A Beastly Kind of Earl

by Mia Vincy

  “No, my lord,” she said softly. “I won’t.”

  She snatched up her shawl, backed away, and then turned and ran. A moment later, the door opened and closed, and her figure hurried up the path, a blurred ghost disappearing into the last of the light.

  Damn it. Why didn’t she just agree? What kind of inept social climber was she, if she didn’t seize a chance like that?

  A wave of fatigue washed over him, as if only her presence had kept him from wilting like the orchids’ leaves.

  Maybe she needed a night to think it over. And tomorrow he’d invite her for that walk among the roses and she’d beg his forgiveness and say she was overcome and something something blah blah blah. She was right about one thing at least: He was not very good at this.

  And he would not get better overnight.

  Blast it, no. No more games. No more pretty smiles and pretty proposals and pretty ankles.

  Rafe had another option. Thea Knight was not the only one who knew how to play tricks.

  The Earl of Luxborough was likely mad, Thea decided, as she darted off in search of Arabella to tell her about the encounter.

  That whole encounter had been, well, rather thrilling, if she was honest. How demanding he was, never imagining that she tricked him. And how marvelous for him, to be so sure of his place that he could issue a marriage proposal as carelessly as a dinner order. Perhaps he saw a wife as being of as little consequence as a meal.

  Really, he had nothing to recommend him.

  Except the money.

  Oh, the money.

  If somehow she could turn his proposal to her advantage and wangle some money from that trust, then she could go ahead with her publishing scheme immediately.

  No. No regrets. Refusing was sensible. Her fascination with him was silly. The fact was, he had been awful to her, and she was rather tired of noblemen being awful to her.

  Thea got lost several times in her attempt to locate Arabella’s room, and might have spent the rest of her life wandering through the enormous house had a servant not rescued her. Arabella had not returned, so Thea left for her own chambers. She ate the supper left for her, bathed, and prepared for bed. But as her mind continued to torment her with “what-ifs” and “yes-buts” and memories of intense eyes and an amused half smile, Thea pulled on a wrap and went back to Arabella’s room.

  Which was still empty.

  She sat and stood and sat and stood, and was about to leave when Arabella drifted in, looking even paler than usual.

  “Where have you been?” Thea asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Why on earth would anything be wrong?” Arabella said, only to stop short and stare at nothing.

  “Arabella? Are you ill?”

  “Worse.”

  “Are you dying?”

  “Worse.”

  “Are you already dead and I’m conversing with a ghost?”

  “Worse.” Arabella inhaled with a hiss and blew the air back out. “I am engaged.”

  “What?”

  “To be married.”

  “What?”

  “To the Earl of Luxborough.”

  “That lying, cheating, hypocritical cad!”

  That shook Arabella out of her daze. “Not quite the response I had anticipated,” she said dryly, sounding more like herself.

  “The earl already proposed to me,” Thea told her.

  “He did? Does he know you are not Helen?”

  “On the contrary: He is sure that I am. He had even prepared a marriage license with Helen’s name.”

  “How did he— Oh, his father’s cousin, the Bishop of Dartford, I suppose.”

  Thea almost asked how Arabella knew the earl’s cousin was a bishop, but of course, the aristocracy held everyone’s family trees in their heads the way Pa held the last decade’s price of gold.

  “If you’ll forgive my perplexity, Thea, why on earth would Lord Luxborough want to marry Helen?”

  “So she can’t marry Mr. Russell. He’s here at Lord Ventnor’s bidding. And if he marries again, he gets money from some trust set up by his mother.”

  “Clearly you didn’t accept him.”

  “Of course not. But…” She felt unjustifiably betrayed. His proposal had been insulting and preposterous and yet… “What kind of beastly cad proposes to one woman and, as soon as she refuses him, proposes to another? If you had refused him, would he have worked his way through every unmarried woman in the house? And why didn’t you refuse him? Wasn’t his proposal dreadful?”

  “He never issued one. He simply told my father he would marry me, and Papa agreed. I have just now had an interview with him and— Why, Thea, he is utterly detestable.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That he wants my enormous dowry and…” Arabella burst into activity, straightening everything in sight. “I must remain on his estate, with no allowance, pastimes, or guests, until I have produced four sons. And how his eyes gleamed, as though it thrilled him to upset me.”

  “But your father won’t make you marry such a man.”

  “Papa doesn’t care. All he wants is a grandson.”

  Hands in fists, Arabella glared at her perfectly neat room. Thea helpfully pushed over a stack of books.

  “What about the Marquess of Hardbury?” she asked, as Arabella tidied the books with zeal. “You’ve been promised to him since you were a child.”

  “No one has seen him in so long they say he might be dead, and Papa grows tired of waiting.”

  “You can refuse.”

  “Yes, and be disinherited and cast out. And then what? I shall make a formidable peeress, but I am of little use for anything else.”

  Her tidying frenzy passed, Arabella crossed to the window and touched a hand to her reflection. She was too restrained to shatter the glass with her fist, but her glare could well do the trick.

  Thea wanted to weep for her friend, who would twist herself into knots to help others and never seek help for herself. Who hid her kindness under a proud facade and a sharp tongue. And these men—they reduced her to nothing more than a means of making more men.

  Even Thea’s parents had dismissed her, when Thea had come back from her year at the Winchester Ladies’ Academy and announced she had a true friend in Miss Arabella Larke. “She is excessively proud and aloof and so elegant she makes my eyeballs ache,” Thea had gushed. “But she is uncompromising and principled and good.”

  Ma and Pa had shaken their heads in despair. “Miss Larke has excellent connections but no brothers,” they had said. “What use is a friendship if it does not grant you access to a circle of young noblemen?”

  Thea had hated to disappoint her parents—she understood their ambitions were for the good of the whole Knight family—but never would she regret her friendship with Arabella. If only Arabella had not been in Italy the year of Thea’s scandal. Arabella always knew what to say; she would never freeze in fear. She would have looked down her nose at everyone in that ballroom and dealt Percy and Francis such a scathing set-down they would have fallen right through the floor.

  “You were always very efficient,” Thea said brightly. “Perhaps you could arrange to have two sets of twins in two years.” She sought a positive note. “And he didn’t threaten to slit your throat and throw your body down a well.”

  Arabella was not cheered by this perspective. “No wonder it is the fashion to marry for love. When a man may exercise such control over his wife, it would be nice if one’s husband felt a modicum of affection.”

  “Then I shall marry him after all,” Thea announced and ignored the protestations of her suddenly pounding heart.

  Arabella swung around. “No, you will not. Besides, his license bears Helen’s name. If you use a false name, the marriage won’t be valid.”

  Thea waited.

  “Oh.” Arabella drew the sound out. “The marriage…will not…be valid.”

  Her face almost betrayed a smile, and Thea grinned in response. A terrible trick, indeed, to marry a m
an while using a false name, but it did comply with her Rules of Mischief. First, it served several good causes: saving Arabella from a horrid marriage, deflecting attention from Helen, and hopefully providing funds to pay for her pamphlet. Second, she had no qualms about tricking an earl, when he was powerful and had proven himself villainous. And third, well, why not enjoy life as a counterfeit countess for a week or two?

  “He would have no legal rights or control over me at all,” she said excitedly. “I need only pretend until Helen’s return.”

  “And Papa can hold a grudge for a century, so Luxborough could never propose to me again.”

  Thea danced across the room. “And if I could channel some of his money toward myself…” An idea struck her. “Perhaps I shall uncover his dreadful secrets and he’ll pay thousands for my silence.”

  “Yet to deceive an earl. Possibly even steal from or blackmail an earl.”

  “Oh, who cares? He is only a man, and not a very agreeable one at that. I shall not bother my conscience over him. And neither should you. After all, he is planning to slit your throat and throw your body down a well.”

  “No, he isn’t,” Arabella said patiently. “You made that part up.”

  Thea sniffed. “Just because I made it up doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

  “It is too dangerous, Thea.”

  “Not at all.” She thought of the way Lord Luxborough’s features had softened when he spoke of the orchids. Of his warm solidity at her side. “I am sure his lordship is as sweet as syllabub under all that growling.”

  “And I am sure he is not. If he believes you are legally his wife, he may—” Arabella cleared her throat. “Claim his conjugal rights.”

  “Um. Yes. He did mention heirs.”

  His large body, covering hers, like in the etchings in Mrs. Burton’s library. She remembered his big hand, cupping the flower; would he be so gentle with her? Would she touch him too? That dark, curling hair, that scarred face, those broad shoulders… And his firm-looking mouth, with the little half smile on his defined lips…

  Thea had been kissed before, but only by Percy Russell, whose chaste kisses had been tolerable at best. She had tried hard to like him, for the sake of her whole family, yet with Percy, she always felt awkward, as if she had too many arms. With the earl, even when he had stood so close that she caught his scent, she had felt not awkward but…right.

  “The invalid marriage will last only until Helen returns safely married, a week or two at the most,” Thea said. “If he comes near, I shall scream and faint. Or I shall tell him I have my monthly courses and send him running in fear.”

  “But he is odd and reclusive. The things they say about him.”

  “No. I refuse to listen to more rumors.”

  Arabella raised her brows. “Not to mention the fresh rumors this will start about you, if word gets out.”

  “But word needn’t get out, given Luxborough avoids society,” Thea argued. “Besides, Ventnor and Luxborough are sure to hush it up. They will never admit to being outwitted by the daughters of a mere merchant. True, our behavior as a pretend married couple will break all the rules, but one cannot be concerned with propriety in such a situation.”

  Arabella considered. Thea could almost see her spinning out the implications and ramifications, dozens of moves in advance.

  “This plan is flawed,” she concluded.

  “We must treat it as a game,” Thea said.

  Finally. Today, everything changed. After three lonely years of waiting, aimless and scared, Thea had purpose and a plan. She would have this adventure, she would finagle some money, she would publish her pamphlet and tell her story, and in a few short weeks, she would find her way home.

  Arabella gave a single sharp nod: decision made. “I shall send a manservant to accompany you for safety, and you will write to me every day. Do you need money?”

  “I have a few pounds from my wages.”

  “Carry it always. Sew money into your stays so you can run at any time.”

  “I am out of the habit of wearing stays.”

  “Your hems, then. I still don’t like this.”

  “You cannot stop me,” Thea said quietly. It was risky, but better her than Arabella. “And he’s not entirely unappealing. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  “He could slit your throat and throw your body down a well.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad, then, does it?” Thea patted Arabella’s hand. “In one single, bold move, I shall save you, Helen, and myself. I truly am a Knight in shining ribbons.”

  “Oh, good grief.”

  Thea grinned. “Now, help me pen a note to Lord Luxborough, in which I inform him that I shall marry him in the morning.”

  Chapter 4

  The vicar protested that it was highly irregular when he opened his door early the next morning, unshaven, bleary-eyed, and smelling of sherry, to find a wedding party on his doorstep. At first, he quibbled over the license and bleated about irritating, inconsequential things like rules, but Rafe quieted him with a mention of the Bishop of Dartford, and Miss Larke’s imperious impatience did the rest. Throughout the argument, Rafe’s fake-bride-to-be, wrapped in a blue cloak and carriage dress, yawned and rubbed her eyes.

  No one giggled during the meaningless vows or the paperwork, and soon Rafe was in possession of an invalid marriage certificate. Business concluded, the vicar marched into his house and slammed the door. Miss Larke headed after him, and Rafe strode toward the road to await the loaded carriage.

  “Must you walk so fast?” Thea called from behind him.

  He glanced at her over his shoulder. The hood of her cloak was pushed back and the morning mist gathered in droplets in her chestnut hair.

  “This is how I walk,” he said, and kept going.

  “It makes it difficult for me to walk beside you,” she complained.

  “So don’t.”

  “But that’s what people do.”

  “I’m not people.”

  A few more steps brought him to the ivy-wreathed gate, and he paced by the roadside. Thea joined him and brushed her damp hair off her face. Now that she was fully awake, her eyes were bright, and as blue as the cornflowers blooming in his garden.

  Blast it. He had miscalculated. With his attention on the practical details of his scheme, Rafe had failed to consider Thea Knight as a real woman. A woman whose skin promised to be soft, and whose smile promised mischief, and whose curves promised that her ankles were definitely not her most interesting feature. He had not even thought how to address her now she was his counterfeit countess. Neither “Thea” nor “Helen” was acceptable, and he would not call her “my lady” when she was no such thing.

  Whatever he called her, he suspected she would not be easy to control. How inept to assume otherwise. She would not placidly obey, but neither would she argue or cajole. She would tease and trick and torment, and Rafe would somehow have to survive.

  “The fact is, we did just get married,” she said, as though continuing a discussion that, as far as Rafe could recall, had not started. “So it would be as well for us to—”

  “Not necessary.”

  “But I’m your wife.”

  “Which does not require further discussion.”

  “And a countess too.” With an impish smile, she executed a neat pirouette, her skirts swishing around her. Brown half boots covered the famously fascinating ankles, but he caught a glimpse of shapely, stockinged calves. “Isn’t that exciting?”

  Rafe looked away from her legs. “No.”

  “Is it exciting to be an earl?”

  “No.”

  “But being a countess will be exciting.”

  “Unlikely.”

  “I shall have lots of new gowns.”

  “Not a one.”

  “But I must.” She gave him a haughty look. “The best countesses are very elegant.”

  “The best countesses are very quiet.”

  “But—”

  “They
never talk.”

  “Oh.”

  A shape appeared in the mist at the end of the road. That had better be his blasted carriage. He would put Thea in it and ride alongside and never speak to her again.

  Back at the vicarage, he saw, Miss Larke was in conversation with the vicar’s wife. Even Rafe had heard of Miss Arabella Larke, the notoriously proud heiress. How had Thea secured such a lady’s friendship? Miss Larke hardly seemed the sort to suffer sycophants or be easily duped, and Thea’s scandal should have kept every respectable lady away.

  “Now, I have my doubts,” Thea said, “but Ma and Pa always said that a title is the best thing in the world.”

  “Congratulations, Countess. You passed one whole minute without talking.”

  She frowned. “I don’t think that’s the correct way to address me.”

  “I shall address you however I please.”

  “Of course, because you’re an earl. So you must be happy to have a title.”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “I am the third of five sons. I neither expected nor wanted to be earl. My eldest brother John was an excellent man and an excellent earl and if there were any justice he would never have died.”

  “Then your next brother—”

  “Philip was an awful man, and if there were any justice he would never have been born. But if there were any justice, the title would have skipped me and gone to my next brother, Christopher, who is a Member of Parliament and would make an excellent earl. It’s an absurd system.”

  “But you benefit from it.”

  “Which proves my point,” he muttered.

  Besides, he could hardly consider the title a benefit when worthier men like his father and brother John had to die for him to have it.

  She lapsed into silence, and Rafe watched the torturously slow approach of the carriage. How long until she started talking again? Ten, nine, eight—

  “Are you a good earl?” she asked.

  “‘Good’ as in competent, moral, or well-behaved?”