The Earl's Mistress (45 page)
Read The Earl's Mistress Online
Authors: Liz Carlyle
Tags: #Historical Romance, #Victorian, #Fiction
“Madam, you have used your prisoner to exhaustion,” he said on a laugh.
“Indeed, no treadwheel for you tonight, I fancy,” she agreed, burying her face against the damp of his neck.
“Well, perhaps a lash or two, then?” he said, grinning. “Or another stretch of hard labor?”
They had been ensconced alone together in this lazy little corner of Sussex for some three days now, putting up at the village inn, a pretty, pleasant little place. The visit had felt at times like a second honeymoon, for absent any interruptions from the children, their nights—and even the occasional afternoon—had been torrid and romantic as they’d immersed themselves in one another.
Their days, on the other hand, had been spent being feted like prodigal children as they’d dined and danced and gossiped their way across the countryside with Isabella’s old friends and neighbors.
All were agog with Lord Tafford’s flight to the Continent some three months earlier. Faced with insurmountable debts, he had sold off what little he could and abandoned both his mother and Thornhill, leaving the staff unpaid and the house empty. Today, after Hepplewood and Isabella had dallied their way about the grounds, Hepplewood had given in to impatience and simply pried up a window.
It was worse than he had hoped. And yet better, too. The place was in utter disrepair, with much of the furniture and artwork gone. But there was not one trace of Tafford left behind.
Isabella had cried a little, then dried her tears and pressed on with her plan. Eventually, it seemed, Thornhill would have to be sold. Even entail, Hepplewood had been advised, could be broken were a man’s debts deep enough and his heirs nonexistent. The Crown or the courts or
someone
would eventually have to do something.
Certainly Hepplewood intended to do something. It was the least he could do for her, his hard-won bride. Already he’d had Jervis—along with half the City’s solicitors and all his influential relatives—exerting untold pressure on the powers-that-be.
Yes, in the end, Isabella would have her home back. He was determined. And, as Anne was ever fond of pointing out, in the end he always got what he wanted—whether he deserved it or not.
They lay in silence for a time, but despite the lethargy he could sense the questions bubbling up inside her again.
He lifted his head and kissed her hair. “What?” he murmured, sliding a finger beneath her chin.
She lifted her head to look at him, a knowing smile curving her mouth. “Anthony,
have
you married well?”
He laughed, this time at himself. “Oh, I’ve married far better than I deserve,” he said. “If you don’t believe me, ask Anne. I’ve married up, Isabella. I have married perfection.”
“Have you indeed?” She sat up, her lashes lowering again as she drew one finger down the center of his chest. “Then you will not mind so very much then? Taking on this task I have set out for you?”
Hepplewood smiled and tucked a loose curl behind Isabella’s ear. “For the merest scrap of a favor, my love, I would be your champion,” he said, “and gird my loins to do battle with those indefatigable dragons, Chancery and the Insolvent Debtor’s Court.”
“Ah,” she said, grinning. “Then you are a bold knight indeed.”
He grinned. “Actually, I’ll first send forth Jervis, my stalwart squire,” he said, “along with a quiver of freshly sharpened pencils and a battery of account books. Already he’s rattling on about something called a disentailing deed. An estate as lush as this cannot simply be left to lie fallow.”
Isabella had begun to fling away the bits and pieces of rope. “It is lovely, isn’t it?” she said a little wistfully, picking loose one of the knots. “It is not just me being sentimental?”
“It is certainly you being sentimental,” he countered, holding out his right wrist for her ministrations, “which is one of the many things I love about you. But yes, this is good land. What a pity it has been neglected.”
“I believe it won’t continue so,” said Isabella, flinging the last scrap of rope over the rail, “now that Everett has run away to the Continent in shame.”
Hepplewood grunted. “With any luck, he’ll be snared up in one of their inevitable little wars,” he muttered, “and get himself shot. Certainly he won’t darken England’s door again.”
“It was a little sad, wasn’t it, how quickly Aunt Meredith cast him to the wolves once he’d left?” Isabella murmured, rising to gather her things.
Hepplewood gave a bark of laughter. “Oh, she’s a survivor, that old cat,” he said, handing his wife her petticoat and drawers, “but she has no claim whatever to this land. By the way, I trust you’ve not returned any of her groveling missives?”
Isabella shook her head. “No, and I pray she never forces my hand,” she said. “I should hate to cut anyone in public. But for Jemma and Georgie’s sake, I should have to.”
“For your husband’s sake, you’d have to,” he muttered. “But what will you do with this old place, love? Shall we live here? Would that please you?”
She smiled softly. “No, my life is no longer here,” she said, stepping back into her crinoline. “My life is with you, Anthony. No, I think it should be Georgina’s. It should have been her home. She should have been allowed to grow up here, in her father’s house, a carefree and happy child. Instead she doesn’t even remember it.”
“Fate cheated her,” he said, his eyes going to the distant roofline, now dark against the afternoon sky. “But perhaps Thornhill can be her dowry. Shall I arrange that, my love? Would it please you?”
At that, Isabella seemed to brighten down to the tips of her toes. “Oh, above all things!” she declared, extending a hand down to him. “Sometimes, Anthony, you can be the wisest of men—no matter what Anne may say. Now come, up with you. The Misses Greenbittle await, along with their infamous elderflower cordial.”
“Damn and blast!” he said, rising. “The parson’s sisters?”
“The very same,” she said, taking his arm and steering him down the rickety steps. “We’re expected there at six sharp. And promise me, my love, that you’ll wink and flirt with them outrageously. After all, you have a notorious reputation to uphold—and they have but little excitement here in the village.”
“Wink and flirt, eh?” He winced a little. “I confess, Isabella, playing the arrant roué is wearing on me a trifle nowadays.”
“Poor Tony!” she said as she pushed through the garden gate. “Your life is so very hard. Now come along, dear. We must find where we shed your coat and cravat—or you shall look one step worse than an arrant roué.”
“Hmph!” he said, abruptly snatching her and plunging them both into the shadows of the bothy. “I say the Misses Greenbittle can damned well wait. Now where the devil is the rest of that rope?”
A lifelong Anglophile,
LIZ CARLYLE
cut her teeth reading gothic novels under the bedcovers by flashlight. She is the author of over twenty historical romances, including several New York Times bestsellers. Liz travels incessantly, ever in search of the perfect setting for her next book. Along with her genuine romance-hero husband and four very fine felines, she makes her home in North Carolina.
Please contact her at
www.lizcarlyle.com
.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE EARL’S MISTRESS.
Copyright © 2014 by Susan Woodhouse. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition SEPTEMPER 2014 ISBN: 9780062097590
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062100306
FIRST EDITION
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