When he had first unexpectedly acceded to the title six months ago, he had seen marriage to Elizabeth as a fast way of achieving a path to the center of society. She was beautiful, so that did not hurt, either. But could he marry someone who irritated him on a regular basis?
He had to admit the fault might lie with him, but her next words sent a definite itch down his spine.
“I will help make your sisters presentable. We should arrange an appointment with a good mantua maker. My mother recommends Cerisot, of course.”
“Of course,” he murmured, but did not tell her his sisters already had an account there. Although they were not titled before, they’d had enough money to afford a decent gown every now and again. In fact, had Elizabeth or her mother bothered to ask them, they’d have discovered that.
“I am so glad I found you,” she confided, leaning a little from her saddle to confide in him. “You will be a great hit. Mama says...”
But whatever the duchess had said, Gerald was not destined to know, as his mind drifted into the distance. They had jogged their way down half of the Row. People were beginning to arrive in town in preparation for the season ahead. Small gatherings were already taking place, but this being Lent, the full explosion of society celebrations was not yet in full swing.
“Your sisters must put aside their little pursuits. Mama says it would not be acceptable to have such engrossing interests that they fail to give their husbands enough attention.”
Hi sisters’ ‘little interests’ encompassed their lives. “I want to make my sisters as happy as possible,” he said. “If that means they must remain single, then they will do so.”
“Oh, pooh!” Elizabeth flicked her gloved fingers. “They will be happy enough with a husband. They will not have to do anything. They are comely enough, and the fact that they are triplets will set society about its ears. Presented properly they could be a sensation.”
“They prefer not to wear identical costumes,” Gerald warned her, having met that particular preference before.
“They should consider it.” Elizabeth gave him a sweet smile. “But of course, dearest Gerald, you will know best. At the least you must order them to lay aside their interests. They were all very well when you were living privately but you have an exalted position to fill now.”
What he disliked most about her was the way she addressed him as if she were talking to a child who had everything to learn. While he appreciated the way they had taken him up, he was not unaware of the reason. He had in effect inherited Elizabeth. The previous earl’s heir was betrothed to her, so she had expected to become the Countess of Carbrooke. He was learning that what Elizabeth expected generally came to pass, like some kind of ancient prophecy.
As Elizabeth continued to chatter and his horse ambled and shifted restlessly Gerald realized he’d had enough for today. Once he married her, they could relax. Except he doubted Elizabeth ever relaxed. In the huge house in Berkshire he had inherited they need not see each other from one day to the next.
What a sad marriage they would have! But he had determined he would do it. Just not today.
Holding his hand out, palm up, he said, “Dear me, I fear that was a drop of rain. Did you feel it, Elizabeth?”
She looked at him sharply and belatedly he recalled he was to called her “my lady” in public. Once society arrived they would move to less formal terms. Sometimes Gerald suspected Elizabeth’s fond mama made these rules up to annoy him.
However, his pronouncement did the trick. Lady Elizabeth’s magnificent riding habit would be ruined if it rained. “That is disturbing.” She set to wheeling her horse around and moving to the returning path, joining the thin stream of people heading for the gate. Thankfully Gerald joined her, patting his horse’s neck in compensation. “I promise you a good gallop soon,” he murmured to the beast. Jack nickered and a few people glared at him as if his horse had committed a social solecism. Gerald smiled and tipped his hat to them.
Getting Elizabeth home took a little ceremony as he had to go ahead and ensure the road was clear, and then ride at her pace to her house. He helped her off the horse himself, and gave the groom a generous vail before escorting her to her front door. “You should come inside,” she said, staring down her long, aristocratic nose at him, a faint smile curling her lips. “I’m sure Mama would be delighted to see you.”
Gerald cast an apologetic glance at his horse. “I appreciate the invitation, but today I fear I cannot stay. I need to give my horse a little vigorous exercise.”
“We will see you at the Murmory’s musicale tomorrow.” She made it an order, not a request.
“I will consult with my sisters.” As the door opened, he bowed and walked away, leaving her watching him, open-mouthed. He mounted his horse without any help from his groom, and when the man gathered the reins of his steed, Gerald waved at him. “Go back to the mews. I have an errand and I don’t need an escort.”
“My lord, it can be dangerous—“
“I have lived in London for a great part of my life, and I know which parts of the city to avoid.” He let his voice turn frigid. The man meant well, but the last thing he wanted was a liveried servant tailing after him, silently proclaiming his presence to all and sundry.
The groom tipped his hat and took himself off.
At last. Gerald felt free, as if burdens had been lifted from his shoulders. Truly, he had not known what he had until he was forced into this position. Surely there were some advantages in being an earl? Before his advancement he’d had enough and then some, and his sisters and himself could do as they pleased. Now, their freedom was gone and people watched what they did.
Reading about himself in one of the London papers had come as a severe shock the first time it happened. He was only beginning to accustom himself to it. Right after the phase when people had said “Lord Carbrooke” and he’d looked over his shoulder, expecting to see the old man standing behind him.
Their annual duty visits to the Berkshire estate should have warned him what was to come. But how could he know what was to happen when the earl had two perfectly healthy sons to follow him?
Gerald clattered through the streets of Mayfair, avoiding the fashionable landaus, the tattered hackney cabs and the occasional open sporting phaeton. It had not rained and neither had he felt a drop of water, but he could not bear Elizabeth’s presence any longer. It was either that small lie or he would have ripped up at Elizabeth over her edicts about his sisters.
The reason he was doing this was for them. If Elizabeth tried to push them into marriages, Gerald would ensure she had nothing to do with them. He wanted them happy and content, with all the opportunities their exalted position could bring them. Thus, this quick way of getting to the heart of society.
Heading along the Strand toward his old haunts, Gerald shrugged the weights from his shoulders and allowed his horse to break into a trot. Not the canter or gallop the steed needed, but it would serve for now. The journey to his old house was a good four miles, maybe a bit more, so it should give him decent exercise.
Avoiding the sinks of Seven Dials and St. Giles, Gerald took Fleet Street and up Ludgate Hill, past the coaching inns that brought passengers from all over the country, and the bookshops and stalls that thronged around St. Paul’s. He breathed the sooty, occasionally noxious London air as if it was the finest and most bracing country atmosphere, riding up the streets he knew so well, free of all constraint; at least for this short time.
Negotiating Aldersgate Street and the Barbican, where hackney drivers yelled at passengers and pedestrians alike, he reveled in the sounds of the streets. Eventually he reached the corner of the Barbican and Golden Lane, where the old watch house still stood in the road. Home called to him. Perhaps one day his house in Grosvenor Square would have similar memories and resonance for him.
Although he had not stopped at the house Annie Cathcart occupied, he knew exactly where it was. He’d looked it up on the gazetteer in his study.
&n
bsp; He dismounted and led his horse, now considerably less frisky, into the yard by the side of the house. It clopped along happily behind him, even though the tang of molten metal was redolent in the air. He should have knocked, but he needed somewhere to tether his steed.
At the back there was no garden, but a yard ringed with outbuildings. The doors of some were open and others were fastened with conspicuously large locks and padlocks. The tang of molten metal hung heavy in the air.
He nodded to a man wearing a stained and charred leather apron, who came out and glared at him. “I’ve come to see Mrs. Cathcart. Is there somewhere I may leave my horse?”
The man nodded and jerked his head toward a small building at the corner of the yard. A tethering post stood outside it, and Gerald wasted no time in securing his horse. After ensuring the animal was comfortable, and had a bucket of water to drink from, Gerald made his way back to the front of the house.
Like a gentleman, he rang the bell. It was wrenched open. “Yes?”
Annie glared up at him, then blinked. “Oh, it’s you.”
“It is indeed. I thought, since I had the leisure, I’d pay you a call.” He tipped his hat.
“Oh.” She studied him more closely. Heat prickled along his skin. Every time he looked at her she affected him. With her tightly bound fiery hair and practical clothes she should not stir him more than Elizabeth. Elizabeth was an accredited beauty, a cool, blonde lady, and Annie—an uncredited beauty. Except by him, of course.
“You’re dressed for riding.”
His smile broadened. “Yes, I am. I left my horse in the yard. I trust that was all right?”
“Yes, yes of course.” Swallowing, she stepped back. “Do come in.”
“Thank you.” Inside the small hallway, he tucked his gloves into his hat and put it on the hall stand. She followed his movements. “It’s as if you always lived here.”
“I lived somewhere similar. But as you have already pointed out, my house is larger.”
“Would—would you like to see the house?”
He preferred this to the formality of his home. In the mansions he now lived in, they were too large to make his voice heard from the drawing room to the kitchens. But why should he not institute something a little less formal than he suffered now? He’d talk to his sisters about it.
She led him to a comfortable sitting room on the first floor, at the front of the house. “Would you like to rest, or take a tour of the house while the tea comes?”
“The tour, please.” His throat tightened, recalling what had happened the last time they were alone together. He could assume nothing, and if he did he would destroy all his chances of getting her anywhere near his bed.
Any bed, for that matter. He wasn’t fussy, as long as she was in it.
God, what she did to him! Without even being aware of it, she pushed his arousal into heights he would not have considered possible. He had barely touched her, apart from that never to be forgotten kiss. She had roused him without being aware of it. She did not flirt, or, he suspected, even consider herself attractive.
With her simple style, her hair pulled back from her face, it only set the pure lines and high cheekbones into high relief. Her skin was so fine it almost glowed, like a flower in the moonlight. Her simple green gown with its modest hoop set her neat, but unmistakably feminine figure into high relief. She wore no frills and furbelows to disguise its beauty.
She showed him the room. “I see most of my clients here, if they want to discuss business rather than undertake it.”
“Impressive.” The room was comfortable, with a set of furniture that was solidly English, instead of gilded and frilly French. It was a fair size for a house of this stature, too, so that six people could sit here in comfort.
“There’s a smaller parlor behind so we may use it as a formal dining room, although we generally take our meals downstairs. It’s more convenient, because I can be called away at any time, and yet I get to see my sons.” She led him outside, and pushed open the door of a snug room dominated by a dining table.
As if on cue, a wail sounded from above. “Mama!”
A female voice drifted after. “Hush, your mama will be here directly.”
She shot him an apologetic glance. “We take breakfast early. My aunt has taken the boys upstairs to prepare them for the day.”
“How old are your sons?”
“Five and three.”
He nodded. “So they are not yet breeched.”
She smiled. “That is true, although I have plans for William. He is a big boy, and dislikes his gowns exceedingly, so I fear I will have to breech him sooner rather than wait awhile.”
“Do they have a tutor?” Some Cits prided themselves in the intelligence of their children and had them taught early, so they would be ready to enter the business. Very few bothered with university. What was the point, when they needed to work in the real world?
To his consternation her brow furrowed. “I will have to find one soon. We are teaching them their letters and numbers, but I want my boys to learn at least one other language. It will be useful for them. French, because we deal with so many Huguenots. Most speak English, but I want to understand them.”
He switched to French. “Parlez-vous Francais?”
“Bien sur.”
She had a pretty accent, and he enjoyed hearing her, so he continued in the language. “You live mainly upstairs? Your private quarters, I mean.”
He did not mistake the warmth that filled her eyes when she answered him. “Yes, for the most part. You can see why we want bigger premises.”
He returned to English. “Your French is better than mine.”
“So you didn’t go on the Grand Tour?”
Gerald threw back his head and laughed. “No indeed. My father was a Tory—he didn’t hold with Frenchies, as he put it. He said that most of the ills of this country could be placed at the door of the French.”
“We have many benefits from them, too.”
“Living in London taught me that.”
“Why did you do so? As I understand it, you were always rich and well-born, so you could have stayed in the country.”
Gerald gave a wistful thought to the snug estate in Hampshire that he had considered his legacy. Not the half dozen grand houses he could lay claim to now. “My sisters are intelligent women, and they each have an interest that is not so easily pursued in the country.” He paused. “Except for Dorcas whose passion is gardening. She will appreciate the vast canvases she may command now.”
At the bottom of the stairs Annie came to an abrupt halt, so that Gerald was forced to grab her shoulders from behind to prevent himself cannoning into her. The touch of her body under the fine linen of her kerchief blanked his mind.
A man stood in the hallway, watching them, his brows a hard dark line over deep-set eyes. He was as thin as Jack Spratt and looked to be about fifty. Dressed in the dark, neat garb of the Cit, he nevertheless gave off an air of wealth and consequence.
“Ah, Mr. Stephenson,” Annie said. Her voice shook a little. Who was this man who could do this to the redoubtable Annie Cathcart? “I had not realized you planned to call.”
Stephenson’s attention went over Annie’s head to meet Gerald’s eyes. Gerald stepped to one side and gave him his best bow. “I’m Carbrooke,” he said, in his haughtiest tones.
Annie blinked at him. He concentrated on Stephenson, who gave a stiff bow in response. Nowhere near as graceful as his, Gerald noted in satisfaction.
For some reason this man annoyed him. Gerald was a strong proponent of ‘live and let live,’ but Stephenson’s stern mien and his air of ownership rubbed Gerald the wrong way.
“My dear,” he said to Annie, taking her hand and brushing his lips over the back of it. He frowned at Gerald. “You are perhaps ordering silver wire, my lord?” His tones told Gerald how unbelievable that statement was.
“Visiting a friend,” Gerald said mendaciously. “I used to live on Bunhill Row, not
very far from here. I have since moved to Mayfair.”
Stephenson’s brow cleared. “Ah! I read about you, did I not? You are the distant cousin who inherited the earldom!”
“I am.” Why should he be ashamed of that? There was definitely a sneering edge to Stephenson’s tones. “We found the house conducive to our needs.” And far away enough from the fashionable world to deter visitors. He’d have told Annie that, but not this stranger. He stood too close to her. She watched him, pale-faced. “Mr. Stephenson is my current landlord,” she said to Gerald. “We are discussing the possibility of my taking the house next door.”
“Actually my dear, I came to discuss the vermin problem with you.” He glanced at Gerald, including him in the conversation. “The house next door has been empty for such a long time that I’m afraid it has fallen into disrepair. I will engage to rid the place of the vermin calling it their home, but I fear it will take some time to do the necessary repairs. I cannot possibly allow you to lease it in such a condition.”
“Reduce the price and I’ll undertake to furbish it up,” Annie said promptly. “Then I may have it exactly as I wish.”
Stephenson’s indulgent smile put Gerald’s teeth on edge, so the Lord knew what it was doing to Annie’s molars. “My dear, I would not dream of it. In fact, we should make our announcement as soon as we can. Then you may undertake your new role without delay.”
Moving closer, Stephenson took Annie’s arm and threaded it through the crook of his arm. Annie’s eyes widened. She looked like nothing so much as a shocked sheep. As that expression rapidly disappeared it was replaced by something that made Gerald very glad it was not directed at him. “We are, in fact, betrothed,” Stephenson concluded.
Annie dragged her arm free and took a step back, which nearly sent her into Gerald’s arms. He would not have been sorry for that. “I told you, sir, I wanted time, and I meant it. I have to consider the welfare of my children and my workers before I can agree to take such a step.”
Stephenson’s expression hardened, his cheekbones going a livid red. “I gave you the time you needed.”
Seven Nights of Sin: Seven Sensuous Stories by Bestselling Historical Romance Authors Page 20