Mad About the Earl

by Christina Brooke

  Shock slammed into her like a fist. Nausea curdled her stomach. To her horror and disgust, tears pressed at the backs of her eyes.

  On some level, she must have guessed his true intentions, mustn’t she? It was too, too stupid of her to be sitting here getting propositioned and never have had an inkling that his intentions were so base. Her mother had been right.

  Lauderdale raised her nerveless hand to his lips. He’d released her before she could rouse herself to react or snatch her hand away.

  Conscious that they were in public, she lowered her voice, battling to keep the shock and dismay from showing on her face. “You assume far too much, Captain Lauderdale. I have no intention of entering into any kind of liaison with you.”

  He did not appear at all chastened. He merely gave her a smug, knowing smile. “We’ll see about that, shall we? Lord, Rosamund, that oaf wouldn’t know the first thing about pleasing a woman.” Again, his dark gaze flicked over her body. “But I assure you, my dear, I do. By the time you’ve been married a few months, you’ll be begging me to take you.”

  He must have seen the stark horror in her eyes because his brows snapped together. After a moment, he said, “Good God, are you asking me to believe you are shocked? A daughter of the great Lady Steyne? No, no, my dear. Doing it rather too brown, I fear.”

  Hysteria bubbled up inside her. She could laugh at how she’d fretted and fussed, terrified of hurting the captain’s precious feelings. He had no feelings at all for her beyond physical desire. He was in love with her face and figure, just as the rest of them were.

  She shot to her feet, betrayal and anger tumbling inside her.

  Lauderdale rose, too, and was about to say more when Andrew materialized beside Rosamund and handed her a glass of champagne.

  She could have thrown herself upon her cousin’s chest and sobbed her thanks down his pristine waistcoat. Thank God! Thank God for Andy.

  Rosamund took the champagne with a trembling hand and sipped, welcoming the cool tingle of bubbles on her tongue.

  Andrew addressed Lauderdale. “I believe you have another appointment somewhere else, my friend.” His manner was affable, but there was steel in that lazy, cultured drawl.

  “Quite right, Lydgate.” Easily, Lauderdale bowed to both of them, while contriving to send her a covert glance that was hot with desire. “I’ll see you both at Lady Buckham’s soiree.”

  I hope not, thought Rosamund.

  She watched him stride away, so godlike in his regimentals, so invincible and perfect. A vain, self-centered coxcomb of a man. Inwardly, she shuddered at what a fool she’d been to believe he had any finer feelings toward her than mere lust.

  “You are overset. What was that about?” Frowning, Andrew cocked his head in Lauderdale’s direction.

  “Nothing, nothing.” Seeing another group of acquaintances, Rosamund plastered her society smile on her face.

  But Andy persisted. “Did he press his attentions on you? Shall I call him out and kill him for you, m’dearest?” His words were flippant but the expression in his eyes was dangerous.

  She shook her head. “Oh—but, Andy, I…” Her smile was so rigid, it cracked at the edges. She couldn’t hold up her chin for the rest of the evening and pretend all was well. “Andy, will you please take me home?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lydgate had been right about the noise at Limmer’s. Even the effects of his libations in the taproom had not allowed Griffin to sleep through the din. Tired and out of sorts, he paid his shot and left the hotel.

  Lydgate had sent around a note saying he’d made all right with the duke and reiterated his invitation to stay at Montford House. Griffin could only trust that was truly the case as he followed the ancient butler up to his allotted chamber. He’d inquired after Montford, but the duke was not expected back until evening. Lydgate was still abed. No doubt he never rose from it before noon.

  When he’d visited Montford House the previous day, Griffin had been too caught up in his quest to pay much attention to his surroundings. Now, as he followed the butler up the staircase, he had more leisure to observe.

  Grandeur was the word that leaped to mind. This was no ordinary town house like the one he owned in Mayfair, but a free-standing mansion surrounded by its own park.

  The entrance hall had the cold, lofty feel of a cathedral—airy and spacious and filled with echoes. Blind-eyed statues from the Greek pantheon stood spaced between columns surmounted by intricately carved capitals.

  At the turn of the stair, Griffin glanced over the balustrade. Early spring sunshine shafted through a glass dome above to pool like melted butter on the black and white chessboard floor below. The marble tiles gleamed as clean and polished as a dinner plate. Indeed, one probably could eat one’s dinner from it if one chose.

  He grimaced. Only the rodent population would ever contemplate dining off the floors at Pendon Place.

  In dire contrast to his ramshackle abode, this house exuded luxury like an expensive perfume. It was likely to choke him before the week was out.

  When the butler showed him to his chamber, Griffin hesitated on the threshold. He couldn’t remember ever having seen anything so fine. Except … A sudden rush of memory nearly unbalanced him. His mother. Silks, satins, velvets. The cool caress of her lovely hand, flashing with diamonds.

  No. Not diamonds. Emeralds, to match her eyes. How could he have forgotten that?

  Griffin swallowed hard, then became aware that the impassive butler still hovered, waiting for his approval.

  He ought not to gape in front of a servant, even such a well-trained servant as this. A wealthy earl should be accustomed to such finery, not marveling at it.

  He nodded. “This will do.”

  The butler bowed. “I trust you will be comfortable, my lord.” He oversaw the footmen, who delivered Griffin’s modest baggage. “Does your valet follow you, sir?”

  “No,” said Griffin baldly. Couldn’t the man tell he didn’t have a valet?

  “Very good, my lord,” said the butler. “I shall ask Lord Lydgate’s man to assist you.”

  “No need.” He would not dine here tonight or go anywhere that merited a valet’s attentions to his dress. “Hot water in the morning is all I need.” He glanced down at his mud-splashed footwear. “And someone to shine my boots.”

  The butler inclined his head. “I’ll see to it, my lord.”

  With gruff thanks and a generous tip, Griffin dismissed him.

  Griffin stared out the window at the pleasant vista of a garden studded with fountains and flower beds and surrounded by a high stone wall. At the foot of the garden stood a charming summer house, overgrown with purple wisteria. Griffin pictured Rosamund and her friends taking tea there, fluttering around inside it like a flock of butterflies.

  The rarefied tranquility of that scene seemed to heighten his impatience. How long would it take to meet Rosamund’s conditions and get her to the altar? He’d forgotten the exact extent of the frivolity she had in store for him. He frowned. Maybe he should have made her put it in writing so she wouldn’t sneak in any extras.

  He’d been an idiot to agree, of course, but how could he help it? The memory of her lush breasts and slender waist beneath that filmy material tantalized him.

  All that could be mine.

  Yesterday, the image of a vividly pretty girl in a blue riding habit that matched her eyes had been superseded by a stunning siren of a woman, confident in her manner and definite in her opinions. And far more dangerous to his peace—not to mention his sanity—than she’d ever been.

  Instinctively, he knew Rosamund was still an innocent. She might dress in that scandalous costume for a painting, but Rosamund would not have granted any other gentleman her favors, certainly not before she married.

  After she was wed—well, that was a different matter. Despite his insistence that theirs would not be a typical marriage of convenience, he knew how it was with Westruther women—and for that matter, how it was with deVere me
n. In their elevated circle, no one married to please themselves. Naturally, it followed that the participants in such bloodless alliances would look outside marriage for passion.

  In the sophisticated set to which Rosamund’s mother, Lady Steyne, belonged, fidelity was considered deeply unfashionable. A lady was expected to bear her husband the obligatory heir; then she might bed whomever she chose. Husbands were not expected to be faithful at all.

  The notion of Rosamund following the same path as her mother made his stomach churn, made him want to smash his fist into the wall—or into her unknown lover’s face.

  He’d agreed to this marriage under duress while his grandfather lived, before he’d comprehended all the implications. His intended bride had scarcely crossed his mind before he’d met her. Why should she? He’d accepted the old earl’s decree with the vague notion that she must be some kind of antidote for her parents to allow her to throw herself away on someone like him.

  He’d never appreciated the true depths of his grandfather’s malice until he set eyes on the exquisite loveliness that was Lady Rosamund Westruther.

  Lord, to think he’d hoped for a docile, plain girl who’d be content to live out her days in quiet seclusion at Pendon Place! One who wouldn’t interfere with him or demand his attention. One who wouldn’t drive him nigh crazed with lust or make his gut roil with a mess of longings and fears he’d hoped never to experience again.

  How deluded could he have been?

  And now she had him dancing like a performing bear to her tune. Well, he’d go through with the business, if only to speed her to the altar. But he would exact every ounce of the payment she’d promised him in return.

  * * *

  “You cannot be serious,” said Griffin.

  Lydgate sighed. “Of course I am serious. I never joke about anything pertaining to fashion. Tregarth, meet your new valet.”

  Griffin gave the servant a cursory inspection. The man’s height was average, his figure lean. His features were regular, and his manner might best be described as unassuming. He wore a dark coat and a plain waistcoat and blindingly white linen. Altogether, he was as neat as a pin and bland as cream.

  “His name is Dearlove,” said Lydgate.

  “Dearlove?” Griffin stared. “As in ‘Dearlove, where did you put my smalls?’ Or ‘Dearlove, I’ll need a bath drawn in an hour.’ Or—”

  “Yes, yes, I take the point,” said Lydgate testily. He turned to the valet. “What is your given name, my good man?”

  The valet gave a self-deprecating cough. “If you don’t mind, my lord, I’d prefer you didn’t—”

  “Damned if I’ll go around calling him Dearlove,” said Griffin. “Not that I need a valet, mind. But if I did, I’d find something else to call him.”

  Lydgate studied the valet with a gleam of curiosity in his blue eyes. “Your name, Dearlove. Out with it.”

  It might have been Griffin’s imagination, but he thought the corners of the valet’s dark eyes compressed in an infinitesimal wince. “It’s … Ahem. Sweet William, my lord.”

  “Sweet—?” Griffin’s mouth dropped open. He glanced at Lydgate, whose shoulders shook with suppressed mirth. “Hmm. Interesting.”

  “My mother’s choice, my lord. God rest her soul.” The valet assumed a mournful expression, fixing his gaze upon the ceiling.

  After a short struggle, Lydgate mastered himself and clapped his hands together. “Well, that’s all right, isn’t it? You can call him William.”

  “No, sir.” Sweet William Dearlove shook his head, quietly adamant. “My mother would never allow it. She named all of her children for her favorite flowers, you see. I was the only son, and she insisted I was not to be left out. It would be disrespectful to her memory to shorten the name. And, er, I’d prefer Dearlove, if it’s all the same to you.”

  Lydgate rolled his eyes at Griffin in comical dismay.

  “Oh, the Devil!” muttered Griffin, helpless in the face of the servant’s sainted mother. “Dearlove it is.”

  “You won’t notice it after a few weeks, my lord,” said Dearlove helpfully.

  “Right. Well, then.” Lydgate gave the valet’s shoulder a heartening thump. “Come along, both of you. We have work to do.”

  Somehow, Griffin allowed himself to be carried along in Lydgate’s enthusiasm. It wasn’t until they were well on their way that he regrouped sufficiently to mount another protest.

  “What the Hell am I supposed to do with him?” he muttered to Lydgate as they turned into New Bond Street.

  He cut a glance over his shoulder at the soberly garbed individual following dutifully behind them. The fellow was so unobtrusive as to be almost invisible. Griffin found it highly unsettling.

  Lydgate’s lips twitched. “You look as if the bogeyman is at your heels. Dearlove is some sort of cousin to my own valet. He’s a wizard by all accounts, and you’re dashed lucky to get him. On short notice, too.”

  “Most honored, I’m sure,” grunted Griffin. “But I repeat: I do not need a valet!”

  With a put-upon sigh, Lydgate said, “Frankly, I never saw a fellow who stood more in need of one. If you are to dress as befits Lady Rosamund Westruther’s betrothed, you will require assistance. A valet keeps your linen clean and starched, your coats pressed, and your boots shined to perfection. He helps you on with your coat, helps you off with your footwear. He’ll even tie your cravat if you want.”

  Lydgate glanced at the knotted belcher handkerchief at Griffin’s throat and briefly closed his eyes, as if pained by the sight. “I’d avail myself of his services in that direction if I were you.”

  Griffin snorted. “If you’re ashamed to be seen with me in public—”

  “Don’t be absurd,” snapped Lydgate. “If that were the case, I’d have sent you off alone with Dearlove. You’re family now. Don’t be more of a clodpole than you can help.”

  Perversely, his companion’s insult made Griffin feel better. Grinning, he followed Lydgate into the first shop.

  His good humor was short-lived. To his frustration and disgust, he discovered that one could not simply order several suits of clothes in one place and be done with it. According to Lydgate and the estimable Dearlove, the best breeches were made by Meyer, the most splendid waistcoats could be had at Weston’s. It was Lock for hats, Hoby for boots.

  The only cause of discord between these two princes of fashion was over coats.

  Dearlove spoke without heat or inflection, but he was adamant. “My lord, I believe it must be Schweitzer and Davidson.”

  “No, no,” said Lydgate. “Stultz is the man we want.” He gestured at Griffin. “Lord Tregarth’s sheer size ought to tell you that. Stultz makes coats for the military men. He’s our best bet.”

  “If you will permit me to disagree, my lord,” murmured Dearlove. “A military cut is designed to make a figure even more … imposing. What we require is elegance, which, as Your Lordship knows, is all about proportion. And Mr. Schweitzer, you must agree, is a master of proportion when it comes to designing coats.”

  Dearlove went on to explain to Griffin the neoclassical principles of tailoring, which this excellent proponent of the art employed to such great effect.

  Finally noticing that Griffin watched him openmouthed with horror, Dearlove spread his hands with a self-deprecating smile. “It is not necessary for you to comprehend the intricacies of a perfectly fitting coat, my lord. But you may rest assured that Mr. Schweitzer does.”

  To Griffin’s amazement, Lydgate considered this. “Do you know, Dearlove, I believe you’re right.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Schweitzer it is, then,” said the viscount, redirecting his lazy saunter toward Cork Street.

  Griffin raised his gaze to the heavens, shrugged, and followed.

  Purchasing sufficient clothing, undergarments, and accoutrements to stock a gentleman’s wardrobe to Lydgate’s satisfaction took the better part of a week. Griffin suffered through measurings and fittings, traipsing hither
and yon with Lydgate and Dearlove all over Town in search of the most superior example of every item any fashionable gentleman could possibly want or dream of.

  His betrothed’s cousin even insisted on helping him choose various decorative items such as fobs and seals and stickpins for his cravats. In a dazed kind of stupor, Griffin allowed it all. Besides, he’d need a well-stocked clothespress when he brought Jacks to London for the season, so he might as well get it all over and done with in one fell swoop.

  He did, however, reserve the right to grumble.

  After a stultifying interval spent poring over materials for waistcoats one afternoon, Lydgate finally agreed to call a halt. Their Lordships sent Dearlove home in the carriage with their parcels and elected to walk. Lydgate had a commission to perform, so they took a detour to Berkeley Square.

  “Why don’t you stop over at Gunter’s?” suggested Lydgate. “They serve an excellent punch-water ice there. I won’t be long.”

  Assuming from his failure to give an explanation of his mission that Lydgate’s purpose was amorous, Griffin didn’t inquire further. He ambled toward the confectioner’s shop, which displayed the sign of a pineapple as advertisement of its trade.

  The afternoon had grown uncomfortably warm, and he’d had a trying time of it that day. They’d poked and prodded and measured him until his hand itched to hit the next fool who attempted to fondle any part of his person. They’d discussed his physique and conformation with embarrassing depth and candor, as if he were a prize bull, not a man.

  The tailor, Mr. Schweitzer, had been all admiration. He’d gone so far as to liken the proportions of Griffin’s body to those of Gentleman Jackson, the famous boxer whose impressive form had been used as a model for a surprising number of aristocratic portraits.

  Well, of course the tailors all spouted that rubbish, didn’t they? It went with the territory, flattering vain aristocrats in the hope of extracting more business from them.

  Yes, it had been a trying day. The idea of iced punch seemed very enticing.

  The street outside Gunter’s bustled with activity, for most of the shop’s noble patrons did not take their refreshment within the establishment, but rather remained in their own vehicles. A gaggle of carriages collected under the shade of the ancient plane trees near the railed garden in the center of the square, while scurrying waiters wove in and out of passing traffic to ferry orders back and forth.