Falling for the Earl (Regency Romance) (Regency Lords Book 5) (3 page)

“I am, my lord. Why do you ask?”

“Was your wife chosen for you?”

“Only by myself, my lord.”

“And did she wish to marry you in return?”

“She did, my lord.”

The solicitor stood up and went to a cabinet by the window, removing two glasses and a bottle of brandy. As he poured drinks for each of them, he said, “I beg your pardon my lord, but how is my situation relevant? I am not a member of the aristocracy, and we do things a little differently than you all do.”

Lord Beckton accepted the glass gratefully, and took a great gulp before replying. “You have known me all my life, Hemsworth. You are almost like family to me. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would, my lord,” that gentleman answered gravely, sipping his own drink.

“I find myself in love with a woman who despises me, because I cannot seem to find the
bon mot
to speak to her. I recently had the opportunity to get to know her a little better, and to let her see who I am, and I botched the job pretty spectacularly. Now she thinks I am arrogant at best, and rude at worst.”

“The Lord of Ice?”

Lord Beckton looked up sharply. “I see you are aware of that unfortunate title.”

The solicitor chuckled. “I know a great deal more than you think I do, my lord,” he said, smiling into his drink. “It’s my job.”

Lord Beckton sighed. “I was asking about your situation because I wanted to know whether or not you would have married her if you had had no personal regard for her.”

Hemsworth frowned briefly, then replied, “I had no intention of marrying anyone until I met my wife, and neither did she. We formed an attachment that we agreed our marriage would allow us to happily retain.” Hemsworth took another sip of his drink and went to sit at his desk. “However, I should caution you, my lord, to refrain from making comparisons between my youth and your own. We are very different, despite the closeness of our personal connection.”

“That’s a snobbish thing to say, Hemsworth,” the Earl replied, noting that the man merely smiled at his reprimand. “What does my station matter if I am to be made unhappy by bearing its obligations?”

Hemsworth seemed to consider the question for a moment before replying. “And are you unhappy about having to marry Miss Alexander?” he wanted to know.

“I am not,” Lord Beckton admitted, “but I am concerned that we do not begin a lifetime’s commitment to each other if she wants no part of it.”

“Can you not simply release her from the promise your father made, if she remains so opposed to the match?”

The solicitor eyed him keenly.

“I suppose I could do so,” Lord Beckton replied, “but aside from it not being a particularly honourable thing to do, our wishes notwithstanding, it could reflect rather badly on the girl should she wish to marry someone else. As you have pointed out, society treats those of her station and gender differently, and it is not beyond the realm of possibility for her chances at marriage to be severely curtailed by such an action on my part, even if my intentions are to help her. I cannot have that on my conscience.”

Hemsworth drained his glass. “Then it appears that your only alternative is the one presented by this arrangement.” He clasped his hands before him on the desk as he leaned forward. “May I be so bold, my lord, as to suggest a course of action?”

“Please do,” the Earl said.

“The Season is almost upon us. Why don’t you invite her family up for a visit? It would save them the cost of renting a house, and would give you both, under the close supervision of her parents, a chance to get to know each other. And while they are with you, you will be better able to ascertain how to win her regard.”

Lord Beckton gazed out at the street, as the bustle of the early afternoon went by. “That is an excellent idea, Hemsworth. And my Aunt Iris will be happy to play the hostess, and might even host a dinner party or two before they return to Derbyshire.” He finished his drink and stood up. “I had best be heading back, to set this plan in motion. I will, of course, keep you informed as to my progress.”

He shook the solicitor’s hand warmly, and walked out, feeling better because he had a plan to address the problem that had been weighing on him heavily, especially after Hemsworth had told him he was expected to marry Phoebe in a year. He made his way back to his townhouse in Mayfair, and as he was walking in, he heard his name called. Turning, he found the Viscount of Wiltshire alighting from his phaeton, and smiled a greeting.

“I was hoping to find you here, old chap,” Lord Wiltshire said as they shook hands.

“Come in. I have news for you. We can discuss it over drinks.”

Lord Beckton led the way into his study, where he gave the butler instructions for dinner, which would now include his friend. “Where is my aunt?’ he asked the man before he left.

“She is calling on friends, my lord,” the butler answered, “and advised me that she would likely be late returning home.”

“Thank you, Bailey.” The Earl dismissed the man and turned his attention to his friend.

“Take a seat. I’ve just been with my solicitor,” he began, “It seems I am to be married in a year.”

Lord Wiltshire brows shot up in astonishment. “That was fast,” he commented. “Two weeks ago, you were not been happy at the prospect of marrying an unwilling bride.”

“And I am still not,” Lord Beckton replied, “but I have now some idea of how I may overcome the problems I have created by my inability to hold a normal conversation with my betrothed.” At Lord Wiltshire’s pointed stare, he continued, “Hemsworth suggested that I invite the Alexanders to visit for the end of the Season. That will no doubt throw us into each other’s company more, and we will be better able to become acquainted. As long as others are around, I will not feel so heavily the weight of my affection for her, or be hamstrung by it, and she will see that I can, in fact, speak coherently about whatever latest thing young women find interesting to talk about.”

Lord Wiltshire shook his head pityingly. Lord Beckton glared at him.

“What? I can sense your concern.”

“If it is your intention to bring her round to seeing you as an acceptable life partner, you’ll need to initiate conversation with her, not wait for her or others to set the pace. Tell her you like the way the colour of her dress highlights her eyes, talk about the way she speaks in soft tones, express enjoyment of her skill at the pianoforte.”

Lord Beckton went to the buffet behind his desk and brought out a half bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He offered Lord Wiltshire a glass of the golden liquid, and settled himself behind the desk with his own, sipping from it before saying,

“I could compose poetry about her beauty, but to say those things to her seems somehow awkward. It’s not who I am, as you well know, Wiltshire.”

“Yes, you are right. You have not learned the fine art of courting.” He swallowed some of the liquid in his glass and then said, “Perhaps you could ask her about her interests? Do you know what sort of things she enjoys?”

“I do not,” Lord Beckton confessed, “but in the same way that I think courtly flirtation sends the wrong message about my intentions, I have no wish to sound like I am interviewing her for a position in my household. She is to be my wife, not my servant.”

The Viscount made an impatient noise. “You are thinking to deeply about this, my dear fellow. Simply say the usual pleasantries to begin with, and then go where the conversation leads you.”

“Easy for you to say,” Lord Beckton grumbled, but conceded that his friend was probably right.

FOUR

Late on Friday afternoon, Phoebe walked into the Kendalls’ drawing room where the gaming tables had been set up. People were beginning to choose which game they wished to play, and the sideboard was heavily laden with port, sherry, and the breads, cheeses, and fruit that would be the main source of sustenance as the evening wore on.

“Come along, Phoebe,” her mother said behind her, urging her forward by the elbow. “We shall play whist together. Your father will play too, of course.”

Judith Alexander was a slender woman of average height and looks, whose mousy brown hair was piled high atop her head, and dressed with a sparkling tiara. The emerald green dress she wore set off her beautiful green eyes, but her whole aspect was spoiled by the thin lips that were nearly always pursed in disapproval, even when she seemed most relaxed. She smiled widely at everyone she passed, and Phoebe wished she would be less...effervescent. She thought a woman of her mother’s years ought to be quieter, instead of always seeming to push herself into public view. But she knew her mother well, and she was not the retiring sort.

The card game went on for an hour before Phoebe grew tired of it, and rose to take a turn about the room. She went to help herself to a glass of sherry and as she turned away, she bumped into a hard body. Springing away quickly, she apologised before looking into a handsome face. The young man was smiling at her, and he bowed as he stepped back and accepted her apology, offering one of his own.

“My pardon, madam. I ought to have been paying more attention to where I was going. I’m Michael Howe, at your service.”

He repeated the introduction that had been made earlier, when the guests had all been arriving, and Dorothea had introduced them to each other. She recalled how he had greeted her effusively, had kissed her hand in a most acceptably genteel fashion, and had talked with her for a few moments about his acquaintance with the Kendalls, and his enjoyment of the parties that they hosted.

She also recalled wondering at the time if he had his sights set on Dorothea, but had dismissed the question as he had not seemed inclined to leave her side until her parents had come to pull her away and into the drawing room.

“I remember,” she told him. “Phoebe Alexander, Mr Howe.” She smiled at him, liking the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, and thinking to herself that here was a young man she might wish to have further conversation with. He exuded an air of self-possession, and his charm was potent.

“May I escort you back to your game?” he inquired.

“I was just taking a break from it,” she replied. “I’ll have another turn about the room, perhaps. I feel somewhat cramped after sitting for so long.”

“I was about to head out to the garden,” he said. “I would be pleased to take a turn with you in the open air.”

Phoebe looked over at her mother, who was engrossed in the game, and at her father who was equally occupied, though his table was wreathed in smoke. No one was watching her, and she was only going to walk in the garden, where everyone could see her. She nodded her assent, and walked ahead of him out the open French doors to the beautiful garden. She stood in silence for a while, inhaling the scent of roses and jasmine, before beginning her stroll. Mr Howe kept pace with her for a time, before breaking the silence.

“If I may be so bold as to ask, how is it that a beautiful young lady such as yourself has not already been claimed by some dashing fellow?”

Phoebe chuckled at the question. Michael Howe was clearly well-versed in the art of conversation, unlike the man to whom she was betrothed. The thought of the Earl made her frown, but she smoothed her brow and answered noncommittally.

“What makes you think that I am unclaimed, sir?” She kept her tone light, even though she knew that she ought not to be entertaining any other man until the issue of her betrothal was resolved.

He seemed to think something was amiss in her response as well, because he stopped, in full view of the open door, and said, “It would be remiss of us both to be walking unchaperoned in the garden if you were already spoken for, would it not, Miss Alexander?”

Phoebe had the grace to blush. He was right, of course, but she felt angry and rebellious at the thought that someone whom she found interesting was off limits to her because of a pact made between her parents and the parents of a man she disliked. Still, she was guilty of compromising both of them by this ill-timed display of childishness.

“Please forgive me, Mr Howe,” she said, turning to him with a small bow of her head. “I have been careless with both our reputations. My parents have affianced me to a man I barely know, and while I must be a dutiful daughter, I cannot pretend to be happy at the knowledge that I had no say in the decision. Nevertheless, I ask your pardon for involving you, even inadvertently, in my little rebellion.”

As she turned to walk away, he said, “You are to be admired, Miss Alexander, for your honesty. I hope that your betrothed knows what a catch he has. And should you ever have need of my services, please do not hesitate to ask.”

Phoebe walked back towards the French doors where she saw her mother waiting, and she knew it was done intentionally. Not only did her mother wish let her know that she had been seen in what might be construed as a compromising position, but she also wanted to let others believe she was supervising her daughter’s behaviour without leaving the comfort of the drawing room. Judith Alexander was all about appearances.

“Is it your intention to bring disgrace on the family, not to mention bringing disrepute to that young man’s good name? How could you take yourself off to prance around out of doors with an unmarried man with whom you are not acquainted, knowing full well you are betrothed to another?”

Her mother’s accusations, delivered in a low but sharply disapproving tone, made Phoebe cringe and blush hotly. It did no good to admit that she deserved the reprimands...they still stung mercilessly.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” she mumbled miserably. “I was feeling stifled, so I went for a walk.”

“Do not fib, Phoebe,” Mrs Alexander replied sternly. “You did not leave ahead of the young gentleman. He escorted you out into the garden. I was watching you.”

Phoebe felt the depth of her humiliation sweeping over her, and though she could barely speak, she managed to say, in a strangled tone, “I have apologised for my behaviour, Mama. I don’t know what else I can say. I will retire now, if that meets with your approval.”

Not waiting for a reply, she scurried away, making her way hastily out of the drawing room and up the stairs to Dorothea’s bedchamber, to which she always had access when she came to visit. Closing the door carefully behind her, she went to sit on the edge of the high bed, and allowed the tears to fall. She had done a foolish thing, and brought down her mother’s understandable wrath on her head. And whatever happened as a consequence of her ill-timed rebellion, she had no one to blame but herself.