As an Earl Desires

by Lorraine Heath

  He released an outraged cry torn from the depths of despair and his heart. With a mighty shove, he sent the books and ledgers that represented all he'd once owned crashing to the floor. He knew a time would come when he'd draw comfort from memories of her, but tonight all he felt was the pain of incredible loss. He laid his head on the desk and wept, finding no comfort, no solace, no hope.

  He'd never found fault with the sunlight, but this morning he found fault with the way it slanted through the windows and sliced across his eyes. He found equal fault with his head for aching and his mouth for containing a most disgusting taste. His neck was stiff and sore, his shoulders tight. He'd never felt this badly the morning after battling a fire; but then with a fire, the risk was only to his body, not his heart.

  With a groan and a moan, he pushed himself up slightly and planted his face in one of his hands. He would have preferred using both, but one of his arms was numb. It was coming to life now, adding to his misery.

  "Here, drink this," said a deep, slow drawl.

  With great difficulty, he lifted his squinting eyes to the man standing before him. He was tall and wore something that greatly resembled a greatcoat, but somehow wasn't. Arch dipped his gaze to the glass in the man's hand.

  "What is it?" His voice sounded as though it was scraping over rocks.

  "My own version of hair of the dog. It tastes like hell, but it'll undo some of what these empty bottles say you've done to yourself."

  Arch's hand shook as he reached out and took the glass. "What's in it?"

  "You don't want to know. Just drink it. The best way is one long gulp without breathing, so you don't smell it and are less likely to taste it."

  Arch did as instructed, downing the nauseatingly thick liquid. A chill and a shudder coursed through him. He set the glass on the desk, only then noticing that the ledgers had been neatly stacked along one side. He gave his attention back to the man. "Who are you?"

  The man sat in the chair, lifted a leg, crossed his ankle over his knee, and a balanced a hat that Arch had never seen in fashionable London on his thigh.

  "You tell me," the man said.

  "The devil… come to bargain?"

  The man's laughter was deep and sonorous, his dark eyes glittering. "I'd certainly bargain my way out of this if I could, but according to old Spellman, I've got no choice in the matter."

  "You're the Earl of Sachse."

  The man's jovial mood seemed to desert him. "That's what I've been told."

  "I can see the resemblance between you and your father." And a little between the man and himself. Generations separated them, but evidence of the Warner bloodline was there.

  With a heavy sigh, he sat back in the chair, surprised to discover that he was feeling a trifle better. "I'd not planned to make your acquaintance under such degrading circumstances."

  Sachse shrugged. "Over the years, I've downed my share of good whiskey—and not-so-good whiskey. I apologize if it was the discovery that I wasn't dead that turned you to the bottle."

  "Oh, no, not at all. I never grew truly comfortable wearing your shoes. I shan't miss it, but there are matters that concern me that I'd like to discuss with you. I'd prefer to make myself presentable first, if you don't mind."

  "Don't mind at all." He rubbed his jaw. "Could use a little sprucing up myself."

  "I'll have the servants show you to a bedchamber. Shall we meet back here in an hour?"

  "An hour will be fine."

  "Splendid."

  Although Arch didn't feel exactly splendid, he wasn't certain he could blame it all on the spirits. Rather that before the day was over, he'd be rid of all this, and already he missed it.

  Arch had been fully prepared not to like the man, but Thomas Warner was an incredibly likable sort.

  "Are you hungry?" Arch had asked once they'd met again in the study.

  "Starving."

  "Let's get you something to eat then. You need but ask the servants for anything you want, desire, need. They'll see to it immediately as their job is to please you and make your life as comfortable as possible. I'll introduce you to everyone and explain their various duties."

  Sachse grinned. "Some fella at the top of the stairs thought he was going to help me get dressed."

  "That would be the earl's valet."

  "Well, I'm perfectly capable of dressing myself. Had to aim my gun at him to make my point."

  "You have a gun?" Arch asked.

  "Peacemaker. I don't go anywhere without it."

  "Well, I assure you. Guns aren't needed here."

  "I feel naked without one strapped to my thigh."

  Camilla was certainly going to have her hands full with this earl—and just as quickly, he realized that she'd soon be giving all her attention to her duke.

  "No need to be getting all sad about the gun," Sachse said. "I don't usually wear it indoors."

  Arch forced himself to smile. "No, I was thinking of something else. Come along. Luncheon should be ready."

  They sat across from each other, one on each side of the narrow portion of the table, rather than at the distant ends, because the earl hadn't wanted to talk loudly to be heard. Arch liked the way he thought.

  "What can you tell me about my father?" Sachse asked.

  "Not a great deal. I never actually met him."

  Sachse looked across at him. "You're his cousin, right?"

  "Distant cousin, yes. So I'm your cousin as well."

  "I figure he must not have been too likable for my mother to have done what she did. Either that, or she wasn't real fond of me. I can't remember her." He shook his head. "Can't remember him."

  "From what I've gathered your mother was a very kind woman. Your father tended to be a bit of a bully. His widow will be able to tell you more about each of them, as she knew them well."

  "Where is she?"

  "Sachse Hall. One of your estates."

  "One of them?"

  "You have three. I'll show you all the books and explain how each works."

  "I looked through a few of the books while you were sleeping."

  "Are you good with figures, then?"

  "Yep."

  "Splendid. That'll make the transition somewhat easier." Although he feared he was being overly optimistic. Camilla would take exception to the man's clothing. His trousers were made of fabric with which Arch was unfamiliar. His shirt appeared to be white cotton and his tie was little more than braided string. He wore no jacket or waistcoat.

  "So tell me more about the widow," Sachse said.

  "The widow?"

  "My father's widow."

  "Ah, yes. Lady Sachse. Camilla. She is extremely kind, generous to a fault. Your father made no provisions for her in his will. Before we realized that you were alive, I'd offered to pay her twenty thousand pounds as an expression of my appreciation to her for helping me to learn my role as earl. I don't personally have that much money, but if you could see your way clear to still give it to her, over time I would repay you." Over the remainder of his life, if he were to be honest about it.

  "Someone on the ship told me that a pound was worth about five dollars."

  Arch shook his head. "I wouldn't know about that. I've had no reason to inquire about American currency."

  Sachse sat back and studied him. "That's a hell of a lot of money."

  "I am well aware of that, but she is well worth it. She is to marry the Duke of Kingsbridge in the spring, but until then you will find that she will be your most valuable asset."

  Sachse nodded. "All right. I'll honor the arrangement you made with her. But there's no need for you to owe me anything. We'll just say it's the estate paying you to keep things going until I got here."

  "As you said, it's a large amount of money."

  Sachse glanced around, waving his fork in the air. "I don't need any of this, Warner. I've been working since I was seventeen, putting money away. I've got land and cattle. I'll admit the house I just built isn't as fancy as this, but it's mine. H
ard-earned. I hammered a lot of the nails myself. I'm not sure what to make of all this yet, but it's not a comfortable fit."

  "Trust Lady Sachse then. When she is finished with you, you'll have no doubt that you were born to it."

  * * *

  Chapter 23

  Camilla sat in the library reading, the book on her lap stuffed with slips of paper to mark the pages that contained words she didn't know. If books weren't so precious, if she didn't have such respect for them, she would have circled the words in the book. Instead she'd written them on another piece of paper. But she took no joy in it. Her frustration was mounting as well as her anger again.

  Two weeks! Arch had been gone two long weeks. If she'd known he was going to be away for such an extended period of time, she'd have insisted on going with him. She missed him, missed him terribly. How in the world was she going to survive when she was married to another man?

  It wasn't only sleeping with him that she missed. She missed his presence, whether they were in the same room or not—simply knowing he was about filled her with peace. She missed the way he pressed a finger to his mouth when he read, the way he always seemed startled when the footman moved in to remove his plate during dinner, as though he couldn't quite get used to the fact that someone was there to tend to his needs.

  She missed the way he smelled after his bath, the way he smelled after they made love.

  She missed his voice, his hands, his smile, his laugh. She missed everything.

  If he missed her as much, why hadn't he hurried back? Whatever could he be doing in London, and why was it taking so dreadfully long?

  She looked up at the sound of the butler coming into the room. "The Earl of Sachse is here, madam. He's in the drawing room."

  Relief swamped her, gladness filled her. Her anger with him vanished.

  "It's about time. I thought he'd never arrive," she said, as she hopped out of the chair, dropped the book into it, and hurried across the room. She squeezed the butler's arm, which caused his eyes to widen. "Tell Cook to begin preparing dinner. I know he'll be hungry. He has such an appetite, you know."

  She dashed into the hallway, greeting the foot-men and maids that she passed. "The master's home," she sang out. He's home, he's home, he's home.

  She stopped before a mirror in the entry hall and straightened her hair, pinched her cheeks, and pressed her teeth against her lips to get some color into them. She'd kiss him when she saw him. That would put color in her entire body. In his as well.

  She took a deep breath. Why not let him see how glad she was to see him. They'd promised no more secrets.

  She fairly waltzed into the drawing room and stumbled to a stop. Archie was nowhere to be seen. The only person in the room was a tall man with dark hair. His back was to her as he studied the portrait over the fireplace, a portrait of the old earl's first wife.

  Wearing a black coat that reached down to his calves, he held a broad-brimmed hat similar to one she'd seen in a story about cowboys.

  He turned as though suddenly aware of her presence. He wore pointed boots such as she'd never seen. His trousers and shirt were not what a gentleman would wear into a parlor. His black hair was in need of trimming, as was the thick mustache that outlined his mouth. His deep brown eyes seemed to be assessing her as though he should know her.

  Something was vaguely familiar about him, and a shiver went down her spine. "May I help you?" she asked.

  He tipped his head slightly. "Ma'am. I'm waitin' for the Countess of Sachse."

  His voice was deep, but he spoke with a slow drawl. She angled her chin. "I'm the Countess of Sachse. And who might you be?"

  Almost lazily, he hiked up one corner of his mouth. "Well, now, from what they're telling me, I'd be the Earl of Sachse." He pointed at the portrait. "Is that my mother?"

  She nodded, not certain how she managed to stay and do so. She wanted to run from the room, wanted to find Archie. "Where is… where is…" What was she to call him now? She cleared her throat. "Where is Mr. Warner?"

  "He went home."

  "Home?" she repeated.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  She shook her head. "I don't understand. Is he in his bedchamber then?" Was he waiting for her there, removing his clothes, preparing himself for her greeting.

  "No, ma'am. I don't mean this home, I mean the other one. Heatherton, I think he called it. He asked me to give you this."

  She stared at the parcel—wrapped in white paper, tied with string—as though it might cause her great harm. "What is it?"

  "He didn't say, ma'am."

  She took the package from him. She inhaled deeply, remembering who she was and what she was, what this man standing before her was and what he was to her. "You must be tired from your journey. I've asked Cook to prepare dinner. I'll have the butler show you to your chambers. Once you're settled we shall meet for dinner." She took a step back. "Now if you will excuse me, my lord, I must see to this matter." She held up the package.

  Before he could answer, she spun on her heel and darted out of the room. She ran. Ran down the hallway, ran up the stairs, ran into her bedchamber, ran to her bed. With trembling hands, she broke the string, tore off the wrapping, opened the box.

  A letter. There was a letter. She took it out of the box, only to reveal the most beautiful string of pearls she'd ever seen. She set the box and pearls aside and turned to what mattered to her the most: his letter, his words, his thoughts.

  My darling Camilla,

  At this point, I suspect you are shaking with anger. I knew when I left that I would not return, but I could not bear to say goodbye, and goodbye was all that was left to us.

  The true Earl of Sachse has agreed that you're entitled to the twenty thousand pounds and has instructed Mr. Spellman to make payment posthaste. I fear Mr. Spellman will find the true earl no easier to deal with than he did me.

  As for you, my darling, I leave a small gift. Place these pearls against your throat or beneath your pillow, wherever they will bring you the most happiness because happiness is all that I wish for you.

  I love you. I always will. Thank you for giving me so many moments to remember.

  Yours always,

  Arch

  Tears washed down her face, splashed onto the paper. He was right. Of course he was right. Good-bye was all that remained to them. Today. A few months from now. It wouldn't have mattered. The pain would have been as great.

  She had her duke. She would be a duchess. She would be happy. She would.

  If she survived the breaking of her heart.

  Following dinner, the Earl of Sachse wanted to sit in the drawing room. He sat in a chair and stared up at the portrait as though he thought he could bring the woman in it back to life.

  Camilla watched him, hardly knowing what to say. They'd not spoken during dinner. It hadn't been the welcomed silence that she shared with Archie. Rather it had seemed very forced, as though both simply wanted to get the meal over with and move on to other things.

  Finally, after what seemed an eternity, but was probably only a few minutes, he shook his head. "I barely remember her, and I'm not sure if that's a real memory or simply wanting one so bad that I created it just now."

  "It's been eighteen years," Camilla said kindly. "You would have been very young."

  He leaned forward, planted his elbows on his knees, and clasped his large hands together. Darkly tanned, they bore tiny scars. A workman's hands.

  "So my father was a real bastard from what I hear."

  "My lord—"

  He held up a hand. "I know you got all these rules about what you're supposed to call people, but I'm Tom. Just Tom."

  "No, you're the Earl of Sachse." And it appeared he was going to be more of a challenge than Archie had been. At least Archie had understood the history of the peerage and how important it was to Britain. This man was for all intent and purposes… American. She shuddered with the thought.

  "For right now, please just call me Tom, until I get used to th
is."

  She nodded. "All right… Tom." She shook her head. "Thomas. May I call you Thomas? Tom seems so… common."

  "Thomas is fine. It's just this 'lord' business makes me feel like I'm putting on airs. Two weeks ago, I was worried about getting my cattle through the winter. Now I got this dropped in my lap, and I haven't figured out yet if it's good fortune or bad."

  "I suppose you had some sort of proof that you're Thomas Warner."

  "Other than my name, I had a blanket with a coat of arms on it. Don't know why I kept it all these years."

  "You have your father's eyes, but they hold your mother's kindness."

  He grinned. "Don't tell that to my cowhands. When I bark, 'jump!' they ask how high."

  "I don't imagine you'll be seeing much of your… cowhands now."

  "That's something to be worked out."

  She cleared her throat. "I'll assist you in finding someone to help teach you about your duties and our ways. I'll be getting married in the spring and won't be available."

  "That's what Warner told me. I like him. He's a good man."

  "Yes, he is."

  "Right fond of you."

  "As I am of him."

  He seemed to be thinking something over, his mustache moving slightly. "So if you're fond of Warner, and he's fond of you, who's this fella you're marrying?"

  "The Duke of Kingsbridge."

  Thomas sat there, waiting, as though he expected her to say more.

  "He's a duke," she added, "so I shall be a duchess."

  "And that'll make you happy?" he asked.

  "Of course, it'll make me happy." She came up out of the chair and glared at him. "What do you know anyway? You know nothing of the peerage, being raised in America as you were. What was the countess thinking to take you there? You don't understand that a duchess is respected, loved—" A sob, a horrible sound escaped from her throat. She sank to the chair, tears blurring her vision. "Why didn't he say good-bye?"

  Tom crossed over to her and knelt before her. "There, there, darlin', don't cry."

  "But why didn't Archie say good-bye?"