Chapter Three
“The shipment’s been delayed another fortnight—bloody incompetent fools at the docks.”
Adrian barely registered his cousin’s complaint as their carriage rattled through London’s afternoon traffic.
His mind remained occupied with the morning’s tedious meeting at White’s, where three hours of negotiation had yielded precisely nothing except a headache and the conviction that maritime insurance brokers were in the devil’s personal employ.
“Are you even listening?” Lord Henry Ravenscar demanded, his tone carrying the familiar note of aggrieved entitlement that had characterised their relationship since childhood.
“Shipment delayed. Docks incompetent. You’re inconvenienced.” Adrian didn’t bother looking up from the contract he was reviewing. “Did I miss anything?”
“Your sympathy is overwhelming.” Henry shifted irritably in his seat. “This delay costs me money, Adrian. Money I can ill afford to lose.”
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t have invested quite so heavily in speculative ventures.” Adrian finally glanced up, noting the flush creeping up his cousin’s neck. “I did warn you about Marchmont’s scheme.”
“Yes, well… we can’t all afford to be as cautious as you.” Henry’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Some of us must take risks to improve our circumstances.”
“Improve one’s circumstances,” Adrian repeated, his tone flat.
“Is that what we’re calling it now? Because I distinctly recall warning you about the South American mining venture exactly three months ago.
I believe my exact words were something along the lines of ‘spectacular disaster waiting to happen.’ Was I not sufficiently clear? ”
“You were abundantly clear. Tediously so, if I’m being honest.” Henry shifted in his seat, suddenly fascinated by the passing scenery. “Though, in my defence, Marchmont was extraordinarily persuasive. The man had charts, projections, testimonials from supposedly respectable investors—”
“None of whom actually exist, as you’ve no doubt discovered by now.”
Henry winced. “Yes, well. That particular revelation did come as something of an unpleasant surprise.”
“Naturally. As opposed to a pleasant surprise, which would be for you to make a single financially sound decision for once in your entire adult life, cousin.”
“Your empathy is truly touching. I can practically feel the familial warmth radiating from your general direction.”
Adrian chose not to respond. Henry had been taking ‘risks’ with various investments for years, each one somehow requiring emergency funds that Adrian inevitably provided. Family obligation, his aunt had called it. Enabling poor judgement, Adrian privately termed it.
The carriage rolled to a stop before his townhouse, and Adrian descended first, already calculating how much of the afternoon remained for productive work.
The estate accounts required attention, correspondence awaited replies, and he’d promised Cassian Oberon, Duke of Duskbourne, an analysis of the Carrington textile proposal by week’s end.
“Stay for luncheon,” he told Henry without particular enthusiasm. “Lamb, I believe.”
“How could I ever refuse such a heartfelt invitation?” Henry jested as he followed Adrian inside.
They surrendered their coats and gloves to the butler, and Adrian was already moving toward his study when a sound stopped him—soft, melodious, carrying from the next room. A woman’s voice, reading aloud with careful enunciation.
The mysterious Miss Vale.
“Who’s that?” Henry asked, head cocked with interest.
“Aunt Flora’s new companion.” Adrian moved toward the morning room with Henry trailing behind. Through the partially open door, he could see them—Aunt Flora settled in her favourite chair by the window, and Miss Vale seated nearby with a book open in her lap.
“‘The heart has its reasons,” she read, her voice warm and expressive, “which reason knows nothing of.’ Oh, Aunt Flora isn’t that lovely? Pascal understood something profound about human nature, I think.”
Adrian found himself arrested by the observation.
It was not the philosophical content—he’d studied Pascal extensively at Cambridge—but the way she delivered it.
As though she genuinely believed emotion might trump logic, as though hearts possessed wisdom unavailable to rational minds.
It was absurd, of course. Hearts were merely pumps, vessels for blood circulation, nothing more.
To his bewilderment, his own treacherous heart had begun hammering with suspicious enthusiasm the moment he’d heard her voice from the corridor.
Henry leaned closer, whispering with barely suppressed amusement. “You’re staring, cousin. Rather intensely, actually. Should I be concerned about your sudden interest in French philosophy? Or is it perhaps the philosopher’s interpreter who’s captured your attention?”
Adrian’s jaw tightened. “I’m merely ensuring my aunt receives adequate care.”
“Ah. Is that what we’re calling it? Noted.” Henry’s grin widened into something positively feral.
“Indeed, my dear.” Aunt Flora’s voice drifted toward them. Her expression was animated, engaged in a way Adrian hadn’t seen for weeks. “Though my nephew would argue that reason should always triumph over sentiment. Isn’t that so, Adrian?”
Both women looked up as he stepped inside. Miss Vale rose immediately, executing a curtsey that was textbook perfect—perhaps too perfect for a woman supposedly raised to be a paid companion.
“I would argue,” Adrian said from the doorway, “that reason provides a considerably more reliable foundation for decision-making sentiment, rather than tending toward the heart’s more wildly unpredictable nature.”
“How perfectly dreary an opinion.” Aunt Flora waved a dismissive hand. “Reason never wrote a decent poem, never painted a masterpiece, never…” she paused, her expression turning sly, “never made anyone fall desperately in love now, did it?”
Henry choked on what might have been laughter.
Miss Vale’s cheeks flushed the most remarkable shade of pink Adrian had ever seen, her gaze dropping immediately to the book in her lap.
And despite himself, Adrian found himself wondering, with deeply uncomfortable intensity, whether she’d ever been desperately in love with someone.
Anyone. Whether anyone had ever been fortunate—or rather foolish enough—to inspire such devotion from those remarkable green eyes that currently hid behind dark lashes and ridiculous spectacles.
The direction of his thoughts was becoming increasingly problematic.
“Aunt Flora enjoys provoking me,” he said mildly. “It’s one of her more persistent hobbies.”
“Your Grace,” she said. Her voice remained steady, but something flickered in those green eyes—something that made his pulse quicken in a way that was both unwelcome and entirely inappropriate.
He was to meet his bride soon. He had absolutely no business noticing the precise shade of green in another woman’s eyes, nor the way her voice seemed to resonate in his chest like the low note of a cello.
“Miss Vale. I trust my aunt is proving a manageable charge?”
“Lady Flora is delightful company, Your Grace. We’ve been discussing Pascal’s Pensées.”
“Have you?” Adrian moved closer, studying her with the same attention he’d give a suspicious investment prospectus.
She wore the same drab dress from yesterday, her hair scraped back in that unflattering bun.
But her posture was excellent—spine straight, shoulders back, chin level.
Deportment lessons, undoubtedly. The kind that was afforded to ladies of nobility.
Henry had followed him into the room, his gaze settling on her with unmistakable male appreciation. “You didn’t mention your aunt’s companion was so… charming, cousin.”
“Didn’t I?” Adrian’s jaw tightened fractionally. “Miss Vale, my cousin, Mr Henry Ravenscar. Henry, Miss Clara Vale.”
“A pleasure.” Henry executed an elaborate bow that made her lips twitch—but whether suppressing amusement or irritation, Adrian couldn’t tell. “Have you recently come to London? I’m certain I would have remembered seeing you before.”
“I arrived from Yorkshire several weeks ago, sir.” Her response was measured, careful. “After my previous employer passed.”
“Ah, yes. Lady Margaret Ashworth, wasn’t it?” Adrian watched her closely. “Of York.”
There it was. The tiniest hesitation. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Strange,” Henry interjected. “I don’t recall hearing of Lady Margaret’s death. And I make it a point to follow such announcements.”
Adrian moved to examine the book she’d been reading from, forcing her to step aside. “Those are rather fine rings for a companion.”
Miss Vale’s fingers stilled on the page. She glanced down at her hands as though she’d forgotten what adorned them—a delicate gold band on one finger, a small ruby winking on another.
“They were gifts, Your Grace.” Her voice remained steady, admirably so. “From my previous employer.”
“How extraordinarily generous.” Adrian moved closer, picking up the book. He flipped through the pages.
A flash of something—panic? defiance?—flickered across her face before she composed herself. “Lady Margaret was uncommonly kind to me, Your Grace. I was with her for many years.”
“Were you?”
“I was very fortunate, Your Grace.”
“Fortunate.” Adrian set the book down carefully. “That’s one word for it. Tell me, Clara Vale, what other fortunes has life bestowed upon you?”
Her chin lifted—there was that unconscious pride again. “Your Grace, if my service is unsatisfactory—”
“On the contrary.” He leaned against the desk, arms crossed, watching her with the focus of a hawk observing prey. “My aunt adores you. You’ve brought her more joy in the past two days than I’ve seen in months. Which makes me exceedingly curious about you.”
The silence stretched taut between them. Miss Vale’s eyes—those enchanting green eyes—held his with an intensity that made something shift uncomfortably in his chest.
“Adrian, for heaven’s sake, leave the poor girl alone!”
Aunt Flora’s voice shattered the moment like a stone through glass. She’d pushed herself more upright in her chair, her expression sharp with disapproval—one of her more lucid moments.
“I’m merely ensuring—”
“No. You’re being insufferable, which, granted, is your natural state, but must you inflict it upon this young lady?” Aunt Flora turned to Miss Vale with maternal warmth. “Pay him no mind, my dear. My nephew trusts no one, suspects everyone, and believes the entire world is conspiring against him.”
“Can you blame me?” Adrian’s voice remained cool. “Experience has proven the assumption remarkably accurate.”
His cousin remained lounging against the doorframe, clearly enjoying the spectacle, his eyes lingering on her with too much interest.
“Perhaps we should allow the ladies to continue their philosophical discussion,” Henry suggested, his smile sharp. “Though I confess, Miss Vale, I find myself deeply intrigued by your…educational background. We simply must speak further on the subject.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Adrian said flatly.
“Won’t it?” Henry said with a wink. “I’m merely being sociable, cousin. Surely you don’t object to civil conversation with a member of your household?”
Before Adrian could respond, Clara spoke, her voice quiet but firm. “If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen, I should attend to Lady Aunt Flora’s tea.”
She moved toward the door gracefully but paused when Aunt Flora called out.
“Don’t let my nephew’s surliness discourage you, dear. Despite his appalling manners, he does have a heart buried somewhere beneath all that ice.”
Miss Vale’s gaze flicked to Adrian’s for one, brief, loaded moment… and then she was gone, the door clicking softly as she shut it behind her.
Henry whistled low. “Well, well… full of surprises, isn’t she?”
“Stay away from her.”
“Protective already?” Henry’s grin widened. “Though I can’t say I blame you—she’s quite lovely beneath those dreadful spectacles…” he made a lustful sound that set Adrian’s teeth on edge.
“She’s employed in my household. That makes her off-limits to your particular brand of entertainment.”
“You’re doing that thing again,” Henry observed as they entered the dining room.
“Doing what?”
Henry settled into his chair with languid grace, accepting wine from a footman.
“That look you get when something’s gotten under your skin.
It’s the same one you wore during the Blackwell negotiations last year when that French investor kept outmanoeuvring you, and you couldn’t decide whether to be furious or impressed. ”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about.”
“Liar.” Henry swallowed audibly, studying Adrian over the rim of his glass.
“You’re fascinated by her. You wore that same expression when Lady Nicole tried her little performance three years ago…
and unless I’m very much mistaken…” Henry’s smile turned devious.
“I’d wager you’re also deeply irritated with yourself for being fascinated at all. ”
Adrian took a long swallow of wine, unwilling to confirm what they both knew was true.
“The timing is rather comical,” Henry continued, his tone almost sympathetic.
“Given that you’re to meet with Lady Cecilia.
Though perhaps it is for the best—a harmless attraction to an unattainable woman might prove…
convenient. Better to spend your attentions on someone you can never have—that way you avoid complicated feelings and demanding mistresses and unhappy duchesses altogether. ”
“Miss Vale is my aunt’s companion. Nothing more.”
“Of course,” Henry agreed, though his expression suggested he believed otherwise. “And I’m sure that’s exactly what you’ll keep telling yourself. Right up until the moment it stops being true.”
Adrian said nothing, because there was nothing to say.
The fact was, he was drawn to Clara Vale—impossibly, inappropriately, inexplicably so. And entirely against his better judgement. There was something about her that made him want to know her thoughts, hear her laugh, taste her lips…
And that wanting felt far more dangerous than anything else ever could.