The Earl's American Heiress (HQR Historical)

by Carol Arens

  “Seeking answers to a dilemma. And you—have you run afoul of a cat again and come here to escape it?”

  He could hardly be offended, not when she looked up at him with good humor winking in her eyes.

  “Also seeking answers to a dilemma.”

  She sat back down, turning a fraction to the side to make way for her small, fashionable bustle. She patted the bench.

  “I recognize that it isn’t proper to be alone together in the garden, but I do not happen to have a chaperone at the moment.”

  “At the first sign of footsteps I promise to dive beneath that bush.” He indicated a large, dense rosebush behind the bench. Thorns be damned, he wanted to spend time with this lady who, he expected, was far different than the one he would be wedding in a very short time. “Will you not be missed?”

  “No doubt I’m being sought as we speak—but I am in no hurry to be found.”

  Did she not value her employment? Although she hardly appeared to be in service.

  Still, sitting down beside Miss Fitz seemed the most natural thing in the world to do. Had he been in the same situation with anyone but this forthright American, he would have immediately fled. Being alone in the dark of night with one of the debutantes would have found him at the altar within a fortnight.

  At the altar with expectations of love and romance. Much better he wed the heiress and be free of such entanglements.

  “Nor am I.” He smiled at her. It might be the most genuine pleasure he’d taken in that gesture since he’d last seen her. “You look quite fetching, by the way.”

  Fetching in a very expensive way. Odd, that.

  “My grandfather has been very lavish in making me look like an exquisite doll.”

  “I tip my hat to him. He has succeeded beyond measure.”

  “Grandfather always succeeds when it comes to me. I do his will quite obediently on most occasions. It is my downfall, I’m afraid.”

  “I find it hard to believe you are submissive.”

  “Loyal, I think, rather than that.”

  “And what loyal act are you hiding from out here?”

  “Marriage.” The thought flashed through his mind that some fellow was a very lucky man. “He has arranged one for me and I am not at all sure the fellow and I will suit.”

  He had more in common with Jane Fitz than she knew.

  “Have you spoken to him about how you feel?”

  “I’ve told him I would only go through with the marriage if I found the man was someone whom I could respect. My fear is that I will not even find him tolerable.”

  “You should not marry a man you cannot tolerate. I support you in that.”

  “Do you? I appreciate your saying so. I’ve been quite alone in my concern over it. I can scarce believe I’ve told you, a stranger, about it.”

  “It’s because I am a stranger. I think it’s easier to speak one’s mind openly to someone one does not know. Although I do feel we are no longer quite strangers. But tell me, why do you believe this fellow will not suit?”

  “We were supposed to meet for the first time tonight and yet he has not had the courtesy of emerging from the gaming room.” Wasn’t that one of life’s odd coincidences? He had yet to meet his bride as had been arranged, either. “I believe he might not be the most stable of men. I have no wish to act the fellow’s keeper.”

  Heath had taken a brief walk through the game room tonight. Slademore had been in attendance, but surely he was not the man she meant. Which of them could she have been speaking of? None of them appeared to have anything in mind but cards, or, if he was a footman, serving the gentlemen.

  Gentleman or servant, none of them seemed to be anticipating meeting a bride for the first time.

  “Perhaps circumstances prevented him from meeting you.”

  “I sincerely hope not.” Her brows arched. Her chin lifted while she looked steadily into his eyes.

  “I’m sure it’s only that he had a duty—”

  “A duty to his cards? Never mind. Time will tell if I consent to wed him or not.” She lifted her shoulders with a sigh, gave her head a slight shake. “And what drives you out into the night, Mr. Ramsfield?”

  “Much the same thing as you. Apparently we are kindred spirits.” Somehow, speaking to Miss Fitz seemed comfortable. Even knowing he should not be out here alone with her, he wanted to talk all night long. “Shall I call for a chaperone?”

  “I’m hardly a blushing child. Besides, we’ve been alone long enough already to be thoroughly compromised. Calling for a chaperone will only draw attention to the fact. No doubt we would be forced to marry and I surmise that you are promised to another?”

  “Bound and fettered.” He should not have revealed that. It was a thought best kept to himself.

  Overhead, he heard the soft pattering of raindrops. Dense leaves of the rosebush growing over the arbor kept the moisture from penetrating, at least for the moment.

  “I must say—” she arched one pretty brow “—that attitude does not bode well for a blessed union.”

  He nodded. “You understand that, I believe?”

  “Sadly, I do. Still, I do not have to go through with it. Although it will be at the cost of crushing my grandfather’s heart. He’s had one granddaughter do that already. But you, are you so bound that you cannot walk away from it?”

  A drop of water must have hit her nose because she lifted her hand and brushed it off. If only he had been the one to whisk it away. For some reason he desperately wanted to feel the warmth of her skin under his thumb.

  “Yes, I am. There are many people who would be destitute if I walked away from my duty.”

  “Birds of a feather are what we appear to be, Mr. Ramsfield. If only we were free to take wing and fly away.”

  Rain began to leak down the leaves. A torch on the path glowed dimly on Miss Fitz’s face and revealed a smattering of raindrops across the bridge of her nose.

  “I find that I would not mind flying away with you,” he admitted.

  Nor would he mind kissing her. He ought to have summoned a chaperone. This was dangerous ground he was treading.

  Hell, not treading so much as dashing headlong over. Helpless to do otherwise, he lifted his hand, smoothed away the raindrops from that fine sharp nose with his fingertips.

  “I say we do.” She smiled and winked. “Let’s ruffle our feathers and take to the sky, just the two of us.”

  “Yes, well.” He shook his head, trying to clear it of the delightful fog swirling in his brain. “It would be a great scandal if I kissed you.”

  Had he murmured that aloud?

  “Immense—but only if someone knew about it.”

  She was bold and sassy.

  She completely captivated him.

  “Or if we were legally bound to others,” he foolishly pointed out. Had he lost his mind?

  “I have yet to give my word on anything.”

  “And I have yet to meet my ball and chain.” He cupped the back of her head, felt the slickness of the rain on the strands of her hair. Lifting her chin with his fingertips he bent toward her rain-dotted lips. “Fly away with me, Jane Fitz.”

  “Clementine Jane Macooish!” At the sound of the deep voice, Heath’s head jerked up. “Have you lost your mind?”

  He stared into the furious expression of an older man.

  “Take your hands off my granddaughter, sir.”

  What? Oh...he was still cupping the back of Jane’s head. As if under water, good sense stroked toward the surface of his brain. And what had the man called her—Macooish?

  “On the contrary, Grandfather.” Jane, or Clementine, slowly stood up, her brows arched in a most becoming, if rebellious, way. “I’m quite certain I’ve just found it.”

  “Have you found her?” asked a voice Heath recognized.

  N
ow might be the time to leap for the rose bush.

  “I tell you, I only stopped for a conversation with Lady Claremont and she disappeared from my—”

  The duchess’s face popped into view. Her mouth sagged open.

  “Lord Fencroft!” Feeling rather like a worm in the grass with everyone staring down at him, he stood.

  Her Grace’s eyes blinked furiously while she sought words appropriate for this compromising situation—this horrid breach of hospitality.

  “Fencroft?” Miss Macooish spun toward him.

  “Macooish?” He swiveled his gaze toward her.

  Miss Macooish’s mouth worked silently. Not for lack of words, he thought, but because of an abundance of them. He imagined she did not know which ones to fire at him first.

  * * *

  Clementine hardly knew what to say. Words fumbled on her tongue vying for utterance.

  Grandfather, however, suffered no such confusion.

  “Charlatan! Scoundrel! Seducer!” He stood nose to nose with the man, poking his chest with a stab of his finger upon each heated word. A roll of thunder might have been taken as agreement. “Reprobate!”

  Appearing somewhat blanched, the duchess tugged on Grandfather’s sleeve.

  “Mr. Macooish! You are speaking to the Earl of Fencroft!”

  “What foolishness is this?” Grandfather swiveled his gaze and settled it on Lady Guthrie. “I’ve met the earl and this is not him.”

  “You met my late brother.” The deceiver’s handsome mouth turned tight and pale at the corners. “Did you not read about his passing in the papers?”

  In spite of what was happening, in spite of the hot fist squeezing her belly, it could not be denied that he had a handsome mouth and that she had nearly kissed it.

  All of a sudden she saw the bluster rush out of Grandfather, and the words that the man had spoken settled in her brain.

  Oliver Cavill had passed away? It could not be! His poor family must be devastated.

  Considering how the new earl must be wretched with grief, she decided it would not be right to hold his deception too harshly against him.

  “Ah, well, we have been traveling and not caught all the news.” Grandfather withdrew his finger, curled it into his fist and took a backward step. “My condolences on your bitter loss, my lord.”

  The earl nodded curtly.

  “Macooish?” he asked in a gruff voice.

  Footsteps crunched on the pathway. The lovers she had heard cooing at each other earlier were no doubt retreating from the rain. Lady Guthrie turned to look at them when they slowed down to gape at the unfolding scandal.

  Clementine could not see the expression the duchess shot at the pair but they hurried away.

  “James Macooish.” Grandfather nodded. “The young lady you were accosting is my granddaughter, Clementine.”

  In all honesty, accosting was a harsh word to describe what had happened. She had been a willing participant, at least until the point when the man’s true identity had been revealed.

  She was certain Grandfather had not brought up the word idly. No, she knew well enough that he was trying to point out that the current earl had overstepped his bounds and must now live up to his brother’s agreement.

  He had to, of course—or face ruin.

  For a time the only sound was rain pelting leaves and stones.

  Then the earl pinned her with a glower.

  “Jane—Fitz, was it not?”

  Oh, no, titled or not, this man had no right to judge her.

  She arched a brow at him as imperiously as she knew how. The fact that Heath Cavill was in mourning did not excuse his behavior and given the hardness in his expression...well, sympathy did have its limits. “Mr. Ramsfield?”

  “You do not look at all the way my brother described you—Madeline.”

  “No, I would not since I am not. Madeline has run off rather than marry for a title. An event that leaves me as your ever-so-wealthy ball and chain.”

  “Clementine.” Grandfather spoke in a soothing tone. “I’m sure no lasting harm was done. There is no need to be—”

  The duchess huffed. Being the closest to the woman, Clementine was certain the sound disguised a curse.

  The Earl of Fencroft spun about and walked away with his shoulders hunched against the rain. He stopped a short distance away, staring at a bush.

  Thunder pounded closer than before. Clementine felt the echo of it shiver through the stones under her soaked slippers.

  “Fencroft,” Her Grace stated, her tone blade-sharp. If he spoke one word in his defense—of which there could be none—he would be cut.

  He whirled around, his black coat swinging wide. After staring hard at the three of them, he strode back.

  “I’m willing to carry on with our agreement.” This he stated, locking gazes, not with Grandfather, but with her.

  “Why, that is very magnanimous of you, my lord.” Surely everyone heard the distain—all right, the sneer—in her voice. “But as you recall I told you that I would only wed a man I could respect. Therefore, I do not agree to this marriage.”

  “Clementine!” Grandfather’s gasp sounded as shocked as she’d ever heard. But what was she to do? Marry someone who concealed his identity and then tried to steal, or coax, a kiss? How would she ever trust him?

  “That, my dear,” the duchess announced, “is no longer a matter of choice for you. The damage to both of your reputations is done.”

  “I believe I will survive it.”

  “And so you might,” she said with a very noble-looking tilt of her head, “were you back in America. But here you are in my garden.”

  And that was all she had to say to Clementine.

  Shifting her attention to Heath Cavill, the duchess said, “You may announce the engagement tomorrow. People will assume the two of you were overcome with romance and give this lapse in judgment a wink. The wedding will be three weeks hence and not a day later.”

  The duchess placed her hand on Grandfather’s arm, looking composed even in the midst of the transgression tainting her garden and a deluge of rain coming down upon her head.

  Watching Grandfather hitch one shoulder and then the other while he walked away, she knew he was grinning like a loon in mating season.

  For one dreadful moment she and the earl simply stared at one another.

  “Her Grace is right, you know,” he said at last. “There is no help for it. We’ll have to wed.”

  This changed nothing for him since it was his intention all along. But she had anticipated having a choice—or at the very least the appearance of a choice.

  She spun away from His Earlness.

  “Bound and fettered, indeed,” she muttered and then walked the path back to the mansion, keeping ten paces ahead of him.

  * * *

  Midmorning sun cast leafy shadows across the garden stones. It seemed to Heath that there had to be at least a dozen birds in each bush, every one of them in full song.

  It might have been a perfect morning, for all that it mattered. Miss Macooish’s parting words were still ringing in his ears.

  Bound and fettered, indeed.

  Oh, he’d expected to marry—was obligated to do so. The problem was, he hadn’t anticipated this scandal to go with it. What was more, he had not expected to take such a great deal of pleasure in the heiress’s company.

  Not at all. This marriage of necessity was supposed to be as devoid of emotion as—as an egg—as the stone under his boot.

  He strolled along the path leading from the patio to the fountain, kicking at a pebble and cursing his luck.

  Had the intended Madeline been his bride, he could have simply filled her days with shopping and her nights with entertainment and then neatly set her to the back of his mind. She would live her life and he would live his, together and
yet apart.

  Not so with Clementine. He’d foolishly wished for someone like her to marry. He doubted that he would ever be able to confine that lady to the back of his mind.

  Had he not, even at this moment, been scanning the balconies of the apartments on the other side of the garden hoping to get a glimpse of her?

  Not that he expected her to look down with smiles and blow kisses in pleasure at seeing him. Nor did he want that if it happened. Life with his beautiful and intriguing bride was going to be a difficult thing as it was.

  Given nurture, he had no doubt that a bond could grow between the two of them.

  He did not want a bond—could not form one if he did.

  He and Creed could hardly respond to their informers’ notes while he had to explain his absence to a wife who shared his bed.

  Somehow he was going to have to find a way to keep his bride out of his heart and out of his bed.

  It was not going to be easy. Clementine Jane Macooish had already taken a long step inside his heart before he knew to post the No Trespassing sign.

  A movement from one of the balconies three floors up snapped his gaze toward it.

  It was not Miss Macooish but her grandfather.

  Coming to the edge of the balcony, the sturdy old man placed his hands upon the rail, took a deep breath of morning air and smiled down.

  “Good day to you, my lord,” Macooish said. “I trust you slept well.”

  With the exception of the night his brother died, he could not imagine one worse.

  “Yes, and you?”

  “As well as one can when one’s granddaughter is stomping the halls at all hours. She is a sweet thing, loyal to a fault, but strong-willed to go with it. I expect you ought to get that special license before she sets sail back to America.”

  Macooish was grinning when he said it, so Heath tried not to stress overmuch that she actually would.

  “My solicitor is paying a visit to the Archbishop of Canterbury as we speak, sir. We’ll have the wedding within the duchess’s time allowance.”

  There was more he needed to say, but how?

  In the end it was Macooish who spoke first.