Donata frowned. “Lady Gwendolyn is an excellent choice.” She didn’t really believe that. The girl was as dull as her brother. “What a delightful coincidence that you and Miranda will both marry soon.” Donata’s voice raised an octave in delight. “It shall be quite the celebration! Perhaps we should hold both ceremonies at once.” She clapped her hands.
Oh, that last bit was terrible of her. Truly.
“We shall leave for Gray Covington the day after tomorrow. Oh, how I adore house parties.”
Miranda’s torture of the raisin cake ceased abruptly. A loose raisin rolled off the plate.
Donata would need to ask Bevins to make sure the maids searched the couch for stray raisins.
“Sutton has asked that you escort us in the Cambourne coach, Lord Kilmaire.”
Actually, Sutton had asked no such thing, as he was as yet unaware that he and Alex were hosting the house party at Gray Covington. Her grandson would be less than enthusiastic. His dislike of Lady Dobson was only rivaled by his dislike for Lord Ridley. Upon meeting the Cottinghams, Sutton would likely detest them as well.
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure.” Colin’s dark gaze slid to Miranda and the tortured raisin cake.
“We shall enjoy your escort.” Donata dipped her head in acknowledgement of his offer, though she was certain if Colin could find a way to politely refuse he would have.
Miranda stood suddenly, clutching Lord Thurston to her breast as if it would protect her from the horror of the upcoming house party. “Please excuse me, but I must prepare for our journey.”
Before Donata could say stay her, Miranda turned and fled the room, slippers in one hand, Lord Thurston in the other, her skirts fluttering madly about her ankles as if running from the Devil himself. Or a Cursed Earl. It appeared they might be one in the same.
Colin stood and gave a small bow. “Good day, Lady Miranda,” he said as Miranda retreated. Something raw flickered in his face when his gaze lingered on her fleeing form. Hunger and longing.
Donata leaned back in her chair, satisfied. She no longer had any doubts as to the true nature of the Earl of Kilmaire’s feelings. Donata felt certain Colin would never act on his emotions unless forced to. Intervention was necessary.
Colin stood for several moments, his attention focused on the open doorway. Abruptly he turned, his features carefully composed, all sign of emotion stricken from his handsome face.
“I thank you for your assistance and discretion in this matter, Lady Cambourne. I’m sure this will result in a most suitable match.”
Donata wished to reply that she had already found him a most suitable match, but she did not. Instead, she raised her cup of tea to her lips, all the better to hide her satisfaction that her intuition had been correct.
“You shall call on us two days hence for the trip to Gray Covington.”
Colin bowed. “Until then, my lady. I’ll see myself out. No need to call for Bevins.
Just as well, for it would take Bevins an agonizing amount of time to return and show Colin the door.
“Good day, Lord Kilmaire.”
At the sound of the front door closing behind Colin, Donata poured a bit of milk into her tea and allowed herself a moment to gloat. She rarely gloated. It was unseemly, although in this instance she felt justified.
Sutton constantly chastised Donata for interfering in the lives of others but had she not meddled in Sutton’s relationship, Alex could very well be married to that vile cur, Archie Runyon.
At the mere thought of Archibald Runyon, gooseflesh rose across Donata’s forearms and the tea went bitter in her mouth. His foul legacy still permeated the lives of the Cambourne family, even though the man was dead. Thankfully. All because Miranda had learned to shoot and with deadly accuracy.
A lump formed in her throat, the words choking her as she spoke aloud to the empty room. “And yet I could not save Elizabeth from that monster.”
The hand holding the teacup shook, rattling the fine porcelain against the saucer. She had not seen her youngest granddaughter for many years, not since Elizabeth was a child. Not since the death of her son, Robert.
Elizabeth had been sent far from London. To a place where given time, she would heal. A place where monsters like Archie Runyon did not exist. A convent in Scotland, on a small estate owned by the Duke of Dunbar. Elizabeth’s safety was assured. She would never have to see Archie or her mother, Jeanette Runyon Reynolds, again.
“Bitch.” Donata shocked herself by cursing out loud. Something she rarely did. Certainty grew within her that Jeanette had a hand in Miranda’s current unhappiness. Not the unsuitability, of course, but the obvious unhappiness between Colin and Miranda. This entire affair reeked of Jeanette’s machinations.
I should have had Robert send that viper he married away long before she could hurt Miranda and Elizabeth. I should never have allowed Jeanette to create such turmoil that I took myself on a tour of the continent and abandoned them to her treachery.
She took another sip of her tea, allowing the pain to linger and flow through her veins as she thought of her son, Robert, dead now nearly five years. Her eyes welled with tears and she blinked, trying to hold them back. Now was not the time to dwell on that harpy, Jeanette, a woman who destroyed everything and everyone she touched.
Six years ago, Colin Hartley had been the third son of the Earl of Kilmaire. Handsome, charming, with an air of melancholy that attracted women like moths to a flame. And poor. Not a farthing to his name. Nor hope for a title. Certainly not worthy of marrying the daughter of a marquess.
Jeanette’s ambition was legendary. Miranda was only a tool to be used by her mother to make a splendid match, one that would further Jeanette in society. Colin Hartley would not have been that match. Had Jeanette witnessed the growing affection between the two and decided to make sure it didn’t blossom?
“I am not,” Donata said softly to herself, “about to allow that vile creature to win.” She set down her tea cup. There was much to do and little time to do it.
“Harry!” She called over her shoulder, knowing the ginger-haired footman likely stood just outside the room.
“My lady?” Harry’s bright red hair popped thru the doorway.
“Will you bring me pen and paper along with my small writing desk?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“And Harry. Do you recall that matter we discussed earlier? It appears that I was correct in my assumptions.” She often confided her schemes to Harry, who was a more than willing accomplice. The boy was very dear to her, and she considered him to be more son to her than servant.
“Of course, my lady. You are rarely ever wrong.”
Donata heard the pride in Harry’s voice and smiled at it. “Very rarely.”
Lord Ridley. As if she would allow her granddaughter to marry that money-grubbing dandy. Lord Hamill? Ancient. Infirm. Completely unacceptable.
A knock sounded at the door, followed by the reappearance of Harry holding a portable writing desk and ink.
“Thank you, Harry.” She winked at him.
“If I may be so bold.”
“You may, Harry.”
“What are you about, Lady Cambourne?”
Donata chuckled as she opened the writing desk, pulling out ink, pen and several embossed pieces of her private stationery. Taking up the quill, she began to scratch away, hastily producing a letter which she sealed and handed to Harry.
“Deliver this to Gray Covington, directly into the hands of the Marchioness. And please relay to her my apologies for the late notice.” She hoped that Alex would forgive her. It was for the best of reasons, after all. No one wished to have Lord Ridley in the family, and Sutton would never forgive Colin if he married Lady Dobson’s niece.
“At once, Lady Cambourne.”
“And hurry back, Harry. We’ve a house party to plan. Invitations to be sent.” No one would refuse her. She was the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne.
The Cottinghams and Lady Dobson wo
uld likely beat Donata to Gray Covington in their haste to visit. Ridley would immediately draw a line of credit at that gaming Hell he frequented, telling everyone he’d soon be married to the Marquess of Cambourne’s sister.
“Ha!” Donata bit off a piece of her scone. “They shall all be disappointed. Very disappointed.”
5
Cambourne House 1830
“Lord Cambourne has been detained, Mr. Hartley. Would you prefer to wait in the drawing room or perhaps the gardens?”
The Cambourne’s butler, a large, thin man who walked as if he had a stick up his bum moved towards the stairs and waited for Colin to respond. For the life of him, Colin couldn’t remember the man’s name, and the butler did not offer it, even though Colin had dined at Cambourne House at least four times in the last two weeks.
“The gardens I think.”
The day was bright without a hint of the dull, gray haze that usually colored the London sky. How anyone could live in a place where the sun rarely appeared mystified Colin. Trapped as he had been the last few months amongst the tall, smog-stained buildings and constant hum of thousands of people, he longed for the pure air of Ireland and Estervale. It felt as if he were slowly suffocating in London.
In truth, he could leave London if he wished to.
I don’t wish to.
Instead, Colin took the lease on a small but cozy set of rooms in a neighborhood peopled with shopkeepers and tradesmen. The partnership with Lord Wently was proving profitable and for the first time in his life, Colin had a bit of money in his pocket. Lord Wently assured him that more would be forthcoming.
Viscount Lindley was appalled at Colin’s accommodations. Repulsed might be a better word. The area, Nick claimed, was unfashionable. Tawdry. Colin didn’t even have a decent valet. And why, Nick questioned even though he surely knew the answer, did Colin insist on staying in London?
The butler strode towards a pair of French doors. “This way, Mr. Hartley.”
The house was still and quiet as Colin made his way inside, only the sound of his boots against the marble floor broke the silence.
A pair of maids came around the corner, bobbing in greeting as they passed, giggling softly into their hands as he smiled at them.
The butler halted slightly, brow raised in disapproval at the two women, and they scurried off, but not before shooting Colin another appreciative glance.
Bevers? Basin? He struggled to remember the butler’s name as the man lead him down the hall. The butler was a particular favorite of Miranda.
Ah, Miranda.
Just the thought of her shot a bolt of lust through him. He’d seen her only briefly last night at the ball hosted by the Earl and Countess of Braeburn. Sipping a horrible French wine, he’d never taken his eyes off her silk clad form as she spun about the dance floor with a young man Colin later learned was Lord St. Remy. St. Remy, Lady Cambourne had cheerfully informed Colin as she passed him on her way to the refreshment table, was the heir to the Duke of Langford. Colin’s eyes had lovingly traced every generous curve, wishing desperately it was his hands touching her waist instead of Lord St. Remy. Or any of the other overly pedigreed twits in the room , for Miranda was rarely without a partner.
She had probably danced until the wee hours and was still abed.
God. Miranda in bed. Preferably, his bed. He could see her in his mind’s eye, reclining back against a mountain of fluffy white pillows, her ebony locks trickling down her shoulders in wild disarray. He imagined lying next to her lush form. His fingers tugging at the silken bow on her chemise. The knot and the fabric would part to reveal her glorious breasts. He would—
“Mr. Hartley?” The butler raised a brow as Colin missed a step and nearly toppled a vase of moonlight roses.
Christ, this was madness.
Colin tried desperately to conjure up an image of Miranda as she had been, a chubby annoying child, with dirt on the hem of her dress as she chased frogs in the stream. But it was no use. All he could think of was the kiss they’d shared at the Dunbar Ball. The way Miranda’s body had curved into his. The way she breathed his name.
Nick, you miserable bastard. You sent Miranda to me. Deliberately.
Lord Cambourne had asked him to dine the previous night, and he’d only been able to smile stupidly at Miranda from across the table.
Miranda, for her part, never gave any indication that they’d shared a kiss. Or, that she’d allowed Colin to run his hands over her body.
Colin could still feel the swell of her breasts beneath his hand.
When she spoke, in the absurd circling way she favored, Miranda had the most endearing habit of using her hands, almost as if they were props in whatever story she related.
He couldn’t take his eyes off those lovely, slender hands. All he could think of was peeling back her gloves to see the swath of skin at her wrist. For Miranda’s fingers to slide down the length of his chest to the waistband of his trousers, touch the buttons—
He stumbled again, and this time Bevins sniffed the air, as if trying to ascertain whether Colin had been drinking.
The butler stopped at the end of the hall, swinging open a pair of French doors.
The smell of flowers and wet earth met Colin’s nostrils and he took a deep breath of the familiar aroma.
Bevins shot him a suspicious look. He’d probably count the silver once Colin left.
Nodding politely to the butler, Colin stepped onto the flagstone path and made his way into the gorgeous gardens of Cambourne House.
Stopping before a large rosebush, Colin attempted to think of something else besides the desire to bed Miranda. If he cleared his mind perhaps the raging erection straining against his trousers would abate. This was madness, this obsession with Miranda. It could not end well.
He took a deep breath, focusing on a yellow butterfly flitting around the rose buds. The butterfly, as beautiful as it was, had once been nothing more than a plump, annoying caterpillar before undergoing a metamorphosis, much like Miranda.
“Bloody butterfly,” he hissed, taking out his annoyance on the insect.
“Are you cursing at the butterfly, Mr. Hartley? Whatever has it done to you?”
Anticipation coursed through him, and his heart thudded almost painfully in his chest.
Miranda.
Damn it.
They had not been alone in each other’s company since the Dunbar Ball. If he visited her father, Miranda was a wisp of silk that floated by the study doors. She would greet him warmly, as one did a friend of the family. At a ball or fete, the few that Colin attended, Miranda was always surrounded by admirers, her mother hovering nearby to ensure the suitability of the gentlemen who paid her daughter court.
Colin was not considered even remotely suitable.
He turned towards her voice and found Miranda no more than ten feet from him, hidden beneath the branches of a willow tree. She was sitting on a worn patchwork blanket, her bonnet tossed to the side, a large book propped up on a pillow next to her. The title was stamped in gold across the front and on the spine - Ancient Embalming Techniques of the Egyptians. A small tray in front of her held slices of apple and several raisin cakes.
Colin’s heart seemed to lift out of his chest to race towards her.
“Good Morning, Lady Miranda.” He bowed slightly, begging his lower body to not tighten anew at the sight of her.
An impish smiled crossed her lips in greeting.
She looked impossibly beautiful. A thick braid of inky black hung over her shoulder, tiny wisps curling about her temples. She wore a simple muslin gown covered with embroidered flowers. The sheen of grass stains dotted her skirts, probably from laying out the blanket.
Or catching frogs.
Her deep green eyes sparkled in the late morning sun as she looked up at him.
“Good Morning, Mr. Hartley. What brings you to my garden? I’m sure it’s not just to curse at the butterflies.”
Miranda’s skin was luminous, with the glow of a fresh
peach. Her cheekbones were dappled with light and shadow where the sunlight filtered down through the leaves above her head. Bees hummed and buzzed through the roses in the garden and several birds fluttered off at his approach.
Colin imagined this was what heaven would be like, at least his version of heaven.
“I had an appointment with Lord Cambourne this morning, but he’s been detained. I thought to await him in the gardens, it being such a beautiful day. I hope I am not disturbing you.”
“Oh, yes. That mysterious project my father is assisting you with. The one he won’t discuss with me.” Miranda pouted a bit but her eyes sparkled. “Perhaps you’ll tell me one day.”
It was oddly gratifying to know she’d inquired.
“Not mysterious. It has not yet come to fruition though, and so I don’t wish to make more of it than I should.” Colin liked the thought of telling Miranda, she who’d adored his stories at Gray Covington. “If it does, I promise to let you in on my secret.”
“I find myself incredibly intrigued, Mr. Hartley. I should adore being part of your project.”
She already was, though she didn’t realize it.
Miranda patted a spot on the blanket in invitation. “Sit with me. Father was called to his solicitor’s. He’ll be gone for a bit, I imagine. Mr. Chartwick, though a delightful man, can be quite talkative.” She giggled. “Oh, I suppose that’s the pot calling the kettle black isn’t it?”
Christ, I want her.
“I should probably come back and return at a more convenient time.” He looked toward the house.
“Don’t worry. Mother has taken off to spend the day shopping, probably for a more spectacular gown than my own to wear to Lady Allister’s ball next week.” A rueful smile crossed her lips. “One would think it’s her first Season and not mine.” A note of rancor laced her words.
“Just for a moment, then.” He walked over, folding himself into a sitting position on the blanket across from her. Taking off his hat, he tossed it next to her bonnet. The sun was warm and welcoming on his head.
The tail of the ribbon tied around her braid fluttered briefly in the breeze, bouncing off her bodice. He watched, entranced at the way each breath she took pushed the tops of her breasts up. To distract himself, he pretended to study the title of her book.
MY WICKED EARL: The Wickeds Book 3 Page 8