by Wendy Vella
He scratched his head and cocked his head towards her.
She was still speaking. Her voice full of warmth, her face alight and a soft dreamy smile playing on her lips.
He shifted uneasily. This was the first time he had fallen in love, and it left him feeling insecure and uncertain. He felt for a moment like that blasted Shakespearean character . . . What was his name? Ah, yes . . . Iago. Consumed with irrational jealousy.
He narrowed his eyes. How could someone as beautiful, refined and graceful as her, love a man like him? What if she did not love him but the Duke? Sure, the Duke was possibly bald, missing teeth, potbellied, her relative and what not, but the way she was waxing lyrical about him made it entirely possible.
He straightened in his seat and said condescendingly, "You have not been in the world long enough to judge a man, my dear. He must be full of faults that you have overlooked."
“I am not witless. I know an intelligent man from a buffoon. The Duke is the best of men,” she snapped, thoroughly angry at his sneering tone.
She turned her face away from him.
“Look at me,” he demanded. “I do not fancy having a conversation with your fish shaped bun pin.”
She crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out at him. “If you think I will be one of those dull flower pot wives with no opinions of her own, then you are wrong. I shall not fade into the background and listen and agree to every foolish whim of yours. I have a mind of my own and intend to keep it. I shall not leave it behind in my mother’s house after the wedding.”
Her tirade halted when the carriage lurched into a pot hole, and she was thrown against him.
He, for once, did not notice or care. His fiancée should have been moony-eyed and not found him wanting in any way. He was raging with jealousy and could not wait to get rid of her.
He glared out of the window. They were nearly at her townhouse. He kept his eyes resolutely on the blackened London streets, choosing to watch soot faced urchins rather than the beautiful woman next to him.
His resolution broke soon enough and he peeked at her from the corner of his eyes. He found her turning puce in rage. Her fingers were digging into his beautiful soft leather seats. Her nails would probably leave permanent indentations.
He tossed his head and sniffed loudly. He would rather she tear the expensive leather and mangle the carriage than have her bad tempered fingers attach themselves to his arm.
He rapped the carriage walls in a signal to his coachman to speed up the horses.
It was in mutual relief that the two parted that evening.
***
The Earl was in his cups. He told his valet the whole sordid story.
The valet, in turn, had a hard time keeping his face straight.
“I am a man, am I not? That old bugger would not turn a hair, even if a naked wench danced on his lap. That is if he has any hair. While Emma . . . ” The Earl stopped to take a big gulp of brandy. “Emma is beautiful and desirable, but her tongue comes out with the wickedest things. It is positively entertaining when directed at others, but I am her fiancé, for goodness’ sake. Do you know Burns? That Duke . . . that old blighter has made my lovely Emma fall in love with him. I wish I could do something . . . anything! What do you suggest, Burns?”
The valet coughed and bent to refill the Earl’s glass. His portly belly jiggled as he said, “She is marrying you, My Lord, and not the Duke. I would say that she loves you, but maybe for your peace of mind you should ensure that she recognises your intelligence as being more finely honed than the Duke’s. After all, one’s wife should never doubt your capabilities. You will have trouble controlling her fanciful ways if she goes running to the Duke for every tiny piece of advice. I mean, imagine,” continued the valet, warming to his topic, “that she wanted to buy six pieces of fish, and you tell her to buy seven in case something happens to one of the pieces of fish. Mayhap it gets overcooked or burns? But she . . . does she listen to you? No, sir, she does not! Instead, she goes to your elder brother, and he tells her to buy eight. Eight mind you, not seven, in case two of the fish get burnt or overcooked. So here you are thinking of economy and the fact that you have to spend on a dinner of six. Instead, you end up paying for eight. Now, tell me, where is the wisdom in that? It’s perfectly disgraceful to have your wife listen to your elder brother and not you,” finished the valet, trembling with emotion.
“Here, have a brandy.”
“Thank you, sir, I think I will.”
The two sipped in silence for a while until a huge smile lit the Earl’s face.
“Burns, old chap, you are brilliant! That’s it. I know exactly what to do. If you were a maid, I would have kissed you.”
“Thank you, sir, but please recall I am a man and not a maid,” replied the stoic valet.
“And, Burns, next time your wife buys an extra fish, allow me to pay for it.”
“Very good, sir.”
Chapter Two
Emma paced the length of the morning room.
Her mother hid a smile. “This is just a lover’s quarrel. You will have many such in the coming months. Don’t scowl, my dear. It makes you look ghastly.”
Emma scowled harder. The Earl had captured her heart the first time he had spoken to her. And like every other female during the season, she, too, had appreciated his good looks.
His face was chiselled bones and angles, and his blonde hair looked temptingly soft. His best features were his cornflower blue eyes that sparkled with mischief at all times.
He had been a rake, leaving more hearts broken than any other man during the season. He enjoyed speaking his mind, particularly unsettling those of the starched variety. His very nature had appealed to her, which was so like her own.
Yet, all through that first dance, he had treated her as if she were infested with fleas. His coldness had hurt more than anyone else’s indifference.
When he had proposed, she had been the happiest girl in England.
She stopped pacing and abruptly sat down. She tried composing her face into an expressionless mask. Multiple deep breaths later, she gave up. It was impossible. She couldn't help but worry.
She reflected on his faults — his arrogance and his possessiveness. She could handle the possessiveness. After living with her three elder brothers, the Earl was relatively tame. The arrogance was what bothered her. She was a thinking being. She could not blindly believe that her fiancé had no faults. No man was perfect, and it was unfair of Richard to expect her to believe otherwise.
Admittedly, she had gone on about the Duke deliberately to annoy him. Some imp inside her had pushed her to do so. Perhaps it was the frustration of waiting and the fear of something going wrong to stop the wedding.
There was yet another thing which Emma had kept from the Earl. She would be leaving for the Duke’s residence in a week, and her return was indefinite.
It could be months before they saw each other again. At a time when their courtship was still so new, to give the relationship a break was troubling her. What if he fell in love with someone else? They still had so much to learn about each other, and every moment together was precious. With an unhappy sigh, she picked up the sewing.
A glance at the clock showed he was late for his usual morning call. She worriedly stabbed the cloth, wondering if she had gone too far by arguing with him the last time they had met.
She had just finished stitching a leaf when the butler announced the Earl’s arrival.
Emma forced herself to stay seated when all she wanted to do was leap up and run to the door.
The Earl entered the room and jovially greeted them.
Emma searched his face and apart from a few tired lines around his mouth, found him in an amiable mood.
She could tell he was eager to speak to her alone, and sure enough he asked her mother’s permission to allow them to take a stroll in the park.
Emma leaped up and headed towards the door before her mother could give her consent. Thankfully, she had
donned a pretty yellow walking dress that morning, and apart from briefly waiting for her maid to join her, nothing else delayed her. She ran and fetched her parasol, calling for her abigail.
Bessie, her abigail, had been with her for years, and she was the perfect chaperone. She turned deaf and blind around the couple, discreetly falling back at the right times.
They leisurely set out, enjoying the last few days of sunshine before autumn set in. Summer was over and the season at an end, yet not a cloud dotted the sky.
She stared out at the great expanse, marvelling at the blue that matched her fiancé’s eyes.
The Earl spoke cheerfully, “Forgive me, I was out of temper the last time we met.”
“It was nothing,” Emma replied.
The Earl had expected an apology in return. He waited a moment to see if she would say anything else, and when she remained silent, he wisely did not push the issue. Instead, he smiled, appreciating her good mood, his heart brimming full of plans that he wanted to share with her.
“When do you leave for the Duke’s estate?”
Emma turned to face him, looking anxious as she replied, “In a week, and I am not sure how long I will have to stay to convince him. It could be a month or more. My parents have decided to remain in London instead of leaving for our country home. They want to be prepared in case the Duke agrees to a shorter engagement, and London has the best of shops.”
“Excellent!” The Earl rubbed his hands together with relish.
Emma stopped walking and planted her hands on her hips. “Do you have a mistress tucked away that I should know about?”
“Eh?”
“The prospect of not seeing me, possibly for months, seems to give you immense pleasure, My Lord.”
“Oh, Em, you do not understand. I have a plan. Oh, yes, a most excellent plan.”
Emma stared at the Earl. He looked like a little boy who had something awfully naughty up his sleeve. She waited in silence for an explanation. She would hear it, and then decide if she should, in fact, be offended.
He caught her hand and turned to face her, "We just got engaged, and I can’t bear to part from you for any length of time. Do you feel the same?"
“Yes,” she said slowly, wondering where this was going. “So what is your plan?”
“All this morning I have been investigating, and it seems the Duke needs a head gardener rather desperately. You, my dear, will forge your father’s handwriting and write to the Duke. You are to write that a man with the greenest thumb in all of England needs to find an adequate position and would the Duke be willing to hire him.”
Emma gaped at him. He could not possibly intend to do what she thought he was intending. Could he?
He eagerly continued, “I have studied botany, so I know a little about plants. I will pretend to be a head gardener, and I wager your wonderful Duke will be none the wiser.”
“You are mad. You will be caught in a day.”
“I will not be caught, I assure you. We will have more time to spend together,” he finished triumphantly.
“Your plan has so many holes that I do not know where to start.”
“It does not. Name one.”
“What if your plan does work and we marry, how are you to explain posing as his gardener?”
“The Duke does not have time to deal with gardeners. I may see him briefly during his walks. Other than that, he will never know who I am. A person sees what he means to see. If he sees a man dressed as a gardener, then he will look no further."
“He never forgets a face. You do not know him. This plan will never work. The housekeeper does most of the hiring . . . but she has a soft spot for good looking men . . . The Duke is another matter, though . . . This is the most ridiculous plan I have ever heard!”
“Think of our trysts in the garden. The secret meetings would create the perfect scene for courting. The stolen kisses and the scent of danger,” he whispered.
Emma coloured up. “If we are caught?”
“That’s the genius of the plan, Em. If we are caught, then all will be known, and the result would be that I would have to marry you as soon as possible in case I had compromised you. And that is exactly what we both want,” he finished gleefully.
She grinned in return. Her fiancé had a devil of a sense of humour. His plan sounded more and more probable.
“What do I win if you lose the wager?”
“If the Duke discovers me within a month then you, my dear, have permission to follow the Duke’s advice on any matter, while my own words can be overlooked. I shall be humbled. What more could you want?”
“And if you win?”
“If I last a month without being discovered, I will confess to your family that I have compromised you. After that, my dear, it will be only a matter of time before a special license is speedily arranged and we are married.”
“You are evil you know?”
“I know,” he said cheerfully.
“Wait . . . what if the Duke wrote to my father about the gardener, thanking him and such?”
“Mention to the Duke that of late your father has become absent-minded due to the stress of planning the impending wedding and your mother is driving him demented. If your father does reply saying he never sent any gardener, then the Duke can chalk it down to stress. Besides, you can vouch for me, since I will be accompanying you on your journey.”
“You have an answer for everything.”
The Earl smiled and pulled her into an alcove.
“So you will write the letter?”
“Yes, this sounds like too much fun to disagree.”
“That’s my brave, Em,” he said before bending to kiss her.
Chapter Three
Emma was convinced she had lost her mind. What in the world had possessed her to agree to the Earl’s plan? He had been standing too close to her, and his talk of kisses and trysts had addled her brain.
How could she have thought, even for a moment, that having the Earl disguise himself as the Duke’s gardener would be fun? What in the world were they thinking?
She sat on her bed staring at the letter she had just written to the Duke. She had to admit that her forgery was pretty convincing.
She was used to corresponding with her father’s associates when he was busy, and copying his handwriting had seemed entertaining a few years ago. Practice had improved her skills, and she had even written to the Duke at times when her father wished it. The Duke had never been able to tell the difference.
She was not worried about being found out. The letter would not pose an issue, rather it was the Earl that worried her.
If the Earl had thought her brothers were bad, then the Duke was far worse.
The Duke had one daughter called Catherine whom she was very close to. This closeness had led them to spend a lot of time together over the years. So much so that the Duke had become extremely fond of her and begun treating her like a second daughter.
However, his fondness translated to running her life as well as his daughter’s. He could be most generous, but in return, he expected complete obedience. It was a marvel he had agreed to the wedding at all.
Sighing she set aside the letter. She wondered if she should post it or hand it over to the Duke when she met him. Giving it to him personally seemed the safer option. The post was unreliable, and hopefully this way he would not feel obligated to reply to her father.
She stretched her toes seeking the warmth of hot bricks. Bessie had forgotten them again.
She shivered in her shift and wrapped the quilt tighter around herself. Her thoughts once again flowed back to the Earl.
He thought this was all a game. He seemed to overlook the fact that he would have to sleep in the servant quarters and deal with people not of his class.
Did he even know what a head gardener’s duties entailed? Would he even last a week? She did not think so. A part of her wanted to keep him close by . . . but considering the risk it was better he didn’t stay too long.
>
If her uncle discovered the deceit, then there would be hell to pay. The Duke would not blame her parents for her folly, but he could make life exceedingly difficult for them nonetheless.
What could she do, she wondered, biting her lip. Dissuading the Earl was impossible. She had no choice. She would have to wait and see how things played out.
***
The Earl had not been this happy or excited since the time he had been a student. The social whirlwind irked him, and the last few years of the same old rigmarole had been unbearable.
It wasn’t that he disliked the company. It was the rules of the ton that chafed at him. And a chance to get away from it all was simply wonderful.
Hence, he threw himself into creating the perfect image of a gardener. The head gardener could not be a young man, so his excellent valet had procured some beards and moustaches of all shades and sizes.
The Earl eagerly tried one after the other until he found the perfect one.
His clothes had to be appropriate. He wondered if adding a walking stick and a clay pipe was too much. He decided to keep the clay pipe. He was not a good actor, his honest face showing far more than he liked. Hence, the need for a prop. He could puff away when he wanted to avoid answering a question or pretend to fill it to buy time.
Except his valet, no one would be aware of his real identity. This was his chance to be free and do as he pleased. As an Earl with a large, flourishing estate, he had to be responsible and project a certain image.
He could not afford to have his workers find him in his cups, dancing au naturel in the streets. He could no longer cavort with the local wenches or try and spike his great aunt Agatha’s drink just to hear her croon bawdy songs in the village church. Those days were long gone.
Yet, now he had a chance to throw off his aristocratic mantle and live life the way he wanted to.
Four long weeks of sheer pleasure and freedom awaited him.
Smiling, he ordered his valet to carefully pack his bags and add nothing of value, not even his expensive tobacco. The scent could alert anyone, and the Earl wanted to do things right.