The Spinster and the Earl (20 page)

What she needed was a gentleman confidante. Someone she could share her ambitious dreams with, a husband who’d listen and encourage her in her ventures. And most importantly, not meddle. A partner in life, who like the Earl of Drennan would make both a good worker and a lover.

Her green eyes widened. She blinked, looking back towards where he and Mistress Powers stood by the lower south terrace at the bottom of the castle’s hill. Even from this distance, she could see that they made a handsome couple.

Her eyes narrowed into dark green slits. She suddenly realized that she did not care one bit for the view. Nay, not one bit.

“Aunt Agnes,” she said decisively, turning to the tiny lady who’d shrewdly helped steer her in the direction she was about to take. “What shall I do?”

Lady Beatrice O’Brien, the cool aloof Spinster of Brightwood, began a transformation that startled those who were well-acquainted with the serious-minded hoyden. Her conversation suddenly turned away from the more mannish topics that had usually peppered her speech, such as the market price of wool and the current blockade from America. Now it was much lighter, some would even say, provocative banter.

“Tell us the latest news, Lord Reginald,” she said, lying languidly on a cushion beneath one of the large trees that bordered the grounds. The sun lightly dappled a path across her peach walking gown.

Young Reginald looked eagerly up at the dark-haired beauty. He had been reading the latest addition of the
London Gazette
, which had just arrived by courier. The earl had arranged for the papers to be delivered almost daily by coach. It was much to the pleasure of his English guests, who thought themselves to be almost at the end of the earth, being away from the center of the world—London.

“It’s filled, my dear lady, with the superb news of Prinney’s party for the disposed French royalty,” he said, looking down at the gossip column. “What ho! Old Creevey has outdone himself this time! Just listen, my lady . . . ,” he said, laughing with delight, enjoying the wicked bit of news he’d espied.

He stood up and dramatically took the posture of a well-received lecturer dissecting the latest
on dit
from court for the public at large. “Apparently, all of London attended. But neither the Princess of Wales, or Lady Fitzherbert were seen at the celebrations at Carlton House, or as Creevey put it, ‘the two wives stayed at home by themselves’!”

Everyone laughed. They were all
au courant
of the present situation between their corpulent regent prince and his two wives. The first was the Princess of Wales, whom the Prince Regent had tried to divorce. The second was a Catholic widow, whom he had tried to marry. Both endeavors had proved unsuccessful for the prince.

At present, their prince was involved with neither of the ladies, but taken up with Lady Hereford, now called
Madame Maintenon
. It was a title she’d earned after having married in secret, Louis the fourteenth of France at the ripe age of fifty-one.

“The Prince Regent is becoming a regular Henry the Eighth!” Beatrice commented and all laughed in appreciation at the jest.

The English court had become something less than noble since King George the third had gone both mad and blind. Only the threat of the war-crazed French Emperor across the channel brought any true feelings of loyalty the British now felt towards his successor, the Prince Regent. If nothing else, the deplorable manners of the “First Gentleman,” as the prince was called, provided entertaining gossip during the war.

The earl, who happened to be passing by with Laeticia Powers on his arm, paused to listen to the conversation. He scowled jealously in their direction, hearing the outbursts of laughter following Lady Beatrice’s pronouncement about the Prince Regent. He frowned. Why the devil wasn’t she shocking them away? How unlike her!

The gentlemen seemed lately only too pleased to be in her company. And faith, she acted, for once, as if she were actually enjoying herself. That the lively inane banter surrounding her was actually interesting, even stimulating to hear.

But why not? He had found her wit to be quick, her ideas to be sound and enlightening. Faith, ever since their ride together, he’d been thinking of her various enterprises with nothing but respect.

She had accomplished what many a land manager failed to do, and on a much smaller budget and scale than any larger estate. She’d used modern methods to produce great abundance and profit from a small estate. Indeed, he’d begun since their conversation to consider plans of developing his own estates in the same manner as Brightwood Manor’s.

“Your Grace,” said Laeticia Powers, carefully trying to divert his straying attention away from the spinster heiress, whom she had decided to be her only true competitor for his interest. Although the afternoon sun had appeared briefly that morning, the air was cool around them. It whipped the ladies’ skirts around their legs, causing some of them to pull their silk shawls more tightly around their shoulders.

Despite the breeze, Laeticia wiped her forehead dramatically. “Please, Your Grace, the sun is so hot . . . can’t we walk over to the shade of those trees over there and rest?” She indicated a secluded grove of trees in the distance, away from Lady Beatrice and her circle of admirers. She knew they would not be heard or seen by any of the others. It was a perfect spot for a secluded conversation.

He paid her no heed, instead he intently watched Lady Beatrice.

“I said, if we stay here much longer, Your Grace, I shall get spots!” the lady beside him whined loudly. He sighed, reluctantly looking down at the pink confection standing next to him.

She suddenly reminded him of a toothache he’d endured as a child. Indeed, her demanding whining was fast becoming a nuisance. Why he had found this artless creature interesting for so long was short of amazing.

As they passed his man Davis, he pointedly nodded in the direction of the lady who clung to his arm. It was the agreed upon signal that Davis would help him get rid of whatever cumbersome lady was currently pestering him. In the last few days, there had been quite a few.

Davis surveyed the situation, and approached his master.

“Excuse me, Your Grace,” he said bowing to the couple. “But I do believe, sir, that you asked me to come and fetch you if you were needed by the workmen. That is, if they had any questions, which required your attention.”

“Ah, yes.” The earl smiled. “And I take it that something is in need of my attention and direction?”

“Quite, Your Grace.”

“Well, then, it’s been a delight walking with you, Mistress Powers, but as you can see, I regretfully am being summoned elsewhere.”

He made the obligatory bow to her and started to turn on his heels.

“But, sir,” the lady protested, thrusting herself and her ample bosom in front of him, blocking his escape. Her blue eyes shone with determination at her objective. She’d seen this scenario played out before by other gentlemen she’d tried to attach herself to. This time she was determined not to be fobbed off.

“Surely you will walk me over to that grove of trees first, Your Grace?” she asked sweetly, her pretty, pale, blue eyes pleaded with him. He could not possibly refuse to escort her, thus abandoning her completely, to do so would be ungentlemanly. She looked expectantly at him to retake her arm.

The earl lifted his eyes heavenwards. The woman was incorrigible. He could either give her the cut direct, which he knew she did not deserve as he had previously encouraged her flirtatious advances, or he could give in and escort her to the willow trees. Having made his decision, he took her arm once more and continued their leisurely stroll around the lake towards the group of weeping willow trees bending picturesquely over the edge.

Amused by his master’s predicament, Davis hid his mirth behind the long lace of his livery uniform. And to think this was the man Wellington had once called “One of the most courageous soldiers in Spain!”

Lady Beatrice also watched the couple make their way to the secluded grove of trees. The green sparkle of her eyes lost a little of their light, and with a pasted smile on her face, she turned away from the view.

*    *    *

That evening, the ballroom was lit with shimmering candlelight. The lovely chandelier hanging overhead had been one of the major feats of cleaning that Beatrice was immensely proud of having completed in time. The long dripping Venetian glass ornaments were bedazzling as their cut patterns shadowed the well-polished ballroom floor below.

Candlelit sconces with raised, golden, gilded arms and hand-blown glass protectors were lit along the walls adding an elegant glow to the room. These decorative lights had been recently ordered from Dublin and replaced the more ancient wall holders once used for torches. At the far side of the room, elderly dowagers sat warming themselves by an intricately carved fireplace, one of the few original ones left in the castle.

The earl was dancing with one of the debutantes when he caught sight of her. He held his breath and looked at the fairness of her white alabaster skin, her long, lustrous black tresses woven into an elegant style, emphasized the beauty of her oval face. She stood out among the ladies both in height, beauty, and wit. He hated that she was surrounded by her usual entourage of male admirers.

He thought her an exotic flower surrounded by lesser, more common varieties. For instance, the one hanging on his arm, Lady Anne Ferguson. Although in a very conventional sense, she fit the bill quite nicely for a harmless flirtation with her pale, blonde hair, and pretty, blue eyes. Undoubtedly, many would consider her a fetching English rose, a lady of fine breeding who would make some fortunate gentleman a worthy wife. But now, as he held the lady at arm’s distance, listening to her lisping utterances of banal conversation, he could not imagine spending an entire evening in her insipid company, let alone a lifetime.

His gaze strayed back to the corner where the exotic flower sat holding court with those vying for her hand. Rumor had spread like wildfire that she had already turned down two proposals of marriage. A third was in the works for that very same evening.

The dance ended. He made the proper bow and returned his partner to her beaming chaperon. He walked over to a potted plant near the exotic flower, waiting for the next dance to be announced. Without any hesitation, he stepped directly in front of young Lord Reginald, whom he noted jealously, had already had two dances with her. Three would have bordered on scandalous, an open declaration of his intentions to ask for her hand. The earl could not possibly permit it, if not for her sake, then for his own.

He bowed to her. She smiled encouragingly at him.

“My dear Lady Beatrice,” he said, his voice husky smooth with the pleasure of seeing her smile at him.

“Captain James. Your Grace,” she whispered, correcting herself, self-consciously aware of others listening to their conversation, her heart thumping excitedly beneath her ball gown of silver damask.

“May I have the pleasure of this dance?” he asked, holding out his hand.

She nodded and held out a white-gloved hand, her dancing card dangling unheeded, from her slender wrist. Oblivious to the disappointed looks on the young gentlemen’s faces beside her, she stood and took the earl’s arm.

He led her out onto the dance floor where couples were taking their places. It was not until he placed his hand intimately upon her small waist that she realized they were about to dance the waltz, a scandalous new dance that required a gentleman putting his hand on a lady’s waist.

She had only danced the waltz once before, and that had been at a small local assembly with friends, not in a grand ballroom surrounded by the jaded members of the ton watching on. They would not hesitate to laugh derisively at any misstep.

As if he sensed her nervousness, he smiled down at her. He gave her a squeeze of reassurance, urging her onward.

“It’ll be fine, Lady Beatrice,” he murmured, his superfine black waistcoat briefly brushing up against her as they prepared to begin.

He reached for her hand in a confident manner of one not afraid to run the gauntlet of the ballroom. “Let me assure your ladyship that I’ve only trod on a few slippers this night. And if you will but smile up at me, I promise to do my very best not to step on yours.”

She did smile then and laughed, her worries of miss-stepping fleeing like flies before a swatting hand.
When I am in my dotage, she thought as the music began and the earl swung her out onto the floor, I shall remember this night as the one in which Captain James Huntington, the Earl of Drennan danced me into a dream.

They spoke not a word as they box stepped. To Beatrice, words were not adequate to describe the joy of being held in his arms. She was oblivious of the envious glances of other ladies, only aware of that magic moment when her gloved hand touched his. Indeed, a magic as old as time itself seemed to have led them to each other.

She did not know how she found herself on the balcony, alone with him, but she walked willingly into his arms as if it were the place she most longed to be in the whole entire world.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispered into her ear as they gazed down at the lake below them. Its sparkling moonlit waters glowed silver on the surface.

“Have you?” she asked, her heart pounding, as he came behind her and she felt him place his strong arms around her.

“I thought you were too busy with the other ladies to notice my absence,” she remarked, recalling vividly the afternoons he had spent in the company of Laeticia Powers. She recalled the manner in which he had abandoned her the day after their amorous interlude at the cottage, leaving her in the company of the other gentlemen, when she wanted only to be with him.

She cautiously stood back a little from him. Maybe this was a mistake. She listened to his deep, manly laugh and wistfully she thought she heard a note of jealousy as poignant as her own when he spoke.

“And you, madam, could lead an entire regiment of men comprised solely of your numerous admirers. Perhaps I ought to recommend to Wellington for recruitment your charming self? I’m certain, judging by the effect you have on most of the gentlemen here, it would prove most effectual in recruiting an entire legion of lovesick followers into joining up.”