Lord Ravenscar's Inconvenient Betrothal. Lara Temple
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are you doing? And why are you pursuing it now Albert is dead?’
Worse? Perhaps she was mad. She didn’t seem addled, but neither did she seem very affected by her cousin’s recent death or even by being alone in a vandalised and empty house and in the presence of a stranger. Ravenscar knew his worth when it came to women and he wasn’t used to being treated with such cavalier insouciance; Rakehell Raven usually caused a much more gratifying response. Women either ran from him or ran to him, they rarely held their ground.
He nudged one of the books at the edge of the tumbled bookcase with the toe of his boot. On Customs of the Dje-Dje Tribes of the African Plain by Reverend John Summerly. That must have been Albert’s, poor man.
‘I didn’t know he had died until a few days ago.’
‘That still doesn’t explain why you entered, knowing full well you had no business here anymore. Why?’
He took another couple steps and bent to pick up a copy of Aurelius’s Meditations from under Harry’s gauntlet with a satisfied sigh. The spine had split, but that could be fixed. He tucked it under his arm and returned his attention to the young woman and her peculiar comments. She was still watching him with suspicion, but without a glimmer of real fear. Did she really think that mace would do an ounce of good against him if he chose to divest her of it?
‘What’s worse than a criminal, then? A nun?’ he asked.
Her eyes widened.
‘On what scale is a nun worse than a criminal? And please return that book. It’s mine.’
‘On the scale of flirtation material. I don’t flirt with nuns. Criminals are fair game.’
Her eyes widened further, the honey even more apparent the closer he came. Her skin also had a warm cast to it. This was no milk-and-water miss, despite her clothes. There was also just the faintest musical lilt in her voice which was neither London nor West Country. Perhaps she wasn’t as proper as she looked, which would present some interesting possibilities...
‘You are standing in what closely resembles the ruins of Carthage, facing a woman armed with a mace, and you are considering flirtation? You don’t look addled, but I’m beginning to suspect you are. Either that or quite desperate. Please put down that book. It’s mine.’
‘So you pointed out, but my advice is that you might not want to argue with someone you suspect is either addled or desperate or both.’
‘Thank you kindly for that advice. Now put down the book and step back.’
He moved closer, making his way around the pile of books.
‘Not until you tell me what you believe is worse than a criminal. Somehow I can’t quite see you as a nun.’
Her smile flickered again, but she mastered it. She raised the mace slightly and let it hit the ground again with an ominous thump. He stopped.
‘I shall take that as a compliment, though I am certain most would disagree. You have three chances to guess. If you do, I will make you a present of Marcus Aurelius. If not, you leave quietly.’
He put his hands on his hips, amused by the challenge. This unusual creature was brightening up a dreary afternoon quite nicely. He would very much like the truth to be that she was a very permissive courtesan so he could see if she could wield something other than a mace in those surprisingly strong hands, but her dress certainly wasn’t supporting that theory. He considered the bronze-coloured pelisse with just an edge of a muslin flounce embroidered with yellow flowers peeping out beneath. Simple but very elegant and expensively made. Her bonnet, too, though unadorned by all the frills and gewgaws young women favoured, looked very costly. Had he met her in an assembly hall or a London drawing room, aside from avoiding her like the plague as another one of those horrible breed of marriageable young women, he would have presumed she was perfectly respectable. But respectable young women did not wander through empty estates on their own, even if they had inherited them, and they didn’t threaten strange men with maces. They came accompanied and in such circumstances they swooned or burst into tears.
‘Let me see. You’re an actress. Your last role was Dido and you are reprising. I don’t think the mace is historically accurate, though.’
‘No, an ox hide would be more apt, but I feel safer with a mace. Try again.’
His brow rose. He added well educated to his assessment. Not many women...not many people knew the tale of Dido’s clever manipulation of calculus to capture land from the Berber king.
‘A bluestocking with a penchant for the medieval.’
She considered.
‘I would consider that a compliment, but that isn’t quite accurate and certainly not what I was referring to. One last try.’
Before he could respond, the door opened and Alan turned to face an exceedingly burly man. The mace hit the ground definitively as the young woman let it go.
‘Finally. Where have you been, Jackson? Distracting him is tiring work. I thought he might be the one who did this, but probably not, so do escort him out. Oh, and please leave the book as you exit, sir. You haven’t earned it yet.’
Alan considered the glowering man. She might not be a criminal, but her henchman certainly looked the part. He added it to his collection of facts about her, but he still drew a blank.
‘I have one last try, don’t I? Just like that fairy tale with the spinning wheel, no?’
She laughed and nudged the mace with one pale yellow kid shoe. An expensive one, he noted. He should know, he had paid for enough female garments.
‘That’s true,’ she conceded. ‘I’m nothing like that silly woman, though. Who on earth would barter with their unborn child’s life? I would have either thought of some better way out of that fix or something less valuable to bargain with. Well? One last try, sir.’
He moved towards her, ignoring the movement behind him. Her head lowered and she looked more wary now than when they had been alone in the room together. At first glance he had thought her pretty but unexceptional, but either closer examination or her peculiar chatter had affected his judgement. Her warm hazel-brown eyes, like honeyed wood, captivated him, and when she smiled, her mouth was practically an invitation to explore the soft coral-pink curve. She would taste sweet and sultry, honey and a hint of spice, he thought. It was a pity she was one of the most despised subcategories of the already despised species known as respectable young women. His only consolation was that they usually feared him almost as much as he wished to avoid them.
‘Very well,’ he replied. ‘My last chance at Aurelius. You’re a member of that dreaded breed of females who believe themselves deserving of all forms of homage and adoration for qualities that they have done nothing to deserve. You are, in short, an heiress.’
He had expected outrage, not amusement. She might be respectable, but she was not predictable. That at least might be a point in his favour when it came to negotiating the purchase of Hollywell House.
‘How do you know I have done nothing to deserve it? I’ll have you know being an heiress is hard work and not just for me as Jackson here will attest.’
‘Does this bruiser keep fortune hunters at bay, then?’
‘In a manner of speaking. Well, you have earned your Aurelius. Goodbye, sir.’
‘In a moment. We still have the matter of the sale of the house to discuss. We will offer you the same price as we did your cousin. It is quite generous, I assure you.’
‘As you pointed out, until after probate is granted, there is no point in discussing anything. Who is “we”, by the way? I thought you said you merely represented the prospective buyers. The use of the pronoun “we” seems to indicate otherwise.’
For a moment he debated telling her the truth about Hope House. She was just unconventional enough that she might not see it as a disadvantage, but he and his friends had long ago