London Ladies (The Complete Series)

by Eaton, Jillian

  Mary and Mrs. Hartley quickly sprang to their feet.

  “What a brilliant and thoughtful idea,” said Mrs. Hartley.

  Harper’s eyes narrowed. Just what, she wanted to know, was so thoughtful about taking a walk in the garden? People did it every single day. Why, she’d done it herself early this morning when the sun was still rising and the rose petals were glistening with dew. No one had called her brilliant or thoughtful. Was it naturally assumed that because he was a duke, everything Doyle said and every idea he had was somehow automatically important and ingenious? If so, then it was of little surprise where his arrogance came from. Had Harper spent her whole life being told how wonderful she was then no doubt she, too, would have grown up to be a conceited ass.

  “Lady Harper?” Doyle said, looking once more in her direction. Taking his attentions a step further this time, he walked up to her chair and extended his forearm. He wore a steel gray waistcoat over his white linen shirt, both perfectly tailored to fit his tall, rugged frame. When he stretched his hand out the cuff of his shirt pulled back, revealing a few inches of tanned wrist sprinkled with dusky blond hair. “Do you care to join us?”

  Gazing up into his tawny eyes, Harper felt her heart give an extra thump thump inside her chest and her palms grew moist with sweat inside of the kid gloves she’d forgotten to take off. “I…”

  “Come on,” Mary said, a hint of impatience souring her tone. “You know how you love roses.”

  Harper knew nothing of the sort, but she did know if she openly refused Doyle’s offer Mrs. Hartley would make sure her mother heard of it, and then Harper wouldn’t hear the end of it for many days to come. “Oh, very well,” she said churlishly before she surrendered her hand and allowed Doyle to pull her to her feet. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

  “I am relieved to see you are every bit as charming as I remembered,” Doyle said with a sly wink that instantly caused Harper to bristle. But before she could form a retort, Mrs. Hartley turned at the doorway and lifted both brows.

  “I must say, Your Grace, that your estate is positively exquisite.”

  “Exquisite,” Mary echoed.

  “I admit, I have never seen the like.”

  “Never seen the like.”

  Harper looked at her friend with annoyance. When she was away from her mother, Mary was the very picture of competency. Within her presence, however, she transformed into little more than a mockingbird, dutifully repeating everything Mrs. Hartley said. For his part, Doyle did not even seem to mind. Or perhaps he was simply so used to women delivering him random compliments he didn’t even notice.

  Once again, Harper did not know why it should bother her so much that Mrs. Hartley and Mary were so clearly enthralled with the duke. Nor did she know why she was acting like a waspish shrew. What she did know was that as soon as they were done strolling about the gardens she was going home, no matter if she had to get there on her own merit or not!

  Doyle was rather pleased to note he now knew two things about the green-eyed, sharp-tongued beauty he hadn’t been able to get out of his head since he first spied her circling round and round the ballroom all those weeks ago.

  The first was her name: Lady Harper. It was a lovely name, albeit slightly out of fashion. But because it was so, he knew precisely who she was. Lady Harper Radnor, younger sister of Lord Miles Radnor, Earl of Winfield. He and Miles were two years apart in age and had even spent some time at Eton together before Radnor left to go dashing about the continent, something Doyle had never had the luxury of doing. Being a duke certainly had its advantages, but freedom wasn’t one of them. He wore responsibility like a yoke around his neck, one that grew heavier and heavier with every year that passed without a wife or heir. At nine and twenty he still considered himself far too young to marry, but he knew the ton thought otherwise, at least if the daughters that had all but been thrown in his lap every time he attended a social function were any indication.

  Were he to die - not a pleasing idea to consider, but not one that was completely without merit given the sudden and untimely death of his parents - without an heir, his title and all of the wealth and properties that accompanied it would pass to his profligate cousin Lord Carlisle, a baron whose high political aspirations were outmatched only by his gambling debt.

  With that in mind, Doyle had casually begun searching for a wife last season. He’d even sent the gossip columns into a tizzy by calling on a few, but he had inevitably left their homes with nothing more than a vague headache brought on by their shrill voices and endless chatter. Being in love with the woman he asked to marry him was not a prerequisite, but he at least wanted to be able to remain in the same room with her for than half an hour without wishing for a brandy. Which was why coming across Lady Harper at the Farcott Ball was like feeling a fresh, cooling breeze on his face after standing for countless hours in the hot, sweltering sun.

  For one thing, she hadn’t known who he was. For another, he doubted she would have changed her demeanor even if she had. Her candor had been refreshing, her obvious disdain for him amusing, and her beauty absolutely captivating which was why, after only five minutes after meeting her - and being given the brush off not once, but twice - he’d asked her to marry him.

  For as long as Doyle could remember, women had loved him. They’d fawned over him. They’d adored him. And most - if not all - would have gladly jumped through fire at the opportunity to be his wife.

  But not Harper.

  Little spitfire that she was she’d all but laughed in his face. Which of course had only made him all the more determined to have her. And now here she was, wrapped up like a pretty present and delivered right to his doorstep.

  A pretty present with sharp teeth and even sharper claws.

  “What is your favorite color rose?” he asked her as they exited the manor through a matching set of glass doors and began to slowly stroll through Longmeadow’s elaborate gardens.

  Taking up more than three acres of land, the gardens wrapped around two full sides of the house and extended all the way back to the far tree line. There were wooden arches dripping with purple wisteria freshly bloomed, stone walkways inlaid with brick, benches framed by potted ferns, and even a trickling stream that, rumor had it, had been hand dug by the second Duke of Greenwood at the request of his wife.

  Revealing the toes of her practical brown leather walking shoes as she lifted her skirt a few scant inches to keep the hem out of the dirt, Harper said, “Yellow. My favorite color rose is yellow.”

  Doyle grinned. “It seems you have selected the one color we do not have.”

  “I know.” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Mary and Mrs. Hartley had both donned their hats before coming outside, but Harper had either forgotten hers or chosen not to wear it. In the early afternoon sunlight her hair gleamed like a mink pelt, rich in texture and soft to the touch. Or so Doyle was left to assume it was soft as he had little doubt Harper would slap his hand away if he dared to trail his fingers through the silky tendrils.

  Which of course meant he was giving it some serious consideration.

  “Tell me,” he drawled, taking secret pleasure in the way her eyes lit up as though she were anticipating a battle, “do you make it a habit of being perverse?”

  “Do you make it a habit of being overbearing and pompous?” she countered, her sugary tone at odds with her harsh words. Doyle’s grin expanded. Was it any wonder he’d known almost the moment he met her that she was destined to be the woman he married?

  Some men - no doubt most men - wanted a sweet, docile wife. One who would obey their every command without question and never argue. Or, at the very least, one with wealthy parents and a generous dowry. But given that he already had a foxhound who never disagreed with him and enough wealth to last seven lifetimes, Doyle was in search of something else.

  He wanted a woman who looked at him and saw more than just his title. A woman who challenged him. A woman who knew her own mind and wasn’t afr
aid to be herself.

  A woman he’d begun to fear did not exist…

  Until Harper, with all her snide remarks and moody scowls, waltzed into his life.

  No, not waltzed, Doyle thought silently as the corners of his eyes crinkled with hidden amusement. More like stomped. Yes. Stomped is the perfect word for it.

  “That depends,” he said, gesturing for her to duck as they passed beneath a low hanging branch of wisteria. Ahead of them Mary and her mother marched arm in arm, their heads bent close together as they chattered away like two magpies.

  Straightening back up on the other side of the wisteria, Harper regarded him suspiciously beneath dark winged eyebrows. “On what?” she asked.

  “On whose company I am currently keeping.”

  “And here I was under the impression you were pompous and overbearing all the time.”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Truth be told, people often find me quite charming.”

  “Are these people…your servants?” she ventured.

  Doyle chuckled. He couldn’t help himself. “I may very well be pompous and overbearing but you, my dear, are audaciously cheeky.

  She frowned at him. “I am not ‘your dear’.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Not ever,” she corrected.

  Patting the arm she’d reluctantly tucked beneath his when they’d begun their stroll, Doyle merely smiled and said, “We shall see, Lady Harper. We shall see.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  For three days straight Harper dwelled on Doyle’s cryptic words.

  We shall see, Lady Harper…We shall see.

  They’d left soon after their tour of the gardens - one of the crumpets, it seemed, had not settled well in Mary’s stomach - and since then Harper had neither seen nor heard from the duke, although that hadn’t stopped her from thinking about him far more than she should have.

  Unfortunately, her preoccupation with Doyle was not going unnoticed.

  “That is the fourth trick you’ve missed since we started playing,” Dianna said with a disappointed sigh as she set her cards face down on the table. With bright blue eyes, blonde curls, and a perfect English rose complexion, Dianna was considered a Great Beauty amidst the ton, although she’d ever cared for such things. The only thing Dianna had ever cared about was Miles, and now that they were finally together Harper had never seen happier. “I thought you said you were quite good at whist.”

  “I am,” Harper said defensively, even though she knew she’d been playing wretchedly. She wanted to say it wasn’t her fault, but that would mean admitting why she was so distracted, and she couldn’t bring herself to tell her sister-in-law about Doyle. At least not yet.

  “Not bloody likely.” Charlotte Graystone (Dianna’s dearest - and most outspoken - friend) sat back in her chair and ran a hand through her tousled mess of vibrant red curls. With her husband away on business in Scotland, Charlotte was staying at Winfield for the rest of the month and had taken up residence in the bedroom adjacent to Harper’s.

  After living the past four years alone with only her mother and the servants for company, getting used to sharing a house - even one the size of Winfield - with four other adults (and one infant courtesy of Charlotte’s newborn daughter) was quite an adjustment, but with every day that passed Harper was growing more and more accustomed to having a full house instead of an empty one.

  “Charlotte, there are young ladies present,” Dianna scolded gently. “Please watch your language.”

  “Who?” Charlotte demanded.

  Harper bit back a smile. She loved Dianna - and truly could have not asked for a better sister-in-law - but Charlotte’s blunt way of speaking was refreshingly candid. One never knew what she was going to say next, a trait which Harper openly admired and was doing her very best to emulate. She’d never understood women who said one thing but felt another. Why bother wasting your breath on something that wasn’t the truth? Life was far too short to spend time thinking about the socially correct way to voice one’s opinion.

  “I believe she is referring to Harper and I,” Edna chimed in from the other side of the sofa table. “Are we done playing? I do hope so, for I haven’t a very good hand.”

  “Well if we weren’t done before we certainly are now,” Charlotte grumbled with a sideways glare at her partner. “Would anyone care for some lemonade? I need to stretch my legs.”

  “You should be resting,” Dianna said before she stood up. “I will ask a maid to fetch us some refreshments. Does anyone have any specific requests?”

  “I would like to request that you stop acting as though I’ve only just survived a near death experience,” Charlotte said. “I’ve had a baby, not an aneurysm.”

  “What is an aneurysm?” Edna asked curiously.

  “Apparently something worse than having a baby,” said Harper, earning a grin and a wink from Charlotte.

  “See?” she said triumphantly. “Harper understands, don’t you Harper?”

  “Well…” Noting Dianna was beginning to get a bit pink the cheeks, Harper decided that perhaps there were times when one needed to avoid saying exactly what they were thinking. Especially if what they were thinking had the potential to upset a pregnant woman their brother held in exceptionally high regard. “Perhaps you really should rest a bit more.”

  “Coward,” Charlotte muttered under her breath as she slumped in her chair.

  “I will be back in a moment.” Sauntering gracefully out of the drawing room, Dianna paused at the door and looked back over her shoulder. “And do not call my favorite niece names,” she told Charlotte.

  The redhead snorted. “First of all, she is your only niece. And second of all-”

  “I cannot hear you!” Dianna said breezily as she ducked out the door and vanished from sight.

  “Well.” Lifting her legs, Charlotte propped the heels of her soft leather slippers on the edge of the sofa table and fixed Harper with a knowing stare that suddenly made all of the hairs on the nape of her neck stand on edge. “Now that she’s gone, you can tell me all about your visit with the Duke of Greenwood.”

  “I…” Having opened her mouth anticipating saying one thing, Harper snapped it closed again with an audible click. “I am afraid I do not know what you are talking about.”

  “Oh, posh.” Charlotte waved a hand in the air. Her wedding ring, a simple gold band given to her by one of the wealthiest entrepreneurs in all of England, reflected off a beam of sunlight spilling in through an open window, sending prisms of light dancing across the far wall. “That one” - she pointed straight at Edna - “told me all about it, so no use denying anything.”

  “Edna!” Harper cried, looking at her friend in disbelief. “How could you?”

  At least having the good grace to look somewhat ashamed, Edna dropped her gaze to her lap. “I did not mean to. Charlotte made me.”

  “I did make her,” Charlotte agreed. “And little Edna even put up a good fight…for about three seconds.” She rolled her eyes. “If you want to keep secrets, Harper, best find friends who do not buckle so easily under a bit of pressure.”

  “I am sorry, Harper,” Edna said miserably. “I didn’t know it was supposed to be a secret.”

  “It is not your fault,” Harper assured her. “And I wasn’t trying to keep it a secret, per se,” she said with a hard glance at Charlotte.

  “Really? Then Miles and your mother know where you were three days ago?” At Harper’s blush, Charlotte grinned and inclined her chin ever-so-slightly. “I thought not. So give up the goods, sweetling. I have never met the Duke of Greenwood myself, but they say he’s handsome as the devil.”

  “Oh he is,” Edna breathed as her eyes, the same dark shade as the chocolate she liked to sneak when she thought no one was watching, widened to the size of two farthings. “I saw him at the Farcott Ball. He looks like a prince and Mary said Longmeadow Park is like a castle. There were even three swans!”

  “Four,” Harper corrected automatically. “
There were four swans, and Doyle does not look like a prince.”

  “Doyle, is it?” Charlotte said, the sudden gleam in her eye letting Harper know she’d made a grave error in using the duke’s christian name, something she shouldn’t have done even though that was how she thought of him. Not as the Duke of Greenwood or Your Grace or even Flynn, but Doyle, the man she’d sparred with and who had swept her - quite literally, albeit unwillingly - off her feet.

  Inwardly cursing the blush that had now overtaken her entire face, Harper jumped out of her chair with so much force it went crashing to the ground. “I do not wish to discuss this topic any further,” she said curtly as she picked the chair up and pushed it against the sofa table.

  “Which is why it is such a delightful topic to discuss. Sweetling, do not leave,” Charlotte called after her as she spun on her heel and walked swiftly out of the drawing room, the hem of her pale yellow day dress billowing in her wake. “I was only teasing! Well,” she said with a short huff of breath as Harper quit the room and disappeared from view. “How do you like that?”

  Biting her lip uncertainly, Edna hovered halfway out of her chair. “Do you think I should go after her?”

  “No, dear, I believe she would do well with a bit of alone time.”

  “Are you sure? She seemed quite irate.”

  “I imagine she is. Do sit down,” Charlotte said, rolling her eyes yet again when Edna continued to waver between sitting and standing. “You are beginning to perspire. Harper will be fine. She merely needs a bit of space to sort out her feelings.”

  “What feelings?” Dianna asked as she returned with a pitcher of lemonade in one hand and a white porcelain plate piled high with blueberry scones in the other. Setting both down on the table, she sat beside Charlotte and frowned at Harper’s vacant chair. “Who are you talking about? And where did Harper go?”

  “She left,” Charlotte said.

  “Left? What do you mean she left?”

  “She needed some alone time,” Edna said solemnly.