Suffering The Scot (Brotherhood 0f The Black Tartan Book 1)

by Nichole Van

  And yet, something about him tugged at her. Perhaps it was the breadth of his shoulders filling out his coat. Or maybe it was the ease of his stance, as if he would face the jaws of Hell itself with a sardonic smile and casual sang-froid. Or maybe it was the way he ran a gloved hand through his hair, taking it from fashionably tousled to deliciously rumpled.

  Mmmmm.

  Belle was going to side with the hair. Though sardonic smiles were a close second.

  Regardless, her decision to offer marriage to him had not been based on his physical appearance. She was many things, but flighty and shallow were two words that had never been attached to her.

  Replacing his hat, Lord Blake studied her, blue eyes twinkling.

  Yes. Definitely amused.

  That was . . . encouraging? Having never proposed marriage to a man before, Belle was unsure.

  “Enlighten me, if you would be so kind, as to the particular reasons why you think this . . . joint endeavor . . . would be profitable.” He gestured toward her.

  Oh! Excellent.

  That she had come prepared to do.

  With a curt nod, she pulled a paper from her reticule.

  “A list?” His lips twitched again.

  “I am nothing if not thorough in my planning, my lord.” She opened the paper with shaking fingers, her hands clammy inside her gloves.

  “Of course. I should have expected as much. You arranged this meeting, after all.” He tapped the letter in his pocket.

  Belle chose to ignore the wry humor in his tone and merely nodded her head in agreement. “Allow me to proceed with my list. Though please forgive me if my reasons appear forward.”

  “You have just proposed marriage to a peer of the realm, madam. I cannot imagine anything you say from this point onward will trump that.”

  “True.”

  A beat.

  Lord Blake pinned her with his gaze—calm and guileless. The forthright look of a man who knew himself and would never be less-than-true to his own values.

  His gaze upset her breathing, causing something to catch in her throat.

  Belle broke eye-contact, swallowing too loudly.

  “Allow me to begin.” She snapped the paper in her hand. The words swam in her vision, but she knew them by heart. The paper was more for show than anything else. She had done her calculations most carefully.

  Taking a fortifying breath, Belle began, “Firstly, you have newly inherited the Marquisate of Blake from a cousin. Your cousin was somewhat imprudent in his spending habits—”

  “I would declare the man to be an utter scapegrace and wastrel, but continue.”

  “Regardless of the cause, your lands and estates are in dire need of resuscitation.” Belle glanced at him over the top of her paper. “You are basically without funds, my lord.”

  “As my solicitor repeatedly reminds me.” He shot her an arch look. “It is why I am trying to fund a business venture in connection with the East India Company, as you are also undoubtedly aware.”

  “Yes, my lord. That is why I am proposing an enterprise of a slightly different sort. Allow me to continue.” Belle cleared her throat, looking down to her paper. “My own family is genteel with connections to the upper aristocracy—my great-great grandfather was the Earl of Stratton—though we have no proper title of our own, leaving my father to make his own way in the world. I, as you might already know, am a considerable heiress. My father was a prominent banker and left the entirety of his estate to me upon his death three years past.”

  Belle clenched her jaw against the familiar sting in her throat.

  Blink, blink, blink.

  Now was not the time to dwell upon her father.

  “Are you indeed?” he asked. “Though I do not wish to sound crass, I feel we left polite discussion in the dust several minutes ago, so I must enquire: How much of an heiress are you, precisely?”

  Did she hear keen interest in his tone? Or was Lord Blake simply exceedingly polite?

  “I believe the current amount stands somewhere in the region of eighty thousand pounds, my lord,” she replied.

  Lord Blake froze at that staggering number, just as Belle had predicted he would.

  “Eighty thousand pounds, you say? That is a dowry of marquess-saving proportions.”

  “My thoughts precisely, my lord.”

  Her father had originally left her a healthy sixty thousand pounds, but she was nothing if not her father’s daughter. Numbers and statistics flowed through her brain, a constant rushing river. She had used these skills to grow her fortune.

  It was what her father would have wanted. Refusing to see her gender as a barrier, her father had taught his only child everything he knew—financial systems, probabilities, market shares—even soliciting her opinions during that last year before his death.

  By the age of sixteen, Belle understood more about supply-and-demand and the mathematics of economics than most noblemen. Knowing this, the conditions in her father’s will allowed her to continue to oversee her own interests with the help of his solicitor, Mr. Sloan. At only nineteen years of age, she currently managed a thriving financial empire.

  She could hear her father’s gruff voice, his hand gently lifting her chin. I would give you choices, my Little Heart Full. A lady should always have options. I would see you happy.

  Belle swallowed back the painful tightness in her throat.

  Now, if she could only land a husband and free herself from the guardianship of her uncle and mother.

  Family, it turned out, were not quite as simple to manage as corn shares.

  Her mother, hungry for a title for her daughter, was becoming increasingly bold in her attempts to get Belle married. She had all but forced Belle to betroth herself to a cold, aloof viscount the previous Season. Fortunately, the viscount—Lord Linwood—had asked to be released from their betrothal.

  But the entire situation had left Belle feeling helpless.

  She detested feeling helpless, she realized. And so she used that unwelcome sensation to suppress her inherent shyness and overcome her retiring personality.

  Belle would solve the husband problem herself. She simply needed to reduce the entire situation to a statistical probability and face it as she would any other business transaction.

  “Eighty-thousand pounds,” Lord Blake repeated. “Are husbands—particularly the marquess variety—generally so costly?” He clasped his hands behind his back, studying her. “I had not thought to price them before this.”

  “I cannot say. This is my first venture into, uhmm . . .”

  “Purchasing a husband?” he supplied, eyes wide.

  Heavens. Was that a hint of displeasure creeping into his voice?

  “I am not entirely sure I agree with the word purchase, my lord—”

  “True. It does smack of trade and all polite society knows we cannot have that.”

  A pause.

  “Shall we use the word negotiate instead?” she asked.

  He cocked his head, considering. “I daresay that would be better. So I receive a sultan’s ransom and your lovely self, and you receive . . .” His words drifted off.

  “A husband. And in the process, I become Lady Blake, a peeress of the realm.”

  “Are you truly so hungry to be a marchioness? Surely eighty thousand pounds could purchase—forgive me, negotiate—the title of duchess.” His words so very, very dry.

  “I am sure my mother would agree with you, my lord, but I am more interested in finding a balance between title and the proper gentleman.” She cleared her throat. “You come highly recommended.”

  “Do I?” Again, his tone darkly sardonic.

  Oh, dear.

  But as she was already in for more than a penny, why not aim for the whole pound?

  “I did not arrive at the decision to propose marriage lightly. I had my solicitor hire a Runner to investigate you. I have armed myself with information, my lord.”

  Belle wisely did not add that, after crunching all the stat
istical probabilities, Lord Blake had been by far and away her preferred candidate. She was quite sure that, like most people, he would not appreciate being reduced to a number.

  “Information? About me?” he asked.

  “Yes. For example, I know you recently cashed out of the army, selling the officer’s commission you inherited from your father. All those who served with you report you to be an honest and worthy commander—”

  “As well they should.”

  “Additionally, you are a kind son to your mother. You send her and your stepfather funds when you are able. You visit regularly. Your four older sisters dote upon you, and you are godfather to at least one of each of their children. You are a tremendous favorite with all of your nieces and nephews. All of this speaks highly to the kind of husband and father you would be.”

  After her disastrous betrothal to Lord Linwood last year, Belle was determined to not make the same error twice. She learned from her mistakes. Her mother and uncle would not browbeat her into accepting one of their suitors again.

  If nothing else, eighty thousand pounds should purchase—negotiate—her a kindhearted husband of her own choice.

  Lord Blake shuffled his feet. “I-I really am at a loss for words, Miss Heartstone. I am trying to decide if I should be flattered or utterly appalled.”

  Belle sucked in a deep breath, her mouth as dry as the Sahara.

  Stay strong. Argue your case.

  She pasted a strained smile on her face. “Might I suggest siding with flattery, my lord?”

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  Intertwine

  House of Oak Book 1

  James and Emme's story and the first book in the House of Oak series.

  Intertwine

  House of Oak Book 1

  The obsession began on June 12, 2008 around 11:23 A.M.

  Though secretly Emme Wilde considered it more of a ‘spiritual connection’ than an actual full-blown neurosis.

  Of course, her brother, Marc, her mother and a series of therapists all begged to disagree.

  Thankfully her best friend, Jasmine, regularly validated the connection and considered herself to be Emme’s guide through this divinely mystical union of predestined souls (her words, not Emme’s). Marc asserted that Jasmine was not so much a guide as an incense-addled enabler (again, his words, not Emme’s). Emme was just grateful that anyone considered the whole affair normal—even if it was only Jasmine’s loose sense of ‘normal.’

  Jasmine always insisted Emme come with her to estate sales, and this one outside Portland, Oregon proved no exception. Though Jasmine contended this particular estate sale would be significant for Emme, rambling on about circles colliding in the vast cosmic ocean creating necessary links between lives—blah, blah. All typical Jasmine-speak.

  Emme brushed it off, assuming that Jasmine really just wanted someone to organize the trip: plan the best route to avoid traffic, find a quirky restaurant for lunch, entertain her on the long drive from Seattle.

  At the estate sale, Emme roamed through the stifling tents, touching the cool wood of old furniture, the air heavy with that mix of dust, moth balls and disuse that marks aged things. Jasmine predictably disappeared into a corner piled with antique quilts, hunting yet again for that elusive log cabin design with black centers instead of the traditional red.

  But Emme drifted deeper, something pulling her farther and farther into the debris of lives past and spent. To the trace of human passing, like fingerprints left in the paint of a pioneer cupboard door. Stark and clear.

  Usually Emme would have stopped to listen to the stories around her, the history grad student in her analyzing each detail. Yet that day she didn’t. She just wandered, looking for something. Something specific.

  If only she could remember what.

  Skirting around a low settee in a back corner, Emme first saw the antique trunk. A typical mid-nineteenth century traveling chest, solid with mellow aged wood. It did not call attention to itself. But it stood apart somehow, almost as if the air were a little lighter around it.

  She first opened the lid out of curiosity, expecting the trunk to be empty. Instead, she found it full. Carefully shifting old books and papers, Emme found nothing of real interest.

  Until she reached the bottom right corner.

  There she found a small object tucked inside a brittle cotton handkerchief. Gently unwrapping the aged fabric, she pulled out an oval locket. Untouched and expectant.

  Filigree covered the front, its gilt frame still bright and untarnished, as if nearly new.

  Emme turned the locket over, feeling its heft in her hand, the metal cool against her palm. It hummed with an almost electric pulse. How long had the locket lain wrapped in the trunk?

  Transparent crystal partially covered the back. Under the crystal, two locks of hair were woven into an intricate pattern—one bright and fair, the other a dark chocolate brown. Gilded on top of the crystal, two initials nestled together into a stylized gold symbol.

  She touched the initials, trying to make them out. One was clearly an F. But she puzzled over the other for a moment, tracing the design with her eyes. And then she saw it. Emme sucked in a sharp breath. An E. The other initial was an E.

  She opened the locket, hearing the small pop of the catch.

  A gasp.

  Her hands tingled.

  A sizzling shock started at the back of her neck and then spread.

  Him.

  There are moments in life that sear into the soul. Brief glimpses of some larger force. When so many threads collapse into one. Coalesce into a single truth.

  Seeing him for the first time was one of those moments.

  He gazed intently out from within the right side of the locket: blond, blue-eyed, chiseled with a mouth hinting at shared laughter. Emme’s historian mind quickly dated his blue-green, high collared jacket and crisp, white shirt and neckcloth to the mid-Regency era, probably around 1812, give or take a year.

  Emme continued to look at the man—well, stare actually. His golden hair finger-combed and deliciously disheveled. Broad shoulders angled slightly toward the viewer. Perhaps his face a shade too long and his nose a little too sharp for true beauty. But striking. Handsome even.

  Looking expectant, as if he had been waiting for her.

  Emme would forever remember the jolt of it.

  Surprise and recognition.

  She knew him. Had known him.

  Somehow, somewhere, in some place.

  He felt agonizingly familiar. That phantom part of her she had never realized was lost.

  The sensation wasn’t quite deja vu.

  More like memory.

  Like suddenly finding that vital thing you didn’t realize had been misplaced. Like coming up, gasping for air, after nearly drowning and seeing the world bright and sparkling and new.

  She stood mesmerized by him until Jasmine joined her.

  “Oooh, you found him.” The hushed respect in her voice was remarkable. This was Jasmine after all.

  Emme nodded mutely.

  “Your circles are so closely intertwined. Amazing.”

  Jasmine turned the locket in Emme’s hand.

  “What does this inscription say?” she asked.

  Emme hadn’t noticed the engraved words on the inside left of the locket case. But now she read them. Her sudden sharp inhalation seared, painfully clenching.

  Oh. Oh!

  The words reverberated through her soul, shattering and profound.

  Emme didn’t recall much more of that day—Jasmine purchasing the locket or even the little restaurant where they ate lunch. Instead, she only remembered the endless blur of passing trees on the drive home, the inscription echoing over and over:

  To E

  throughout all time

  heart of my soul

  your F

  To continue the story purchase Intertwine from Amazon today!
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  Gladly Beyond

  The Brothers Maledetti Romances

  Follow the lives of three Italian brothers as they find romance in beautiful Florence.

  Gladly Beyond

  Book One of the Brother's Maledetti Romance series

  Prologue

  When the gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers.

  —Oscar Wilde—

  History would call him il Conte del Maldetto—the Damned Earl.

  His descendants would call him ‘that damned idiot.’

  For his part, Giovanni D’Angelo simply called himself desperate:

  Desperate to preserve his family.

  Desperate to win at any cost.

  Desperate enough to seek a forbidden solution.

  On a dark moonless night in 1294 A.D., Giovanni slipped through the eastern gate of San Gimignano, past the gurgling fonti and into the woods beyond. Silently making his way to the camp of the zingari—the gypsies.

  Giovanni begged the old gypsy woman—la zingara—to grant his request: the gift of Sight. To see, hear, feel what had been . . . what would come. An unholy boon from her pagan gods.

  “Knowledge. It is double-edged.” The zingara tried to explain in her broken Italian, firelight skimming her face. “You are sure?”

  “Sì.” He nodded, eager and bright-eyed.

  Giovanni did not understand her words. Not then.

  The wrinkled zingara took her payment and performed the required ritual. Made the necessary sacrifice. Bestowed her gift on Giovanni and his heirs . . . forever.

  Giovanni was reborn. Like birds on the wind, whisperings reached his ears. Tales of what his enemies had done, fleeting glimpses of the future.

  With his newfound talents, Giovanni saved his family, outmaneuvered his opponents, crushed his rivals.

  But all too soon, whispering evolved into vivid immersion. Giovanni constantly pivoted round, tracking invisible things—the past and future swirling about him.

  The voices destroyed him in the end.