Lady Hartley's Inheritance Page 2

  Luc was handsome, rich, titled, and highly eligible. He’d endured the single-minded attentions of countless aspirants for his hand for years, now. Indeed, scheming matrons took the opportunity to push their protèges into his path at every social occasion he attended. But if his peers, or more likely their spouses, now contemplated using his business interests as a means of gaining his attention for their offspring, then it was definitely time to reconsider his options.

  Luc had recently tired of the artificiality of the ton. Maybe now he should make good his half-formed plans and retire to his estate in Berkshire? His mother would naturally wish to remain in their town house for the remainder of the season; she enjoyed all the ridiculous traditions, the hustle, bustle and, most of all, the gossip. But Luc had had enough. The endless round of balls, parties, masquerades, and routs was becoming a bore. He supposed he’d been at it for too long.

  Cheered a little by this half-formed decision, Luc rounded the corner into Grosvenor Square in time to observe one of the scruffiest carriages he’d ever encountered leaving his front door and disappearing into the mews behind. He cursed violently. That was all he needed: his mother’s widow-friend was arriving today. He’d completely forgotten about that.

  He frowned as he watched the conveyance go into the mews. Surely she hadn’t travelled all the way from Northumberland in that rattletrap? She’d be black and blue all over if she had. And why would she, anyway? The brief glimpse Luc had managed of the horses harnessed to the damned vehicle was sufficient to tell him that at least they were good quality, well cared-for stock. If this woman was as wealthy as his mother had led him to believe, why was she travelling in such squalor?

  It made no sense at all.

  Luc entered the house to find the hallway deserted. Ever efficient, his staff had clearly already taken Lady Hartley’s bags to her chamber, and from the sound of it, his mother had scooped “dear” Clarissa into the drawing room for refreshments.

  Luc briefly contemplated escaping unnoticed to the relative safety of his library. But he knew such action would be considered by his mother to be the height of bad manners. She would be aware of his return, and he wouldn’t have her think that he was deliberately slighting her guest. Best get the introduction over with. He could then leave them to themselves with a clear conscience.

  Entering the drawing room, Luc barely suppressed a groan. An exceptionally tall lady turned to face him. Well, he assumed she was facing him. It was hard to be sure, for she was clad from head to foot in the deepest of deep black. Her garments were threadbare and shapeless, making it impossible for Luc to make any judgement whatsoever about the condition of the body beneath them. As for her face, the lady wore a bonnet — black, of course — and her features were completely obscured behind a thick veil. Had his mother not said that her husband died fifteen months ago? Why still the deep mourning?

  Showing none of his horror outwardly, Luc entered the room and smiled at both his mother and the apparition in black.

  “Ah, Lucien, there you are,” said his mother, offering him a bright smile. “Just in time to take tea with us. Now, Lucien, dear, you remember Clarissa, of course. Clarissa, this is my dreadful son, Lucien. Lucien, allow me to introduce dear Clarissa, Lady Hartley.”

  Luc made one of his effortlessly elegant bows to Clarissa, who dropped a brief curtsey and offered him a hand, now devoid of glove. Luc took it, noticing at first that it was exceptionally large, with long fingers tapering to broken and neglected nails. He was accustomed to dealing with tonnish ladies who spent hours worrying about such trivialities. He thought absently that Clarissa couldn’t appear in society with her nails in this state. His mother must find a way to mention the matter delicately to her.

  Then he noticed the blisters, the scratches and calluses. What on earth had happened to her? Had she been attacked during her journey? She looked as though she’d been in a fight. Then realisation dawned, and Luc was able to cover his horrified reaction only by a social skill born of many years practise. These injuries had been caused by manual labour. But surely she did not care for her blasted sheep herself?

  Showing none of the workings of his mind, Luc smiled at their guest and bid her a good afternoon.

  “I trust I’m not causing an inconvenience in your household, my lord, arriving at such short notice?”

  Her voice was pitched low, its timber melodic and easy on the ear. It was undeniably agreeable, and Luc found himself wondering what other surprises she was concealing beneath that veil. Then he recalled the state of the hand, which he still held in his, and decided that he could easily postpone the moment when he must look upon more of Lady Hartley’s person. Releasing her hand he smiled once again.

  “We are delighted to see you, Lady Hartley.” Luc fell into the polished and faultlessly mannered role that was second nature to him, his refined smile masking his true feelings. “My mother has been in alt since first receiving word of your coming.”

  “Well, of course I have. This visit is much overdue, and I long to hear all your news, Clarissa. But first, do sit down.” The countess ushered her into a chair. “And you, too, Lucian. Ah good, here’s tea.”

  Pouring tea and distributing cakes and sandwiches didn’t prevent his mother from maintaining a constant flow of chatter about nothing at all. Luc was amused to see Lady Hartley help herself to a substantial portion of the food, something else that tonnish ladies never did. Perversely, he found that he approved. She either didn’t realise her mistake or simply didn’t care.

  Then again, perhaps she was just hungry.

  Whatever the reason, Luc approved of women with healthy appetites — for all things. And, if she really intended to eat, then she would have to lift her veil and reveal her features. Luc was becoming increasingly curious in that respect.

  But he was to be disappointed. Lady Hartley half-lifted her veil and secured it to the top of her bonnet with a pin, thus revealing only her lips, chin and, he was pleasantly surprised to observe, an exceptionally long and elegant neck.

  “Now, Clarissa dear, tell us all about your journey. Was it too tiresome? Did you encounter any difficulties? How long did it take?” Without waiting for answers, which was just as well since Lady Hartley’s mouth seemed to be constantly full, his mother went on. “I’m so glad you brought Agnes along. She must be such a comfort to you. You know, I haven’t seen her above twice since your mother moved from London.”

  “I can’t begin to imagine how I would have managed all these years without Agnes.”

  “Your mother used to say exactly the same thing about her.”

  “Are you well acquainted with life in the ton, Lady Hartley?” Luc asked languidly. His bad temper of earlier was firmly back in place, and if his manners lacked their customary gracious charm then he really couldn’t summon the energy or the will to do anything about it.

  “This is my first visit, Lord Deverill.”

  “Good heavens, is it really?” Luc evidenced his surprise by elevating his brows. “Then you have missed much entertainment, being so far north all this time.”

  “That, my lord, is a matter of opinion.”

  The reply was succinct. She didn’t even look in his direction, and Luc found himself mentally applauding her backbone. Here she was at the end of a tiring journey, in surroundings undoubtedly far grander than anything she was accustomed to, and yet she refused to be intimidated. Well good for her! Luc was used to women falling all over him and agreeing with his every word. Just for the hell of it he decided to amuse himself by discovering if this one really did have spirit or whether she too would moderate her behaviour and become as boringly predictable as all the rest.

  “Indeed it is my opinion, Lady Hartley.” He treated her to his most beguiling smile, the one that could tame even the frostiest matron and had bailed him out of trouble on more occasions that he cared to recall. “Pray, what opportunities do you have for good theatre in your part of the world?”

  “I have little time for such
frivolities, my lord. I have two estates to run.”

  “But surely you have reliable staff to undertake those duties?”

  She hesitated, apparently reluctant to reveal too much about her domestic arrangements. “There is still much that requires my attention,” she said stiffly.

  Luc persevered, sensing that she was holding on to her temper with the greatest of difficulty. “But everyone must relax at some time, Lady Hartley. Pray, do tell me how you manage it. Do you play or sing?”

  “I do neither.”

  “Oh, I see. Then what do you do?”

  “Lucien dear, leave poor Clarissa alone and allow her to finish her tea in peace. The poor child has been travelling for days.”

  Luc had got rather carried away baiting the wretched creature, and knew he deserved the admonishment. “You’re right, Mother. I apologise, Lady Hartley, if my indelicate enquiries overset you.” He rose to his feet. “Now, I have business to attend to and will leave you ladies to converse. Pray excuse me.”

  He made another elegant bow to Clarissa and left the room.

  “Of all the rude, arrogant, opinionated, self-centred…”

  Agnes chuckled. “You’ve met his lordship then have you, my lady?”

  She shuddered. “Yes, unfortunately.”

  “I take it you didn’t like him?”

  Clarissa looked at her maid askance. “And that surprises you?” She continued pacing in front of the fire in her chamber, too agitated to remain still. “How dare he patronise me!”

  “Is he as good looking as they say?”

  Clarissa hesitated, reviewing in her mind all she’d seen. A tall man with a thick crop of long black hair that constantly fell across his face. Chiselled features, a straight, aristocratic nose and strong square jaw, full lips and even, white teeth. She was surprised to realise that she’d noticed the breath of his shoulders, the wide expanse of his chest. His blue superfine coat had sat well upon those broad shoulders, she reluctantly conceded. But, then, so it should, given that it had doubtless cost enough to keep her entire household fed for a month. The blue and black stripes of his waistcoat had stood out against the snowy whiteness of his shirt, and his neckcloth was tied in a beautifully symmetrical knot. She blew air through her lips, assuming it to have been the latest word in fashion that took hours to perfect.

  Clarissa blackened her mood further by dwelling upon the subject of Luc Deverill. His buckskin breeches had clung to exceptionally strong-looking, muscular thighs. She wondered that she’d observed such a triviality, but assured herself that it would have been impossible not to, given that he had sat beside her for above half-an-hour. That would also account for the fact that she’d noticed his whole expression change from almost severe indifference to affectionate indulgence when he smiled at his mother.

  “Good looking, Agnes? I suppose so, if your fancy runs to the dandified type.”

  “And his eyes, my lady, did you happen to notice their colour?”

  “No, of course not! What a ridiculous question.”

  Agnes regarded her mistress sceptically but refrained from making any comment.

  “Navy blue, black — I don’t know!” Clarissa, unsettled by Agnes’s knowingly superior smile, spoke more acerbically than she’d intended. “As black as his soul I shouldn’t wonder. If he has one, that is, which I doubt. They make him look like the devil incarnate.”

  Agnes maintained her silence. A highly unusual occurrence, guaranteed to convey her feelings more purposefully than words ever could.

  “What is it, Agnes? You didn’t really expect me to like someone as shallow as his lordship, surely? Someone who doubtless occupies his time with nothing more taxing than pleasures of the flesh?”

  Agnes smiled knowingly. “Never underestimate the pleasures of the flesh, my lady.”

  “I just can’t imagine how someone as sweet as Aunt Marcia could have bred such an unfeeling brute.”

  “Ah well, my love, there’s no help for it. You’ll just have to make the best of it for the next two weeks.”

  Clarissa screamed with frustration and threw a cushion at her maid, in an infuriated attempt to prevent her from smiling.

  Luc stood up as Clarissa entered the drawing room that evening — and gaped in astonishment.

  She wore a shapeless black garment similar to that she had travelled in, but this time she was hatless, and her face was revealed to him for the first time. Her hair was the colour of burnt corn, pulled back severely into a knot at her nape, not a curl in evidence. Her face, though, engaged Luc’s attention for the longest time. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away. Her face was almond-shaped, her features perfectly proportioned. She possessed a small, upturned nose, a plump cupid’s-bow mouth, high cheekbones, and a firm chin leading to that long, swanlike neck he’d glimpsed earlier. But all paled into insignificance when compared to the most compelling eyes Luc had ever encountered in a woman’s face. They were enormous mirrors to her soul, flashing brown fire and hinting tantalisingly at closely guarded passions just waiting to be released.

  Whatever the rest of her was like — and he still couldn’t hazard a guess because of that God-awful gown — her face was one of the most beautiful Luc had ever encountered. His reaction was entirely predictable and extremely uncomfortable. He adjusted his coat and hoped she wouldn’t notice. But, then again, he reasoned, she’d been a married woman. Seeing arousal in a man could hold no surprises for her, and she didn’t look as though she was given to swooning. Besides, she must be accustomed to the reaction she engendered in the male of the species by now.

  “She’s beautiful, mother,” he muttered, his eyes not once having left her face.

  “Well of course she is. I told you as much.”

  Luc spared a brief glance for his mother. “No, Mother, you most assuredly did not. I would have remembered if you had.”

  “Oh, well then, I must have assumed that you already knew.”

  Luc tore his eyes away from Clarissa Hartley and briefly transferred his full attention to his mother. Her expression was completely innocent, but there was a smug satisfaction about her demeanour which set Luc on his guard. If he was not much mistaken she was up to something, but there was no time to dwell upon that now. Their guest had traversed the room and was almost upon them.

  “Lady Hartley.” Luc stepped forward and offered her his arm and an engaging smile simultaneously. “I trust you’re feeling refreshed after your journey?”

  “Perfectly so, I thank you, sir. I don’t tire easily.” Ignoring his proffered arm, she pointedly seated herself as far away from Luc as possible and turned her attention from him with a rudeness to equal his of that afternoon. “Good evening, Aunt Marcia.”

  Lady Hartley’s smile as she addressed his mother intoxicated Luc, and he gazed upon her with the adoration of a gauche schoolboy in the throes of his first crush.

  “Good evening, Clarissa, dear. Dinner will be served shortly, but first we must discuss our plans for tomorrow. I am so excited at the prospect.”

  “I’m greatly looking forward to it. What do you have in mind, Aunt?”

  “Oh, all manner of things. But, dear,” probed the countess with, for her, commendable tact, “did you bring no other coloured gowns with you?”

  Lady Hartley hesitated. “No, Aunt. I don’t actually have any.”

  “You don’t have any?” Luc could see that his mother was horrified. “What nonsense is this? Why still the deepest mourning? Michael’s passing was well over a year ago.”

  “I have my work clothes at home. They are all I need.” Lady Hartley’s tone was sharp, defensive, and impatient all at the same time. “I don’t have the time for socialising and therefore have no need for other clothes.”

  Her discomfort with the subject matter was all too apparent, and Luc felt an overwhelming desire to save her from it. But, since he was as anxious as his mother to understand her reason for dressing so appallingly, he delayed his intervention.

  “But, my dear, I
have such plans for your visit. We are to attend balls and parties and all manner of things. I am so looking forward to introducing you around.” Luc’s mother waved a dismissive hand. “But never mind, we can call upon my modiste tomorrow morning, before we do anything else. She can work wonders and will have you kitted out in no time.”

  “I cannot attend balls and parties, Aunt.”

  “Cannot attend? But of course you must attend. You’ll be a sensation.”

  “Aunt Marcia, I’m sure you mean well, but such gatherings aren’t for me. I only wish to see you, and then my man of business. After that I shall return home.”

  “Oh, no, dear, surely not?” His mother appeared crestfallen. “You deserve to have a little fun after all the travails you’ve had to endure.”

  “We must allow Lady Hartley to know her own mind, Mother,” said Luc, standing as the dinner gong sounded. “Ladies.” He offered an arm to each of them.

  “Pray, escort your mother, Lord Deverill. I shall not faint for want of a strong arm to lean upon, I do assure you.”

  Having said as much, Lady Hartley swept ahead of him into the dining parlour without a backward glance.

  Throughout the meal the countess kept up a constant stream of bright chatter. She didn’t seem to notice their guest’s barely concealed hostility toward Luc; neither did she seem aware of his growing interest in her and his determination to draw more than a few reluctant words from her whenever he addressed her.

  “Louisa and Suzanna are to dine with us tomorrow evening,” his mother explained, beaming at the prospect. “You will recall that they are Lucien’s older sisters.”

  “Indeed, yes, Aunt.”

  “Now, let me see…Of course you know that Louisa is my first born. She is three and thirty now and married to Lord Snaresbrooke. They are in town for the season, of course. They have three little ones already and they are such dears! And Suzanna, who is not quite two and thirty, is married to Viscount Denby. They are blessed with just one daughter, as yet. But,” continued his mother in a conspiratorial tone, obviously enjoying herself thoroughly since she was conversing on her favourite subject, “we have high hopes of more.”