The Geek Girl and the Scandalous Earl (14 page)

“Okay. So she was his mistress. And he’s going to make an honest woman out of her. That’s good, right?” Jamie spoke slowly, trying to make sense of the situation, and Mike’s super-negative reaction to it.

Mike shook his head vehemently. “It is not that simple. Lord Easterly has left his estate in ruin. He has broken his engagement with Lady Elise, the daughter of the Marquess of Glastonbury. The only reason he was able to keep the creditors at bay before was his impending marriage and the promise of the healthy dowry that would accompany it. Now, the families who depend on him for survival, his servants, the residents of the farms at his country estate, his mother—they are all left destitute because of his selfish actions.” The disgust fairly flew from his mouth at the end of his tale. His eyes were dark, his jaw tight, and she almost felt bad for the bowl of custard that bore the brunt of his displeasure.

Jamie looked down at her own dish. “So, is a nobleman not supposed to marry for love? Not ever?” It was the most important question she’d ever asked him, so she couldn’t quite get all of the tremble out of her voice.

“With position comes responsibility. Duties to one’s house, to one’s name. To throw all that away in the name of an emotion? Despicable.” He dropped his napkin beside his plate with unnecessary force. “Love will not feed the villager’s children. Love will not keep his family clothed and out of the poorhouse. While he is touring the continent with his new bride, the vultures will pick the bones of the barony.”

And with those words, Jamie felt her insides crumble.

She laid her spoon down with a clink. Wiped her trembling fingers with the cloth napkin.
What
the
hell
do
I
do
now?
she thought, trying desperately to keep her features calm.

“Miss Marten, are you ill?”

She glanced up at him. God, he was so beautiful. But he was as far away as the hero in a historical movie. She had a better chance of being with the real Colin Firth than she did with Micah Axelby, Earl of Dunnington. She swallowed the growing lump in her throat enough to answer.

“No, I’m fine. Just…tired.”

She turned her attention to the food. The rest of the meal was tense, quiet. She gave one-word answers to all of Mike’s questions, the roiling discomfort in her guts not allowing her to be more effusive. What was the point, anyway? This whole thing had been a waste of time. Mike’s duty was more important to him than any relationship she could have had with him.

When the torturous meal was finally done, she scraped her chair back. “Thanks for the great meal, my lord.” She bobbed a quick curtsy and turned to go.

He rose quickly, a bewildered look on his handsome features. “Please stay. I had hoped you would agree to play the pianoforte for me after dinner.”

Her eyes fluttered closed. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

An extended silence opened her eyes again. Mike stared at her, lips pursed in confusion. “I will bid you good evening, then.”

“Good evening,” she repeated woodenly, and left the room, her infant dream of their relationship lying dead and burnt behind her.

***

He’d bungled that properly.

Micah lined his fork and knife up beside his plate, brow furrowed in consternation. Whatever had caused Miss Marten to look as though her heart was breaking? He’d imagined that they would spend a pleasant evening together after they dined. Perhaps even culminating in another kiss or three. Instead, he rose and left the dining room quite alone.

His estate room was cold, the fire banked in anticipation of an evening spent with much more pleasant company. Instead of calling a servant, Micah stoked it himself. The orange flames licking up the sides of the wood reminded him of his damnable failure to treat his houseguest with more care. He’d consumed her bright nature, just like these hungry flames. The softness in her eyes had died as surely as if he’d smothered it with his own two hands. He sat back on his heels, breathing deeply as he searched for clues in the leaping blaze.

Baron Easterly. His elopement. What in that discussion could have possibly caused Jamie hurt? Or was she truly ill and felt poorly enough to cut their evening together quite short? Micah shook his head and stood. It mattered not. The whole damnable charade was insupportable, and he’d been just as blind and stupid as Lucas Humphries.

He splashed brandy into a glass and downed it in one go. Why was he pursuing her? He had duties, for God’s sake, duties that were binding and unavoidable. Marking time with Jamie Marten would be the height of folly. It would jeopardize his planned engagement, stir up another bumble-broth within the
ton
, and quite possibly cause his distant relatives more grief. They were already planning his demise quite happily over the Louisa scandal.

No, damn it, he was through. He dashed the glass into the fireplace, the glass shattering and the tiny droplets of liquor causing the angry flames to spark blue. Enough. It was outside of enough.

His duty, his name, those were the important things. Not a strange girl with striped hair and eyes the color of the sea. He strode from the room, demanded his cloak from a surprised but silent Thornton, and went out into the dark London night.

Jamie barely slept that night. She snuggled next to Baron, who’d been extremely happy to resume his position as her nighttime bodyguard-slash-hot water-bottle. She kept remembering Mike’s face, the disgusted look on it when he’d said, “With position comes responsibility. To throw all that away in the name of an emotion? Despicable.”

She turned over.

Despicable.
He’d almost spat the word out like it tasted bad.

He’d never defy convention and marry some nobody who knew nothing about his time. He needed the perfect countess—a woman who knew her place, who had money and property and would act like a countess should. Not some jumped-up gamer chick with depression issues and a flighty muse. She was no better than Lord Easterly’s mistress in his eyes. And she’d never be, because she was born in the wrong place and time.

She refused to cry. To cry would be to admit to herself that she’d lost something. The truth was she’d never really had anything at all.

A soft knock drew her attention.

“Yeah?”

Mrs. Knightsbridge appeared in the doorway, shutting the door softly behind her. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she brushed a lock of hair from Jamie’s forehead.

“I heard your conversation in the dining room. You must believe, dear.”

“Believe what? That this is a complete waste of time and no way in hell will Mike ever ditch his responsibilities to be with me?” Jamie tried to smother the telltale waver in her voice, but it wasn’t easy.

Mrs. K smiled. “Come time for the ball, he will be professing his love for you.” The housekeeper brushed a motherly kiss over Jamie’s forehead. “And if I am wrong, Wilhelmina shall open the portal for you the next morning. You’ve nothing to lose.”

Except
my
stupid
heart
, Jamie thought as she closed her eyes against the tears.

***

She’d planned to spend Sunday in Mike’s company. After all, it was one of the last times she’d be near him. But instead, Jamie spent the day in the garden with Baron. She’d taken both breakfast and lunch alone in her room, unwilling to run into Mike again. It would be too damn painful. But by the time Muriel had collected the tray with her mostly uneaten lunch still on it, Jamie was going stir crazy.

Baron was more than willing to keep her company as she paced the length of the gravel path down and back again. Eventually, he collapsed in a beam of sunshine, watching her walk. Then he fell asleep, and she was completely alone with her thoughts.

It was simple. She had failed in her attempt to convince Mike to marry for love, whether to her or someone else. Mrs. K would be disappointed, to say the least. There was no reason to even think about going to that stupid ball tomorrow night. She’d probably make a giant ass of herself anyway.

She snorted and kicked a rock across the path. Baron’s ears flicked at the sound.

Why had she ever thought that she could pull off something like a huge society ball, anyway? From what Mrs. Knightsbridge had told her, these things were like breeding grounds for the best gossip. If Lady Such-and-such danced too close to someone that wasn’t her husband, then the titters would begin. Would she be able to remember all the stupid rules like that? Hardly. She could barely remember not to say “fuck” in front of anyone here.

The sun was setting before she was done with her pacing. Baron eventually tired of her, and she couldn’t blame him. She let him in the house when he stood on the back steps and stared at her pitifully. Honestly, other than Mike, Jamie thought she’d miss Baron most of all.

After the door swung shut behind the hound, Jamie sat on the damp brick and held her head in her hands. Mrs. K had promised to have Wilhelmina open the portal in only thirty-six hours or so. She’d go back to her little house. Back to the summer heat. Back to the lonely episode of
Hoarders
that was her life.

The creaking of the door at her back startled Jamie, and she whirled. Fortunately, it was only Muriel.

“Miss Marten, Mrs. Knightsbridge wanted me to fetch you. It’s time for your fitting.”

Jamie looked up at the thin-faced girl. “Fitting?”

Muriel beamed and nodded, white mobcap flopping. “For your ball gown, miss. She’s told me how you’re going to the masquerade.”

Jamie looked back down to where her knuckles where white against the rusty-colored brick. “Yeah.”

“Come, Miss Marten.” Muriel reached down and grabbed her hand, pulling Jamie after her. “You must see the beautiful gown she has made for you! You shall be the toast of the ball.”

Jamie couldn’t break the maid’s heart by telling her she wouldn’t be going, so she allowed the maid to drag her through the house and up the stairs to the Lemon Room, where Mrs. Knightsbridge was placing the finishing touches on a gown that would never see the ball at all.

When Jamie walked into the room, Mrs. K immediately hustled her out of her green muslin gown. “Come, Muriel, help me. Miss Jamie, lift your arms.”

They snatched the gown over her head and immediately replaced it with what looked like silk lifted straight from a fairy tale. It was silver, light as gossamer, and it hugged her curves like a BMW 645 on a mountain road.

“Wow,” Jamie breathed, staring at herself in the mirror. She was…beautiful. She looked like a princess. The wide neckline showed off the curve of her collarbone, making it look delicate. Mrs. K brought her a mask and placed it gently over her eyes. It only covered half her face, the wide eye-slits making it easy to see through.

“There,” Mrs. K breathed. “You are lovely.”

Jamie couldn’t drag her stare away from that woman in the mirror. The silver made the highlights in her hair look brighter, her skin glow with health and life, and her eyes shine with possibilities.

A deep sigh broke her gaze, and she looked at the two people staring into the mirror beside her.

Muriel’s face was bright, her smile so big Jamie thought her face would break. Mrs. K stood on her other side, tears brimming in the woman’s clear gray eyes. She swallowed, a watery smile breaking across her face.

“You shall be the most beautiful lady at the ball.” Muriel sighed happily. “You will have your pick of any gentleman you could wish for!”

Except
for
one
, Jamie thought, her heart breaking as she turned away from the mirror.
The
only
one
I
want.

***

In the end, Jamie couldn’t crush Mrs. K and Muriel by refusing to go to the ball. They’d worked so hard to make her ready for it. Mrs. K on the gown, which she’d apparently been working on every spare second for the past week, and Muriel when it came to dressing Jamie for the event itself. When they were done with her, she barely recognized herself. The hairdo, which Muriel had proudly informed Jamie was “a la Grecque” or something, was an intricate twist of curls and braids. It made her look a foot and a half taller, slender, and so willowy that she thought runway models would envy her back home. Well, if runway models had nearly C-cup breasts. And hips that were curvier. And carried a healthy body weight. So maybe not so much like a runway model. Still, more beautiful than she’d ever been in her life.

Mike, fortunately, had already departed by the time Jamie made her way down the staircase, feeling like the world’s fakest Cinderella.

She was bundled into a carriage and waved off with nothing but Mrs. K, a wink, and a prayer.

Mrs. K smiled at her from across the carriage. Even though it was a masked ball, no lady of quality would be there without a chaperone, she’d told Jamie. Once they arrived at the ball, Mrs. K would disappear, leaving Jamie and Mike to have the most awkward public good-bye ever. Jamie sighed. She wished, as the carriage bounced its way along the dark streets of London, that someone would reassure her that this wasn’t the stupidest idea in the world.

If she was Cinderella, then she could have her prince, or earl in this case, and it wouldn’t matter that she was a servant in her wicked stepmother’s house. But since she wasn’t, and Jamie Marten was in this carriage watching the moonlit streets go by, then this was another chance for Mike to understand how completely wrong she was for his world.

As they descended the carriage to the brick walkway in front of the huge home, Jamie made a decision.

“Mrs. K?”

“Yes, dear?” The older woman was almost pretty in a simple gown made of dark-blue fabric. Her silvery mask obscured most of her face. No one would recognize her as a servant, Jamie was fairly certain. She must have conjured up the gowns for the both of them because no way could she have purchased them on a servant’s wages.

“Can you have Wilhelmina send me home as soon as we get back?” Jamie’s voice came out a little shaky. She wouldn’t even tell Mike she was going. She’d find him in this crowd somehow and grab a memory that would have to last her for the rest of her life.

Mrs. K shook her head. “Let’s not worry about that right now, dearie. Come. You’ve a ball to attend.”

The music and laughter was carried on the night air through the open doorways. Jamie’s nerves sped her heart, and she contemplated running straight back the way she’d come. But when she turned, the carriage had already rounded the corner to make way for more arriving guests. Mrs. K grabbed Jamie firmly by the elbow and steered her down the walk. Jamie sighed. The sooner she went into this ballroom filled with the cream of the English crop, the sooner she could beat feet for 2012.

“Now.” Mrs. K dug through her tiny purse—she’d called it a reticule—and produced a thick sheet of paper with gilt edging. “We’ll need this to gain entry.”

Jamie gulped and took the sheet of paper. She hadn’t really thought about getting into the damn party. She’d figured it would be like a frat party back in her days as a college student. Show up, grab a beer, and find someone she could hold a conversation with. Usually, it was some lonely looking smart boy in the corner. Lucky her, the last time she’d done that the lonely guy had been Logan.

This shindig, however, was nothing like that. A puffy-looking guy in a powdered wig with a warm brown coat and tails stood guard at the doorway. Mrs. K pulled Jamie aside, and they watched the couple that had gotten out of the carriage behind them. The gentleman handed an invitation to the servant, and he waved them in with a bow.

“Go,” the housekeeper whispered, nudging Jamie on.

Swallowing hard, Jamie approached the man.

“Good evening,” he said with a bow.

Jamie nodded, graciously she hoped, and handed the invitation over. Mrs. K was nearly bouncing with excitement.

“My apologies, miss, but this invitation is for the Granfield ball, two weeks hence.” The servant’s tone was condescending. “Are you known to the Baroness Wentworth?”

Frantically looking over at Mrs. K, Jamie gulped.

The housekeeper sputtered. “Oh dear, I must have brought the wrong invitation. How silly of me.” She went into titters, thwapping the man on the arm with her fan. He winced.

Jamie rolled her eyes.

“Please, don’t let my poor daughter miss the event because of a silly mistake.”

The servant started to shake his head. Just then, lighted lanterns over to the east side of the ballroom caught Jamie’s eye.

“Pardon us, sir. I need a word with my mother.” Pulling Mrs. K aside, Jamie whispered, “There’s a path to a garden. There has to be a back door into this place. Come on, let’s use it.”

They waited for a gentleman with a pointy-nosed mask to make his way to the entrance before slipping off into the cover of night. The night air had deposited early dew on the lawn, and Jamie hoisted her skirt high to keep the hem from dragging. She and Mrs. K tiptoed as quick as they could through the darkness, making a beeline for the lighted path.

They made it without incident. Smoothing her skirt, Jamie took stock of her appearance. Hem still mud free, white gloves still bright and clean, mask on straight, hair still “Greek” to her. Mrs. K placed a warm hand on her shoulder. “Miss Jamie, we must go inside.”

Ascending the steps to the balcony, her housekeeper chaperone behind her, Jamie kept her senses on alert. As she drew closer to the open doors to the ballroom, a problem occurred to her that she hadn’t even considered before. A problem that would quite possibly mean that she couldn’t even say good-bye to Mike tonight. Disappointment gripped her, and she wondered if it was worth it to even try.

“What is wrong, my dear?”

Jamie swallowed the knot in her throat. “There are masks everywhere. On everybody.”

Mrs. K laughed. “Of course, my dear. This is a masked ball.”

“But how will I ever find Mike?” She leaned against the marble railing of the balcony, halfway hidden behind a potted tree, dejection soaking her thoroughly.

There were tons of men there. They were dressed in all shades, ranging from severe black and white to the color of regurgitated Skittles. Masks covered whole faces on some, three-quarters on others.

Mrs. K snapped her fan open. “I shall locate him. Wait here.” Sailing off like the mother ship, Mrs. K marched determinedly into the ballroom, long skirt swishing. Jamie couldn’t help but shake her head at the housekeeper’s fancy dress and unfailing faith. Better Mrs. K than her, though. From what Jamie had heard, tabloid reporters were kittens when it came to gossip compared to the women of the British
ton
.

She stood there, chewing her lip, digging the toe of her slipper into the ground, when the nervous, high laughter of a woman interrupted her internal soliloquy.

“Sir, you should not beg me so. It’s unbecoming, and I’ve no need for new company.”

“But, Marilyn, you must know how I feel for you. How I long to bask in the sunshine of your love…”

Blecch.

Jamie peeked around her tree to see a couple walking briskly up the garden path toward the house. Well, the woman was walking briskly anyway. What Jamie assumed was a besotted swain trotted after her, not stopping his stream of ridiculously bad poetry. Jamie had written better love-struck crap than that when she was only seven years old. J. T. Keibler never knew what he’d missed.