A Beastly Kind of Earl

by Mia Vincy

  Neither of them mentioned that small kiss; it might have never happened, except that when he was near, Thea could feel that kiss bouncing around inside her, and her fingers itched to touch him again. For all that he had called her desirable, he betrayed no evidence of desire now. Sometimes she thought he was looking at her, but then his eyes were elsewhere and she scolded herself for imagining things.

  Alone in the carriage, her thoughts kept wandering back to Luxborough, but she could not enjoy such thoughts for long before recalling that he was a villain and she was a trickster, so each time, she ruthlessly turned her mind to imagining his house at Brinkley End. This task was hampered by her limited experience of aristocratic country estates, but, fortuitously, she boasted extensive knowledge of Gothic novels on which to draw.

  The house would, naturally, be grim and dark, with secret passageways, haunted dungeons, and a locked tower. The butler, whose name would be Carrion or Skull or something similarly promising, would have skin and eyes as cold and white as a dead fish, and the housekeeper, Sally Holt, would compensate for her vexingly ordinary name by being black-clad and skeletal, with a cruel smile and the intently sinister gaze of a crow.

  Thea so excelled at this game that she felt genuine disappointment that the sun broke through the rain clouds as they turned into the drive; she had hoped to arrive during a thunderstorm. Furthermore, the driveway did not look at all encouraging, for the road was well maintained and lined with stately, handsome trees, their leaves glossy from the recent rain. And when the house came into view, Thea huffed with dismay, for it was so unsporting as to appear not only perfectly normal, but perfectly lovely to boot.

  The moment the carriage came to a stop, Thea tumbled out onto the gravel. As always, her eyes went straight to Lord Luxborough, but he was handing his horse off to a groom, so she resolutely turned and scowled at the manse. Its smooth walls, which rose some four stories, were charmingly dotted with ornamental windows and topped by picturesque Italianate balustrades. It was not huge—not nearly on the scale of Arabella’s family pile—but it was grand enough to put on an impressive show, as the late-afternoon sun bathed the elegant gray stone in a golden glow. Jolly green vines clambered up the side walls, and bay windows on the ground floor glinted welcomingly.

  “That’s a fierce frown, Countess,” Luxborough remarked as he came to stand at her side. She had not been aware of the cool breeze until his large body blocked it. “Is the house not to your liking?”

  “It’s not even old,” she complained.

  “I never said it was.”

  “It should be old and crumbling and gloomy, with mad monks and bats and ghosts.” She shook her head. “Honestly, Luxborough. How do you manage to stay so grumpy when you live in such a beautiful place?”

  “An overabundance of natural talent, I suppose.”

  He slid her a sideways look, laughter gleaming in his tired, brandy-colored eyes, and Thea fought hard not to smile and hug his arm. The wind was teasing his curls under his hat, and his closeness stirred more of those delicious sensations under her skin.

  “It has quite spoiled my fun,” she said. “I was determined to have a perfectly horrid time here, but it is not nearly terrifying enough.”

  “I apologize for failing to provide more miserable accommodations. If it would please you, I could hire someone to wander the corridors at night, moaning and rattling chains.”

  She sighed. “It is kind of you to offer, but I should not like to put anyone to trouble. I suppose I shall simply have to enjoy myself instead.”

  “And you certainly have a talent for that.”

  His tone was dry, but his look was warm, and that combination so confused her that she forgot to breathe. Then he was busying himself with removing his hat and freeing his hair, and she found enough air to say, “It’s easy enough. When it is so very lovely here.”

  “I suppose it is.”

  “You suppose? Had you not noticed?”

  “It’s been here all my life,” he said carelessly. “And I passed my youth wanting to escape.”

  Oh, but he was impossible, not to realize what he had! Suddenly irritated with him, Thea skipped away to the edge of the lawn, which sloped down to an enormous ornamental lake. Waterbirds drifted over its surface, and a Roman-style folly beckoned from a small island in the middle.

  “Can one bathe in the lake?” she called.

  “Of course. I swim most days when the weather permits. Down the end is a secluded area for women, sheltered by the willows.”

  “What is in that folly on the island?”

  “Take a boat out and see.”

  “Oh, will you row me out there?”

  “Row yourself. Plenty of rowboats in the boathouse.”

  “Very well, I shall.”

  A plague on him. She did not need his company, and neither did she need a Gothic atmosphere. The Rules of Mischief demanded that she enjoy herself, so she would think of Brinkley End as a pleasure garden, created for her entertainment; she would pass a merry old time these few days, and leave without a backward glance.

  “I shall swim and learn to row and…”

  Looking about, her gaze snagged on an empty wagon on the other side of the driveway. A large piebald horse stood between the shafts, snorting and stamping its feet.

  “And I shall learn to drive, too,” Thea announced, and dashed toward the horse and cart.

  But the horse did not like this idea; it threw up its head and bared its huge yellow teeth. Then Luxborough was there, catching her around the waist and gently pulling her away. She was so surprised she could not resist, what with the firm heat of his hands, and his bulk at her back, and his woodsy scent that made her think of cozy nights by the fire.

  “Careful,” he said, his breath tickling her ear. “Tatworth’s horse is a mean old brute.”

  “It won’t be mean to me,” she protested, but she stayed nestled against him anyway.

  “I fear the horse will be immune to your charms, even if the rest of us are not.”

  Before she could pursue the fascinating topic of her charms and his susceptibility to them, he released her and moved away, a chill shivering over her back from his absence. Another thing not to think about; she was developing such a colossal list that it would require all her faculties merely to remember what she must forget.

  “At any rate,” he went on, more brusquely, “the cart belongs to Dick Tatworth, a deliveryman from Bristol. Ask one of the grooms to take you out in the pony gig. Ah, there’s Tatworth now.”

  He was looking toward the nearby woods, which were separated from the garden by a stream. A stone footbridge spanned the stream; beyond it, a path disappeared between the trees. Crossing the footbridge were two people: a small, ruddy-cheeked man in a tattered greatcoat, and a taller woman with dark skin, wearing a pink dress, with a matching pink bandeau wound around her short black hair.

  Excellent. Another distraction.

  “Is that the housekeeper Sally Holt?”

  “No. That’s Martha Flores. She works here too.”

  “What does she do?”

  “You ask more questions than a child.”

  “If you offered information, I wouldn’t need to ask. What’s in the woods?”

  “Nothing.”

  Thea set off toward the woods, but Luxborough barreled around in front of her, blocking her view with his body made for hugging and sheltering.

  “You had better not go into those woods,” he said.

  “The woods are forbidden?” she asked eagerly.

  “Very forbidden.”

  “Are they dark and dangerous and full of monsters?”

  “No, they are just forbidden.” His expression was severe, and he stood as unmoving and unmovable as a watchtower. “This is my one rule: Do not cross that footbridge or go into those woods. There are a hundred acres of woodland on the other side of the lake, as well as fifty acres of gardens and two thousand acres of farmland and orchards. Go anywhere you please, but no
t through there.”

  “So that is where you bury the bodies of your victims,” she said lightly.

  Though she spoke in jest, a darkly bleak expression crossed his face. He pivoted away from her, and when she saw his face again, the look was gone.

  Thea was fumbling for words when someone yelled, “Dick Tatworth!”

  She turned to see a newcomer striding around from the rear of the house. At first glance, Thea assumed the newcomer was a man, given the outfit of breeches and boots, with a black waistcoat over a white shirt, but at second glance—

  “That’s a woman!” she said.

  Sun glinted off the woman’s red hair, which was gathered in a fat coil at the back of her head. Her clothing must have been tailored to her measurements, for Thea couldn’t imagine a man having such a curvy shape.

  “So it is.”

  Thea clutched Luxborough’s arm. “And she’s holding a gun!”

  “So she is.”

  What’s more, the woman was pointing the gun at the deliveryman, her arm straight and steady as she marched at him, scolding him in a strong, rich voice.

  “Dick Tatworth, you rotten cad, I’ll skin you alive and feed your meat to the dogs.”

  “Calm down, missus,” that man stuttered, hands raised as he stumbled toward his wagon. “We can talk about this all sensible like.”

  Lord Luxborough did not seem even mildly perturbed by the unfolding drama, and Martha Flores only ducked behind the gun-toting woman to watch the spectacle with interest.

  “What’s going on?” Thea realized she was squeezing his arm and released him. “Do you mean to intervene?”

  “She seems to have this in hand.”

  The red-haired woman continued her advance. “You think you can dally with one of my maids? You think her lack of family means she’s not protected? I protect my own.”

  “She’s lying!” the man shrieked, his ruddy cheeks turning ruddier. “I never.”

  “You never what?”

  “Whatever she said I did, I didn’t.”

  “You think I don’t know you have one wife in Bristol and another in Bath? Be gone, Dick Tatworth, before I shoot you in the bollocks and let you explain that to all your wives.”

  Luxborough and Thea jumped aside, as Dick Tatworth leaped into his wagon and spurred his horse to a swift escape. The woman lowered the pistol and handed it to Martha Flores.

  Thea could hardly drag her eyes off her. If only she could do that! She could see herself now, pointing a gun at Percy Russell in that cool, confident way, while Percy spluttered and ran. She must learn to shoot while she was here, too.

  “She is splendid,” Thea breathed. “Who is that?”

  “Sally Holt,” Luxborough said.

  “That’s your housekeeper?”

  He shrugged. “I did warn you she is eccentric.”

  With a call to Sally over his shoulder, Rafe took Thea’s elbow and tried to usher her toward the house. This was made difficult because she kept twisting to look back at Sally, as if she couldn’t get enough of her.

  “Show’s over,” he snapped, irritated both by Thea’s blatant admiration and by his new tendency to find excuses to touch her. “You’ll find walking easier if you face forward.”

  Thea looked up at him, her face bright with excitement. Blast her and her talent for delight. It was not only infectious, but addictive. For all Rafe’s grumbling during their trip, he kept looking out for sights she might enjoy. Even now he was tempted to be the one to show Thea the house and estate, if only to watch her face light up at each discovery. And after each new delight, she would seek another, and another, always seeking something new. He would do well to remember that. A man could run himself ragged offering novelties in an effort to keep her happy, and never succeeding for more than a day.

  The sooner he handed Thea over to Sally and forgot about her existence, the better.

  “Why does Sally Holt wear men’s clothing?” Thea asked in a low voice.

  “Because she wants to, I suppose.”

  “And you don’t mind? Arabella’s mother would have a fit.”

  “If you had met some of the people I’ve met in the world, you’d understand why I do not care a penny what my housekeeper wears.”

  “I cannot wait to see the butler.” She turned her eager gaze toward the front door. “What does he wear?”

  “No butler.”

  “Why not?”

  “He objected to Sally and said either he went or she went, and I said fine. She manages without one.”

  “Why did you choose her over him?”

  Rafe hesitated, not sure how to explain Sally. He released Thea’s elbow and settled on saying, “Her father was the local schoolteacher, and she has lived here most of her life.”

  It was simpler not to say the rest: that as a girl, Sally Holt had been unexceptional, except for her beauty, which she attempted to conceal under plain gowns, unflattering caps, and a deferential manner. But in the six years between Katharine’s death and Rafe’s return—that period when Rafe went into the selva to hunt orchids and avoid the world—polite Miss Holt had transformed into a woman who said what she pleased, dressed as she pleased, and eyed the world as if she wished to deal it a good hard slap.

  Rafe had never asked Sally what happened in those years that made her change so, and she never volunteered the information. By tacit agreement, they never mentioned Katharine at all.

  Thea threw another glance over her shoulder, and said, “Oh, she’s coming,” and stopped short. Rafe had to stop too.

  “My apologies for losing you a deliveryman, my lord, but I will protect the girls at any cost,” Sally said, as she approached. Her words were for Rafe, but her eyes did not leave Thea. “I trust I did not frighten you, my lady.”

  “Not at all.”

  “That was not how I intended your first impression of Brinkley End. The staff were to be lined up outside to greet you. But then the maidservant was weeping and… I shall call the staff now, if you wish, my lady.”

  Rafe frowned at this unexpected version of Sally. She seemed almost anxious to please. Surely not.

  “Do not trouble yourself, Mrs. Holt,” Thea said graciously. “I was very impressed. It is much more important to protect the maid.”

  “Thank you, my lady. And I prefer just ‘Sally,’ if you do not object to the informality.”

  How unusual. Sally never sought his opinion on such matters. Rafe tried to catch Sally’s eye but to no avail, for she was still talking to Thea, saying, “We are delighted to welcome you to Brinkley End. Lord Luxborough said he would never marry again, but I have long hoped he would.”

  “You have?” Rafe asked.

  The two women ignored him. “I trust you find everything to your liking, my lady,” Sally went on. “I will happily make any changes you require.”

  “No need,” Rafe interrupted. “She will not interfere.”

  “Of course not,” Thea agreed cheerfully. “Interfering would be work, and the best countesses never work.” She turned her bright smile on Sally. “Feed me at regular intervals and I shall be no trouble at all.”

  No trouble? Thea? Ha! She created trouble simply by standing in one place, her hair troubling him to run his fingers through it, the fastening of her cloak troubling him to release it.

  Such trouble made Rafe’s arms restless, so he waved at the far side of the house. “Sally has prepared an apartment for you in the west wing. You have ample space in your rooms for your meals and everything else you need.”

  “My meals?” she said sharply.

  “Feeding at regular intervals.”

  “But what about you?”

  “I also feed at regular intervals.”

  “You expect me to take my meals alone in my room?”

  Wounded bewilderment haunted her tone and eyes. No, he would not feel guilty or offer her comfort. He was not here for her passing entertainment.

  “That’s what I do,” he said.

  “I don
’t like dining alone. People dine together.”

  “I’m not people.”

  She glared at him, but her imperious countess look did not mask her lingering hurt.

  “Get used to it,” he snapped.

  He wheeled about and crunched across the gravel to the carriage, where a groom was lifting a box of orchids. Rafe yanked the box into his arms and strode away, down the path and toward the woods, not looking back.

  Aware of Sally’s watchful gaze, Thea lifted her chin and pretended nothing was amiss. Neither should it be. Lord Luxborough was her adversary—not her friend and certainly not her husband—and she could rely on him for nothing, not even dinner. It was better that he did not behave like an interested husband, because the more questions he asked, the more lies she would have to tell.

  It was just that she had never expected him to dump her like a carriage with a broken wheel.

  Holding onto her pride, Thea sailed past Sally through the front door and tossed aside her cloak and gloves, looking for something to divert her. Easily done: The foyer was pleasingly spacious and symmetrical, with a staircase running up each painting-covered wall. Under the split staircase, a large double door opened onto a courtyard garden. On a pedestal sat a welcoming arrangement of fresh flowers.

  Turning, she spied a trio of maids goggling at her. They giggled, bobbed curtsies, and darted away.

  “Forgive their excitement, my lady,” Sally said, joining her. “Everyone was so happy to hear his lordship was married.”

  “Um.” Thea tried to swallow away her guilt. “That’s very kind.”

  “He has lived alone for a long time. If we served dinner in the dining room, he would have little choice but to dine there with you or starve.”

  Thea had to smile at the housekeeper’s insubordination. How diverting it would be, to conspire with Sally against Luxborough! But Sally was matchmaking and Thea was being silly.