Page 4 of Married to the Rake

Chapter Two

Brook squinted into the gloom of his father’s study. Standing by the curtains, through which a thin sliver of light entered, was Sir Robert.

Brook folded his arms. “Whatever are you doing, Father?”

His father turned. “They’ve been at it again.”

Fighting back a groan, Brook strode across the room, skirting the large stacks of books and old records piled high on floors, tables, and shelves. No doubt his father had been looking at their records—yet again—in the hope of finding proof that the thin sliver of land between the Waverleys and the Larkins was theirs.

“By ‘they’, do you mean the Larkins?”

His father nodded, then turned his attention to peering back out of the window. Brook rolled his eyes and pulled open the curtain.

“You will not see them from here anyway, Father. Why are you wasting your time?”

“One of the servants said the girl’s back. Catherine or Coco or something.”

“Chloe,” corrected Brook.

He waved a dismissive, age-spotted hand. “Well, anyway, she was seen there.”

‘There’ being the boundary. Brook resisted the desire to take his father by his shoulders and shake him vigorously. This feud was ridiculous and when he inherited his father’s estate, he thoroughly intended to put an end to it. Though, if his confrontation with Miss Larkin at the bookshop was anything to go by, he would have a difficult time in doing so. He rather hoped Miss Larkin’s younger brother would be more amenable when he became of age.

He took in his father’s furious expression. His shoulders were growing stooped with age and his once silvered hair was almost white and thinning. The last thing his father needed to be doing at his age was getting angry over some stupid piece of land.

“Miss Larkin is allowed to walk on her own land,” Brook reasoned.

His father grunted. “No doubt she was moving the boundary again. That bloody Larkin moved it last month and I made sure it was moved straight away.”

“Or she could just be enjoying the fine weather.”

“Not likely. All Larkins are the same.” His father wagged a finger at him. “Stay away from her. She will be trouble, just like the rest of them.”

Brook thought back to their meeting in London a few weeks ago, near the end of the Season. The only trouble Miss Larkin could cause was dropping a few books on his toes. The bright-eyed, red-haired girl had a tongue on her and clearly disliked him but the wallflower was better known for avoiding social interaction than getting into trouble.

His fingers still tingled when he recalled the touch of her gloved hand. He could not stop himself from remembering how her arms felt beneath his fingertips. How odd it was that such a small touch could linger in his mind. He had touched many, many women, in far more scandalous places than an upper arm, and yet he could not remember spending so much time dwelling over a touch.

“I’ll tell you what, Father, I shall go and see what she is doing.”

“Be careful, Brook, those Larkins are a conniving lot.”

Brook grinned to himself. Conniving was not the sort of word he would use to describe Miss Larkin. Annoyed, outspoken, and also appealing, yes. But not conniving.

He set out on foot, unwilling to wait for a horse to be saddled. The estate was modest compared to some but stretched for several acres. The River Wey cut through part of it, leading into the neighboring estate of the Larkins. On the left side of the river was where all of twenty feet was argued over.

When he reached the boundary, he saw that the fence had been moved back to the farthest reaches, so that these twenty feet were now theirs again. If history was anything to go by, the fence would be moved once more in a few weeks back onto what the Larkins believed was the true boundary.

A grin broke across his face when he spotted Miss Larkin. Apparently oblivious to him, she strolled along the line of the river, swinging a stick and beheading flowers along the way. Her simple cream gown was stained at the hems and slightly creased. He could not make out her expression underneath the bonnet but she looked rather like a woman who had just been laid down in the grass and ravished. Oh, how he hoped her cheeks were rosy too.

“Miss Larkin,” he called.

She stilled, bringing the stick to a halt. Slowly, she lifted her head. He saw her expression sour. She turned swiftly, heading back in the direction from which she came. Brook moved quickly, vaulting over the fence that dissected their land and hastening to catch up with her.

“Miss Larkin,” he called. When she did not stop, he made a grab for her arm. She came to a halt and whirled upon him. Her pale blue eyes sparked with annoyance. Underneath her bonnet, red curls peeked out. He wondered if it really was true what they said about redheads and tempers. The few freckles scattered across an upturned nose added an innocent look to that anger which made him smile.

“Whatever do you mean by grabbing me?”

“Forgive me, I was trying to get your attention. It seems you did not hear me call your name.” He offered a charming smile.

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