A Bride for the Betrayed Earl

by Bridget Barton

  “We’re in for a real treat with the soup, my dear fellow. It is the cook’s famous spicy artichoke soup, the one your father always liked so much.” Algernon pulled his chair in closer to the table, his huge frame on the thing causing a fearful scraping of wood on wood.

  “Yes, Father really did like that soup. Whenever we were heading over here for dinner, he always commented in the carriage on the way that he hoped the cook would be serving her special soup.” Hunter laughed, finally beginning to enjoy the happier memories he had of his father, the ones which were not tinged with so much sadness.

  The worst of his raw grief was over, the grief which had been deferred a little when the true extent of Felicity’s betrayal had hit him like a rock falling from a mountainside. In the end, the two different sets of grief had seemed to mingle together until he could hardly pick through them. The pain of the grief of his father’s passing had gone on longer than it should have, once it had poked its head above the morass of other feelings, and it had taken a great hold. But Hunter could feel himself coming out on the good side of it all, feeling better day by day.

  Even Felicity’s betrayal had seemed to lessen although, in truth, he did not spend too much time dwelling on the details lest he find that he was not as recovered as he had hoped.

  “Well, tuck in, my dear fellow,” Algernon said, almost diving into his soup bowl with his spoon the moment the housekeeper and butler had left them alone.

  Algernon ate with such speed, his silver spoon intermittently twinkling as it caught the light of the chandeliers, that Hunter wondered how it was his cousin did not end up by dropping much of the soup down his immaculate black waistcoat.

  But Algernon had always eaten with speed and eaten great quantities. It was little wonder that he was so tall and broad, and yet there was none who could call him fat.

  “Your cook has surpassed herself again, Cousin. This soup is exactly as I remember it, and every bit as flavorsome,” Hunter said appreciatively, supping one spoon to every three that his cousin took.

  Hunter dined with Algernon regularly and, more often than not, they dined at Braithwaite House. Whilst Algernon spent a good deal of time at Addison Hall, Hunter had secretly preferred to eat in the much smaller dining room of his cousin’s home.

  It was but a tenth of the size of the great dining room at Addison Hall, and Hunter thought that was what he liked most about it. That and its lightness and very much smaller portraits. At Braithwaite House, the dining room walls were panelled but a third of the way up, and the wood painted white. Above the wooden panelling, the smooth walls were painted in a pale green, the color of faded garden peas.

  There were two doors into the dining room, both of them tall and wide arches, painted in white also. There were three chandeliers, one of which hung directly above the center of the walnut table, which was long, but not too long. There were seats enough for twelve people, very much more intimate than the immense dining arrangements at Addison.

  “That certainly was exactly as I was expecting,” Algernon said, pushing his plate towards the middle of the table. “Wonderful.” He wiped his mouth with the heavy white serviette and patted his belly, clearly ready for his next course.

  The custom at Braithwaite House, as in many of the fine houses in England, was to lay out everything that they were to eat throughout the evening, filling the table without overcrowding it.

  Algernon had chosen not to have his staff waiting on point in the dining room in case he or his cousin needed anything else. Hunter knew that his cousin much preferred less formal meals when there was just the two of them, the informality lending itself to easy, private conversation.

  “Have I to wait for you?” Algernon went on, his hand hovering over the handle of one of the silver platter lids.

  “No, you carry on, and I shall serve myself when I finish this soup.” Hunter laughed. “How it is that you do not live in a permanent state of indigestion, I do not know.”

  “I understand entirely why you might think such a thing, but I have trained my digestion to the point where it is now a highly evolved mechanism.”

  “Mechanism?”

  “Yes, mechanism. I like the word.”

  “Good heavens.” Hunter laughed before turning his attention back to his soup.

  “So, how goes it with Miss Emmeline Fitzgerald?”

  “I think it goes well,” Hunter said in a non-committal fashion.

  “And is that it? Is there nothing else for you to say upon the subject?” Algernon prodded.

  “No, I do not think there is anything to be said. If things continue as amiably as they have done thus far, I shall speak to the lady about making an announcement in the near future.”

  “Of course, time is running out for her and her family, is it not?”

  “Yes, I believe it is. But I shall not leave it too long before making my mind up.”

  “Making your mind up? But I thought your mind was made up already? I thought your mind had been set upon your plan before you had even approached the lady herself.” Algernon was helping himself to thick slices of beef and assorted vegetables covered in a thick butter sauce. “What has changed?”

  “Nothing has changed. My mind is, of course, already made up. What I mean is, I shall make up my mind on what date I shall announce my engagement to Miss Fitzgerald, that is all.” Even to himself, Hunter’s voice sounded evasive.

  “Am I to take it that the curious cousin, Mr Kent Fitzgerald, has upended your thoughts a little?” Algernon spoke cautiously, one eyebrow cocked in question.

  “Kent Fitzgerald? What has he to do with it all?” Hunter was being defensive, and he knew it.

  The truth was, ever since he had seen Emmeline and her cousin sitting a little out of things, alone at the afternoon of bridge in the home of Giles Calloway, he had felt a little upended. As he had tried to concentrate on his game, Hunter had found his eyes flitting with increasing regularity across the room to where she sat.

  At first, he had simply been enjoying her appearance. Emmeline had been wearing a dress of very fine, dusky pink fabric. The colour suited her complexion perfectly, and her hair, where great curls fell from her chignon to her shoulders, contrasted nicely in its darkness. The overall effect was quite stunning, despite the fact that she was, in truth, very simply dressed. Hunter had thought that it was the very simplicity of her gown which made her natural beauty stand out. Beauty that was not fighting with high-fashion or one too many adornments.

  However, as his thoughts of her became a little fonder, Hunter had returned his attention to the game. He knew he never wanted to be at the mercy of such feelings again; he did not want to feel that same enchantment, for there lay the way of danger.

  As the game had carried on, he noticed how Kent Fitzgerald seemed to sit a little closer to Emmeline on the couch as they took tea. Furthermore, they seemed to be in a quiet conversation, both of them looking intent as if the talk was of great importance.

  Hunter had tried to tell himself that the conversation very likely concerned the family’s period of grace at Tarlton Manor or other such similar matters of business; business which must, by necessity, be spoken of in low, confidential tones. But still, he could not concentrate on the game at hand, his mind racing as he wondered if there was something between the two people sitting in quiet conference on the couch. Something more than the simple familiarity of distant cousins.

  “Did you not think the two of them sat a little close? I know that they are cousins, but they were not acquainted much before Miss Fitzgerald’s father had passed away, were they?”

  “No, Algernon, they were not.” Hunter shrugged in what he hoped was a matter-of-fact fashion.

  “Has she spoken of him at all?” Algernon persisted.

  “Not a good deal, except to say that she is cordial without much liking the man. Emmeline naturally resents him for the manner of his inheritance, even though she does own that it is not the man’s fault at all.” Hunter spoke the truth, altho
ugh not all of it.

  What he wanted to hide most from his cousin was how the whole thing had affected him; how it had made him feel. Hunter had suffered the smallest jolt of jealousy that evening, a little reminder of how it had felt to be betrayed. And yet, how could she betray him? After all, their relationship and forthcoming marriage were to be based on convenience and nothing more. It was what they had both agreed. It was what Hunter had sought in the first place.

  “I see,” Algernon said, rising to his feet to serve Hunter with the beef and buttered vegetables he himself was enjoying.

  “What do you mean? Have you some other observation you wish to make about Miss Fitzgerald?” Hunter knew he spoke with agitation, an agitation that would have been easily perceived by his cousin.

  “I have no observation, in particular, to make about Miss Fitzgerald if I am honest. She is a very nice young lady, and I have always thought so. I suppose I wonder a little at this cousin of hers, this Kent Fitzgerald. He seems to be inserting himself into society at every opportunity, and I must admit myself most surprised to have seen him at Croston Hall that afternoon.”

  “I suppose he is new here, much as Giles Calloway is. Perhaps the two have a little more in common than we might imagine, I do not know.”

  “Yes, it could be that.” Algernon shrugged and smiled as if he had decided to say no more upon the subject.

  “There is more you wish to say, Algernon, I can see it on your face.” Hunter began to tuck into his meal.

  “Well, perhaps, but I can see that you are not too keen upon the conversation.”

  “Forgive me, my dear fellow. I daresay I have been a little out of sorts this evening, but I would not wish you to tailor your conversation to suit my mood. Please do say whatever it is you wish to say, and say it without fear of admonishment.”

  “Firstly, I must note that you have been a little out of sorts for longer than just this evening,” Algernon began. “In fact, I would say that you have been a little out of sorts since the afternoon of bridge at Croston Hall. I cannot help wondering if it has a little something to do with your perception of closeness between Miss Fitzgerald and her cousin.”

  “Well, I daresay I have my concerns,” Hunter said, feeling himself already beginning to search for evasive answers; meaningless sentences with which to fend off his cousin. But he knew that Algernon deserved better and, if there was ever a person in the world to whom he could speak freely, his cousin was that man. “And I must admit to a feeling or two that I was not particularly expecting.” Hunter began to open up just a little.

  “And those were?”

  “I suppose I had it in my head that it would be a very simple thing for Emmeline Fitzgerald to marry her cousin. It would certainly solve her problems in a very much more neat and tidy way than the little solution that I have provided her with.”

  “In that she would get to remain at Tarlton Manor, her family home, with her mother and sister no doubt in residence also?”

  “Yes, I suppose that is exactly what I mean. If the young lady is content to marry where she does not love, then surely it does not matter who she marries as long as her family is safe.”

  “And you think the matter is as simple as that for Miss Fitzgerald?”

  “I suppose I do not know her well enough to say conclusively, but when one approaches the thing logically, it would certainly seem to be the case.”

  “But you have said yourself that she told you she resented the man.”

  “She resents him for his inheritance, but if she were to marry him, surely that would no longer stand. Miss Fitzgerald would be living in the same circumstances, albeit married.”

  “I cannot say why, exactly, but I cannot think it as simple as all that. I understand why you might think such a thing, but perhaps it would be better to approach the lady herself on the subject? Could you not simply ask her? After all, your conversations to date have been most forthright, have they not?”

  “Yes, very forthright. And it is true that Emmeline has been most forthright herself in all her responses.”

  Hunter thought for a moment, wondering if there was more between them than the simple truth and forthrightness of manner. He knew, of course, that there had been. He had helped her, stood at her side in the most difficult of situations. And Emmeline, for her part, had returned the favour with interest. She had not only kept him as diverted as she possibly could at the ball at Croston Hall, but she had done it with care, knowing that his feelings for Felicity were undoubtedly complicated. No, there was more between them than honest simplicity.

  “Well, it is settled then; you must ask her.”

  “I should not wish to say something which would force her towards Kent Fitzgerald. Perhaps, in truth, it would be better to wait and see what happens.”

  “But what have you vested in it all? What is it to you if she does decide to marry her cousin? After all, you do not love her, and you have no romantic inclinations towards the young lady. If she chooses to head down another path, could you not simply apply your new technique for contented matrimony to another young woman? For I am sure there are many in such circumstances that would be gladly rescued by an Earl, whether he be loving or no,” Algernon said in a practical manner as he reached out for a slice of the immense game pie that he had uncovered next to the meat and vegetables.

  “Yes, I suppose that is also true,” Hunter said and smiled unconvincingly. “I say, the game pie smells awfully good.” He reached out to help himself to a slice, intent on finding a way to change the subject.

  Chapter 14

  Emmeline had found herself looking forward to the day that she and her mother and sister were to spend at Addison Hall. It was a beautifully warm midsummer’s day, and the Earl had suggested that the Fitzgerald women have an informal day wandering the house and grounds at will and taking afternoon tea and dinner there.

  Rose had taken a small bag with her embroidery to work on and her mother some needlepoint. Emmeline had packed nothing, intent on spending her time in conversation with the Earl since that was the whole point of the day. Time was growing ever shorter, and the two had, after all, decided to come to know a little of each other beforehand to err on the side of caution.

  “You must treat the place as your own, Mrs Fitzgerald,” Hunter had said enthusiastically when the ladies arrived and were shown out onto the terrace by the amiable butler for mid-morning tea and cakes.

  “That is very kind of you, Lord Addison.” Constance Fitzgerald smiled as she sipped her tea.

  “Really, you must feel free to wander about and go wherever you please. It is a wonderfully warm day, and I have a small wooden boat if you care to be paddled about on the lake by one of my footmen.”

  “Oh, how wonderful!” Rose exclaimed excitedly, and the Earl smiled at her in an indulgent manner.

  He was so warm and generous towards her mother and sister that Emmeline found herself studying Hunter Bentley a little too closely.

  He looked very well in cream breeches with a fawn coloured waistcoat and tailcoat. His tan knee boots suited the outfit well, and he was, as always, extraordinarily well tailored. Everything fit him to perfection.

  The Earl’s dark beard, as black as his hair, had some tell-tale flecks of gray in it which were easily discernible in the bright sunshine of the terrace. However, Emmeline thought it added to his appearance, giving him an air of maturity and experience that she wondered if she found a little attractive.

  “I think Rose and I would like that very much indeed, Lord Addison.” Emmeline’s mother spoke gently, giving her unspoken approval for the Earl and her daughter to spend much of the day alone in one another’s company. Emmeline was not to be included in the little boat trip.

  It was subtle enough to be understood without making anybody present embarrassed, and Emmeline thought her mother a very skilful woman indeed. But Emmeline had an idea that her mother’s reasoning was a little different from her own.

  Constance Fitzgerald was still hop
ing for a romance to blossom, and she no doubt thought that leaving the Earl and her daughter to their own amusement on the terrace whilst she and Rose floated about on the lake would help bring it about.

  Within an hour, Rose and her mother were in the middle of the lake enjoying the sunshine as a footman, happy to have such languid duties for the day, looked content to row them back and forth.

  “Thank you, Lord Addison, for today. My mother and sister are enjoying themselves greatly. It is very kind of you.” Emmeline settled back into the high-backed chair and smiled at her host, who was sitting opposite her on the other side of the small table.

  The terrace was very peaceful and just a little secluded. She could see the little boat clearly enough, but it was some distance away, affording Emmeline and the Earl a good deal of privacy.

  The terrace was paved in huge gray flagstones, all smooth and weathered from many years in position. There were pots of blood-red geraniums and white petunias everywhere, all in bloom and clearly well cared for. There was a suspicion of fragrance from the nicotianas, although she knew the richest scent came from those particular plants in the evenings.

  “Not at all, it is my pleasure.” He smiled before resuming tentatively. “Perhaps you might care to call me Hunter, instead of Lord Addison. Unless you think it too informal, of course,” he added with caution.

  “No, I do not think it too formal, Hunter. And please do call me Emmeline.” There was something so nice about it all, something comforting.

  “I shall.” Hunter seemed greatly relieved. “I see you did not bring any amusements with you as your mother and sister have.”

  “No, I thought I would be better placed to get to know you better if I did not bring any form of sewing.” She smiled. “And, if I am honest, I do not sew very often and am not particularly skilled at the hobby. I suppose because I do not practice. Anyway, it would have greatly detracted from our conversation, Hunter, for I should have been most distracted righting my mistakes and undoing stitches and what-have-you.”