The Rivals of Rosennor Hall (Entangled Inheritance Book 3)

by Rebecca Connolly

  Larkin nodded in response, extending a hand to help his mother down. “Lovely. So, the moment we decide to take up residence, the staff will return?”

  Tuttle-Kirk nodded at least seven times as he disembarked from the coach, giving the unnerving impression of having some sort of fit. “Yes, sir, indeed. Most anxious to serve you and Miss Anson, as I understand it, sir.”

  In the process of taking his mother’s arm to lead her towards the house, Larkin paused and looked at the older man in bewilderment. “Both of us? Are you telling me that the staff believes that both of us will be taking up residence here?”

  Mr. Tuttle-Kirk returned his look wide-eyed. “Well, I simply… I just… Sir, you said we only a moment ago, so I thought perhaps you and Miss Anson had come to some kind of understanding.”

  “What, over the course of that endless carriage ride from London in which neither of us were in the same space?” Larkin retorted without any semblance of politeness. “Did you think we arranged something between the time you read us the will yesterday and when we departed London this morning? After leaving your office, perhaps? Miss Anson and I met up without telling anyone and arranged the details of our completely mangled inheritances? Are you mad?”

  “Steady on, Mr. Roth, you’ll bring that particular gable down upon your head, and then what will your part of the estate do?”

  Larkin snarled, glancing over his shoulder at the approaching beauty, his left eye twitching slightly, as it had done frequently the day before in her presence. He did not need her involved in this ridiculous discussion, but if she was going to thrust herself in the midst of it…

  “No doubt you would dance around my bloodied corpse and take my share before I turned cold,” he snapped.

  He caught the wry raising of one of her perfect brows. “Seems reasonable. Continue as you were.”

  “Oh, sir, I would never suggest…” Mr. Tuttle-Kirk stammered, his eyes going somehow rounder than ever before. “I only thought… Surely you know, Mr. Roth, Miss Anson, that I would never imply that either of you would ever behave with less than becoming manners…”

  “What?” Miss Anson demanded, suddenly deciding to listen while her mind was working. “What’s happened?”

  Larkin smirked and turned fully to face her. “Apparently, Mr. Tuttle-Kirk believes that you and I will be living in Rosennor together.”

  Disgust and horror had never appeared so rapidly on so fair a canvas as the face of Miss Sophia Anson, and she took in the person of Mr. Tuttle-Kirk with the same disdain Larkin had been employing. “I beg your pardon? Live here with him? What would that do to my reputation?”

  “And what of mine?” Larkin retorted while the stupidest sense of offense struck him over the topic. “I will not be accused of living in sin with her, of all women.”

  That was exactly the wrong thing to say as Miss Anson rounded on him. “Of all women?” she repeated in a half-shriek. “So, you would live in sin with another woman, would you?”

  Defying all logic by doing so, Larkin shrugged. “You never know. It would depend entirely on the woman in question.”

  Miss Anson’s mouth closed, became an almost invisible line, and somehow still emitted a growl blended with a scream that quickly became the favorite sound of his entire life.

  “We are getting nowhere with this ridiculousness,” Miss Anson’s more adult male companion scolded gruffly. “We should see to the estate.”

  Larkin examined the man quickly, making a shift in judgment and adjusted his behavior accordingly. “Mr. Arthur, was it?”

  The man looked at him with the token wariness one might expect, given the exchanges of the day before. “Yes.”

  Larkin nodded once and extended a hand. “Apologies, sir. I know this all has not brought out my better behavior, and heaven knows what you must think of me.”

  A furrow appeared between the man’s brow as his politeness forbade him from refusing to take Larkin’s hand in return. “I think nothing, sir, beyond what I witness, and I try to reserve judgment. This is an unforeseen circumstance that would try anyone.”

  “A truer statement has never been said,” Larkin allowed, a new respect for the burly man forming in his mind.

  He had thought him a bit of a bulldog the day before, and one without joy in his life, but he would have to reconsider that. The man had been forced to endure Miss Anson for a time, after all, and that would surely be enough to canker a man’s soul.

  “Well,” Larkin said to no one in particular, heaving a polite sounding sigh, “Mr. Arthur is quite right. We need to get on with what we have come here to do, and examine Rosennor. Mr. Tuttle-Kirk, if you wouldn’t mind?”

  Relieved that the tension had abated for the time being, Mr. Tuttle-Kirk nodded repeatedly, his mustache twitching with it, and offered his arm to Larkin’s mother, which seemed a very poor idea, as neither were what Larkin would consider steady. But his mother took his arm with all good graces, did not fall, and only made one comment about the impracticality of estates without a moat.

  Larkin would call that a victory, for certain.

  He clasped his hands behind his back and followed them, strolling towards the entrance of the house.

  His arm was suddenly seized in a vice-like grip, and he distinctly felt claws of sorts digging into him. “Ow! What are you…?”

  “Shhh!” Miss Anson hissed with all the venom of an agitated viper. “Keep your voice down!”

  Larkin pointedly stared at her clenching hold on him. “Let go.”

  She retracted the claws of her grip, but continued to keep her hand where it was. “Keep walking.”

  “What do you want?” he demanded as he did as she said, more to escape the conversation by ending it quicker than to concede to her instructions.

  Miss Anson glanced over her shoulder, then back at him. “What are you doing with Mr. Arthur? Why were you suddenly nice to him after insulting me?”

  Larkin filled his expression with derision, though he did note that beholding the beauty from this close proximity was far more enjoyable than from across the room, and that she was rather perfect a height to match his own. He didn’t have to crane his neck to meet her eyes, yet he was tall enough that staring perfectly straight ahead would not give him any obstacle but her bonnet.

  She whacked his arm far more sharply than he’d expected. “WHAT?” he demanded as he lowered his eyes to hers with a scowl.

  Miss High-and-Mighty Anson rolled the incomparable blue eyes she possessed. “Wonderful. Not even listening.”

  “I was listening,” he insisted, trying to jerk his arm away and failing. “And I saw no reason to insult or be rude to Mr. Arthur. He’s done nothing to me, and he’s perfectly respectable.”

  Her mouth gaped, revealing almost perfectly aligned teeth. “But you see reason to insult and be rude to me?”

  Larkin gave her a very sage nod, if he did say so himself. “I do, yes.”

  Now her gaping was accompanied by an offended cough. “Why? I’ve not done anything to you either!”

  He tutted and patted her hand, still on his arm, and did so with rather sharp raps. “You are the enemy, Miss Anson. My foe in the battle for Rosennor Hall. You stand in the way of attaining all that I hope for from this will. Your existence is reason enough for me to treat you as such.”

  The irritated huffing and puffing from the feminine lungs beside him made him want to smile, but he forced the desire back. No need to let Miss Anson know just how much he enjoyed prodding her.

  “You are insufferable,” she hissed as though the word were the worst expletive she could think of.

  Larkin glanced over at her with a crooked smile. “It’s a competition, love. No good manners required.”

  Now she huffed in more dramatic fashion and stormed away from him, making him snicker to himself as he sidled over to his mother, standing in the entryway and looking up and around the space about them in fascination.

  Larkin gave the dark wood carvings and plaster ceiling
s a cursory look, but found his attention more drawn to the flush-faced woman with a rapidly heaving chest clenching her teeth with enough tension to break them.

  Glorious being when in high dudgeon.

  He’d have to remember that. Might as well make the most of things while he could.

  The sight of her thus made him smile, and when her crystal blue eyes flicked to him, her glower deepened into something rather murderous.

  Larkin inclined his head in a bow and could almost hear her seethe from where he was.

  “The entryway,” Mr. Tuttle-Kirk announced, gesturing about them. “According to the technicalities of the will, this belongs to Mr. Roth.”

  Larkin grinned and swept his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels.

  “And the furnishings belong to Miss Anson,” the man continued.

  Larkin’s rocking stopped and he made a face, glancing around the grand entrance hall and its carvings, tapestries, and three tarnishing suits of armor. “It could use a working over anyway,” he said with a nonchalant shrug.

  Miss Anson grinned with a devious air he had only ever seen in young boys. “I like it. I find it perfect.”

  Of course, she did. He scowled at her, not that she cared.

  Mr. Tuttle-Kirk turned and started to move towards one corridor, then changed direction and moved for the other. “I think we will start with the east wing. Much of it belongs to Mr. Roth, so do pay attention, sir.”

  “I am rapt with attention, I can assure you,” Larkin replied as he practically skipped his way up to the front of the group.

  “But I own the furnishings,” Miss Anson murmured, also coming up to join Mr. Tuttle-Kirk and himself. “I look forward to the rearrangement of all things to my tastes.”

  Larkin sniffed once. “In rooms you’ll never have permission to enter. Loses its thrill with that, doesn’t it?”

  “Not really, no,” Miss Anson replied, sliding off her gloves and holding them in one slender hand. “All I have to do is think of your face forced to endure an arrangement I have made, and I feel perfectly content.”

  That was entirely unnecessary, but it did ensure that he would have the liberty to do the same with her rooms.

  Which begged the question. If the rooms belonged to one, but the furnishings to another, how in the world would they see to those furnishings at all? He was not about to give her permission to enter any of his rooms without his consent, which meant she would do the same, which meant that nothing would change in any of the rooms, for good or for ill.

  Which meant they would be trapped in a stalemate where Rosennor was concerned.

  “Corridors are common areas,” Tuttle-Kirk was saying as he continued to lead them through the east wing, his explanations about each room growing shorter and less detailed the more he felt the tension and hostilities between Larkin and Miss Anson grow. “And it will be up to the discretion of each owner of the rooms as to the trespassing of the other within them.”

  Larkin and Miss Anson met eyes, and it was perfectly clear that neither would have such permissions.

  “The only proviso in all of this is, naturally, should one wish to seek the other out,” Mr. Tuttle-Kirk said with a chuckle. The laughter ceased and he glanced between the two quickly. “When or if either of you choose to be in residence, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” Larkin replied with a quick bow of acknowledgement.

  The tour continued through a library, two parlors, the dining room, the billiards room, which Miss Anson protested quite heartily at, and the study. Larkin would fight tooth and nail to keep everything the way he wished it in that particular room, wondering how in the world anyone could rationalize letting a woman control the decor and furnishings of the one room in the house that most decidedly belonged to a man. But, at the very least, he could hide himself away in here. It was far and away better than one of the more easily accessible parlors.

  “The dining room,” Mr. Tuttle-Kirk said with a faint gesture. “Technically, again, Mr. Roth’s, though there is a stipulation to allow Miss Anson use for meals.”

  “Oh, how unfortunate for you,” Miss Anson said with a soft tutting. “Such a tragedy.”

  Larkin made a noise of discontent and shook his head. “Shame, indeed. I was going to insist that you eat out in your stables.”

  If looks had the power to kill, Larkin would have been hanged, flayed, and burned alive, likely in that order. But he only grinned in the face of it and returned his attention to the tour.

  Things only got more ridiculous the further on they went.

  The gallery, the most direct connection from the majority of the east wing to the west, was Larkin’s room, though control of the artwork displayed in it, with a few exceptions, lay with Miss Anson. The kitchens were Larkin’s, but declared neutral territory of necessity, with the larder being Miss Anson’s. The ballroom, a huge and elaborate room, was Miss Anson’s, but everything within it was his. The music room was hers, though the instruments were his. The breakfast room was hers, but she had to let him eat there.

  She had the gamekeeper’s cottage, and he all within, though the place was completely devoid of furniture, which made Miss Anson erupt with laughter. She had the stables, but he had every single horse within.

  There was no sweeter victory, he was sure.

  The gardens behind the house belonged to them both, and all changes requested had to be approved by the master gardener. A dilapidated gazebo stood on the dividing line between her land and his, and Larkin wanted nothing more than to offer the infested thing to Miss Anson in exchange for something he could actually use.

  He would have to consider that.

  Just when Larkin had decided he could not bear another moment of Mr. Tuttle-Kirk droning on about the history and particulars of Rosennor Hall, let alone how the will dispersed the rooms and items they were seeing, they all stopped.

  Larkin looked around, wondering what was so fascinating about the rows and rows of bedchambers situated in this current wing. Half of the rooms were his, half were hers, though why either of them would need such a number was not entirely clear.

  Apparently, they were to house several house parties at some point.

  If Miss Anson had friends to invite, that is.

  He doubted that.

  “Something wrong, Mr. Tuttle-Kirk?” Mrs. Arthur asked from the rear of the group. She was less inclined to reserve than her husband, though she didn’t seem to truly speak her mind all that much. When she did, however, Larkin found her to be charming and rather sage, all things considered.

  Compared to Larkin’s mother, the woman was the epitome of all sanity and wisdom.

  He might have to win them over to his side rather than Miss Anson’s.

  “Not at all, madam,” came the reply. Mr. Tuttle-Kirk gestured to the large room on his right, the group’s left. “Here we have the nursery.”

  Larkin stopped breathing, and momentarily perished, he was sure of it, before he was brought back to life in the midst of an almighty panic.

  Nursery? What in the name of all that was holy was he supposed to do with a nursery? What was Miss Anson going to do with a nursery? Surely, she was not an unfortunate woman with offspring that would be coming here. That would be beyond anything, and he would refuse to allow such a thing.

  Or would she marry quickly, take up residence, and use the nursery for her own forthcoming children?

  He shuddered at the thought.

  “And whose is this?” Miss Anson asked in a tight voice that echoed his thoughts.

  Mr. Tuttle-Kirk looked through his papers, frowning. “It would appear that this room is shared between the two of you.”

  Larkin looked Miss Anson squarely in the face. “You can have the nursery.”

  She blanched at once. “No, no, you take it. I insist.”

  “Truly, unnecessary. You must take it.”

  “No, I thank you.”

  “I have no need for it.”

  “Nor have I, to be sure.
I will not be using it.”

  Mr. Tuttle-Kirk looked between the pair of them back and forth, and then cleared his throat slightly. “I do hate to interrupt, but am I to understand that one of you plans to take up residence here?”

  Both looked at him, and Larkin, for one, felt himself take root in this legacy of his. “Yes, I do,” he replied.

  Only he was not the only one to say so.

  CHAPTER 5

  “I don’t have a house.”

  “Oh, and you think I do?”

  “You live with the Arthurs, surely.”

  “And that is an arrangement that you think suits any of us?”

  “No, actually, I think you are a marked inconvenience for them, given your temperament, but as good Christians, they are not about to turn you out, and surely they have marked their place in heaven…”

  “I will slap you across the face.”

  “I’m not so much the gentleman that I would not retaliate.”

  “You would strike me?”

  “Of course not, I’m no lowlife. But I would trip you, sure as night follows day.”

  “How very gallant.”

  The man was more ogre than she had previously thought, no matter how handsome he might appear.

  They had sequestered themselves in one of the larger drawing rooms just off of the entryway, which happened to belong to him, though he didn’t seem to be claiming territorial jurisdiction by making her stand outside of the room’s boundaries. Small mercies there.

  Sophia rubbed at her brow, then pinched the bridge of her nose. “Mr. Roth…”

  “Larkin, please,” he interrupted with a scoff. “At least let us stop bothering with the pretense of politeness, and save ourselves an extra word here and there.”

  Normally she would have forbidden such a lapse in propriety, but she was so tired of fighting ridiculous battles with him, and he had a point.

  Politeness between the two of them was rather moot.

  She faintly gestured an acceptance with one hand. “Larkin, I have absolutely nothing and no one to my name but this legacy now. Surely you can see that I need Rosennor to secure any sort of future for myself.”