The Trouble with Love (Distinguished Rogues Book 8)

by Heather Boyd

  “Morning, Thompson,” he called.

  “Ah, there you are. I missed you at breakfast.”

  “Estate business,” he lied once more. Thompson hadn’t a clue about his sister’s whereabouts. But the longer Thompson remained, the harder it was to hide where Everett went each day. “I see you’re hard at work already on our project.”

  Thompson smiled and scratched Lion’s nose. “I am eager to get the work done for you, so that next year’s hunt is more comfortable than the last one for participants.”

  Thompson had a flair for architecture and design, and it had only taken half a day for Everett to agree to let his friend restore this building. It kept him busy and prevented him from dwelling on his family problems, too.

  “Good,” he agreed as he studied the cottage again, and the improvements underway with approval. Once completed, he would be able to house another dozen riders more than usual for the annual hunt he hosted. “Are you just about done here?”

  “I’d planned to stay out a few more hours,” Thompson confessed. “I want everything here complete before the wedding day arrives.”

  Everett smiled tightly at the reminder of his imminent nuptials. Everything seemed to hinge on that date. “Very well, I’ll see you at luncheon then.”

  Thompson was good company and had asked many intelligent questions about the challenges of running the estate so far. The man’s father was a fool to cut him off and not teach him more. Everett was toying with the idea of keeping Thompson around long after the wedding day to show him what his future might bring.

  Everett turned toward the stables. Once he and Miss Quartermane were married, Everett would be distracted, but Thompson could be shown how to manage everything he had in mind for his estate. There were many other buildings in need of Thompson’s expert eye, and then there was the possibility of adding modern plumbing to the family wing as well. Alice would be pleased.

  His thoughts turned toward his future wife again, and his mood sank.

  “Shouldn’t I feel more for her by now?” he asked Lion.

  Lion, ever ready for attention, rested his large head heavily on Everett’s shoulder as they walked along. Everett wrapped an arm about his neck.

  “Silly old horse,” he said as he rubbed the great beast’s nose. “You’re not nearly as smart as you think you are.”

  Asking a horse why he wasn’t more excited about his upcoming marriage didn’t give him any answers. He cared about Alice’s comfort, had made sure she had everything needed since her arrival, but there must be something wrong with him. He wasn’t attracted to her as much as he’d hoped to be by now. And there was nothing to be done about that. He’d proposed, Alice and her parents had accepted, and the banns had been read for a wedding.

  He walked back to the stables, secured Lion in his stall again and pondered the beast’s future on his estate. He’d thought Alice might like him to ride, but now he wasn’t so sure she liked being in the saddle as much as she had first claimed. Given he hosted a hunt each year, that disappointed him. He’d expected his wife to be an eager participant. He needed her to be at the least involved.

  But if she wasn’t a rider to the bone, as she’d claimed, they had one less thing in common. Perhaps he’d have to be more direct with his riding invitations in future. Lion was easy to manage for even a novice rider, easy to direct and be around, but his restlessness was because he was bored.

  Lion needed someone to ride him each day, and that person had to be someone who would appreciate his playful nature, too, and want to spend time with the animal out of the saddle.

  With Emily’s health worsening, he didn’t know when he’d find the time the beast needed.

  The stable master drew close. “Do you want the grooms to take him out to the east field and gallop him for a bit today.”

  “No,” he said, as a better idea came to him instead. “Would you deliver Lion to Twilit Hill, to the marquess’ son, with my compliments.”

  The stable master grinned. “A fine idea. Lion will like the boy.”

  He grinned. “I hope so. Otherwise, he’ll eat his head off here and grow fat and difficult.”

  “True,” the stable master agreed.

  He bid his horse farewell, knowing he’d be in good hands in Taverham’s stables, and returned to the house and his guests.

  Alice was in his study, standing at his open study door waiting and looking out upon the grounds. He took a moment to admire her. She was very pretty, her pale hair swept up in an elegant chignon. Today she was wearing another virginal white gown with a froth of lace at her bodice. One day he would peel her out of that dress and make love to her. The idea of it should appeal to him. “Good morning, Miss Quartermane,” he called out.

  Miss Quartermane yelped upon seeing him. “Oh, my lord, you startled me.”

  “Forgive me. I did not mean to.” He drew closer. “You look lovely today.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured, eyes lowering modestly.

  He stepped into the room and looked about swiftly. No sign of her parents but they likely were not far away. He smiled down upon her. “Did you want me for something?”

  “Not really. I was just admiring the views from all the rooms. What there is of it.”

  This room was closest to the woods, and he loved spending his mornings here. “I chose this room particularly for my study because I like the woods.”

  Her brow wrinkled. “Indeed you must. There is so much about.”

  “Please sit,” he asked knowing time was short. It had always been difficult to speak with Alice without her parents hearing every word he uttered. “Don’t be shy. Tell me what you like and dislike about the house.”

  Alice sank into a seat far from him, hands primly folded in her lap. “Warstone is very lovely, but the rooms are often so dark.”

  “Yes, the woods tend to cast shade on a great many rooms.”

  Her brow wrinkled again with a frown. “Why do you not cut down more trees?”

  “Tradition. My great-great-great-grandfather chose this spot and removed over a thousand trees for the house and front gardens, and the northern fields that connect to Lord Taverham’s estate. But no more than was needed for farming land. The forest was here first, so now we only remove what is needed and trees that are in danger of falling.”

  “And no one else has logged here since?”

  “There hasn’t been a great need.”

  Alice smiled. “My father believes you should cut the trees much farther back from the house. He says there is great demand for wood so tall and straight as yours are.”

  Everett was only too aware of her father’s interest in his woods. Stripping the estate for profit sat ill with Everett, though. “Perhaps twenty years ago there was such a demand, but not now.”

  “Did you supply trees for the navy?”

  He nodded. “For a few years only.”

  “Perhaps there is still a demand for lumber for other enterprises.”

  He shook his head. “I won’t compromise the beauty, peace and tranquility of my estate for the few pounds offered.”

  “My father is a very shrewd businessman.” Alice’s eyes lit up with excitement. “He could make you a great deal of money.”

  He laughed at her enthusiasm. “I am well aware that his reputation for tough negotiation is a fact. No one strikes a better deal than Mr. Quartermane.”

  Her brow furrowed again. “But you would not make use of his expertise.”

  “As I said, I don’t need the income, and after we marry I still would not agree to it.” He smiled warmly. “There is no need to concern yourself with commerce on our behalf. I assure you, you will never need to pinch pennies as my wife.”

  “I was not concerned I would,” Miss Quartermane stated somewhat stiffly. “My dowry is sufficient to provide everything you need, Lord Acton.”

  Lord Acton. My lord. But never simply Everett. He’d asked her to use his given name months ago, right after their engagement had been announced
, but she hadn’t yet done so. “Your dowry will benefit the children we will have together.”

  “Of course,” she murmured, eyes lowering demurely again, and blushing.

  It was a sad realization that Alice was as awkward with him now as when he’d asked for her hand in marriage.

  She cast a look of longing toward the door when she heard a noise behind her, most likely her parents, by the sound of it.

  He stood. “Shall we join your parents?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  They did not go far before they heard Mrs. Quartermane calling out her daughter’s name in a whisper. Alice blushed, and hurried away to find her mother. Everett followed at a slower pace, wondering what he could do to make his future wife more comfortable before their wedding night. He did not like that she was uneasy with him. Although it was understandable. They were virtually strangers still, and had only three weeks to become better acquainted before they were bound together forever. A lot could happen in three weeks, he hoped.

  Chapter Seven

  Whitney brought her horse to a stop just as the trees gave way to an empty, grassy field and threw herself out of the saddle. She stared across the field, glaring at Rose Cottage as it hid behind a high stone wall covered in climbing roses. It looked to be completely enclosed from her vantage point, but there seemed to be a drive of crushed white shell leading to it. The place appeared well tended, though she could see no signs of anyone about.

  Taverham’s groom burst into the open and he joined her quickly. “Lord, you’re going to get me dismissed from my position.”

  “That will not happen if we say nothing about this.” She shook her head. “See to our horses and remain here. I want to see for myself what he has done.”

  She’d not been introduced to Lady Brighthurst, but she’d seen her with Lord Taverham before Miranda’s return. There had been something in her expression Whitney hadn’t liked back then, and after all she’d heard since, she distrusted the woman. She had learned from her cousin that Lady Brighthurst was dangerous, and hated Miranda simply because Lord Taverham had married her. She doubted the woman could recognize her name, as they’d never been introduced, and prayed she may not know who she was friends with, or related to, either.

  Whitney gathered up her skirts and marched across the grassy clearing and up to the wall. The pearl-gray stone was higher than her head and she could not see into the enclosure below the roofline and chimney stacks. She stalked the perimeter, searching for flaws, breaches in the stone that might allow her to peer through and know for sure that her suspicions about Lord Acton were correct.

  At the far side of the structure, beyond sight of Mr. Landry, she came face to face with a man holding a pitchfork.

  She shrieked, and took a hasty step back before she was impaled. “Oh, you scared me!”

  “That was the point. What are you doing?” the man demanded.

  Since he seemed to be a servant, possibly a gardener, she made herself smile. And since the pitchfork remained aimed directly at her face, she bobbed a hasty curtsy to show she meant no mischief. “How do you do, sir?”

  The man sized her up, buried the handle in the dirt and leaned upon the pitchfork. “I asked what you were doing here?”

  “Why, nothing untoward,” she told him, fluttering her lashes as she decided the best way to approach him for information. He seemed very unfriendly very quickly. “I saw this charming cottage from a distance, and simply had to come closer and speak with the lady of the house. Such a pretty spot to live, don’t you think? I was looking for a way inside so I might knock and make myself known to her.”

  She peered around his shoulder and saw a first break in the construction. There was a heavy looking garden gate set between the walls a little farther around.

  “Never you mind who she is.” The fellow scowled. “No one calls here.”

  “Is that so? How tragic. It’s such a charming spot.” She glanced around with wide eyes, looking for signs of other servants. Perhaps she could slip past this one man. “Does anyone come out?”

  “No,” he said bluntly, shifting the pitchfork from hand to hand. “And it’s my job to keep busybodies away, so be off with you.”

  “Who’s there, Thomas?” a woman asked in a tiny voice to Whitney’s left.

  From behind the wall.

  Whitney faced the stone obstruction, looking for cracks or gaps to see through. Finding none apparent, she almost growled in frustration. She didn’t recognize the voice, but then, she’d never heard Lady Brighthurst speak, either.

  “Oh, hello there,” Whitney cried to the lady. “How do you do?”

  After a moment, the lady sneezed. “Not well, thank you. Who is it with you, Thomas?”

  The gardener looked Whitney up and down. “A lady of quality, by the look of her fancy clothes, but she hasn’t given her card as yet.”

  Whitney thought a moment. What harm could there be in giving her real information? She fumbled in her pockets, hoping she might just have a card with her. She came up empty. “I am afraid I don’t have one with me, but I am Miss Whitney Crewe of London,” she called out. “I am an artist of some renown.”

  It never hurt to speak well of your skills when speaking to other women.

  “I don’t believe we are acquainted,” the woman inside said flatly.

  “I am a friend of Miss Quartermane.” Whitney waited for a positive response to that name and an invitation to come in.

  “I am not acquainted with anyone called Quartermane,” the lady claimed, which made it a certainty that she was not Lord Acton’s evil sister.

  “Oh dear,” she murmured. For the first time, she began to have doubts that this was Lord Acton’s sister after all. She might just owe the man an apology for her condemning private thoughts. Before she did that, Whitney had to be sure. “Might I have the pleasure of meeting you so that we might become known to one another?”

  The gardener shook his head very quickly.

  “I am not allowed visitors,” the lady whispered.

  “Not allowed visitors.” Whitney adopted her most scandalized expression solely for the benefit of the gardener’s keen eyes. “Why ever not?”

  “I—” The woman began to cough violently. When the horrible sound continued for a good many minutes, Whitney pressed her hand to her chest in sympathy. The lady did not sound very good at all. “I think you must go away now,” the woman eventually gasped out.

  She heard other voices with the lady, murmuring soothing words to lure her back inside to a warm bed and glass of wine, and was glad she had someone to care for her during her illness. “Goodbye then,” Whitney called out. “I do wish you a swift recovery.”

  Whitney glanced at the gardener without bothering to conceal her concern. But she still needed to know who that woman was. Unfortunately, she suspected the gardener, judging by his cold expression, would not be forthcoming in that respect. “I’ve never met so many unfriendly people in my life in one place. Very well, I shall depart with my curiosity unsatisfied and a bruised heart. Perhaps I will also go to another district for inspiration for my art and meet nicer people there.”

  She gathered up her skirts and made slow progress around the structure. The gardener did not follow more than a few steps and, after he turned away, she slowed, listening to the people move about the enclosure closest to her.

  “Wait,” the lady inside the walled garden called out suddenly. “Did you say you were an artist?”

  “Yes, I am indeed. I came to Worcestershire in search of inspiration.”

  She was also here to teach Taverham’s son, but kept that to herself for now. If the woman was Lady Brighthurst, she’d rather not announce the connection for now.

  The lady gasped behind the wall. “I should like to see your work. I am a great patron of the arts. Do you sketch, too?”

  “Yes, quite often. I find it soothing.” Soothing, and awkwardly arousing when her subject was male. That, she never confessed to anyone.

 
“Will you come back tomorrow?” the lady asked

  Whitney grinned widely but kept her voice unconvinced. “For what purpose? To be threatened by that awful fellow with the pitchfork again? I think not, madam whoever-you-are.”

  “Thomas would never harm you if I ask him not to,” she promised. “I need someone drawn for me. But I must speak to my brother first.”

  Brother.

  Whitney shivered with a sudden chill. “Tomorrow, but only if you honor me with your name and your brother’s today.”

  “Emily. My name is Emily. I desperately want a sketch of my brother, Lord Acton. Are you acquainted with him?”

  “I am not.” Although she had feared Acton was hiding his sister here, the confirmation he had lied rocked her more than she imagined possible. She would not return tomorrow, and she certainly wouldn’t sketch Lord Acton for Lady Brighthurst. “Unfortunately I am engaged elsewhere tomorrow,” she lied. “I would come back another day if I have time.”

  “Thank you.” The lady resumed coughing, and then other voices could be heard behind the wall, demanding Emily return inside to rest. Although Lady Brighthurst protested that she wasn’t tired, they all moved away, possibly inside the cottage until Whitney could hear nothing more.

  Whitney snarled silently. Acton had let his sister come home. There was simply no excuse possible to forgive his behavior. How dare he go back on his word and put that dear, sweet boy in danger!

  Chapter Seven

  Miss Quartermane shielded her eyes as they emerged from the shadows cast by a tract of dense woodland and blinked in the bright sunlight that burst over them. “How soon until we reach the village?”

  Everett gestured to the small cluster of neat thatched buildings directly ahead of them. “We’re already here.”

  The village closest to his estate, nestled against the forest edge, was full of people he cared about deeply. He wanted Alice to know them well too. He brought the carriage to a halt and jumped down outside the smithy, where he’d leave his carriage for the hours they strolled about.