Intentions of the Earl (6 page)

I would be glad to hang it in the portrait
gallery. In fact, I will hang it in the family gallery if you will
do but one thing for me.

Yours,

Townson

From Miss Brooke Banks to the Earl of
Townson, 2:15 p.m.—

Andrew,

The family gallery? Truly? Did you enjoy my
painting so much you want me to be your countess? I am anxiously
awaiting your reply because my mother is already planning the
wedding, and I will immediately go pick out my trousseau!

Yours Truly,

Brooke

From the Earl of Townson to Miss Brooke
Banks, 2:45 p.m.—

Dearest Brooke,

I am charmed that you would accept my wedding
proposal, had I made one. But the condition on which I will decide
to hang it up in the family gallery has nothing to do with whether
we marry or not, but rather another very important question. Who do
the initials: JRS belong to?

Never fear my dear, I know they are not
yours, and that
you
did not paint that dreadful mess, but it
has not ruled out my interest in you. I will come by your townhouse
at 4 this afternoon, and I would like you to accompany me for a
ride around the park.

Yours,

Andrew Black, Townson

“Why would anyone
want
to claim that?
It's a dreadful disgrace to the world of art,” Brooke muttered to
herself after she reread his note for the third time.

***

At exactly four in the afternoon a knock
rattled the front door; followed by none other than the Earl of
Townson being let in.

Skulking about in the shadows, Brooke felt a
little smile spread over her lips. She was glad he'd come.

After a few minutes of drawing room chitchat,
Andrew and Brooke climbed into a curricle and were off for a ride
around the park.

“My favorite color is red,” Andrew stated
blandly, his eyes alight with laughter.

Confused by the proclamation, Brooke nodded
and shrugged. “Mine's green.”

“That’s nice. I’ll keep that in mind.
However, I had guessed that already, seeing as how your gown today
is green. I believe the one you wore yesterday was, too,” he said,
gesturing to her forest green gown.

“I guess I'm very obvious in what colors I
like, unlike you. I have yet to see you wear red,” Brooke said
pertly.

“I said my favorite color is red, not that I
like to wear it,” Andrew parried.

“Why would you tell me your favorite color?
And, if it’s your favorite color, why not wear it?” she asked,
favoring him with a curious look.

“Just because I don’t want to wear it,
doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want you to wear it,” he countered, putting
deliberate emphasis on the word “you”. “I’m telling you this so you
know what color to choose during your visit to the modiste.”

Brooke turned her body the best she could to
look him in his eyes. His cobalt blue eyes were looking straight at
her as if they could see right through her. She didn’t know exactly
what it was he could see, or if was a good or bad thing he saw.
“Why would I be going to a modiste?”

Andrew gazed at her perturbed facial
expression, complete with a slight frown and knitted brow. “For
your trousseau, darling,” he drawled. When her face turned pink, he
pushed further, “But if you want, you can spare the expense of
building a trousseau,” he shrugged with nonchalance, “nothing is
the preferable outfit for one’s wedding night.” After her blush
went to crimson, he winked at her. “But since you think a trousseau
is necessary, you should know my favorite color is red. Oh, and I
also like things that are filmy and transparent.”

“And why would I be creating
my
trousseau with
your
favorite color?” she asked, astonished
they were even speaking of such things. Both Mama and Liberty would
be scandalized if they knew.

Letting go of the reigns with one hand, he
grabbed both of her hands with his one big one; then grinned at
her. “You seem to be bent on the idea of becoming
my
countess. If you are to be the Countess of Townson; that would make
me your husband, such as, I thought you should be aware that I will
be the one, and only, to see you modeling said trousseau.
Therefore, I just thought to tell you what color you should choose
for my enjoyment.”

Where was all of this coming from, Brooke
wondered. Then it dawned on her, he was trying to bait her because
of that note she’d written. “I’m so glad you told me. I quite
forgot I have an appointment on Thursday. I shall remember to get
something red and filmy just for you,” she said with a sensual
smile. Then her smile faded, and she began to tap her finger
against the side of her head as if she was in deep contemplation.
“When I go in should I have these garments, and some much needed
fashionable ball gowns, added to your account?”

Brooke thought she saw something flicker in
his eyes, but it was gone before she could name it.

“I have no money, darling,” he drawled. “If
you agree to marry me and be my countess, we will be known as the
Penniless Earl and Countess of Townson,” he said jovially with a
self-depreciating smile firmly on his lips.

Brooke couldn’t stop the little laugh that
escaped her lips. “Well then, I suppose I could splurge with my pin
money and buy my own trousseau. Don’t worry though, after we marry
and you get my dowry, which is a whole fifty pounds, we’ll be rich
and live like kings!” she teased.

“Fifty pounds you say? Well, I don’t know
about living like kings, but perhaps we could live like princes,”
he said with a bright smile.

“Oh yes! We could have so many wonderful
things. We could go to the opera every night, and host huge house
parties all Season,” she exclaimed playfully with a sparkle in her
eyes. Brooke truly had a dowry, but it wasn’t a measly fifty
pounds. In American dollars her dowry would have been larger;
however, when exchanged into pounds it came to be about five
thousand pounds. Just enough to be considered a generous amount,
but not enough to be pursued by every fortune hunter. But just to
be sure, her papa hadn’t made known the amount of her dowry.

Andrew pulled the curricle to a halt and
jumped down. After helping Brooke down, he led her to an unoccupied
bench. “Here, let’s sit.”

Brooke currently had no interest in the bench
and noticed some unfamiliar flowers. “Oh, look at the flowers. They
are absolutely beautiful,” Brooke said, walking over to a flower
bush. “Back in New York flowers are rare. Well, not rare exactly,
but they don’t grow like this.”

“Flowers don’t grow in New York?” Andrew
asked skeptically.

Brooke laughed. “No, they grow. But with all
the snow, ice and cold, we don’t get to spend very long looking at
flowers; except roses of course.”

“Ah, roses, one of the few flowers that
thrive in cold weather.”

Brooke took a seat on the bench and waited
for Andrew to join her. “The rose is the most common flower found
in New York,” she said, trying to fill the silence.

“Is it safe to say that you like roses
then?”

“Of course, I wouldn’t be a true New Yorker
if I didn’t,” she said in the thickest New York accent she could
muster.

Shaking his head at her exaggeration of her
accent, Andrew took a seat next to her on the bench. “So, dahling,”
he drawled, trying to match her Yankee accent, “what color roses
are your favorites?”

Brooke laughed at his imitation of her
speech. “Why? Are you planning to buy me some?” She paused a
second. “Oh right, I forgot you’re a pauper, you can’t buy them.
Are you going to grow them for me?” She honestly doubted he’d ever
given much thought to growing roses, or any type of flowers for
that matter.

“I’d definitely have to grow them, as I don’t
have the extra funds for one stem,” he said earnestly. He placed
his fingers under Brooke’s chin and turned her head to face him so
he could look deep into her eyes. “You still did not answer my
question. Which color do you prefer?”

Brooke blinked a few times. Many men had
touched her face, tried to hold her hand, and some had even kissed
her; but she had never really been comfortable with the intimacy of
it, nor enjoyed it so much. Andrew’s touch seemed to scorch her
skin. She wet her lips and stared straight into his blue eyes
before answering. “It would depend on who they were from and the
reason for giving them.”

Her statement seemed to baffle him. “Could
you please explain what you mean?”

Still looking into his eyes, Brooke took a
deep breath and said, “Tell me who are they from and why they are
giving me roses; and I’ll tell you what color they should
choose.”

Andrew dropped his fingers from her chin and
moved them to where her hands were folded in her lap. “From me.
Just because.”

Brooke gasped. “Um...” she cleared her
throat, “in that case, white or yellow would be the right
color.”

“The right color?” Andrew questioned, lifting
his brow.

“Yes, the right color.” At his look of
uncertainty, she went on, “Different color roses represent
different things. White roses represent purity or sympathy. They
are often used for bouquets for brides to show innocence. Sometimes
white roses are sent to people who are sick or who have suffered a
loss to represent sympathy. Yellow roses symbolize friendship or
happiness; they can also be given by a friend of either sex.
Therefore, from you, a man of my acquaintance, or a friend, yellow
or white would be appropriate.”

Andrew nodded. “Didn’t you forget a few
colors?” he asked, smiling at her when she gave a weak nod. “What
about pink or red? Why could I not give you those colors?” he asked
softly, stroking the backs of her hands with his thumbs.

Brooke was distracted by his hands on hers.
“In order to give those colors the relationship and the feelings
would have to be different. Deeper.”

“Deeper? Does that mean that a fiancé could
give pink or red roses?”

Distracted by his hands that had turned hers
over and were now rubbing circular motions on the inside of her
palms with his thumbs, Brooke slightly nodded. Moistening her lips,
she said, “Yes; that would be appropriate. The pink ones could be
given to a fiancé. Pink roses represent elegance and great
appreciation or admiration. The red ones though, are strictly for
love, true love. Maybe a fiancé could receive them, or even a woman
you want to be your fiancé. A wife for sure could receive red
roses—if you love her, that is. You really shouldn’t be giving red
roses to someone that you don’t have a strong relationship with or
that you don’t love for that matter. Because then she might get the
wrong idea. She might think you love her, when in fact, you do not
have that strong of feelings for her.” Brooke was oblivious of her
rambling; she was too busy thinking about the way his touch made
her skin tingle. During her ramble, his hands had removed her left
glove and his fingers were dancing every so lightly on her
wrist.

When his thumb grazed her wrist again, she
shivered then suddenly jumped up and pulled her hands from his
searing grasp. “Oh my, I think we should be going,” she insisted
quickly, her words flying out of her mouth faster than a bird being
chased by a cat. “It’s getting late and I don’t want Mama to wonder
what has happened to us. She does worry so terribly much about us
here in London. She says it is not as safe here as we’re used to
back home. I don’t know if she thinks we are going to be nabbed
right off the street or what, but she is ever so over cautious.
Really, we must be going.”

“All right, I shall return you at once. We
wouldn’t want to risk being robbed sitting here in this vacant part
of the park,” Andrew joked, taking to his feet.

Brooke gave a light smile. She knew he
probably thought she was a ninny; but the truth was that he was too
distracting by far, and she needed to go before she embarrassed
herself. She had never felt this way when any of the other
gentlemen had touched her. What’s worse, he’d barely touched her in
comparison to what some of them tried to do. With other gentlemen
it tickled, or if they had calluses, they’d scratch her skin. But
Andrew’s touch was different, it was hot and searing. It felt
perfect.

So perfect, she knew she might do something
she shouldn’t if she didn’t put a stop to his touching at once.

The ride back to her residence was for the
most part filled with companionable silence. “I enjoyed our ride
today. If you are agreeable, I would like to go for another
tomorrow or the next day,” Andrew said, breaking the silence.

“That would be lovely,” she murmured. The she
smiled wryly and added, “It will have to be tomorrow or in two
days, because the day after tomorrow is Thursday, and I have my
appointment at the modiste.”

Andrew shook his head. “You may want to wait
a bit on that, at least until I grow you a pink rose.”

Most people would be embarrassed by his
direct mention of their gaffe, but Brooke was not one of them. In
mock irritation she exclaimed, “You, sir, could not be so lucky. I
will be waiting for a red one!”

“A red what?” asked a voice from the
door.

Both Brooke and Andrew turned to see Liberty
standing in the doorway, her hands firmly on her hips. “Oh nothing,
Liberty,” Brooke said trying to turn the attention off of them. How
had they gotten back here so fast? “What are you doing outside on
the steps?”

“Waiting for you,” she stated flatly. “You’ve
been gone for more than an hour, without a chaperone I might add.”
She sent a blistering stare at the couple. “See, even Lord Townson
agrees, he’s nodding his head.”

Andrew was in fact nodding his head, but
Brooke highly doubted it was because he agreed with what Liberty
was saying.

Ignoring Liberty, Andrew helped Brooke down
from the curricle.