Sebastian made his way to the far end of the library. A group of Heppelwhite wing chairs, moved from Creighton’s grandfather’s bedchamber when Creighton, Fitzhugh, and Sebastian were still in school, were arranged to the side of one of the three fireplaces. A floor to ceiling stained glass window featuring the Creighton coat of arms presided over their place of conclave.
“Robbie has brought an excellent French brandy, Brightworth. Can I tempt you?” Creighton handed Fitzhugh a glass and stood poised to pour another.
“Don’t bother,” Fitzhugh mumbled around his sandwich. “He won’t touch the stuff. Objects to it on moral grounds.”
“I object to anything associated with people who have tried to kill me.” Sebastian took the glass of whisky the footman proffered and lowered himself into one of the worn, comfortable chairs before the window. “Thank you, Robbie. Shall you valet me whilst I’m here or will I have to fend for myself?”
The footman moved a short, fat ottoman in front of the chair and Sebastian promptly made use of it, in spite of Fitzhugh’s pointed glance at his dirty boots. “Aye, I’ll valet you, Colonel,” the footman replied with a grin. “Especially as her ladyship says no one else will put up with you.”
“She’s right about that.” Fitzhugh collapsed into the chair opposite Sebastian’s and promptly shot up, grabbing his left buttock with one hand and balancing his brandy in the other. “Damn the devil, my arse—”
Sebastian cleared his throat. Creighton looked from one to the other and raised an aristocratic eyebrow. The footman fetched a needlework cushion from one of the settees and tossed it onto Fitzhugh’s chair. Fitzhugh settled onto it with a sigh.
“That will be all, Robbie.” Creighton plucked the brandy the footman offered from the tray and sat in the chair facing the window. He took a sip and rolled the glass between his hands. “Is it a long list?” This, after the library door snicked closed behind the footman.
“A long list?” Sebastian savored another sip of his whisky. How many hours had the three of them spent like this? The afternoon sun of early summer lit this end of the library with a lazy glow. The room held only happy memories for all of them. A sanctuary in a house of rooms far too reminiscent of the rooms in another house for Sebastian’s comfort. Rooms he’d vowed never to step foot in again.
“The list of people who want to kill you.” Creighton leaned over to mutter something behind his hand at Fitzhugh, who guffawed like a Yorkshire tavern keeper.
Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Only the entire French army, my half- brother, and two angry husbands so far.”
“Three,” Fitzhugh corrected.
“I don’t count that henwit Thornton.”
“That henwit is a dear friend of Prinny’s, if I recall,” Creighton reminded him.
“Which is censure enough in itself. It isn’t a duel if the other man pisses himself by the count of six.”
Fitzhugh snorted. “He saw you shoot that cigar out of Eversleigh’s mouth.”
“You wouldn’t let me shoot it out of yours.”
“Eversleigh wants you to shoot him. If I had his wife and his mother-in-law, I’d want you to shoot me too. Twice, to be certain.”
“That can be arranged.”
“Which? The wife and the mother-in-law or the shooting?”
“Both, if you continue to discuss my drawers and your arse like some molly-boy.”
Creighton laughed and shook his head. “Well, he would be interested in the condition of your drawers, Brightworth. He borrowed from one or the other of us on more than one occasion when we were at school.”
“That is only because my valet drank. I simply found myself without from time to time.” Fitzhugh played the wounded innocent to the hilt. It didn’t help that Sebastian and Creighton had always looked out for him.
“Your old valet was a falling down drunk,” Creighton observed. “At least the one you have now is sober, if a bit high-in-the-instep to suit me.”
Sebastian hoisted himself from his chair and made his way to the sideboard. “He does, however, have the propensity to burst into tears at the slightest provocation.”
“Slight? Your hell-spawned horse ate the arse out of my new buckskins. Whilst I was in them. Of course, the man wept. I was near to tears myself.”
Creighton choked on his brandy. “You’re still riding Lovey?”
“Rode her here. All the way from Derbyshire.” Sebastian handed Fitzhugh one of the sandwiches he’d retrieved from the sideboard.
“And you turned her loose on my stable boys? Good God.” In three strides Creighton was at the doors. He stuck his head out and gave a short low whistle. A clatter of footsteps and a whispered conversation later Creighton returned to his chair.
“What was that about?” Sebastian took a bite of his sandwich. Roast beef done to perfection and the local cheese, sharp and hearty. Why wasn’t Creighton as big as a house?
“I sent word to the stables to have Tibbles assigned to your bedlamite equine. She’ll eat the rest of them alive, including my stable master and he’s an Irishman.”
Sebastian swallowed. At least he hadn’t taken a Fitzhugh sized bite. “Tibbles? Our Sergeant Tibbles?”
“The very same.” Creighton reached over and broke off a piece of Fitzhugh’s sandwich.
“He’s a prize fighter, not a groom.” Now he’d have to go out and check on Lovey.
“They’re perfect for each other.” Creighton tried for more of Fitzhugh’s sandwich and had his hand slapped for his trouble. “I should have thought you’d have sold her by now and bought something less troublesome.”
“He won’t buy a new coat. You really expect him to let go of his purse strings enough to buy a new horse? He had her for a pittance because no sane man wanted her.” Fitzhugh snatched the cushion from behind Creighton’s back and added it to the one already in his seat.
Creighton finally went to the sideboard to fetch his own sandwich. He stopped halfway back and stared at Sebastian. He then made a great show of walking around Sebastian’s chair very slowly. The arse. “Are those new clothes?”
Sebastian slouched into his chair. “When are you two going to behave like the sober, grown gentlemen the world believes you to be?”
Fitzhugh laughed.
“You’ve always been old enough for all three of us, Brightworth.” Creighton regretted his words. Sebastian saw it on his face. It took the sting out of them. A bit.
“It isn’t as if I had a choice, my lord. Is it?” Well, that was unfair. Sebastian wanted to kick himself.
“We aren’t supposed to talk about it.” Fitzhugh threw one of his cushions at Sebastian.
“Talk about what?” Creighton downed his brandy in one gulp.
“His new clothes.” Fitzhugh thumped his chest and belched. Sebastian and Creighton rolled their eyes in unison. They’d seen and lived too much together to quarrel for more than a moment or two.
“The devil you say. Since when?”
“He has a list. Topics on which we are not allowed to speak. His new drawers, my aching arse, and the amount of money you are paying him to rid you of your lovely bride.”
“You make it sound as if I am being payed to kill the girl.” Sebastian shook off the twinge of shame that came to rest on his shoulder. They didn’t understand. They never would. Not really. “I am only here to convince her to jilt our friend who keeps proposing to women he has no intention of marrying.”
“I wasn’t aware murder was on the table. And she isn’t a girl. She is widow of six and twenty and she has an eight-year-old son.”
“Not your usual bill of fare.” Fitzhugh sat up and looked toward the folding doors that led to the billiards room at the other end of the library. “Is she an antidote? Plump? Cross-eyed?”
Creighton followed Fitzhugh’s gaze. “Stubble it,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. “She’s here.”
The hair on the back of Sebastian’s neck went up. The folding doors into the billiards room had parted just enoug
h to admit a woman carrying a tea tray. A blue and white muslin dress. A white cap on golden bronze hair tucked beneath it. His legs lifted him from his seat in a slow tightening of muscles. Next to him, Creighton murmured something unintelligible. Fitzhugh covered a curse with a cough. Thank God they weren’t looking at his face.
His body knew before she traversed the library far enough for him to make out her features. It cannot be. Oh, holy hell. Holy, all-his-sins-returned-to-haunt-him, hell.
The other two rose and brushed the crumbs from their clothes. Creighton put on his most charming smile and moved forward to meet her in the middle of the library. Sebastian’s right hand curled into a fist. He forced it open. Fitzhugh slapped him in the chest.
“Come on, man. She’s quite lovely.” He pushed Sebastian forward. “Creighton, this must be your delightful fiancée.”
Sebastian saw it. The instant she recognized him. Her green eyes widened. No longer a young girl, her face still took his breath away. There was shock there. Joy, very fleeting. Then anger. And the anger was very much that of a woman grown. He didn’t care. His traitorous feet brought him so close to her he could feel the heat from the teapot on the tray and nearly taste the strawberry tarts. Creighton’s favorite, damn him. What the hell was Creighton saying?
“Minerva, dear, may I present my two oldest friends. Viscount Fitzhugh and Colonel Brightworth. Gentlemen, my lovely countess-to-be, Mrs. Minerva—”
A prolonged crash sounded somewhere in the mush in his head. The room grew suddenly hot. Very hot. And damp. Oh, never mind. It was tea. Hot, boiling tea all over his new trousers and in his new boots. Sebastian smiled. Covered in hot tea and tarts and he smiled. For an instant, he was nineteen and she’d done it again.
She looked horrified. Her eyes brightened. An odd sound came out of her mouth She dropped the empty tea tray on his foot, looked at each of them in turn, and quit the room as if every imp in hell was on her heels.
“Faircloth,” Creighton finished. He stared at the slammed door as if it might open and reveal a completely different woman carrying a fresh tea tray. Fitzhugh was making every effort not to laugh and failing. Miserably.
Sebastian had not quite decided whether to join Fitzhugh in laughter or Creighton in incredulity.
“Are you injured?” Creighton finally offered.
“His new clothes are.” Fitzhugh gave up the fight and started to laugh.
“Would you like to tell us what that was all about?”
Sebastian had survived a French cannonade softer than the cacophony in his head. It suddenly occurred to him. “Creighton, you have danced out of the parson’s noose for the last time.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“There is nothing on earth which would give me the power to seduce that woman.”
“You’ve never met a woman you couldn’t seduce, Brightworth. Everyone knows that.” Poor fellow sounded desperate. He had no idea. Even Fitzhugh had stopped laughing.
“I can’t seduce this one.”
“For God’s sake why?” Forget desperate. Creighton was terrified. “You didn’t—”
“Of course not.” His urge to protect her roared to life. Minerva was not the sort of girl one dallied with and it had not been a dalliance. A momentary madness, a forlorn hope, but never a dalliance. He had seduced her. And she had seduced him. The memory of it sang through him. He couldn’t breathe. Nor could he taint that memory by sharing it.
“Wait.” Fitzhugh’s eyes widened. He stole a glance at the closed doors. “Is she the one? When we were posted at Weatherby?”
“Will one of you great loobies tell me why my perfect-in-every-way fiancée greeted England’s greatest seducer with a tea bath?” Creighton’s fear would be amusing if Sebastian could make his way past the vision of Minerva walking back into his life.
“I courted her.” He gave Fitzhugh an I’m-going-to-pound-you-later look. “And I proposed to her.”
Creighton’s mouth opened. Then it closed. Finally, he asked in a strangled voice “What happened?” He looked at Sebastian. Then at Fitzhugh. Expectantly.
“He left her at the altar.”
“Holy hell.”
Stealing Minerva: Chapter Two
Ohdearlord!
Minerva clapped her hands to her burning cheeks.
What was he doing here?
The rumble of male voices from the door at her back set her in motion. She took a step to the left. Damn. The door had caught her skirt. She used one hand to swiftly open and close the door. With the other she whipped her skirt free.
And was suddenly seized by the arm and towed down the corridor in the direction of the conservatory.
“Dytey, wait.” She stumbled along behind Creighton’s sister, Aphrodite. “What are you doing? My shoe!”
The blond Bodicea scooped up Minerva’s slipper. Which made it much easier for her to drag Minerva sliding down the marble floors until they reached a pair of French windows. Dytey glanced up and down the adjacent corridor, pushed the windows open, and shoved Minerva into the conservatory. She then pulled the double windows quietly to behind them.
Minerva wrestled her shoe from the annoyingly cheerful young woman and plopped onto a stone bench beneath an orange tree. “What in heaven’s name was that all about, Aphrodite Forsythe?” She set about untying the ribbons of her slipper. A trial when one’s hands shook like a miser with his last penny. Oh, God. Where had that little gem come from?
“I might ask you the very same thing, Minerva Faircloth.”
Minerva shoved her foot into her slipper and blew the hair out of her face. She attempted to scowl at her soon-to-be-sister-in-law. Lady Aphrodite Forsythe, well-bred young maiden that she was, pressed her hands to her cheeks, widened her pretty blue eyes, and then winked.
“You nearly pulled my arm off.” Minerva stood and shook out her skirts. She peered out the glass panes of the mullioned French windows into the crossed corridors. At least no one had followed them. Yet.
Sebastian Brightworth was in the library. With her fiancé. Hell, damn, and several other words a proper lady was not to know.
“And you threw an entire tea tray at Colonel Brightworth.” Ditey tugged an orange off the tree and started down the paved path deeper into Creighton Hall’s sprawling glass house. “The look on my brother’s face was beyond price.” She tossed the orange into the air and caught it.
“You should have seen the look on Brightworth’s face,” Minerva muttered and promptly covered her mouth with her hand.
“I only wish I had.” She ducked under a grouping of potted laburnum trees and plopped onto a settee secreted beneath the low-hung golden boughs. “And now I want to know why.” She patted the seat beside her. The coy look on her face would frighten the devil.
Minerva batted the bright flowers out of the way. Of course, one ended up in her mouth. It was starting again, after nine years, no less. She spat out the little yellow bloom and eyed her friend suspiciously. “How do you know I tossed—I mean how did you know about the tea tray?”
Ditey studiously peeled the orange and refused to meet Minerva’s gaze.
“You were in the billiards room spying on them.”
“Spying is such an ugly word.” She offered Minerva a portion of the orange.
“It will be when your brother finds out. No one violates his lair without permission.”
“Had he known you were going to baptize one of his oldest friends with Mama’s best hyson he might have rescinded your invitation, betrothed or not.” She laughed until she snorted. Covered her mouth. And laughed some more, the wretched girl.
Oldest friend? This was a disaster. She’d worked so hard to become the sort of woman the Earl of Creighton, and more important, the sort of woman the earl’s mother, saw as the perfect countess. And she’d greeted her fiancé’s first guests to their wedding festivities with a tossed tea tray and a hasty retreat.
And he’d smiled. He’d stood there dripping in tea in breeches molded to his thighs
and a jacket fitted to shoulders far more broad than she remembered and he’d smiled. The same way he always had when she’d turned into England’s clumsiest maid simply because he’d walked into the room.
Had he grown taller in the last nine years? The unruly black hair, unpersuaded to let go of the last vestiges of boyish curls. Those dark brown eyes, even more grave and weary than before, though she’d wager her favorite bonnet the weariness had given way to something feral and wicked, even if only for a moment. The gentler features of the young man had been sharpened over the years. And God help her, it made him even more handsome than he’d been that fateful spring. He was more. More male. More severe. More dangerous.
“Minerva, I must know this story. Immediately.” Dytey waved a hand in front of Minerva’s face. “Now.”
“What story?” She resisted the urge to clasp her hands together. Surely the pounding of her heart wasn’t that loud. She crowded her lips into a demure smile and turned her most serene countenance on her friend.
“You’ve been sitting over there breathing like a race horse and swearing like Creighton’s Irish horseman. If you tell me there is no story I shall be forced to drag you out of here and duck you in Mama’s little fish pond.” She pinned Minerva with a relentless stare.
Minerva glanced toward the other end of the conservatory where the dowager countess’s pretty gold Japanese fish swam in the safety of their decorative, man-made pond. Men gave little regard to the wants and needs of those creatures they wanted to keep in the guise of appreciating their beauty. The fish were safe from predators. Security, however, always had a price. She subsided against the back of the settee and scrubbed her hands over her face. An exasperated sigh escaped her lips. She did not need this. Not now.
“This is going to be far more delicious than I imagined, isn’t it?”
“I beg your pardon.” An admission of guilt if ever there was one. She’d tell Creighton to take his sister in hand, but she doubted any man in England was up to the task.
Her Perfect Gentleman: A Regency Romance Anthology Page 63