Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
My thoughts spiral back to yesterday, when I was wrestling with the porch’s warped boards. The splinters were biting into my fingers, and my shirt was sweat-soaked when his butler appeared as stiff and polite as ever. He handed me another invitation to tea at the manor. I read the message on the thick card.
I understand that you’re occupied with your renovations, but I would greatly appreciate the opportunity to become acquainted with my neighbor, if nothing else, then to foster goodwill.
Yeah, right. As if his only intention is to get to know me better. He just wanted to trick me into selling up. I was so irritated with his insistence, I nearly ripped the invitation right in front of his staff, but I managed to control myself.
“Once again, please tell him no,” I responded firmly, then I went back to work.
I was sure, after two clear no’s, he would be ashamed enough to ignore me, just as I wanted to ignore him as well. But now I can see that I have greatly underestimated his will to be a never-ending thorn in my side.
Cecelia’s warning as she leaned close with her cake and her gossip echoes in my mind. He will stoop to anything to get what he wants, she had said, and now I completely believed her.
Her words cling to me now, fueling the anger that flares hot and fast, drowning out some of the lamp’s allure. I think of Ann, her freckled face innocent as she called Hugh a loner, someone who keeps to himself and avoids the village’s clamor. Two stories, two Hughs—one a predator, one a recluse. Which is true? It does not matter.
This lamp is his game, and no matter how much I want to keep it, I refuse to play.
I recall Cecelia telling me of his ruthlessness, how he tried to buy this cottage from my grandmother, a lonely old woman clinging to her family’s home, and this image stokes my rage even further. Raw fury surges inside me, burning away any awe I felt for the lamp’s glow. Does he truly believe I am so easily swayed that a shiny gift will make me forget his pressure, his insistence on my land? I am not some naive girl he can dazzle with wealth.
I am done with his nonsense, done with him assuming he can manipulate me into submission. Offended, and my chest tight with indignation, I storm out, the cottage door slamming behind me.
The path to the manor stretches before me, short but daunting, the hedge rising like a barrier, its leaves dark under the fading light. Beyond it, the manor’s stone walls stand cold and smug, a fortress of privilege. Well, I am ready to breach it. My shoes crunch on the gravel, each step determined, my breath coming in quick, heated bursts, fueling my resolve.
I rehearse my words, venom lacing every syllable.
“Keep your bloody gift, Duke of Whatever,” I mutter, picturing his face, that sexy crooked smile from when we saw each other in the village. “Send someone to collect it and leave me the hell alone.”
Chapter
Sixteen
HUGH
The air in the gym pulses with the rhythmic thud of my fists slamming into the punching bag, each strike a release, a moment of perfect control. My knuckles ache beneath the gloves, and sweat streams down my forehead and stings my eyes as I pivot, muscles taut, and my trainer’s shadow falls across the floor. The manor’s ancient thick walls have muffled the world outside, leaving only this—motion, breath, focus.
Until a knock breaks through. I pause mid-swing, and the swinging bag is caught and held by my trainer. I turn to see my housekeeper, Mrs. O’Brien, standing in the doorway. Her gray hair is pinned tightly in place, but her face carries an unusual hesitance, lips pursed as if weighing her words.
“M’Lord,” she begins, her voice unusually stiff, “Miss Lauren Hutton of Sweetbriar Cottage is here to see you.”
My fists hover near the bag, poised to strike again, but her words stop me cold, my breath heavy in the quiet. The lamp worked its magic. It brought Lauren Hutton into my lair. My pulse quickens with fevered anticipation.
“She appears… quite insistent that she must see you.” Mrs. O’Brien sniffs disapprovingly.
I wipe sweat from my brow with the back of my glove.
I turn away from her, and the mirrors reflect my disheveled state—my hair is damp, and my bare chest is glistening with sweat. Quite insistent? Well, well. So… Lauren didn’t appreciate my gift. A gesture, I thought, subtle. Her audacity and boldness spark a wry amusement in me, but beneath it, I am intrigued, caught off-guard in a way I rarely am. With my roots in this village, information flows to me like oil from a bottle, so I knew of her purchase of the lamp at the antique shop and of its destruction. I couldn’t resist stepping in. I contacted my dealer and instructed him to get the original of the cheap version she bought.