A Family for the Reclusive Baron
Autorzy
Carol Arens
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18,8K
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14
Chapter One
Although his brother had been Baron Elmstone, only a handful of people had attended his funeral.
In a sense, Harrison was not there either. He stood by the graveside hearing the minister’s voice reciting his brother’s good deeds...none of which Harrison recalled...seeing the coffin covered with flowers and shifting shadows, and yet it was another image more vivid than this one which occupied his mind.
It was an occasion nine years ago in the Elmstone garden. Not an appropriate memory for the moment, perhaps, but it played in his memory as fresh as if it were yesterday.
Harrison’s hand had ached that night. Not his heart, though. That had felt unnaturally numb...dead, even.
That was what came of punching one’s older brother on the chin.
Juliette Huddleston had screeched, taking shelter behind Stewart’s back.
Trusting Stewart to protect her had been unwise—the very last thing she ought to have done.
‘You always were a fool.’ His brother had rubbed his chin, laughed as if the blow meant nothing, as if Harrison’s righteous anger was impotent, childish even. ‘Did you honestly believe a woman like this one would be interested in someone like you?’
He had, in fact, because she’d said so. Only two nights before she’d vowed her everlasting love and told him she couldn’t wait to announce their engagement.
Said fool had been sitting in an alcove, feeling the night breeze soft against his face, imagining the joy of a marriage based on trust, not betrayal. A union which was as unlike his parents’ marriage as day was to night.
What an outright shock it had been to hear Juliette’s voice coming from a short distance away, declaring her love to Stewart. She’d used the same words she had said to him, spoken with the same inflection in her voice.
It had been as if the words he had taken to heart were simply rehearsed. How many other fellows had she tricked with them?
Seeing her peeking around Stewart’s shoulder, not a shred of remorse in her pale blinking eyes, he’d itched to hit his brother again. If his feelings meant nothing to Stewart, maybe his fists would.
He’d raised his hands, but Juliette had taken that moment to step out from behind his brother, then dash from the garden.
For the first time Harrison had noticed that the buttons of her blouse were undone, her shift exposed.
Seeing it had sucked the fight out of him. The woman who until seconds ago had been everything to him was nothing to his brother but one more conquest.
No doubt she’d expected to become the next Baroness. She would not have been the first of Stewart’s conquests to think so. A trail of hard-wept tears led away from the Elmstone estate.
Harrison had thumped down on a bench, thinking that it would feel good to hit his brother again, but that Stewart was probably so used to being punched by cuckolded gentlemen he wouldn’t take it as an insult. Would certainly feel no sorrow for what he’d done.
‘Given your outburst...’
Stewart’s expression had been unreadable in the darkness. Not that Harrison had needed to read it. He had seen the lack of remorse too many times not to know what it looked like.
‘I wonder if you really are the boy your nanny used to say you were.’
‘Mrs Glass? You do know she’s the one who ruined our parents’ marriage?’
‘Her and Father together.’ Stewart had given a careless shrug. ‘Men will be men...and nannies are usually convenient.’
Convenient?
Harrison would never forget the first time that hell had visited Elmstone. Prayed he’d never feel as callous about it as his brother clearly had. Even now he recalled his mother screaming, heartbroken after finding Harrison’s nanny in Father’s chamber.
Having been woken by the noise, Harrison had crept into the corridor, hidden behind a curtain, and watched while Mother had wept, pulling in despair at her own hair. Father had simply laughed at her, much as Stewart had done to Harrison over Juliette that night years later.
The nanny hadn’t run from the room, ashamed in the face of Mother’s grief, but remained brazenly in Father’s bed. In a rage, his mother had stormed out of the chamber, then spotted Harrison peeking around the curtain. She’d gripped his shoulders, bent close to his face.
‘You’d better not grow up to be a monster like him!’
He’d tried to promise her he would not, but tears had locked his throat.
That moment was burned into his memory because he’d never seen his mother again. Not the mother he’d known, at least. She’d become another person, bitter and angry with everyone. She’d got back at his father by becoming more faithless to him than he was to her.
‘Mrs Glass claimed you were a scrapper,’ Stewart had said, absently rubbing the blooming bruise on his chin. ‘A bad seed, she said, who liked to hit people. I wonder now if she had the right of it.’
Harrison had gone through a few nannies in his tender years, but not because he had been ill behaved. It was because Father had used them up.
A new nanny arriving in the household—or any other woman servant for that matter—had always meant an escalation of tension between his parents. He’d been able to count on their fights ringing off the walls for days on end.
To this day he had an aversion to nannies. Over the years his father had taken many lovers, selected both from his staff and willing society ladies, but it had been the nannies who’d wounded Harrison the most. Perhaps because he had been so young and vulnerable.
‘Only that one time when I was four,’ he’d pointed out to Stewart. ‘Mrs Glass was gossiping about our mother. I’ve never hit anyone else until now, and you deserved it.’
‘Don’t look so wounded. You’re twenty years old, for pity’s sake. You need to understand how it is between men and women. You must admit I did you a favour.’
He had known full well a favour was not what his brother had had in mind when he’d dallied with Juliette’s virtue. In the event that she’d even had some, which now seemed unlikely.
Arguing with his brother would have been pointless. Stewart had been who he was, and nothing Harrison had said would ever have changed that.
With the flush of anger fading, he had known there would not be much point in slugging his brother again either—except that it would make him feel marginally better.
Harrison had sat in the garden that night, well after Stewart had returned to the house, whistling as if he had not just dashed the hope out of Harrison’s future...
The steady thump-thump of earth hitting the coffin lid brought him back to the present.
He blinked back a tear. The only one to be shed here today, he feared. But Stewart had been young and innocent once. It was that boy he mourned.
Glancing about, he settled his gaze on his parents’ tombstones on the other side of the narrow path.
Bad seed? It was nonsense, of course—simply something his brother had spouted to excuse his own behaviour. No, Harrison did not believe one could be born immoral. One could learn to be, though, and pass it on to a new generation.
Luckily, Stewart had left no seeds to go bad.
A dark thought came to him, but a true one.
It would be for the best if the Elmstone line died with Harrison.
It would not be so difficult for that to happen. He did not intend to wed—to take the risk of falling in love and ending up as miserable as his parents had been.
Even though he was a faithful sort, his former, if short-lived, fiancée was a reminder that love was not ever to be trusted.
Nothing was worth that kind of pain.
‘Let me just tame that one curl, miss.’
Minerva Grant’s maid glowered at the offending lock springing from her temple. Then she cast a sidelong glance at her image in the dressing table’s mirror. Despite the culprit, she looked properly proper—as a lady going to her place of employment ought to.
Not, she thought ruefully, that a viscount’s daughter going to any place of employment was in any way ‘proper’. But she did at least present a dignified image.
‘Dottie, you know very well that it is futile to even attempt it.’
Ever since Minerva had been of an age where her hair was expected to be contained in a fashionable style, that curl had been the bane of every maid who’d attempted to make it behave.
For all that it stuck out from her temple like a fuzzy corkscrew, Minerva rather liked it. Her late mother’s hair had been curly all over. It had used to tickle Minerva’s cheek when she was little. Seeing the curl reminded her of that.
It had been such a long time since her mother died. Minerva had only been seven years old, so she didn’t remember everything about her. But she did recall her to have been adventurous. A woman to be admired and emulated.
‘Still, I ought to give it a go. There is a gentleman downstairs. Your father is eager for you to make his acquaintance.’
Heaven help the fellow, then. Life was lovely as it was and she had no intention of changing it.
Why, she had been discouraging suitors even before she’d made her debut.
The men her father presented to her were high in society—gentlemen used to having everyone dash about to do their bidding. The only bidding Minerva wished to do was her own.
‘At this time of the morning?’ she asked.
She didn’t know why she should be surprised. Father tended to spring hopeful suitors upon her without much notice.
‘You might not wish to avoid this one, miss. I got a peek at him and he is quite handsome...if you don’t mind me speaking freely.’
‘You know I do not, Dottie, or you would not have spoken.’
Dottie’s opinion notwithstanding, it was unlikely that this fellow was any different from the others Father had set in her path. Society had an abundance of handsome gentlemen. Which did not mean she was willing to give up her freedom to any of them.
This man might believe he was here on business—and perhaps he was. Only he did not know all of it. He was a candidate...chosen by her father with great care. Father could be very determined in getting what he wanted.
But not as determined as she was in avoiding what she did not want, she thought with a touch of satisfaction.
Thanks to Berthie, the widowed governess her father had engaged after her mother died, Minerva understood that a woman might enjoy life beyond a marriage prescribed by society.
Berthie had been much like Mother, having a merry, sportive spirit. Because of it, she’d managed to bring a grieving child from sorrow to joy. With tales of her adventures before she’d wed, Berthie had taught her to see the joy of each day, to be like her mother and embrace all the excitement she could find.
Sadly, she and her father had been at odds as to what made for contentment.
Really, though, what sensible woman would choose contentment when she could choose excitement?
‘Father is persistent. I will give him that,’ she muttered.
She had no time this morning to reject another suitor. She must get to the orphanage.
‘Let me just make that curl neat and tidy before you go down.’
Dottie reached for it, but Minerva shook her head, tugging another strand of hair free. This one was merely wavy and hung past her chin. Judging by Dottie’s frown, she looked absurd.
As acts of rebellion went, this was not much of one, and Father was not likely to take note of it, but it was all she had to hand in the moment.
‘I have no time to speak with one of Father’s hopefuls. As it is I will need to hurry to get to the orphanage on time.’
‘You might not wish to mention you are employed, or you will frighten the gentleman away.’
‘I shall bear it in mind.’
Most members of her social circle already knew of her rash behaviour in working for a wage. Although she had outgrown setting birds free and rescuing pink poodles, as she had done in the past, she still managed to set tongues wagging.
If the man downstairs did not already know of it, news of her gainful employment might very well send him on his way.
Plucking a pair of peppermint sticks from her writing desk, she put them in her embroidered purse. With a quick nod of goodbye, she hurried down the corridor, taking the stairs down as silently as she could manage, the sweet minty scent wafting out of her purse at each step.
While she was tempted to indulge in one, they were meant for the two orphans who had been delivered to London Cradle last night.
Last time she’d seen them, the poor children had been distraught. She’d felt horrid about leaving them, but her shift had been over. If she did not return to Rivenhall on time Father would send half the staff to fetch her home. She knew this because it had happened in her first week of working at the orphanage.
She had been embarrassed beyond words. How was a woman to appear responsible and independent with an army of servants at her back?
At the bottom of the stairs, she tiptoed across the hall, careful to make sure her father did not notice her leaving.
The footman opened the front door.
Escape was but a step away.
She lifted her foot and stepped over the threshold.
‘Minerva, my dear. There is someone I wish for you to meet.’
‘I haven’t time now, Father,’ she called over her shoulder.
Oh, drat! The fellow—who was indeed handsome—and Father were striding her way. She could hardly ignore them now.
With no way out, she exchanged a few polite words with Father’s visitor. What he could not see was her toe, tapping impatiently under her skirt. Moments were ticking by.
Truly, she hated being late. Employees were expected to arrive on time, no matter what their father’s rank was... Although, to be fair, she was the only employee whose father had a title.
That aside, there were children waiting to be comforted with peppermints and hugs.
At the first break in conversation she declared what a pleasure it had been to meet him.
Apparently he did not recognise that she was excusing herself from the conversation, because he began to discuss the weather, which he said was lovely, but usual for the time of year.
There was nothing for it now but to cut in... ‘I fear I must be on my way to London Cradle Orphanage—where I work.’
She did not need to look at her father to know a red flush had crept past his collar. She had seen it enough times in the past to know it was there.
‘Oh, you volunteer? How admirable.’ The fellow beamed. ‘It is a fine thing for a lady to keep herself occupied in noble pursuits.’
What would this man do if he was her husband? She strongly suspected he would forbid her to earn a wage.
‘More noble than embroidering doilies, certainly,’ she said. ‘But I do not volunteer. I receive a wage.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It still comes down to an act of charity, Lord Malden,’ Father put in quickly. ‘Since Minerva donates her wages back to the orphanage.’
‘Oh, I am certain that a reasonable man such as yourself, Lord Malden, must agree that a woman who is employed deserves to earn a wage as much as a man does.’
If the fellow had a response, it died on his lips. His stunned gaze swung to her father.
‘I must be on my way,’ she said brightly. ‘I do not wish to be late.’
Seeing her father’s consternation, she did feel some remorse for saying what she had—even if it was the truth. Her father loved her, and wanted what was best for her...or what he thought was best, anyway. For her to be married to a nobleman, with a clutch of children.
As far as she was concerned, marriage for the sake of fulfilling society’s expectations was not what made for a satisfying life.
No matter how handsome or wealthy the gentlemen Father presented to her, she would follow a path of her own choosing.
Which in that moment carried her out through the front door into the carriage.
A breeze caught the carriage door. Had the footman not been quick of reflex, it would have slammed closed on her.
The lovely morning was quickly dissolving. Wind soon rocked the carriage, growing more turbulent as it travelled the short distance to the orphanage.
Since the children would not be playing outside in the garden today, she would pay a visit to the charming shop only a street away from London Cradle. She would purchase books and puzzles. Perhaps more peppermint sticks.
She signalled for the carriage to stop.
‘Are you certain, miss? The wind is a beast this morning.’ The footman closed his fist tightly around the door handle.
‘I shall be quite all right.’
He did not appear convinced of it, but offered her a hand down. She hurried towards the front door of the shop.
Halfway there a great gust caught her skirt, twisting it around her ankles. She hugged her purse tightly to her side, pressed her hat to her head, then looked down, leaning into the wind.
All of a sudden a boot, long, black and shiny, intruded on her field of vision. A great bulk ploughed into her.
‘Uff!’ the voice attached to the person wearing the boot exclaimed.
Her balance shifted. She threw up her arms and heard her purse hit the ground. The pavement rushed towards her face.
She reached out to catch herself, but something snagged the back of her skirt, slowed her descent, and then—
Then...impossibly...an arm grasped her about the waist, dragging her backwards in the second before her nose lightly grazed the pavement. A large, firm hand on her shoulder steadied her, drew her upright.
‘I beg your pardon.’
Her assailant/rescuer had a deep, rich-sounding voice. In another circumstance it would have sounded quite agreeable.
His eyes, peering at her through black-rimmed glasses, might have been appealing too, if she had met him in another way.
But, given he had nearly maimed her, she was not disposed to look at him in a charitable light. No matter how attractively his dark lashes curled up at the ends, she would not give them a second glance.
Nor would she take special note of how interesting his smile was. She couldn’t say she had ever seen one quite like it...flat, serious-looking, except at the corners. There, they tipped up congenially, giving the impression that he was expressing two moods at one time.
Surely her heart was fluttering madly for some other reason than the fact she was watching his interesting lips? The odd sensation must be a reaction to nearly taking a fall.
All of a sudden he clapped one hand on his head. A lock of black hair fell across his forehead, dangling between his eyes.
The dark strand caught her attention so thoroughly she had to take a deep breath, blinking away an urge to get lost in how green his eyes were...how very intense his gaze seemed as he looked down at her.
She felt half under a spell...or at least in a trance.
‘My hat,’ he muttered, casting a glance about and completely breaking the strange sensation that briefly held her.
My word, but that had been interesting. Not necessarily interesting in a comfortable way, though.
Why, she had to ask herself, did a man she did not know leave her nerves so unsettled? What were those little tingles dancing about her waist in the exact spot where he had caught her, then drawn her back from disaster?
Nature’s trap, she supposed. A way of confusing a woman until she willingly gave her freedom away to a man who might take it from her.
Not that her sisters-in-law seemed to regret it... But that was neither here nor there at the moment.
‘I imagine it is streets away by now,’ she pointed out needlessly—because where else could it be?
‘I was looking down and trying to keep it on when we ran into one another. I do apologise. I ought to have been paying attention.’
Even now he was not paying attention.
Any other gentleman would notice his hand remained on her shoulder, even though the danger was past.
Since it was a large hand, she was well aware of it. She could not recall any other time when a man’s thumb had pressed lightly on her collarbone.
This situation was completely inappropriate. Yet was there a little adventure in it? a quiet inner voice prodded.
She shook her head and tried to step backwards, to subtly remind him of where his hand was, but a hard gust tipped her forward.
He locked his elbow, which was a lucky thing. Had he not, she would have found herself right up against his chest.
Oh, dear...that would not have done.
Would it?
Now that she’d had a moment to examine what had happened, she knew it would be fair to say it had not been completely his fault.
They had both been looking down, after all. And while he had been struggling with his hat, she had been contending with her hat skirts tangling every which way, all while trying to hold on to her purse.
Not that blame mattered. There was no blame. What did matter was that if she did not hurry she would be late for work.
Glancing down, she saw the peppermint sticks which had fallen out of her purse lying broken on the ground.
Dash it!
Rolling her shoulder, she dislodged his hand, then bent to gather her purse and the sweets before they went the way of his errant hat.
For a tall, lanky fellow, he was quick. He stooped, snatched up the purse and the peppermints. He looped the purse over her arm, then glanced at the ruined confectionery and put it in his pocket.
‘Please do forgive me. And allow me to replace it.’
She thought this was a sincere apology. However, she might be misreading him. Perhaps his dark lashes and the interesting tug of his smile was confusing her.
It was uncommon for her to be confused by a man. It was not a pleasant sensation, yet not a wicked one either—which made the situation even more bewildering.
‘There’s no need. I bid you good day.’
She nodded, taking a step towards the front door of the Gift Emporium. The sooner she was away from him the sooner she could put this odd, off-kilter sensation behind her.
Great glory, men did not put her off-kilter.
It must be the wind.
She had only made it half a step away before an even greater gust caught her, pushing her sideways.
Off-kilter again...
Good. It was definitely the wind, then.
The man caught her elbow to steady her. My word he was stronger than his slim stature suggested, and tall...quite tall.
Feeling the grip of his fingers keeping her upright, so firm and manly... Oh, dear...perhaps it was not all the wind.
‘Allow me to escort you inside,’ he shouted, over the screeching and howling that swirled between them.
Since she did not wish to be seen blowing away in an embarrassing tumble of petticoats, she latched on to his arm.
Once they were inside, the gentleman nodded, tight-lipped. He let go of her elbow and approached the counter. He and the shopkeeper made comments about the weather.
She wondered about re-pinning her hat, but what was the point when her hair was such a hopeless tangle?
Brushing her skirts back into order, she could not help but wonder what the man’s full smile would look like...
After setting herself as much to rights as was possible, she thought she might yet get to London Cradle on time.
As long as she did not linger to chat.
Not that she wished to. She had spent too much time peeking at the man’s engaging eyes already. His smile, though, she would not mind looking at that for a while longer, but he was keeping it to himself.
No matter... She did not have time to be caught up in conversation if the opportunity presented.
‘Good morning, Miss Grant,’ the shopkeeper said, glancing around the tall fellow’s shoulder.
Mr Jones was a pleasant man, who had helped her choose special treats for the orphans on many occasions.
‘How is Viscount Rivenhall this blustery day?’
‘My father is quite well, thank you.’
Her assailant/hero...how else was she to think of him?...cast her a quick glance over his shoulder. He smiled as he purchased a full bag of sweets, then carried it across the room and handed it to her.
‘To replace the ones which were broken.’
The children would be thrilled. Surely there was time for a few words of thanks?
‘They are for the orphans next door. I thank you on behalf of every sticky smiling face.’
‘You volunteer there? What lucky children.’
‘I work for a wage.’ If she pointed it out often enough, perhaps the idea of a lady being employed would become more acceptable?
‘Ah, well... I’m sure you earn it.’
While she got over the surprise that a gentleman should think so, he gave her a studied glance.
He made an odd gesture with his fingers, indicating the space in front of her nose.
‘Is something wrong?’ she asked. Clearly there was, but—
‘Not wrong... It’s only...’ He wiped his thumb on the tip of her nose, held it up for her to see a smudge of dirt.
What could be more embarrassing? She must have got dirty when her nose had brushed the pavement.
It had taken him rather a long time to point it out.
And it was impolite, anyway, to point out dirt on a lady’s nose!
And to be smiling about it too.
‘Good day, miss.’
Why, oh, why did that smile make her feel so odd? It was almost as if she did not regret having dirt on her nose so he could wipe it away and she could see his smile.
It lit his eyes as well as his lips...
Never mind. She would probably never see him again.
She watched him go out, closing the door behind him. Through the window she saw him set his shoulders against the gale, hurrying on his way.
Where was he going? Who was he?
Why did she care?
Minerva Grant was not a romance-minded lady...and even if she had been—
Oh, bother! She was in a hurry and had no time to dwell on such nonsense.
The man was tall and...and probably clumsy, given how he had ploughed into her. The odds of her giving him a second thought were remote.
And if she accidentally did, she certainly wouldn’t give him a third.
‘Welcome to St Austell, sir,’ the train porter nodded, offering a smile which genuinely did indicate welcome.
Harrison Wesley Tremayne, Baron Elmstone, stepped onto the platform, a frisson of anticipation racing from his boots to his new hat.
With a nod back at the porter, he took determined steps towards his fresh start in life—beginning with the carriage waiting for him outside.
Inhaling a breath of air, rich with the scents of the ocean and the warm bread in the bakery he was driving by, he rolled his shoulders to ease their stiffness after the ride from London. With one finger he pressed his spectacles higher on his nose.
He grinned.
The man who had disembarked the train was a different one from the one who had boarded it in London. Not literally, of course, but that was how he felt.
In London, he was Lord Elmstone. And the taint of his family name shadowed him always. Even though he had done nothing worthy of scorn, he felt the stares of resentment. His family’s notoriety followed him about, as noxious as the fog in London.
But he was finished with being gazed at as if he were a rake, out to wreak mayhem on innocent families. He was not his brother or his father...and not his mother either.
It was for the best that he’d decided to let the family name end with him. A child of his blood would ever be an outcast.
Did he not have good reason to know it?
Here in St Austell life would be different. He would earn the respectable reputation he had always longed for.
While he would occasionally need to return to London, to see to the needs of the Baronetcy—which he could not let go because people relied upon it for their livelihoods—his true life would be here.
At last he would have the quiet, peaceful life he had long dreamed of.
Feeling amazingly good, he drove past shopfronts, whistling. It occurred to him that he had not whistled since he was a boy.
He was going to be happier living as a common man than as a baron—there was no doubt about it. He looked forward to doing things for himself.
He was a born tinkerer. And when one had a full staff to do everything for one, there was nothing really left to tinker with.
Except... He pulled his horses to a stop and stared into a shop window... Clocks.
Suddenly his breath caught, drying the whistle on his puckered lips. Gesturing to a boy on the pavement to come over and hold his horses, he jumped out of the driver’s seat and strode over to the window. He bent at the waist, his nose nearly pressing against the glass, to get a closer look at the item on the other side of the pane.
Settling his spectacles on his nose, he narrowed his eyes to see it more clearly.
What a treasure! A fascinating ormolu clock. Not terribly old—probably only forty or fifty years. But it was an interesting piece. The bronze figure of a female...not quite mermaid but not quite human either...reclined on a snowflake. She clutched a bunch of sunflowers to her bosom, while lifting her face to whatever weather one imagined her to be enjoying.
Best of all, the inner workings of the clock lay beside it.
The timepiece was in need of repair.
Having purchased his new home without seeing it, there was no telling whether or not there was a mantel over the fireplace. If there was, it would need a clock.
Repairing this one would be a fine way to spend his first night within the walls of Cockleshell Cottage.
Entering the shop, he paused to listen to dozens of clocks, tick-tick-ticking all at once.
A lullaby. That was what it was. Clocks ticked merrily on, never judging, never caring if their owners had a sterling reputation or a dull one. And a watch hummed happily along, no matter whose wrist it resided on.
He had been thirteen years old when he’d repaired his first clock. It had been broken and lying on the floor, a victim of his mother’s anger. He’d taken it to a quiet room in the house. The peace he’d found there, tucked away and deep in the workings of the timepiece, had been incredible. Ever since then, he’d found no greater peace in any activity.
He hoped to find the same sort of peace in rebuilding his new home. That was why he’d purchased one in need of repair. He wished to do some large-scale tinkering.
He had a fine chat with the shop owner, and then purchased the clock.
Happier than he had been since that day of the big wind, he tipped the boy and climbed back aboard his new carriage, which contained some of the goods he needed to set up housekeeping.
He enjoyed driving himself. With no one he had to make polite conversation with, he was free to reflect on that windy day, and the encounter with the lady he had nearly knocked over on the street.
It didn’t matter that he had spent only moments with her; he’d had a hard time putting her out of his mind.
She had been a lovely lady—charming, even while being somewhat annoyed.
Which she’d had every right to be. He had nearly bowled her over. Not to mention he had lost himself for a moment, and failed to remove his hand from her shoulder as promptly as he should have. In his defence, he had been taken off-guard by her. No one had ever looked at him the way she had, with an intriguing mix of annoyance and relief.
He had not allowed himself to be caught off-guard by a woman since being duped by Juliette. He had been stunned to find it was even possible.
Stunned, too, at finding that she popped unbidden into his mind at odd times...like this.
It wasn’t as if he was likely to encounter her again. He would spend very little time in London. Just as long as it took to take care of the Baronetcy and the people he employed. The last thing he would do while in town was court a lady.
He wouldn’t do that here either. Marriage might be well and good for some men, but they had not seen the side of it he had. Whatever joy might come of having a wife wasn’t worth the risk.
Deliberately, he turned his mind away from Miss Grant’s pretty face and directed it towards Cockleshell Cottage. His home by the seaside was his future. A woman had no place in it.
Whistling, he drove along. Hopefully he would arrive at Cockleshell Cottage before dark, so that he could put some of his belongings in order.
According to the description he had of the place, which he was confident had been presented accurately, it was a large house with the charm of a cottage. Also according to the description, only two of the sleeping chambers were as yet inhabitable. Not that it mattered since he only required one.
Cockleshell Cottage was in need of tender care—which he was anxious to give with his own two hands.
Repairing a clock and repairing a home had something in common, he thought. He’d be taking what was broken and fixing it.
There was nothing quite like the predictability of repairing objects.
Unlike a reputation, if one put parts together in an orderly way the thing would become as new. Whether it was repaired or not was not up to anyone’s opinion. It worked or it did not.
He looked forward to the challenge of making a home out of a hovel—although he did hope it was not quite as bad as that. Either way, he was dedicated to making the cottage his home in a way the London house had never been.
Travelling south from St Austell, it took an hour to reach his new home. By the time he drew his team of horses to a halt in the yard it was twilight. The scene from the front garden made it look as if the sun was melting into the ocean.
After settling the horses into the stables, which seemed in better condition than the house, he saw that the stars were out, dotting the sky all the way down to where the sea met the horizon.
He needed to unload his goods from the carriage, but that could wait a moment.
As of this day, time was his own...to use as he pleased.
The view, which he had been assured was spectacular, was that and more...at least by starlight. From the porch he saw the shadowed outline of a cliff that he knew ought to have a path leading down to the beach.
It would not hurt to unpack in the morning.
For now, even before he had a bite to eat or gave the house a look, he would sit on the cliff, breathe in the scents of a summer night, listen to the surf breaking below, all the while watching the stars glide across the sky.
He could not say how long he sat—hours, perhaps. The sense of time passing slipped from him as if it had no meaning.
It was the rumble of his stomach that brought him back to the world.
Standing, stretching, he walked back to the house. Had it not been for his appetite making itself known he might have gone on sitting there...perhaps until daylight.
One night he was going to do that...spend the night on the cliff, sleep under the heavens until daylight.
Halfway to the house he turned, watching the moon cast a streak of light across the water. It seemed to point a finger at Cockleshell Cottage—at the home he already loved, even though he had yet to cross the threshold.
A thought hit him hard, seeming to come out of nowhere. It was a shame no one would ever share this with him.
He dismissed it as quickly as it had come, because this was the life he’d chosen. Solitary...uncomplicated. He didn’t regret it.
Well, then, it had been a long day and he was weary to the bone. But tomorrow he would rise refreshed and discover what repairs needed to be done.
He expected it would be the most fulfilling day he’d had since...well...ever.
Stopping beside the carriage, he rooted about in it for the ormolu clock. Finding it, he tucked it under his arm and went inside.
‘Welcome home,’ he muttered, setting the clock on the parlour mantelpiece.
He might be speaking to an inanimate object...but he thought rather he was speaking to himself, too...to the quiet, peaceful future he envisaged.
