The Blue Rose Regency Romances: The Culpepper Misses Series 1-5 Page 4

  Of all the—

  Another horrendous, grinding snap rent the air, and he whipped around to peer behind him. The remainder of the tree plummeted, ripping the roots from their protective cover and jarring the ground violently. More miniature dirt cannonballs pelted him and Ebénè.

  Could the day possibly get worse?

  The horse bucked and kicked his hind legs.

  Yes. It could.

  Heath lurched forward, just about plummeting headfirst into the muck. Clutching his horse’s mane and neck, he held on, dangling from the side of the saddle.

  The mud oozed down his spine.

  I’m never setting foot outdoors in the rain again.

  With considerable effort, he righted himself then turned to look at the mammoth tree blocking the drive. Had the thing landed on him, he’d have been killed.

  Another ripple of unease tingled down his spine, and he glanced around warily. Didn’t feel right. He couldn’t put his finger on what, but disquiet lingered, and he’d always been one to heed his hunches.

  He returned his attention to the shattered tree and the ground torn up by the exposed roots. Disease-ravaged. He glanced at the others. Several of them, too. Dangerous that. They ought to come down. He’d best warn the new owners of the hazard.

  You are the new owner.

  Heath swiped a hand across his face, dislodging several muddy bits. Nothing like arriving saturated and layered in filth to evict a tenant.

  He scrutinized the dismembered tree. A man on horseback could traverse the mess, but passage by carriage was impossible. To expedite the sale, it might be worth paying the tenant to remove the downed tree. That meant delaying tours to prospective buyers for at least a day or two. Unless a neighbor familiar with the place was prepared make the purchase at once—a most convenient solution.

  Turning his horse to the unremarkable house, he clicked his tongue and kicked his heels.

  A few moments later, Heath halted Ebénè before the weathered stone structure. A shutter, the emerald paint chipped and peeling, hung askew on one of the upper windows, and the hedge bordering the circular courtyard hadn’t seen a pair of pruning shears in a good while. Jagged cracks marred the front steps and stoop, and a scraggly tendril of silvery smoke spiraled skyward from a chimney missing several bricks. An untidy orchard on the opposite side of the house from the barns also showed signs of neglect.

  The manor and grounds had seen better days, a testament either to the tenant’s squandering or to having fallen on hard times. No wonder Gainsborough hadn’t been reluctant to part with the place. Why, Heath had done the chap a favor by winning. Gainsborough had probably laughed himself sick with relief at having rid himself of the encumbrance.

  Ebénè shuddered and shifted beneath Heath.

  Poor beast.

  Heath scanned the rustic manor then the barns. Should he dismount here or take the miserable horse to the stables? A single ground floor window in the house glowed with light, rather strange given the lateness of the afternoon and the gloom cloaking the day.

  The entrance eased open, no more than three inches, and a puckered face surrounded by wild grayish-white hair peeked through the crack. “State your business.”

  This shabby fellow, the tenant farmer? That explained a lot.

  Heath slid from the saddle, his sore bum protesting. The mud in his shirt shifted lower. Shit.

  “I’m the Earl of Ravensdale, here to see the master.”

  A cackle of laughter erupted from the troll-like fellow. The door inched open further, and the man’s entire head poked out. He grinned, revealing a missing front tooth.

  “Mighty hard to do, stranger, since he’s been dead these five years past.”

  The man snickered again, but then his gaze shifted to Ebénè and widened in admiration. The peculiar chap recognized superior horseflesh.

  Ebénè nudged Heath, none too gently.

  The remainder of Heath’s patience dissolved faster than salt in soup. He jiggled the horse’s reins. “My mount needs attention, and I must speak to whoever is in charge. Is that you?”

  “Is someone at the door, Duffen? In this weather?”

  The door swung open to reveal a striking blonde, wearing a dress as ugly and drab as the dismal day.

  Heath’s jaw sagged, and he stared mesmerized.

  Despite the atrocious grayish gown, the woman’s figure stole the air from him. Full breasts strained against the too-small dress, tapering to a waist his hands could span. And from her height, he’d lay odds she possessed long, graceful legs. Legs that could wrap around his waist and...

  Though cold to his marrow, his manhood surged with sensual awareness. He shifted his stance, grateful his long overcoat covered him to his ankles. He snapped his mouth shut. Evict this shapely beauty? Surely a monumental mistake had been made. Gainsborough couldn’t be so cold-hearted, could he?

  Heath snapped his mouth closed and glared at the grinning buffoon peeking around the doorframe. Making a pretense of shaking the mud from his coat, Heath slid a sideways glance to the woman. Probably thought him a half-witted dolt.

  She regarded Heath like a curious kitten, interest piqued yet unsure of what to make of him. Her dark blue, almost violet, eyes glowed with humor, and a smile hovered on her plump lips. The wind teased the flaxen curls framing her oval face.

  A dog poked its snout from beneath her skirt and issued a muffled warning.

  “Hush, Freddy. Go inside. Shoo.”

  The dog skulked into the house. Just barely. He plopped onto the entrance, his worried brown-eyed gaze fixed on Heath. She neatly stepped over the portly corgi, and the bodice of her gown pulled taught, exposing hardened nipples.

  Another surge of desire jolted Heath.

  Disturbing. Uncharacteristic, this immediate lust.

  Rainwater dribbled from the hair plastered to his forehead and into his eyes. He swiped the strands away to see her better.

  “Miss—”

  A disturbance sounded behind her. She glanced over her shoulder as four more young women crowded into the entry.

  Blister and damn. A bloody throng of goddesses.

  Surely God’s favor had touched them, for London couldn’t claim a single damsel this exquisite, let alone five diamonds of the first water.

  Gainsborough had some lengthy explaining to do.

  The one attired in gray narrowed her eyes gone midnight blue, all hint of warmth whisked away on the wind buffeting them. She notched her pert chin upward and pointed at him.

  “You’re him, aren’t you? The man who bought Esherton’s lands? Are you truly so eager to take possession and ruin us, you ventured out in this weather and risked catching lung fever?”

  Bought Esherton’s lands? What the hell?

  A wise woman refrains from laying odds, well aware that luck never gives,

  it only lends, and will inevitably demand payment, no matter the cost.

  ~Wisdom and Advice—The Genteel Lady’s Guide to Practical Living

  He’s come already.

  Brooke’s hope, along with her heart, sank to her half-boots at the peeved expression on the man’s chiseled face. Much too attractive, even drenched, mud-splattered, and annoyed.

  The girls’ sharp intakes of breath hadn’t gone unnoticed. She hid her own surprise behind a forced half-smile. Her breasts tingled, the nipples pebble hard.

  It’s the icy wind, nothing more.

  She imagined his heavy gaze lingering on her bodice.

  Why couldn’t he have been ancient and ugly and yellow-toothed and...and balding?

  Shock at his arrival had her in a dither. She’d counted on a scrap of luck to allow her time to prepare a convincing argument. To have him here a mere hour after reading Sheridan’s letter had her at sixes and sevens. The letter must have been delayed en route, or her cowardly cousin had dawdled in advising her of the change in her circumstances.

  She’d lay odds, ten to one, on the latter.

  The gentleman still stood in t
he rain. That would make a positive impression and gain his favor when she broached the possibility of her continuing to operate the dairy and farm.

  Come, Brooke. Gather your wits and manners, control yourself, and attempt to undo the damage already done.

  “Looks like a half-drowned mongrel, he does.” Duffen sniggered, his behavior much ruder than typical.

  Brooke quelled his snicker with a sharp look. “See to the horse, please, and tell Mr. Mabry we have a guest. Ask him to join us as soon as he is able.”

  “Yes, Miss Brooke. I’ll get my coat.” Duffen bobbed his head and went in search of the garment.

  She wanted the overseer present when she explained her proposition to his lordship. After all, although she’d read dozens of books and articles on the subject, Mabry’s knowledge of the dairy’s day-to-day operation far surpassed hers.

  Brooke folded her hands before her. “He’ll return momentarily, Mister...?”

  The gentleman, with hair as black as the glorious horse standing beside him, crooked a boyish smile and bowed. Yes, too confounded handsome for her comfort. The wind flipped his coat over his bent behind. “Heath, Earl of Ravensdale at your service, Mistress...?”

  “Earl?” He’s a confounded earl?

  An earl wouldn’t want to run a dairy farm, would he?

  She scrutinized him toe to top. Not one dressed like him. His soaked state couldn’t disguise the fineness of the garments he wore or the quality of the beautiful stepper he rode. The wind tousled his hair, a trifle longer than fashionable. It gave him a dashing, rakish appearance. She shouldn’t have noticed that, nor experienced the odd sparks of pleasure gazing at him caused.

  A lock slipped onto his forehead again. The messy style rather suited him. Where was his hat anyway?

  She winced as a boney elbow jabbed her side.

  “Tell him your name, Brooke.”

  Ah, Blythe. Always level-headed. And subtle.

  “Forgive me, my lord. I am Brooke Culpepper.” Brooke gestured to the foursome peering at the earl. “And these are my sister, Miss Brette Culpepper, and our cousins, the Misses Culpeppers, Blythe, Blaire, and Blaike.”

  His lips bent into an amused smile upon hearing their names, not an uncommon occurrence.

  Named Bess, Mama and Aunt Bea had done their daughters an injustice by carrying on the silly B name tradition for Culpepper females. Supposedly, the practice had started so long ago no one could remember the first.

  Brooke dipped into a deep curtsy, and the girls followed her lead, each making a pretty show of deference. She wanted to applaud. Not one teetered or stumbled. They’d never had cause to curtsy before, and the dears performed magnificently.

  Freddy lowered his shoulders and touched his head to his paws, a trick Brooke had taught him as a puppy.

  Lord Ravensdale threw his head back and laughed, a wonderful rumble that echoed deep in his much-too-broad chest. At least, it looked wide beneath his coat. Maybe he wore padding. Silas Huffington did, which, rather than making him look muscular, gave him the appearance of a great, stuffed doll.

  A very ugly doll.

  “What a splendid trick, Mistress...?” His lordship inquired after her name again.

  “It’s miss, your lordship.” Brette nudged Brooke in the ribs this time. “We’re all misses, but Brooke’s the eldest of the five and—”

  Brooke silenced her with a slight shake of her head.

  A puzzled expression flitted across the earl’s face. He took her measure, examining her just as she’d inspected him, and a predatory glint replaced his bewilderment.

  Her gaze held captive by his—titillating and terrifying—the hairs from her forearms to her nape sprang up. Awareness of a man unlike anything she’d ever experienced before, even with Humphrey, gripped her.

  A man of the world, and no doubt used to snapping his fingers and getting whatever he desired, including wenches in his bed, Lord Ravensdale now scrutinized her with something other than inquisitiveness. The look couldn’t be described as entirely polite either.

  He wasn’t to be trifled with.

  She’d bet the biscuits Brette made today, Brooke had piqued his interest. Why, and whether she should be flattered or alarmed, she hadn’t determined. What rot. Of course she was flattered. What woman wouldn’t be?

  He approached the steps, his attention locked on her. “There’s no Mister Culpepper?”

  Brooke tilted her head, trying to read him. Why didn’t she believe the casualness of his tone?

  “No, not since Father died five years ago.” She pushed a tendril of hair off her cheek, resisting the urge to wrap her arms around her shoulders and step backward. The wind proved wicked for April. Why else did she remain peppered in gooseflesh? “Didn’t Cousin Sheridan inform you?”

  “Cousin? Gainsborough is your cousin?” Disbelief shattered his lordship’s calm mien. His nostrils flared, and his lovely lips pressed into a thin line. His intense gaze flicked to each of the women, one by one. “He is cousin to all of you?”

  “Yes,” Brooke and the others said as one.

  The revelation didn’t please the earl. He closed his eyes for a long moment, his impossibly thick lashes dark smudges against his swarthy skin. Did he ail? He seemed truly confounded or put upon.

  Wearing a floppy hat which almost obliterated his face, Duffen edged by her. He yanked his collar to his ears. “I’ll see to your horse, sir.”

  “Duffen, that will do,” Brooke warned gently. She wouldn’t tolerate impudence, even from a retainer as beloved as him. “Lord Ravensdale is our guest.”

  Astonishment flitted across Duffen’s cragged features before they settled into lines of suspicion once more. Duffen hadn’t expected a noble either.

  “Beg your pardon, Miss Brooke.”

  He ducked his head contritely and, after gathering the horse’s reins, led the spirited beast toward the stables. Eager to escape the elements, the stallion practically dragged Duffen.

  “My lord, please forgive my poor manners. Do come in out of the wretched rain.” Brooke stepped over Freddy and turned to Brette. “Will you fetch hot tea and biscuits for his lordship?”

  Brooke sent him a sidelong glance. “And a towel so he might dry off?”

  “Of course. At once.” Brette bobbed a hasty curtsy before hurrying down the shadowy corridor.

  Hopefully, she would brew just enough tea for the earl. They were nearly out of tea and sugar, and there would be no replacing the supplies.

  Brooke motioned to Blaike. “Please stir the fire in the study and add another log? I don’t wish his lordship to become chilled.”

  Her attention riveted on their visitor, Blaike colored and stuttered, “Ah…yes. Certainly.” After another quick peek at him, she pivoted and disappeared into the study a few doorways down.

  He’d been here mere minutes and the girls blushed and blathered like nincompoops. Brooke pursed her lips. It wouldn’t do, especially not when he might very well be here to put them out of their home. She drew in a tense breath.

  Lord Ravensdale stepped across the threshold and hesitated. He wiped his feet on the braided rag rug while his gaze roved the barren entrance. A rivulet of rainwater trailed down his temple. Soaked through. He’d be lucky if he didn’t catch his death.

  Surely claiming the lands hadn’t been so pressing he’d felt the need to endanger his health by venturing into the worst storm in a decade? A greedy sort and anxious to see what he’d purchased, perhaps. Well, he’d have to wait. She wouldn’t ask Mr. Mabry or the other hands to show the earl around, not only because the weather was fouler than Mr. Huffington’s breath, but Brooke needed the men attending the cows and newborn calves.

  Lord Ravensdale exuded power and confidence, and the foyer shrank with his presence. Except for Brette, the Culpepper women were tall, but he towered above Brooke by several inches. He smiled at Brooke, and her stomach gave a queer little somersault at the transformation in his rugged features. Devilishly attractive. A dangerous distrac
tion. He was the enemy. He’d bought Esherton, practically stolen her home, with no regard to how that would affect her family.

  Don’t be fooled by his wild good looks.

  He shoved wet strands off his high forehead again.

  Freddy crept closer, his button nose twitching.

  Brooke brushed away a few of Freddy’s hairs clinging to her skirt, unexpectedly ashamed of her outdated and worn gown. She hid her calloused hands in the folds of her gown. She would wager the Culpepper sapphires that women threw themselves at Lord Ravensdale.

  Fashionable ladies dressed in silks and satins, with intricately coiffed hair, and smooth, creamy skin, who smelled perfectly wonderful all the time. Lord Ravensdale’s women probably washed with perfumed soap. Expensive, scented bars from France. Pink or yellow, or maybe blue and shaped like flowers.

  Brooke couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn perfume or used anything other than the harsh gel-like soap that she and Mrs. Jennings made from beef tallow. Their precious candle supply came from the smelly lard too.

  Why the notion rankled, Brooke refused to examine. Except, here she stood attired like a country bumpkin covered in dog and cat hair, with her curls tied in a haphazard knot and ink stains on her fingers. She couldn’t even provide his lordship a decent repast or light a candle to guide him to the study, let alone produce a dram of whisky or brandy to warm his insides.

  Nonetheless, they...she must win his favor.

  She straightened her spine, determined to act the part of a gracious hostess if it killed her. “Sir, you should take off your coat. It’s soaked through.”

  While his lordship busied himself removing his gloves, she studied him. He had sharp, exotic, almost foreign features. She shouldn’t be surprised to learn a Moroccan or an Egyptian ancestor perched in his family tree somewhere. High cheekbones gave way to a molded jaw and a mouth much too perfect to belong to a man. A small scar marred the left side of his square chin. How had he come by it?