Page 26 of Neighbor from Hell
I was sure, after two clear no’s, he would be ashamed enough to ignore me, just as I wanted to ignore him as well. But now I can see that I have greatly underestimated his will to be a never-ending thorn in my side.
Cecelia’s warning as she leaned close with her cake and her gossip echoes in my mind. He will stoop to anything to get what he wants, she had said, and now I completely believed her.
Her words cling to me now, fueling the anger that flares hot and fast, drowning out some of the lamp’s allure. I think of Ann, her freckled face innocent as she called Hugh a loner, someone who keeps to himself and avoids the village’s clamor. Two stories, two Hughs—one a predator, one a recluse. Which is true? It does not matter.
This lamp is his game, and no matter how much I want to keep it, I refuse to play.
I recall Cecelia telling me of his ruthlessness, how he tried to buy this cottage from my grandmother, a lonely old woman clinging to her family’s home, and this image stokes my rage even further. Raw fury surges inside me, burning away any awe I felt for the lamp’s glow. Does he truly believe I am so easily swayed that a shiny gift will make me forget his pressure, his insistence on my land? I am not some naive girl he can dazzle with wealth.
I am done with his nonsense, done with him assuming he can manipulate me into submission. Offended, and my chest tight with indignation, I storm out, the cottage door slamming behind me.
The path to the manor stretches before me, short but daunting, the hedge rising like a barrier, its leaves dark under the fading light. Beyond it, the manor’s stone walls stand cold and smug, a fortress of privilege. Well, I am ready to breach it. My shoes crunch on the gravel, each step determined, my breath coming in quick, heated bursts, fueling my resolve.
I rehearse my words, venom lacing every syllable.
“Keep your bloody gift, Duke of Whatever,” I mutter, picturing his face, that sexy crooked smile from when we saw each other in the village. “Send someone to collect it and leave me the hell alone.”
Chapter
Sixteen
HUGH
The air in the gym pulses with the rhythmic thud of my fists slamming into the punching bag, each strike a release, a moment of perfect control. My knuckles ache beneath the gloves, and sweat streams down my forehead and stings my eyes as I pivot, muscles taut, and my trainer’s shadow falls across the floor. The manor’s ancient thick walls have muffled the world outside, leaving only this—motion, breath, focus.
Until a knock breaks through. I pause mid-swing, and the swinging bag is caught and held by my trainer. I turn to see my housekeeper, Mrs. O’Brien, standing in the doorway. Her gray hair is pinned tightly in place, but her face carries an unusual hesitance, lips pursed as if weighing her words.
“M’Lord,” she begins, her voice unusually stiff, “Miss Lauren Hutton of Sweetbriar Cottage is here to see you.”
My fists hover near the bag, poised to strike again, but her words stop me cold, my breath heavy in the quiet. The lampworked its magic. It brought Lauren Hutton into my lair. My pulse quickens with fevered anticipation.
“She appears… quite insistent that she must see you.” Mrs. O’Brien sniffs disapprovingly.
I wipe sweat from my brow with the back of my glove.
I turn away from her, and the mirrors reflect my disheveled state—my hair is damp, and my bare chest is glistening with sweat.Quite insistent? Well, well. So… Lauren didn’t appreciate my gift. A gesture, I thought, subtle. Her audacity and boldness spark a wry amusement in me, but beneath it, I am intrigued, caught off-guard in a way I rarely am. With my roots in this village, information flows to me like oil from a bottle, so I knew of her purchase of the lamp at the antique shop and of its destruction. I couldn’t resist stepping in. I contacted my dealer and instructed him to get the original of the cheap version she bought.
He arranged for the original lamp, pristine and exquisite, far surpassing the knockoff that had taken her fancy. I assumed she would appreciate the upgrade. Every woman I know would have.
A faint prickle rises up from the base of my neck. Did I read her wrong? The lamp was meant to please her, perhaps to soften the edges of our conflict. Yet here she is, offended and storming the manor, demanding an audience. I cannot help but wonder what actual effect my gift has had—anger, suspicion? Buried deep inside me is naked eagerness to see her under any circumstances, just to witness those eyes again, flashing with defiance or something else entirely.
Stripping the gloves from my hands, I turn to Mrs. O’Brien, who is waiting patiently, her gaze steady. “Should I show Miss Hutton into the drawing room, m’Lord?”
“No, show her to the orangery,” I instruct, my mind already racing ahead. “Offer her tea. And cakes. Lots of it. I will join her shortly.”
“Very good, m’Lord,” she replies smoothly, and leaves, her footsteps purposeful.
“Let’s stop here today,” I tell my trainer.
He looks at his watch and nods.
I move quickly, aware that delay will be interpreted as disrespect and will be held against me. I stride through the empty corridors, my heart beating faster than it should, not from the workout but from the thought of her waiting for me.
The shower is brief but thorough, hot water sluicing over my skin, washing away sweat and tension, though not the restless energy coiling in my chest. I scrub briskly, the soap’s cedar scent sharp. So fucking stubborn. I step out, towel around my waist, and dress quickly in oat-colored linen trousers and a crisp white shirt. I’m just a man meeting his neighbor.
I run a comb through my hair and realize I cannot recall ever taking this much time on my appearance. And yet, I’m doing it for someone who has ignored every gesture I have made. She has slipped under my skin despite my efforts to keep her at arm’s length. I’m supposed to be seducing her and not the other way around. The realization annoys me, a sharp sting of self-awareness, and I frown at my reflection. Maybe I really am too idle here. It could explain why I am chasing what should be just a basic thrill.
I leave the bedroom, the manor’s quiet wrapping around me. The staircase’s polished banister is smooth under my hand as I descend, my pulse a steady drumbeat urging me forward. The orangery awaits, its glass walls promising light and warmth, and within them, a furious Lauren Hutton.
