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  An outright lie. While she was entirely capable of being polite and biting her tongue as far as her father’s business was concerned, if a pithy comment was required, she was still more than happy to be the one to give it. Especially to someone with a lofty title. She abhorred the arrogant sense of superiority men from the aristocracy always had and loathed more that they always assumed any woman not of noble birth was always considered fair game. After the Earl-to-be had shattered all her childish illusions, and in the five years since he had skipped to pastures new without so much as a backwards glance, she had already accumulated enough indecent proposals from similar men of illustrious rank to fill a book and all without any encouragement on her part. Therefore, it was hardly a surprise she was entirely jaded with the breed.

  ‘I can assure you, it will be a cold day in hell before I allow a scoundrel to seduce me. No matter how handsome he is.’

  ‘It will take more than a fine face to tempt our eldest, Roberta, you know that. Unworthy scoundrels aside, how many decent suitors outside of that foppish poet have tried and failed to woo her over the years? She’s ridiculously choosy.’

  Another thing Faith was proud of. Once bitten, twice shy and all that. Not to mention she would rather cut off her painting hand than allow history to ever repeat itself.

  ‘Well, there is that…’ Her mother glanced at her and sighed, although probably more out of frustration at her eldest daughter’s acid tongue than relief she possessed one. ‘I have seen no recent evidence to suggest that cynical attitude towards all gentlemen will ever change.’ Though not for the want of her trying. Roberta Brookes believed in love and marriage. By Faith’s age she had been married for three years and had already given birth to two of her three daughters. She struggled to understand her eldest daughter’s reluctance to entertain anyone, while Faith could hardly explain to her all the exceedingly good reasons why that was.

  Her mother sighed again, clearly in two minds still but on the cusp of backing down. ‘But I suppose, in this instance, I am prepared to acknowledge her unhealthy cynicism, lack of tact and determined forthrightness might come in handy around The Beast.’

  ‘Undoubtedly it will.’ Her father wrapped his arm around his wife and kissed the top of her head. ‘You see, you really are worrying unduly, my darling, and you really shouldn’t when you have quite enough on your plate already with rehearsals.’

  Faith nodded, even though they had had the same circular argument about her involvement in the Writtle commission for over a month now, going toe to toe with her lovable but stubborn mother was never the way to win her around.

  ‘Così fan Tutte has been your dream for so long, Mama… Please don’t spoil it by worrying about me.’ In the Brookes household, great stock was put on dreams and ambition because if both her parents hadn’t dared reach for the stars, they would still be masons and drapers eking out a hard living exactly as their own parents and grandparents had done before them. ‘You need to focus all your energies on giving London the virtuosa performance everyone is holding their breath for. In return, you have my solemn pledge I shall avoid The Beast at all costs and if I cannot avoid him, I shall remain unequivocally so pithy, cynical, tactless and forthright he is left in no doubt how much I heartily disapprove of him. If my head is turned in any direction it will be upwards—so I can better glare at him from down my nose.’ For good measure she decided to demonstrate this, earning her another amused nod from her father.

  ‘Intimidatingly haughty, darling. Well done! The beastly Beast won’t know what’s hit him when he sees that. Doesn’t she look fearsome, Roberta?’

  After a long, withering sigh, her mother finally nodded. ‘Very well. I shall reluctantly capitulate. But only as long as I have your word, Augustus, that Faith is supervised by you at all times while you work on this commission.’ Her narrowed eyes turned to her daughter. ‘And that you, dear girl, desist being your usual headstrong self and let him! I want both of you to make that promise here and now or I shan’t rest.’

  Her father winced as their eyes locked. They both knew keeping to that pledge was going to nigh on impossible. In the two years Faith had been her father’s occasional assistant, they had found their own way of working harmoniously and it was rarely together. No work got achieved otherwise. She liked to talk incessantly or sing to herself while she painted, and he preferred total silence which she abhorred. Therefore, when she assisted with his larger commissions, she created the whimsical and sentimental backgrounds which made a coveted Brookes tableau unique while he, as a complete and often irrational portrait perfectionist, concentrated on honing the pose and the expressions of the people in multiple sketches which he used to paint in the foreground later on in blissful peace. Usually entirely oblivious of the poor sitter who must be bored stiff with all the relentless posing while he captured them just so.

  While their combined efforts always complemented one another perfectly and there was no denying they made the perfect artistic team, rarely, if ever, did they paint in the same room. If they were forced to do so, it would only be a matter of time before one of them murdered the other.

  ‘You have my word I shall keep her close by.’ He winced again over his wife’s head as he said it, looking decidedly ill at ease to be stretching the truth. He already had a rigorous schedule of sittings booked with each member of the Writtle clan—and those were just his preliminary sketches. There would be more. There were always more. Obsessive preparation was part of her father’s process, whereas Faith liked to paint as the muse took her.

  Conscious she was staring straight at her, Faith offered her mother her best approximation of a reassuring smile. ‘And I promise that I shall never be more than a few yards away from Papa while The Beast is in the residence.’ As long as twenty or thirty yards separated by a solid brick wall still constituted a few.

  * * *

  As soon as their carriage pulled up outside the Earl of Writtle’s impressive Grosvenor Square town house, a waiting footman opened the door and Faith practically tumbled out of it in her haste to escape in case the begrudging permission she had just been gifted was swiftly rescinded. If her father’s haste to join her was any indication, he too feared the distinct possibility of either an immediate retraction or a thorough interrogation which would ultimately expose the truth. Together they pasted twin smiles on their faces as they waved off the carriage and simultaneously breathed a sigh of relief as it disappeared out of sight.

  ‘I hate lying to her.’

  ‘Technically, you didn’t lie, Papa. I will always be close by.’

  ‘And technically, any justification which starts with the word technically is fundamentally problematic and would be unlikely to stand up in court. A lie by omission is still a lie as far as a marriage is concerned. One day, I pray you will keep your tart mouth closed long enough to fool an upstanding and unsuspecting man into marrying you before he learns you are a complete harridan who is best avoided—and then you will understand the turmoil.’

  ‘I rather like being a harridan.’ It was the constant weapon in her arsenal which could be relied upon to thwart the unwanted advances of any man who thought a girl not from the illustrious ranks of the aristocracy fair game. ‘Unless, of course, dear Mama is right and the handsome D-E-V-I-L in there miraculously turns my head and makes me forget to be one.’

  ‘I think that is as likely as me managing to supervise you at all times. Not even the Almighty Himself is capable of such a momentous miracle if you are suitably riled.’ He slanted her a warning glance. ‘That said, please don’t go in there spoiling for a fight, Faith. Lord Beastly aside, this family really are good people and I would be mortified if you offended them. Remember, we are here in a professional capacity and as such, I expect you to comport yourself in a professional manner at all times irrespective of your private feelings. Even when riled.’

  She frowned, a little offended. When it came to her work, she w
as always professional. That veneer had only ever slipped once and in her defence only because the randy old sitter had made inappropriate physical advances while she had been preoccupied with mixing some paint. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, Papa, that is an entirely unnecessary and unwarranted reminder. Of course, I will be the epitome of good manners and professionalism. Exactly as I always am. Even around The Beast himself.’

  After a beat of silence, her father’s expression softened. ‘It was an unnecessary reminder and I apologise. Forgive me, Faith. I am afraid after being married for a quarter of a century, your mother’s voice is in my head and…’ He huffed out a put-upon grunt. ‘Well…there’s been so many dreadful stories about Lord Eastwood in the papers, who could blame you for having strong opinions regarding him? Especially as I have a fair few of them myself and he has done little when I have encountered him to allay those fears. I suspect, for the next three months, we shall both have to bite our tongues whenever we come into contact with him.’

  As the footmen relieved them of their burdens, keen to dismiss the small tiff before they stepped into the fray, she took her father’s arm and dropped her voice to a whisper as they followed the men up the pristine marble steps.

  ‘Talking of Lord Beastly, do you think he will be gracing us with his presence today?’ After everything she had heard about him, she couldn’t help but be intrigued. ‘I confess, I cannot wait to see if this particular devil actually does have horns.’

  ‘None that I saw, but perhaps he files them down?’

  ‘I suppose we’ll have to check inside his boots for cloven hooves to be thoroughly sure.’

  Their wholly inappropriate mumbled discussion came to abrupt end when a smart butler met them in the hallway and briskly took their coats before escorting them to the drawing room. There they were promptly welcomed by the smiling Earl of Writtle, his grinning Countess, their two beaming adult daughters each beside their two genial husbands and two equally charming, cheerful grandchildren who giggled up at them from an explosion of toys on the Persian carpet. All in all, a perfectly lovely display of honest-to-goodness friendliness.

  The only other person in the room, a tall man, stood detached from the rest of the family beside the fireplace, with jet-black hair and the greenest eyes Faith had ever seen, wearing a scowl which would curdle even the freshest milk. The scowl aside, there was no doubting her mother’s initial assessment was correct.

  The beastly Lord Eastwood was a handsome devil—if devils were your type.

  Fortunately, they were no longer hers. Either equipped fully with or without horns. Unfortunately, some devil inside her apparently scrambled her wits and took control of her tongue the moment his big hand politely shook hers, making her completely forget her resolve to be polite and professional at all times. As soon as the strange heat from his fingers seared through her gloves and set her nerve endings bouncing uncontrollably, she managed to unintentionally say exactly what she was thinking.

  ‘Lord Eastwood—I’ve read so much about you. I do hope, for your sake at least, some of it is untrue.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Because he kept finding his gaze wandering to her, Piers ruthlessly focused his eyes on his teacup as the conversation wafted around him. He had known agreeing to this was a bad idea months ago, when the very last thing he wanted was a whimsical painting of himself standing all alone in a giant portrait when the rest of his family all came in pairs.

  Yet his mother had persisted and being a dutiful son he had agreed, assuming the ordeal couldn’t possibly make him feel any worse about his current situation than he did—but, oh, how wrong he had been! Thanks to the vexing Miss Faith Brookes, he wanted to go and hide in his study, and preferably stay there until his mother’s long-awaited masterpiece was complete.

  Every time she glanced his way, which she did with alarming frequency, her delightfully arranged features altered. For everyone else she smiled, but while the smile was still loosely nailed in place for him, there was a look about her eyes which reminded him of the expression people got when they caught a whiff of something noxious, but were at pains to pretend they hadn’t in case the noxiousness emanated from their host.

  ‘And what is your idea of a perfect day, Lord Writtle?’ To get a better idea for the background setting of the ridiculously enormous picture his mother had commissioned at eye-watering expense, the cause of his current bad mood was delving into their souls to ensure the tone of the composition accurately reflected the family.

  A preposterous load of old nonsense as far as he was concerned, but typically melodramatic and arty, as creatives types were prone to be. After thoroughly quizzing his mother on everything from her favourite colour, to her preferred ways to spend her time, to her persistent obsession with family picnics during the summer months irrespective of the weather, the tousled-haired Miss Brookes was now chatting cosily with his father. And looking thoroughly at home and entirely comfortable in her own skin while she did.

  He envied her that.

  Once upon a time he had felt entirely comfortable in his, but those days were long gone. Truth be told, he’d happily trade in his old skin now for a new one which completely camouflaged him. Something bland and unassuming which failed to turn heads and elicit fevered whispers behind hands or fans—but always behind his back. He no longer wanted to stand out like the vivacious Miss Brookes. In a perfect world, he would blend in seamlessly with the wallpaper.

  Although looking at her now, he was certain he had never stood out quite as much as she. Yes, he was tall and dark and had been considered exceedingly eligible in his day, but she had a uniqueness about her which drew the eye and left everyone else feeling a little more uninspiring and insipid in comparison.

  It was probably all down to the hair, he decided.

  The unusual shade hovered midway between gold and copper and clearly the curls which were piled loosely on her head were formed naturally. They were too haphazard, too riotous and too invitingly tactile to have come from any man-made curling iron. Ironed curls behaved. Hers looked sinfully wayward.

  ‘Obviously I also enjoy music, Miss Brookes.’ His father was smiling at her, utterly charmed as she scribbled copious notes into a book. ‘Especially when it comes from your talented mother.’

  ‘You are too kind, my lord. I shall be sure to pass your compliment along to her later.’ His mother had mentioned that hers was some sort of singer, which probably explained why the daughter was quite so theatrical. The arts were in her blood, whereas the only thing in his blood was very likely only blood. ‘Do you play an instrument, Lord Writtle?’

  ‘Sadly no—I wish I had learned, I certainly wanted to—but my wife and daughters are all accomplished on the pianoforte, so I take great pleasure in that.’

  ‘What prevented you from learning?’

  Notes forgotten, she sat forward, giving Piers an unhindered view of her profile and the smattering of freckles that dusted her dainty, slightly upturned nose which she had made no attempt to disguise, no doubt as some sort of statement about her intention to march to the beat of her own drum. She was that sort of woman, exactly the sort which, unfortunately, had always appealed to him.

  Heaven help him.

  So much for being once bitten, twice shy. It didn’t matter that he had been bitten so badly, huge gaping chunks of himself were now missing and would likely never grow back, his idiotic hand still tingled from where it had shaken hers over an hour ago, and no amount of fisting the thing behind his back was doing anything to make the damn appendage forget.

  ‘I was the heir. My father insisted I had to learn more important things that he considered appropriate for my future as the Earl—accountancy, stocks and bonds, estate management…’

  ‘Dull things then.’ She beamed and Piers found himself strangely jealous of his father. She certainly hadn’t beamed at him—even when they had first been introduced and some feigne
d beaming was expected.

  To give her some credit, she hadn’t baulked either or looked horrified as so many had since his divorce, before they scurried away as if such a scandalous catastrophe were contagious. Instead she had stared him boldly in the eye as she had shaken his hand. And while he reeled as his nerve endings bounced all over the shop at the brief contact, she had been assessing him unsubtly like a specimen in a jar before she rendered him speechless with her forthrightness.

  I’ve read so much about you. I do hope, for your sake at least, some of it is untrue.

  A comment which, though at least honest, had completely knocked the wind out of his sails. Or at least that was what he wanted to convince himself had left him stuttering something which he was fairly certain wasn’t even a recognised word in the English language, before his mother had stepped in and rescued him by assuring the forthright Miss Brookes emphatically that the newspapers had told nothing but grievous lies.

  If he’d had his wits about him, he would have had to contradict his mother in the spirit of mutual honesty because, of his many unfortunate character traits, he was always predictably honest first and foremost.

  The press hadn’t told a complete pack of lies.

  They had twisted several uncomfortable truths, omitted several pertinent facts and failed to acknowledge, even slightly, that there were always two sides to every story. In this case, the other side of the story had been safely ensconced in Lisbon with her lover, eagerly awaiting the birth of their first child, happily ignorant of the complete implosion of Piers’s life while he had moved heaven and earth to set her free. Not that he had expected his former wife to give him a passing thought then. Why would she when he had barely registered in her thoughts when they had lived under the same roof?

  ‘Yes, Miss Brookes! Very dull things indeed—but eminently useful as it turned out else we’d all be living on the streets. What my spendthrift father passed down wouldn’t have lasted, I can tell you!’ And now she had his father bragging to impress her, when the Writtle men never bragged as a point of principle. ‘It was my canny talent at speculation which rebuilt the family’s fortunes.’