Harlequin Historical July 2021--Box Set 1 of 2 Read online

  ‘You chiselled it out?’ Clearly that prospect astonished her. ‘On your own?’

  ‘I’ll have you know I’m a dab hand with a pickaxe.’ To get a rise out of her, because sparring with Hope was now his most favourite pastime, he flexed his bicep. ‘Did you think these impressive muscles, that I cannot help but notice you admire so very much, came from barking orders?’

  Her features remained as flat as the precisely cut roof shingles Tregally Slate was now renowned for. ‘If you are going to be tiresome, I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Then hand over the first couple of chapters of your precious magnum opus so I can read them while you are gone, as I’m not the least bit ready to sleep yet and am in dire need of something exciting to read.’ He had tried all manner of ways to get a glimpse of her story, but so far, she had batted each back. Yet her secrecy, and her reluctance to even hint at the main crux of the plot, only intrigued him more. He held out his hand across the three-foot void of empty space between their adjoining balconies, daring her to put them in it. ‘Yesterday you said it was practically finished and promised faithfully that I could read it once it was done.’

  Instantly, she was defensive. ‘I am still pondering over the exact wording of the final scenes. I need to get those right.’

  He wiggled his outstretched fingers. ‘Just the first chapter will do for now.’

  ‘Thanks to all the incessant hammering and distractions from your army of workmen again today, it still isn’t ready.’

  ‘Yet two days ago you faithfully promised me that you were deliberating about copying the first few chapters out and taking them to that publishing fellow in Paternoster Row...’ Only because he was diligently cajoling her into chasing her dreams because she seemed so reluctant to. ‘What’s his name? The one who said he really liked the first book but wouldn’t publish it unless you changed your name to Henry...’ He snapped his fingers trying to remember. With all the Thundersley invoices, ledgers, stocks and bonds he had been wading through of late, his mind was stuffed with random names which meant nothing. ‘Crocker and Co.?’

  ‘Cooper and Son.’ She was staring down at her hands, which was odd for Hope, when she normally stared him dead in the eye. Even when she was being aloof in front of her family, she did so boldly. More unusual was the fact that her hands were suddenly busy in her lap, when Hope wasn’t a fiddler. The only times he had ever seen her not as physically calm as a swan on a millpond was when he had flustered her.

  She was uncomfortable about something and not just his request.

  ‘Hope?’

  Her spine stiffened as she winced. ‘I sort of took your advice on that.’

  ‘Which means you didn’t take it at all, did you?’

  ‘I thought I would try an experiment...and I sent it to him via messenger instead of visiting...only I didn’t send it as me...not after last time. Though I am in two minds about the hasty decision now.’ She stood and began to nervously pace the tiny confines of her balcony. ‘You see, in a moment of temper, I made a name up to see if that made a difference to the way it was received.’ She stopped pacing to glance at him, then quickly away. ‘I sent those chapters as H. B. Rooke and gave him my grandparents’ postal address in Whitstable instead of here.’

  ‘A very smart move.’ Even though he was put out that she would allow that faceless Cooper fellow to read it before him, he couldn’t help but admire her industry and the clever subtlety of the name she had chosen.

  She huffed out a relieved breath. ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Of course! That way, when he raves about it, as he undoubtedly will, and begs you to allow him to be your publisher and offers a king’s ransom for the privilege, you will be able to prove to him categorically that a girl can write a book that people want to buy. That’s presuming you are going to reveal that you are the genius behind it, as I’d hate to see the fictional and androgynous H. B. Rooke on the bookshelves when it is Hope who deserves to be there.’

  ‘Precisely!’ She beamed at him across the railings and it made his heart stutter. ‘You see right through my fiendish plan.’ Then the smile wavered. ‘Only now I have to go through the unmitigated torture of waiting...perhaps for the axe to fall yet again...and it will be an interminable wait thanks to the detour it will take via Whitstable.’

  Of its own accord, his hand reached over to cover hers on the railings and something odd happened because he felt it everywhere. Even the night air around them seemed charged with something extraordinary. ‘Good things come to those who wait, Hope. Mark my words, Mr Cooper will love Phantasma and so will the world once they get to read it.’

  ‘How can you know that when I haven’t even let you read it yet?’

  ‘Because you wrote it, Hope, and you are brilliant.’ She was too. Brilliant, unique and dazzling. ‘And before you argue that inescapable fact and accuse me of being kind, in the short time I have known you, I know without a shadow of a doubt that you are the most brilliant and clever young lady I have ever met.’

  ‘Sometimes, Lord Trouble, you say the nicest things...’ She gazed intently at the spot where their bodies joined and swallowed, making him wonder if the simple, innocent touch was having the same spellbinding effect on her as it was on him, until she gently tugged her hand away and retreated back a step as if she needed to put some uncharged air between them. Then her eyes locked with his—part wary, part bemused. ‘If you carry on being so charming, and despite my better judgement, I might even have to start considering you a friend.’

  From a woman who had good reason to have scant regard of men, that honour felt special and humbling—though worryingly nowhere near enough. And by the way she instantly straightened as soon as the tender words were spoken, and briskly turned her back to him to pick up the pile of her precious handwritten pages on her table, clearly intent on rushing inside, she was mortified to have shown him that she cared.

  He almost reached out to twist her back to see exactly what she was feeling for himself, but realised that if her need mirrored his he would be left undone and there was a very real chance he might kill whatever it was that tenuously was building by acting upon it.

  Which, of course, he was in no position to do.

  To cover the sudden veil of awkwardness which now hung between them as well as preserve the genuine friendship which was blossoming between them, Luke attempted a flirty grin as he leaned nonchalantly on the railings and churned out the sort of words she would expect and which would set them back on their almost but not quite even keel.

  ‘I knew my boyish charm would eventually win you over.’

  Whatever was going on between them wasn’t something either of them were in any hurry to explore just yet and, with his life more complicated and burdened than it ever had been before, that was probably just as well. He needed a friend now more than he needed the responsibility of being more than one, when he could barely walk under the weight of all his myriad responsibilities as it was. A short dalliance was one thing, but he knew already he wouldn’t be able to settle for a dalliance with her.

  ‘If we are friends, Hope, does that mean I can finally read your first chapter now?’

  She turned, hugging the papers to her chest, her familiar bored mask fastened firmly in place again.

  ‘If and when we are friends, Luke, and only when the book is finished...maybe.’ The ghost of a smile and something else still lingered in her eyes. ‘But thank you for the tea and the toast. Unlike your company, they were excellent.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  The new Marquess of Thundersley made his debut in the House of Lords today and stunned everyone present with his eloquence during a debate on the state of England’s roads. His arguments for improving them were apparently so convincing he swayed several committed naysayers into voting for the bill. Could it be, Dear Reader, that we have misjudged him...?

  Whispers Behind the Fan

&nbs
p; June 1814

  It had been the first time Luke had set eyes on Abigail in a fortnight and as they were in plain sight of at least a hundred excited opera goers crowded in the foyer during the interval, there was no polite way to avoid her without causing a scene. His own fault. If he had stayed with Augustus who was still holding court in the corner, and not wandered off to see what, or more likely who, was keeping Hope, this harpy would never have had the opportunity to catch him alone.

  ‘Good evening, Lucius.’ She proffered her glove-covered hand so that he could kiss it and he found himself strangely grateful for the reassuring layer of dark satin which spared him from touching her skin. ‘You have proved to be a difficult man to pin down now that you have become quite the gentleman about town.’

  ‘Abigail.’

  Even that single, tart greeting took all his effort to muster. He stared wistfully over at Hope now on her way back from the retiring room and, in typically Hope fashion, she had inadvertently dragged along some bothersome flotsam and jetsam in her wake.

  Two well-heeled and besotted young gentlemen were doing their best to charm her, entirely ignorant of the fact that their wide-eyed fascination with her fiery hair and voluptuous figure was guaranteed to have the opposite reaction. Already she wore that apathetic and unsubtle irked expression which she always wore around such irritants and he could only imagine the insulting and tart answers she would have for whatever honeyed twaddle they were spouting in their quest to seduce her. As he thought it, she speared one of them with a blatant poison verbal dart and the idiot blinked as if he must have heard it incorrectly, then brayed like a donkey when he wrongly assumed she was being droll. Her plump lips flattened in instant irritation, then, as if she sensed Luke watching from afar, their eyes met across the crowded foyer and she rolled hers heavenward, knowing he would understand exactly what that meant.

  They had solidified their unlikely friendship in the past two weeks, yet already he valued it above everything else he had here. They flirted—or rather he flirted to vex her while she playfully glared—but mostly they talked. About everything and nothing. She listened to all his woes concerning solicitors and the superficiality of London, while she bemoaned the idiot men who thought her dim-witted fair game and, once the moaning was done they discussed books and politics, disappointment and dreams. Everything really.

  Or almost everything.

  She was reticent about sharing anything detailed about her writing and he never volunteered the truth about his mother or the real reasons why he had moved to Bloomsbury in such a hurry.

  Abigail noticed him staring at Hope and frowned, then immediately smiled her brittle, ever so wounded smile which he now saw right through. ‘I am glad I ran into you... I have been desperate to speak to you since you left. I sent another note to that effect last week. Did you not get it?’

  She knew he had because she had instructed the messenger to wait for his response and Luke had tossed the boy a sixpence and told him to tell Her Ladyship that he had no response and likely wouldn’t for at least the next few months. Exactly what was there left to discuss?

  ‘As I assumed you only wanted to flog the dead horse of your unsavoury marriage proposal or attempt another wholly inappropriate and unwelcome seduction, I decided to ignore it.’

  Almost a month since and he still couldn’t quite believe the bare-faced nerve of the woman or not feel disgusted by what she had done. Thankfully, he had awoken before anything regrettable happened, the last remnants of his rampant desire for Hope shrivelling like a salted slug on a wet path as he had screamed his outrage from the rooftops.

  He folded his arms, letting his irritation show. If they were going to flog dead horses, he had his own rotting nag to flay. And politeness be damned, for once he would not pull his verbal punches with a woman or care about their feelings.

  ‘To be frank, I find myself strangely grateful you showed your true colours in all their manipulative glory when you did, because I had been desperate for a decent excuse to leave you for months. It was only ingrained politeness and my foolish belief that I needed to look out for my half-brother’s grieving widow which kept me there. Thankfully, I have purged myself of both misconceptions and am nothing but relieved to finally be shot of you.’

  He intended to stride off then, even started to, but she grabbed his sleeve as her face crumpled with hurt. ‘Wait...please.’ Fat tears instantly swam in her eyes which made him feel bad for speaking plainly even though she had had it coming. They were enough to make him follow when she tugged him into a secluded alcove. ‘Please hear me out. Please allow me to apologise, Lucius... I beg of you.’

  Luke folded his arms, making no attempt to hide either his disgust or his suspicion until the first tear fell and he instantly felt a cad.

  ‘I am so sorry... It was so wrong of me. Desperate even...b-but...’ As her bottom lip trembled she spared them both the embarrassment of a scene by turning so that her back was to the crowd before she buried her face in her hands. ‘I am s-so l-lost.’ Fresh tears hovered on her bottom lashes threatening to spill at any moment and she impatiently swiped them away. ‘Just know that I wasn’t myself that night... I am still not to be honest. I really do not know what has got into me of late. I am so confused.’ She touched her forehead. ‘And so very sad all the time.’

  Luke’s ready pity annoyed him because he didn’t trust her or this uncharacteristic display of emotion. Unbeknownst to her—or perhaps with brutal intent—she was jabbing at his most exposed nerve with her tragic behaviour. His Achille’s heel.

  Surely that wasn’t coincidence?

  He had learned to trust his gut, as it had not failed him once in all his life, and his gut called foul. Yet it wasn’t in his nature to be callous and unsympathetic of another’s pain either—especially when he had caused it. He stood awkwardly for several uncomfortable moments while she composed herself and he tried to figure out if her pain was genuine.

  When she finally looked up at him, her eyes were red-rimmed and her features pale. ‘Do you ever feel like your world is spiralling out of your control, Lucius?’

  Often. Almost daily of late and he loathed it. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘These last few months since Cassius passed have been so awful that some days I feel as if I am losing my mind.’

  And there they were. The magic words. Not that his mother had ever uttered them when her illness held her in its unrelenting grip, but which he had learned to understand were the truth whenever she had lost the capacity to see the wood for the trees.

  ‘I know it is no excuse, but nowadays I barely recognise myself. Not what I think or how I behave. The dead and numb way I feel inside...some days all the misery just becomes a blur, yet I haven’t even cried yet.’ Then she hiccoughed out a bitter laugh as her fingertip wiped away the solitary tear trailing down her cheek. ‘At least not until now... Isn’t that strange?’

  ‘Grief affects us all in different ways.’ Although he sincerely hoped that six months of pent-up grief weren’t all about to come tumbling out right here in this Covent Garden theatre. His gaze drifted helplessly towards Hope who had managed to shake off her unwelcome suitors and had re-joined her father, willing her to turn and notice he was trapped so that she could extricate him from his needy sister-in-law’s clutches, but she didn’t. For future reference and for the sake of himself, he should probably appraise her of his situation with Abigail so she could come to the rescue in the future.

  And while he was appraising her of Abigail, maybe it was time he entrusted her with the whole truth about his situation?

  He almost had, once or twice, especially now that his mother’s visit loomed, and he was worried sick about how that would affect her. The travelling alone was daunting enough because he had no idea how she would react to it, but as his mother was, understandably, an intensely private person and London, with all its bad memories and nosy people, could well prove
to be her nemesis. But even so, there was no putting her visit off either. He got the sense from her letters that she was desperate to see him and absorb his strength. No outright alarm bells, not yet at least, but enough niggles to make him uneasy about how the next few months would unravel and to wish he had someone to share it with. At least if Hope was aware of the issues, she could be an extra pair of trustworthy eyes in Bloomsbury when he had to be elsewhere.

  And then, of course, there was the niggling need to confess it all to her anyway to see if they could be more than friends. He had never entertained that possibility before, but every night after he left her and he couldn’t stop thinking about her, a growing part of him wished she would always be beside him. An extra pair of trustworthy eyes and a soulmate in every sense of the word...

  ‘I never expected to become a widow at thirty-three, Lucius.’ Abigail’s voice pulled him reluctantly back and uncharitably, he was surprised she was that young. He had always assumed she was nearer his elder brother’s age than his. ‘I assumed I would be a mother by now, surrounded by children to love and busy raising my family...but your brother was...’ She glanced away, her breath coming out in staccato bursts as if she were determined to ruthlessly hold back all her emotions. ‘I apologise.’ She flapped her hand this time as she shook her head. ‘It is wrong to speak ill of the dead and though he might well have been my sorry excuse for a husband, he also was your brother.’

  ‘There was no love lost between Cassius and me. You know that.’

  ‘I do. And I worried about the chasm in your relationship and tried to convince Cassius to mend it.’ Had she? He had seen no evidence. ‘I even tried talking him out of what he did to your mother, but he would not be swayed.’ Luke instantly stiffened, not wanting to hear any excuses for that travesty and certainly not in the packed foyer of a theatre. ‘Even though I thought his actions were unchristian.’