Authors: Raine Miller
Priceless
price·less
ˈprīsləs/
a
djective
1. so precious that its value cannot be determined.
"
priceless
works of art"
◦ informal
used to express great and usually affectionate amusement.
"darling, you're
priceless
!"
The
ROTHVALE LEGACY
I
THIS book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
NO part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
THE author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Land Rover; Range Rover;
Jeep; Bombay Sapphire; Schweppes; Manolo Blahnik; Cessna; Brunello Cucinelli; Carolina Herrera; Djarum Black; Guinness; Nurofen; Vitamin Water; Vogue; Harper’s Bazaar;
Rocky Horror Picture Show
; Thompson’s Titanic Tea;
Cosmo Topper
;
BBC; ESPN; Outdoor Magazine; Volkswagen; Architectural Digest;
The Twilight Zone
Copyright © 2014
Raine Miller Romance
All rights reserved
.
Cover:
Mae I Design Photography
Editing:
Making Manuscripts
TABLE OF CONTENTS
For
Amanda
I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set
her
free…
—Michelangelo
(1475 - 1564)
I
began to write this story over two years ago. It was envisioned and outlined before I ever penned
Naked
. Yes, it’s true. I have my composition book with the original notes to prove it. It’s all there in black and white. I treasure that simple book with the handwritten ideas and scribblings about a reluctant Lord of the Realm and a stubborn art conservationist. Of course, it all got put on hold when I found my inspiration for Ethan Blackstone and Brynne Bennett’s story in the Blackstone Affair … but I never forgot about my original characters of Gaby and Ivan. In fact, I placed them smack dab in the middle of my Blackstone world on purpose so I
couldn’t
forget about them. I wrote their beginnings into the climax at the end of
All In
so that I’d be forced to tell their story at some point. A very small portion of
Priceless
, mostly just the beginning, was published in the
Stories for Amanda
anthology to raise support for the
Amanda Todd Foundation
and awareness against bullying. I am happy to be bringing the full story to you now. I’ve fielded questions from loyal readers for the past two years asking patiently when might they get to finally know what was going on with our Ivan and Gaby all this time. Well, you’re about to find out, so a huge THANK YOU to my persistent fans. This one is all because of YOU.
xxoo
R
London
29
th
June
CHARITY
galas.
Bloody horrific
if you ask me, and a perfectly accurate descriptor for them. Since I was about to give up my evening for one, I could call it whatever I liked.
Th
e annual Mallerton Society bun fight would surely be no different, so I imagined surviving the next couple of hours would be mission number one for me. Well, I did have a little entertainment to look forward to near the end of the evening and that was about the only redeeming part.
I pulled into the National Gallery, queued for valet service, and checked my mobile for the details.
There it was. I read it twice and attempted to memorize who, what, and where.
Maria will be wearing an emerald green gown. Victorian Gallery 9:00 p.m. Terms per contract. We wish you both a very pleasant evening.
The escort service I used was
one that didn’t have a name and you never talked to anyone by voice. Everything was transacted by text. Simple. Efficient. Anonymous. No strings attached to get all tangled into a cocked-up mess, and when the date was over everyone went home satisfied.
The less time I had to think about what I was really doing, the better.
I wasn’t proud of my behavior, but the reasons were justified in my mind. I was just exploiting what was offered in order to get by.
Betrayal does that to a man.
By the time I made my way inside and found the venue, I was pleasantly surprised to see I’d missed the dinner. The polite conversation required at these kind of events was sheer torture for me, and I often wondered how on earth that I, out of all of the eligible men in England, could have ended up inheriting a directorship on the board of the National Gallery. There couldn’t possibly be a worse choice
than
me. I knew next to nothing about paintings, and possessed no inclination to begin learning about them, either. Being Lord Rothvale in the twenty-first century was a pretentious millstone around my neck. Having patrons address me as “my lord” and bowing upon introduction made my skin crawl.
I was left having
to fake it.
I did that a lot.
The pretense grew very tiresome to me because my whole life had been turned upside down by lies. Hung, drawn and quartered by the media. Yeah, pretty much. At least, it sure felt like it at the time. Now I was rather more numb than anything. My Bombay Sapphire worked wonders.
False…counterfeit…sham.
Where in the bloody hell had they set the bar up in this place?
I wandered a bit, trying to appear focused on the exhibit and praying nobody recognized me for fifteen minutes. Hell, I’d be
happy with five, if I could grab even that.
The landscape changed
for a pleasant turn when I spotted the lovely Brynne Bennett presenting a painting of a woman with a book. It looked like it could be a Mallerton in the midst of the conservation process. It was being repaired or preserved so it could last another hundred years or so without losing its colours and clarity of image. Yes, I’d managed to absorb a few bits of knowledge about what needed to happen to old paintings by default. I’d much rather enjoy the view of the stunning conservator giving the presentation of the art, though.
Brynne was very easy to look at, but she was also very taken. By
none other than my obsessively protective cousin. Ethan runs a security business so I give him credit for the
protective
part. He has excellent taste in women. I give him that, too.
“Enjoying the show?”
I wasn’t surprised when Ethan’s voice came from behind at my shoulder. I should have known he’d be within striking distance of his beloved.
“P
robably more like wondering when in the hell I might be able to
escape
the show,” I answered. “I was just thinking about you, cousin.”
“Really
.” he drawled.
“Indeed.
Think of the devil and he appears as if by magic.”
“Glad you could make it tonight,” he said sarcastically.
“We’ve been wondering when you’d finally grace us with your presence. Brynne wants to introduce you to her friend.” He looked around as if he were searching the crowd for someone.
“Brynne
looks very busy right now.” I glanced over at his girlfriend admiringly. “Maybe later, I need a drink.”
Ethan’s jaw hardened.
“Look, Ivan, there was a pseudo threat delivered to my office today. I’m not horribly concerned but I want you frontloaded on the details.” He handed me an envelope of photos.
Ethan
and I had done this plenty of times before so it wasn’t anything new. Eight-by-ten black and white photographs of Brynne and me chatting at Gladstone’s, where I’d met the two of them for lunch a few weeks back. Me kissing her on the cheeks, as I put her in the car. Me leaning in to speak to the both of them, and waving them off. Me on the street after Ethan had pulled the car away. Me waiting on the street for my own car to come ’round from valet.
I grunted at the photos as I
ran through them a second time, flipping over the pictures one by one.
Nothing written.
Until the last one: “
Never attempt to murder a man who is committing suicide”
scrawled on the back.
Marvelous. Another fan sending me love notes.
I’d forgotten how fucked in the head some of them were. Here was my reminder.
I’d seen this kind of thing throughout my career. It had to be taken seriously of course, but more often than not, it was some lunatic fringe who had an axe to grind on the back of
a notable they perceived to have caused offense to them personally, and with cruel intent. Sports figures especially suffered this kind of crap. I had offended a ton of people in my time and had the gold medals to prove it. Even though I was retired from the sport, I was still hounded by the media continually. The hounding had grown especially fierce with what had recently happened in my private life. The upcoming Olympic Games being hosted in my home country didn’t help either. It put me back on the radar and the timing couldn’t have been worse. I’d be announcing men’s archery for the BBC in less than a month.
“Another super fan come to pay
his respects,” I said dismissively. The real truth was I counted my blessings having Ethan as blood family. That alone would have earned his protection regardless, but I certainly kept him busy. After a minute, I handed the whole lot of ridiculousness back to him as if it didn’t matter. The honest part of me knew it didn’t really. I was past the point of getting worked up over tedious shit, and far too used to this brand of attention to get really upset. I was realistic enough to know this wouldn’t be the last time I received a threat. They arrived as regular as estate taxes. “Thanks, E, for looking out. I’m sure it’ll all blow over when the Olympics are but a memory.”
He nodded slowly, his jaw tight as he glanced ov
er at his girl once more who was skillfully presenting conservation technique to a rapt audience.
I looked at the drink in his
hand and decided that getting one for myself was a bigger priority now than it had been earlier. And two G & Ts was a far more accurate estimate than just the one if I wanted to feel even a little better.
“At least I can hope, true?”
I acted like I didn’t care about the threat.
“It’s all any of us
can do, mate.” E clapped me on the back with one hand.
“I need to have something along the lines of what you’
re having.” I waved off and left for the bar, in a worse mood than I’d been a few moments ago.
If that was even possible.
WEARING a new dress is always fun, and I loved how this one felt against my skin. Halter neck with a floaty skirt. Brynne’s Aunt Marie had taken us both to a fabulous shop in Knightsbridge that sold vintage gowns. The emerald floral silk moved so well as I walked, I couldn’t help but be impressed with the superior artistry. It definitely paid to buy quality. I’d bought the gown specifically for tonight’s occasion and figured it was wise to invest in something I could wear to other formal events I’d be required to attend through the university. And the party was as beautiful as ever.
The Annual
Mallerton Society Gala for the Arts
in honor of Romanticist painter, Sir Tristan Mallerton, was something I’d attended four years running. I knew his birthday as well as I knew the birthdays of my own family. June 29
th
. I ought to know. His work was the basis for my master’s in Art History at University of London. Inspiration in the form of a painting handed down through the generations of my family, and that I had loved my whole life. It was a minor work of Mallerton’s, but it would belong to me one day, and had sparked the seed of interest for my studies and hopefully my life’s work.
I k
new every catalogued painting Mallerton had done, and had seen a good portion of them. The National Gallery had custody of the largest collection of his work on display in Britain, but it was a safe bet there were plenty of unknowns in private homes and in storage that had never seen the light of day. Mallerton had been a prolific painter during his lifetime. Most of those pieces were in the hands of people who had no idea what they owned, and sadly, no interest in finding out either. Occasionally, a painting would come onto the market from a private collection and go to auction though. And it was my job to have it evaluated and entered into the database.
I stopped at an equestrian portrait that I counted among my top five favorites out of all of his work. It was a happy painting
, and every time I saw it I wanted to smile. Mallerton had executed it perfectly, the moment preserved in time for all to enjoy.
The subject was a
young bride with long dark hair seated on a magnificent pale horse adorned with garlands and ribbons and bells throughout his tack. Even though she wasn’t smiling at all like a person would today when posing for a picture, the expression of joy captured so exquisitely in her expression made you a believer. There was no doubt this girl was a happy bride. It was titled simply,
Mrs. Gravelle
, and always made me wonder what Mr. Gravelle was like. He’d won a beautiful bride that’s for sure, and I dearly hoped he’d loved her as he should have.