Good Earl Hunting (3 page)

"Two months ago you began pummeling me with cross words before we'd taken three steps onto the dance floor."

So he at least remembered their...confrontation. She couldn't truly call it a conversation. "What has changed, then?" she asked, genuinely curious.

"I've had an additional two months to realize that no other young lady has spoken crossly to me since – or even before – I inherited the earldom. Not even when I was rude to her and not paying sufficient attention."

This didn’t make any sense at all. "But you called me a cold fish."

Vashton grimaced. “A poor choice of words, and an inaccurate one. I apologize.”

“Why? Why now?”

"You spoke your mind," he countered. "And you have a mind. At the very least I find that worth a second attempt at an acquaintance, Miss Theodora."

Well, this was utterly...stunning. A shiver ran down her spine to her fingertips. He found her interesting? Aside from the fact that Vashton was meant for Belle, Theodora knew for a fact that she'd been a complete halfwit at that London soiree, annoyed to be pushed at him as the less obvious choice to chat about her sister and hating the way everyone – except him – looked at her when they'd danced, as if they knew she couldn’t possibly be dancing with him on her own merits. "If you are attempting to embarrass me, you will find that I am not above returning the favor."

He lifted an eyebrow. "Threats, now? Very well. If you want to get to the bottom of my evidently diabolical plan, you'll simply have to go walking with me." Vashton leaned a breath closer and lowered his voice. "That was teasing. I'll inform you in the future so you don't mistake my intent."

"I assure you that I'm not that thick, my lord."

The earl nodded. "Good. Neither am I. Three o’clock. Behind the stable."

Chapter Three

T
HEODORA GLANCED OVER
her shoulder, but Annabel and she were seated back to back. For a dark moment Geoffrey thought she would refuse again, but finally she returned her gaze to him and nodded. “If no one else knows.”

It was hardly an auspicious beginning, but at least it was a beginning. “Agreed.”

With that Geoffrey turned his attention to the eye-fluttering girl seated on his other side. He remembered calling Miss Meacham a cold fish, but for God’s sake, she’d lambasted him for nodding politely at other people while they danced. Though truthfully it had been several other people. Or more than several. But he didn’t entirely blame himself; she’d spent the first two minutes of their first waltz chatting breathlessly about her apparently perfect sister. It was only when she’d gotten mad at him that things had gotten interesting. Had he been so arrogant then, though, that he would never manage a simple conversation with her now? All the more fool him, if that was so.

She was most definitely not a cold fish. No, Theodora Meacham practically crackled with fire, and he wanted to taste her. She was not the sort of lady, however, that one trifled with. Especially when she – and everyone else – thought he was there after a fox and her sister. If he began a pursuit in earnest and then changed his mind, they would both pay for it. So first he needed a private conversation to determine for himself that his interest was more than a lust-tinged curiosity. He’d already made his one mistake where she was concerned, and before he’d even realized it would matter.

"You must tell me about Vashton Hall," the lady on his left was cooing, her lips forming a circle that was no doubt meant to remind him of kissing. His first thought was that she actually looked like a water spigot. Lucifer’s balls, he couldn’t even remember her name, so many women had been flung at him in the past months.

"It's a house," he said, half his attention on the conversation that had resumed between Theodora and Francis Henning. He remembered her name, damn it all. "With windows, doors, and a roof."

"But I've heard that you have a splendid pond with fish, and a garden with a magnificent temple to Athena at the edge of the water."

"You seem to know more about it than I do," he returned, summoning a half smile. "No need, then, for me to describe it at all."

The pretty brunette blushed. "But the -- what of the weather there? Is it pleasant? I find today to be a bit chill, don't you? And the clouds are moving quite swiftly."

He reflected that in the battle he'd seemed to have begun with Theodora Meacham, neither one of them had yet seen the necessity of discussing the weather, or the speed of clouds. Inwardly sighing, he nodded again. After all, he'd been accused of being arrogant; if she overheard him being brusque with this chit, she would slam him over the head with it later. "The weather is a bit cooler overall here than it is in London, I believe, and there seems to be more rain. And yes, with the state of the clouds I've begun to wonder if we might be in for a wet evening."

She smiled hugely. "Oh, yes, I agree."

That seemed to satisfy her for long enough that he managed to finish his baked ham. Then, after a round of discussing how well he sat on a horse and the craftsmanship of his saddle, the luncheon began to break up and he made his escape. What seemed like half the female contingent present followed him into the house, chittering and hopping about like birds attempting to gain a mate by fluffing their feathers. Good God.

The moment he could manage it, Geoffrey retreated to his borrowed bed chamber and summoned Grosvenor, his valet. "Find me something understated," he said, shedding the crimson fox hunting coat and dropping it onto the back of a chair.

"Understated, my lord?" the valet repeated. "Do you mean dark, or plain?" His lip curled as he spoke the last word; Grosvenor didn't approve of simplicity.

"Both," Geoffrey returned. "The jacket I wore to the museum dedication in Surrey will suffice."

"The brown one? Then I suppose you'll wish the gray waistcoat and the buckskin trousers."

"You suppose correctly. And be quick about it. I need to be somewhere at three o'clock."

"Three... I'll never have the mud off your boots by then, my lord."

"Then I'll wear the Wellingtons."

"But--"

"Tick tock, Grosvenor."

Practically wringing his hands, the valet fetched the plain black boots and the plain, unornamented jacket and even tied Geoffrey's cravat in what he termed a "damnably simple" knot. It had to be done; he'd offended a lady, and the more overstuffed he appeared, the less likely she would be ever to forgive him. And the more plainly he dressed, the better chance he had of going unnoticed.

Once he'd finished dressing, he angled his chin toward the door. "See who's lurking in the hallway, will you?"

Grosvenor cracked open the door and leaned out, then retreated and shut it again. "Three young ladies, one mama, and one papa."

Cursing, Geoffrey turned around and walked to the tall window that overlooked the garden. Unless he was mistaken it had the finest view of any room in the house, and luckily for him also featured a trellis of vines running up the wall directly beside it. Well, Theodora didn’t want anyone to know they were meeting. This would suffice. "Stay in here, Grosvenor," he ordered, pushing open the window and sitting to swing his legs over the sill, "and converse with yourself."

"About what, my lord?"

"I give you leave to disparage my choice of wardrobe. If anyone knocks, I'm tired from my journey yesterday, and I’m resting.”

The valet sighed. "And if you fall and break your neck attempting to climb to the ground, my lord?"

"Then you may also disparage my athletic abilities."

"Very good, my lord."

Not even bothering a glance at his valet, Geoffrey reached for the trellis, swung out to the latticed wood, and clambered down to the Beldath garden. He supposed he had no right to complain about his circumstances; after all, he was an earl – a wealthy one – with several large properties to his name and the future Marquisdom of Haithe before him. No one else wanted to hear that he was the younger brother, or that until two years ago he was contentedly Lord Geoffrey Kerick. They didn't want to know that he'd loved his older brother, or that Timothy had been stupidly patriotic enough to take up colors and ride for England against Bonaparte. They both had been, but only one of them had made it home.

Shaking himself loose of the maudlins, he set off at a crouching run through the stands of roses for the carriage path and the stable yard. The barrage of eligible females had stunned him at first; yes, he'd been a popular dance partner and lover before the war, but back then he wouldn't have given a wife a title or pin money worthy of an empress. Now he could scarcely turn around without having to dodge an engagement. For his own sanity he needed to marry, but the idea of taking up with one of the hounds pursuing him didn't sit well at all.

And then there was Theodora Meacham. Yes, her parents had pushed her into his path, but that had clearly been done with the idea that she would mention her more charming sister, and he would be caught. Certainly he'd never met a chit less accomplished at flirting or seduction. And yet... And yet.

She was definitely pretty, with her coal black hair and slender, petite figure, even if those direct green eyes were more striking than seductive. And she gave at least as good as she got. For damned certain she kept him on his toes both on and off the dance floor, which in and of itself made her the most interesting young lady he'd met all Season. It was only a shame he hadn't been looking for her at the time they'd met. If he'd been nicer, if he hadn't dismissed her as simply another of the herd before he'd spoken a word to her, any pursuit would undoubtedly have been much simpler.

As he turned the corner of the stable, he straightened and slowed his undignified scuttle. She stood leaning against the wall, her arms crossed and her chin up. A wave of warmth passed beneath his skin. There was something to be said for the pursuit. And she was no fox, outnumbered and running for her life. She'd clearly come to fight. Geoffrey felt his mouth curve in a slow smile he couldn’t have stopped if his life depended on it.

"You accepted my challenge," he said aloud, resuming his approach.

Theodora started. "I admit to a certain curiosity," she conceded with clear reluctance as she straightened, "as to your motives and intentions. Please know, however, that I am not some silly little lamb you can tease until someone more interesting catches your eye. I am twenty years old, my lord, and men do not walk up and announce that they find me interesting. Not when they’ve been invited to court my sister. And not after I call them names and step on their toes.”

"No, you’re not a silly lamb,” he returned, ignoring the rest of her protest. “From what I’ve seen, you’re a lioness."

She liked that; he could see the swift upturn of her lips, swiftly flattened back into a firm line. "And which animal are you then, sir?"

If he said he was a lion she would only comment that at least he had quite a roar. Geoffrey tilted his head. "I'm a man."

Her pretty green eyes briefly widened, in appreciation he hoped. "You began the game, and now you refuse to play?" she countered.

"No. I named the animal you play, so you must name me." There. Let her decide where the game would begin.

For a long moment she contemplated him. "A wolf, perhaps," she finally mused, "away from his pack and on the lookout for easy prey."

"If that were so, a lioness would have little trouble trouncing me."

"True enough. You do seem a bit more formidable than that."

Ah, was that a compliment? He didn't dare say that aloud, or she might kick him. Instead he remained where he was, close enough to touch without doing so. He wanted to kiss her, he realized, his gaze on her thoughtfully-pursed mouth. Slowly he took a half step closer. He risked a swift glance at the yard beyond her. A lone groom exercised a horse in the paddock, but aside from that they seemed to be quite alone. Good. That had become a rare thing for him. Even with his additional efforts at privacy he had no idea how long it would be before one of the hounds discovered the fox – or wolf, according to her – out of his den.

"Then we're in agreement that I'm a man?" he pursued, just resisting the urge to brush a finger along her cheek. He generally wasn't so sentimental, but he knew his interest had nothing to do with her father sponsoring a fox hunt on behalf of her reputedly irresistible older sister. Those things had merely given him the excuse to come visiting. For a fleeting moment he wondered what he would have done if there had been no fox hunt and no sister to supposedly lure him into Devonshire.

"I will agree with that,” she finally said. “And even though you haven't yet convinced me whether you are a good man or a bad man, I will concede that you might perhaps be less...disagreeable than I first thought."

"You damn me with faint praise, my dear," he returned, offering her a grin.

She blinked. "You quote Alexander Pope, my lord?"

"When the phrase fits. I've also been known to take a tilt or two at Shakespeare after a glass of whiskey." Geoffrey edged closer still, under the guise of examining the stable wall for...nails or something. "At the Carmichael soiree I had chits being catapulted at me, and I responded badly. I hope it hasn't cost me the chance to make the acquaintance and friendship of the one interesting woman in attendance. And no, I’m not talking about your sister.”

For a long moment Theodora Meacham gazed at him, her green eyes direct and serious. "I still can’t decide if you’re playing with me.”

"I am not playing with you, Miss Meacham. I give you my word.”

She took a step forward, wrapping her hand around his arm. Her fingers shook a little where they rested on his brown sleeve. "Then I think we should go for a walk, my lord."

Chapter Four

T
HEODORA DIDN’T KNOW
whether to call it irony or simply an amusing happenstance that a lone fox trotted across the walking path the moment she and Lord Vashton passed the end of the hedgerow. Or she supposed it might even have been a warning; evidently the earl was hunting more than foxes in Devonshire this autumn.