The Dark Earl

by Virginia Henley

  “Don’t worry, Mother. I don’t expect him to propose marriage.”

  “That’s precisely why I shall worry,” she said dryly.

  “What could possibly happen when I’m in the company of my maiden aunt?”

  Rachel found it difficult to keep a straight face. They heard the doorbell. “Oh, they’re here.” She pulled on her evening gloves and picked up her cloak.

  The two gentlemen awaited them downstairs in the entrance hall. When they stepped outside, Harry saw that Lord Butler had brought his carriage. She waited until he helped her young aunt inside before she spoke. “I’m sure you’d rather spend the evening alone with Rachel. I have no intention of playing gooseberry.”

  The two men exchanged a speaking glance before Butler jumped into the carriage.

  Harry tucked her arm into Anson’s. “Why don’t we walk to the corner and hail a hansom cab?”

  “Is this charade to deceive your mother?”

  “It is quite impossible to deceive Lady Lu; I’ve tried often enough. When she asked me what my attraction to you was, I told her quite frankly that it was physical.”

  “You thoroughly delight in being precocious.”

  “I freely admit it. Are you complimenting me, or censuring me?”

  “And pray, what is the difference? When I censure you, you take it as a compliment.”

  She squeezed his arm. “If I am such a sore trial, why are you courting me?”

  “You are the daughter of wealthy nobility.” He paused, then added almost reluctantly, “And you are the most attractive, maddening female in London.”

  “You seem completely dispassionate; then suddenly you say something that gives it the lie.”

  “My dispassion is a mask. I assure you, my life has been deeply affected by my emotions. I simply don’t display them.”

  “You pride yourself on being in control—of both others and yourself. I wonder what it would take to make you lose that rigid control.”

  Thomas hailed a hansom cab and helped Harry inside. He took the seat opposite her, so he could see her face in the glow of the lamp. “If you persist in your outrageous behavior, you may find out,” he warned.

  She ignored the warning. “Are you taking me to the Royal Surrey Theatre in Blackfriars to see The Widow and Her Wooers?”

  He refused to be baited. “No, I chose a play that would appeal to someone who champions the poor and believes in equal rights for women. I’m taking you to the Pavilion in Piccadilly to see Oliver Twist.”

  Harry’s face was suddenly transformed. Her provocative expression vanished and was replaced by a soft, radiant look as if her heart were melting. “Oh, that is so perceptive of you. Oliver Twist is the perfect choice.”

  During the first act, when Harry got a lump in her throat, she felt Thomas take her hand. During the second act, when a tear rolled down her cheek, he wiped it away with his thumb. When it was over, she was crying openly and he pressed his linen handkerchief into her hand. “Oh, I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed myself so much.”

  When they left the theater, Thomas said, “Come on, I know just what you need.”

  He took her down Piccadilly to Swallow Street and led the way into an oyster bar. He ordered her champagne and oysters, and he asked for the same, but with ale.

  Oh dear, the only oysters I’ve eaten have always been decently breaded. Can I do this without embarrassing myself?

  When the oysters came, Harry sipped her wine and watched her companion, and then she followed his lead to the letter. After a shake of pepper, a dash of vinegar, and a squeeze of lemon, she proceeded to lift the half shell and tip the raw oyster into her mouth. She held her breath and swallowed. Then she laughed, feeling excessively proud of her accomplishment. She repeated the process nine times, and then looked at him with round eyes, as if to say, Please help me.

  Thomas grinned. “You’ve never had raw oysters on the half shell before, have you?”

  Harry shook her head.

  He took the three that remained before her. “You are a brave woman.”

  When they left the café, Thomas hailed a hansom cab, but this time he sat next to Harry. He knew the ride from Piccadilly would not be a long one, so he decided to make the most of it. Slowly, he removed her evening glove and took her fingers to his lips. When she seemed to enjoy the intimacy, he slipped his arm about her and drew her close.

  He dipped his head and when his mouth covered hers, she opened her lips to welcome his kiss. His embrace tightened and he kissed her again. This time he brushed her lips with his tongue, and he felt her shudder. His kiss deepened. He drank from her mouth, which was hot and sweet with passion.

  Thomas felt his cock, which had already hardened and lengthened, begin to pulse.

  He was both surprised and pleased at how splendidly uninhibited her response to his kisses was. His imagination took flight, picturing her beneath him, naked, in his bed.

  He curbed his desire. He wanted far more than a quick fuck in a carriage.

  Harry’s senses were filled with the male scent of him and the taste of him. She felt the slow, hot glide of his lips along her neck and moaned softly. Her arms stole around his back and she felt the powerful muscles beneath his coat. She tried to imagine what it would feel like if her naked breasts were pressed against his wide chest, and desire flared in her like wildfire spreading through her veins.

  The carriage slowed, and it took her a moment before she became aware of anything but Thomas Anson. When he eased his arms from around her, she gazed up into his dark eyes and sighed. “Oh, I was right,” she said softly. “It is physical.”

  Thomas Anson lay awake for hours contemplating his evening with Lady Harriet. Only a month ago, he had had a vile argument with his ailing father about marriage.

  “You’ll soon be thirty. It’s more than high time you found a wife! You’ll need a rich heiress for the upkeep of Shugborough,” his father had said.

  Thomas sneered. Losing Shugborough’s treasures hadn’t stopped his father from gambling. Until he’d fallen ill a couple of years ago, he’d been out every night indulging his addiction at Brooks’s and other London clubs. “You want me to follow in your noble footsteps—marry an heiress and squander her fortune. Marriage doesn’t appeal to me, and after watching yours all my life, is it any wonder?”

  “You and your sainted mother want me dead!” he shouted. “You look down your nose at me, you arrogant young swine, but when I’m gone, you’ll be in for a rude awakening. All the expenses will fall on your shoulders—then we’ll see how you cope, Lord Bloody High-and-Mighty!”

  Thomas had left the chamber before he helped his father to meet his maker. He vowed that the last thing he would do was follow his father’s orders to marry. Shortly after that, he had attended the opening of the Crystal Palace and encountered Lady Harriet Hamilton.

  Thomas thumped his pillow and laughed at himself. How bloody ironic. He wanted nothing more than to fly in the face of his father’s demands, but his inner voice was now urging him to open his mind to the possibility of securing Harriet Hamilton in marriage.

  Both her parents came from noble families of the highest distinction. Abercorn held titles in England, Ireland, and Scotland, and her mother, Lady Louisa Russell, was the daughter of the venerable Duke of Bedford. Abercorn had abundant wealth and property in three countries. Added to this was the enticing allure of the possessions that had once belonged to Shugborough.

  A picture of Harry came full-blown into his mind. There’s no denying she is a rare beauty. Though she can be precocious beyond bearing, she simply needs taming. Remembering the taste of her kisses, he felt his cock begin to stir. I warrant she would be rewarding in bed.

  Toward morning, Thomas awoke in a panic. He had had his recurring nightmare that Shugborough was on fire. He threw back the covers and ran to the window, drenched in fear. Only then did he realize he was in London, and he had been dreaming. He returned to bed, but was determined to stay awake so his nightmare wo
uld not return.

  In the morning, as Thomas was about to leave the town house in St. James’s Square, his father’s attorney, Martin Fowler, arrived. Another summons from the querulous old devil. It’s the third this month. No point in questioning Fowler. The man isn’t even civil.

  Thomas bade him a curt “Good morning” and departed. He was on his way to Whitehall. Before things went further with Lady Harriet, he intended to see Abercorn and get his permission to court his daughter. Her father might want no connection with Lichfield’s son, and Thomas had too much pride to sneak around behind his back.

  James Hamilton was a member of the Queen’s Privy Council, and Thomas Anson, familiar with the Parliament buildings, made his way to the Privy Council offices. He presented his card to the clerk and asked to see Abercorn.

  After a few minutes’ wait, Hamilton came out to greet him and took him into his office. “It’s good to see you, Lord Anson. You’re here on a matter of business, I take it.” Hamilton handled the business affairs of Prince Albert, who was the force behind moving the Crystal Palace from Hyde Park to a permanent location. It was a showcase for Britain’s manufactured goods, which were superior to those of most other countries, and Abercorn negotiated the contracts and handled the reams of paperwork connected with the enterprise.

  “Thank you, Your Grace. It’s more of a personal nature than business.”

  “Then have a seat and make yourself comfortable.”

  “It is no secret that my father, the Earl of Lichfield, accrued enormous debts due to an excessive lifestyle and an addiction to gambling.”

  Abercorn steepled his fingers and listened attentively.

  “For some time, he has been in ill health and has perhaps a year left. I am heir to the earldom and Shugborough, but I will inherit no wealth. Though earning money is frowned upon for a gentleman, you are aware that I have a business arrangement with Whitfield Cox to augment my salary from Parliament.”

  James Hamilton made no comment; he knew there was more to come.

  “I would like to pay court to Lady Harriet, but will not do so without your approval.”

  Abercorn smiled. “My dear fellow, I have no objection. You are not your father. But it is Harriet who must decide if she wants you for a suitor. She has a mind of her own, you know.”

  “Indeed she has, Your Grace.”

  “I find it admirable that you have been so frank about your prospects. There is no shame in business.” His eyes twinkled. “Shugborough is quite an enticement.”

  Yes, she’ll get to live at Shugborough, and in the marriage contract, I’ll negotiate that the library and the paintings be returned to where they rightfully belong.

  “I’m a little nervous,” Rachel confessed to Harry as they rang the doorbell at Langham Place.

  “No need. The women will welcome another advocate with open arms.”

  It was Barbara Leigh Smith herself who opened the door and ushered them inside to join suffragists Emaline Davis, Frances Cobbe, and Millicent Fawcett, among others, who were talking up a storm in Barbara’s sitting room.

  “I want you to meet Lady Rachel Russell, who writes women’s romantic fiction and has actually had her books published,” Harry said with pride.

  “In a man’s world, that is a rare accomplishment,” Barbara declared. “Welcome to Langham Place, Rachel.”

  “Thank you so much. Harriet is presently reading your book, and has promised to let me have it the minute she’s finished.”

  Barbara was not wearing a crinoline beneath her calf-length skirt, and the tattoo of a butterfly was clearly displayed on her ankle. Rachel’s eyes widened in shock. Harry’s eyes narrowed with envy.

  “And what are you reading?” Emaline Davis asked Rachel.

  “Wollstonecraft’s book on the education of daughters.”

  “I champion higher education for women. It is outrageous that neither Oxford nor Cambridge permits women to enroll. We could have our own college—we don’t have to rub shoulders with the male nobs and snobs.”

  Harry laughed. “I warrant the men would want to rub more than shoulders!”

  The women joined in the laughter. “No doubt we could teach them a few things,” Emaline declared. “I’m going to draw up a petition, so you two young women can sign it before you leave.”

  Before the afternoon was over, they spoke not only of women’s rights but also of the plight of poor children, and the squalid state of London’s slums and the unsanitary conditions rife in certain sections of the city. Before they left, Harry and Rachel enthusiastically signed their names to a half dozen petitions.

  When the pair left, Harry decided to stop at a shabby row of establishments near London Bridge. She found what she was looking for next door to a cats’ meat shop.

  “This is a tattoo parlor,” Rachel pointed out.

  “Yes, I know.” She pushed open the door and made the bell jangle.

  Rachel followed Harry inside. “You’re not going to get your ankle tattooed?”

  “Of course not. What would be the point of that? No one would ever see it!”

  “Harry, perhaps you should think this through. A tattoo is not something to get impulsively.”

  Harry brushed aside Rachel’s protest.

  The man inside showed Harry a book of designs and she scrutinized them thoroughly before shaking her head. Then suddenly she knew exactly what she wanted.

  “A little green snake!”

  Rachel looked as if she might faint.

  “Where do ye want it, m’lydy?”

  Harry held out her hand and pulled up her sleeve. “Can you put it around my wrist like a bracelet?”

  “Fer a guinea, I can put it round anythin’ ye fancy.”

  Harry pictured it around her thigh, and then her breast. “The wrist will do nicely.”

  When the artist had finished his masterpiece, she held up her arm and admired the tattoo with great delight. Once outside the shop, however, she began to have misgivings.

  “I’ll have to keep it covered up until I am brave enough to display it to the world.” Her wrist still throbbed in pain, but she knew that the hurt would be worthwhile, and she was content that the little green snake would be with her forever.

  The Duchess of Abercorn had decided to accept only the most exclusive invitations during her daughters’ Season. There was no way she would ever decline an invitation to a ball thrown by Charlotte, Duchess of Buccleuch, at Montagu House in Whitehall.

  On the day of the ball, Lady Lu cast a worried glance at her eldest daughter, who was wearing a jacket. “Are you cold, Harry? I hope you’re not coming down with something.” She placed her hand on Harriet’s forehead.

  “No, of course I’m not cold. I’ve never felt better. I just happen to think this jacket flatters me. I came to beg a favor. Do you think I could borrow one of your bracelets? I particularly like that broad gold cuff you got last Christmas.”

  “The cuffs are a pair. You must wear both to make a fashion statement.” The duchess unlocked her jewel chest and handed her the bracelets. “I might as well leave it unlocked—when your sisters see the cuffs, they’ll embark on a treasure hunt.”

  Later, when Rachel and her niece were dressing for the ball, she noticed that Harry put on the cuffs before her gown. “No one knows yet?”

  Harry shook her head. “I’m such a coward.” She lifted her arms and waved them about. “It doesn’t show, does it?”

  “No, it is well hidden. You are not a coward, Harry, but you are extremely impulsive. Sooner or later—”

  “Yes, I know, Rachel. But I much prefer later rather than sooner.”

  “Act in haste and repent at leisure.”

  “Oh, you sound just like Grandmother.”

  “I should,” Rachel replied dryly. “I lived with her for twenty-eight years.”

  “I have absolutely no regrets about my tattoo. I adore my little green snake. I simply have to choose the right time to reveal it without shocking everyone’s cockeroc
ity.”

  “You stole that word from me,” Rachel said with a smile.

  “Who better to steal from than a wordsmith?”

  Harry’s sisters came into the bedchamber. “How do I look?” Trixy asked anxiously.

  “You look very pretty,” Harry assured her. “White and peach are perfect colors for a brunette. And, Jane, I can’t believe how grown-up you look tonight.”

  “Thank you. I think it’s because I’m wearing Mother’s earrings. My pulse is racing like mad, just thinking about going to Montagu House.”

  “Perhaps you’re like me—cannot decide if it’s the manse or the man that excites you.”

  “Oh, it’s definitely Will Montagu,” Jane admitted ingenuously.

  “Are you ready, ladies?” their mother called from the foot of the central staircase.

  Harry, in a gold and white tissue gown, led the way down.

  “Your father will meet us at Montagu House. It’s only a few steps from his Privy Council office.” Her glance swept over her daughters. “I must say the Hamilton ladies will turn every male head tonight. I pity the other females who have accepted Charlotte’s invitation. James, just see if Riley has brought the coach around.”

  At Montagu House, an upstairs chamber had been assigned as a dressing room for female guests. The Duchess of Abercorn paused dramatically at the top of the grand staircase surrounded by her daughters. Above her was a large stained-glass dome that was brilliantly lit to show off its magnificence.

  “I am counting on one of you to become the Countess of Dalkeith and future Duchess of Buccleuch. That way, I shall be able to visit Montagu House on a regular basis and descend this staircase with the dramatic flair it deserves.”

  Harry paused beside her mother and watched with amused eyes as the gentlemen in the ballroom below gathered and stared up in silent admiration at the tableau of feminine pulchritude. Then they descended the staircase together.