The Secrets Of Lord Lynford
The Secrets Of Lord Lynford
Bronwyn Scott
He’s destined never to marry She might change his mind… Eaton Falmage, Marquess of Lynford, is an expert at distracting himself from the painful truth which means he’ll never wed. Seducing mining widow Eliza Blaxland seems the perfect diversion. Until he learns Eliza guards her heart as fiercely as her hard-won independence. He longs for more, but that would mean confessing his secret…and risk losing her forever!
He’s destined never to marry
She might change his mind...
Part of The Cornish Dukes. Eaton Falmage, Marquess of Lynford, is an expert at distracting himself from the painful truth that means he’ll never wed. Seducing mining widow Eliza Blaxland seems the perfect diversion. Until he learns Eliza guards her heart as fiercely as her hard-won independence. He longs for more, but that would mean confessing his secret...and risking losing her forever!
BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and the proud mother of three wonderful children—one boy and two girls. When she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages. Readers can stay in touch via Facebook, or at her blog, bronwynswriting.blogspot.com (http://www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com). She loves to hear from readers.
Also by Bronwyn Scott (#uc30a7955-fd78-5bef-ad82-451bb9ff76f8)
Allied at the Altar miniseries
A Marriage Deal with the Viscount
One Night with the Major
Tempted by His Secret Cinderella
Captivated by Her Convenient Husband
The Cornish Dukes miniseries
The Secrets of Lord Lynford
And look out for the next book coming soon!
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
The Secrets of Lord Lynford
Bronwyn Scott
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-0-008-90119-6
THE SECRETS OF LORD LYNFORD
© 2019 Nikki Poppen
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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Note to Readers (#uc30a7955-fd78-5bef-ad82-451bb9ff76f8)
This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:
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Text to speech
For Jeff, who is very much the embodiment of
the legacy of Richard Penlerick in this story and
this series. Throughout his life Jeff loved others
unconditionally and gave generously of himself for the
betterment of this world. He left this earth the week
I finished this story, and it is safe to say,
our world is vastly improved because of him
and the lives he touched.
Contents
Cover (#uc95de199-e75a-572b-aa67-0492aa30a49b)
Back Cover Text (#u3f19c79f-683b-5f63-9804-1f5c3c1d9612)
About the Author (#u0444df9e-8edd-5315-928b-c074a459d775)
Booklist (#u8f02f810-7b54-5c88-87a1-9c127fb59ef6)
Title Page (#u0f1a1a95-0550-5084-b4fa-a8c171399a11)
Copyright (#u64dbf569-8d63-51ce-a61b-47572c6e9ab8)
Note to Readers
Dedication (#u60d402dc-4677-51f3-9fc1-7a021096fd7f)
Prologue (#u9b900864-986a-566a-94e5-be15ccb29bff)
Chapter One (#uae2f533f-0d4c-5a78-814f-2ff993750cfc)
Chapter Two (#uf37dc599-0ad0-44a9-a83f-4e13ce27ded4)
Chapter Three (#u144f62e5-236c-54ca-a92e-7de51f18bad6)
Chapter Four (#uf6402158-e1d1-5bdc-b0e1-16af43c84d5e)
Chapter Five (#u4715e936-8dbe-5b4b-8157-0dfc8a92aaaa)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#uc30a7955-fd78-5bef-ad82-451bb9ff76f8)
London—June 18th, 1823
Death had officially come to Mayfair. Richard Penlerick, Duke of Newlyn, and his Duchess were buried, and the funeral witnessed by the ton’s finest that morning in the hopes of bringing closure to the tragedy that had stunned their exalted world a week earlier: a peer—a duke, no less—and his wife, stabbed to death in an alley after an evening theatre performance.
Eaton Falmage, Marquess of Lynford, closed the front door behind the last of the funeral guests, wishing he could just as easily shut the door on the week’s horror for the sake of those who remained within the Newlyn town house on Portland Square. But for them the journey into grief was only just beginning. Now that the pageantry of death was over, the real mourning could commence, as he and those closest to the Penlericks could give free rein to their emotions.
Eaton found that inner circle, a collection of friends he’d known and loved since childhood, gathered in the library, a male conclave of power and strength, both of which had been lent unreservedly this week to Vennor Penlerick, the heir.
Vennor stood by the sideboard, pouring brandies, a rare blond in a room full of dark-haired men. He glanced in Eaton’s direction, his eyes asking the question.
‘Yes, they are all gone,’ Eaton offered in low tones. ‘I had the servants sweep the halls for stragglers.’ He gripped Vennor’s arm in a gesture of assurance. ‘We are entirely alone. At last.’
The week had been nightmarish for all of them, but none so much as Vennor, and it showed. Despite his immaculate grooming, Vennor bore the unmistakable signs of strain and grief. To lose one’s parents without warning, even at twenty-eight, was devastating. Vennor had been strong all week, the ideal heir, the consummate host to those who’d imposed their company and their own grief. Eaton took both the glasses. ‘Come, sit, you needn’t be on display with us.’
The group had gathered around the cold hearth. Someone, Inigo perhaps, had culled chairs from about the room and arranged them in one central place to accommodate the group known throughout the ton as ‘the Cornish Dukes’: heirs from four long-standing ducal families whose patriarchs had grown up together in the wilds of Cornwall and in turn so had their four sons. The bond between those fathers and their sons was legendary, as was their loyalty to one another.
That impressive connection had been on view throughout the week for all of London to see, as if to say ‘let no one doubt there are no lengths to which we would not go for one another’. The fathers had taken their leave discreetly a half an hour ago to give the four friends privacy to grieve together, as they would no doubt be doing themselves at another undisclosed location. They had lost their dear friend just as Eaton and the others had lost a man they’d looked upon as an uncle and mentor but Vennor had lost a father and a mother all in one blow.
‘Thank you, Eaton. I’m glad the guests are gone.’ Vennor took the brandy and slumped into the chair beside Inigo. He favoured them with a tired smile. ‘I had no idea my father’s friends possessed so many daughters of a certain age. I knew it would happen, of course. I just thought people might have the decency to queue up after a period of mourning. I don’t think I can tolerate one more offer of marriage wrapped in a condolence. I can’t bear to hear one more time that my father was a good man who’d want me to look to the future as soon as possible. Dear lord, some of them weren’t even subtle about the fact that I’m an only child and the Penlerick nursery is a veritable ghost town in immediate want of infants.’ There was none of the usual humour underlying Vennor’s words. There was only anger today, as well there should be. The deaths of Richard Penlerick and his wife were violent, senseless crimes.
Eaton’s chest tightened at the thought. Thank God it hadn’t been his own father in that alley. The guilt of such a sentiment gripped him, as did the reality. It hadn’t been his father yet. One day, though, it would be; an accident, old age, God willing not a crime, but the terrible moment would come. Not just for him, but for all of them. Eaton looked about his circle of friends: dark-haired, strong-jawed Cassian, heir to the Duke of Hayle, enigmatic Inigo, Boscastle’s scion with the pale blue Boscastle eyes handed down from generations of Boscastle Dukes. Were they thinking the same? That this scene would be re-enacted in variation three more times as each of them assumed the titles to which they’d been raised? They would all lose their fathers. It was an inherently deadly business being a duke’s son.
The morbid aspect of that ‘business’ had Eaton staggering emotionally as much as the visceral quality of the murder had him reeling, along with the rest of the hautton. If a duke could be murdered in cold blood at the theatre, no one was safe. People did not like reminders of their mortality. Rich people especially. It was a brutal prompt that not even piles of money could stop death. It was never a question of ‘if’, but merely ‘when’. Just as long as it was not yet. He wasn’t ready to lose his father. But this week had proven age was no barrier to death, to the ending of an existence. Life was finite.
Penlerick’s death had been a wake-up call to the difficult knowledge that a man’s legacies were all that would remain of him to remind others he’d been here on this earth. Eaton recognised that perhaps he felt the hard truth more keenly than the others. With the smallest amount of luck, his friends would eventually leave behind children, heirs to their legacies, while he would not. Ever. No amount of luck, large or small, would change that for him. His legacies would be of the inanimate sort: schools, hospitals, places that would continue to do good long after he’d left this life. But there would be no sons or daughters to tend them. It was a truth Eaton didn’t enjoy facing. There’d always been time to delay facing it, but Richard Penlerick’s death proved his logic had been faulty. Not even time was on his side.
Vennor raised his glass. ‘A toast, to all of you and your support this week. I could not have borne up without it.’ He nodded to each of his friends. ‘Here’s to friendship in good times and bad.’
They all drank and Eaton fetched the decanter to refill glasses. He poured another brandy for Vennor. It was better to stay busy in order to keep his thoughts from straying too darkly. This was what he did best—taking care of the others. It was what he’d always done. How ironic that that particular talent would not be lavished on a family of his own. ‘You’ve done your duty splendidly this week, Ven. You can get tap-hackled to the gills now if you want. There’s no one to see, no one to judge.’ It would do Vennor good to get shamelessly drunk and let loose the emotions he’d kept on a tight rein since the news had come, but Eaton feared Vennor had other ideas.
Vennor shook his head. ‘There’s too much to do. Father had important legislation in the House of Lords. It would be a shame to see it falter now. I will take up his seat as soon as it’s allowed. Until then, I mean to direct things from here so we don’t miss a step. It will be my tribute to him.’
Eaton exchanged a worried look with Cassian. Going to work would only suppress the grief, ignoring it instead of dealing with it. Cassian leaned forward. ‘Why don’t you come to Cornwall with me and rusticate a bit in Truro? It’s what everyone expects and it will get those matchmaking mamas off your back for a while. As you said, there is a period of mourning to observe—it would be entirely natural if you didn’t take up the seat until next year.’
‘I expect it of me,’ Vennor cut in sharply. ‘Besides, there’s more than legislation to look after. If I am here, I can see justice done.’
‘Justice or revenge?’ Eaton questioned. In his opinion, Vennor needed distance from the crime if he was going to come to terms with his loss, not to immerse himself in it. ‘You needn’t interfere. The Watch will handle everything.’
‘And I will handle the Watch,’ Vennor answered firmly. ‘I will find my parents’ killers and bring them to justice.’
Eaton’s gaze slipped unobtrusively around the circle gauging the group’s reaction. He wasn’t the only one concerned about Vennor’s course of action. The thugs who had mindlessly murdered Newlyn and the Duchess had left behind no clue. They might never be caught. He didn’t want Vennor disappointed. At what point did serving justice become an obsession? Would Vennor recognise that point when it arrived? How could he leave his friend alone to manage his grief, knowing that Vennor would obsess? Yet how could he stay away from Cornwall much longer? He had plans, too; his school, the musical conservatory, was set to open this autumn. His legacy was waiting. He’d not intended to stay in London long this year. He’d come up to town with the intention of supporting Marianne Treleven’s debut as a family friend, and then returning to Porth Karrek immediately. But it only took one look at Vennor’s face to make the decision to stay. His friend couldn’t be left on his own or he’d work himself into oblivion.
‘If that’s what you’re going to do, we’ll stay with you.’ Eaton scanned the group to see heads nodding in agreement. They would all put their plans on hold for their friend.
‘No, that’s not necessary,’ Vennor argued. ‘Eaton, your conservatory needs you. You cannot spare any more time away from home. I know what a sacrifice it would be for you, don’t tell me otherwise. My father would not approve. He supported your school and he’d not want it delayed on his account. You’ve devoted the last five months to preparing—you even cancelled your trip to Italy and I know how much that meant to you.’ Vennor shook his head. ‘I won’t have you throw it all over just to play nursemaid.’ He fixed Cassian with a stern look. ‘I won’t have you staying either. You can’t build your Cornish pleasure garden from London. Besides, your fathers will be here. I’ll hardly be alone.’
It wasn’t the same, though, Eaton thought. When grief closed in, Vennor would want a friend his own age, not his father’s compatriots. Yet how like Vennor to think of others first. They all had their gifts and that was Vennor’s. He understood people the way Inigo understood money: intuitively. But Vennor could not be allowed to win this argument.
Eaton was about to launch his rebuttal when Inigo settled it. ‘We’ll be here. Father and I have banking business. We would be staying regardless to see how Parliament handles some new investment legislation.’
‘Inigo can stay. I will allow that. Are you satisfied, Eaton?’ Vennor smiled his gratitude and the knot of worry in Eaton’s gut eased. Inigo would look after their friend with the same dedication with which he did everything else.
In the wake of the decision, silence claimed the group. Brandy glasses were nearly empty again and the business of helping Vennor take on his ducal responsibilities was settled. Eaton was aware of the mantel clock ticking, loud and insistent, a reminder that it was time to move on, that there was nothing more that could be done now. It was time for the four friends to say goodbye and go their separate ways. He and Cassian would leave early tomorrow for their journey home to Cornwall. Inigo would settle back into his London habits. Vennor would establish new routines.
Nothing would be the same.
Vennor would be invested as a duke the next time they met, with the accompanying ducal responsibilities. Vennor would marry soon and that would change the equation entirely. This was a last moment, the ending of a chapter. Part of the adventure of living, Eaton supposed, although it didn’t seem very adventurous at the moment. On the contrary, it seemed sad. Something was being mourned in this very room as they took another step deeper into adulthood, another step further away from their childhood. A piece of Eaton’s soul rebelled at the notion. Hadn’t he lost enough already? Need he lose that, too? But it was inevitable that he would. It was the way of life for dukes. His friends would marry in time, not only Vennor. Would they all still be close even when their affections were shared with another beyond their circle? When a wife and family claimed their attentions? Their fathers had managed it. But perhaps that was because they all had wives and family in common. Eaton would likely never marry. Would that decision make him an outsider? They would never intentionally exclude him, but it might happen accidentally.
Cassian shifted in his chair, casting a quizzing glance at Eaton. What next? They were all looking to him. He would have to be the one to do it. Among the four of them, he was the ringleader, the adventure master. A swift bolt of memory took him, of blue skies and rolling surf, of four boys who’d spent summers combing the Cornish beaches, playing at being smugglers, or pirates, sometimes soldiers fighting the French fleet, or treasure hunting. He remembered the summer he’d found the map, the last great summer before the trajectory and expectations of his life had subtly veered. Of course, the four of them had not known it would be their last, any more than Richard Penlerick had known when he’d sat down for breakfast a week ago that he’d not see his bed that night. It had been a good summer, full of real adventure, even if they’d never found the treasure. He must have led them through every tidal cave along the Porth Karrek beaches. There’d been bonfires and camp outs, nights of star gazing and the whispered secrets of newly minted adolescence. They had all looked to him then and they were looking to him now to take the next step, to help them say goodbye.
Eaton raised his glass, searching for words against the emotion crowding his throat. They needed hope right now, they needed to know that as much as things were about to change, the things that mattered would stay the same, a piece of constancy they could cling to in a world that only promised uncertainty. He was suddenly hungry to be home at Falmage Hill, home in Porth Karrek surrounded by the familiar: his new school, his orangery, his favourite paths in the Trevaylor Woods, his science experiments, his hound, Baldor. He’d been gone too long. ‘It’s time, gentlemen. A last drink for the road. If there’s one lesson this week has taught us, it’s that life is surprising and short. We are guaranteed nothing. We already drank to the past, let us now drink to the future. Here’s to our pursuits. May all of them be served through the best of our efforts in the time that we have. My friends, here’s to making every minute count.’ Especially when every minute was all one had.
Chapter One (#uc30a7955-fd78-5bef-ad82-451bb9ff76f8)
Porth Karrek, Cornwall—September 1823
Every minute mattered now that the school’s opening was upon them. Eaton pushed up his sleeves and gripped the oak table. At the other end, his headmaster, the renowned composer Cador Kitto, gave a nod and, with a mutual grunt, they lifted the heavy table. Around them, workmen painted and swept with feverish urgency. School began in three days and some students would arrive early to be on hand for the open house in two. The past few days it had been all hands on deck, even his—especially his. Eaton didn’t believe in leading idly. He refused to stand back, shouting orders to others, without lending his own efforts to the project. Besides, staying busy made it possible to forget other unpleasant realisations, albeit temporarily; that Richard Penlerick was dead, life was short and there was nothing he could do about either.
They manoeuvred the table into place at the front of the room and set it down with a relieved thud. Damn, but good oak was heavy. Eaton swiped at his brow and Cador laughed. Eaton groaned. ‘Did I just smear dirt across my forehead?’
‘Yes, but no matter. There are no ladies about to see you.’ Cador winked.
‘Just for that, you can unpack the books.’ Eaton chuckled.
‘Oh, no, I’ve got instruments to oversee.’ Cador wiped his hands and nodded towards the door at the arrival of Eaton’s secretary. ‘Looks like you’ve got business to attend to.’
Eaton turned, stifling a sigh. He far preferred physical labour to the never-ending tedium of paperwork, especially when there was so much to get done, so much to forget. It was too easy for his mind to wander into difficult territory when he was doing paperwork. He found a smile; it wasn’t the secretary’s fault. ‘What is it, Johns?’
‘There’s someone asking to see you, my lord.’ Johns was young, hired to help with the record-keeping and correspondence at the school, and today he looked every inch of his mere twenty years. Johns shifted from foot to foot, his cheeks tinged a fading pink which Eaton didn’t think was due to the exertion of the stairs. Whoever was waiting had been quite insistent.
‘Do they have an appointment?’ Eaton looked about for a rag to wipe his hands on. Johns would have to learn how to be a better gatekeeper.
‘No, my lord.’
‘Has one of the boys arrived early?’ Eaton gave up on a rag. His mind was already working through options. There were rooms ready on the third floor if needed and the cook could be called in to prepare food a day earlier than planned, although provisions weren’t expected to arrive until tomorrow...
Johns cleared his throat. ‘It’s one of the patrons, my lord. One of the widows.’ Johns’s tone was urgent now. Some of the insistence that had been pressed upon him by the unexpected visitor was now being relayed.
Eaton relaxed, although he did wonder what had upset his secretary. Two of the school’s patrons were wealthy widows and he couldn’t imagine either of them being the source of such angst. ‘Is it Mrs Penhaligon? Has she come to see that her piano is properly installed?’ Austol Penhaligon’s widow had donated her expensive Sébastien Érard double action keyboard piano, much to Cador’s delight. The other, a Mrs Blaxland, was an extraordinarily rich woman from Truro, whom Eaton had never met. He’d assumed her age, which must be considerable, had brought about an inability to travel. Her husband, Huntingdon Blaxland, had been sixty-five when he died and that had been five years ago. She likely let her money do the travelling for her these days. Thanks to her generous donations, the boys would have the finest music instructors Cador Kitto had been able to find, acquired from the Continent on his summer honeymoon.
Soft fabric rustled behind Johns, giving Eaton his only warning before no-nonsense female tones announced, ‘No, not Mrs Penhaligon, I’m afraid.’ Apple-green skirts and shiny chestnut hair swept past Johns with an imperious air that smelled of peach orchards and vanilla, the very best and last of summer. ‘I’m Eliza Blaxland.’ She ran a gloved hand along the surface of the oak table, collecting dust on the pristine tip of one finger. ‘And you, Lord Lynford, have some accounting to do.’
Eaton gave her an assessing stare. This haughty virago was Eliza Blaxland? What had the elderly mining magnate been doing with a woman like her? She was no frail grey-haired widow, practising philanthropy from her armchair. This was an elegant, sophisticated woman in her early thirties with decades of life and fire still left to her, a woman who valued being in control. If so, she’d have to adjust. He was more than happy to take her money for the school, but not her orders. He was the Marquess of Lynford and his deference was given sparingly. He could not be bought, nor could he be intimidated. ‘Accounting, Mrs Blaxland? In what way? I was unaware we had an appointment, let alone any accounting to do.’ He was usually the one who did the intimidating. How interesting that she thought the interaction might go differently. She needed to learn that her cheques did not allow her carte blanche in the school and that included showing up two days early for the open house.
She was not daunted by his cool reception. Instead, she returned his assessing stare with one of her own, making him acutely aware that she was entirely his antithesis. While he stood before her sans waistcoat, jacket and cravat, shirtsleeves wrinkled and rolled with a belatedly remembered smudge of dirt on his forehead, she was all elegant summer perfection in her apple-green walking ensemble of India muslin, matched head to toe from the brim of her green-crepe chapeau Lyonnaise to the peeping toes of her green half-boots. ‘I disagree. You are two days from opening and this place is a madhouse.’ She held up the dusty finger of her glove in reminder. ‘My money did not pay for chaos.’
Eaton summoned up a smile from his repertoire, the one known for successfully impressing older, more conservative women who occasionally found his love of adventure a tad too liberal—until they tried it for themselves. ‘I assure you, all will be in order for the open house.’ She was not convinced. Her gaze roved about the room, taking in the painters, the movers, the sweepers, casting doubt and disappointment wherever her eyes landed. Eaton grimaced. He needed to get her out of this room. There were plenty of spaces that were finished. It was too bad she hadn’t found him in one of those. ‘Might I offer you a tour, Mrs Blaxland?’ The woman was likely to poke her nose into all the rooms on her own—at least this way he could keep an eye on her. He could control a tour, although it would cost him an hour of work to squire her around. Still, better an hour of work lost than a lucrative patron. Disappointed patrons often bred other disappointed patrons. ‘On our tour, we can discuss whatever it is you’re doing here.’ It was a subtle reminder that she was the one in the wrong, the one who’d shown up uninvited.
He gestured to Cade, giving her no chance to refuse. ‘Let’s start with an introduction to our headmaster, Cador Kitto, lately from Vienna. He’s composed at the Hapsburg court.’
Cade, with his wavy blond locks and Continental élan, bowed over her gloved hand with a courtly aplomb that made Eaton envious of the man’s slender elegance. ‘A pleasure to meet you at last, Mrs Blaxland. Our students will benefit greatly from your patronage.’ A little dose of Cade could go a long way in smoothing ruffled feathers—at least that was what Eaton was hoping for, particularly when he didn’t know what had ruffled her feathers in the first place.
‘What you describe as chaos, Mrs Blaxland, I consider progress. Allow me to show you.’ They left Cade and the busyness of the classroom behind. He toured her through the students’ rooms on the third floor, showing her chambers with neatly made beds, braided rugs, dust-free wardrobes and bright white curtains hanging at the windows. The rooms smelled of lemon polish and linseed oil. ‘Mr Kitto’s wife designed the dorms,’ Eaton explained, making no effort to hide his pride. ‘She believes the homelier the place feels, the more comfortable the boys will be here.’
‘And the less likely they will be to leave,’ Mrs Blaxland translated in more blunt terms. ‘Tell me, how is enrolment? Do we have enough boys to fill these chambers?’
Eaton shut the last door behind them and directed her back towards the staircase. ‘We have two-thirds of the rooms accounted for, which I think is excellent for a first semester.’ Twenty-one boys ranging in age from seven to fourteen would be arriving the day after the open house. ‘Once word spreads regarding the quality of student and the superiority of musical education we offer at the Cornish Academy, we will reach capacity soon enough,’ he assured her, but her sharp green eyes met his assurances with questions.
‘Do you have quality students?’ she asked pointedly. ‘I think the challenge of such a school is not the idea of it, but the location, as I’ve mentioned before in correspondence. Why would a person of any talent want to travel to the wilds of Cornwall for a musical education when one could be in London? Or go abroad? I fear those who have choices will not choose the academy at Porth Karrek.’
She was bold-tongued, her comments blunt and bordering on rude. Perhaps that was simply how it was in business circles where money mattered more than manners. Eaton chose to be impressed with her analysis rather than offended by the implication that the academy would only be capable of drawing mediocre students.
‘The talent you seek will come if you and the other patrons tell them to. Quality enrolment is all of our obligation.’ Richard Penlerick had been adamant on that issue. He’d been promoting the academy in London just days before the murder. ‘One cannot simply throw money at a project and expect that to be enough to ensure success.’ The words came out harshly against the sudden tightness of Eaton’s throat, but he wouldn’t apologise for them. If Eliza Blaxland took his response as a scolding, then so be it. He wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t mean it as one. He was the son and heir of a wealthy family. If it had only been about money, he could easily have bankrolled the school entirely by himself. He didn’t need patrons’ funds the way a struggling orphanage in St Giles did. He needed the names and reputations behind the funds.
Eaton cleared his throat and offered Richard Penlerick’s often-voiced sentiment. ‘The quality of our students will depend on the quality of our patrons. That is why I sought you out in particular. You are well known in Cornish circles for your appreciation of education.’ Even if those circles had failed to convey how young she was.
At the bottom of the stairs he showed her into the drawing room where the Sébastien Érard piano stood in pride of place. ‘This is where our recitals will be held. Mr Kitto will perform at the open house, of course.’ He smiled, reminding her he’d done his part in securing a well-known musician for headmaster, one with a name that would draw talented students.
He allowed her to appraise the Sébastien Érard with her sharp eyes before he got to the heart of the matter. ‘Surely all of this checking up could have been handled at the open house. Why have you really come, Mrs Blaxland?’ Did she have a student she was hoping to get admitted? Did she have an instructor who needed to be hired? Whoever they were, they would have to earn their place here, no matter how much money she donated. Kitto wanted only the best. They wouldn’t attract the best if they took in just anyone.
She gave him a polite smile he did not mistake for friendliness, although it did serve to warm him none the less. ‘I have found in the years of running my late husband’s mines that scheduled appointments can often result in misleading impressions. When one arrives unannounced, one sees a clearer representation of the truth.’ She was already a fortress of perfection in her dress and in her speech, but in her directness she was nigh on impenetrable. Eaton felt the urge to penetrate that directness, to lay siege to its walls.
‘You mean an ambush, Mrs Blaxland?’ Sparring with her was quite a warming exercise indeed. A part of him that had been dormant since returning from London was waking up.
‘An ambush assumes someone can be taken by surprise, that someone lets his guard down,’ she countered smoothly. ‘If one is always prepared, one cannot be caught unawares.’
When was the last time Eliza Blaxland had been taken unawares? From her cool façade, he would guess it had been a while, if ever. It was hard to imagine anyone got anything past her. Eaton would take that as a challenge—not that he wanted to take advantage, but he would like to surprise her, just to prove to her that it could be done. How would she react when things were out of her control?
He studied the flawless perfection of her face, its smooth contours with its elegantly set nose, green eyes and that mouth—that gorgeous pink mouth with its full, kissable lower lip. His gaze lingered there while his thoughts drifted. What would bring a crease to those perfect features? What might fluster her well-ordered world? Had old Huntingdon Blaxland ever flustered her, aside, perhaps, from dying? Would a kiss be enough to offset that world? She was a widow, after all. He could presume she’d been kissed before. Would she like to be kissed again? He found he would like to pursue that course of action. Between Richard Penlerick’s death and the school, it had been a while since he’d felt a spark of interest.
They were hardly the thoughts one ought to have about a wealthy patroness, yet when the patroness was so aloofly, coolly attractive, it seemed a natural progression of thought to wonder, what if? They returned to the main hall, the front door just feet away, providing a less-than-subtle opportunity to bid Mrs Blaxland farewell and get on with his day. ‘If there’s nothing else, I’ll leave you here. As you have already ascertained, there’s much to be done.’
‘There is one more thing.’ She gave him another long perusing stare with those intelligent eyes. ‘I thought you’d be older. I was unaware Bude’s heir was so...young.’ She was implying that perhaps he might not be up to the task of overseeing a school, that a man of his age and station was better suited to the frivolous pursuits of London.
‘Twenty-eight is young?’ he queried with a sardonic cock of a dark brow. It was an odd remark coming from a woman who couldn’t be more than thirty-three, but time and age were different for females. ‘It’s been some time since anyone has thought of me as young. Good day, Mrs Blaxland. I will look forward to seeing you at the reception.’ He gave her a small bow in farewell. ‘I assure you that you needn’t worry. I am in my prime.’ He’d been unable to resist the final remark. Intuition suggested that no one teased Mrs Blaxland and someone ought to. People didn’t build impregnable fortresses around themselves without reason. He was intrigued as to what her reason might be.
‘You most certainly are,’ she acknowledged with a slight, indifferent nod of her head, but beneath that cool exterior, something akin to interest sizzled and flared in her gaze before it was snuffed out by practice and perhaps practicality. But it was too late. Eaton smiled over his little victory. She’d already given herself away. Eliza Blaxland wasn’t as unaffected or as distant as she appeared.
Chapter Two (#uc30a7955-fd78-5bef-ad82-451bb9ff76f8)
It had been a long time since she’d been surprised—not since the day Huntingdon had left for the office and never returned. Five years, eight months and three weeks, to be precise. Eliza sat back against the leather squabs of her coach and let out a deep sigh. In the intervening years, she’d become used to being the one doing the surprising; she’d had to if she meant to keep the shareholders on their toes. But Eaton Falmage, Marquess of Lynford, heir to the ducal seat of Bude, had done all the surprising this afternoon. The ambush had been her idea, hers to control, but she’d not been prepared for him. Eliza reached for her fan. From the first glance of his dark eyes, his heat had nearly incinerated her glacial cool.
Years of practice had made her confident in the belief that her skills would rise to any challenge, that her icy façade could not be cracked, that she was impervious to the powers of men. Lynford had challenged her today, though, not only as a patron, but as a woman. The former, she could deal with. Patronage was simply one of many business arrangements she conducted. The latter, however, well...that was different. She hadn’t been a woman—a real woman with real feelings and affections—since the day her husband died. For her daughter’s sake and her own sake, she couldn’t afford to indulge such a fancy.
When men looked at her, they saw a female facsimile—one that dressed elegantly, spoke with cultured tones, and danced divinely; one they often sought to possess—but the illusion fell away when she sat across from them at the boardroom table and delivered her verdicts in those cultured tones. Some men called her a snake in the grass, a viper waiting to strike, others called her a Siren, luring men to smash themselves against the icy granite of her façade. But today, Lynford had been formidable, a veritable Odysseus, undaunted by her surprise visit and undaunted by her.
She wished she could say the same. Eliza plied the fan a little faster. He was not only younger than she’d anticipated, he was also younger than her by five years. He was taller, broader, endowed with dark eyes that looked into a person’s gaze and long, powerful legs. Oh, how she loved a good pair of legs on a man and his had been on blatant display with no coats to hide them. In fact, his tight breeches and open-necked shirt had hidden nothing. He’d been in utter, unmistakable déshabillé, yet he’d not once apologised for his appearance or attempted to cover it up. The primal woman in her, so rarely unleashed, had rattled the bars of her cage, thrilling at the masculinity on show, a reminder that she wasn’t dead after all. It was an uncomfortable revelation.
Eliza closed her eyes. It had been so long since she’d felt anything akin to desire, or its milder counterpart, attraction. What a shock to discover it after five years of sexless living where she didn’t dare act either too much of a man or too much like a woman for fear she would be ridiculed for overstepping herself or taken advantage of for being herself. But what a most inopportune time for that discovery. She would have preferred Lynford to be a man nearing middle age, bearing a paunch at his stomach and silver at his temples with a conservative, tired air about him. She knew how to manage those men.
Her husband had been such a man, thirty-seven years older than she when they wed. Those men populated the Blaxland Mining Corporation board of shareholders, but Lynford exuded alertness, energy, a fresh boldness. He thought himself infallible and perhaps rightly so. He was a duke’s son. He was used to asserting himself, used to ordering the world according to his desire. He was not a businessman, a man like her husband had been, who limited the scope of his world to balance sheets. And Lynford, unlike her husband, was most definitely in his prime.
She had no such experience with a man like that: a man who looked at women and openly admired their beauty, a man who didn’t patronise, a man who matched her directness with his own. Nor could she allow herself to acquire such an experience.
The one flicker of attraction she’d felt today had been nice in its own way, a reminder that she was more than a moneymaking automaton, but she could not fan it into anything resembling a flame. She had a daughter to raise and mines to run, her husband’s legacy to preserve so that her daughter would never know want and penury as she had simply because she’d been born female. Such pursuits did not leave room for passion. Such a task required that she walk a tightrope. One false step and all she’d worked for and all she envisioned for the future could be so easily lost.
Neither did such a pursuit serve her as a patron for the school. She hoped by donating generously to his school, in return, Lynford would support her bid for establishing schools for children in the villages up and down the coast wherever there was a Blaxland mine. To mix business with fleeting pleasure could jeopardise that connection.
Hence the reason for her visit today—to see if Lynford was worth the investment. Could he get the job done, or was he another lazy dilettante? She wanted to see that everything was well in hand for the opening reception. She would do her part to make sure the conservatory succeeded. Her own plans depended on it, as did keeping her own reputation intact. The trust of her shareholders was essential now as the Porth Karrek mine prepared for expansion. She’d learned early on after taking the reins of her husband’s business that one could never have too many friends, but a woman could have too many lovers—even just a single lover was often one lover too many. A misguided affair at this juncture could cost her everything, just as it had her mother, a widow left with a daughter and a fortune and no sense about how to manage the latter.
The outcome had been obvious: her mother and her money had been soon parted thanks to an affair that had blinded her to the incompetence of her lover. Eliza had been fourteen when that had happened and she’d vowed she would never put her heart above money. Nor would she put herself in a position where money wasn’t readily available. She’d set out the next day to learn all she could about managing funds, starting with the bookkeeper for the family’s mine. Knowledge was power. She believed that education could keep the wolf from the door and it could buy her independence so that she needn’t rely singularly on a marriage to save her. There were too many women like her mother who hadn’t a clue how to manage their own freedom, who needed men. Eliza was determined to avoid her mother’s mistakes. This time, for this woman, Eliza vowed it would be different. She was far too astute to fall prey to the charms of a handsome lord.
Two days later, the Academy Open House
This time, it would be different. Eliza entered the conservatory’s drawing room with that mantra firmly entrenched in her mind. Tonight, she would be ready for the oh-so-attractive Eaton Falmage. His good looks and confident manner would not catch her by surprise. She knew what to expect now and this time they wouldn’t be alone—a point emphasised as soon as she arrived. The room was practically a crush and a very well-dressed one at that, with men in dark evening clothes and women in silks populating every corner of the grand salon. It was a far more robust turnout for the academy’s opening than she’d anticipated. This was no mere gathering of a board of directors and a few patrons. But then, perhaps the outstanding attendance stood to reason. When a duke’s heir gave a party, everyone wanted an invitation.
Eliza unfurled her fan and began to stroll about the room, looking purposeful. No one need pity her aloneness. She’d made an art of it. Over the years, she’d become accustomed to attending events on her own and others had become accustomed to it, too. She arrived alone, she left alone. She’d learned not to be afraid of her own company. She actually rather enjoyed it. There was no conversation to worry over, no egos to flatter or polite compliments to muster. She could survey her surroundings at leisure, study her options and make her own choices as to how she spent her time and who she spent it with. At the moment she wanted to spend that time with Lynford. Congratulations were in order. A private smile skimmed her lips in satisfaction as she assessed her surroundings. Lynford had succeeded against what had looked like overwhelming odds. One would never guess that two days ago the place had been in varying states of chaos.
Eliza scanned the room, her gaze glancing over the masculine decor done to perfection in shades of muted teal and beige against a backdrop of walnut panelling and chair rail that ran the perimeter, interrupted only by a bank of French doors opening to the gardens beyond where paper lanterns winked. She made a mental note of the gardens—those gardens might provide a convenient escape from the crowd should she need it.
Her gaze hurried on, still seeking as it brushed over the multi-armed brass chandelier at the ceiling, the coveted Sébastien Érard, lid raised, at the front of the room—neither item enough to halt her rampant gaze. These were not the things she was looking for. She’d nearly completed her visual circuit of the room when she found him at last, standing at the fireplace, just feet from the Sébastien Érard. It was time to test her hypothesis.
The fan in her hand halted its oscillation, her mind flooding with a certain sense of satisfaction. He was what she’d been looking for. Lynford stood in profile, talking with a group of men, all dressed alike in dark evening clothes, yet he was no more like them than the sun was like the moon. She knew instantly her mantra was wrong. This time was not going to be different after all, unless one counted the fact that Lynford was fully clothed. He was no less handsome for the more formal attire. Eliza began to ply her fan in earnest.
His dark, tangled curls were tamed tonight, carefully styled into compliance, perhaps painstakingly so given the extent of their unruliness the other day. His jaw was smooth-shaven, setting off the strong planes of his face, the wide, almost simian flare of his nose, the broad, high sweep of his cheekbones beneath his dark eyes; in his face, the elegant classical construction was unabashedly at war with the harsh masculinity of his primeval ancestors. In evening clothes, the result was devastating. He stood out, a powerful stallion among the herd, a man born to lead no matter what his age.
Tonight, authority’s mantle sat comfortably on his broad shoulders, not an ounce of that breadth fabricated, even if the rest of his body gave the impression of wanting to be out of doors tramping the moors and cliffs of Porth Karrek. His was not an indoor physique. Not that she should be assessing such things. Her attendance at the conservatory’s opening reception tonight was all business and business did not mix with pleasure. Ever. Hadn’t her experience with Miles Detford taught her that much? She had too much to keep her busy between the mines and the school. She could not allow herself to be distracted with useless speculation about the Marquess of Lynford. She certainly could not allow herself to be caught staring. He might interpret a stare as interest.
Too late. She didn’t look away soon enough. Lynford caught her gaze and returned it with a wide smile, broad like his shoulders and just as genuine, the kind one gives when one is truly pleased to see someone. That worried her. After their last visit, why would he be pleased to see her? She watched in horrified fascination as he excused himself from the group gathered at the fireplace and moved towards her. There was no escaping; she was well and truly flushed out. What could he possibly want? She should be annoyed by the thought that he’d demand anything of her, but there was only intrigue where annoyance ought to be—another reminder that she was very much alive and very much a woman.
He snared two glasses of champagne from a passing tray as he approached. ‘Mrs Blaxland, it’s so good to see you.’ He offered her a glass, his smile unwavering. ‘I trust everything meets with your approval. No dust on the tables. Your gloves will be spared this evening.’ She had the sensation that Lynford was laughing at her, that there was a private jest, some innuendo involved.
‘I’ve only just arrived.’ Her cool tone insinuated there was still time to be disappointed. Would he let her have the lie? Or would he make her accountable for the shameful truth: that she’d been there long enough to take notice of things and the only thing she’d noticed was him? Eliza sipped her champagne, thankful to have something to do other than admit he’d trapped all her attention, that for all her earlier concern about the state of the school, she’d given the issue only the smallest fraction of her attention, while her gaze had raced around the room, gliding over the details in its hurry to find him. Even in a room full of men, all clad similarly, he’d managed to stand out, managed to capture her eye and her thoughts to the exclusion of all else. That was a dangerous position to be in. It made her vulnerable. It was time to go on the offensive.
‘Whatever you want from me, you must want it badly, given your champagne and your smiles, Lord Lynford. So, let’s have it.’ She gave him a smile of her own, one full of directness.
‘Ah, you like champagne. Duly noted. I shall make a note.’ He smiled wickedly. Lynford liked the edge. She’d not expected that. She’d meant for it to be off-putting, but instead a spark leapt in his dark eyes. ‘What makes you think I want anything other than your approval?’ he drawled.
She laughed at that. ‘My approval or my acquiescence? You will not get the latter. If you are looking for it, then you misunderstood my concerns the other day. I was worried you might not finish your preparations in time, not that I wanted you to fail.’ Eliza tapped his sleeve with her fan. ‘I have every hope this school will succeed. I do not sign on to doomed ventures.’ True, she had wondered if he could do it, if he could bring everything together in time. But she’d not wanted him to fail. Failure did not suit her purpose. ‘This school may be the touchstone. Perhaps people will see the value in other types of schools. I’ve been contemplating opening grammar schools for my miners’ children so that they might grow up with the opportunity to develop a broader range of skills than their parents.’ She paused here, wondering briefly if she should go on. Not everyone shared her views, not even her own board. ‘And with those skills, have more choices about how to make their living.’
Lynford’s eyes were two thoughtful dark stars. For a moment, she feared she’d offended him. What would a ducal heir think about empowering miners with education? Would he even understand the necessity? Perhaps she’d overplayed her hand? But Lynford nodded and smiled, his dark gaze intent. ‘I would enjoy speaking about the subject further, Mrs Blaxland.’ He clinked his glass against hers. ‘Here’s to successful ventures in all their forms. Speaking of which, you might be able to aid our cause tonight.’
Ah, there it was. The real reason for his approach. Eliza stiffened in anticipation. Her instincts had not been wrong. He did want something, but she owed him. If he hadn’t called her out on her lie, she couldn’t call him out on his. ‘I was hoping you would say a few words tonight as one of our most generous donors.’
A speech? She sipped her champagne, her mouth suddenly dry despite the cool liquid. He wanted her to make a speech? Of all the cruel and unusual punishments she could think of, this was by far the worst. ‘A speech?’ She choked on the idea.
‘It’s hardly Pericles’ Funeral Oration, Mrs Blaxland, just a few words. Something like, welcome to the school, we are so excited to begin this venture, etcetera, and then lead in to an introduction of Mr Kitto, who will perform afterwards.’ And he wanted her to introduce the famous Mr Kitto, a man she’d briefly met once? It was as if Lynford had looked into her soul and pulled out her worst fear. She could face down a boardroom full of stockholders, she could stand her ground against men who didn’t think a woman could do successful business in their world, but speaking before a crowd without preparation was entirely different. There would be no heat of the moment guiding the interaction. A speech was a planned, formal affair. People would be staring at her—a lot of people—and they would be judging every word, every gesture. She’d spent years earning the right not to be judged.
‘You are prepared for such a contingency, aren’t you?’ Lynford solicited. ‘Surely, as our largest benefactor, you’ve anticipated such a request? I have it on good authority that preparation is the best protection against surprise.’
There was an echo of their previous interaction in his words and she knew: this was tit for tat.
This was an ambush.
Chapter Three (#uc30a7955-fd78-5bef-ad82-451bb9ff76f8)
Eliza studied Lynford, seeing his gambit all too clearly now. ‘Is this revenge, Lord Lynford?’
He grinned, mischief lighting his eyes. ‘This is just business, Mrs Blaxland. Something akin to unplanned visits, I am sure you understand.’ He relieved her of her empty glass and deposited it on a passing tray with his before offering his arm. ‘I would like to introduce you to a few of the board members, some of our parents whose sons will perform tonight and our other donors.’
‘You need a hostess,’ Eliza quickly deduced. It was a large request that looked much smaller when compared to giving a speech. Perhaps he’d planned it that way, knowing she’d be less likely to refuse. She’d often used that same strategy with her shareholders when asking for an approval of funds.
‘Mr Kitto’s wife, Rosenwyn, was to play hostess, but she’s indisposed,’ Lynford explained with a melting smile. ‘These events need a woman’s presence to smooth out conversations between strangers.’ She’d not meant to draw attention to herself tonight. Playing hostess and making a speech would put her at the centre of the festivities. Still, she could turn this to her benefit. His introductions would pave the way for other discussions she wanted to have later about schools for the miners’ children. She caught sight of Cador Kitto’s blond head, a trail of students behind him with instruments, and her pulse sped up. It was almost time for the programme, almost time for her speech.
She was going to make Lynford pay for this.
‘Shall we?’ Lynford steered her towards the front of the room where the new students and Kitto were settling into position.
‘Are you sure there isn’t someone else who should speak?’ She tried to avoid it one last time. ‘Perhaps Mr Burke?’ He’d been a pleasant, well-spoken man in the last group they’d visited and another generous benefactor of the school.
Lynford shook his head and gave her one of his disarming smiles. He’d been using them liberally tonight with the guests, but that made them no less effective. ‘No, I want you to do it.’ She knew what that meant: an ambush for an ambush. He covered her gloved hand where it lay on his sleeve and gave it a conspiratorial squeeze. ‘You will do wonderfully.’ He leaned in, giving her a teasing whiff of clean, autumn male, the woodsy scent of English oak mixed with the sweeter note of hazelnut. Good lord, that scent was intoxicating. It reminded her of strength, of bonfires beneath starry skies when she was younger, when she didn’t carry the world on her shoulders, when autumn was a time to laugh and dream. His voice was a husky whisper at her ear, a tone better reserved for the bedroom. ‘I have every confidence in you. You are not a woman who knows how to fail, Mrs Blaxland.’ Then he slipped away from her, his long strides taking him to the front of the room, the very presence of him compelling people to quiet their conversations, to find a seat and anticipate what came next.
She envied him his confidence, the ease with which it was assumed whereas hers was a hard-earned façade; once acquired, she had dared not lay it down for fear she might never be able to pick it up again. This was not the life Huntingdon had imagined for her, but this was the life she had, the life she’d chosen out of necessity.
At twenty-eight, she’d gone from running their home to running a mining empire, from sponsoring parties to sponsoring schools and other educational causes. If there was one thing the past five years had taught her, it was that education was everything. She’d transitioned into her husband’s position only because she’d had the skills to do it. She could read, she could write, she could do sums, she could keep a ledger and myriad other things. She could think critically and she’d spent her marriage listening, learning and planning ahead against the inevitable: an eighteen-year-old bride would doubtless outlive her fifty-five-year-old husband. The majority of her life would be spent in widowhood. The only question was when it would happen and what she’d do about it.
That foresight had stood her in good stead. If this life was not the one imagined for her, it was a far better one than what she would have had. Without those skills, she would have been passed from relative to relative; her husband’s legacy, his mines and her daughter Sophie’s inheritance would have been taken out of her hands and put into the care of an apathetic male relative. She’d seen it happen to women around her, women like her mother, who lost everything when their husbands died, even the very control of their own lives. When Huntingdon had died, she’d reaffirmed her vow that would not happen to her. She would secure her freedom at all costs and her daughter’s, too. Now that she had, she would see to it that others had the opportunity to develop the same skills.
Lynford finished speaking and gestured that she should come forward. She rose and smoothed her skirts, her head high. She wouldn’t let anyone see how this unnerved her. Lynford was right. She didn’t know how to fail. She knew how to fight. That gave them something in common. He no more wanted to see her fail in this speech than she’d wanted him to fail in having the school ready. It occurred to her, as she stood before the guests, that she and Lynford were compatriots whether they wanted to be or not. Philanthropy, like politics, made for strange bedfellows indeed.
She was magnificent. Eaton listened to Eliza Blaxland address the guests, her cultured tones confident and strong. He watched her, looking for little tells that hinted at her nerves and finding none. Still, he stood on guard, feeling protective, as if he had the right to defend her, to intervene if she faltered. But she didn’t falter. He suspected she didn’t know how. It was not in her nature. Eliza Blaxland was all cool competence in her dark blue silk and pearls, her shiny chestnut hair dressed simply, elegantly, in a braid that coiled at the nape of her neck. If he hadn’t seen the initial flicker of uncertainty in her eyes when he’d asked her, he never would have known she didn’t welcome such opportunities.
What else didn’t he know about her? What he thought he knew of her up until two days ago had been entirely wrong. An old rich woman, she was not. He found the prospect of righting those misnomers intriguing. He’d known widows before—women with a sharp worldliness to them—but they’d not got under his skin so quickly. Or ever. Who was Eliza Blaxland? Was she truly all cool smiles and sharp eyes, or did something hotter burn beneath that smooth, uncrackable façade, waiting for a reason to come out?
She was introducing Cade now, taking the opportunity to cede the room’s attention to the school’s headmaster and his musicians. When the applause began, she attempted to slip away to the gardens. If Eaton hadn’t been watching, he would have missed her. Seeing her go only made him impatient to follow her out. But it would be bad form to leave before Cade got the little concert underway. Was she counting on that? Was she hoping to slip away before he could find her? Did she think to hide from him, or was this an invitation to join her? Perhaps she wanted him to follow?
Eaton took the first chance he had to drift towards the French doors and then fade unnoticed into the gardens, aware he might be too late. An initial sweep of the garden suggested he was right, but a second survey revealed her, sitting on a stone bench, face tilted to the night sky in lovely profile. ‘Are you avoiding me or waiting for me?’ Eaton approached from behind, his voice low. ‘I thought for a moment you might have played Cinderella and slipped away before I could follow. What are you doing out here?’ It was a bold question, one that demanded a direct answer in return. But why not be bold? She was not afraid of him. Even now, alone in the garden, her widowhood protected her reputation and granted her the freedom to respond as she liked.
With that freedom, she might take a lover. Had she? Would she? Did she have a lover now? A man who knew the truth behind her façade, who was allowed the luxury of seeing her without her cool armour. Eaton found the prospect disappointing. He didn’t want Mrs Blaxland to belong to someone else. He didn’t want someone else to know what he did not. There was that sense of exigence again, the same urgency he’d felt in the drawing room while watching her slip away. Wanting to know her, to obtain information about her had escalated from merely acquiring facts to something bordering on obsession. He wanted to acquire her. She would be a delicious distraction from the darkness that had dogged his steps since Penlerick’s funeral. Perhaps she would be someone who could bring him back to life, someone who could hold his grief at bay.
It would not be the first time he’d taken a lover for such a purpose. His own lovers were women of the world who enjoyed time with him until it suited them both to move on to new experiences, new adventures. But it was the first time he’d wanted to do so with such covetousness. It was not the usual reaction he generally had towards his lovers. The intensity of that emotion must have showed in his gaze for in the next moment, Eliza Blaxland suddenly rose and made excuses to leave with far less fluency than she’d delivered her speech. ‘I ought to go, it’s getting late.’
Was she looking for an invitation to stay? It didn’t sound like a question. It sounded like a decision. He hadn’t believed she’d be a runner, but she showed every sign of wanting to do just that. How interesting. If she wasn’t running from him, that only left the option of running from herself. Was she running from her reaction to the attraction that simmered between them? Did this flame that sparked between them unnerve her? How intriguing that the unflappable Mrs Blaxland could be unnerved by the nascent overtures of a flirtation when barging in on a man unannounced hadn’t flustered her at all. But she’d been in control then. She’d been the one to do the barging.
‘Leave? Surely you don’t mean to return to Truro tonight?’ The protectiveness he’d felt in the grand salon surged again. He didn’t like the thought of her out on the dark Cornish roads. It was three hours on the road in daylight between Truro and Porth Karrek. A man could do the trip in a day on horseback, but it was a long day and a lonely one. Cornwall was full of wide, empty spaces, especially when one’s wheel or axle gave out. She’d be miles from any help if there was need.
‘I have rooms at the inn by the harbour. I need to visit one of my mines early tomorrow and then return to Truro. I’ve been gone from home for three days already and I am eager to return. Thank you for the evening.’ Such eagerness prompted the question of who or what was waiting for her? A lover? Was she already otherwise engaged? Was that the reason she was so fluttery now? Covetousness flared alongside his protectiveness.
‘Perhaps I shall see you in Truro. I often have business there.’ Eaton thought he might find a little more business in Truro. Cassian was in Truro, working on plans for his amusement gardens. Perhaps a visit was in order once the term started here and Cade no longer needed him. ‘Or should I be expecting any more surprise inspections?’
Her fan tapped his sleeve. ‘They wouldn’t be surprises if you expected them, my lord.’
‘Call me Eaton, please. There’s no need to stand on ceremony.’ He made the bold offer spontaneously, his earlier urgency surging to the fore once more. He did not want to be ‘my lord’ or ‘Lord Lynford’ with her; he wanted to be something more intimate, more personal, something that would separate him from any other who attempted to claim her attentions. It was the fanciful wish of a schoolboy with a crush. He reached for her hand, bending over it. ‘You were a delightful hostess tonight, surely you’ve earned the right to address me more informally.’ He could count on one hand the people who had that right: Cassian, Inigo, Vennor, their fathers, of course. He didn’t need both hands for that count now. He pushed back the grief that managed to edge its way to the surface at the oddest times and in the oddest ways.
‘I was pleased to be of service. I hope the term begins splendidly. I’ll be looking forward to Mr Kitto’s reports on the students’ progress. If weather permits, I might make the journey for the Christmas concert.’
He doubted her on both accounts. ‘Don’t lie to me, Mrs Blaxland. You did not want to give that speech tonight and the weather in December is too questionable.’
‘I was being polite.’ She withdrew her hand in a deliberate gesture.
‘I prefer you be honest.’ Eaton felt disappointed at the prospect of her leaving. How could he unravel her mysteries if she was three hours away? Already he was devising reasons why he might call her back. He might need her counsel on the school, for instance; they might want to discuss her own schools in person rather than through correspondence and, when that was done, he might take her truffle hunting in the Trevaylor Woods. Eaton leaned close, breathing in the peach-and-vanilla summer scent of her, his mouth near her ear as if imparting a secret. ‘And in the spirit of being honest, Eliza, I find you to be a complete revelation.’
‘I assure you, I am quite ordinary.’ But the words pleased her. He heard her breath catch despite her cool response and she hadn’t corrected him on the use of her first name, proof that this encounter, this response, was not ordinary for her, that he was not ordinary to her.
‘Then we must agree to disagree since I find nothing plain about you.’ Eaton let his gaze hold her eyes, let her see the interest she raised in him. They were both experienced adults. They needn’t play coy games. He would be honest, too. He did not want the conversation to end. ‘I’ve been wrong about you from the start. I thought you’d be older.’ He gave a low chuckle. ‘It seems we have that mistake in common.’
‘My husband was considerably older than I. It is a common assumption.’
‘If you’d not come to the open house, I might never have known.’
‘What difference did my age make when we corresponded about the school? What difference did my age make to my donations? My age is of no import.’
‘Huntingdon Blaxland was sixty-five when he died.’ Eaton remembered his father noting it one morning over breakfast and newspapers. His father had commented that Blaxland’s death would leave a gap in the mining industry, a power vacuum. Eaton had assumed his widow was of a commensurate age. Never had he imagined Blaxland’s widow was in her thirties.
‘Yes, and he was fifty-five when we married. I was his second wife, of course, his first having died a few years before.’ Perhaps that was why he’d thought Mrs Blaxland would be older. He’d not realised the first wife had passed; he would have been a child, after all. It was hardly the sort of news an adolescent paid attention to, even if he hadn’t been recovering from the throes of his own illness. But now, it was like finding a pearl in an oyster and Eaton filed the precious knowledge away along with the champagne. It was the most personal piece of information she’d offered. His collection of facts was growing: she was a widow, a second wife; she was confident, strong, stubborn and direct; she was young, attractive; she liked to be in control.
She was asserting that desire now, perhaps sensing the conversation was fast slipping beyond her ability to command it. ‘I fail to see what consequence any of this holds. It doesn’t matter.’ But it did. She wasn’t as sure of herself as she wanted him to believe. Did she think he didn’t see the flutter of her pulse in the lantern-lit darkness, or the way her eyes met his and then slid away? She wanted to know, as much as he did, what it would be like if they acted on the spark that jumped between them when they argued, when they challenged one another, when they were merely in the same room together. He’d been aware of her tonight long before he’d gone to her. He’d been aware, too, that she’d been looking for him the moment she’d arrived.
What could it hurt to find out? She lived miles away and was hardly in the habit of haring down to Porth Karrek.
‘It does matter.’ He slipped his hand behind her neck, drawing her close, letting his gaze linger, letting the proximity of his body signal his intentions as he murmured, ‘I am not in the habit of kissing grandmothers.’
‘And I am not in the habit of—’
Eaton didn’t let her finish. He captured her lips, sealing her rejoinder with his mouth. They could discuss her habits—or lack of them—later.
Chapter Four (#uc30a7955-fd78-5bef-ad82-451bb9ff76f8)
Apparently, she was not in the habit of completing her sentences. She certainly wouldn’t be capable of doing so now. All her mind could focus on was that he was kissing her. The realisation rocketed through Eliza, a bolt of white-hot awareness. There wasn’t a single part of her that wasn’t aware of him—the sweet, sharp autumn scent of him in her nostrils, the feel of his touch on the bare skin at her neck, the press of his mouth against hers—all combining to stir her to life, perhaps for the first time.
His tongue teased hers; a slow, languorous flirt confident of its reception. His hand adjusted its position at her neck, tilting her mouth, deepening his access to her until she gave a little moan. She had never been kissed like this, as if the kiss was a seduction within itself, as if every nuance of mouth and tongue and lips communicated a private message of desire designed just for her. She felt herself wanting to give over; there was no question of resistance, no desire for it. She wanted this kiss, wanted to fall into it, wanted to see where it led. Perhaps it led to other wicked desires, other wicked feelings. But only if she let it—and she wouldn’t, she promised herself.
All the reasons why began to reassert themselves, slowly coming back to the fore of her defences after the initial onslaught of this new pleasure. She shouldn’t be kissing a stranger, a man she’d only met once. She shouldn’t be kissing a man with whom she meant to do business. She was a mother; she had to think of her reputation for her daughter’s sake. She was a business owner; she also had to think of her reputation for the sake of the mines. Kisses were for women who could afford them.
The last thought brought her up short. She pushed against the hard wall of his chest. Did he think she could afford to give away kisses? That she’d come out to the garden on purpose to signal her intention—that she was willing to acknowledge and act on the flicker of attraction? Had he taken what she’d intended as an escape as an invitation instead?
The white-hot burn of pleasure turned to heated mortification. ‘My lord...’ She should have been more astute. Widows often had a reputation for discreet licentiousness. The widows the Marquess of Lynford knew most certainly did. But she could not be one of them. It was for that very reason she’d been so careful of her own reputation for five long years. ‘I fear I have given you a most inaccurate impression of myself. I apologise, sincerely. I must go. Immediately.’ Eliza tried to step around him, but all the height and breadth she’d appreciated about him earlier worked to her disadvantage. He was not a man easily evaded. She should have left when she had the chance. She should not have lingered in the garden, tempting fate. She’d come out thinking to put some distance between herself and those dark eyes. But the garden hadn’t been far enough.
He moved, subtly positioning his body to block her departure, a hand at her arm in gentle restraint, his voice soft in the darkness. ‘When will I see you again?’ It was ‘will’ with him, not ‘may’. Lynford wasn’t the sort of man to beg for a woman’s attention. He went forward confidently, assuming the attention would be given. Will. The potency of that one word sent a frisson of warm heat down her spine. His dark gaze held hers, intent on an answer—her answer. Despite his confident assumptions, he was allowing that decision to be all hers.
‘I don’t think that would be wise. Business and pleasure should not mix.’ She could not relent on this or she would come to regret it. An affair could ruin her and everything she’d worked for. The shareholders in the mines would no doubt love to discover a sin to hold against her.
‘Not wise for whom, Mrs Blaxland?’ The back of his hand traced a gentle path along the curve of her jaw. ‘You are merely a patron of the school I sponsor. I don’t see any apparent conflict of interest.’
‘Not wise for either of us.’ If she stood here and argued with him, she would lose. Sometimes the best way to win an argument was simply to leave. Eliza exercised that option now in her firmest tones, the ones she reserved for announcing decisions in the boardroom. ‘Goodnight, Lord Lynford.’ She was counting on him being gentleman enough to recognise a refusal and let her go this time, now that any ambiguity between them had been resolved.
Eliza made it to the carriage without any interference. She shut the door behind her and waited for a sense of relief to take her. She’d guessed correctly. Lynford hadn’t followed her and it was for the best. He was probably standing in the garden, realising it at this very minute, now that the heat of the moment had passed. The kiss had been an enjoyable adventure. It had added a certain spice to the evening, but it was not to be repeated. He didn’t know her. He didn’t know the depth of her responsibilities, or that she had a child—Sophie—the true love of her life.
If he did, he’d most certainly run. A man like Lynford, a man in his prime with wealth and a title to recommend him, was expected to wed a young woman capable of giving him his own heirs. She knew precisely the sort of bride who was worthy of a ducal heir: a sweet, young girl, who had no other interests than stocking her husband’s nursery. Lynford would want, would need, a family of his own. All dukes did. The Marquess would never seriously consider a woman with another man’s daughter clinging to her skirts and who spent her days running a mining empire, any more than she would consider him as a husband.
She would never marry again. She had no inclination to give up her hard-won control over her future and her daughter’s. The risk was too great, even if the cost was also great. Sophie must come first, ahead of her own personal wishes for a family. Eliza had come to such a realisation early in her widowhood and it had been both a relief and a disappointment.
It was the only thing the doting and decent Blaxland hadn’t been able to give her and the only thing she would not risk giving to herself. He’d given her security and a future, but he could not give her a family. Despite ten years of marriage, there was only to be her darling Sophie between them. Another husband, another man, younger, more virile, might provide her with those children, but she did not want to turn her responsibilities over to a husband in exchange, nor could she risk her reputation with the entanglement of a lover. The well-intentioned overture from Miles Detford years ago had shown her how even the smallest misstep could weaken her position.
On either front, she had no business kissing the Marquess of Lynford in the academy gardens. She was the daughter of a mine owner, the widow of a mine owner. Her family came from business. Cits on all sides, including her late husband’s. Such a background wasn’t for a marquess. Eliza knew how the world worked. She could be nothing for him but a brief dalliance until whatever mystery he saw in her was solved. Men could do as they liked. But she would never outrun the stain and neither would Sophie.
That was the lesson she told herself as her coach deposited her at the inn. But it didn’t stop her from dreaming that night of a dark-eyed man who’d called her extraordinary and kissed her body into an acute awareness of itself, who’d made her feel alive in ways she hadn’t felt for years, perhaps ever. There simply hadn’t been time or place for such realisations. There still wasn’t. Whatever that kiss had awakened had to be suppressed. That kiss could stay in her dreams, but it could go no further. In the morning she would wake up, visit the Porth Karrek mine and return to life as usual. As earth-shattering as tonight had been, it simply couldn’t be any other way for her.
It simply couldn’t be this way. The lumber order for the tunnel timbers was excessive. Eliza sat back from the ledgers, hazarding a glance at the clock on the wall of the mine office. It was eleven already. The morning had slipped away while she’d grappled with the receipt, trying to make sense of the overabundance of ordering. She’d meant to leave for home by now and she was nowhere close to making that self-imposed departure. If she left it any later, she’d miss tea with Sophie. She’d promised she’d be back in time and she never broke a promise. But ultimately, she was the one who had to answer to the shareholders in a few weeks at the annual meeting, the one who would be accountable for this over-ordering.
Eliza went to the window and looked down on the bustling scene below: carters pushing wheelbarrows of ore from the mine to the sorters; sorters separating the ore; her foreman, Gillie Cardy, shouting orders. The sight of her mines at work brought a certain thrill, a certain proof that she’d accomplished something. She caught Gillie’s eye and gestured for him to come up. He would know why so much lumber had been ordered.
Gillie knocked on the door before entering, sweeping off his knit cap as he stepped inside. ‘Mrs Blaxland, how can I be of service?’ She liked Gillie. He’d been the site manager even before her husband died. He was competent and knew the mechanics of mining thoroughly, and he’d been a friendly face when she’d first taken over.
She motioned towards the ledgers. ‘I have some questions about the lumber order.’
Gillie chuckled and shook his head. ‘I’m no good at numbers, ma’am. I just do what I’m told. You want someone to find a lode in the mine, I’m your fella. But if you want someone to do the books, that’s not me. I know mining and not much else.’ Eliza nodded. This was yet another reason her schools were vital. People needed mathematics and reading skills no matter what their profession. Education was power and protection. Without it, people were waiting to be victims.
‘I’ve done the sums,’ she assured him. ‘With the amount of timber ordered we could build a tunnel twice the length.’
He twisted the cap in his hand, looking worried. ‘The tunnel is very long, ma’am. We are tunnelling out underneath the ocean.’
Eliza stared at him in disbelief. ‘We are not! We opted not to take the risk at this time.’ Her stomach began to turn. The board had decided at the last quarterly meeting not to go that far.
‘Pardon me, ma’am, but Mr Detford said we were tunnelling under the ocean.’
Miles Detford? He ran the Wheal Karrek mine for her. She trusted Detford, counted him as friend. Miles would never go against the board’s decision or her wishes. He knew how she felt about the dangers of tunnelling beneath the ocean. Surely, there must be some mistake, that Cardy had misunderstood or that Miles Detford had been pressured by someone, because if that wasn’t the case, it meant she had misunderstood—not just the decision not to tunnel, but so much more. Her board was willing to override her decisions.
If it were true, it was a slap in the face. Someone thought she wouldn’t notice, either because she wasn’t diligent or because they thought she wasn’t smart enough. The other answer was even less appealing. Maybe whoever ordered the timbers simply didn’t care if she noticed. Her wishes were to be overridden. Not everyone on the board had agreed about the tunnel. It had been contentious and hotly debated. She’d rather put the money towards mining schools. Others had not felt that way. There was no money to be made from the schools.
Eliza pressed a hand to her stomach, trying to settle the roil that had started with the realisation. After years of proving herself, it seemed things still weren’t beyond that first year. Hadn’t she been the one who had insisted on steam engines to replace the horses? Hadn’t she been the one to institute safety protocols? The worst of it was, she’d thought things were better. But they weren’t. Someone was laughing behind her back, playing her very publicly for a fool.
Already, her mind was running through options. Which shareholders had conspired against her? Was it Isley Thorp or Sir Gismond Brenley, the other chief shareholders? It must have been if they had enough leverage to force Miles Detford into ordering the timbers. Miles would never have ordered them on his own. He would have defended her decision.
She returned to her desk chair and drew out a piece of paper from the drawer, penning a note with instructions. There was no question of returning to Truro until this mess was resolved. She folded the note and handed it to Gillie. ‘Have a messenger deliver this to the town house with all haste.’ Sophie and her governess could be here tomorrow. That would give her time to find suitable living arrangements. The inn wasn’t a decent place for a young girl. But where? Who did she know in town to whom she could turn? Did she dare ask Lynford? He was her only acquaintance likely to have any connections. The thought of Sophie at the inn, driving guests mad with her exuberance, settled it. As hesitant as she was about asking Lynford, she didn’t have a choice. Wheal Karrek needed her and she needed Sophie.
Decision made, she took out a second sheet and penned another note. ‘Take this up to the new conservatory.’ She reread the note, making sure she’d struck just the right tone, short, concise, a very businesslike message, nothing that Lynford would misconstrue as an invitation to continue what they’d started and finished in the garden. Satisfied, she sent Gillie off. That only left sending a note to Detford. Her stomach surged once more at the thought. She settled it with a reminder that this was all a misunderstanding. Miles would come and explain all. She’d been on her guard for so long, it was too easy to see trouble where there was none.
Chapter Five (#uc30a7955-fd78-5bef-ad82-451bb9ff76f8)
Eliza had barely finished the note when the commotion of an arrival sounded in the yard below. Perhaps another wagonload of supplies was expected today? But when she reached the window, there was no wagon in the yard, only a lone man on a chestnut horse—a tall, broad-shouldered man, dark hair unruly and windblown. He dismounted in a fluid motion and Eliza’s breath caught. Lynford was here! He’d come and immediately. He couldn’t have received her message more than an hour ago.
He looked up at the window, shielding his eyes against the sun, and Eliza reflexively stepped back even though there was little chance of being seen. She was both flattered and flustered by his attention. What to do? Allow him to come up or should she go down to meet him? She would go down. Things tended to happen when she was alone with him. Crowds were safer. She took up her hat and gloves and paused a moment to check her appearance in the small mirror behind the door before whispering, ‘Breathe, Eliza. He’s just a man.’
A man who had kissed her. A man who had not been intimidated by her when she’d surprised him at the school. A man who had come to her immediately even though she’d not specifically requested it. She stopped at the foot of the stairs to collect herself. She should not be excited. This was an entirely girlish reaction. She’d summoned him for business purposes because that was the nature of their acquaintance and she knew no one else in the area who might be positioned to help her. She’d not summoned him because of last night. She wanted to be clear with herself on that. In fact, that had been the singular reason she’d hesitated to send for him in the first place.
She stepped outside, striding forward with confidence, hand outstretched in a mannish greeting. ‘My lord, how good of you to come and how surprising. I’d expected a list of recommendations in response, not an actual visit. I hope this isn’t disrupting your day?’
He shook her hand and gave her one of his broad, winning smiles. If he was put off by the masculine gesture he gave no sign of it. ‘Not at all. There’s nothing left to do up at the school except get in the way while Kitto tries to settle the students.’ Sweet heavens, he was just as devastating in daylight and plain clothes as he was by night. Perhaps more so. Without the elegance of evening clothes, it was too easy to forget he was a marquess, heir to a dukedom and entirely above her touch. Today, he looked the part of a country squire and eminently more attainable, dressed in riding boots, tight buckskins, and a long greatcoat suited for the autumn air that blew in off the sea.
Lynford did not relinquish her hand, but covered it with his other. ‘Tell me, what sort of accommodations do you require for the longer term? A manse? A cottage? An estate? I have a place in mind if you think it would suit. There’s a dower house at Falmage Hill. It’s not far from here. It would be close to the mine and it’s well situated between Porth Karrek and Penzance. I am in residence at the main house, or else I’d let the whole estate to you instead.’
‘I don’t need a whole estate.’ Eliza laughed. ‘The dower house will be ideal.’ Did she sound as flustered as she felt? The offer was overwhelming, all the more so because she couldn’t recall the last time someone had lifted the burden from her shoulders. Her world was full of wolves and vultures, but here was a stranger—an acquaintance at best—who’d shouldered the weight of this one task without hesitation. This was arguably the best news she’d heard all morning. But did it come at a cost? What guarantees was Lynford looking for? Why would a man she barely knew offer such largesse?
‘Are you sure, Mrs Blaxland?’ Eaton’s gaze narrowed, matching her own speculation. ‘If so, why are you looking at me as if I were a predator?’ She should have been more deliberate with what she let show on her face. She’d become sloppy in the wake of the morning’s tensions.
‘Are you? A predator? A girl can’t be too careful. When something sounds too good to be true, I’ve learned it usually is.’ Eliza didn’t back down from his challenge. ‘Truthfully, Lord Lynford, I am wondering why a man who hardly knows me would volunteer such lavish accommodation. What could he want in exchange? I shall pay you rent in coins and in nothing else.’ She needed to be clear on this point, especially based on last night in the garden. Did he think there were additional kisses to be had? Or perhaps something more than kisses?
‘You will do no such thing. I am not asking for money...or for anything else,’ Lynford answered with the swiftness of an insulted man. ‘As for why I am doing this, it is because I can. I have an empty house and you need one.’
Did she dare believe him? She was not used to taking men at their word. But what choice did she have? Sophie and her governess would arrive tomorrow. Eaton swung up on his horse and for a moment she thought he’d retract his offer, offended by her scepticism. Then he leaned down and offered his hand. ‘Come up, we’ll ride out and look the property over. You can decide then if it will suit.’
‘But my coach is here,’ Eliza stammered, craning her neck to look up at him. Lynford appeared twice as large atop the big horse as he did on the ground and twice as commanding.
‘Send it on ahead.’ Lynford answered easily, dismissing the detail. ‘Stop stalling and come up, Eliza. We’ve already established I’m not a predator. It’s a beautiful autumn day, perfect for a ride, and I promise my horse will behave.’ She noted he said nothing about himself. She also noted he’d used her first name.
She should be wary. She should refuse on grounds of impropriety. What would people think if they saw her with him? The argument had no teeth. Who would see them? Who would care? Miners on their way to their shifts? People who didn’t even know who she was? She lived quietly and Truro was further than most of these people would ever go in their lifetime. But she would know. But when he looked at her with that smile and those dancing dark eyes, something deep inside her began to stir, as it had last night, as it had the first time she’d laid eyes on him—that reminder that she was alive, that she was something more than a bookkeeper and an overseer. She took his hand and leapt.
He settled her before him on the saddle and clucked to the big chestnut with an enviable ease, apparently unbothered by the proximity of the female sitting in front of him. Eliza wished she could claim such sangfroid. She could not. The rhythm of the horse beneath her beat a tattoo of freedom as the cliffs and fields of the Cornish landscape sped past. But neither dominated her attentions like the presence of the man behind her. She’d not counted on the practical act of transportation, such a mundane task, feeling so intimate.
Huntingdon hadn’t been a rider. They’d always gone everywhere by coach. To ride astride with a man was a very different thing. There were the thighs to contend with, muscular thighs that bracketed her legs, the chest she couldn’t help but press against as they cantered along the cliff road to Falmage Hill, the arm that came around her, the leather-gloved hand that held the reins resting at her hip. She could smell the wind on him, could feel it in her face, the thrill of freedom humming in her blood. It was fanciful to ascribe such poetic feeling to the ride. Lynford would likely be stunned to know how a simple act had conjured up such fanciful connotations for her.
The newly awakened wildness in her was disappointed to see Falmage Hill come into view, disappointed to turn into the drive, disappointed to slow the horse to a trot, the wind settling to a light, arbitrary breeze in her face. Eaton turned the horse down a path, giving her a tour of the drive lined by tall, impressive oaks with a green lawn extending in all directions. ‘The main house is straight ahead, but the dower house sits on the west corner of the property. It has a nice view of the sea.’ She couldn’t care less for the sea view at the moment. She was transfixed on the lawn. Sophie would love running here. There was precious little space for a girl to run in town. A twinge of guilt pricked at Eliza. Courtesy dictated she should tell him she wouldn’t be his only guest. But privacy counselled caution. She was protective of Sophie and those who came into contact with her. A woman or a girl with a fortune couldn’t be too careful.
The entrance to the dower house was dominated by two thick stone pillars and a wrought iron gate that stood open, ready for them. The house itself was a square, brick manse with ivy growing up its walls and five white-framed windows decorating the second storey. The entrance was set on the right side of the house and covered with an arched arcade. Eliza found the home immediately charming, a place where a family might take a holiday. Where children might frolic in the yard with a puppy. She pushed the sweet image away. There was no purpose in torturing herself with what she couldn’t have. Besides, she never took a holiday. She was too afraid of what might transpire if she looked away from the mines for a moment. Apparently, it hadn’t mattered. Things had transpired anyway.
Out of nowhere, a man in livery materialised to hold the horse. Lynford dismounted and reached for her, his hands easy and comfortable at her waist. Was she the only one who noticed how much they touched? Was she the only one moved by it? The only one whose pulse thundered with each contact? One would think she was fresh from the schoolroom, not a woman who’d had a husband and a child and who dealt with men every day. There should be no mystique in a man’s touch. She was helped in and out of carriages, escorted into dinners on the occasions when she went out in Truro. Touch was no stranger to her, yet Lynford’s touch managed to stand out.
Eaton set her down and gestured towards the house. ‘Shall we go in? I sent word ahead to the staff to start cleaning once I received your note. The worst of the dust should be gone by now.’ He slid her teasing look. ‘I know how you are about dust.’
‘You’re very...efficient.’ And confident, she added silently. He’d been sure she’d accept his offer...and he’d been right. Was she that predictable or was he that sure of himself?
Eaton ushered her through the front door, a hand resting at the small of her back. Another touch. Another reminder that he stirred her. ‘There’s a parlour, a dining room and a library space you can use as an office here on the first floor. The kitchen is below stairs. The bedrooms are upstairs. I will send down staff for cooking and cleaning. I have plenty to spare with only me to look after at the big house.’
He’d anticipated everything, Eliza thought as they climbed the stairs. ‘There are five chambers up here and seven beds.’ Eaton led her down the hall. ‘You can have your pick, perhaps a bed for every night of the week.’ He laughed, coming to stop at a room nearest the stairwell. ‘This one is the largest.’
Eliza stepped into the airy room, impressed. Eaton’s staff had already been here. The bed linens were fresh and the window was open to let in the crisp autumn air. A small bud vase with deep pink ginger lilies stood on the table beside the bed, lending the room a personal touch, an extra detail. She was aware of Eaton behind her, his words a quiet, masculine rumble. ‘Will it suit?’ At the enquiry, her eyes began to sting, tears welling. She was glad she was facing the window. How would she explain that a simple question had moved her to tears?
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Bronwyn Scott
He’s destined never to marry She might change his mind… Eaton Falmage, Marquess of Lynford, is an expert at distracting himself from the painful truth which means he’ll never wed. Seducing mining widow Eliza Blaxland seems the perfect diversion. Until he learns Eliza guards her heart as fiercely as her hard-won independence. He longs for more, but that would mean confessing his secret…and risk losing her forever!
He’s destined never to marry
She might change his mind...
Part of The Cornish Dukes. Eaton Falmage, Marquess of Lynford, is an expert at distracting himself from the painful truth that means he’ll never wed. Seducing mining widow Eliza Blaxland seems the perfect diversion. Until he learns Eliza guards her heart as fiercely as her hard-won independence. He longs for more, but that would mean confessing his secret...and risking losing her forever!
BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and the proud mother of three wonderful children—one boy and two girls. When she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages. Readers can stay in touch via Facebook, or at her blog, bronwynswriting.blogspot.com (http://www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com). She loves to hear from readers.
Also by Bronwyn Scott (#uc30a7955-fd78-5bef-ad82-451bb9ff76f8)
Allied at the Altar miniseries
A Marriage Deal with the Viscount
One Night with the Major
Tempted by His Secret Cinderella
Captivated by Her Convenient Husband
The Cornish Dukes miniseries
The Secrets of Lord Lynford
And look out for the next book coming soon!
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
The Secrets of Lord Lynford
Bronwyn Scott
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-0-008-90119-6
THE SECRETS OF LORD LYNFORD
© 2019 Nikki Poppen
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
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Note to Readers (#uc30a7955-fd78-5bef-ad82-451bb9ff76f8)
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Text to speech
For Jeff, who is very much the embodiment of
the legacy of Richard Penlerick in this story and
this series. Throughout his life Jeff loved others
unconditionally and gave generously of himself for the
betterment of this world. He left this earth the week
I finished this story, and it is safe to say,
our world is vastly improved because of him
and the lives he touched.
Contents
Cover (#uc95de199-e75a-572b-aa67-0492aa30a49b)
Back Cover Text (#u3f19c79f-683b-5f63-9804-1f5c3c1d9612)
About the Author (#u0444df9e-8edd-5315-928b-c074a459d775)
Booklist (#u8f02f810-7b54-5c88-87a1-9c127fb59ef6)
Title Page (#u0f1a1a95-0550-5084-b4fa-a8c171399a11)
Copyright (#u64dbf569-8d63-51ce-a61b-47572c6e9ab8)
Note to Readers
Dedication (#u60d402dc-4677-51f3-9fc1-7a021096fd7f)
Prologue (#u9b900864-986a-566a-94e5-be15ccb29bff)
Chapter One (#uae2f533f-0d4c-5a78-814f-2ff993750cfc)
Chapter Two (#uf37dc599-0ad0-44a9-a83f-4e13ce27ded4)
Chapter Three (#u144f62e5-236c-54ca-a92e-7de51f18bad6)
Chapter Four (#uf6402158-e1d1-5bdc-b0e1-16af43c84d5e)
Chapter Five (#u4715e936-8dbe-5b4b-8157-0dfc8a92aaaa)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#uc30a7955-fd78-5bef-ad82-451bb9ff76f8)
London—June 18th, 1823
Death had officially come to Mayfair. Richard Penlerick, Duke of Newlyn, and his Duchess were buried, and the funeral witnessed by the ton’s finest that morning in the hopes of bringing closure to the tragedy that had stunned their exalted world a week earlier: a peer—a duke, no less—and his wife, stabbed to death in an alley after an evening theatre performance.
Eaton Falmage, Marquess of Lynford, closed the front door behind the last of the funeral guests, wishing he could just as easily shut the door on the week’s horror for the sake of those who remained within the Newlyn town house on Portland Square. But for them the journey into grief was only just beginning. Now that the pageantry of death was over, the real mourning could commence, as he and those closest to the Penlericks could give free rein to their emotions.
Eaton found that inner circle, a collection of friends he’d known and loved since childhood, gathered in the library, a male conclave of power and strength, both of which had been lent unreservedly this week to Vennor Penlerick, the heir.
Vennor stood by the sideboard, pouring brandies, a rare blond in a room full of dark-haired men. He glanced in Eaton’s direction, his eyes asking the question.
‘Yes, they are all gone,’ Eaton offered in low tones. ‘I had the servants sweep the halls for stragglers.’ He gripped Vennor’s arm in a gesture of assurance. ‘We are entirely alone. At last.’
The week had been nightmarish for all of them, but none so much as Vennor, and it showed. Despite his immaculate grooming, Vennor bore the unmistakable signs of strain and grief. To lose one’s parents without warning, even at twenty-eight, was devastating. Vennor had been strong all week, the ideal heir, the consummate host to those who’d imposed their company and their own grief. Eaton took both the glasses. ‘Come, sit, you needn’t be on display with us.’
The group had gathered around the cold hearth. Someone, Inigo perhaps, had culled chairs from about the room and arranged them in one central place to accommodate the group known throughout the ton as ‘the Cornish Dukes’: heirs from four long-standing ducal families whose patriarchs had grown up together in the wilds of Cornwall and in turn so had their four sons. The bond between those fathers and their sons was legendary, as was their loyalty to one another.
That impressive connection had been on view throughout the week for all of London to see, as if to say ‘let no one doubt there are no lengths to which we would not go for one another’. The fathers had taken their leave discreetly a half an hour ago to give the four friends privacy to grieve together, as they would no doubt be doing themselves at another undisclosed location. They had lost their dear friend just as Eaton and the others had lost a man they’d looked upon as an uncle and mentor but Vennor had lost a father and a mother all in one blow.
‘Thank you, Eaton. I’m glad the guests are gone.’ Vennor took the brandy and slumped into the chair beside Inigo. He favoured them with a tired smile. ‘I had no idea my father’s friends possessed so many daughters of a certain age. I knew it would happen, of course. I just thought people might have the decency to queue up after a period of mourning. I don’t think I can tolerate one more offer of marriage wrapped in a condolence. I can’t bear to hear one more time that my father was a good man who’d want me to look to the future as soon as possible. Dear lord, some of them weren’t even subtle about the fact that I’m an only child and the Penlerick nursery is a veritable ghost town in immediate want of infants.’ There was none of the usual humour underlying Vennor’s words. There was only anger today, as well there should be. The deaths of Richard Penlerick and his wife were violent, senseless crimes.
Eaton’s chest tightened at the thought. Thank God it hadn’t been his own father in that alley. The guilt of such a sentiment gripped him, as did the reality. It hadn’t been his father yet. One day, though, it would be; an accident, old age, God willing not a crime, but the terrible moment would come. Not just for him, but for all of them. Eaton looked about his circle of friends: dark-haired, strong-jawed Cassian, heir to the Duke of Hayle, enigmatic Inigo, Boscastle’s scion with the pale blue Boscastle eyes handed down from generations of Boscastle Dukes. Were they thinking the same? That this scene would be re-enacted in variation three more times as each of them assumed the titles to which they’d been raised? They would all lose their fathers. It was an inherently deadly business being a duke’s son.
The morbid aspect of that ‘business’ had Eaton staggering emotionally as much as the visceral quality of the murder had him reeling, along with the rest of the hautton. If a duke could be murdered in cold blood at the theatre, no one was safe. People did not like reminders of their mortality. Rich people especially. It was a brutal prompt that not even piles of money could stop death. It was never a question of ‘if’, but merely ‘when’. Just as long as it was not yet. He wasn’t ready to lose his father. But this week had proven age was no barrier to death, to the ending of an existence. Life was finite.
Penlerick’s death had been a wake-up call to the difficult knowledge that a man’s legacies were all that would remain of him to remind others he’d been here on this earth. Eaton recognised that perhaps he felt the hard truth more keenly than the others. With the smallest amount of luck, his friends would eventually leave behind children, heirs to their legacies, while he would not. Ever. No amount of luck, large or small, would change that for him. His legacies would be of the inanimate sort: schools, hospitals, places that would continue to do good long after he’d left this life. But there would be no sons or daughters to tend them. It was a truth Eaton didn’t enjoy facing. There’d always been time to delay facing it, but Richard Penlerick’s death proved his logic had been faulty. Not even time was on his side.
Vennor raised his glass. ‘A toast, to all of you and your support this week. I could not have borne up without it.’ He nodded to each of his friends. ‘Here’s to friendship in good times and bad.’
They all drank and Eaton fetched the decanter to refill glasses. He poured another brandy for Vennor. It was better to stay busy in order to keep his thoughts from straying too darkly. This was what he did best—taking care of the others. It was what he’d always done. How ironic that that particular talent would not be lavished on a family of his own. ‘You’ve done your duty splendidly this week, Ven. You can get tap-hackled to the gills now if you want. There’s no one to see, no one to judge.’ It would do Vennor good to get shamelessly drunk and let loose the emotions he’d kept on a tight rein since the news had come, but Eaton feared Vennor had other ideas.
Vennor shook his head. ‘There’s too much to do. Father had important legislation in the House of Lords. It would be a shame to see it falter now. I will take up his seat as soon as it’s allowed. Until then, I mean to direct things from here so we don’t miss a step. It will be my tribute to him.’
Eaton exchanged a worried look with Cassian. Going to work would only suppress the grief, ignoring it instead of dealing with it. Cassian leaned forward. ‘Why don’t you come to Cornwall with me and rusticate a bit in Truro? It’s what everyone expects and it will get those matchmaking mamas off your back for a while. As you said, there is a period of mourning to observe—it would be entirely natural if you didn’t take up the seat until next year.’
‘I expect it of me,’ Vennor cut in sharply. ‘Besides, there’s more than legislation to look after. If I am here, I can see justice done.’
‘Justice or revenge?’ Eaton questioned. In his opinion, Vennor needed distance from the crime if he was going to come to terms with his loss, not to immerse himself in it. ‘You needn’t interfere. The Watch will handle everything.’
‘And I will handle the Watch,’ Vennor answered firmly. ‘I will find my parents’ killers and bring them to justice.’
Eaton’s gaze slipped unobtrusively around the circle gauging the group’s reaction. He wasn’t the only one concerned about Vennor’s course of action. The thugs who had mindlessly murdered Newlyn and the Duchess had left behind no clue. They might never be caught. He didn’t want Vennor disappointed. At what point did serving justice become an obsession? Would Vennor recognise that point when it arrived? How could he leave his friend alone to manage his grief, knowing that Vennor would obsess? Yet how could he stay away from Cornwall much longer? He had plans, too; his school, the musical conservatory, was set to open this autumn. His legacy was waiting. He’d not intended to stay in London long this year. He’d come up to town with the intention of supporting Marianne Treleven’s debut as a family friend, and then returning to Porth Karrek immediately. But it only took one look at Vennor’s face to make the decision to stay. His friend couldn’t be left on his own or he’d work himself into oblivion.
‘If that’s what you’re going to do, we’ll stay with you.’ Eaton scanned the group to see heads nodding in agreement. They would all put their plans on hold for their friend.
‘No, that’s not necessary,’ Vennor argued. ‘Eaton, your conservatory needs you. You cannot spare any more time away from home. I know what a sacrifice it would be for you, don’t tell me otherwise. My father would not approve. He supported your school and he’d not want it delayed on his account. You’ve devoted the last five months to preparing—you even cancelled your trip to Italy and I know how much that meant to you.’ Vennor shook his head. ‘I won’t have you throw it all over just to play nursemaid.’ He fixed Cassian with a stern look. ‘I won’t have you staying either. You can’t build your Cornish pleasure garden from London. Besides, your fathers will be here. I’ll hardly be alone.’
It wasn’t the same, though, Eaton thought. When grief closed in, Vennor would want a friend his own age, not his father’s compatriots. Yet how like Vennor to think of others first. They all had their gifts and that was Vennor’s. He understood people the way Inigo understood money: intuitively. But Vennor could not be allowed to win this argument.
Eaton was about to launch his rebuttal when Inigo settled it. ‘We’ll be here. Father and I have banking business. We would be staying regardless to see how Parliament handles some new investment legislation.’
‘Inigo can stay. I will allow that. Are you satisfied, Eaton?’ Vennor smiled his gratitude and the knot of worry in Eaton’s gut eased. Inigo would look after their friend with the same dedication with which he did everything else.
In the wake of the decision, silence claimed the group. Brandy glasses were nearly empty again and the business of helping Vennor take on his ducal responsibilities was settled. Eaton was aware of the mantel clock ticking, loud and insistent, a reminder that it was time to move on, that there was nothing more that could be done now. It was time for the four friends to say goodbye and go their separate ways. He and Cassian would leave early tomorrow for their journey home to Cornwall. Inigo would settle back into his London habits. Vennor would establish new routines.
Nothing would be the same.
Vennor would be invested as a duke the next time they met, with the accompanying ducal responsibilities. Vennor would marry soon and that would change the equation entirely. This was a last moment, the ending of a chapter. Part of the adventure of living, Eaton supposed, although it didn’t seem very adventurous at the moment. On the contrary, it seemed sad. Something was being mourned in this very room as they took another step deeper into adulthood, another step further away from their childhood. A piece of Eaton’s soul rebelled at the notion. Hadn’t he lost enough already? Need he lose that, too? But it was inevitable that he would. It was the way of life for dukes. His friends would marry in time, not only Vennor. Would they all still be close even when their affections were shared with another beyond their circle? When a wife and family claimed their attentions? Their fathers had managed it. But perhaps that was because they all had wives and family in common. Eaton would likely never marry. Would that decision make him an outsider? They would never intentionally exclude him, but it might happen accidentally.
Cassian shifted in his chair, casting a quizzing glance at Eaton. What next? They were all looking to him. He would have to be the one to do it. Among the four of them, he was the ringleader, the adventure master. A swift bolt of memory took him, of blue skies and rolling surf, of four boys who’d spent summers combing the Cornish beaches, playing at being smugglers, or pirates, sometimes soldiers fighting the French fleet, or treasure hunting. He remembered the summer he’d found the map, the last great summer before the trajectory and expectations of his life had subtly veered. Of course, the four of them had not known it would be their last, any more than Richard Penlerick had known when he’d sat down for breakfast a week ago that he’d not see his bed that night. It had been a good summer, full of real adventure, even if they’d never found the treasure. He must have led them through every tidal cave along the Porth Karrek beaches. There’d been bonfires and camp outs, nights of star gazing and the whispered secrets of newly minted adolescence. They had all looked to him then and they were looking to him now to take the next step, to help them say goodbye.
Eaton raised his glass, searching for words against the emotion crowding his throat. They needed hope right now, they needed to know that as much as things were about to change, the things that mattered would stay the same, a piece of constancy they could cling to in a world that only promised uncertainty. He was suddenly hungry to be home at Falmage Hill, home in Porth Karrek surrounded by the familiar: his new school, his orangery, his favourite paths in the Trevaylor Woods, his science experiments, his hound, Baldor. He’d been gone too long. ‘It’s time, gentlemen. A last drink for the road. If there’s one lesson this week has taught us, it’s that life is surprising and short. We are guaranteed nothing. We already drank to the past, let us now drink to the future. Here’s to our pursuits. May all of them be served through the best of our efforts in the time that we have. My friends, here’s to making every minute count.’ Especially when every minute was all one had.
Chapter One (#uc30a7955-fd78-5bef-ad82-451bb9ff76f8)
Porth Karrek, Cornwall—September 1823
Every minute mattered now that the school’s opening was upon them. Eaton pushed up his sleeves and gripped the oak table. At the other end, his headmaster, the renowned composer Cador Kitto, gave a nod and, with a mutual grunt, they lifted the heavy table. Around them, workmen painted and swept with feverish urgency. School began in three days and some students would arrive early to be on hand for the open house in two. The past few days it had been all hands on deck, even his—especially his. Eaton didn’t believe in leading idly. He refused to stand back, shouting orders to others, without lending his own efforts to the project. Besides, staying busy made it possible to forget other unpleasant realisations, albeit temporarily; that Richard Penlerick was dead, life was short and there was nothing he could do about either.
They manoeuvred the table into place at the front of the room and set it down with a relieved thud. Damn, but good oak was heavy. Eaton swiped at his brow and Cador laughed. Eaton groaned. ‘Did I just smear dirt across my forehead?’
‘Yes, but no matter. There are no ladies about to see you.’ Cador winked.
‘Just for that, you can unpack the books.’ Eaton chuckled.
‘Oh, no, I’ve got instruments to oversee.’ Cador wiped his hands and nodded towards the door at the arrival of Eaton’s secretary. ‘Looks like you’ve got business to attend to.’
Eaton turned, stifling a sigh. He far preferred physical labour to the never-ending tedium of paperwork, especially when there was so much to get done, so much to forget. It was too easy for his mind to wander into difficult territory when he was doing paperwork. He found a smile; it wasn’t the secretary’s fault. ‘What is it, Johns?’
‘There’s someone asking to see you, my lord.’ Johns was young, hired to help with the record-keeping and correspondence at the school, and today he looked every inch of his mere twenty years. Johns shifted from foot to foot, his cheeks tinged a fading pink which Eaton didn’t think was due to the exertion of the stairs. Whoever was waiting had been quite insistent.
‘Do they have an appointment?’ Eaton looked about for a rag to wipe his hands on. Johns would have to learn how to be a better gatekeeper.
‘No, my lord.’
‘Has one of the boys arrived early?’ Eaton gave up on a rag. His mind was already working through options. There were rooms ready on the third floor if needed and the cook could be called in to prepare food a day earlier than planned, although provisions weren’t expected to arrive until tomorrow...
Johns cleared his throat. ‘It’s one of the patrons, my lord. One of the widows.’ Johns’s tone was urgent now. Some of the insistence that had been pressed upon him by the unexpected visitor was now being relayed.
Eaton relaxed, although he did wonder what had upset his secretary. Two of the school’s patrons were wealthy widows and he couldn’t imagine either of them being the source of such angst. ‘Is it Mrs Penhaligon? Has she come to see that her piano is properly installed?’ Austol Penhaligon’s widow had donated her expensive Sébastien Érard double action keyboard piano, much to Cador’s delight. The other, a Mrs Blaxland, was an extraordinarily rich woman from Truro, whom Eaton had never met. He’d assumed her age, which must be considerable, had brought about an inability to travel. Her husband, Huntingdon Blaxland, had been sixty-five when he died and that had been five years ago. She likely let her money do the travelling for her these days. Thanks to her generous donations, the boys would have the finest music instructors Cador Kitto had been able to find, acquired from the Continent on his summer honeymoon.
Soft fabric rustled behind Johns, giving Eaton his only warning before no-nonsense female tones announced, ‘No, not Mrs Penhaligon, I’m afraid.’ Apple-green skirts and shiny chestnut hair swept past Johns with an imperious air that smelled of peach orchards and vanilla, the very best and last of summer. ‘I’m Eliza Blaxland.’ She ran a gloved hand along the surface of the oak table, collecting dust on the pristine tip of one finger. ‘And you, Lord Lynford, have some accounting to do.’
Eaton gave her an assessing stare. This haughty virago was Eliza Blaxland? What had the elderly mining magnate been doing with a woman like her? She was no frail grey-haired widow, practising philanthropy from her armchair. This was an elegant, sophisticated woman in her early thirties with decades of life and fire still left to her, a woman who valued being in control. If so, she’d have to adjust. He was more than happy to take her money for the school, but not her orders. He was the Marquess of Lynford and his deference was given sparingly. He could not be bought, nor could he be intimidated. ‘Accounting, Mrs Blaxland? In what way? I was unaware we had an appointment, let alone any accounting to do.’ He was usually the one who did the intimidating. How interesting that she thought the interaction might go differently. She needed to learn that her cheques did not allow her carte blanche in the school and that included showing up two days early for the open house.
She was not daunted by his cool reception. Instead, she returned his assessing stare with one of her own, making him acutely aware that she was entirely his antithesis. While he stood before her sans waistcoat, jacket and cravat, shirtsleeves wrinkled and rolled with a belatedly remembered smudge of dirt on his forehead, she was all elegant summer perfection in her apple-green walking ensemble of India muslin, matched head to toe from the brim of her green-crepe chapeau Lyonnaise to the peeping toes of her green half-boots. ‘I disagree. You are two days from opening and this place is a madhouse.’ She held up the dusty finger of her glove in reminder. ‘My money did not pay for chaos.’
Eaton summoned up a smile from his repertoire, the one known for successfully impressing older, more conservative women who occasionally found his love of adventure a tad too liberal—until they tried it for themselves. ‘I assure you, all will be in order for the open house.’ She was not convinced. Her gaze roved about the room, taking in the painters, the movers, the sweepers, casting doubt and disappointment wherever her eyes landed. Eaton grimaced. He needed to get her out of this room. There were plenty of spaces that were finished. It was too bad she hadn’t found him in one of those. ‘Might I offer you a tour, Mrs Blaxland?’ The woman was likely to poke her nose into all the rooms on her own—at least this way he could keep an eye on her. He could control a tour, although it would cost him an hour of work to squire her around. Still, better an hour of work lost than a lucrative patron. Disappointed patrons often bred other disappointed patrons. ‘On our tour, we can discuss whatever it is you’re doing here.’ It was a subtle reminder that she was the one in the wrong, the one who’d shown up uninvited.
He gestured to Cade, giving her no chance to refuse. ‘Let’s start with an introduction to our headmaster, Cador Kitto, lately from Vienna. He’s composed at the Hapsburg court.’
Cade, with his wavy blond locks and Continental élan, bowed over her gloved hand with a courtly aplomb that made Eaton envious of the man’s slender elegance. ‘A pleasure to meet you at last, Mrs Blaxland. Our students will benefit greatly from your patronage.’ A little dose of Cade could go a long way in smoothing ruffled feathers—at least that was what Eaton was hoping for, particularly when he didn’t know what had ruffled her feathers in the first place.
‘What you describe as chaos, Mrs Blaxland, I consider progress. Allow me to show you.’ They left Cade and the busyness of the classroom behind. He toured her through the students’ rooms on the third floor, showing her chambers with neatly made beds, braided rugs, dust-free wardrobes and bright white curtains hanging at the windows. The rooms smelled of lemon polish and linseed oil. ‘Mr Kitto’s wife designed the dorms,’ Eaton explained, making no effort to hide his pride. ‘She believes the homelier the place feels, the more comfortable the boys will be here.’
‘And the less likely they will be to leave,’ Mrs Blaxland translated in more blunt terms. ‘Tell me, how is enrolment? Do we have enough boys to fill these chambers?’
Eaton shut the last door behind them and directed her back towards the staircase. ‘We have two-thirds of the rooms accounted for, which I think is excellent for a first semester.’ Twenty-one boys ranging in age from seven to fourteen would be arriving the day after the open house. ‘Once word spreads regarding the quality of student and the superiority of musical education we offer at the Cornish Academy, we will reach capacity soon enough,’ he assured her, but her sharp green eyes met his assurances with questions.
‘Do you have quality students?’ she asked pointedly. ‘I think the challenge of such a school is not the idea of it, but the location, as I’ve mentioned before in correspondence. Why would a person of any talent want to travel to the wilds of Cornwall for a musical education when one could be in London? Or go abroad? I fear those who have choices will not choose the academy at Porth Karrek.’
She was bold-tongued, her comments blunt and bordering on rude. Perhaps that was simply how it was in business circles where money mattered more than manners. Eaton chose to be impressed with her analysis rather than offended by the implication that the academy would only be capable of drawing mediocre students.
‘The talent you seek will come if you and the other patrons tell them to. Quality enrolment is all of our obligation.’ Richard Penlerick had been adamant on that issue. He’d been promoting the academy in London just days before the murder. ‘One cannot simply throw money at a project and expect that to be enough to ensure success.’ The words came out harshly against the sudden tightness of Eaton’s throat, but he wouldn’t apologise for them. If Eliza Blaxland took his response as a scolding, then so be it. He wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t mean it as one. He was the son and heir of a wealthy family. If it had only been about money, he could easily have bankrolled the school entirely by himself. He didn’t need patrons’ funds the way a struggling orphanage in St Giles did. He needed the names and reputations behind the funds.
Eaton cleared his throat and offered Richard Penlerick’s often-voiced sentiment. ‘The quality of our students will depend on the quality of our patrons. That is why I sought you out in particular. You are well known in Cornish circles for your appreciation of education.’ Even if those circles had failed to convey how young she was.
At the bottom of the stairs he showed her into the drawing room where the Sébastien Érard piano stood in pride of place. ‘This is where our recitals will be held. Mr Kitto will perform at the open house, of course.’ He smiled, reminding her he’d done his part in securing a well-known musician for headmaster, one with a name that would draw talented students.
He allowed her to appraise the Sébastien Érard with her sharp eyes before he got to the heart of the matter. ‘Surely all of this checking up could have been handled at the open house. Why have you really come, Mrs Blaxland?’ Did she have a student she was hoping to get admitted? Did she have an instructor who needed to be hired? Whoever they were, they would have to earn their place here, no matter how much money she donated. Kitto wanted only the best. They wouldn’t attract the best if they took in just anyone.
She gave him a polite smile he did not mistake for friendliness, although it did serve to warm him none the less. ‘I have found in the years of running my late husband’s mines that scheduled appointments can often result in misleading impressions. When one arrives unannounced, one sees a clearer representation of the truth.’ She was already a fortress of perfection in her dress and in her speech, but in her directness she was nigh on impenetrable. Eaton felt the urge to penetrate that directness, to lay siege to its walls.
‘You mean an ambush, Mrs Blaxland?’ Sparring with her was quite a warming exercise indeed. A part of him that had been dormant since returning from London was waking up.
‘An ambush assumes someone can be taken by surprise, that someone lets his guard down,’ she countered smoothly. ‘If one is always prepared, one cannot be caught unawares.’
When was the last time Eliza Blaxland had been taken unawares? From her cool façade, he would guess it had been a while, if ever. It was hard to imagine anyone got anything past her. Eaton would take that as a challenge—not that he wanted to take advantage, but he would like to surprise her, just to prove to her that it could be done. How would she react when things were out of her control?
He studied the flawless perfection of her face, its smooth contours with its elegantly set nose, green eyes and that mouth—that gorgeous pink mouth with its full, kissable lower lip. His gaze lingered there while his thoughts drifted. What would bring a crease to those perfect features? What might fluster her well-ordered world? Had old Huntingdon Blaxland ever flustered her, aside, perhaps, from dying? Would a kiss be enough to offset that world? She was a widow, after all. He could presume she’d been kissed before. Would she like to be kissed again? He found he would like to pursue that course of action. Between Richard Penlerick’s death and the school, it had been a while since he’d felt a spark of interest.
They were hardly the thoughts one ought to have about a wealthy patroness, yet when the patroness was so aloofly, coolly attractive, it seemed a natural progression of thought to wonder, what if? They returned to the main hall, the front door just feet away, providing a less-than-subtle opportunity to bid Mrs Blaxland farewell and get on with his day. ‘If there’s nothing else, I’ll leave you here. As you have already ascertained, there’s much to be done.’
‘There is one more thing.’ She gave him another long perusing stare with those intelligent eyes. ‘I thought you’d be older. I was unaware Bude’s heir was so...young.’ She was implying that perhaps he might not be up to the task of overseeing a school, that a man of his age and station was better suited to the frivolous pursuits of London.
‘Twenty-eight is young?’ he queried with a sardonic cock of a dark brow. It was an odd remark coming from a woman who couldn’t be more than thirty-three, but time and age were different for females. ‘It’s been some time since anyone has thought of me as young. Good day, Mrs Blaxland. I will look forward to seeing you at the reception.’ He gave her a small bow in farewell. ‘I assure you that you needn’t worry. I am in my prime.’ He’d been unable to resist the final remark. Intuition suggested that no one teased Mrs Blaxland and someone ought to. People didn’t build impregnable fortresses around themselves without reason. He was intrigued as to what her reason might be.
‘You most certainly are,’ she acknowledged with a slight, indifferent nod of her head, but beneath that cool exterior, something akin to interest sizzled and flared in her gaze before it was snuffed out by practice and perhaps practicality. But it was too late. Eaton smiled over his little victory. She’d already given herself away. Eliza Blaxland wasn’t as unaffected or as distant as she appeared.
Chapter Two (#uc30a7955-fd78-5bef-ad82-451bb9ff76f8)
It had been a long time since she’d been surprised—not since the day Huntingdon had left for the office and never returned. Five years, eight months and three weeks, to be precise. Eliza sat back against the leather squabs of her coach and let out a deep sigh. In the intervening years, she’d become used to being the one doing the surprising; she’d had to if she meant to keep the shareholders on their toes. But Eaton Falmage, Marquess of Lynford, heir to the ducal seat of Bude, had done all the surprising this afternoon. The ambush had been her idea, hers to control, but she’d not been prepared for him. Eliza reached for her fan. From the first glance of his dark eyes, his heat had nearly incinerated her glacial cool.
Years of practice had made her confident in the belief that her skills would rise to any challenge, that her icy façade could not be cracked, that she was impervious to the powers of men. Lynford had challenged her today, though, not only as a patron, but as a woman. The former, she could deal with. Patronage was simply one of many business arrangements she conducted. The latter, however, well...that was different. She hadn’t been a woman—a real woman with real feelings and affections—since the day her husband died. For her daughter’s sake and her own sake, she couldn’t afford to indulge such a fancy.
When men looked at her, they saw a female facsimile—one that dressed elegantly, spoke with cultured tones, and danced divinely; one they often sought to possess—but the illusion fell away when she sat across from them at the boardroom table and delivered her verdicts in those cultured tones. Some men called her a snake in the grass, a viper waiting to strike, others called her a Siren, luring men to smash themselves against the icy granite of her façade. But today, Lynford had been formidable, a veritable Odysseus, undaunted by her surprise visit and undaunted by her.
She wished she could say the same. Eliza plied the fan a little faster. He was not only younger than she’d anticipated, he was also younger than her by five years. He was taller, broader, endowed with dark eyes that looked into a person’s gaze and long, powerful legs. Oh, how she loved a good pair of legs on a man and his had been on blatant display with no coats to hide them. In fact, his tight breeches and open-necked shirt had hidden nothing. He’d been in utter, unmistakable déshabillé, yet he’d not once apologised for his appearance or attempted to cover it up. The primal woman in her, so rarely unleashed, had rattled the bars of her cage, thrilling at the masculinity on show, a reminder that she wasn’t dead after all. It was an uncomfortable revelation.
Eliza closed her eyes. It had been so long since she’d felt anything akin to desire, or its milder counterpart, attraction. What a shock to discover it after five years of sexless living where she didn’t dare act either too much of a man or too much like a woman for fear she would be ridiculed for overstepping herself or taken advantage of for being herself. But what a most inopportune time for that discovery. She would have preferred Lynford to be a man nearing middle age, bearing a paunch at his stomach and silver at his temples with a conservative, tired air about him. She knew how to manage those men.
Her husband had been such a man, thirty-seven years older than she when they wed. Those men populated the Blaxland Mining Corporation board of shareholders, but Lynford exuded alertness, energy, a fresh boldness. He thought himself infallible and perhaps rightly so. He was a duke’s son. He was used to asserting himself, used to ordering the world according to his desire. He was not a businessman, a man like her husband had been, who limited the scope of his world to balance sheets. And Lynford, unlike her husband, was most definitely in his prime.
She had no such experience with a man like that: a man who looked at women and openly admired their beauty, a man who didn’t patronise, a man who matched her directness with his own. Nor could she allow herself to acquire such an experience.
The one flicker of attraction she’d felt today had been nice in its own way, a reminder that she was more than a moneymaking automaton, but she could not fan it into anything resembling a flame. She had a daughter to raise and mines to run, her husband’s legacy to preserve so that her daughter would never know want and penury as she had simply because she’d been born female. Such pursuits did not leave room for passion. Such a task required that she walk a tightrope. One false step and all she’d worked for and all she envisioned for the future could be so easily lost.
Neither did such a pursuit serve her as a patron for the school. She hoped by donating generously to his school, in return, Lynford would support her bid for establishing schools for children in the villages up and down the coast wherever there was a Blaxland mine. To mix business with fleeting pleasure could jeopardise that connection.
Hence the reason for her visit today—to see if Lynford was worth the investment. Could he get the job done, or was he another lazy dilettante? She wanted to see that everything was well in hand for the opening reception. She would do her part to make sure the conservatory succeeded. Her own plans depended on it, as did keeping her own reputation intact. The trust of her shareholders was essential now as the Porth Karrek mine prepared for expansion. She’d learned early on after taking the reins of her husband’s business that one could never have too many friends, but a woman could have too many lovers—even just a single lover was often one lover too many. A misguided affair at this juncture could cost her everything, just as it had her mother, a widow left with a daughter and a fortune and no sense about how to manage the latter.
The outcome had been obvious: her mother and her money had been soon parted thanks to an affair that had blinded her to the incompetence of her lover. Eliza had been fourteen when that had happened and she’d vowed she would never put her heart above money. Nor would she put herself in a position where money wasn’t readily available. She’d set out the next day to learn all she could about managing funds, starting with the bookkeeper for the family’s mine. Knowledge was power. She believed that education could keep the wolf from the door and it could buy her independence so that she needn’t rely singularly on a marriage to save her. There were too many women like her mother who hadn’t a clue how to manage their own freedom, who needed men. Eliza was determined to avoid her mother’s mistakes. This time, for this woman, Eliza vowed it would be different. She was far too astute to fall prey to the charms of a handsome lord.
Two days later, the Academy Open House
This time, it would be different. Eliza entered the conservatory’s drawing room with that mantra firmly entrenched in her mind. Tonight, she would be ready for the oh-so-attractive Eaton Falmage. His good looks and confident manner would not catch her by surprise. She knew what to expect now and this time they wouldn’t be alone—a point emphasised as soon as she arrived. The room was practically a crush and a very well-dressed one at that, with men in dark evening clothes and women in silks populating every corner of the grand salon. It was a far more robust turnout for the academy’s opening than she’d anticipated. This was no mere gathering of a board of directors and a few patrons. But then, perhaps the outstanding attendance stood to reason. When a duke’s heir gave a party, everyone wanted an invitation.
Eliza unfurled her fan and began to stroll about the room, looking purposeful. No one need pity her aloneness. She’d made an art of it. Over the years, she’d become accustomed to attending events on her own and others had become accustomed to it, too. She arrived alone, she left alone. She’d learned not to be afraid of her own company. She actually rather enjoyed it. There was no conversation to worry over, no egos to flatter or polite compliments to muster. She could survey her surroundings at leisure, study her options and make her own choices as to how she spent her time and who she spent it with. At the moment she wanted to spend that time with Lynford. Congratulations were in order. A private smile skimmed her lips in satisfaction as she assessed her surroundings. Lynford had succeeded against what had looked like overwhelming odds. One would never guess that two days ago the place had been in varying states of chaos.
Eliza scanned the room, her gaze glancing over the masculine decor done to perfection in shades of muted teal and beige against a backdrop of walnut panelling and chair rail that ran the perimeter, interrupted only by a bank of French doors opening to the gardens beyond where paper lanterns winked. She made a mental note of the gardens—those gardens might provide a convenient escape from the crowd should she need it.
Her gaze hurried on, still seeking as it brushed over the multi-armed brass chandelier at the ceiling, the coveted Sébastien Érard, lid raised, at the front of the room—neither item enough to halt her rampant gaze. These were not the things she was looking for. She’d nearly completed her visual circuit of the room when she found him at last, standing at the fireplace, just feet from the Sébastien Érard. It was time to test her hypothesis.
The fan in her hand halted its oscillation, her mind flooding with a certain sense of satisfaction. He was what she’d been looking for. Lynford stood in profile, talking with a group of men, all dressed alike in dark evening clothes, yet he was no more like them than the sun was like the moon. She knew instantly her mantra was wrong. This time was not going to be different after all, unless one counted the fact that Lynford was fully clothed. He was no less handsome for the more formal attire. Eliza began to ply her fan in earnest.
His dark, tangled curls were tamed tonight, carefully styled into compliance, perhaps painstakingly so given the extent of their unruliness the other day. His jaw was smooth-shaven, setting off the strong planes of his face, the wide, almost simian flare of his nose, the broad, high sweep of his cheekbones beneath his dark eyes; in his face, the elegant classical construction was unabashedly at war with the harsh masculinity of his primeval ancestors. In evening clothes, the result was devastating. He stood out, a powerful stallion among the herd, a man born to lead no matter what his age.
Tonight, authority’s mantle sat comfortably on his broad shoulders, not an ounce of that breadth fabricated, even if the rest of his body gave the impression of wanting to be out of doors tramping the moors and cliffs of Porth Karrek. His was not an indoor physique. Not that she should be assessing such things. Her attendance at the conservatory’s opening reception tonight was all business and business did not mix with pleasure. Ever. Hadn’t her experience with Miles Detford taught her that much? She had too much to keep her busy between the mines and the school. She could not allow herself to be distracted with useless speculation about the Marquess of Lynford. She certainly could not allow herself to be caught staring. He might interpret a stare as interest.
Too late. She didn’t look away soon enough. Lynford caught her gaze and returned it with a wide smile, broad like his shoulders and just as genuine, the kind one gives when one is truly pleased to see someone. That worried her. After their last visit, why would he be pleased to see her? She watched in horrified fascination as he excused himself from the group gathered at the fireplace and moved towards her. There was no escaping; she was well and truly flushed out. What could he possibly want? She should be annoyed by the thought that he’d demand anything of her, but there was only intrigue where annoyance ought to be—another reminder that she was very much alive and very much a woman.
He snared two glasses of champagne from a passing tray as he approached. ‘Mrs Blaxland, it’s so good to see you.’ He offered her a glass, his smile unwavering. ‘I trust everything meets with your approval. No dust on the tables. Your gloves will be spared this evening.’ She had the sensation that Lynford was laughing at her, that there was a private jest, some innuendo involved.
‘I’ve only just arrived.’ Her cool tone insinuated there was still time to be disappointed. Would he let her have the lie? Or would he make her accountable for the shameful truth: that she’d been there long enough to take notice of things and the only thing she’d noticed was him? Eliza sipped her champagne, thankful to have something to do other than admit he’d trapped all her attention, that for all her earlier concern about the state of the school, she’d given the issue only the smallest fraction of her attention, while her gaze had raced around the room, gliding over the details in its hurry to find him. Even in a room full of men, all clad similarly, he’d managed to stand out, managed to capture her eye and her thoughts to the exclusion of all else. That was a dangerous position to be in. It made her vulnerable. It was time to go on the offensive.
‘Whatever you want from me, you must want it badly, given your champagne and your smiles, Lord Lynford. So, let’s have it.’ She gave him a smile of her own, one full of directness.
‘Ah, you like champagne. Duly noted. I shall make a note.’ He smiled wickedly. Lynford liked the edge. She’d not expected that. She’d meant for it to be off-putting, but instead a spark leapt in his dark eyes. ‘What makes you think I want anything other than your approval?’ he drawled.
She laughed at that. ‘My approval or my acquiescence? You will not get the latter. If you are looking for it, then you misunderstood my concerns the other day. I was worried you might not finish your preparations in time, not that I wanted you to fail.’ Eliza tapped his sleeve with her fan. ‘I have every hope this school will succeed. I do not sign on to doomed ventures.’ True, she had wondered if he could do it, if he could bring everything together in time. But she’d not wanted him to fail. Failure did not suit her purpose. ‘This school may be the touchstone. Perhaps people will see the value in other types of schools. I’ve been contemplating opening grammar schools for my miners’ children so that they might grow up with the opportunity to develop a broader range of skills than their parents.’ She paused here, wondering briefly if she should go on. Not everyone shared her views, not even her own board. ‘And with those skills, have more choices about how to make their living.’
Lynford’s eyes were two thoughtful dark stars. For a moment, she feared she’d offended him. What would a ducal heir think about empowering miners with education? Would he even understand the necessity? Perhaps she’d overplayed her hand? But Lynford nodded and smiled, his dark gaze intent. ‘I would enjoy speaking about the subject further, Mrs Blaxland.’ He clinked his glass against hers. ‘Here’s to successful ventures in all their forms. Speaking of which, you might be able to aid our cause tonight.’
Ah, there it was. The real reason for his approach. Eliza stiffened in anticipation. Her instincts had not been wrong. He did want something, but she owed him. If he hadn’t called her out on her lie, she couldn’t call him out on his. ‘I was hoping you would say a few words tonight as one of our most generous donors.’
A speech? She sipped her champagne, her mouth suddenly dry despite the cool liquid. He wanted her to make a speech? Of all the cruel and unusual punishments she could think of, this was by far the worst. ‘A speech?’ She choked on the idea.
‘It’s hardly Pericles’ Funeral Oration, Mrs Blaxland, just a few words. Something like, welcome to the school, we are so excited to begin this venture, etcetera, and then lead in to an introduction of Mr Kitto, who will perform afterwards.’ And he wanted her to introduce the famous Mr Kitto, a man she’d briefly met once? It was as if Lynford had looked into her soul and pulled out her worst fear. She could face down a boardroom full of stockholders, she could stand her ground against men who didn’t think a woman could do successful business in their world, but speaking before a crowd without preparation was entirely different. There would be no heat of the moment guiding the interaction. A speech was a planned, formal affair. People would be staring at her—a lot of people—and they would be judging every word, every gesture. She’d spent years earning the right not to be judged.
‘You are prepared for such a contingency, aren’t you?’ Lynford solicited. ‘Surely, as our largest benefactor, you’ve anticipated such a request? I have it on good authority that preparation is the best protection against surprise.’
There was an echo of their previous interaction in his words and she knew: this was tit for tat.
This was an ambush.
Chapter Three (#uc30a7955-fd78-5bef-ad82-451bb9ff76f8)
Eliza studied Lynford, seeing his gambit all too clearly now. ‘Is this revenge, Lord Lynford?’
He grinned, mischief lighting his eyes. ‘This is just business, Mrs Blaxland. Something akin to unplanned visits, I am sure you understand.’ He relieved her of her empty glass and deposited it on a passing tray with his before offering his arm. ‘I would like to introduce you to a few of the board members, some of our parents whose sons will perform tonight and our other donors.’
‘You need a hostess,’ Eliza quickly deduced. It was a large request that looked much smaller when compared to giving a speech. Perhaps he’d planned it that way, knowing she’d be less likely to refuse. She’d often used that same strategy with her shareholders when asking for an approval of funds.
‘Mr Kitto’s wife, Rosenwyn, was to play hostess, but she’s indisposed,’ Lynford explained with a melting smile. ‘These events need a woman’s presence to smooth out conversations between strangers.’ She’d not meant to draw attention to herself tonight. Playing hostess and making a speech would put her at the centre of the festivities. Still, she could turn this to her benefit. His introductions would pave the way for other discussions she wanted to have later about schools for the miners’ children. She caught sight of Cador Kitto’s blond head, a trail of students behind him with instruments, and her pulse sped up. It was almost time for the programme, almost time for her speech.
She was going to make Lynford pay for this.
‘Shall we?’ Lynford steered her towards the front of the room where the new students and Kitto were settling into position.
‘Are you sure there isn’t someone else who should speak?’ She tried to avoid it one last time. ‘Perhaps Mr Burke?’ He’d been a pleasant, well-spoken man in the last group they’d visited and another generous benefactor of the school.
Lynford shook his head and gave her one of his disarming smiles. He’d been using them liberally tonight with the guests, but that made them no less effective. ‘No, I want you to do it.’ She knew what that meant: an ambush for an ambush. He covered her gloved hand where it lay on his sleeve and gave it a conspiratorial squeeze. ‘You will do wonderfully.’ He leaned in, giving her a teasing whiff of clean, autumn male, the woodsy scent of English oak mixed with the sweeter note of hazelnut. Good lord, that scent was intoxicating. It reminded her of strength, of bonfires beneath starry skies when she was younger, when she didn’t carry the world on her shoulders, when autumn was a time to laugh and dream. His voice was a husky whisper at her ear, a tone better reserved for the bedroom. ‘I have every confidence in you. You are not a woman who knows how to fail, Mrs Blaxland.’ Then he slipped away from her, his long strides taking him to the front of the room, the very presence of him compelling people to quiet their conversations, to find a seat and anticipate what came next.
She envied him his confidence, the ease with which it was assumed whereas hers was a hard-earned façade; once acquired, she had dared not lay it down for fear she might never be able to pick it up again. This was not the life Huntingdon had imagined for her, but this was the life she had, the life she’d chosen out of necessity.
At twenty-eight, she’d gone from running their home to running a mining empire, from sponsoring parties to sponsoring schools and other educational causes. If there was one thing the past five years had taught her, it was that education was everything. She’d transitioned into her husband’s position only because she’d had the skills to do it. She could read, she could write, she could do sums, she could keep a ledger and myriad other things. She could think critically and she’d spent her marriage listening, learning and planning ahead against the inevitable: an eighteen-year-old bride would doubtless outlive her fifty-five-year-old husband. The majority of her life would be spent in widowhood. The only question was when it would happen and what she’d do about it.
That foresight had stood her in good stead. If this life was not the one imagined for her, it was a far better one than what she would have had. Without those skills, she would have been passed from relative to relative; her husband’s legacy, his mines and her daughter Sophie’s inheritance would have been taken out of her hands and put into the care of an apathetic male relative. She’d seen it happen to women around her, women like her mother, who lost everything when their husbands died, even the very control of their own lives. When Huntingdon had died, she’d reaffirmed her vow that would not happen to her. She would secure her freedom at all costs and her daughter’s, too. Now that she had, she would see to it that others had the opportunity to develop the same skills.
Lynford finished speaking and gestured that she should come forward. She rose and smoothed her skirts, her head high. She wouldn’t let anyone see how this unnerved her. Lynford was right. She didn’t know how to fail. She knew how to fight. That gave them something in common. He no more wanted to see her fail in this speech than she’d wanted him to fail in having the school ready. It occurred to her, as she stood before the guests, that she and Lynford were compatriots whether they wanted to be or not. Philanthropy, like politics, made for strange bedfellows indeed.
She was magnificent. Eaton listened to Eliza Blaxland address the guests, her cultured tones confident and strong. He watched her, looking for little tells that hinted at her nerves and finding none. Still, he stood on guard, feeling protective, as if he had the right to defend her, to intervene if she faltered. But she didn’t falter. He suspected she didn’t know how. It was not in her nature. Eliza Blaxland was all cool competence in her dark blue silk and pearls, her shiny chestnut hair dressed simply, elegantly, in a braid that coiled at the nape of her neck. If he hadn’t seen the initial flicker of uncertainty in her eyes when he’d asked her, he never would have known she didn’t welcome such opportunities.
What else didn’t he know about her? What he thought he knew of her up until two days ago had been entirely wrong. An old rich woman, she was not. He found the prospect of righting those misnomers intriguing. He’d known widows before—women with a sharp worldliness to them—but they’d not got under his skin so quickly. Or ever. Who was Eliza Blaxland? Was she truly all cool smiles and sharp eyes, or did something hotter burn beneath that smooth, uncrackable façade, waiting for a reason to come out?
She was introducing Cade now, taking the opportunity to cede the room’s attention to the school’s headmaster and his musicians. When the applause began, she attempted to slip away to the gardens. If Eaton hadn’t been watching, he would have missed her. Seeing her go only made him impatient to follow her out. But it would be bad form to leave before Cade got the little concert underway. Was she counting on that? Was she hoping to slip away before he could find her? Did she think to hide from him, or was this an invitation to join her? Perhaps she wanted him to follow?
Eaton took the first chance he had to drift towards the French doors and then fade unnoticed into the gardens, aware he might be too late. An initial sweep of the garden suggested he was right, but a second survey revealed her, sitting on a stone bench, face tilted to the night sky in lovely profile. ‘Are you avoiding me or waiting for me?’ Eaton approached from behind, his voice low. ‘I thought for a moment you might have played Cinderella and slipped away before I could follow. What are you doing out here?’ It was a bold question, one that demanded a direct answer in return. But why not be bold? She was not afraid of him. Even now, alone in the garden, her widowhood protected her reputation and granted her the freedom to respond as she liked.
With that freedom, she might take a lover. Had she? Would she? Did she have a lover now? A man who knew the truth behind her façade, who was allowed the luxury of seeing her without her cool armour. Eaton found the prospect disappointing. He didn’t want Mrs Blaxland to belong to someone else. He didn’t want someone else to know what he did not. There was that sense of exigence again, the same urgency he’d felt in the drawing room while watching her slip away. Wanting to know her, to obtain information about her had escalated from merely acquiring facts to something bordering on obsession. He wanted to acquire her. She would be a delicious distraction from the darkness that had dogged his steps since Penlerick’s funeral. Perhaps she would be someone who could bring him back to life, someone who could hold his grief at bay.
It would not be the first time he’d taken a lover for such a purpose. His own lovers were women of the world who enjoyed time with him until it suited them both to move on to new experiences, new adventures. But it was the first time he’d wanted to do so with such covetousness. It was not the usual reaction he generally had towards his lovers. The intensity of that emotion must have showed in his gaze for in the next moment, Eliza Blaxland suddenly rose and made excuses to leave with far less fluency than she’d delivered her speech. ‘I ought to go, it’s getting late.’
Was she looking for an invitation to stay? It didn’t sound like a question. It sounded like a decision. He hadn’t believed she’d be a runner, but she showed every sign of wanting to do just that. How interesting. If she wasn’t running from him, that only left the option of running from herself. Was she running from her reaction to the attraction that simmered between them? Did this flame that sparked between them unnerve her? How intriguing that the unflappable Mrs Blaxland could be unnerved by the nascent overtures of a flirtation when barging in on a man unannounced hadn’t flustered her at all. But she’d been in control then. She’d been the one to do the barging.
‘Leave? Surely you don’t mean to return to Truro tonight?’ The protectiveness he’d felt in the grand salon surged again. He didn’t like the thought of her out on the dark Cornish roads. It was three hours on the road in daylight between Truro and Porth Karrek. A man could do the trip in a day on horseback, but it was a long day and a lonely one. Cornwall was full of wide, empty spaces, especially when one’s wheel or axle gave out. She’d be miles from any help if there was need.
‘I have rooms at the inn by the harbour. I need to visit one of my mines early tomorrow and then return to Truro. I’ve been gone from home for three days already and I am eager to return. Thank you for the evening.’ Such eagerness prompted the question of who or what was waiting for her? A lover? Was she already otherwise engaged? Was that the reason she was so fluttery now? Covetousness flared alongside his protectiveness.
‘Perhaps I shall see you in Truro. I often have business there.’ Eaton thought he might find a little more business in Truro. Cassian was in Truro, working on plans for his amusement gardens. Perhaps a visit was in order once the term started here and Cade no longer needed him. ‘Or should I be expecting any more surprise inspections?’
Her fan tapped his sleeve. ‘They wouldn’t be surprises if you expected them, my lord.’
‘Call me Eaton, please. There’s no need to stand on ceremony.’ He made the bold offer spontaneously, his earlier urgency surging to the fore once more. He did not want to be ‘my lord’ or ‘Lord Lynford’ with her; he wanted to be something more intimate, more personal, something that would separate him from any other who attempted to claim her attentions. It was the fanciful wish of a schoolboy with a crush. He reached for her hand, bending over it. ‘You were a delightful hostess tonight, surely you’ve earned the right to address me more informally.’ He could count on one hand the people who had that right: Cassian, Inigo, Vennor, their fathers, of course. He didn’t need both hands for that count now. He pushed back the grief that managed to edge its way to the surface at the oddest times and in the oddest ways.
‘I was pleased to be of service. I hope the term begins splendidly. I’ll be looking forward to Mr Kitto’s reports on the students’ progress. If weather permits, I might make the journey for the Christmas concert.’
He doubted her on both accounts. ‘Don’t lie to me, Mrs Blaxland. You did not want to give that speech tonight and the weather in December is too questionable.’
‘I was being polite.’ She withdrew her hand in a deliberate gesture.
‘I prefer you be honest.’ Eaton felt disappointed at the prospect of her leaving. How could he unravel her mysteries if she was three hours away? Already he was devising reasons why he might call her back. He might need her counsel on the school, for instance; they might want to discuss her own schools in person rather than through correspondence and, when that was done, he might take her truffle hunting in the Trevaylor Woods. Eaton leaned close, breathing in the peach-and-vanilla summer scent of her, his mouth near her ear as if imparting a secret. ‘And in the spirit of being honest, Eliza, I find you to be a complete revelation.’
‘I assure you, I am quite ordinary.’ But the words pleased her. He heard her breath catch despite her cool response and she hadn’t corrected him on the use of her first name, proof that this encounter, this response, was not ordinary for her, that he was not ordinary to her.
‘Then we must agree to disagree since I find nothing plain about you.’ Eaton let his gaze hold her eyes, let her see the interest she raised in him. They were both experienced adults. They needn’t play coy games. He would be honest, too. He did not want the conversation to end. ‘I’ve been wrong about you from the start. I thought you’d be older.’ He gave a low chuckle. ‘It seems we have that mistake in common.’
‘My husband was considerably older than I. It is a common assumption.’
‘If you’d not come to the open house, I might never have known.’
‘What difference did my age make when we corresponded about the school? What difference did my age make to my donations? My age is of no import.’
‘Huntingdon Blaxland was sixty-five when he died.’ Eaton remembered his father noting it one morning over breakfast and newspapers. His father had commented that Blaxland’s death would leave a gap in the mining industry, a power vacuum. Eaton had assumed his widow was of a commensurate age. Never had he imagined Blaxland’s widow was in her thirties.
‘Yes, and he was fifty-five when we married. I was his second wife, of course, his first having died a few years before.’ Perhaps that was why he’d thought Mrs Blaxland would be older. He’d not realised the first wife had passed; he would have been a child, after all. It was hardly the sort of news an adolescent paid attention to, even if he hadn’t been recovering from the throes of his own illness. But now, it was like finding a pearl in an oyster and Eaton filed the precious knowledge away along with the champagne. It was the most personal piece of information she’d offered. His collection of facts was growing: she was a widow, a second wife; she was confident, strong, stubborn and direct; she was young, attractive; she liked to be in control.
She was asserting that desire now, perhaps sensing the conversation was fast slipping beyond her ability to command it. ‘I fail to see what consequence any of this holds. It doesn’t matter.’ But it did. She wasn’t as sure of herself as she wanted him to believe. Did she think he didn’t see the flutter of her pulse in the lantern-lit darkness, or the way her eyes met his and then slid away? She wanted to know, as much as he did, what it would be like if they acted on the spark that jumped between them when they argued, when they challenged one another, when they were merely in the same room together. He’d been aware of her tonight long before he’d gone to her. He’d been aware, too, that she’d been looking for him the moment she’d arrived.
What could it hurt to find out? She lived miles away and was hardly in the habit of haring down to Porth Karrek.
‘It does matter.’ He slipped his hand behind her neck, drawing her close, letting his gaze linger, letting the proximity of his body signal his intentions as he murmured, ‘I am not in the habit of kissing grandmothers.’
‘And I am not in the habit of—’
Eaton didn’t let her finish. He captured her lips, sealing her rejoinder with his mouth. They could discuss her habits—or lack of them—later.
Chapter Four (#uc30a7955-fd78-5bef-ad82-451bb9ff76f8)
Apparently, she was not in the habit of completing her sentences. She certainly wouldn’t be capable of doing so now. All her mind could focus on was that he was kissing her. The realisation rocketed through Eliza, a bolt of white-hot awareness. There wasn’t a single part of her that wasn’t aware of him—the sweet, sharp autumn scent of him in her nostrils, the feel of his touch on the bare skin at her neck, the press of his mouth against hers—all combining to stir her to life, perhaps for the first time.
His tongue teased hers; a slow, languorous flirt confident of its reception. His hand adjusted its position at her neck, tilting her mouth, deepening his access to her until she gave a little moan. She had never been kissed like this, as if the kiss was a seduction within itself, as if every nuance of mouth and tongue and lips communicated a private message of desire designed just for her. She felt herself wanting to give over; there was no question of resistance, no desire for it. She wanted this kiss, wanted to fall into it, wanted to see where it led. Perhaps it led to other wicked desires, other wicked feelings. But only if she let it—and she wouldn’t, she promised herself.
All the reasons why began to reassert themselves, slowly coming back to the fore of her defences after the initial onslaught of this new pleasure. She shouldn’t be kissing a stranger, a man she’d only met once. She shouldn’t be kissing a man with whom she meant to do business. She was a mother; she had to think of her reputation for her daughter’s sake. She was a business owner; she also had to think of her reputation for the sake of the mines. Kisses were for women who could afford them.
The last thought brought her up short. She pushed against the hard wall of his chest. Did he think she could afford to give away kisses? That she’d come out to the garden on purpose to signal her intention—that she was willing to acknowledge and act on the flicker of attraction? Had he taken what she’d intended as an escape as an invitation instead?
The white-hot burn of pleasure turned to heated mortification. ‘My lord...’ She should have been more astute. Widows often had a reputation for discreet licentiousness. The widows the Marquess of Lynford knew most certainly did. But she could not be one of them. It was for that very reason she’d been so careful of her own reputation for five long years. ‘I fear I have given you a most inaccurate impression of myself. I apologise, sincerely. I must go. Immediately.’ Eliza tried to step around him, but all the height and breadth she’d appreciated about him earlier worked to her disadvantage. He was not a man easily evaded. She should have left when she had the chance. She should not have lingered in the garden, tempting fate. She’d come out thinking to put some distance between herself and those dark eyes. But the garden hadn’t been far enough.
He moved, subtly positioning his body to block her departure, a hand at her arm in gentle restraint, his voice soft in the darkness. ‘When will I see you again?’ It was ‘will’ with him, not ‘may’. Lynford wasn’t the sort of man to beg for a woman’s attention. He went forward confidently, assuming the attention would be given. Will. The potency of that one word sent a frisson of warm heat down her spine. His dark gaze held hers, intent on an answer—her answer. Despite his confident assumptions, he was allowing that decision to be all hers.
‘I don’t think that would be wise. Business and pleasure should not mix.’ She could not relent on this or she would come to regret it. An affair could ruin her and everything she’d worked for. The shareholders in the mines would no doubt love to discover a sin to hold against her.
‘Not wise for whom, Mrs Blaxland?’ The back of his hand traced a gentle path along the curve of her jaw. ‘You are merely a patron of the school I sponsor. I don’t see any apparent conflict of interest.’
‘Not wise for either of us.’ If she stood here and argued with him, she would lose. Sometimes the best way to win an argument was simply to leave. Eliza exercised that option now in her firmest tones, the ones she reserved for announcing decisions in the boardroom. ‘Goodnight, Lord Lynford.’ She was counting on him being gentleman enough to recognise a refusal and let her go this time, now that any ambiguity between them had been resolved.
Eliza made it to the carriage without any interference. She shut the door behind her and waited for a sense of relief to take her. She’d guessed correctly. Lynford hadn’t followed her and it was for the best. He was probably standing in the garden, realising it at this very minute, now that the heat of the moment had passed. The kiss had been an enjoyable adventure. It had added a certain spice to the evening, but it was not to be repeated. He didn’t know her. He didn’t know the depth of her responsibilities, or that she had a child—Sophie—the true love of her life.
If he did, he’d most certainly run. A man like Lynford, a man in his prime with wealth and a title to recommend him, was expected to wed a young woman capable of giving him his own heirs. She knew precisely the sort of bride who was worthy of a ducal heir: a sweet, young girl, who had no other interests than stocking her husband’s nursery. Lynford would want, would need, a family of his own. All dukes did. The Marquess would never seriously consider a woman with another man’s daughter clinging to her skirts and who spent her days running a mining empire, any more than she would consider him as a husband.
She would never marry again. She had no inclination to give up her hard-won control over her future and her daughter’s. The risk was too great, even if the cost was also great. Sophie must come first, ahead of her own personal wishes for a family. Eliza had come to such a realisation early in her widowhood and it had been both a relief and a disappointment.
It was the only thing the doting and decent Blaxland hadn’t been able to give her and the only thing she would not risk giving to herself. He’d given her security and a future, but he could not give her a family. Despite ten years of marriage, there was only to be her darling Sophie between them. Another husband, another man, younger, more virile, might provide her with those children, but she did not want to turn her responsibilities over to a husband in exchange, nor could she risk her reputation with the entanglement of a lover. The well-intentioned overture from Miles Detford years ago had shown her how even the smallest misstep could weaken her position.
On either front, she had no business kissing the Marquess of Lynford in the academy gardens. She was the daughter of a mine owner, the widow of a mine owner. Her family came from business. Cits on all sides, including her late husband’s. Such a background wasn’t for a marquess. Eliza knew how the world worked. She could be nothing for him but a brief dalliance until whatever mystery he saw in her was solved. Men could do as they liked. But she would never outrun the stain and neither would Sophie.
That was the lesson she told herself as her coach deposited her at the inn. But it didn’t stop her from dreaming that night of a dark-eyed man who’d called her extraordinary and kissed her body into an acute awareness of itself, who’d made her feel alive in ways she hadn’t felt for years, perhaps ever. There simply hadn’t been time or place for such realisations. There still wasn’t. Whatever that kiss had awakened had to be suppressed. That kiss could stay in her dreams, but it could go no further. In the morning she would wake up, visit the Porth Karrek mine and return to life as usual. As earth-shattering as tonight had been, it simply couldn’t be any other way for her.
It simply couldn’t be this way. The lumber order for the tunnel timbers was excessive. Eliza sat back from the ledgers, hazarding a glance at the clock on the wall of the mine office. It was eleven already. The morning had slipped away while she’d grappled with the receipt, trying to make sense of the overabundance of ordering. She’d meant to leave for home by now and she was nowhere close to making that self-imposed departure. If she left it any later, she’d miss tea with Sophie. She’d promised she’d be back in time and she never broke a promise. But ultimately, she was the one who had to answer to the shareholders in a few weeks at the annual meeting, the one who would be accountable for this over-ordering.
Eliza went to the window and looked down on the bustling scene below: carters pushing wheelbarrows of ore from the mine to the sorters; sorters separating the ore; her foreman, Gillie Cardy, shouting orders. The sight of her mines at work brought a certain thrill, a certain proof that she’d accomplished something. She caught Gillie’s eye and gestured for him to come up. He would know why so much lumber had been ordered.
Gillie knocked on the door before entering, sweeping off his knit cap as he stepped inside. ‘Mrs Blaxland, how can I be of service?’ She liked Gillie. He’d been the site manager even before her husband died. He was competent and knew the mechanics of mining thoroughly, and he’d been a friendly face when she’d first taken over.
She motioned towards the ledgers. ‘I have some questions about the lumber order.’
Gillie chuckled and shook his head. ‘I’m no good at numbers, ma’am. I just do what I’m told. You want someone to find a lode in the mine, I’m your fella. But if you want someone to do the books, that’s not me. I know mining and not much else.’ Eliza nodded. This was yet another reason her schools were vital. People needed mathematics and reading skills no matter what their profession. Education was power and protection. Without it, people were waiting to be victims.
‘I’ve done the sums,’ she assured him. ‘With the amount of timber ordered we could build a tunnel twice the length.’
He twisted the cap in his hand, looking worried. ‘The tunnel is very long, ma’am. We are tunnelling out underneath the ocean.’
Eliza stared at him in disbelief. ‘We are not! We opted not to take the risk at this time.’ Her stomach began to turn. The board had decided at the last quarterly meeting not to go that far.
‘Pardon me, ma’am, but Mr Detford said we were tunnelling under the ocean.’
Miles Detford? He ran the Wheal Karrek mine for her. She trusted Detford, counted him as friend. Miles would never go against the board’s decision or her wishes. He knew how she felt about the dangers of tunnelling beneath the ocean. Surely, there must be some mistake, that Cardy had misunderstood or that Miles Detford had been pressured by someone, because if that wasn’t the case, it meant she had misunderstood—not just the decision not to tunnel, but so much more. Her board was willing to override her decisions.
If it were true, it was a slap in the face. Someone thought she wouldn’t notice, either because she wasn’t diligent or because they thought she wasn’t smart enough. The other answer was even less appealing. Maybe whoever ordered the timbers simply didn’t care if she noticed. Her wishes were to be overridden. Not everyone on the board had agreed about the tunnel. It had been contentious and hotly debated. She’d rather put the money towards mining schools. Others had not felt that way. There was no money to be made from the schools.
Eliza pressed a hand to her stomach, trying to settle the roil that had started with the realisation. After years of proving herself, it seemed things still weren’t beyond that first year. Hadn’t she been the one who had insisted on steam engines to replace the horses? Hadn’t she been the one to institute safety protocols? The worst of it was, she’d thought things were better. But they weren’t. Someone was laughing behind her back, playing her very publicly for a fool.
Already, her mind was running through options. Which shareholders had conspired against her? Was it Isley Thorp or Sir Gismond Brenley, the other chief shareholders? It must have been if they had enough leverage to force Miles Detford into ordering the timbers. Miles would never have ordered them on his own. He would have defended her decision.
She returned to her desk chair and drew out a piece of paper from the drawer, penning a note with instructions. There was no question of returning to Truro until this mess was resolved. She folded the note and handed it to Gillie. ‘Have a messenger deliver this to the town house with all haste.’ Sophie and her governess could be here tomorrow. That would give her time to find suitable living arrangements. The inn wasn’t a decent place for a young girl. But where? Who did she know in town to whom she could turn? Did she dare ask Lynford? He was her only acquaintance likely to have any connections. The thought of Sophie at the inn, driving guests mad with her exuberance, settled it. As hesitant as she was about asking Lynford, she didn’t have a choice. Wheal Karrek needed her and she needed Sophie.
Decision made, she took out a second sheet and penned another note. ‘Take this up to the new conservatory.’ She reread the note, making sure she’d struck just the right tone, short, concise, a very businesslike message, nothing that Lynford would misconstrue as an invitation to continue what they’d started and finished in the garden. Satisfied, she sent Gillie off. That only left sending a note to Detford. Her stomach surged once more at the thought. She settled it with a reminder that this was all a misunderstanding. Miles would come and explain all. She’d been on her guard for so long, it was too easy to see trouble where there was none.
Chapter Five (#uc30a7955-fd78-5bef-ad82-451bb9ff76f8)
Eliza had barely finished the note when the commotion of an arrival sounded in the yard below. Perhaps another wagonload of supplies was expected today? But when she reached the window, there was no wagon in the yard, only a lone man on a chestnut horse—a tall, broad-shouldered man, dark hair unruly and windblown. He dismounted in a fluid motion and Eliza’s breath caught. Lynford was here! He’d come and immediately. He couldn’t have received her message more than an hour ago.
He looked up at the window, shielding his eyes against the sun, and Eliza reflexively stepped back even though there was little chance of being seen. She was both flattered and flustered by his attention. What to do? Allow him to come up or should she go down to meet him? She would go down. Things tended to happen when she was alone with him. Crowds were safer. She took up her hat and gloves and paused a moment to check her appearance in the small mirror behind the door before whispering, ‘Breathe, Eliza. He’s just a man.’
A man who had kissed her. A man who had not been intimidated by her when she’d surprised him at the school. A man who had come to her immediately even though she’d not specifically requested it. She stopped at the foot of the stairs to collect herself. She should not be excited. This was an entirely girlish reaction. She’d summoned him for business purposes because that was the nature of their acquaintance and she knew no one else in the area who might be positioned to help her. She’d not summoned him because of last night. She wanted to be clear with herself on that. In fact, that had been the singular reason she’d hesitated to send for him in the first place.
She stepped outside, striding forward with confidence, hand outstretched in a mannish greeting. ‘My lord, how good of you to come and how surprising. I’d expected a list of recommendations in response, not an actual visit. I hope this isn’t disrupting your day?’
He shook her hand and gave her one of his broad, winning smiles. If he was put off by the masculine gesture he gave no sign of it. ‘Not at all. There’s nothing left to do up at the school except get in the way while Kitto tries to settle the students.’ Sweet heavens, he was just as devastating in daylight and plain clothes as he was by night. Perhaps more so. Without the elegance of evening clothes, it was too easy to forget he was a marquess, heir to a dukedom and entirely above her touch. Today, he looked the part of a country squire and eminently more attainable, dressed in riding boots, tight buckskins, and a long greatcoat suited for the autumn air that blew in off the sea.
Lynford did not relinquish her hand, but covered it with his other. ‘Tell me, what sort of accommodations do you require for the longer term? A manse? A cottage? An estate? I have a place in mind if you think it would suit. There’s a dower house at Falmage Hill. It’s not far from here. It would be close to the mine and it’s well situated between Porth Karrek and Penzance. I am in residence at the main house, or else I’d let the whole estate to you instead.’
‘I don’t need a whole estate.’ Eliza laughed. ‘The dower house will be ideal.’ Did she sound as flustered as she felt? The offer was overwhelming, all the more so because she couldn’t recall the last time someone had lifted the burden from her shoulders. Her world was full of wolves and vultures, but here was a stranger—an acquaintance at best—who’d shouldered the weight of this one task without hesitation. This was arguably the best news she’d heard all morning. But did it come at a cost? What guarantees was Lynford looking for? Why would a man she barely knew offer such largesse?
‘Are you sure, Mrs Blaxland?’ Eaton’s gaze narrowed, matching her own speculation. ‘If so, why are you looking at me as if I were a predator?’ She should have been more deliberate with what she let show on her face. She’d become sloppy in the wake of the morning’s tensions.
‘Are you? A predator? A girl can’t be too careful. When something sounds too good to be true, I’ve learned it usually is.’ Eliza didn’t back down from his challenge. ‘Truthfully, Lord Lynford, I am wondering why a man who hardly knows me would volunteer such lavish accommodation. What could he want in exchange? I shall pay you rent in coins and in nothing else.’ She needed to be clear on this point, especially based on last night in the garden. Did he think there were additional kisses to be had? Or perhaps something more than kisses?
‘You will do no such thing. I am not asking for money...or for anything else,’ Lynford answered with the swiftness of an insulted man. ‘As for why I am doing this, it is because I can. I have an empty house and you need one.’
Did she dare believe him? She was not used to taking men at their word. But what choice did she have? Sophie and her governess would arrive tomorrow. Eaton swung up on his horse and for a moment she thought he’d retract his offer, offended by her scepticism. Then he leaned down and offered his hand. ‘Come up, we’ll ride out and look the property over. You can decide then if it will suit.’
‘But my coach is here,’ Eliza stammered, craning her neck to look up at him. Lynford appeared twice as large atop the big horse as he did on the ground and twice as commanding.
‘Send it on ahead.’ Lynford answered easily, dismissing the detail. ‘Stop stalling and come up, Eliza. We’ve already established I’m not a predator. It’s a beautiful autumn day, perfect for a ride, and I promise my horse will behave.’ She noted he said nothing about himself. She also noted he’d used her first name.
She should be wary. She should refuse on grounds of impropriety. What would people think if they saw her with him? The argument had no teeth. Who would see them? Who would care? Miners on their way to their shifts? People who didn’t even know who she was? She lived quietly and Truro was further than most of these people would ever go in their lifetime. But she would know. But when he looked at her with that smile and those dancing dark eyes, something deep inside her began to stir, as it had last night, as it had the first time she’d laid eyes on him—that reminder that she was alive, that she was something more than a bookkeeper and an overseer. She took his hand and leapt.
He settled her before him on the saddle and clucked to the big chestnut with an enviable ease, apparently unbothered by the proximity of the female sitting in front of him. Eliza wished she could claim such sangfroid. She could not. The rhythm of the horse beneath her beat a tattoo of freedom as the cliffs and fields of the Cornish landscape sped past. But neither dominated her attentions like the presence of the man behind her. She’d not counted on the practical act of transportation, such a mundane task, feeling so intimate.
Huntingdon hadn’t been a rider. They’d always gone everywhere by coach. To ride astride with a man was a very different thing. There were the thighs to contend with, muscular thighs that bracketed her legs, the chest she couldn’t help but press against as they cantered along the cliff road to Falmage Hill, the arm that came around her, the leather-gloved hand that held the reins resting at her hip. She could smell the wind on him, could feel it in her face, the thrill of freedom humming in her blood. It was fanciful to ascribe such poetic feeling to the ride. Lynford would likely be stunned to know how a simple act had conjured up such fanciful connotations for her.
The newly awakened wildness in her was disappointed to see Falmage Hill come into view, disappointed to turn into the drive, disappointed to slow the horse to a trot, the wind settling to a light, arbitrary breeze in her face. Eaton turned the horse down a path, giving her a tour of the drive lined by tall, impressive oaks with a green lawn extending in all directions. ‘The main house is straight ahead, but the dower house sits on the west corner of the property. It has a nice view of the sea.’ She couldn’t care less for the sea view at the moment. She was transfixed on the lawn. Sophie would love running here. There was precious little space for a girl to run in town. A twinge of guilt pricked at Eliza. Courtesy dictated she should tell him she wouldn’t be his only guest. But privacy counselled caution. She was protective of Sophie and those who came into contact with her. A woman or a girl with a fortune couldn’t be too careful.
The entrance to the dower house was dominated by two thick stone pillars and a wrought iron gate that stood open, ready for them. The house itself was a square, brick manse with ivy growing up its walls and five white-framed windows decorating the second storey. The entrance was set on the right side of the house and covered with an arched arcade. Eliza found the home immediately charming, a place where a family might take a holiday. Where children might frolic in the yard with a puppy. She pushed the sweet image away. There was no purpose in torturing herself with what she couldn’t have. Besides, she never took a holiday. She was too afraid of what might transpire if she looked away from the mines for a moment. Apparently, it hadn’t mattered. Things had transpired anyway.
Out of nowhere, a man in livery materialised to hold the horse. Lynford dismounted and reached for her, his hands easy and comfortable at her waist. Was she the only one who noticed how much they touched? Was she the only one moved by it? The only one whose pulse thundered with each contact? One would think she was fresh from the schoolroom, not a woman who’d had a husband and a child and who dealt with men every day. There should be no mystique in a man’s touch. She was helped in and out of carriages, escorted into dinners on the occasions when she went out in Truro. Touch was no stranger to her, yet Lynford’s touch managed to stand out.
Eaton set her down and gestured towards the house. ‘Shall we go in? I sent word ahead to the staff to start cleaning once I received your note. The worst of the dust should be gone by now.’ He slid her teasing look. ‘I know how you are about dust.’
‘You’re very...efficient.’ And confident, she added silently. He’d been sure she’d accept his offer...and he’d been right. Was she that predictable or was he that sure of himself?
Eaton ushered her through the front door, a hand resting at the small of her back. Another touch. Another reminder that he stirred her. ‘There’s a parlour, a dining room and a library space you can use as an office here on the first floor. The kitchen is below stairs. The bedrooms are upstairs. I will send down staff for cooking and cleaning. I have plenty to spare with only me to look after at the big house.’
He’d anticipated everything, Eliza thought as they climbed the stairs. ‘There are five chambers up here and seven beds.’ Eaton led her down the hall. ‘You can have your pick, perhaps a bed for every night of the week.’ He laughed, coming to stop at a room nearest the stairwell. ‘This one is the largest.’
Eliza stepped into the airy room, impressed. Eaton’s staff had already been here. The bed linens were fresh and the window was open to let in the crisp autumn air. A small bud vase with deep pink ginger lilies stood on the table beside the bed, lending the room a personal touch, an extra detail. She was aware of Eaton behind her, his words a quiet, masculine rumble. ‘Will it suit?’ At the enquiry, her eyes began to sting, tears welling. She was glad she was facing the window. How would she explain that a simple question had moved her to tears?
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Bronwyn Scott
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: He’s destined never to marry She might change his mind… Eaton Falmage, Marquess of Lynford, is an expert at distracting himself from the painful truth which means he’ll never wed. Seducing mining widow Eliza Blaxland seems the perfect diversion. Until he learns Eliza guards her heart as fiercely as her hard-won independence. He longs for more, but that would mean confessing his secret…and risk losing her forever!