Forever My Love (Berkeley-Faulkner #2)(50)

It had been hell to leave Mira’s warm bed this morning, to disentangle himself from her slender body when all he wanted to do was make love to her again. But she had been so exhausted that she had not even stirred when he left her. Alec had decided not to awaken her, for not only did he want to allow her the rest she needed but also he had had no idea of what to say to her this morning. Where Mira was concerned his emotions were frustratingly cloudy. What in God’s name was it going to take to untangle the coil he was woven in?

“Falkner, did you hear what I just said?” Squire Osbaldeston demanded, swilling port although it was only eleven in the morning. He was a ruddy, beefy individual in his late forties, popular for his warm, gruff nature and distinctive booming voice. He was impossible to ignore, for his stout girth was matched by a hearty personality that extended itself to everyone within shouting distance.

“Every word,” Alec lied, reaching over to the desk and pulling a sheaf of blank white parchment onto his lap. “Hand me that quill, will you?” He concentrated on remembering the most recent snatches of Osbaldeston’s monologue. “You said something about the plans for your new manor house—”

“I said that I’m deuced unhappy about it!” the squire boomed. “A demned Grecian palace! Huge columns, statues everywhere. Cold, big, nothing but marble to rest my backside on. All because I let Lady Osbaldeston’s grand ideas get in the way of my common sense. I’ll put some good words in your ear, my young fellow: never listen to a wife’s advice. You’ll both be happier that way.”

Alec grinned, dipping the tip of the quill into a small pot of ink.

“The Grecian style is very popular, Squire Osbaldeston,” he said reasonably. “Classic. Pure. Of course, it’s a little more suitable to public buildings than private residences—”

“I want to live in a home, not a shrine,” the squire said grimly. “Egad, you architects… changing the style every month, as if houses could be bought like hats.”

“Falkner,” Sackville intervened, “I mentioned to the squire that you’re a talented architect. Would you be willin’ to do him a favor—come up with some kind of design that’d represent a compromise between his tastes and his wife’s? It seems the Lady Osbaldeston prefers the grand classical style, while the squire is.interested in a Gothic house… rather like this one, in fact.”

“Yet another battle in the war of classic against Gothic,” Alec commented, a smile tugging at one side of his mouth. “And even worse, the battle occurs between a good man and his wife. Squire Osbaldeston . . perhaps you would like the front of your house in one style and the back in the other?” His gray eyes were all innocence as he made the suggestion. Suddenly the squire laughed, his ill humor abating. “Young whelp. No, for once, the house will be designed the way I like it. Something snug and comfortable—like the Regent’s York Cottage. Or the Berkeley mansion in Warwick.”

“Yes,” Alec murmured, his quill scratching busily on the parchment. “I designed that one.”

“Oh? That’s good, very good,” the squire exclaimed, his small blue eyes lighting up. “Except that I want mine spikier than that. Maybe stained-glass windows and perforated ironwork—what do you think?”

“I think you’ll feel as if you’re living in a church,” Alec returned, not looking up from his sketch. The statement disconcerted the squire slightly. “Oh? Hang it, I didn’t think of that.” ‘Perhaps something a little more fanciful might appeal to you… neo-Gothic, picturesque but designed along classical lines. Something that would satisfy your desire for comfort and Lady Osbaldeston’s as well. Plenty of windows, lofty chimneys, round turrets… a few scenic arches. Simple, romantic, tasteful. It will have all the aesthetic qualities of a Gothic castle without the discomforts.”

Intrigued, Osbaldeston stood up and peered over Alec’s shoulder at the sketch taking shape. “By George, that’s just the thing!” Alec smiled, finishing the sketch and handing it to him. . ■ -...”That’s the rough idea of it,” he said.

“Sackville, fasten your eyes on this!” Osbaldeston exploded happily.

“You’ve got a knack, Falkner,” Sackville said, nodding admiringly at the sketch.

“So I’ve been told,” Alec replied.

“And outrageous conceit.”

“I’ve been told that too.”

“Would you see this thing through for me?” Osbaldeston demanded of Alec, who hesitated before answering.

“If I can’t, I’ll recommend someone to you who’ll do a fine job. Though I would like to design it, I’m afraid time might not permit—”

“Time?” the squire repeated with a frown. “Why wouldn’t you have enough time?”

“I have in mind a few new ambitions to devote myself to.”

“Such as?” Osbaldeston persisted.

Alec shrugged and smiled enigmatically.

“Possibly finding myself a wife.”

“A wife?” the squire said, and Sackville sat up in his chair with a surprised expression. “My good fellow,” the squire continued, “that’s an inadvisable undertaking until spring. Women are deuced hard to court in the winter, what with the weather and… well, take my word for it. Don’t look for a wife in the off-season. Wait until spring, when a fresh new batch of pretty maidens is unwrapped and brought out. This year’s stock has already been picked over.”