What Ales the Earl

by Sally MacKenzie

  “Oh. Right. Yes. I do remember now.”

  “In any event,” Letitia moved on from that awkward topic, “Lady Darrow set off at once for the Home, leaving Muddles at the inn with his tankard and instructions to tell me where she’d gone.”

  At that point, Lady Susan stomped down the stairs—now that she had her shoes on, she could express her anger more effectively—and over to glare at them again.

  Well, no. She focused all her ire on Pen. “Think carefully before you agree to marry the earl,” she said in a low, furious voice. “The ton will never accept a farmer’s brat as Countess of Darrow.”

  “That’s enough, Lady Susan,” Harry said.

  The woman kept her eyes on Pen. “It’s for her own good. She probably doesn’t realize how completely she’ll be shunned.”

  True, Pen had never been to London, but she wasn’t about to accept Lady Susan’s belittling comment in silence.

  “I’ve met you, haven’t I?” Pen said. “I think I have a very good idea how shallow and mean the ton can be.” Brave words said in what she hoped was a firm voice to mask the fact that she was shaking like a leaf inside. Yes, Harry’s mother had said she’d support her, and she assumed Letitia would as well, but . . .

  But she was getting ahead of herself. Nothing was settled between her and Harry yet.

  “If I hear the faintest whisper you’ve uttered one word against Mrs. Barnes,” Harry said in a cold, hard voice, “I will feel compelled to share the details of today’s antics. I’m sure the men at White’s will be greatly entertained by the story of your unsuccessful, naked attempt to trap me into marrying you.”

  That got Lady Susan to look away from Pen.

  “You wouldn’t do that,” she said, frowning at Harry. But her face had grown very pale and her voice lacked conviction.

  “Oh, yes, I would. I give you my word. Breathe one syllable against Mrs. Barnes, and you will very much regret it.” His smile was as cold as his voice. “Even in the wilds of Northumberland.”

  “Come along, Lady Susan,” Letitia said, opening the door. “It’s past time for us to go.”

  Lady Susan glared at Harry and then at Pen, and then she followed Letitia out the door, leaving Pen alone with Harry.

  Finally.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was very, very quiet once the door closed. Harry looked at Pen.

  She was looking at the floor. Hell.

  This was not going to be easy.

  It should be easy. With any other woman, he’d be certain of an immediate yes and a quick retreat to the bed upstairs. After all, he was going to offer to make Pen his wife, not his mistress. It would mean wealth and prestige, but likely more important to her, security for her and Harriet.

  And love. She must know it would mean love.

  Good God, she’d been willing to marry the vicar—the current one or his replacement—to provide for their daughter. Surely, this was a better bargain.

  But this was Pen. There was no telling how she would react.

  “I’m sorry about Lady Susan,” he said. Start at the edges of an issue, the non-threatening, less important parts. Find agreement—and then build on that. That strategy had worked well for him in diplomatic situations. He hoped it would work here, too, in the most important negotiation of his life.

  She looked up. A smile wavered across her lips. “That was very odd.”

  He laughed. “Odd? It was beyond bizarre.” At the time, he’d felt like he was caught in a nightmare, but now that it was over, he could see its comedic aspects.

  He touched his head gingerly. “I thought I was going to pass out, I hit the lintel so hard. I have quite a lump.”

  Was she going to offer to kiss it and make it better?

  Of course not.

  “I’m very glad you are not going to marry her.”

  “So am I.” He’d had a close escape there. Now that he was free, he had to wonder why he’d considered allying himself with the harpy in the first place. Had he been mad?

  No. You knew if you couldn’t have Pen, it didn’t matter whom you married.

  “She would have made your life miserable.”

  “Yes.” Why hadn’t he realized it sooner? It seemed so obvious now. It wasn’t a person’s birth that mattered. It was their character.

  An uneasy silence settled over the room again.

  He needed to tell Pen he loved her. He needed to ask—beg—her to marry him.

  He couldn’t form the words.

  Damnation. He’d calmly faced down any number of men who wanted to kill or maim him and had matched wits with some of the brightest men and women in Britain and on the Continent. Why was he so hesitant to come to the point and say what he wanted—what he needed—to say?

  Not hesitant. Afraid.

  No, make that terrified. There was no non-threatening, less important part to this negotiation. It wasn’t, in fact, a negotiation at all. It was a point of hard decision. A turning point. If he offered and Pen declined, he’d lose everything: his heart, his happiness, his hope. He’d be an empty husk, moving through life as a soulless automaton.

  His brain told him he was being melodramatic. His heart told him he was, if anything, understating the case.

  Pen took a deep breath as if she’d come to some decision—some unpleasant decision he’d guess from the way she squared her shoulders.

  Oh, what the bloody hell. Better to be brave and go out in a beautiful, bright explosion than be a coward and slither through the dirt to vanish into a narrow crevice.

  “I love you,” he said, before she could speak.

  She paused. “And I love you, too, Harry, but—”

  He stepped close to her and laid one finger on her lips. “Marry me, Pen. Please? I promise you won’t regret it. I’ll strive every day, every minute, to see that you don’t.”

  He hadn’t meant to grovel, but once he let the words free, that was where they went.

  Pen’s eyes smiled at him as she gently pushed his finger aside. Did she think he was fooling?

  He tried to grasp her hand, but it slipped away—just as he felt her slipping away.

  Panic rose in his throat, but he swallowed it down . . . for now.

  “I don’t know, Harry.”

  Well, that was better than no. “What can I say—or do—to convince you?”

  She laughed at that. “No doing, Harry.” She looked at him—and looked away. “And put some clothes on.”

  He was not leaving her until this was finished. He was too afraid if he went upstairs now, he’d come down to find her gone and he would lose her forever.

  It wasn’t a sensible, rational thought, but he wasn’t feeling very sensible or rational at the moment.

  “Only if you’ll come upstairs with me.”

  Pen shook her head. “Oh, no. I know better than to do that.”

  Oh? His cock stirred. Could he seduce Pen into marrying him?

  Perhaps, but that would not be the honorable thing to do, unfortunately. Nor would it get him what he really wanted—Pen’s enthusiastic, unconditional agreement. A yes now would mean nothing if she wished later she’d said no.

  “Harry, I came down here with the thought that I would marry you. Your mother was very persuasive. She made light of my birth, my history, my ignorance—she brushed it all aside and made me think I could indeed become the Countess of Darrow.”

  “And you can!”

  Pen shook her head slowly. Sadly. “No, I can’t. Lady Susan brought that truth firmly home to me just now. She’s right. The ton won’t accept a farmer’s brat. They’ll shun me—and they’ll shun Harriet.” Her voice grew thin. She took a deep, shuddery breath. “My lowly origins will burden any legitimate children we might have and likely cause people to look askance at you as well. I can’t let that happen.”

  She put a hand on his arm—and then snatched it back as if the touch of his warm flesh had burned her. “It’s better this way.”

  “No, it’s not. I love you.”


  “Now. But think, Harry. Would you still love me after years of watching your friends snub me? After seeing your children laughed at—or, worse, ostracized—because of their mother’s birth? Or would your love erode, bit by bit, day by day, with each new insult?” She shook her head and looked away from him. “Love isn’t everything, and it doesn’t exist in a vacuum.”

  Letitia said much the same . . .

  But Letitia’s love had died because of Walter. Death had come from within the marriage, not from outside it. Hell, he doubted Walter had been capable of love. He certainly hadn’t been able to manage fidelity.

  His love was real. He would stand with Pen. They would face every trial together.

  She started for the door. “You’ve had a hard year with the death of Walter and all the changes it brought—all your new responsibilities. And then having your mother and sister-in-law push you to marry—it’s been too much. I’m sure next Season, after you’ve given yourself time to settle into things—and if your relatives don’t badger you—you’ll have more luck finding a proper bride.”

  His control snapped. “Stop!”

  He walked over to stand an inch from Pen. He couldn’t touch her. He didn’t trust himself.

  “Yes, the last year has been hell. Bloody hell.” He wasn’t shouting, but the words came out hard and sharp like blows. He saw Pen flinch, and he was sorry for it, but she’d called this out of him, and he thought she was strong enough to take it.

  “You know why it’s been so hellish?” He didn’t expect her to answer—he swept on without giving her time to say anything. At this point he couldn’t stop the flow of words. If he tried, he’d explode.

  “It was hellish because I was alone. No one understood me. I wasn’t Harry anymore, I was the Earl of Darrow. Can you understand that? The person I’ve become over all the years of my life”—he opened the fingers on both hands, stretching them wide—“gone like a puff of smoke. People wanted to meet the earl, talk to the earl, marry the earl. In some horribly strange way I’d become Walter and my father.”

  “I’m sor—”

  The words wouldn’t stop for apologies.

  “You don’t know how to be a countess? Well, I don’t know how to be a bloody earl. I wasn’t raised to be one—that was Walter’s job. I was going to find my own way. I did find my own way. And then Walter died and I had to give it all up.”

  He ran his hands through his hair, remembering how desperate he’d felt—still felt.

  “I mourned Walter, but you know we were never close. I felt badly that a man was cut down in his prime, leaving my sister-in-law a widow and my nieces without a father, but I was angry, too. Walter had been careless, bloody irresponsible, and now I and everyone else had to pay the price.”

  He felt Pen’s hand on his arm, stroking, soothing, but still he couldn’t stop.

  “I am not a child, Pen. I’ve lived as many—more—years on this earth than you have. I haven’t spent the last decade prancing around in starched linen and dancing shoes. Don’t you patronize me and pat me on the head and tell me all will be well next year because it fucking won’t.”

  “Harry.” Pen wrapped her arms around him.

  He clutched her to him as if she was the one thing keeping him from slipping under—or being pulled under by his dark feelings.

  She probably was.

  “Don’t tell me how I’m going to feel, Pen. Don’t tell me love isn’t important. I know life is hard and sometimes people die and sometimes bad things happen. And I know—or I can see—that love isn’t everything. But it’s a lot. It’s more than anything else I know. I don’t want to give it up. I don’t want to live a nice, proper life with a nice, proper, pedigreed wife. I’d rather stand against the whole fucking ton with you than dance in their bloody ballrooms with someone else.”

  * * *

  Harry was holding her too tightly. She could barely breathe.

  Well, and she was holding him tightly, too. And crying. That didn’t make breathing any easier.

  Finally, he let her go. He stepped away without looking at her, turned his back, and kept it turned as he sniffed several times.

  She pulled out her handkerchief and handed it to him.

  He took it and turned away again, blowing his nose. “Pardon me. I apologize for . . .” He paused as if searching for the proper word.

  For baring his soul? For letting down his defenses?

  “For such an unseemly lack of control.”

  He was back to being the Earl of Darrow. Though even the Harry she’d known years ago had never been as open as he’d been just now.

  Not that they’d spent much time talking that summer.

  She went over and wrapped her arms around him again, pressing her cheek against his warm back.

  “I’m sorry, Harry.”

  He stiffened and then broke her hold, stepping away again, still not looking at her. “Yes. I understand. I should go . . .”

  His voice trailed off. He must have realized that he was the one staying here. If anyone was to leave, it would be her.

  She wasn’t leaving.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t understand. I . . .” He’d been honest. She should be, too. “I’m afraid.”

  That got him to turn toward her. “Of what?” And then he saw that she’d been crying, too. “Oh, Pen.”

  He opened his arms. It might have been—likely was—an involuntary movement, but she took it as an invitation. It was going to be easier to say what she had to say against his chest than looking him in the eye.

  Oh! She was enveloped in his comforting scent. Even breathing through a stuffy nose, she could smell it—the mix of cologne and soap and Harry.

  “My whole life, I’ve had no one to rely on but myself, Harry. I had no mother, and my father—” The less said about her father, the better.

  Harry’s arms, which had held her loosely when she’d first pressed herself against him, tightened.

  “I know, Pen. You were always so brave.”

  She shook her head. “On the outside perhaps. On the inside I was terrified. And when I discovered I was pregnant—” Lord, the fear she’d felt then had almost paralyzed her.

  Perhaps it had been fortuitous that the earl had offered Felix as her only marital option. If he’d suggested anyone else, she might be—likely would be—long married now.

  “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there with you,” he said, tightening his hold further. “I’m sorry you had to face that all alone.”

  What would have happened if he had been there? She couldn’t see an eighteen-year-old Harry marrying her—or, perhaps more to the point, his father allowing such a thing.

  “I had my aunt to go to.” Thank God Aunt Margaret had taken her in. If she hadn’t—no, she refused to let her thoughts go down that dark path again.

  “But then she died and I was on my own once more, with Harriet to take care of. I had to be strong.” She tilted her head back to look up at him. “I would do anything for Harriet, Harry. Anything. I’d give my life for her.”

  “I know.”

  What she hadn’t fully realized until just now was that, to be strong, she’d built such thick walls around herself that she’d kept everyone—even Jo and Caro—out. Everyone but Harriet.

  And Harry?

  Perhaps even Harry. Oh, the memory of the hope and strength he’d given her when she was young was firmly in her heart. But . . .

  Was she afraid to let him be more than a memory, to let him be her life as much as Harriet was?

  No. More than Harriet. Harriet would grow up and leave her.

  Her daughter was bound to her by blood. Harry would be linked only by choice. By love.

  Do I have the courage to trust in love?

  “I could have married Godfrey—well, no, now that I know how vile he is, I couldn’t have. But before I knew that, I thought I could marry him because I’d be giving him only my body. Not my heart. He’d never have touched my h-heart. But if I marry you—”
/>   She swallowed, pushing her panic down. Harry waited, one hand rubbing her back, comforting her.

  “If I marry you, I risk everything.”

  “I won’t hurt you, Pen. I swear I won’t.”

  “I know you wouldn’t mean to, but think, Harry.” She snuffled several times, wiped her nose on her sleeve, and stepped back so she could look him in the face without craning her neck.

  “Lady Susan was right. The ton won’t accept me, and while you say that doesn’t matter to you now, it might matter later. And then, if you turned away from me, if you took lovers like Walter did—” She drew in a deep, shuddery breath. “I think it would kill me.” She tried to laugh, but it came out more as a gurgle. “Or I’d kill you.”

  That made him smile. He put his hands on her shoulders. “Pen, none of us can predict the future, but I hope you know me better than that. Do you really believe I’m that shallow? That fickle?”

  “N-no.” She’d thought him perfect when she was young. But she must be honest, no matter how painful it was to say the words. “But you were a boy when you left Darrow. You’ve been away for years. You’ve changed. We’ve both changed.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve again. Too bad she’d given him her handkerchief. “I can’t let what I want blind me to what is, especially since I have Harriet to consider.”

  The responsibility of a child did tend to focus one’s thoughts.

  Harry was frowning. “But you can’t let fear blind you either. To have changed that much, I’d have to be a different person.”

  “But haven’t you changed, Harry? Just this morning you were planning to marry Lady Susan and wanted me to be your mistress.” A bitter feeling of disillusionment gnawed at her. “Or were you always that way and I never saw it?” Perhaps she was blinder than she knew.

  “No.” Harry frowned. “I admit I was wrong—in so many ways—about marriage, but in my defense, I didn’t know any better. A marriage of convenience is what my parents had and my brother. It’s the normal arrangement in the ton. It’s what Lady Susan wanted. She said as much to me just now.”

  He pushed Pen’s hair back from her face. “But my heart knew, Pen. I just had to listen to it.”

  He shook his head. “I stalled all Season. I kept putting the matter off. I knew I was on the wrong path, headed toward a cliff, but I thought I had no other option. It took seeing you again—and discovering I had a daughter—to make me realize I could choose a different way—no, to realize I wanted a different way.”