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

by Paullett Golden

  “You both must be exhausted,” Charlotte said. “Your luggage carriage has yet to arrive, but I’ll have you shown to your rooms for a hot bath all the same. We’ll await you in the Red Drawing Room.”

  When a footman escorted Liz to the Red Drawing Room, she discovered Aunt Hazel already in conversation with Charlotte, Annick, and Lady Mary. The dowager duchess declined to join them until dinner.

  Dark, rich reds filled every corner of the room, from the window curtains, valences, and window seats, all the way to the red Morocco Leather chair covers and the motif wallpaper within recessed panels. If she hazarded a guess, she would say the room used to be a grand ballroom repurposed into a drawing room.

  The group sat in the far corner of the room, looking a tad cramped in comparison to the openness of the room. The sitting area encircled a round table in front of a marble fireplace. Tea and treats waited. Without missing a beat in conversation, Charlotte readied Liz’s cuppa.

  Liz sipped the sweet nectar of the gods, closing her eyes to savor taste and warmth. Divinity.

  Annick stood next to Charlotte’s chair, one hand on her shoulder. Unabashedly, his gaze swept over Liz, lingering at her mouth.

  With a smirk, he said, “You’ll find today peaceful because I’ve decided to delay my message. Brace yourself for tomorrow.”

  Liz looked at the faces around her, all of which appeared as bewildered as her. “Pardon? What message?”

  “To Lord Dunderhead, of course. My imbecile cousin wanted to be here for your arrival. I would give my best horse to see his expression if he knew I told you that.” Annick winked. “I’ve decided to delay notification until tomorrow so you have an opportunity to rest and visit with Charlotte first. I know you’re dying to hear how well she’s getting on. Becoming quite the little duchess!” Annick beamed, resting his hand against the back of Charlotte’s neck.

  “I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Your Grace, but I don’t know why Lord Roddam would wish to be present for our arrival. We aren’t well acquainted.” Liz swallowed against the lump in her throat.

  She set the tea cup and saucer on the table before her shaking hands belied her words. While her aunt knew how she felt, she certainly didn’t know Lady Mary, hadn’t spoken about it to Charlotte, and most assuredly wouldn’t dare ever utter such feelings to the duke.

  Annick had the audacity to laugh. “Deny it if you’d like, but I know all your dirty little secrets. The two of you have been corresponding since London. I’m scandalized just thinking about it!”

  Charlotte gasped. “Drake, enough! Lizbeth isn’t accustomed to your humor. She’s mortified.”

  “She knows I mean well.” Annick winked. “And why shouldn’t she know the truth? He’s talked of nothing else for a month. If he plays it shy while you’re here, I’ll give him a good thrashing for your viewing pleasure.”

  Liz could do nothing but swallow again and nod self-consciously. She felt great sorrow for Charlotte if this is how her husband behaved in company. Her distaste of and humiliation at the conversation was almost overshadowed by her desperation to know what Sebastian had been saying about her.

  Aunt Hazel saved Lizbeth any further embarrassment by drawing everyone’s attention to the paintings. “Charlotte, love, tell us about the portraits.”

  Charlotte shrugged off Annick’s hand to walk over to the two largest paintings, one clearly of a young dowager duchess. “All of these paintings are of Drake’s father’s family, so I’m afraid I don’t know much about them, but these two are of Mama Catherine and her husband Marcus Mowbrah the Duke of Annick. She was only sixteen when this portrait was painted, the new bride of His Grace.”

  Annick joined her, his hand returning to the back of Charlotte’s neck. “Tell the story right, love of my life. My mother married at sixteen a man almost thirty years her senior. He was a dirty old man, wasn’t he?” He roared with laughter, embarrassing them all. “No one says no to a duke when he wants a bride. But if you know my mother, you must wonder whose decision it really was, for she was the most coveted woman of the region, and no one says no to her, not even a duke. As much as I enjoy a joke at my father’s expense, I suspect it was my mother who trapped him, not the other way around.”

  He touched the gold frame of his mother’s portrait.

  “I look forward to getting to know your mother.” Aunt Hazel said with sincerity.

  Drake’s response surprised them all. “Right. Now is where I take my leave. No one has to say it, but I know you’re all dying to gossip like twittering maids. Come, Mary. I know you want to stay, and they won’t be rude enough to eject you, but let’s let the family alone. I’ll let you ride my horse if you promise not to pout.” The duke frilled his lace sleeves and reached for his snuff box as he walked to the double doors.

  After an audible sniff, he waved a hand over his head to signal the reluctant Mary to follow him. Mary nodded to them, blushed, and scurried after her brother.

  Not until the drawing room doors closed did they turn to Charlotte with quizzical eyes.

  “I’m so happy you’re both here!” Charlotte’s cheeks were rosy. “I haven’t been this happy since my wedding!”

  “Out with it,” commanded Hazel. She lifted her lorgnette to study her niece. “That mother-in-law of yours looked severe enough, and your husband couldn’t be crasser if he tried. An abomination to gentility, but I suppose when one’s a duke, one can say and do most anything. Now, how are you, love? We came as fast as we could, sacrificing comfort for speed.”

  “Oh dear. I never meant either of you any discomfort. I spoke out of turn in my letter. I should have been patient. All is well now, can’t you see? I couldn’t be happier!”

  Hazel’s eyes narrowed, her lorgnette lowering half an inch. “Don’t speak rubbish. Your letter was most expressive.”

  Charlotte’s neck flushed, her eyes looking down at her wringing hands. “I’m so ashamed for writing that. Everything really is better. I’ve spent the past two weeks soul searching, and I’ve come to terms with my new life. In a way, it’s what you’ve always wanted, Lizbeth—independence. I have an allowance and privacy. I’ve even made peace with Mama Catherine in a fashion. She means well. She’s still quite bossy, but that’s to be expected of someone in our position.”

  Charlotte paused, looking back and forth between Hazel and Lizbeth as though questioning if they believed her. She continued, “I’ve had ever so much fun these past weeks. I’ve designed a meal plan for our kitchen to serve the needy in the villages. I’ve written invitations for a shooting party this autumn, hosted a bazaar for the tenantry, and I’ve even arranged the seats for the dinner party we’ll be having in honor of your visit. There’s ever so much to do, but I’m learning.”

  They sat in silence, Charlotte still wringing her hands, Hazel still squinting at her niece, and Lizbeth gaping. She was dubious. Had Charlotte come to terms with her new role, or was she struggling to speak her true feelings in person?

  Lizbeth probed. “What of Drake? Your letter mentioned he’s ignoring you. Is the marriage unhappy?”

  Charlotte bit her bottom lip before she looked up from her hands. “All is much the same with him. I’m not overly fraught by it anymore because I realize I can focus on my duties. In a way his behavior is a blessing. I can live my own life.”

  Hazel lowered her lorgnette. “Is that what you want, my love?”

  “I’ve never wanted love. You both know that. I’ve only ever sought a good match, and I have that. Now, though, I find myself wanting more. In many ways it is a blessing to have him away more than he is here, but I find myself wanting to know my husband. Let me be clear. He has never mistreated me, and even if he did it would be within his right, but he hasn’t. He has shown me nothing but patience and kindness. I just wish, somehow, I could be his wife, not his object. Is that selfish of me?”

  Lizbeth went to her sister. Perchin
g on the arm of Charlotte’s chair, she embraced her. “It’s not selfish. You deserve happiness.”

  “I thought I could live without love, but I’m lonely all the time. I shouldn’t feel lonely, for I have Mary, but it’s not the same.” Charlotte didn’t cry or show any signs of despair, none of the remorse of the letter, only a soft sadness, a mix of acceptance and longing. She leaned her head against Lizbeth.

  “We’re here now, and you won’t be lonely,” Liz said, kissing the top of Charlotte’s head. “Soon you’ll make new friends in the area. I imagine you’ll serve on all types of committees and stretch those wings of yours, my little butterfly.”

  Hazel chimed in. “Make him love you.”

  “Pardon?” the sisters said in unison.

  “Make him love you. He’s a young man still wet behind the ears. He doesn’t know what he wants only what he thinks he wants, so teach him that you’re what he wants. Seduce that man.”

  “AUNTIE!” Charlotte shrieked. “I, I couldn’t!”

  “Seduce him well enough, and he will fall in love with you. If you can stomach the embarrassment, I will share my best kept secrets, although not in the presence of Lizbeth.”

  Charlotte stuttered while Lizbeth flushed.

  Liz cleared her throat and turned to Charlotte. “I’m proud of you. I really am. I came here worried you had dissolved into depression over what is out of your control rather than controlling what you can in your new life. Make the best of it, and you’ll be as happy as any of us can ever hope to be. I’m so very proud of you, Charlotte.”

  “Thank you, Lizzie. I’m so happy you’re both here. Auntie, if you don’t mind terribly, I’d like to invite you to my private parlor this evening after dinner. Maybe you could divulge those secrets.”

  For the rest of the evening, Liz was silently reminded of why she had never wanted to marry. Being tied to a man like Drake seemed a fate worse than death to her. Maybe it was for the best that Sebastian hadn’t done something rash in London.

  Chapter 18

  A heavy rain pelted the windows of Lyonn Manor. The wind howled, blowing the rain sideways, upwards, and back down.

  Sebastian tapped a riding crop against his leg, puddles forming on the marble floor around him.

  “This way, Your Lordship,” the stern-eyed butler quipped without visibly moving his lips.

  Tucking the crop under his arm, he followed the servant from the foyer to the double doors of the Blue Drawing Room, leaving wet footprints in his wake.

  “The Earl of Roddam,” announced the butler.

  Sebastian walked into an obnoxiously blue room to a welcoming sight: Lizbeth rising from her chair.

  His pulse spiked.

  Devil take it. She was more beautiful than he remembered. Such a pity he couldn’t close the gap between them and pull her into an embrace that would inspire poets for centuries. This time, he told himself, I will not bungle this.

  “I say, man, you’re dripping on my rug.” Drake stood by the hearth holding a forgotten snuff box, clearly diverted. “I sent word but never expected you to brave high water. You’re soaked to the bone.”

  He blanched at Drake’s words and bowed to all in the room, which thankfully was a small crowd. Liz, Drake, Charlotte, and Hazel, no signs of Aunt Catherine or Mary.

  The minute he had received notice of their arrival, he had made haste, not thinking of how it must look to take flight on his horse in a torrential downpour. His original plan had been to stand in the receiving line when their post turned down the drive, but the rain had dashed that dream.

  “Good heavens, man. I’m sure neither of our guests wants to spend the afternoon with a drowned rat. Have my valet see to drying your clothes.” Turning to Charlotte, Drake commanded with a nod, “Ring for additional refreshments.”

  Sebastian’s eyes flitted to Liz. Her eyes brightened, her lips smiled, and her body leaned forward as if she too wanted to embrace him.

  She couldn’t possibly be as excited to see him as he was to see her, especially after he left her bewildered in London. They may have corresponded since then, but he envisioned a long road ahead in regaining her trust. Hell, he had a long road just to silence his inner voice, that ever-present reminder of his unworthiness.

  After running from her once, he wouldn’t do it again. Inner voice be damned. He would not bungle this.

  Drake interrupted his thoughts, as well as his fixed stare on the enchanting Lizbeth. “If you stand there one minute longer ruining my rug, I will assume you’ve not come to see these beauties, but rather have come to rescue me from polite conversation. I will be forced to take you into my study for the remainder of the afternoon. Consider that a threat.”

  “I shall return momentarily.” He eyed Lizbeth again, another lingering look he suspected was not lost on present company, and certainly not lost on the baroness who raised her lorgnette, her lips curving into a sly half-smile full of impish suggestion.

  With another bow, he left the room, dancing past the glowering butler. He bounded through the west gallery, up the winding stairwell, down the bedroom corridor, and into Drake’s private rooms.

  Why hadn’t he thought to keep an extra set of clothes at the manor for such occasions? Because it was oh-so-frequent that he rode his horse hell for leather over fifteen miles of sideways rain just to see a woman, he thought dryly.

  Without another set of clothes, he would have to wait for his to dry, which could take hours. The alternative was less appealing, but his only viable option. He would attempt to fit into something of Drake’s. The problem? The duke’s clothes were tailored for a slenderer frame. Nigh impossible. What had he expected would happen after riding through a rainstorm? Hell and damnation.

  He found Drake’s valet in the dressing room cleaning Drake’s shaving set. The valet looked up in surprise to see Sebastian barreling towards him, cursing a string of profanities.

  After more time than he cared to spend in a dressing room, Sebastian barked at the valet, “Get on with it. How long does it take to knot a cravat?”

  “My apologies, Your Lordship, but His Grace prefers the trone d’Amour. I assumed you would, as well.” The squat man with thatched brows fiddled with the neckerchief.

  “Do I look like a man who flaunts flouncy cravats, much less cravats so starched I can’t turn my head? I’d prefer you tie an Osbaldeston.” Any more time wasted on such ridiculousness and Sebastian would be hard pressed not to return to the room without a cravat.

  “Yes, my lord, but you’ll pardon my saying, my lord, that at the present time, you do look like a man who would prefer a more elegant style.” The valet worked at untying the knot of the foppish cravat.

  Sebastian cursed at the mirror. Surely the wet clothes would be superior to this. He didn’t fit in Drake’s clothing, as he knew he wouldn’t. While the two men may be of similar height, they were not of similar build, style considerations be damned.

  The clothes, especially the breeches, stretched taut across his physique, straining at the buttons. He tried to adjust himself behind the fall flap, but there wasn’t much he could do to disguise his parts.

  As long as Lizbeth didn’t smile, flirt, or move, he may survive without disgracing himself, but one sensual twist of her lips could be his undoing and cause for an embarrassing afternoon indeed.

  “I look like a court jester,” he grumbled to the reflection, a frightening sight of silk and lace.

  “You’ll pardon me again, my lord, when I say you look most elegant and youthful.” The valet replaced the starched fabric at Sebastian’s neck with a softer, thinner linen.

  “I’m neither elegant nor youthful.” Sebastian scowled. “Well, perhaps still youthful if you consider one and thirty young, but never elegant, at least not in this dandified sense. I look and feel ridiculous.”

  “Please, try not to flex your shoulders.” The valet stepped
back to admire his handiwork. “You are the image of sophistication. Care for His Grace’s scented pomade?”

  Sebastian snorted.

  Turning from the mirror, he tested the length of his stride against the strain of the breeches and coat. So help him, if anyone laughed, he would climb back on his horse and leave.

  He jetted across the bedroom corridor, down the winding stairs, through the west gallery, and into the unpalatably blue room, narrowly missing the disgruntled butler carrying a tea tray. Dancing past the disapproving countenance, he stepped towards the group, immediately regretting his decision not to wait for his clothes to dry.

  Drake’s face lit with amusement. The baroness eyed him with lusty appreciation. Charlotte hid a smile behind her hand. Lizbeth looked nothing less than bemused.

  “Well, well, well, cousin.” Drake wolf whistled. “Don’t you look…dashing. Less sullen bachelor and more man-about-town. But let’s ask the audience, shall we? Lizbeth?”

  She whipped her head towards Drake, eyes wide.

  “What do you think of his new look? The tailoring accentuates his, er, features, don’t you think?” Drake drawled.

  Sebastian would kill him. Next time he had Drake alone, he would wrap his hands around that laced neck and strangle him.

  Lizbeth turned to Sebastian, a tell-tale blush creeping up her neck.

  Don’t smile. Please, don’t smile. He chanted to himself. The humiliation of being stared at was enough. The last element he needed was lust. He tugged at the coat self-consciously.

  Liz studied him thoughtfully while Hazel and Charlotte tittered. Then, to his dismay, she declared, “Upon reflection, I must agree he does look rather dashing.”

  The corners of her mouth curved upwards.

  His body responded in kind.

  The only safe route was a mad dash to a chair before anyone witnessed the result of her assessment. Silently blaspheming, he made the mad dash. No better than a randy schoolboy. A damned randy schoolboy with his first infatuation.