Yankee Earl (4 page)

      
From the moment he set foot in the ballroom, Jason knew he was the source of gossip. It happened everywhere he went, especially at haut ton events such as this. His grandfather had insisted he attend, mentioning that he would at last have the chance to meet the marquess' best friend, Viscount Harleigh. In truth, Jason was curious about Hugh Fairchild, since his estate adjoined Falconridge and they would soon be neighbors. He had wanted to call at the viscount's seat last month when he'd been in the country; but since it was the height of the Season, Hugh was in London.

      
However, neither the viscount nor Jason's grandfather was in evidence.
Probably closeted away with brandy and cigars,
he thought, wishing he could join them. But that was not to be. An assortment of matrons with marriageable daughters in tow bore down on him like sparrow hawks on a robin. He quickly found himself dancing and making interminably boring small talk.

      
Then the oddest sensation overcame him. The hairs on his nape prickled, an experience more familiar when he was raiding with the Shawnee than dancing in a lavish ballroom.
Someone is watching me.
Smiling at the birdlike twittering of the girl in his arms, Jason surreptitiously scanned the crowd. When the waltz ended, he bowed over his companion's hand and returned her to her chaperone.

      
He expected his stalker to be a man, judging by the calculated boldness of the perusal. When he saw his newfound nemesis, Frederick Forrestal, lounging against a column near the entry, surrounded by his usual entourage of slavering young nobs, Jason was certain he'd solved the mystery. But the future duke appeared to be assiduously ignoring him. It was not surprising that Frederick would avoid a contretemps that would remind everyone about the humiliating outcome of their recent duel.

      
But damned if the malaise plaguing Jason did not persist. Feeling it again, he turned in the opposite direction…and locked eyes with
her
. Surely it could not be his hoyden from the country? But there was no mistaking that long-legged, purposeful stride as she cut a path through the assembly, headed directly toward him. He would have recognized the way her body moved anywhere, but little else about her.

      
She was a vision in peach silk. The low-cut gown revealed the soft swell of lush breasts and clung lovingly to those slender hips and incredible legs. Great masses of gleaming chocolate-colored hair were artfully arranged in curls atop her head and trailing in soft tendrils over one shoulder. Her complexion was unfashionably touched by the sun but clear and smooth as butterscotch, a perfect foil for the elaborate filigreed gold necklace and earrings set with tiger's eyes. Unconventional stones for a most unconventional lady. And lady she must be, for everyone in the ballroom deferred to her as she passed by.

      
Jason was aware of the growing silence as she approached him. All conversation seemed to melt away, leaving only the strains of the orchestra as it began playing another sweeping waltz. Every person in the room watched avidly, waiting to see what would happen next. He noted that a low buzz of whispering resumed behind fans and hands. Did they know something he did not?

      
Her wide-set hazel-green eyes shot sparks at him. He was not surprised, considering the way he had treated her when first they met. Grinning in spite of himself, he thought,
Let the ton speculate
. No one but he and his “countess” knew the cause of her animosity. As soon as she reached him, he swept her into the waltz before she could say a word. Every eye in the room was on them as they whirled around the floor.

      
Rachel fought the urge to stamp on his feet. Would this crude colonial always keep her off balance? She had wanted to shock him, see him flummoxed and gaping just as she had been on their first encounter, not smirking as if he were—
was
a bloody earl!

      
I will
not
lose my temper
.

      
She detested the advantage his height gave him. Her high-heeled dancing slippers normally allowed her that advantage. Forcing herself to look up into his laughing blue eyes, she said smoothly, “I will give you high marks for consistency, sirrah. You are unchangingly rude.”

      
“You, on the other hand, are most agreeably changeable—at least in regard to costumes, Countess. I'll not speak of manners.”

      
“How gallant you are now that you know I am no
rustic wench
,” she replied scathingly.

      
“Ah, I am still not entirely certain of that, but perhaps we could begin again,” he said, tilting his head closer to hers as his arm tightened about her incredibly slender waist. She stiffened and tried to pull away. A faint flush was visible on her sun-kissed face. He smiled to himself with satisfaction. “It would seem I have the same effect on you as you do on me,” he whispered conspiratorially in her ear, inhaling the heady fragrance of honeysuckle.

      
Her thoughts scattered in panic. If only her step did not fit so well to his. Their bodies moved in time to the lilting music as if they had been made to dance together, an exercise she normally detested since she towered over most of her partners. Physically, he was her perfect match. Rachel tamped down that exceedingly disquieting thought, the very last she wished to consider now or ever. With a scathing smile, she said, “If by
the same effect
you mean immoderate loathing, then I imagine 'tis true.”

      
He threw back his head and laughed, once again pulling her closer. “What m'lady says and what m'lady feels are not at all the same. Let us not argue, but begin as if we had just met for the first time. I am Jason Beaumont, Earl of Falconridge, at your service.”

      
When he smiled at her, she felt her head spin. Attributing her reaction to the way they were whirling about the floor, she calmly replied, “Ah, yes, the scandal sheets are filled with your exploits, m'lord Yankee earl!”

      
“You are determined to be a disagreeable baggage. But since you are the one who sought me out, the very least you can do is to give me your name.”

      
“I shall be delighted. I am Rachel Fairchild of Har-leigh Hall.” She waited a beat to see if her name registered in his mind. When it did not, she added with a falsely sweet smile, “And your future wife.”

Chapter Three

      
Jason stopped dead in the center of the dance floor, releasing her as if she had suddenly burst into flames. “Pardon?” His mind went blank. He could think of nothing better to say as she began to grin like a prison guard on the hulks where he and his crew had been held captive.

      
“Are you deaf as well as boorish?” she asked rhetorically, warming to her explanation. He truly did not know anything of what had been arranged for them—and the announcement was to be made tonight! “I am the eldest daughter of Hugh Fairchild, Viscount Harleigh, whose estates adjoin those of Falconridge. My father and your grandfather have decided that we are a proper match. So much so that the highlight of this ball—indeed, the sole reason for holding it—is to announce our betrothal just prior to the midnight supper.”

      
Jason stood rooted to the floor, mutely staring at her.

      
“My, my, and they did not inform you,” she tsked. “Tis customary for the groom to be apprised of the matter long before the bride.”

      
The viper-tongued wench was enjoying this altogether too much. Jason felt a sudden urge to wipe the superior smirk from her face by kissing those pouty pink lips and then turning her over his knee and paddling that shapely little rump. The idea might have merits, but not before they straightened out this absurd talk of marriage. Instead, he offered her his arm, bowing gallantly as he said, “We had best continue this discussion elsewhere, do you not agree?”

      
The orchestra chose that moment to cease playing. Feeling everyone's eyes fixed avidly on the two of them, Rachel nodded, although she did not accept his arm. Instead, she charged toward the opened double doors leading to the interior courtyard gardens, assured that the odious American would follow, hoping dearly that no one else would dare.

      
Jason watched her forge ahead like Moses parting the Red Sea. There was no recourse but to let her lead the way. When she reached the seclusion of a boxwood hedge, she whirled about, ready to continue her patronizing diatribe, but he cut her off without preamble, saying, “My dear Miss Fairchild, we have only met twice; and to the best of my knowledge, I have not made you a marriage proposal. You have made it abundantly clear at both encounters that you detest me. It would certainly seem that a mistake of catastrophic proportions has been made.”

      
“I could not agree more, but our wishes do not signify.” Rachel could not keep the bitterness from her voice. She hated the weakness it betrayed to this arrogant stranger who had such an unsettling effect upon her. Her voice was brittle as she continued, “I do not know how such matters are handled in your country—er, pardon, I mean your former country—since there is no peerage.”

      
“You mean that my grandfather and your father wanted to merge their estates, so they concocted this insane scheme and thought I would agree without protest, like a lamb at slaughter?” His expression was as dark as the clouds scudding across the moon.

      
“Precisely so. The price of being an earl has just gone up, has it not?” she retorted, feeling a totally irrational surge of hurt when he likened marriage to her with being led to slaughter. After all, this was exactly what she had hoped to achieve. He wanted the match no more than she did, so he would be her ally. She moistened her lips, working up her courage to outline her plan. “The marquess and the viscount have arranged everything, but—”

      
Jason interrupted her angrily. “We will see about that! Since you seem so well apprised of things, would you happen to know where I might find the old bas—my grandfather?”

      
He was livid. Good! "The old bas—your grandfather is most probably in the library with the old bas—my father, drinking a toast to our betrothal. Shall we go see?"

      
Jason spun on his heel and headed toward the house without another word.

      
“My, my, I do believe we shall,” she murmured to herself, hastening to catch up with him.

* * * *

      
George William Beaumont, ninth Marquess of Cargrave, was feeling just the least bit apprehensive as the evening wore on, not that anyone observing him could tell it as he puffed on a fine cigar, blowing out a cloud of pale gray smoke. Although smoking was not in fashion, nothing tasted better to him than a cigar. He let the pleasure of tobacco soothe his nerves.

      
With less than three hours to midnight, he had just sent a servant to summon Jason to meet with them. His grandson must be informed of the betrothal announcement and made to see that there was no way out. How would the lad take it? Would the old man have to move his last chess piece onto the board, the one he had concealed until now? And if so, would it work?

      
The marquess could not be certain. Jason gave every appearance of adjusting to the lifestyle of a peer. He had the address of an earl, no doubt of it. He was intelligent enough to manage all the vast holdings and titles to which he was now heir. But he was also headstrong and so damnably…American. No matter that by an accident of fate he'd been born here in England.

      
Just then Harleigh interrupted, as if echoing his troubling ruminations. “I must confess I still have reservations about this match, George. My gel is dead set against it, and you know how headstrong she is.”

      
Cargrave smiled. “I was just thinking the same thing about my grandson. They will both come up to scratch, never fear. Rachel may be no conventional miss, but she will settle Jason down.”

      
Harleigh harrumphed nervously. “Yes, but who will first settle her down? Heaven knows, I've had no luck in that direction,” he added with a sigh.

      
“They shall settle each other down, of course.” The old marquess' eyes, usually so cold and penetrating, took on a warm glow for a moment as he remembered his life with Mathilda, his marchioness.
Twenty years and still I miss her.

      
“Where the deuce do you think that grandson of yours could have gotten off to? Must be a quarter hour since we dispatched Winters to fetch him,” Hugh said, still not reassured about their plans.

      
Cargrave shrugged with studied casualness. “Saw him from the balcony earlier, dancing with some baron's daughter. Can't have gotten far.”

      
“Are you certain it was wise not to inform him until now? I know how impetuous these Americans can be. He was raised in the colonies.”

      
The marquess waved his cigar dismissively. “I know the lad. If he had time to brood on it, he might hatch some nervy scheme to thwart me. He's awake on every suit, no doubt of that. Which is why I have handled matters this way. Once he realizes the announcement will be tonight—and we introduce him to your beautiful daughter, he will have to go along.”