When a Girl Loves an Earl (Rescued from Ruin Book 5) (8 page)

Clever, bloody-minded, conniving, vexing chit.

Penelope’s hand fell away from his arm.

He leaned into her with his most intimidating posture. “Stay.”

She might have squeaked. He did not care. He needed to locate Viola, and he bloody well could not see anything beyond the first eight feet or so. Slowly, he approached the base of the tree, watching for any signs of a raven-haired sprite. He climbed onto the stone wall, braced one palm against the rough bark, stretched his other arm high, and plucked the scrap of white silk from its verdant prison. Rubbing the thing absently between his finger and thumb, he shook his head.

She really was the most extraordinary creature.

Shoving away from the tree, he dropped down onto the flagstones and took a single step back before facing Penelope. The girl was rubbing her arms and tightening her shawl about her shoulders.

“Where is she?” he called.

Eyes wide, Penelope slowly raised her hand to point directly behind him.

“Looking for me, Lord Tannenbrook?”

He closed his eyes briefly before turning to face her.

She stood on the low wall, putting her eyes nearly level with his.

The impact knocked the breath from him, even in the low light.

“I see you retrieved my glove. Thank you ever so kindly.” Her grin lit him like a torch. “My valiant champion.”

Without ceremony, he dropped the scrap of silk into her outstretched palm. “What is this about, Miss Darling? I weary of your games.”

“I wished to speak with you. Alone.” Graceful as a dancer, she stretched out an arm and donned her glove, the silk soughing against skin, tiny fingers fluttering to fit.

The sight of that little wriggle—like a butterfly settling upon a stamen—made his flesh heat and harden. Made him want to insist she remove the glove again. Slowly.

He swallowed. It did not help.

“The fact that you regard my efforts to improve our acquaintance as ‘games’ demonstrates the need for this conversation.” She secured the buttons at her wrist with casual flicks, as though she did not suspect how deeply aroused he already was. “I know you think me a flirtatious ninny.”

He frowned. “I did not say that.”

She half-grinned, but her eyes failed to tilt at the corners. Further, her nose did not give that winsome wrinkle. “But you think it,” she countered softly.

Remaining silent seemed the only reasonable course, considering he did not know how to respond.

“You must understand the earnestness of my regard, my lord.”

“Tannenbrook,” he corrected.

“Lord Tannenbrook. Your given name is James, is it not?”

“Aye.”

She inched forward until her lips were a mere breath away from his.

Wait. It had not been she who moved. He glanced down at his own muckle feet. Glowered deeper. Swallowed again. Bloody hell.

“I wish to marry you, James.”

The sweet whisper brought his head up faster than a cricket bat.

“I have never felt this way. And I wish to be your wife.” Small, white teeth tugged at a plump lower lip, half of the most perfect pair he had ever seen. “This is not a game to me.”

Someone was grunting. Probably him.

He spanned her waist with his hands.

She squeaked and clutched his chest—or, rather, his cravat.

He lifted her from the wall. Turned. And lowered her feet to the flagstones. It was like lifting a bird, light and delicate and soft.

Except that her fingers were still tangled in the folds of his cravat, and she yanked his face closer to hers upon her descent.

“Miss Darling …”

“Viola,” she corrected. Her scent drifted to his nose—wine and strawberries and the peonies blooming in the churchyard at Shankwood. Sweet on the surface, dark and lush beneath.

Tightening his jaw, he wondered if Mrs. Pennywhistle kept buckets of frigid water nearby. A man could hope, he supposed. “Miss Darling, I mean you no slight.”

“Of course not. You are the finest of men.”

“Marriage is out of the question.”

“Nonsense. After we’ve become better acquainted, you will feel it, too.”

“Feel what?”

“Our affinity.”

He gently pried her fingers loose from his cravat and attempted to restore his valet’s work. “I have determined never to marry. Anybody. Your efforts, as you describe them, are wholly in vain.”

She tilted her head, gazing up at him, her gloved hands shooing his away before briskly straightening the mangled folds. “Why?”

“Because you cannot possibly succeed in your aim and may do a good deal of damage to your reputation before you realize I speak true.”

“No,” she said, patting the center of his chest. “Why have you determined never to marry?”

His ribs tightened around his lungs. His heart twisted and ached. “I made the decision long ago. Reasons are not important. You must stop this pursuit.”

“So, it is not that you despise me or that you think me a foolish fribble.”

“No.”

“And it is not because you find me hideous to look upon.”

His eyes roamed her face—the whisper of a nose, the twilight eyes tilted just so. And her lips. Mustn’t forget those. “No.”

Those lips split upon a brilliant, breathtaking smile. Twilight glimmered with a thousand stars. A tiny nose wrinkled winsomely. “Then, we are in agreement.”

He would respond as soon as he could breathe. It took a moment. Perhaps two. “How so?”

“You will not marry
anybody
. You will marry me. And we shall be gloriously happy.”

He blinked. “Madness. Pure madness.”

“Is it?” Her sweet tulip of a chin tilted the way it often did when she was challenging him. She rose up on her toes and slid her hands down the sides of his arms. Trailed her fingers past his elbows and settled her arms in the cradle of his. “Then why are you holding me so, James?”

His breath shuddered. He shook his head.

And squeezed her waist with his hands.

His hands.

Her waist.

He’d been stroking the lush curve of her waist, spanning it and circling with his fingers, rubbing and learning her shape beneath layered indigo silk for the better part of five minutes. As though his hands knew something he didn’t. Wanted her too much to obey his head.

Again, he swallowed, feeling burned by her. Disoriented. He dropped his hands. Hers fell away, too.

“You must stop this, Viola,” he rasped desperately, staggering backward, his boots ringing hollow on the flagstones. “I will never marry you. Accept it, for it is the truth. Turn your affections to another.” The words tasted sour in his mouth. Foul.

Eyes now accustomed to the dark, he retreated toward the mews gate at the rear of the garden. “Return to the drawing room,” he called as he at last found the strength to turn away from her. “Consent to wed any of the dozens of other gentlemen who pen sonnets in your name. And do not ever attempt such a foolish trap again. We men are a disgraceful lot.”

Just before the iron gate closed with a loud clang behind him, he heard her voice carry on a suddenly whistling wind. The words weren’t clear, but he would swear she vowed, “Precisely why I shall have you and you alone, James Kilbrenner. No other man will ever do.”

*~*~*

CHAPTER FIVE

“When one is cleverer than everyone else, one is obliged to serve one’s fellow man. It is hardly my fault if others perceive my assistance as ‘interfering’ or ‘gossip.’ I cannot control everything, after all.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her son, Charles, in response to his complaint about pernicious rumors of an impending proposal to a certain widow.

Being invited to Lady Wallingham’s first luncheon of the season was either a high honor or a signal of disapproval. Viola had not yet determined which applied to her, even after four biscuits and two cups of tea.

“She does favor that one,” murmured Charlotte, nodding toward the painting above the fireplace, a portrait of a tiny woman with a flat mouth, triangular nose, and arched, disapproving brows. It was one of at least ten portraits of Lady Wallingham’s female ancestors lining the canary walls of the dowager’s fussy, feminine parlor.

Viola nodded. “The wig disguises her hair color, but even if it did not, we would only be guessing that it is her. I doubt her ladyship was
born
with white hair.”

Chuckling lightly, Charlotte sighed and sipped her tea.

Viola examined the signs of strain around her friend’s mouth, the paleness of her skin, which made the freckles more prominent. “Have you explained to your father why you do not wish to marry him?”

Charlotte’s eyes closed briefly, her lips tightening. “Yes. He is adamant that I marry Rutherford. I have tried everything.”

The new Marquess of Rutherford—previously known as Lord Chatham—was, as Charlotte often described him, a walking scandal. Tall and lean, sardonic and sensual, to Viola’s eye, he’d appeared both dissipated and dangerous, like a wolf that had been starved then set loose upon the female population. He was widely regarded as a disgrace by the beau monde, barred from all but the most salacious ton gatherings. Consequently, she’d glimpsed him only twice, once coming out of a shop on Bond Street and again four days ago, walking away from the Grosvenor Square house he’d been forced to sell to pay his father’s debts.

This was the man Charlotte’s father wished her to marry in less than a week.

Viola set her tea on a low, marble-topped table and laid a hand gently on Charlotte’s arm. “Come stay with me, dearest, I beg you. In my bedchamber, there is a chaise. I shall sleep there, and you may take the bed. I will bring you trays for your meals and make certain your father never finds you. Penelope will help, too. She was surprisingly effective at the Pennywhistle dinner.”

Charlotte patted her hand, giving it a squeeze. “Thank you, Vi. But I have known this day might come eventually. My father’s fondest wish is for me to marry a title, and he means to have his way. One solace is that he has set a time limit—one year. Afterward, I will be free to leave for America.”

Viola’s eyes widened. “A year of marriage. With Benedict Chatham?”

Swallowing visibly, Charlotte gave her a wobbly grin. “Do not worry about me. All will be well, I am certain.”

Her heart squeezed painfully. Searching her mind for a bit of reassurance, Viola smiled brightly. “Well, it is not
entirely
wretched. He is astonishingly attractive for one so dissipated. Even with the walking stick. And him being so lean and pale.”

Charlotte sipped her tea and elected not to reply.

Now that Viola had found her Tannenbrook, the thought of marrying a man who did not inspire nightly visions of broad shoulders, heavily muscled thighs, and gargantuan hands made her stomach churn. She’d dreamed of him only last night, his eyes burning into hers, his lips pressed to hers, his hand cradling hers as they moved into a graceful dance.

She sighed.
Silly. Tannenbrook does not dance.
Still, the prospect of being forced to marry someone—
anyone
—other than the man who made her shiver and heat inside her skin was untenable.
Poor Charlotte. Poor, poor Charlotte.

Lady Wallingham’s sonorous trumpet of a voice carried across the room. “Miss Viola Darling!”

Viola’s spine snapped straighter, and her gaze flew to the birdlike dowager, seated in a gold-trimmed, claret-striped chair to the right of the fireplace. “Yes, my lady?”

“What is this I hear about your flirtation with Lord Tannenbrook?”

Six sets of eyes turned upon her, including those of Lady Gattingford, a tall, stoop-shouldered matron with a tendency to exaggerate; Lady Reedham, a shorter woman with large teeth and an air of superiority; Aunt Marian, who was surprisingly alert after four cups of tea; Penelope, who wore an unfortunate shade of brown Viola had vehemently opposed; Charlotte; and, of course, Lady Wallingham.

“Flirtation, my lady?”

“Now, now. Do not be coy. Explain your fascination. Is it the jaw? Many young ladies favor a square jaw, and his is as solid as castle stone.”

Viola looked about the room, hoping one of the other ladies might rescue her. Alas, it was not to be. Clearing her throat delicately, she replied, “Lord Tannenbrook is a man of honor and gallantry.”

“Rubbish. It is the jaw.” The woman’s sharp green eyes narrowed upon her. “I assume you intend this Tannenbrook Hunt of yours to conclude in marriage rather than scandal.”

Viola’s eyes flared wide, then immediately shifted to narrow upon her cousin, who reddened and lowered her gaze. The silly goose could not keep a secret, after all. Raising her chin, Viola answered, “Should Lord Tannenbrook offer marriage, I shall happily accept. He is the finest of men.”

Lady Wallingham’s thin lips curled and one white brow arched. “So I understand. A rather strapping one, at that. Puts one in mind more of a laboring sort than an earl, I daresay. A blacksmith. Or a stonemason. Perhaps it’s the shoulders.”

Viola frowned. “His blood is as noble as yours, my lady. And his character unmatched—”

“Yes, yes. We all understand your fascination with the brute.”

“That ‘brute’ saved your son’s life at great risk to his own.”

The triangular nose pinched. “If my son had not foolishly allowed himself to become distracted, he would not have lost the reins, and such derring-do would have been unnecessary.”

“Perhaps,” Viola continued, heedless of the dowager’s agitation. “Nevertheless, Lord Tannenbrook did come to Lord Wallingham’s aid, and quite heroically, I might add. He deserves our admiration.”

“Hmmph. Your beauty may purchase favor among the male portion of society, my dear. But never presume such a random blessing of birth compensates for your overweening cheek.” Now the woman’s lips were pinched, as well. “It does not.”

Viola elected to drink her tea and stop speaking. Fortunately, Lady Wallingham appeared satisfied to move on to other targets. Fortunately for
Viola,
that was.

“Miss Lancaster! I am given to understand your father has negotiated an ill-conceived union between you and that devil, Chatham.”

Charlotte remained remarkably calm, taking a sip of tea before answering, “Indeed, my lady.”

“This will not end well for you.” The dowager sniffed. “Was the incestuous Lord Byron unavailable? He could use the funds. Poetry does not pay well.”

Viola nearly spewed tea out of her nose at the outrageous statement.

Charlotte scarcely blinked. “Byron fled to the Continent after souring his marriage to the last heiress who accepted him. At last report, he is penning poetry in Rome. And yes, quite unavailable.” She took another calm sip.

“Still a better choice than that scapegrace who calls himself Rutherford.”

Smiling, Charlotte set her cup in its saucer. “Perhaps. But Byron is a mere baron. My father will countenance nothing short of an earl.”

Viola marveled at Charlotte’s bluntness. But then, she was often both astonished and admiring of the other woman’s forthright nature.

Lady Wallingham appeared to appreciate the honest response. “I might applaud his high standards if I did not know whom he was gifting with your dowry.” She turned her attention to Penelope. “Speaking of which, what sort of recompense are you bringing to this match with Lord Mochrie, my dear?”

While the dowager interrogated a red-faced Penelope, Viola leaned toward Charlotte to murmur, “I half expected her to offer her son’s hand in marriage, given her interest in your dowry.”

Charlotte grinned. “Lady Wallingham as a mother-in-law. Can you imagine?”

Viola shook her head and giggled.

Across the room, Lady Wallingham loudly declared, “Lady Gattingford has suggested a house party at Grimsgate Castle at the end of the season. Miss Darling!”

Penelope sat straighter. “Yes?”

“Not you. Miss Viola Darling! You shall attend.”

Viola scoured her memory for the location of Lady Wallingham’s country residence. Somewhere north, perhaps. Dash it all, she could not be certain. She mumbled the question at Charlotte, “Where is Grimsgate?”

“Northumberland.”

Frantically, she calculated how much such a journey might cost her father. Just the rent on the house they shared with Penelope and Aunt Marian had strained his coffers. Once again, Viola felt a twinge of guilt over her failure to choose a husband in her first season.
Tannenbrook was not present last spring, or you would even now be wed,
she reminded herself.

Struggling for a polite way to decline, Viola offered a version of the truth. “My lady, you honor me with your kind invitation.”

“Yes. I do.”

“However, I hesitate to accept …”

Like clouds gathering to threaten the sun, the Lady Wallingham’s eyes flashed ominously, her white brows descending.

Viola swallowed and hastily continued, “Only because, should I be so fortunate as to receive an offer of marriage before the season ends, I anticipate I shall be preoccupied—”

“How many offers did you decline in your first season, girl?”

She blinked. “Fourteen, my lady.”

“And this season? Bearing in mind it has commenced only this week with my arrival in London, leaving fully two months for more foolish fops to pay your father a visit.”

“Seven.”

“So, with neither a dowry nor even a courtesy title, you have managed to fritter away twenty-one offers of marriage in slightly more than one season.”

Beside her, Charlotte whispered, “Twenty-one? Good heavens, Vi.”

Viola straightened her spine and refused to be chastened. “I shall accept only one, my lady. From the
right
gentleman.”

“Tannenbrook. Yes, the jaw is quite monumental.” The dowager strummed her fingers on the edge of her saucer. “Very well. Tannenbrook shall attend my house party. There, now. You have no reason to decline.”

Unless I can persuade him to propose sooner.

Before she had finished the thought, Lady Wallingham flicked a wave in her direction. “He is intractable, girl. You will not land him before June.”

“We shall see.” Within seconds, she regretted the words.

The dowager smiled. Unpleasantly. “We shall, indeed, my dear.”

*~*~*

James had never encountered a more stubborn, willful, intractable,
frustrating
woman in all his living days.

“You are acquainted with Miss Viola Darling, are you not?” he asked Charles Bainbridge, who had greeted him upon his arrival at Wallingham’s Park Lane house. The place was twice the width of a normal town house and five times as opulent. He glanced around the library, admiring the intricacy of the stonework around the fireplace. Twin corbels resembled fantastical oaks in which each leaf appeared almost to flutter upon the fire’s updraft.

“Miss Darling.” Charles’s dark brows lowered thoughtfully, and the hand currently holding a quill pen paused above the paper on his desk. “Dark hair. A rare beauty, as I recall. Why do you ask?”

Ignoring the odd pulse of anger that sprang from Charles’s perfectly reasonable description, James gripped the arms of his chair and forced himself to relax. “What is her connection with your mother?”

A single brow rose. “None that I am aware of.”

“Lady Wallingham has decided I am to attend her house party at the end of the season. I received a note to that effect this morning. She mentioned Miss Darling will be in attendance, as well.”

“This is significant because …?”

He did not want to say it, to admit how fervently she pursued him. He wanted her to stop appearing at his side during a waltz as though she expected him to beg for a dance. He wanted her to cease gazing up at him with those starlit eyes. He wanted her … bloody hell, he wanted her to give him some peace.

James tightened his jaw before answering, “Miss Darling has expressed her desire to marry.”

“Don’t all ladies participating in the season desire matrimony? That is why they refer to it as the marriage mart, if I am not mistaken.”

He gave the other man a grim stare. “Me. She wishes to marry me.”

Wallingham’s calm nod was not the reaction he was expecting. “I see.”