The Earl's New Bride (Entangled Scandalous) (6 page)

Lady Albina cleared her throat and held up her hand, which he grasped, lifting the other miss out of the slop.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said in crisp, staccato tones, clearly not sharing in their merriment. “I am afraid I will have to withdraw my earlier offer. I am unable to lead you to the kitchens in my present state.”
He nodded. Similarly indisposed, neither was he. But should Satterfield somehow win the wager, the man was hell-bent on offering Lady Henrietta a stroll through the garden—and Simon could not allow that to happen.

Though neither could he select her as his prize. That honor would go to the simpering Miss Saxton. A delightfully fair-haired, plain-faced, non-tempting choice.

“I shall lead them,” said Lady Sarah to her sister, “while you and Henrietta lead the earl to the servant entrance on the lower west side. There, he can explain to Mother why she should not whip you both for ruining your clothes.”

“Excellent,” said Lady Albina. She peered up at Simon while pulling off a sodden glove. “Shall we go then, my lord?”

He had no choice but to agree, his cold, soiled clothing, along with a lack of knowledge of his own estate, preventing him from escaping Lady Henrietta’s disconcerting nearness.

He trudged up the path, following behind Lady Albina. He turned briefly and said, “When I win, Satterfield, please have the final weight sent to my room. I wish to see how badly you overestimated.”

“Underestimated,” Satterfield huffed. His arms were held out at awkward angles, the frog slipping as he adjusted his grip. “This beast is massive, and I shall prove it.”

“Well then,” said Lady Sarah. She gave both of her sisters one last look and stepped toward the right. “This way to the kitchens, Lord Satterfield.”

“And this way to the west entrance.” Lady Albina motioned toward the left with her muddied arm.

Simon nodded and quickened his strides. He’d be damned if he stayed in the rear. Lady Henrietta was tempting enough. Her bottom swaying tantalizingly in front of him required a restraint he simply did not have.

Now or otherwise.

Chapter Five

Henrietta sat at dinner, her lips grazing the edge of her silver spoon so as not to spill her steaming hot soup. Heaven knew what would happen should a single drop of the creamy base land anywhere but in the confines of her mouth. The world would end as she knew it. And her mother would fly deeper into her most impressive rage to date.

Irate was an understatement. Her mother had been incensed at the sight of Albina and her, encased in a thick layer of mud, their delicate, new, and quite expensive muslins beyond saving.

Had it not been for the earl’s equally sodden appearance, along with his persistent assurances an accident had been had, Henrietta and Albina would have been resigned to the lowest levels of Hades, their mother’s disappointed looks casting them into a lake of further shame.

Even if the whole ordeal was quite humorous. Honestly. The earl had been completely covered in mud, his impeccable waistcoat and crisped cravat as filthy as her muslin—and yet, even he, as the earl, had seen the humor and indulged in a laugh.

A laugh that made her face flush at its sheer memory. Deep, rich, and above all sincere, his throaty chuckles had her momentarily forgetting her humiliation—until her mother had taken to reminding her with sharp reprimands.

If Albina had not revealed their purpose for being in the marsh in the first place, their mother might have placed a switch to their bottoms.

Thankfully, she had been mollified with the assurance that it mattered not which man won the wager, Albina or Henrietta was a certain contender for a strolling partner.

Albina was confident in Lord Satterfield’s selection. And Henrietta prayed the earl would see past her uninspired conversation and give her a second chance. Their mother need not know their assurances, at least in Henrietta’s favor, were based on a one in three chance. A small percentage was larger than none at all.

But more than wanting to win for Plumburn, she wanted to win for herself. To have his soulful gaze centered solely upon her because he wanted to know more about her, while she learned more about him, his past, and the injuries he carried—both inside and out.

A foolish notion to be certain, but one she didn’t want to relinquish…at least not yet.

Lowering her spoon, she peered at the earl. Sarah had refused to reveal the winner of the wager, her mouth sealed under the promise of secrecy. Apparently the earl was to reveal the results sometime during the course of dinner, as he wished for everyone to be present when the winner was announced and the selection for the strolling companion made.

Henrietta pursed her lips. If the earl had won, he did not show it, his mask of idle indifference making her wonder if, in fact, the frog had eaten stones before the marquess had placed the slimy creature on the kitchen scales.

For if the earl appeared indifferent, the marquess bore a confidence he had not earlier held.

One he did not attempt to hide in his gaze toward her.

Henrietta lifted her napkin to her lips, her focus directed to the white starched square. She could feel the marquess’s eyes on her skin, his scrutiny intense and entirely misdirected.

Albina sat across from him. He should have little to no difficulty peering in her sister’s direction—and yet, he had his head angled slightly to the right and toward Henrietta, two seats down on her sister’s left.

Perhaps Henrietta had a crumb on her face or a drop of soup on her lip.

Or perhaps the marquess had won, and Albina was not his partner of choice.

No. Albina
had
to be his selection. Just as she had to be the earl’s.

“Amhurst, do you intend to keep the results of our afternoon wager a secret forever?” the marquess asked.

Henrietta lifted her gaze to find the marquess’s eyes still peering in her direction, their gray depths piercing hers.

“I do not. I was simply waiting—”

“For the hogs to come in?”

“For a suitable time,” the earl ground. She glanced toward the head of the table to see the earl dabbing at his mouth, his face pinched with agitation. “And seeing as how you have brought everyone’s attention to the fact, now it seems as suitable a moment as any other.”

“Then, please, announce your victory.”

Henrietta’s eyes widened. She stared between the two men, each of them battling an emotion: one of obvious irritation, with flaring nostrils and a thinned mouth; the other amusement, with a wide smile splayed across his lips.

“The frog, it seems, was one stone and not the two Satterfield had predicted.”

He’d won. The earl had won. The table applauded, politely, Miss Saxton’s hands blurring together in their enthusiasm, her own heart likely pounding wildly at the idea the earl may claim her as his partner.

“I have been rather fond of walking as of late. Especially in the gardens,” he continued. Henrietta turned her head toward the earl, her gaze falling on his full lips. Tingles of excitement raced through her. This had to be the moment. When he announced his walking partner of choice. Her nerves tightened with anticipation as she reached for her glass of wine.

“Though,” he added. “I have found the flora to be much more enjoyable with another at my side.”

“As do I,” said Lord Satterfield. He raised his glass toward the earl and nodded. “There is nothing quite as agreeable as excellent conversation whilst enjoying the heavy perfume of a full summer garden.”
The muscles in the earl’s jaw twitched.

“I do so love roses,” said Miss Saxton. Her lashes fluttered as she stared up at the earl.

Henrietta bit her lip. She could not sit idle while Miss Saxton once again claimed the earl’s attention. But neither could she appear the fool twice in an afternoon.

Fortunately, neither a frog nor mud were present in the dining room.

“Roses are nice.” Henrietta swallowed, her stomach flopping. Her sentence had come out free of any stutter. But the letter “I” was her Achilles’ heel, and she needed to pronounce it for her continued sentiment.

Her gaze shot to the paintings of idyllic country scenes her father had commissioned to hang on the room’s grand walls. And to the vases settled atop the table, filled with flowers he had specifically selected for Plumburn’s gardens as a gift to both his wife and his daughter.

Her father’s memory was strong in this room—his favorite. He always had enjoyed a good meal.

Letting out a slow breath, she set down her glass and wrapped her fingers around her napkin. She could do this. She could utter the blasted word and express her thoughts as clearly as any other.

Her determination had nothing to do with the stab of jealousy thrust into her side at the sight of Miss Saxton sitting near the earl, with her wheat-colored ringlets arranged in a pretty frame around her face, looking very much the part of a nobleman’s wife.

With her pulse racing and her heart pounding, Henrietta drew strength from the room and the man, whose presence could still be felt within its walls, and said, “But I prefer the heady scents of more useful plants, like rosemary or lavender.”
Sarah scowled. Albina lifted a brow.

And Henrietta smiled. She had done it—with her father’s help, of course. She thrust her shoulders back, unclenched her fingers from the crumpled napkin, and tried hard not to think about her tightly wound nerves. And how she had a sudden urge to cast up her dinner…

“I fear my knowledge is woefully lacking on those two species of flora.” Lord Satterfield’s gray eyes peered over the top of his glass. “My education, it seems, is not quite up to snuff and in need of some refreshing.”

“Plumburn’s library is an excellent place to start,” said the earl, his voice hard. “You should find an excellent assortment of books on the topic.”

“Yes, but I am not one for reading, as you well know. Lectures given by masters of great intellect, with a passion for their area of study, are far more interesting and preferable than the dry brittle pages of a book.”

“Oh, but there is nothing quite like reading,” said Henrietta. “The excitement one feels at learning a new piece of knowledge or experiencing a bit of fantasy outside of their day is not something one can be told.”

The marquess twirled his wine glass between his fingers, his mouth curling into a coy smile. “True enough, Lady Henrietta. I find, however, that some things are better taught through more physical means.”

“A valid point,” said the earl, setting his glass down with a thud. “And one I wish to test. Lady Henrietta, I would be most flattered if you would join me on a walk tomorrow morning.” He shot her an agitated glare, as though daring her to reject him.

“Of course,” she uttered. Avoiding his piercing eyes, she lowered her gaze to the base of the silver candlestick to the right of her plate and wondered whether she had won the wager…or lost it entirely.

Chapter Six

Goaded.

After enduring the drawn out, required evening formalities of the separation of the sexes, and the rejoining of them at tea afterward, Simon stalked into his room and yanked on the cravat strangling him at his throat. He spat a curse. Then two, as he wrestled with the linen, the knot tightening instead of loosening, the efforts of his valet furthering enraging him.

Bloody hell.

He had everything planned, down to the last insignificant detail. He would select the affable, if not intriguing, Miss Saxton as his walking partner and prepare himself for his inevitable declaration.

But Satterfield, the fiend, had steered him off course, mucking up his plans and shoving them all to hell.

He had won the bloody wager. By a mere ounce, but he had still won, the damn frog coming in under the two stone mark and proclaiming Simon’s victory.
He
was the man owed the privilege of selecting his walking companion.

But he had been goaded. Forced into selecting the one woman who tempted him above all others.

He hooked a finger into the knot, working its hold loose. The fire blazing in the hearth added to the heat of his fury, the flickering light cast by the flames enough for him to see the trembling of his hands.

Hands he wished to wrap around Satterfield’s scrawny little neck.

Some things are better taught through active and more physical means,
he’d said. Physical, active instruction.

Christ.

He could not allow Lady Henrietta to walk alone with Satterfield, no matter how many chaperones might trail behind them. The man was awful, his intentions barely concealed under a cover of innocent ignorance.

Simon would be willing to make another wager, one betting Satterfield knew everything about rosemary, lavender, and how to unlace a corset in under three minutes.

Not that Lady Henrietta would allow such behavior. She appeared immune to Satterfield’s advances, or rather embarrassed by them, her peaked skin and averted gazes throughout dinner, and at the tea afterward, evidence of her discomfort.

But then, the reserved woman exhibited the same behavior in his presence, no doubt unsure of what to say with a maimed, tainted man in her midst.

Simon reached behind his head, untying the strings digging into his skin, and tossed the blasted patch to the side. However heated he might be, the air was still cool on the tender flesh of his injury, even if the patch’s absence left him exposed.

Though no one would ever see his disfigurement. Not even a looking glass graced his rooms, his reflection an unwelcome reminder of his past folly.

And broken heart.

He rubbed his throbbing temples, the beginnings of another raging headache promising a sleepless night.

Unless…

What had Lady Henrietta called it? Fiver too? Fifing Mew? Simon closed his eyes, forcing himself to take deep, calming breaths.

Feverfew
.

He snatched the patch off the floor and tied it loosely behind his head. Everyone should be abed. He had full access to the gardens and its herbal remedies. He simply had to remember which plant she had pointed to—in the dark. When his head had still been hurting and his mind not entirely focused on the plants, but on the woman assisting him.

He lit a candle and slipped out of his room, making his way toward the lower levels and the servant’s exit Lady Albina had shown him hours earlier. Clearing the last set of stairs, Simon lifted the latch to the door and breathed in the cool, salty evening air.

With its lush greenery and coastal setting, he understood and appreciated the allure of Plumburn. Its thick, ivy-covered stone walls lent the old manor a majestic air. Any man would be proud to own such a jewel—including his brother, Philip.

Which was precisely why Simon needed to stop dallying and select a wife forthwith.

He followed the path into the garden and held the flickering flame near the plants in the area Lady Henrietta had occupied the night prior.

Or at least, he thought she had occupied. Everything appeared and even smelled the same—which was precisely why he could not discern one plant from the next. Pain sliced up his scalp, the ache roaring into the next level of misery. It seemed every plant bore the white petals he remembered, all of them blurring together in his anguish.

“The plant on your left. Feverfew.”

He started at the voice, his heart leaping into his throat. Materializing as though from the shadows, Lady Henrietta brushed past him and dipped forward, her bare hands plucking two leaves off the plant.

What was she doing here? Now? In what appeared to be the same deliciously tempting gown she had worn at dinner?

She should be abed. Asleep. And not causing the ache in his head to increase. Unless…he cast her a wary glance.

Unless she knew he would venture into the gardens. Alone.

Her familiarity with herbs no doubt afforded her an advantage. One, were she anything like Anne or his father’s mistress, she would utilize to her fullest advantage.

Even if that meant lying in wait for a debilitated earl to seek out relief.

He must have hesitated a tad too long for she held up the leaves and let out an agitated sigh. “I should not have to convince you of their medicinal capabilities. Though I-I-I should warn you. These are only a temporary correction. The true relief will come in the identification of the source behind your aches.”

He almost laughed. He knew damn well what contributed to his continual discomfort, and that could not be fixed. No cure existed for the wounds of betrayal and heartache. At least none he was willing to try.

Regardless, he took the two proffered leaves and chewed them, swallowing their bitterness. He reveled in the immediate deliverance, as the roar dulled into a whimper.

She slipped by him, lowering herself to the spot where she had previously stood, and retrieved a tea cup. “It is no longer steaming, but the tea is the same blend from the night prior. It should allow you to rest. But again, the relief is only temporary. It will not heal the wound.”

“And nothing will,” he said assuredly. “But I shall take your remedy all the same and thank you for your…foresight.” He set his candle down on the path, his fingers touching hers as he lifted the cup from her hands.

A jolt shot up his arm, tiny pricks of awareness lifting the hairs on the back of his neck.

Lady Henrietta took a step back, as though she, too, had felt whatever had sparked between them. Clasping her elbows with her hands, she whispered, “One needn’t be gifted with prophecy to discern your discomfort and guess where you might go to seek amelioration.”

“Oh?” Had his pain been so easily detectable in the course of their evening obligations? He thought he had hidden it rather well. Hell, he had even laughed at one of Satterfield’s jokes.

“You appeared somewhat distraught at dinner, and afterwards at tea, you…you continually touched your finger to your temple.”

His eyes narrowed. She was far shrewder than he originally devised. “And those actions denoted I might require your assistance?”

Her shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “To those who can discern them, yes, I suppose they do.”

“You must find me terribly predictable, Lady Henrietta.”

Her eyes widened. “Not at all. You had me completely surprised at dinner.”

“Did I?” He lifted his brows, despite the pain still lingering in his head. “You were the one who contradicted the marquess, correctly verifying the weight of the frog.”

“I did,” she said slowly. “Though I-I-I did not believe you would select me as your companion of choice.”

He choked on the warm, honey sweetened tea.

“Too sweet?” she asked.

“No.” He gulped down the remainder of the tea and held the cup at his waist. Had she been privy to his earlier decision? Or had he been so obvious in his selection of Miss Saxton, that she had cause to question his change of mind?

Was that why Satterfield had been so relentless in his pursuit of Lady Henrietta? He thought Simon indifferent to her charms?

Of course Simon was indifferent. With her silky black hair and extraordinary beauty, she was not an option for his wife.

And he was a goddamn, lying idiot. He did not need both eyes to appreciate the delicate features of Lady Henrietta’s heart-shaped face. Or the low cut of her gown revealing the tops of two full breasts pressing against the lace-trim.

And neither did Satterfield.

“I fear I am far more predictable than you believe, my lady. I am only too honored to take the eldest daughter of my predecessor on a stroll about the grounds. Who else to better guide me about the estate?”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Her gaze lowered to the stone path. “I-I-I shall see you tomorrow.”

…

Henrietta started up the darkened path, her ivory-colored slippers clicking over the moss-covered stones.

Lord, did she honestly believe he had selected her based on her intelligence? Or a desire to learn something from a woman? One who had assisted him on more than one occasion, who had clearly shown her competence in such areas?

She was a naïve fool.

He had acted out of kindness, nothing more. She was the eldest daughter of his predecessor. An obligation. Someone familiar with the property and best able to guide him around the estate now in his possession.

As if he would seriously consider proposing to a stuttering, learned girl who clearly did not know her place.

Simple men want simple women, Sarah had warned her. Only the earl wasn’t simple. He was the farthest thing from it, an enigma from beginning to end, continually disproving the accusations spouted from the pages of London’s most infamous rags. The
Black Earl
was long thought to be a heartless cad, a cruel, ill-tempered man—and the very opposite of the one she had left standing alone in the garden.

Was it possible she had misjudged him?

Or worse, had she misjudged her intentions toward him? Did she not intend to betray him for Plumburn and its possessions?

Her head throbbed, the culmination of a long evening spent listening to whispered speculations over the earl’s past, along with her mother’s incessant reminders in etiquette. Henrietta wanted nothing more than to drink one of her blends and slip into bed.

She took another step and sighed. In her humiliation, she had forgotten the blasted tea cup. Her favorite cup. The one her father had so often enjoyed using. She had to retrieve it. She spun around and hurried back down the path to where the earl still stood, his left hand pressed to his left temple.

“Lady Henrietta?”

Surprise and pain were evident on his weary face. She did not need the candle to see his anguish. He needed rest. Some assistance. And perhaps another cup of tea.

Taking a deep breath, she bolstered what remained of her courage and asked in her most confident voice, “Our stroll. Why wait until tomorrow? Why not do it now, my lord? You can walk me to the kitchens on the other side of the garden, where we can retrieve another cup for your ache, and kill two birds with one stone.”

“You wish to walk with me? Alone? At night?” he asked dubiously.

His concern was valid. She was alone. Without a chaperone. With the
Black Earl
.

She should be afraid—or at the very least, nervous, and cautious.

But the only emotion thrumming through her veins was excitement at the sudden opportunity offered—time alone with the earl, without Miss Saxton and her perfect elocution, or Lord Satterfield staring at her with disturbing interest. This was an opportunity to compare the earl’s character against the gossip—and question why her blood raced at the mere mention of his name. Henrietta took the cup from his hand, her cool fingers brushing against his warm ones, the accidental and simple touch sending a tingle up her palm and into her arm. “I-I-I would like to walk with you. That is…if you would have me.”

He blinked, seeming astonished. “Of course. I would be honored. My only concern is your lack of chaperone.”

“My sisters know where I-I-I am and with whom I-I-I had intended to meet.”

“Do they?” He stepped toward her, sending her heart into a near fit of palpitation. “And they have no compunction sending their sister into the dark gardens with the
Black Earl
?”

She shook her head. “No. Especially when he is ill.”

“I am not ill.” He winced, and Henrietta rolled her eyes.

“And I-I-I am not convinced. The kitchen is but a short stroll away. We can admire the quiet of the garden while denying blatant truths, or we can seek the relief waiting in the kitchens, whilst enjoying each other’s company. Your choice.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, and he gave a small bow. “The kitchens await.”

Warmth spread through her. She turned away, lest he see her rebellious lips and the smile that threatened to stretch them thin.

He came beside her, smelling of sage and leather. She had sage in the garden and admittedly, not far from where they stood, but this scent was far stronger than any stirred by an errant breeze.

Perhaps his soap was infused with the herb. She leaned toward him in as subtle fashion as she could contrive. Which, of course, was not subtle at all.

She stumbled to the side…and into the earl’s strong arms.

God in heaven.

Her heart leaped at his touch, at the warm enclosure provided by his limbs. Her pulse thrummed, her blood roaring in her ears as she sought to right herself and reclaim a small measure of her dignity.