‘Nothing...’ He huffed out a groan. ‘Everything.’
‘Did the Marchioness put a flea in your ear?’ Because Hope hadn’t been able to stop herself watching the pair of them tucked away in that alcove. The strange intimacy between them had bothered her. She wasn’t prepared to call it jealousy, though suspected it might well be as she had experienced a pang of something akin to it when she watched him touch the woman affectionately. ‘She seemed upset.’ Or at least the vile woman had done a very good job of looking suitably tragic once she had cornered him alone, though those tears had dried remarkably fast in Hope’s humble opinion. Doubtless because she had got her way.
‘She did more than put a flea in my ear. She deposited another ton of unwanted responsibilities on my shoulders.’ For a moment his eyes were bleak before he shook it away with a theatrical shiver. ‘But as you know, I have attractively broad shoulders.’ Like her, Luke was the master of changing the subject when the topic wasn’t to his liking. ‘In other exciting news, not only have the decorators finally gone but I have almost managed to dig my way to the bottom of the never-ending mountain of papers I inherited.’
‘Do you understand it all?’ Because she knew it bothered him that he didn’t. After his brother’s shoddy treatment of him, he was a man who had to be in control of his own destiny, even if that meant burning the candle at both ends, though he preferred to make light of that diligent aspect of his character too.
‘I have a solid grasp on the estate matters as they aren’t too different from running my house in Cornwall—just on a grander scale. And I am pretty sure I finally understand the property aspect.’ Of course he did, because as well as wading into Parliament as if he had always been part of it, he had spent the last fortnight visiting every street in the city that he owned bricks on so he could familiarise himself with each one. ‘But the stocks and shares still baffle me. The Thundersley finger seems to be dipped in all manner of pies but I am yet to ascertain their fillings to decide if I want to keep them. I blame the names. They should be more explicit and give clues to the nature of the business rather than rely on pointless surnames which ultimately mean nothing to the consumer. If everybody used something sensible like Tregally Slate I wouldn’t be so confused.’
But they both knew he wouldn’t remain that way for long. As if he read her mind, he shrugged.
‘I’ve set the supercilious and condescending Mr Waterhouse the herculean task of writing me a detailed summary of each and every company I hold a share in as I won’t be party to any unsavoury money-making ventures or any that think they can get away with not paying their workers a decent wage for an honest day’s work.’ She liked that about him. He never settled for anything he didn’t want and fought tooth and nail for what he believed was right. She almost pitied Mr Waterhouse, who was clearly a fool if he did not realise that his new master was a formidable, driven and principled man not an arrogant, abdicating fop like his brother.
‘How did he take that?’
‘Surprisingly well, as he is currently bending over backwards to impress me. It is amazing how agreeable even the most disagreeable individuals can be when they are subjected to the legendary Duff charm...your good self included.’
As he was now subjecting her to the seductive power of his most wolfish expression, those naughty dark brown eyes twinkling, she refused to take the bait. ‘He is falling all over himself purely because you pay his wages. Deep down he dislikes you as much as everyone else does—my good self included.’
‘And believe me, he gets paid handsomely too. Can you fathom that he gets five times what I pay my best manager at Tregally? I swear the cost of everything here is so extortionate it’s criminal. Did I tell you I had to pay fifty pounds and eight shillings for a sofa! And I knocked the swindler down! He originally wanted sixty.’ He looked quite ferocious when outraged, even though she knew without a doubt Luke didn’t truly have a ferocious bone in his body. He would have made an atrocious pirate. Although, to be fair, he probably wouldn’t have had to plunder and pillage because he would have thoroughly charmed his unwitting targets out of their booty instead. He had a talent for disarming people. ‘But at least the room is finally finished. Would you like to see it?’
‘What? Just me and you? All alone in the dark. In a bachelor’s house! Unchaperoned? Do you want my mother to kill you?’
‘In case you haven’t noticed, we are all alone in the dark unchaperoned already and as we never have a chaperon on the balcony, I fail to see what difference it makes.’ But from the suddenly wicked glint in his eye, he was well aware why she wouldn’t dare take him up on the offer. Here, with the sounds of her mother’s soirée invading the silence, they weren’t really alone in the truest sense of the word and on the balcony, the double sets of railings were their strict chaperons.
‘You are incorrigible.’
‘That I am, Hope—but you like me for it.’
‘In your dreams perhaps.’
He smiled, unoffended. ‘Enough about my woes. How go things with your monster?’
She considered lying, but knew it wouldn’t wash. ‘The jig is up, he has received his well-deserved comeuppance and the book is finally done.’
He stopped walking and beamed at her. ‘That’s splendid news! Are you happy with it?’
‘I have come to the conclusion that I am too much of a nit-picking perfectionist to ever be truly happy with it, but I am happy enough that I’ve spent the last few days making copies to send out to other publishers.’
His face clouded with instant sympathy. ‘Crocker and Co. rejected it?’
‘Cooper and Son have remained depressingly silent.’
‘It has only been a few weeks. I’ll wager they’ll have made an offer by the time I get back from Cornwall, but you are wise to spread your net wider. It is never advisable to have all your eggs in one basket.’ Then his feet paused again. ‘And speaking of Cornwall and the jig being up, does this mean I can finally read it? I am going to need something to keep me sane during my interminable and solitary journey to the south west.’
Flapping butterflies instantly invaded her stomach and swiftly turned into gulls. ‘I am afraid I still need the original to make the copies.’
‘But you promised.’ Two dark brows kissed in consternation a split second before he crossed his solid arms and glared. ‘And if I know you, madam, like I know I do, you have already made at least one full copy and are merely making excuses to fob me off again.’
Hope tried not to wince at the accuracy of the charge but it was too late. She wasn’t bland enough, quick enough, and he saw it.
‘I knew it! You have a copy raring to go and have probably already earmarked it for the next publisher on your list.’
Also true. She had made a list of all the people who would receive the elusive H. B. Rooke’s macabre manuscript.
‘How come you are prepared to allow two faceless publishers to read the damn thing, yet you refuse to trust me with your work even though you know I love a good Gothic novel and cannot wait to read yours? I thought we were friends, Hope. Friends trust one another.’
‘It is because we are friends that I am reluctant to share it with you.’ Phantasma meant so much to her—what if he hated it?
‘Yet I share everything with you unreservedly, Hope, because that is what good friends do. All my trials and tribulations, all my many failures, fears and each of my tiny successes.’
‘You never have any failures, only successes so you have no concept of what failure or rejection feels like.’
He dismissed that with a roll of his eyes. ‘If your ultimate goal is to see your story on the shelves of Hatchard’s where anyone can read it, I fail to understand why you keep putting up pathetic barriers to keep me from doing so.’
He made a good point, an entirely logical and sound one, but her writing was just too personal. So personal, logic didn’t come i
nto it.
‘Because this book is me, Luke. My thoughts. My demons. My essence. Sharing it feels too much like bearing my soul and I...well...am not sure I am ready to bear it to you in its entirety yet. No matter how many times you throw that gauntlet down and dare me to do it.’
‘Asking you to trust me is hardly throwing a gauntlet down.’ He was hurt by her defensiveness. ‘If I have made you feel pressured rather than encouraged, then I am truly sorry for that was never my intention.’
‘You haven’t...’ As her friend, he at least deserved the whole truth. ‘I have never trusted easily and men least of all.’
‘That is a shame.’ His face fell further and she could tell her clumsy words had wounded. Hardly a surprise when she had effectively just lumped him in the same boat as the Ealings and Harlingtons of the world when he shared none of their abhorrent traits. ‘I cannot help being male but despite that unfortunate birth defect, I have always trusted you, Hope. And unreservedly too.’
And heaven help her, she was sorely tempted to trust all of him, and that alone was too momentous to contemplate when the eternal and often justified pessimist in her feared she was bound to be making a mistake.
‘Have I not proved my mettle as a decent and reliable friend to you yet?’
Of course he had and that was part of the problem. Luke never did anything by halves. Whether that be supporting her in a lie in front of her family or saving her from amorous men.
He was too decent. Too reliable. Too thoughtful and way too tempting. He also listened to her, encouraged her and believed in her. Too perfect a man, all things considered, for her guarded, wary heart to believe could possibly be true.
She turned away while she tried to put her unsettling, warring feelings into words, hugging herself unconsciously until she was brave enough to face him again. ‘If you must know, your honest opinion terrifies me.’
She trusted him enough to confess that at least.
His eyes seemed to look into the same soul she was so desperately trying to keep hidden. ‘Why?’
It was the sympathy which undid her and the understanding, lop-sided smile, as if he saw it all anyway but respected her dreams too much to trample all over them.
‘What if I cannot write, Luke? What if all the publishers I approached last time were right and Mr Cooper was merely fobbing me off gently when he said they couldn’t make money printing anything written by a woman? What if I have been fooling myself all these years, working towards nothing and I really don’t have the same level of talent for something as my brilliant parents and sisters do?’
As delighted as she was for Charity for her well-deserved success, the odd one out, cuckoo-in-the-nest middle sister inside of her wished it hadn’t come before hers. Having all the newspapers singing the youngest Brookes’s praises so soon after they had done exactly the same for Faith, had completely shredded the last of Hope’s confidence and left her feeling inadequate and panicked about her future.
‘What if all I really am is this?’ She gestured to her body and the stupid, feminine gown she shouldn’t have worn expressly for him. ‘All show and no real substance. The only Brookes with no real talent for anything beyond attracting shallow men without trying and sending them cross-eyed with lust.’ Why was she suddenly confessing her deepest, darkest fears when she had never once confessed them to anyone before? Not even her sisters knew the confident bravado she wore like a shield hid a seething pit of insecurities which ran the gamut of everything from her fear of being an impostor as a writer to her ingrained self-consciousness about her overly womanly body. ‘What do I do then?’
She expected him to laugh at her foolishness. Instead, he simply sighed as he took her hand and squeezed it, giving her the ridiculous urge to lace her fingers in his and hold on for dear life. ‘Trust me with your book, Hope, and if it is truly a reflection of everything that you are, I have no doubt it is destined to be brilliant.’
‘And if it isn’t and you hate it?’
‘Then as your friend I shall be honest enough to tell you, so that you can fix it. Because if you want it bad enough you will fix it, Hope. I know this because we are kindred spirits, you and I. Both too stubborn and determined not to succeed no matter what the odds.’
She dithered, wanting to entrust him with her precious manuscript, while fearing the fact that she wanted to. She was used to being self-sufficient. She had never had a mentor to guide her in her dreams in the same way her sisters had with their parents. They encouraged her, of course they did, but not in quite the same way as they did Faith with her art and Charity with her music. She had never had anyone who valued the sublime power of the written word with the same ferocity as she did. That alone deemed him worthy. So why was she still scared?
Perhaps because no matter what, Luke always knew the way and landed on his feet when he arrived while she always stumbled, never quite knowing where she was going. She released her hand from his.
‘You think we are kindred spirits?’ If only they were. ‘I envy you your innate self-confidence and ability to master and then conquer every challenge life throws at you. You glide effortlessly over every hurdle with a big, lopsided grin on your face, knowing exactly what needs to be done and charming everyone to your way of thinking to make it so, completely unhampered by all the insecurities, barriers and disappointments we mere mortals are saddled with.’ How wonderful it must be to be him. ‘You are fearless, Luke, not fearful. Whereas I am all bravado.’
He reached for her hand again and wrapped it in his. ‘Then pick up the gauntlet, Hope, and be fearless. It really is as simple as that.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
And speaking of the talented B. family of Bloomsbury and the Theatre Royal, the least accomplished daughter Miss H. was seen once again last night hanging on the arm of the erudite new Marquess of T. Could it be, Gentle Reader, that with both her talented sisters’ stars rapidly rising and with nothing as impressive on her limited horizon, the temperamental Miss H. is trying to compete by seducing the inexperienced peer into making her his Marchioness...?
Whispers from Behind the Fan
June 1814
Luke stared at the damning pile of papers on his mattress and sighed. Two chapters into Hope’s novel and he felt both humbled and guilty that she had put her trust in him and heartily ashamed of himself for bullying her into submission.
Perhaps bully was too strong a word, because he hadn’t forced her to hand it over, but he had certainly cajoled, charmed and manipulated her into surrendering her manuscript by ruthlessly using their friendship as a lever.
As he had anticipated, the writing was good. Excellent in fact. What he hadn’t expected was the profound effect it would have on him. He could hear her voice in every sentence. Her prose was as rich and vivid as her hair, the mystery she was quietly weaving as complex and subtly layered as the woman that she was. Already, only twenty pages in, he was immersed in the cruel world she had created, driven by greed and avarice, poverty and desperation. She painted the rookery of St Giles as a wretched, insular and hopeless place where the need to survive drove every inhabitant to think only for themselves. Lost, forgotten and abandoned to their fate. The dregs of an unfeeling society who blamed them for the crime of being born.
Having suffered from both desperation and poverty, as well as being born wrong, Luke appreciated her insight and her sympathy for the unfairness of their circumstances. He now had to add compassionate to the growing list of qualities he admired in her, and that both called to him and niggled.
She had said Phantasma was her essence. Her thoughts. Her demons. And because he already knew her so well, she was right—he could see into her soul. That rare and precious privilege now overwhelmed him because the heroine on the page was, to all intents and purposes, Hope laid bare. A woman who struggled with her worth and her place. Who dared to dream and wanted more, but who thought deeply, cared passionately but t
rusted sparingly, hiding it all beneath a thick veneer in case her vulnerabilities were ruthlessly exploited by those who always want something that isn’t theirs to take.
Exactly as he had exploited them to get his own way.
Luke had used every trick up his persuasive sleeve to get his clumsy fingers on her manuscript and he had flatly refused to take no for an answer even though it had pained her to hand it over.
And he’d lied to her.
Not with any intended malice or forethought, but certainly intentionally as well as by omission. She thought him fearless and undefeatable, and because he worked damn hard to give off that impression to keep the secrets he guarded hidden, and he liked that she, of all people, viewed him that way, he hadn’t corrected her in her assumption. He had also lectured her on trust, claiming she had his implicitly, when she hadn’t and that his life was an open book when nothing could be further from the truth.
At the time, he had been quite comfortable with his behaviour because deflection and misdirection were such an intrinsic part of his everyday armour, it hadn’t occurred to him to remove them, but now that he had read a mere fraction of her work he knew he owed her more. Real trust had to be earned not demanded and true friendship worked both ways.
Annoyed with himself, he strode towards his balcony to see if there was any sign she was still up. He had heard the last revellers leave her mother’s soirée only an hour or so ago and she was, by nature, a reliable night owl. But her bedchamber was as depressingly dark as common sense reasoned it would be at four in the morning, the only signs of movement coming from the edge of lace curtain softly billowing in the warm night air from the cracked door.
‘Hope...’ His whisper echoed too loud in the silence. ‘Hope, are you awake?’
He waited.
Nothing.
Luke didn’t dare raise his voice. In deference to the season, practically every single window on the long terrace of houses was laid open to the breeze and the last thing he wanted to do was raise one of her family and alert them to the fact he shared a bedchamber wall and adjoining balcony with her. Instead, he searched around his own for something suitable to scatter at her glass, and when he found nothing he sighed.
Harlequin Historical July 2021--Box Set 1 of 2 Page 12
