The Earl and The Enchantress (An Enchantress Novel Book 1)

by Paullett Golden

  Having her in his life in any fashion was risky. So many secrets, so many complications, so much trust. But meeting someone like her was an impossible dream come true—suddenly, the impossible seemed possible. He expected at any moment the dream would burst, that he would wake to find her a figment of his imagination or to find she wasn’t who she claimed to be.

  Trust was in short order in his life. Did he dare trust her? Did he dare chase a bit of light in his dark life?

  “Shame on you for not informing me of your title, my lord. You led me to believe you were a Mr. Roddam,” she scolded, interrupting his reverie.

  Standing side-by-side on the dance floor, they waited for the music to strike. Other couples joined their circle.

  He couldn’t tell if she meant to tease or admonish him about his subtle deception.

  Choosing to answer honestly, he turned to her and said, “I would much rather exchange repartee with a Miss Trethow who believes I’m a Mr. Roddam than with a fortune hunter who speaks to me only because I’m titled.”

  “Be that as it may, I’ve decided you can’t be trusted.” She pursed her lips, waited, then dazzled him with a reassuring smile.

  The music began. They clasped hands, hers warm in his even through their gloves.

  The dance was the liveliest of the evening. They spun, swung, clapped, circled, linked arms and skipped, shuffled feet, raised arms, and laughed without a care in the world. It was unseemly to display such enthusiasm. They didn’t care. They made a right spectacle of themselves laughing gaily as they danced.

  Sebastian couldn’t remember the last time he had danced or who his dance partner had been, but she hadn’t possessed the light row of freckles across the bridge of her nose as did this reader of pirate tales. He found himself at a loss for words, entranced by the brightness of her eyes. She looked at him as though she held all the secrets to happiness.

  “Have you been enjoying the masquerade?” He could kick himself for such trite conversation.

  “Not in the least. Not until now, that is,” she admitted as they skipped in a circle.

  “Don’t all women enjoy parties?”

  They snapped their fingers as their feet jigged to the pipe and violins.

  “I’m not all women. And you? Are you enjoying yourself?”

  He winked. “I have never before enjoyed a dance or partner this much in my life.”

  They circled the room with arms interlaced, her spontaneous laughter lighting the shadowed spaces in his heart.

  “Lord Roddam, are you flirting?” She looked more surprised than coquettish, he thought. He suspected her question was as genuine as her blush.

  “If I am, it is because I think we have more in common than anyone I’ve met. You have my undivided attention, Miss Trethow. Would you consider my friendship?” He hoped his words didn’t sound too rehearsed.

  His proposal of friendship had been practiced countlessly in the past few days, phrased and re-phrased so he didn’t sound too pushy, too flirty, too hopeful, too calculated. He knew what he really wanted. He wanted to taste her lips, redden them with passion. He imagined how it ought to be, the wind whipping her hair about her face as they stood on the beach, her lips parting in invitation for a kiss.

  “I accept.”

  “Wait. What do you accept?” He shook his head from the momentary fantasy of her lips, wondering in trepidation if he had proposed friendship or the far more scandalous position of mistress.

  “Your offer of friendship, my lord. I must confess that I’ve been hoping all evening to see you. I want you to tell me everything there is to know about Robinson Crusoe. And when you’re finished, tell me your thoughts on Kant, Rousseau, and don’t forget Voltaire.”

  As they linked arms to circle the room again, he inhaled the scent of soap and meadow flowers that permeated her skin. No dousing herself in perfume as did other women.

  She smelled like home. Like a spring day after a morning rain. He fixed on the image of her lying in a grassy field shielding the sun with a book. Inhaling meditatively, feeling a warm calm blanket him, he adjusted the image so that in place of the book, his body shielded her from the sun.

  “With no small charge you’ve tasked me, my queen. Wouldn’t you rather I told you my thoughts of Les Liaisons Dangereuses? I could whisper to you in French while we scandalized all those in the dining room.”

  “You’re a wicked man, and I know you’re not serious! Don’t you know it’s impolite to say such things to a woman?”

  “Ah, but as you’ve pointed out, you’re not as other women. And you’re the one who reads about pirates.” He smirked, enjoying being able to share a lighthearted tongue-in-cheek exchange without worrying about offending her tender sensibilities. “Would you prefer me to remain stoic and speak only of the weather or to brag of my riches?”

  “Neither! I spent half an hour listening to the riches of your cousin. It is an experience I never wish to repeat.” Her eyes smiled up at him.

  The dance ended far too soon, and the guests traversed to the dining room.

  Guiding her through the traffic of masqueraders towards the long table, Sebastian experienced a startling realization, a sensation he had never felt—this is what it felt to live a normal life. He had lived as a recluse for so long, feeling less than human, an outlier in the world of men, that he didn’t know until this moment how good it felt to be alive, really alive.

  The past could never be erased or forgotten, and never could it be forgiven, but the future appeared as a chrysalis now, full of promise and transformation. He wasn’t entirely sure he trusted it yet. Like an apple for Adam, he suspected the present to be an illusion.

  “Tell me your favorite writer of all times,” Miss Trethow asked as he steered her to an empty seat.

  “Would you judge me harshly if I said it is not a philosopher I favor, but a poet?”

  “A poet?” She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “A sentimental poet?”

  The guests around them cast aside masks and gloves in preparation for dinner. Being the single-minded man that he was, he ignored whoever sat on his other side, regardless that he was supposed to make conversation with that person, as well. He had eyes only for Miss Trethow.

  She teased, “After all your derision of sentimental novels, you have a favorite poet. I’m surprised at you.”

  “Poetry is hardly comparable to a sentimental novel,” he rebutted, already enthralled with their banter.

  The meal began with white soup, veal, and negus. Sebastian absentmindedly ate, tasting nothing. His mind was too engrossed with her lips meeting the soup spoon. Heaven help him.

  “Don’t hold me in suspense. Who is this poet?” she asked between bites.

  The last thing he wanted to do was talk about himself. He wanted to know everything about her, this well-read, freckled seductress who had sworn off marriage, balls, and all men charming. He couldn’t make her out. What did she do with her time? Did she like the ocean?

  He had more questions than there were guests at the party, and he was not traditionally loquacious. Her cheeks, he noticed, remained becomingly aglow from the liveliness of the dance.

  “Burns,” he answered at last.

  “Robert Burns?” Miss Trethow laughed. “You’re joking. You can never again ill-judge my sex for preferring sentimental novels when you have admitted to liking one of the most sentimental poets alive!”

  “Nonsense. He values individualism, freedom, and nature. Three ‘sentiments’ I happen to think we both value.”

  He angled towards her and recited with dusky depth the first poem that came to mind.

  After a few lines, she interrupted, scoffing affectionately, “Not sentimental, my toe! Burns can call sentimentality ‘hair brained’ all he wants, but I’ve never heard more sentimental words. You’re a secret lover of that very romance you mocked.”

&n
bsp; Shame on him for not behaving with better manners, but he couldn’t remember the last time he felt this carefree. Sebastian leaned closer still, and as huskily as he could reply without being overheard by those around them, he whispered a few lines from a particularly bawdy Burns poem.

  His aim was to shock rather than flirt, to test her resilience. And, devil take it, he certainly enjoyed seeing the blush rising from her neck, creeping with pink tendrils up her soft cheeks.

  “Is, um, that the whole poem?” she breathed.

  His throaty chuckle accompanied a shake of his head. “The rest is much too dirty for your feminine ears and certainly for our present location.”

  “Oh. I see.” The blush reached her hairline.

  The second course arrived in a flurry of footmen. Plates were whisked away and replaced with a delightful dish of hare, scalloped oysters, and sweetbreads.

  After they sampled a few forkfuls, Miss Trethow asked, “Are you of Scottish descent by chance, my lord? You have, if I’m not being indelicate by saying, a strong accent.”

  “Roddam, please.” He sampled the wine before answering. “English through and through. I live in Northumberland, naught but 30 miles from the border. I grew up even farther north within an easy walking distance to the border. To be honest, my ancestors were among the northern defenders against the Scots. And you, Miss Trethow, are most assuredly from Devon, Cornwall, or thereabouts.”

  “How did you—?” Her cutlery paused halfway to her mouth.

  Leaning his lips inches from her ear, he whispered surreptitiously, “Your eyes tell me you enjoy cliff diving.”

  He basked for a moment in her surprise. After chuckling at her wide-eyed incredulity to his brazen statement, he admitted, “Your accent is clearly southern, and I so happen to know your cousin’s barony is near Exeter. The clues narrow down my guess, you see. Near Torquay, perhaps? Since you read about pirates, maybe farther south. Penzance?”

  Not that he could learn much about her without arousing suspicion, he had managed to learn a few details about her extended family, which proved easier than expected given his cousin and her cousin had attended Oxford together.

  Miss Trethow recovered and shook her head. “I live on the northeast coast of Cornwall. In Trevena.”

  Her words slapped him, crushing his jovial mood.

  She couldn’t possibly live in Trevena. Not Trevena.

  Was this a joke at his expense? Had she and Drake planned this from the beginning or just since tonight? Sebastian had seen them sharing intimate conversation earlier, so it wasn’t impossible they planned the joke. Had she known the duke before tonight? Drake very well could have sent her into the library to seek him out, an elaborate ruse. It wouldn’t be the first time his cousin had pulled a prank.

  The coincidence of Trevena was too extraordinary to be believed. Given how doggedly he guarded his privacy, only Drake would know what Trevena meant to him. Not sure what angered him the most, that she had been so perfect or that Drake would go to this extent for a practical joke, he unceremoniously tossed down his cutlery, his appetite lost.

  For a moment, he had felt happiness. A glimpse of a happiness he never thought he would feel, never thought he deserved to feel. With the single word, the happiness crumpled.

  “Trevena,” he echoed.

  “Yes. It’s about 60 miles west from Exeter. You may not know this, especially being so far north, but it’s believed to be the birth—”

  “—birthplace of King Arthur.” He cut off her sentence.

  Pursing his lips, he erecting walls around himself.

  “Yes! So, you do know? How delightful. I haven’t met many people acquainted with the histories or the lore. Living in the very parish of his birth, I confess I’m fascinated by the literature about him. Are you versed in King Arthur? How do you know about Trevena?”

  “Did my cousin put you up to this before you came to the library or after?” he queried gruffly, unable to tolerate the charade any longer.

  He hoped she wouldn’t answer. He didn’t care. If she were willing to play Drake’s game, she didn’t matter to him anymore regardless.

  But for some reason he didn’t understand, the answer did matter. He needed to know if their connection in the library had been real or all part of the joke. But to what end? It was over regardless.

  “Pardon? I’m afraid I don’t follow.” Her brows crinkled in feigned confusion.

  His limbs tensed as he shut out further conversation with this trickster. She mocked him. She and Drake both. Remembering the two of them dancing earlier infuriated him, for now he knew they hadn’t danced as strangers, but rather as friends plotting against him.

  Her hand touched his coat sleeve, startling him. When he glanced over, his stomach flip-flopped to see her brows still knit in confusion, her eyes concerned without a hint of mockery. Either she was the world’s best actress, or he had just made a monumental mistake.

  No, no, he hadn’t made a mistake. Of all the parishes in England, she couldn’t possibly live in the parish rumored as the birthplace of King Arthur. While he wanted nothing more than to leave, to escape this bewitching Lady of the Lake, he couldn’t cause a scene by leaving mid-meal.

  Brusquely shrugging away her hand, he returned to his meal, not caring what she thought of his behavior. She and Drake would not make an arse of him.

  A wonder he hadn’t realized it until now. This woman was the embodiment of the Lady of the Lake. This woman, this Miss Trethow, had nearly duped him. Fool that he was, even after realizing her to be false, he still wanted more than anything to continue their friendship, to ask more questions, to fall into those happy eyes.

  No, he wasn’t going to fall for this beguiling enchantress. His secrets were his own, and he would not be trapped by her. According to lore, the Lady of the Lake struck a deal with Merlin to love him if he shared with her all his secrets, taught her all he knew. Merlin did, and the lady trapped him, turning his own magic against him.

  From Trevena indeed, he scoffed. He didn’t believe her for a minute.

  From the moment she walked into the library, he should have known it was too good to be true. He never should have sought her out this evening. Everything had been too similar between them from the start, and now Trevena, the very birthplace of his idol, of the one figure who helped him turn his life around through emulation. This was too much of a coincidence, and Sebastian didn’t believe in coincidence.

  The room was overly warm.

  He was aware his departure into silence left his dinner companion curious, but he didn’t care. She shouldn’t toy with him.

  As dinner ended, he left the table in haste to find his cousin.

  Not surprising, Drake had already surrounded himself with women. Crossing his arms over his chest, Sebastian glared menacingly until the ladies exchanged wary glances and left the two men alone.

  He could hear the music striking up for a boulanger dance. Drake said not a word, just eyed him curiously as he took a friendly pinch from his snuff box.

  “I’m leaving. Are you coming, or shall I send the carriage back for you?” He flinched as the knife hilts in his waistcoat impaled his elbow.

  “Be serious, Sebastian. I’m getting on well!” Frustrated, Drake shoved his snuffbox in the pocket of his black cloak.

  “Stay if you wish. I’m leaving,” he repeated.

  “God, man.” His cousin ran a hand through his hair. “You can be such a bore. Here I couldn’t wait to tell you who I’ve decided to court, and now you’ve ruined my good mood.”

  “I’ll not be baited by you. Not now.” His stare held Drake’s unflinchingly.

  Confronting his cousin at the party about the joke he and his accomplice played would be in poor taste, especially when Sebastian wanted nothing more than to plant a facer for Drake’s cruelty. He would wait until they were alone.

&nbs
p; “As I said. You’re a bore. Wait and I’ll come with you. I need five minutes to give my regards to Lady Kissinger so she doesn’t think we’re curs. I’ve accomplished all I can tonight anyway.”

  As he took a step towards the hostess, Drake pivoted back to face Sebastian. “On second thought, I’m going to tell you my plan whether you want to know or not. Given your attentions to Miss Trethow this evening, you should know that I will be sending my calling card to Lady Collingwood tomorrow.”

  His heart skipped a beat. Dear God, they really had duped him.

  “This shouldn’t come as such a shock, Seb. Is this what it’s like to be a hermit? The world keeps moving, and you haven’t the faintest clue. I have it on good authority that the Trethow sisters sport lucrative dowries. Come with me tomorrow, if you’d like, and I’ll show you how to make a woman fall in love.”

  That told him all he needed to know. His cousin would be calling on her tomorrow. So, by his cousin’s own admission, there was something between Drake and Miss Trethow, proving she had done his bidding by playing a heartless joke. The whole affair left his mouth tasting bitter and his stomach upset.

  “Poor choice, Drake. The youngest Trethow is barely out of the schoolroom, and the eldest is a spinster,” Sebastian retorted, desperate to end the conversation and leave.

  “Nonsense! Miss Trethow could easily be wooed, and her maturity does her credit. She could go toe-to-toe with my mother and force the old bat into the dower house. As for Miss Charlotte, well, she is of age and would make a fine little duchess to mold however I’d like, even if she is a tad prudish.”

  Drake waited for a reaction, but only received a scowl.

  After a few minutes of silence, Sebastian surrendered to anger.

  Through clenched teeth, he demanded, “What’s your game, Drake? I come here to help you find a bride, and your gratitude is to stab me in the back. Does it go back further than tonight? Did you send her to the library? Or was the ruse only tonight after you discovered we’d met? Tell me now. Tell me truthfully, and I swear to make your throttling brief.”