by Adele Clee
“No. Not all of it.”
“How much would please you?”
“Half would suffice.” Arabella stepped closer and placed her bony fingers on Lydia’s arm. “Think of it this way. If you marry Lord Randall, half will be more than ample for your needs.”
“And what of the house in London?” Lydia probed, determined to learn of Arabella’s true intentions.
“You wouldn’t need it. Lord Randall has a mansion house in Grosvenor Square. What use have you for a townhouse in Queen Street?”
“But you would have a use for it, of course.”
“A gentleman of your brother’s status must be seen to own property in town.”
Was that the status of an affable imbecile or peer of the realm? Lydia wondered.
Lydia recalled the moment her father summoned her into his bedchamber, raised a limp hand to her cheek and made her swear never to let the evil crow—meaning Arabella—get her hands on a penny of his money.
“Do you really think I would disrespect my father by going against his wishes?”
“He’s dead!” Arabella’s shriek drew attention. Her cheeks flamed. She pasted an affected smile and inclined her head to those who stared. “It’s not as though he would know,” she whispered through clenched teeth.
There was little point offering a retort. Arabella’s greed was so deep-rooted nothing could weaken its branches.
The music suddenly stopped, and a hum of excitement caught Lydia’s attention. The energy in the room sparked to life. Lord Randall had arrived. Like mice lured by a chunk of cheese, people scurried towards the double doors, eager to greet the prestigious guest.
Lydia groaned inwardly.
“Oh, Rudolph is here.” Arabella clasped her hands to her chest. Her countenance brightened dramatically as she stood on her tiptoes and craned her neck. “He thinks so highly of your brother. One word of encouragement from you, and he would be sure to offer marriage.”
Marriage?
Good Lord. Lydia had best do everything in her power to deter him.
With a raised chin and a lofty air of arrogance, Lord Randall spoke to all those who clawed at his heels for attention. The gentry gathered around and gawked as if drinking in the sight of a breathtaking piece of art.
Randall’s clothes did have aesthetic appeal. They spoke of elegance, a natural sophistication that bordered on the feminine. He wore russet silk breeches and a matching tailcoat. Pristine white stockings served to demonstrate shapely, well-defined calves. His gold brocade waistcoat and fussy cravat confirmed he was a man obsessed with appearances. So obsessed, he’d worn court clothes to a provincial assembly.
Perhaps sensing her perusal, Lord Randall turned to face her and their eyes met.
Lydia waited to feel something other than bland disinterest. Bland disinterest was the only thing she felt.
Randall’s mouth curled up, whether in pleasure or mocking amusement she did not know, and he inclined his head.
It was rude not to acknowledge him, but she turned away, feigning interest in Arabella’s mindless chatter.
“You know, Cecil should go shopping with Rudolph next time he visits his tailor.” Arabella looked at the dandy as if he’d descended in a shower of gold. “One can learn a lot from spending time with a gentleman like that.”
Cecil joined his friend, and both gentlemen sauntered over. Well, Lord Randall sauntered. Cecil stumbled and almost tripped. Her brother wore a poorly fitted dark-green coat. Green being his preferred choice ever since Arabella told him the colour enhanced the hazel hue of his eyes—although that was before they married.
“Miss Lovell.” Lord Randall captured Lydia’s hand and raised it to within an inch of his thin lips. “May I say how splendid you look this evening?”
Splendid?
The word lacked warmth, lacked sincerity, lacked the power to make her heart flutter.
“And may I compliment you on your choice of wardrobe, my lord? It really is rather … unique.”
Lord Randall raised a brow. “At least my efforts have not gone unnoticed. I fear my tastes may be too refined for the good people of Cuckfield.” He spat out the last word as if it were a piece of gristle ruining a tasty morsel of beef.
“The good people of Cuckfield have no need for extravagance,” Lydia said, brushing her hand down her plain white gown. They left that to self-absorbed prigs. “They focus on the simple things one needs to survive.”
Lord Randall snorted. “I see we are of a similar mind, Miss Lovell. Simple is indeed the right word in this scenario.” He flapped a limp hand at the throng. “Simple if not a little backwards.”
Lydia bristled. “And yet I cannot help but feel a kinship with these people. One I could never share with those who parade about in London society.” Or with a devil who let his tenants starve so he could spend another month sailing the Indian Ocean—even if he was exceedingly handsome.
Arabella tittered nervously. “What Miss Lovell means is that she has spent so long in the country she has forgotten what it means to be an aristocrat.”
Randall’s green eyes fixed on Lydia though they lacked the power to unnerve her like Lord Greystone’s bewitching gems. Indeed, Lord Randall’s lustful gaze brought the sickly taste of lemonade bubbling back up to her throat.
“There is no need to explain,” Randall said. “I am a master at reading the unspoken.”
Cecil brushed his hair over his balding pate and chuckled. “Yes, I can think of a few times you’ve stopped me from making a faux pas, and often before I’ve even opened my mouth.”
“Miss Lovell simply seeks to express her opinion.” Randall flicked his straw-blond hair off his brow. “In my experience ladies rarely mean what they say. I’m certain Miss Lovell is merely trying to impress me with her charitable accomplishments.”
How on earth had he drawn that conclusion?
The brief respite from Mr Jethro’s mistimed screeches ended. Now Lord Randall had arrived, those who wished to dance gathered for the minuet. A few matchmaking mamas circled them, flapping their fans and pushing their shy daughters forward in the hope of gaining the lord’s attention.
“You shall dance with me, Miss Lovell,” Lord Randall demanded, seemingly oblivious to the fact there was anyone else in the room. “Let us show these simple-minded heathens true elegance of form.”
“Oh, my sister would love to dance.” Arabella’s arm snaked around Lydia’s back and she gave a gentle push. “Wouldn’t you, my dear?”
Lydia stumbled forward. She would rather dance with a man who made her knees weak than with one who made her nauseous.
Lord Randall caught her in his slippery hands, hands that ventured beyond the bounds of propriety at any given opportunity. Only a fool would encourage Rudolph Randall in his affections.
Thankfully, Lydia noticed Mr Gilligan ambling towards them. She was surprised to see the steward considering his master’s recent return, and so seized the moment to offer a few words of reassurance.
Extricating herself from Lord Randall’s hold, Lydia brushed the essence of the man from her being. “I’m afraid I must speak to Mr Gilligan as a matter of urgency. I’m sure Lady Lovell will dance with you, my lord.”
Cecil groaned. “I was hoping you would dance with me, Arabella.”
“Dance with you?” Arabella looked horrified. “Not while you’re wearing those shoes. They make a loud clip every time your foot hits the floor.”
Cecil tried to offer a witty retort, but it fell flat.
“I am not averse to playing games, Miss Lovell.” Lord Randall lowered his voice as he sidled next to her until their arms touched. “Indeed, I find your reluctance to fall at my feet rather intriguing, if not a little puzzling.”
How could she answer without being rude? Besides, Arabella’s ears were pricked ready to listen to their conversation.
“I really do need to speak to Mr Gilligan.” Lydia gestured to the man whose permanent smile made her cheeks ache. “If you will excuse me.
”
“I would advise against it, Miss Lovell. All sorts of riffraff attend these parochial gatherings. If you must speak to the fellow, then I shall summon him.” Lord Randall thrust his patrician nose in the air. “Gilligan.” He repeated the steward’s name and beckoned him over. “A moment of your time.”
Mr Gilligan scuttled over. “Lord Randall.” He bowed low enough to lick the lord’s shoe buckles. “I heard you were gracing us with your presence this evening. May I say what a delight it is—”
“Yes, yes.” Lord Randall flapped his fingers to show he despised tedious conversation. “It is Miss Lovell who wishes to speak to you, not I.”
Mr Gilligan inclined his head though he had an annoying habit of letting it loll to one side. “Miss Lovell, as always I am your humble servant. Does it concern the Greystone Estate?”
“As a matter of fact, it does. Though I must say, under the circumstances, I’m surprised to see you looking so jovial this evening.”
Mr Gilligan put his hand over his heart. “Alas, one must strive to do one’s best even in the most trying of times.” He continued to grin. “And may I take this opportunity to advise you to remain indoors tomorrow evening?”
“Tomorrow evening?” Lydia tried not to stare at the man’s crooked teeth. “Is there to be a storm?”
Mr Gilligan shuffled closer—as did Arabella. “I’m sorry to say, Lord Greystone’s friends are en route to Brighton and have permission to spend the night at the manor. By all accounts, they are a lively bunch … well, I’m sure I’ve no need to explain to you, Miss Lovell.”
Heavens above, not again. For the fifth time in as many months the house would be brimming with disreputable rogues. But where did that leave his poor tenants?
“We must make Lord Greystone see the error of his ways.” Lydia’s pulse pumped hard in her throat when she thought of the dreadful living conditions his tenants endured. “We must persuade him to hire labourers to make the necessary repairs to the cottages.”
Mr Gilligan shook his head. “I know the tenants’ welfare is a matter close to your heart, Miss Lovell. But in all honesty, I have exhausted myself trying to make his lordship understand. He simply doesn’t care.”
“I care,” Lydia blurted.
Arabella shot her a gorgon’s stare.
“A lady should not be soiling her hands with the affairs of the lower classes,” Lord Randall chided. “Lord knows what diseases you might catch in those ramshackle hovels.” He whipped his lace handkerchief from his coat pocket and wafted it in front of his nose. The sweet scent of violets breezed through the air.
“As privileged people, is it not up to us to fight for those without a voice?” Frustration wrung tight in Lydia’s chest. “In making their lives better are we not in turn enhancing our own?”
Lord Randall raised a mocking brow. “You’re letting your fragile sensibilities ride roughshod over your logic, my dear.”
Fragile sensibilities? Had this man never looked into the watery eyes of a starving child? Had he never seen skin mottled blue from the cold? Was his heart wrapped so tightly in expensive silk that the organ no longer ached with emotion?
Lydia clenched her fists at her sides. “I would not expect you to understand. Why would you when you have never had to struggle?”
Lord Randall seemed almost pleased by her rebuke. “Acting for the meek and impoverished only serves to make them lazy.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Arabella chirped, and then caught herself when she remembered she wasn’t supposed to be listening.
“And I disagree,” Lydia scoffed. Who wanted to battle on the same side as a braggart? She turned to Mr Gilligan. “I’m sure when you show Lord Greystone the condition of the cottages, he might see things differently.”
Mr Gilligan offered yet another pitying grin. “And therein lies the crux of the problem. I doubt Lord Greystone will ever set eyes on the place again.” He shrugged. “And in the meantime, I must strive to do my best in his absence.”
Lydia frowned. Had Lord Greystone not informed his steward of his return?
How odd.
“Then I have good news for you, sir.” Lydia pushed aside her doubts. She’d seen the brief look of despair in Greystone’s eyes when she mentioned the dilapidated condition of his estate. “Hope is on the horizon.”
“Hope?” Mr Gilligan’s grin stretched from ear to ear. “Do you speak of your own soon-to-be windfall?”
Was everyone in Cuckfield waiting for her to inherit, waiting to approach with cap in hand?
“Good God, man,” Lord Randall said sharply. “A lady does not discuss money in public. A lady does not discuss money at all.”
Mr Gilligan bowed repeatedly. “Forgive me. When Miss Lovell spoke of hope, I assumed—”
“Hope that things will change now Lord Greystone has returned,” Lydia clarified.
Mr Gilligan froze. For a moment she thought he’d stopped breathing. His eyes glazed, and he stared right through her.
“I beg your pardon?” Mr Gilligan gulped. “Who has returned?”
“Lord Greystone.”
“Greystone is back?” Lord Randall asked with some surprise, but his expression soon reverted to one of cool indifference.
Mr Gilligan chuckled nervously. For the first time since making his acquaintance, his wide grin faltered. “My dear, you must be mistaken.”
Lord Randall sighed and examined his fingernails. “Have you finished with the steward, Miss Lovell? I did not travel all the way from London to stand about idle.”
Lydia ignored him. “I can assure you, Lord Greystone arrived at the manor two hours ago. I had the misfortune of meeting him on the road.” She chose not to reveal any more information. Arabella was already casting the evil eye.
Beads of sweat broke out on the steward’s brow. All colour drained from his face leaving him pasty white. The shaking began at his head and rippled through his body until his toes were tapping.
“Lord Greystone ha-has returned?” Mr Gilligan said, his crooked teeth chattering.
Bless the man. He looked positively petrified.
“For goodness’ sake, pull yourself together,” Lord Randall said.
The lord really was most unhelpful.
“The devil you spoke of has come home.” Lydia placed a comforting hand on the steward’s sleeve. “But rest assured, I shall help you tackle the problems with his tenants.”
Mr Gilligan winced. “No. It cannot be. Lord have mercy. You’re sure it was—”
A loud bang resonated in the hall as if a mighty gust had ripped the front door off its hinges. The slow clip of booted footsteps on the tiled floor rang like a death knell.
“Heaven help me.” Mr Gilligan clutched his throat. “He’s here. I know it. He’s come for me.”
“You must calm yourself, sir. It is just a latecomer.”
The stunned silence filling the room said otherwise. Lydia turned to the doors leading into the main hall and almost swooned at the sight.
Lord Greystone’s broad shoulders filled the doorway. His dark hair hung rakishly over his brow. Raw, masculine power emanated from every fibre of his being. One word from him would strike a man dead where he stood.
“Greystone is here,” she whispered as she watched him scan the sea of faces, watched his gaze narrowing like a wolf hunting its prey.
People stopped and stared and gaped at the shocking spectacle. Ladies cowered behind their husbands. Though the room remained quiet, the air was alive with an intensity that stole Lydia’s breath. Alive with a vibrant energy that stimulated the fine hairs at her nape. Alive with a force that sent her stomach fluttering up to her throat.
“Gilligan!” Lord Greystone shouted, dragging gasps from the open-mouthed onlookers. The lord’s penetrating gaze bulled through the crowd and came to settle on the steward. With an arrogant curl of the lip, Greystone prowled towards them.
Like all deadly predators, Greystone’s movements were sleek, almost graceful. The dark and
dangerous look in his eye held Lydia captive. She was in no doubt that this gentleman could hold a candle to the devil.
As Greystone came to a halt in front of her, their eyes met. Heat flooded her stomach before journeying southwards to pool in a new and uncharted region.
“Lord Greystone,” she said, the hitch in her breath unmistakable.
He inclined his head. “Good evening, Miss Lovell. It seems we are destined to meet under difficult circumstances. I, too, have a grievance, you see.” He dragged his gaze away from her, his green eyes turning hard and unrelenting as they fixed on Mr Gilligan.
“Mr Gilligan,” Lord Greystone said in a slow, mocking tone that still managed to sound vicious. “You’ve been a busy man in my absence.”
“M-my lord. Welcome home.” Mr Gilligan had no choice but to bow to his master, but the steward went one step further and dropped to his knees. He gripped Greystone’s dirty boots. “I can explain. I can explain everything.”
“Stand up!” Greystone yanked his boot from the man’s grasp and stepped back. “You will stand up and walk out of this room with me else I shall drag you out.”
“Is that really necessary?” Lord Randall said haughtily. “A gentleman should not resort to violence when in the presence of a lady.”
Lydia might have admired the lord for his considerate comment, yet it was born from a need to impress, and she despised the self-righteous.
Greystone turned his head a fraction, a smirk playing on his lips. He scanned the dandy’s clothes. “Do not dare tell me how to conduct my business. Do not dare tell me what it is to be a gentleman.” The words hit like an arctic wind—harsh and bitterly cold. So cold that all those nearby shivered. “Have a care, that is unless you wish to polish your pistols and meet at dawn.”
Lord Randall gulped numerous times. Conceit was a useless weapon against a man capable of murdering a person with his bare hands.
“Step back,” Lord Greystone warned when Randall failed to reply. “Else I might think that you are part of the problem.”
