jasmine.

  “Definitely. The lace out of Venice this year has been stunning.” Jasmine spoke without looking up from a Parisian pattern book, simultaneously pointing out a fashionable dress for Marianne. “Corsets are not what they once were. Waistlines have sunk at least an inch a year over the past decade.”

  Fossi wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry or laugh. Her father would have an apoplexy at the sheer vanity of it. Her sisters would claim to be appalled and then borrow the items incessantly.

  She could certainly cross Own a dress that hasn’t been turned off her list.

  “I most certainly don’t need any silk gowns,” Fossi eventually chimed in. “I have lived thirty-two years quite comfortably without owning anything made of silk.”

  “One can live without silk, that is true,” Marianne agreed.

  “But why should you, if you don’t have to?” Jasmine shrugged. “Silk feels lovely against the skin.”

  That was news to Fossi.

  “Regardless, one woman does not need twenty-one gowns made out of seven different fabrics and trimmed with forty-three types of ribbon and lace,” Fossi entreated. “Heaven knows how many buttons will need be supplied.”

  To Jasmine’s credit, she scarcely blinked. Instead, she nodded her head.

  “You are absolutely correct.” Jasmine snapped her fingers. “Madame Beauford, we must consider the buttons, as well. Have you brought samples? Or should we send for the haberdasher?”

  Heavens.

  “You misunderstand, Jasmine.”

  “How so?”

  Fossi nearly threw her hands up in exasperation. “I want to wear the dress myself, you see. I do not want the dress to wear me.”

  That got everyone’s full attention.

  Six sets of eyes turned Fossi’s way.

  Right.

  Fossi pinched the bridge of her nose. “What I mean is . . . when I walk down the street, I do not want people to see a dress approaching first and then realize, oh goodness, there is a person in there, too.”