by Julia Quinn
She sighed when it came free, shaking her head with relief at not having that confounded piece of trumpery smothering her.
Free of her bonnet, yes. Free of Kate? One glance at the other woman said all too clearly her companion was not going to let this subject rest.
“I’m going to find a cup of tea,” Cordelia announced, in haste and no small measure of panic.
“They have servants for that,” Kate told her as she bolted for the door.
“I’ve made do most of my life, I daresay I can continue to do so now,” Cordelia told her.
Without a husband, she wanted to add.
Since it seemed the only man she’d ever wanted was destined for another.
Kipp shuddered as he recalled the look of shock on Cordelia’s face as Mrs. Abbott’s inadvertent words had laid his secret wide open.
“Got to face her eventually,” Drew said, nudging him up the stairs, though as it turned out, his brother’s prodding was unnecessary, for here she was hurrying down the steps.
When Kipp glanced back, he discovered his brother had slipped away, leaving him all alone.
He didn’t know who was the worse coward—him or Drew.
But then again, he wasn’t the one who’d agreed to this imbroglio.
“I was just coming up to see—” he began, looking at her shoes rather than meeting her eyes.
“Everything is . . . the room is . . . most satisfactory.”
He flinched. She sounded so stiff and so formal. So not Cordelia. He wrenched his gaze up and found her looking away. “I’m so sorry, Cordelia. For all of it.”
For kissing you. For enjoying it far too much.
But he could hardly say that. Instead, he continued lamely on. At least it sounded so to his ears. “I meant to tell you—” He faltered and then steeled his last bit of courage. “About Miss Holt, that is.”
“It matters not. I wish you well.” Her words were a crisp knot that tied up everything.
Yet that wasn’t quite the case and he suddenly had to tell her the rest. “It isn’t settled. Or even certain she’ll accept me—”
Cordelia turned toward him. “She’d be a fool not to—” The words came blurting out. Not so much words, but a confession of sorts.
He warmed inside. “I’m not that great of a catch—”
She huffed at this, and got straight to the heart of the matter. “Do you love her?”
Now it was his turn to confess. “No.”
“Then why—”
“I must.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t think you’d understand.”
But this was Cordelia and she wasn’t one to let a problem lay unresolved. “Then show me. Help me to understand.”
Show her? Show her just how his forebears had brought low this once prosperous and respected estate? But then again . . . “Actually it’s rather obvious.”
Cordelia’s brows knit together. “What is?”
“The estate. It’s in ruins.”
She glanced around. “Oh, hardly that. You have a roof—”
“A roof in need of repairs.”
She laughed at that. “Kate said the same thing when we arrived. I fear I don’t know much about estates. But I assume all roofs need repairs eventually.”
He laughed as well. For there was one thing you could count on—Cordelia being practical to a fault. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“Show me what makes you feel so compelled to sacrifice your heart and then I’ll see if you deserve forgiveness.” She held out her hand and he couldn’t help himself, he took it, her fingers twining intimately with his, warm and strong, just like the lady.
He led her toward the doors to the garden and she stopped, digging in her heels. “Kipp?”
“Yes?”
She glanced shyly at him. “Can we start with the secret passageway to the dungeon?”
“Hardly,” he told her, pulling her toward the French doors that led out to the gardens near the overgrown roses. “That is like having cake before supper.”
“I’ve never seen anything wrong with that arrangement,” she muttered under her breath.
Some hours later, Cordelia stepped out of the secret passageway into a large, sunny room.
A vast library, to be exact.
She glanced back over her shoulder as the door closed, and it looked just like the rest of the paneling, impossible to discern.
“So there it is,” Kipp was saying. “The dungeon and secret passage, as described. Does it meet with your approval?”
“Oh yes,” she enthused. “That is the finest secret passage I have ever seen. Or explored.”
“How many have you seen?”
“That is the first,” she confessed. “So it wins easily.”
Kipp laughed as Cordelia set off for the middle of the room, turning this way and that as she took in the collection of volumes.
“Oh, how glorious,” she said, awestruck. Then she fisted her hands to her hips and faced him. “You never told me about this!”
“I like to keep this all to myself.”
“Midas hoarding his treasure,” she accused before turning to scan one of the shelves. “Oh goodness, is this Halladay’s account of China? Does he add anything to the speculation of what happened to Captain Wood?”
Kipp shook his head. “You are the only woman alive who would ask such a question.”
She tucked her nose up. “I would think an expedition that disappeared without a trace would be of interest to everyone.” Her fingers traced over the volumes shelved there. “Canton, A Traveler’s History. Oh, doesn’t the very name, Canton, fill you with the desire to see the emperor’s pavilions? Sir George went when he was only twelve.”
“He was also a linguistic savant.”
“Some people have all the luck,” she replied. “Oh, and here are McTavish’s accounts of the wilds of Canada.”
“From the Nile to China to Canada,” Kipp said, coming to stand beside her. “Is there no end to your curiosity?”
Cordelia glanced up at him in a bit of surprise. “No, of course not. The world is meant to be explored. To be seen. And I am determined to see as much as I can. Don’t you still share that desire?”
He shook his head. “No, I suppose I don’t.”
“No? But—”
“Didn’t you see the lands, the fields?”
“Yes, they’re quite lovely, but I don’t see—”
“And quite empty. And far too neglected. Something should have been done ages ago.”
“But a steward could—”
“No!” His answer was so emphatic she paused. “That is exactly why the fields are undrained. The fences falling down. The cottages in such dire straits. They’ve been neglected for far too long.”
“But . . .” She glanced out the window. “If you had the money—”
“If. Wishes do not repair fences.” He heaved a sigh. “Perhaps in time. Once I’ve seen things brought to rights, or as Drew says, steered true. But until then . . .”
“Oh, Kipp—”
“None of that,” he told her. “I won’t have it. If I don’t pity my position, then no one else should.”
“Is it also your duty to give up your dreams?”
“Have you ever considered, Cordelia, that my dreams have changed?”
She took a step back, for it was the last thing she expected to hear.
He wanted to be here.
“And this Miss Holt can do all that—fix your fences and patch the roofs.”
“Yes.”
Cordelia thought that sounded dreadfully dull. “I so hate to think of you trapped by all this. The thought of you giving up.”
“I don’t think of it that way. Not any longer.” He took her hand and pulled her away from the stories that held other people’s adventures. “Come, let me show you something.”
They crossed the room to a large table covered in rolls and stacks of papers.
Kipp sorted through them until he found a large sheet. He sp
read it out for her to see, trapping the corners with an inkwell and paperweights.
Cordelia’s gaze danced over the drawing before her. “I thought you didn’t make maps any longer.”
“Yes, well, I was just dabbling a bit,” he told her.
“This is hardly dabbling,” she said, turning so the light streaming in from the long windows illuminated his work. “This is here—Mallow Hills, isn’t it? Oh yes, it must be, for there is that beautiful little meadow we crossed.” She turned to him and grinned.
“It is,” he told her. “There is an old map of the lands—” He began picking through the sheets. “Ah, here it is. It isn’t much, so last summer I thought to try my hand.”
She beamed at the drawing. “You’ve done an amazing job. But it needs color.”
He shook his head. “I haven’t the talent for that, but you are correct, the right touches would bring it to life.”
Cordelia went back to studying his map, with the focused gaze of an artist. “Did you survey the property yourself?”
He nodded. “I thought I knew it from memory, but it is so different to go out and walk the land, to see every detail, every problem from all the angles. A steward can’t do that for me.”
His words held a note of urgency and deep longing. She bit her lip for a moment and then glanced up at him, a sense of guilt tugging at her. “I do hope my request doesn’t put you out with Miss Holt.”
“No, I hardly think a week or two will matter. As it is, nothing is settled, so she has no real claim on my time.”
On my heart.
But he didn’t say that. That was just her own wishful thinking. “If it does become a problem, you can tell her I simply borrowed you,” Cordelia teased.
“Borrowed?” He barked out a laugh. “Is that all I am—a volume from the lending library?”
She smiled slyly at him. “Eventually I will have to give you back.”
“Yes, of course,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant about their arrangement. Temporary arrangement, he reminded himself.
“Is she in love with you? Miss Holt?”
“I doubt she’s in love—well, let me preface that—she’s in love with the idea of being a titled lady. She has her heart set on it. If I were to guess, she’s a bit disappointed that she’s having to make due with a mere earl—it was much talked of earlier this season that despite her origins, she’d land a duke or a marquess.”
“Because she has a fortune?”
“Yes, that and she’s quite the renowned beauty.”
“Have you drawn her?” She reached for a sketchbook, but he stopped her.
“Oh good heavens, no. She’d find that the height of impertinence. That, and I don’t think she’d like the notion of her future husband doing anything so bohemian as sketching. She prefers to imagine me making grand speeches in the House of Lords, or sitting at the head of a large dinner party where she is the crown jewel of hostesses.”
“And you do those sorts of things?”
“I must,” he replied.
“Yes, I suppose so.” Cordelia glanced around, for this was unfamiliar territory to her—her own parents had only been interested in the arts and sciences. “Miss Holt’s father, is he in politics?”
“No. He’s a cit. A very rich one. And he wants a son-in-law who can help along his business interests.”
Cordelia glanced back at the map, retracing the paths they’d just explored. “And her money, rather her father’s money, will do all this?”
“Yes, all that and more.”
However, Kipp’s gaze was set on the very real gardens and meadows beyond the windows. “My family has been here at Mallow Hills since the reign of King Edward. Kings and queens have visited this house. It was always a source of great pride for the Talcotts. And I want it to be that again. Not just some sad relic. An empty pile of stones.” He paused and turned to her. “You could say I have my own sort of adventure ahead of me. Restoring Mallow Hills will be as much an adventure as exploring the Nile.”
Cordelia didn’t know what to say.
But Kipp did.
“Besides, this is my home.”
My home . . .
Those words haunted Cordelia as she went upstairs to change for supper.
My home.
She’d never had one of those.
Oh yes, one might argue she did. The town house in London. Though she’d only lived in it off and on until she was nine—for her parents had always been traveling, off on one or another adventure. Never staying anywhere too long.
For a time, when she’d been at Madame Rochambeaux’s, Cordelia had started to understand what that elusive word meant.
Home.
Not just the roof over one’s head, a shelter for the night, but a true home. Surrounded by those dearest to you. A sense of shared history.
Anne, Elinor, and Bea. They were like sisters to her. And even Madame Rochambeaux, for all her failings, was the closest thing to a mother Cordelia had ever known.
Not even her aunts’ house—where she and her friends had spent several summers—had come close, for it had been very much their domain.
So when Kipp had said with such certainty, such depth, that this, Mallow Hills, was his home, she’d had a glimpse into what he meant, for evidence of it was everywhere. The portraits of the previous earls that lined the halls—where she could clearly see hints and echoes of Kipp’s handsome features staring back at her.
And as she curled up into a lonely ball in the large grand bed, she chewed at her lower lip and considered her own history.
Her family hadn’t such deep roots, her father being only the second baronet, the title now lost in time since there was no male heir to carry it forward, no roots that held it in the past or for future generations to cultivate.
Even if she had all the money in the world, it would never purchase what Kipp held in those two simple words.
My home.
And while she might never be able to claim a place in his realm, she slipped out of bed and tiptoed her way downstairs, determined to leave her mark somewhere, in the only way she knew how.
Chapter 7
Mayfair, London
“She let him get away from town without closing the deal,” Mr. Josiah Holt complained in a voice loud enough to carry to the other side of London.
As it was, even if he’d whispered his opinion, Pamela would have wanted to sink beneath her chair. It was bad enough Lord Thornton had fled town right at a time when there should be a very specific announcement being made, but here was her own father lamenting her failure at supper, and in front of their guest.
Yes, yes, it was only Sir Brandon, or as her father liked to call him, “her back-pocket swain,” meaning that if Thornton didn’t come up to snuff, she still had one eligible parti in the running, but still . . . it was rather mortifying.
Almost as much as her other major source of embarrassment. Her father.
Rich though he might be, there hadn’t been a duke or marquess willing to align himself to such a gruff and ill-mannered cit as Josiah Holt.
No matter her dowry.
Pamela dared a glance at their guest and found him smiling at her. The rogue even had the audacity to wink.
Steady on, minx, she could almost hear him saying in his overly familiar manner. But then again, she suspected the baronet rather liked Josiah.
“I must own up, I was surprised to see Thornton on the Bath road,” Sir Brandon replied. “For I was quite certain he’d stolen a march on me.”
“Bah! I don’t understand you fancy fellows,” Josiah scolded. “If I want something I stand my ground. Bully my way into the matter. If you want something, you make your wants known and take the advantage.”
Sir Brandon tipped his glass in agreement. “I shall remember that, sir.”
“You say you saw Lord Thornton on the Bath road?” Pamela asked. “Isn’t that the way to his estate?”
“Yes, I believe he was going to stop at Mallow Hills,” Sir
Brandon told her. “He and his guests.”
That last tidbit brought Josiah’s attention up from his well-filled plate. “His guests? What’s this?”
“I told you, Papa,” Pamela said, “Lord Thornton had a matter of honor to take care of. His journey must have taken him toward his estates.”
This time it was Sir Brandon who sputtered his surprise. “A matter of wha-a-at?”
“Honor, my lord,” Pamela replied. “Lord Thornton was called out of town on a matter of honor.”
Sir Brandon sat back in his seat, looking all too bemused by the quaint notion. “Are you so certain?”
Up until this moment, Pamela would have staked her rather substantial pin money on the inalienable fact that the earl would ask her to marry him once he returned to London.
But there was something so superior in Sir Brandon’s question, in the wry tilt of his brows, that an odd and unfamiliar quake ran through her.
Doubt, one might call it, but it was an uncertain feeling for her, a young lady who’d always been so secure in her wealthy advantages.
“I had it from Lord Thornton himself,” she told him in her most lofty of tones. The ones bought and paid for at a respectable Bath school, courtesy of Josiah’s ample coins.
“Yes, yes, I got all that flimflam, but if you think Thornton is off on some noble cause, I do hate to be the one to break it to you, my dear Miss Holt, but he’s gulled you sorely.”
Her fingers wound into the napkin in her lap, but still she straightened slightly, if only to perfect her posture. “You must be wrong, Sir Brandon. The earl is merely assisting an old friend.”
“Is that what Miss Padley is? An ‘old friend’?”
Miss Padley?
The shock must have shown on her face, because their rakish guest was smiling once again. “So you didn’t know about her, did you?”
Mr. Holt coughed a bit. “I won’t have it, sir. Discussing petticoat matters in front of my daughter.”
“I’ll assure you, Mr. Holt, Miss Cordelia Padley is no Drury Lane vestal, fetching though she is. Rather, she’s the daughter of Sir Horace Padley, quite the respectable scholar and scientist. I wouldn’t expect you’ve heard of him.”
