Only an Earl Will Do (9 page)

Elizabeth motioned the footman to refill her glass of wine, taking another sip. Perhaps if she were foxed the ache in her chest would dissipate. Maybe.

The conversation around the table increased in joviality as the courses came and went. Finally, and with much relief to Elizabeth, Lady McCalter stood and excused the ladies, the men deciding to partake in their after-dinner port in solitude. Elizabeth followed close on her ladyship’s heels, only too eager to get away from Miss Andrews.

In the front parlor where the musical loo was to take place, Elizabeth sat at the pianoforte and looked through the music sheets. She didn’t want to play a difficult piece; something light was in order that would allow her to think and not have to concentrate too much on what she was doing.

Elizabeth was still undecided when the door swung open and the gentleman strolled in to join them. She inwardly groaned when Lord Riddledale strolled over to her.

“What are you going to delight us with tonight, Lady Newland?”

He sat himself beside her and, frowning, she shuffled over less he sit on her lap. “I’ve not picked a piece yet, my lord, but her ladyship has quite the variety of music. I’m sure I’ll find something soon.”

“Of course, my dear.” His lordship cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking about us, and how wonderful it’ll be when we’re married. I can hardly stem my urge to have you to myself…on our wedding night.”

Elizabeth fought not to box the idiot over the head. How dare he speak to her in such a way. A man who claimed to be a family friend for as long as she could remember could not be so callous, surely. “You forget, sir, I have not accepted your proposal, and no matter the ruin, nor am I likely to.”

Her hand fisted on the piano keys as the lightest touch ran up the outside of her leg.

Lord Riddledale chuckled, licking his thin lips. “A woman of your experience must yearn for a man. I cannot tell you how honored I am that it is I who’ll ravish your sweet flesh after so long.”

Elizabeth’s mind seized in panic as his labored breaths rasped against her cheek. “It would be wise not to stroke me in such an inappropriate way lest you want to be a gentleman with only nine digits instead of ten.”

“Do not play coy, my lady. It does not suit you.” He laughed, throwing his head back and making himself look like a right pompous git. “And as for your name, not even a daughter of a duke or the Newland ancestry could save your reputation if I were to reveal your dirty little secrets. I am not scared of you, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth reached down and bent back the digit running against her thigh until his lordship wrenched free of her grasp with a yelp. “How very fortunate you believe what you say, but such threats will be your downfall. I’ve told my brother of your request and why you made it. He’s not impressed and let’s not forget, it’s your word against mine, your word against a Worthingham.” Elizabeth placed a piece of Bach music onto the piano shelf, ignoring him completely.

He didn’t leave, merely took a sip of his wine. “I think in time you’ll change your views on that.” He paused, running a finger around the crystal stem. “I have the letter, after all, and with your dearest father’s seal to prove its authenticity. The ton will believe me, not you.”

Elizabeth felt the blood drain from her face, and her gaze flew to his. “What letter?” she asked, her voice stripped of its indifference.

“The one your father sent to Henry. I had to intercept it, you see, for I knew Lord Muir would travel back immediately to save your reputation. The Scottish heathen was in love with you, even if he didn’t know it at the time.”

“You stopped the letter to Henry?” Elizabeth fought to control her heart, beating fast in her chest. “But he answered. He refused to come back. Did you play a part in that scheme as well?”

He tsk-tsked her like a silly child, and she couldn’t have hated him more at that moment. “I sent the reply, not that you can prove it, as I had it delivered to America to be posted from there. A little blunt into the right hands can secure a seal easily enough.” He shrugged.

“How did you know the letter would be sent at all? We told no one of my condition.” Elizabeth didn’t want to think it, but servants, even supposed loyal ones were wont to gossip if enough money was waved before them. Damn them.

“Blunt will open the mouths of the tightest lips.” He sighed, frowning. “It is hard to find servants who are honorable and faithful, don’t you agree?”

She watched him blankly, unable to process what he was saying. That her family’s servants had broken their trust was nothing to how a gentleman claiming to be friends with her father, a neighbor even, could act in such an atrocious way. “How could you do that to me?”

“I wanted you for myself. I always have.” He growled. “I was most displeased when your father had you up and marry Newland, but of course I knew why. I’m left wondering if you’ve told your highlander that his child is alive and well and with another man’s title bestowed upon his head.”

The room spun before her eyes. Oh dear God. What was she going to do? Panic crept about her, wanting to enfold and suffocate her. Spying her forgotten glass of champagne atop the piano, she made to pick it up but instead knocked it into Lord Riddledale’s lap.

“Apologies, my lord. How unfortunate for you.” Her words were without care, and she watched with little interest as Lady McCalter fluttered over with napkins and ready apologies.

“A little wine will not change your future, Lady Newland,” he whispered, standing. “No matter how much you wish it.”

Elizabeth watched as he took his leave. Elizabeth sat and played Menuett in G to the best of her ability, her mind a whir over everything Riddledale had disclosed and what it meant for her son should she not marry him.

Her attention snapped to Henry, and she missed a note. He watched her, his intense gaze flicking between her and the now departing Lord Riddledale. Other ladies came to stand beside the pianoforte, and Elizabeth gave up the instrument, only too happy to let them have their turn. She walked over to a nearby window, the grounds outside as dark and gloomy as her mind.

She would have to marry Riddledale…unless she spoke the truth.

The jarring sound of Miss Andrews singing pulled her from her thoughts, but only for a moment. Henry was innocent, and so too was his uncle. That, at least, was a small comfort, but most definitely the only one.

…

Henry watched Elizabeth and Lord Riddledale’s conversation at the piano and unease crept across his shoulders. Her pallor, and sometimes the blatant hate that sparkled in her green depths, told him more than any words could that the conversation was in no way pleasant. His body tightened, and a fury took hold when he saw his lordship caressing her leg.

Highhanded rake!

Henry sipped his brandy and welcomed the burn to his gut. He would rip the bastard’s hand permanently from his body if he didn’t stop. He took a step toward them, only to see Elizabeth deal with the fiend’s finger herself.

His eyes narrowed as Elizabeth struggled to hide her emotions from the gathered guests. If Henry didn’t know better, he would assume the man was threatening her in some way. But over what would Lord Riddledale threaten Elizabeth? She was a well-respected widow, a woman above reproach.

Henry took a large sip of brandy and slapped the glass down on a nearby table. He started across the room. Miss Andrews stepped into his path, and he mentally swore.

“There you are, Henry,” she cooed, clasping his arm and pulling him to where her brother stood speaking to Lord McCalter. “You look all sixes and sevens. Is everything well, my lord?”

Henry smiled and tried to banish his annoyance at her interference. “Of course.” He muttered a few replies to the inconsequential conversation while keeping vigil on Elizabeth. She played her piece of intended music, but there was no passion, no emotion behind the music, she was distant…distracted.

They needed to talk, at length and without interruption. Not tonight, but tomorrow. Ever since his return something wasn’t quite right, and it was time he found out just what that “something” indeed was.

…

Henry walked toward the Duke of Penworth’s residence the following day, determined to find out the truth of what was going on between Elizabeth and him, if anything.

This morning his manservant had delivered him the missive from his uncle, who had no recollection of such a letter ever being received, and he’d been adamant, if not a little hurt, that Henry had accused him of such foolery.

He rapped the knocker hard on the Worthinghams’ front door. If his uncle had not played a part in keeping him from marrying Elizabeth, then someone else had, and Henry couldn’t help but wonder if that “someone” was Elizabeth’s brother. They’d never really been close as boys, and were certainly less than friendly now.

A butler he’d known for some years opened the door and greeted him with an arctic nod.

Henry stepped past the man. “I’m here to see the Duke and Lady Newland.” He pulled off his gloves and set them upon a hall stand before handing the butler his coat.

“His grace is not in residence, and I’m not certain when Lady Newland will return. If you wouldn’t mind coming back, my lord—”

“I’ll wait in the library.” Henry entered the room, one he knew as well as any of his own, and took a seat before the hearth. The burning wood crackled as he stared into the flickering blue and orange flames, his mind a whir of turbulent thoughts over what had happened to Elizabeth when he left. Who had written the letter and why? And Henry wasn’t fool enough to believe her supposed love for him had ensured her father write and demand he return. Elizabeth was hiding something. But what?

He gritted his teeth, scowling.

Soft footsteps sounded in the foyer, and he turned toward the door. “Lord Muir, I wasn’t expecting you to call.”

Henry stood, clasping his hands behind his back. “I apologize for my intrusion, but what I wish to discuss cannot wait.”

Elizabeth threw him a confused glance before walking to the bellpull. “Tea?” she asked.

“Thank you, yes.”

She walked to the nearby settee and sat, her ease and graceful movements tinged with an edge of wariness, and his suspicions grew.

“What was in the letter you sent me, Elizabeth? The one that I supposedly refused?”

She paled before determination seemed to straighten her spine. “It was nothing other than a request for you to return to marry me. I foolishly thought myself in love.” She fussed with her gown, blushing furiously, a trait she did often when telling fibs. “But I’ve told you this already, so I’m a little confused by your visit this morning.”

“Was it because you lost your virginity to me and your father thought it best that you marry the man who deflowered you?” It was the only reasonable truth he could think of. Another husband could’ve been mortified, humiliated should he realize that his wife was not as pure as he’d thought on their wedding night. Some men could’ve demanded an annulment if so offended by the realization. It was a just cause to ask for his return.

At her continued silence he stood, pacing before the hearth. “You were supposed to wait for me in any case. Did you not tell your father that before writing?”

She laughed, the sound cloaked with nerves. “You are reading into my actions more than you ought. Father did know of my ruin, as I said, but he also believed that I loved you, as I did. There is nothing more than that. It was a foolish impulse of an immature young miss.”

“Don’t force me to ask your grace, Elizabeth, for I will if it’s the only way to find out the truth.” Their gazes locked, and a flicker of fear passed through her eyes before she blinked and it was gone. “I cannot tell you what you wish to hear for what I state is the truth. Ask Papa, his recollection of the time will be the same as mine.”

“My uncle did not send the letter nor did he reply to one from ye father. So someone else has played us fools, and we need to find out who that ‘someone’ is.”

She stared at him, her piercing viridian eyes filling with fear. “There is something that I must tell you, Henry, but I’m not sure as to what to do about it.”

He came and sat across from her. “What is it?”

“I suspected your uncle would write and state he did not know of our missive. The reason I suspected such is because…” She took a calming breath, meeting his gaze. “Because Lord Riddledale only a few days ago stated to me quite openly, and with not a little glee, that he knows of our tryst beside the lake and then last night at Lord McCalter’s he admitted to having the letter Father sent you. He confiscated my father’s missive and replied as your uncle, all due to his intent to have me for himself.”

Henry’s world tipped off-kilter and he stared, dumbfounded at her. He would kill that bastard. “I’ll gut the English mongrel.”

She clasped his arm, her eyes beseeching. “You mustn’t go near him. It’ll only make things worse, and I do not see what we can do about the situation.”

“I believe there is a legion of things I can do about the situation.” Kill him came to mind. Maim him and then kill him…slowly. “I will talk to the marquis.”

“He’s threatening me, Henry. He’s declared he will go public with our scandal should I not marry him.”

He met her gaze, shame flowing through his veins that he’d left her to face such a fate. How many weeks had he seen the pompous ass sniffing about her skirts? And all that time the bastard had been threatening her, waving her father’s letter as a threat to do as he dictated. “He’s demanding ye marry him?”

She looked away, her eyes glinting with unshed tears. Henry wanted to pull her into his arms, comfort her as he should have done the moment he returned from America. Damn Riddledale to the cesspit.

“He is. I have not agreed to his demands, but I see little option other than to give over to him if he will not give it back. I may be a widow, seemingly above reproach, but I’m not willing to allow such a scandal to ruin the future chances of my sisters. If the ton read the letter, along with the story of what Riddledale saw us doing at the lake, my sisters would be tarnished with the same brush: as a light-skirt, an easy conquest, a whore.”