A grin played about Sir Arthur’s lips, and, though never previously inclined towards violence, Lucie had to clench her fists against the sudden urge to punch him right on the end of his nose. ‘It’s not funny,’ she ground out between clenched teeth.
‘Oh, I rather think it is.’ Sitting up straighter, Sir Arthur dislodged a wheat-coloured terrier who’d been curled across his lap and folded his arms across his chest, the movement tugging the pink shirt tight across his broad shoulders.
Pink? But hadn’t he been wearing navy when they’d met not an hour earlier? It took very little effort to recall the image of him standing before her almost half-naked. In fact, it sprang forth so readily she feared it might be permanently imprinted on her brain. ‘You changed your shirt.’ God! Why had she even said that, and what did it matter if he had? She needed to stop gawking at him and get back to the point. ‘I may be young, but I’m not to be trifled with, Sir Arthur, and I won’t be dragged into whatever nonsense you’ve got in mind. I’ll be on the first train home tomorrow.’
As the object of her ire continued to smile that irritating smile, the first clouds of her anger lifted and she took a proper look at him. Though he certainly resembled the man she’d met in the great hall earlier, it was clear—to her absolute horror—that whoever he was, he wasn’t Sir Arthur. ‘Oh. But you’re not…I just assumed…Oh my goodness, I’m so terribly sorry,’ she gasped, hands flapping ineffectually towards him.
Grin slipping not one inch, he scratched the terrier behind one ear as he continued to stare up at her. ‘No, I’m not, and more’s the pity. I’m sure my brother will be most disappointed to hear you won’t be trifled with. If I were him, I’d have all kinds of glorious nonsense planned for you.’
The way he said the word nonsense made it sound positively filthy and Lucie could no more stop the blush heating her cheeks than she could the sun from rising in the east. Her tendency to flush over the smallest thing had been the bane of her existence. As the initial embarrassment faded, her brain caught up with the rest of what he’d said. ‘Your brother?’
The man on the sofa was all but laughing now, enjoying her discomfort. ‘Yes, Red, there’s two of us—well, three if you count Iggy, but she’s not a man no matter how hard she might try to outdo us. I’m Tristan Ludworth, youngest by a handful of minutes and therefore title-less and of no significance whatsoever.’ He rose to his feet, towering over her even with her heeled pumps lending a small advantage. ‘And you must be Miss Kennington.’ Reaching for one of her hands that now hung limp at her side, Tristan raised it to his lips for a kiss. ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’
Cheeks aflame once more, Lucie tugged her hand free and spun away only to almost run into a towering figure who’d been standing almost at her back. Strong hands cupped her shoulders. ‘Hey, steady on there, where’s the fire?’ Sir Arthur steadied her for a moment before releasing his hold. ‘Miss Kennington? Is everything all right?’
Head swivelling between Arthur’s hazel eyes shining with concern, to Tristan’s identical pair glittering with amusement, Lucie felt a flutter of panic. They were both so big, and so close, and so gorgeous, it was overwhelming. Arthur…Tristan…the round table…In a flash her initial anger reignited, and she poked Sir Arthur in the chest. ‘You got me here under false pretences. I took your advertisement in good faith and thought this was going to be a serious project!’
Sir Arthur stared down at the finger planted against his breastbone, then back up to meet her gaze. ‘Believe me, I take the prospect of potentially losing my home very seriously indeed, Miss Kennington. What’s upset you?’ His eyes flicked over her head to stare at this brother. ‘Is this your fault? Have you been messing with her? You promised me you would be on your best behaviour.’
‘Hey, don’t blame me!’ Lucie glanced behind her to see Tristan backing up with his palms raised in protestation. ‘Pippin and I were minding our own business when this flaming Valkyrie burst into the room and started yelling. I thought you must’ve done something to piss her off, given your dodgy track record with the ladies.’
‘Dodgy track record?’ Seemingly to have forgotten about her, Arthur stepped around Lucie to confront his brother. ‘Says the man with a string of conquests that’d line the road from here to Chesterfield and back again!’
Tristan scoffed. ‘Not every woman wants to snag the heir. I’ll leave the fortune hunters to you, thanks, bro.’ Laughing, he ducked as Arthur took a swing at him that Lucie could tell from her position had never any intention of landing.
‘Excuse me?’ She waved when they both glanced around. ‘As entertaining as this brotherly banter is, can we get back to the point, please?’
Sir Arthur folded his arms across his chest, his brother—his triplet, she supposed, for hadn’t Tristan mentioned a sister?—mirrored the action. Side-by-side and as close to her as they were, Lucie could see that apart from their colouring and general build, they were actually quite dissimilar. Tristan’s face was a little thinner in the cheeks, his build more slender than his brother’s stockier frame. There was a slice through one of Arthur’s eyebrows, a remnant of some old scar or just a tiny natural defect, she couldn’t be sure, that gave him something of a rakish air. He quirked that brow at her now. ‘And what exactly is the point, Miss Kennington?’
Rolling her eyes at his persistence at pretence, Lucie gestured to them both before waving her hand towards the open door leading back to the great hall. ‘Arthur, Tristan, the round bloody table. That crazy ancestor of yours who believed this is Camelot.’
Sir Arthur shrugged. ‘What of it?’
So, at least he wasn’t going to deny it! She supposed she should be grateful for small mercies. ‘I thought this was a serious position, that you wanted someone to assess and catalogue works of art, not replicas and rubbish.’ Lucie clamped her lips shut. The paintings and pieces she’d seen on the landing hadn’t been rubbish, though, had they?
There was no hint of that smooth rich chocolate in his tone now, only an ice that told her she’d overstepped the mark. ‘I’ll admit part of your role will be to go through some of the more interesting items my ancestor, Thomas Ludworth, accumulated, but as I said before, I’m deadly serious about the financial threat looming over Camland which is why I need someone to urgently update and review our archives and collection records. If I can’t rustle up some serious cash in the very near future, then over four hundred years of my family’s history could be broken up and sold for scrap.’ It was his turn to glower. ‘If you’re not up to the job, Miss Kennington, then tell me now and I’ll find somebody who is!’
Oh.
Lucie opened and closed her mouth a couple of times as responses flew through her mind. His claim about the risk of losing everything struck far too close to home, and she was once more the bewildered teenager watching her possessions being loaded onto the back of a bailiff’s truck. Did she honestly think she had the knowledge and experience to do a good job for Sir Arthur and the rest of his family? If he was serious, then maybe she should get out whilst the going was good. What she’d thought would be an interesting project, a way to escape from her current work nightmare and lose herself deep in the castle archives had taken a deadly serious turn. Confidence already close to rock bottom, it took a further nosedive. Was she really up to it? What if she blew it and missed some fantastic treasure worth a fortune, and they lost everything?
Or worse, what if that treasure was just waiting here for her to discover it and she missed the opportunity? A decent find would surely help to redeem her reputation…Chances like this didn’t come along very often, and slinking back to her tiny bedroom to hide once more under her duvet would be the end of her. Pushing her shoulders back, Lucie straightened up to her full and entirely unimpressive five-foot-three height, and thrust out her hand. ‘It’s Lucie, Sir Arthur, not Miss Kennington, and I’m your woman.’
Arthur enveloped her hand in his much-larger tanned grip and shook it firmly. ‘Just call me Arthur. If your other ski
lls match your temper, Lucie, then I think you’re definitely my woman.’ His hazel gaze locked with hers and Lucie found herself thinking about all the different ways she’d like to be his woman.
Face burning, she tried to tug her hand free, but Arthur held her fingers tighter for a long moment, making it clear the clasp would end only when he was ready for it to. God, that arrogant possession really shouldn’t be attractive, but her bones were in danger of melting from the heat generated from just their palms pressing together. What would happen to her if he should press other parts of himself against other parts of her? Never going to happen, Lucie! Giving herself a firm mental shake, she reclaimed her hand from his and tucked it safely beneath her arm before it could get her into any more trouble.
‘In your dreams.’ Tristan nudged his brother’s arm then clapped his hands together. ‘Right, now we’ve all called a truce, how about a drink to celebrate?’
As though on cue, a panelled door at the end of the room swung open and Maxwell appeared, a silver tray laden with tall glass flutes balanced on his right arm. ‘Champagne, Sir Arthur?’
‘You’re a bloody mind-reader, Maxy, old boy!’ Tristan crowed as he swooped down on the tray and gathered three of the glasses between his hands. The butler’s lips twitched at the irreverent nickname, but Lucie didn’t miss the sparkle in his eyes as he watched the two brothers laughing over something together. He might be a stickler for protocol, but there was real affection in his manner for them—perhaps not the same relaxed fondness with which Mrs W had spoken of Arthur, but it was clearly more than a run-of-the-mill job working for this family.
Before she could consider the strange employer-employee dynamics at the castle, a stunning brunette dressed in a sapphire-blue smoking jacket over skin-tight black jeans swept into the room and claimed a glass of champagne from the tray. Though the line of her jaw was softer, the cheekbones finer and higher, she had the same strong nose and wide brow as the brothers. No sooner had she arrived than two more people entered the room. The middle-aged man’s brown hair carried more than a dusting of grey, but he still cut as imposing a figure as the younger Ludworth men. The woman on his arm looked at least a generation older, though there was no lack of vigour in the piercing gaze she fixed on Lucie as she accepted a drink.
If two had been intimidating, five were positively terrifying. Feeling an utter fish of water, Lucie wondered if it was too late to retreat to the staff quarters and eat her supper with Mrs W and Maxwell.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘How did you get on with the internet company?’ Arthur asked his brother as he watched the rest of the family descend on Lucie. The fire and fury of her earlier outburst had been replaced by a wariness he didn’t like to see in her green eyes. He could still feel the imprint of the outraged finger she’d jabbed into his chest and he raised an absent hand to rub the spot as he wondered if he should’ve done more to prepare her for the task ahead. Her reaction to his family’s eccentric past had been exactly the type of thing he’d been dreading, which was the only reason he could account for blurting out his dire financial situation to a practical stranger. She was a lot younger than he’d expected—a lot prettier too. In his mind’s eye, Ms Lucinda Kennington had been a lady in her middle years, fond of tweed skirts and sensible walking shoes with thick glasses she wore around her neck on a string of beads. Mind you, from the shocked look she’d given him when he’d introduced himself earlier, he hadn’t been what she’d expected either.
‘…So I told him that no, he couldn’t speak to the bloody account holder as what was left of Uther had been shot into the sky stuffed in a firework.’
Tristan’s exasperated voice cut into his musings, making Arthur realise he’d not been paying attention. Dragging his eyes from Lucie, he turned to face his brother. ‘You didn’t?’
‘I bloody well did, stupid jobsworth.’ Tristan took a mouthful of champagne. ‘I eventually got through to a grown-up who was most apologetic once I started bandying the title around a bit, told her it was most inconvenient when I couldn’t contact my good friend, Harry—’ Tristan lowered his voice to a theatrical whisper ‘—about a planned visit to the castle.’
Arthur groaned. ‘Please tell me you didn’t tell some poor call-centre supervisor that we have connections to the royal family.’
Unrepentant, Tristan shrugged. ‘I didn’t tell her that, but I didn’t disabuse her when she jumped to that conclusion. Besides, Harry and I are good friends, and he is visiting The Castle this weekend, so it wasn’t a lie.’ Harry Wilks, the son of Bill and Morag Wilks who ran the namesake pub in the village, was around the same age as them. ‘Cut a long story short, a new account has been set up and the connection should be restored before 10 a.m. tomorrow.’ Tristan clicked their glasses together. ‘Now, let’s talk about something far more interesting like your delectable Miss Kennington.’
Even before Tristan had finished saying her name, Arthur was already searching the room for her. She seemed to have recovered from her earlier uncertainty at meeting the family and was cosily ensconced on one of the sofas with Iggy and Morgana book-ending her. The three women were listening to Lancelot tell what Arthur assumed was one of his wild anecdotes from the way he was waving his arms around. ‘She’s off limits,’ he growled at his brother. Tristan would never press his attentions on any woman who wasn’t interested any more than Arthur would, but that didn’t stop him flirting outrageously at the drop of a hat. There would be no dropping of hats by his brother, or any other items of clothing for that matter, in Lucie’s vicinity. Not if Arthur had anything to do with it.
Tristan held up his hands. ‘All right, I won’t rain on your parade.’ He heaved a sigh of false regret. ‘Shame really, as she’s a stunner.’
‘There’s no parade. Lucie is here to do a job and we are going to let her do it in peace. She’s a professional, and we should respect her right to work without harassment like any other employee.’ He’d reached that rather disappointing conclusion during the past hour when he’d been holed up once more studying the dreadful state of their current overdraft. As he watched, Lucie laughed at something Lancelot had said to her, her whole face lighting up with joy. Arthur let his warning to Tristan settle on his own shoulders. Pretty she might be, but Lucie was off limits. Capital O. Capital L. Full stop, underlined. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred pounds. Do not think about kissing the pretty new member of staff.
Draining his glass, Arthur checked his watch. ‘Right, shall we make a move? Dinner must be ready by now.’
They made their way to the sofa where Tristan offered his arm to their great-aunt with a flourish. ‘Silly boy,’ she said, patting his cheek with her free hand.
‘Come on, dearest girl, help your old, arthritic uncle, won’t you?’ Lancelot crooked his elbow towards Iggy.
Hooking her hand around his arm, Iggy rolled her eyes. ‘Old and arthritic, my ars…my eye,’ she said, catching herself just in time from swearing within earshot of Morgana who had very definite views about the kind of language suitable for ladies. ‘I saw you out on the gallops earlier putting that new mare through her paces.’
Lancelot laughed. ‘She’s a goer, all right, and so responsive. About the only female in my life who I can say that about, more’s the pity!’
After wincing at his uncle’s departing back, Arthur relieved Lucie of her empty glass then popped it onto the mantelpiece together with his own. When he turned back, she’d risen from the sofa and was standing slightly off to one side of him with her hands clasped in front of her. Not quite sure what to read from her body language, and not wishing to make her feel uncomfortable, though his instinct was to offer his arm, Arthur settled for gesturing towards the door. When she moved forward, he kept his arm slightly behind her, not touching but ready to offer support if required.
Their pace across the great hall and down the corridor leading to the dining room was set by Morgana’s slow gait leaving plenty of time for polite conversation. ‘How’s your room
? Do you have everything you need?’
Casting him a quick sideways glance, Lucie nodded. ‘It’s fine.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘More than fine, it’s beautiful, much grander than what I’m used to.’
‘And what’s that?’ He’d only meant it as a general question, something neutral to carry them through the rest of their walk to the table, but from the hitch in her step, he wondered if he’d blundered somehow. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to pry,’ he added.
She shot him that little flash of side-eye again. ‘It’s fine.’ She paused. ‘Sorry, I keep saying that.’
He laughed. ‘It’s been a bit of an awkward start for us, hasn’t it? I can only apologise for the mess with the internet and not getting your email. Tristan seems to have worked a miracle, though, and they’ve promised to get us back up and running tomorrow morning. Around 10 a.m., something like that.’
When she met his eyes this time, she didn’t glance away. ‘That’ll be good. I’m so used to my phone being permanently connected, it’s a bit odd. However did people manage before?’
‘Well, it’s often a bit hit and miss around here so we’ve kept the landline. I hadn’t realised how many people don’t have them these days until I started seeing those stories on the news when one of the networks crashes.’
They were almost at the door to the dining room. Arthur stepped to one side to allow Lucie to proceed ahead of him. ‘Did you need to use the phone, to call home, I mean, and let them know you’re okay?’ Her refusal to answer earlier had him more than a little intrigued. Hopefully she’d have a boyfriend waiting for her, and Arthur could forget about the annoying tug of attraction he felt towards her.
‘It’s fi…’ Lucie burst out laughing, then raised her hand to cover the red flush on her cheek. ‘Gosh, I need to work on my stock responses, don’t I? I managed to get a bar on my phone earlier and sent Mum a quick text. I’ll message her properly once we’re back online tomorrow.’
The Bluebell Castle Collection Page 8