Secrets between lovers, p.1
Secrets Between Lovers, page 1
Charlie Lane
Secrets Between Lovers
A Steamy Historical Romance
Copyright © 2021 by Charlie Lane
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Charlie Lane asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Charlie Lane has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
First edition
Editing by Krista Dapkey
Cover art by Holly Perret
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
Find out more at reedsy.com
To Brian, who always makes me laugh.
Even when his puns are THE WORST.
Contents
Acknowledgement
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Charlie Lane
Acknowledgement
So much love to Rachel Smith, my talented critique partner, for helping me see Tobias and Maggie needed something to do … other than each other. Krista Dapkey fixes my hyphen issues and gets nerdy about the grammar with me, so she is indespensible. Holly Perret has an eye for color and HEAT that brings such life to my covers. Without these ladies, I would have no books.
Without my boys, I’d have no heart. Their patience and support is everything.
Chapter 1
Mr. Tobias Blake had a secret. But not for long. Maggie determined to discover it. And when Maggie determined to do a thing, she usually did. Not that anyone noticed.
Just like no one noticed her weaving slowly away from the front of the room where Robert Lockham, England’s foremost portrait artist, was about to unveil his latest masterpiece.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Maggie’s father said, raising a glass of champagne high, “Mr. Lockham has kept us, and the world, in the dark these past ten months. No one but he and his model, whoever that is, know the identity of the subject of the portrait behind this curtain. Until now. Every year, we gather here for a winter solstice party. You, the most talented artist the world has to offer, and those like me with no talent whatsoever.” He frowned woefully, then grinned like a mischievous child. “But with pocketsful of money.”
A rumble of appreciative laughter rolled through the assembled crowd. Maggie’s jaw clenched. How could her father lie so easily? His pockets were much shallower than he wanted anyone to know.
“We share ideas and strategies,” her father continued once the laughter had subsided, “and make art, birth beauty into the world. Every year I am astounded by what you have to offer, yet I’ve never been as excited as I am now.” He bowed low to Mr. Lockham. “Whenever you wish, Robert.”
Everyone’s attention riveted on Mr. Lockham, on the hidden easel. But Maggie’s gaze stayed glued to one man across the crowd. He leaned against the wall and wore the most hideous green waistcoat she’d ever laid eyes on. Mr. Tobias Blake. A distraction. She had more important matters to take care of in the house party’s remaining week. But she could not get him out of her head. He had secrets, and she desperately needed to know them. Her eldest brother called her a busybody. Maggie preferred to think of herself as productively curious.
The curtain covering Lockham’s painting swept aside with a swoosh, and in the following hush, Maggie took one last look at Mr. Blake. He stared at Lockham’s painting. Good. He, and the others, would never notice her departure. She swept from the room, her soft footfalls covered by thunderous applause.
The hallways shortened before her until she found the door to Mr. Blake’s room. She tried the handle. Unlocked! How lucky. “Tsk, tsk, Mr. Blake,” she whispered. “You will never keep your secrets that way.” She closed—and locked—the door behind her, then scanned the nearly empty chamber. He certainly traveled light. It remained void of belongings.
Though her family, and not Mr. Blake, owned the bedroom before her, and she knew very well what it should look like, she somehow found herself surprised at its normalcy. Not like the man who currently occupied it at all. But then, no room, hopefully, could live up to his peculiar style. Pity. A room more like him might give away some clues to the man himself. She tried to imagine him there among the large, staid four-poster bed, the straight-backed chairs, the square full-length mirror, and tall narrow wardrobe. But his bright pink and green waistcoats, his blue and yellow cravats, and his embroidered jackets just did not fit. The disparate pieces of the room fit together nicely, creating a welcoming, though blank, whole. The disparate pieces of Mr. Blake’s ensemble, however, did not. He was an assault to the eyes, anything but blank.
Yet, each piece of clothing was impeccably crafted of the finest quality material with a meticulous eye to detail. And other than being brightly colored, they shared another commonality. They were all textured—embossed, embroidered, pleated—and those textures taken as a whole worked, even if the colors did not.
The man appeared to dress like a blind fop.
Yet, could a blind fop cultivate such elegant pattern combinations?
She needed a closer look. Her gaze settled on the wardrobe, where, hopefully, he kept his secrets under lock and key. Not that either would keep her from information when she wanted it. She flew across the room and tugged the piece of furniture open. It wobbled, but its doors gave immediately and so easily she staggered back. Unlocked. She should have expected that, considering the bedroom door. Perhaps he was not so bright. Or else he had no secrets to hide. Or he simply thought no one clever enough to figure them out.
But she was clever. She took a deep breath and released it slowly. In the wardrobe, she’d find another secret to add to her notebook, another secret to pull her family out of their dismal straits.
She reached into the wardrobe’s depths and pulled forth a lavender waistcoat striped with deeper shades of purple. She brought it to the window to inspect it more carefully in the light. The darker purple was embroidery, rows of dots so close together they only looked like lines. She whistled, running her fingers gently over the design. How long had it taken to produce this?
She draped the garment across a chair and returned to the window, this time retrieving a black waistcoat with vines embroidered in greens and yellows, across every inch of it. She breathed in and out heavily, excited by her discovery. “Exquisite.”
“It is, is it not.”
She yelped and jumped, clutching the waistcoat to her chest. Then she slowly turned to face the voice in the door, though she didn’t need to see the man to know who it was. Who else would it be but the bedroom’s occupant and the waistcoat’s owner. “I locked the door!”
He held up a key. “And I unlocked it.”
“Yes, of course,” she mumbled. “Hello, Mr. Blake.” She tipped her chin high. Best to act like she did nothing wrong. After all, how odd was it for her to be in a bedroom in her parents’ house—her very own house? Not at all! “May I help you?”
“Oh, I’m sure I could find a few ways in which you could. You’re an attractive little thing, and so conveniently located next to my bed. But momentarily I’m left wondering, instead, if it is I who can help you? Since you are, after all, in my bedroom.” His voice purred low and deep and gritty, at odds with his golden-curled beauty.
His voice had been the first thing she’d noticed about him. She’d been talking to her brother when that voice had grazed across her ears and lit a fire in her belly. She turned and saw a man’s face, blank of expression as he listened to one of the artists talk. His messy golden curls had looked soft, alive, and his cheeks and jaw had been unshaven, as they were now. It was only when two men in Mr. Blake’s circle had moved that she’d seen the rest of him—rust-red jacket, puce waistcoat, blue cravat. The entire effect almost knocked her over and she’d forgotten about how desperately handsome he was, rough and fine at the same time. She’d seen only his clothes.
But now, alone in his bedroom, the heat that had initially filled her when that voice had first slipped like a cat’s tongue across her skin returned. She was a ninny. A right ninny. Yes, this bedroom belonged to her parents, but he currently slept in that bed, and unmarried ladies did not visit men in their bedchambers, no matter whose house the bedchamber existed within.
One corner of his lips qu irked up and his hooded eyes seemed full of heated promises.
Focus on the waistcoat. She dropped her eyes down. Oh God, pastel green. That did it. She could not take a man wearing a pastel green waistcoat seriously.
Yet. She looked from the green monstrosity to the black embroidered masterpiece she clutched to her chest. Perhaps she needed a closer look. She took a step, two, closer, peering at his chest.
“My eyes are up here, my lady.”
She dared not look at his face. “The embroidery on this is sheer perfection.”
“Not quite that good.”
She crept closer until she dared no more. She could almost touch him. She leaned in, feet firmly planted on the ground. “Yes, that good. The intricacy of design!” They were much better than her own sketches. She sketched to clear her head. And to hide her notes. The artist of these waistcoats obviously created with his whole soul present. “Are those little frogs?”
“Ribbit.”
She chuckled.
“Would you like to see it closer up?”
“Oh, yes.”
He stripped without talking, first divesting the jacket and then the waistcoat. His shirt was surprisingly plain but of the finest lawn. She could not pay it much mind because he handed over the green waistcoat and—heavens!—what a beauty.
“I like frogs.” His fingers brushed the designs. “Such underrated little things, but quite sleek and beautiful.”
“Most people think them horrid.”
“Most people are stupid.”
She closed her eyes, wanting that voice to wrap round her in darkness. She’d heard fine singing voices, the best England and Europe had to offer, in fact, but none of them compared. Yet, his words were ugly. She flung her eyes open and shoved the waistcoat at him. “You did these.” She gestured to the green, the purple, the black.
“Yes. I stay up every night working my poor fingers to the bone, ruining my eyesight with fine work by candlelight. Or at least I did until the elves came to help. Useful little fellows, elves. Can do in a whole night what used to take me weeks.”
“You designed them,” she countered. His ridiculous tale, distraction he meant it to be, deserved no attention.
He opened his mouth, closed it again. He gathered the other garments she’d scattered about the room and put them back into the wardrobe. Once he’d finished, he turned to her. “What makes you say that?”
“They are absurd, the designs. Not what they appear. The stripes are actually dots, and the frogs are clever collections of flies grouped to look like frogs. The vines on the black one make words! Poetry. Shakespeare.” She shook her head. “They are absurd and unexpected and entirely amazing.”
“Like me?”
Yes. “I’ve no idea if you are amazing. You may very well be, if you’ve designed such delights. But”—she scrunched her face—“if you have, that means you’re an artist. I should have known.” And now that she did know, she also knew she’d find nothing of use in his bedroom, no secrets worth their weight in gold. Artists, as a rule, had no gold and were in constant need of it from others.
“Why should you have known?” He looked up and all around him, turning in a quick circle. “Is there a sign above my head?”
“Once I realized I was quite attracted to you, there might as well have been.”
“Attracted? Well, I’m not surprised. I am irresistible. But you must not let hope live in that dainty little chest of yours. I’m not prone to making love to children.”
“I am five and twenty! I’m not a child.” And was damned tired of being treated like one by everyone in her life.
“You’re tiny as one. I could fit you in my pocket.”
She stomped across the room back to the wardrobe, swung the door open, and yanked out a waistcoat. “Do you mean this immaculately embroidered pocket? Hm, artist?” She pushed it toward his face.
“Don’t shove my own clothing at me, Pocket Princess.” He grabbed the garment.
But she wasn’t through making her point. She leaned over and opened a drawer where, she hoped, his cravats would be neatly folded away. It didn’t budge. She yanked again, and the entire wardrobe wobbled.
“Um, Princess,” Mr. Blake said.
She yanked again, harder, this time releasing the drawer.
“Hell!” Mr. Blake slammed into her just as the wardrobe crashed to the floor beside them.
Maggie’s heart raced. She’d almost been crushed!
“Are you unharmed?”
Maggie looked up and forgot the fear of death by wardrobe. His blue eyes, so close to her own stared at her with genuine concern. His forearms bracketed her head, and the hard length of his body pressed her to the floor. Who knew a fop could possess such chiseled strength. If the rest of him was as chiseled as that jaw of his, the unclothed Greek statues in her mother’s drawing room would be envious.
“Are you unharmed?” he repeated, his fingers sinking into her hair and gently prodding at her skull. “I don’t see any blood. I don’t feel a bump. But you’ve clearly lost your wits. Not that you had many to begin with, I assume.”
She nodded.
“Yes? To what? That you’re well or that you’re witless?”
“I’m well.” She could not focus with him so near.
His breath seemed to catch as well. His fingers stilled, then began a movement of a different sort, stroking the hair away from her temple. “Excellent.” His voice sounded deeper, raspier. His gaze dropped to her lips. “Excellent indeed.” His head lowered. She could think of nothing to say. She simply … wanted.
“Get off my daughter now.”
Mr. Blake jumped to his feet faster than she’d seen any man or animal move in her entire life.
She also moved quickly, finding her feet and smoothing her skirts. “Papa!”
Her father stood tall, willowy, gray-haired, and spitting angry in the doorway.
“Daughter?” Mr. Blake turned stiffly toward her. “Papa?” He groaned. “You’re the marquess’s daughter.” He closed his eyes and shook his head before facing her father once more. “Lord Waneborough. Ahem. I cannot believe what I am about to say, but … this is not what it looks like.”
Her Papa never looked at Mr. Blake. His disappointed gaze bore holes into Maggie. “Follow me, the both of you.” He turned toward the hallway. “The rest of you will disperse and find some other entertainment.”
Maggie peered out the door.
“Blast,” Mr. Blake hissed.
Blast, indeed. There stood no fewer than ten other house guests in the hallway, all with mouths agape. Her skin crawled. All those eyes on her, seeing her, presuming to know what she’d done. She’d never thought much about what it might feel like to have one’s secrets discovered. Terrifying. And she hadn’t even done anything worth finding out! She raised her chin and faced her audience.
Mr. Gardener, who slept every night with his wife’s lady’s maid, chuckled. Lady Brickham, whose family jewels were now more paste than ruby, crinkled her nose in disgust. Tom Priest, who kissed Henry Hardy behind the stables, shook his head. She raised her chin higher, steeled her backbone. Let them stare. They didn’t know as much about her as she knew about them.
They turned and rambled off in every direction as her father demanded, whispering feverishly.
Her father strode down the hallway without further instruction, and Maggie followed, Mr. Blake falling in line with her pace. He seemed to grow heavier and more somber with each step. Poor man. He had no idea. She reached out and patted his shoulder. “It will all be all right. I promise.”
“You attend guillotinings often, then?”
She chuckled. “You are dramatic, aren’t you? Nothing will come of all this, I swear. Your bachelorhood is safe.”
“Usually, when a bachelor is found atop an eligible young lady, he can say goodbye to his freedom.”
“So I hear.”
“So it is!”
She shrugged. “Perhaps for others, but not for me.”
“You are immune to ruination, then?”
She frowned. “I’ve never considered it.” She’d never had to consider it. “Papa and Mama say the only thing that can ruin a woman is her own evil tongue and ugly deeds. Oh! And a lack of learning.”
“Damn me. You’re an innocent.”
