Lord Ravenscar's Inconvenient Betrothal. Lara Temple

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      The absurdity of her question when it was apparent she was not only the author of this destruction but probably also mad roused him from his shock. He surveyed the room again. And then her, more leisurely. She must be quite strong, because though the mace was substantial, she held it aloft very steadily, rather like a cricketer waiting for him to bowl. She was also reasonably pretty, so it was a pity she was mad.

      ‘Why would I do this?’ he temporised. ‘You can put that mace down, by the way. I’m not coming near you, believe me.’

      The tip of the mace hit the floor with a thump that shook the room, but she didn’t release the handle.

      ‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’

      ‘What I am doing is giving you a wide berth at the moment. Is your mania general or is it directed against anything medieval?’

      She looked around the room for a moment and her mouth drooped.

      ‘I don’t understand. Why would anyone do this? It makes no sense.’

      ‘That is the definition of madness, isn’t it?’

      She frowned at him.

      ‘I’m not mad. You still haven’t explained who you are and what you are doing here.’

      ‘Nor have you.’

      ‘I don’t have to. This is my house and you are trespassing.’

      ‘You are Curtis’s heir?’

      She nodded, her mouth quirking at the incredulity in his voice.

      ‘Albert Curtis was my cousin, or rather he was my mother’s cousin. Are you with Mr Prosper?’

      ‘No, I represent the people who were about to acquire the house from Albert before he inconveniently passed away.’

      ‘That’s not very nice. I think his death is much more inconvenient for him than for you,’ she said, a sudden and surprising smile flickering over her face and tilting her eyes up at the corners, transforming her looks from passable to exotic. He noticed the hair peeping out from her fashionable bonnet was auburn or reddish brown, which suited the honeyed hazel of her eyes. Warm colours. He was partial to light-haired women, but he could always widen his range. He moved into the room, just a couple steps so as not to alarm her.

      ‘Not at all. He’s dead. Nothing can inconvenience him now.’

      He really shouldn’t be trying to shock the woman he now had to convince to sell them her legacy, but teasing a mace-wielding young woman was a temptation hard to ignore. She might be mad, but she was definitely entertaining.

      ‘You can’t possibly be a solicitor. I’ve met dozens and not one of them would dare say something like that.’

      ‘Dozens? You are perhaps a criminal, then?’

      ‘Worse. So if you’re not a solicitor, what kind of representing are you doing? And why are you pursuing it now Albert is dead?’

      Worse? Perhaps she was mad. She didn’t seem addled, but neither did she seem very affected by her cousin’s recent death or even by being alone in a vandalised and empty house and in the presence of a stranger. Ravenscar knew his worth when it came to women and he wasn’t used to being treated with such cavalier insouciance; Rakehell Raven usually caused a much more gratifying response. Women either ran from him or ran to him, they rarely held their ground.

      He nudged one of the books at the edge of the tumbled bookcase with the toe of his boot. On Customs of the Dje-Dje Tribes of the African Plain by Reverend John Summerly. That must have been Albert’s, poor man.

      ‘I didn’t know he had died until a few days ago.’

      ‘That still doesn’t explain why you entered, knowing full well you had no business here anymore. Why?’

      He took another couple steps and bent to pick up a copy of Aurelius’s Meditations from under Harry’s gauntlet with a satisfied sigh. The spine had split, but that could be fixed. He tucked it under his arm and returned his attention to the young woman and her peculiar comments. She was still watching him with suspicion, but without a glimmer of real fear. Did she really think that mace would do an ounce of good against him if he chose to divest her of it?

      ‘What’s worse than a criminal, then? A nun?’ he asked.

      Her eyes widened.

      ‘On what scale is a nun worse than a criminal? And please return that book. It’s mine.’

      ‘On the scale of flirtation material. I don’t flirt with nuns. Criminals are fair game.’

      Her eyes widened further, the honey even more apparent the closer he came. Her skin also had a warm cast to it. This was no milk-and-water miss, despite her clothes. There was also just the faintest musical lilt in her voice which was neither London nor West Country. Perhaps she wasn’t as proper as she looked, which would present some interesting possibilities...

      ‘You are standing in what closely resembles the ruins of Carthage, facing a woman armed with a mace, and you are considering flirtation? You don’t look addled, but I’m beginning to suspect you are. Either that or quite desperate. Please put down that book. It’s mine.’

      ‘So you pointed out, but my advice is that you might not want to argue with someone you suspect is either addled or desperate or both.’

      ‘Thank you kindly for that advice. Now put down the book and step back.’

      He moved closer, making his way around the pile of books.

      ‘Not until you tell me what you believe is worse than a criminal. Somehow I can’t quite see you as a nun.’

      Her smile flickered again, but she mastered it. She raised the mace slightly and let it hit the ground again with an ominous thump. He stopped.

      ‘I shall take that as a compliment, though I am certain most would disagree. You have three chances to guess. If you do, I will make you a present of Marcus Aurelius. If not, you leave quietly.’

      He put his hands on his hips, amused by the challenge. This unusual creature was brightening up a dreary afternoon quite nicely. He would very much like the truth to be that she was a very permissive courtesan so he could see if she could wield something other than a mace in those surprisingly strong hands, but her dress certainly wasn’t supporting that theory. He considered the bronze-coloured pelisse with just an edge of a muslin flounce embroidered with yellow flowers peeping out beneath. Simple but very elegant and expensively made. Her bonnet, too, though unadorned by all the frills and gewgaws young women favoured, looked very costly. Had he met her in an assembly hall or a London drawing room, aside from avoiding her like the plague as another one of those horrible breed of marriageable young women, he would have presumed she was perfectly respectable. But respectable young women did not wander through empty estates on their own, even if they had inherited them, and they didn’t threaten strange men with maces. They came accompanied and in such circumstances they swooned or burst into tears.

      ‘Let me see. You’re an actress. Your last role was Dido and you are reprising. I don’t think the mace is historically accurate, СКАЧАТЬ