The older woman smiled tightly. ‘Then welcome to Bloomsbury, my lord. I am Mrs Roberta Brookes.’ Then she stopped and posed regally as if that in itself were a great achievement.
‘I am delighted to meet you, Mrs Brookes. I have been meaning to call to introduce myself properly but the last few days have been hectic as I am sure you can imagine.’
The suspicion had now been replaced by politeness. ‘Indeed I can, my lord. Moving house is such an ordeal and there is always so much to do. My poor nerves were shot to smithereens when we moved in here five years ago, so you have my sympathies.’ Her eyes flicked to her youngest and paused while they conveyed a silent message he couldn’t begin to decipher. ‘But where are my manners, my lord? You must come in and join us for tea.’
Backed some way away from the human barricade which was Mrs Brookes and Miss Charity, Hope pulled a face and shook her head, her eyes pleading before she covered it with an expression of polite blandness. ‘The poor man was on his way out when I collided with him, Mama, and clearly in a rush to be somewhere.’
Luke nodded like a deranged woodpecker. ‘Sadly, that is true. I have urgent business with my solicitor this afternoon, so I must decline your kind invitation for now.’ Which oddly disappointed him.
‘Oh, that is a shame!’ Mrs Brookes took a determined step closer. ‘Another day then? Tomorrow perhaps? Which will likely be better as my husband will be home and I know he will want to meet you and welcome you to Bedford Place properly. Our cook bakes the most delicious cakes if you have a sweet tooth. Her queen cakes in particular are splendid, my lord, and she has such a way with the batter, they come out as light as a feather. I shall have her bake a batch first thing. Does around three suit?’
Behind her Hope rolled her eyes before she nodded so he bobbed his head as well. ‘I shall count the hours, Mrs Brookes.’ And likely would too, though worryingly not for the light-as-a-feather queen cakes.
Chapter Five
When he checked for the umpteenth time, she was finally on her balcony much later that evening. They needed to talk, not least to get their stories straight, but he also wanted to talk to her simply because he rather liked doing so.
For a few indulgent moments, Luke watched her through the glass door. She was writing again, her back to him, her quill moving briskly as she leaned her cheek heavily against her other hand. The balcony was covered in candles that picked out the fiery copper and red in her hair which hung down between her shoulder blades in a single thick plait. A few loose, messy tendrils had escaped and were curling slightly in the warm night air. She paused for a moment and stared out into the night, tapping the feathered end of her pen aimlessly against her chin before she bent back to her writing again and scribbled furiously.
It was an arresting sight. Made all the better by the way the soft fabric of the pretty summer dress she hadn’t bothered changing out of perfectly silhouetted her shape. The soft muslin emphasising her small waist, the curved flare of her hips and the magnificent rounded peach of her bottom. After another never-ending dinner meeting with his crusty old solicitor, during which the fellow droned on and on about still more unfathomable stocks and bonds in his inherited portfolio, right now, she was just the distraction he needed from the strange world he had been thrust into. Where people either sycophantically kowtowed to him, imperiously looked down their nose at him or, as he had discovered with the few tradesmen he had talked to, seemed hell-bent on swindling him.
But Hope was fun to talk to. Interesting. Beguiling.
Intriguing.
In case he startled her again, he lit a lamp and turned it up full before he noisily opened the door. Forewarned, forearmed and much too brazen for her own good, she didn’t move anything but her pen across the paper when he stepped on to his balcony.
‘Good evening, Lord Trouble.’
‘Hello again, Hope. Isn’t it a bit late and a bit dark to be working?’
‘I like the quiet of the night. I always have.’
‘What are you writing this time?’ He was still talking to her back.
‘The same thing I was writing yesterday before you ruined my peace with your soggy and unwelcome interruption, unashamedly all in the altogether like a savage.’
‘Which makes me none the wiser.’ He liked that she had no respect for his new rank. ‘Therefore, I must assume that you are being so cryptic and writing it so clandestinely because it is your secret diary... Filled with all your private thoughts and dreams...and deeds so shocking that you would end up being thrown out of your nunnery if anyone ever read them. In which case, it begs the obvious question...’ Because he knew it would vex her, he lowered his voice to a silky whisper. ‘AmIin it?’
Finally, she turned, feigning an irritation which did not reach her lovely eyes. ‘Why on earth would I putyouin my diary?’
‘Perhaps because I am the most exciting thing that has happened of late in your dull and pious life?’
‘Exciting? Not the adjective I would have chosen to describe you. Irritating perhaps...if you weren’t so instantly forgettable that is.’ Her plump lips curved ever so slightly, ruining her regal attempt at blandness as she put him in his place.
‘Then Iamin it. Your rehearsed disdain and disinterest prove it.’ He folded his arms for good measure, making sure he looked smug so that she had to react. A woman as tart and intelligent as she wouldn’t be able to allow such arrogant male superciliousness to pass unchecked.
‘If you must know, it’s a story.’ The withering glance was a little more convincing than the blandness. ‘A novel actually.’ Then she looked a little unsure and embarrassed to be admitting it, so she dismissed it with a casual flick of her wrist. ‘I have lofty ambitions of getting one published some day.’
He was impressed. ‘I’ve never met a novelist before. You are officially my first.’
‘I am not sure one can officially call oneself a novelist until one’s words are bound in leather with one’s name emblazoned on the front and sold in Hatchard’s in Piccadilly—but perhaps I will be one day.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘Perhaps... If I ever write something deemed worthy enough by the illustrious publishers who control such things.’ The way she said that sounded not so much angry as resigned. ‘But alas, so far, all my endeavours to that end have proved fruitless and all my lofty ambitions are merely that.’
‘What’s the old adage? If at first you don’t succeed, try and try again.’ From the huge pile of covered pages at her feet, held down by a heavy paperweight this time, and the faded inkstains smattering her fingers, she wrote frequently and that too impressed him. They suggested she was both diligent and tenacious in her ambitions as well as hard working. Qualities of which he approved.
‘That is what I try to tell myself. That and to make a dreadful pest of myself until they finally relent. Unless it is one of those days when I am so worn down by it all that I am ready to just give up all my vain ambitions of seeing my name in Hatchard’s and accept somebody else’s in its stead.’
‘Why would you do that?’
