The Earl's American Heiress

by Carol Arens

  In that moment, his heart caved. Clementine Cavill, to his way of thinking, might be a perfect woman.

  What a gift she was, and yet she was as untouchable as the moon.

  “What is it that you want?” He didn’t know. He thought he’d mentioned everything a lady could desire, except the obvious thing.

  Dammit, he had to stop glancing toward the bed.

  “I would like to do what I was doing before—teach.”

  “Teach?” he repeated dumbly, because it was the last thing he’d expected to hear her say. Although, giving it a second of thought, it was exactly what he should have expected.

  “School. I’d like to teach school.” She arched her brows, a clear reaction to his frown. “Instruct children.”

  “I’m afraid that is not possible.”

  “Are there not children in need of instruction?”

  “The young peers have tutors.”

  “What about the children of the servants? Surely in these progressive times, they will require an education.”

  “I’ll need to ask Olivia, but I don’t believe our servants have young children.” On the country estate where life was less formal they did, but not here.

  “I see.” Judging by the way she narrowed her eyes and looked down that elegant nose at him, he suspected that it meant she did not see his point at all.

  “I don’t think that would be—”

  “I’m not asking for this, Heath, I’m demanding it. I will have my way in something.”

  Heaven help him if he wasn’t beginning to fall in love. A thing he could not possibly allow to happen.

  Heath stood up. He cupped her cheek. As soon as he felt the velvet texture, the warmth and the way she turned ever so slightly into his palm, he knew he should not have.

  But she was his wife and he, too, would have his way in something.

  “It is simply not within my power to give you what you ask. If it was I’d give you a whole school full of children.”

  “How perfectly chivalrous.” The sweetness of the moment vanished.

  He turned on his heel, took two steps toward the window and stared out at the garden. It was too dark to see the fountain where they first met, but raindrops reflected the golden light in the room and slid down the pane, a wash of sparkling amber.

  “That sounded pompous and I’m sorry.” He sensed that she had come to stand beside him, because the air felt warmer, smelled like roses. “You have given me everything, Clementine—your hand, your fortune, your future. And I have given you shackles.”

  “Perhaps you ought to have consulted more thoroughly with my grandfather before you married me. He’d have warned you that I don’t do well with shackles.”

  “The truth is, it’s one of the things I appreciate—” more than that, hold dear “—about you. I find that I like your forthright spirit.”

  “And a lucky thing, if we are to make a go of this marriage.” It touched him deeply to see her smile grow warm again. “And as far as the shackles are concerned? My grandfather might also have told you that I take after him in that most of the time, I get what I want.”

  “I doubt that you wanted to be forced to marry me.”

  “And yet,” she murmured softly. “Here I am.”

  And all of a sudden it wasn’t Clementine in shackles, it was him.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning, Clementine stood in front of her grand wardrobe mirror, hoping the simple day gown reflected in the glass was elegant enough for a countess to wear. Her maid would have offered guidance, but Trudy had taken the day off on a family matter.

  No doubt Madeline would know how she ought to dress but—

  “God, protect my cousin,” she whispered and then returned her attention to the problem in front of her.

  As it was, she expected she would only discover the appropriateness of the gown by observing the sidelong glances the servants cast her way.

  Being the granddaughter of a wealthy man was far simpler than bearing a title. As the American Countess of Fencroft, there would be consequences to what she did: gossip over her every word, deed and fashion.

  Picking up her late mother-in-law’s comb from the table, she slid it into her hair. Over her shoulder, the mirror reflected the rumpled blanket lying across the back of the chair where her newly avowed husband had spent the night.

  And what a restless night it had been. She did not believe he’d slept much. She knew this because she also had not. She’d lost count of how many times she peeked up from the pillow to peer at him.

  Every now and again he would twitch like a worm on a hook and she would have to suppress a giggle. In girlish wedding night fantasies, she had never imagined doing that.

  With a pat to her modest hairstyle, Clementine turned from the mirror and walked across the room to the pair of chairs beside the window.

  Picking up the blanket, she brushed it across her nose. While listening to the tap-tapping of rain on the glass, she breathed in the scent of Heath Cavill.

  Rather than being tortured by the chair all night long, he might have gone to his own suite of rooms.

  Might have, had it not been essential for the marriage to be consummated—or appear to have been.

  She was under no delusion that her groom dallied in her room because he could not bear to be apart from her. Oddly, she found she did not mind him being here, no matter the reason.

  Placing the blanket back on the chair, she turned to leave the room, but not before she lingered a second, trailing her fingers over the soft wool.

  It was a lovesick gesture, even though lovesick was the last thing she was.

  Only a fool would allow feelings to grow for a man so quickly. Clementine was wise enough to know that one did not toss one’s heart at the feet of a fellow until she knew he could be trusted to not tread upon it.

  She hadn’t needed Olivia’s wedding night advice to know it. Madeline had demonstrated it in a way that had changed not only her own life but Clementine’s, as well.

  Whatever her cousin’s life was in the moment, she doubted it involved the rascal she had run off with. If it did, Clementine was sure it was not in a good way.

  Out in the grand hallway, she glanced this way and that. It seemed that countess-hood ought to come with a guidebook for those who were not born and raised for the job.

  How was she to occupy her time?

  At the top of the stairs she met a kitchen maid coming up carrying a breakfast tray. The girl curtsied without sloshing warm chocolate over the rim of the cup.

  “Good morning, Lady Fencroft,” she said. “Forgive me for being late. I did not know you were an early riser.”

  Why, it was nearly nine o’clock. As it was, Clementine felt a slugabed for lounging under the covers until eight.

  “No need to apologize, I’m sure.”

  “But did you not wish to take breakfast in bed now that you are a married lady?” The poor girl glanced between her and the breakfast tray in confusion.

  “Oh, why...” Maybe when she understood how things worked, she would write her own rule book for the American heiresses coming after her. “I do appreciate your trouble, but if you wouldn’t mind I would prefer to take breakfast in the conservatory.”

  Back home she preferred the garden, but given that here there were so many rainy days, the indoor garden would suit nicely.

  “Yes, my lady.” The maid curtsied again and turned to go back down the stairs.

  “Thank you, Miss—?”

  “Oh, Mary, ma’am.”

  “I’m sorry to cause you extra work, Mary.”

  “’Tis no trouble at all. Not a bit of it.”

  To Clementine’s way of thinking it was a bit of trouble to carry a tray of food three flights up the stairs.

  “Are you happy working in the kitchen?” When
it came to desirable employment, menial kitchen work was not top rung.

  “Oh, I’m more than grateful for the job, my lady.”

  She followed Mary into the conservatory, noting that being grateful was not the same thing as being happy. Perhaps her job would be to see to the well-being of the staff, making sure that Fencroft House was a pleasant place to work in.

  But perhaps Olivia was already seeing to that. It would not do to take over her sister-in-law’s duties.

  Stepping into the conservatory was a bit like entering an enchanted garden, Clementine decided while sitting at the table where Mary placed her tray.

  With a nod and yet another curtsy, the maid hurried back to her duties in the kitchen.

  Everyone had a function, it seemed. Apparently hers was to be served a luxurious breakfast and thereby provide employment to others.

  Picking up the cup of steaming chocolate, she listened to the sounds enclosed within the glass walls and ceiling.

  She walked over to the glass wall and gazed out at the garden and the apartments across the way.

  Grandfather stood on his balcony, sipping a cup of what she guessed to be coffee. From this distance she could not know for sure, but she thought he was smiling. It occurred to her that this was the first time in her life she had not lived under his roof.

  At least his roof was not far from hers.

  Clementine returned her attention to the conservatory. There must be an aviary tucked among the greenery, because along with the steady pattering of rain, she heard the twitter of small birds.

  From where she sat she could see the terrace and the garden beyond. Out there, past a tall, swaying hedge, was the fountain where she had first met her husband.

  Last night he had mentioned being required to attend Parliament this morning, but he was up and gone so early that she hadn’t had the chance to speak with him about what she was to do with her time today.

  He had suggested shopping. Apparently it was her duty to spread her fortune. While she understood the need of supporting business, she did not intend to pass money about willy-nilly and dump Fencroft back into the ruin she had just rescued it from.

  For now she was going to eat her breakfast and enjoy the great variety of greenery in this room. If she was not mistaken, there were citrus trees growing in a brick-edged planter in the center of the room. Lemon and orange, she thought, judging by the shape of the fruit that was not yet ripe. The trees must be quite old given their great size.

  Funny how much comfort one could take from a common tree. Well, common for Los Angeles, but probably quite rare here.

  Something touched the toe of her shoe. She heard a shuffle, then a giggle.

  Lifting the edge of the tablecloth she peered into a pair of violet-blue eyes.

  “Why, hello,” she said. The young boy’s expression was full of mischief, but sweetly engaging even so. “You are Victor Shaw, are you not?”

  “Noooo...” He shook his head, setting his blond curls a-jiggle. “I’m a cowboy from America.”

  “Oh, I see—and why are you under the table?”

  “Hiding. You can’t tell.”

  “I will do my best not to.”

  “It’s all one can ever do, says Mother.”

  “She is right, of course.”

  “Not all the time. If she was I’d not have that mean old Mrs. Bentley as my governess.”

  “Is that who you are hiding from?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” He put his finger to his lips.

  Just beyond the conservatory doors, Clementine heard Olivia calling for her son.

  She dropped the tablecloth into place at the same time her sister-in-law swept into the room.

  “Victor, is that you under the table?”

  Clementine felt urgent scratching on the toe of her shoe.

  “It’s only a small cowboy under there,” Clementine answered.

  “That’s a relief.” Olivia rolled her eyes heavenward. “I feared it might be the pirate who was hiding under there last week.”

  Olivia yanked up the cloth. “Mrs. Bentley has been looking for you for half an hour. Now back to the nursery with you.”

  “But, Mother—” he scooted out, dragging his knees and pouting “—she wants to make me read and I want to play.”

  “Did you know, Victor, that where I come from even cowboys can read?” Clementine said.

  “Bet pirates can’t.” With his arms folded across his narrow chest and his knees locked, he marched from the conservatory.

  “I daresay not,” Olivia mumbled, a smile teetering at the corners of her mouth. “Such a little scamp.”

  “Oh, but he looks so sweet.”

  “Yes, he’s that, too.”

  “I’ve breakfast enough for a dozen. Won’t you join me?”

  Olivia smiled and sat down. She lathered butter and jam on a piece of toast and ate it quickly.

  “I’ve only a moment. I need to make sure Victor goes back to Mrs. Bentley. It seems my boy can be a handful.”

  “I have the impression he is quite bright.”

  “And imaginative. His habit of running off and hiding has me on edge. I know it’s not likely and Fencroft House is safe enough, but that Abductor has me on edge.”

  “Abductor?”

  “You’ll not have heard of him, then? He’s the devil is who he is. I have nightmares that he’s somehow gotten into the house and snatched away Victor. I wake up screaming in my bed. Oh, I know it isn’t likely to happen here at Fencroft House, but since when do dreams make sense? Why, not long ago, he snatched a child right out of its mother’s arms and then kidnapped them both.”

  “That’s horrible! Did it happen close by?”

  “No. It was behind Slademore House. The poor mother was taking her newborn to that blessed place hoping to give it a better life when he came down upon her and snatched the baby from her arms.”

  “Surely not!”

  “It is too wicked to imagine, but there were two guards who saw the whole thing and told the story to the newspaper.” Olivia shook her head, frowning. “You can be sure she will never be heard from again.”

  Clementine set her toast on the saucer beside her tea, stunned that such a thing could have happened.

  “They will catch him, I’m sure.”

  “But how many will he kill in the meantime? Has my brother not told you about Wilhelmina?”

  She shook her head.

  Was she an old flame?

  The very last thing she should do was ask Olivia about her brother’s relationship with an earlier love.

  Unless she was not an earlier love.

  “Oliver believed—well, it’s not my story to tell and Oliver might have had it wrong.” She stood up. “I’d best be after my child. There is every chance he did not return to the nursery.”

  “Olivia?” Clementine called after her.

  “Yes?” she answered, turning at the door.

  “Never mind.” If there was something she needed to know about Wilhelmina it would be better to ask Heath about it.

  * * *

  Heath wondered about the necessity of having a footman standing in attendance near the dining room door even though there were only four people gathered at one end of the long, formally set table.

  Olivia would think it was. His sister liked things upper crust—proper. Perhaps he would get used to the formality in time but he would be glad when Parliament was dismissed so he could return to Derbyshire and a less decorous way of life.

  He would still be required to make frequent trips to London. The Abductor still had his work to do. Unless he and Creed could discover the identity of their informer they were obligated to continue on as they were. But so far the only thing they knew about the person who was having notes delivered to Creed was that she was female.

  It
was a bit much to hope that she would reveal herself and what she knew about Slademore House, since doing so would put her in peril. It would be a daunting thing for a commoner to stand up against the baron and the powerful people who would vouch for his philanthropy.

  Even he, the sixth Earl of Fencroft, would not be believed if he spoke against Slademore with no hard proof of wrongdoing.

  “How was your day, Clementine?” he asked, trying to divert his mind from Slademore.

  He’d heard that she had taken breakfast in the garden room.

  The household had been abuzz over her break with tradition. No doubt this would not be the last time his American bride set tongues wagging.

  Now, why was it that it made him smile?

  It occurred to him—midbite into a lamb cutlet—that she was like a breath of fresh air, the kind that swept across the open fields of home.

  Odd, how he’d been miserable and yet smiling all day long. And doing both for the same reason. That reason being he was a married man and his wife was a better woman than he could have hoped for.

  Too many of his acquaintances complained of the bad matches they were forced into.

  It might be easier to resist joining his wife in bed if he could contribute to the men’s discussion of marital woe. If Clementine was shrewish he could roll about in his misery like a pig in mud.

  But no, she was a delight, a fact that had left him teetering between despair and bliss all day long.

  “Informative.” She gave a one-shouldered shrug and glanced briefly at Olivia. “I explored the house and discovered what was in every nook and closet.”

  “Sounds a fine way to spend a rainy afternoon,” James Macooish said with a nod to his granddaughter.

  Did the man really think so? While Heath had not known his wife for long, he did think her mind too inquisitive to be entertained by searching out closets.

  “It is a beautiful home,” she said.

  Heath could guess what she was thinking behind her smile. He tried to look at things as she must be doing. Parlormaids, footmen, scullery maids and grooms all had a part to play. The role that she would have taken in the natural hierarchy of things was already being performed by Olivia, and Clementine had stated that she would not take it from her.