Deceiving an Earl

by Sharon Cullen

  And for a small moment he suddenly yearned for a son to teach and pass all of this on to.

  In his head he knew that someday soon he would need to wed and produce an heir. His mother reminded him every time she saw him. But his heart had never grabbed onto the idea, and he had yet to meet someone he wanted to bear his children.

  Ellen.

  No. Not Ellen. Maybe at one time, but no longer. She had her own life. Her own son and an enamored surgeon.

  He should probably make more of an effort to find his elusive countess.

  “So what are you going to do?” Ashland asked, and for a moment Oliver thought Ashland was asking what he was going to do to find a countess, but then he realized that Ashland was referring to Philip.

  “I am going to do what I did with you. We’re going to sit down and go over the books, and he will learn about profit and loss.”

  Ashland groaned. “The poor lad.”

  …

  Oliver entered his childhood home just in time for breakfast. His mother and sister were in the dining room, eating and discussing whatever it was they discussed in the mornings.

  “Oliver!” His mother offered her cheek, and he bent to kiss it.

  Josie looked less than pleased to see him and more than a little distrustful.

  “What brings you here so early?” his mother asked.

  He dumped about a dozen white envelopes beside her plate and sat next to her while the footman poured him coffee.

  “What is this?” She sifted through the envelopes a bit before her head popped up and her eyes went wide. “They’re…” She poked through them some more. “They’re invitations. To balls. And picnics.”

  He sipped his coffee and watched the joy cross her face, all while feeling his fate seal up tight.

  “Why are you bringing invitations here?” Josie asked.

  “Yes, dear, why?” Nora folded her hands beneath her chin and pierced him with her dancing blue eyes.

  “I believe it’s time that I make an appearance or two.”

  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. This was more difficult than he thought it would be, and he didn’t like the gleam in his mother’s eyes.

  The idea of finding a suitable wife would not leave him. It was time. He was thirty-four years old with nothing to show except a very successful earldom that was earning money faster than he could invest it.

  After speaking to Ashland, and watching Philip attempt to piss it all away, he was more convinced than ever that it was time to produce an heir. And who else to help him find a suitable wife than his mother.

  “I see,” she said, studying him closely. “And what brought this on?”

  “Come, Mother, you’ve been telling me for years that it’s my duty to carry on the title.”

  “And suddenly you agree with me?”

  He found it hard to believe that she wasn’t jumping up and down in excitement and planning his nuptials already.

  She picked up an envelope and pulled out the invitation, then proceeded with the rest of them, sorting them into two piles. Oliver was known as a math genius, able to smell a good investment. He had no issue with dirtying his hands and his money in businesses that no aristocrat would touch. His mother was also a genius, except her genius leaned toward manipulating Society to do what she wanted. People feared her, because a snub from Lady Armbruster meant social ruin.

  She pushed two invitations toward him. “These two,” she said. “They will provide the most debutantes. Personally, I recommend Lady Sylvia Evendale. She is of fine stock, her reputation unblemished, and her bloodline impeccable.”

  Josie snorted then covered her mouth.

  Nora raised a brow at her daughter. “You don’t approve?”

  “Lady Sylvia is dull. She has not an original thought in her head. Oliver would be bored to death within five minutes.”

  Oliver grinned at his sister, who seemed to know him far better than their own mother. Lady Sylvia might be all of the things his mother said, but if she did not have an original thought, he didn’t want her.

  “Who else?” he asked.

  Nora sighed. “Really, Oliver. You must think of things such as bloodlines and reputation.”

  “Not if she’s dull. Who else?”

  “What about Lady Fieldhurst?” Josie hid her expression behind her cup of coffee that she raised to her lips. All Oliver could see was her mischievous eyes. He glowered at her.

  “Lady Fieldhurst is old,” Nora said, dismissively.

  “She’s my age,” Oliver said, a bit miffed that his mother thought him old.

  “That’s different. Men age differently. Lady Fieldhurst is almost past her child bearing years, and your purpose is to produce an heir.”

  “I find her fascinating,” Josie said.

  Oliver shot her another look that said if she persisted he would spill her secret. She simply smiled back.

  “Fascinating is not good,” Nora said. “She completely stepped out of the norms of Society after Lord Fieldhurst passed away, with her salons and the people she chooses to keep company with.”

  Josie shrugged. “I like her. And she seems to have the correct temperament for Oliver.”

  Nora’s eyes narrowed on her daughter. “When have you met with, let alone conversed with, Lady Fieldhurst?”

  Josie looked down at her plate and concentrated on her eggs. “She has a son,” she finally said.

  Oliver’s head whipped around, and he glared at her. She refused to look at him.

  “Notorious, too. You don’t want a wife who already has a son and a bad one at that. I hear he’s nothing but trouble.”

  Oliver felt the need to defend Philip but kept his mouth shut. How in the hell had the conversation become so derailed?

  “Just the other day you mentioned her as a possibility,” he said.

  “I did? I don’t remember.” She sorted through the stacks of rejections.

  “In your garden. You thought her acceptable then.”

  “I changed my mind.” She waved her fingers in the air. “Too many bohemians and that son is no good.”

  There were times he couldn’t follow his mother’s logic, and this time he let it go. It didn’t matter why she thought Ellen was not acceptable. He had his own reasons for not pursuing her.

  “Aside from Lady Fieldhurst and Lady Sylvia, who else would be appropriate?” he asked.

  Nora sat back and looked into the distance, apparently sifting through all of the eligible young ladies of the ton.

  “I’ll make a list,” she said. “This afternoon. We’ll discuss them tomorrow. Come by at the same time and we can have breakfast again.”

  Oliver felt uncomfortable making a list of eligible young women. It wasn’t as if he were purchasing livestock. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Except he knew this was how it was done in houses throughout London. And he was certain he was on a few of those lists. It was the reason he avoided these social events. But if he wanted an heir—and a wife was a requirement for an heir—then he must do what they all did to procure one.

  “Very well,” he said, wishing this whole thing done.

  “I’ll walk you to the door,” Josie said, standing hurriedly and throwing down her napkin.

  “Is this a case you’re working?” she whispered as they walked through the foyer.

  “Case?” His mind was still on the list.

  “Are you spying on someone? Is that why you are suddenly going to balls?”

  “What? No.” He shook his head. “Really, Jose.”

  “I can’t think of another reason that you would want to attend a ball. You hate them.”

  She was right. He did hate them, but he didn’t know how else to meet his bride.

  “It’s time for me to get a wife, and this is how one gets one.”

  “It sounds very unromantic.”

  He thought so, too.

  “I saw the way you looked at Lady Fieldhurst.”

  They were at the door and he turned to he
r, his heart suddenly hammering. “And how was I looking at Lady Fieldhurst?”

  She shrugged. “Differently. I’ve not seen you look at anyone like that.”

  “You’re just being silly.”

  “I think you like her.”

  “I don’t like her. Not like that, at least.”

  But he felt like he was betraying Ellen by saying that. She held a special place in his heart and always would. He often wondered what would have happened if she had followed through with their plans. Would they have a son like Philip? Better behaved, of course.

  “I think you do like her,” Josie said.

  “I think you should mind your own business.”

  “You didn’t tell Mother about last night.” This was just like Josie, to change the subject so fast.

  “And I won’t, if you behave yourself.”

  “I was behaving myself last night. I acted like the perfect lady. Mother would have been proud.”

  “After she beat you for nearly damaging your reputation. You heard her in there. She doesn’t hold Lady Fieldhurst in high regard and would have thought your appearance there last night appalling.”

  Josie pouted. “She really needs to stop being so judgmental. I saw nothing wrong with those who attended. You were there.”

  “It’s different for me.”

  “Because you’re a boy and I’m a girl?”

  “I’m a man and you’re still too young for such things.”

  “Well, when I’m grown I’m going to host salons just like that and invite all of the interesting people and not the boring people that Society thinks are acceptable.”

  Oliver bit back his grin. Josie was nearly seventeen, but there were times she still acted like a little girl. “You do that,” he said.

  Chapter Thirteen

  He chose to go to the ball that Lady Sylvia Evendale was attending because he should at least consider her as a possibility. He trusted his mother’s opinion. But he also trusted Josie’s honest evaluation. So he went with an open mind and apparently caused quite the stir when he entered.

  He’d not realized—or possibly he chose to ignore—that people kept tabs on the eligible bachelors, and his absence from the balls was always noted. He understood. Without trying to sound vain, he was rich, richer than his father had been, thanks to his shrewd investments. Most nobles chose to put their head in the sand when they saw change coming. Oliver had chosen to take advantage of it.

  His mother swooped in on him the moment he entered, and immediately he understood why. The mothers with eligible daughters were heading toward him en masse. Their avid expressions reminded him of headhunters in far-off places.

  He shivered and, not for the first time, wondered why he’d thought this was a good idea.

  His gaze roamed the large room, searching for… He didn’t know what he was searching for until his eyes settled on her. She was standing with a group of women, all of their hands waving as they talked over one another.

  She was striking tonight, in deep purple.

  …

  Ellen’s circle of friends had shrunk since she’d started hosting her salons. There had been a time when she and Arthur had been invited to the best balls. But these days, the demand for her presence had waned.

  She had known it would happen, but she had been surprised at some of the friends who had turned their backs on her. It had hurt, but at the same time she did not regret it. What she liked most about her salons was meeting new and different people, learning new perspectives, and making new friends. It was a fair trade-off, in her opinion.

  But that wasn’t to say that she no longer enjoyed attending the occasional ball, and if invited, she went. The four women surrounding her were friends who had not abandoned her.

  It had been a while since they had all been together. Immediately, they congregated to a far corner to catch up on one another’s lives. Lucy had just asked about Philip, the question that Ellen had been dreading, when suddenly Ruth covered her mouth to stifle a gasp. Ellen heard the shocked, whispered, “Oh my goodness” and turned to see what all the excitement was about.

  He was descending the stairs to a hushed, reverent silence. Mothers of eligible daughters surged forward as if one big wave, while Lady Armbruster swooped in to save her son.

  The hundreds of candles shimmered down on his hair, turning it a golden blond. His black formal coat fit his shoulders perfectly. Beyond that, Ellen couldn’t see anything else, but she didn’t need to. She remembered.

  Her body remembered dancing with him at a ball such as this. The way they’d moved perfectly together. The scent of his cologne. The feel of his arms around her. The way his body had swayed toward hers.

  She hated that her body betrayed her whenever Oliver was near. She hated that she could never forget and that just looking at her son dredged up all the memories she was desperate to forget.

  “…Sylvia Evendale… Heard he’s looking for a wife.”

  Ellen’s attention snapped to Victoria, who always seemed to have all the gossip.

  “What about Lady Sylvia?” Ellen asked.

  “Rumor has it that Lord Armbruster is finally in the market for a wife. Or so Lady Evendale is saying. And she’s saying that her daughter, Sylvia, has caught his eye.”

  Ellen looked back at Oliver, but he’d been swallowed up by the crowd, and she could no longer find him.

  Lady Sylvia Evendale. She was a good choice. More than likely she was Nora’s choice, but still a good one. Impeccable breeding.

  Oh, who was she kidding? Ellen had a lead ball in the pit of her stomach at the thought of Oliver marrying Lady Sylvia. But there was no reason for such a feeling of dread. Marriage for Oliver would be good for her. Then he would no longer be a threat.

  “And there she is, Lady Evendale, following him around like a lost puppy.” Lucy giggled and the others covered their smiles.

  Ellen tried to smile, but she was sure she failed, and she was relieved that her friends were more interested in discussing Sylvia’s greatest coup, if she could land Lord Armbruster.

  She excused herself and wandered away from them, but if she had hoped to escape the discussion of Oliver and Sylvia she had been wrong. He was the topic of conversation, at least among the eligible young ladies and their mothers. Even the eligible bachelors were lamenting Oliver’s sudden appearance at a ball, since he rarely, if ever, attended.

  “Lady Fieldhurst.”

  She stopped at the sound of his voice and closed her eyes.

  With a pasted-on smile she glanced behind her. “Lord Armbruster. I’m surprised to see you here.”

  Up close he was even more devastatingly attractive. Age and time had been good to him. Seventeen years ago, he was just beginning to fill out. He’d been tall, his shoulders wide, but without the muscle that roped his body now. Small creases fanned from his eyes, making him look mature and handsome.

  “I’m surprised to be here,” he said.

  “You were always honest.”

  “Only with you.”

  She turned her head away, not wanting him to see that his words had touched her.

  “Rumor is circulating that you are here for Lady Sylvia.” Why did I bring that up?

  “Word travels quickly,” he said.

  They were in their own little bubble, the crowd surging around them but giving them room to breathe. Mothers kept a safe distance, watching, but pretending not to watch.

  “Oh, come now, Armbruster. You know nothing is a secret in London Society.”

  “I would have hoped something would be secret for at least a day. I just decided to attend yesterday.”

  “It’s true, then? You’re in the market for a wife?”

  “It’s true.” His gaze clashed with hers, chips of blue ice with an honesty she couldn’t meet him with.

  “I’m sure Lady Armbruster is happy.”

  “It’s been her dream since the day I was born, to see me safely wed.”

  Was there accusation in his words
? Did he look hurt?

  “Wh-what made you decide to do the deed now?” Why was her mouth suddenly dry? Why was it suddenly difficult to speak?

  “I decided seventeen years ago, but alas, it didn’t work out.”

  Her cheeks heated. There was definitely accusation in those words. She looked down at her hands, unable to meet his gaze again. There was nothing she could say to refute him. Nothing.

  “There you are, dear.” Lady Armbruster approached and smiled at Ellen. “Lady Fieldhurst. How nice to see you.”

  But something in her cool tone made Ellen think that the dowager countess wasn’t at all happy to see her.

  Ellen inclined her head and said to Oliver, “It was nice talking to you again.” And then she mouthed, “Good luck.”

  …

  He’d forgotten just how much he felt like cattle at these events. Within an hour he was suffocating. His mother tried to keep most of the worst offenders away, but some slipped through, and he’d danced with many young ladies whose names he would never remember, none of whom appealed to him.

  Did they not have a single, independent thought in their heads? Were they taught to agree with every man they spoke to? And what was with the simpering and the eye fluttering? He wanted to ask them if they had something in their eyes.

  He was far too old for this and decided by the second dance that he didn’t want a wife who was so young she couldn’t think for herself.

  And yet the evening lumbered on, and Oliver’s mouth ached from smiling, his brain pounded from inane conversations, his feet hurt in the ridiculous formal shoes, and he was angry at his mother for no other reason than he didn’t know who else to be angry at.

  He’d lost sight of Ellen long ago but supposed that was a good thing. He couldn’t find a wife with Ellen lurking about. Never mind that he caught himself searching for her in the crowd more times than he could count.

  For a small moment he found himself alone, an island in a sea of sharks. There was no one watching him, no mothers hovering, his own mother was not to be found, so Oliver slipped out onto the terrace and practically dove into the shadows, skirting them until he could lean against the balustrade and breathe his first real breath of the night. He pulled on his tight collar and wished he were at home with a glass of port at his elbow and estate reports in his lap.