“I don’t know who else you’d try to be. Are you saying you want to be more like my future brother-in-law? Do you usually not smile, either?”
That got the grin back to his face. “No, I’m definitely not like my cousin. I can’t afford to be.”
There was more to his story. Did he mean monetary? Or just because of his status?
“Then what are you like back in Scotland? Are you still the Prada Knight? Looking around to save girls or go on quests with an army of kilted men in expensive loafers?”
He laughed again, the sound finally making my shoulders relax for the first time since we’d been out riding. “No kilted army. Just me and my younger brother and sister. And of course, my parents and grandparents and great-grandfather.”
“Are they like the Webleys here?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“Well, Lady Elizabeth didn’t put any scotch in her tea that I noticed, so probably not exactly.”
I laughed. “Sounds like she’s a good time.”
“They were,” he whispered.
Were. What the hell had happened to this guy and his family? I wanted to pry, but I also wasn’t sure it was my place. We both didn’t need to go digging into each other’s past. This was just a week-long friendship at a manor.
I cleared my throat and looked up to see the sun start to fade below a grassy knoll. “It’s starting to get dark. Think you could show me how to head back?”
“Yes. We probably should.”
We rode the rest of the way in silence until we were back in the barn.
He slid off Satin first, putting her back in the barn while I waited.
He returned to my side and held his arms out. “You’re going to move your leg back so you’re sitting facing me.”
I moved my leg out of the stirrup and slowly sat, side-saddle, facing him. His hands were on my waist, his eyes never leaving mine as he pulled me down to my feet, my body pressed against his as I gripped onto his shoulders, careful not to fall. I could have let go when my boots were stable on the ground, but I was locked in place.
His hands were warm on my hips.
His intense gaze was focused on mine.
“Thank you again,” I whispered, licking my lips as I tried to regain some moisture.
“Of course,” he murmured.
One breath and his lips could be on mine.
Just one little step was all it would take.
But he didn’t make a move.
“I’ll put Buttermilk up for you,” he said quickly, moving his hands and grabbing the horse by the reins.
My body chilled as soon as he stepped away. I’d never felt like something was missing as soon as someone let go. Not even with Chris.
There was something more to Jacob MacWebley, and not just his secrets. But it was those secrets that held me back, no matter what else my body was trying to say to me.
Chapter Eight
Jacob
I took the coldest shower of my life after riding with Madison.
Why did she have to keep looking at me as if I was the only one in the world that mattered? She probably wouldn’t if she knew the truth about me. The odd duck of my family, trying to throw one last Hail Mary to get our family out of financial ruin. But what if it destroyed all that the Webleys had built? What if it destroyed this unlikely connection between Madison and me?
The guilt of not telling her everything was eating me up inside.
And the way she did that little smile? The one that was like a secret smile just for me, a hint of blush creeping on her cheeks?
Shite.
It was if she couldn’t decide if she wanted to fight me or shag me. Every darn time.
Which was how I’d gotten myself in the predicament of needing to take a nice cold shower.
By the time my body could no longer handle the frigid water and my dick had calmed down, I was able to turn off the water and get out.
Once dressed, I headed into the solar. There was no sight of Madison in there, and the door to the bedroom was open and empty. So I sat on the floral settee with gold trim and armrests so shiny I could see my own tired reflection in them and waited. I hadn’t even been at the manor one full day and it was already draining me.
As if things couldn’t get any worse, my blasted phone started vibrating. I pulled it out of the pocket of my trousers and saw the call was from my sister, Blair. Every hair on the back of my neck stood on end as a chill crept through me.
“Shite,” I muttered.
Blair had insisted she could keep up my cover from Mother and Father about where I was since they didn’t want me to be here. Heck, my family had never even met the Webleys and hated them.
Did my parents know about my plan to get evidence that we had a claim in Webley? Would they try to stop it?
I shook my head.
I needed to stop acting like a fucking feartie.
Righting myself, I cleared my throat before answering the call.
“What a pleasant surprise.” I smiled, even though she couldn’t see me, but the sarcasm oozed through my voice.
“Are ye busy playing croquet with your new family or do you have time for your sister?” I could practically hear her eye roll.
“Just had a shower and am sitting in the solar of the Thistle Room I’m sharing with my date to this wedding.”
“Date?” Her tone slightly rose to a squeak.
Drumming my fingers on the armrest, I tried to ignore my own disapproving reflection staring back at me. “Yes. A girl I met on the train needed a date for her sister’s wedding, and her sister just happens to be the soon-to-be Lady of Webley.”
“Holy shite,” she whispered.
I swallowed down the bile threatening to rise from my stomach.
This was all so much simpler when it was an idea cooked up late with Blair one night over a pint. She told me I should just book the plane ticket like Great-Grandfather wanted. I’d protested. But after a few more pints, she’d taken my credit card and booked the next flight out.
I could still picture her face and exactly what she’d said to me. Her long brown hair had been twisted into a high ponytail that always made her look like my mischievous little girl even at twenty-one years old. She even still had that devilish spark in her eyes.
“It’s done, Brother. Go get us what’s ours.”
It had never been about the money for me. Not entirely.
Nor about the idea of avenging our honor by taking revenge on the Webleys.
But the history of the noble family Great-Grandfather had talked about, the Scottish MacWebleys—our history, our legacy deserved to live on.
I also wanted to make him proud. He’d been the only family member not to fully turn on me when I’d come back home defeated from uni.
It was the least I could do for him and for our family, but now that I was at Webley Manor with a lovely date who kept throwing me heated looks, things were a whole lot more complicated.
I looked away from my reflection on the armrest. “The wedding is still a few days away, but the rest of the Webleys should be here tomorrow.”
“So then what?” Blair asked.
The exact question I was wondering myself.
“Well, if the family isn’t so daft about their history, surely once I introduce myself to Uncle Lord Edwin and Auntie Lady Helena, they’ll know exactly who I am and that I have something to say about the MacWebleys.” Saying the words left a sharp taste on my tongue, one that, no matter how hard I swallowed, wouldn’t go away.
“I hope you have a better plan than that.”
“Can you think of something better?” I questioned.
“Why don’t you just contact the local solicitor and see what he says about a claim with you being the rightful heir? That you have a stake in the manor? Surely the family solicitor would kno
w. Or at least someone in that town.”
“A solicitor would require money,” I grumbled, thinking how much I’d already drained my credit card for this trip.
“Well, once you have the manor, you’ll have all the land and money you want.”
I sighed, careful to hold my breath. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Good. I can only pull off you going on a trip to London for so long to Mother and Father. Maybe you should send a few snaps or something of you at a pub that I could show them.”
“Solicitors. Pubs. What else can I do for you while I’m here, Lady Blair?”
She laughed. “Maybe claim one of those fancy rooms for me? No matter how big our house is, it always seems like Mother and Father are just lurking around the corner, wondering when I’m going to get married or something.”
“I know the feeling.”
And I did. All too well.
It was half the reason I was here.
If I couldn’t make things right and save our family from financial ruin, my parents had other ideas, and they came in the form of an arranged marriage to a vile baroness named Everly.
“Okay, brother, I’ll let you get back to the Webleys, but promise you’ll keep me in the loop?”
“Ah, I promise, Blair. Good-bye.”
“Bye, Jacob.”
After hanging up, I slumped into the chair, leaning my head back to stare at the coffered ceiling. As if I didn’t have a time clock ticking down on my family’s situation already, now my sister was going to be another constant reminder.
I just had to think.
To get my darn head on straight.
And there was only one way to do that.
Shoving my phone into the pocket of my trousers, I headed toward the door. Looking left and right down the hall, I made sure no one was lingering around before I made my way out of the wing, down long hallways covered in priceless oil paintings and gold sconces.
I wondered if these were the types of things Madison painted. Even her small sketches somehow captured all of the beauty around us.
“Admiring the artwork?”
I froze at the slight southern twang ringing through the hallway.
Turning, I faced the smiling face of Madison’s sister, Natalie. While Madison was petite, all freckles and innocence, Natalie was a redheaded dynamo, her curves filling out the green silk dress like it was custom made for her.
Which it probably was since she was the lady of Webley.
“Ah, are these the new pieces you’ve picked out?” I said, the words bitter on my tongue. How much were they paying to restore these?
“The John Duncan Fergusson?” She closed the space between us, peering at the colorful landscape.
“I thought it looked familiar. A Scot trained in Paris.”
She smiled, turning to face me. “So you know your art?”
“We used to have something similar at our manor. I didn’t expect to see anything like it here, though. The Webleys are now okay with displaying Scottish artists?” I raised an eyebrow.
She laughed. “I think you’re the only one to point this out. Not even Gavin has noticed.” She sucked in a deep breath then let it out slowly. “But, yes, since I found out more about the Webley Scottish heritage, I’ve been adding a few touches to the manor. Restored this piece myself after I found it being sold on GumTree out of some little town near Edinburgh.”
Swallowing hard, the sinking feeling went to the pit of my gut.
Did my parents sell this on GumTree themselves and now it was in this manor?
Would she have known?
“I should get going,” I said with as much exuberance as I could muster, my throat going dry.
“Oh, all right, well, I’ll see you at dinner, then.”
I should have kept talking to her. The historian would have been the one to know more about the Webleys and MacWebleys than anyone. But with the realization that the painting could have also very well been ours, I needed a break.
And the kitchen was just the place to do it.
Besides, the staff were usually the biggest gossips of the castle, so maybe I’d get more out of them than anyone else if I wanted to find out what the Webleys knew about the MacWebleys.
The smell of fresh-baked bread lingered in the air, and I glanced down at my watch. If they were starting dinner, this would be about the time they’d need to start a rise on the dough.
I followed my nose and headed down the hallway toward a large oak door that blended almost seamlessly in with the wall. Cautiously, I pushed on it, noticing it swung slightly inward. When the door swung outward, I curled my fingers around the cool wooden frame and pulled it toward me instead. The familiar hustle and bustle of a working kitchen with clanging pots and pans and hissing of steam rang through my ears.
A smile stretched across my face as I opened the door fully and stared at the large, open space, filled with the aroma of spices. There had to be at least a dozen workers huddled over large wooden prep tables or stirring boiling pots.
“Can I help you, sir?” A man in a stained white apron and hat stared at me as he worked dough against a butcher block.
“I came here for extra kitchen help. With all the guests.”
He raised a bushy eyebrow. “Lord Gavin asked one of his guests to come in here to specifically request more help?”
Glancing around the kitchen, a few other eyes raised toward me but darted away when they saw me looking and frantically whispered amongst them.
Shaking my head, I unbuttoned the sleeves of my oxford. “No, I’m here to help. What’s on the menu for dessert?”
The air had changed as if everyone around me had let out a collective, silent sigh of relief. But the man in front of me just sized me up, his brows furrowed as he looked from my forearms all the way up the buttons of my shirt.
“You? You’re going to help?”
“Aye. Trained under Chef Tavish McHenley in Edinburgh for four years, and though he’s a Scot, and so am I, he was trained in France. So, if you need help with those desserts, I’m here,” I said, putting my arms out, shoulders relaxed. I knew, even in this fancy kitchen, that I could hold myself up with the best of them.
And this wasn’t about impressing the manor chefs anyway.
This was me, needing to release some of my stress and frustrations the best way I knew how: by making a masterpiece with dough.
If I happened to catch a few bits and bobs from the staff talking about dinner and the Webleys, all the better.
The chef shifted from one foot to the other, his eyes darting toward the table, the wall, then finally to me as he shrugged. “All right. Gemma is over at the prep table behind you if you want to see what she’s making.”
“Thank you.”
I turned away, ignoring the whispers around me as I headed toward the prep table where an older woman wearing a dark apron covered in flour stood over a stand mixer.
“Are you Gemma?” I yelled over the whir of the machine.
“Yeah. Whatcha need? Here to lick the batter?” she asked, not even looking up as she sifted flour into a bowl.
“No, ma’am. I’m here to help with the desserts.”
She stopped mid-pour and glanced up at me, her brows slightly raised. “No one told me they hired a new pastry chef.”
I shook my head. “I’m not, well…” I grabbed an apron from the rack behind the table. “I just want to work some of the dough. Just tell me what you need and I’ll do it.”
She put the bowl of flour down, her eyes scrutinizing me as I tied the dark apron around me. She chewed on her chapped bottom lip for a second then nodded to herself as if she decided something silently in her head. “All right, I guess I can’t turn down the extra help.”
Motioning a hand toward the subzero fridge behind her, I followed, eager to get starte
d.
“Lord Gavin has requested a variety of English desserts for tonight’s dinner as a sampling for the Americans. A little bit of savarin, some Victorian sponge, iced fingers, fondant fancies, and petits fours. Are you familiar with any of those?”
I nodded.
“Really?” Her eyebrows rose so high, I swore they disappeared into her hairline.
“Want me to start on the dough for the savarin or the Victorian sponge?” I smiled, showing her that I was being genuine.
She laughed. “Why don’t you do start on the Victorian sponge and fondant fancies? I’ll finish this up for the savarin.”
I nodded. “Point me to the mixing bowls and I’ll get started.”
Without a word, she handed me a bowl and showed me where the pantry items were. Then I got to work.
I was in my element.
Most of my family members were more comfortable behind a desk or a bar cart.
Not me.
There was nothing like getting lost in my hands. The rhythmic movement of rolling the sponge by hand and forming it into the perfect shape before baking it.
Echoes of simmering pans and the chatter of chefs around me formed the white noise I needed to push aside the voice of my sister and my family and just focus on what was in front of me.
It was the first time in days that I’d finally been at ease.
I should have been listening, maybe seeing what the murmurs were around the kitchen.
But I was lost in my own thoughts.
That was until I put the first batch of sponge for fondant fancies in the oven and heard a familiar voice call over my shoulder.
“There you are.”
I straightened, catching my breath as I made sure not to drop the baking dish before shutting the oven door. Standing slowly, I found Madison at the end of the prep table staring at me and my pastry work, her head slightly tilted as if she was confused.
She’d changed out of her riding outfit and into long, flowy blue dress that whooshed around her ankles. The high neckline landed close to her chin and brought out the hints of gold flecks in her eyes. With her hair down in a light wave over her pale shoulders, she was breathtaking.
Heirly Ever After Page 9
