The Earl Most Likely

by Jane Goodger

  Ah, there was some fire inside her. Perhaps Miss Anderson wasn’t the meek, pale milquetoast he thought she was. Arrogant, indeed. He smiled, and he knew from her expression, it was a rather frightening smile. “You will get it done, Miss Anderson. My future bride is on the guest list.”

  * * * *

  Oh, that insufferable, demanding, arrogant man! He’d offered to have his carriage bring her partly home, but she’d declined. She needed a long, bracing walk to rid herself of the anger boiling just beneath the surface. Worse, when she refused the offer of the ride, he’d given her one of his enigmatic smiles, as if he knew precisely how angry she was and enjoyed infuriating her.

  Now she understood why he’d offered to pay her such an exorbitant amount—he was asking the impossible. Even if the work crew listened to everything she said, which she highly doubted would be the case, they would need an army of men, highly skilled, to bring the castle back to its former state. Had he not seen the long list she’d handed him? Such details could not be smashed into place, but must be delicately considered. She could only pray that whoever the foreman was, he was a man willing to take orders from a female.

  All this for some nameless woman who most likely would prefer the castle the way it was currently decorated. Though Costille House had been an impressive monument to history, it certainly did not hold any warmth or even the smallest bit of feminine décor. Costille House deserved better than a hasty patch, hurriedly done simply so he could showcase it for a ball. She’d thought him thoughtful and level headed, but he was just as shallow as all the other members of the aristocracy she’d had the misfortune to meet. Except for Alice and her family, of course. All this work and all for a woman who wouldn’t give a fig.

  By the time she reached her drive, Harriet’s ire had dissipated and turned to resolve. It seemed Lord Berkley had issued a challenge, and she’d decided in the three-mile walk that she would not only meet the challenge, but she would exceed it. Perhaps her family would be issued an invitation to the Christmas ball and she could revel in the admiring looks the guests gave the great hall. Such an invitation was highly unlikely, since the Andersons’ social status was far below Lord Berkley’s, but it was still pleasant to think about. She thought back on the John Knill ball and his lordship’s interest in Clara. Two months ago, Harriet would have been thrilled for her sister to find such a match. Now that she knew Lord Berkley a bit better, she would not wish the man on anyone, never mind her sweet sister.

  Harriet’s steps slowed as she realized her parents had returned from their trip. She could see Clara in the garden, where she spent nearly all her free hours, fussing over her roses. Her mother, who studied such things like a scholar, had decided that creating a beautiful garden was a fine, ladylike pursuit. Harriet often wondered if one of the reasons Clara remained unmarried was because she didn’t want to leave her garden behind.

  It was a glorious garden, carefully and meticulously planned by Clara and executed by their gardener, Mr. Emory. Harriet often wondered at the older man’s patience dealing with Clara. While her sister seemed a bit of a will ’o the wisp when it came to most things, she was quite the termagant when it came to her garden. Clara saw her and waved happily, then turned back to her roses.

  Wanting to delay seeing her mother for as long as possible, Harriet headed directly to Clara. “Has everything survived your absence?”

  Clara smiled softly. “Indeed, everything has thrived. It won’t be long before we’ll have to prune them for winter. Mr. Emory insists he did nothing, but someone has come out and removed all the dead blossoms.”

  Harriet frowned, for she specifically recalled looking out her window and seeing Mr. Emory doing something in the garden, but she decided to remain silent. If the man didn’t want Clara to know he worked in the garden in her absence, she wouldn’t be the one to tell.

  “Are you engaged to the baron?”

  Clara wrinkled her nose. “Oh, Harriet, he was such an old curmudgeon, nearly as old as father and twice as fat. What can Mother have been thinking?”

  “That he is a baron and if you married him, you would be a baroness.”

  Clara bent over one bud and nipped off a small insect, squeezing it between her fingers ruthlessly. Clara, the kindest girl Harriet had ever known, would capture a fly and send it out the window. But if that fly should think to harm one of her blossoms, its very life was in danger. “I am beginning to find this whole husband search tedious,” she said. Harriet raised her brow in concern, for she’d never heard her sister complain.

  “Was it that awful?”

  Clara straightened. “I don’t understand why Mother won’t let things be. I’m perfectly content. And if I marry…”

  “You’d have to leave?” Sudden tears filled Clara’s eyes as she nodded, and Harriet grew alarmed. Her sister was effervescent, cheerful, and acquiescent to a fault. “Did something happen, Clara?”

  Clara swallowed. “No, nothing more than ever happens on one of these outings. Except…”

  “Except?”

  “Mother got cross with me. I suppose it was upsetting. She went on about how lucky I was to be able to attract men with titles and that I was spoiled and cruel to her.” Clara looked up, her dark blue eyes shining with tears. “Am I cruel to her?”

  Harriet drew her sister in for an embrace. “No, darling. You? Cruel? You are the kindest girl in all of Cornwall. All of England. I just think perhaps Mother so wants you to be happy and settled that it’s upsetting to her when you don’t fall immediately in love with every man she parades in front of you.”

  Clara bit her thumb nail distractedly. “Sometimes I think it’s not about me at all, but more about her. Is that a terrible thing to say?”

  Holding her sister at arms’ length, Harriet found herself again surprised by her sister’s astuteness. All these years, all the men paraded in front of Clara, and Harriet had never once seen an inkling that Clara found the process tedious. “Mother has worked hard for what our family has achieved socially,” Harriet said carefully. “Perhaps she sees it as a personal failing that you are unmarried.”

  “I told her I didn’t want to marry. Anyone. I want to remain here. Honestly, Harriet, the idea of marrying any of those men. . .” She suppressed a shudder. “Have you seen the suitors Mother has presented to me? Desperate old goats, every one of them.”

  “What of Lord Berkley?”

  Clara furrowed her brow. “I supposed he isn’t an old goat.” She suddenly grinned. “The gardens at Costille House are lovely.”

  Harriet laughed. “You and your gardens. If you could marry them, you would.”

  “I would,” Clara said, dissolving into giggles. “I really would.”

  * * * *

  “I ain’t taking orders from her.”

  Harriet had known Mr. Billings for as long as she could remember. When her father had built stables on their property, Mr. Billings had been there. He was a tall, strapping man, with hands hardened by labor and a heart hardened by tragedy. Five winters past, he’d lost his wife and all five children to influenza. He was gruff, yes, but Harriet had seen him once pick a daisy for a little girl and hand it to her.

  “Mr. Billings, I don’t wish to give you orders,” she said sensibly, before Lord Berkley could speak. “I find it vastly unfortunate that I am the one who has been cursed with a memory that allows me to be of assistance to his lordship. If someone else can be found who knows Costille House as well as I do, I am happy to step aside and allow them to issue orders.”

  He folded his great, beefy arms over his chest and mulled that over for a few seconds before he nodded. “Aye, I’ll listen to ya.”

  Mr. Billings turned to the mass of men milling silently behind him, and told them that they were to listen to Harriet and if they did not, they would have to answer to him. There was some general grumbling, mostly for effect and to make certain they staked their
manly claim on misogyny, but no one formally objected.

  “There. I see you have things well in hand. I’ll return in a fortnight anticipating great changes.” Harriet nodded but remained silent, which apparently irked his lordship. “I wonder, Miss Anderson, do you also find the payment of ten thousand pounds unfortunate?” he asked in a low voice that was meant for her ears only.

  Harriet could feel her cheeks heat. “I do not. What I find unfortunate is your unrealistic expectations. I shall do my best to accommodate them, however.”

  “See that you do.” His voice was cold, his smile gone, and Harriet wondered if she’d sounded churlish. It was rather disconcerting not to see him smile at her with that half tilt of his lips, his eyes narrowed in humor. She realized, with a start, that he needn’t charm her anymore, that it had all been an act to get her to do his bidding. He’d played the part of a charming man, and she’d fallen into his charm like a mouse into a trap. With painful clarity, she realized he was her employer, and that she’d very nearly been insubordinate. And for some reason she couldn’t explain, it bothered her, that cold dismissal, the same type of dismissal one would give to a blundering footman.

  Stupid and silly that she could feel pressure behind her eyes, as if he had hurt her.

  She watched him walk away with sure strong steps, feeling foolish. Turning back to the men, she strode up to Mr. Billings, trying to gather courage she didn’t feel. “Let me show you what needs to be done, Mr. Billings. Lord Berkley is looking for a miracle, and I suppose he’s picked the right man to make that happen.”

  Mr. Billings mumbled something and frowned, but Harriet had a feeling he was far more bark than bite. If she got him on her side, the rest of the men would follow. She hoped.

  * * * *

  Unfortunate. She called herself unfortunate to have a memory that could help him. It stung, those words, coming from that meek little mouse of a woman. Why it should be so, Augustus did not care to examine too closely. Worse, after she’d gone home following yesterday’s tour, he’d found his thoughts drifting to her again and again. It was inexplicable. Perhaps it was the way her unusual eyes narrowed when she was in thought, the way she pressed those memorable lips together when she was trying to hide her ire. He found himself wondering what was beneath that shapeless dress she wore, then laughed aloud when he realized where his thoughts had gone. Wondering what was beneath a woman’s gown was a perfectly natural occupation for a man who hadn’t been with a woman in far too long, but why on earth was he thinking about what was beneath her gown? Perhaps when he was in London he would find himself a mistress. If he had a willing woman at his beck and call, he certainly would not be giving more than a single thought to Miss Anderson of the straw-like hair. And stubborn chin. And fascinating mouth.

  Damn. He didn’t like meek women. He wasn’t attracted to shapeless females. All he wanted was a warm, curvy, soft, willing woman in his bed whenever he liked. A mistress now. A wife later. When his father died, Augustus had felt little emotion other than, perhaps, stark fear that he would be expected to fill his father’s shoes. In the months since the old earl’s death, the things he’d discovered about his father had only served to build his resolve to be nothing like the old man. But his death had also done something else; it made him more aware of his own legacy, of how fragile life was. He needed a wife and, more importantly, an heir.

  Duty had not been something he’d thought much about when he’d been younger. Now, it loomed large. He had a duty to restore Costille House, a duty to marry, a duty to sire children.

  As he stalked away from Miss Anderson, he was glad he had put her firmly in her place. One did not think about employees the way he’d been thinking about her. Not that he’d been thinking of her overmuch, but still, he ought not think of her at all. He needed only to complete his business, find a willing woman, and return to a house that would no doubt be in shambles when he returned.

  As he climbed into his carriage, he gave Miss Anderson one more fleeting thought, wondering if she could, indeed, get the surly Mr. Billings to do her bidding. These two weeks would be a test, and he wondered if she would pass or fail.

  Chapter 3

  Harriet had been working almost daily at Costille House, leaving early in the morning whilst the dew was still on the grass, happily tramping the three miles, arriving rosy-cheeked and ready to work. The daily walks were invigorating, and much easier now than when she’d first begun. No one at home had noticed her absence, which made Harriet realize the extent to which she was ignored. She wondered on the eighth day whether anyone would note it if she didn’t return home at all. Would her mother or father sound an alarm?

  Her mother, seeing that she’d taken second helpings of Cook’s fine chicken and dumplings, cautioned her not to eat like a common washwoman. Harriet had tensed, fearing her mother would question why she was so hungry, but Clara at that moment asked about her next fitting in London and that was all it took to distract their mother.

  Harriet had never experienced such a robust appetite in her life. The walks, the work, the supervising of the men, all combined to create an almost insatiable hunger.

  Harriet chewed thoughtfully, realizing that she had never been happier in her entire life. She liked working. The men, who at first were reluctant to listen to her instructions, now did nothing without first checking with her. She walked around the house with a bundle of papers in her hand, checking on the progress, directing the men where to go, what to do, and they listened. More than that, they asked her opinion. It was heady stuff. No one had ever solicited her opinion about anything more important than what dress to wear or if a certain gentleman was appealing.

  At first, the men had been occupied with tearing things down—a process that went remarkably quickly. Before the first two days were over, every wall that Lady Greenwich had ordered constructed, had been torn down. Quicker than she could have imagined, Costille House was reemerging. By the time Lord Berkley returned, the house would at least resemble what it had been before the renovations.

  Outside, gaslights were removed, a fountain with a cherub moved to the back in the garden. Harriet couldn’t bring herself to destroy it, for it was such a charming bit of whimsy, but it was now burbling in the garden, out of sight of whomever approached the house. She was prepared to argue for the piece, should Lord Berkley want it removed.

  The great hall was the greatest challenge because the entire roof there had been replaced with glass. The roof tiles must have been destroyed and carted off the property, for they were not in the rubble in the barn. Mr. Billings had ordered more, taking careful notes from Harriet as to their design, and Harriet was grateful for the man’s patience when she tried to draw what the tiles had looked like. More than once he grumbled that the house was fine as it was, better, in fact, than it had been, but in the end, he’d presented her rather begrudgingly with several examples and one of them matched precisely what had been on the roof.

  Harriet was so lost in her thoughts about the renovations and the work to come she didn’t realize her mother had asked her a question until Clara kicked her lightly in the shin.

  “Mother was asking if you wanted to go to London with me for the little season,” Clara said, her eyes filled with a mix of dread and hope. Dread of going to London, and hope that Harriet would suffer along with her.

  “London?” Harriet asked.

  “For new gowns. It’s been ages since you had a new gown and it will be so much more fun with you there.”

  Harriet turned to her mother, who was looking at her with clear impatience. “You want me to get new gowns, Mother?”

  “Clara insisted. I certainly cannot allow you to embarrass your sister by wearing any of your current dresses. Do you want to look like the poor relation during all the season’s events?”

  Her mother had noticed her lack of dresses, then, a realization that was far more telling than Harriet’s prior belief that
she wasn’t aware. Her mother had noticed, but hadn’t cared enough to remedy the situation.

  “A season, Mother? That seems a bit…” Ambitious. “…adventurous,” she said, struggling to come up with the appropriate word for such an ill-conceived notion. Her family, while wealthy by St. Ives standards, would never be invited to any of London’s events; it would be a miracle, indeed, for them to set one foot into any fashionable gathering. No one would introduce two girls of such low birth; didn’t her mother realize this?

  Her mother looked at her father, silently conveying her thoughts that their younger daughter was dense. “Of course a season. It’s past time we went to London. Everyone says so. Why, just last week the baron asked why he had never seen us in London.”

  Dumbfounded, Harriet looked from her mother to her father, and finally to Clara. “One cannot simply show up and expect to be invited to the events,” she said cautiously. Harriet, through her friendship with Alice, was keenly aware of how the ton worked. It might be 1877, but society still relied on the same rules it always had, and families like the Andersons were not invited to the kinds of entertainments the members of the ton held. Surely her mother knew that.

  Her mother gave her a level look. “Baron Longley has said he will sponsor Clara.”

  Next to her, Clara stiffened, and Harriet resisted the urge to put her hand on her shoulder in comfort.

  “Why would Baron—”

  “Harriet, you cannot be so naïve,” her mother said, laughing lightly. “A girl who hopes to travel in the highest circles such as the baron inhabits must have a season before marrying, and that is what our Clara will have.”

  A terrible thought occurred to her, that her mother had somehow finagled a proposal out of the baron. Given what Clara had said about the man, Harriet was horrified. “You don’t mean that Clara and the baron are engaged, do you?” she asked, trying to keep her tone measured. She looked to her sister for confirmation, but Clara simply stared at her plate of cooling food. She’d hardly touched a bite, and that made Harriet’s stomach twist in worry.