Mad About the Earl

by Christina Brooke

  His gaze met hers. The baffled fury in those icy gray eyes made her hold out her hand to him. He stared at it as if she held a poisonous snake.

  Gathering her courage, she stepped forward gingerly, as if he were a wild stallion she sought to tame. Lightly, she brushed her fingertips over his arm. The muscles there tensed, granite hard, unyielding beneath her hand.

  “Shall we go to your grandfather now?” she said in a soft, gentle voice.

  His nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply. The scar that slashed his temple glowed white. Then he shook his head in disbelief. “This is madness,” he muttered.

  Without waiting for her answer, he turned on his heel and strode away.

  CHAPTER THREE

  LONDON, WINTER 1815

  THREE YEARS LATER …

  The rap of the chairman’s gavel called the meeting to order. The Duke of Montford lifted his gaze from the agenda he’d been perusing and turned his attention to the collection of aristocrats assembled around the vast, polished mahogany table.

  The winter meeting of the Ministry of Marriage was in session.

  Inwardly, Montford sighed. These gatherings seemed to come closer and closer together as the years wore on.

  There was Lady Arden, with that sparkle in her eye that always spelled trouble for someone—usually for him. Oliver, Lord deVere, appeared to labor under some sort of frustrated fury. But then, didn’t he always?

  DeVere slid a glance at Montford, then looked away, scratching his whiskered face. Like his warrior forebears, deVere was big, fierce, and dark. A remarkably hirsute man, he needed to shave twice daily to avoid looking like a ruffian. He seldom shaved more than once, however.

  The chairman cleared his throat. “We have a lot to get through this afternoon.” He glanced at the agenda in his hand. “The first item concerns the betrothal of Lady Rosamund Westruther to Griffin deVere, Earl of Tregarth.”

  The elderly Lord Ponsonby started from his customary abstraction. In his thread of a voice, he said, “Eh? What’s that you say? Never tell me the old earl is dead? Well, well,” he added placidly, “I make no doubt he is burning in Hell.”

  Unable to resist, Montford met Lady Arden’s gaze. Her eyes danced with suppressed mirth.

  Montford responded, “The fourth earl has been dead for more than a year, Lord Ponsonby. As to his current whereabouts, I would not venture to guess.”

  “Your Grace,” said Lady Arden in her clear, cool voice, “are we to believe that this engagement between Griffin, Lord Tregarth, and Lady Rosamund Westruther still stands? Lady Rosamund has been out these two years and might have expected to be a married lady by now. If Lord Tregarth cannot see his way clear to tying the knot, then I propose we—”

  “He will tie the knot, damn you!” Lord deVere leaned forward, shooting a furious glare at her from beneath bushy brows.

  DeVere didn’t heed the shocked gasps from the ladies, or the chairman’s admonishment to mind his language. With a pugnacious thrust of his chin, he added, “The wedding date is set.” He smacked the table with his fist as if it were a gavel. “Next item.”

  Unabashed by deVere’s bullishness, Lady Arden turned her wide brown eyes on Montford. “Is that true, Your Grace?”

  Montford’s gaze locked with deVere’s in a silent communication. DeVere’s expression was fierce, but was there also a hint of a plea in those black eyes? Not that a plea from deVere would move Montford to help him. The duke had his own reasons for wishing the alliance to go ahead without further interference from either Arden or the Ministry itself.

  “That’s right,” Montford said coolly. He did not say precisely which date had been set and trusted no one would ask.

  Now all they needed was for the parties to the match to agree.

  Musing further on this subject, Montford took little interest in the proceedings until they came to another item on the agenda that touched Rosamund, if only tangentially.

  The marriage of Griffin’s sister, Lady Jacqueline deVere.

  The Countess of Warrington spoke up. “That affair is well in hand, I assure you. Since Lady Jacqueline came to live with us in Bath, she and my son have formed an attachment. I expect an announcement at any moment.”

  Montford’s brows drew together over Lady Warrington’s disclosure. Marriage between cousins occurred all the time, but it was a practice of which he did not approve. Just look at her ladyship’s rodent-like features. A clear advertisement against inbreeding if ever there was one.

  Besides, Lady Jacqueline deVere had been betrothed to Lord Malby from the cradle, if his memory served correctly. The Ministry had not been notified of any alteration to that plan.

  “Am I to gather from this that the longstanding betrothal between Lady Jacqueline and Lord Malby is at an end?” he inquired with a glance at deVere.

  “Oh!” scoffed Lady Warrington. “That abomination was the old earl’s doing. My nephew will not be guided by his grandsire’s wishes, you may be sure.”

  “But I am the girl’s guardian, not Griffin,” rumbled Oliver, Lord deVere. “I say whom she marries, madam. And it will not be your namby-pamby son!”

  Lady Warrington stared at deVere, openmouthed with astonishment.

  Montford intervened. “Perhaps we should adjourn this discussion until the parties can come up with a more … cogent proposal to put to the meeting.”

  He glanced at the chairman, who obediently took his cue. The meeting proceeded to a close without further incident. Afterward, the duke accompanied Lord deVere down to his carriage.

  “One wonders how you propose to bring off Tregarth’s marriage to my ward, deVere,” Montford murmured, drawing on his gloves. His words made puffs of steam in the crisp wintry air. “Clearly, now that the old earl is dead, your protégé has developed cold feet.”

  DeVere jammed his hat on his head. “Cold feet be damned! The boy’s promised to your Lady Rosamund. And a damned lucky Devil he is.”

  DeVere’s eyes warmed, presumably in appreciation of Rosamund’s beauty. Montford hoped he would not have the appalling taste to express his admiration.

  A vain hope. “Never set eyes on a tastier filly,” rumbled deVere. “Not in all my days. If I weren’t leg-shackled myself—”

  Repressing a shudder, Montford held up a hand. “We will leave Lady Rosamund’s indisputable charms out of this discussion. The question is, can you bring young Griffin up to scratch? I’m aware of the difficulties he faces, but enough is enough, deVere. If you don’t deliver me a groom by next meeting, I shall be obliged to bow to Arden’s importunities and put Lady Rosamund back on the Marriage Mart.”

  DeVere scowled. “That bloody woman!”

  Montford shrugged. “If not Arden, it would be someone else. This betrothal has dragged on for far too long.” He cocked his head. “What ails the fellow?”

  DeVere grunted. “You heard about that business with the music master?”

  “Yes, but hasn’t that been laid to rest? Besides, it’s hardly an excuse for not marrying Rosamund.” Montford raised his brows. “Oh, you’re not implying he has refrained from matrimony out of some misguided sense of honor, are you?”

  DeVere rumbled a denial, then struck his palm with his fist. “Ah, blister it! Who knows? That music master’s death caused him no end of trouble. Besides, there was no love lost between Griffin and the old earl. Maybe he’s reluctant to bend to the old man’s wishes now that he’s cocked up his toes.”

  Montford considered. If the marriage of Tregarth’s sister were also up for discussion, that could prove a valuable bargaining chip to use against Griffin.

  He raised his hand to dismiss the waiting carriage. “My dear sir. Walk with me, if you will. I have a notion that I think might answer.”

  * * *

  Lord deVere burst into Griffin’s library at Pendon Place. “Dammit, Griffin, you must marry that Westruther chit, once and for all.”

  Griffin put his pen back in its stand and sat back from his desk. Almost any interruption of hi
s attempts to wrestle his accounts books into submission was a welcome respite. But not if it meant discussing Lady Rosamund Westruther.

  The mere thought of her still simmered his blood, even after all these years.

  “Must I?” He grunted. “Why?”

  “If you don’t marry her by the end of this month, the Ministry will give her to someone else, that’s why!”

  DeVere threw down a document that skimmed across Griffin’s desk. “You’ll need that.”

  Griffin glanced down at the paper. A special license with his and Rosamund’s name on it. A strange, disorienting feeling swept through him, like wind across an icy wasteland. He raised his gaze and watched his kinsman stride about the room.

  Lord deVere was a big man, accustomed to using his size and his bullish bluster to get him what he wanted. However, Griffin was even larger than his relative, so he counted among the few deVere failed to intimidate.

  Griffin forced out the words. “They may marry her to someone else with my goodwill.” He sighed and rubbed his palm over his face in a gesture of resignation. “It’s about time.”

  “What?” thundered deVere. “You have the audacity to be pleased by this? After all the scheming and scraping and bowing to Montford I had to do to arrange that bloody alliance? You’ll stand by while they give your betrothed to another man?”

  “It’s what I hoped they’d do,” Griffin muttered.

  Even he knew an honorable man didn’t throw a lady over. But who could blame Rosamund for turning elsewhere when he didn’t claim her? Or the Ministry for giving up on a marriage that would never happen and choosing her another mate? Now Griffin could cut ties with Lady Rosamund Westruther once and for all.

  And go to the Devil his own way.

  He put his index fingertip on the special license and pushed it away from him. “They’ll have another candidate in mind. They always do.”

  DeVere snorted. “Well, it won’t be young Lauderdale, mark my words, though the two of them have been going around smelling of April and May.”

  Ah, yes, he knew all about Captain Lauderdale squiring Rosamund around Town. Despite his determination not to care, he hadn’t liked that news one bit. But what right did he have to like or dislike what Lady Rosamund did? None at all. He was finished with her. He ought to be happy, or at least relieved.

  He didn’t feel either of those things. He felt as if something inside him had ripped from its moorings and been cast adrift.

  “There’s also the matter of your sister,” said deVere abruptly.

  Griffin’s head jerked up at that. Something stuck in his throat. He swallowed, trying to dislodge it. “She is well?”

  “Yes, yes, or at least, I haven’t heard anything to the contrary. It’s Malby, d’ye see.”

  Griffin’s brows drew together. “Malby? One of my grandfather’s cronies, wasn’t he? What has he to do with Jacks?”

  Astonishment showed on deVere’s face. “You mean you don’t know? How can this be?”

  Know what? Griffin held himself very still.

  “The girl’s been promised to Malby since she was in swaddling bands. Thought you knew.” DeVere pulled at his lower lip, deep in thought. “But Lady Warrington, now. She is all for marrying the gel to her boy instead. I don’t deny it’s a good match, but—”

  Anger washed over Griffin. Anger laced with desperation. “I won’t have it,” he said through gritted teeth. “I won’t let you sell Jacks off to the highest bidder.”

  His brow lowering, Lord deVere braced his hands wide apart on the desk and leaned in. “And just how do you propose to stop me? Your grandfather made me the girl’s guardian, not you.”

  Griffin forced himself to be calm. DeVere might be full of bluster, but he wasn’t completely heartless. Of course, Jacks must marry, as every woman of her situation did. But that did not mean she must wed some degenerate roué old enough to be her grandsire.

  Stalling, Griffin said, “Give her a season, at least. Can you not grant her some choice in the matter, even if it’s only among a select few?”

  DeVere took a seat on the other side of the desk and fingered his chin. “Malby will kick up the Devil of a fuss. He won’t let go of her fortune too easily.”

  He shook his head. “No, I’m inclined to agree to Malby’s demands. Can’t be too long before the old goat kicks the bucket; then your sister will be free.” He shifted in his chair to unfob his snuffbox. “Of course, if you could see your way clear to wedding Lady Rosamund…”

  That took only a moment to sink in. Griffin shot to his feet. “You bastard,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “You are blackmailing me.”

  DeVere rose also and met his gaze squarely. “Blackmail? I am reminding you of your obligations to a gently bred lady, sir! That I should have to enforce those obligations makes you the bastard, not me. But mark me well, Griffin, it will be no skin off my nose to get your sister off my hands and into Malby’s bed. Indeed, it would put me to a vast deal of trouble to renege on the arrangement. But I’ll do it if it means you’ll take Lady Rosamund to wife.”

  He paused. “So. Which is it to be?”

  Griffin clenched his jaw so hard, he thought it might crack. DeVere wasn’t cruel, but he was bloody-minded, sometimes to the point of cutting off his nose to spite his face.

  Damn the old earl for not making Griffin Jacks’s guardian! DeVere was only a distant cousin, and he didn’t give a fig about the girl. He didn’t care about anyone in this benighted family, did he? All he cared about was increasing the wealth and standing of the deVeres.

  It was a profound source of disgruntlement to Oliver, Lord deVere, that his branch of the family hadn’t advanced beyond the title of baron. Like so many of his hot-tempered ancestors, deVere could never stay on the right side of the reigning sovereign long enough to climb any higher in the peerage.

  After a prolonged pause, Griffin spoke. “Let me understand you. If I agree to marry Lady Rosamund as soon as may be, you will set my sister free of that nauseating betrothal?”

  DeVere grunted. “That’s right.”

  “I want Jacks to have a season,” said Griffin. “I want full approval of a list of candidates, and she will have her pick among them. My sister must marry, but she will not be made miserable. Not if I have any say in it.”

  DeVere held up a warning finger. “There’ll be no silly romantical notions planted in the chit’s head, d’ye hear me?”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Griffin grimly.

  His chest eased a little at the prospect of seeing Jacks again. “I’ll open the town house. Do the thing properly. I won’t have that Warrington witch playing chaperone, mind. And that chinless whelp of a son of hers will not go near my sister again.”

  If he let Lady Warrington chaperone Jacks, the grasping harridan would do her best to scuttle the girl’s prospects with the ton.

  Come to think of it, Jacks might not need any help in that direction.…

  “From what I’ve seen of her, the chit is likely to be recalcitrant,” said deVere, as if echoing Griffin’s thoughts. “And she’s a graceless wench, besides.” He shook his head. “The season doesn’t start for a couple of months yet. You have a lot of work to do in the meantime.”

  DeVere didn’t know the half of it. He could just imagine what his sister would have to say about the prospect of a London debut.

  But if he could see her settled and content, he would be well pleased.

  Of course, the price he would pay for his sister’s happiness was his own abject humiliation, but she would never know that. No one would ever know how much it cost him to take Lady Rosamund Westruther as wife.

  Truly, it amazed him that the Westruthers had let matters get this far. Despite his and Rosamund’s disastrous first meeting three years ago, Lady Rosamund had not fled Pendon Place then and there. The formal betrothal had proceeded, regardless of Griffin’s objections.

  His grandfather had been mightily amused at the disparity between Griffin’s brutish
form and the poised, delicious confection Griffin’s fiancée presented. The shame of suffering his grandsire’s open ridicule in front of Rosamund herself still burned like acid in Griffin’s gut.

  Then the old earl’s health had taken an abrupt turn for the worse, postponing the wedding as he lingered for months on the brink of death. His demise had required a suitable mourning period. Besides, Griffin had been far too occupied in bringing the estate into order to trouble himself with a bride.

  And now, there was that damnable business with Allbright.

  But he had to admit the truth, if only to himself. For almost three years, he had seized every possible excuse to avoid actually tying the knot with Lady Rosamund Westruther.

  He’d never forget the way she made him feel that first day they met. Overgrown and hideous, undeserving and furious at his own inadequacy. He’d fallen ludicrously short of her expectations, but she’d been so damned plucky, so gladly determined to make the best of it.

  It was her cursed cheerful dauntlessness that rankled the most. At least if she’d behaved like a spoiled heiress, he could have some basis on which to despise her.

  If only he hadn’t let his animal instincts overcome him and kissed her. He’d passed countless nights since that day consumed with a longing to repeat that incandescent experience. He couldn’t sleep for thinking of her sweet, fragrant softness. If—when—they married, he’d have to live and breathe every day beside that delicious temptation, knowing she must hold him in aversion and contempt.

  Griffin closed his eyes. His grandfather still had the power to torture him, even from the grave.

  But he couldn’t consider his own stupid pride. His sister must come first.

  And he needed to get Jacks away from Pendon Place for good. For a lady of Jacqueline’s station, that meant one thing: marriage.

  “I’ll trust you to come up with a list of eligibles,” he told deVere. “Young men, mind, honorable, pox free, and in possession of all their teeth.”

  “She’s a difficult gel,” said deVere. “I can draw up a list of possibilities. I can’t promise they’ll agree.”