Eloisa James - Much Ado About You

ELOISA JAMES

Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in the U.S.A. by AVON BOOKS

An Imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 2005

Copyright © Eloisa James 2005

Eloisa James asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

HarperCollins Publishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780007229482

Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2010 ISBN: 9780007396061

Version: 2018-04-09

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Epilogue

Keep Reading

A Love Letter to Louisa May Alcott

Why Every Heroine Needs a sister Just as Much as She needs a Husband (Ooops! Did I say More Then She Needs a Man?)

About the Author

Praise

About the Publisher

September 1816 Holbrook Court, seat of the Duke of Holbrook On the outskirts of Silchester

In the afternoon

‘I am happy to announce that the rocking horses have been delivered, Your Grace. I have placed them in the nursery for your inspection. As yet, there is no sign of the children.’

Raphael Jourdain, Duke of Holbrook, turned. He had been poking a fire smouldering in the cavernous fireplace of his study. There was a reserved tone in his butler’s voice that signalled displeasure. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Brinkley’s tone signalled the disgruntlement of the entire household of elderly servants, not one of whom was enchanted by the idea of accommodating themselves to the presence of four small, female children. Well, the hell with that, Rafe thought. It wasn’t as if he’d asked to have a passel of youngsters on the premises.

‘Rocking horses?’ came a drawling voice from a deep chair to the right of the fireplace. ‘Charming, Rafe. Charming. One can’t start too early making the little darlings interested in horseflesh.’ Garret Langham, the Earl of Mayne, raised his glass toward his host. His black curls were in exquisite disarray, his comments arrogant to a fault, and his manners barely hid a seething fury. Not that he was furious at Rafe; Mayne had been in a slow burn for the past few months. ‘To Papa and his brood of infant equestriennes,’ he added, tossing back his drink.

‘Stubble it!’ Rafe said, but without much real animosity. Mayne was a damned uncomfortable companion at the moment, what with his poisonous comments and black humour. Still, one had to assume that the foul temper caused by the shock of being rejected by a woman would wear off in a matter of time.

‘Why the plural, as in rocking horses?’ Mayne asked. ‘As I recall, most nurseries contain only one rocking horse.’

Rafe took a gulp of his brandy. ‘I don’t know much about children,’ he said, ‘but I distinctly remember my brother and me fighting over our toys. So I bought four of them.’

There was a second’s silence during which the earl considered whether to acknowledge the fact that Rafe obviously still missed his brother (dead these five years, now). He dismissed the impulse. Manlike, he observed no benefit to maudlin conversation.

‘You’re doing those orphans proud,’ he said instead. ‘Most guardians would stow the children out of sight. It’s not as if they’re your blood.’

‘There’s no amount of dolls in the world that will make up for their situation,’ Rafe said, shrugging. ‘Their father should have thought of his responsibilities before he climbed on a stallion.’

The conversation was getting dangerously close to the sort of emotion to be avoided at all costs, so Mayne sprang from his chair. ‘Let’s have a look at the rocking horses, then. I haven’t seen one in years.’

‘Right,’ Rafe said, putting his glass onto the table with a sharp clink. ‘Brinkley, if the children arrive, bring them upstairs, and I’ll receive them in the nursery.’

A few minutes later the two men stood in the middle of a large room on the third floor, dizzily painted with murals. Little Bo Peep chased after Red Riding Hood, who was surely in danger of being crushed by the giant striding across the wall, his raised foot lowering over a feather bed sporting a huge green pea under the coverlet. The room resembled nothing so much as a Bond Street toy shop. Four dolls with spun gold hair sat primly on a bench. Four doll beds were propped atop each other, next to four doll tables, on which sat four jack-in-the-boxes. In the midst of it all was a group of rocking horses graced with real horsehair and coming almost to a man’s waist.

‘Jesus,’ Mayne said.

Rafe strode into the room and stamped on the rocker of one of the horses, making it clatter back and forth on the wooden floor. A door on the side of the room swung open, and a plump woman in a white apron poked her head out.

‘There you are, Your Grace,’ she said, beaming. ‘We’re just waiting for the children. Would you like to meet the new maids now?’

‘Send them on in, Mrs Beeswick.’

Four young nursemaids crowded into the room after her. ‘Daisy, Gussie, Elsie, and Mary,’ said the nanny. ‘They’re from the village, Your Grace, and pleased to have a position at Holbrook Court. We’re all eager for the little cherubs to arrive.’ The nursemaids lined up to either side of Mrs Beeswick, smiling and curtsying.