Captivating the Cynical Earl

by Catherine Tinley

  The ladies glanced at each other, neither having anything to say to this. Despite being firmly on Tom’s side on the matter, Cecily was interested to hear they had had similar fallings-out in the past, fuelled by obstinacy on both sides.

  Perhaps both men are at fault, then. Why, they are no better than schoolboys!

  ‘Now, let us forget about my brother for a few hours! Shall we perhaps go out in the carriage so that I can show you something of the surrounding area?’

  ‘An excellent idea!’ Nell clapped her hands. ‘Why, we have hours yet before he comes!’

  * * *

  How quickly, Cecily thought, moments become minutes, and minutes turn into hours. She was in her new bedchamber, awaiting the dinner gong, when she heard the sounds outside that heralded the arrival of Lord Hawkenden and his guests. Swiftly crossing the room, she peeped down at the driveway below, where men, horses, trunks and chaos seemed to reign in the twilight. Her heart sank for a moment then she lifted her chin and reminded herself that, as Nell’s friend, she had every right to be here, despite what the Earl might say.

  They had agreed that Tom and Nell would, as was proper, go downstairs first to greet the new arrivals, and that Cecily herself should wait a few moments before descending. Those few moments felt like aeons. Finally, she judged enough time had passed. Checking her appearance for the final time, she nodded at her reflection. This evening she had chosen a pretty pale green silk with embroidered patterns of flowers and leaves along the hem, and with a matching green ribbon in her hair. Perfectly unexceptional.

  She glanced around before leaving the chamber. Years of being a guest in other people’s houses had inured her to the challenges of unfamiliarity. She always slept well in a new place, and could not understand people who struggled to do so. Her nomadic seasons with Mama had also reinforced the feeling of being an outsider, the unwanted one—a feeling that was strongly impressing itself upon her at this moment.

  Smoothing her dress one last time, she left the room and went downstairs.

  Chapter Ten

  Jack refused to regret his decision to travel to Hazledene. Well, why should he? The house was his, even if Tom used it more than he did. It was too small for true entertaining, having only five bedchambers, and so it tended to stay closed up outside the hunting season.

  Jack did most of his own business entertaining at Springfield Hall, part of the lavish Hawkenden estate. The estate that had very nearly made him bankrupt after their father had died. The sensible course of action would have been to sell Springfield and begin again, particularly as the property was unentailed, but Jack and Tom had agreed to only do so if absolutely necessary.

  With a determination borne of responsibility coupled, he now knew, with astounding naivety, he had resolved back then to learn the science and art of becoming wealthy. Luck had played a part, he conceded now, but his stubbornness and refusal to concede to the hand fate had played him had been at the heart of his success. He had not been forced to sell Springfield, or Hazledene, or the London townhouse. Somehow, despite the odds being against them, he and Tom had prevailed.

  Such success had made up somewhat for the feelings of worthlessness he had endured as a boy. A cruel father and a cruel school had followed the death of his mother and abandonment by his nurse, and had left a hole within him that had become filled with the need for continuous achievements in commerce. Each time he had successfully acquired a new company, or boosted his cash reserves, or succeeded in a venture, part of him inwardly crowed at those long-gone oppressors and deserters.

  See? I am worthy. I can achieve things. I do not need your approval. Or your presence. Or your love.

  The same obstinacy that had driven him after his father’s death had also led Jack to follow through on his invitation to Harting and Carmichael this week. Knowing how things stood with his foolish brother, knowing too that Tom’s beautiful, venal wife would also be present, Jack really could have given way and taken a different road. He had refused to do so. This visit would offer opportunities to assess the situation, to develop a strategy, to lay the foundations for his eventual victory.

  As the carriage wheeled into the driveway of Hazledene and the candlelit windows came into view, he reminded himself that he had never lost a war he had truly focused on. Battles, yes. But keeping his mind focused on the ultimate prize had always led to success in the end.

  This time his goal was still shifting somewhat. He had wanted to undo his brother’s marriage. That was now unrealistic, given the fact that word of the wedding was now beginning to spread in London. Twice yesterday people had asked him to pass on their congratulations to Tom. Mrs Godwin had shared the good news, they said.

  Of course she had.

  Besides, Tom and his fair-haired beauty had, of course, consummated the marriage. Jack’s hands formed into fists. Of all the aspects of this unlooked-for complication, that was the one that caused the most visceral response. Why should he care that Tom was bedding her? It was, after all, at the heart of how Tom had likely fallen into this trap. Tom was no doubt feeling like the cock of the walk these days.

  I shall sleep in the Blue Bedchamber, as usual, he resolved, knowing Tom would have appropriated the double chamber for himself and his wife.

  He wished to be as far away from their nuptial activities as he could manage. He wanted no reminders of their marital congress. Harting and Carmichael could take the other two chambers.

  Public knowledge of the marriage did not, however, mean that he had accepted Tom’s folly. He and Tom had invested too much in terms of time, effort and pain building up their wealth to throw some of it away on an unworthy woman. The fair-haired baggage might believe she could empty Tom’s wallet, but she was soon to discover who was truly in control.

  The carriage came to a halt, and the coachman jumped down to lower the steps and open the door. Jack stepped down, followed by his two guests. Responding mechanically to their compliments—people were always impressed by the Elizabethan house—Jack stretched and loosened his shoulders, determined to maintain an air of unruffled calm.

  Inside, a queasy feeling was troubling him. Being at Hazledene was always difficult. Painful memories lurked in every room and behind every corner. Yet showing Tom he would not be dominated was currently more important than avoiding recollections of past hurts.

  Jack’s valet, along with those of Carmichael and Harting, were now emerging through the open door. They had travelled down earlier with the bulk of the luggage and had been awaiting their arrival. The servants busied themselves helping the coachman to unload the smaller trunks that had been attached to the Hawkenden travelling carriage. As Jack walked towards the open door, his brother came into view. Tom looked composed, while the woman by his side—

  Jack stopped abruptly, almost causing Carmichael to bump into him. They automatically apologised to each other, then Jack walked on into the house, his eyes fixed on his new sister-in-law. She was of average height, pretty, with flaming auburn locks, pale skin and greenish coloured eyes. She was very clearly not the woman he had spoken to at Lady Jersey’s soirée. Jack’s mind was all disorder.

  What the deuce...?

  ‘I would like to introduce my wife,’ Tom was saying. He looked at her. ‘Nell, this is my brother, Hawkenden.’

  She curtseyed. ‘I am pleased to meet you, my lord.’ She looked nervous, he noted distractedly.

  Jack replied instinctively, before introducing Harting and Carmichael to her. It seemed they knew each other already, Harting in particular greeting Tom’s wife with warmth and familiarity.

  ‘And here is our other guest!’ Tom declared, as a lady in green appeared through the door at the far end of the Great Hall—the one that led to the staircase.

  Jack felt his jaw slacken. It was her. Dimly, he heard the greetings. Lady Cecily Thornhill.

  Of course!

  Ash’s ward, and Miss Godwi
n’s great friend. His mind reeling, he yet managed to play his part in the ritual of polite greeting and response. Afterwards, he could not have said exactly what was said, or by whom. His mind was wholly fixed on the beautiful woman before him, and the astounding knowledge that she was not, in fact, Tom’s wife. Feelings of confusion and relief chased each other like swirling leaves.

  Lady Cecily Thornhill. Not Tom’s wife.

  Tom was indicating that dinner was to be served soon, and so Jack and the two male guests were swiftly ushered upstairs to wash and change. Jack’s valet was awaiting him in the gallery, wringing his hands. After ensuring that his two guests had entered their chambers, Jack turned to the man. ‘Well?’

  ‘My lord, where are you to sleep?’

  Jack’s jaw dropped. Of course! Tom and his wife would have taken the Earl and Countess’s interconnecting rooms, leaving only the Blue Chamber.

  ‘Is Lady Cecily using the Blue?’

  ‘She is, my lord.’

  And Tom, knowing what was to happen, had done nothing to resolve the situation. ‘Then you must bring my trunks to the nursery. There is no other choice.’

  The valet looked horrified. ‘The nursery, my lord?’

  ‘Do you have a better suggestion?’ He waited. ‘I thought not.

  Twenty minutes later, as his valet fussed around him in his cramped, low-ceilinged bedchamber, Jack finally began to think rationally again.

  A victory for Tom, he acknowledged.

  Judging by the studied innocence in Tom’s expression, his brother had clearly known about the difficulties with room allocation. Not only that but he had taken full advantage of it in order to maximise Jack’s discomfort.

  Now recalling the humour glinting in his brother’s eyes downstairs, Jack’s ire was reasserting itself, replacing the temporary disorientation he had felt just now. His brother had clearly conspired to humiliate him in front of his own friends, which could not be easily forgiven. That Jack had not realised immediately that he would of necessity be forced to sleep in the nursery—the nursery, for goodness’ sake!—and had behaved with propriety in company did not excuse the fact that Tom must have known he might disgrace himself by losing his temper.

  Bad form, Tom, he thought.

  While he was, naturally, regretful of his error in addressing the wrong woman on the terrace that night, he could not regret the instincts that had led him to do so. It was unfortunate that Lady Cecily had been on the receiving end of his frustration that night—little wonder she had looked so confused. He pictured her, serenely refusing to engage in debate with him, but now her withdrawal took on new significance. He had been entirely wrong—not a feeling he was used to.

  The valet was familiar enough with Lord Hawkenden’s moods to read the signs. He worked in silence, while Jack frowned with concentration. As he washed and dressed, his mind was whirling. Lady Cecily’s flashing eyes that night on the terrace had clearly revealed anger—justified anger. What on earth she had made of his rantings, he had no idea. Had she realised he had mistaken her for her friend?

  Suddenly realising that all his attention was focused on Lady Cecily, he ruthlessly brought his mind elsewhere. She was now irrelevant, he reminded himself. His focus needed to be entirely on the redhead—Tom’s actual wife. Dinner tonight would be his first opportunity to gain knowledge of the true Miss Nell Godwin—now Mrs Tom Beresford. He would not waste the opportunity.

  Yet as the valet departed, Jack’s thoughts again drifted back to Lady Cecily Thornhill. He fitted a diamond pin to his cravat and dropped his watch into its pocket.

  She is not Tom’s wife.

  The thought repeated itself endlessly in his brain, and he was unsure why.

  * * *

  Three hours later, the ladies departed from the dining room, leaving the gentlemen to their port. Staring into his glass and allowing the gentlemen’s conversation to wash over him, Jack considered what he had learned. He had naturally been placed at the head of the table, and Tom at the foot, as was their habit.

  On his left, Tom’s wife and Mr Carmichael had sat, politely discussing a range of topics in an amicable way. The conversation had been sensible to the point of dullness, leaving Jack wondering what on earth his brother had seen in Miss Godwin. Oh, she was a good-looking chit, there was no doubt. Had he himself not been blinded by a certain fair-haired lady, he might have looked long enough that night in Berkeley Square to see the undoubted attraction in his sister-in-law’s pretty face and fine figure.

  Having acknowledged that, he was yet to comprehend why Tom, having been hounded by matchmaking mamas these eight years and more, had finally succumbed to the wiles of a simple country miss, with little to recommend her beyond a pleasing smile and a neat ankle. Miss Godwin was not one of the most talked-about virgins of this season, neither was she a substantial heiress, nor was she a diamond of the first water in terms of her looks. Now, if it had been Lady Cecily... Dragging his thoughts away from Lady Cecily yet again, he focused on Tom’s wife. Respectable was the word Hollamby had used to describe the Godwin family. Not particularly wealthy or well-connected. Country gentry. Nothing that should have tempted a Beresford, if Tom had had any respect for his name and lineage.

  Tom, he had noted, had watched his wife constantly throughout dinner, and with the warmest of expressions in his eye. Damnation! Tom looked every bit as vacuous as the lovesick fools he had long despised. Never had Jack thought he would see a good man tumble so low. Quite why this angered him so much he could not fully articulate, even to himself. It had something to do with fear, and risk, and leaving oneself open to abandonment... Better that a man marry for money, or for an heir, than marry for love. In addition, now that Tom was so focused on making sheep’s eyes at his lady, where did that leave his brother? Where did that leave the reliance they had on each other? Despite their regular arguments, Tom was his rock, and he was Tom’s. Or he had been, until now.

  The wife herself had seemed guileless, but Jack was old enough and clever enough to know how appearances could be deceiving. No, for now he must hold to the same view of her, unless proven otherwise. Either Tom’s wife was herself a scheming vixen, or someone—Mrs Godwin perhaps—had engineered the marriage. Tom would surely not be so foolish as to fall for her inducements without conscious effort on the part of Miss Godwin and her stepmother.

  His thoughts drifted back, as they had continually tonight, to Lady Cecily. Might she have been the manipulator in the background, securing a stellar match for her friend? Their conversation tonight had confirmed she had attended the same house party at Christmastide where Tom and Miss Godwin had met. He snorted inwardly. Lady Cecily was certainly cool enough. And clever enough, too. Cynical matchmaking was not just the preserve of hopeful mamas. Yes, Lady Cecily Thornhill might well be his true opponent.

  Surely, his mind prompted fleetingly, it is Tom himself that I am pitted against?

  Not liking the thought, he did not pursue it.

  To his right, Lady Cecily and Mr Harting had engaged in an undeniable flirtation at the dinner table and enduring it had irritated him no end. He knew Harting fairly well, and quite liked him. Straight, reliable and pleasant, with a good mind and a decent fortune, he would undoubtedly make a good husband for someone. The knowledge that Harting’s eye had fallen on the fair Lady Cecily was...unfortunate, although Jack of all people could not deny her beauty. Well, how could he, as she had been haunting him since the night at Berkeley Square?

  Carmichael was currently teasing Tom on the felicity of Harting’s having been seated with Lady Cecily at dinner, causing Jack’s attention to sharpen again. ‘Your wife is a delight, of course, Tom, but she is spoken for! Why did you not place me with the divine Lady Cecily?’

  Jack’s jaw tightened. They were flocking round Lady Cecily like bees around flowers. Normally he remained detached from such things, but seeing their attempts to gain the lady’s favour w
as supremely irritating. He foresaw days of vexation ahead.

  Tom laughed. ‘We shall not stand on formality here, Carmichael. There will be plenty of opportunities in the coming days to better your acquaintance with her.’

  Carmichael rubbed his hands together. ‘Good, for I mean to give Harting a run for his money!’

  Jack sighed inwardly. Et tu, Carmichael?

  Harting was smiling at Carmichael’s challenge. ‘Now, my friend,’ he replied mildly, ‘you cannot think her to be remotely interested in you. Why, she had eyes only for me all evening!’

  Carmichael disagreed, calling on Jack for support. ‘Hawk, you must agree! Lady Cecily is much too well-bred to practise coquetry across the table at another gentleman. Why, her conversation with Harting was simply politeness, was it not?’

  Jack shrugged, frowning. ‘If you both mean to vex me with pointlessness, I shall begin to regret inviting you.’

  They protested at this, being used to his way, and returned to baiting each other. After a few more minutes, and unable to withstand it any longer, Jack suggested joining the ladies.

  As soon as the suggestion was made, he regretted it.

  Now I must endure my brother making sheep’s eyes at his lady, and feel uncomfortable with Lady Cecily.

  Exasperation rose within him. He had spoken to both ladies briefly at dinner, in the interests of maintaining a facade of good manners. Tom’s wife had reminded him of a frightened fawn, while her friend had irked him with an air of calm superiority. Being honest, he knew he was drawn to her, against his own wishes, and the struggle frustrated him. The sooner Lady Cecily returned to London, the better. Then perhaps he could wrestle with his real concerns—like Tom’s marriage—without the continual distraction of her presence.

  He led the gentlemen to the red parlour, maintaining a disinterested air as the others vied with each other to engage the two ladies in raillery that was as lacking in wit as it was sense. Horrifyingly, he then heard them decide to walk out together to a local beauty spot on the morrow. Clearly, Tom had no notion of giving way and returning to London.