The Earl Claims a Bride (3 page)

“Certainly not. Question all you want, but the Prince knows you will acquiesce in the end.”

The man seemed very certain. A feeling of unease crept up Harrison’s back. “And why does he know that?”

“Because you broke the law by dueling.”

“What the devil?” Harrison took an agitated step toward the man.

“That’s right,” Mr. Hopscotch said with all confidence. “So no, you don’t have to marry the lovely lady he’s chosen for you, but if you don’t the Prince will see to it that you spend at least the next five years in prison for attempted murder while dueling.”

Harrison scowled. “He wouldn’t.”

“He would. And it would all be perfectly legal. You dueled a few months back. I can attest to it myself and find at least half a dozen more gentlemen who will swear to it in court, including the man you shot.”

A flare of temper swept through Harrison. “You bloody blackguard. I didn’t want the duel. I tried to walk away from the man. He’s the one who insisted.”

Harrison took another menacing step toward the robust man. He heard the shuffle of muskets being lowered and tromping footsteps. He looked over Hopscotch’s shoulder and saw that the guards had walked closer and had their blunderbusses pointed directly at his chest. Harrison wasn’t a foolish man. He stopped and slowly lifted his hands in the air. It would be his luck that one of the guards was eager to pull the trigger.

He had finally gotten the message: The Prince meant business. He would be damned before he was shot over a young lady who couldn’t snare a husband any way but by force.

Mr. Hopscotch turned and motioned for the men to lower their weapons. He cleared his throat nervously. “Perhaps I am what you call me, but your feelings for me will not change what the Prince wants or what he will do to get it. He will see to it that the courts have whatever evidence they need to fulfill his wishes. If I snap my fingers again the guards will arrest you and take you straight to Newgate, where you will be accommodated before, during, and after your trial.” He paused. “You need to make the right decision, my lord. I’m told the courts are very slow when Parliament is in session.”

Harrison had never liked being told what to do. But he didn’t want to risk losing Thornwick, either. He was the one who stayed away when his brother asked him to come home. He was the one gambling and drinking when his family died and the house burned. Now he was the only one left. It was his responsibility to build it back. And he wasn’t going to let prison or anything else stop him from doing that.

“If I decide I will marry this spring, I will choose my own bride,” Harrison said in a deadly quiet voice.

“That would be very awkward for the Prince. As I mentioned, the young lady’s father is a relative of the King.”

“So the Prince wants to favor the man with a title for his daughter?”

“It wouldn’t be prudent of me to comment on that. I trust you understand.”

Harrison hesitated. Hell yes, he understood, and he didn’t like it. “Tell the Prince I’ll come to London next week and meet her, but I’m not promising I’ll marry her.”

“One step at a time. I understand.” Mr. Hopscotch smiled for the first time and fiddled with his neckcloth again. “Good enough for now. She’s making her debut at the Great Hall, which is hosting the first ball of the Season. I’ll see to it that someone presents Miss Angelina Rule to you.”

Miss Rule? God help me.

Even her name made Harrison want to grind his teeth. Rules weren’t anything he wanted to become familiar with.

Mr. Hopscotch tipped his hat to Harrison. “Good day, my lord.”

Harrison watched the man walk to his carriage, his soldiers following him. If Miss Rule’s father had to call in a favor from the Prince to leg-shackle a husband for her, there must be something wrong with her. Harrison didn’t even want to consider what that might be.
He
would choose the next mistress of Thornwick.

But if the Prince kept his word and Harrison was charged with dueling, could he fight the charges and win? It certainly wouldn’t help him that there had been several convictions for dueling in recent years. But Harrison wasn’t without friends. Bray was a duke. Perhaps he could give Harrison some advice on how to avoid the Prince’s ultimatum.

In the meantime, he didn’t want to be managing the rebuilding of Thornwick from that hellhole called Newgate. He had a feeling the Prince would have him thrown in there if for no other reason than to prove to Harrison he could.

Harrison wasn’t completely heartless. He wanted a wife and heir one day. He supposed all men did. But he didn’t want to be forced into marrying a young lady just so the Prince would feel safe from the possible clutches of a French sympathizer.

“Damnation,” he muttered under his breath.

He was still learning what being an earl was about. He had no inclination to learn about being a husband and father, too.

Chapter 3

So quick bright things come to confusion.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream
5.1.111

Angelina Rule leaned over and gazed dreamily at the man. He looked just the way she wanted him to: tall, lean, and broadly built with wide shoulders and chest. His frame was lithe with a slim waist and sturdy, powerful-looking legs. The color of his eyes was an amazing and intriguing mixture of deep forest green and golden brown. His features were strong, aristocratic, his lips full and well-defined with just a hint of amusement lifting the corners.

She smiled at the attractive gentleman, and she liked the way he smiled back at her.

Something disturbed her concentration.

Angelina looked up from the miniature she was painting, squinted in the light of the glaring sun, and listened for a moment. All she heard were the peaceful sounds of the early-spring morning in her back garden. She turned and glanced at Sam, who lay on one of the warm stepping-stones that led to the back door of the house. He had raised his head; his short floppy ears had perked up, too. As usual, Rascal was too lazy to be bothered by sounds that weren’t offering food. Perhaps all that had distracted them was a distant driver shouting at his ill-tempered horses.

Angelina blinked several times to adjust her eyes and went back to tediously painting a bow on the neckcloth of the gentleman with a fine, delicate brush. Having already decided that the handsome rogue would have on a sage-green waistcoat to match his eyes, she pondered whether to give the clothing shiny gold or leather-brown buttons down the front.

Another sound. This time she was sure she’d heard whimpering, and so had Sam. The mix of bull terrier and only God knew what else rose quickly from the step and took off barking and barreling toward the rear gate. That got the old hound’s attention and she hightailed it after Sam, adding her deep warning bark.

Angelina ripped off the spectacles she used when painting miniatures and laid them on the table. She reached down and picked up the large tin dome she used to cover her work when she left it outside and settled it over her brushes, palette, and the lid to the snuffbox. Long ago she had learned the heart-wrenching way not to leave her paintings outside unprotected from butterflies, beetles, and all manner of insects that wanted to land and crawl around on the fresh paint.

“Sam, Rascal, quiet!” she called as she rose from her chair, picked up the hem of her dress, and headed after the dogs. Before she threw the lock, Sam was already nudging to get past her and out the gate.

“No. Sit. Stay.” The brindle-colored dog obeyed immediately, but Rascal, being mostly hound, continued to bark and scratch at the gate. “Sit,” she said again. And then more forcibly she added, “Sit, Rascal!”

Rascal grumbled and barked again but reluctantly obeyed. Angelina opened the gate just enough to wedge her way through and closed it quickly behind her. She looked twice up and down the tree-lined lane that separated the rows of houses before spotting a small brown dog curled near a hitching post.

“Oh, you poor dear,” she said, hurrying over to him. She gasped when she knelt down and saw he was lying in a wet, boggy spot of dead grass. He was only a puppy, terribly malnourished and shivering.

Dark, frightened eyes stared at her. He had the coloring and shape of a beagle, but she doubted the bloodline was pure. Strays seldom were. There were cuts and scratches on the animal’s head and upper body. The outline of his ribs was clearly visible beneath his short hair. Her heart went out to him so with no thought but to help and comfort, she reached for him. He snarled and snapped at her.

Angelina jerked her hands away and sat back on her heels. Sam and Rascal must have heard the stray’s warning because they started barking and clawing at the gate again. She called to quiet them.

She then spoke calmly to the shaking, frightened puppy before her. “Well, Mr. Pete,” she said, giving the dog the first name that popped into her mind. “That is no way to introduce yourself to someone who is only trying to help you. You look like you need a friend. Now, I’m going to sit here with you for a while and let you get used to me. When I ease my hand toward you again, I want you to sniff, not snap. Understand?”

A few minutes later Angelina had the trembling dog wrapped in the skirt of her paint-stained apron and, holding him carefully, she opened the gate and stepped inside. Sam, being at least some part bull terrier, stiffened his legs and formed an attack stance. He growled up at the stray. Rascal followed suit by curling her lips, but Angelina was having none of that from either of them.

She looked down at her pets and said firmly, “That’s enough from you two. Cease right now. I found you both on the street and I can return you to the street. Mind your manners and be quiet or out you go with the rubbish.”

Sam listened to her command and remained quiet but furiously wagged his short tail. Rascal barked at her as if to argue. Sam had been easy to train into submission, but the hound had to test Angelina over and over again before giving in and heeding her commands.

“Just for that,” Angelina told Rascal, “you will stay out here with Sam and not come into the house with us.”

The two dogs followed her to the door, obviously hoping she would change her mind and they would get inside, but she kept her word and shut them out. After quietly slipping into the house, she peeked inside the kitchen. It was empty. She smiled.

“Looks like today is your lucky day, Mr. Pete,” she said softly. “Mrs. Bickmore must be taking her rest before she starts preparing dinner.”

Angelina looked around the room and quickly spotted a loaf of bread on the woodstove. She hesitated. Mrs. Bickmore wouldn’t be happy, but she wouldn’t say anything, either.

After she placed the puppy on the floor, she grabbed a plate and knife from the cupboard and cut off a quarter of the loaf. She then uncovered the pitcher of milk and poured a small amount over the bread before adding a dipper of water and then putting it in front of the starving animal. In three greedy bites the plate was clean. He looked up at her with his big brown eyes, licked his chops, wagged his tail anxiously, and whined pitifully for more.

Angelina looked from Mr. Pete to the bread and milk.

“All right. A little more bread, but no milk this time. Only water. I can’t overfeed you or you’ll be sick. And don’t eat this one so fast,” she added as if the puppy could understand and would obey her. “After you finish and are feeling a little stronger, I’ll wash your cuts and put some ointment on them.”

It wasn’t the first time she had pilfered food from the kitchen to feed a stray and she doubted it would be her last. She took another large slice off the loaf and made a plate for him. And contrary to her instructions, he ate the second just as ravenously as the first. She reached down to pick up the empty plate and saw her father’s boots.

Caught.

She winced.

Angelina slowly rose and tried to step in front of the puppy even though she knew there was no way the eagle-eyed Archard Rule hadn’t seen and heard Mr. Pete. Her father was a tall, thin, and handsome man who was almost regal in the proud way he carried himself. His light-brown hair had recently receded slightly from his forehead but nothing else gave away the fact that he was well past forty.

“Papa, I didn’t know you were home.”

“Obviously,” her father said as he crossed his arms over his chest and began to gently tap one booted foot on the floor. “Feeding the family dinner to yet another stray?”

She looked from his frown to what was left of the raided loaf. Her father had been gone more than he had been home for the past three weeks, and when he was home, he was either distracted and aloof or short-tempered and irritated. She didn’t want to add to whatever had been bothering him, but she couldn’t have left Mr. Pete on the side of the road.

Angelina squared her shoulders. “He’s injured and starving.”

“All of them are,” he said testily. “We can’t feed every dog left to beg on the streets of London.”

But that didn’t keep her from wanting to take care of them all.

“I know you’ve told me more than once not to pick up any more strays, Papa, but he’s just a puppy. He can’t be more than a few weeks old. He doesn’t know how to scavenge for food yet. He’s so little.”

“We already have three dogs,” he said, the tap of his foot getting louder.

“Well, really only two in that Molly belongs to Grandmother.”

“Angelina, your grandmother lives here and so does her dog.”

She folded her hands together in front of her, sighed, and lowered her lashes over her eyes for a moment. It had always been difficult for Angelina to know when to just be quiet and give her father time to think and adjust to whatever point she was trying to make. But she had to press on if she was to have any hope of keeping Mr. Pete. It would be heartbreaking if she had to put the shivering puppy, sitting so quietly at her feet, back on the street to fend for himself.

She glanced up at her father and was surprised by the tightness that showed around his mouth and eyes. Clearly something serious was bothering him. If they had been talking about anything other than the future of this puppy, she would have backed away from the conversation and queried as to what was wrong.