I Love the Earl (4 page)

He was right, sadly. Her shoulders hurt from the effort of keeping still. “You wouldn’t even be speaking to me if not for that dowry,” she said softly.

“Only because I never had the chance to meet you before.”

That made her laugh. “Indeed? You would have called us two of a kind when I was merely the sister of a businessman in Holborn, years past her prime with only five hundred pounds to her name?”

“No, I would have said you were above me,” he replied with a remarkably straight face. “I inherited my title twenty years ago, and there was precious little money in the estate then. I was only a boy of ten; a cousin of my father’s had the management of all that was mine until I reached twenty-one, and he did a piss-poor job of it. I watched my inheritance bleed away because he fancied everything would be solved by tobacco farms in the colonies.” His voice was growing tight, but he lifted his shoulders and his tone eased. “Perhaps it did, until the slave rebellion, followed by the fire, and then fever. Now the colonists are agitating against British rule, and the land isn’t worth a quarter what he paid for it.”

“You’d better sell it then, and cut your losses,” she said tartly.

He extended his arms, palms up. “I did. It took two years and cost me dearly, but I promptly invested the proceeds in a flock of Cheviot—a respectable, reliable English way for a gentleman to support himself. Very nice wool, you see. If only they could swim. And now, as you said the other night, I’m completely destitute, brought low by a cursed weed and idiotic sheep.”

One of their neighbors in Holborn had been ruined when his warehouse burned. It could happen just as easily to an earl, she supposed. She cleared her throat. “I am very sorry for it, just as I’m sorry I lost my temper. But that doesn’t make us alike.”

“But I want what you want, my dear,” he said softly, gliding a step closer. She tried to meet his eyes without tilting back her head, and couldn’t do it. “I want a wife to hold me in her arms at night. To give me children. To find the sort of passion and companionship that lasts a lifetime.”

Oh goodness. She swallowed, telling herself she was insulted and outraged instead of alive with longing at the images he conjured. “Very prettily said, sir, but it won’t persuade me to marry you. I hope you didn’t expect it would. Good day.”

His low laugh floated after her as she turned and walked away. “This wasn’t persuasion, darling,” he said. “But next time we meet . . . it will be.”

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

R
hys followed her at a leisurely pace. She was aware of his presence; twice he caught her stealing glances over her shoulder at him. Each time she immediately snapped her head forward and walked a bit faster, her spine stiff—with outrage, he presumed. Her blond curls, pinned up under an absurd little hat, bobbed sharply with each step she took, and her skirts swayed with appealing vigor. He enjoyed the sight. He liked picturing her hips swaying like that without the concealment of a hoop and petticoat. Everything about her was intriguing.

Clyve met him at the edge of the party. Technically Rhys hadn’t been invited to this gathering, but Clyve appealed to Lady Feithe, his one-time lover, and persuaded her the notorious Earl of Dowling wouldn’t cause a stir at her party. And Rhys wouldn’t. He’d only come today to verify his initial impression of the lady, and begin his courtship if circumstances permitted. It had been a complete surprise when she came around the path alone, but a welcome one. It took only a few minutes for him to know, with an unearthly sort of certainty and calm, she was the woman he wanted. Life would never be dull with her. She had a retort to everything he said, and she made him laugh, even about the death of his sheep, a subject that invariably roused his temper whenever anyone else mentioned it.

And to his everlasting relief, she was quite attractive. Her face lacked the soft, girlish plumpness of Lady Charlotte’s, but he had no objection to that. She was a woman, not a girl, and Rhys had always found women far more appealing than girls. She was slender and tall for a woman, with a lovely bosom very temptingly displayed today by her tightly laced bodice. He had admired her spirit the other night, but today he realized her physical charms were considerable as well.

Yes, she was the one for him. All he had to do was persuade her he was the man for her.

“How did you get on?” Clyve asked. “I’ve been quite beside myself with anticipation, imagining all manner of seduction.”

“That’s my future countess. Mind your tongue.” Rhys watched her hurry through the crowd until she reached the side of her austere companion. Miss Cuthbert, he remembered, doubtless some connection of the Earl of Islington. From the safety of her dragon’s side, Miss de Lacey peered back at him once more. Rhys smiled and bowed politely. Her defiant expression faded into annoyance, and then she gave him her back once more, slipping further into the crowd of guests. He chuckled.

“I see you’ve won her heart already.” Clyve grinned, watching the exchange. “When shall the wedding be?”

“Idiot,” said Rhys absently. “I haven’t proposed yet.” The lady from the other night, Miss Stacpoole, had joined Miss de Lacey. Were they truly friends? They made a decidedly unusual pair: short, plump Miss Stacpoole with her frizzy red hair and unfortunate nose, and willowy Miss de Lacey with her glossy blond curls and pert pink mouth that cried out to be kissed—soon, if he had anything to say about it. “Her friend,” he said to Clyve. “You’re acquainted with her?”

Clyve snorted. “Not at all, as you saw the other evening. I know her fiancé, though. Viscount Eccleston’s heir. Genial chap; not very bright. She shall lead him like a mule on a rope.”

Margaret de Lacey wouldn’t lead him, but neither would she be a meek, quiet wife. Rhys foresaw a future filled with passions of all sorts, and took a long, deep breath to quiet the unexpected urge to whisk her away to begin courting her in earnest. That would be foolish. She wasn’t a girl who would be impressed by his title or easily bowled over by a little charm. She would need persuading. Pursuing. Tempting.

“Introduce me to young Mr. Eccleston,” he said to Clyve. “I have a feeling he and I are going to be friends.”

“T
he Earl of Dowling is watching you, Margaret,” Clarissa reported in a loud whisper.

Margaret set her teeth and led the way to the pavilion set up to shade the ladies from the sun. “Does he still have that arrogant smile on his face?”

Clarissa craned her neck. Margaret started to tell her not to be obvious, but refrained. Lord Dowling knew they were aware of his interest. He’d been looking at her every time she happened to glance his way, which she had done an unfortunate number of times. Was he still watching her? She thought slightly better of him after their brief meeting on the path, but his parting threat to persuade her to marry him still echoed in her ears. He wanted her money, she reminded herself again, even though he looked as if he wanted something else from her entirely. Much to Margaret’s disgust, she found she wasn’t immune to the temptation when her eyes met his, so dark and intent, his wicked mouth touched with a smile that promised all sorts of pleasures. Better that Clarissa be obvious than she. Especially since Margaret really wanted to know.

“Yes,” her friend said after a moment. “He looks quite impertinent. Good heavens, a gentleman ought to know better than to look at a lady that way in public, especially a lady he hardly knows. Of course, everyone knows he really isn’t a gentleman—the Welsh are quite, quite wild, I hear—but his rude friend ought to tell him. People will notice!”

As if to prove Clarissa’s point, Miss Cuthbert hurried after them. “Miss de Lacey,” she said sternly, “I must ask, what occurred on your stroll? Did you meet anyone?”

She breathed deeply to control her temper. “Why do you ask, Miss Cuthbert?”

Her companion moved closer, eyeing Clarissa with resignation. She dropped her voice even lower. “A gentleman is staring at you with the most improper expression! And he arrived from the same direction you returned, only shortly after you!”

“I did not have an assignation with anyone,” she said shortly. “I chanced to meet the Earl of Dowling as I walked, but our conversation was brief and unremarkable.” Except for the way he made her laugh, and the way his gaze felt like a physical touch on her skin. “I cannot help it if someone is staring at me in any manner. If it disturbs you, perhaps you should tell him to stop.”

Miss Cuthbert grew rigid with disapproval. “It is hardly my place to do such a thing.” It was probably Francis’s place, Margaret supposed, but he wouldn’t be dragged out of the safety of Lord Feithe’s smoking room just to tell some brash earl to stop staring at her. Francis, in fact, would probably be all in favor of it, and go tell Dowling to make an offer for her.

“Then it seems a hopeless case. The only way I can make him stop looking at me is to leave, and I thought we were to stay for dinner.”

Miss Cuthbert closed her eyes in despair. “Miss de Lacey,” she said plaintively. “You must have a care for your standing!”

“I don’t think it will hurt her much to have Lord Dowling watch her,” said Clarissa. “Everyone is well aware of what he wants, but really, if one must be pursued by fortune hunters, at least Dowling is young and handsome.”

“Young and handsome do not make an eligible match,” snapped Miss Cuthbert.

“He’s also an earl, and Mama tells me his property used to be one of the loveliest in England.” Clarissa shrugged good-naturedly when Margaret looked at her in surprise. “Mama had these wild, foolish ideas at one time. She had a list of every unmarried man in England, detailing advantages and disadvantages. Every night I say a prayer of thanks Freddie saved me before she could grow desperate and start pushing me into carriages with them.”

“Surely she wouldn’t have,” exclaimed Margaret.

Clarissa gave her a speaking look. “I hadn’t enough money for Dowling in any event. My father would have kept Mama from throwing me at him, just because Papa appreciates a well-laid table and Dowling is at his last farthing. Papa never would have been able to visit if I’d been Lady Dowling, making do with mutton and fish for dinner. Not that I would have minded, just once, seeing how ruthless and barbaric those Welshmen can be . . .”

“Miss Stacpoole!” Miss Cuthbert was turning purple. “Remember yourself!”

Clarissa pressed her lips together and made a face behind the older woman’s back. Margaret choked back a laugh. “What is so wrong with Lord Dowling, Miss Cuthbert?” she asked on impulse. From the corner of her eye she could see him, together with his peacock of a friend from the other night. That one glittered in the sunlight, with silver embroidery covering his sleeves to the elbow, while Lord Dowling’s unadorned coat was almost austere in comparison, but somehow the contrast made him seem more masculine. More approachable. More like someone she would know and like. Try as she might, she couldn’t forget what he said about them being alike in some way.

Perhaps she had been a bit hard on Lord Dowling. None of her other suitors would be so brash as to admit they needed money; they preferred to pretend a sudden interest in her eyes or lips. No one had told her so bluntly he had something she craved as well: love, passion, friendship. Margaret wasn’t a nobleman’s daughter, raised from birth knowing her marriage would be a business transaction between families rather than a personal affinity between man and woman. Her parents had loved each other, and deep down, Margaret admitted she expected both more and less from marriage than Miss Cuthbert assumed. Less, in that she didn’t require a certain rank in a prospective husband, but more, in that she did require true affection—even love, if possible. She was exasperated by Miss Cuthbert’s favored suitors because they had impeccable dignity and rank, but little chance of engaging her interest, let alone her affections. Lord Dowling was the only one who even claimed he would try. She doubted he would succeed, but perhaps . . . just perhaps . . . she was a little curious how he planned to go about it.

“His entire life has been a scandal, Miss de Lacey,” said Miss Cuthbert in answer to her question. “That is all you need to know.”

Margaret glanced at Clarissa. “What sort of scandal?”

Her companion looked down her nose. “It is unseemly to discuss it.” Behind her, Clarissa’s eyes were twinkling brightly, and she winked.

Margaret smiled. “Very well. I wouldn’t wish to be unseemly.” Not when Clarissa was so clearly willing to discover and tell her everything she wanted to know. She took Miss Cuthbert’s arm. “Let us return to the party. I promise to observe every stricture of modest and decent behavior from now on.”

But only for today.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

F
rederick Eccleston was much as Clyve described him. Middling tall with a head of bushy brown hair that resisted powdering with impressive tenacity, he was an easy, amiable fellow a little younger than Rhys. When Clyve introduced them, Rhys made a great effort not to say anything at all of his interest in Margaret de Lacey, but Eccleston appeared impervious to any shade of subtlety. He liked to talk, and it took only a question or two to spawn a rambling discourse on everything he knew of the subject.

Clarissa Stacpoole, Rhys learned, was inclined to gossip more than she should. Eccleston was very fond of his fiancée, but freely admitted her weaknesses. “O’ course all women talk,” he explained in his Yorkshire drawl. “Clarissa can chatter them all into the grave. Her mama tried to tell me it was nerves, but I know better. Known her since she was a girl, and she’s been the same. If Clarissa hears something interesting, she has to tell someone.”

“Even if sworn to secrecy?” Rhys asked in amusement.

Eccleston paused, looking surprised. “I don’t know. Never tried asking.”

Rhys told himself to speak cautiously in front of Miss Stacpoole. “I ask because I find it hard to believe she would share confidences from her friends.”

“Now, that’s fair to say.” The other man nodded. “Once she takes up friends with someone, she’s devoted. Say one word against her younger brother and she’ll skewer you through the gut.”

“She appeared quite devoted to you when I met her.”

Eccleston grinned in pride. “Did she? Clarissa’s a good girl. I expect we’ll get on well enough after the wedding.”

That sounded like a rather modest goal, but he soberly wished Eccleston the very happiest of futures. Every man must be allowed his own version of paradise, and if Eccleston wished only an amiable contentment, so be it.

For himself, though, Rhys wanted more. He had quite forgotten his reluctance to pay court to any heiress because Margaret de Lacey was no ordinary heiress.
I was happy as I was
, she had told him, and he believed her. Her father had been a gentleman, but of much more modest circumstances than those she now enjoyed. Rhys had heard enough gossip about the de Laceys’ sudden good fortune to know she and her brother weren’t being welcomed with open arms by everyone among the nobility. Since he knew first hand how quickly and capriciously society could turn on a person, changing from indulgent to disdainful in the blink of an eye, he realized how awkward her position was: If she kept up her old friendships, her new society would never accept her, but the size of her dowry isolated her from noblewomen who might have become her new friends. Until she married, Miss de Lacey would no doubt find herself rather lonely.

And she wasn’t meant to be alone. She blushed when he commented on her reasons for wearing so fashionable a gown, and he caught the flicker of pain in her eyes when he asked if she didn’t want passion in her life. He meant everything he told Margaret at Lord Feithe’s: He wanted more from her than her money. Far from his original reluctance to meet any heiresses, he had leapt straight to wanting Margaret herself. A sensible, clear-eyed, attractive woman who longed for passion—and in possession of forty thousand pounds. It was beginning to appear Divine Providence itself had directed him to her.

Accordingly he wasted no time the next evening in approaching the lady, once more found with her friend and Mr. Eccleston. “Good evening, Miss Stacpoole, Miss de Lacey. Eccleston.” He bowed to each lady.

“Good evening, Lord Dowling.” Miss Stacpoole looked at him with amused curiosity. Miss de Lacey eyed him with cool suspicion and said nothing. “Freddie, I didn’t know you were acquainted with His Lordship.”

“And why not?” replied Eccleston, to Rhys’s surprise. “We’re both Emmanuel man.”

“Quite right,” he said easily. How fortunate Eccleston had been in his own college at Cambridge. “And I shall presume upon on it. Miss Stacpoole, may I beg the honor of a dance?”

Margaret, who had braced herself for that very question, blinked. Clarissa’s eyes opened wide, and she stared at the earl without blinking. Oh, he was a canny one, she thought in irritation. He wasn’t even looking at her, his attention fixed on poor Clarissa, who had gone as pale as snow beneath her freckles. Margaret remembered all her friend’s ruminations about how wild a Welshman might be, and wondered if Clarissa was truly frightened.

“Er . . . Yes, sir.” Clarissa’s voice was higher than usual as she bobbed a clumsy curtsey and laid her hand in Dowling’s waiting palm. “Freddie . . .” She looked at her fiancé in mute appeal.

“Go on,” he said with a good-natured smile. “I trust Dowling—but I’ll be waiting right here, eh?”

“Of course.” Smiling nervously, Clarissa let Lord Dowling lead her to join the dance without a glance backward. The earl didn’t look back, either, and Margaret caught sight of that slashing dimple of his as he said something to Clarissa.

“I expect I’ll never hear the end of this,” said Mr. Eccleston at her side, watching them. “Heaven help me if Dowling’s a better dancer than I. Would it be wrong of me to hope he treads on her toe?”

Margaret snapped open her fan. “As long as you wish for him to tread lightly on her toe, I see no harm in it.” Eccleston laughed. For a moment they stood in silence, watching the dancers step through the elegant minuet. To her disgust, the Earl of Dowling appeared to be a fine dancer.

“Are you old friends with Lord Dowling?” she asked, telling herself it was to make conversation, and not from rampant curiosity about the earl, that she asked.

“Not lifelong, no. But he’s a fine fellow, that one.”

Was he? She watched how he smiled at Clarissa, and how her friend’s cheeks flushed as bright as cherries. She was unaccountably irked—at him, for charming her friend, and at Clarissa, for succumbing to it. Even more annoying was how attractive he was while doing it. Some gentlemen were beginning to wear their hair unpowdered, but no one else did it with such brazenness. His hair was as black as coal, with long loose waves any woman would weep to have. In a room of snowy white coiffures, he caught the eye and held it—her eye, at any rate. It didn’t hurt that he was tall and broad-shouldered as well, standing above all the ladies and most of the men. She savagely hoped he did step on Clarissa’s toe, quite heavily, and then wondered at herself for wishing such hurt on her friend.

When the minuet finished, Lord Dowling escorted Clarissa to them. “Eccleston, I’m in your debt.”

Mr. Eccleston laughed. “As long as you brought her back to me, Dowling! Well, well, Clarissa, have you decided to abandon me for this rogue?”

Clarissa smiled. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks were almost glowing. “Don’t be silly! We all know Lord Dowling has other interests. But oh my heavens, sir, you are the most divine dancer! I have never felt so light on my feet. It was . . . oh, my . . . quite a pleasure!” She groped for her fan and plied it vigorously.

“I would not be satisfied with anything less than your pleasure,” said Dowling with one of his sinful smiles.

“Hmph,” said Mr. Eccleston, although without any real anger. Margaret was amazed and a little indignant over his careless attitude. “You’d better dance with me now, so I don’t get a fit of jealousy.”

“Oh, Freddie.” Clarissa made a face at him, but Margaret could see she was enormously pleased. Clarissa Stacpoole had probably never in her life had two gentlemen wanting to dance with her and tease her.

“Very nicely done, sir,” she said to Lord Dowling as Mr. Eccleston led Clarissa to join the dancers.

“Was it?” He flashed her a small smile. Standing right beside her, hands clasped behind his back, he was nearly overwhelming. “She’s very light on her feet. Very accomplished in the minuet.”

“Yes,” said Margaret with some surprise. “She is.” And Clarissa loved to dance. When Mr. Eccleston wasn’t in attendance, she sighed more than once over the fact that no one else would ask her to step out. Perhaps it was a kind thing Lord Dowling had done after all. “I hope you haven’t stirred up trouble by asking her.”

“Nonsense,” he said with a grin. “Eccleston has nothing to fear from me; he’s exceptionally fond of her, and from her conversation, I gather she feels the same for him. I wouldn’t dream of dividing them.” He paused and gave her a sideways look. “They belong together, you know.”

Precisely what he’d said to her about the pair of them. She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “And you are qualified to sit in judgment, deciding who must marry whom?”

“You give me too much credit. Perhaps it’s more divine than that; perhaps God himself designed the one to suit the other, and it would be a violation of natural law for them to be parted.” He inclined his head, clearly enjoying himself greatly. “I merely have the discernment to see it.”

“You must be one of the few,” she said dryly. “I can see no fewer than a dozen violations of natural law in this very room, if suitability of marriage partners qualifies as a sin.”

“It is such a shame when fathers and brothers ignore God’s will.” He lowered his voice. “How fortunate you are, to have secured your own choice in the matter.”

“Is this part of your plan to coerce me into marriage?”

He tilted his head, looking at her, and then turned to face her fully. “No, Miss de Lacey. I would never attempt coercion. I’m content to wait until you see how right we are for each other.”

She waited, but he said nothing else, to her annoyance. Then she was annoyed with herself, for realizing she had been waiting all this time in expectation of an invitation to dance, and that she would have accepted it, no matter how impertinent he was. Part of her, like Clarissa, yearned to dance with such a man. “Are you not even going to ask me to dance, then?” she asked, striving for lightness. “For if not, I beg you go away. Your presence is keeping all the other gentlemen at bay.”

“And are you sorry for that?” His eyes glittered with sly amusement.

“If it means I shan’t get to dance, yes,” she said, lying very boldly.

“I see.” He made a very elegant bow, giving her a good look at his well-shaped leg. “I bid you good evening then, since I wouldn’t dream of denying you any pleasure.” And he turned and walked away, leaving her gaping in astonishment at his back.

A
nd so it went for more than a fortnight. She saw him everywhere, and he made a point of speaking to her each time. He was amusing, insightful, and thoughtful, much more so than she would have expected. Before long she began looking for him—she suspected Clarissa was letting him know, through Mr. Eccleston, which events she planned to attend—and she never again made the mistake of telling him to go away. But he never asked her to dance, or to stroll with him in the garden, or even if he might call on her. It was maddening. Everyone, from Miss Cuthbert to Mr. Eccleston, was certain he was planning to propose to her. But aside from some offhand references to pleasing her, he never said anything even remotely connected to marriage or love.

Finally she could bear it no more. One evening at Vauxhall, where he joined her in the elegant supper box Francis had taken, she turned to him and asked bluntly, “Are you courting me?”

His eyebrows went up, but she would swear he was pleased. “Miss de Lacey,” he said softly. “How forward you are.”

“Don’t tell me you’re surprised to discover it now.”

He smiled at her dry tone. “I never said I was surprised. In fact . . .” He shifted in his chair, maneuvering closer so he could stroke one fingertip over the back of her hand, lying folded in her lap. “It is one of the many things I like about you.”

“You would, impertinent rogue.” But she couldn’t help smiling.

“Shh,” he murmured. “Miss Cuthbert will send me away if you appear to enjoy my impertinent ways.”

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Miss Cuthbert had slowly warmed to him; now her warnings that Lord Dowling was ineligible sounded rote and dutiful instead of worried or even sincere, and she had stopped fretting and frowning every time he spoke to her. Dowling had the knack of charming women with simple decency, Margaret thought. Clarissa, whom he danced with regularly, was fully converted. So far from whispering in horrified fascination about his Welsh wildness, now she rhapsodized about his grace, his thoughtfulness, and his dark good looks, which were, in her opinion, too appealing by half, especially when coupled with that faint Welsh accent. Margaret had given up trying to disagree.

“I think you are avoiding my question, sir.”

He looked at her a moment. Francis had abandoned them as soon as he showed their silver admission token at the gates, Miss Cuthbert had excused herself a few moments earlier, and Clarissa had pulled Mr. Eccleston into the opposite corner, where they sat very close together in deep conversation. She and Lord Dowling might almost have been alone, as long as they kept their voices low. “Would you like me to court you?” the earl finally asked.

Yes
. She smoothed her hands over her skirts to keep from confessing it aloud. “I would like to know if you are,” she replied. “Or what your intentions are, if you aren’t.”

“My intentions . . .” His slow smile acted like a torch held to her skin. She felt prickly with heat and yet transfixed by the glowing allure of it. “I intend to have you, Maggie, in every way a man can have a woman. I want your hand in mine while we dance. I want you laughing beside me in the theater. I want you lying naked in my arms at night. And I want you standing beside me in church, saying ‘I will.’ ” His gaze scorched her. “What are
your
intentions?”