Romancing The Rake (Brotherhood 0f The Black Tartan Book 2)

by Nichole Van

  Peter leaned into her ear, clearly undeterred. “One must be nearly feral to survive the London Season. Cannibalism is the ton’s modus operandi. We thrive on devouring our own—”

  Jane barely swallowed back the laughter climbing her throat. She shot Peter a quelling side-glance.

  “Hush.” She managed to say the word without moving her lips, for all the good it did.

  Peter was determined to win this round.

  It was a game they played. Peter said outrageous things, and Jane bravely refrained from reacting beyond a discreet pinch or sotto voce reprimand. Abruptly smiling, frowning, smirking, eye rolling, or heaven forbid, giggling would earn Jane a dressing down from their mother after guests departed.

  After all, she had an image to maintain.

  Ladies never indulge in broad emotions, Jane, Lady Hadley would say. Emotion, if it must be shown, should be conveyed through a raised eyebrow or slight tonal inflection. Nothing more.

  Peter, of course, had no such constraints. He could make faces all he wished, and their mother would never say a word. Facts he well knew.

  Thankfully, Peter obeyed Jane’s quiet reprimand and sat back, crossing his arms, his black armband straining from the movement. But the smile lurking on his lips promised more harassing torment.

  Her brother knew her polite, elegant manners were studiously learned; a facade she carefully donned. Unladylike behavior and rowdy thoughts lurked just beneath her polished veneer, defaults she constantly strove to quash.

  In true younger brother fashion, he delighted in reminding her of these facts. Over and over again. Endlessly.

  Jane forced herself to focus by pressing another fingernail into her palm, leaving a clear half-moon shape. It was a habit born years ago. She had found that the small pain channeled her emotions, keeping them off her expression. After a particularly trying afternoon, her palm would look like fish scales, the markings taking an hour or more to fade.

  “However will you manage, Lady Hadley?” Mrs. Burton tsked, reaching for a biscuit. “A coarse, bawdy Highlander as the Earl of Hadley—”

  “Oh, a Highlander.” Mrs. Smith’s gaze went wide and a little dreamy-eyed. “Like one of the heroes of a Walter Scott novel?”

  “No, Martha. The man is not to be fictionalized,” Lady Whitcomb admonished, much as one might reprimand an overly-eager poodle for jumping up on the furniture. “I shan’t permit you to romanticize the severity of this situation.”

  “Hear, hear. The new Lord Hadley certainly does not belong to the Church of England.” Mrs. Burton nibbled her biscuit daintily, obviously enjoying the conversation immensely. “More likely he is a pagan heathen.”

  Peter huffed, quiet and low.

  “Or, worse,” he whispered, “a Presbyterian.”

  He nudged his foot against Jane’s.

  I know you want to laugh, his movements said.

  Jane pinched her lips, keeping her head determinedly faced toward their mother. You shall not defeat me.

  She supposed most sisters would feel aggravation over such teasing. But Peter’s actions showed louder than anything that he understood, that he knew her.

  And Jane adored being known. Being known meant she was loved, accepted just as she was.

  Was it any wonder she loved Peter so thoroughly in return?

  The ladies continued their gossip.

  “Indeed,” Lady Whitcomb agreed. “A pagan Scotsman might do for a novel but place such a man in an English drawing room . . .” She drifted off, giving a violent shudder.

  In that moment, Jane nearly pitied Lord Hadley. The man would be walking into a hornet’s nest of expectations and rigid etiquette rules he clearly did not understand, crofter’s hut or not. He was in for a brutal time of things.

  Lady Hadley offered a restrained smile, expression politely arctic. “It has been a dreadful shock. Thankfully, we have the care of kind friends to buoy us up.”

  Her mother delivered the words with dripping sweetness. Lady Whitcomb did not miss their venom, her lips pinching in response.

  Jane longed to roll her eyes and lounge back in her chair, posture slumping.

  She took another sip of tea instead.

  The Langston family had already survived four Scottish kings, three German ones, and pink powdered wigs. It would surely outlast this catastrophe.

  Jane herself was no stranger to disaster. Her father, the Duke of Montacute, had died when Jane was still a babe. When Jane was a toddler, her mother had remarried, this time to the widowed Earl of Hadley. Lord Hadley had not been a cruel stepfather to Jane. He had simply never acknowledged her existence beyond the occasional polite nod or word.

  Jane might have taken offense at this, but the old earl treated everyone that way—his wife, relatives, his deceased son, Henry . . . even Peter, his only child with Jane’s mother. No one mourned when, after years of poor health, the earl had finally passed on six months ago. Only his lordship’s creditors and immediate family considered his death a calamity.

  No, the true horror came in the aftermath of his lordship’s funeral.

  Jane vividly remembered the palpable gasp in the room as the family solicitor politely informed them that the old earl had made a series of unwise investments, leaving the earldom heavily in debt and on the verge of bankruptcy. Lady Hadley would receive her dower portion, as was legally required, but no other allowances had been made.

  Peter, his lordship’s English second son—the spare, not the heir—had received nothing.

  Instead, what little remained had been left to his lordship’s Scottish grandson, the new Lord Hadley.

  Laws of primogeniture being what they were, the title had to pass to the eldest son of the eldest son—the Scot, Andrew Langston.

  But . . . the ailing estates, lands, and investments were not currently entailed. Some portion of them—or all, quite frankly—could have been left to Peter. Yet, for some unfathomable reason, the old earl had utterly cut his second son from his will. The question was why?

  The old earl had been ill for years before his death. Had he simply neglected to update his will in a timely fashion? Or, had he truly been so uncaring of Peter? Regardless of the old earl’s finances, to deny his son any inheritance whatsoever seemed excessively callous.

  Peter had borne it all with a stoic, white-lipped silence—the same wretched, suppressed fury with which he greeted all information about the new Lord Hadley. Having spent her whole life concerned for her brother’s welfare, Jane found it physically painful to witness.

  The disorderly heart of her—the inner wild self she kept contained and thoroughly battened down—raged at the injustice. That Jane wanted to raise the old earl from dead, just so she could send him to his Maker again. This time in a more painfully lingering fashion.

  Of course, such thoughts merely underscored why she kept her inner self thoroughly contained. No one wanted a lady who behaved in such a fashion. Her past had proved this most cruelly.

  “When do you anticipate his lordship’s arrival?” Mrs. Smith asked Lady Hadley, interrupting Jane’s thoughts.

  Though Lord Hadley had immediately petitioned Parliament for a Writ of Summons, he had waited six months before making an appearance in Sussex.

  The previous week after Sunday service, Mrs. Smith had the audacity to muse that it was to his lordship’s credit that he had waited until the family was out of full mourning before visiting them. She was immediately silenced.

  “His man-of-affairs said to expect him in three weeks’ time,” Lady Hadley replied.

  “The earl did not write you himself?” Lady Whitcomb was all astonishment.

  “No.”

  Silence greeted Lady Hadley’s curt response. Unspoken assumptions hung in the air—if Lord Hadley hadn’t written the letter himself, was his lordship even literate? However, he did employ a man-of-affairs, so perhaps opinion was divided on that score?

  Smiling stiffly, Lady Hadley motioned toward the tea tray. “Would anyone care for another bi
scuit?”

  Eventually the ladies rattled through their gossip about the new Lord Hadley and took their leave.

  “Well, I cannot say I missed afternoon calls when we were in full mourning,” Peter said as the door closed on the last of them. He stood, walking over to the fireplace. “I’m quite sure my ears are bleeding from their lacerating witticisms.”

  “You acquitted yourself well, Peter, as usual,” Lady Hadley smoothed her lavender skirts, before turning to Jane. “You were far too quiet, however, Jane. You need to speak more.”

  “Of course, Mother.” Jane gave her reply automatically. If she had said more to their visitors, her mother would reprimand her for speaking too often.

  Jane pressed her fingernail into her palm. Half-moons, she thought. Concentrate on making half-moons.

  “Why are you harping on about Jane’s manners, Mother?” Peter rolled his eyes and snorted, sarcasm dripping. “The new Lord Hadley will not notice one way or another.”

  He pronounced Lord Hadley with a hostile wince, as if saying the man’s very name hurt his mouth.

  Jane shot Peter a grateful look. She could see them both reflected in the mirror above the mantel, their heads nearly touching, Peter’s tousled blond overlapping her brassier auburn. Symbolically always beside her.

  “Hadley . . . perhaps not.” Lady Hadley glanced her way. “But I’ve had another letter from Montacute, Jane, and your brother is hinting, again, at you joining him and his duchess in London for the Season. If that happens, we must focus on perfecting your behavior.”

  Jane narrowly avoided a wince herself. Only the biting pain of her nail into her palm stopped her reaction.

  Her other half-brother, the current Duke of Montacute, had exacting expectations of her. Words from his latest letter rattled through her skull:

  You must ever be mindful, sister, of the honor your name does you. You are the daughter and sister of Montacute. Your every breath should reflect the exalted circumstances of your birth.

  Nearly twenty years her senior, Montacute had always been a menacing figure, more stern father than brother, truth be told. Jane revolted at the thought of living with him and his duchess in London, forced to interact daily with their caustic selves. Worse, it would separate her from Peter.

  Her mother continued, motioning toward Jane with a languid hand, “Montacute has increased your pin money since the old earl’s death, Jane, but with the earldom on the brink of bankruptcy, I do not know how much longer you will have a home here. It all depends on what the new earl decides when he arrives. Unmarried, you are simply a drain upon both Hadley and Montacute.”

  As was proper, Montacute had assumed financial responsibility for Jane since her stepfather’s death and provided her with a monthly allowance. But her mother’s words were true—unmarried, Jane was nothing more than dross.

  Peter moved to sit, sprawling in the chair opposite, shooting her an understanding look. While neither of them was enthusiastic about having to tolerate the new Scottish earl himself, they genuinely dreaded the consequences of his choices.

  “Well, we are all drains on Hadley now, Mother,” Peter said, again distracting Lady Hadley’s attention. “He holds our purse strings, such as they are. We are all reliant on his good-will for our every need. I consider it prudent to politely avoid the man as much as possible.”

  Given that Peter could scarcely say the man’s name without grimacing in distaste, her brother was far more troubled than he let on. He was justifiably angry that Hadley—uncouth, unrefined, and currently unknown—now held Peter’s future in his hands. The hurt of being abandoned so thoroughly by his sire ran deep. Peter had been cut adrift, floating away from her, and Jane felt powerless to bring him back to shore.

  Jane sat straighter in her chair.

  “I agree with Peter,” she said. “We shall simply endure Hadley’s coming the way all English have faced Scots over the centuries—with impeccable manners, reserved politeness, and sardonic verve.”

  Peter grimaced and saluted her with a raised eyebrow. His expression mirroring her own sense of impending doom.

  To continue the story purchase Suffering the Scot from Amazon today!

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  Seeing Miss Heartstone

  A Regency Romance

  Whitney Award winner for Best Historical Romance 2018

  Seeing Miss Heartstone

  A Regency Romance

  Chapter One

  . . . My lord, news of your current financial pressures has reached many ears. I know of an interested party who would be honored to discuss a proposed joint venture. They have asked to meet you along the Long Water in Hyde Park tomorrow morning, where they shall endeavor to lay out the particulars of their proposal . . .

  —excerpt from an unsigned letter posted to Lord Blake

  In retrospect, Miss Arabella Heartstone had three regrets about ‘The Incident.’

  She should not have worn her green, wool cloak with the fox fur collar, as Hyde Park was warmer than expected that morning.

  She should not have instructed her chaperone, Miss Anne Rutger, to remain politely out of earshot.

  And she probably should not have proposed marriage to the Marquess of Blake.

  “P-pardon?” Lord Blake lifted a quizzical eyebrow, standing straight and tall, rimmed in the morning sunlight bouncing off the Long Water behind him. A gentle breeze wound through the surrounding trees, rustling newly-grown, green leaves. “Would . . . would you mind repeating that last phrase? I fear I did not hear you correctly.”

  Belle straightened her shoulders, clasped her trembling hands together, and sternly ordered her thumping heart to Cease this racket.

  Swallowing, she restated her request. “After much consideration, my lord, I feel a marriage between you and myself would be prudent.”

  Lord Blake stared at her, blinking over and over. Belle was unsure if his reaction denoted surprise or was simply the result of the dazzling sunlight off the water behind her.

  Silence.

  Birds twittered. Branches creaked. Leaves rustled.

  Eternities passed. Millennia ended and were reborn.

  Belle gritted her teeth, desperate to bolster her flagging confidence. You are strong and courageous. You can do this.

  In the past, her passivity over the Marriage Matter had nearly ended in disaster. So, Belle had set her sights on a more forthright course—propose marriage herself. Yes, she struggled to talk with people and preferred anonymity to attention, but her current situation was critical.

  She needed a husband. Decidedly. Desperately. Immediately. As in . . . yesterday would not have been soon enough.

  At the moment, however, her mental encouragement barely managed to convince the swarming butterflies in her stomach to not free her breakfast along with themselves. Casting up her accounts all over his lordship’s dusty Hessian boots would hardly nurture his romantic interest.

  At last, Lord Blake stirred, pulling a folded letter from his overcoat. He stared at it, eyebrows drawing down, a sharp “V” appearing above his nose.

  “You sent me this message, asking to meet me here?” He flapped the letter in her direction.

  “Yes.” Belle bit down on her lip and darted a glance behind at her companion. Miss Rutger stood a solid thirty yards off, studiously facing the Long Water. “Well . . . uhm . . . in all truthfulness, Miss Rutger wrote the letter.”

  Lord Blake raised his eyebrows, clearly uncaring of the minutiae involved. “So you are not a gentleman interested in my business venture in the East Indies?” He unfolded the letter, reading from it. “‘I know of an interested party who would be honored to discuss a proposed joint venture. They have asked to meet you along the Long Water,’ et cetera. This ‘interested party’ is yourself?” He returned the letter to his pocket.

  “Yes, my lord.” Belle commanded her feet to hold still and not bounce up and down—the bouncing being yet another effect of those dratted nervous butterflies.

&n
bsp; Lord Blake’s brows rose further. “And you are offering . . . marriage?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Belle repeated, but she had to clarify the point. Apparently, she had no issue with being thought forward and brazen, but heaven forbid Lord Blake imagine her a liar, too. “Though . . . I am proposing a joint endeavor.”

  “Indeed,” he paused. “Marriage usually implies as much.”

  Lord Blake shuffled a Hessian-booted foot and clasped his hands behind his back. A corner of his mouth twitched.

  Was the man . . . amused? If so, was that good? Or bad?

  And at this point, did it matter?

  Belle soldiered on. “There would be significant advantages to both of us with such a match.”

  More silence. An errant draft of wind tugged at his coat.

  “You have me at a disadvantage, Miss . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Heartstone. Miss Arabella Heartstone.”

  “I see.” He removed his hat and slapped it against his thigh. “And why have we not met in more . . . uh . . . typical circumstances? A ball, perhaps? A dinner party where we could be properly introduced and engage in conversation about the weather and the latest bonnet fashions before leaping straight to marriage?”

  “Oh.” It was Belle’s turn to blink, absorbing his words. Oh dear. “We have met, my lord. We were introduced at Lord Pemberley’s musicale last month. We did discuss the weather, but not bonnets or . . . uhm . . . marriage.”

  She hadn’t expected him to recall everything, but to not even recognize her? To not remember their brief conversation—

  “How do you do, Miss Heartstone? It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Lord Blake bowed.

  “The pleasure is all mine, my lord.” Belle curtsied. “Lovely weather we’re having.”

  “Indeed, we are.”

  It did not bode well.

  The butterflies rushed upward, eager for escape.

  “Right.” Blake let out a gusting breath and shook his head, sending his hair tumbling across his forehead. The morning sun turned it into molten shades of deep amber, curling softly over his ears.