Page 4 of Dare it all for Love

Henry did his best to attend the conversation with Matilda, who was a friend of many years, but it was nigh on impossible. He was simply too distracted. Matilda kept giving him these odd, searching looks too, which was most unsettling. He tried to remember what they’d been talking about, but the sight of Miss Knight’s neat pink tongue lingering over the smooth curve of her spoon was engraved upon his mind.

Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. You are not a lecherous beast. She’s half your age.

No, she’s not, a belligerent voice in his head retorted.

Too close to half for comfort.

Henry tried to understand what it was about her. Yes, she was beautiful. Her glossy black curls shone in the candlelight and, now and then, he glimpsed irritation in her green eyes that made them flash sparks like emerald fire. Oh, hell. Yes, she was lovely, and that was why he was staying far, far away from her. He’d been conscious of her from the very first moment she’d walked in the room on arriving at Holbrook. His entire being had vibrated like a tuning fork, shockingly aware of her. It was a sensation he was all too familiar with. He’d felt just same way once before, a long time ago.

He’d believed in love at first sight in those days, but he was not a green boy any longer. Women were not to be trusted with your heart and, for some people, love was an illusion that faded quickly. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in it. Too many of his friends were happily married not to provide examples of the way it could be. But it was not for a man like him. As far as Henry was concerned, only lust was honest, and he was not about to turn into one of those disgusting men who chased after young women. His first love affair, his foolish, youthful folly had been forgivable, if humiliating. To fall into the same trap again at his time of life would be….

His stomach clenched, and the back of his neck felt hot and uncomfortable just considering it.

Miss Lily Johnson. No, Lady Nettlebury now. Christ, he’d not thought of her in years. Once, she had been the only thing he’d thought of. When she’d thrown him over, he’d thought he’d die of misery. He hadn’t, naturally, and all too soon he’d realised his error. He’d had a lucky escape. Lily had been beautiful, blonde, and exquisite. A blue-eyed angel. It had been all on the surface, though. Beneath the lovely exterior she had been shallow, selfish, and ruthlessly ambitious. Oh, no, he was not being played for a fool again, especially by some slip of a girl. Not that Florence Knight seemed at all the same kind of creature as Lily, despite her beauty.

It was clear she had been cosseted and indulged her whole life, but she did not appear spoiled. When she spoke, it was with intelligence and wit; hardly surprising, with Lady Helena as her mama. That was another thing… he was friends with her father. Gabriel would likely tie him to the tracks and run him down with one of his blasted trains if he had the slightest idea of Henry’s attraction to his daughter. Besides, he did not wish to marry. Not ever. It wasn’t for him. So that meant dallying with any respectable unwed young lady was out of the question.

There was only one thing to do, and that was to make certain he kept as much distance between him and the alluring Miss Knight as possible.

Chapter 1

Dearest Florence,

It was so lovely to see you at Holbrook and to spend time with everyone. I must confess it is good to be home, though. How strange it is that Royle House has become my home so quickly. Now that Hilda has gone to Paris and Hugo is happily married, the house is so much calmer. Of course the duke is a dreadful handful, worse than any spoilt child, but I rather adore the cantankerous old devil.

Freddie and Bertram have a new governess, who is a delightful lady, and they already adore her, though she’s had a stern word with Bainbridge about the influence of that wicked parrot. I’m beginning to think he’s right and the wretched bird knows exactly what to say at the precise moment to make your toes curl. I had the most mortifying encounter with the gardener last week when he brought over his prize-winning marrow to show us. Of course Bainbridge was in fits, but I did not know where to put myself.

Have you spoken to Grace yet? I have been so worried about her. Do keep me informed.

―Excerpt of a letter from Arabella Grenville, The Most Hon’ble, The Marchioness of Bainbridge (daughter of Mrs Alice and Mr Nathanial Hunt) to Miss Florence Knight (daughter of Lady Helena and Mr Gabriel Knight).

Early hours of the 8th of August 1839, Saxenhurst Hall, Sussex.

Henry woke with a start, his heart thudding and all the fine hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He sat up, wondering if he’d been dreaming, and listening out for the blood-curdling sound that had invaded his sleep. It came again, rending the peace of the night and echoing through the old house. That was no dream.

Henry flung himself out of bed, snatching up a banyan and pulling it on, tying the belt as he ran from the room. He wouldn’t have bothered, but he always slept naked and did not wish to traumatise the female staff any more than the scream would have done.

Naturally, the entire household was awake, the flicker of candlelight illuminating the house at intervals with small patches of golden light. Panicked whispers threaded through the strange silence that remained in the absence of that unsettling sound.

“Where did it come from, Parker?” he demanded of the butler.

“Conflicting reports, sir. Some say the north wing, but Cook says she’d swear it was the library.”

“Are all the staff accounted for?”

“Yes, sir.”

Henry nodded, organising the men into groups to search the property from top to bottom before running towards the library himself. Two of the footmen accompanied him but, as they burst through the door, the library was still and quite obviously empty.

“I want every inch of the house and grounds searched,” he said, but had hardly finished the sentence when a crash sounded upstairs.

Henry and the men flew from the room, taking the stairs three at a time. On the landing that led to the nursery and schoolroom was a smashed vase.

The search went on for several hours until Henry was satisfied that no corner of either the house or the garden had been missed. They found nothing. The staff went back to bed to snatch what little sleep they could before morning, muttering about ghosts and ill omens. Henry did not believe in ghosts or ill omens any more than he believed in witchcraft, but he did believe people could do ridiculous things for a myriad of reasons. Someone was playing silly buggers, and he intended to find out who.

Despite telling herself she was an idiot for getting her hopes up, Florence was looking forward to today. Lady St Clair had gained an invitation from her brother for their guests to picnic at Saxenhurst Hall. Whilst the Hall was nothing like as grand as Holbrook House, it was a very fine building. A moated manor house on the very edge of the border between Sussex and Kent, it dated back in parts to the thirteenth century. Florence wondered if it was haunted, and if Henry would allow them a tour. For the moment they were picnicking on a high spot, where views reached far across Kent: miles and miles of fields and woodland as far as the eye could see. It was a glorious day, with tiny wisps of cobwebby clouds touching the cobalt sky.

Florence was relieved to discover it was a proper picnic, too. She had been to some grand affairs where the entire dining room was simply transported out of doors, which was a poor sort of picnic in her view. Henry had done it properly, with blankets spread on the ground and enormous wicker baskets stuffed full of delicious food that were at once indulgent and easy to eat with your fingers. It was one of the things she liked about him, that he was down to earth, with easy manners. Henry was a gentleman of means and used to moving in the highest circles of society. He had wit and charm and exuded confidence, but he had also gone out of his way to put Mr Oak at ease today. Mr Oak was a gentleman, if a little rough about the edges, but he did not seem at home among Henry’s guests and was clearly cursing Henry for having persuaded him to attend. Despite this the friendship between them was obvious and Henry did his best to draw the taciturn fellow into the conversation. Florence could not help but believe that the broad-shouldered Mr Oak would far rather be about his farm doing something physical. The thought made her smile.