‘Will you stop spouting nonsense and go away before someone sees you!’ True to form, she was now trying to brush away her discomfort by deflection. ‘Can’t you see the sun is coming up?’ She uncrossed her arms and flicked an impatient hand in the direction of his balcony with such force that her unbound breasts moved beneath her nightgown until she hastily folded her arms over them again, horrified. ‘Go! Before you fall to your death, you stupid man!’
‘You care at least. Surely that’s a start?’ Now that he had voiced what he hadn’t realised was in his heart, he wasn’t going to let her ignore it. Instead, he would find a way to make it happen exactly as he always did when he encountered an obstacle. He knew already, no other outcome would satisfy him.
She rolled her eyes and glared imperious, the very picture of unimpressed which was ruined entirely by the twitching fingers at the end of her still firmly crossed arms. ‘If I presently care for anything, I can assure you, it is only for the safety of my mother’s rose bed on the terrace. I’ve always been particularly partial to the yellow ones because they smell so lovely and I would be distraught if your ungainly Cornish corpse flattened them.’ And with that, she strode inside with her nose in the air and loudly bolted her door.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Rumours abound, Gentle Reader, that the unlikely romance between the charming new Marquess of T. and the feisty Miss H. from Bloomsbury has definitely cooled as nobody has seen them out and about together in weeks. I am reliably informed, however, that this popular young lady has been more than adequately entertained in the meantime by the smitten but very married Lord J. instead...
Whispers from Behind the Fan
July 1814
The brisk walk around Bloomsbury Square had done nothing to improve her odd mood. The wretch had said two weeks, which in Hope’s book was fourteen days—fifteen at a push if one allowed for leeway—but as he had been gone for twenty days already with not so much as a letter of explanation, her poor nerves were shot to pieces.
There were urgent things which she needed to discuss with him which she couldn’t confide in anybody else. Like the gushing request from Mr Cooper himself, from Cooper and Son, to have the rest of Phantasma sent to him by express because the three chapters H. B. Rooke had sent from Whitstable were, according to him, the best and most intriguing opening of a novel he had read in years.
Or how his mother had coped with his absence and how he had coped with the potential aftermath. Were things dire or were they on an even keel and she was being unnecessarily anxious? His awful rendition of his mother’s illness, the neglect she had suffered by his father and the atrocities the poor woman had endured at his brother’s hand, and then the struggles they had both had to get her well again had played on her mind for the duration of his absence, to such an extent it now seemed like her burden too. Emotionally invested yet a frustratingly impotent bystander who could do nothing but wait for news. That Luke had had to deal with it all alone for so many years, had had to work and struggle to pay for it all when the Thundersleys had so much, and had done so stalwartly, with such love and compassion had done something odd to the way she felt about him.
After much soul searching, and twenty interminable restless nights, she was now prepared to concede that, despite his vexing and smug manner and his charming overconfidence, she had had some affection for the dratted man before he had bared his soul. Undeniably, there had been some unfortunate attraction too which she had done her best to ignore, even though that had proved to be impossible. Now that he had entrusted her with everything and exposed himself in all his flawed but noble glory, the ground had shifted. And because she couldn’t stop thinking about him, and because most of those thoughts weren’t all occupied with friendly concern but superficial nonsense like the way he smiled or the way he looked at her or the way that he tasted, she was also prepared to concede there was something else at play.
She missed him dreadfully, worried about him incessantly, lusted after him constantly and was frantically counting the minutes until he returned. There was also a strange stirring in the vicinity of her heart which simply would not shift, no matter what she did.
All unsettling signs that platonic friendly affection had covertly grown into something else.
Something which frankly petrified her pessimistic and wary heart.
Something which she might have ruthlessly buried out of principle, and sheer self-preservation, had she not done the unthinkable and kissed him like she meant it. And certainly something she wouldn’t be so preoccupied with had the dratted man not left her a hand-picked posy of dew-covered yellow roses and left them on her little table on the balcony for her to find straight after he had left.
Exactly as a thoughtful suitor would do to a woman he was courting.
Which wouldn’t have been a problem at all if she hadn’t put all but one of the thoughtful flowers in a vase on her nightstand where she had sighed over them much too often until there had been nothing living left to sigh over. Or if she hadn’t diligently pressed the most perfect bud in a heavy pile of books straight away so that she could always keep the damning thing for ever in the little musical box in which she kept all her most precious things.
She huffed out an annoyed sigh as she left the park, then immediately beamed with joy at the sight of a carriage pulling up outside Number Twenty-Two—one comfortingly emblazoned with the Thundersley crest in gold leaf on the door.
Hope quickened her pace, aiming for nonchalance but likely failing miserably, coming within spitting distance of the thing as the footman opened the door. But instead of Luke’s huge booted foot, it was a delicate feminine one which emerged, closely followed by the rest of the Marchioness.
His sister-in-law took one look at Hope and frowned as she usually did when they collided, before she covered it with a brittle smile. ‘Miss Brookes.’
‘My lady.’
The obligatory curtsy pained her because she had no respect for this woman and resented having to pay it. Especially when the Marchioness had never been anything but atrociously rude to all three Brookes sisters at every possible occasion. That Hope had garnered a begrudging Miss Brookes this morning was an achievement when on at least the last six occasions where they had collided, the woman had given her the cut. She would have cheerfully left the awkward conversation at that too, had the woman not simultaneously started up the steps to Number Twenty-Two as she went to her own front door.
The Marchioness eyed her suspiciously. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I live here.’
Her eyes widened at that. ‘You live next door to Lucius? Here? On Bedford Place?’
‘I do.’
The cold, ice-blue eyes narrowed as they scathingly looked her up and down. ‘Was he aware you lived here before he moved in?’
The insulting implication was explicit. That somehow Hope must have lured him here with her ample charms intent on seducing him to better herself, as all the scandal rags suggested.
‘Not to my knowledge.’ And not that it was any of this woman’s business anyway. ‘But you would have to ask him to be sure.’
‘I most certainly will. He has a reputation to protect.’
‘And living next door to me will somehow damage it?’
‘You would know the answer to that better than I, Miss Brookes, seeing as you are no stranger to the scandal sheets yourself.’ The Marchioness’s gloved hand rapped impatiently on his door. ‘But men will always be men, won’t they? And I console myself that the Duff men bore quickly then swiftly move on. Once he has entertained himself enough with the limited delights of Bloomsbury, of course.’ She cast a critical eye over his neat, terraced town house, which identically matched every other on Bedford Place. ‘As surely even you have to concede that this is hardly a fitting address for a marquess, no matter what the initial allurement.’
‘Or repellent.’ Hope smiled innocently,
making a mental note to ask Luke the real reasons why he had left Berkeley Square while suspecting this sort of puffed-up and pompous behaviour was entirely to blame.
With a brittle smile, the mean-spirited Marchioness rapped on his door a second time while Hope rifled in her reticule for her key, sorely tempted to give the rude woman a proper piece of her mind but not wanting to cause Luke trouble by doing it. As the awkward silence stretched and the key refused to be found, she decided to hasten the woman’s departure instead despite the overwhelming urge to leave her stood on the doorstep.
‘You should probably know that Luke is not yet returned from Cornwall and it is his housekeeper’s day off.’
The Marchioness blinked as if that inescapable fact could not possibly be the truth. ‘But he is due at mine for dinner tomorrow.’
‘He is?’ This was news to her.
‘We dine together every Friday, and he always tells me it is the highlight of his week, so I am sure he will be back in time.’ He had never mentioned a regular Friday dinner with his brother’s widow either. The Marchioness turned and sailed back down the steps, clearly put out beneath the regal smile. ‘Dear Lucius was devasted to have to miss the last two as he so looks forward to our intimate and cosy little suppers. But alas, his dull business in Cornwall couldn’t be delayed no matter how much he was desperate to delay it, though I sincerely hope for his sake it doesn’t inconvenience him still further as we are having lamb and lamb is his favourite.’
There was a strange undercurrent to her sudden chattiness which grated, almost as if she had a point to prove and wanted to put Hope in her place for some reason. Or perhaps it was merely the woman’s supercilious attitude which grated.
‘I hardly think Luke views fetching his mother as an inconvenience.’
The well-shod foot paused on the carriage steps, but when she turned around this time, she seemed more stunned than regal. ‘He is bringing his mother back with him?’
‘It was the sole purpose of his trip to Cornwall.’ Some devil inside her couldn’t help but stir the pot more by putting the Marchioness firmly in her place too. A little competition would do her inflated ego good. ‘He’s been making preparations to receive the Dowager for weeks. He’s even had the house redecorated for her visit. Surely he mentioned that momentous news during one of your many intimate and cosy little Friday night suppers?’
* * *
It was late afternoon when the other Thundersley carriage finally rattled up Bedford Place. Being reliably nosy and shamelessly tactless about being so, both Charity and her mother hurried out to greet it, leaving Hope to trail in their wake. Though for once, she was grateful they were so unsubtle because she needed to see Luke for herself to ascertain the lie of the land and she was more than a little curious to meet his mother. Before his heartfelt confession on the night of his departure, he had mentioned her often in conversation and always with the slightly put-upon affection which close families used when their beloved nearest and dearest exasperated them. However, now that she knew about the woman’s long battle with illness, she had no earthly idea what to expect. She pictured a frail and gaunt woman with tortured eyes, though that was certainly not what he was helping out of the carriage. Instead, she was robust, grinning and had the same dark colouring as her son but with a smattering of white at the temples. An insider’s peak at how well he would age.
After her came another smiling woman, perhaps a little older, significantly plumper, hair more salt than pepper and a kindly look about her. That had to be Clowance, his mother’s companion-cum-nursemaid, whom, Luke had confided, had been with them since his mother had been well enough to return home.
As if he sensed her, Luke’s eyes lifted to Hope’s, where she had hung back on the steps, and he slowly smiled, and in that moment she realised that everything was all right.
‘You are back, Luke!’ Her own mother had a talent for stating the obvious. ‘And this must be the Dowager.’ She beamed at her. ‘You are so like your son, my lady. The resemblance is uncanny.’
With his customary good humour, and despite the fact that he had been travelling for days and doubtless just wanted to stare at his own drawing room walls with a restorative cup of tea in his hand, Luke stepped forward to make the introductions. ‘Mama, this is Mrs Roberta Brookes, not only my good neighbour but also the famous soprano.’ Her mother preened at the perfect compliment. ‘And this is her youngest daughter, Miss Charity Brookes, who is also a supremely talented soprano...ladies, this is my nagging mother, Lady Maria Duff, and her long-suffering and sainted companion, Clowance.’ His mother jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow.
‘Please ignore my idiot son. He thinks he is amusing though heaven only knows why.’ She took both of her mother’s and Hope’s hands in hers. ‘I am so delighted to meet you, Mrs Brookes. Luke gushes about you and your family and I am humbled by the generosity you have all shown him. He says you have practically adopted him since he moved here and have even fed him, which was very brave of you considering he eats like a horse.’ She turned to her sister. ‘Miss Charity, you are as pretty as a picture, just as Luke described.’
Then those dark eyes turned to her with undisguised interest. ‘And you must be Hope. I have been especially looking forward to meeting you. My son speaks of you most fondly...’
A statement which did odd things to Hope’s insides and made both her mother and Charity exchange a very telling look, before her instantly grinning sister decided to have some more meddlesome fun at her expense. ‘Can we offer you some tea after your long journey while your baggage is unloaded? You must be parched.’
‘I am sure the Dowager is exhausted after her journey. I am sure they all are.’ Hope looked to Luke for reassurance. ‘And would prefer to orientate themselves at home this afternoon.’
‘Not at all, my dear. We stopped for a delightful luncheon and a walk not two hours ago which quite revived us all, so some tea would be lovely.’ His mother threaded her arm through Hope’s. ‘And please, as you are already such dear friends of my son and because Dowager sounds so old and decrepit, I absolutely insist you all call me Maria.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Luke barely managed to snatch two minutes alone with Hope that same evening before his mother hunted him down and demanded he play cards with her. Before she caught the pair of them smiling and skirting around each other tentatively on their scandalously adjoining balconies, and promptly informed her overprotective family of that fact, he’d had no choice but to bid Hope a hasty goodnight and rapidly close the French doors. The rest of the next day wasn’t any better because they hadn’t collided at all. So he was pinning all his hopes on stealing a moment with her tonight after his mother had readily agreed they should accompany the Brookes family to Vauxhall Gardens to watch the fireworks despite the prospect of crowds.
As much as he was concerned for her potential reaction to being confronted with more people in a single park than probably inhabited the whole of Cornwall, he was also encouraged she was prepared to give it a go. Since the moment they had left Tregally, his mother seemed to be on a mission to try and do things which she hadn’t done in years. Pushing and testing herself and surprising them both in the process. On their convoluted journey back to London, and at her insistence and without any words of caution from Clowance, they had stopped for a few days at both Exmouth and Bristol, where she shopped, took in the sights and for the most part seemed to enjoy herself.
There had been a couple of incidents where it all got on top of her. Once in Exmouth only a day or two in when she lost sight of him and Clowance and she briefly panicked. Then she became a little teary and anxious after she had visited Brislington House to pay her respects to Dr Long Fox to show him how far she had come in her recovery. He put the latter down to all the bad memories which had forced her to need that kind and forgiving sanctuary in the first place. Awful memories which must be constantly close to the surface now
that she was confronting London again after nearly a thirty-year absence—but at least Bloomsbury wasn’t Mayfair. He couldn’t imagine her coping with those demons quite so well.
He stared at her across the carriage and saw none of the obvious signs she was overawed. If anything, there was an encouraging glint of anticipation in her eyes. Still, it was better to be safe than sorry.
‘If it all gets too much, I shall plead exhaustion and we will leave.’
‘Oh, do stop fussing, dear.’ She said that a lot to him of late. ‘I wouldn’t have accepted Roberta’s invitation if I did not feel I could cope. Some fresh air, pleasant company, an evening picnic and some fireworks sound delightful after a long week of travelling. I am tired of living like a hermit and now that your life has changed, so must mine. What if you decide to make your permanent home here in London? And you get married and have children here? I want to be part of that, Luke, and not from afar.’
He nodded, not wanting to acknowledge her casual comment about grandchildren because she had mentioned those rather a lot of late too. Besides, it was kicking another buzzing hornets’ nest which he also didn’t want to discuss with her in a carriage—or anywhere just yet—and that was Hope. The woman he had alternately fantasied about, lusted over, pondered and pined for constantly, for three long weeks.
Damn he had missed her!
Her presence, her conversation, her clever mind and her companionship, yet he had no earthly idea if she had decided to batten down the hatches after he’d brought up the subject of courting or if her drawbridge was down in welcome. He supposed he was about to find out and found himself on unfamiliar tenterhooks for her decision. He had never courted a woman before. He had dallied. Sometimes for weeks. But never with more permanent and daunting intentions. Was she even amiable? Was it even feasible with his life so complicated and his responsibilities so complex? All he knew, was he was prepared to give it a try if she was.
Harlequin Historical July 2021--Box Set 1 of 2 Page 14
