Redeeming The Reclusive Earl (HQR Historical)

by Virginia Heath

  ‘Indeed it does. Because this would suggest they grew crops rather than gathered. And were savvy enough to be able to make bread.’

  ‘I believe they reared animals, too—rather than hunted.’ She was enjoying discussing things with Percy, whose knowledge was gloriously extensive and his mind quick enough to keep pace with hers most of the time.

  ‘As if such a thing could be effectively proved,’ Lord Denby scoffed from his throne in the corner, having made sure he took the largest and grandest chair in the library the second they had entered the room as a mark of protest, no doubt, for Max’s lack of deference earlier.

  ‘Actually, my lord, I believe I... We...’ her gaze automatically flicked to Max, who nodded his encouragement as if she had not just slipped up and excluded him from the discovery while she had been waxing lyrical all on her own for at least half an hour ‘...we have found evidence of pastoral farming.’

  Effie hurried to the stewed bones she had placed in a labelled leather pouch and gently tipped them on the table. ‘We found these by the hearth alongside some shards of pottery, so have to assume they are the remnants of a meal. The last meal they ate at the round house, else why would it have been there? Although that beggars the question as to why they left in such a hurry. An attack, perhaps? Herodian, Dio and Tacitus commented on the bloodthirsty nature of the tribal fighting. If a rival invaded their land, won the battle and then destroyed the houses, then any survivors would have been forced to flee. Unless there were no survivors...’

  There were so many possibilities, all racing through her mind as she briskly considered the merits of each.

  ‘Or perhaps an epidemic ravaged the settlement? If whole villages were abandoned and disappeared as a result of the Black Death in the fourteenth century, it is entirely conceivable similar things happened many times beforehand, too. It is not as if they chronicled their history like the Roman scholars attempted to do. I have found no evidence of the existence of any written language...’

  She was being too intelligent. Too peculiar. Her odd mind jumping ahead much too fast because Max was there and she couldn’t seem to stop herself lapsing into her true self around him and Percy also made her feel comfortable. ‘Anyway...’ she smiled at the beaming academic as she focused back on the contents of the table ‘...these here are definitely chicken bones and I believe these others are from a larger grazing animal such as a sheep or a cow.’

  ‘They could just as easily be from a wild boar or deer hunted in the forest, Miss Jones.’ Doubting Denby was not the least bit convinced. Hardly a surprise when, so far, he had not been convinced of any conjecture or evidence Effie had put forward. He had, however, conceded a few of Max’s points, but as Max hadn’t committed the shocking crime of being born female or being able to quote all the pertinent Roman histories of the Celts to the letter, it went without saying that in Lord Denby’s cynical and prejudiced eyes, he must be the more informed than she could possibly ever be. It was hard not to show her frustration at his persistently blinkered outlook, but once again she bit her lip. Without Denby’s support, her discoveries would never make it into Archaeologia even with Max’s name on them.

  ‘Well, that one is definitely from a cow.’ Max winked at her as he pointed at the fat, stubby bone in the centre of the pile, dashing in to save her as he had so many times this evening already like a knight in shining armour. ‘Which, as Effie says, is a grazing animal which has been kept for thousands of years by all manner of ancient civilisations. Didn’t the Egyptians keep cows? Even the Book of Genesis mentions the creation of livestock for man to rule over. And technically, that was only on the sixth day... A ridiculous number of centuries before our Celts put beef in their stew.’

  ‘Are you an expert on butchery as well as antiquity and theology, Lord Rivenhall?’ Lord Whittlesey had not said much all evening, unless it was to add fuel to Lord Denby’s current contrary argument.

  ‘Have you ever been on a gunship, Lord Whittlesey?’

  ‘I have never had cause to, Lord Rivenhall.’

  ‘Well, that explains your ignorance then. I sailed with His Majesty’s Navy for twenty years and butchery is one of the many skills I learned on deck. We always set sail with a plethora of animals on board to feed the crew—cows, pigs, sheep, chickens and occasionally even the odd goat. So I think I am more qualified than anyone else in this room to state, and without any doubt whatsoever, that that bone comes from a cow. And if I am not mistaken, I will even be so bold as to identify it as a rib. Whereas this...’ he pointed to another fragment, looking quietly triumphant as well as the most virile and manly man around the table ‘...looks a lot like the tail. Clearly our Celts were as thrifty and creative with their rations as my cook was on the Artemis. I do hope they boiled it to death before they served it as the tail can be horrendously tough.’ And with an entirely smug, male smile which suited him immensely, he stood. ‘That’s quite enough antiquity for one day. Time for some port, I think. Followed by a spirited game of billiards if any of you gentlemen are inclined to wager.’

  ‘I’ll wager every penny, brick and stick of furniture I own in exchange for your beautiful and brilliant fiancée.’ Percy had been an outrageously delightful flirt all evening. Effie already adored him.

  ‘Then prepare to sleep on the streets when you return to London, my good fellow.’ Max shot her a heated glance for appearances’ sake, which her instantly needy body refused to believe was entirely for appearances. ‘Because I have no intention of ever parting with her.’

  Chapter Twenty

  One smitten portly rival...

  The pair of them were already as thick as thieves. Max had no right to be jealous—but he was. Jealous and frustrated at the way the pair of them so obviously got on. In fact, it was causing him so much consternation, he sincerely doubted he would be able to sleep at all. He’d been pacing the rug in his bedchamber for at least half an hour since thoroughly thrashing the scoundrel at billiards and hadn’t yet managed to remove more than his waistcoat he was so aggrieved.

  And Effie was probably annoyed to boot.

  Perhaps it had been churlish to put a stop to the discussion when she was clearly in her element and impressing the hell out of her beloved Sir Percival as well as making steady inroads into the snooty Lord Denby’s terminal scepticism. But it was the obvious rapport she had with blasted Percy which was gnawing away at him. The fellow was an outrageous flirt and needed to be closely watched. Something he had found impossible to do when the pair of them had slipped out of the room before they had finished their soup!

  And Eleanor, who frankly should have chaperoned the pair of them as she was supposed to, had stayed and pandered to Lord Denby’s ego until the fish arrived, clearly oblivious of Max’s frequent and pointed looks reminding her that the pair of them were all on their own. In the end, rather than entrust a servant in case there had been some funny business which required avenging, he had gone to fetch them himself and found the pair huddled together in the library oohing and ahhing over the shield like a new-born child in its crib. Their child! Quite forgetting it was the same blasted shield Max had discovered!

  There had been no further opportunities for Flirty Percy to waylay her after that. Max had made sure of it! For the next few days he intended to stick to him like glue whenever Effie was around because Eleanor was an abysmal chaperon.

  The soft tap on the door was followed by her whisper. ‘Max... Are you still awake?’

  ‘Is everything all right?’ She had gone to bed hours ago. He knew because he had counted every minute since. Jabbing balls with his cue as if each was Sir Percival’s grinning round head.

  ‘Are you decent?’

  For a moment he thought about hunting for his cravat to retie it around his neck to hide the scars and then decided there was no point. His sister was right. They weren’t ever going to get any better and Effie already knew all about them. If she hadn’t baulk
ed at the feel of his cheek, which was the least damaged part, then what difference did it make? And if her taste ran to intelligent short and stout men anyway... He heard his own teeth grind and decided he wouldn’t care. He was what he was—and if that wasn’t good enough, then it would be a cold day in hell before she would ever know how much that hurt.

  He answered by throwing open the door, daring her to be horrified. And then sincerely wished he hadn’t.

  She was stood in a billowing nightgown. A nightgown made up of so much fabric it should have been perfectly decent. Except it was anything but. The scooped neckline framed the slender arch of her neck and showed much too much perfect skin. The long, floaty sleeves were finished in filmy lace which partially obscured her hands until one burrowed free to fiddle with the ends of her dark plait which hung to her waist.

  The diaphanous, gauzy fabric, which might well seem sensible and sedate in daylight, was rendered partially translucent in the soft candlelight, forcing him to see the sultry curve of her hips and the legs which had tormented his dreams since the very first day he had encountered her dressed in those breeches. He wished for those muddy breeches now. Another layer to prevent his mind reeling at the thought of what was under that soft muslin. He watched her eyes wander to the covered mirror, saw her clever mind decipher why it was covered, saw the flash of pity and dreaded her next words.

  ‘There was no time earlier to talk about tomorrow...’ He almost sighed aloud at the unexpected reprieve from the conversation he never wanted to have. ‘What with the dinner and antiquarians and billiards. So I waited up.’ She edged in, chewing nervously on her bottom lip, oblivious of how beautiful she looked or how her innocent gesture made his blood heat. ‘I didn’t want you to be unprepared.’

  Unprepared was the perfect word, because he had been totally unprepared for the sight of her like this. Supremely conscious of his big bed behind them, turned down and waiting, and the hideous scars on his face, which rendered all hope for the bed null and void, Max nodded tightly, hoping he didn’t look as overwhelmed as he felt. He could barely breathe, let alone speak.

  The air around him was suddenly heavy with the heady scent of lilacs and fat summer roses. With things unsaid and hopes unfulfilled. He knew they were best left unsaid. Knew he needed to be thankful she was his friend and not keep foolishly wishing for more. For everything.

  Everything?

  The truth slammed into him and left him unsteady. She was his everything.

  Good lord, he was doomed.

  She stared down at her feet, forcing his eyes to her pretty bare toes poking beneath the hem. Another unwanted reminder of what lay—or did not lie—beneath that ridiculously feminine and romantic nightgown. ‘So where should we start?’

  ‘Er...’ He’d like to start by hooking his fingers beneath the ribbon at her shoulders and sliding the seductive garment slowly down her arms until it puddled around those dainty toes. ‘Perhaps...er...we should begin with a potted history of the Celts?’

  Max tried to focus. Really he did. But as much as he didn’t want to let her down on the morrow, her presence sat primly on the chaise by the window was too distracting and completely overwhelming. With nowhere else to sit other than beside her, Max was perched on the bed. Wishing he had been emasculated so that his masculine parts would stop reminding him he wasn’t. Wishing his heart wasn’t so full it felt as though it might burst at any moment.

  ‘Then you are convinced Lord Denby will disapprove of what we have done.’

  ‘From what I can make of him so far, very probably. He is a bit of a...’

  ‘Pain in the arse?’

  She giggled and he inexplicably felt ten feet tall. ‘I was going to say traditionalist—but I much prefer your assessment. Yes, he is and he does seem to have a fundamental problem with me, so I am afraid it is going to be down to you to justify the way I have done things and prevent him from attacking the ruins like the advancing army of Attila the Hun.’

  ‘Lord Denby is a lot of foul things, but an Attila he isn’t. He doesn’t have the physical strength, for one thing. Did you notice how much padding he had in his jacket? I doubt he’s ever wielded a pickaxe. To be honest, I’m surprised he didn’t struggle with a spoon. He has unpleasantly thin wrists for a man.’

  She smiled. ‘I cannot say I noticed his jacket or his wrists. I was too busy noticing his utter disdain.’

  ‘Disdain is his forte for sure. That and looking down his nose.’ Max looked down his and crossed his eyes, simply to hear her laugh again. Each one felt like rebuilding another section of the bridge back to friendship. It was staggering how much he had missed it. Missed her, truth be told. Effie, it turned out, was the sunshine in his darkness. ‘And talking of jackets... I doubt Sir Percival needed extra padding. He seemed to fill his more than adequately... With pudding, I suspect.’ A low blow, when despite the jealousy Max actually liked the man, but he wanted to gauge the depth of her feelings towards him, hoping he was worrying for nothing.

  As if he was ever going to dare tell her how he felt.

  ‘Percy is lovely. Pudding and all.’ Not at all what Max wanted to hear. ‘Anyway—the methods I use are fairly new and are not used extensively in antiquarian circles. I have been tremendously inspired by the work of the late William Cunnington, a great man who believed in respecting the past by treating the site with integrity. I am not averse to using a pickaxe or a shovel, because both have very obvious advantages, especially when it comes to removing several feet of soil. However, like Cunnington, I prefer to use more precise tools like my trowel when I get close to the artefacts. In a clumsy excavation, many delicate or small finds can so easily be missed or destroyed in haste. In fact, I dread to think how many important treasures have been needlessly and thoughtlessly discarded at important sites like Pompeii or Stonehenge. We cannot let that happen at Rivenhall.’

  ‘It won’t. Rivenhall is mine.’ But all of a sudden he knew he wanted to share it. ‘And only you get to say how it is dug.’

  ‘That’s very noble of you.’ She smiled and then hid it behind her hand to stifle a yawn, then, to compound his misery, stretched. ‘As is sitting here in the small hours while I waffle on when you must clearly be desperate for your bed.’ Only if she were in it with him. ‘We have an early start tomorrow.’

  ‘Breakfast at seven.’ He swallowed hard in case he drooled when she stood and the candlelight worked its magic with her nightgown again. He seared the image on his mind to keep for ever. ‘Then we are under strict orders from Eleanor not to return to the house till at least one.’

  He followed her to the door. ‘I am so humbled by Eleanor’s efforts on my behalf today. And yours. Thank you. It means the world.’

  ‘You are very welcome.’

  He watched her lace-covered hand reach for the handle before she paused and turned around, leaning her back against the door. ‘Can I ask you a question, Max?’

  Please God, don’t let it be about the mirror. ‘Ask away...’ The candles picked out the flecks of gold in her irises while the darkness rendered the brown almost black. Both seemed to hold the power to hypnotise him.

  ‘I know things have been awkward between us of late and I understand why...’ Was that regret? It certainly looked like it from where he was standing. Unless he was willing it to be regret and therefore entirely probable, he was misreading things. Even so, a tiny shoot of hope sprung eternal. ‘But what made you change your mind this morning?’

  He had anticipated this question and given it a great deal of thought during the frequent moments when his eyes had glazed over at the particularly baffling antiquarian discussions throughout the day. Except the glib, bland, hastily glossing-over response he had planned was not what came out of his mouth. ‘I wanted to be different.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘All the other men...in the past...who ran away or put you down or tried to diminish what and wh
o you are, Effie... I couldn’t bear to be one of them.’

  ‘Oh...’ Her expression was confused for a second, as if she had not been expecting that response at all. Which made two of them. Telling the truth made him feel nervous and exposed. What if more leaked out? Would she run? ‘That is actually very sweet of you.’

  ‘Can miserable, reclusive, angry-at-the-world curmudgeons be sweet?’

  ‘Difficult to answer as the only one I know is you. Perhaps you are softening?’ She gave him a half-smile—part-irony, part-shy. Wholly bewitching. ‘Or perhaps I am growing on you?’

  ‘Perhaps...’ It was funny. He had never felt like this when he had been with Miranda. There had been lust, of course. But not friendship or understanding. He’d never known what she was thinking or feeling, and perhaps that had been what had drawn him then. With her it had been fraught. Unsettled. Unfulfilling. Even superficial. Yet with Effie, it felt like a warm eiderdown wrapping him in reassuring comfort. Different. Better. Right...

  She made no move to turn back towards the door and gazed at him expectantly although Max couldn’t for the life of him think of anything else to say that did not involve admitting she had more than grown on him. She had taken root and taken over. Made his heart beat and his days something to look forward to. Because despite the bizarreness of the situation, the complicated charade and the house filled with strangers, he realised with a start he was looking forward to tomorrow entirely owing to the fact she would be in all of it.

  ‘I suppose I should go...’

  ‘I suppose you should.’

  ‘Unless...’ She chewed her bottom lip again and then shook her head. ‘Never mind... Ignore me. I am being silly...’ Now she was obviously awkward—not uncomfortable awkward, but hesitant.