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

  ‘You smell very nice tonight, doesn’t he, Clowance? Are you wearing cologne?’

  She knew very well he had never owned a bottle of the stuff in his life before. ‘Everybody wears it here, Mama.’

  ‘I like it.’ She smiled exactly as she did when she was up to no good. ‘I like that new waistcoat too. It’s very smart. If it wasn’t for your customary dishevelled hair and scruffy beard, I’d barely recognise you. You have become quite the dashing gentleman.’ She stared at his head and frowned. ‘As you are a marquess now, haven’t you considered getting it cut?’

  ‘No.’

  Of course he hadn’t and nor would he even though she always nagged him about it. The wayward hair had always annoyed his father, then later his brother, and in a world where the younger version of himself had had so little control over anything in his life, for years, that one minuscule bit of rebellion had been the only thing he could do.

  She sighed. ‘I didn’t think you would have but I suppose some ladies like the craggy, rough-and-ready look in a man.’ He offered her his best teasing smile as confirmation, expecting her to roll her eyes and tell him off for being vulgar like she always did. Instead she grinned and raised her eyebrows as the carriage slowed at the gates of the park. ‘I suspect Miss Hope Brookes is one of those women, isn’t she? Just as I suspect that she is the reason why you purchased cologne.’

  While he carefully considered how to respond to that, Clowance patted his leg in sympathy. ‘I told you you’d regret bringing her here. She has a bee in her bonnet about you settling down, young man, and I fear she’ll be insufferable until she gets her way.’

  With perfect timing, Augustus Brookes’s grinning face appeared at their window and nipped the awkward conversation firmly in the bud. ‘In a miracle of biblical proportions, the Writtles have secured us all a supper box which is practically on top of the bandstand so we shall have the very best view of all the entertainments tonight. However, I am told the crowds on the Grand Walk are already horrendous, so if we all get separated among the thronging masses, aim for the Turkish Saloon.’

  As they alighted, Hope was mere feet away and looking so lovely she fair took his breath away, but he didn’t dare leave his mother who was holding on to his arm far more tightly than a woman who was completely relaxed in such boisterous surroundings ever would. But she managed the long stroll to the supper box without any issue, and even managed to coo and sigh at all the thousands of pretty coloured lights which twinkled in the trees and illuminated the pathways.

  Once seated, and separated from all the chaos around them by three sturdy walls, she settled down quickly and threw herself into conversation with the other matrons in their party—Roberta, the delightful Countess of Writtle, mother-in-law to the eldest Brookes daughter Faith who he still hadn’t met, and a very pleasant lady called Mrs Philpot who was apparently the family’s oldest and dearest friend as well as the mother of Charity’s wide-eyed best friend Dorothy. A young lady who seemed to have a great deal of trouble not staring at him and giggled and blushed like a beetroot whenever he spoke to her. As was expected at such gatherings, Luke placed himself among the gentlemen where Augustus typically held court. The Earl of Writtle proved to be good company and Mr Philpot, Dorothy’s jolly father, seemed to have a never-ending supply of jokes to keep everyone entertained. His serious son Griffith, however, seemed to find the whole thing a chore and had appointed himself his sister’s chaperon instead, which was likely a very good thing considering she was constantly being waylaid by Charity.

  However, in all the jollity, and for the entire duration of the meal and while the orchestra played, it proved to be impossible to have any sort of meaningful conversation with Hope. All they managed were a few shared looks across the vast expanse of the table. Finally, as the palpable buzz of excitement signalled the fireworks were about to begin and he resigned himself to being thwarted from speaking to her properly yet again, Charity piped up.

  ‘Surely we are not staying here to watch them?’

  ‘Of course we are, dear.’ Full of ham and too much tart, Roberta had clearly taken root for the night and was horrified by the suggestion. ‘If we leave this box we shall lose it and have to stand with all the hundreds of people who couldn’t find a supper box for the orchestra’s final performance.’ She shuddered as if such a thing were, not so much an inconvenience, but entirely unacceptable. ‘Which would make us all a target for P-I-C-K-P-O-C-K-E-T-S.’

  ‘But the best views are at the other end of the gardens, nearest the firework tower.’ Charity pouted. ‘I should like to see them in all their glory without any obstructions.’

  Her mother pointed up to clear night sky. ‘As the only obstructions are clouds and there aren’t any, why suffer the long walk when we only have to come back this way afterwards?’

  ‘Can Dorothy and I at least go? There is so much light here that it spoils the brilliance of the display. It’s less bright at the opposite end.’

  ‘By that she means it’s pitch black at the other end,’ muttered Griffith beside him through gritted teeth. ‘The Dark Walk is a notorious place for trysts and assignations.’

  Which all sounded utterly perfect to Luke’s ears. ‘I would be happy to escort all the young ladies if the rest of you prefer to stay here.’ His gaze flicked to Hope’s briefly in case he had inadvertently announced his intentions to the entire party.

  The younger Mr Philpot glared at him. ‘As would I.’ Although it was patently obvious he would much rather boil his own head than accompany him and was only doing so in case Luke had any designs on his little sister’s virtue.

  ‘Then it’s settled.’ In case it wasn’t, he stood and made sure to solicitously help both Charity and the giggling Miss Philpot to stand before he held out his hand to Hope who had yet to show any inclination to do so. ‘Will you be joining us?’

  ‘If I must.’ Her fingers touched his, awakening every single one of his nerve endings all in one go.

  They set off in one close bundle, all three of the ladies in the middle and the two gentlemen flanking them at either end, but had hardly gone more than a hundred yards when Charity declared that the main route through the arches was too busy to manoeuvre swiftly and decided they should take the quieter Lover’s Walk instead. The name felt significant, and as Charity rushed ahead, dragging Giggling Dorothy and by default Grouchy Griffith as well, he and Hope trailed behind.

  She seemed in no hurry to compete with the others, but if the several feet she put between them was any gauge, she was also in no hurry to be more intimate.

  ‘How is your mother?’

  ‘Surprisingly well, all things considered, and apparently determined to grab life by the horns.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘It is.’

  As there weren’t usually silences between them, this one hung heavy. Almost as if they were both suddenly timid of one another and awkwardly feeling their way on decidedly unchartered ground. Their eyes met, and ridiculously they both instantly looked away and his toes curled inside his boots as he racked his brains for a way to start the conversation he had been desperate to have since at least the last week.

  ‘Thank you for the roses.’

  ‘You are very welcome.’ Apparently his legendary gift of the gab and scintillating Duff charm had deserted him, and Hope now seemed determined not to look his way at all and was staring resolutely at the path ahead as if her life depended on it.

  ‘What did they mean?’

  ‘Nothing...’ Coward! ‘At least, beyond a friendly farewell.’ And now he was mirroring her dismissive words from their last night on the balcony, when he didn’t mean them at all.

  ‘Oh...good.’ She almost smiled, but not quite in relief. ‘It was a thoughtful gesture—even if you did decimate my mother’s prize rosebush to get them.’

  More silence.

  This one so painful it ma
de his teeth ache.

  All his fault too. She had given him the perfect excuse to say all the things he had no idea how to say when she had brought up the stupid flowers, and he had ruined the opportunity with meaningless drivel. And if he didn’t step up soon, then this whole evening was doomed to be a litany of meaningless drivel.

  Annoyed with himself, he stopped dead. ‘This is ridiculous!’

  She had paused too, and was now watching him warily. Behind her, the other three were still too close for comfort. Whatever he said, and whatever her reaction, it was too personal and private to do it in front of an audience. But as he couldn’t put it off any longer, Luke grabbed her hand and tugged her from the dimly lit path into the dark privacy of the trees. It was time to take a leaf out of his mother’s book and grab life by the horns.

  ‘Hope, I...’ He had no earthly idea what to say, knowing only that something needed to be said so that they both knew exactly where they stood. ‘The thing is...’

  I missed you.

  I need you.

  I want you.

  I think... I think I might be in love with you.

  ‘The thing is...’ God she was beautiful stood gazing up at him. And she wasn’t wearing her usual mask, he realised. There was no bravado. No affected disdain. No bold stare. Her eyes were serious. Her focus intent, as if searching for the truth in his, while anxiously waiting for him to find it. They were both wary and expectant. Hopeful and scared.

  Well, at least he was hopeful and perhaps she looked scared. He was past the point of feeling rational.

  In the end, he didn’t wait for the right words to miraculously materialise, because there were no right words to describe what he felt. So he did what his body was telling him to do, what his whole being needed to do at that precise moment, and just kissed her instead. Dragging her into his arms and pouring his heart and soul into it so that she would be in no doubt how hopelessly undone he was.

  How much she had undone him.

  His foolish heart soared when she sighed against his mouth and her body instantly melted against his. Luke needed no further encouragement to deepen the kiss, losing himself completely in the moment. She tasted of the strawberries she had eaten for dessert. Of sweetness and passion. Of comfort and rightness. Of everything he had spent two months dreaming of.

  In case he was going too fast or misinterpreting her signals, he tore his lips away and tried to give them both the chance to come up for air and re-evaluate, but Hope was having none of it. Unceremoniously, she dragged him back, looping her arms tight around his neck to anchor him firmly in place in case he had any foolish ideas about being gentlemanly again.

  Not that being gentlemanly was possible when his body was on fire.

  He had no idea if it had been he who had staggered forward or if she had dragged him further into the trees with her, but somehow her back rested against the wide trunk of an ancient oak and his desire was flush against her belly. She ran impatient fingers through his hair, her questing tongue tangling with his, her full breasts flattened against his chest, rising and falling in time with her erratic breathing.

  Somewhere, disjointed in the distance, were the sounds and smells of fireworks but neither of them could have cared less. He filled his hands with her bottom, traced the shape of her lush curves with his palms, overwhelmed by her perfume. Her beauty. Her passion.

  Just her.

  When his greedy hands finally cupped her breasts over the fabric of her dress, she moaned and arched against them, her own fingers boldly exploring his bare skin beneath his shirt, and he was lost.

  And likely would have blissfully remained so if the impatient sounds of Griffith Philpot searching for them hadn’t dragged them both, with the utmost and belligerent reluctance, crashing back to earth.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  As usual, the fireworks at Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens proved to be very illuminating. For during the lengthy display last night Miss C. from Bloomsbury was seen staring longingly at the heir to the Duke of L., and Mr P., when he thought nobody was looking, stared longingly at Miss C....

  Whispers from Behind the Fan

  July 1814

  To say it felt odd to be having a perfectly normal conversation over their balconies less than two hours after her hands had shamelessly caressed his buttocks was an understatement. It felt odd because it felt normal, and it felt odd that she still thrummed from the after-effects of their thwarted passion. And it most certainly felt odd that she wasn’t the least bit sorry for being so shamelessly wanton, though Hope did wish her stupid, much too cumbersome bosoms would desist feeling quite so...needy. That they did, when she would much rather never think about the wretched things at all, was most distracting.

  ‘It is an amazing book, Hope. Gripping, insightful, filled with suspense and double bluff. You certainly had me fooled to the very end at the true identity of the phantom. I knew Mr Crocker would bite your hand off for it!’ Luke was delighted with her news. ‘Did he give any indication how long it would take for him to get back to you with an answer?’

  ‘Mr Cooper has asked for a meeting at his offices a week Tuesday.’

  His palm slapped his forehead as he grinned. ‘Cooper! Why the blazes do I keep calling him Crocker?’ It was beyond her. ‘But that is fantastic, Hope. He must want it, else he wouldn’t waste your time with a meeting otherwise.’ He eyes were alight with delight for her. ‘You did it, Hope! You are going to see your book in Hatchard’s.’

  And there was the rub. The thing which had been the cause of much hand-wringing since Mr Cooper’s letter arrived via her grandparents in Whitstable this morning. ‘Technically, at this point, it is still H. B. Rooke’s book, not mine, and after last time...’

  ‘How could he possibly reject it? It’s a masterpiece, Hope, and I am not just saying that because I am rather partial to you. I am saying it as a reader of probably thousands of books. Phantasma is one of the best novels I have ever read. I couldn’t put it down and when I did, I raved about it for days. Ask my mother. I drove her mad with my incessant gushing, especially as I flatly refused to allow her to read it even though she begged me to hand your precious pages over and even threatened my person at one point—but I was resolute.’ His dark eyes were suddenly tender. ‘I told her that you had entrusted it to me and that the only way she could get her grasping hands on it was if she had your permission.’

  ‘I am not sure it is suitable for your mother...not after all she has been through.’ Phantasma was dark to its core. ‘I fear it would unsettle her.’

  His bark of laughter was a surprise. ‘She’s had to deal with real monsters, Hope, your fictional one won’t faze her. She’s always adored the macabre, ever since she read that copy of The Monk I liberated from the vicar, she cannot get enough of it.’

  She was horrified. ‘You gave your mother The Monk? What if it had brought upon one of her nervous panics?’

  He shrugged as if he hadn’t even considered it. ‘She loves to read. And she devoured it in a day. We have always swapped books. Besides, I was twelve then and she had enjoyed a long run of good health at that point which lasted for several years.’ His face clouded as he remembered the turning point. ‘To be frank, Hope, I think she was cured by then and likely would have remained so if it hadn’t been for Cassius.’ Then he shook his head impatiently. ‘But enough of that. You are going to be published, Hope! I couldn’t be more proud that my intended is going to be famous!’

  His declaration momentarily threw her. ‘Intended?’

  ‘Well that’s where this is going, isn’t it?’ He feigned some smugness. ‘Now that we are officially courting.’

  She took a few moments to roll that idea around in her mind, waiting for the inevitable pessimistic warnings to urge her to back away from it, and when none came nerves flooded her. Things were moving fast. Too fast. And while they might well be going in the right direction, t
he perfect direction, prudence dictated the need for caution. A little more time to get to know him fully before she jumped in with both feet as he seemed quite content to do. ‘Does it have to be official?’

  He frowned. ‘What does that mean?’

  Unthinking, she fiddled with her fichu. ‘Just that official suggests we are shouting it out from the rooftops, and among our families, that will likely put a lot of expectation and undue pressure on us to rush into things which shouldn’t be rushed into.’

  He folded his arms and stared at her pityingly. ‘Coward.’

  ‘It is not cowardice...’ Although it probably was. Her heart was certainly now racing and not from residual passion. Intended sounded serious—unexpected, exciting and utterly lovely as far as her heart was concerned—but serious enough that her pessimistic head didn’t quite believe it. ‘It is common sense. We barely know one another really and we might...’

  ‘By we might you mean me.’

  ‘I mean nothing of the sort.’ Although she did. Yes, he was charming and noble and seemingly decent to his core and, yes, he didn’t treat her like an object like most men did, but things were all moving too fast. So fast since tonight’s incendiary kiss, she could barely think straight, when she knew a kiss was no measure of a man’s sincerity.

  ‘If you are going to be a coward, Hope, at least be an honest one. I might have only known you a matter of months...’

  ‘Less than two!’ Which was the crux of the problem. Or at least one of the cruxes.

  Those vexing dark eyes rolled skyward. ‘I might have only known you less than two months, but I’ll wager I already know everything about you that it is possible to know—including how your suspicious and pessimistic mind works. You fear that I am too good to be true and that given enough time and opportunity, I will soon prove myself to be as unworthy and shallow as all those drooling hounds who only ever see your breasts instead of you. You suspect that I am putting on a façade of noble decency and pretending our relationship means more to me than it does simply because I want to bed you.’