An Earl Like You

by Caroline Linden

  “How kind of him.” Hugh stared stonily at the man. “What do you want from me?”

  “How much have you won at Vega’s?”

  He jerked at the invasive question. “That is hardly your concern—”

  “That’s your income, isn’t it?” Cross nodded as Hugh seethed in impotent silence. “I thought about it for several days. I’ve watched plenty of aristocrats play deep at Vega’s, but you don’t fit their pattern. You play as if it doesn’t matter whether you win or lose ten thousand pounds, but we both know that’s not true—you need to win.” He paused, his eyes piercing. “Don’t you? You need it to stay afloat, to pay your creditors just enough to hold them at bay. I mean no affront,” he added as Hugh made a choked growl. “I’m not a gentleman, remember. I see nothing wrong with needing to earn an income of some sort, rather than have it simply flow to you by divine right.”

  “What,” repeated Hugh, “do you want?”

  “Part of what made me successful was my eye for need, and surplus.” Cross looked rather pleased with himself. “When one party has a need, find someone who has a corresponding surplus. Connect the two, and everyone is better off.”

  Hugh breathed in and out, letting his eyelids drop closed. He was helpless, trapped here while Cross rambled on about his philosophy of life and success.

  “You,” his host went on, “have a need. A rather crushing one. Now, some gents in your shoes might marry a duke’s daughter with a plump dowry or a wealthy widow—but you haven’t. Haven’t even courted one, unless the gossips have missed it.” Cross shrugged. “There are only a few reasons why a man in your straits wouldn’t do that. I heard no rumor hinting that you have any unnatural desires, which likely means that you haven’t found a woman with enough fortune to put you back in clover.”

  This was a circle of hell, Hugh decided. Who the devil was this man who thought he could pry into the most intimate details of a stranger’s life?

  “There now.” Cross’s voice grew almost genial. “You look so grim, Hastings! I presumed you knew what gossip said about you. It took no effort at all to hear it.”

  Hugh had spent the last year and a half acting a part: the role of an earl with rather empty pockets but rich in land and consequence. Society from bottom to top understood that character very well, accepted it and embraced it. He was still invited to the most elite ton parties, and no tradesman had refused him credit. On one hand, it was reassuring to hear that he’d been successful, but on the other hand . . .

  “I wonder why you cared to hear anything at all of me,” he said to Cross. “A perfect stranger.”

  The other man grinned. “Do you? Come, lad, I heard you were clever. Good with cards, a careful gambler, never lose your temper or your good humor. Always a gentleman! I admire that.” He shifted in his chair, leaning forward as he reached for the brandy. Hugh hadn’t touched his, but Cross’s glass was empty. “But neither am I afraid to lay my cards on the table. You have a need—a desperate need for money, and quite a lot of it from what I understand. Your sister Lady Edith is being courted by Livingston’s heir, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.” The word felt like the confession of a sin.

  Cross nodded. “And she’s got no dowry, has she?”

  Hugh jolted in his seat. How the bloody hell could Cross know that? “What?”

  “Richard Nesbit knew your father well,” was all Cross replied. He went on with his prosecution of Hugh’s failings. “Neither has your other sister, I expect. She’ll be making her debut soon, won’t she? That’s not one but two dowries you’ll need.”

  Feeling as if his limbs were made of wood, Hugh rose. “Pray excuse me, Cross,” he said coldly. “I must be going.”

  “I have a surplus,” said Cross. “Of the very things you lack. Sit down, Hastings,” he added when Hugh didn’t move. “Not only a surplus of funds, but of a daughter without a husband.”

  For a moment Hugh could only stand in bemusement. Then a disbelieving laugh erupted from his throat as Cross’s meaning sank in. “Are you mad? You think—you think I should marry your daughter?”

  “I’d like it above all else,” said the man bluntly. “Whether she’d like it is another question, but if you married her, your troubles would be over.”

  Hugh just stared at him. What a deranged idea. Yes—the man must be quietly deranged. There was no other explanation.

  “I’ll forgive the mortgages and debts outright,” Cross said, his voice no longer casual and relaxed. “Elizabeth has a dowry of fifty thousand pounds, and she’ll inherit the rest when I die. Almost half a million pounds as of now.” A predatory smile glinted across his face for a moment. “I’m not done yet, of course. It might be twice that when I shuffle off my mortal cloak.”

  “Does she know about this lunatic plan?” Hugh finally found his voice.

  “No, nor will she.” Cross’s expression hardened. “At the first word you breathe to her about this conversation, my offer is irrevocably withdrawn. I’ll call the debts as strictly and as promptly as the law permits, and Hastings—I won’t hesitate to set the bailiffs on you.”

  Hugh’s lungs felt squeezed in a vise. “Very well. I won’t speak to her.” Ever again, he hoped. God spare him the sight of another Cross, even one as pleasant as Elizabeth Cross.

  “The thing is, my daughter wants to make a love match.” Cross poured himself more brandy. “If you were to court Eliza, whether or not she accepts you would be entirely up to her. She deserves to be adored, pursued, ardently courted, and she’ll not settle for less.”

  Hugh laughed harshly. “You want me to play a lovesick swain, but with no guarantee the lady would even have me. What are the odds, Cross? Since this is a gamble, I need to know my chance of success.”

  “I’ve no bloody idea,” said Cross, unruffled. “She smiled at you very easily, though, and I know my girl—she could fall for a gent like you.”

  Hugh rested his knuckles on the table and let his head hang. He was trapped in a nightmare. If he’d thought his father’s mess couldn’t be any worse, Fate had just served him a mighty comeuppance. “How, may I ask, did you choose me for this scheme?”

  “You lost well.” Cross grinned at Hugh’s furious glare. “You seem to be a decent chap. I kept my ears open, and, well, what I heard boded well.”

  “You heard I was desperate,” he bit out.

  “And just as desperate to hide it.” Cross slapped one hand down on the table, making Hugh look up and meet his gaze. “I’m a fair man, Hastings. If you make a good show of courting Eliza and she turns you down, that’s it—I’ll not ask anything else of you. Pay the debts as you have been, and we’ll have no more reason to speak.”

  Hugh closed his eyes. That was small mercy. But as much as he wanted to walk out of this room and let Cross stew in his own plots, he had to think rationally, even ruthlessly. Cross held his debts, but Hugh knew some of them were worthless, personal debts of honor signed by his father that he had no obligation to pay. Even so, Cross could make life unbearable for him if he so chose.

  However.

  Cross wanted something very dear from him. He wanted Hugh to marry his daughter and presumably give him a noble grandson. He even wanted Hugh to make the girl fall in love with him. Although he’d been putting it off, Hugh knew that marrying an heiress of his own class wouldn’t have required such a thing; marriages were arranged for power and influence all the time. There would not need to be any pretense of love with an aristocratic girl, who would understand exactly what bargain she was making from the beginning.

  Slowly Hugh resumed his seat. If Cross could throw down a gauntlet, he felt at liberty to make some demands of his own. “You ask a great deal,” he said evenly. All those evenings of winning and losing without breaking his equable demeanor came to his aid now. “Those are high stakes indeed—the rest of my life, till death shall us part, my name, my title, my heirs, even my affection. Assuming the lady consents, which she may well not.”

  There was always that
option, he supposed—court the girl but in such a manner that she would gently refuse him when the moment came. But that would be leaving money on the table, something Hugh had learned not to do. “Of course, if I dedicate myself to winning her, society will notice. Other unmarried ladies will presume my affections are engaged, and turn their attention to other gentlemen. If Miss Cross should refuse me, I would find myself still in debt, having lost the better part of a Season I might have spent contracting marriage to another.” He arched a brow as Cross leaned back in his chair, thin-lipped.

  “What will you gain, you mean? If she refuses you?”

  “Precisely,” said Hugh with a hard edge to his tone. “My time has value, Cross, to say nothing of the effort of courting a woman.”

  Cross gave him an appraising look, as if he were rethinking his evaluation of Hugh as an adversary. “What do you want?”

  “Ten thousand.” That would be Edith’s dowry. By God, he had to get something out of this.

  Cross’s eyes were shrewd. “A high price for a month of your time.”

  Hugh shrugged, his card player’s mask in place again. “I’m the seventh Earl of Hastings, the tenth Viscount Dayne and Baron Carlisle. My title was granted by King Henry V. You could have made this offer to any man in London, but you chose me. Yes, I place a high value on my time.” If you’re going to buy an earl for your son-in-law, you’d best be prepared to pay the price for one, he thought savagely.

  To his surprise, Cross nodded after a moment. “Done.”

  “And I’ll not make a debt payment while I’m courting her,” Hugh pressed. “If you intend to forgive the entire debt in the event I’m successful, there’s little point. Besides . . .” He smiled thinly. “I need funds to wage a proper courtship.”

  Cross’s face grew stony. “That’s quite a lot of flowers, Hastings.”

  “Those are my terms.” He picked up his brandy glass at last and raised it. “Are we agreed?”

  The other man didn’t move for a moment. Hugh held his pose, his expression calm, waiting.

  “Done.” Cross raised his glass, and they drank, Hugh with a sense of disbelief. “One more thing,” Cross said as Hugh pushed back his chair. “You have to take the dog.”

  Compared to having a bride foisted on him, a dog was nothing. Hugh jerked his head in agreement.

  They walked to the drawing room in silence. Hugh’s nerves still vibrated like plucked strings; what had he done? When they went in and found Miss Cross seated at the pianoforte, he studied her with new eyes. Did she really not know about this mad scheme of her father’s? It would greatly affect how he chose to proceed.

  She looked up from her music at their entrance. For a second, alarm flickered in her soft green eyes, but she rose to her feet and made a curtsy. “Have you concluded your business?”

  Her voice was pleasing, not shrill or strident. Hugh bowed his head, newly attuned to every little thing about her. “We have, Miss Cross,” he said before the other man could answer. “I hope we’ve not kept you waiting.”

  That pretty pink blush crept up her cheeks again. “No, not at all.” She looked at her father. “Would you like me to play for you, Papa?”

  “By all means, my dear,” was Cross’s hearty reply.

  Hugh avoided meeting the man’s gaze as he took a seat where he could see her face. She spread out her music and sat down, running her fingers over the keys. With one more slightly nervous smile at him, she began to play. She had a lovely singing voice. Most well-bred young ladies could play, but few could sing, and Miss Cross could.

  Eliza, he reminded himself. Perhaps his future wife, the mother of his children, the woman who would share his bed and his house. She loved her dog, she sang beautifully, and she liked the theater. Other than that he knew nothing about her. Could he do this?

  She wasn’t a typical beauty. Her face was round and her hair was an ordinary shade of light brown. A string of pearls circled her neck, and Hugh was sure her pale green silk gown had cost as much as Edith’s court gown, but it suited her. Some women had no sense of style and bought the latest fashion whether it made them ugly or exquisite. With two sisters and a mother in his house, Hugh knew enough of ladies’ clothing to see that this lady chose well. When she reached to turn the page, he got up and went to stand beside her to turn the next one. Her voice wobbled a bit as he did so, but she played on.

  Her skin was lovely. He spied a few freckles on her nose, but her shoulders and bosom were as pale as cream. Her bosom . . . Hugh reached for the next page and stole a quick glance downward. Plump and tempting, now that he looked at it. Her hands were graceful on the keys, and his mind wandered involuntarily into thoughts of what they would feel like on him. What it would be like to kiss her. What she would be like in bed. Would she be shy? Frightened? He found himself hoping not, even though he hadn’t even decided to court her yet.

  Was half a million pounds worth it? Could he convince the girl he was mad with passion for her? Hugh thought he probably could. Could he carry it through into wedding her? Could he face the rest of his life with her, always wondering when Edward Cross would whisper more threats and demands in his ear?

  Her hands went still. Hugh stared at the nape of her neck, at the honey-colored wisps curling against her pale skin. Could he chance it? Did he have a choice?

  “Bravo,” called Cross from his seat. “What did you think, Hastings?”

  He had to clear his throat. “Lovely. You’ve a splendid voice, Miss Cross.”

  She twisted to look up at him, her eyes shining with delight. “Thank you, sir.”

  Hugh smiled on instinct. That look . . . She wasn’t a beauty, nor even very pretty. London society would call her plain. But when she gazed at a man that way, with her heart in her eyes, she was not ordinary.

  She sang another, and by then Hugh had had enough. He took his leave, blaming the long trip back to London. Miss Cross gave another graceful curtsy and wished him a safe journey. Edward Cross bowed and simply said, “Until later, my lord.”

  The cool night air felt like an Arctic chill on his face as he walked down the long gravel path to the dock. Cross’s house, a splendid mansion of pale Portland Stone, sat in a lordly position above the Thames on the western edge of Greenwich. He’d sent his private yacht to fetch Hugh, and the pilot was waiting for him as he reached the river. Hugh settled into the plush seating at the prow of the boat and watched London glide past in the last glow of twilight. It would be dark soon, the time of night he usually set out in pursuit of winning.

  If he married Eliza Cross, he wouldn’t have to do that ever again.

  Hugh let out his breath. Taking Cross’s word that she had no idea what her father was suggesting, he tried to consider the girl on her own merits. Would he have considered courting her in the absence of her father’s manipulation?

  Absolutely not, because he’d never heard of her—never even met her.

  Would he have considered her as his bride if he’d met her some innocuous way, at a ball or a Venetian breakfast?

  Almost certainly not.

  Would he have considered her as his bride if he’d met her innocently, and discovered she came with a vast fortune?

  Perhaps.

  And there was the rub.

  Hugh had accepted the fact that he must marry for duty. Most of his ancestors had, save his father, and the Hastings estates had prospered under their hands. Only Joshua, strong-willed, passionate Joshua, had married simply for love, and he’d nearly been the ruin of three hundred years’ accumulation of wealth and power. Truth be told, Hugh thought it was safer not to marry for love, because he needed the money so much more.

  So, was there any reason Eliza Cross shouldn’t be the heiress he courted?

  If Cross had offered a straightforward arranged marriage, this would be so much simpler. Hugh had friends who had wed that way; it was a business transaction, arranged by the families and approved by the lawyers. A man only had to find his bride appealing enough to bed her u
ntil she bore an heir, and then both were free to live their own lives. Perhaps this would turn out that way.

  Even as the thought crossed his mind, he suspected deep down that she would not want that. And it was unfair to trick her into agreeing to it, no matter what her father thought.

  Well. That was Cross’s doing, not his. Hugh had bargained a fair compensation. There was no reason not to court the girl for a bit and see how things went. If she saw through him and refused, he’d still have gained Edith’s dowry. But if somehow a spark caught between them, if she fell for him as her father foresaw, if he felt enough affinity to be content with her as his wife . . .

  Hugh had risked longer odds.

  Chapter 6

  Eliza waited for her father to say something about the Earl of Hastings the next morning, but he seemed to have forgotten all about the man. He was in an exceptionally good mood, teasing her about the toys she’d fetched from the nursery for Willy.

  “Those were put away for my grandchildren,” he said as she tossed a wooden ball across the garden. Willy tore after it, his ears flat back as he bounded over a low stone wall.

  “You know,” remarked Eliza, “Willy is probably much better behaved than a small child would be. He goes to his basket and sits quietly when told to.”

  Papa scoffed. “He chews the table legs!”

  “He hasn’t done that in months.” Eliza forbore mentioning that Willy had shredded an old bonnet she’d carelessly left out just the other day. “Besides, these toys for your grandchildren were actually my toys, and as such I decided to use them again.” Willy trotted back, ball in his teeth, and Eliza knelt to praise him. “Good boy, Willy.”

  “Your mother packed them away when you grew too big for them,” Papa complained. “She told me they were for our grandchildren, and now the mutt will chew them to pieces.”

  “You’ll have to buy new toys, then, if you ever have grandchildren.” Eliza heaved the ball and Willy raced off again. “What a terrible pity for you.”