He hadn’t inherited a penny of it.
He’dearnedit.
Every damned dollar.
Off the sweat of his brow and the brains in his head, he’d amassed a fortune in property, businesses, and financial positions that expanded from the coast of California to Maryland’s eastern shore. Now he had his steely gaze fixed on England. In particular, a small, seemingly inconsequential railway that cut across the countryside. A railway with a depot station only half a day’s ride from where he would be spending the next two weeks by invitation of the Duke and Duchess of Abercorn.
When the pearly white envelope sealed with a perfect circle of ruby red wax was hand delivered to him at the top story of the hotel he’d leased out for the better part of the summer, Hoyt’s initial reaction was that of exasperated amusement before he’d tossed it onto a mounting pile of similar envelopes and correspondence. Ever since news of his arrival in London had broken, he had been receiving any untold number of invitationsto any manner of events. Balls, plays, operas. Even a pianoforte recital, whatever the hell that was. With his mind on business, he’d had his secretary politely decline each and every one… until it was brought to his attention that the Duke of Abercorn’s country estate was right next to the railway he planned to acquire.
As much as he loathed doing it, Hoyt understood the value of rubbing elbows with the right people. And so he’d nearly made his secretary topple over sideways when he’d told the short, thin man with a mustache wider than his head that he would formally accept the Duke and Duchess’s invitation to their Annual Summer House Gala.
Whatever the hell that was.
But two weeks later, as his carriage made its way up a winding drive guarded by towering oak trees and stopped behind a long line of other carriages in front of a stately stone manor with a trio of fountains spraying arcs of water into a clear blue sky and white tents set up across a meticulously landscaped lawn - were thoseswanswaddling around? - Hoyt began to gather just what an English house gala might entail. And when his boot heels crunched onto freshly raked oyster stone and a servant instantly materialized with a flute of champagne, he had a brief, albeit fleeting thought that he’d made a very rare miscalculation in confirming his attendance.
Over brief periods of time, he could curb his… rougher mannerisms… and conduct himself with an air of proprietary that would make a dowager duchess smile. But any longer than a few hours stuffed inside a waistcoat with a cravat choking him, and he began to feel a bit ornery. Like a mule, his mother used to say with affection as she’d tousled his dark hair. But what did mules do when they were aggravated or pushed beyond what they deemed acceptable limits?
They kicked.
Hard.
Taking a sip of his champagne - a refreshing drink on what was promising to be a hot summer’s day - he resigned himself to mingling with the growing crowd of aristocrats under the tents. Until, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of movement. A flicker, really.
It could have been a breeze blowing through the trees. Or sunlight reflecting off a carriage. Or one of the sheep grazing in a nearby field. It could have been any manner of small, inconsequential things. Things that were glanced at and then forgotten.
Except there was nothing about the redhead darting under a brick archway and then disappearing from sight that was forgettable.
Utterly bemused, Hoyt took a quick look around to see if anyone else had witnessed the garden fairy in a blue dress with auburn curls streaming down her back. If they had, they were nonplussed about it. While he found himself quite intrigued.
Setting his champagne glass down on the tray of a passing servant, he cut across the lawn. There was a wall covered in climbing ivy on either side of the archway and a hedge maze beyond it, the shrubbery nearly as tall as he was. Presented with a choice to turn left or right, he instinctively picked the latter, his long strides and excellent sense of direction making rapid work of a labyrinth that was likely intended to provide an hour’s worth of idle amusement.
The sun warmed the nape of his neck and the heavy floral scent of honeysuckle invaded his nostrils as he followed a path that was worn slightly more than the rest. A glimpse of blue increased his pace; a teasing hint that it wasn’t his imagination that had lured him into the thicket of green but a real flesh and blood woman with curls the color of firelight.
Unlike a maze that challenged its quarry to enter at one end and find a way out at the other, a labyrinth was designed to end in the center. And when he finally found the center - far more quickly than he was meant to and not nearly as fast as he would have liked - Hoyt foundher.
Like a picture from a fairytale, she sat in a pool of glimmering light on bench made of white marble. Her silhouette was long and slender. Her wild mane far more glorious up close than far away. She had her back to him, but her shoulders stiffened when she heard him approach, and her chin turned, offering him a view of her profile. All angles and creamy skin with a spattering of freckles across arching cheekbones.
“Are you chasing me?” Her voice was as melodious as a babbling brook rushing over smooth rocks, and Hoyt, who had never fancied himself much of a romantic, found he was intrigued. With her sound. With her beauty. With her mystery.
Her clothing was simple, her skirts slightly rumpled and stained with streaks of green. That, combined with her feckless attention to her hair, gave him reason to assume she was a servant shirking her duties or a local villager’s daughter that had wanted a peek at how the wealthy lived. Not that it mattered to Hoyt. The British were the ones who placed such enormous importance on bloodlines and titles, whereas he couldn’t care less if someone was a baron or a blacksmith.
It was almost better that his fairy wasn’t of blue blood, because when he asked her to marry him - and hewasgoing to ask her, his mind was already made up - her family wouldn’t have cause to object to the union due to his humble beginnings.
“Should I be chasing you?” he drawled, removing his hat and skimming his blunt fingernails along the edge of his jaw where a day’s worth of stubble grew in a dark sweep of shadow.
“That depends,” she said seriously.
“On what?”
“On whether you intend to catch me.”
The corner of his mouth quirked upward. “I was under the impression I already had.”
“Oh, no.” Amusement glinted in brilliant green eyes framed with thick, luxurious lashes when she turned to face him, revealing her full countenance. Bold brows a shade lighter than all those coppery curls. A delicate nose that tilted ever-so-slightly at the end. A rounded chin that lent itself to stubbornness. And hermouth. Good Lord. Pink and plump and topped with a cupid’s bow, it was the most glorious thing he’d ever beheld.
If they were in a church, he would have married her right then and there.
A bold proclamation for a man who had never been in love.
