The Earl Most Likely

by Goodger, Jane

  Now, wrapped up in her memories of Costille House were recent, thrilling events. It was more than the sun shining and the warm air that made her mood so light. It was, she knew, that she would see Lord Berkley, that perhaps he might call her Catalina and touch her hair and perhaps ask her again what she would do if he kissed her. What would she do?

  I will allow it.

  Harriet let out a squeal, then picked up her skirts and ran with abandon for a bit, simply delighting in the day and how happy she felt. As she got closer, Harriet slowed her steps and waved to some of the workmen who were struggling with some timber for the scaffolding that was being constructed in the Great Hall. The flowered wallpaper needed to be removed from the walls and the entire room whitewashed before the artifacts, many of them made from heavy iron, could be replaced. More exciting, Lord Berkley’s lions were scheduled to be put back in place and she looked forward to seeing his lordship’s expression when he saw them.

  Mr. Billings, a perpetual scowl on his face, hurried through the door just as she was about to walk up the shallow steps. “Thank goodness you’re here, miss, though I must say I’m surprised to see you today.” He took an audible huff of air. “I told the lads not to start hanging those paintings in the dining room until you arrived, but they went ahead and did it anyway. I fear some may not be in the correct spot and I know how important it is for Lord Berkley to have everything just so.”

  “I’ll take a quick look, shall I, Mr. Billings?”

  “Thank you,” he said with great relief. Poor Mr. Billings had been under a great deal of strain trying to get all the work done in time for the Christmas ball. Harriet would often hear him mumbling under his breath, and it wasn’t always kind words he was saying about the earl.

  After giving him a look of commiseration, Harriet hurried through the door before turning. “The lions, Mr. Billings?”

  “That’s where I be heading now, miss,” he said, hurrying down the steps. “It’s no small feat moving such large objects, as I well know.”

  “I imagine not. The earl shall be so pleased, though, when he sees them. Speaking of the earl, do you know where I might find him?” she called, raising her voice, for Mr. Billings was now several yards away.

  Mr. Billings stopped still and turned, the oddest expression on his face. It almost looked like pity. For one horrible moment, Harriet thought she had somehow in her tone revealed her growing feelings for the earl, and her cheeks burned. Mr. Billings, who just moments before seemed to be in a hurry to leave, now stood in the gravel drive shuffling his feet. “You don’t know where he is, miss?”

  Harriet shook her head, baffled. “How on earth would I know?”

  “Because he’s having luncheon with yer parents,” he said, though it was with clear reluctance.

  “Oh. Oh, of course! Yes. Thank you, Mr. Billings. I’d quite forgotten.” She turned, mortified, and hurried into the house.

  It shouldn’t hurt, this slight dealt by her parents, but it did. Terribly so. To think they’d issued an invitation to an earl and he’d accepted. No wonder her mother had seemed in such a tizzy today. Planning for such a lofty visitor would put even the calmest mama with a marriageable daughter into a state of panic. One marriageable daughter. Her mother had purposely excluded her. She’d said nothing to her earlier when she’d mentioned her walk, and now Harriet recalled that slight hesitation—as if she’d been considering telling Harriet about their visitor—but instead let her go on her way.

  The buoyant feeling drained away, and Harriet found herself on the verge of tears. Lord Berkley would no doubt note her absence from her own family’s luncheon. What would he think of her, of her parents? She ought to return home at once and enjoy her mother’s face when she stepped into the dining room wearing her work clothes. Now that was…

  …brilliant.

  * * * *

  Augustus sat uncomfortably in the Andersons’ opulent parlor, so cluttered with things it was difficult to navigate the room. Instead, he remained where they had placed him, in a delicate Queen Anne chair with a cushion so hard his bottom was beginning to ache. The walls appeared to be gilded, the floors were shining marble. Tapestries, no doubt purchased from some failing estate, hung from the walls in an incongruous and almost garish way, out of place and out of time. The daughter, Clara, wearing a gown more suited to a ball than a luncheon, looked like another bit of decoration.

  He’d forgotten how lovely she was and had to admit she did stir his interest. She was lively and animated, her eyes sparkled with interest in whatever he said, but he couldn’t help thinking that it seemed more of a performance than genuine interest. Where that thought had come from, he had no idea. While his focus was seemingly on this Miss Anderson, he couldn’t help but wonder where the other Miss Anderson was.

  A sound at the door drew his interest, but he was disappointed to see it was the butler there to announce that luncheon was ready. Where was she?

  “I do hope you enjoy our modest fare,” Mrs. Anderson said, standing to lead the way into the dining room. She held a glass of wine in her hand, and Augustus suspected from her flushed cheeks that it was not her first. “I’m sure you’re used to much finer cuisine. I understand you have a French chef. Clara adores French food, don’t you, Clara?”

  Clara brightened. “I do. I fear I like most foods and have a rather unladylike appetite. Especially for kidney pie, which is not French, I know, but I do love it.”

  Augustus chuckled as he knew he was supposed to and said, “I must confess I also have a weakness for good kidney pie.”

  “That’s not on the menu today,” Mrs. Anderson said with regret. “I do wish I had known, my lord.” He could almost see her making a mental note that her cook must make kidney pie if he should ever grace their home again.

  “Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Anderson. I’m sure whatever your cook has prepared will be lovely. And the French chef is no longer at Costille House, I fear. He left in an uproar, something about my comment that his pot-au-feu not tasting as good as the fare at the local pub.”

  Mrs. Anderson laughed uncertainly, and he guessed she had no idea what sort of dish pot-au-feu was.

  “It’s a bit like our beef stew, Mother,” Clara said quietly, politely, and Mrs. Anderson flashed a quick look of irritation.

  “Yes, I know, my dear. Please do sit at the head of the table, my lord, as our honored guest.”

  The table, the word oddly emphasized as it came out of Mrs. Anderson’s mouth, was laden with heavy and brilliantly shining silver. It looked more like a silver shop than a dining table, and Augustus could only wonder what was the purpose of it all.

  “I see you’re admiring our silver, my lord,” Mrs. Anderson said, her face beaming as she took her seat. “It’s La Mary.”

  “Lamerie,” Clare said.

  “As I said, La Mary. Very dear, but I simply could not help but add to our collection. And it does look so lovely on our Chippendale table, does it not? Mr. Anderson balked at the expense, but you must admit it is worth every penny. I could have nothing less for our home.”

  “Very nice, Mrs. Anderson,” he said, and she smiled as if he’d paid her the most elaborate compliment. “I daresay your collection surpasses mine.”

  Augustus sat at the head of the table as requested, and though Mr. Anderson looked slightly put out, he sat to the right of Augustus, with Mrs. Anderson sitting on his left. It felt damned awkward to be sitting at the head of the table in another man’s home, but Augustus remained silent as he suspected any protest on his part would only end with Mrs. Anderson insisting.

  Once they were settled, Mrs. Anderson said, “Are you attending the little season, my lord? We shall and it would be wonderful to see a familiar face. We leave in just one week.”

  “I have no plans to go to London, Mrs. Anderson. I fear renovations to my home are keeping me in St. Ives for the foreseeable future.”
He made a show of looking around the room. “Do you not have another daughter?”

  Mrs. Anderson’s face immediately turned red. “She’s…she’s…”

  “Here I am, Mother! So sorry to be late. My deepest apologies, my lord.” Harriet entered the room as if blown in by the wind, then gave a quick curtsy, one his grandmother would have deemed almost insulting given his stature, though for some reason it made him want to smile. Indeed, he could smell the outdoors on her, and her hair was pulled back in an untidy bun that allowed a great many of her glorious curls to spring about her head. “Goodness, Mother, have you put out every piece of silver we own?”

  Unlike her sister, who was dressed in an expensive gown of blue silk, Harriet wore the plain brown dress that told him she’d likely been at his home, working. His heart picked up a beat at the sight of her, much to his bafflement, but he supposed it couldn’t be helped when she breezed in with her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling in mischief. If his suspicions were correct, Harriet had been completely unaware of this luncheon and had likely found out from one of the staff at Costille House. A look at her mother, who appeared unhappily surprised to see her younger daughter, confirmed this, and Augustus had to take a slow breath to stem the quick anger that shot through him at the thought of their slight. What sort of parent would invite an earl to luncheon and not tell one of her daughters?

  Augustus immediately stood and sketched a quick bow in Harriet’s direction. “I’m so pleased you could join us, Miss Anderson,” he said.

  “’arriet, you look like you’ve been on a stank, you do, and just look what you’re gettin’ on the planken,” Mrs. Anderson said, clearly vexed with her daughter.

  Augustus was taken aback by Mrs. Anderson’s sudden and rather drastic slip into a strong Cornish dialect. As if realizing what she’d just said, the older woman stiffened. “I do apologize, my lord, but Harriet is in no condition to entertain a man of your stature. Harriet doesn’t seem to understand the niceties of society as Clara does. Go upstairs immediately, Harriet.” Mrs. Anderson wrinkled her nose. “What is that smell?”

  “Horse manure,” Harriet said cheerfully and succinctly. Rather too cheerfully, now that he thought about it. There was a bit of a frenetic nature to her merriment, and Augustus gave her a careful look. Was she angry or hurt that her parents had neglected to tell her about the luncheon? And why not invite her? Did they fear she would distract him from Clara?

  “Leave at once,” Hedra said, then smiled falsely at Augustus. “Again, my apologies.”

  “Please, I insist Miss Harriet stay. In fact, I would be offended if she left,” he said silkily. He could tell Hedra wanted to argue, but she pressed her lips together and acquiesced to him.

  Harriet gave her sister a wink and a grin, and sat down next to her mother across from Clara. It wasn’t until the first course of soup was served that Augustus noticed Harriet was trembling, whether from anger or from fear, he did not know. The urge to comfort her, to put her parents in their place, was just as disquieting. How dare these people treat their own daughter so shabbily?

  “Miss Anderson,” Augustus said, looking at Harriet, “have we met before? You look quite familiar.”

  Harriet stilled so quickly, it was as if someone had turned her to stone, and Augustus had to suppress a laugh. She looked, in one word, terrified to be the subject of conversation, and he knew she feared he would reveal her secret forays to his house. To her credit, she quickly recovered, perhaps before anyone else at the table noticed.

  “I believe we met at that John Knill ball,” she said sedately. “Mr. Southwell introduced us.”

  He pretended to search his memory. “Did he.”

  “Indeed, yes, my lord.”

  “That is the evening you also met Clara,” Mrs. Anderson said, and Augustus couldn’t help but notice the younger Miss Anderson seemed to shrink in her seat, as if she wished to disappear completely. All her bravado and cheerfulness dissolved before his eyes as she dipped her head to stare blankly at her soup. “What a wonderful night,” Hedra continued. “Clara was wearing her pink gown. You remember, Clara, the one from Paris from Mr. Worth. That was a right pretty ‘un, wasn’t it?” Turning to Augustus, she said, “He’s a very sought after dressmaker. I wouldn’t think of dressing Clara in anything but the best, even though it was very dear. Very dear.”

  “Mother,” Clara said, clearly mortified that her mother would discuss money in front of guests and especially one so prominent as Lord Berkley.

  “I am familiar with Mr. Worth,” Augustus said blandly, racking his brain for what Harriet had been wearing. Hell, he couldn’t recall even meeting her, never mind what she was wearing. “And what were you wearing, Miss Anderson?” Again, he directed his question to Harriet.

  Harriet pressed her lovely lips together, drawing his eyes there to their soft, pink pillow, clearly trying not to smile. “I believe I was wearing the gown I have on now.”

  “For goodness sakes, ’arriet, you did not wear that ugly gown to a ball,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Why on earth would you say such a thing? Tis ’ardly on.”

  “To be amusing?” Harriet said, and Augustus thanked God her eyes twinkled with mirth. There she was, his Princess Catalina. “I am sorry, Mother. I was wearing one of Clara’s old gowns. It was yellow, I believe, a color that makes me look jaundiced.”

  Clara burst out laughing. “It does,” she said, and the two sisters shared a fond look.

  “You should wear blue to match your remarkable eyes,” Augustus said. Everyone looked at him as if he were daft, something he was actually beginning to wonder himself. Why would he say such a thing? Why would he even think such a thing?

  “Harriet does have pretty eyes,” Mr. Anderson said gruffly.

  The devil in him tempted Augustus to say more, but he remained silent. He did not believe Harriet’s parents would appreciate his waxing poetic about her pretty mouth, her magical curls, or her soft, full breasts. At least he imagined they were soft and full; it was difficult to tell what was underneath that ugly dress.

  “What were we talking about?” Hedra asked no one in particular. “Ah, yes. The little season. Baron Longley has hinted he will sponsor dear Clara and we are so excited to have such an esteemed man take our daughter under his wing. St. Ives in the fall is such a dreary thing, don’t you agree, Lord Berkley?”

  “Not at all, madam. I find St. Ives in any season more agreeable than London.”

  “Oh, I agree,” she gushed, and Clara and Harriet shared a look between them that spoke volumes. “I suppose, then, the rumors are correct.”

  “Rumors, madam?” he asked.

  “Of a Christmas ball at Costille ’ouse,” Hedra said. The lady gave her older daughter a pointed look. “Is it true?”

  Oh, hell. Augustus did not enjoy being put in an awkward position, and that was where he found himself. Clearly, Mrs. Anderson was looking for an invitation—one that would not be issued. “Indeed, I am holding a ball,” he said. “I fear it will not be nearly the crush that was the John Knill ball nor nearly as exciting as any entertainment in London. Just a small crowd of old family friends.” He prayed the woman would get the hint.

  “It sounds lovely, doesn’t it, Clara?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “I understand the ball is being held in order for you to find a new bride?”

  Clara and Harriet gave a collective gasp, almost as if they were bracing themselves for a blow. Really, the woman had absolutely no idea how forward she was being.

  “Mother,” Clara said softly, “I do believe when Lord Berkley said the ball was for old family friends, he did not mean to include anyone from St. Ives. Except, perhaps, Lord Hubbard.”

  Hedra made a great show of being taken aback. “I do apologize, Lord Berkley. I had no idea. Clara—”

  “Mother, do stop,” Clara said rather sharply, then added a smile to les
sen the impact of her tone.

  “I was simply inquiring about an entertainment, Clara, one that we will regretfully not be able to attend as we will be in London,” Mrs. Anderson said with a sniff. “Otherwise, I would be happy to accept Lord Berkley’s invitation.” The older woman gave him a coy look, but Augustus could only smile blandly. He would not invite this woman, even had she been the daughter of the queen herself. Not after what she’d done to Harriet.

  “Yes, unfortunate indeed. As far as my guest list, it is the fault of my grandmother, you see,” Augustus said, deciding to save the daughters from the older woman. “She is rather old fashioned and has devised the invitation list herself. I fear if I deviate from it at all, I will never hear the last of it.”

  This seemed to placate the woman. “Of course. I’m sure it will be an invitation list right out of Debrett’s. How pleasant for you, I’m sure. I cannot even imagine how exciting it will be to have such lofty persons in our little town.”

  * * * *

  Harriet listened to her mother prattle on, mortified for herself, embarrassed for poor Clara. Her mother worked so very hard on her diction, but when she had one or two glasses of wine, more and more of her Cornish dialect crept in. It did not happen often, only when she was particularly nervous as she must be with Lord Berkley visiting, but when it did, Harriet found herself pitying her poor mother, who pretended so hard not to be who she was. The dialect was bad enough, but she prayed Lord Berkley didn’t hear the waspish undertones in her mother’s voice as she speculated about who would be on the invitation list and who would not.