The Earl's Revenge

by Allison Lane

  Lady Means joined her on the settee. “Poor Mrs. Woodleigh,” she said softly. “Such delusions! How can she possibly think that so high a lord as Bridgeport would make a permanent offer to one of his companions? You are not shocked, I hope.”

  “Hardly. But it seems odd to find a lady of the ton like yourself knowingly cohabiting a house with a fallen woman. Or has society changed that drastically in recent years?”

  Lady Means flushed. “She is not exactly a courtesan,” she admitted grudgingly, then shifted to her own concerns. “How long have you known the earl?”

  “We have met from time to time, though I would hardly call us friends,” said Elaine. “But he was desperate for help when word arrived that so many people had decided to pay an uninvited visit. Treselyan is hardly capable of entertaining a crowd.”

  “He cannot claim surprise,” declared Lady Means. “We discussed it before he left town, for he is ready to wed again, and dear Lucinda has finally reached a marriageable age.”

  Elaine refrained from repeating Bridgeport’s own description of the party. It was possible that he would accept Miss Throckmorton. She was little different from his other prospective brides.

  Lady Means continued. “You must find it annoying to be forced to live in so dreary a place. I cannot imagine foregoing a Season.”

  Judging the baroness to be a year or two younger than herself, Elaine shook her head. “I found London to be insipid, my lady. And the character assassination that passes for conversation is not to my taste. Life here is more interesting to any but the most shallow.”

  “You have been to town?” she asked in shock.

  Elaine ignored the implied set-down. “Of course. I came out some years ago, but I prefer living here.”

  “What a novel way to explain a failure to take,” sneered Lady Means.

  “On the contrary. I turned down an eligible offer, to the chagrin of my family. Remaining single is more attractive than putting up with the spiteful tongues of arrogant matrons.”

  The gentleman arrived at that moment, precluding further conversation. Bridgeport immediately commandeered Elaine and drew her apart from the others. Beauty and the Beast, she thought irrelevantly. It was a feeling she had suffered every time they met in London. He was so handsome and up to snuff that it threw her own shortcomings into sharp relief.

  She thrust awareness of her inadequacy aside. It really did not matter.

  “What think you of these fribbles?” he asked.

  “I think them typical of London, my lord. At every word a reputation dies.”

  Mark burst into laughter, drawing all eyes. “Pope. That was naughty of you.”

  “But true.”

  “Come now, Miss Thompson. Surely you do not condemn people for sharing the news of the day.”

  “How can I? Doing so would merely lower myself to their level. And that is as low as one can get, for tale-bearers are as bad as the tale-makers."

  “Sheridan, School for Scandal. I forget which act.”

  “The first, but your attention was undoubtedly focused elsewhere than the stage,” she said before she could stop the words.

  “What was that you just said about reputations dying?”

  Elaine giggled, again drawing the attention of the others. “Touché, my lord.”

  “Obviously my cousin has no pride whatsoever,” drawled Harold into the momentary hush. “How else can one explain Miss Thompson’s presence?”

  “Whatever do you mean, sir?” trilled Mrs. Woodleigh.

  “Why, surely you must recognize the chit. She left him standing at the altar some years ago – ’twas the scandal of the Season.”

  All eyes instantly turned on Elaine. She managed to maintain her impassive face, though she could feel a flush creeping upward.

  Mark’s eyes turned hard. “There was nothing to forgive,” he stated shortly. “The entire fiasco was a misunderstanding. Her note, describing how she had been called away to a deathbed, was mislaid by her totty-headed aunt, so that I did not receive it until the next day.”

  Why had he jumped to her defense? wondered Elaine as Richard joined Bridgeport in laughing over the ancient contretemps. Was this another ploy in his campaign? But that made little sense – unless he was unwilling to allow his cousin to be the instrument of revenge.

  Or was he honestly trying to save a guest from the embarrassment the disclosure must entail?

  “I wonder what Harold is up to now?” said Mark softly, so only Elaine could hear. “Was that another attempt to discredit me, or has he decided to attack you as well?”

  “You. He can hardly hold a grudge against me, though he would not hesitate to drag me down if he could hurt you in the process. And he may well do so. A truth that’s told with bad intent—”

  “—beats all the lies you can invent,” he finished for her. “Blake. Does airing our past really hurt?”

  “Not here. It matters not what these people think of me. If I don’t react to their unkind words, they will soon tire of the sport. But if the tale spreads to the village, it could cause trouble. Country folk are very conservative, as you should know. I would not want my presence to reflect poorly on Anne.”

  “Then we must see that it does not.”

  His voice was a caress, but Elaine ignored it. Such a sentiment was appealing but impractical. Servants learned everything and rarely kept gossip to themselves. Her only hope of killing this story was if Bridgeport treated her as the casual friend he claimed she was. Was he enough of a gentleman to do it?

  Chapter Eleven

  Elaine idly thumbed through her pile of completed sketches. She had escaped the Manor by offering to fetch a book for Anne, and once back in the comfortable simplicity of the cottage, she could not help lingering. It was another world. Her world. A place free of spiteful tongues, icy glares, and selfish plots. If only she did not have to return to Bridgeport’s world.

  Her hand froze on ‘To a Summer Sky.’ Instead of the serenity of Thornton’s poem, she saw agitation and chaos. How had that escaped her eye all this time?

  She had drawn it shortly after Lord Bridgeport arrived, and her mental turmoil must have affected both fingers and judgment.

  This confrontation was more upsetting than she’d admitted. Had it influenced her other work? Again she thumbed the sketches, this time critically examining each picture before sighing in relief. Only one was bad.

  Removing the offending page, she returned the rest to a drawer. There was no time to make a replacement today. She already risked being late for dinner. Thus she could no longer deliver the project to Mr. Holyoke when the party visited Bodmin tomorrow.

  She sighed. During their four days in residence, the company had risen earlier each day until they were following her own schedule. It robbed her of the morning hours she normally used for work. And having no time to herself was not just affecting her drawing. She needed a period of peace to maintain her sense of worth, for try as she might, she could not ignore the cuts of these arrogant aristocrats.

  Mr. Hardwicke was the worst. He was pursuing her favors with an unflattering relentlessness that made her want to scratch his eyes out. He had no real interest in her, even for dalliance, but he was locked in a silent struggle with Bridgeport. Every attention by the earl elicited matching attention from Hardwicke, and worse. That very morning he had followed her into the kitchen, trapped her in the pantry when Cook stepped out, and boldly caressed her breast.

  She had ordered him to leave, aided by a knife that she picked up from a table, but his insistence left her shaking. Being treated like a light-skirt was a new and terrifying experience.

  Lord Means was nearly as obnoxious, though he was concentrating on Anne. She and Anne had discussed the situation the night before, deciding that if it worsened, they would return home.

  Elaine had been vacillating over whether to mention the problem to Bridgeport. Given his reputation, she was not convinced that he would decry the behavior of his friends.

 
Elaine’s relations with the female guests were also combative. Mrs. Woodleigh and Lady Means were lashing out at anyone who might thwart their personal plans. The widow used sly innuendo and open insult to keep the country upstart in her place. She was pushing hard to bring the earl up to scratch, so her antagonism increased whenever Bridgeport spoke with Elaine, especially when their exchanges erupted in laughter as they so often did. Lady Means was not much better, throwing her niece at Bridgeport, while monopolizing Miss Thompson herself. If Elaine had not been their target, she might have been amused.

  Mr. Parrish lurked in the background like a malevolent spider. After he’d revealed Elaine’s identity that first night, Anne had related new tales she had heard from her cousin. Harold certainly had not improved with age. He was determined to stir up trouble. Sometimes he repeated rumors he claimed to have heard elsewhere. Often, he commiserated with Hardwicke’s gaming losses, hinting that the earl had cheated. He fanned jealousies – with snide remarks about Bridgeport’s first betrothal; by exaggerating the closeness between the Parrish and Thompson families; through set-downs of Mrs. Woodleigh’s ambitions; and by scoffing at Miss Throckmorton’s brazen flirtation. He also drew attention to every contact between the earl and Elaine, not even having to stretch the truth, for Bridgeport lost no opportunity to seek her out.

  And that was her biggest problem. Nothing would dissuade him. Though he stuck to friendship, with only the lightest flirtation, she recognized his purpose. And he knew she did. Yet he continued.

  Worse, she enjoyed their exchanges. Their shared interests showed in the quotation game they continued to play. She liked matching wits with him, but his undeniable appeal threatened to undermine her determination. It wasn’t fair that so handsome a gentleman should also possess charm, wit, and a well-formed mind. She had refused to recognize his animal attraction all those years ago in London, for such thoughts had no place in a moral mind. But that deliberate blindness had kept her from preparing for it, leaving her even more susceptible now. It was another reason to go home.

  Yet she could not do it. No matter what excuse she offered, leaving must be interpreted as abandoning him, for he had made it clear that he wanted and needed her at the Manor. It would echo the way she had jilted him, reviving the memories and guaranteeing that the tale would spread far beyond Cornwall. These spiteful guests would gleefully repeat it in town, again exposing him to society’s wagging tongues. After all the public embarrassments he had suffered in the interim, and after Mr. Parrish’s malicious rumor campaign, she could not subject him to further humiliation.

  And so she stayed.

  But she would not accompany the group into town. Carefully locking the cottage door, she turned toward Treselyan Manor. She had to redraw that illustration, and what better time to do so than a day when everyone was gone? She might even be able to start the new commission.

  But she did not want to answer questions about her plans. Burgess could tell Bridgeport at departure time that she was not going.

  * * * *

  Bridgeport closed the library door and thankfully sank into a chair.

  The house party was even more irritating than he had expected. Caroline refused to take his hints, even though he’d pointedly avoided her bed. She believed his new propriety was a prelude to proposing. How could the woman delude herself so thoroughly? Besides being little more than a courtesan, her birth was hardly top-drawer. Her father was a baronet’s younger son, and her mother was the daughter of a country squire.

  He may not have cared for any of his fiancées, but all had been ladies, something Caroline should know. But he could handle her. He could even handle Maude’s hints that he return to her arms. What he feared – and what had sent him to ground in the library – was being maneuvered into compromising Miss Throckmorton. The chit was not at all what he wanted for his second wife.

  What did he want?

  He frowned, his fingers steepling against his nose. Many of his ideas had been chiseled in stone since boyhood, such as never wedding anyone who might try to control him, which barred any emotional attachment. Even friendship could leave him vulnerable to manipulation.

  On the other hand, he wanted no repeat of his first marriage. His wife must be attractive, and passionate enough that he could enjoy bedding her. But intimacy was not the only reason he now considered appearance. His countess must be installed at Bridgeport Abbey. Since he spent a month there each year checking the books, he would have to look at her even after she produced an heir. That was the second flaw in his original plan. He had never thought beyond his father’s death to the duties his wife must assume.

  After his parents had died, he’d abandoned all thoughts of marriage, so relieved that his mother could no longer badger him about it that he was nearly giddy. Only recently had he admitted that it was time to take on another spouse. He was already nearly twice the age of the girls who appeared on the marriage mart each Season. They were looking younger and less attractive all the time. Miss Throckmorton was an excellent example. She hardly looked older than Helen to his eyes, though to be honest, Helen seemed far older than her years.

  As soon as he returned to London, he would choose a wife. She must be demure enough to spare him tantrums, serious enough to refrain from endless chatter, yet intelligent enough to sustain a reasonable conversation. She must also be biddable, respecting his position as head of the family and allowing him to make all decisions without interference. And he needed someone capable of running the house without calling in a mother or some other managing female to help. His frown deepened. His requirements sounded incompatible – demure, quiet, and biddable, yet intelligent, passionate, and competent.

  In the meantime, he would remain behind when his guests visited Bodmin. Aside from Richard’s warning – the marquess had a bad feeling about the journey – Mark needed some time to himself. On the pretext of estate problems, he had managed to slip away twice but it wasn’t enough. Even in London he had not spent more than a portion of his day in company. One of the expected benefits of rustication had been the luxury of uninterrupted time to reflect and to write. If he could get rid of the house party for the day, the solitude might soothe his spirit so that he could tolerate them a while longer.

  But if he announced his intentions, Caroline would find a reason to stay with him. And others might follow suit. So he could not allow anyone to guess his plans.

  A moment’s thought decided how. Freddie, the estate groom, would bring word of a minor problem just as they were leaving. He would urge the others to start, for on horseback he could easily catch up to the coaches. Only Richard would know that he had no intention of joining them.

  Mark finally relaxed into a smile. This was a dirty trick to play on Elaine, of course, for she would be left to entertain his guests by herself, but he needed the solitude too much to care.

  * * * *

  Elaine sank onto her favorite rock and smiled. She had not felt this free in weeks. In fact, it was the first time since Helen’s arrival that she could be sure of an afternoon entirely alone.

  The view was perfect today, the air holding no hint of haze. Patches of purple thrift, yellow daffodils, and the ubiquitous heather complemented the bright new growth of spring leaves. Sunlight glinted from the sea, which was as smooth as she had ever seen it after a week with no storms. The sky arched in a brilliant bowl overhead, lightly dotted with tiny puffs of cloud whose raison d’être was to emphasize the intense blue. Far out in the channel, the faintest hint of a sail bobbed in and out of sight. A hawk lazily floated above the moor. Leaves sighed in a gentle breeze, punctuated now and then by squabbles among the gulls.

  A summer sky. Should it be seen through the lacy screen of a tree’s canopy, or from a forest glade with heavier foliage around the edge? She had tried both and was satisfied with neither. Without color, they did not work. And that was the trouble, for the impact of the sky came primarily from color. Pulling the verse from her bag, she again read Thornton’s words. Per
haps—

  Frowning, she picked up her sketchbook and set to work.

  * * * *

  Mark waited until the carriages were out of sight before slipping out of the stable. Things had gone even better than planned. When the groom had pulled him aside, Burgess had also tried to speak privately to him. He had put the butler off until the stable problem was resolved. If anyone questioned him, he could now point to two crises that had arisen. Richard had instructions to inform Elaine of the truth before they reached Bodmin so that she would have some warning.

  By the time he cleared the grounds and reached the cliff path, he felt as if the weight of the world had fallen from his shoulders. It had been several months since he had been able to enjoy this long a stretch with no obligations. And it was a beautiful day. He headed for the spot that had become his favorite, the cave and lawn halfway up Lookout Peak that offered such a marvelous view over moor and sea.

  Tension flowed from his body. The sound of waves gently kissing the cliffs soothed his soul. Chattering sparrows contrasted with the majesty of a distant hawk. Words danced in his mind, weaving sun, bird, and water into a vision of peace that was abruptly shattered.

  “What are you doing here?” he exploded as he rounded the last outcropping. Dressed in an old kerseymere gown, her hair pulled back in a simple knot, Elaine appeared so at home in this setting that she provided the final flourish to a perfect day.

  But that thought proved so disturbing that he thrust it hastily aside.

  “My lord!” She had been so intent on her drawing that she had not heard his approach. “Oh, drat, now I’ve ruined it.” The muttered words barely carried to his ears.