The Untamed Earl (4 page)

Alexandra and Hannah sneaked up to the study door. Thankfully, it was cracked. Mother's high-pitched breathless voice was floating about inside the room. Alexandra leaned forward and pressed her ear near the opening.

“I'm telling you, Martin, I don't like it. Not one bit.” Her mother's voice rang out.

“I don't see why not.” Her father's voice was strong and calm in comparison.

“What can you possibly mean?” Mother replied. “He's completely inappropriate for her.”

“His family is one of the most esteemed in the country.”

“He's a ne'er-do-well.”

“His father is one of my oldest and closest friends,” Father replied.

“He's a rakehell.”

“So was I once.”

Alexandra couldn't see inside the room, but she pictured her mother waving her handkerchief and turning red. “I cannot believe you would allow our darling girl to be carted off by the likes of
him,
of all people.”

“I daresay she could use a good carting off, Lillian.”

“Don't be indecent.”

“It's an excellent match. We'd be lucky to have him. A man's actions speak louder than his words. I believe he's got quite a lot of good in him.”

Alexandra held her breath. It was worse than she'd thought. Whoever the chap was, he must be particularly odious for Mother to be arguing with Father about it. Mother never argued with Father. She would gainsay him nothing.

“But we don't even know how she feels about him. She may not even
like
him,” Mother pleaded. “And if actions do indeed speak louder than words, then he's a drunken lout.”

“Nonsense. He merely hasn't decided to settle down yet. My money's on the lad. That devil can be downright charming when he wants to be. And as for her feelings, that's why I insisted that he court her. She must choose him.”

“You admit he's a devil?” Mother replied, her voice reaching such a pitch that Alexandra worried for the glassware in the study.

“He needs to settle down, Lillian. A wife and children will make him grow up. I've no doubt.”

“What if you're wrong? What if his egregious behavior doesn't change? I don't think we should be taking that gamble on our daughter, for heaven's sake.”

Alexandra slowly let out her breath. They must be talking about a suitor for Lavinia, mustn't they? Lavinia was the one who must marry first. Lavinia was the one whose marital prospects were forefront in her mother's mind. But what if they were talking about Alexandra? An icy sweat broke out on her brow. What if they'd received an offer? Alexandra didn't think she'd had any offers, and no one had shown any particular interest in her, of course, but neither had they shown interest in Lavinia. And hadn't Mother mentioned just last week that she despaired of Lavinia ever making a match with her “difficult” behavior? Given that, her parents might well be speaking about Alexandra after all.

She was just about to push through the door and insist that her mother was right. She couldn't possibly marry a man she didn't know and didn't love. Though she was certain they'd fall over in dead swoons if she announced she intended to marry the infamous Lord Owen Monroe.

“I'm telling you, Martin,” Mother continued. “I think it's all wrong.”

Her father's voice grew cajoling. “Let's just see how they get on at the ball we're planning for them.”

Her mother sighed. “Yes. And now I must plan a ball. As if this match weren't bad enough.”

“We want them to have every opportunity to enjoy each other's company, don't we?” Father replied.

“Fine, but I daresay I know my own daughter well enough to guess her mind.”

Alexandra nodded firmly.

Mother's voice held an edge of anxiety. “There's simply no way Lavinia will willingly accept the suit of that rogue, Lord Owen Monroe.”

Alexandra gasped.

 

CHAPTER THREE

Owen had been sitting in his favorite seat at the club for the better part of an hour, and he'd yet to hear any good news. In fact, his friends seemed to be reveling in telling him the exact opposite of good news. It was bad. All bad. Exceedingly bad. And it centered around Lady Lavinia Hobbs.

Normally, Owen kept company with a group of like-minded aristocrats. All of them bored, all of them drinking to excess, all of them gambling a bit too much. But today he hadn't been looking for sport. He'd come to Brooks's seeking some good advice, and while he might hate to admit it, his sister's husband and his closest friend were two of the wisest people Owen knew. Both of them were war heroes who'd fought at Waterloo. The third man present, Captain Rafferty Cavendish, was a military officer recently turned viscount. He was engaged to marry Swifdon's younger sister, Daphne. Those in their close set knew that Daphne and Rafe were actually already married. They'd legally married more than a year ago, before they completed a mission for the Crown together, but for the sake of propriety and to ward off the hint of a scandal, they were planning a large Society wedding.

Swifdon, Claringdon, and Cavendish. They were all good, to a man. They tolerated Owen's debauched company because of Cassandra.

“Why so glum, Monroe?” Derek Hunt, the Duke of Claringdon, asked soon after the cards had been passed round and the brandies ordered.

“My father is on the warpath.” Owen assessed the looks in the other men's eyes and quickly cleared his throat. These were three men who had seen
actual
war. “My apologies. I meant … he's giving me hell.”

“What seems to be the problem?” asked his brother-in-law, Julian Swift, the Earl of Swifdon.

Owen rolled his neck. “He insists I marry.”

“As fathers will do. Don't you think it's time you settled down?” Claringdon replied.

“Yes, Monroe, marriage has a way of catching up to the best of us,” Cavendish said with a unrepentant grin.

“It's not that,” Owen replied. “I'd actually resigned myself to the marriage part. It's the prospective bride to whom I object.”

Swifdon whistled. “Who, may I ask, is the lucky lady?”

“Lavinia Hobbs.”

All three men winced simultaneously. And thus, the bad news had begun.

“You know her?” Owen asked, sitting up straighter in his chair and searching their faces.

“Can't say we've ever met,” Cavendish replied.

“But her reputation precedes her,” Claringdon added.

“She's known to be a bit … difficult, I believe,” Swifdon finished.

“Yes, I've noted that ‘difficult' seems to be the preferred adjective used when describing her,” Owen replied with a snort.

“Why in the devil's name would your father choose her?” Claringdon asked as the footman returned with their drinks.

“To torture me?” Owen replied, knocking back half his drink.

“Now there, slow down,” Swifdon said. “This isn't one of your gaming hells. It's the middle of the afternoon, for God's sake.”

Owen grunted at his brother-in-law.

“If Monroe here has to marry Lady Lavinia Hobbs, I daresay he might need something stiffer than brandy.” Cavendish shook his head.

“Your father's reasoning cannot truly be to torture you. Why is he insisting upon the match?” Claringdon wanted to know.

Owen leaned back in his chair and blew out a deep breath. “Seems her father and mine have got it into their heads that a match between our families is an excellent idea. Joining estates and all of that.”

“Ah,” one of them muttered, and they all three nodded as if the joining of estates explained it all.

“Daphne mentioned Lady Lavinia is excitable,” Swifdon offered.

Now Cavendish whistled. “‘Excitable'? That's one way to put it.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Owen asked, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

“I once went to the duke's town house on some business for the Home Office,” Cavendish replied. “There was a god-awful racket coming from upstairs. Seems Lady Lavinia was in a temper. The duke himself apologized to me for the bother and the noise.”

Owen winced. “A temper? What happened?”

Cavendish tossed a card onto the table. “When I was leaving, I heard two of the footmen talking. Apparently, the feather in one of milady's hats had wilted and she was none too pleased. They mentioned she'd smashed a vase and slapped her maid.”

“The duke should take care to keep his footmen from talking so much,” Claringdon said, tossing his own card onto the table.

“I believe you're missing the point, Claringdon,” Cavendish replied. “She was in the devil's own temper over a
feather.
”

“I heard you,” Claringdon replied, still surveying his cards. “I was trying not to focus on that part.”

“Thank you for that,” Owen said, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

“You're welcome.” Claringdon inclined his head with a smile.

“I hesitate to admit that I've heard similar stories about the girl,” said Swifdon.

“Blast. What have you heard?” Owen eyed Swifdon warily.

Swifdon shuffled his cards in his hands. “Daphne mentioned she's a bit of a shrew.”

“You're not
a bit
of a shrew,” Cavendish replied. “You're either a shrew or not a shrew. There's no ‘bit' about it.”

“What did Daphne say?” Owen asked.

Swifdon's nose wrinkled. “She said that she'd heard that Lady Lavinia threw a screaming fit in the ladies' retiring room at the Houghtons' ball last spring.”

“A screaming fit? Good God. What for?” Owen ventured. “Or do I want to know?”

“I believe Daphne said that Lady Houghton had failed to serve the salmon puffs that Lady Lavinia preferred after Lady Lavinia had clearly expressed her desire for them when she'd met Lady Houghton on Bond Street not two days before the ball.”

Owen braced his elbow on the table and let his forehead drop to his hand. “You
must
be joking.”

Swifdon shook his head. “I wish I were.”

Claringdon plucked another card from his hand. “She sounds charming.”

“She sounds half mad!” Owen barked.

“No wonder she's on the shelf,” Cavendish offered with a snort, poking out his cheek with his tongue.

Owen tossed his cards to the table, no longer interested in the game. Instead, he picked up his brandy and took another fortifying gulp. “Yes, but apparently, my father has decided that I must be the martyr who marries the chit.”

“She does have impeccable lineage,” Claringdon said.

Owen arched a brow at him. “So does my horse. I don't want to marry it.”

“Her lineage may be impeccable, but it seems her temper is quite pecked.” Cavendish tossed another card on the table.

“Ah, there you are.”

The four men looked up to see Garrett Upton striding toward them. Upton was Claringdon's cousin by marriage, and Upton's wife, Jane, was a close friend of the other men's wives.

“Upton, have a seat.” Swifdon stood and clapped his friend on the shoulder as he approached.

Upton quickly settled in and ordered a drink. “I was visiting my friend Berkeley today but couldn't convince him to come to the club. He's a sort of solitary chap, Berkeley. Not to mention he's not much for drinking … or gambling.”

“Pity, that,” Owen mumbled, cradling his brandy glass in his hand.

“What have you lot been up to?” Upton asked as the footman returned and handed him his brandy.

Cavendish elbowed Upton. “We've been lamenting Monroe's upcoming nuptials.”

Garrett Upton's glass nearly slid through his fingers. He fumbled to catch it. “Monroe? Don't tell me you're engaged. Why, I'd never believe it.”

“Not engaged. Not yet,” Owen replied, handing his empty glass to the footman and promptly ordering another.

“No, not yet,” Swifdon echoed. “But told in no uncertain terms by his father that he must be engaged before the month is out. And to a particular lady. In fact, it turns out she's quite particular.”

“Is that so?” Upton said, lifting his brandy glass in salute. “Sounds as if congratulations are in order, then. Who is the fortunate bride?”

“Lady Lavinia Hobbs,” Claringdon told him.

Upton's face fell and his glass sank back to the table.

“What? Don't tell me you've another horrid story to tell about her,” Owen said.

“Well, I…” Upton glanced away.

“You might as well say it,” Cavendish said. “He's already learned a bit about her temperament.”

“Yes, go ahead. Tell your worst. It cannot be more awful than the stories I've already heard,” Owen said.

Upton cleared his throat. “I was at the Kendalls' dinner party last year when Lady Lavinia became so enraged by the attentions of a certain gentleman that she tossed a glass of red wine in his face and then ripped a tapestry from the wall and stormed from the room.”

Swifdon's eyes widened. “Was the chap offensive in some way? Did he say something indecent?”

“No,” Upton replied. “He later told Kendall that all he'd said was that he thought their hostess was looking very fine and in good spirits that evening. Seemed Lady Lavinia doesn't appreciate other ladies' looks to be praised in her presence. Lord Mertle had been sitting on the other side of her and confirmed that that indeed had been what set her off.”

Owen gulped and tugged at his cravat. Seemed the thing was smothering him today. “I take that back. It was worse. I wish you hadn't told me.”

“It's a wonder she continues to be invited to Society events given her behavior,” Swifdon added.

“Being the daughter of a duke probably explains it to some degree,” Claringdon added. “Though I daresay I'd think twice before inviting her to
my
home.”