Anything for a Lord
Ladies Always Shoot First
Book Four
Summer Hanford
A Scarsdale Publishing Half Hour Read
Anything for a Lord Book Four Ladies Always Shoot First
Copyright © 2017 by Summer Hanford
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: R Jackson Designs
Cover Art: Period Images
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Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Epilogue
From the Author
The Archaeologist’s Daughter
About the Author
Chapter One
Victoria didn’t know how long she’d stood motionless in the center of the parlor. The hands on the clock were stopped, the mirror over the mantel shrouded in black. It was as if time inside the manor on the bluff had halted the moment her father died. The only life in the room was the gentle flutter of the curtains, stirred by a soft sea breeze. She was alone, and no one could break through the barricade of unmoving time to reach her. Nor was there anyone who wished to. Victoria’s father, Edward Kirkland, Baron le Fount, had been an evil, cruel man. His passing wasn’t marked by tears, but rather with relief. For some, perhaps joy.
Her purposeless gaze fell on her writing desk, centered before a set of French doors flung wide to the rose-lined terrace and garden without. Victoria loved to linger before the open doors and watch the sea beyond the garden wall as salt-kissed air bathed her face. Perhaps, today, the breeze would soothe her.
Forcing her limbs into motion, she crossed to sit at her desk. Before her rested neatly arranged blank sheets, weighed in place by a coiled shell. Perhaps she would write her cousin Lydia, to congratulate her on her recent marriage. Father hadn’t permitted Victoria to write. When she’d tried, he had the letters taken.
Recalling his high-handed ways, she lifted her gaze to the garden. Sure enough, a tall form ducked from sight among the fruit trees that filled the lawn between the manor and the surrounding wall. She frowned. She should have known her cousin Franklin, the new Baron le Fount, would have her watched, just as Father had.
Elbows on the desk, Victoria dropped her head into her hands. With Franklin watching, it was useless to write Lydia. He would intercept any letters. By now, Lydia likely believed Victoria sided with Father and Franklin in disowning her for wedding Mr. Mitchel, son of one of Father’s greatest business rivals.
She looked to the clock again before remembering it wasn’t ticking. The only clock not stilled in honor of her father’s death was the one in her room, to remind Victoria that her life was moving forward. She longed for the hands to move more quickly.
Tomorrow, her wait would be over. She would be old enough to wed. She would leave the manor and marry the first decent man she found. She didn’t need to love him. All she required was a kind disposition, someone calm, with easy manners. Then he, whoever he was, would own the business ventures and the estate, all of it. He would lift the burden of living with Franklin as her guardian and become the manager of her father’s mercantile empire.
“Miss.”
Victoria turned to find a maid standing just inside the hall door.
“Miss, Baron le Fo—”
“She knows who I am, girl,” Franklin barked, stepping around her.
The maid jumped, nearly toppling in her effort to curtsy and back out at once. She whirled and scuttled away.
“No refreshments,” Franklin called down the hall after her. “We are not to be disturbed.” He faced Victoria, a looming scarecrow of a man, clad all in black. His white-blond hair, even paler than hers, hung limp about his ears. He slid the parlor door closed.
Victoria didn’t stand. She preferred to keep distance between them. “Franklin. Even though we’re cousins, it’s not appropriate for you to closet us.”
Gray eyes contemplated her. “What I have to say is for your ears alone. Your servants can’t be trusted. Besides, soon there will be no closed doors between us.”
“I beg your pardon?” A cold dread settled on her.
“I’ve given you ten days, Victoria, out of respect for your father, but it’s nearly your birthday. I will not have some worthless bounder swoop in and snatch you up. It’s time we wed.”
“I thought I made my feelings on the matter clear at the reading of Father’s will.” At the reading, Franklin had flown into a rage upon learning he’d been left only her father’s title and entailed lands. Not the business empire. Not the fortune.
“You were distraught.” He crossed to stand beside her. Hands braced on her writing desk, he leaned down, bringing his face too near. “You didn’t know what you were saying. You couldn’t comprehend the consequences.”
She comprehended perfectly. The man she wed would get everything Franklin believed should be his. Everything he’d worked alongside her father to build. She understood he’d toiled for years for her father. If there was the slightest shred of decency in Franklin, she would gladly marry him and set the matter right.
She held his gaze. “I am well aware of the consequences.”
“Are you?” His gray eyes narrowed. “I know about the special license.”
Victoria gasped. “How?”
“Who do you think gave your attorney permission to procure it for you?” His thin lips pulled in a sneer. “You didn’t think he’d secure one at your request? You, a mere woman?”
She had thought so. Now she knew better. She would dismiss the man.
Franklin reached out. Cold fingers stroked her cheek. “I let you have the license so we might use it on your birthday, pet.”
Nausea unfurled in her gut. She sucked air threw her nose, struggling to tamp down her revulsion. She knew how angry he could become.
“You’re a great beauty, Victoria. Your father kept you hidden from the world, but I shall display you as you deserve. We’ll move to London. You shall be celebrated, longed for.” His fingers slid down to her neck. “But only I shall ever touch you.”
Too late, she realized his intention. His fingers tightened around her neck, nearly encircling it. He leaned in to kiss her.
She twisted away. Her chair skittered out from under her. She collided with the floor and scuttled around the desk, putting it between them. The curtains reached out, plump with sea air, as if to envelop her. Victoria came to a halt against the threshold, breathing hard.
Franklin leaned over the desk, a scowl aimed at her. “Get up, you stupid girl. You could have cracked your head open, then—” He broke off.
Anger flared. “You’ve read my will, I take it?”
“Yes. I know you’ve left everything to my sister.” His thin lips twisted with rage. “You would hand her husband, a Mitchel, everything I’ve worked for.”
“I would.” Victoria had only fragments of overheard arguments to go on, but she knew her father and Franklin had plotted against their two greatest rivals. The Mitchel family and Lord Sout
hwood had joined together against her father and Franklin, driving them to terrible acts. “Perhaps the money and holdings would make up for your schemes, and how you disowned Lydia.”
His gaze slithered over her, making Victoria’s skin crawl. “There will be no making up for anything because nothing will happen to you, pet. Your will isn’t needed. You’re a prize I’ve waited too long to pluck.” He started around the desk.
Victoria surged to her feet. She stumbled backward, through the door. She spun, her ankle twisting. She grabbed an arbor to keep from falling. Thorns stabbed her palm. The sound of Franklin shoving her desk aside sent her running toward the wall and the seaside gate.
The thump of his boots followed. He was taller, faster, and her ankle throbbed. Victoria stifled tears. She needed her breath. She was nearing the open gate, a stone archway in the wall, though beyond stood only the bluff. She would fling herself from it if she had to. Anything to escape Franklin.
He caught her by the shoulder as she reached the gate, before she could set foot on the dusty path toward the ocean. A yank spun her. He clamped a hand on her other shoulder.
“Unhand me.” She tried to pull free. His fingers pinched like claws.
“You are mine, Victoria. It will go better for you if you accept it.” He yanked her toward him.
She thrashed against his grip, jammed her eyes shut, and twisted her head aside to prevent his mouth from touching hers.
“I think the lady is disinclined to receive your attentions,” a man’s voice said in clipped syllables.
Franklin stilled. Victoria snapped open her eyes and wrenched free. She staggered back against the wall, her breath ragged.
Her gaze caught on the pistol pressed against the side of Franklin’s neck. A gloved hand held it, attached to a coat-clad arm. The gentleman who owned that arm wasn’t as tall as Franklin, but was more solidly built. His too-long brown hair rioted in the breeze blowing in off the sea. His square jaw was set, his brown eyes narrow and fixed on Franklin.
Franklin’s gray irises darted toward the man. “Who are you?”
“A man who is not inclined to watch women be coerced.”
“This is between my future bride and me,” Franklin said. Sweat beaded on his forehead, emphasizing his pallor.
“I will never be your bride,” Victoria cried. “I will drown myself before I let you have me.”
The stranger snapped his head toward her, his surprise clear. His gaze slid back to Franklin. “That would be a great shame, and isn’t necessary. I shall escort this…person from the property. That is, if you wish me to.”
“Victoria,” Franklin said, entreating.
She straightened from the wall. “Please, sir, if you would. I’m sure his carriage is out front.”
The stranger nodded. He prodded Franklin with the pistol. “You know the way, I assume?”
Franklin cast her a biting look, but turned and headed toward the house. The stranger followed. As soon as they left her sight, Victoria slumped against the wall.
She pressed a hand to her head, then realized her palm was sticky with blood drawn by rose thorns. She examined the gouges. Her hand trembled. All of her did. With an effort, she turned to face the sea.
The water rolled in dark, churning swells, though the sun was bright. The Irish Sea, the Mooir Vannin, was often rough, moody. Victoria had read of gleaming tropical oceans, so clear you could see down into their endless depths, or blue like the summer sky. They were no doubt lovely, but the Irish Sea, with its mystery and tumult, spoke to her as no other waters could.
Footsteps approached behind her. She tensed.
“He’s gone.” The stranger’s voice, soft now, sent a wave of relief through her. He stepped up beside her, framed in the arch of the gateway.
She drew her gaze from the sea and studied him. He had strong, handsome features. Sun-streaked, dark brown hair above a tanned face. His hard jawline bespoke of a stern mind. “I do not know you,” she said. “Mister…?”
“Lord, actually, though only a second son.” His tone was milder than his words. “Johnathan Darrius.” He turned to her as he offered the name, his deep brown eyes scrutinizing.
She shook her head. “I’m afraid my father has always kept me here, and rarely spoke of his work. Please don’t take it as an insult, but I do not know you, Lord Johnathan.”
A smile pulled at his lips, the sardonic edge in keeping with the look in his eyes. “Your father knew me. He once proposed a plan for my advancement, thinking we could be partners if I should succeed in it. But that was not to be.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Was he here for compensation, then? Was that all her savior sought? Not noble, but greedy. She looked back to the sea.
“I’m not sorry,” he said. “The plan was terrible. If I’d succeeded, I would have regretted it the remainder of my days.”
One of those sorts of plans, then. “Why are you here?”
“To safeguard you, it seems.”
She looked at him askance. “It seems? Did my father ask you to watch over me?”
“I set out as soon as I heard he was dying, but I was…away.” He shrugged, as if he found the word inadequate. “I arrived too late to speak with him.”
“Well, thank you, Lord Johnathan, for saving me.”
“Please, I prefer John.” His voice was low. She glimpsed pain in the depths of his eyes. “My father’s honorific weighs on me.”
“Thank you, John.” Her cheeks warmed. She’d never uttered a man’s Christian name, aside from Franklin’s, and that always with a foul taste in her mouth.
His expression softened. He produced a kerchief. “You have blood on your forehead. Are you harmed?”
She accepted the handkerchief and wrapped it about her hand. “I’m well enough. The roses punished me for abusing them.”
“Would you like me to walk you back?”
Remembering her ankle, she nodded. He offered his arm and they started toward the manor. Victoria gritted her teeth and tried not to limp. From the corner of her eye, she saw him watching her and tried to smooth the grimace from her face.
John stopped. “You’re in pain.”
“I’ve twisted my ankle,” she admitted.
He studied her a moment. In one swift movement, he swung her into his arms.
Victoria cried out and threw her arms around his neck. “You do not need to carry me,” she protested.
With steady strides, he set out across the lawn. “I beg to differ.”
Anger surged in her. What was he thinking, swooping her up without even a by-your-leave? Ignoring her objection?
Yet, the pain in her ankle faded almost to nothing now that her weight wasn’t on it. His arms, all warmth and strength, were oddly reassuring, the chest pressed against her ribs solid. He didn’t look down at her. His face was still set in hard, slightly bitter lines. But he clearly meant her no harm. With a sigh, Victoria rested her head on his shoulder. What would it be like to have a man like this caring for her?
They reached the manor and he carried her through the open doors of the parlor. He skirted her disarrayed desk and crossed the room to the sitting area. With ease, he dropped to one knee and gently set her on the sofa.
He didn’t meet her gaze as he took her hand and unwound the kerchief. His eyes locked on the gouges. He frowned and ran a light finger across her palm, then carefully rewrapped the fine fabric around her hand. He stood, then stepped to the end of the couch by her feet.
“May I?” He gestured to her ankle. His brown eyes showed only concern.
Not a bit of attraction. No flicker of heat. Nothing like what coursed through Victoria. Her body was warm where it had met his. Her palm still tingled from his touch.
“Will it help?” she managed to ask.
“Your left ankle is swollen.” He studied the offending limb. “I should like to make sure no bones are broken. Likely, it’s only sprained. Staying off it and applying a compress will mend that. There would be no need to s
end for a doctor, unless you wish to, of course.”
“The nearest doctor is miles away.” And the man would report to Franklin anything he learned. “Yes, please examine it and tell me if I should send for him. That is, if you do not mind.”
He shot her a quick glance, as if startled by the idea he might mind. Attention back on her leg, he carefully slid her skirt upward, exposing the ankle. Large hands slipped off her shoe. Victoria bit her lip, unable to pull her gaze away. No man had ever touched a part of her clothing, let alone removed any. He explored her ankle with gentle pressure.
At last, he slid the fabric of her skirt back over her foot. “I’m sure your housekeeper knows a good compress. Use it, and keep off your feet, and your ankle should be much better by morning. You should soak your hand as well. Is there anything I can bring you before I leave?”
“Leave?” He would simply disappear?
He smiled. “You can hardly call your servants with me here.”
“Where will you go?” Would she ever see him again?
“I’ll be near.” He bowed, then started toward the terrace.
Victoria couldn’t comprehend Lord Johnathan, but he’d saved her. He seemed very solemn and he’d asked nothing of her. There weren’t any other gentlemen within miles of the manor. Little as she knew about this one, she could tell he was better than Franklin, or an endless sleep deep in the Irish Sea. “Wait!” She smoothed suddenly clammy palms down her skirt. “Marry me.”
He halted, half turned. His profile, features cast into shadow by the bright, open doors behind him, looked more sculpted than real. He shook his head. “You’re overwrought. I will leave you to recover.” He continued toward the doors.
“I am not overwrought,” she cried. “I am quite serious. I have a special license. Tomorrow, I will be old enough to marry of my own accord. You must realize I’m very wealthy.”
He stopped again, a dark silhouette framed in the doorway. After an endless moment, he stepped through. She watched him stride across the lawn.
Anything for a Lord (Ladies Always Shoot First Book 4) Page 1
