Love by the Letters: A Regency Novella Trilogy

by Kelly Bowen

  Maeve had lied when she had accused Mr. Blackmore of being a liar.

  She had told him that he looked exhausted, but he didn’t look exhausted as much as he looked haunted. Because it hadn’t been just the dark shadows under his eyes. It was the way she had found him standing in front of the manor this morning, looking more like a man facing an execution than an architect facing what should be a gratifying project.

  He was walking in front of her now, working his way from the base of the tower and around the east side of the manor. They wound their way through the overgrown grass and thick bushes that ringed the house, every once in a while stopping while Blackmore jotted something down in the thick book he carried. She tried not to notice the way his coat stretched across his broad shoulders or the way his breeches clung to long, muscular legs. She tried not to let her eyes linger on the way his hair fell forward every time he bent his head, grazing sharp cheekbones that could not be disguised by a day’s worth of stubble. And she most assuredly tried to avoid imagining what those capable hands might feel like on her skin should he set his pencil aside and —

  This was no good. Maeve didn’t want to find him attractive. She didn’t particularly even want to like him given how at odds their agendas were, but she had full intentions of honoring their bargain. She also had full intentions to gain as much as she could out of that bargain. She had told him that she was a reasonable woman. She needed to ensure that she was.

  Blackmore hadn’t said a word to her since he had started his inspection, moving with a single-minded purpose, his focus clearly on the mountain of crumbling stone before them. This close to the house, the obvious signs of neglect became visible. A broken window had been repaired with planks. The edge of the arch over the wide doorway had crumbled, the loose blocks stacked on the wide front steps. Cracks in the mortar snaked out like a torn spider web. The stone at the base of the tower was stained and blackened with age and damp. The ornamental garden that had once greeted visitors with neat precision was a snarled mess of vines and shrubbery.

  Maeve had never spent much time imagining how Greybourne House might have looked centuries ago but she conceded that it would have been impressive. It was still impressive, really, if one—

  “When did the stone loosen from the arch over the doorway?” Mr. Blackmore had stopped and Maeve almost stumbled into the back of him.

  She tipped her head in consideration. “About five years ago,” she told him.

  “Mmm.” He made more notes and stepped back a little further, looking up. “How is the roof?”

  Maeve followed his gaze and shrugged. “It hasn’t fallen down yet,” she offered.

  Mr. Blackmore didn’t even crack a smile. “Does it leak?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “How much?”

  Maeve shrugged again. “Depends how much it rains.”

  He muttered something about rot and scribbled in his book. “Is there a timber yard in the area that can supply large beams and trusses?”

  Maeve nodded. “Yes.”

  “Hmph.” Another note was made. “I’ll need to take a closer look at the roof from the inside.”

  Maeve peered over his shoulder as discreetly as possible, realizing with a bit of a start that Henry Blackmore wasn’t simply writing notes. He was also making small sketches. The one he was executing now was of the crumbling arch and with fascination, she watched as his pencil flew across the page, magically repairing the stone on the paper before her eyes.

  “You’re really good at that,” she said before she could stop herself.

  Mr. Blackmore’s pencil froze. “Thank you,” he said without looking up from his work.

  “Did you always want to do this?”

  “What do you mean by this?”

  “Did you always want to be an architect?” she clarified.

  “Yes.”

  “And Greybourne House? Did you always want to restore it?”

  The book snapped shut. He still hadn’t looked at her. “I had considered it years ago, yes.”

  “Why didn’t you do it then?”

  “I did not possess the…experience to do it then,” he said.

  “And you do now?”

  “I’d like to think so.”

  “Did the duke ask you to restore the house?”

  Mr. Blackmore laughed, though it was devoid of any warmth or humour. “God, no.”

  “Then this restoration now was your idea?”

  “No. Yes.” He stopped. “Yes.”

  “You sound less than certain.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Family can be.”

  “This project has nothing to do with my family, Miss Murray. Believe me when I tell you that.” He finally looked at her, his dark eyes troubled.

  “What does it have to do with then?” Maeve wasn’t sure why she was asking all these questions but now that she had started, she couldn’t seem to stop. She reminded herself that it shouldn’t matter to her why Henry Blackmore did whatever it was he intended to do so long as she could wring some benefit out of it for the tenants of Greybourne.

  Blackmore didn’t answer immediately and Maeve wasn’t sure he was going to. When he did answer, he once again turned away from her.

  “I find myself in the unfortunate position of needing to prove my professional abilities. This particular project suits my needs.”

  “Prove yourself to whom? Your father?”

  “That is none of your damn business, Miss Murray.”

  He was right. That was a question that was far too personal. Had she been standing in his shoes, she would likely have said the same. “My apologies.”

  He reopened his book and stared at it. The breeze toyed with the edges of the pages and rustled the leaves of the overgrown garden. Somewhere in the bushes a songbird trilled before it fell silent again.

  “Did your father wish you to become a steward?” he asked.

  “I beg your pardon?” His question caught her by surprise.

  Blackmore pivoted so that he was facing her again. “You told me that you stepped into the role of steward when your father died. Was that what he wanted or what you wanted?”

  “No one has ever asked me that.” And she realized that she didn’t have a simple answer for the question either.

  “I’m asking you now.”

  “I…” She stopped. “I’ve never really thought about it before.”

  “You never thought about it? Come, Miss Murray, I have a hard time believing that.”

  She absently plucked a leaf from the bush beside her, turning it over in her fingers. “My mother died when I was too young to have memories of her. It was my father who taught me everything he knew. For as long as I can remember, I was always with him, helping him with his duties at Greybourne.” The leaf tore in her hands. “I don’t know if he wished me to become a steward. He never said as much. When he died, it was—”

  “Just easier for everyone for you to take his place. Yes, so you’ve said.” He still had her pinned with his gaze. “But you could have made a different choice.”

  “Like what?”

  “You could have left Greybourne.”

  “And gone where? And to do what? Land stewardship is what I know, and I am very good at it. I don’t have any other skills.”

  “Did you not wish to marry?”

  Maeve crushed the pieces of leaf in her fist before letting them flutter to the ground. “Ah, yes. Matrimony. My only other choice.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You just did.” Maeve levelled a cool look at Blackmore. “And I suspect that there are about as many husbands who wish to have a steward as a wife as there are landowners who wish to have a woman as a steward. No matter how challenging things may be at Greybourne or how much I’ve struggled to do my job, I have never considered getting married and sacrificing my freedom.”

  “Your freedom?” Blackmore glanced around him. “You believe this to be freedom? By your own admission, you�
�re trapped here. You’ve never even traveled beyond the county borders.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Not yet? I dare suggest not ever. Because it seems to me that you’ve chained yourself to this place, trying to make it into something it won’t ever be. And for what?”

  “Not for what. For whom. I can make a difference for the people who remain here. The ones who stay for their own reasons but stay all the same.”

  “That’s not freedom.”

  Maeve stepped forward so that she was standing directly in front of him. “Then you and I have very different definitions of freedom, Mr. Blackmore. Yes, I would have liked to travel and see places that I’ve only read about in books. But freedom is not about capriciously flitting about seas and continents. Freedom is the ability to do something you love and live how you wish without being punished for it. Or prevented from doing it at all.” She tapped the book he held with her finger. “Things that you’ve always taken for granted, I’m sure.”

  Blackmore swallowed, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He moved away from her, pushing a low branch out to the side so that it snapped back into place with a storm of falling leaves. He stopped then, his knuckles white where they gripped his book.

  “I don’t take it for granted. And I understand more than you think.” He started walking again.

  Maeve had to scramble to keep up, all the while chastising herself. She had fully intended to keep a careful distance while being polite and indifferent and this conversation was neither polite nor indifferent.

  They reached the end of the manor before Blackmore stopped again.

  Maeve spoke up before he could say anything. “My apologies, Mr. Blackmore. I should not have spoken in such a —”

  “My father wanted me to join the clergy.”

  Maeve’s mouth snapped closed.

  “I am the third son of a duke. My eldest brother is the heir apparent and the second oldest secured a military lieutenancy of my father’s choosing. I was assigned the clerical connections needed for a powerful family. A bishop would have been adequate but an archbishop even better.” He leaned back against the base of the wall. “An architect was not an acceptable choice. Is not an acceptable choice.”

  Maeve cautiously settled back against the wall beside him, unsure what to say.

  “I defied my family. I haven’t spoken to my parents or my brothers in over a decade,” he said. “I regret that even if I don’t regret my choice.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He turned his head to look at her. “For what?”

  “That you didn’t have someone who believed in you. Whether or not my father wished me to become a steward, he told me daily that he believed I could do anything.”

  Blackmore smiled faintly. “Is that why I first met you repairing a roof in the rain on your own?”

  “Most likely.”

  His smile slipped and unmistakeable grief passed over his features. “I did have someone like that once. Someone who believed in me unconditionally.”

  Maeve fought the disquieting urge to touch the side of his face and smooth that grief away. “Then you were lucky,” she said instead.

  He held her eyes with his own and she felt her heart skip. This conversation was veering back onto dangerous ground. Worse, Maeve no longer found herself with any inclination to distance herself from it. From him.

  This close to him, her shoulder touching his, Maeve could see the flecks of gold in the chocolate brown of his irises. This close she could see the faint lines around his eyes that crinkled when he smiled one of his rare smiles. She could feel the heat from his body, smell the faint lemon tones of his soap. Her eyes dropped to his mouth, wondering hazily what it would feel like to have those lips on hers.

  He hadn’t moved, and all she would have to do to find out was to —

  She pushed herself off the wall, her eyes tangling with his once again. Her breath was coming in shallow gasps. What was wrong with her? She was the steward of Greybourne with people depending on her. She was supposed to be using this man, not fantasizing about kissing him. Henry Blackmore may not be her enemy but he was far from her champion.

  She tore her gaze from his before she drowned in its intoxicating intensity. Her eyes fell on the ruins of the little chapel that were visible just over his shoulder.

  “What about the chapel?” She blurted the first thing that came to mind. “Will you restore that too?”

  Henry Blackmore’s expression hardened. Too late she remembered that his younger brother had died playing in those ruins. She closed her eyes briefly, cursing her thoughtlessness.

  “No,” Blackmore said coldly. “The chapel remains as it is.”

  Maeve stared at the toes of her boots. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”

  “Thank you for your time this morning, Miss Murray,” Blackmore continued, his voice distant. “Your presence is no longer required.”

  She looked up at him. “I can—”

  “I’ll let you know when I require your assistance again. Leave, Miss Murray.”

  Those words should have been music to her ears. She was being released from a task she hadn’t wanted in the first place. She could get an early start on everything that waited for her this afternoon. Instead, she felt nothing but regret tinged with guilt at her insensitivity.

  “Of course,” she said. “Good day, Mr. Blackmore.”

  Chapter Eight

  Henry was in the moldering library, his head in his hands. He stared down at the three sketches of the exterior of Greybourne House spread out over the surface of the desk, the sum total of what he had completed in the last four days. Henry’s foreman, arrived from London only that afternoon, sat in the chair opposite him, peering at the drawings.

  With an even temper, clever mind, and a reputation for being one of the best when it came to stonework, Donald Byrd’s services were always in demand. Henry had worked with him twice before and given the stakes of this project, Henry had made Byrd an offer he couldn’t refuse.

  Though the look the foreman was giving Henry now suggested he might be reconsidering.

  “The drawings look relatively straight forward,” Byrd said. “There appears to be more simple repairs than reconfiguration. But you’re telling me you have no materials located yet?”

  Henry winced and shook his head.

  “Then why am I here already?” Byrd’s brows bunched under a mop of sandy hair liberally salted with grey. “My men are on their way and I can’t hire more craftsmen and labour if I don’t know what I’ll be working with. Or when I’ll be working with it.”

  “I had fully intended to be further along with the acquisition of the materials.”

  That was, until Henry had dismissed the woman who’d agreed to help him do just that like a common scullery maid caught filching silver. Maeve Murray had asked him a simple question about the chapel and instead of responding with maturity and composure, he’d ordered her away like a boorish, impetuous loggerhead. She’d be justified if she refused to spend another moment with him.

  Worse, Henry had yet to apologize. He hadn’t seen Maeve since that awful morning, and inquiries as to her whereabouts were met with unhelpful suggestions about fields and barns and tenant houses. He’d even spent a day repairing the sagging barn doors and another half-day repairing the enclosure of the ghastly creature Graham Dunlop had called Hamlet, but Miss Murray had not appeared, day or night. Henry was beginning to wonder if she ever slept.

  “You want me to stay?” The foreman’s dubious question jerked Henry out of his musings. “I appreciate you paying for my time and all, but it don’t seem right when I’m not working.”

  “I—” Henry stopped, raised voices echoing off the stone walls of the great hall beyond the library door. Raised, feminine voices, both that he recognized. He pushed himself out of his chair.

  “Yes,” he told Byrd. “I want you to stay. Plan on visiting the sawmills and quarries tomorrow. The day after at the latest. I promise to have your crews workin
g within a sennight.”

  He would make this right with Miss Murray. Apologize and hope like hell that she would still provide them with the assistance that they needed.

  He ducked out of the library and into the empty cavernous space that had once held raucous feasts for visiting guests. Now, the hanging tapestries were long gone, the tables removed, the dais dismantled, and all that remained were Miss Murray and Mrs. Thorpe standing at the far end in a heated discussion.

  Miss Murray was dressed as she always was, in her battered coat and trousers, though today her boots and knees were covered in drying muck. A smear of mud grazed her temple and frosted dark curls that had been yanked back into their customary queue. Her cheeks were pinkened from a day spent in the sun and she had never looked more perfect or touchable. Henry clasped his hands behind his back so he wouldn’t be tempted to do just that.

  She also seemed to be refusing to accept a flat, square box tied with red ribbon that Mrs. Thorpe was trying to press into her hands.

  “Miss Murray, Mrs. Thorpe,” Henry greeted, and both women fell abruptly silent.

  “Mr. Blackmore,” Miss Murray replied politely. “What can we do for you?”

  “You can accept my apology,” Henry said, not caring if the housekeeper heard or not. He wasn’t going to let Miss Murray slip away again before he said what he needed to.

  “Your apology?” Miss Murray was staring at him, nonplussed. “Whatever for?”

  “For the way I dismissed you the other day. It was rude and self-indulgent.”

  “No, it was my question about the chapel that was thoughtless.”

  “Your question was reasonable. My response was not, and I treated you unfairly.”

  Miss Murray considered him. “Is that why you fixed the barn doors and repaired Hamlet’s enclosure? As a penance for your perceived slight?”

  “I was more concerned that behemoth might eat my horse one day if it was late being fed.”

  Miss Murray’s lips twitched. “You redesigned the gate entirely.”

  “I used all my architectural aptitude to make the gate slide instead of swing. You need not rely any longer on small metal hinges that rot in the rain.”