As an Earl Desires (22 page)

“From what I've gathered your mother
was a very kind woman. Your father tended to be a bit of a bully.
His widow will be able to tell you more about each of them, as she
knew them well.”

“Where is she?”

“Sachse Hall. One of your estates.”

“One of them?”

“You have three. I'll show you all the
books and explain how each works.”

“I looked through a few of the books while
you were sleeping.”

“Are you good with figures, then?”

“Yep.”

“Splendid. That'll make the transition
somewhat easier.” Although he feared he was being overly
optimistic. Camilla would take exception to the man's
clothing. His trousers were made of fabric with which Arch was
unfamiliar. His shirt appeared to be white cotton and his tie was
little more than braided string. He wore no jacket or
waistcoat.

“So tell me more about the widow,”
Sachse said.

“The widow?”

“My father's widow.”

“Ah, yes. Lady Sachse. Camilla. She is
extremely kind, generous to a fault. Your father made no provisions
for her in his will. Before we
realized that
you were alive, I'd offered to pay her twenty thousand pounds
as an expression of my appreciation to her for helping me to learn
my role as earl. I don't personally have that much money, but
if you could see your way clear to still give it to her, over time
I would repay you.” Over the remainder of his life, if he
were to be honest about it.

“Someone on the ship told me that a pound was
worth about five dollars.”

Arch shook his head. “I wouldn't know
about that. I've had no reason to inquire about American
currency.”

Sachse sat back and studied him.
“That's a hell of a lot of money.”

“I am well aware of that, but she is well
worth it. She is to marry the Duke of Kingsbridge in the spring,
but until then you will find that she will be your most valuable
asset.”

Sachse nodded. “All right. I'll honor
the arrangement you made with her. But there's no need for
you to owe me anything. We'll just say it's the estate
paying you to keep things going until I got here.”

“As you said, it's a large amount of
money.”

Sachse glanced around, waving his fork in the air.
“I don't need any of this, Warner. I've been
working since I was seventeen, putting money away. I've got
land and cattle. I'll admit the house
I
just built isn't as fancy as this, but it's mine.
Hard-earned. I hammered a lot of the nails myself. I'm not
sure what to make of all this yet, but it's not a comfortable
fit.”

“Trust Lady Sachse then. When she is finished
with you, you'll have no doubt that you were born to
it.”

C
amilla sat in the library reading, the book
on her lap stuffed with slips of paper to mark the pages that
contained words she didn't know. If books weren't so
precious, if she didn't have such respect for them, she would
have circled the words in the book. Instead she'd written
them on another piece of paper. But she took no joy in it. Her
frustration was mounting as well as her anger again.

Two weeks! Arch had been gone two long weeks. If
she'd known he was going to be away for such an extended
period of time, she'd have insisted on going with him. She
missed him, missed him terribly. How in the world was she going to
survive when she was married to another man?

It wasn't only sleeping with him that she
missed. She missed his presence, whether they
were in the same room or not—simply knowing he was about
filled her with peace. She missed the way he pressed a finger to
his mouth when he read, the way he always seemed startled when the
footman moved in to remove his plate during dinner, as though he
couldn't quite get used to the fact that someone was there to
tend to his needs.

She missed the way he smelled after his bath, the
way he smelled after they made love.

She missed his voice, his hands, his smile, his
laugh. She missed everything.

If he missed her as much, why hadn't he
hurried back? Whatever could he be doing in London, and why was it
taking so dreadfully long?

She looked up at the sound of the butler coming
into the room. “The Earl of Sachse is here, madam. He's
in the drawing room.”

Relief swamped her, gladness filled her. Her anger
with him vanished.

“It's about time. I thought he'd
never arrive,” she said, as she hopped out of the chair,
dropped the book into it, and hurried across the room. She squeezed
the butler's arm, which caused his eyes to widen. “Tell
Cook to begin preparing dinner. I know he'll be hungry. He
has such an appetite, you know.”

She dashed into the hallway, greeting the
foot
men and maids that she passed. “The
master's home,” she sang out.
He's home, he's home, he's
home
.

She stopped before a mirror in the entry hall and
straightened her hair, pinched her cheeks, and pressed her teeth
against her lips to get some color into them. She'd kiss him
when she saw him. That would put color in her entire body. In his
as well.

She took a deep breath. Why not let him see how
glad she was to see him. They'd promised no more secrets.

She fairly waltzed into the drawing room and
stumbled to a stop. Archie was nowhere to be seen. The only person
in the room was a tall man with dark hair. His back was to her as
he studied the portrait over the fireplace, a portrait of the old
earl's first wife.

Wearing a black coat that reached down to his
calves, he held a broad-brimmed hat similar to one she'd seen
in a story about cowboys.

He turned as though suddenly aware of her presence.
He wore pointed boots such as she'd never seen. His trousers
and shirt were not what a gentleman would wear into a parlor. His
black hair was in need of trimming, as was the thick mustache that
outlined his mouth. His deep brown eyes seemed to be assessing her
as though he should know her.

Something was vaguely familiar about him, and a
shiver went down her spine. “May I help you?” she
asked.

He tipped his head slightly. “Ma'am.
I'm waitin' for the Countess of Sachse.”

His voice was deep, but he spoke with a slow drawl.
She angled her chin. “I'm the Countess of Sachse. And
who might you be?”

Almost lazily, he hiked up one corner of his mouth.
“Well, now, from what they're telling me, I'd be
the Earl of Sachse.” He pointed at the portrait. “Is
that my mother?”

She nodded, not certain how she managed to stay and
do so. She wanted to run from the room, wanted to find Archie.
“Where is…where is…” What was she to call
him now? She cleared her throat. “Where is Mr.
Warner?”

“He went home.”

“Home?” she repeated.

“Yes, ma'am.”

She shook her head. “I don't
understand. Is he in his bedchamber then?” Was he waiting for
her there, removing his clothes, preparing himself for her
greeting.

“No, ma'am. I don't mean this
home, I mean the other one. Heatherton, I think he called it. He
asked me to give you this.”

She stared at the parcel—wrapped in white
paper, tied with string—as though it might cause her great
harm. “What is it?”

“He didn't say, ma'am.”

She took the package from him. She inhaled
deeply, remembering who she was and what she was,
what this man standing before her was and what he was to her.
“You must be tired from your journey. I've asked Cook
to prepare dinner. I'll have the butler show you to your
chambers. Once you're settled we shall meet for
dinner.” She took a step back. “Now if you will excuse
me, my lord, I must see to this matter.” She held up the
package.

Before he could answer, she spun on her heel and
darted out of the room. She ran. Ran down the hallway, ran up the
stairs, ran into her bedchamber, ran to her bed. With trembling
hands, she broke the string, tore off the wrapping, opened the
box.

A letter. There was a letter. She took it out of
the box, only to reveal the most beautiful string of pearls
she'd ever seen. She set the box and pearls aside and turned
to what mattered to her the most: his letter, his words, his
thoughts.

Tears washed down her face, splashed onto the
paper. He was right. Of course he was right. Good-bye was all that
remained to them. Today. A few months from now. It wouldn't
have mattered. The pain would have been as great.

She had her duke. She would be a duchess. She would
be happy. She would.

If she survived the breaking of her heart.

 

Following dinner, the Earl of Sachse wanted to sit
in the drawing room. He sat in a chair and stared up at the
portrait as though he thought he could bring the woman in it back
to life.

Camilla watched him, hardly knowing what to say.
They'd not spoken during dinner. It hadn't been the
welcomed silence that she shared with
Archie.
Rather it had seemed very forced, as though both simply wanted to
get the meal over with and move on to other things.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, but was
probably only a few minutes, he shook his head. “I barely
remember her, and I'm not sure if that's a real memory
or simply wanting one so bad that I created it just now.”

“It's been eighteen years,”
Camilla said kindly. “You would have been very
young.”

He leaned forward, planted his elbows on his knees,
and clasped his large hands together. Darkly tanned, they bore tiny
scars. A workman's hands.

“So my father was a real bastard from what I
hear.”

“My lord—”

He held up a hand. “I know you got all these
rules about what you're supposed to call people, but
I'm Tom. Just Tom.”

“No, you're the Earl of Sachse.”
And it appeared he was going to be more of a challenge than Archie
had been. At least Archie had understood the history of the peerage
and how important it was to Britain. This man was for all intent
and purposes…
American
. She
shuddered with the thought.

“For right now, please just call me Tom,
until I get used to this.”

She nodded. “All right…Tom.” She
shook her
head. “Thomas. May I call you
Thomas? Tom seems so…common.”

“Thomas is fine. It's just this
‘lord' business makes me feel like I'm putting on
airs. Two weeks ago, I was worried about getting my cattle through
the winter. Now I got this dropped in my lap, and I haven't
figured out yet if it's good fortune or bad.”

“I suppose you had some sort of proof that
you're Thomas Warner.”

“Other than my name, I had a blanket with a
coat of arms on it. Don't know why I kept it all these
years.”

“You have your father's eyes, but they
hold your mother's kindness.”

He grinned. “Don't tell that to my
cowhands. When I bark, ‘jump!' they ask how
high.”

“I don't imagine you'll be seeing
much of your…cowhands now.”

“That's something to be worked
out.”

She cleared her throat. “I'll assist
you in finding someone to help teach you about your duties and our
ways. I'll be getting married in the spring and won't
be available.”

“That's what Warner told me. I like
him. He's a good man.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Right fond of you.”

“As I am of him.”

He seemed to be thinking something over, his
mustache moving slightly. “So if you're
fond of Warner, and he's fond of you, who's this fella
you're marrying?”

“The Duke of Kingsbridge.”

Thomas sat there, waiting, as though he expected
her to say more.

“He's a duke,” she added,
“so I shall be a duchess.”

“And that'll make you happy?” he
asked.

“Of course, it'll make me happy.”
She came up out of the chair and glared at him. “What do you
know anyway? You know nothing of the peerage, being raised in
America as you were. What was the countess thinking to take you
there? You don't understand that a duchess is respected,
loved—” A sob, a horrible sound escaped from her
throat. She sank to the chair, tears blurring her vision.
“Why didn't he say good-bye?”

Tom crossed over to her and knelt before her.
“There, there, darlin', don't cry.”

“But why didn't Archie say
good-bye?”

“Men just aren't any good at saying how
they feel.”

“Archie is. He's very good at it. We
weren't supposed to keep any secrets from each other. He knew
they'd found you, and he didn't tell me.”

He held her hands. In spite of the scars, they were
good hands for holding. “What would be different if
he'd told you?”

“I wouldn't hurt so badly.” She
sniffed. “She loved you, you know? Your mother. She was
trying to protect you. Your father was a horrible man. He
wasn't really a bastard, though, because he was
legitimate.”

He laughed, a deep rumble that reminded her so much
of Archie. The way the corners of his twinkling eyes wrinkled.

“Darlin', I wasn't referring to
his ancestry when I called him a bastard. And I know my mother was
probably doing what she thought was best, and maybe it was. But I
know that sometimes when a man gets to the end of a long road, and
looks back over where he's traveled, he can sometimes wonder
if he might be in a better place if he'd taken a different
turn farther down the road rather than staying on the one he was
traveling. I guess what I'm trying to say is that Warner did
what he thought was best. But that don't mean that years from
now he won't look back and wonder if he shouldn't have
taken a different turn.”

She studied him. “Not only men. Women, too,
look back and wonder.”

And sometimes in looking back, a woman could
realize that her dreams had changed.