by Cheryl Holt
We look just alike. Six feet tall, dark hair, blue, blue eyes.
Michael had to recall that one pertinent fact. If he stumbled on his brother, he’d recognize him instantly.
“Have you any other odd quirks of which I should be apprised?” his sister asked. “You hear voices and read minds. Are there other details you’d like to reveal so I don’t end up being too shocked?”
“I’ll tell you about them a bit at a time. I don’t want you to discover all my secrets at once. I’d be too boring.”
“Heaven forbid that I know too much about you.” She sighed with exasperation. “You men are entirely too exhausting.”
She’d grown up in a world of females, and he’d grown up in a world of males. They were both wed now, both learning their roles. She grinned, pert dimples curving her cheeks, and he was always caught off guard by that grin.
She was near the same age his mother had been when she’d been transported to Australia. Michael didn’t think he recollected his mother, but since he’d met Evangeline, he was constantly pelted with jolts of emotion. Not faces or incidents, but he would suddenly be awash with feelings of joy that lingered deep down inside.
His parents had been madly in love, his mother a dynamic, merry person who’d filled their home with singing and laughter. Evangeline reminded him of those happy days, even if he couldn’t quite summon up any specifics.
Who would deliberately ruin such a fine family, such a devoted mother and wife? What sort of monster had his grandfather been?
He hadn’t yet journeyed to Radcliffe to confront his relatives, but he would. They were still living at the estate as if nothing had occurred, as if they’d wronged no one. With Michael’s father’s death, Michael’s uncle had become the heir, his sons butting in line to inherit.
Michael intended to go to Scotland, but his wife and sister kept talking him out of it, both of them understanding Michael’s temper and penchant to exact revenge. They wanted him to proceed when he was calmer, when he thought he could be civil and approach their kin in a sensible fashion.
Ha! As if the bloody people deserved polite treatment!
He’d sneak off when the women in his life weren’t paying attention, and his despicable Scottish cousins needed to start watching their backs.
“Any news from Bryce?” he asked to change the subject.
Bryce was their oldest sibling, the rightful Earl of Radcliffe, and the whole world would eventually acknowledge that he was.
“I received a letter from him before I left London,” she said. “It’s the reason I stopped at Cliffside—so I could update you on his progress.”
“Where is he?”
“They’re in Portugal for a few days to take on supplies.”
“Then what?”
“They’ll enter the Mediterranean. I guess the seas are rough there, and it’s a bit difficult to maneuver.”
Their father—along with being a viscount—had been an African adventurer who’d sailed the Nile on several occasions. On a whim, Bryce had decided to follow in their father’s footsteps, to see the sights he’d seen and travel the routes he’d traveled.
Bryce was an actor and singer, talented as their mother had been talented, and he hadn’t the rage or violent skills to wrest Radcliffe from their vile relatives. But Michael knew how, and he’d be happy to rectify matters for his brother.
When Bryce returned from Egypt, Michael would have the situation resolved. It would be his first and best gift to his oldest brother.
“And what’s happening with you?” he asked. “You told Maggie you can only spend the night with us.”
“I’m on my way to Fox Run”—it was her husband’s country estate—“but I have to admit, I hated to leave town. I was invited to a gala honoring Captain Harlow, and I had to miss it.”
“A gala for Captain Harlow? The toast of Britain? The hero of the ages?”
“The very one.”
“He’s being feted everywhere, so you’ll bump into him some other time. It’s not likely he’ll disappear from society.”
“After the brouhaha dies down, maybe I’ll invite him to Fox Run. I’m sure he’d enjoy the peace and quiet. It has to be exhausting, being in the limelight like that.”
Michael couldn’t envision anything more horrid than having a decorated war hero as a guest. What would one talk about with such an illustrious person?
“What’s dragging you to Fox Run?” he inquired.
“I’m not being dragged, you oaf. We’re hosting an annual festival, and my esteemed presence is required.” She batted her lashes and laughed. “It’s quite a celebration.”
“Is it for the harvest? It’s not that late in the year.”
“No, it’s a local summer event. We open the house to the neighbors and people from the village.”
“It sounds positively tedious.”
“You’ll be acting much the same here at Cliffside—now that you’re a respectable landowner.”
“I’ll never be respectable,” he huffed.
“No, probably not, but Maggie will keep rounding the rough edges.”
“She has her job cut out for her. No one has ever been able to mold or shape me.”
“We can always hope,” she said.
“You’re the eternal optimist. I’ve always heard that about you.”
“Well, who wouldn’t be optimistic? It beats being pessimistic.”
Up on the verandah, Maggie came outside. She saw them in the garden and waved. They waved back and started toward her.
“What do you suppose Matthew is like?” Evangeline asked.
“He’s exactly like me.”
“By that do you mean vain, domineering, and arrogant?”
“Yes.”
“One of you is more than enough. I can’t imagine putting up with two of you.”
“I can imagine it,” he murmured. “I absolutely can.”
* * * *
“That rat!”
Penelope Bernard reread the note from Matthew, crumpled it in a ball, and tossed it in the fire. Then she changed her mind, wanted to keep it as a souvenir, and she rushed over and dug it out. It had landed on the edge of the flames and was hardly scorched at all.
She’d begged to accompany him to Greystone Abbey, but he’d refused. He was a blunt man who had little patience for dealing with women, and once he made a decision it was pointless to argue.
He’d promised though that he’d send for her the minute he was settled. He’d promised. Yet now he’d reneged, telling her to stay in London until he came to town. He’d conveniently neglected to say how long that would be, and she was pondering if she shouldn’t pack up and simply travel to Greystone on her own.
What could he do about it? Order her back to London like an ill-behaved child? Well, yes, that was precisely what he’d do. She might have risked it, but the servants would witness her disgrace, and they were the worst gossips.
They’d spread the word that glorious, dashing Captain Harlow hadn’t let her remain in the country with him, and that wasn’t a chance she was willing to take.
She’d met him at an officer’s ball in Belgium, and she’d latched on to him before his later escapade had garnered him so much notoriety. He was a handsome devil who oozed masculinity, and she’d be the first to admit she was no better than she had to be.
She’d been banished to Belgium by her father, as he’d worked to hide a peccadillo in which she’d engaged. There had been several over the years, so she couldn’t find a husband to save her life.
At the ripe old age of twenty-five, it was clear she was doomed to spinsterhood, unless she could drastically reverse her course, that drastic course being her stumbling on a spouse who wasn’t concerned about her low morals or horrid reputation.
Could it be Captain Harlow perhaps?
When he’d saved the passengers on the Royal Tempest, she’d already been seriously involved with him. Due to his burgeoning acclaim, he’d received a good amount of money a
s a reward. He’d rented a small house for her, had bought her new clothes. What else might he ultimately be persuaded to bestow?
If she could convince him he was glad to have her around, she’d feel much more secure in her circumstances. It was fine to have a home and a stylish wardrobe, but she was greedy and wanted a ring on her finger too.
She didn’t like that he was away from her. He wasn’t an anonymous soldier anymore. He was a celebrity, so women in all those rural towns and villages would assess him as women in London had assessed him. They’d wonder if he was available. They’d wonder if they couldn’t lure him in their direction.
Penelope was an extremely jealous person, and she couldn’t bear to think of the dairy maids and vicar’s daughters who might intrigue him. She’d murder any girl who thought she could sink in her claws.
Penelope’s lush auburn hair, big blue eyes, and voluptuous figure guaranteed there was no female who could match her in beauty or aplomb. Yet she was nervous about having him gone. There was to be another celebration honoring him in two weeks, hosted by Lady Trent. Some of the royal family had announced they would attend.
When Matthew had flitted off to Greystone, he’d sworn he’d return for the gala, but what if he didn’t? With so much at stake, she couldn’t risk that he might miss it.
She sat down and penned a quick, flirty reply, reminding him of the party, reminding him that people—mostly herself—were eagerly hoping to see him there. They’d had such a hot, searing liaison when they were together in Europe, and she didn’t intend to let it cool now that they were back in dreary, rainy England.
He’d told her not to come to Greystone, and she had to take some comfort in the fact that he’d bothered to write at all. But she couldn’t rest on her laurels, not when every female in the kingdom was curious as to what sort of husband he might be.
There was one woman at the head of the bridal line and that was Penelope. If Matthew Harlow decided to wed, it would be to Penelope. And if he didn’t marry, she would retain her spot as his favored consort. She would accept no other position.
“Eat your hearts out ladies,” she murmured to herself. “He’s all mine, and I’m not sharing.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Edwina huddled behind the drapes in the front parlor, peeking out and spying outrageously.
A few minutes earlier, Angela had dragged Captain Harlow into the room and locked the door. Edwina should have made her presence known, but she hadn’t and now it was much too late.
Angela and the Captain were kissing and kissing in a passionate way Eddie had never witnessed before. Angela was throwing herself at the young soldier, obviously hoping to coax a marriage proposal out of him.
It would solve many of their problems, and Eddie should have been grateful that Angela was exerting some effort—no one else was doing anything—but if Angela succeeded, Eddie would just die.
With his blond hair and blue eyes, his tall stature and muscled physique, Captain Harlow was the most handsome, dashing man she’d ever met. When he donned his red coat and strutted about the property, she could barely stand to look at him. He was that magnificent.
Why would he waste time with Angela? Surely he grasped what she was like. Surely he’d figured out she was deliberately seducing him.
From the moment he’d arrived, Angela had hogged his attention, and Eddie hadn’t been able to garner a single minute alone with him.
Eddie was eighteen and had never been kissed. Was there a sorrier statement as to the pitiful condition of her life? She was determined—no matter what ultimately occurred between him and Angela—that she, Eddie, would receive some kisses of her own from the exalted soldier. It would be an event she’d always treasure, a story she could tell to her grandchildren.
Though she had no experience at amour, the endeavor didn’t appear all that complicated, and she was positive she would be good at it should she be offered the slightest chance to participate.
Captain Harlow wasn’t wearing his red coat today, but was dressed in a shirt and breeches. Angela was growing bolder, trying to unbutton his trousers, trying to open his shirt. Eddie was shocked by the brazen behavior, hadn’t known a woman would remove a man’s clothing, and she had to give Angela credit.
Eddie, herself, would have loved to see the Captain’s broad, bare chest. If she’d had half of Angela’s shamelessness, she’d have attempted a similar feat, but all Eddie could do was lurk in the shadows and eavesdrop.
Despite Angela’s struggles to escalate the encounter, the Captain kept stopping her, and when a servant went by in the hall, the torrid pair paused, their lips parting.
Angela grinned up at him, her expression sly and cajoling, as if she was a coquette who was skilled at flirtation, but as far as Eddie was concerned, Angela didn’t have a flirtatious bone in her body. Why, oh why didn’t Captain Harlow realize her ploy?
“You’re very naughty, Captain,” Angela whispered after the servant had vanished.
“I am naughty?” the Captain retorted. “If I remember correctly, I was walking down the hall, minding my own business, when you lured me into this parlor.”
“You’re glad I did,” Angela murmured in a voice that made Eddie want to gag.
“Let’s get out of here,” the Captain urged, seeming distinctly uncomfortable. “I can’t be caught with you.”
“Would that be so bad?” Angela cooed.
The Captain was too much of a gentleman to say, yes, that would be horrid. He stepped to the door and peeked out. Seeing no one, he gestured for Angela to leave.
She sashayed by him, her hips swaying so disgracefully that her bottom swished against him as she passed.
“Sneak up to my room tonight,” she said. “You know you want to.”
Eddie could hardly bite down a squeal of astonishment, as Captain Harlow replied, “I can’t.”
“Why not?” Angela pouted.
“My brother would be upset.”
“Who cares about your brother?”
“I care.”
“You’re Britain’s hero. What can he do to you?”
“You might be surprised.”
“I’m willing to risk it,” Angela insisted.
“I’m not,” he responded.
He pushed her into the hall. It was a gentle push, but a push all the same. For a swift second, she looked as if she might refuse, but she left.
He listened to be certain she’d gone, then he closed the door and spun around.
“You can come out now, Miss Edwards,” he said.
Eddie gasped and peered out. “You knew I was here?”
“Yes. The whole time.” He laughed, preening, proud of the trick he’d played. “I noticed you when we first entered.”
“And you proceeded anyway?”
“I couldn’t help it. I was waiting to see if you’d ever announce yourself.”
“You are too, too awful, Captain.”
She slid from her hiding spot and went over to him. He was so tall and handsome, like a prince in a fairytale, and she felt giddy with excitement just from standing so near.
“Are you in love with Angela?” she asked.
“With Angela? You’re joking.”
“You spend all your time with her.”
“She spends all her time with me.”
“You seem to enjoy it.”
“I’m always happy to kiss a woman who’s interested.”
If she’d been taught how to flirt, she’d have said, I’m interested. Kiss me! But she had no idea how to initiate that conversation.
“Will you marry her?” Eddie inquired.
“Who? Miss Angela?” He was aghast at the notion.
“The servants think she’s counting on it.”
“To what end?”
“To keep the property in the family.”
“By marrying me?” He snickered. “Oh, that is too funny for words. I’ll have to tell my brother.”
“What will he say about it?”
�
��He’ll say I should behave myself.”
“Will you?”
“I doubt it.”
“Are you a libertine?”
“Absolutely. He constantly warns me not to get myself into trouble with one girl or another.”
The news was music to her ears. She’d never previously met a libertine. The gentlemen of her acquaintance were ordinary, stuffy fellows who minded their manners, doted on their mothers, and attended church on Sunday. And they were all so much older than she was. In the entire neighborhood, there wasn’t a single bachelor who was available and worth considering as a husband.
“How many girls have you kissed?” she asked.
“Hundreds? Thousands?”
“Thousands?” she scoffed. “Seriously?”
“Well, maybe not thousands.”
“Hundreds though? You expect me to believe you’ve crossed paths with a sufficient number of females that you’ve kissed hundreds of them?”
“Women can’t resist a man in uniform. Why would I refuse?”
“But hundreds!”
He grinned. “Are you jealous?”
“Yes,” she admitted.
“I could kiss you—if you want. Aren’t you dying to know what it’s like?”
Her heart literally skipped a beat, but she shook her head. “As if I’d let you touch your lips to mine after Angela’s been slobbering all over you.”
“You don’t like her, do you?”
“No. Please don’t marry her. I’d be so disappointed.”
“Trust me. There’s no chance of it.”
“No matter what?”
“No matter what,” he firmly stated, “and she only thinks she’d like me for a husband. She’ll eventually discover who is—” He stopped, then said, “Never mind.”
“What? Tell me.”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
“Find out what?”
“It’s a secret, but I can’t wait until you hear what it is.”
“Will I like it?”
“Yes.”
“Will Angela be upset?”
“She’ll be furious.”
“I’m so glad.”
They both chuckled, and Eddie struggled to figure out what he could possibly mean. What sort of secret was he keeping?
