Lady Forsaken Box Set (Books 1 - 5), page 2
She’d been staring with the great possibility of her mouth hanging open. She snapped her gaze away from his exquisitely sculpted male form, his alluring hair and brown eyes, and trained them on Connor instead. Sensible, practical Mr. Connor Cale.
“Mr. Cale will be more than happy to show you around the stables.” She locked eyes with Connor, pleading for him to remove the man from her office. “We have excellent quality young, almost mature enough for purchase.”
“Indeed, please allow me to—” Connor turned to the man with his arm wide to guide him back to the stables.
But the intruder held his ground. “Are you responsible for this business?”
“I am.” Viola answered.
“But, you are a lady . . .”
“Thank you for noticing.” Vi stood and smoothed her skirts, ready to escort him out of her office herself. “If you’ll please—”
“Oh, yes, it certainly is a hard thing not to notice.” He took in her body from head to toe and back again.
Vi stepped around the desk to confront him. It was times such as these she was glad she’d retired from society, and their notions of what a lady should and should not do with her time. While it was a forced retirement, she had retired all the same. “Mister—”
“Lord,” he corrected.
She should have guessed he’d be a lord and not just a younger son. His arrogance was evidence of his silver-spoon upbringing. “Well, lord . . . might I inquire as to your name?”
Vi continued past the irritatingly smug man and out the door into the stable yard, giving him no option but to follow her—which she prayed he wouldn’t—or be left behind. If he answered her question, she didn’t hear him.
“I have run Foldger’s Foals for the past eight years. And very successfully, I might add,” she called over her shoulder.
“Should I find that impressive?” He had indeed followed her out the door.
“Yes—”
“I have saved hundreds of men on the battlefield.”
Vi stopped mere feet from the entrance to the stable. “Is it now my turn to be impressed?”
When she turned in his direction, they almost collided. Outrunning him didn’t seem to be a viable option.
“I only state—”
“Since you seem determined to compare the size of our egos, would you also like to beat your chest and howl at the moon?” she demanded, her gaze now heated.
His hands flew up in defense, but she saw a glimmer of humor in his eyes. “We have started off on the wrong foot. Let us start anew. Apparently, I am the overgrown ape with the manners of a wild dog, who lacks all social grace.” He bowed at the waist.
She laughed, hiding her enormous grin with her hand. “And I seem to be the woman determined to emasculate every half-ape, half-dog in my vicinity,” Vi said, dropping in a curtsey.
“I am Lord Haversham . . .”
Haversham? The smile drained from her face and the laugh stuck in her throat, cutting off her air. Abruptly, she pushed past him once more and moved back toward the safety of her office. She hadn’t heard that name in years. Her legs trembled with each step, much like that day long ago. Could it truly be? She searched the man’s face in her mind’s eye for any resemblance. But no, she saw nothing. While Winston and Cody had been fair-skinned and light-haired men of average height, the man before her stood over six feet and looked of French descent.
“. . . and I did not mean to offend. I simply seek to understand the inner workings of a stable.” He’d followed her back into the office.
Clearly, he hadn’t recognized her either, but why ever would he? They’d never met. Brock Spencer, heir to the Earl of Haversham, had left years before in service to King George III. She needed to sit down before her knees buckled beneath her.
“Is something amiss, Lady—” Connor started.
“No, it is just warm and I have been working many hours,” she said, cutting Connor off before the ignorant man used her given name. She moved behind her desk and regained her seat. She felt her confidence return as she laid her palms on the cool surface. “Starting over would be advantageous for this situation. My name is Lady Posey Hale. I have been the proprietor of Foldger’s Foals for many years. How can I help you today?”
She kept her eyes trained on Brock. If she looked in Connor’s direction, she was sure to find the man staring at her, his face a mask of confusion. Had he not made the connection yet? It had been many years since she’d discussed her past—and her need to keep it hidden—with her stable master. He’d tried to soothe her anxiety, but she had spent many days in this very office, dreading the time when her identity would be revealed and her present life ruined.
It couldn’t happen; she wouldn’t allow it to. There were too many people who depended on her.
“I seek to build a stable at my country estate. I was told at Tattersalls that Foldger’s Foals raises top-quality horses.”
“You were informed correctly, my lord.” If he noticed her discomfort, he didn’t show it. “My man of business can show you the foals that have not been spoken for this season.” She wanted him out of her office, off her property, and safely on his way back to wherever his estate lay.
“Right this way, my lord,” Connor said, herding Lord Haversham toward the door.
He bowed in her direction. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Hale. I look forward to meeting your husband when I return.”
The nerve of the man! It may have been a natural presumption, but it made her want to scream nonetheless. Instead, she tamped down her anger and pasted a thin-lipped smile on her face. “You may call me Lady Posey or Lady Posey Hale, my lord.”
His brow rose in surprise as his gaze traveled the length of her body and back to her face. “My apologies again, Lady Posey. I hope we have cause to meet again soon.”
“Yes, I will look forward to that.” It would be a cold day in hell when they would meet again. She forced a smile to her lips, hoping it didn’t appear as a grimace to the two men. “Do let me know if I can aid you with anything else. Have a pleasant day.” Vi turned her attention to the papers littering her desk, effectively dismissing the pair.
The soft click of the door told her they’d departed. Only then did her body go limp in her chair. That had been a close call. This was the reason she had policies and procedures that she, Connor, and her other staff followed to the letter. Their livelihood depended on her ability to hide her identity.
She leaned forward and rested her cheek against the cold surface of her desk, her eyes closing. No one would purchase foals from the girl responsible for the death of two young men of the ton. It hadn’t mattered that her father was a duke or that she’d spent the last eight years redefining her purpose in life. She’d been shunned by polite society and it was something she’d live with for the rest of her life.
“Viola?”
Damn, she really must look into installing a bell on that door. How long had she been sulking?
Lifting her head, Connor stood in the doorway.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Lord Haversham has selected eight foals.”
“Eight?” She hadn’t acquired this large an account in six months. It should thrill her to be able to make her self-imposed donation on time, without having to liquidate furniture from her office. Instead, she was unnerved.
“Yes, he will return in a few weeks to collect them.”
Exactly what she’d been afraid of—his return to Foldger’s Foals.
“Can you not deliver them to him?” she asked.
“You can discuss that with him. He will be back in the morning to negotiate the price for each foal.”
Vi eyed him from behind her desk. Was he smirking? “You know who he is, do you not?”
Connor moved the rest of the way into the office and closed the door behind him. “I realized only after you fairly fainted in front of him.”
“You do realize this is bad, correct? Very bad.”
“He is only buying a few foals.” Connor took the seat across from Vi and stretched his legs. “He will come tomorrow to negotiate the price, and then you will have no reason to see him again.”
Vi appreciated Connor’s straight approach to problems; he’d soothed her anxiety more times than she could count. “That sounds reasonable. I will handle him in the morning and never have cause to see him again. We will keep this short.”
“Of course.”
“I will draw up the paperwork now and have it ready for tomorrow.” She had a sinking feeling things wouldn’t quite transpire as she planned.
Chapter 2
Brock Spencer, the Earl of Haversham, pulled the wooden, high-backed chair out and sat heavily. The room smelled of tobacco and sweat, even at this early hour. It was as if the scent of men had been absorbed into the very walls like a woman’s perfume on delicate skin. The men who lounged around the room, drinking ale and eating a stale breakfast, attested to the low standards of the establishment. He’d sought shelter here the previous night to await his meeting with Lady Posey. A smile spread across his face. The woman was a spitfire, and he looked forward to bantering and bickering over the price of her stock.
“Can I get ye sumthing, sir?”
When had the lady, and he used the term loosely, materialized before him? She leaned her hip against the round table in front of him and set down a grimy mug filled with what must be ale. Didn’t she realize it was barely eight in the morning?
“I would enjoy whatever is the cook’s specialty,” Brock replied.
She jerked her thumb back toward the kitchen. “Me ma does the cook’n and she don’t specialize in anything.” With a heave of her ample bosom, she sighed. “I’ll be bringing ye a plate of cheese and bread . . .” She paused for a moment, allowing her eyes to travel up and down Brock’s lean form. “It be me favorite,” she finished with an expectant look, as if she foresaw him asking her to join him for his meal.
“That will do.” He only hoped the wheat wasn’t infested with ergot. He’d seen many a comrade overtaken by hallucinations and racked with seizures, eventually succumbing to unconsciousness and death. It wasn’t a pleasant way to perish.
“I be right back with yer meal.” She straightened from her perch on the edge of his table and turned with a flip of her midnight-black hair. Her hips moved to a rhythm only she could hear as she sauntered back toward the bar.
Brock sat back, looking around the room. He hated to wait and waste time. His years serving the King had taught him idleness led to foolishness. A newspaper sat on the unoccupied table next to him. Taking a bit of the paper, he wiped the rim of his mug. Not that it would help, but at least his lips wouldn’t slide from the glass when they came into contact with the greasy surface.
As he set the paper aside, a headline grabbed his attention. “Local Earl Dies at Dawn.” A duel had claimed another life. “Ignorant men,” he mumbled as he made to set aside the paper. Unfortunately, the name printed in the article again drew his attention. He read on:
The Earl of Davenderly was killed on Tuesday morning after a duel in Hyde Park. This writer wonders if Lady Viola Oberbrook is currently in town. Has the Murderous Maiden struck again?
The article went on to discuss the legality of dueling at dawn and the consequences if caught by the magistrate. But none of that interested him. His mind fixated on the name he cursed almost daily since his return to England. No longer did he have the distraction of war, the peril and danger of it, to keep him otherwise engaged.
Brock threw the paper to the floor in disgust. How dare the article’s author drag before society the tragedy of his past? Did they not have any courtesy for his grieving family? True, his brothers’ deaths had occurred eight years before, but the pain still rocked him to his core. Having only recently returned to polite society and his ancestral family home, he finally had to deal with the loss, compounded by the unexpected death of his father while Brock had still been away. Coming home hoping to find the open arms of his father waiting, only to learn he’d passed had devastated him. Not a single person had sent word to him. It was a blow he had not expected, opening fresh the unhealed wound of the loss of his brothers.
“We don’t be gett’n the press rags very often, so we handle ‘em gentle like.” The bar maid set his plate of cheese and bread before him and bent to retrieve the paper he’d thrown to the dirt-covered floor boards, her breasts almost tumbling from the top of her dress. “Enjoy yer meal, sir.”
There was no reason to correct her inaccurate greeting. Though he was still getting used to being addressed by his father’s title, it would only cause more attention to be focused in his direction. He lifted the hunk of stale bread to his mouth as she again sauntered away, her hips gyrating a bit more forcefully on the return trip. If she ever fancied leaving her family’s business, she would surely be appreciated as a comfort woman behind his troop of men.
Correction: They were no longer ‘his men.’ And he was no longer fighting at the front line. Part of him couldn’t help but wonder if society would prove more dangerous a life than his previous as a soldier.
He pushed the thought from his mind. He needed to get used to being back in society. He gathered his lump of moldy cheese and the remaining bread in his napkin, using his other hand to retrieve coins from his pocket. The chair scraped against the rough-worn wooden floor as he stood and made his way up to his room to gather his few belongings.
The ride to Foldger’s Foals wasn’t a long journey, but the road was rut-ridden due to frequent use. A peek through the window of his room revealed a bright morning with nary a cloud in the sky, although the weather could change suddenly and let loose a downpour within minutes. Weather in this part of the country was fickle, to say the least.
Brock stuffed his remaining personal effects into his saddle bag and headed back downstairs to retrieve his stallion, Sage. He quickly made his way through the common room, avoiding the penetrating gaze of the barkeep’s wanton daughter. He had more pressing matters. He had a stable to establish, an estate to refurbish, a family name to polish, and a wife to find—not necessarily in that order.
Sage awaited him outside the inn’s main door, hitched to a post. He hoped the stable hand had fed him substantially and brushed the sweat from his coat after their long journey the day before.
“Hello, boy,” Brock greeted the only stable presence in his life. Sage had been by his side for more years than he could count. With the animal’s muzzle in his palm, he scratched just the right spot. Sage swooshed his tail to and fro.
“He be watered and fed for ye, just as ye asked last evening.”
Brock turned to face the stable lad behind him, a warm smile on his face. “Many thanks.” He flipped the boy a shilling, loaded his knapsack with the few things he’d brought with him, and mounted the horse.
Sage made quick time of the trip to Foldger’s Foals, and Brock was glad for it. As the stable came into view, he searched the open fields, the horse corral, and stable yard for any sight of Lady Posey. He told himself it was only to conduct their business as swiftly as possible and return back to his estate.
Is that really true? Whether it was or not didn’t matter; he had responsibilities to attend to at Haversham House. At this moment, lumber should be arriving to repair the neglected carriage house and stable. His butler and housekeeper would be training a new household staff, and he hoped to bring home a wife soon.
Yes, Brock was tired of being alone, living the solitary life of a military man. He missed his mother’s laughter, his father’s barking, and the twins’ hijinks.
Maneuvering Sage onto the lane leading up to the stable office, he spotted Lady Posey entering the yard through an ivy-covered gate before heading into the stables. Was that a potato sack the woman was wearing? Surely her maid should be relieved of her duties for allowing her mistress to leave her dressing chamber in such disarray.
Brock spurred Sage to a gallop and moved swiftly down the road, dust flying in his wake. He feared she’d disappear into the stables and not return for their meeting. He was stunned to realize he looked forward to bantering with her; she would drive a hard bargain, Brock was certain.
“Lady Posey!” He brought Sage to a stop feet from the entrance to her stables. “Good morning.” He leapt from his horse and threw his reins to the lad who ran out.
Her dress was not exactly a sack, but the sturdiness of the brown material would most likely hold the weight of one hundred pounds of potatoes. Gone was the young maiden with the sensible-yet-fashionable gown he had met yesterday. In her place stood an old maid.
“And to you, my lord.” Her gaze coyly directed at the ground as she sank into a curtsey the likes of which he hadn’t seen in years, if ever. Rising, she continued. “I have drawn up the appropriate paperwork. Please accompany me to my office. Tuck, please find Mr. Cale and direct him to my office, as well.” She addressed the lad leading Sage into the stables.
“Yes, miss.”
“I had not expected you this early,” she said as they walked the short distance to her office.
“I have long been an early riser. You’ve likewise surprised me.” Her coffee-colored dress, if that was indeed the exact shade, moved around her ankles as she walked two steps ahead of him.
“How so, my lord?” she asked over her shoulder. Stopping, she slipped a key into the lock of the door.
“It is my understanding that most maidens are wont to rise before the noon-day meal.” From her stern look and the hardness in her eyes, he feared he’d insulted her again. Another thing he would be made to apologize for. “I meant no disrespect, Lady Posey, I only—”
She stepped into the room and turned to face him. “You will learn in short order that I am not your common society miss or debutante.” She held her stance, blocking him entrance to the room.
Is she awaiting an apology? “Again, pardon my rudeness. I have only recently returned to polite society.”
She continued to stare at him, and he at her. He didn’t mind, as it gave him time to inspect her indigo eyes, clear as the channel he’d crossed between the continents.
