The Untamed Earl (2 page)

“Why don't you pick on someone your own size?” Alexandra called out, heedless of the fact that she was standing in her bedchamber, wearing her night rail and dressing gown. She did her best to remain hidden behind the curtains.

The two bucks immediately stopped and looked up, squinting at her.

“What? Lo? A fair maiden speaks from above,” the first buck said. The other laughed.

“You heard me,” Alexandra replied, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “Why don't you go instigate a brawl with someone who could actually give you sport?”

“Al!” her brother cried indignantly, stamping his booted foot.

“Al?” the first buck said. “Is that your name? Are you certain you're a female?”

Anger spread through her limbs like quicksilver. She squeezed the curtain so hard, her fingers ached. “If I were a boy, I'd climb out this window and pummel you both!” she called. “And another thing—”

“What in the devil's name is going on here?” A deep male voice sounded from somewhere below, but Alexandra couldn't see its owner.

The two bucks blanched. “My lord,” they said in unison, quickly backing up toward the shadows.

“Did I hear you say that you intend to fight these two young lads?” the deep voice continued.

“They were giving us lip, my lord,” one of the bucks offered in an obviously shaky voice.

The owner of the deep voice stepped into the light then, and Alexandra sucked in her breath. He looked like Adonis. Blond hair, wide shoulders, perfect black evening attire. She couldn't make out the color of his eyes, but whoever he was, the man was handsome in spades. Exactly the type of suitor she'd expect Lavinia to have. No doubt the man had just come from inside, where he'd danced with her sister to one of the lilting waltzes. Alexandra leaned forward to see better.

“I believe you are one-and-twenty, are you not, Yardnell?” Lord Handsome said.

The first buck hung his head and nodded.

“And you, Antony. You're two-and-twenty if you're a day.”

The second buck kicked at the stones with his boot and also nodded reluctantly.

“Then I must not be hearing you correctly,” Lord Handsome continued. “You cannot possibly be meaning to fight two
children
who aren't more than a dozen years old. Why, that would be not only unsporting, but also quite embarrassing for you, especially if the boys win.”

The first buck opened his mouth to speak, but Adonis stopped him.

“Ah, ah, ah. I sincerely hope you aren't about to argue with me. I think we can both agree that a young man, a supposed
gentleman,
has no reason to fight a
boy,
does he?”

The second buck jerked his head in the semblance of a nod.

“That's what I thought,” Adonis continued. “Now, run along before I decide that even at my advanced age of eight-and-twenty, I have no compunction striking either of you.”

“Yes, Lord Owen,” one of them said before the two bucks left nearly as quickly as they'd come, leaving Adonis with Thomas and the stable boy. Alexandra continued to watch with wide eyes from her perch at the window.

“Thank you, my lord,” Thomas said, bowing formally to the older man. “I'm certain I could have handled it, but I do appreciate your assistance.”

“Oh, no doubt, Huntfield,” Adonis replied. “As you say, I was merely lending my assistance.”

Alexandra's heart cartwheeled in her chest. He'd called Thomas by his title. How terribly endearing.

“Th-thank you, m-my lord,” Will muttered.

“It is my pleasure, Mr.…”

“Atkins. W-Will Atkins.”

And he'd called a mere stable boy “mister.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Atkins. And should you have further trouble with those two chaps, I do hope you would not hesitate to inform me.”

“We certainly sh-shall,” Will said.

The two boys ran off and Alexandra held her breath, waiting for Adonis to blend back into the shadows. Instead he remained there, under her window, a hint of light from the inside of the house caressing his fine cheekbone. Lord Owen? Lord Owen? She searched her memory for such a name.

His hand stole into his inside coat pocket, and Alexandra soon realized that he was lighting a cheroot. She glanced away. Oh, she should really shut the window. This was not the type of behavior a young lady should witness. She placed her fingertips on the sash and began to pull.

“I admire your method,” Adonis called.

Alexandra's hands froze. Was he speaking to
her
? She jumped behind the curtain again and peeked out.

He turned then, the cheroot falling to his side, and looked up at her. “I admire it quite a lot. Threatening to climb out the window and pummel them was truly inspired.”

Alexandra's cheeks heated. So, he'd heard that, had he? Not particularly ladylike of her, but then again, he didn't seem to mind.

She drew a shaky breath and projected her voice enough for him to hear. “I, er, those two had no business picking fights with children.”

“Agreed,” Adonis replied, inclining his head and smiling at her.

Alexandra's breath was stolen from her throat. The man had a dimple in his cheek that could make a saint swoon.

“I, uh, I thank you for helping my brother, my lord. Er, Lord … Owen…”

She let the last word hang, obviously waiting for him to provide his surname.

“Monroe,” he replied smoothly, bowing at the waist. “At your service, my lady.”

Alexandra sucked in her breath again, but for an entirely different reason this time. Yes, of course. She knew that name. Why, Lord Owen Monroe was one of the most famous rakehells in London. The man was known for his drinking, his gambling, his loose behavior with ladies of questionable morals, and his exceedingly high taste in fashion. The only son of the Earl of Moreland, he stood to inherit the title, but regardless, he was a scoundrel of the first order. Alexandra knew all this from the gossip she loved to listen in on when Mother and Lavinia were talking.

Alexandra shook herself and forced herself to reply to him. “My thanks, Lord Owen,” she said, still peeping out from behind the curtains. “My family is in your debt.”

“Absolutely not,” he replied with another knee-weakening, dimple-revealing smile. No wonder so many ladies of ill repute fell victim to his charm. Who wouldn't fall victim to that smile? That dimple? “In fact,” he continued, “I must insist you tell no one of this incident tonight.”

Alexandra blinked. “Why not?”

“It would absolutely ruin my blackened reputation.” He winked at her, and Alexandra was completely lost. She had to pinch herself to keep from sighing.

“Very well, if you insist,” she replied.

“I hope you don't mind me saying that one as lovely and spirited as you shouldn't be cooped upstairs with such a delightful party going on.”

Alexandra bit her lip and rubbed her bare feet together. “I'd love to dance, but I've not yet had my come-out, my lord.”

“
That
is a pity.” He tossed her a sly grin. “Come down here and I'll dance with you.”

Alexandra's cheeks heated. She gulped. Oh, but she was sorely tempted. “I couldn't possibly do that, my lord. It would be far too scandalous.”

“I happen to have a fondness for scandalous things,” he replied with a second slight inclination of his handsome head. “Perhaps another time, then.”

Her breathing hitched.
Yes, another time. Please.

“I wish you well, my lady. Until your come-out.” He bowed again and, with that, was gone into the night.

Alexandra held her breath now, watching the space Adonis had just occupied, hoping against hope that he might materialize again and say something equally as wonderful as what he'd just said. He thought she was lovely? A god like him? He thought she was spirited? A man who threatened antagonistic bucks and smoked cheroots under windows? Unimaginable. She wasn't spirited at all; she was just … well, injustice had made her furious. That's all there was to it.

After a few moments, Alexandra realized he wasn't coming back. She blinked into the darkness and finally forced herself to turn away from the window. The smell of smoke still lingered in the air, teasing her nostrils. He had been there, hadn't he? It hadn't been a dream, a figment of her imagination. He was handsome, he was kindhearted, he was witty. In short, he was everything she wanted in a husband one day. His reputation might be a bit tarnished at present, but there would be years to change it.

Alexandra hurried back over to the writing desk and pulled out the journal with her list written in it. She crossed through “Name to be determined later.” Next to it, in large scrolling letters, she wrote:
Lord Owen Monroe.

 

CHAPTER ONE

London, October 1816

“You heard me, Owen, and this time I'm putting my foot down.” The stamp of a boot lent credence to that particular claim.

Owen tugged at his sleeve and did his best to keep from rolling his eyes. He'd been summoned to his father's study for what was likely the sixth time in as many months. Only this time, Owen had the misfortunate to be completely … sober. Blast, he should have stopped at the club and been even later than he already was to his father's favorite pastime, dressing down his son. At least it would be more palatable if he were half in the bottle.

“I understand,” Owen drawled, standing up from the leather-upholstered chair that sat in front of his father's large mahogany desk. Owen inched toward the door. He had learned over years of such meetings that it was best to get out quickly before his father had a chance to toss more empty threats at his head.

“No. I don't think you do understand,” the earl said, stamping his foot against the wooden floor again.

Owen pressed his lips together to keep from saying something he'd regret. Which was usually everything he said. “I understand perfectly. You're tired of my drinking?”

“Yes!”

“My gambling?”

“Yes!”

“My fondness for light skirts?”

“Yes!”

Owen picked an imaginary bit of lint from the front of his impeccably tailored blue coat. The garment had cost a small fortune, but then again, high fashion didn't come cheap and Owen prided himself on being well dressed. Well dressed, well fed, well entertained. Well everything. He focused his gaze on his father's red face. “There, you see? I've cataloged all my faults. You want me to find a wife and ‘settle down.' I understand entirely.”

“No. You don't understand, Owen.” His father clutched at the lapels of his own burgundy coat and tugged viciously. Owen winced. There was no need to take it out on the garment. “You don't understand at all,” the earl continued. “How many times have we had this discussion?”

“Too many to count,” Owen muttered under his breath. He was already thinking of the hand of cards he'd be playing tonight at his favorite gaming hell.

“What was that?” His father narrowed his eyes on him.

Oh, devil take it. His father had heard his mutter. “Quite a few,” Owen answered in a clearer voice.

“And how many times have you left here and done absolutely nothing to comply with my wishes?” his father replied, still tugging on his lapels.

“Too many to count,” Owen muttered again, glancing down at the tabletop so he wouldn't have to witness the assault on the garment.

“You've
never
complied with my wishes!” The Earl of Moreland banged his large fist against the desk. The inkpot bounced. “Damn it, Owen, you're to inherit the title one day. You're to be an earl, for heaven's sake. You're to take your seat in Parliament and be a productive member of Society. You cannot continue to comport yourself as if you're nothing more than a gadabout.”

“But I
am
nothing more than a gadabout.” Owen sighed and scratched at the underside of his chin. “Haven't you told me that ever since my days at Eton?”

“We're not going to talk about
that
again,” the earl replied, a thunderous expression hovering across his brow.

That's right. His father had never even asked him what happened. Just assumed the worst about his son. And Owen had set about proving him right ever since.

“And you're not a gadabout,” the earl continued. “Or you won't be.” He banged his fist on the desk again. At least he'd surrendered the poor, blameless lapels. “I'm tired of having this conversation with you to no avail. I'm tired of seeing you while away your days drinking and gambling. I'm tired of hearing stories about your exploits all over town.”

Owen rubbed a knuckle against his forehead. “Oh, come now. They aren't
all
over town, are they?”

His father's jowls shook as he clutched his lapels even more tightly again. “Don't be impertinent.”

“I've long since passed impertinent. And
please
have a care for your jacket, Father.” Owen smoothed a hand over the thigh of his coffee-colored breeches. Also not cheap. Living the lifestyle to which he'd grown accustomed was, in fact, quite expensive, and his monthly allowance from his father was the means by which he maintained his lifestyle. Hence Owen's willingness to come here regularly and receive his dressing-down. It was a means to an end. He kept his father happy, and a large bank draft was deposited into his account each month. Of course, he sent a sizable portion of his allowance each month to an orphanage near one of the gaming hells he frequented, but he'd never tell his father that. Why spoil the man's bad opinion of him? Besides, Owen wasn't in the business of untarnishing his reputation. In fact, he'd been doing the exact opposite for years. It was a sport for him, really, much like training his beloved horses.

“Damn it, Owen. You must care about
something.
”