How to Catch an Errant Earl

by Amy Rose Bennett

  “Why are you doing this?” she demanded hotly, the gold in her hazel eyes sparking. “You can’t want this. I’m nothing. No one.”

  Her vehement anger stunned Gabriel into momentary silence. When he next spoke, his words were measured, his voice cool, despite the heavy sense of dread thudding through his veins and the wild churning in his gut. “I thought I made it clear, I want to do what is right and honorable.”

  The young woman, Lilias, piped up. “You could do worse, Arabella.”

  Aunt Flora spoke again. “Arabella, actions—such as those we all just witnessed—have consequences.”

  “I don’t care.” Arabella’s voice caught on the last word, and tears welled in her eyes. She looked up at Lord Langdale. “Please let me go, my lord. I beseech you.”

  The stricken look on Arabella’s face tugged at Gabriel’s heart in the oddest, most unexpected way. He dropped his hand and stepped back.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, and then she was roughly pushing past her aunt, cousin, and the other woman, who’d remained disconcertingly grim-faced and tight-lipped throughout the whole fraught exchange.

  Gabriel ran a hand down his face before he returned his attention to Arabella’s bristling aunt. “Madam, forgive me. I’m not sure how to address you as we have not been properly introduced.”

  “Cranstoun,” she said with a huff as she stepped forward. “Mrs. Flora Cranstoun.” She gestured at the older woman still hovering in the doorway. “And this is Mrs. Eleanor Kerr. Her husband is Dr. Kerr, the resident minister of the Crown Court Church in London, and her sister is the Countess of Cheviot. And this is my married daughter”—she nodded at the pretty young blonde who looked only a few years older than Arabella—“Mrs. Lilias Arbuthnott. Her husband, Albert, is the son of the merchant banker Walter Arbuthnott. I trust you’ve heard of the firm Arbuthnott and Allan? There are branches in Edinburgh, Glasgow, and London.”

  Well played, Flora Cranstoun, Gabriel thought. They might be on the outskirts of a tiny Swiss village, but it seemed the eyes and the ears of the ton were everywhere and there would be no escaping scandal’s net.

  Aloud, Gabriel said, “I have indeed heard of the firm, Mrs. Cranstoun. Ladies.” He nodded in turn to Mrs. Kerr and Arabella’s cousin. “I apologize for my state of dishabille. But unfortunately, I suffered a dislocated shoulder after falling from my horse, and the only way to put it to rights was to remove . . .” He shrugged his good shoulder. “Well, I think it’s fairly evident.”

  Flora Cranstoun sniffed. “Yes. Well. Be that as it may, I think the sooner we fetch you something to wear, the better, Lord Langdale. And then”—she pinned him with a frosty stare—“you shall secure the hand of my niece. Otherwise your name will be dragged through the mud when we return home. You mark my words.”

  If Gabriel hadn’t been in so much discomfort—his shoulder was growing more stiff and sore by the moment—he would have laughed. The woman clearly had no idea his name was already well and truly smeared with stinking mud. And about to become mired in it if his cousin Timothy publicly asserted that he was a bastard with no claim to the earldom.

  “You have my word, Mrs. Cranstoun. As soon as is practicable, I will approach Miss Jardine again. My offer to marry her is most sincere.”

  “I should hope so.”

  Arrangements were made for Bertie Arbuthnott’s valet to secure dry clothes for Gabriel, and then the women departed in a flurry of righteous indignation. No doubt Flora Cranstoun was about to read Arabella the riot act. He winced in sympathy as he poured himself a glass of cognac. It really was a very good drop.

  But no matter how much alcohol he downed to try to blunt his emotions, he couldn’t hide from the fact that his life was now an even bigger shambles than it had been a few hours ago. This time, he only had himself to blame.

  Chapter 7

  A rainbow spanned the lake, or rather rested one extremity of its arch upon the water, and the other at the foot of the mountains of Savoy.

  Mary Shelley, History of a Six Weeks’ Tour

  Arabella slammed her bedroom door shut, then proceeded to pull out the pins from her damp, tangled hair as she paced the Aubusson rug.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why, oh why had she become so enthralled by Lord Langdale’s indecent good looks and practiced charm that all her sense had flown straight out the window?

  She’d known it was dangerous to be alone with him after she’d fixed his shoulder. Yet she stayed, courting disaster all because she’d been silly enough to fall under his rakish spell.

  And now her aunt would do her damnedest to make sure Arabella accepted Lord Langdale’s unenthusiastic proposal. Not that she could blame the man for being reluctant. He’d obviously thought it would be a bit of fun to toy with someone like her. To turn a blushing bluestocking around his little finger. The flaw in his plan had been he’d underestimated the nosiness of her relatives.

  What rankled the most was that she, Arabella, should have known better.

  What a monumental mess she’d landed herself in.

  Glancing in the looking glass, she almost shrieked. Good Lord, she looked as if she’d been dragged through a hedge and then dumped in a mud puddle the size of Lake Geneva. She picked up her silver-backed brush from the dressing table and began attacking her hair with rough, jerky strokes. When she’d finished repairing her appearance, she would seek out Lord Langdale and tell him again, in no uncertain terms, that his proposal was not needed or welcome. Dr. Graham Radcliff would make a far better husband for someone like her.

  But the doctor hasn’t written to you, Arabella. Not once since you left London . . .

  Arabella pushed the inconvenient thought away. There were probably a myriad of reasons why she might not have received a letter from Dr. Radcliff. At any rate, in the face of her flat-out refusal to marry him, surely Lord Langdale would give up and go. Aunt Flora would wail and complain, but Arabella wouldn’t be swayed.

  Lord Langdale did not fit into her plans for the future, and she refused to give up on her dreams.

  Once her hair was tightly braided and constrained by pins at the back of her head, Arabella threw on dry undergarments and the first gown that came to hand—a plain cotton gown of olive green. She was just seeking a pair of slippers—her green silk ones had been ruined by the rain—when her aunt invaded her room.

  “Arabella,” she began without preamble as she shut the door firmly behind her. “You cannot refuse Lord Langdale. I forbid it.”

  Arabella pulled a plain pair of brown kid slippers from her traveling trunk. “I can and I will,” she said as she slid them onto her stockinged feet.

  Aunt Flora crossed the room in a flash and slapped her across the cheek with such force, Arabella’s glasses flew off.

  “You filthy little slut,” she hissed as Arabella reeled backward, coming up hard against the oak footboard of the bed. “I always knew you were cut from the same soiled cloth as your mother. You will marry Lord Langdale. I’ll not have you bringing shame upon this family all over again, do you hear me?”

  Arabella blinked as tears of pain, shock, and fury stung her eyes. She brought a trembling hand up to her smarting cheek. “But . . . but how can that be?” she flung back. “If no one finds out, nothing untoward will happen—”

  “Don’t be so naive,” snapped Aunt Flora, her ice-blue eyes darting fire. Courtesy of the laudanum, her irises were as tiny as pinpricks, her manner agitated. “Of course people are going to find out about your loose moral character. Eleanor Kerr is absolutely horrified, and justifiably so. Do you think she would stay quiet about something as shocking as this? Indeed, I’m surprised the Kerrs aren’t demanding that we pack our bags and leave tonight. When Mrs. Kerr’s sister, Lady Cheviot, hears about your disgusting display of wanton behavior, the scandal is sure to spread like wildfire back home. And here, too—Eleanor Kerr seems to know everybody who’s
holidaying in the vicinity.”

  Aunt Flora paced over to the window then back again. “Just think how the gossip will affect my poor Lilias and Bertie. Bertie’s father is a wealthy, powerful man. I’m eternally grateful he overlooked the disgrace tainting our family after the academy incident and gave his blessing to Bertie and Lilias’s marriage. But this time, you’ve gone too far.” She jabbed a finger at Arabella’s chest. “I won’t have you destroying my Lilias’s standing in the eyes of polite society. I just won’t.”

  Arabella retrieved her glasses from where they’d landed on the cream silk counterpane covering her bed, and slid them onto her nose with unsteady fingers. “It was only a kiss,” she said faintly.

  “It was far more than that, lassie. Don’t think I didn’t notice the state Lord Langdale was in when Mrs. Kerr, Lilias, and I walked in. Aside from that, he was half-naked.”

  “But there’s a perfectly legitimate reason for that.”

  “I don’t care, Arabella.” Aunt Flora crossed her arms across her narrow chest. Her cheeks were flagged with bright color while the rest of her countenance was as pale as the white fichu about her neck. “You were caught and now you must pay the price. Your grandfather might have indulged your whims, but I will not. Behave as you ought to for once in your sorry, wicked life.”

  Arabella drew a shaky breath. “I’ll think on it.” It was with a sinking heart that she grudgingly acknowledged Eleanor Kerr might very well blab to her sister and everyone else she knew back home and abroad. And, of course, Arabella didn’t want to hurt Lilias.

  But more than that, she certainly didn’t want or need another scandal about her less-than-perfect behavior splashed across the newspapers and gossip rags at home. If that happened, her plans to court the support of wealthy patrons for her own charitable programs and institutions would surely come to naught.

  And what would Dr. Radcliff make of it all? She was publicly labeled an immoral hussy three years ago after she was expelled from Mrs. Rathbone’s young ladies’ academy. He surely wouldn’t be able to overlook such a thing a second time. She couldn’t bear it if he thought less of her.

  Of course, if she married Lord Langdale, her hope of working alongside a like-minded man to improve the lot of the less fortunate would be irrevocably dashed to pieces too.

  Whichever way she looked at it, she was trapped.

  “You’ll do more than think on it, Arabella.” Aunt Flora’s tone was as hard as flint. “I expect to hear Lord Langdale announce you’ve accepted his proposal within the next hour or two.”

  Arabella placed a hand on her churning stomach. “I can’t believe he’s willing to go along with this.”

  “Neither can I. According to Dr. Kerr and Bertie, he is a well-known rakehell, but at least he appears to have a modicum of decency. Which is lucky for you. Lord knows, you are not a catch by any stretch of the imagination.”

  With that, Aunt Flora stalked to the door, her lavender gray silk skirts whipping about her ankles with each determined step. “I’m going to sit with Mrs. Kerr and Lilias in the drawing room. Dr. Kerr and Bertie are still assessing the damage to the conservatory and the morning room. In case you didn’t know, one of the wych elms has come down. It seems this afternoon has been a disaster in more ways than one. Nevertheless”—she opened the door with a decided yank—“dinner will be served at the usual time. I expect to see you there with your fiancé.”

  “Where . . . where is Lord Langdale?”

  “Getting dressed, I expect. I imagine he will be joining us all for dinner. Mrs. Kerr has kindly decreed that he might stay, if he does the right thing by you.”

  As the door shut, the cynical part of Arabella couldn’t help but think Aunt Flora really meant the “right thing” by the family. If she wed Lord Langdale, she would no longer be a thorn in her aunt’s side. Not only that, Lilias’s cousin wouldn’t be a besmirched bluestocking anymore, she’d be a countess; apparently being married to a rakish nobleman—no matter how wicked his reputation—was socially acceptable.

  The irony of the whole situation was not lost on Arabella.

  Left alone, she crossed to the window and drew back the chintz curtain to stare out at the sodden, branch-and-leaf-strewn lawn and the lake and mountains beyond. The storm had abated somewhat—the dark clouds were dispersing, and there was only a light, gauzy drift of rain now.

  Arabella’s chest rose and then fell as she let out a shaky sigh. There was no avoiding it. She had to seek out Lord Langdale. But before she did, she’d retrieve Charlie’s letter from the library. A kind word from a dear friend was exactly what she needed before she threw herself headlong into the great yawning abyss of the unknown.

  * * *

  * * *

  She couldn’t quite believe it. Sophie was married.

  Charlie’s letter in hand, Arabella quit the library and, without a clear destination in mind, wandered down the main hallway of Maison du Lac until she reached the morning room. Several servants were still dealing with the aftermath of the fallen wych elm; one of the tree’s enormous branches had smashed through a wide sash window, sending glass and water and fractured twigs and leaves all over the silk-upholstered window seat and the polished parquetry floor. Even though the adjacent conservatory appeared to be ruined beyond repair, at least the main house had suffered minimal damage.

  Arabella claimed a spot near a set of French doors that looked out onto a small flagged terrace, and perused Charlie’s letter again. The idea that her sweet, shy friend Sophie Brightwell had fallen head over heels in love with Charlie’s devil-may-care older brother, Viscount Malverne, and he with her, was, in a word, astonishing.

  Of course, she’d noticed the spark of attraction between the pair when they all shared tea at Gunter’s that rainy day in April. At the time, Charlie was most adamant that her brother Nate wasn’t the marrying kind. But it seemed she’d been wrong. Sophie and Nate were a love match, and when Charlie had penned this letter, they were engaged, due to wed at Lord Malverne’s Gloucestershire estate on the twentieth of June.

  Which meant Sophie was already Lady Malverne. Even though Arabella could scarcely fathom it, she was nothing but thrilled for her friend. She deserved every ounce of happiness life gave her.

  The porcelain clock on the mantelpiece chimed five o’clock, and Arabella folded up Charlie’s letter. After pushing it into her pocket through the side slit in her skirt, she opened the French doors. The rain had ceased, and through the gaps in the retreating clouds, a pearlescent pale blue sky peeked through. The faint arc of a rainbow glimmered at one end of the lake, which was now a soft pewter gray and quite serene.

  A light, cool breeze lifted her damp curls off her cheeks, and she closed her eyes as she leaned against the doorframe. Behind her, she could hear the tinkle of glass as it was swept up and the wet slap of the mop on the wooden floor. The quiet humming of one of the housemaids. She needed to find Lord Langdale and tidy up her own mess. But at the moment, she just couldn’t dredge up the will to move.

  “Miss Jardine. I’ve been looking for you.”

  Arabella’s breath caught at the sound of that deep, gravelly voice. “Yes. I half expected you would,” she said as she turned to face the earl. He’d donned fresh clothes—a pair of black breeches, a fine cambric shirt, and a striped silk banyan. She was pleased to see he still wore the sling to support his injured shoulder.

  “Only half?” he asked with a small smile.

  “We both know you don’t really want to marry me, so we don’t need to pretend otherwise,” she said, aiming for a light tone so the trepidation tripping through her heart wouldn’t show. “And while it’s very noble of you to want to save me from ruin, I think you’ve already gathered that I’m not pleased about the situation either.”

  Lord Langdale studied her face for a long moment, then offered her his good arm. “Will you take a turn about the garden with me, Miss
Jardine?”

  She inclined her head. “Of course.”

  After she’d tucked her hand into the crook of Lord Langdale’s elbow, they crossed the flagged terrace, then descended three shallow stone steps onto the debris-strewn lawn. The shattered conservatory lay to their left, the wrought iron frame jutting up around the uprooted elm and the remains of battered hothouse plants like the twisted bones of a giant beast’s broken rib cage.

  “I’ve been thinking about our encounter, Miss Jardine, and it struck me that you were the one who apologized to me after we were discovered in flagrante delicto. However, I do believe I’m the one who owes you an apology. I shouldn’t have kissed you. My behavior was quite despicable, all things considered. You provide me with expert medical attention, and then I repay you by compromising you.”

  “I don’t agree. We are both equally to blame,” Arabella said firmly. “It’s not as though I wasn’t an enthusiastic participant. Nevertheless, your apology is accepted, my lord.”

  “Thank you.” They skirted the ruined conservatory, surveying the damage in silence for a good minute before Lord Langdale said, “You also asked me why I kissed you, and for the life of me, I’m still not sure. There is something about you that fascinates me, Miss Jardine. And I do believe we might rub along quite well as husband and wife.”

  Arabella stopped and faced him. A troubled frown knit her brow. “How can you say that when we hardly know each other?”

  He shrugged his good shoulder. “It’s just a feeling I have. And I’m rarely wrong about these sorts of things.”

  She narrowed her eyes, entirely skeptical of his claim. “I wish I possessed that sort of confidence, my lord. But alas, at this point in time, I’m not sure about anything other than we are both in a rather large pickle with no hope of escape.”

  They mounted the steps of a small, white-pillared belvedere with an uninterrupted view of the lake. The stone bench lining the rear wall was damp, so they leaned against the marble balustrade instead.