Much Ado About You

Much Ado About You

ELOISA JAMES

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in the U.S.A. by AVON BOOKS

An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 2005

Copyright © Eloisa James 2005

Eloisa James asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780007229482

Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2010 ISBN: 9780007396061

Version: 2018-04-09

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Epilogue

Keep Reading

A Love Letter to Louisa May Alcott

Why Every Heroine Needs a sister Just as Much as She needs a Husband (Ooops! Did I say More Then She Needs a Man?)

About the Author

Praise

About the Publisher

One

September 1816 Holbrook Court, seat of the Duke of Holbrook On the outskirts of Silchester

In the afternoon

‘I am happy to announce that the rocking horses have been delivered, Your Grace. I have placed them in the nursery for your inspection. As yet, there is no sign of the children.’

Raphael Jourdain, Duke of Holbrook, turned. He had been poking a fire smouldering in the cavernous fireplace of his study. There was a reserved tone in his butler’s voice that signalled displeasure. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Brinkley’s tone signalled the disgruntlement of the entire household of elderly servants, not one of whom was enchanted by the idea of accommodating themselves to the presence of four small, female children. Well, the hell with that, Rafe thought. It wasn’t as if he’d asked to have a passel of youngsters on the premises.

‘Rocking horses?’ came a drawling voice from a deep chair to the right of the fireplace. ‘Charming, Rafe. Charming. One can’t start too early making the little darlings interested in horseflesh.’ Garret Langham, the Earl of Mayne, raised his glass toward his host. His black curls were in exquisite disarray, his comments arrogant to a fault, and his manners barely hid a seething fury. Not that he was furious at Rafe; Mayne had been in a slow burn for the past few months. ‘To Papa and his brood of infant equestriennes,’ he added, tossing back his drink.

‘Stubble it!’ Rafe said, but without much real animosity. Mayne was a damned uncomfortable companion at the moment, what with his poisonous comments and black humour. Still, one had to assume that the foul temper caused by the shock of being rejected by a woman would wear off in a matter of time.

‘Why the plural, as in rocking horses?’ Mayne asked. ‘As I recall, most nurseries contain only one rocking horse.’

Rafe took a gulp of his brandy. ‘I don’t know much about children,’ he said, ‘but I distinctly remember my brother and me fighting over our toys. So I bought four of them.’

There was a second’s silence during which the earl considered whether to acknowledge the fact that Rafe obviously still missed his brother (dead these five years, now). He dismissed the impulse. Manlike, he observed no benefit to maudlin conversation.

‘You’re doing those orphans proud,’ he said instead. ‘Most guardians would stow the children out of sight. It’s not as if they’re your blood.’

‘There’s no amount of dolls in the world that will make up for their situation,’ Rafe said, shrugging. ‘Their father should have thought of his responsibilities before he climbed on a stallion.’

The conversation was getting dangerously close to the sort of emotion to be avoided at all costs, so Mayne sprang from his chair. ‘Let’s have a look at the rocking horses, then. I haven’t seen one in years.’

‘Right,’ Rafe said, putting his glass onto the table with a sharp clink. ‘Brinkley, if the children arrive, bring them upstairs, and I’ll receive them in the nursery.’

A few minutes later the two men stood in the middle of a large room on the third floor, dizzily painted with murals. Little Bo Peep chased after Red Riding Hood, who was surely in danger of being crushed by the giant striding across the wall, his raised foot lowering over a feather bed sporting a huge green pea under the coverlet. The room resembled nothing so much as a Bond Street toy shop. Four dolls with spun gold hair sat primly on a bench. Four doll beds were propped atop each other, next to four doll tables, on which sat four jack-in-the-boxes. In the midst of it all was a group of rocking horses graced with real horsehair and coming almost to a man’s waist.

‘Jesus,’ Mayne said.

Rafe strode into the room and stamped on the rocker of one of the horses, making it clatter back and forth on the wooden floor. A door on the side of the room swung open, and a plump woman in a white apron poked her head out.

‘There you are, Your Grace,’ she said, beaming. ‘We’re just waiting for the children. Would you like to meet the new maids now?’

‘Send them on in, Mrs Beeswick.’

Four young nursemaids crowded into the room after her. ‘Daisy, Gussie, Elsie, and Mary,’ said the nanny. ‘They’re from the village, Your Grace, and pleased to have a position at Holbrook Court. We’re all eager for the little cherubs to arrive.’ The nursemaids lined up to either side of Mrs Beeswick, smiling and curtsying.

‘Jesus,’ Mayne repeated. ‘They won’t even share a maid, Rafe?’

‘Why should they? My brother and I had three nurses between us.’

‘Three?

‘Two for my brother, ever since he became duke at the age of seven, and one for me.’

Mayne snorted. ‘That’s absurd. When’s the last time you met your wards’ father, Lord Brydone?’

‘Not for years,’ Rafe said, picking up a jack-in-the-box and pressing the lever so that it hopped from its box with a loud squeak. ‘The arrangement was just a matter of a note from him and my reply.’

‘You have never met your own wards?’

‘Never. I haven’t been over the border in years, and Brydone only came down for the Ascot, the Silchester, and, sometimes, Newmarket. To be honest, I don’t think he really gave a damn for anything other than his stables. He didn’t even bother to list his children in Debrett’s. Of course, since he had four girls, there was no question of inheritance. The estate went to some distant cousin.’

‘Why on earth -’ Mayne glanced at the five women standing to the side of the room and checked himself.

‘He asked me,’ Rafe said, shrugging. ‘I didn’t think twice of it. Apparently Monkton had been in line, but he cocked up his toes last year. And Brydone asked me to step in. Who would have thought that ill could come to Brydone? It was a freak accident, that horse throwing him. Although he was fool enough to ride a half-broken stallion.’

‘Damned if I thought I’d ever see you a father,’ Mayne said.

‘I had no excuse to say no. I have the substance to raise any number of children. Besides, Brydone gave me Starling in return for acting as a guardian. I told him I’d do the job, as soon as he wrote me, and no bribe was necessary. But he sent Starling down from Scotland, and no one would say nay to adding that horse to their stables.’

‘Starling is out of Standout, isn’t he?’

Rafe nodded. ‘Patchem’s brother. The core of Brydone’s stable is out of Patchem, and those are now the only horses in England in Patchem’s direct line. I’m hopeful that Starling will win the Derby next year, even if he is descended from Standout rather than Patchem himself.’

‘What will happen to Patchem’s offspring?’ Mayne asked, with the particular intensity he reserved for talk of horses. ‘Something Wanton, for example?’

‘I don’t know yet. Obviously, the stables aren’t entailed. My secretary has been up there working on the estate. Should Brydone’s stable come to the children, I’ll put the horses up for auction and the money in trust. The girls will need dowries someday, and I’d be surprised if Brydone bothered to set them up himself.’

‘If Wanton is for sale, I’m the one to buy him. I’d pay thousands for him. There could be no better addition to my stables.’

‘He would do wonders for mine as well,’ Rafe agreed.

Mayne had found a little heap of cast-iron horses and was sorting them out so that each carriage was pulled by a matched pair. ‘You know, these are quite good.’ He had all the cast-iron horses and their carriages lined up on the mantelpiece now. ‘Wait till your wards see these horses. They won’t think twice about the move from Scotland. Pity there’s no boy amongst them.’

Rafe just looked at him. The earl was one of his dearest friends, and always would be. But Mayne’s sleek, protected life had not put him in the way of grief. Rafe knew only too well what it felt like to find oneself lonely in the midst of a cozy nursery, and cast-iron horses wouldn’t help, for all he found himself buying more and more of them. As if toys would make up for a dead father. ‘I hardly think you -’

The door behind him swung open. He stopped and turned.

Brinkley moved to the side more nimbly than was his practice. It wasn’t every day that one got to knock the master speechless with surprise. ‘I’m happy to announce Miss Essex. Miss Imogen. Miss Annabel. Miss Josephine.’

Then he added, unable to resist, if the truth be known, ‘The children have arrived, Your Grace.’

Two

The first thing Teresa Essex noticed was that the Englishmen were playing with toys. Toys! That fitted with everything they’d heard about Englishmen: thin, puny types they were, who never grew up and shivered with cold during a stiff breeze.

Still, they were only men, if English versions of them.

Tess hadn’t been much over sixteen years old when she realised that men’s notions of toys were flexible. With a glance at Josie and a touch on Imogen’s shoulder she brought her sisters into a straight line. Annabel had already fallen into place, her head tilted just so, the better to allow the beholders to appreciate the sheen of her honey-golden hair.

These Englishmen looked even more shocked at the sight of the four of them than was usual. They were practically gaping. Quite rude, really. They weren’t exactly the spindly-legged, sickly creatures she would have expected, from what was said about Englishmen. The one of them looked like a fashion plate and had a wild mop of black curls that she supposed must be fashionable. Not that he was a dandy. Dandies didn’t have that faintly dangerous air. The other was tall, with a bit of a gut and a messy shock of brown hair falling over his brow. A lone wolf, perhaps.

‘Well,’ she said finally, when no one spoke, ‘we are, naturally, sorry to interrupt you both, especially when you were so gainfully occupied.’ She gave it just the faintest stress. Just enough to let them know that they were not merely pretty Scottish lasses, to be shunted off to the back room and ignored. They were ladies, after all, whether they wore unfashionable clothing or not.

The elegant one bowed and came forward, saying, ‘What a delightful surprise to meet you, Miss Essex. All of you.’

There was something odd about his voice, as if he were having trouble not laughing. But he kissed her hand with all the adroitness of a courtier.

Then finally the big one, the lone wolf, shook himself, for all the world like a dog coming out of a puddle, and came to her side as well. ‘I apologise for my impoliteness,’ he said. ‘I am Rafe Jourdain, the Duke of Holbrook. I’m afraid that I mistook your ages.’

‘Our ages?’ Tess let her eyebrows ask a delicate question. Then, slowly, the implications of the gaudily painted room and the clusters of toys sank in. ‘You thought we were still children?’

He nodded, standing before her now, bowing again, the easy sweep of a man who has spent his lifetime in the highest echelons of society, even though he (apparently) didn’t bother to brush his hair. ‘I offer you all my heartiest apologies. I was under the erroneous belief that you and you sisters were quite young.’

‘Young!’ Tess said. ‘You must have thought we were mere babes in arms!’ Because now she had taken in the presence of a nanny and four gaping young nursemaids in white aprons, the rocking horses, the dolls. ‘Didn’t Papa tell you -’

But she broke off. Of course Papa hadn’t told him. Papa had likely informed him of Starling’s age, and Wanton’s stride, and what Lady of Pleasure liked to eat before a race, but not the ages of his daughters.

Their guardian had taken her hand and was smiling down at her now, and her heart warmed despite her resentment. ‘I’m such a fool that I forgot to ask your father. And, of course, I hadn’t the faintest notion that my guardianship would be needed. Will you accept my deepest sympathies for your loss, Miss Essex?’

Tess blinked. His eyes were a curious colour, sort of a grey-blue. And kind, for all he looked like a wild man of Borneo. A dash of hope mixed with the bleak feeling of defensiveness in her chest.

‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘May I introduce my sisters? This is Imogen,’ she said, turning to her sister. ‘Imogen is just turned twenty.’ There were moments when she thought that Imogen was more beautiful than Annabel (and that was really saying something). She had their mother’s sleek black hair and her laughing eyes, but that mouth – only Imogen had a mouth that took such an exquisite curve. Sometimes it struck men like a blow in the stomach; it was rather interesting to watch the duke blink and recover.

Imogen, of course, never paid any mind to the effect she had on men because she was in love. She did smile at the duke, though, and gave a pretty curtsy. When their father had a bit of money, he usually remembered to hire a governess for a time, at least, and so they all could put on dandified manners when required.

‘This is Annabel,’ Tess said, putting a hand on Annabel’s arm. ‘Annabel is the eldest after me; she is twenty-two.’ If Imogen paid no heed to men, Annabel must have toddled out of her nurse’s arms knowing how to flirt. Now she gave the duke a rosy-lipped smile that spoke of innocence and something else; she pitched her voice to the tune of an unheavenly appreciation. Her simple greeting sounded like honey with an edge of lemon.

The duke showed no sign of turning weak at the knees.

‘Miss Annabel,’ he said, bringing her hand to his lips. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

‘And Josephine,’ Tess said. ‘Josie is fifteen, and still in the schoolroom.’

Tess noticed that the duke was already smiling at Josie, which was a sign of his good manners. She loathed it when men acted as if they were stuck by glue to Annabel’s side and only gave Josie the scantest glance.

‘I’d rather you didn’t kiss my hand,’ Josie said briskly.

‘May I introduce a friend of mine?’ the duke said, acting as if he didn’t hear Josie’s comment, although he made no effort to kiss her hand. ‘Garret Langham, the Earl of Mayne.’

Annabel gave Mayne a blithely appreciative smile, as if she were a four-year-old being handed a piece of birthday cake. There was nothing more to Annabel’s taste than a man in possession of all his limbs and a title.

Mayne smiled back with something of the same admiration, although Tess thought that his emotion likely had little to do with Annabel’s forefathers.

The gentlemen completed their greetings, and the duke turned back to her. ‘Miss Essex, since none of you are likely to have interest in these -’ he waved his hand ‘- these playthings, shall we retire to the public rooms? I’m afraid that my housekeeper will likely need a short period of time to ready bedchambers for you, but I imagine your maids will assist.’

Tess felt a blush rising up her collarbone. ‘We haven’t brought any maids with us.’

‘In that case,’ her guardian said without even blinking, we can employ these four young women for the purpose, if that would be acceptable.’ He indicated the four nursemaids, still lined up against the wall, their eyes wide as ha’pennies. ‘I’m certain the housekeeper can train them in their duties readily enough.’

‘You’re in need of a chaperone,’ Mayne put in, with a slanting glance at the duke. ‘Now that you’re no longer running a nursery. Tonight, Rafe.’

Clearly the thought hadn’t crossed their guardian’s mind. ‘Dammit, I’ll have to write a note to Lady Clarice,’ he said, running a hand through his wild hair, ‘and ask her to pay me a visit. That’s if she’ll come after last time; I think I was a trifle rude to her.’

‘In your cups, were you?’ Mayne asked.

A wry grimace curled their guardian’s mouth. ‘I threw her out, with luck not bodily. Can’t really remember.’ He suddenly realised that Tess and the girls were all staring at him and gave them a smile that hadn’t a whit of remorse in it. ‘Now my wards will think I’m a sot.’

‘To know you is to love you,’ the earl said, throwing him a sarcastic grin. ‘My dear Misses Essex, the evening when your guardian isn’t clutching a bumper of brandy will be the day hell blooms with roses.’

‘Lady Clarice’s land runs parallel to ours,’ Holbrook said to Tess, ignoring his friend’s comment. ‘I daresay if I send a pretty enough note, she’ll forgive me since we are in desperate circumstances. You can’t possibly spend the night under my roof without a chaperone.’

But Mayne wasn’t to be silenced. ‘The lady’s a widow, and she has an eye for your guardian,’ he told the girls. ‘I do believe she’s hoping that one day she’ll find him so deep in his cups that he doesn’t notice that she’s calling the banns. It’s too bad for her that Rafe doesn’t show his liquor.’

‘Nonsense,’ the duke said gruffly, sweeping his hair about so that he looked even more of a lunatic.

‘Doesn’t bother her that she has ten years on Rafe,’ Mayne continued blithely. ‘Lady Clarice has an optimistic soul, for all that her own son is almost Rafe’s own age.’

‘Maitland is considerably younger than I,’ the duke said rather curtly.

‘He’s in his twenties,’ Mayne said, ‘and that makes Lady Clarice at least five years older than you.’

Tess felt rather than heard an agitated little sound from Imogen, at the same second that her own heart sunk. They were hoping to wean Imogen from her hopeless adoration of Lord Maitland, and finding him next door wasn’t the best start. ‘Are you by any chance referring to Draven Maitland, Your Grace?’ she asked, obedient to an imploring glance from Imogen.

‘So you know Maitland, do you?’ It didn’t look to Tess as if their guardian thought much more of Lord Maitland than she did. ‘Likely he’ll accompany his mother then. I’ll ask them both to join us for supper. Perhaps you and your sisters would like to take a short rest before the evening meal?’

‘That would be pleasant,’ Tess said. Imogen was grinning like a fool. Tess saw the duke’s eyes take in her grin, but he said nothing.

‘The rose suite will do until your chambers are readied.’ Holbrook held out his arm, and Tess took it, rather awkwardly.

The Englishmen were so unlike what she had expected! They were – formidable. But Englishmen weren’t supposed to be formidable. Everything she’d ever heard about English gentlemen suggested that they were willowy creatures, liable to sneeze and blow away. Oh, there were exceptions, of course. Lord Maitland, for one, had a sturdy enough figure.

Their new guardian didn’t fit the mould either. He was not ducal in the least. He wasn’t dressed in satin or velvet. Instead, he was wearing trousers so old that she could see the seams on the side, especially where they strained over his belly, and a white shirt that didn’t have a bit of satin on it. Its sleeves were even turned up, as if he were about to set to work in the stables.

There was nothing aristocratic about his voice, either. It was nice enough, but gruff and brusque. And he had lines around his eyes, for all he couldn’t be more than thirty-five. Dissipated, that’s what he looked. Not a womaniser: Tess could spot one of those a mile off, and though he looked at all of them with interest, there wasn’t a spark of appreciation of their womanhood in his eyes.

And yet, for all that wild hair and dissipated face and ancient clothing, for all of that — he wasn’t frightening.