My Kind of Earl

by Vivienne Lorret

  During the previous two days he’d spent apart from her, he’d gone back to Moll’s to see if she’d grant him admittance again. She did. After hearing the rumors about his birth, she’d decided to let bygones be bygones. And before he knew it, he was in the parlor with Hester and Venetia on his lap, ready to give him the warmest of welcomes.

  Strangely, their cloying perfumes had soured his stomach. Their skillful caresses had made his skin prickle unpleasantly, their hands not nearly as soft as a kitten’s underbelly. He’d tried to ignore it, to immerse himself in the wicked delights they’d promised him with heated whispers as they’d nibbled his ears. But time and again, his gaze had strayed to that shadowed alcove in the corner of the room.

  Like it or not, all he wanted was Jane.

  So he’d paid the girls handsomely for their conversation and left, knowing that he wouldn’t return.

  He thought about Jane at all hours. He couldn’t eat without thinking of the sweet taste of her mouth. He couldn’t sleep while her scent still lingered in his bedchamber. Hell, he couldn’t even don his clothes without remembering the way her body had felt against his.

  In short, he’d become obsessed, lust-addled, and irritable.

  For the past few days he’d been ready to bite the head off of anyone who even looked at him sideways, let alone those who muttered under their breath that he was a charlatan and a pretender.

  The fact that he still felt like a fraud only made it worse.

  All the lessons were starting to make him feel the same as when he’d dressed the part of a gent in order to be allowed into Moll Dawson’s. Because of that, he’d stopped his visits to Warrister, as well.

  He needed a respite to gather his thoughts about where all this was going. Even though he liked spending time with the old man and hearing tales about young Edgar Northcott and his penchant for mischief, Raven had no desire to become part of the aristocracy. He’d spent too many years abhorring it.

  He’d told Warrister countless times that all he wanted was to connect the puzzle pieces of his life, and to find out where he came from. But the earl kept pushing for more.

  He wanted to introduce him to society. What a joke!

  If the past week of taunts and jeers had taught him anything, it was that society didn’t want him. Gents who’d never bothered him before were now issuing insults, begging to draw him into a fight.

  Even tonight, as he passed by the faro tables, he heard, “Look, there, at that pretender. He is the very mongrel I spoke of earlier.”

  “The one trying to rise above his station?”

  “Indeed. Though it is clear by his brutish posture and bestial gait that he is more animal than man, and certainly no member of the nobility.”

  The pair of haughty gents had raised their voices to ensure they were heard. But Raven didn’t give them the satisfaction of responding.

  Gritting his teeth, he walked on with his head high.

  But he hated that Sterling’s had become a constant episode of confrontation. Even the ushers and croupiers were treating him differently, some with obvious disdain and others with tongue-tied awe.

  If there was anyone who understood these daily provocations it was Reed Sterling. Unfortunately, he’d been at his country estate for the past week and hadn’t yet heard the news. Or so Raven thought before he walked into his office the afternoon of his return.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” Raven began the instant he crossed the threshold. In the back of his mind, however, he imagined how Jane would chide him for such a greeting.

  She’d spent an afternoon’s lesson on the intricacies of polite tête-à-têtes. But she’d been wearing a plum-colored frock that had distracted him with thoughts of jam and kissing, and his contributions to their conversation had been more on the wicked side of things.

  Bollocks. He was thinking about her again. He really had to stop doing that.

  With a shake of his head, he offered a politely grumbled, “I hope your journey was without incident.”

  Seated at his desk with the account ledgers splayed in front of him, Reed Sterling looked at him with a bemused grin. “It was, thank you. And, now that you’ve dispensed with your uncharacteristic niceties, why don’t you just tell me what you came in here to say.”

  “Very well, then,” he said, shifting from one foot to the other. “I’ve recently uncovered a few details about my origins. And it seems that there’s a possibility that I might have been born to”—he paused to draw in a deep breath and prepare for the inevitable mockery—“aristocrats.”

  Reed didn’t laugh or even snicker. He merely nodded and looked shrewdly across the desk. “I’d heard a rumor. Apparently, you’re all the talk at my wife’s matrimonial agency. There were so many young debutantes asking about you that she had to start a file.”

  Raven cursed and cringed. It was even worse than he imagined. “Please burn it, I beg of you. I’ve no intention of entering society. And, to be honest, none of this is indisputable.”

  Briefly, he ran through the paltry list of things that may or may not prove his identity. No matter how it had felt to see the portrait, he knew that this could still just be a series of coincidences.

  After all, there were still some rather important questions that needed answers. If Edgar and Arabelle Northcott were his parents, then why hadn’t he died in the fire, too? And, for that matter, who had abandoned him on the foundling home’s doorstep?

  “It seems enough for the Earl of Warrister to believe it. So, why don’t you?”

  “It should be obvious,” Raven quantified, straightening his shoulders. “Surely you haven’t forgotten that you were the one who found me beaten, shot and left for dead three years ago. My life has been one scrape after another. It took forever to finally become the man I am. That isn’t something I’m willing to give up just to pretend to be someone else.”

  Before coming here, his life had been controlled by other people—the beadle, Mr. Mayhew; Devil Devons; then Devons’s widow. But that all changed three years ago. He’d been free to make his own decisions. He’d found a place where he fit, where, until recently, he’d felt valued.

  Did he truly want to give all that up just to enter into another life where he was controlled by obligation and the same high society who already despised him?

  “You can’t close the lid on Pandora’s box,” Sterling said, matter-of-fact. “And you can’t keep your life the way you had it before. No man can. Refusing to acknowledge change is like shadowboxing. There’s nothing to be gained from it.”

  Raven knew that. But everything was changing too fast and he couldn’t gain a foothold.

  For the past week, he’d been beleaguered by incessant knocking at his door, and each day there were heaps of calling cards stuffed in through the crack above the threshold. How did people live like this with no peace and no privacy?

  “You seem to keep a foot in both worlds easily enough,” he said with a jerk of his chin and accusation in his tone.

  Sterling chuckled and crossed his arms over his chest. “Perhaps you’ve mistaken contentment for ease. I will completely admit to the former. I’ve never been happier since I married Ainsley, but her world isn’t always easy to navigate—the dinners, the parties, the calling hours.”

  “The calling hours,” Raven muttered with a disparaging shake of his head. It seemed that every hour he tried to sleep was a calling hour.

  “Aye. And there are different rules for peers, too. Especially the women. One false move and ruination not only befalls her but her entire family.” He paused as if carefully sifting through his next words. “From our previous conversation, I hazard to guess that Miss Pickerington is still assisting you?”

  Raven stiffened, having a sense of where this was leading. “I’ve no intention of ruining her.”

  “Does that mean you have . . . other intentions in mind?” If Sterling’s brow hadn’t flicked with amusement, they might have had words. “An encounter or two with a deb
utante and suddenly you’re thinking of matrimony? Please, I beg of you, don’t. Ainsley would see this as an excuse to paste bulletins for her agency all over my building again, believing that everyone here needed to find a match.”

  The tension Raven felt abruptly lessened, remembering when Sterling was at war with his neighbor, before she became his wife. “Rest assured, Sterling’s facade is safe. I’ll never marry in the first place, and least of all a hoity-toity debutante.”

  Yet, as he said the words, a voice in the back of his mind told him that Jane had never acted like a snobbish, high-society deb.

  She was different from the rest. She never turned up her nose at him. She didn’t put on airs. In fact, there wasn’t anything fake or deceptive about her. She was driven by logic and a need to understand the world around her. And there was something altogether appealing about the way she murmured to herself and how her eyes glinted when she had one of her epiphanies.

  “Then again, who knows?” Sterling said with a mysterious air, pulling him out of his thoughts. “You may change your mind in the future if that grin means anything. I’ll say this, however: the rewards of marrying the right woman far surpass the trials along the way.”

  Only then did Raven realize that the corner of his mouth was curled upward. Because he was thinking about Jane. Bloody hell!

  Abruptly, he frowned. When would this obsession end?

  Sterling unfolded from his chair and walked around his desk to clasp Raven on the shoulder with something like brotherly affection. “Why don’t you take a few days away from here and get things settled.”

  Raven surprised himself by agreeing with a nod. Perhaps all he needed was a couple of days to himself. That should set matters to rights.

  “Just know this,” Sterling added. “No matter what you choose to do, now or in the future, you have my unwavering support. Always.”

  A sudden wealth of appreciation tightened Raven’s chest. He cleared his throat to hide it. “I’m glad of that. I might need your infamous right hook if Duncan Pickerington asks me one more time if he should call me ‘my lord.’”

  * * *

  “Well, what does the Earl of Warrister call him when he visits?” Ellie asked as they sat on the jonquil settee in the upper gallery of the Earl of Dovermere’s ballroom.

  Jane looked down to smooth her skirts—a regrettable shade of yellow that perfectly blended into her surroundings. She must look like a disembodied head. Which likely explained the odd looks she’d received from gentlemen. Though, at first, she’d imagined she was about to be asked to dance. How foolish of her.

  Then again, she wasn’t in the mood to dance.

  It had been six entire days since she’d seen Raven. In that time, she could have sworn that the earth’s rotation had slowed and the days grew longer. She’d even checked the mechanics of all the clocks in the house to be sure they were functioning properly. Regrettably, they were.

  “I’m not certain. I’ve only met with the earl that one day, and I haven’t seen Raven to inquire with him. Not since the middle of last week.”

  Jane thought she’d kept the disconsolation from her tone . . . until Ellie reached over to squeeze her hand.

  “I’m sure he’s quite busy, settling in to a new life.”

  “Of course,” Jane agreed distractedly, watching the dancers twirl beneath the chandeliers to a three-quarter beat waltz. “And I have been quite busy as well. Not only have I been writing notes for my portion of the book, but I’ve been preparing the children for their examinations, which they will take before December is upon us and the older boys are home.”

  “Will they return before the Marquess of Aversleigh’s ball in a fortnight, do you think?”

  “I’m not certain, though I hope they will. I always love to see Theodore, Graham and Henry’s faces flood with color when you remark on how much they’ve grown, especially while they are within earshot of the young ladies they try to impress,” Jane said with a small laugh. She expected Ellie to laugh as well, but instead she looked stricken. “What is it?”

  “I just recalled that Aversleigh’s ball will include a number of tradesmen and officers. Apparently, they are relations of his lordship’s future son-in-law.” Ellie’s shoulders slumped on a sigh. “I cannot imagine your parents permitting any of you to attend such a party.”

  Sadly, it was true. Lord and Lady Hollybrook did not condone mingling with commoners.

  “The rest of society is gradually altering their views, and yet my parents still want their children to marry up in the peerage and in wealth, or not at all. At least, that’s what they should like of their eldest daughter. I’m to set an example, after all.” As my uncle has so recently reminded me, she thought grudgingly. “Though if my parents could even name each of their children in order, I’d eat my slippers.”

  “Then why is it so important to them? After all, they married for love, did they not? At least, that’s what everyone suspects, due to their number of offspring.”

  Jane wasn’t convinced that procreation and love were one in the same, and was still hoping to find existential proof of the latter. She kept the thought to herself, however.

  Flicking her fingers against a stray feather that had drifted to her glove from a passing matron’s turban, she answered Ellie’s first question. “I’m sure their decision has something to do with my uncle’s scandal. Family pride, you know. Even though he was sent off to debtor’s prison years ago, they are forever willing to entertain, to fawn, and to do whatever they have to in order to keep the ton from remembering it.”

  “Mmm,” Ellie mused, cascading through the blank ivory tiles of the dance card tied at her wrist. “But with tradesmen and officers invited, Aversleigh’s ball will surely be a rousing event. And I know that George plans to attend. He has already agreed to at least two dances with me.”

  “Quite promising,” Jane remarked absently, her thoughts straying.

  She was thinking about the fact that her friend had been in love with George, the Marquess of Nethersole, all her life. But did Ellie have proof of this all-consuming certainty?

  Likely not, Jane decided after a moment. Her friend also made wishes on falling stars, but cared very little about the properties of meteorites. A romantic-minded person wasn’t the best resource to provide substantiated evidence, she was sure.

  Even now, Ellie was gazing at the chandeliers as if they were stars about to fall.

  “I hope that George has sown his oats at last. I want him to see me as more than just his neighbor.” She released a slow breath as if she’d finished an incantation. Then, her cheeks pinkened slightly as she glanced at Jane and issued a helpless shrug. “If he isn’t, however, at least there will be officers aplenty to distract me. If you were to attend, we would have our pick of partners, I should think.”

  Again, Jane’s thoughts were distracted. Even if she were able to attend, the only person she would want to dance with would not be there.

  But then, she sat up straighter as an idea occurred to her. “Officers and tradesmen . . . In such company, any small slip of manners would be completely ignored. Therefore, one would think that such a setting would be the perfect foray into society, particularly for someone who might be a bit . . . savage from time to time.”

  Not only that, but if Raven attended such a party, perhaps that would show him how well the two worlds could mingle and find acceptance with each other. The more she thought about it, the more she was determined to make it happen.

  “You don’t mean that he could make his first public appearance at Aversleigh’s ball as”—Ellie paused to draw in a dramatic breath—“Merrick Northcott?”

  A few heads turned in their direction, eyes glinting with undisguised, rapacious curiosity.

  Jane quickly affected a laugh as if her friend had made the most outlandish jest. She gritted her teeth in a semblance of a smile and murmured, “Of course not. Whyever would you think such a thing?”

  But the damage had been done.


  A roiling sea of busybody whispers rose and fell in waves as it descended from the gallery, down the stairs, past the refreshment table, crashing over the dancers. In seconds, everyone was talking about it. Newton’s apple!

  “Oops,” Ellie said.

  Jane expelled a patient breath. Any careful plotting she might have done was now out of her hands. There was only one thing left to do. “Come on then. Let’s go downstairs. I’m going to need to send two letters of warning post haste.”

  Chapter 21

  Raven’s quest for peace and solitude fell apart the instant he answered a knock at the kitchen door two days later. The beanpole valet on the other side declared that his services were a gift from the Earl of Warrister.

  A gift Raven was apparently unable to return.

  He didn’t know why he bothered to let the man in. And no matter how much Raven ranted, Mr. Sanders simply wouldn’t stop poking through his wardrobe and trying to improve his appearance.

  “I’m fine just as I am,” he barked as Sanders tried to strangle him with an ink-marked tailor’s tape.

  “Of course, sir. However, his lordship believes that you should have a fresh suit of clothes before he introduces you to the Marquess of Aversleigh, along with proper attire for the ball. Now, if I could just finish the measurements . . .”

  “The Marquess of—” Raven cursed.

  At once, he knew who to blame for this persistent pestering. Just this morning, he’d found a letter on the foyer floor. He never would have given it a second look if the paper hadn’t been stained with a familiar shade of beet-powder pink.

  Curiosity had compelled him to open it.

  My dearest Raven,

  You are very likely to growl as you read further.

  By circumstances quite beyond my control, there is now a rumor running rampant that you will attend the Marquess of A—h’s ball in order to present yourself to society.

  Yes, I know you did not intend to make such a debut. However, I must lay the blame partially at your feet. If you had answered the door when I sent a servant with several urgent missives (or, better yet, stopped being so stubborn and employed a butler), this might have all been put to rest. Yet, because of your inaccessibility during these past twenty-four hours, this rumor has spent too long on the lips of the ton. They are rabidly foaming at the mouths for a chance to look at you.