The Rivals of Rosennor Hall (Entangled Inheritance Book 3)

by Rebecca Connolly

  He looked up at the gathering, glancing around at various faces, before his eyes rested upon Sophia.

  Her heart gave just a little at the vulnerability she glimpsed, and even more at the tiny flick of a smile that emerged as he looked at her.

  Larkin cleared his throat and walked over, his dark eyes trained on her, the vulnerability fading with each step into a smoldering assurance that shook the back of her knees. He stopped just before her, and held out the rose. “I present to you,” he murmured, “the first rose of the Cutting. May it bring you all that is due.”

  Though she had known it would come as soon as he moved in her direction, her mouth still dropped open for a number of heartbeats. The gathering applauded and whistled, but she could barely hear any of that.

  She could barely hear anything.

  “Why?” she whispered so only Larkin could hear.

  A flash of uncertainty lit his face before disappearing entirely. “You are the mistress of Rosennor,” he reminded her, the words formal even if the tone was not. “I couldn’t give it to anyone else.”

  Their fingers brushed as she took the rose from him, and her breath caught at the contact. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes still on his.

  Larkin bowed slightly. “It is my pleasure, Sophia.”

  Sophia couldn’t help it; she smiled at the man, and spun the rose loosely between her fingers. “How did you know what to say?”

  “I didn’t,” he admitted bluntly. “I made it up and hoped I wouldn’t be corrected.”

  She burst out laughing, as did he, before the self-appointed master of ceremonies began to direct the others in the proper way of doing things.

  Every bone in his body ached, and what wasn’t bone absolutely throbbed in agony. Pain beyond pain with every step Larkin took, and the cravat around his neck, what had once been neat and tidy, now seemed to be strangling him.

  He tugged at the limp, sweat stained and dampened fabric with surprising force, the knot unravelling at once. He slipped the fabric from his collar, and his coat was quickly shucked from his shoulders. He unbuttoned the top of his shirt and laid both cravat and coat over a chair in the hall before proceeding to the parlor.

  Sophia sat in a chair before the fire, her head resting against the back, her eyes closed. She had removed her shoes and swung her feet up beneath her skirts. Her fair hair, once so pristine, had been partially unpinned, the lower portions now draped along her shoulders.

  Again, it struck him just how lovely she was in appearance. Quite the pristine example of a fair English miss, and he doubted any would find fault in her. The shade of her dress was near to match her eyes, and so perfectly suited to her coloring that it seemed almost unnatural. There had been many comments in regard to her person during the event that day, and not all of them from the eligible men of the village.

  Larkin had glowered and glared enough to quell a thousand comments about Sophia, but he had yet to fully understand why. He had said perfectly horrid things to her and about her, and yet he could not stand idly by while others lowered all that she was to so base a thing. She was mistress of Rosennor, and he would insist she be treated as such.

  But why would he? Hadn’t he been working night and day to find some way to remove her from this place in order to have it all for himself? Wasn’t he looking into options for buying her portion of the estate from her? Everything he had done since arriving at Rosennor had been either that of furthering his own interests here or driving her away.

  Yet today they had stood together. Completely, entirely together. More than that, they had been successful in doing it. Multiple guests had claimed it was the best Cutting of the Roses in recent memory, and they were already eager for the next year.

  Larkin could not say he felt the same way, but at least disaster had been averted.

  He knew full well he could not take much, if any, credit for such a success. He had done his part, it was true, but so had Sophia. As well as Shaw, Mrs. Sexton, and the rest of the staff. It had been an effort of the entire household.

  Why, even his mother had behaved herself, for the most part, and kept her more ridiculous tendencies to herself.

  Everything had worked in his favor.

  Except Sophia’s success was not supposed to be in his favor.

  He watched as she exhaled, then opened her eyes, looking in the fire momentarily, before regarding him in the doorway. She smiled at him, her brow furrowing in confusion. “What are you doing?”

  Larkin smiled back, unaware until that moment that he had been leaning in the doorway. “I had intended to join you there, but my fatigue overwhelmed me, and I had to rest here for a time.”

  Sophia laughed softly and waved a tired hand. “Exert yourself and take this chair. You’ll feel all the better for it.”

  “Thank you, I shall.” He pushed off the doorjamb and took the chair opposite her, heaving a weary sigh as he did so. “I have never felt this level of fatigue in my entire life.”

  “Nor I,” Sophia replied. “But the thing is done, and I think we may say we made an impression.”

  Larkin laughed once. “My mother certainly did.”

  Sophia gave him a look. “She behaved herself perfectly well. No more ridiculous than any other woman of her age.” Her smile turned almost mischievous. “I think we may safely say Mrs. Windermere is staying on.”

  “Mrs. Windermere is never leaving us,” Larkin insisted. “I forbid it. I’ll pay her whatever she likes, she must remain. I’ve never seen my mother behave so well.”

  “If only others had behaved themselves with the same decorum.” Sophia snorted softly and shook her head.

  Larkin drummed his fingers on the armrests, his eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”

  Her eyes widened. “Did you miss the young child dropping clumps of dirt into your birdbath? I had to run to him and lead him away from the temptation.”

  “Ah,” Larkin said with a nod, smiling to himself. “Rather like when I saw a young man's mud-covered boots striding across your rug by the orangery. No care at all for the property of others. I made him clean it straight away.”

  “Or the linens from the dining room that were nearly used for a picnic blanket for the children?” Sophia put her hands at her temples and rubbed slowly. “I have no idea how they were taken out of doors in the first place, but it was very close.” She reached down beside her chair and retrieved a familiar looking goblet, sipping from it slowly.

  “Is that my silver goblet you’re drinking out of?” Larkin asked mildly.

  Sophia raised a brow. “Oh, you mean this thing that I saved from the five-year-old with two missing teeth just before he tried to use it as a house for the spider he caught?”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” Sophia grinned, and Larkin chuckled. The air between them had shifted into something inexplicably light and almost delicious. Something warm and companionable.

  Something they had never had between them.

  He stared at her with a strange sense of affection, and, as a distraction, began to tug at his boots. “Sophia, I’m going to drop my filthy boots onto your rug.”

  She only shrugged. “You’ll have to clean it tomorrow.”

  “That’s fine,” he said with a wave. “I have to clean your drawing room rug as well.”

  “What? Why?”

  Larkin made a face as one of his boots finally came off, and he focused his attention on the other. “Two of the gentlemen got into a tussle over a lady. Bit of blood.”

  “How did my drawing room rug get outside?” Sophia asked, her voice ringing with disapproval and curiosity.

  “I wasn’t in charge of setting up,” he pointed out. “I haven’t the foggiest.” He grunted as he tugged his foot free of the boot, and set both alongside his chair.

  “I can take care of it, don’t fret,” she offered.

  Larkin shook his head, looking at her once more. “Not fretting. I broke up the fight, I can clean the rug.”

  The
fight in question still raised his temper, but he needn’t tell her that. Just as he needn’t tell her the fight had been about Sophia. And that the blood was spilled because Larkin threw the punch.

  “Thank you for that,” she said, entirely unaware of the circumstances surrounding his offer. “How did you fare the rest of the day? I feel as though I haven’t seen you.”

  Larkin held up a hand with a grin, showing various scratches from roses, as he jumped in to help with the cuttings. “A bit pricked, but altogether well and whole. You?”

  Smiling herself, Sophia swung one leg down and extended it to show a slit in her skirt. “I had a bit of a mishap while playing with the children somehow, so my petticoats were likely exposed for a time. Hopefully no one was overly shocked.”

  There was nothing to do but laugh about that, and to wonder at the woman before him. To have such an injury to her gown, and to still continue to play and host without complaint? He’d heard nothing disparaging about her from the day, so even if the slit was noticed, it had not been remarked upon.

  Remarkable woman, Sophia Anson. How was he only just noticing it?

  Sophia hid a yawn behind on hand. “I suppose I’ll wait to write all the thank you letters then until everything is cleaned up.” She flashed a quick grin at him. “I’ll have to scrub up the perfume that a woman sprayed all over your credenza in the library. Apparently, she has a bit of a tendre for you, but I set her to rights.” The light in her eyes gleamed and prompted a smile of his own.

  “What exactly did you say to this woman?” he inquired, folding his hands over a bent knee.

  Sophia’s smile was coy. “I told her you were much too preoccupied with the estate to enter into any dalliances.”

  Larkin tsked with some sympathy. “There’s a pity. The poor thing must have been devastated.”

  “I dare say she will rally,” came the dry response. “She was rather flirtatious with the blacksmith before she left.”

  “And you are now the keeper of my schedule and social interactions?” he asked speculatively.

  She raised a questioning brow. “Would you rather leave it to your mother?”

  Larkin shuddered. “Good point.” He eyed Sophia for a moment, tension coiling and uncoiling without pattern in his chest. “I think… I think I will leave the artwork in your wing where it is. For the time being.”

  Her eyes widened and she stilled. “Really?” she whispered. At his nod, she wet her lips. “I myself cannot see a reason to move the desks in the study yet again. Not this soon, at any rate.”

  “I can understand that,” he murmured, his lips curving to one side.

  Sophia seemed almost afraid where she sat, and he wondered about it. “But this does not mean we have a truce, Larkin Roth.”

  “I never said we did, Sophia Anson.” He grinned, batting his lashes playfully. “I fully intend to remove the tapestries from your side in the coming weeks.”

  “And I was thinking of replacing all the rugs in the bedchamber corridors in your wing,” she replied. “Something floral, I think.”

  “Lovely,” he praised with a nod. “I may give yours suits of armor.”

  “I do love the glint of finely worked metal.”

  They grinned at each other briefly, a mutual moment of unity in their longstanding animosity towards each other.

  Though he felt anything but animosity at the moment.

  Footsteps clipped down the corridor suddenly, and Larkin jerked his attention to the door. Mrs. Sexton appeared, surprised to see both within.

  “You both must be exhausted!” she exclaimed.

  “We are,” they said together, making each other laugh.

  Larkin smiled at Sophia again. “Mrs. Sexton, would you have a bath drawn for Miss Anson? I think she deserves some leisure before retiring.

  He could hear Mrs. Sexton smile from across the room. “I quite agree, sir. Rose oil, ma’am?”

  Before Sophia could reply, Larkin shook his head. “No... no we’ve had quite enough of roses today. Miss Anson is more like lavender, I think. And only the best of it, Mrs. Sexton.”

  Sophia smiled back at Larkin, surprised, but clearly delighted.

  He secretly shared in that delight.

  “Of course, sir.”

  Sophia slowly rose, still smiling. “Good night, Larkin.”

  He rose himself and bowed. “Good night, Sophia.”

  Without another word, or look, she departed with Mrs. Sexton, and Larkin watched her do so, trying desperately to calculate how much he’d had to drink over the course of the day and if such an amount could have addled him to such a degree as he currently felt.

  CHAPTER 11

  “Excuse me, Miss Anson, but I’ve a reply from Mr. Roth for you.”

  Sophia looked up from her dismal attempt at learning the pianoforte without a capable instructor and heaved a sigh of relief at the housekeeper. “Oh, I hoped he would be in the mood to reply. I haven’t seen him in a week, so I wasn’t entirely sure he was in the house.”

  Mrs. Sexton gave her a surprised look. “Did you not have breakfast together yesterday?”

  A brief smile lit Sophia’s lips. “In a manner of speaking.”

  The housekeeper folded her arms in a matronly manner. “Meaning?”

  Sophia had learned over the past few weeks that while Mrs. Sexton respected and deferred to them, she did not approve of their mutual spite, or their frequent rearranging of Rosennor to inconvenience each other. She might have been dreadfully amused by it, but it was not uncommon to hear her sigh with a bit of impatience at the two of them.

  Larkin grinned every time he heard it.

  Sophia felt a slight twinge of guilt, but usually giggled in her embarrassment, and that somehow made it all right.

  “Meaning,” Sophia answered, her smile turning wry, “that he forbade me use of his silver, as that apparently does not fall under the use of the room itself. So, I informed him that he did not have use or access to the larder, or indeed, anything within it, so none of the meat at breakfast could be consumed by him. After which came an almighty row about the gamekeeper’s cottage that we have no clear answer on, so he has written to Mr. Tuttle-Kirk for clarification.”

  Mrs. Sexton looked somewhere between bewildered and bemused, and for a moment, Sophia thought she might get scolded for her childish behavior.

  She’d have accepted it if she thought Larkin would get the same.

  “May I speak frankly, Miss Anson?” Mrs. Sexton asked with a smile.

  “Of course.”

  The housekeeper shook her head with another long-suffering sigh. “I despair of you both.”

  Sophia burst out laughing and folded her shawl around her more securely. “That is hardly surprising, Mrs. Sexton, and I do not blame you a jot.”

  “So long as we are all aware,” Mrs. Sexton replied with a nod, smiling in all fondness before turning away.

  Giggles still springing from her, Sophia unfolded the note Larkin had sent back, her eyes darting across his tidy scrawl.

  Yes, you may enter the orangery. At present, I have no intent to use it myself. Kindly leave it as you find.

  Well, that was unexpected. Larkin usually forbade her anything and everything without reason, but now he would let her sit in the orangery?

  It went against their unspoken understanding to return to spiteful torment after the Cutting of the Roses.

  Why would he do that?

  She glanced down at the note again and smirked at his signature. Just his initials, L and R, without much by way of distinction between the two. One flowed right into the other as easily as a breeze, yet his penmanship in all else was careful, even, and nearly meticulous.

  How curious.

  Still, he had given permission, and she did want to spend the rainy afternoon there.

  Folding the note, she rose from the settee in the parlor and nearly skipped her way back to her bedchamber to collect supplies. She was not much of an artist, but she did enjoy the activity, an
d the orangery at Rosennor was immense, which would allow her to get in her daily walk without having to venture out into the rain. She wasn’t devoted to physical activity by any means, but she did enjoy walking the grounds of Rosennor.

  It was also one of the few times she could venture into Larkin’s property without his knowledge or consent.

  Not that she was so concerned about those things, or rearranged her schedule around his wishes, but it was something to note.

  Perhaps he would give her leave to use the orangery more often. There was something about that space she adored, and while owning what was within it, she did not own the space.

  One of the more maddening aspects of her life and her inheritance.

  Drawing pencils in hand, paper under her arm, Sophia made the trek to the orangery at a much more leisurely, sedate pace. She had nothing else to do with her time today, meetings with Mr. Maxwell having taken place earlier in the week, and she was not about to venture down to the village in this kind of weather.

  An afternoon in the orangery would do just the trick.

  She inhaled slowly, deeply, as she entered, the faint citrus fragrance filling her senses. Her mind cleared and her shoulders relaxed, tension she hadn’t known she carried fading without effort. She glanced around the room, which was more of a gallery in itself, and moved to one of the padded benches lining the glass paned walls.

  The skies were a dull, dismal gray, but gave light enough to the orangery that she had no need to light candles. Trickles of water made their way down the chilled panes, mirroring the rain itself in a more leisurely fashion. Sophia traced the path of one drop as far as she could, then sat on the bench nearest her.

  She was only a few minutes into her drawing of the tree before her when the door to the orangery opened.

  The pencil slipped from her hand when Larkin walked in, his hands loosely tucked into his pockets, his attention anywhere but on her.

  Did he know she was in here? He had to; she had requested permission to enter. He needed no permission to enter, but he would need permission to do anything else within these walls. But why would he have come here? By his own hand, he had admitted to having no intent to use it.