Enticing the Earl (15 page)

Or perhaps she had only imagined that he had let her in, in the first place? The pain that suffused her made it hard to chew and swallow the exquisite dishes that kept coming up from the kitchen. She'd rather have bread and butter with a smiling Mr. Smith sitting beside her, at ease and friendly, than the elegant earl at the head of the table, his manner cool and his eyes somehow reserved.

She had been so happy to have been able to come away from the noisy, crowded house party back at his estate in Lincolnshire. She'd delighted in being alone together, private in this lovely spot. Now she felt that she might as well be marooned at the top of the world.

How could she bear being pushed away from him like this?

The meal seemed to stretch on for endless hours, but at last the final course had been served, she had played with a few pieces of fruit on her plate, and the earl glanced at her.

“Are you unhappy with your meal, Mrs. Smith? Is there something else you would like, instead? I can send word to the kitchen.”

“No, no, of course not,” she hastened to say. “Your cook is superb, and the dinner was delicious, all of it. I am simply replete.”

He lifted his brows. “Very well. Shall we withdraw?”

She nodded. “Yes, if you please.”

He stood, and as the servants had been dismissed from the dining room, came himself to pull back her chair. Conscious of his closeness, she allowed him to stand behind her, and wished she could pull him to her here and now. But she was afraid a footman might remain at the doorway, and they could not be caught in an embrace by the household staff!

He offered his arm and they returned to the sitting room. She could think of little to chat about. After offering her the instrument—she shook her head, her skill at the keyboard was limited—he sat down at the pianoforte and played a short interlude while she listened, admiring his proficiency. Then, when the clock struck ten, he looked at her, his expression still closed.

“I'm sure you are weary after our journeying today and would like to retire. Good-night, Mrs. Smith.”

He bowed over her hand, and he was so near, and yet so far, encased in a veritable shield of icy correctness that she did not dare try to penetrate, that all Lauryn felt she could do was curtsy and take her leave.

But she climbed the stairs feeling heavy of heart. So there would be no lovemaking tonight? She felt a sense of abandonment, yet knew that she was being nonsensical. It had been a long day, with a lot of riding. Perhaps he was tired, too. And he had much on his mind.

Yet—was he tiring of her already?

In her room, she pulled the bell rope for a maid, and when the servant appeared with warm water, accepted her help in getting out of her clothes. After preparing for bed, Lauryn turned to climb into the big bed, and was conscious of a sense of anticlimax.

The bed seemed very empty, and she felt very alone.

She missed him.

She slept very ill that night and woke early, conscious of a sense of aloneness that she was only now aware of having escaped, during the last days with the earl.

Did he think of her? Had he missed her company? What would it be like to spend the whole night with him, to wake and find him sleeping beside her, or looking across at her with his first waking moment?

Sighing, she knew she should not tease herself with what she could not have. A few stolen moments of passion—she was lucky enough to have that pleasure with a wealthy, important, and highborn man. And if he were tiring of her company already—well, she had been fortunate in the few nights of pleasure they had shared. She would have to go cautiously forward and see what transpired—it was all she could do.

She sat up and almost groaned, finding that her day in the saddle, after months of not riding, had left its mark. She was decidedly sore. She got out of bed cautiously and prepared to dress.

When Marcus came down to breakfast, he looked at once
to see if Mrs. Smith had yet risen, and when he saw that she was up apace, he wondered if that was a good sign or ill. Did she sleep well because she had not been bothered by his advances, had not had to pretend to return his passion? But surely, gods, she had not been pretending—he would have bet his right hand that those nights of shared passion had been genuine!

Or could it be that she had waked early because she had not slept well, that she had missed his touch—God knew he had ached for hers! He looked at her closely, but she smiled as serenely as ever and bade him a good morning. He could see no sign of anything being amiss, dammit all. He answered her greeting, trying not to growl, and pushed back his plate too quickly.

“I'm going back today to find the church and the graveyard where the captain of the
Brave Lassie
is buried,” he told her. “You may come if you like, or you may wish to stay here.”

“What do you expect to find?” she asked.

A reasonable question, and he wished he had a better answer.

“I have no idea,” he told her honestly. “It is simply the last stone to turn, and I feel I should make the effort.”

She nodded. “Then I will come along, my lord. For luck.” She gave him a small smile. He realized that she was once again clad in the riding habit, and she had obviously expected him to be once more at his search, whether it was reasonable or not.

She seemed to know him almost too well, already!

A footman appeared. “The horses await you, my lord.”

Nodding, Marcus offered his arm to his companion, and she accepted it. They walked through the front doors and he helped her up and into the saddle. She seemed a bit stiffer settling into the saddle than yesterday, but he was thinking about how he should approach the churchman when they arrived at the parish church, and paid little heed.

He mounted his own horse quickly, and then turned him toward the coast once more. Lauryn nudged her mount with her knee, and they set off.

Today was warmer than yesterday, but they did not have to ride all the way into town, and the breeze from the sea cooled her cheeks and blew stray tendrils of hair back from her face. It was a good thing that her mount had an easy gait, Lauryn thought, as she was indeed sore from her hours in the saddle yesterday.

When they turned off from the main thoroughfare and followed a side road to the village, the earl found the small parish church that had been described to him. Lauryn drew up her mare behind his gelding as he paused and looked about him. The church was not over large, but it was a handsome building, in the Tudor style of wood and plaster but well maintained, and behind it was a graveyard also of some antiquity. Was this where the shipwrecked sailors' scant remains had been laid to rest?

The earl dismounted and helped Lauryn down, also, then tied the horses' reins to a convenient tree. They strolled into the church, but found it untenanted. The interior was handsome if a bit austere. The altar was bare except for a small arrangement of flowers, and a brass cross hung above it.

The windows to each side were of stained glass and showed biblical scenes. Lauryn stood at the back of the church and admired the tall windows and the scenes they depicted. She felt like an interloper. If ever there were a spot to be aware of one's sins…

She was roused from her more serious thoughts by the earl's return. He was frowning. “I can find no one,” he told her. “Let us see if there is a vicarage nearby.”

Nodding, she followed him outside the church building, where they saw a small house a short distance behind.

“Perhaps that is it,” she noted, and the earl nodded.

“We shall see,” he agreed.

They returned to their horses and untied them. But before they remounted, the earl hesitated. Now the graveyard was closer than the house. “Let us walk through the cemetery at least, on our way to the rectory,” he suggested.

Aware of the same intense curiosity, Lauryn made no demur. Leading their horses—it felt disrespectful to ride through the graveyard—they picked their way carefully through the old, sometimes leaning, headstones, looking for graves that appeared more recent. The marble and granite stones were old, many touched with moss or discolored by years of rain and sun and wind. Some leaned like drunken sailors on long-delayed shore leave.

But they all told their own tales, and the faint indentations spelled out names of the inhabitants buried beneath. Lauryn walked along the grave sites and looked for the men who had served aboard the
Brave Lassie
. After several rows of villagers, she spotted some graves where the dirt atop looked fresher.

“Here!” Lauryn called, feeling a sudden thrill run down her spine. She felt as if a cold finger had touched her. “I think these might be the ones.” She bent over to see the names, which meant nothing to her, but the dates sounded right. She waited for the earl to catch up with her, and he, too, leaned to make out the inscriptions.

“Yes, you're right,” he said slowly. “The bodies, or what was left of them, are indeed safely buried. Safe for someone, at least. There are not enough here to account for the entire crew, but I suppose it's understandable that not all of the crew might have been recovered. I wish…” But he did not finish the sentence.

“Let us see if we can find someone who did see the remains before they were put away from view.”

They walked on to the rectory and knocked on the front door. A maid in a white apron answered their knock, but she told them that the vicar had been called away to give comfort to a farmer's wife confined to a sick bed in a farmhouse some distance away.

“I don't rightly know when 'e'll be back, sir,” the servant said. “Can I take a message for ye?”

Sutton looked frustrated. “What I need to speak to the good vicar about is best said face-to-face, I'm afraid,” he said. “I'll leave my card.” He handed over a calling card, which impressed the servant so much that she regarded them both with widened eyes.

“May–may I offer you refreshment, me lord?” she stuttered. “I'm sure the vicar would wish it, if ye'd like to come in.”

Lauryn thought the earl was about to refuse, but he glanced at her and seemed to change his mind. “We have had a long ride. Perhaps some tea would not be amiss.”

She nodded, conscious of a dry throat, and the need to excuse herself.

So they went inside the rectory after all and were shown into a neat sitting room. Lauryn took care of her business, then washed the dust of the ride off her face and hands and felt much refreshed.

“Thank you,” she told the maidservant, a fresh-faced girl who looked barely in her teens.

“Oh, no, me lady,” the servant said, beaming. “It's lovely to 'ave such noble visitors. Our little church don't usually 'ave such exalted guests.”

Lauryn thought of explaining that only the earl was the aristocrat here, but her heart sank at having to spell out her own rather doubtful particulars, so she simply didn't speak of it. She rejoined the earl in the sitting room, where the servant soon brought in a tea tray for them, with not only tea but sandwiches and half a cake and scones and jam.

“This looks lovely,” she told the girl, who beamed once more. “We are indebted to the victor for his hospitality. You have represented him very well.”

“Thank'ee, my lady.” The little maid looked very pleased as she curtsied before leaving the room.

Lauryn blushed and cast a glance at the earl, but he smiled, so he did not seem to castigate her for the servant's mistaken assumption. He motioned to her to pour, and they sampled the tray's bounty.

“Do you think the vicar will have seen the bodies before they were buried?” Lauryn asked him, curious as to why Sutton was so determined to follow through with this part of his investigation.

“I don't know. I just wish to find out if that part of the gossip has any truth to it or not, if I can,” the earl told her, grimacing as he ate a very fine scone.

She spread clotted cream on her own pastry, took a bite, and enjoyed every morsel, so she decided it must be his thoughts that worried him, not the taste of the food. They took their time with the tea and foodstuffs, but still the vicar did not return, and it seemed awkward to linger at the vicarage much longer.

Lauryn decided that she would try to see if she could get more information out of the young servant. On the pretext of getting a small tea stain out of her glove, she went back to the kitchen with the young girl and while the servant tried rinsing the riding glove with cold water, she spoke to her about their errand.

“The earl wished to pay his respects to the men who died aboard the sunken ship. They were in his employ, you see,” she said, as if making conversation.

The maid was all agog. “Ooo, that's very kind of 'im, to be sure, me lady,” she said, dabbing carefully at the glove. “I think this will lighten the spot.”

“Good work,” Lauryn said. “I should not have had it in my lap while I was drinking my tea.” Since she had deliberately spotted the glove—which like the riding habit itself was a loan from the earl—to have any excuse for this conversation, she was just as glad to see the spot lighten.