Harlequin Historical February 2021--Box Set 1 of 2

by Virginia Heath

  ‘Because that is what people do, Henry, never mind that it looks like rain.’

  ‘Well, I’d much rather walk!’ Before anyone could argue, his father was up and out of the door like a shot. ‘Come along, the pair of you!’ He glanced skywards and rolled his eyes at the distinct lack of storm clouds. ‘I dare say we can manage the hundred yards before the heavens open.’ A depressing fact which couldn’t be argued with when he would much prefer an hour stuck in the carriage to an extra hour of hideousness at the Renshaws’ blasted ball.

  Piers trailed behind his parents, wondering how soon he could leave without appearing impolite or offending his parents’ oldest friends. He was too pessimistic to hope for an hour of pure torture, knowing he’d be lucky if he could escape within two. Unless Napoleon did something and he was called away. As he silently prayed for the arrival of such an urgent missive, they arrived outside the Renshaws’ just as another of the waiting carriages lurched forward and its passengers spilled on to the pavement, making his misery complete.

  Because the first person out of the shiny black conveyance was none other than Augustus Brookes.

  ‘Good evening!’ His parents rushed forward as a handsome woman of around his mother’s age stepped out, sporting an impressive headdress of dyed turquoise ostrich feathers.

  ‘Lord and Lady Writtle! What a lovely surprise. I haven’t seen you in ages.’

  ‘Christmas and New Year was hectic, so we have not been out much—but we are looking forward to seeing your performance next week.’ His father kissed her gloved hand just as a taller, younger woman with vivid red hair alighted from the carriage, followed by a slightly shorter blonde.

  ‘Of course, you must have already met my daughters.’ Mrs Brookes beamed with pride as she gestured to the young ladies.

  Both daughters were clearly beauties in their own right—but nowhere in their sister’s league. Vigorous hands were shaken and inane pleasantries swapped while he watched unnoticed from the periphery, unaware he was holding his breath in anticipation, until one perfectly turned silk-clad ankle emerged tipped with a scarlet slipper and it all came out in a whoosh.

  She noticed his mother and father first.

  ‘Good evening, my lord, my lady!’ Her evening cape was black, but with a typical flamboyant Miss Brookes flourish, the lining of the hood was also scarlet, as were the ribbons woven into her loose curls. ‘How ironic to see you when only moments ago Father and I were apprising my sisters of our plans for your portrait.’ Then she turned, those not quite blue, not quite violet eyes searching for him before smiling. ‘And I see you managed to persuade Lord Eastwood to come too.’ Her gloved hand briefly grasped his as she curtsied and sent a waft of something exotic and seductive up his nostrils. ‘I most certainly did not expect to see you here, my lord. I thought you loathed parties?’

  ‘I do.’ He slanted an accusing glance at his mother and rolled his eyes, enjoying the way Miss Brookes smiled in understanding. ‘Yet here I am.’

  ‘Lord Eastwood?’

  ‘Oh, yes! You haven’t yet met our son, have you, Mrs Brookes? Although that’s hardly a surprise when I usually have to drag him kicking and screaming to any social function.’ Perhaps it was his imagination, but Mrs Brookes now suddenly appeared to have sucked a tart lemon and was struggling to smile on the back of it. ‘Piers, darling, this is Mrs Roberta Brookes the famous soprano—and Augustus’s lovely wife.’

  ‘How do you do.’ He hadn’t imagined it. The singer offered him her limpest handshake and her coldest stare before looking hopefully elsewhere. If his mother noticed her obvious lack of enthusiasm at the introduction, she did not show it.

  ‘And these lovely ladies are Miss Hope Brookes and Miss Charity Brookes—Miss Faith’s younger sisters.’ Charity eyed him with barely disguised interest as she curtsied, Hope with outright suspicion.

  ‘Ladies.’ Piers had barely straightened from his polite bow when the mother began to herd her daughters like a sheepdog. ‘Well, it has been lovely to meet you, Lord Eastwood—but we must relieve ourselves of these heavy capes and the girls are eager to collect their dance cards. You know how it is.’

  Augustus smiled, his pained eyes the only clue he was alarmed by his wife’s haste to be rid of them, while the eldest Miss Brookes appeared thoroughly appalled but tried to cover it with conversation. ‘What convinced you to attend this torturous ball, my lord?’

  ‘My mother has a life-long friendship with the Renshaws which she used mercilessly to make me feel guilty about…’

  ‘Come along, Faith! Stop dallying.’ Mrs Brookes pulled her by the arm before he had finished his sentence, her apologetic smile as chilly as her frozen glare. ‘Kindly excuse us, Lord Eastwood, but we have friends awaiting us inside and we are already much later than we originally assured them we would be.’

  Miss Brookes shot him a mortified glance of apology before she was practically dragged up the front steps. Then it was his mother’s turn to paste on a false smile. ‘Mrs Brookes was…um…clearly…’

  ‘She was downright rude, Mother, the very second she met me.’

  ‘I was going to say she was clearly eager to attend the ball. If she was anything, she was a tad brusque rather than rude, which hardly comes as a great surprise in view of the huge queue of carriages.’ She flapped a hand behind. ‘Five people crammed in a coach for an hour would try anyone’s patience and a prolonged conversation out here when it is about to rain isn’t ideal when dressed in one’s finery.’

  ‘You don’t need to make excuses for her. I dare say she is merely the first of a long line of people who are about to do much the same.’ And Piers would have to suitably steel himself for all of them. ‘Society’s opinions aren’t going to change overnight. Their acceptance of me isn’t going to come easily and their forgiveness might never be forthcoming. Please, for the love of God let us not pretend otherwise or this evening is destined to be more unbearable than it needs to be. I am braced for the censure.’ Because frankly, he couldn’t ride in Hyde Park without witnessing it everywhere. ‘And expect to be avoided like the plague—but for the sake of the Renshaws and for you, I shall make the best of it.’

  She opened her mouth to argue, then promptly closed it again when his father squeezed her arm. ‘Piers is right, darling. His first proper foray back into society is unlikely to be pleasant, so we shall all make the best of it. But most importantly, we will show them all a resolute, proud and united front which shouts to everyone we have nothing to feel ashamed about.’

  Although still Piers did and likely always would. How could he not when he bore at least half of the blame?

  They joined the long line of people waiting to be relieved of their coats, ignoring the stares and the whispers around them by pretending to be engrossed in their own conversation, until Lord Renshaw himself broke away from his own receiving line to join them. That single action of unfailing support and friendship made Piers glad he had come, even though he was already racking his brains for a suitable excuse to leave just as soon as he was politely able.

  As the old friends caught up and swapped stories about their respective grandchildren, his gaze wandered to the front of the line at the same moment as Miss Brookes unclipped her evening cape, and the sight of her stunning scarlet evening gown left him breathless all over again.

  Good lord she was something! If you appreciated the unconventional, which of course he still apparently did despite working hard to suppress that unfortunate and self-destructive character trait.

  The cut of the heavy velvet gown was simple, but that simplicity in a ballroom full of the fashionably fussy made her unique. The bold, passionate red was a stark and alluring contrast against her pale alabaster skin and copper-toned hair. The way she held herself, so typically confident, made her stand out even more. She wore no jewellery, which meant nothing obstructed the splendid view of her graceful neck and shoulders, while the dari
ng scooped neckline showed enough of her curves to make his mouth water and covered enough to be decent. Then of course, there was the hair. An inviting confection of loose copper curls which shimmered beneath the chandeliers, the only adornments a few scarlet ribbons to apparently hold the style in place and one single fat hothouse red rose secured just above her right ear. A touch, he knew, that the artist would have insisted upon herself. The delectable Miss Faith Brookes had a style all of her own.

  Wishing she did not appeal to him with quite the force which she did, Piers surreptitiously looked his fill before a swarm of eager gentlemen crowded around her asking for her dance card. But while she smiled politely as she scribbled down the names, he couldn’t help but notice she didn’t beam. Or at least she didn’t until an unfamiliar golden Adonis with a profusion of fussy lace at his collar and cuffs suddenly strode across the ballroom towards her, the clambering beaus instantly parting like the Red Sea to let him through before he took her hand and possessively wrapped it around his arm before leading her away.

  While they disappeared into the crush, he bent to whisper something into her ear and she laughed, clearly delighted by whatever charming on dit the perfect, dandified specimen of manhood had uttered. Piers had no idea who the flamboyant fellow was, nor did he particularly care what it was he had said, but he knew one thing without a doubt.

  He had never irrationally hated a stranger more.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘I knew I would find you hiding somewhere.’

  He turned, surprised, then straightened, stepping a little away from the remote pillar he had been leaning upon for at least the last half an hour while he watched the dancers from afar. ‘And there I was thinking I had hidden myself well.’

  ‘No mean feat in a room this crowded.’

  But Faith had seen him.

  It had been difficult not to when she seemed constantly aware of him no matter where she happened to be in the ballroom. Even during the first waltz, while her talkative partner had rattled on and on, she sensed him and found her gaze actively seeking him out. Not that he was hard to find. With his height, unusual, hypnotic eyes and quietly brooding presence, he was far and away the handsomest man in the room.

  Not that that was why she had been searching for him. She was on a different mission, or so she was frantically trying to convince herself—a mercy mission. One which had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the way she was drawn to the intriguing conundrum that was Lord Eastwood like a veritable moth to a flame which had pulled her to this alcove. ‘I am impressed that you managed it.’ But not surprised. Exactly as his mother had stated upon their first meeting, her son undeniably preferred to disappear in a crowd. And disappear he had, almost as soon as they arrived.

  He shrugged and suppressed a smile. ‘Hardly a feat at all for a lofty armchair strategist like myself, when even the common-garden variety would be able to clearly discern that this particular spot is the furthest possible distance from the dance floor and thus the least likely to be populated.’ Then he glanced pointedly at the card dangling from her wrist. ‘Speaking of which, why aren’t you dancing still, or are you in hiding yourself? Perhaps from one of your battalion of overeager young bucks, in case the besotted fool proposes to you for the thirty-seventh time in as many minutes?’

  ‘And what is that supposed to mean?’ Bizarrely, a rogue part of her hoped he was jealous, which came as a bit of a surprise when she still couldn’t quite get over the fact that she liked him in the first place. For a scandalous, callous almost-earl, he had a few too many redeeming qualities for comfort.

  ‘I saw them all clambering around you when you arrived. It reminded me of the feeding frenzy at the Menagerie.’

  ‘What can I say, Lord Eastwood?’ She flapped her fan coquettishly for effect. ‘I cannot help being popular.’

  She resisted the urge to add that she did nothing to encourage them and certainly wasn’t interested in any of them either. Instead, Faith gestured to the bank of ladies nearest to them, all holding themselves in the doubtless well-rehearsed pose to show off their figures and faces to the best advantage. ‘But why aren’t you dancing, my lord, when tonight there is a positive glut of eager ladies in dire need of a partner?’

  ‘While there may well be a glut, Miss Brookes, I doubt their need is dire enough to consider dancing with London’s most infamous social pariah.’ His expression was suddenly ironic—amused even—but was it her imagination or had the light in his eyes dimmed? ‘The poor things would doubtless run screaming from the room if I even attempted to approach, let alone ask. Never mind how the chaperons and parents would react. I’d likely have to fight six duels before dawn for bringing a family’s good name into disrepute.’ Then all at once he was all dry irony again as he shrugged, seemingly unperturbed by his infamy. ‘What can I say, Miss Brookes? I cannot help being unpopular.’

  She was tempted to ask how he felt about that but didn’t. It was too personal a question when they barely knew one another, and she was basically an employee—albeit a highly paid one and their cordial relationship was still polite but resolutely distant. She had consciously maintained that distance, not trusting herself to spend any more time with him than was necessary in case he charmed her some more. She would be maintaining it still were it not for the fact she felt compelled to apologise for her mother. But while she plucked up the courage to broach the subject, he thankfully filled the void.

  ‘Thank you for suggesting watercolours for Isobel, by the way. They went down a storm—with Isobel at least. My mother and sister were quite horrified…’ His eyes were dancing as they stared at the crowded dance floor again. ‘And stark warnings and strict parameters were issued regarding the exact use of the paints. But a tentative accord has been reached as my niece has sworn an oath the dreaded paints will only be used for good rather than evil, and I have had to make myself the guarantor to see that is the case. If so much as one spot of lurid green is found on the wallpaper, it has been decreed I will have to redecorate the whole room alone, myself as penance.’

  ‘Ahh…’

  He turned back to her and the warmth in his smile made her want to sigh and grin sloppily back until she reminded herself she never did that on principle and certainly wouldn’t with a man of his ilk and reputation, no matter how much she was tempted. Liking him was one thing, but extending anything beyond an occasional and wary olive branch of professional friendship was entirely out of the question. He was still an aristocrat and she was not, and never the twain would truly meet, even as friends.

  ‘Anyway, the brat is thrilled and declared my present the best present she received so…’

  ‘So you are secretly thrilled too.’ Which in turn delighted Faith disproportionately—simply because she had made him happy. ‘I am glad my suggestion came up trumps.’

  ‘It is always nice when a gift is well-received.’

  ‘How are the plans for your banquet coming along?’

  His face fell. ‘It’s all hideous, as I am sure you can imagine. I had to sit through a two-hour lecture today by the Master of the King’s Household discussing menus and china patterns. He lost me in the first twenty minutes, although I do seem to recall agreeing to beef and something peculiar sounding involving salmon. Our next meeting is destined to be longer because we have to discuss the seating arrangements, although thankfully, I can postpone that indefinitely until I hear back from the Portuguese Royal Court. If they decline the invitation there will be no point in having a banquet in their honour and I will be spared.’

  ‘Then, for your sake, I shall pray that they have a prior engagement.’

  ‘That would be much appreciated, Miss Brookes. Thank you.’ He leaned his back against the pillar, tilting his head as he watched her. ‘So… Faith, Hope and Charity Brookes? You are named after the Virtues?’ She could tell that undeniable fact amused him.

  ‘Sadly yes. Those names are a lot t
o live up to and unfortunately are all misplaced. I doubt everything, Charity is much too selfish, and Hope is a confirmed pessimist. If there had been more of us, there would have been a Patience and a Chastity too, which are far worse, don’t you think? But thankfully fate felt it was too cruel to saddle any babe with such hideously pious names and limited my parents to just the three precocious offspring. But Mama and Papa are all for symbolism and my mother, especially, has quite puritanical views…about everything.’

  It was probably better to soften the ground before apologising about her mother’s shocking rudeness, in the hope he also understood that though crass and heavy-footed, it had been instinctual rather than meant maliciously. ‘Her grandfather was a Quaker and…well…she tends to think the entire world is evil which makes her a tad overprotective.’ And of the firm belief Lord Eastwood was soundly without morals because she didn’t know him beyond the gossip she had read. Just as Faith had believed she had his full measure until she had met him in the flesh and the overwhelming but persistent doubt had crept in. ‘Especially of her daughters. Which was why she…’

  He flicked the words away before she could apologise properly, astutely pre-empting exactly what she had come to say. ‘You do not need to explain or apologise. She is a mother and they all tend to be overprotective even of the most innocuous of gentlemen, let alone a heartless scoundrel like me.’ The dismissive expression seemed false, but quickly disappeared before she could be sure. ‘I am curious, what would you all have been named if your parents had had boys?’

  He wanted to change the subject, and because she feared knowing him better would make her like him more, she made an immediate, conscious and unsatisfying decision not to probe further. ‘As my mother disapproves of most men as a matter of principle, and not just you, my lord, I’ve always suspected any male offspring would have been named after the Seven Deadly Sins, although she has always denied that. But I think Gluttony Brookes has a ring to it, don’t you?’ Despite knowing now was the opportune time to leave seeing as her mission to apologise was complete, Faith felt compelled to stay.