She wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to his unexpected but rather convincing apology, or his sudden appearance on the balcony next to hers.
Nude.
‘You did deserve it.’ So much for skewering him with a pithy litany of well-chosen insults and knocking him down a peg or two, but at least she looked haughty, or hoped she did. ‘Kindly tell me what you are doing here,Lord Thundersley?’ She gestured more to the environs in general than the balcony because she had the horrible feeling that the pirate Colonel Wigstock had seen wasn’t their new neighbour’s manservant after all. ‘When you have a perfectly lovely house in Berkley Square?’
‘Have you been checking up on me?’ He appeared delighted at the prospect, so she shot him her best withering look, determined not to be charmed by the soothing lilt of west country in his accent. ‘And I swear we agreed you would just call me Luke?’
‘Just answer the question,my lord.’
He made no attempt to hide his amusement at her snippy tone or her sudden formality, or perhaps it was her ferocious blush he found funny. Whichever it was, it made her glow redder and bristle more. ‘I decided stuffy old Berkeley Square didn’t agree with me, so I sought pastures new. When I discovered I owned this lovely house here, I thought Bloomsbury might be a better fit as I am reliably informed it is more eclectic and has less...’
‘Aristocrats?’
‘I was going to say shallowness, but I suppose they are one and the same.’
‘Yet you are an aristocrat yourself,my lord.’ A vexing, too smug and too naked one.
‘That I am.’ He shrugged, drawing her wayward eyes to his broad, wet shoulders. ‘Though I’ve never had much cause to think of myself as one until recently, and even now I am not the least bit comfortable with it. I am fairly clueless about society as you can probably tell, certainly do not fit in it in any way, shape or form and, between you and me,Hope...’ She narrowed her eyes at his continued lack of formality and he laughed. ‘Would you prefer I called you Mistress Vixen instead?’
He raised his dark eyebrows so comically it took a great deal of effort not to laugh herself. ‘I prefer to be called Miss Brookes,Lord Thundersley, as you well know.’
‘That I do.’ He grinned unrepentant, his perfectly straight white teeth a stark contrast to his dark beard and deep golden skin. ‘But I’ve never been one for formality any more than I am one for rank. We don’t tend to bother with all that nonsense out in the wilds of Cornwall.’
‘Well this isn’t Cornwall and here we have rules about wildness.’
‘Daft rules. And in my humble, uncivilised and wildly Cornish opinion, unfathomable, uncompromising, unwieldy, unhelpful and unnecessary rules, which between you and me,Hope, I am not at all sure that I can be bothered to learn.’ As a writer, she couldn’t help but be impressed with his effortless and flawless use of both alliteration and clever wordplay. As an off-kilter woman who was mortifyingly too attracted to him already despite her better judgement, she was horrified to discover he was that intelligent too. She had always had a soft spot for intelligence. Intelligent men tended to be more subtle in their ogling. ‘Why on earth would any sane person want to fit into society when it all seems so complicated, cloying, contradictory and so very fickle to me?’
‘It is.’ He was irritatingly open and honest as well. Disarmingly so. To such an extent, she had the strangest urge to lower her legendary and pessimistic guard for once while they swapped their clearly mutual opinions and observations about the ridiculousness of theton—and that wouldn’t do. When she knew first-hand how dangerous lowering her guard around him could be.
In case she gave in to the overwhelming temptation to linger and do exactly that, she turned towards her door and offered him one final pithy salvo before she dashed inside to compose herself. ‘But all that is by the by and doesn’t make me any less annoyed at you for the other night. Your unpleasant and uncivilised attempt at kissing aside...’ the mere memory of it made her lips tingle ‘...you might have mentioned you were a marquess. It was very poor form, dishonest and exceedingly ungentlemanly that you didn’t.’ As that seemed the perfect way to end the conversation, she turned on her heel.
‘Would my being a marquess have stopped you from dunking me in the pond,Hope?’
She could hear his amused grin and picture the cheeky twinkle in his eye without seeing either, yet she still felt her feet pause while she unconsciously turned to confirm it. Then, drat him, found herself lowering her legendary and pessimistic guard enough to smile the tiniest bit back at him—again against her better judgement.
‘Certainly not. Marquess or no, you most definitely had that dunking coming...Lord Trouble.’
Chapter Four
Relieved that Clowance’s letter contained no hint of bad news, Luke took his time reading it for a second time smiling. All was well in Cornwall, so that was one huge weight off his mind. Tregally Slate was apparently still thriving without his guiding hands on the tiller—he had Clowance’s son to thank for that—and his mother was still coping surprisingly well with his absence. He hoped that lasted. At least until he was able to bring her here where he could watch over her himself—if he was ever able to bring her here. He was still in two minds about that, but until he understood all the complications of his inheritance and decided what to do with it, he had no choice.
He had long given up trying to predict the twists and turns of her illness. What he did know was that, despite her near three years of uninterrupted wellness she was never good with sudden change, so if moving her here for an indefinite stay proved impossible, he would have no choice but to continue to divide his already overstretched time between London and Cornwall for the foreseeable future and lose valuable weeks in the process.
But there was no point thinking about all that now. He understood she needed the constant reassurance of his presence despite her protestations that she really didn’t, and the only way he could make that happen at the moment was to bring her here. And that couldn’t happen until he had hired a couple more servants, a decent cook and had redecorated the master suite upstairs in readiness.
Whoever had lived here last had quite a bawdy taste in decor if the strategically placed mirrors were any gauge, and the less said about the crimson walls and jet-black plaster mouldings and skirting boards, the better.
However, finding suitable and reliable tradesmen to carry out the work was easier said than done. Back home, he knew every reputable trade, merchant and shopkeeper necessary for every conceivable eventuality. There, he could easily separate the wheat from the chaff and negotiate reasonable prices. He would solve the problem—but here, he had no contacts and nobody he knew well enough or trusted enough to recommend someone. Which meant a simple task like repainting a bedchamber was suddenly an onerous one which would take up more time. Although where he would find that time was another matter.
With a weary sigh, he glanced out of the window, the sight of pavements, buildings and carriages still an unfamiliar surprise when he was used to staring at nothing but the trees and sky. London was a different world from the one he came from and the busy city felt as alien to him as this new, sparse but gawdy sitting room. But at least the sun was shining and that made him yearn to be outside in the fresh air instead of cooped up inside.
Yet he was resigned to the fact that nowadays, even a walk was a luxury. The mountain of correspondence piled on the side table still demanded his attention, making him wince when he realised that even after two hours of diligent reading and responding he had barely made a dent in it. He swore blind the damn things multiplied whenever he turned his back. Letters of condolence from complete strangers, invitations to everything from week-long house parties to afternoon teas and speculative letters of introduction fishing for his business, or patronage or charity, arrived by the sackload every day, reminding him that he ought to hire a secretary on top of everyone else simply to avoid drowning in it.
Frustrated, he tossed the nursemaid’s letter on top of them. All this additional work and the late nights spent trying to make sense of all the new responsibilities which had been thrust upon him were taking their toll. Owning a marquessate was a darn sight more convoluted and complicated than owning a slate business and selling it all—if that was indeed what he decided to do with it—wasn’t going to be concluded swiftly.
To say he was swamped was an understatement.
Today, as he had for the last four weeks, Luke had spent the morning with one of his brother’s overseers. Not including the crusty solicitor he had inherited alongside the myriad unwanted extra complications and responsibilities, there were three employed managers in total, each tasked with running separate aspects of the extensive investment portfolio. The personable and cheerful Mr Lessing oversaw the Thundersley ancestral estate several miles from London as well as the many farms and tenants within it. He was both approachable and helpful and, on first impressions at least, seemed to run a tight ship which Luke couldn’t offload if he had wanted to because it was entailed, so he was content to leave the man in charge.
