The Lost Heiress (Ladies of the Manor, #1)

by Roseanna M. White

All manner of men flooded Monaco in pursuit of its casino, and none could glower like the British. Well, perhaps the Russians, but theirs were more scowls than proper glowers.

Justin pressed a hand to his brow, dark blond hair falling over his fingers. “Heaven help me. I’ll be executed. My poor grandfather will expire from the shock of it, the dukedom will go extinct, and it will be all your fault. All because you grin at me and I can’t say no.”

“When have I ever awaited instruction? But did I not let my first arrow fly with admirable accuracy? Am I not a better shot with a pistol than you? Can I not out-fence any young lord?”

“It was right enough. You are indeed English. Which, assuming you’ve looked in a mirror now and again, oughtn’t to surprise you.”

“What am I, then? A farmer’s daughter? An abandoned waif?” His chuckle helped ease the band around her chest. “Mais non. It is as we imagined—you are a nymph from the fairy world.”

Brook drew in a long breath seasoned with fruit from the markets, the spice of Italian cooking, and the salty tang of the Mediterranean Sea.

“Of course you must.” He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles as he had done ever since they played knight and damsel as children, back when she had dreamed it was real.

“I know you have been praying about this as much as I have been. This is the answer to those prayers, mon amie. This is where the Lord wants you. And I will be with you every step of the way.”

Perhaps if he lost more, he would. But no, Father had made a fortune at the tables over the years. It was hard to convince a successful gambler to turn over a new leaf when he could turn up a new card instead.

Brook’s muscles were still warm and fluid from her ballet lesson, making her feel that if she stretched high enough, she could touch the clouds scuttling over the sky, or reach out and skim her hands through the warm waters.

There was nothing she could do but say thank-you. Even though she knew the devil never made a gift without demanding something in return.

The breath she drew in quavered. “And if not?” His fingers squeezed hers again. “Then you pay a visit to the Cotswolds. There is no ocean there, but there will always be a friend.”

Slate grey rather than emerald and azure, but that was no matter. It was the ocean, capable of raging and calm, of peace and war, of beauty and destruction.

Her lips tugged up. Justin was right—wherever there was a sea, she could find her place.

“Coffee, if not strong enough to wake a man from a coma, is not truly coffee.” “Hear, hear.” Brook raised an invisible cup of caffe espresso in salute.

“We shall call this story ‘The Beginning of the Baroness,’” Justin whispered into her ear as the locomotive screeched to a halt. “And it will be heartwarming—if dull for lack of conflict.”

“If these two are an example of the gentlemen to be found here, you shall have a fine time, yes?”

He chuckled, then took a long stride away. “Never. But, Dee . . . ?” “Hmm?” She folded the beautiful blue silk, careful not to make any hard creases. “Such lovely dresses would suit you. You’ve the face for them.”

Sometimes it mattered less what a secret was than that it was.

“Some creatures have a harder time obeying the standards put before them. But if you can inspire them to, they will outdo all the rest. You must simply learn their language.”

“Love is always a miracle. Especially in this world.”

“Everyone knows the Duke of Stafford is ill. Whatever news your father’s carrying, it isn’t good. Go to him. Even if he pushes you away, go. He needs you.” It was all the impetus she needed to go tearing across the lawn.