Page 5 of Love Wasn’t Built in a Day

Whatever it was Lady Henrietta had been about to say, the words died as their gazes met.

Though it had taken a great deal of effort on his part, they had not crossed paths since the incident at Lord and Lady Hartwell’s wedding breakfast at Hatherley Hall.

He—being socially inept and insufferably rude—had refused to dance with her, and she had taken it as a personal affront. Admittedly, it had not been his finest hour, and he’d not spoken as kindly as he ought to have done, but it was his first time in polite society in years, and he had allowed himself to forget what it was like to swim in such shark-infested waters. Besides, he never danced.

They had spoken once more that same night, and he’d hardly improved matters when he’d been cad enough to suggest she wasn’t pretty enough for him to dance with. He’d not meant it, obviously. The girl was ravishing, as she must know, so he could not believe it when she’d taken his words to heart, but she had and… well, she hated him.

An awkward silence ensued.

“Lady Henrietta, good afternoon,” he said, removing his hat and bowing politely. He wished the words had sounded a mite friendlier and not like they were covered in a layer of frost, but it was done now.

“Mr Bramwell,” she replied, lowering the temperature by several degrees.

Her maid, and a woman who could only be her sister, looked between them with interest.

“Cilly, darling,” Lady Henrietta said coolly, never taking her eyes from his. “Might I make known to you Mr Gideon Bramwell.”

“Mr—” the woman repeated, and then broke off with a little gasp. “Oh.”

“Yes, my lady, that Mr Bramwell,” Gideon said, his tone wry, knowing Lady Hetty must have verbally crucified him to her sister. “I am afraid Lady Henrietta, and I did not get off on the right foot.”

“Oh, it was the right foot, it’s only that it was aimed at my insufferable self-consequence, isn’t that right, Mr Bramwell?” she said sweetly.

“Lady Henrietta,” he began, taking a breath. He supposed he could not blame her for being furious with him. All the same — “I assure you, my refusal to dance with you was not personal. I never dance—with anyone. I have no excuse for my rudeness that night, however. My only excuse is that I was not in the best of tempers. You ought not to have suffered for it, however, and I apologise.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, considering.

“It was rather a good apology,” her sister murmured.

Lady Henrietta shot the woman a look, frowning, and then let out a sigh. “Oh, very well.” To his surprise, she held out her hand to him, rather like a man would. “Pax.”

He smiled at that, and did not hesitate to take it in his. An odd sensation overwhelmed him as their hands clasped, his engulfing her smaller, far more delicate gloved fingers. He thought he heard a slight gasp, and then wondered if it had been him, not her, for he was strangely breathless. He dropped her hand, the movement a little too brusque.

“Well, now that is sorted, if you will excuse me, I must return to work.” Executing a hurried bow, he doffed his hat and made his escape. Yet he could feel her watching him as walked away, feel the weight of her gaze upon the back of his neck, and it was not a comfortable sensation.

Chapter 2

The Lost Sheep

All Saints' Church, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 16th July 1816

“My brethren, have not the faith of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Lord of glory, with respect of persons.”

Gideon closed his eyes, allowing Reverend Honeywell’s words to wash over him. In his head, he was going through all the things he needed to get done before tomorrow morning. For now, the job was running like clockwork, everything exactly as he would wish, but he was not fool enough to suppose that this state of affairs would continue. Problems beset even the best run project. Suppliers failed to get materials on site in a timely manner and workmen fell ill or injured themselves. It was all part and parcel of the job. He told himself he was ready for it, but his mind would not settle, going repeatedly over his memorised lists in obsessive detail.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the sermon filtered through. Honeywell was advising his flock, appealing to them not to despise the lowly, nor flatter the rich. Something about their Christian duty towards their neighbours—Gideon smiled. His workmen had not been universally welcomed.

To be fair, many were excited about all the building work. The grand hotel would bring the fashionable crowd, all with money burning a hole in their pockets, ready to be spent in the town.

Though the idea of building such an elegant building was everything Gideon had ever dreamed of, there was more to this project, which was what had made it so irresistible. Mr King had come from the slums of London, and he had promised the men and women who had remained loyal to him, those who wanted a better life, to get them out.

The hotel would need a constant supply of workmen, gardeners, handymen, cleaners and servants of all kinds, and King had undertaken to build what amounted to almost a new town. A series of small dwellings, each with modern facilities and gardens, would be provided for the new workforce, smart, well-built properties where they could raise their families with enough space for everyone. It would take some years before the project was completed, but King had it in mind to open a part of the hotel by summer’s end, to publicise the project with a grand ball in the vast ballroom, which was to be the main feature of phase one of the project.

The 5th of September.

The deadline sat in Gideon’s stomach like a lump of lead, unwieldy and daunting, yet he would not have changed it for the world.

His attention wandered as he looked across the church. The Dowager Duchess of Hawkney, her grandson the duke, and Lady Henrietta were among those who filled the front pews.