The Secret Life of Lords: The Albright Sisters, #2

By Elf Ahearn

If Lady Claire Albright had one wish, it would be to forget brooding, powerful Lord Flavian Monroe. But even after two years of bewildering silence, she yearns to touch his sinuous arms and feel his calloused hands upon her cheeks. Then, on the brink of her come out, they accidently meet. His ward is ill, and he begs her to use her knowledge of healing to help the girl. But this patient is sick in a way that’s far different from what Claire expected—dangerously different. And, as she struggles to find a cure, Flavian resists rekindling their love. Is it the ward’s illness that keeps him cold and distant, or a dark and terrible secret?

The thought of Claire in the arms of another man is unbearable, but in his heart Flavian knows he mustn’t ask her to share the consequences of his mistake. Nor should he have brought her to his home and exposed her to his ward’s sickness. Yet he lacks the strength to send her away. Each time he looks into Claire’s eyes, the urge to feel her body pressed against his consumes all reason, and he is left unable to utter the word, ‘Goodbye.’

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elf Ahearn
• Release date: Sep 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781540151384

Book preview

1

Exeter, England

In a storeroom at the back of a thatched cottage on the outskirts of the city of Exeter, Lady Claire Albright, separated chamomile stalks from a wheelbarrow piled high with freshly-picked herbs. Quickly binding the ends with string, she hung the bouquet upside down from a nail in the rafter. As she reached for the next bunch, a deep, rumbly male voice filtered through the wall, and instantly her breath caught and her throat constricted. She knew that voice; had listened for it for two pain-filled years, had longed for it, had fretted about it, had torn through every word it had spoken trying to understand what she’d done wrong. And here it was—so sonorous and wise, laced with a gentleness she now knew she should never have trusted.

We’ve got fresh chamomile in back there, said Jenny Martin, the proprietress of the odd little establishment: part dwelling, part apothecary shop, and part medical clinic. Within its small frame the building burst with racks of drying plants, shelves of tinctures, jars of salve, and a packed overnight bag by the door—ready for those nights when a woman went into labor. It was with Mrs. Martin that Claire had found a calling as a healer. Society might dictate that the daughter of the Earl of Alphington, Tweaksend and Surry, has no need for a profession, but for Claire healing was as important as breathing. If she couldn’t be of use then her life would amount to nothing, and that was a fate she couldn’t bear.

Cultivated voices such as his were rarely heard within Mrs. Martin’s overstuffed abode. The gentry came only after their physicians had drained blood and prescribed poison: when their loved ones lay in feather beds, the breath fluttering from their lungs.

Had he married? Claire wondered. Was his wife unable to rest, so he’d travelled all this way for a sleeping potion?

My lady, Mrs. Martin called, Could you bring three bunches of the chamomile?

Claire’s heart broke into a gallop. Go out there and see him? Oh, no. No. As if it were on fire, she hurled the chamomile back into the wheelbarrow then froze like a rabbit.

My lady? Are you there? called Mrs. Martin. Then a bit louder, My lady?

Claire pressed her knuckles to her mouth and frantically wished there were a hole to dive into.

Could you go back yourself, my lord? I’m so terribly sorry, but this brew depends on constant stirring.

My God, where to hide!

Which would be the chamomile? he asked, voice as musical as a bass fiddle.

It’ll be dried, but you’ll want the stuff with yellow buds that look like daisies.

Yellow buds, yellow buds. Claire dashed behind a multi-tiered rack of dangling lavender, as purple as purple could be. There, she stood absolutely still.

His footsteps approached. If I keep my eyes shut, I’m less likely to be noticed. She’d heard that somewhere—where? She couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. Down went her lids, and in the darkness the volume of his steps roared in her ears. By the sound of it, he’d he stopped at the threshold looking for yellow buds. Look to the right, to the right! she silently urged.

A few tentative steps further into the room, the rustle of dried foliage. It sounded as if he were moving toward the St. John’s wort. Understandable, as it has yellow buds too, but not like a daisy’s. A confused exhalation and more movement… closer. Closer. Not this way, the chamomile is over there! She sensed him, felt his nearness, the electricity of his body, the heat from him. Had he halted at the lavender? Unable to bear not knowing, she opened her eyes.

In that instant, he parted two bunches of the purple flowers and looked straight at her. Lady Claire? he said, startled.

The chamomile is over there, she blurted, poking an index finger through the lavender, causing a shower of violet buds.

But his gaze didn’t waver. Those eyes, with their serious expression, their hint of green, their darkness blacker than velvet… And then, God help her, he smiled that funny smile where the left side lifted a fraction higher than the right and the warmth of the sun beamed through. So she snapped her eyes shut.

My goodness, how have you been? he said.

A tremor that rattled the dried flowers ran through her body.

He must have noticed. There was a pause, and then he added, I didn’t keep writing. I’m so sorry for that, but… well, much has happened since I saw you last. Another pause. Can you come out from behind there?

Too close to crying to speak, Claire shook her head.

There’s an explanation.

Again, Claire shook her head. Her behavior was foolish, she knew, but she couldn’t help herself. He had made her feel pretty; like a bonnet that never failed to compliment; he made other men seem awful, so that each possible suitor seemed lacking, and worst of all, two years ago, he’d made this scared little bunny feel safe and cherished, and she would never swallow that bitter draught again.

He shifted his weight, but stayed where he was. How she wished he would leave! She opened her eyes enough to stare at his boots. Black Hessians of the finest cut and quality, but scuffed at the toe and worn on the inner calf from hard riding. She’d liked that about him—that he didn’t fuss about his appearance, that he didn’t mind an untalented valet. Did his wife adore that quality, too?

The boots left her line of sight as he came around the rack, and then his hand took her upper arm. A flood of heat poured like molten iron through the spot where he touched. Come out, he said gently. Let me speak to you outside a moment. She didn’t move, but he kept his hand there, waiting as one would for a frightened animal to calm.

Slowly, resistant muscles relaxed and she allowed him to lead her into the center of the storeroom. At the door, she balked. I can’t spend time with you. There’s too much to be done. I’m going to London for my come out, you see, and I’ve promised Mrs. Martin I’d help dry all these herbs. She gestured at the wheelbarrow. I can’t see you.

Your come out? But then you’ll marry soon.

Automatically she shook her head. No, I’ll be the shy miss behind the potted plant— She stopped herself. Mrs. Gower, her chaperone, had scolded her a dozen times for saying such things. Raising her gaze, she added, Or perhaps a gentleman will want to walk his dog with me.

Pain pinched his features. She’d meant it to sting. That was what they had done together during the house party at Lord Hugh Davenport’s estate—walk Hugh’s corgi, Sport. And they’d talked, brushing hands occasionally, and they had—at least she’d thought they’d had—a silent agreement about a future together.

His eyes shifted away. When I saw you last, our goodbye with all the other guests at the house party… I thought I’d see you again shortly … but something happened that changed my circumstances, and I didn’t think it right to burden you with my difficulties.

He looked so upset. Perhaps he’d lost his money or title? But those were not things this man valued overmuch. Something worse: the way his gaze retreated into sorrow, it felt like watching him walk away again. Has your mother died?

He shook his head, and ran a hand through waves of dark hair.

Then perhaps your wife is ill?

His head shot up and he looked at her with surprise. I have no wife.

She hated herself for it, but such a torrent of relief flooded her, her knees nearly gave out. All she could muster now was, a thin, gasping, Oh. Mere months into his two-year silence, she’d come to believe he’d wed. It would be like him not to announce it in the papers.

Someone at Bingham Hall is very sick. It’s taken all my time, all my energy to... to… There was only the one letter, because I thought at any moment their health would improve, and I could see you again…

Claire’s hand fluttered to her throat. But I never got any letter at all, and I even asked the postman if perhaps something had happened to the mail coach.

Disbelief flashed green in his eyes before his jaw went tight. I sent a footman! Blast it, it was that fool Davies. Unreliable sot, he told me he’d put it in your hands. In your hands!

Bands around her chest, there so long she’d forgotten them, snapped, and for the first time in two years she took a deep breath. Oh, how I wish you’d written again. They all said I should write you, but I worried it might seem improper. The fact was, she’d been afraid of his answer because as long as she didn’t know, there was still hope.

A rush of emotion shook him, and his hand came up as if he were about to cup her cheek, but stopped himself. And I questioned Davies a hundred times when I didn’t receive a reply. I worried that I’d so offended you, you’d have no more of me.

But I’m not the sort who wouldn’t write back, Claire replied.

And I wouldn’t have left you hanging without an explanation.

They gazed at one another in silence. Of course Flavian Bourne, Viscount Monroe, wouldn’t have hurt her, nor she him; and they knew that about one another. Knew it when they were together at the Davenport house party, yet forgot it when they were apart. Claire shifted her gaze from him. What a terrible comedy of errors, she said, laughing faintly.

A regular Shakespearean romp. He scraped some of the lavender buds into a pile with the side of his boot then looked at her with concern. Why are you here? Is someone in your family ill?

Oh no. Since I saw you last I began working daily with Mrs. Martin to learn more about the healing arts. She’s talented. Perhaps the best in England.

He nodded. Her reputation brought me to Exeter, but it was the hope of seeing you… His eyes met hers for a moment before he pulled his lower lip and his gaze flicked about the storeroom as if in the throes of a momentous decision. When are you leaving for London?

By week’s end.

And have you many appointments there? Fittings, parties…?

My sister Ellie asked me to come early because the city can be overwhelming… she said.

The green flared in his eyes, first with uncertainty then with something else… desire? Would you come to Bingham Hall?

Warm waves of joy mixed with sharp finned creatures, stinging invisibles, and rough pelting sands hit her. Oh heavens, how she’d love to visit, but was he torn about asking? Was it only her insecurity that misread his hesitation? Feeling weak and foolish, she said, Do you truly want me to?

The shock on his face burned through her, brighter, warmer than the noonday sun, and her breath caught in her lungs.

Seeing you again, spending any time at all with you, would be my greatest joy. Sincerely, my greatest joy! he exclaimed.

She laughed, truly laughed for the first time in two endless years. Then we’ll stop. Expect me by the weekend.

A bright intensity lit his green gaze and his body tilted toward her, sending a rush of anticipation through her every limb. A kiss. He would kiss her just as he had at the house party. Every fiber strained forward, compelling her chin up, parting her lips.

But just as it seemed he’d take her into his arms,a flash of something undefinable crossed his expression. He stepped back. I’ll ride straight through the night to make everything ready. Taking her in, tip to toes, he added in a serious tone, You are very kind, Lady Claire Albright.

Confused, she smiled back and said softly, Why thank you, Lord Flavian Monroe.

Shortly after Flavian arrived at Bingham Hall, his family estate in Bournemouth, he sent two footmen down separate roads to search for the Albright coach. They were to find Lady Claire and deliver a message: With all my heart, I would love to see you, but please don’t come. For your own sake, continue on to London.

The carriage drew to a bumpy stop at the exact point where a crenellated tower cast its toothy shadow. Feeling as if she were lowering herself into the jaws of a beast, Claire stepped from the coach, shivered in the chill shade, and approached the stairs to the massive country house. Two urns squatted like toads on either side of the grand staircase to the front door of Bingham Hall. From each jutted the naked stems of flowers that had been ripped away. Droplets of moisture still oozed from the traumatized stalks, and their red, yellow and purple blossoms lay scattered on the ground.

Claire’s fingers went cold, and feeling her knees grow weak, she clung to the stone balustrade like a sailor in a rough sea. Who would destroy flowers? Unease sat like a stone in her stomach. Come on, fraidy rabbit, she chided herself. Have courage.

From inside the coach Mrs. Gower’s chipper voice called out, Smile dear, bright and happy.

Lips trembling, Claire forced her mouth into a long line she hoped would be taken as a smile. Be vibrant, not shy, the chaperone continued, and for heaven’s sake, don’t talk about herbs and cures—he’ll take you for a witch.

Swallowing, Claire paused to collect herself, her confidence dropping to new lows.

Go on child! urged Mrs. Gower. "La, he’ll be married to someone else by the time you reach the knocker."

Please hush, thought Claire, her stomach churning as she ascended the stairs. The door was a great beast of a thing; imposing oak, studded with bolts and straps of iron. A knocker in the shape of a mermaid with her tail curled in an uncomfortable loop graced the center panel. But as her fingers brushed the mermaid’s scales, a butler yanked the door open. Barely stifling a cry, Claire jumped back. Struggling to regain her composure, she pasted what she hoped was a bright smile on rigid lips. I’m here by invitation from the dowager Viscountess, Lady Monroe, and her son, Lord Monroe, she said, digging through her reticule for a calling card.

I see. A puzzled look crossed the butler’s features as he took the card. Please come in. I’ll announce you at once.

Was Flavian not expecting her? But she’d told him she would arrive today. Her first instinct was to declare her arrival a mistake and gallop back down the stairs. Looking back at Mrs. Gower, the chaperone waved, and said, I’ll be right with you, dear. Don’t mind me. A glimmer from the area of Mrs. Gower’s lap confirmed Claire’s worst fear—that at this critical moment, the woman was nipping from a flask.

Claire took a tentative step into the entrance hall. Dark, though impressive, its architecture combined thick squares of crown molding with handsomely painted frescos. As she looked more closely, however, the hall seemed strangely empty. There wasn’t a single picture, mirror, vase or other decorative piece anywhere. The parlor off to the left was the same; nothing above the mantel, no candlesticks, boxes, or figurines, only the plainest hurricane lamps on the tables, and not a single picture on the walls. Apparently, the Monroe family was not much on ornamentation, but it seemed odd that Flavian’s family had collected nothing in its long aristocratic history.

As she contemplated this, Flavian hurried into the hall. Lady Claire, he said, taking her hands. You didn’t get my message. He seemed oddly alarmed, and looked furtively over his shoulder.

A message? No. Oh dear, are we playing another comedy of errors? We’ll leave immediately. Her heart tore in half as she backed toward the door.

No, no. He caught her arm. I’m sorry. Please stay. His expression changed to a welcoming smile that warmed her icy nerves. Fate has sent you to me. The haunted look left his eyes, and she laughed a little in relief.

Are you certain?

Before he could answer, Mrs. Gower trumpeted from the interior of the coach. "La, my lord, she cried, her bulk stuffing the carriage door, what a splendid pied-à-terre!"

Why, thank you, madam.

I’m Mrs. Gower, the gel’s chaperone, she called, So there’ll be no rascalling about, mind you, not while I’m on duty. Winking, she lost her balance on the coach stairs. Two footmen dove to catch her just as she bumbled onto the pea-gravel driveway, accidently tearing a gold frog on one man’s livery, but managing to keep her footing. I got me coach legs on, now I got to find me ground legs, she declared with a peel of flirty giggles.

Involuntarily, Claire’s fingers clenched.

And should I expect a footrace when you’re fully intact? Flavian replied.

Save your strength lad, for the gel’s a quick one.

So much heat flooded Claire’s cheeks she imagined her hair might catch fire. Mrs. Gower, please, she mumbled.

But Flavian didn’t seem to mind. I suspect you possessed some sprinting abilities in your day, he told the woman.

For you, I’d have stopped in me tracks.

He tipped his head back and laughed; a sound so happy it sent the cloud of her anxiety scudding away.

Oh, you’re a charmer, the chaperone gushed. Out of my way, lassie, I’m taking him.

Flavian laughed again with the same good humor Claire remembered from their time at Cowick Hill