Yankee Earl (35 page)

      
Jason retreated to the library, where he perused the hastily scrawled note Drum had left for him, explaining in more detail the reasons for his hasty departure. A ship departing for Italy the following morning from Gravesend was said to have a tall, fair-haired peer as a passenger. With luck, the culprit might be apprehended before he vanished on the Mediterranean. Drum also alluded to some other mysterious leads which he had been working on, although he gave no clue as to what he hoped to learn.

      
By early evening, there was nothing to do but go on display again. At least this would be the last time Jason and his countess would have to play out the charade before a large assembly of family and guests. They would be forced to smile and pretend they were looking forward to a lifetime together. They would have to look into each other's eyes and join hands. Worse yet, they would have to lead off the dancing.

      
Jason was not certain if he could get through that part without losing control. He had never been able to forget the night of their betrothal ball when they had waltzed together. He had never before danced with a woman of her uncommon height. She had fit so naturally in his arms, matched her long strides so perfectly to his as they swept about the floor. That was the first time the insidious idea of keeping her by his side permanently had flashed through his mind.

      
Of course, the thought had fled once she informed him that they were to be wed. But during the course of the summer he had dreaded taking her in his arms in front of an admiring audience, for fear the madness would come over him again. Although he refused to admit it, that had been one of the principal reasons for his hiding at Falconridge instead of squiring her about the obligatory round of London social events.

      
But tonight he must dance. For the very last time, thank heavens. He tried to hold that thought as he walked down the hall to the retiring room where he was to meet his bride so they could make a grand descent of the curving staircase to the applause of the assembly below.

      
Rachel was once more done up in her wedding finery, with her massive train now carefully pinned up so that she might carry it on her arm during the dancing.

      
She resisted the urge to pace as she waited for Jason and instead contented herself by staring out the large oval window at the inner courtyard garden below, now turned russet and gold with autumn foliage. At her sister's exclamation of delight, she turned to face her husband. The earl stood filling the doorway, resplendent in black kerseymere and deep blue brocade. The sapphire studs at his cuffs and on his shirt winked like a dare. He bowed to her and extended his hand with what seemed like forced politeness.

      
“Countess,” he said very formally. “Our guests await us.”

      
“You mean my father's and your grandfather's guests,” she replied as she placed her fingers lightly over the back of his hand, which was warm to her touch in spite of his cool demeanor.

      
“True, but Fox is also at the foot of the stairs, waiting to view his ‘angel’ as she descends from on high to mix with mere mortals.” His smile when he mentioned the boy seemed more genuine.

      
“I shall be honored to dance with him.”

      
“I suspect he'll be so thrilled that he will quite forget every step his tutors have had him practice.” His murmur was drowned out by applause as they reached the head of the stairs and the herald announced them.

      
Rachel kept her gaze fixed on Fox's beaming face as she made her way down the wide, carpeted steps. She smiled and murmured greetings to family friends in the press while Jason led her into the huge ballroom. The orchestra played softly, and hundreds of candles blazed from two huge chandeliers at opposite ends of the room.

      
The marquess, wearing a smug smile of satisfaction, gave a signal to the leader of the musicians, then nodded to his grandson and Rachel. As the guests fanned out around the perimeter of the polished walnut floor, the bridal couple made their way to the center. The orchestra struck up a waltz.

      
Just as he had that first night in this very room, Jason swept Rachel into his arms and whirled her around the floor. “The old devil selected a waltz on purpose,” he growled. “He told me that we were a perfect match on the dance floor.”

      
“A pity we are not so perfect off it,” she replied with feigned humor, fighting the light-headedness that came from her heart's wild thrumming.

      
His hold on her waist tightened, drawing her more closely to him than was seemly, even for a newly wed couple. “I can recall a number of occasions, Countess, when we did very well off the dance floor…”

      
His breath was warm against her ear as his suggestive whisper trailed away. “A good thing there were no witnesses at those occasions, else the scandal would rock the ton,” she replied breathlessly.

      
“I've never given a fig for scandal, nor have you, Countess,” he reminded her.

      
Why was he leading her on this way? Would he come to her tonight? Testing the waters, she said, “Ah, but I was not your countess then, nor had either of us intended that I should be.”

      
“We agreed on a plan of your making,” he said stiffly. “You will be my countess until Grandfather is forced to give over and disinherit me. But then you'll have Harleigh and possibly even Falconridge, with no one to say you nay ever again, just as you always wanted,” he reminded her.

      
Just as you always wanted.
The words tore at her heart. The unfairness of it angered her. 'Twas he who had made the ridiculous stipulation that they have a marriage in name only. He had set his course for America. He would not come to her room tonight.

      
She would have to go to his…

* * * *

      
“You must wear the cream silk with the bronze lace this evening. Hold the gold satin for the morrow at Falconridge,” Harry said as she unfastened the myriad buttons from their loops at the back of Rachel's wedding gown. The heavy train lay spread across the bed in the chamber adjoining the earl's. An elderly upstairs maid carefully rolled it for storage, listening unobtrusively to the conversation whispered between the sisters.

      
The old woman had overheard the gossip concerning the match and knew a bit about how her crafty employer had forced his wild American grandson to wed Harleigh's scandalous daughter. She sniffed to herself. Riding astride, indeed! A most unnatural female, but then his lordship the earl was scarcely less of a scapegrace. Would the younger sister, who had been wed a year ago, explain what was expected of the countess when he entered her bedchamber tonight? She smiled inwardly, drawing out her chore, waiting.

      
“Now you must not be nervous, pet. It will not be—”

      
“Thank you, that will be all, Mistress Adair,” Rachel said with a perfunctory smile as Harry started to launch into what Rachel knew would be a euphemistic assurance that this was all for the good of England.

      
“Oh, I had quite forgotten she was here,” Harry said after the brittle old woman departed, taking the train and gown for storage as she had been instructed to do earlier. “Now, as I was saying, you—”

      
Rachel sighed, forcing herself to admit the humor in the situation. “Harry, you may be the natural flirt who can coil men about your pinkie finger, but I am a country wench.” She paused, remembering the phrase from her earlier conversation with Jason, then continued, “I know what men and women do in bed to procreate.”

      
Harry's head snapped back in shock. “Honestly, Rachel! That is too forward by more than half.” Then she could not help giggling. “But I fear 'tis the truth. Would that I had been as well prepared on my wedding night as you.”

      
“You would have been, had you allowed me to discuss the matter with you,” Rachel said wryly.

      
Chewing her lip thoughtfully, Harry dismissed that sally, concentrating on the night ahead for her beloved sister. “Of course, being such a reckless…er, American, the earl may be considerably bolder than Melvin was. Yes, I suspect he will be. Hmm, but I do believe you will be able to handle him.”

      
Rachel snorted. “I'm gratified at your confidence in me, but not all that certain he will act so boldly. Remember, he has never intended to consummate the marriage.”

      
“Are you still prattling on about that? Why, the man's been unable to keep his hands off you.”

      
“He blows hot and cold, I fear. One moment I believe he intends to disregard our scheme, the next that he thinks of nothing but escape from England…and from me.” Rachel positively hated the woeful sound of her voice. Snatching up the filmy lace night rail, she yanked it over her head.

      
“Once he sees you in that, there is not the slightest doubt that he will totally forget aught else,” Harry said dryly.

      
“The only way he shall see me in it is if I go to him,” Rachel murmured, steeling herself for what she must do.

      
Harry only chuckled dismissively, reaching for the heavy sterling hairbrush on the dressing table. “Here, sit,” she commanded.

      
“We used to brush each other's hair when we were girls,” Rachel said with a sigh of pleasure as the bristles massaged her scalp, then gently tugged through the heavy masses of dark hair falling about her shoulders.

      
“Yes, but usually 'twas you tending to Sally and me. You were our rock after Mama died, Rachel. I only wish we had been able to do something for you in return.”

      
Rachel smiled up at Harry. “You have, more than you know, dearest. You accept me in spite of my oddities. Now, 'tis best if you leave me to consider how I shall lure the earl to my bed.”

      
Harry almost snorted. “Only stand in yon doorway clad in that and he will fall upon you like a ravenous wolf! Oh, dear, I did not intend that to sound—”

      
Rachel stood up and took the brush from her sister's hand, then hugged her. “Twould solve my problems neatly to have Jason ‘fall upon me’ in such a manner, but I don't think it will happen quite that way.”

      
“I only want you to be happy, dear Rachel.”

      
“I know,” her sister said, shooing her out the door with a fond smile.

      
Rachel needed time alone to compose herself for what lay head. Methodically she placed the brush inside its mahogany case, then went about snuffing the branches of candles scattered around the room until only one fat white one flickered on the bedside candle stand. Holding out her hand, she looked down at the magnificent Cargrave ring. Even in such soft light it winked back at her as if this whole sad situation were naught but an enormous jest.

      
“I am his wife,” she whispered softly to herself. “I have the right to this…and to him.” Ignoring the chill of the polished wood floor, she paced back and forth in her bare feet, working up courage for what she intended to do. Was it merely to secure her future so that she would never again have to face another marriage? Or was it for love?

      
Either way, it did not make her feel good. If she seduced him for her own gain, she would be no less scheming and manipulative than the old marquess. But the second alternative stung far worse yet. Did she truly love a man who wished only to be quit of her? Would she spend the rest of her life regretting what might have been?

      
What was wrong with her that Jason could not return her love? In that instant she knew the answers to the other questions.

      
Then she heard the sound of his door opening and closing.

* * * *

      
Jason could see the faintest flicker of light from beneath the door adjoining his room. She was still awake…or not. Perhaps she preferred to sleep with a candle or two left burning. Either way, she was there, so close by. All he had to do was open the door and walk inside. She was his wife. He had every legal right to take her. But no moral one.

      
“I gave my word,” he ground out, reminding himself of their accursed bargain for what seemed the hundredth time that day. In his wildest nightmares, he could never have imagined how difficult it was to avoid what he had spent his whole life avoiding. With a snarled oath, he stalked over to the tea table and poured himself a generous measure of his grandfather's fine aged brandy.

      
He'd instructed the butler to send it up earlier in the day. After seeing Rachel at the church, he had known he would need help in getting through the night. He swallowed down the first glass like medicine, then poured a refill.

      
A soft tap on the door was followed by his valet Gentry's voice. “Are you ready to disrobe, m'lord?”