The Outcast Earl (2 page)

Focusing, Abigail mentally ran down her body from head to ankle, squirming as she shifted the bones and muscles in her arms and her back. When Abigail stretched her calves, then her ankles, she immediately wished she had remained motionless. “My ankle!” she called, despairing. “I’ve injured it somehow!”

John’s creased lines turned to a definite frown. “M’lady,” he shouted through the glass, “I’m going to try to open the window!”

The coachman struggled with the latch. When he forced it open, a draught of cold air blew in and Abigail shuddered. Water dripped onto her skirts where her pelisse was askew from the accident. “Those outriders we met up with in Northampton have gone for help. We can see the turn into the Park’s front lane, m’lady, so help shouldn’t be long in coming. But there’s no way we can move this heap upright and rescue you without more men!”

Abigail sighed and nodded, moving her head back to rest against the pane of glass under her head. Although miraculously unbroken, the glass was cold, and had apparently moved out of its frame. It, too, was beginning to leak and Abigail could feel rivulets of cold water slipping beneath the curve of her shoulder so that her gown, once comfortably cosy, was quickly turning into a clammy, cold costume. Above her, John slammed the window closed and shut out the remaining daylight that had provided Abigail with a connection to the world by stretching a length of oilcloth over the glass.

Grateful that John was trying to keep them as dry as possible, Abigail struggled to keep from thinking of the pain in her ankle or of the unconscious woman pressing her into an increasingly cold, wet position. With a wry groan at what seemed like the opening of a cheap Gothic novel, she even determined to put her would-be rescuers—and her future—from her mind.

She knew without thinking that John had done the best he could. Aunt Betsy had volunteered him to drive her father’s old travelling coach north, so that the de Rothesay coachman could continue the customary round of social outings Abigail’s mother and sisters daily required in the elegantly styled town landau.

Abigail’s father had agreed, so the old vehicle had been pulled from the back of the carriage house in the mews and meticulously cleaned. Still, nothing except complete refurbishment would have been able to conceal the age and wear on the old equipage.

Abigail had seen John inspecting the undercarriage at earlier stops and making small adjustments. He’d said nothing critical, naturally, but after they’d left Northampton with the two mounted footmen from Meriden Park, he’d driven more carefully than he had before. It had slowed the day’s progress, the tedium further exacerbated by the weather.

Still, the rain and roads could have been at fault instead of the coach. Not that it really mattered now.

Abigail could feel her heart beating against Betsy’s elbow. Stilling completely, she moved her free hand—the one not putting pressure on Betsy’s wound—to her aunt’s chest, taking comfort in the regular rhythm of its beat. Although she didn’t know for sure, Abigail surmised that a strong, regular heartbeat had to be better than a frantic or faint one. It was certainly better than none at all.

All she could do was wait to be rescued by a man she’d never met. Thinking about him—about her bigger dilemma—simply made the present situation more untenable. Thinking about her lost dreams, her secret desires and lost intentions now ruthlessly set aside and best forgotten, was too painful. She had to hold herself together, so as not to cry. To not think about the pain in her ankle, or her confused sisters and melancholy mother.

Abigail had to be strong, and she was
good
at being strong, responsible, reliable, practical, sensible. ‘Helpful’, they called her. The words filtered through her brain as she reminded herself of all that her sisters had said of her. At that moment, she didn’t feel so very helpful. She felt helpless, actually. So she stared up into the blackness and tried with all her might to not think of weddings, or brooding, moody men, or grieving family members. It was better, she decided wearily, not to think of anything at all.

“Open your eyes, damn it!”

Abigail’s body jerked at the impatient, commanding words, even as her eyes flew open obediently.

The voice barking at her from above was not gentle or indulgent. Nor was it the voice of a servant. It was a deep, unfamiliar rasp and Abigail automatically—instinctively—drew back farther against the wooden frame of the carriage. The body to which this voice belonged hadn’t even tried to block the rain from pelting in. “Where’s John?” she asked anxiously.

The man didn’t seem to hear the tremor in her voice.

“John?” he bellowed. “Who the hell is John?”

“The coachman!” she returned bitingly, reaching up to bat away the water before it dripped onto Betsy’s cheek. “You’re making this worse than it was,” she added indignantly.

“I don’t have time for your hysterics,” he grunted. “We’ve got to get you out of there and up to the house.”

“I’m not hysterical. I’m never hysterical,” Abigail returned acidly. Taking a deep breath, she explained, “Aunt Betsy is on top of me. And she’s unconscious. I can’t move her—and there’s nowhere to put her if I could. We’ve slid down against the door. Besides, her head is injured. I’m putting pressure to stem the bleeding but she needs a doctor, and quickly.”

“Damn!” The man bit off another curse. He leaned over, his head through the window, trying to see inside, and then drew his head back out. Abigail listened to him issuing orders, and, with a dawning sense of uneasiness, she squinted to get a better view.

A lamp quickly arrived, and the man bent down into the coach with it, partly lighting the interior, Betsy, Abigail and his own face.

Abigail swallowed. The scar for which he was famous was unrelieved by the light bouncing from the inner carriage walls. It traced the edge of his jaw from ear to chin, giving his face a harsh profile.

When her gaze uncertainly drifted from the edge of his face to his eyes, he promptly scowled. “We don’t have time for proper introductions or foolish objections now,” he growled. “You’re both hurt, so save the kind-hearted sympathy for the drawing room tomorrow.”

Abigail’s mouth opened with indignation. “Why, what are you—?”

She couldn’t finish the question because he interrupted, abruptly instructing, “We’re going to tip you back upright, so hold on!”

Abigail wrapped her arms around Betsy and braced her uninjured foot against the bench, anticipating that they would slide downwards onto the floor of the coach as it was tipped upward. When they had finished, Abigail realised that at least one of the wheels had broken, because the two women remained slumped against the door, though Abigail was now upright with Betsy on her lap.

Within a moment, the door behind her opened and the chill and wetness came rushing in, followed by a formidable presence in a leather greatcoat, which flapped against the carriage frame.

“Just hold on to her for another minute,” the rough voice of the sixteenth Earl of Meriden boomed against her ear.

Abigail shivered at his proximity. She couldn’t see much of him in the dim blackness of night, but even drenched and diligently focused on her rescue, he seemed to take over the empty space around her, as if he was larger than life in his black greatcoat. She wished she knew if the heat that suddenly surrounded her came from him.

“Don’t let go of her,” he ordered, reaching his long arms around her and steadying the limp form.

She closed her eyes and tried to hold back the comment that was rising to her lips, but she couldn’t help it. The acerbic words tumbled from her, and he was close enough to hear them. “What else could you possibly have imagined I would do?”

* * * *

Charles glared at the back of her head. The girl wasn’t supposed to be impertinent. She was supposed to be at least terrified, as any other innocent miss in this situation would have been.

The irony did quirk his lips, though. All other young innocents would have been passed out as thoroughly as the estimable Aunt Betsy. It was unfortunate they weren’t in a position where he could address—indeed, enjoy—that impudence.

It wasn’t that he wanted a ninny as a bride. Truth be told, her cheekiness held infinitely more potential than shy, retiring misses could ever promise. Knowing his own reputation and family history, he had given up his search for his English maiden years ago and retreated to the ancestral rural landscape to brood out his days. Now, though, he was grateful for those past discouragements. If he had married a shy, young, English miss nine years ago, he would now likely be bored to tears.

He didn’t cry easily.

But he needed an heir. Heirs, preferably. Time had reinforced that reality, too. The Wessex family had ruled, owned and dominated the landscape in this part of England for time immemorial. By legend and maternal bloodlines, his ancestors included the ancient kings and queens of Mercia, and the remarkable Alfred the Great. The Wessex clan had survived innumerable wars, royal abuse, the bloodthirsty Cromwells, charges of treason and any number of importuning women who had tried to discredit the ancient warrior lineage. The remains of his ancestral kingdom might have died out with William the Conqueror, but the survival instinct had percolated in nearly every generation through the centuries. One did not allow a one-thousand-three-hundred-year dynasty to die out without making some effort to preserve its fate.

From the few words he’d exchanged with Abigail so far, it seemed as though she might wear the Meriden coronet quite well.

Besides, both his parents and grandparents would torment him for eternity in the afterlife if Meriden allowed his cousin Milton to inherit. The lying little boy, who had delighted in sabotaging Charles’ animal traps and decimating his childhood forts, had grown into a petty, self-indulgent man who had, quite possibly, degenerated with age. When Charles had seen him last, in London, Milton had been positively smug over the probability of inheriting the earldom. Even living, Charles was fairly certain his mother’s continued residence in Italy was meant to be a constant reminder that he needed a châtelaine for Meriden Park, and that she had no intention of filling the role for him.

Charles sincerely hoped that Milton would one day meet his comeuppance for his own arrogance. Charles equally hoped he would be in a position to witness it, without being caught up in the fiasco that was certain to follow.

As he often did, Charles worked like a demon while he inwardly mused, leaving the rescue of Lady Abigail de Rothesay to her coachman while he focused on the injured aunt. He was able to do so with half a mind, the other half still consumed by the dilemmas he would face over the next days.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to touch her. It was just that he wanted that first contact to be in more forgiving surrounds. He wanted her to know they were touching, to think about how it felt. He wanted to be able to appreciate the texture of her skin and feel the shudders run up her arm when he kissed her inner wrist.

Charles wanted her to be perfectly and explicitly aware that he had every right to do with her as he pleased.

Of course, he reminded himself, he ultimately wanted her to be happy in that same possession. A bit of nerves was to be expected—even enjoyed—but Charles had no wish to terrify his bride. But as of yet, he truly had no indication, beyond her signature on the marriage contracts, that she had even accepted the fate her father’s spendthrift habits had handed her.

The Earl of Winchester, otherwise named Stuart de Rothesay, had been progressively sinking into massive debt for the last fifteen years, in order to finance a luxurious lifestyle for himself, his wife and four fabulous daughters. To stay afloat, Winchester had drained his entailed property of anything saleable long before, and was left with a mortgaged London home at a highly valued address in Mayfair, country properties that were dilapidated and tenanted, and mounting pressure from the banks after two speculative investments had failed dramatically.

For reasons known only to Meriden’s grandfather, Meriden’s man of affairs, Simon Rutherford, had always kept abreast of Lord and Lady Winchester’s lives. Charles knew of it, of course, and had allowed the regular reports on their finances, politics and social activities to pass into his hands every quarter since his grandfather’s death. It wasn’t as if they were the only family of influence his grandfather had tracked. The previous earl had left Charles with a letter listing those who owed the family favours and those to whom the earl had felt a certain obligation. His grandmother had been able to enlighten him about most of the names, but had no explanation as to why the previous earl believed he was indebted to Lady Winchester, the only female on the list.

When Charles had heard of Winchester’s difficulties from Rutherford, and about the imminent seizure of the peer’s lands, Charles had immediately known that saving Lady Winchester and her daughters from being cast into the street definitely qualified as repaying a debt.

Overruling Rutherford’s sensible financial advice, Charles had quietly approached the bankers and had purchased a significant portion of Winchester’s debt—more of the debt than any mere favour would have required.

It was to be Charles’s opportunity to re-enter popular society, to ask the upstanding and fashionable Countess Winchester to procure for him invitations to events where he might find a bride.

At least, that had been his plan.

One visit to Winchester House had revised his intentions. The five beautiful women that graced the portrait behind Winchester’s desk had inspired Charles to ask for a much higher price.

Amazingly, after staring at him for only about twenty silent seconds, Winchester had agreed.

Abigail came to him without a dowry, though Winchester had deeded to Charles the two properties of Lord Aston, Winchester’s minor title, and Charles had written off the mortgages he held on them. Still, Charles was grateful that he hadn’t been forced to circulate among the backstabbing matrons that comprised the proverbial ton, or even to set up housekeeping in the etiquette-strict and overly expensive city. He had not once been called upon to tell the story of the scar to his jaw to a shocked and wide-eyed audience—a boon worth nearly any portion of his personal fortune.