A Beastly Kind of Earl

by Mia Vincy

  “Any of those.”

  “No.”

  Not that Rafe could bring himself to care. A peer’s purpose was to govern in the House of Lords, but politics was beyond him. All those people. All that talking. Schemes and ambitions, policies and demands. Read this. Listen to that. Sign here. Vote there. For his part, Christopher insisted he was happy as an MP in the House of Commons, where he could get more done.

  And Rafe was about to become an even worse earl. As soon as he had the money from this invalid marriage, he would do what aristocrats never did: start a business. The idea alone could trigger an earthquake of genteel shudders.

  “They don’t teach charm at earl school either, do they?” Thea said with some asperity.

  “Charm is about making oneself liked by making people like themselves, and I don’t care if anyone likes me or themselves.”

  “But how can you not want people to like you?”

  “If people don’t like me, they don’t talk to me.”

  “And you don’t like anyone, I suppose.”

  “On the contrary. I like everyone who doesn’t talk to me.”

  She cocked her head, considering. “But what about society?”

  “Society? You mean people chittering and twittering like so many blasted birds? A whole world of wonders out there, and they chatter on about their petty concerns, the weather, their shoes, their horse, though there’s no point to any of it.”

  No point at all, Rafe thought, eyes on the approaching carriage. One’s wife would still lose her reason and ride to her death. One would still get attacked by a wild animal hunting its prey. One’s brothers would still die in accidents and wars, thus transforming an itinerant botanist into an earl. He could long to hear Katharine’s laugh one more time, or wish for his brother’s calm wisdom, or smile at the memory of his father’s bad jokes, but whining about it to the world would not help. One could cheer or complain, care or not, and it did not change a single blasted thing.

  And not to forget that society repeated those rumors about him, shuddered at his face, ignored the truth about Katharine, and then had the gall to criticize him for preferring the peace and quiet of his estate.

  “Discussing such small things is a way of understanding the world and oneself,” Thea said, with irritating gentleness. “Of forging connections with others. It’s what people do.”

  Rafe glared at her. “I’m not people.”

  Finally, mercifully, the carriage arrived, accompanied by Rafe’s manservant and horse. Also riding on the carriage was a swarthy, broad-shouldered stranger who nimbly leaped down before the coachman had brought the horses to a stop.

  “You.” Rafe accosted the stranger. “Who are you and why are you riding on my carriage?”

  “That is Gilbert,” Miss Larke said, appearing at Rafe’s side.

  The man Gilbert bowed and turned to check on the luggage. Thea drifted off to chat with him.

  “He is Lady Luxborough’s manservant,” Miss Larke added. “Formerly a champion pugilist.”

  “She doesn’t need a manservant, pugilistic or otherwise.”

  “He will stay by her side. To ensure no harm befalls her.”

  “What harm could possibly befall her?”

  “None. Because Gilbert will make sure it doesn’t.”

  Miss Larke met his gaze steadily. Not once did her eyes flicker to his scars. Impressive, really: At first, it was a natural human instinct to look. Yet even during their excruciating interview the night before, when Rafe was painting a future so awful Thea would have to rescue her, Miss Larke’s exquisite manners had never faltered. Her face was a mask; he found it unbearable.

  Also unbearable was the knowledge that they feared him. Not that he could complain, given his threats against Miss Larke. It was frightening enough for young women as it was, to be packed off to remote estates where they knew no one but the near stranger they had married. Even bold, reckless Katharine had feared her father’s plans to marry her off, so that crossing the Atlantic with Rafe had seemed preferable.

  Worst decision she ever made.

  “She will come to no harm,” he snapped.

  “It would be remiss of me not to be concerned,” Miss Larke said calmly. “Given the stories about your first wife.”

  Rafe turned his worst glare on her. She did not flinch.

  “Stories, Miss Larke?”

  “You are being willfully obtuse, my lord.”

  “Am I.”

  “Some say you poisoned her. Others say you killed her through sorcery.”

  He had to unclench his jaw to respond. “You disappoint me, Miss Larke. You strike me as too intelligent to listen to other people’s stories.”

  “An intelligent person always listens. People tend to betray themselves through the stories they tell.”

  Bloody hell, she was exhausting. He was not going to waste his day trying to match wits or stares with his fake bride’s demanding friend.

  “She will come to no harm,” he repeated.

  Miss Larke glanced at Thea, and her expression softened ever so slightly. “She can be impulsive. She has a tendency to try to save people, a blatant disrespect for rules, and a gift for seeing through others’ claptrap. If she were shipwrecked alone on a rock, she would find something to entertain her. Do not mistake her playfulness for foolishness.”

  “Your recommendation is unnecessary.”

  “You will not interfere with her manservant. She will write to me daily and you will allow it. And for the first month, you will not—” She stopped short, then nodded meaningfully and made a rolling gesture with her hand.

  “I’ll not what, Miss Larke?”

  Miss Larke did not sigh, but she gave the impression of having sighed. “Again, my lord, willfully obtuse.”

  Past her, Thea was peering through the carriage window, cheerfully remarking to Gilbert on the presence of the plants inside as her traveling companions. Rafe felt strangely glad that Thea had such a fierce and loyal friend.

  Yet he could hardly reveal that he had no intention of even talking to Thea, let alone bedding her. It was a fine line he trod: to maintain the pretense he believed she was Helen and hence truly his wife, while giving Thea no cause to demand a real marriage.

  “I will not touch her for one month,” he said.

  Miss Larke nodded regally. Without another word, Rafe covered the few steps to the carriage and yanked open its door. Thea said her final farewells and joined him.

  “How do you know Miss Larke?” he asked abruptly.

  “We met at the Winchester Ladies’ Academy.” Thea bit her lip. He suspected she had answered as Thea, not Helen. “Mr. Larke sent Arabella there in the vain hope of making her more demure. My parents sent me to gain some extra polish.”

  “And to meet high-born ladies, I suspect. A time-honored tactic for social climbers.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I suppose you begrudge my family their ambition, though it is only what our society demands.”

  Rafe shrugged. “If people are foolish enough to believe that joining the upper class is worth that much trouble, that’s their problem.”

  “I suppose people always want what they cannot have,” she said. “Not you, of course, because you’re not people.”

  “No.” He held out a hand to help her into the carriage. “Your carriage awaits, Lady Luxborough.”

  “Lady Luxborough,” she repeated with great amusement, and placed her gloved hand on his, warm and alive. It occurred to him with some surprise that this was the first time they had touched. She laughed lightly, and her laughter shot into his hand and up his arm like an electric charge. “Lord and Lady Lucks-bor-ough. Oh—Do they call you ‘Lucky’?”

  “Astonishingly enough, they do not.”

  Again, she laughed, as she stepped up into the carriage. He let her go, still feeling her warmth and weight, and watched as she arranged her cloak and skirt and sat back, looking about her with delight. She had blankets, as well as a basket of food and dri
nk, and the company of the orchids.

  She smiled back at him. “Gilbert says you will travel by horseback, and not in the carriage with me.”

  “I daresay you will find the plants’ conversation more stimulating than my own.”

  “Oh, you’re not that bad,” she said cheerfully. “I could almost enjoy talking to you.”

  He could travel with her, he supposed. It would be more comfortable riding in the carriage than on horseback. They could chat, or not. She could come up with nonsense, and he could pretend not to be amused. He could simply look at her.

  Rafe stepped back, slammed the carriage door shut, and made for his horse with such briskness that the startled creature shied away.

  A day riding did little to improve Lord Luxborough’s disposition, Thea observed, when they stopped at an inn for the night. Without giving Thea so much as a nod, he left the men to deal with the carriage and strode inside.

  The innkeeper took one look at the earl and greeted him as “my lord.” Scowling, Luxborough insisted that he was Mr. Cross, traveling with Mrs. Cross, and demanded separate rooms. The innkeeper began to protest, but a quelling look persuaded him that he could find some rooms, if his lordship, that is, Mr. Cross, didn’t mind waiting.

  “We’ll wait in the private parlor,” Luxborough said, and marched straight for it.

  The innkeeper scuttled after him. “I’m afraid it’s occupied, m’lord, I mean, Mr. Cross. You see, a small party—”

  “Tell them to get out.”

  Luxborough threw open the door and froze, aghast. Thea hurried to his side to see what horror lay within. A horror indeed: four women and two children, nearly all of who were weeping.

  “What the hell is this?”

  The earl shot a furious look at the innkeeper, as though the man had pinched the women to make them cry, purely for his inconvenience. Then one of the children, eyes on Luxborough, cried, “Auntie, it’s the Devil come for us!” and emitted an ear-piercing scream.

  Luxborough slammed the door shut.

  “Some kind of tragedy, m’lord, I mean, Mr. Cross,” the innkeeper whispered. “They can’t afford the parlor, but I put them there so as not to upset everyone. Weeping women puts people right off their food, it does. It’s the economics of it, m’lord, I mean, Mr. Cross. A man’s got to think of his economics. But if your lordship insists. I mean, Mr. Cross. Sir.”

  The innkeeper flashed a worried smile at Thea, who tried to return it. Luxborough made a growling sound and dug out some coins.

  “How’s this for your blasted economics? This’ll cover the cost of the parlor for them,” he said irritably. “And send them in food and drink too.”

  The innkeeper eagerly took the coins. “Too kind, m’lord, I mean, Mr. Cross. Now, wait one shake of my tail and I’ll have a table cleared in the main tavern.”

  “In a corner,” Luxborough called as the man bustled away. “I don’t want any attention on us.”

  He drew a deep breath and rubbed one shoulder.

  “That was very kind of you,” Thea said tentatively.

  “Least I could do after terrifying the children.” For the first time since they stopped, he looked at her, a surprising glint of humor in his expression. “But let the record show that the women were already crying before they saw me.”

  “Actually, they stopped crying when they saw you.”

  “That’s me,” he agreed glumly. “Bringer of good cheer.”

  But his unexpected good humor faded in the doorway to the tavern. It was full of rowdy ale-cheered travelers. The air was smoky from pipes and thick with the smells of stew and, well, travelers.

  “This is hell.” Luxborough massaged the back of his neck. “These people. This talking.”

  “It’s a normal tavern,” Thea pointed out. “And you don’t seem shy.”

  “I’m not. People exhaust me.” He shook his head at the room. “Forget fire and brimstone. Hell is eternity stuck in a stuffy, smoky tavern full of loud Englishmen determined to enjoy themselves, despite having nothing but bland stew, warm ale, and each other.” He slid her a sideways glance. “But you cannot go in alone, can you?”

  “No.”

  “Right. Hell.”

  Shaking his head, he shoved through the crowd to where the innkeeper had cleared them a table by one wall.

  No sooner had they sat than a serving woman brought them food and drink. Thea, hungry and happy not to dine alone, showed her gratitude by not talking, despite Luxborough’s new provoking manner of casting her thoughtful glances.

  As soon as their plates were empty, the server—perhaps paying them special attention because of the economics—quickly cleared their table and refilled their drinks, after which Luxborough abruptly said, “Your sister.”

  Thea’s hand jerked and wine sloshed onto the table.

  “My sister?” she squeaked, busily wiping up the spill.

  “Dorothea, I believe, is her name.”

  “Ah. Yes. Thea. Right.”

  “Rumor has it she developed a scheme of seducing noblemen in an effort to trap one into marriage,” he said. “But she tried it with more than one at a time and they found out.”

  How very succinct he was, Thea thought, and poked at a remaining droplet of wine.

  “So what is the full story?” he asked.

  She looked up, startled. “You want to hear the story?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Oh. Only Arabella had ever asked her for the story. Warm pleasure spread through her like wine, and she sat back to consider her approach. How odd to narrate her own story as if it had happened to someone else. Unless—yes! She would be like the narrator in her pamphlet, telling the tale not of Thea Knight but of the heroine, Rosamund.

  “Very well,” she said. “I shall tell you the tale of…a winsome lass.”

  “Winsome?” He regarded her skeptically. “Do you even know what that means?”

  “Of course I do.”

  She’d never given it much thought. Winsome was just one of those things that lasses were.

  “How is, ah, Thea winsome?”

  “Um. Because she win some, lose some.”

  “I’m sorry I asked.” He briefly closed his eyes. “Very, very sorry.”

  Drunk on his interest, Thea laughed. “Anyway,” she continued, using her hands for dramatic emphasis. “This winsome lass is attending a picnic, and—”

  And she waved her arms, slamming her knuckles into the wall. Ouch. She could not tell her story like this, hemmed in as she was. She pushed back her chair and stood.

  “What are you doing?” Luxborough snapped. “Sit down.”

  “I need space to tell the story.”

  “No, you don’t. You sit in your chair and talk. It’s really quite simple.”

  “But I can’t…” The chair dug into the back of her knees and she pushed it back further. “I need—”

  “’Ere you,” came a male voice from behind her. “Wotcha think yer doin’ then, eh?”

  Thea spun around, mortified to realize she had jostled the man at the next table.

  “I do beg your pardon, sir,” she said. “But I am telling a story and I need space.”

  “Oh, I like a good story,” said the man. “What’s this story about then?”

  “No story,” Luxborough called sternly. “You, man, turn around. You, wife, sit down.”

  Thea and the man ignored him. “It’s about a winsome lass,” Thea said.

  “Oh, I like a winsome lass. And the theatre. I saw Miss Sarah Holloway perform in London once, years ago. Splendid actress. Shame she disappeared. But I do like a nice spot of theatre after a day on the road.”

  “This isn’t theatre,” Thea hastened to correct him. “I’m just telling a story to my, um, to him.”

  But the man was already shuffling back his chair so he could hear her story too. In doing so, he upset his whole table.

  “Oi, Joe,” cried the people at the table. “Watch what you’re doing.”

/>   “Make some space,” said the man named Joe. “This lady here is telling us a story. There’ll be some theatre tonight.”

  The people at the table welcomed this news loudly, for they, too, liked a spot of theatre after a day on the road.

  “What’s this story about, then?” one of them asked.

  “It’s about a winsome lass,” said the man named Joe. “Who—” He turned back to Thea. “What happens to this winsome lass?”

  A dozen keen faces turned to her. People stuck in a coaching inn, after a long day of tiresome travel, desperate to be entertained. Thea risked a glance at the earl, who was looking murderous. Everything was fine there, then.

  “She is cruelly wronged by a pair of dastardly knaves,” she told her new audience.

  “Boo, poor thing,” said the people. “Let’s hear this story, then.”

  They shoved back their table, its feet scraping on the floor, to rearrange their chairs. This upset other patrons, but they were soon mollified by the news that they were about to get a story, and everyone liked a spot of theatre after a day on the road.

  “What are you all doing?” asked the innkeeper, bustling in. “Messing up my room. It’s not good for my economics.”

  Several patrons informed him that this fine lady was going to tell them a story.

  “This is the taproom, not a theatre.” The innkeeper jerked his chin at Luxborough. “If people are watching theatre, they’re not talking. And if they’re not talking, they’re not drinking. It’s the economics of it, m’lord, I mean, Mr. Cross. A man’s got to think of his economics.”

  With more dark muttering about hell, Luxborough offered another handful of coins. “Get them all drinks.”

  It didn’t take long to refresh everyone’s drinks and clear a space for Thea. Luxborough lounged against the wall, apparently resigned to this hellish development, and Thea considered how to proceed. Her family, like many households, enjoyed performing plays at home to while away the evenings, but it was another matter to perform alone.

  She was still considering how to begin when the man named Joe, who had started all of this, bounded onto a chair and hushed the crowd.

  “Friends and fellow travelers, listen well,” he said in a rich voice, waving his arms with pleasing dramatic effect. “For tonight’s theatre performance, this fine young lady will tell us the story of a winsome lass—”