How Not to Chaperon a Lady--A sexy, funny Regency romance

by Virginia Heath

  ‘Are you saying that you are not self-absorbed and vain?’ He kept his tone light even though he sensed what she suddenly needed to say was important. ‘As I have never known another who needs at least an hour to get her hair just so.’ Although to be fair to her, she hadn’t given two hoots about it since they had arrived here and he was coming to see that that vanity was more for the benefit of others than for herself. Charity liked to put on a show and never wanted to disappoint an audience, no matter how small it was or what the venue.

  ‘Of course, I am...sometimes.’ She took the teasing comment as it was meant. ‘We all have traits which make us imperfect. You, for example, can be sanctimonious, overbearing and controlling...sometimes. And yet at others, as I am coming to realise, you are actually rather...tolerable.’

  ‘Only tolerable?’

  ‘Let’s not get too carried away with the gushing praise nor forget that tolerable is a huge improvement on annoying, which you certainly were up until recently.’ Her shoulder nudged him again, the gesture instantly enveloping him in the subtle scent of her perfume and awakening every nerve ending he possessed. ‘What I mean is, I understand now that as much as I love to be the centre of attention, I also appreciate that the adoration I get from an audience isn’t real and that it is good for my soul to step away from it from time to time. To be me and not have to pretend to be...anything.’

  ‘Clearly the Dales have brought out your philosophical side if you can see that. And there I thought you loved all the adoration.’

  ‘I do.’ She exhaled and stared out at nothing. ‘And bizarrely, I don’t. I love to entertain and I adore being welcomed with open arms, to feel valued and special but...’ She sighed again and shook her head.

  ‘But?’ He was sorely tempted to wrap his arm around her and draw her close because he had seen first-hand the toll it had all taken on her—the real her behind her performer’s façade. Hold her tight and kiss it all better. Or just kiss her and to hell with the consequences. Wanted to desperately but didn’t dare.

  How could he when there had always been a hard and decisive line in the sand between the Brookes and the Philpots which he couldn’t cross? A demarcation forged by years of familiarity and a shared childhood. The solid border of a clearly defined relationship which he understood. Crossing it was unchartered, unthinkable and likely irreparable. If she didn’t feel the same about him as he did her, Griff had no clue how they would co-exist in the same close-knit family circle after he had bared his hand—or even if that circle could still exist at all. If they ever came to light, his inappropriate feelings were bound to make it awkward for everyone.

  ‘It comes at a cost I had no concept of before now.’ She leaned back on her hands to allow the afternoon sun to warm her face, not caring that without the shield of the bonnet she had left discarded below it was rapidly tanning her skin. ‘Aside from the physical toll months of constantly performing and practising take, I never expected how suffocating it would all become. How beholden I feel to all those people who come to see me and how draining their adoration could be when I’ve craved it for all my life.’ Two golden eyebrows kissed in consternation. ‘It feels like they own me, Griff, or at least the me they think I am, yet no matter how much of myself I give them it is never ever going to be enough. Does that make sense?’ She sighed slowly, basking in contentment at the respite and the sunshine. ‘That’s why I now completely understand my mother’s persistent insistence on distance.’

  Another newly discovered aspect of her character which tugged at his heart. ‘Oh, good grief, please don’t say you’re a poet now too?’

  She swiped him playfully on the arm before wrapping hers around it, unwittingly sending his senses further into turmoil with her innocent, affectionate touch. ‘These last few days have genuinely been a balm to my soul. It’s been wonderful not having to smile or be entertaining or available to all and sundry. Or even to look my best.’ With a mock frown she grabbed a loose curl and tugged it in front of her face. ‘As the state of my hair is a likely testament to.’

  ‘Your hair looks lovely.’ Just like her. ‘Natural.’ Untamed and inviting. The sort of hair which tempted him to run his fingers through as he slowly pulled out every pin. ‘You should wear it like that more often.’ Even though it would likely kill him to keep looking and not touching.

  ‘And you should probably get yourself some spectacles if you consider a bird’s nest lovely, but I shall vainly take the compliment anyway simply because I cannot muster the enthusiasm to care what a fright I look and I adore compliments. That said, it’s liberating not caring what anyone thinks.’

  ‘Perhaps you should try it more often?’

  She nodded, her expression wistful. ‘I will. As I said, it now makes perfect sense to me why my mother takes such long breaks from the theatre and ruthlessly turns work down. Those months away from the demands of a baying audience keep her sane and grounded. And happy. I realise that now too. I also realise that the same has been sadly lacking in my life for quite some time.’

  ‘You are not happy, then?’ That revelation surprised him because she always seemed so full of life and fun. In all the years he had known Charity, she smiled a hundred times more than she frowned and most of them were genuine. She might be tenacious, determined, ambitious and irrepressible, but she had never been prone to sour moods or fits of melancholy. Of the five of them, she had always been the eternal optimist and the reliable ray of sunshine.

  ‘I am...but...’ She sighed again. ‘You said something the other day which struck a chord. You said that I hadn’t stopped since Lincoln and that just isn’t true. If I am being brutally honest with myself, I haven’t stopped for over a year, Griff. Not since I got my first part in the chorus of Così fan Tutte. Since then, everything has been a whirlwind. Part of that is opportunity—Figaro, this tour of the north. My own ambition has also fuelled things further. As the youngest of all of us, I’ve always felt I had something to prove and I have been on a mission to make it all a success from the moment I could talk. But another part, the part I had no awareness of until now, was the one played by the huge expectations and demands of others who have kept me in the centre of that whirlwind and prevented me from seeing any way out.

  ‘I never went on our planned trip to Bath last summer because I was needed for rehearsals. I haven’t visited my grandparents in Whitstable in for ever, or spent much time with my friends. I worked through Christmas rehearsing furiously because people had bought tickets and I didn’t want to let them down when the show opened. I’ve barely seen Hope or Faith since they married because there have been so many demands on my time. We pass like ships in the night—which is sad when we have always been so close. I have a new nephew whom I barely know and another on the way, and yet...’

  ‘Nobody blames you for being busy, Charity. Your sisters know how much this means to you and how hard you have worked for it. They are delighted by your success, so you have nothing to feel guilty about in chasing your dreams. They did too, remember. They still do.’

  ‘I know they understand.’ She stared at the horizon again, her expression troubled. ‘But since the new year, I now realise that all I have done is eat and sleep the theatre. And these past few weeks have been the most ridiculous of all as everybody seems to want a bit of me—and because I’ve now become a hopeless slave to the whirlwind, I’ve given in to it. Even to the detriment of myself, my health and my sanity. So I thank you, Gruff Griff the Kite-Hogging Fun-Spoiler...’

  Her hand sought his on top of the cool rock and she laced her fingers tight in his. ‘Thank you for being sanctimonious, overbearing and controlling, and seeing all that before I did and for bringing me here to recuperate. As much as I hate to make you right about anything, I needed this break from it all. So very much.’

  Her hand felt perfect in his, as if it were meant to be there and without thinking he pulled her close despite his better judgement so that
her head rested on his shoulder. It felt good. She felt better. ‘I promised your father I would save you from yourself, remember?’ A quest which was slowly killing him now that he knew he wanted more. He settled for a brief kiss on the top of her head and a subtle inhale of her scent. ‘And as a man of honour, my word is my bond.’

  ‘I don’t believe you did this for him, Griff.’ Her face lifted, too close to his for comfort. ‘I suspect you did it for me.’ As confident an accusation as that sounded, her lovely blue eyes were uncertain as they stared deep into his, as if she needed to see confirmation of that unfortunate truth. ‘Is it possible that after all these years, you actually, finally...care about me?’

  ‘Of course I care about you.’ An understatement. ‘I always have.’

  ‘Only because you had to. You tolerated me then, but it feels like something has shifted all of a sudden and we are finally friends now too?’

  ‘We are more than friends, Charity.’ The words came out before he could censor them or temper them with an explanation because he had lost himself hopelessly in her eyes and her smile. As her gaze searched his face and flicked briefly to his mouth, he felt his dipping helplessly towards hers, remembering the way she tasted. How wonderful she felt in his arms.

  How much he needed and wanted her.

  Only, when their lips were barely an inch apart, the sheer gravity of what he was about to do slammed home and he immediately straightened, uttering the often-said words he had never, ever felt. ‘We are brother and sister.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘A canny businessman must move with the times, Lord Ackroyd. This is an age of innovation and revolution after all.’ The Earl of Thirsk’s handsome son and heir twirled her in a wide arc across his dance floor. ‘The Killingworth Colliery have been using a steam locomotive to haul their coal from the pit to the plant successfully for several months now, and I am reliably informed their Blucher can tow eight wagons loaded with thirty tons of coal all in one go.’ Or so Griff had told her. Since the dramatic thawing of relations between them after Lincoln, she was coming to understand what a clever and forward-thinking businessman her childhood nemesis had become. ‘Saving hours of manpower as well as money. Why wouldn’t you want Thirsk Mining to follow suit?’

  ‘How can you say that a thing which costs a king’s ransom saves money, Miss Brookes?’ She could tell by his expression he wanted to be convinced, because exactly like Griff, he wouldn’t be able to alter the course of the family business without his father’s approval too. ‘As it would run into a cost of thousands, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I cannot deny, it is a huge initial investment, my lord, but it will pay for itself tenfold in no time and put you well ahead of your rivals at every conceivable juncture. Just think of the possibilities...’ The waltz ended and she curtsied, then threaded her arm though his, trying not to feel the weight of Griff’s eyes on them as she did so, or to glance his way.

  It was brotherly concern. Nothing more. He had been quite adamant in that.

  And as much as she still might occasionally try to fool herself he harboured unbrotherly feelings towards her too, because she was certainly feeling some decidedly unsisterly ones for him of late, staring longingly at Griff was futile when she had no place looking at him like that at all and he certainly wouldn’t welcome it. Not after the odd moment they had shared at the top of Simon’s Seat when she had been convinced he was about to kiss her, had been thrilled and giddy at the prospect, and instead he had quite emphatically set her straight in the subtlest and politest of ways which allowed them both to save face. To him they were family, and all things considered, that was probably for the best when she forced herself to put her feelings to one side and contemplate it all rationally.

  She had been a little overwhelmed of late, and clearly wasn’t thinking straight if she was suddenly considering their near life-long and platonic relationship any differently. Thank goodness she hadn’t acted on the wild impulse to drag him back and press her mouth to his when he had first pulled away, because that would have made the last week in his company awkward in the extreme. A foolhardy, spur of the moment and inappropriate kiss which would have swiftly ruined the new friendly camaraderie which now existed between them for evermore.

  Despite willing them not to flick his way, her traitorous eyes sought his across the sea of people separating them anyway, and once again she was struck by just how much he stood out among them all. And it wasn’t just his handsome features and tall, broad physique which made her pulse instantly quicken in a wholly inappropriate fashion, it was something about the man he was within which had always called to her soul and tempted her body to want. So much, that it took all her willpower to focus back to her partner and the delicate diplomatic task in hand.

  ‘If your mines are bulging with coal, my lord, doesn’t it make more commercial sense to find a way to increase its extraction?’

  ‘That is exactly what my fiancée says, Miss Brookes. It is a shame she isn’t here this evening as you’d get on famously. She thinks we should invest in expansion.’

  ‘And she is right, my lord. At the moment, like so many owners, you are constrained by the practicalities and limitations of your workforce and have to rely on nought but man and horsepower to transport it all to where it needs to be. Men and horses tire, don’t they? And flag in the heat or the cold of the elements or get sick or injured from the backbreaking work. But with a reliable locomotive taking that strain, you could easily double, even triple your yields by redirecting your workforce elsewhere.’ Lord Ackroyd’s pale brows knitted together as he considered this, clearly with interest, so she embellished further.

  ‘Besides, it stands to reason that as more industries inevitably mechanise, the demand for coal is only going to grow after all, and in the north that demand could become exponential in just a few short years. If you produce more, you can price your product more competitively to give your company the edge. In fact, if you are one of the first to adopt what doubtless will soon become the norm, you are bound to reap a more sizeable chunk of the potential profits than any of your competitors as the Killingworth Colliery’s unbridled recent success is testament to.’

  She had learned a lot about the marvels of the steam engine recently. Mostly because she was interested and partly because she enjoyed listening to Griff passionately explain it all. He was particularly compelling when his eyes sparkled, and it was just the two of them chatting in the carriage whenever Dorothy nodded off. Something she did with predictable frequency.

  ‘While your arguments hypothetically make perfect sense, and aside from the huge cost such an endeavour would undoubtedly take, Killingworth will have Stephenson all tied up in cast-iron contracts and they would never share those valuable patents with their competitors. Therefore, to emulate their success, we would need to start from scratch—but without the genius of a George Stephenson behind it. Good gracious it is loud in here...’ So loud they were having to shout over the music and the crowds. ‘Shall we continue this fascinating conversation outside?’

  Glad that he was clearly enthused on the subject, she happily allowed Lord Ackroyd to manoeuvre her towards the French doors and out on to the terrace as the crowded ballroom was so stuffy. Away from the hubbub she would no longer need to strain her already overworked voice to converse above the noise.

  After three performances in the last three days, Charity was mindful that too much now could be catastrophic when she still had one last day to do here in York, where she would sing to the packed theatre not once, but twice with only a few hours of respite in between.

  ‘There are other designers out there as good, if not better than Stephenson, my lord. Men with as proven a track record in steam and mechanisation and with the skilled workforce and resources required to build a locomotive too.’ She smiled coyly as if sharing a huge confidence to pique his interest. ‘I happen to know one, actually. And he is quite brilliant. He even h
as extensive designs for such a system ready to put into production and more than the means to make it.’ Lord Ackroyd’s feet paused as one eyebrow raised in interest, but she pretended not to notice as she gazed out into the dark garden.

  ‘And who is this brilliant individual?’

  Unthinkingly, she beamed with pride. ‘Griffith Philpot of the Philpot & Son Manufacturing Company. You might have heard of them as they do a lot of work at this end of the country? One of their biggest workshops is in Sheffield, a stone’s throw away. I say a workshop, when really it is a dedicated factory. One which only produces the finest and most modern machinery.’

  Lord Ackroyd nodded, quietly impressed. ‘I know it well. They supplied all our pumps a few years back when I finally managed to convince my father to purchase some.’

  She smiled at him, feigning surprise, pleased he had taken the bait so quickly. ‘Then their reputation precedes them, and you know already the superior quality of their steam engines.’ Griff had appraised her of the connection when Lord Thirsk had invited her to his ball as the guest of honour when they first arrived in York, so she knew full well that the introduction of the Philpot steam pumps, which had had to be specifically designed they were so complex, had allowed their host to significantly expand his mineshafts and, ergo, his fortune. The Philpots had also benefitted hugely from the association and, as a result, were now the biggest supplier of mining pumps in the north-east.

  ‘Tell me, for I am curious, were those new-fangled steam pumps you fought so vociferously for a waste of good money as your father suspected—or did they transform your business and increase your fortunes as I and your very clever fiancée suspect they did?’

  He chuckled, basking in her subtle flattery, clearly aware that he had just demolished his own flimsy counter-argument. ‘They did indeed transform the business, Miss Brookes. Since their installation, we haven’t looked back. In fact, our coal production has doubled.’