Priceless

  price·less

  ˈprīsləs/

  adjective

  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

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  KIWI BLUEBERRY MOJITOS

  MY LORD ~ COVER REVEAL

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BOOKS BY RAINE MILLER

  DEDICATION

  For Amanda

  I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set her free…

  —Michelangelo (1475 - 1564)

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  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

  ONE

  London

  29th 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.

  The 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.

  “Probably 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 frontload
ed 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 over 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 29th. 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 knew 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.

  Even the most unsophisticated observer could see the emotion in Mallerton’s work. The ability to make people emote is a true artistic gift. Tristan Mallerton was blessed with that ability without a doubt. It was the thing that’d drawn me to his work in particular when I’d begun my studies. Plus the fact my father owned an original Mallerton portrait. Passed down through the years of Hargreave descendants, it was of Sophie Hargreave, my great, great, great, grandmother, and would someday be mine.

  I loved the formal pose of her in a gorgeous blue and white gown, her incredibly long mahogany hair artfully arranged to the side, but it was her expression that ruled the portrait. There was an air of amusement to her smile. The elegant Sophie possessed a mischievous twinkle in her pretty eyes, suggesting she wasn’t all seriousness and convention.

  And Mallerton’s rare talent of portraying the subjects of his paintings in such a way that had you wondering about who the people were, and their life’s story, just made the portrait all the more interesting. Something for which Mallerton was known. Quite simply, his art left you craving for more. Who were the people in his portraits? Whom did they love? Why was a particular pose or setting chosen for the subject? These very questions, still asked today, were the exact essence of Mallerton’s talent, which had given him such acclaim, both in his lifetime, and now, two hundred four years later.

  Two hundred years. Four years. They might as well be the same thing. A lot could change in just four years…

  You’ve changed.

  I tried not to think about what I’d lost, but my self-imposed loneliness got the better of me sometimes, and I’d be lying if I couldn’t admit I longed for even a portion of the bliss Mrs. Gravelle had in her painting.

  The chances of you ever finding someone who will inspire you to look like the bride in that painting is slim to none—

  “I found you,” a smooth voice said behind me.

  I turned to see who was speaking to me and got an eyeful of beautiful. The man before me was six feet plus of dark, lean and sexy with green eyes the color of my dress. He flashed me a smile that could only be described as wicked.

  “Are you sure you were looking for me?” He appeared to have money because I’d bet my extravagant new gown the tux hanging off his fine form was most certainly bespoke. No doubt about it. Was he a patron in need of a gallery tour? A large contributor VIP?

  “Oh yes, it’s definitely you,” he purred, “the beauty in the green dress.” He leaned forward. Close but not touching, his face tilted toward
my neck. I backed up. He followed…until I was pressed against the wall. “And they were so right,” he said in his silky voice.

  “Right about what?” I asked, mesmerized by his features and his delicious scent, and totally overpowered by how close he was to me. My God, he smelled good. “Um…d-did you want a t-tour?” I stuttered, amazed coherent words were even forming from my lips.

  “Mmm hmm,” he said, nodding slowly, drawing his gaze up my neck, “I definitely want your tour.”

  Why are you speaking like that to me? I was clearly at a disadvantage in this situation and could definitely feel the weirdness coming at me from all directions.

  Who was this Greek god trapping me against the wall, looking like he wanted to devour me? And was it bad that the thought of him actually doing some devouring made a long shiver roll down my back?

  Mr. Man-Beauty didn’t appear to be in any hurry, his green eyes tracking over my body, roving over everything they could see.

  I swallowed hard.

  “Who—who was it that sent you to find me, ah…mister—?”

  “—Ivanhoe. The service notified you, right?” He inhaled and moved a fraction closer, just staring with a confident half-smirk on his face. “You’re definitely who I’m supposed to meet tonight. Nine o’clock and wearing a green dress, which by the way is very…very…nice.” The last three words were spoken slowly as his eyes raked up my dress until he landed somewhere around my lips.

  “Nine o’clock,” I repeated dumbly, overwhelmed by his maleness and his friggin’ gorgeous…everything, to the point I had apparently lost the ability to carry on a conversation.

  Wait. Service?

  “So you are Mr. Ivanhoe, and you want me to give you the tour.” I said a tad too sarcastically, wanting to slap myself for the ignorance that kept spouting out of my mouth.