The Earl Falls in Love - Chapter 12
Spicy BL/MM/GAY Omegaverse Historical Romance
Ian
It turns out that life has a peculiar sense of humor. Just when I’d finally come to terms with losing Cheswick, I found myself stepping into a world so far removed from my previous existence that it might as well have been on another planet entirely.
St. Louis train station was a seething mass of humanity that made the modest crowds of Warlington seem like a quiet Sunday gathering. Bodies pressed against bodies, voices competed with the shriek of train whistles, and the air was thick with coal smoke, perfume, and the particular aroma that arises when too many people occupy too small a space. I clutched Reuben’s hand tightly, afraid he might be swept away in the tide of travelers if I loosened my grip for even a moment.
“This way,” Mr. Ford called over the din, gesturing toward a line of waiting carriages.
The journey to reach this point had been lengthy—two months of packing our meager belongings, saying goodbye to the only home I’d ever known, and enduring a two-day train journey that left me with a newfound appreciation for solid ground. Throughout it all, I’d maintained a brave face for the twins, pretending that relocating to the capital was a grand adventure rather than the terrifying leap into the unknown that it actually was.
Reuben tugged at my sleeve, his eyes wide as dinner plates as he took in the chaotic scene around us. “Ian! So many people! Where they all going?”
“Everywhere and nowhere,” I replied, steering him through the crowd with one hand while keeping a watchful eye on Dorothy, who carried a wide-eyed Rosie. “That’s city life for you—everyone rushing about as though the fate of the kingdom depends on them reaching their destination five minutes sooner.”
I couldn’t blame the twins for their wonderment. None of us had ventured farther than Greenhill Village before this journey, and the train itself had been a novelty that had Reuben pressing his face against the window for hours, watching the countryside transform from the familiar rolling hills of Cheswick to increasingly unfamiliar terrain.
Mr. Ford had been a godsend during our journey, navigating the complexities of train schedules and luggage transfers with the easy confidence of a man accustomed to such matters. I suspected his eagerness to assist us had less to do with Lord Edward’s instructions and more to do with the lingering glances he kept casting toward Dorothy when he thought no one was looking. Their correspondence over the past two months hadn’t escaped my notice—nor had the way Dorothy’s face brightened whenever a letter bearing the Tyndall seal arrived.
I couldn’t begrudge her this happiness. After years of shouldering responsibilities that would have crushed a lesser woman, Dorothy deserved whatever joy life might offer her. If that joy came in the form of a handsome lawyer with kind eyes and impeccable manners, so be it.
As for my own correspondence with Lord Edward... well, that was a matter I preferred not to examine too closely. Each letter that arrived bearing his bold handwriting sent my pulse racing in a manner that defied rational explanation. I told myself it was merely anticipation of news about our future arrangements, but the warmth that spread through me when I read his words suggested something far more complicated.
The carriage ride from the station to Tyndall Manor offered my first real glimpse of St. Louis proper. The city sprawled in every direction, a bewildering maze of wide boulevards and narrow side streets, grand buildings and modest shops, all teeming with more people than I’d seen in my entire life combined. The air carried a peculiar mixture of coal smoke, baked goods, horse manure, and some indefinable essence that I supposed was simply the smell of civilization concentrated in one place.
“Look, Ian!” Reuben exclaimed, bouncing on the seat beside me. “That building touches the sky!”
“Almost,” I agreed, following his pointing finger to a structure that indeed seemed to stretch improbably upward. “Though I imagine the people who built the Tower of Babel thought the same thing, and look how that turned out.”
“What’s a Tower of Babel?” he asked, wrinkling his nose.
“A cautionary tale about hubris that I’ll explain when you’re older,” I replied, ruffling his hair. “Or perhaps when I’m feeling particularly masochistic.”
The carriage turned through an imposing iron gate, and suddenly the clamor of the city fell away, replaced by the orderly serenity of manicured grounds. As we proceeded up a winding drive, Tyndall Manor came into view, and I felt my jaw slacken despite my best efforts to maintain my composure.
“Good Lord,” I muttered under my breath. “Either we’ve taken a wrong turn into a royal palace, or the Tyndalls have a serious case of architectural overcompensation.”
The structure before us wasn’t a manor—it was a monument to aristocratic excess. Three stories of pale stone rose majestically against the winter sky, with more windows than I could count at a glance and a façade that stretched wider than the entire village of Greenhill. Ornamental gardens surrounded it on all sides, dormant now in the winter chill but promising spectacular beauty come spring.
“It’s a castle, Ian!” Reuben breathed, his little face pressed against the carriage window. “A real castle!”
For once, I couldn’t muster a clever retort. The boy wasn’t wrong—the place did bear more resemblance to a royal residence than any home I’d ever imagined.
As our carriage rolled to a stop before the grand entrance, Reuben could contain himself no longer. The moment the door opened, he burst forth like a cork from a shaken bottle, Waffle hot on his heels. The pair tore across the immaculate lawn, a blur of boyish energy and canine enthusiasm.
“FREEDOM!” Reuben shrieked, arms spread wide as he spun in circles before tumbling into a perfectly manicured flower bed. Waffle, interpreting this as an invitation to play, pounced on the boy, tail wagging furiously as he showered Reuben’s face with enthusiastic licks.
Reuben’s peals of laughter rang out across the grounds as he rolled through what I was certain were prize-winning tulip bulbs, sending clumps of dirt flying. Waffle, not to be outdone, began digging with the single-minded determination that only dogs possess, dirt spraying in all directions.
Four gardeners appeared as if summoned by the sound of botanical destruction, their faces masks of horror as they beheld the carnage. One clutched his chest as though experiencing heart palpitations, while another seemed on the verge of tears as Reuben and Waffle trampled what was likely months of painstaking work.
“The winter hyacinths!” one cried, his voice breaking with emotion. “They’re massacring the winter hyacinths!”
The gardeners advanced cautiously, clearly torn between saving their beloved plants and avoiding the whirlwind of boy and dog that showed no signs of slowing. When they drew near, Reuben interpreted their approach as an invitation to a new game.
“Can’t catch me!” he challenged, leaping up and darting away with Waffle bounding joyfully alongside him. The gardeners gave chase, their expressions shifting from horror to determination as they pursued the tiny tornado across the lawn.
“Reuben Harrison!” I called, attempting to inject authority into my voice despite the laugh threatening to escape. “Cease and desist this botanical terrorism immediately!”
The boy skidded to a halt, chest heaving and face flushed with excitement. Dirt smudged his cheeks and grass stained his knees, but his grin was incandescent. “Did you see me running, Ian? I was fast as lightning!”
“More like a force of nature,” I replied dryly. “I believe you’ve just reduced several men’s life work to mulch in under five minutes. Quite an accomplishment.”
Waffle, however, continued his celebratory circuit of the grounds, now with all four gardeners in pursuit. The dog treated it as a splendid new game, darting between their outstretched hands with the gleeful evasiveness of a creature who knows exactly how much trouble he’s causing.
“Waffle!” I employed my sharpest tone—the one reserved for genuine misbehavior. “Heel! Now!”
The dog skulked back, tail between his legs, though his contrition lasted only until I scratched behind his ears. “I’ll take you for a proper run later,” I promised quietly. “Preferably somewhere without horticulturists who look ready to use you as fertilizer.”
Mr. Ford chuckled beside me, surveying the disheveled gardeners who were now attempting to salvage what remained of their flower beds. “Looks like Reuben and Waffle are already making themselves at home.”
“Yes, nothing says ‘we’ve arrived’ quite like decimating the landscaping within the first five minutes,” I replied. “I’d hoped we might wait at least until dinner before causing irreparable damage to Tyndall property, but apparently Reuben had other plans.”
“It’s a castle, Mr. Ford!” Reuben exclaimed, bouncing on his toes with uncontained excitement. “A real castle with a moat and dragons and everything!”
“It is rather impressive,” Mr. Ford agreed, his expression suggesting he found the child’s enthusiasm endearing. “Though I believe the moat and dragons were modernized out during the last renovation.”
“Pity,” I said. “A dragon would have added a certain dramatic flair to our arrival. Though I suppose Waffle’s impromptu gardening has provided enough spectacle for one day.”
A small army of uniformed servants emerged from the manor, moving with the synchronized precision of a military unit as they began unloading our luggage. Among them appeared two women who were clearly not servants—one middle-aged with an air of quiet authority, the other younger but with the same regal bearing.
To my astonishment, the older woman—who could only be Lady Victoria Tyndall herself—crouched before Rosie with a warm smile that transformed her aristocratic features into something approachable and kind.
“Hello there,” she said, her voice gentle but carrying the unmistakable polish of aristocracy. “You must be Rosie. I’ve heard such charming things about you that I feel we’re already acquainted.”
Rosie, who had been clinging to Dorothy’s hand like a lifeline, looked up for reassurance. At Dorothy’s encouraging nod, she executed a perfect little curtsy that we’d practiced for weeks.
“Hello,” she replied softly. “Yes, I’m Rosie.”
“What a perfectly executed curtsy,” Lady Tyndall remarked, taking Rosie’s tiny hand in her own. “I see you have natural grace as well as beauty. Tyndall Manor has been in desperate need of both.”
Not to be outdone, Reuben darted forward to stand beside his twin, leaving a trail of soil in his wake. “Hello, I’m Reuben!” he announced, practically vibrating with excitement. “I just killed some flowers but I didn’t mean to!”
Lady Tyndall’s laughter rang out, bright and genuine. “Ah, a budding landscape artist with revolutionary ideas about garden design. How refreshing. Welcome to Tyndall Manor, Reuben. Our head gardener has been getting entirely too complacent lately.”
“Tyndall Manor is a castle,” Reuben informed her seriously. “It’s huge. Will my room be huge, too? Can I have a dragon in it?”
Lady Tyndall’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Your chambers are quite spacious, and as for dragons—they’re only permitted in the east wing on alternate Thursdays. House rules, I’m afraid, though I’ve been lobbying for more liberal dragon policies for years.”
The twins exchanged a look of such profound delight that I couldn’t help but smile. Perhaps this transition wouldn’t be as difficult as I’d feared, at least for them.
Mr. Ford proceeded with formal introductions, presenting Grandma Eliza, Dorothy, and finally myself to Lady Tyndall and Lady Daisy, her daughter-in-law. Throughout the exchange, I found my gaze drifting toward the manor entrance, half-expecting—hoping, if I’m honest—to see Lord Edward emerge. But the doorway remained occupied only by servants, and I felt a peculiar hollow sensation in my chest at his absence.
Foolishness, of course. Lord Edward was a man of business and responsibilities, not some lovestruck swain awaiting our arrival with bated breath. Still, after two months of letters and the memory of that parting kiss, I’d harbored a secret hope that he might be present to welcome us.
“And this is Ian Harrison,” Mr. Ford said, drawing me back to the present.
Lady Tyndall’s eyes widened as she regarded me, her expression shifting to something I couldn’t quite interpret. “My goodness,” she said, her keen eyes taking in every detail of my appearance, “what an extraordinary contradiction you present. Beauty that would make Venus herself envious, yet there’s something distinctly masculine in your bearing that’s quite fascinating.”
I blinked, uncertain how to respond to such an ambiguous observation. “My lady,” I said, offering a slight bow rather than the curtsy she apparently expected. “I assure you, despite my regrettably delicate features, I am thoroughly male. I have the appropriate anatomical evidence, though I’d prefer not to display it on the front lawn.”
“Mother,” Lady Daisy interjected with a wry smile that suggested she found the situation more amusing than awkward, “perhaps we should remember that Master Ian is indeed a gentleman, regardless of how divine his bone structure might be.”
“A gentleman?” Lady Tyndall recovered smoothly, barely missing a beat. “Of course. I was merely momentarily captivated by such remarkable features. How refreshing to meet a young man who hasn’t been carved from the same dreary mold as most of society’s eligible bachelors.” She studied me with renewed interest. “How old are you, Ian dear?”
“Nineteen, my lady,” I replied, trying not to fidget under her scrutiny. “Though I’ve been told I have the jaded cynicism of someone twice that age.”
“Nineteen,” Lady Tyndall mused with a knowing smile. “The perfect age for making advantageous connections. Edward will certainly have his hands full fending off unsuitable suitors.”
Lady Daisy observed me with intelligent eyes. “Indeed, Mother. Though Ian is a gentleman, his particular combination of beauty and wit will attract potential suitors from all quarters, conventional or otherwise.”
I stared at her, momentarily speechless. “Suitors? For me?”
Lady Tyndall brightened with sudden inspiration. “We simply must have a proper introduction for the Harrisons. A dinner party at minimum, though I’m inclined toward something more substantial. The social elite of St. Louis should meet you all at once, like a magnificent theatrical reveal.”
Mr. Ford made a strangled sound beside me. “Is there... any need for that?” he asked, his usual composure slipping. “Perhaps a quiet introduction to a select few friends would be more appropriate?”
“My dear Daniel,” Lady Tyndall replied with the air of someone explaining a fundamental truth to a well-meaning but misguided child, “one doesn’t acquire such fascinating new relations without properly showcasing them. The gossips will be beside themselves with anticipation, which is precisely why it must be a grand affair. Perhaps even a ball.”
“A ball even?” Mr. Ford repeated faintly, casting a worried glance toward Dorothy. “I’m not sure that’s—”
“A ball would be ideal,” Lady Tyndall confirmed, turning on her heel to lead us into the manor with the clear expectation that we would follow. “Nothing announces one’s arrival in society quite like having three hundred people scrutinize your every move while pretending to enjoy tepid champagne.”
I leaned close to Mr. Ford as we walked. “Don’t worry,” I murmured. “Dorothy only has eyes for you. Though if you wait much longer to declare yourself, I may have to lock you both in a closet until you sort things out.”
His startled expression was worth the impropriety of my comment.
The interior of Tyndall Manor was even more impressive than its exterior—a symphony of marble, polished wood, and gilt accents that made Cheswick’s modest elegance seem positively rustic by comparison. We were ushered into a drawing room that could have comfortably housed our entire dining room, kitchen, and pantry combined, and served tea on china so fine I feared it might shatter if I breathed too forcefully.
“Is everything in this house designed to make visitors feel like clumsy giants?” I whispered to Grandma Eliza as I gingerly accepted a teacup that appeared to be made from eggshells and dreams.
“Hush, boy,” she replied under her breath. “And for heaven’s sake, use the tiny fork for the tiny cakes. The last thing we need is for you to commit a cutlery faux pas within the first hour.”
As Lady Tyndall and Grandma Eliza exchanged pleasantries, I found myself wondering again about Lord Edward’s absence. Surely he knew we were arriving today? The thought that he might have deliberately arranged to be elsewhere sent an unexpected pang through me.
“Mother,” Lady Daisy prompted with subtle emphasis, “shouldn’t we inform our guests about Edward’s whereabouts? They might be wondering why he isn’t here to welcome them personally.”
“Ah yes,” Lady Tyndall said, her expression turning regretful. “I was rather hoping to delay this particular disappointment. Edward was called away to England on urgent business—railway investments that simply couldn’t wait. He was quite vexed about missing your arrival after having arranged everything so meticulously.”
“He left three separate sets of instructions for your comfort,” Lady Daisy added with a hint of amusement. “Each more detailed than the last. I believe the final version specified the exact temperature at which your rooms should be kept and the precise fluffiness required for your pillows.”
“When will Lord Edward return?” Dorothy asked, voicing the question I couldn’t bring myself to ask.
“Friday fortnight,” Lady Tyndall replied. “Assuming the Channel behaves itself and the English weather doesn’t live up to its dreary reputation. Though knowing Edward, he would swim back if necessary once he learns you’ve arrived safely.”
“How refreshing,” Grandma Eliza remarked dryly. “Most people work so hard to conceal their thoroughness. His attention to detail is commendable.”
“It’s one of his most endearing qualities,” Lady Tyndall agreed with a warm smile. “Though I suspect you’ll discover many more once he returns. Edward has a way of surprising even those who think they know him well.”
Nearly three weeks until Lord Edward’s return. I tried to ignore the disappointment that settled in my chest at this news. What did it matter? I had survived nineteen years without Lord Edward Tyndall; surely I could manage another three weeks.
Though, if I were being honest with myself, the thought of navigating this strange new world without his steadying presence was more daunting than I cared to admit.
After tea, we were shown to our respective rooms, scattered throughout the manor according to some logic I couldn’t quite discern. Grandma Eliza was installed on the ground floor, presumably in deference to her cane and arthritic joints. Dorothy and the twins were placed in the east wing, while I was led to a suite in the west wing that was larger than our entire first floor at Cheswick.
“This is... mine?” I asked the footman who had escorted me, certain there had been some mistake. “All of it? You haven’t accidentally shown me to the royal guest chambers reserved for visiting dignitaries?”
“Yes, sir,” he confirmed with admirable composure. “Lord Edward selected it personally for you before his departure.”
I stood frozen in the doorway, trying to absorb the reality of my new accommodations. The room was a study in understated luxury—a massive four-poster bed draped in blue and gold, a sitting area with a settee positioned to catch the afternoon light, a desk that appeared to be made from a single piece of mahogany, and windows that offered a spectacular view of the gardens below.
Once the footman departed, I explored further, discovering a dressing room larger than my bedroom at Cheswick and a bathroom that left me momentarily speechless. A porcelain bathtub with actual hot water taps, a modern flush toilet, and a basin with its own supply of hot and cold water—luxuries I’d only read about in novels.
“I’ve died and gone to heaven,” I murmured, running my fingers over the smooth edge of the bathtub. “Or at the very least, I’ve been transported into one of Dorothy’s romance novels where the heroine always has mysteriously perfect hair despite primitive grooming facilities.”
I returned to the bedroom and flopped onto the bed, testing its softness. The mattress yielded beneath me like a cloud, so different from my sturdy but unyielding bed at Cheswick. Everything about this room spoke of comfort and elegance, from the silk damask curtains to the plush carpet beneath my feet.
As I lay there, staring up at the canopy, I noticed a set of double doors on the right side of the room that I hadn’t yet investigated. Curiosity piqued, I crossed to them and tried the handle, only to find it locked.
“Odd,” I muttered, jiggling the handle again. “A locked door in my own room? Either they’re hiding something scandalous in there, or it’s where they plan to stash my body after I inevitably commit some horrific social blunder.”
Shrugging off the mystery, I returned to the dressing room to begin the task of unpacking my woefully inadequate wardrobe. My modest collection of shirts and trousers looked positively shabby when hung in the spacious closet, barely occupying a fraction of the available space. I had just finished storing my empty luggage when a commotion in the hallway caught my attention—running footsteps followed by what could only be described as feminine shrieks.
Curiosity overcoming propriety, I ventured into the hallway, following the sounds toward the east wing where Dorothy and the twins were quartered. As I approached the twins’ room, the shrieking intensified, punctuated by rapid-fire chatter that reminded me of a pair of excited magpies.
I paused in the doorway, taking in the scene before me. Two identical young women—presumably the infamous Samara and Scarlet Tyndall—were fawning over Reuben and Rosie with an enthusiasm that bordered on manic. One had Rosie’s face clasped between her hands, cooing over her “adorable cheeks,” while the other bombarded Reuben with questions at a pace that left the poor boy looking dazed.
“Oh my goodness, look at these perfect little creatures!” one twin exclaimed, her eyes widening with delight. “They’re absolutely divine! Like living dolls, but with actual personalities—which is so much better for character development!”
“The cheekbones! The eyes! The adorable little hands!” the other gushed, circling the twins like an excited butterfly. “Letty, can you imagine them in our spring storyline? The innocent children who witness the secret garden tryst?”
“Yes! Exactly what I was thinking!” her sister agreed enthusiastically. “Who designed these charming outfits? They’re wonderfully quaint—so refreshingly different from the stuffy nonsense children wear in the capital.”
“We simply must sketch you immediately,” one declared, pulling a small notebook from her pocket. “Don’t move an inch! The light is catching your hair perfectly!”
“Do you like stories?” the other asked Reuben directly. “We write the most thrilling tales. There’s kissing and sometimes fighting and lots of dramatic confessions in the rain. Would you like to be in our next book? You could be the plucky orphan who discovers the duke’s secret!”
“We’re going to be your new sisters and spoil you absolutely rotten,” one promised, clasping her hands beneath her chin. “You’ll have so many sweets you’ll be bouncing off the walls. Edward will be furious, which makes it even better!”
The twins looked utterly overwhelmed, Rosie frozen like a startled rabbit while Reuben’s eyes darted around seeking escape. Even Waffle had retreated behind Dorothy’s skirts, his ears flattened against his head as though the women’s high-pitched enthusiasm caused him physical pain.
“Sam, Letty, you both are scaring the children,” Mr. Ford interjected from his position near the window, where he stood with Dorothy and Lady Daisy.
The Tyndall twins turned to him with identical expressions of exasperation.
“Daniel!” one exclaimed with a dramatic gasp. “How terribly rude of you to interrupt! Can’t you see we’re having a critical creative moment here? These children are pure inspiration!”
“Exactly!” the other agreed with a theatrical pout. “And you’ve completely shattered the mood. Now we’ll have to start all over again, and the lighting won’t be nearly as perfect.”
“We need to draw them before they grow an inch taller,” the first declared, waving her hands expressively. “Childhood is fleeting! It’s practically our duty to capture it!”
“Yes. Yes, absolutely,” her sister nodded emphatically. “For posterity and for our next book. The readers will adore them!”
Reuben, seizing his opportunity, slipped free from his captor’s grasp and bolted toward me, wrapping his arms around my leg like a limpet.
“Ian,” he pleaded, his voice muffled against my trousers. “Save me from the scary ladies. They talk too fast and they want to kiss me and put me in a book!”
I ruffled his hair reassuringly. “It’s all right. They don’t mean you any harm. They’re just excited to meet you—rather like Waffle when he spots a particularly juicy rabbit, except with more expensive clothing and slightly better manners.”
“But I’m scared,” he whispered. “They’re gonna eat me up.”
The Tyndall twins, apparently noticing Reuben’s escape, followed his trajectory with their eyes until their gazes landed squarely on me. The effect was immediate and disconcerting—both women froze as though they’d spotted a ghost.
“Sam,” one whispered, clutching her sister’s arm. “Pinch me right now. I think I’m hallucinating the most perfect heroine we’ve ever imagined.”
Her sister obliged, eliciting a yelp. “Ouch! Not that hard!”
“We’re not dreaming,” the pincher—presumably Samara—announced with breathless wonder. “There’s an actual angel standing right there in our house!”
“A living, breathing muse,” her sister agreed, eyes shining. “Edward has been holding out on us!”
Before I could process what was happening, they had crossed the room and were standing directly before me, their faces mere inches from my own. I blinked, wondering if I’d somehow missed their approach or if they’d simply materialized there through some arcane magic.
“Darling Reuben called you Ian,” Samara said, her eyes wide with fascination. “Are you Ian Harrison? The mysterious ward Edward wrote about?”
“Yes, my lady,” I confirmed, fighting the urge to step backward. “Though I’m beginning to wish I’d adopted a disguise and a false identity before arriving.”
“You’re absolutely perfect,” she breathed, circling me once. “Those eyes! That hair! That beautifully tragic expression! Are you sure you’re not secretly a fairy tale princess under some terrible curse that makes everyone think you’re a boy?”
I stared at her, momentarily speechless. “I’m sure I’m a boy, my lady,” I replied. “I’ve had nearly two decades to confirm this fact, and I’ve yet to discover evidence to the contrary.”
“Then you’re our new brother,” the other twin—Scarlet, I presumed—declared with a delighted clap of her hands. “This is wonderful! Edward has finally brought home someone interesting instead of those dreadfully dull business associates.”
I wasn’t entirely clear on the logic that transformed guardianship into siblinghood, but before I could question it, Samara seized my hand in hers.
“You’re an ideal hero,” she announced, eyes sparkling with excitement. “You’re exactly what we’ve been searching for! The perfect face for Lord Winterley in our new series!”
Scarlet leaned even closer, her nose nearly touching mine. “There’s a beauty mark, Sam! Right there under his eye—it’s exquisite!”
“Oh my, you’re right, Letty!” Samara gasped, joining her sister in my personal space. “It’s like a teardrop frozen in time. So poetic! So perfect for a character with a tragic past!”
“It’s destiny,” Scarlet agreed fervently. “Ian, darling Ian, would you be our model? Our readers will fall madly in love with you!”
“Model?” I echoed, wondering if I’d somehow stumbled into an alternate reality where nothing made sense. “For what, exactly? A study in discomfort? A portrait titled ‘Man Desperately Seeking Escape’?”
“For our illustrations,” Samara explained eagerly, bouncing slightly on her toes. “Our books need faces, and yours is absolutely divine! Our readers will swoon by the thousands!”
“You don’t have to do much,” Scarlet added breathlessly. “All you need to do is sit, and I draw. Sometimes looking tragic, sometimes looking wistful. You already do both perfectly!”
“Erm...” I hesitated, licking my lips nervously. How does one politely decline being immortalized by women who looked ready to kidnap me for artistic purposes if I showed the slightest hesitation?
“That’s enough, you two,” a male voice interrupted, accompanied by a long-suffering sigh. “Before you completely terrify our new houseguest into fleeing back to Cheswick.”
I glanced over my shoulder to find a young man watching the proceedings with an expression that suggested he was all too familiar with the Tyndall twins’ enthusiastic ambushes. Dark-haired and handsome, with striking features that hinted at mixed heritage, he carried himself with the easy confidence of someone comfortable in his own skin.
“I have to apologize for Sam and Letty’s forward behavior,” he said, offering me a sympathetic smile that transformed his serious face. “They tend to treat new people like exotic specimens they’ve discovered on an expedition. Last month it was the ambassador’s son—poor fellow still flinches when he hears the word ‘inspiration.’”
“I see,” I replied, feeling slightly less overwhelmed knowing I wasn’t their first victim. “And here I thought inspiration typically came from sunsets or birdsong, not traumatized country boys.”
“Their muses take many forms, usually unwilling ones,” he quipped, his dark eyes twinkling with humor. “I’m Alec Tyndall, by the way. Edward’s brother and fellow survivor of the Tyndall twin tornado. You must be Ian Harrison?”
I nodded. “Yes, sir... I mean, my lord. Though at this point, I’m open to assuming a new identity if it would simplify matters.”
He chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. “Please, just Alec. ‘My lord’ makes me look over my shoulder for my father’s ghost. Besides, we’re close in age, and since you’re Edward’s ward, we’re practically brothers already—fellow soldiers in the battle against these two creative menaces.”
The notion of suddenly acquiring multiple siblings was bewildering, but I found myself warming to Alec’s easy manner. “Then Alec,” I agreed. “I’ll call you Alec. Though I should warn you that brotherhood with me primarily involves sarcastic commentary and occasional acts of minor rebellion.”
“Perfect,” he replied, his smile revealing a dimple in his left cheek. “I specialize in both myself. Edward will be thrilled to have another voice of reason in the house—he’s been outnumbered for years.”
“You two, please stop flirting in front of everyone,” Lady Daisy interjected dryly. “You’re going to make Sam and Letty swoon.”
“We definitely will not swoon,” Scarlet protested with a dramatic hand to her heart. “Please continue flirting. Do it all day, every day if it pleases you. The chemistry is absolutely perfect for chapter three!”
“Call us by our first names from now on, too, Ian,” Samara added, linking her arm through mine as if we were already the best of friends. “Since we’re going to be family now. And family sits for portraits when their sisters ask nicely.”
“If you don’t,” Scarlet threatened with a mischievous grin, “we’ll have to take drastic measures. Perhaps a character suspiciously like Edward in our next book will develop an embarrassing condition. Terrible boils. Very itchy.”
“Well, we can’t have that,” I replied. “Though I’m curious—what sort of ‘horrible deeds’ are we talking about? I might want to take notes for future reference.”
Mr. Ford cleared his throat. “It’s great that you’re here, Alec. Why don’t you accompany Ian while he takes Waffle out for a walk? The little guy looks desperate for some exercise.”
“He’s been stuck in the train for two days,” I explained, grateful for the escape route Mr. Ford had provided. “Poor fellow’s probably forgotten what grass looks like. Though after his earlier performance in the garden, I’m not sure the horticulturists will welcome his return.”
“A jail break? Excellent idea,” Alec agreed with evident relief. “I’ll show you the gardens that haven’t yet been demolished by your canine companion. But first—” He knelt before Reuben, who was still clinging to my leg like a barnacle. “Hello there, mighty destroyer of flower beds. You must be Reuben, right?”
Reuben nodded cautiously, eyeing this new adult with the wariness of a child who has recently been accosted by overenthusiastic females.
“Welcome to Tyndall Manor, Reuben,” Alec said warmly. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Edward mentioned you’re quite the adventurer.”
“Hello,” Reuben replied after a moment’s consideration. “Tyndall Manor is a castle. It’s huge.”
Alec chuckled. “It is rather enormous, isn’t it? Perfect for games of hide and seek. I know all the best hiding places from when I was your age.”
Reuben’s eyes widened with interest. “Really?”
“Absolutely,” Alec nodded solemnly. “There’s a secret passage behind the library bookcase that not even the servants know about. We could explore it sometime if you’d like.”
“Okay,” Reuben agreed, his earlier wariness melting away. “Can we hide from the scary book ladies?”
“That’s precisely what secret passages are for,” Alec promised with a conspiratorial wink. “I’ve been using them to escape those two for years.”
After ruffling Reuben’s hair, Alec turned to Rosie, who had remained frozen in place throughout the entire exchange. His gentle introduction earned only a whispered “Hello, Lord Alec sir” before she scurried to join Waffle behind Dorothy’s skirts.
I whistled for Waffle, who bounded to my side with such enthusiasm that you’d think I’d offered him a juicy steak rather than a simple walk.
“It’s a dog!” Scarlet exclaimed with delight. “A gorgeous, noble dog! Letty, we need a dog in the next book—the hero’s faithful companion who saves him from certain death!”
“And it’s a German shepherd,” Samara added, eyes bright with new ideas. “So majestic! So loyal! The perfect symbol of unwavering devotion!”
Waffle, displaying a wisdom I hadn’t previously attributed to him, promptly bolted for the door. Alec laughed. “Even your dog has excellent judgment. Shall we follow his example before they decide to include us in chapter four?”
As we escaped into the hallway, leaving the twins’ artistic enthusiasm behind, I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Are they always like that?” I asked. “Or did someone slip something unusual into the tea before we arrived?”
“Sam and Letty?” He grinned, leading me down a corridor adorned with ancestral portraits. “That was actually them on their best behavior. Wait until they get comfortable with you—then the real madness begins. Last month they tried to recreate a duel scene using Mother’s antique swords and nearly decapitated the butler.”
“Lord help me,” I muttered, wondering what I’d gotten myself into by agreeing to this new life. “And here I thought the worst thing about St. Louis would be the coal smoke and the crushing weight of aristocratic expectations.”
Alec laughed, a genuine sound that made me smile despite my misgivings. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to them. And they’re actually quite wonderful once you get past the initial... intensity. Their hearts are as big as their imaginations, which is saying something.”
“Like a thunderstorm is wonderful once you get past the part where it nearly drowns you?” I suggested.
“Exactly,” he agreed. “Terrifying, overwhelming, but ultimately life-giving. Though I’d still recommend carrying an umbrella at all times, metaphorically speaking.”
As we made our way through the labyrinthine corridors of Tyndall Manor toward the gardens, I found myself thinking that perhaps this strange new world might not be so terrible after all. Different, certainly—bewildering and occasionally terrifying—but not without its charms.
And in just under three weeks, Lord Edward would return. The thought sent an unexpected flutter through my chest that I promptly attributed to nervous anticipation rather than anything more significant.
After all, what else could it possibly be?