The Muse

by Raine Miller

  A ROTHVALE LEGACY HISTORICAL PREQUEL

  I

  THIS book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  NO part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  THE author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of any wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction.

  Copyright © 2014 Raine Miller Romance

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Design: Jena Brignola & Michelle Preast

  Editing: Making Manuscripts

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  EVERLEY GENEAOLOGY

  BYRON-COLE & WILTON GENEAOLOGY

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  The ROGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BOOKS BY RAINE MILLER

  DEDICATION

  To Dreams, and for making them real.

  Are you sure

  That we are awake? It seems to me

  That yet we sleep, we dream

  —William Shakespeare~ A Midsummer Night’s Dream

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  THIS is the first story I ever wrote. It has been tucked away in a box under my bed for more than six years. A few people have read it and probably forgotten the story by now because they last saw it so long ago. I wrote every word from the heart and crafted the whole basis of the world in which all of my later books were born into. Blackstone Affair was born out of The Muse. Rothvale Legacy was as well. Every book, every story, every main character, connects in some way to what was begun right here on the pages following this message. I hope you enjoy where it all began. To beginnings. May they lead to something very wonderful for you.

  xxoo R

  EVERLEY GENEAOLOGY

  BYRON-COLE & WILTON GENEAOLOGY

  PROLOGUE

  sim·u·la·crum [sim-yuh-ley-kruh m]

  --noun

  1. a slight, unreal or superficial likeness or semblance

  2. an effigy, image or representation

  London, 1895

  “IT is completed.” Removing the cloth covering, Frederic stepped back to show his work.

  His companion studied the painting for a long time before he spoke. “Beautiful. Simmering and seductive through the use of such vibrant orange. Sure to garner attention, don’t you think, Frederic?”

  “Perhaps. I hope it will.” Sighing, he felt weary and tired, unwilling to waste the energy of thought on how his newest painting might be received.

  “What will you call it?”

  “I am calling it ‘Flaming June.’”

  “Who is she, asleep in the chair, in that flowing gown? Was she June?”

  Frederic shook his head. “There was a different painting, before this one, another version—the original. I saw it one time and could never forget, so seared was the image into my memory.”

  He touched a finger to the canvas, remembering details of what she looked like, even though it had been a very long time since his own eyes had been granted the view in all her magnificent glory.

  “When was this?”

  “Oh, many years ago when I was first starting out. I met the great man himself at a house party in Warwickshire. He had to have done that painting more than eighty years ago by now.”

  “Who?”

  “Mallerton. He painted her first. Conceived in the warmth of summer, he said. He told me he painted her during the month of June. Sometime in June.”

  Frederic felt wistful now, lost in the remembrance of that other painting. “She wore a yellow dress, jonquil yellow, and had a splendid shawl draped over her.”

  “Who was she?”

  “Mallerton said she was…Imogene.”

  Flaming June ~Sir Frederic Leighton, 1895

  Ponce Museum of Art, Ponce, Puerto Rico

  ONE

  Little Lamb who made thee?

  Dost thou know who made thee?

  Gave thee life and bid thee feed,

  By the stream and o’er the mead…

  William Blake ~ Songs of Innocence, 1789

  Kent, 1812

  IMOGENE looked up and saw all she needed to know. The November sun had just about conquered the clouds and that was good enough for her. The air was cold but it didn’t matter because the opportunity to ride overruled. This was her time to be liberated and she welcomed it. Riding out was the only time she could really put everything aside. Moments like this took her back in time…to before.

  Rambling up to the top of the meadow, she looked down upon the dry creek below. Her eyes caught the ball of white easily among the dark rocks, subconscious memory focusing in on what did not belong there. Urging Terra down into the crevasse, she found the white spot to be a lamb, just hours old. Without a thought, she dismounted and reached for the solitary creature. Warm baby wool stirred under her hand, melting her heart in an instant. She knew there would be no way she could leave it here to die. This was an off-season lamb, unusual for late fall, but not unheard of.

  She scanned the landscape slowly until she saw what she suspected. The mother was dead, her body mostly obscured by vegetation a few yards distant. Imogene could see that there was blood on the ground too. It had seeped into the earth leaving a wide, dark spot. The poor thing had likely died giving birth, a harsh reality of daily life for human and animal alike.

  Taking up the bleating baby, she secured it in front of her saddle while Terra snorted in annoyance. A large rock made do as a mounting block, and slowly they picked their way out of the rocky trench, back up to the firmer ground of the meadow. Orienting herself toward the Kenilbrooke farm entrance, she figured the best plan was to relinquish the lamb to Mr. Jacks and inform him about the dead ewe.

  Terra was having none of it though. Tossing her head and stepping awkwardly, the beautiful bay was clearly having trouble bearing the weight. Imogene leapt down for the second time and tried to discover what ailed her. “Did you pick up a rock in that trench, my beauty?” Soothing her with soft words and stroking, she investigated the favoured hoof as best she could but found nothing. Unfortunately the lamb’s bleating only became more incessant. “That is not helping a bit, is it, my darling?” Terra eyed her patiently as if she understood every word.

  Gathering up the lamb from the saddle, Imogene held it against her until it quieted. Once Terra had calmed enough, she wrapped the reins around her hand and began to lead her slowly. “I suppose we’ll just have to walk our way back.”

  Terra nickered in seeming agreement. The only thing Imogene could see to do was to lead Terra as gently as possible and seek help at Kenilbrooke Park. She would never risk injuring her horse just for her own comfort anyway, and a walk would not kill her. It might not be so pleasant with a lamb
in her arms, though. And that November sun might be a bit warmer than she originally thought, but she would survive. This wasn’t so hard she thought, as she picked her way over rocks and scrub, and very uneven heath—just vigorous exercise is all. The miles would pass quickly.

  Keep telling yourself that, girl.

  BROODING was what he did best, or so that was what his brother told him quite often. Coming to Kent for their cousin’s wedding was the right thing to do. Didn’t mean he wanted to be here, but then again, want and need were rarely in agreement. At least he’d never known them to be. So Kent it was for the moment. Graham Everley, 9th Lord Rothvale, Baron, master of Gavandon, Member of Parliament, unrealized portrait painter, and most of all, miserable bastard, stared out the window of his friend’s house and thought about the past year. Returning to England brought back his numerous feelings of helplessness and regret. Ireland was different. Easier. Slower. He’d missed it from the day he had left.

  “So, any plans for Town while you’re here?” Hargreave asked behind him from the couch.

  “Yes, actually,” Graham answered, still looking out the window. “Next week I’ll make my way down. What is it, two hours by horseba—” He lost his words. His voice just vanished as the pain struck him deep and struck him hard. It felt like an actual piercing into his flesh. The harsh thumping that accompanied that pain told him his heart had gotten in on the battle as well. All of it was in direct response to what his eyes were taking in. “Hargreave? There is the most extraordinary sight. Just right here.” He motioned for his friend to come. “Who is—who is the young beauty carrying a new lamb and leading a lame mare down your path?”

  Henry Hargreave joined him at the window and frowned as soon as he saw. “Miss Byron-Cole appears to be needing some assistance. I’ll go down and find out what’s happened.” Graham followed right behind his friend. Rude manners or not, he was getting a better look at her.

  “Miss Byron-Cole, good morning. I think you’ve had a bit of trouble, it looks like,” Hargreave announced as he approached.

  “Mr. Hargreave.” She looked flustered. Hell, she looked like a goddess. Graham couldn’t take his eyes off her. And that voice of hers. He’d only heard her speak Hargreave’s name but it was enough to tantalize his senses. There was huskiness to the sound of her, a breath of sensuality, putting images into his head of naked skin and bodies entwined in beds. Her naked body in his bed, more specifically.

  He watched Miss Byron-Cole explain to Hargreave and chose to ignore he was staring like an idiot. “I had thought to beg assistance from your manager. Yes sir, it has been an eventful morning. I came upon this lamb, newborn, and its dead mother in the dry creek of the upper meadow, and I could not abandon the baby. I meant to deliver it to the estate and quickly found upon our return that my horse was coming up lame. She appears to have an impediment, possibly a stone or some such, imbedded in the hoof of her right foreleg. I fear we have had a slow, ponderous walk instead of a ride.”

  Hargreave called for his estate manager and addressed her again. “Miss Byron-Cole, you must be exhausted from your trek carrying that lamb so far. Will you take some refreshment and sit down?”

  “You are too kind, but no thank you,” she declined, shaking her head. “I dread my intrusion, as you are receiving visitors, and have no wish to call you away from your guests.” Her eyes followed to where he stood on the steps. Graham froze and took in the sight of her, compelled to look, unable to do anything but stare. “My aunt will be missing me by now, I fear. I am well past my time—they will be asking for me at home,” she said solemnly.

  “Of course, but rest assured it is no intrusion. I am quite sure you are providing a welcome diversion for my guests in any case.” Hargreave turned slightly, directing his eyes to where Graham stood, still rooted to the steps and gawking like a half-wit. Hargreave cocked an amused brow at Graham before turning back to address the lovely Miss Byron-Cole once more.

  The lucky goddamn sod.

  “At any rate, we are neighbours, and you have bravely risked yourself in returning my property to the estate. I should be thanking you as I am now in your debt,” Hargreave prattled on as the estate manager walked onto the scene. “Ah, here is Mr. Jacks. He will take the lamb and see to your horse…um…what do you call her?”

  “Terra. Terra is her name, Mr. Hargreave. Mr. Jacks knows.”

  Graham thought Miss Byron-Cole looked like she wanted to bolt, and he was struck with the very irrational idea that he should demand she stay and take refreshment as Hargreave had suggested. He was not finished staring yet. And he wanted to hear her talking some more. But all of those ‘wants’ were forced to wait while a groom transferred her saddle from her lame mount onto a regal dark horse bearing a white splash across his front, a perfect rendering of a crashing, ocean wave.

  “Terra, meaning firma earth? How appropriate. You see, the horse on which you will return, is called Triton, god of the sea. The earth and sea both represented as it were,” Hargreave joked, pointing to both horses.

  Graham wanted to roll his eyes, but waited for her response instead.

  “So they are, earth and sea indeed.” She did not laugh at the joke. “Triton is known to me. I daresay I can manage him. He is a swift lad, but gentle. Thank you, sir, for your kindness and for the loan of him. My uncle can send a groom for Terra on the morrow, returning Triton at the same time. Will that be acceptable?”

  “Most assuredly, it is no trouble.” Hargreave assisted her mount from the block while Graham had to keep his feet on the steps by force of will. He wanted to assist her up from the block. He wanted to put his hands on her waist and hold her—what in the bloody hell had infected his brain? “Will you and your family be attending the ball this evening?” Hargreave asked her. Good bloody question.

  “Yes, sir, an event most anticipated at Wilton Court. I believe everyone is looking forward to it with great enthusiasm,” she answered politely, but looked to the side of the gravel path like it was her best friend. She wanted to be gone.

  “Are you to be counted among those who anticipate it?” Thank you, Hargreave! Graham hoped she would say yes. The ball tonight meant he could see her again. Talk to her. Dance with her. Touch her.

  “Yes, of course.” Her reply gave away nothing. Miss Byron-Cole was a reserved beauty. “Again, my thanks, Mr. Hargreave, for your help today. Please do give my best to Mrs. Hargreave, Miss Mina, and to Mr. Everley. Good day, sir.”

  Hearing his name come from her lips felt good, even though he realized she wasn’t referring to him when she’d said ‘Mr. Everley.’ Miss Byron-Cole had named his cousin, Julian Everley, prospective bridegroom and the very reason Graham was even back in England after more than a year and a half. If his cousin was not about to marry, then he never would’ve left Donadea on his own accord.

  Smiling stiffly, she dipped her head in farewell. When she lifted her head, her eyes drifted over to his for just a moment and held. Feeling suddenly like a schoolboy, Graham couldn’t keep back the grin. But as soon as she caught his smile, she abruptly turned away. Damn.

  “Miss Byron-Cole, until tonight then.” Hargreave bowed before joining Graham on the steps. Both watched her ride swiftly down the drive, Triton’s hooves kicking up bits of gravel as she was carried away and out of sight. That black horse of Hargreave’s was magnificent. In fact, the whole scene had been magnificent—horse and rider.

  “You must tell me everything about her, Hargreave.” Graham decided not to waste any time discovering whatever he might learn about Miss Byron-Cole.

  His friend arched another brow at him but offered nothing. At their return to the drawing room, all heads turned to meet them, eager for the gossipy news.

  “Well?” Sophie inquired.

  “Miss Byron-Cole sends her best regards to all of you.” Hargreave quickly explained to the group what had occurred as he took up his wife’s hand and brought it to his lips for a kiss.

  “She looked worn out, Henry. You should have bro
ught her in for a rest and refreshment,” Sophie admonished.

  “Yes, my dear, and I did offer, but she seemed very concerned about being missed at Wilton Court, and anxious to be on her way. As I’m sure you saw, she literally bolted away from here. I would have worried for her safety on Triton if I didn’t know her as such a talented rider.”

  Graham surprised himself by blurting, “I dare to say she behaved quite remarkably and in good sense of the situation and of the duty pressed upon her. She had the forethought not only to rescue the lamb, but also spared her horse permanent injury by knowing well enough not to ride. I think she must be more sensible than most ladies of twice her age.”

  They all turned to stare at him like he’d grown another head. “I believe we can all agree on that, Graham.” Hargreave came to his rescue. “She will be in attendance tonight at the ball.”

  “But who is she?” He did it again. His mouth working completely independent of good manners or logic. “Er, she is quite—quite unusual.” He knew he was being insistent, and looked a certifiable idiot, but he had to know.

  Miss Wilhelmina Charleston, or Mina, as she was affectionately known, his cousin’s fiancée, and the sister of Mrs. Hargreave, answered first. “That remarkable young lady is the Honorable Imogene Byron-Cole and no stranger to duty, sir, as you correctly observed. She has come to Shelburne to live with her family called Wilton. Lady Wilton being her aunt, and the sister to Miss Imogene’s father, the late Lord Wyneham. Miss Imogene was raised on a country estate in Essex, where she was recently orphaned, and it would be safe to say, still suffering from the grief of her loss.”

  “Wyneham, I have heard of him. I think I even met him once. Was Lord Wyneham a politician? And what of her circumstances in losing her parents? I daresay I noticed the sadness about her, ever present during her exchange just now—”