When to Engage an Earl

by Sally MacKenzie

  He smiled inwardly. The girls had been delighted to see him. Their words had stumbled all over one another’s telling him about “Stinky.” They’d showed him their dolls and got him to read several stories, Martha, the youngest, in his lap and Judith and Rebecca leaning against him on each side. Their sweet childish excitement, their innocence, their easy laughter filled him with happiness and with longing for children of his own.

  When he could finally break free, it was time to get ready to come down here.

  “I thought you’d thank me,” Diana said. “You are looking for a wife, aren’t you?”

  “Diana, I don’t need your help.”

  Her right eyebrow arched up. “Oh, really?”

  Roger cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should change the subject.”

  Alex and Diana ignored him.

  “Miss Wilkinson is the Spinster House spinster, Diana.”

  “Precisely. That means she’s available.”

  “No, that means she has no interest in matrimony.”

  Diana snorted. “Pshaw! Every woman has an interest in matrimony.”

  “Not Miss Wilkinson.”

  “Even Miss Wilkinson. She just hasn’t met the right man”—his sister grinned—“until now.”

  He would not strangle Diana, much as he would like to. “But she has met me. Several times. You know that.”

  Diana’s smile turned rather sly. “Yes, I do. Just as I know that when you got back from the Lake District, you rushed off to Loves Bridge without stopping overnight at the Hall or even coming inside.”

  “That was to avoid you and Mama.”

  “Oh? So why didn’t you go to London or one of your other estates?”

  “I, er . . .” He cleared his throat. He had a good reason.

  “Horatio was tired and Loves Bridge was relatively close. And I’d heard about the fair when I was there in the spring. I wanted to see how it turned out.” He would not run his finger under his collar. “And my good friend, the Duke of Hart, is now at Loves Castle, you know.”

  “Ah. And I suppose you went straight to the castle when you arrived?”

  She wouldn’t say that unless she knew he hadn’t, blast it. Diana and Mama had spies everywhere.

  “Since I hadn’t sent word I’d be coming, I went to the inn, of course. To show up on the duke’s doorstep unannounced would be rude.” Not that Marcus would agree.

  What else could he say to throw Diana off the scent?

  There was no scent to be thrown off of. Diana was completely misconstruing his minor connection to Miss Wilkinson. He merely enjoyed teasing the woman.

  “And since the fair was the next day, it was more convenient to stroll over to the village green from the inn than to ride in from the castle.”

  Even Roger choked on that one.

  “Ah, yes. Of course.” His sister’s voice was dripping with sarcasm. “You are such a devotee of village fairs, you seek them out wherever you can.”

  “Diana . . .” He looked at Roger to rein in his wife.

  Roger smiled and shrugged—and fled to the sherry decanter.

  He felt Diana’s hand on his arm. “I saw how she looked at you this afternoon.”

  “How—” No, he would not ask Diana what she meant. If she thought Miss Wilkinson had looked at him with anything other than disdain, she was mistaken. The woman had been quite chilly—glacial wouldn’t be an exaggeration—toward him when she’d arrived and had clearly been eager to leave him for the sanctuary of the room Diana had assigned her.

  Diana shook his arm slightly. “I only want you to be happy, Alex.”

  He sighed. He knew that. “You can make me happy by not meddling in my concerns.”

  Diana continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “And I wasn’t thinking only of you when I invited the Wilkinsons.”

  “Oh?” What new trick was this?

  This time Diana was the one who dropped her voice and watched the door. “I told you Imogen had been in touch with Miss Wilkinson’s brother.” She smiled. “She has a tendre for him.”

  “For Randolph?”

  “Shh! Do you want them to hear you?”

  “They aren’t here to hear me.”

  Diana smiled far too knowingly. “I suspect they’ll be down at any moment.”

  “Ah.” He should not feel a jolt of anticipation at the thought of Miss Wilkinson’s imminent arrival.

  He would consider Randolph instead. Unlike Diana, he didn’t waste time wondering about a man’s marital intentions, but now that he had, he was surprised to realize that Randolph was only a few years older than he.

  “I’m hoping they will make a match of it,” Diana said.

  This could actually be a good thing. If Diana was busy poking her nose into Randolph’s business, she’d have less time to meddle in his.

  He heard voices in the corridor then—and his heart jumped. Diana was right—the Wilkinsons had come down early. He turned to see them enter the room. Randolph glanced around eagerly as if he were looking for someone—and then only partly hid his disappointment when he didn’t find . . . Imogen?

  Perhaps Diana wouldn’t have to expend much energy on that match.

  Miss Wilkinson hung back. If Alex didn’t know her better, he’d think she was trying to hide behind her brother.

  “Mr. Wilkinson, Miss Wilkinson,” Diana said, dragging Alex along with her to greet them, “you are the first to arrive downstairs.” She smiled at Randolph. “I believe my husband wishes to have a word with you, sir.”

  Alex would wager Roger was going to be quite surprised to hear that.

  Wilkinson looked puzzled, too, but nodded and walked over to Roger, exposing his sister to Alex’s interested eyes.

  “I’ll leave you in my brother’s capable hands, if I may, Miss Wilkinson. I’m afraid there’s something I must check on.”

  Diana went off on her imaginary errand. Probably just as well. Miss Wilkinson looked uncomfortable, though that could be because her shoulders and chest were swathed in a heavy wool shawl.

  “Cold?” he asked. It was October, but the weather was quite mild.

  She raised her chin and glared at him as if something—the temperature?—was his fault. “Yes.”

  She was so warm, her cheeks were flushed. Why in the world was she wearing that shawl?

  He could just ask, but what fun would that be? “Then please step over to the fire.”

  She hesitated.

  He mentally rubbed his hands together with glee. “I assure you it is much warmer there.”

  Now would she admit she was too hot? Not Miss Wilkinson.

  “Er, thank you.”

  He walked with her to the blazing grate. “I hope you found your room to your liking?”

  “Yes, it is very nice.” She stopped several feet from the hearth, but Alex went closer so she had to come with him or betray herself.

  Of course, the problem with this game was that he might melt. “I believe my sister put you in the yellow bedroom?”

  “Yes.”

  Sweat beaded on her forehead....

  “I hope your trip from Loves Bridge was uneventful?”

  “It was.”

  . . . and above her upper lip. She had nice lips—thin, but well shaped. At the moment they were parted, and she was panting slightly.

  “If there is time, perhaps I can take you—and your brother, of course—over to see my estate. My lands march with Chanton’s.”

  Two beads of sweat joined together and ran down her nose to dangle on its tip.

  “That would be pleasant.” She flicked the sweat away—and tried to fan herself with her hand at the same time.

  This was ridiculous. “Miss Wilkinson, surely you would be more comfortable without that shawl.”

  She gripped it as if she feared he would tear it from her. “No. Thank you. I’m fine.”

  She did not look fine.

  “Well, perhaps you would like to use a corner of it to dry your face.” He probably should
not have said that, but he was worried she would make herself ill. He felt quite heated himself. “Good Lord, one would think you were naked under that thing.”

  He definitely should not have said that.

  Zeus! Did Miss Wilkinson turn even redder? He eyed the offending drapery. Was she naked?

  His cock reacted in predictable fashion.

  Idiot! Of course she’s not naked.

  A pity.

  Fortunately, before he could act on any of the insane thoughts ricocheting around his brain, he was distracted by a voice coming from the corridor.

  Lord, is that . . . ?

  He turned to see two more guests enter the room. His eyes slid over the dark-haired woman in the lead to focus on the demure, blond girl behind her.

  Charlotte.

  His heart stopped. This was the first time he’d seen her since before her father had brought him word their wedding was off.

  Good Lord, had she always looked this young?

  His heart started beating again. He felt . . . well, embarrassed to think he’d ever thought himself in love with her.

  He was suddenly very happy Lord Buford had paid him that visit.

  Chapter Six

  Jane carefully speared a pea with her fork and put it in her mouth. Surely this meal must almost be over. As soon as the women left the men to their port, she’d flee to her room. It might be cowardly, but . . .

  Don’t be silly.

  Right. She wasn’t afraid of anyone. She merely felt, er, slightly overwhelmed at the moment. It was to be expected. She never left Loves Bridge—and very few people ever came to the village—so she wasn’t used to conversing with people who hadn’t known her since she was in leading strings. Of course it would be wearing to find herself in a roomful of strangers.

  She speared another pea with rather more force than necessary.

  Strangers with ulterior motives.

  Lady Chanton was clearly set on matchmaking, but Jane had hoped Lord Evans’s sister was trying to match only Randolph and Lady Eldon. Now she was beginning to fear the woman—and Lord Evans’s mother—thought she might be an appropriate wife for the earl.

  Lady Chanton had told everyone not to stand on ceremony, to sit where they wished . . . and then somehow Jane had got stuck next to her. They’d no sooner taken their seats than she’d started in questioning Jane about Loves Bridge, her friends, her brother, her parents, and the Spinster House. She’d been cordial, but by the time she turned to address her daughter Bea on her other side, Jane had felt like she’d been knocked down and run over by several carriages.

  She frowned at the next pea to feel the wrath of her fork. And now she felt as if someone was watching her. She glanced up—

  Lud! Someone was watching her—the dowager countess, seated on the other side and the other end of the table. And instead of averting her gaze as any normal person would when caught staring, the woman smiled at Jane before turning to speak to Mr. John Grant, the widower of Lord Chanton’s older sister and father of eight sons, two of whom were also at the table.

  She was definitely fleeing to her room as soon as she could.

  “May I serve you some more roast pheasant, Miss Wilkinson?”

  Lud! Her heart jolted at the sound of Lord Evans’s voice—as did her hand. Fortunately, none of the red wine in her glass made it onto the tablecloth.

  The earl had been so busy conversing with the young, beautiful, insipid Lady Charlotte on his right, he’d likely just remembered Jane was here.

  That’s not very kind.

  Perhaps not, but it was true. The girl was small and blond—like a china doll—and spoke in a breathy little whisper. Every time she smiled, she ducked her head, and she never once, as far as Jane could tell, looked anyone in the eye.

  What can he find to talk about with that noddy?

  It’s none of my concern.

  She kept her eyes on her wineglass. “No, thank you.”

  The pheasant dish didn’t move away.

  This time she looked up at him so he would be certain to hear her. “My lord, thank you, but I do not care for more pheasant.”

  He frowned at her plate. “You’ve hardly eaten a thing.”

  That was quite bold of him. “Oh? Are you my nanny now?”

  He grinned. “Thank God. I thought the fairies had stolen away the real Miss Wilkinson and left a meek changeling in her place.”

  Oh? You seem to like meek women.

  Fortunately, she managed not to say that out loud. What did she care about his preferences in women?

  “Are you certain you won’t take some more?” He dropped his voice. “You’ll need your strength to withstand my sister.” His eyes gleamed with amusement. “I heard her interrogating you.”

  So he hadn’t been so entranced by Lady Charlotte that he’d forgotten she was here.

  “You could have come to my aid, you know.”

  He grinned. “And risk having you bite my head off? No, thank you. I learned my lesson with Mr. Wertigger.”

  She felt herself flush. “I do apologize if I seemed ungrateful then. I was rather, er, annoyed with the man when you came up.”

  He snorted. “Rather annoyed? I thought you were going to eviscerate him with your bare hands right there on the village green.”

  She’d admit that she’d wanted to do exactly that. “He lied to me—to the committee.”

  “Who lied to you?”

  Jane jumped at hearing Lady Chanton’s voice and turned toward her, knocking against the platter of pheasant and sending her wineglass teetering.

  She lunged for the glass as Lord Evans juggled the pheasant.

  “Oh, I am sorry for startling you.” Lady Chanton smiled with far too much satisfaction. Jane half expected her to waggle her brows the way the Boltwood sisters did when they thought they were observing a bit of romance. “You did seem quite, er, engrossed in your conversation.”

  Jane waited for Lord Evans to rein in his sister.

  And waited.

  She looked at the man. He was looking at . . .

  Lud! In the confusion with the wine and the pheasant, her shawl had slipped off her shoulders. She tugged it back into place and turned to Lady Chanton.

  “A person by the name of Waldo Wertigger lied to me, Lady Chanton.”

  “Oh, do call me Diana, Miss Wilkinson—and I hope you will give me leave to call you Jane. This is an informal, family gathering, after all.”

  “Ah.” Except I’m not part of this family.

  Yet. She might have a connection soon. Randolph and Lady Eldon had fallen into close conversation the moment they’d first seen each other and were now sitting together at the table.

  “Of course you may call me Jane.”

  Lord Evans—surely Lady Chanton was not going to suggest Jane call the earl by his Christian name—leaned across her to address his sister. “The fellow advertised a live kangaroo, Diana, but when he arrived in Loves Bridge, it turned out the creature was stuffed. Miss Wilkinson was the one who had to deal with the charlatan.”

  The earl’s face was just inches from hers. She couldn’t breathe without inhaling his scent, a mix of soap and linen and . . . him. Her eyes traced his profile—the sweep of his long lashes, the faint shadow of his beard, the strong angle of his jaw—and then wandered back to his mouth. There was a small scar at the corner of his lower lip. How had he—

  “Isn’t that right, Miss Wilkinson—or may I call you Jane, since, as Diana says, this is a family gathering?”

  He’d turned his head to address her, bringing his mouth even closer. If she leaned forward just the slightest bit—

  She jerked back to put more space between them.

  What were they talking about? Good Lord, she had completely lost track of the conversation. “Pardon me?”

  “I asked if I might call you Jane”—he grinned, his eyes teasing her—“and you must call me Alex, of course.”

  She could never call the Earl of Evans Alex. That was far, far too inti
mate.

  And terrifying.

  Why?

  Because it would open a door she could never again shut. Something important would change, though precisely what that was she wasn’t completely certain.

  “You must do as you please.”

  Fortunately—or unfortunately, perhaps—Bea chose that moment to say, quite heatedly, to Octavius Grant, her university-aged cousin, “Balderdash! Women are indeed capable of managing their own lives. Look at Miss Wilkinson.”

  That, of course, caused everyone to look at Jane—everyone but Lady Chanton, who sighed and addressed her daughter.

  “Bea, it is not polite to voice such strong opinions in company.”

  “Octavius isn’t company!”

  “No, but you are getting ready for your come-out, remember, so you should pretend that he is.”

  Octavius made the mistake of snickering—and Bea’s fingers tightened on her wineglass. Jane caught her breath, expecting to see wine stream down Octavius’s face at any moment.

  She’d never attended the London Season, but she expected Bea would make quite an, er, splash, though perhaps not in the way her mother would wish.

  “And you certainly should not single out Miss Wilkinson.”

  Bea let go of her glass—Jane thought she heard Lord Evans sigh with relief at that—and raised her chin. “I believe in speaking my mind, Mama, and not allowing men”—she looked at Octavius—“to rule me. Surely you must agree, Miss Wilkinson?”

  Jane hesitated, thereby giving Randolph a chance to jump into the fray.

  “Oh, now, you can’t let my sister’s opinion on the matter influence you, Miss Livingston-Smythe. She’s never been to London and she’s more than ten years your senior.” He chuckled. “And I must tell you that all the men in Loves Bridge go in fear of her temper.”

  A rather uncomfortable—appalled?—silence settled over the table.

  Randolph cleared his throat. “Not that I mean to be critical, of course.”

  “Please do not murder your brother at my sister’s table,” Lord Evans murmured.