How to Catch an Errant Earl

by Amy Rose Bennett

  “But that’s not all.” Sophie reached out and touched her arm, alarming Arabella even further. “You see . . . Lady Astley is married.”

  Arabella curled her fingers into her muslin skirts. How shocking. And mortifying. Her husband had engaged in an adulterous affair. But really, she shouldn’t be that surprised. After all, Gabriel was a rakehell. A libertine. Of course he would have dallied with all kinds of women—debutantes, widows, cyprians, chambermaids, and yes, other men’s wives. Arabella’s vision misted and she inwardly chided herself for being so sensitive.

  But then, she supposed the difference was she’d never encountered any of the women he’d actually bedded before. They were just shadowy figures in her mind. But she’d just seen Lady Astley in the flesh and she was beautiful.

  And she was in London.

  Arabella forced herself to take a calming breath. “You said Gabriel began an affair.”

  Charlie was quick to reassure her. “Oh, it’s definitely over,” she said. “In fact it ended in April, right before Gabriel left for the Continent. My aunt, Sophie, and I were all at Astley House the night Lord Astley confronted Gabriel about it . . . right in the middle of his ballroom.”

  Arabella’s hand flew to her lips. Oh, good heavens.

  “They came to blows,” Sophie continued, “but Nate stepped in and managed to stop Lord Astley from calling Gabriel out.” She grimaced. “I’m afraid there was a story in the Beau Monde Mirror about it. And a few of the other newspapers as well.”

  So the entire ton knew her husband had cuckolded the Earl of Astley. Arabella closed her eyes and willed herself not to cry. How humiliating.

  “Oh, Arabella. I didn’t mean to upset you so,” murmured Sophie. She placed a slender arm about Arabella’s shoulders and gave her a little hug. “Nate told me Gabriel never cared at all for Lady Astley, so there’s no need to worry. You’re his wife and he loves you and you alone.”

  But he doesn’t . . . and he never will.

  She wanted to tell Charlie and Sophie, but the words seemed to stick in her throat. Somehow, she managed to plaster a bright smile on her face as she hugged Sophie back. “You know, you are the best friends in the world,” she said. “And I’m so lucky to have you.”

  At least that wasn’t a lie.

  White’s, St. James’s, London

  “Good God, I can’t believe you two are both bloody married,” declared Hamish MacQueen, the Marquess of Sleat, as he settled back into the leather wing chair in their favorite corner of White’s club for gentlemen. The fronds of a nearby potted palm brushed his bulky shoulder as he adjusted his eye patch. “It looks as though Max and I are the only sane ones left in this group.”

  Max Devereux, the Duke of Exmoor, chuckled over his glass of claret. “I think you’re right, MacQueen. It seems love can make a man do the maddest things. Who, in their right mind, would want to be leg-shackled when he’s in his prime?”

  Gabriel snorted. “I’d say you and MacQueen are both well past your prime already. By my calculations, you should have been married at least five years ago.”

  Nate laughed, his brown eyes alight with good humor. “I don’t give a farthing about any of your opinions. I couldn’t be happier, so I’m impervious to any of the barbs you fire at me.”

  “Quick, somebody get me a bucket because I think I’m going to be ill,” said MacQueen with a smirk.

  Max stretched out a long leg and nudged Gabriel’s chair with the toe of his boot. “It’s you who’s shocked us the most, Langdale. It was clear Nate was besotted with his Sophie from the very beginning of the Season. But you, old chap? What the deuce happened to you in Switzerland? Did you simply get swept up in the romance of the place, or did someone from the poor girl’s family threaten you with bodily harm after you seduced her? Because all jokes aside, I’m sure you’re not really in love.”

  Gabriel gave a wry smile. “As you well know, I never do anything I don’t want to.”

  “Now that’s an evasive answer if ever I heard one,” replied Max drily.

  “Next he’ll be telling us a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” said MacQueen. His one good eye glimmered with mirth. “Which is quite ironic when you think about it, because—and I’m sure you’d agree, Langdale—you are the least gentlemanly out of all of us.”

  Gabriel leaned forward and poured himself another glass of claret from the decanter on the low table in front of him. For Arabella’s sake, he didn’t want to let on that he wasn’t in love. He certainly didn’t want to admit his wife had also banned him from her bed. He already felt emasculated enough. So he said, “Perhaps I’ve met the perfect woman and have decided to settle down.”

  At that remark, his three friends all burst into laughter.

  “I’m sure Arabella is perfect,” said Nate. “I mean she must be if she’s a friend of Sophie and my sister. But I can’t see you ever settling down, my friend. You’ve too much fire in your soul.”

  Gabriel was about to respond, when Max let out a low whistle. “Don’t look now but Lord Astley has just walked in.”

  Damn. The last thing Gabriel needed was an irate spouse breathing down his neck. Sitting in a shadowy corner on the other side of the potted palm, he prayed the middle-aged earl wouldn’t notice him. “I didn’t know he was in London,” he murmured.

  “The election has kept many in town this month,” remarked Max. “But perhaps he’ll see you as less of a threat to his marriage now that you’re also wed.”

  “I’m no threat. You all know I never cared for Camilla and besides, she and I were finished months ago.”

  For several moments they all watched Astley make his way across the club floor before he disappeared into the dining room, then Nate leaned forward. “I believe Camilla is still in town too. But as far as I know, she hasn’t taken up with anyone else. So perhaps they’ve sorted things out.”

  Gabriel took a large sip of his own claret. “I damn well hope so. I’ve got enough to contend with at the moment.”

  MacQueen cocked a dark brow. “I gather you’re referring to this business involving your cousin and his ridiculous claim to the title?”

  As Gabriel nodded, Nate met his gaze. “I hope you don’t mind that I told Max and MacQueen after you wrote to me from Italy,” he said quietly. “I thought they might be able to offer some advice if need be. In a case like this, four heads must be better than one.”

  Max’s brow plunged into a scowl. “Speak of the devil . . .”

  Bloody hell. Timothy had appeared in the doorway to the card room. “When did he join?” growled Gabriel. After visiting his uncle this morning and witnessing the lack of care he’d been receiving, Gabriel felt his whole body tense. If they weren’t in White’s, he’d hurl his cousin against the nearest wall and go to work on him with his fists.

  “I’m not sure,” murmured Max. They watched Timothy have a word with one of the club’s attendants before he disappeared back into the card room. “I’m sure I can get his membership canceled.”

  MacQueen cracked his knuckles. “And if you’d like, I could drag him out to the back alley and see if I could change his mind about challenging you for the earldom. I haven’t been to Gentleman Jackson’s this week so I wouldn’t mind a bit of bare-knuckle boxing.”

  Gabriel knocked back his claret. He was suddenly in a foul, reckless mood, and he needed to leave before he did something that might get him arrested and banned from White’s for life. “I have a better idea. Let’s all go to the Pandora Club and raise hell. For old time’s sake.”

  Max and MacQueen readily agreed but Nate arched a brow. “You know I’ll only take part in gaming now. And if any of you tell Sophie where I’ve been, I’ll have to kill you.”

  Gabriel gripped his shoulder. “Do whatever makes you happy, old chap. I certainly won’t judge you. But I’m getting married for the second time tomorrow, and this might very well
be the last time I ever set foot in Pandora’s.”

  As they all trooped out onto St. James’s Street—the Pandora Club was but a short walk away—Gabriel prayed to God no one told Arabella he’d been to the gaming-hell-cum-brothel either. He shivered and his bollocks contracted. There was no doubt in his mind that his wife knew how to wield a scalpel and could probably castrate him if she chose to.

  Langdale House, St. James’s Square, London

  July 28, 1818

  Arabella couldn’t sleep.

  The uncertain light of a single, low-burning candle on a nearby table illuminated the face of the Boulle clock just enough for her to make out the time; it was almost half past two in the morning.

  And Gabriel wasn’t home . . . Perhaps his absence wouldn’t have bothered her so much if today wasn’t actually their second wedding day.

  Arabella sighed heavily and slipped from her bed. Her eyes were gritty with exhaustion as she slid on her glasses and began to aimlessly explore her bedroom and then the sitting room.

  She picked up a discarded medical text on smallpox vaccination from one of the damask-covered settees gracing the rug before the empty fireplace, but then cast it aside once more—before she’d retired, she tried to read it, but nothing could hold her attention. She didn’t want to describe the restlessness knotting up her belly as fretting . . . but that’s exactly what she was doing.

  If she were truly honest with herself, she would also acknowledge that she was irritated beyond measure. Indeed, her emotions fluctuated wildly between anxiousness and exasperation, perhaps even anger. She had no idea where her husband was or if he was safe. He wasn’t being fair.

  After Charlie, Sophie, and Lady Chelmsford dropped her back at Langdale House in the late afternoon, Jervis, the butler, handed her a message from Gabriel. The note was brief—apparently, he’d secured the special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the Anglican minister from St. George’s would be conducting their wedding ceremony at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon at Langdale House, just as they’d planned. He hadn’t mentioned his plans for the rest of the day and evening, but Arabella assumed he would return home for dinner.

  With that in mind, she met with Mrs. Mayberry to discuss the dinner menu and to check that everything was ready for the morrow. The flowers that would decorate Langdale House’s ballroom, drawing room, and dining room—great bunches of roses, lilies, and peonies—would be delivered in the morning. And Mrs. Mayberry assured her the catering was well in hand . . . with a little help from Gunter’s and Fortnum and Mason; Gabriel apparently had accounts at both stores and would often avail himself of their services when holding any type of soiree at Langdale House.

  As the soft, warm summer twilight melted into night, Arabella realized Gabriel wasn’t coming home. She abandoned her post at the enormous mahogany table set with fine bone china and gleaming silver cutlery in the dining room downstairs and instead ate alone in her sitting room. Well, she attempted to eat, but her appetite had all but fled. The perfectly cooked fillet of beef in pastry with tiny, buttered potatoes and asparagus spears on her plate had hardly been touched when the footman took her tray away. She’d have to apologize to the cook, Mrs. Simpkins, in the morning. She didn’t want her to be offended.

  As Arabella prepared for bed much later, she prayed this wasn’t how their married life would always be—her rattling about an enormous house with no one to talk to but the servants.

  The idea was enough to make tears well in her eyes.

  What had she got herself into? The idea of being in a loveless, lonely marriage was depressing indeed.

  The clock struck the half hour and Arabella wandered into Gabriel’s sitting room, heading for his bedchamber. The moonlight filtered through the diaphanous white curtains at the windows so everything within the room was painted in soft shades of gray, silver, and velveteen black. She’d opened the communicating doors between her suite and Gabriel’s before she went to bed, so she already knew her husband hadn’t arrived home—she hadn’t slept at all, so she was certain she would’ve heard him come in. Ryecroft wasn’t to be seen either; Arabella suspected he retired to his own room farther along the gallery while she’d waited in vain in the dining room.

  A lamp burned softly on a polished oak table near Gabriel’s bed, a grand four-poster just like her own. Arabella trailed her fingertips along the emerald green counterpane and wondered what would happen if she crawled between the crisp white sheets to wait for Gabriel.

  Would he be pleased with her? Did he still want her? She’d constantly rebuffed him since their wedding day in Clarens, so she only had herself to blame if his ardor had faded and he rejected her instead.

  While part of Arabella yearned to climb into Gabriel’s bed, her pride along with a healthy dose of chagrin stopped her from giving in to temptation. What if Gabriel had already broken his word and, at this very moment, was lying in another woman’s arms? Someone beautiful and accommodating like Lady Astley . . .

  Stop torturing yourself, Arabella. You’re jumping to conclusions. Gabriel might just be out carousing with Lord Malverne and his other friends. Remember Charlie told you they were all in town and it’s been months since he’s seen them.

  Her gaze slid to the bedside armchair where Gabriel’s sketchbook and a discarded shirt lay. Even though she knew that what she was about to do was tantamount to spying, Arabella couldn’t resist the urge to look through his sketches—her husband was quite a talented artist, and his work deserved to be admired.

  Flipping through the book, her eyes widened with astonishment; page after page was filled with drawings of her. There was the lovely portrait Gabriel had rendered on the balcony of Villa Belle Rive on their wedding day as well as a series of sketches of her face, some with and some without her glasses. One sketch even depicted her sleeping in his carriage; another showed her gazing dreamily out the window.

  Arabella frowned; she didn’t know how she felt about being Gabriel’s muse. A little confused perhaps but also disconcertingly touched. His depictions of her countenance were flattering indeed and she wondered if he really did see her as pretty. Only the Lord above knew why though.

  She sighed and after returning the book to its place on the chair, she picked up Gabriel’s discarded shirt; Ryecroft had obviously forgotten to put it away. Rubbing the fine fabric against her cheek, Gabriel’s scent—his spicy cologne and the trace of something that was entirely masculine—filled her senses, and tears pricked at her eyes. Despite her annoyance, she missed him. After spending day after day with Gabriel in close quarters, she felt his absence keenly.

  She wasn’t sure why, but she was suddenly possessed by the mad impulse to wear his shirt as a nightgown. Throwing off her own cotton night rail, she slipped the cool cambric shirt over her head. It was voluminous and she’d have to roll up the sleeves, but it wasn’t too long; the hem sat at midthigh. For the first time that night, Arabella smiled. Yes, her husband’s shirt would do nicely.

  Gathering up her night rail, Arabella returned to her own room, extinguished the candle, and, after removing her glasses, slid back into bed.

  Steadfastly pushing away the thought of her husband making love to someone else right at this very moment, she hugged a pillow to her chest and pretended Gabriel was with her instead.

  * * *

  * * *

  Something woke her. A low grumbling sound that called to mind the roll of distant thunder.

  No, not thunder . . . Was that a snore?

  Is that Gabriel?

  Arabella prized her heavy eyelids open and blinked blearily into the darkness. The gentle rumbling came again from the direction of her sitting room and she frowned. Yes, it was definitely a snore. But as far as she knew, Gabriel was a quiet sleeper. She’d never heard him snore in the carriage on their journey home.

  Although, she recalled Lilias had often complained that Bertie snored when
he’d had too much claret with dinner. If Gabriel had been out with his rakish friends, it was highly likely he’d imbibed too much alcohol. It had to be her errant husband.

  There was only one way to find out.

  Her hectic heartbeat thudding in her ears, Arabella rose from the bed and padded quietly to the sitting room doorway. Relief tangled with resentment and confusion when she saw it was indeed Gabriel.

  A wash of pale moonlight revealed that he was sprawled on the damask settee, fast asleep with his booted feet propped on the table and his arms spread wide along the headrest. His head was thrown back at an awkward angle, his mouth slack and slightly open as another snore tumbled forth.

  Arabella gripped the doorjamb as all her anger rose in a hot wave; she was glad he was safe and sound, but how dare he arrive home so late! How dare he go out without telling her first! It was more than inconsiderate. It was appallingly rude.

  Then another thought came to the fore: Why on earth was he in her sitting room?

  He couldn’t be comfortable and she wouldn’t be able to sleep unless he stopped snoring—she was certain she’d still be able to hear him even if she closed her bedroom door—so she had to wake him.

  Tamping down her irritation, Arabella crept toward her drunk, unconscious husband in the manner of someone approaching a sleeping lion. How best to wake him without startling him? While she was tempted to throw the pitcher of water in her dressing room over him, she’d also likely ruin the silk damask upholstery on the sofa and she didn’t want to do that.

  Holding her breath, she reached out and touched his pantaloon-clad lower thigh, just above his knee. Her fingers encountered warm, solid muscle beneath the snug fabric. “Gabriel. You need to wake up,” she murmured hesitantly.

  He didn’t stir.

  “Gabriel . . .” She gave his leg a slight shake and raised her voice to make herself heard over a louder snore. “Gabriel, wake up.”