The Reluctant Earl (5 page)

“No, you aren’t. Impulsive, greedy and perhaps even a bit idealistic, despite your claims to the contrary. But no fool.” He was still far too close, the brilliant blue of his eyes kindling not with anger but with...interest?

In spite of the nausea churning in her belly, she fought the urge to retreat, to show weakness or fear. “If we are finished, my lord?” She lifted a brow in the same patrician manner he was wont to do.

He slid her arm through his crooked elbow, his broad chest bumping her shoulder, and nudged her toward the manor. “I’m certain my sister’s cook will have a fair repast awaiting my return. Won’t you break your fast with me?”

“Thank you, but I haven’t much appetite.”

“It is a rare person who foregoes food this winter.” He adjusted his long gait to her shorter steps. “Surely your strength is greatly depleted from your dual ordeal of meeting me and riding a horse. Please, I insist.”

“One missed meal won’t sap my strength. But one missed day of instruction will surely end my position here. As you said, I will be of no use to you unemployed.”

“Very well, Miss Vance. Flee to your schoolroom.” Lord Chambelston’s grip tightened around her arm and his eyes chilled to match the cold blue sky. “But remember, deal fairly with me and I’ll see you rewarded beyond your imaginings. Deal falsely with me, and I’ll see you suffer more than my father did during his last days.”

Chapter Three

A
cold draft skated through the village lending library. Leah smiled as Alec pulled the door closed and removed his hat. Her cousin’s impatient glance swept the room, softening only when it encountered her. He sidled closer, his green eyes alight with a humor unperturbed even by the current difficulties.

“Milton?” He gestured to the book in her hands. “I thought surely you’d be reading Wollstonecraft, at the least. Or maybe Paine or Locke.”

“Not in public.” Not if she wanted to maintain her position in Lady Sotherton’s household.

“Someday we will be rich enough you can scandalize the harpy with impunity.”

She closed the volume of poetry and replaced it on the shelf. “Hush. For now, we are poor enough we can’t afford to scandalize anyone.” Most especially not her arrogant employer.

He proffered his arm. “Come. Let us not waste such a beautiful day.”

Dread knotted her stomach as Leah placed her hand on the coat that had once been part of Alec’s army uniform. Countless campaigns had frayed the hems and worn the wool to a dull shine. She adjusted her steps to Alec’s limp and stepped out into the cold. The sun glinted on the mahogany highlights in his chestnut hair before he covered it with his well-worn beaver.

“My apologies for my tardiness.”

“The wait afforded me the opportunity reacquaint myself with Milton.” Her father would have approved of her choice—if not her motivation.

Alec’s quicksilver grin flashed across his face, then his lips tightened into a sober line as he escorted her along the snow-covered street. “New developments delayed me.”

Leah waited, but he gave no more details. It had ever been thus on their regular Wednesday afternoon meetings. Alec plied her for details while disclosing as little as possible about his activities. She’d never appreciated his caution—gained during ten long years of war—as much as she did this moment. At least she wouldn’t face the dilemma of choosing between Lord Chambelston’s gold and her cousin’s life.

He leaned closer until his breath stirred the hair at her temples. “Rather shocking the new Lord Chambelston should come to see Sotherton.”

“Yes, the rumors among the servants suggest an estrangement of nearly twenty years duration between the two sides of the family.” The rhythmic ring of the blacksmith’s hammer echoed off the stone walls of nearby cottages. Where did her loyalties lie? She couldn’t betray her kin—nor could she reveal too much. Not if she hoped to collect Chambelston’s payment. Payment. Who, in this winter of deprivation, compensated her for her reports? And why might those people wish to see an earl dead? A chill owing nothing to the wind slid along her spine. “Alec, have you considered some elements of your group may not have altruistic motivations for driving the unrest?”

“You mean a radical overthrow of the monarchy? It’s not going to happen. We only want the government’s cooperation in doing more to provide for the people. No one wants the kind of chaos and destruction France suffered.”

Sure, France lay in ruins now, but only because of Napoleon’s vaulting ambition to conquer the world. What if the little despot had only sought to rule France, rather than dominate the whole of Europe? Who would have stopped him? “Then why do you need the details of Sotherton’s business? Of what use are they?”

“We want to know if the government will cooperate with our requests or if the officials are taking steps to block our petitions.”

They strolled past St. John’s stained-glass windows. Beyond the parish gate a collection of old and new gravestones denoted the final resting place for centuries of village life. Childhood memories assailed her. Once she’d found peace in her father’s church.

The sun hung low in the winter sky—the afternoons were short this time of year—and gray clouds gathered on the western horizon. Leah’s steps slowed, her too-short minutes of freedom at an end. “I need to return.” She released her cousin’s arm. If Lord Chambelston should hear of her relationship with Alec... She glanced over her shoulder toward the village green and the happily empty whipping post. Perhaps the earl would be kind enough to see them assigned to side-by-side gallows.

Alec slipped a few coins into her hand. “I fear for you, Leah. If only I could do more, you wouldn’t have to take such risks.”

Leah dropped the money into her reticule where the silver made a halfhearted chink against the rest of her meager stash. “We appreciate all you do.” Or, at least, Leah did and Phoebe would—if she understood. But Phoebe would never understand, never respond, never again so much as recognize her own family.

“It’s little enough.”

“It’s more than you’ll ever know—and most unfair to you to assume this burden. If my father had better managed his finances...” Resentment swelled in her throat that her father had been so concerned with heavenly matters, he had neglected his responsibilities on earth. “He failed in his obligations, not you.”

“Another man’s shortcomings don’t excuse mine.”

“Nor do they compel you to atone for the rest of your life for his mistakes.”

“Dear Leah.” Alec reached for her hand again, but Leah retreated a step. “You’ve carried this burden alone for far too long.”

His words called to mind Chambelston’s professed admiration for her independence. How strange the sensation felt—unless he only claimed so to manipulate her?

Alec settled a gloved hand on her shoulder and drew her back to the present. “We could marry.”

“We—what?” She halted and stared at her cousin, unable to construct a complete sentence.

“I see my proposal renders you silent. I said we could marry.”

Marry?
Alec?
“But we’re family.”

“The law allows for marriage between cousins.”

She smiled to ease the sting of her rejection as she slipped away from his touch. “Wisdom forbids the marriage of
these
cousins. Alec, you are like a brother to me.”

“And you were very fond of your brother, as I recall.”

She studied his countenance but saw no eagerness, only the same determination that drove him to assist with Phoebe’s expenses and the same familial affection she felt for him. “Be serious. How would we survive? We can barely support ourselves even now. Besides you might meet someone and I—” Warmth invaded her face. How silly that a woman of her age and station would wish for a quiver of the anticipation she felt whenever she was with... Once she’d thought a man loved her. And perhaps he had, at least until he’d learned Leah came encumbered with a sister confined to an asylum. She glanced at the stone church, again feeling the pain of rejection.

“I am being serious. At least wed, you would be safe.” Dear Alec, always trying to protect others. “I fear for you, Leah. A defenseless woman, your livelihood tied to the whims of that dragon and your very person at the mercy of any males in the household.”

Fortunately Alec didn’t know the worst, lest his volatile, half-Scots temper lead him into trouble. More trouble than Leah even. “But I need my income—both of them—for Phoebe. I fear for her. If something should happen to me—”

“Now my proposal renders you morbid. I liked it better when you were mute.” His smile flickered, then disappeared behind a somber examination of the darkening sky. “You know I’ll ensure Phoebe gets the care she needs, no matter what. Now it is time for you to return to the dragon’s lair. I fear we may see more snow tonight.”

“Will you come to the asylum Sunday?”

“If at all possible.”

With a final wave she pointed her feet toward Rowan Abbey and a return to her responsibilities. By the time she reached the door, the cold had numbed her nose and toes, and the churning gray clouds had nearly swallowed the last of the day.

“Ah, Miss Vance.” Molly appeared as Leah unhooked her scarf from her neck. “I feared you wouldn’t return in time.”

“In time?” Why did Leah’s every encounter with Molly seem to coincide with her...second career?

“Lady Sotherton requests you join the family for dinner.”

An invitation Leah couldn’t refuse, of course. Not even on her afternoon off. “I presume Lady Sotherton has guests?” Why else would she demand the governess’s presence for dinner but to even the numbers?

“Viscount Killiane and his brother brought a friend.”

The cold in Leah’s extremities radiated upward and circled around her heart, and the blood drained from her face, leaving her light-headed and weak. “Lord Killiane’s brother is here? Now?”

“Aye. Mr. Fleming.”

Dinner. With Reginald Fleming.

The man who had attacked her in this very house three years earlier.

* * *

Julian paced before the salon’s fire as he waited for dinner. The blaze highlighted tapestries cloaking the walls, their once-bold colors of ancient Sotherton triumphs now muted with age. One such scene shivered, bringing the knight and charger momentarily to life as they danced to a winter draft.

“Another cold night.” As if to punctuate Sotherton’s words, a gust of wind whistled along the glass. “You know my nephew Killiane and his friend Mr. Warren, Chambelston?”

Julian nodded to both gentlemen. “I believe we’ve met at my club.” Briefly.

“My sister married an Irish title, but I have great hopes for my nephew’s career in politics,” Sotherton said.

The young lord ambled closer to Julian, drink in hand. Despite Killiane’s age—four or even five years below Julian’s—the viscount schooled his face in the careful ennui of the London set. “Sorry to hear of your loss, Chambelston.”

Julian answered with a polite nod. “How is the situation in Ireland this winter?”

Killiane’s lips flattened. “Worse than England, I fear.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“We hope for some promising news in the future.” Killiane withdrew a snuffbox from his coat. “I shall be traveling to London for the opening of Parliament’s new session. I assume you will be taking your father’s seat?”

“Ah, yes. Parliament.” Another duty Julian could scarcely avoid. “Perhaps we shall encounter each other again there.”

“A necessary obligation, Chambelston.” Sotherton chuckled. “But perhaps you will grow to enjoy politics the way Niall and I do.”

Or perhaps not. Julian hadn’t Sotherton’s...enthusiasm for power. “War is so much more straightforward. I prefer enemies who shoot me in the face to friends who stab me in the back.”

The quip produced an outright guffaw from Sotherton and even earned a smirk from Killiane.

“Will this interminable winter never end?” The Dowager Countess Sotherton marched into the room, her cane tapping against the parquet floor that framed the plush blue rug. The heavy odor of her perfume reached Julian before she did. “A drink, Benedict. And one for Miss Godwin also.”

“Just so, Mama.” Sotherton rose from his chair and moved toward the sideboard.

“Good evening, Niall.” She helped herself to Sotherton’s fireside chair. Her companion followed glumly in her wake, then halted, sentinel-like next to her mistress.

“Grandmother.” Killiane leaned closer and offered the dowager a peck on her cheek.

“You look well.” She patted his arm, then peered at Julian as if she were inspecting her linens for flaws. “Good evening, Chambelston. For a minute, I thought you were your father. You really do have the look of him, you know.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Julian accepted her words as a compliment, whether meant as such or not.

“Unlike some in this household, I was sorry to hear of his demise.” Her watery blue eyes focused on her grandson’s friend. “Will you be staying long, Mr. Warren?”

“Only until Friday, my lady.” He offered her a bow, then returned to his silence.

“Here you are, ladies.” Sotherton approached the two women with goblets.

The dowager sniffed her appreciation as she accepted her due. Though of an age with Julian’s mother, the woman’s years sat heavily on her face in wrinkles and frowns and discontent. Despite some three decades of widowhood, she yet wore unrelieved black that contrasted harshly with her pasty skin and rouged cheeks. Her fierce countenance found an echo in the sour features of the companion who hovered behind. A niggling of sympathy fluttered through Julian for his sister Elizabeth’s lot here. Perhaps surrounded by such disagreeable dispositions, he would have developed a like aversion to familial relationships.

A feminine giggle echoed from the hallway. The dowager’s frown lines deepened as Lady Teresa and her governess slipped into the room.

“Ah, Teresa.” Sotherton ignored his mother’s grumblings of annoyance. “Chambelston, you know my daughter. Allow me to present her governess, Miss Vance.”

“Miss Vance.” Anger and awareness warred within him as he drank in her gleaming tresses, her perfect posture, her subtle—and now familiar—scent of lavender. The rich chocolate of her dress complemented the variegated browns and greens of her eyes while an ivory shawl found a counterpart in the creamy glow of her cheeks.

“My lord. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.” Cynical amusement flickered in the gaze that met his before she dipped her head and dropped into a deferential curtsey, as if they were strangers only newly met.

“Miss Vance.” Killiane edged between Julian and the governess and offered her a bow. The bored indifference fell away, replaced by genuine interest and...admiration? “It’s been too long since I last saw you.”

“Lord Killiane.” Surprise and pleasure softened her lips into a smile that revealed an intriguing dimple on her right cheek. “How pleasant to meet you again.”

Irrational jealousy fed Julian’s frustration. At her. At Killiane.

A feminine hand tapped against his sleeve. “I fear the storm worsens. We may be blessed with your company until spring, Lord Chambelston.” Lady Teresa’s words drew Julian’s stare from her governess—and that ever-present, ever-treacherous bond he felt. His niece’s black hair gleamed with fiery red sparks in the candlelight, and mischief danced in her violet-blue eyes. Bands of painful memory constricted around Julian’s heart as he looked into her face, so like that of his sister of twenty years ago, before disillusionment had hardened her heart and attitudes and features.

“Teresa is anxious for spring,” Sotherton explained to Julian with an indulgent smile. “This year, she travels to London for her presentation to the queen.”