The Earl's American Heiress (HQR Historical)

by Carol Arens

  “Hmm...well, I think I rather do.”

  And so the night went. He told her about his life on the country estate; she told him about hers in Los Angeles.

  In the deep wee hours of the dark he spoke of Oliver. Of the heartache of missing his brother, of how even in despair he’d felt betrayed by him for leaving everything in financial ruin.

  In turn she spoke of Madeline, how afraid she was for her cousin, and yet at the same time how she felt betrayed.

  They had that in common, guilt and grief, even though to her knowledge her cousin still lived. But it did remain that she was bitter at Madeline for breaking Grandfather’s heart.

  Now, looking at her husband’s profile while he gazed up at the ceiling talking about something she had lost track of, she knew she did not resent her cousin on her own behalf.

  Try as she might, she could not see Heath and Madeline being a good match. On the other hand—

  Warm lips brushed her cheek. Yes, on the other hand, she wondered if she and Heath might do very well together.

  “We need to get some sleep,” he said. “I’ve a surprise for you in the morning.”

  He gathered her closer to him, rested his cheek on the top of her hair.

  “What is it?”

  “Shh...it’s a surprise.”

  She felt her hair stir when he smiled.

  Chapter Eight

  Dressed and ready for the day, Heath stood beside his bride’s bed, watching her sleep.

  While he was anxious to reveal the surprise, that he was taking her on a trip home to Derbyshire, he wanted to savor the moment of simply gazing at her.

  She had not stirred earlier when he had eased out of their warm bed, touched the cold floor with his bare feet.

  Nor had she moved when he stroked her fine red hair and brushed his lips across her forehead. No doubt if she knew what he had been thinking about in the moment she would have leaped from the bed in outrage.

  She claimed to have enough restraint for both of them. He, on the other hand, had the restraint of a bee buzzing about a spring blossom.

  As eager as he was to take her home, he was just as eager to climb back under the covers with her and finish a conversation they had been having last night about the hot winds that swooped out of the mountains near Los Angeles in the wintertime and turned everything dry and brittle.

  Or perhaps he was happy enough to just stand beside the bed and watch one corner of her mouth twitch, to memorize the fine arch of her brows.

  Clementine’s eyes blinked open. She stretched and smiled, and he found he could not speak a word. All of a sudden Heath forgot there was a reason he was standing here at all. The only thought in his mind was that she was completely and utterly beautiful.

  “Good morning,” she said, snapping him out of his odd daze.

  “Good morning.” Better than good, he expected it to be grand. “Are you ready for your surprise?”

  She eased up to her elbows, glancing at the rumpled bedclothes and then at her sleeping gown. “It depends upon what the surprise is.”

  “I’m taking you on a visit home, to Derbyshire.”

  She leaped from the bed with a laugh, her wild red hair in a riot of curls over her face and shoulders.

  The moment, as common as a moment could be, seemed to him like it was a bit profound, and shook him in a delightful way.

  For the first time in his life, he had been with a woman when she woke in the morning.

  It left him feeling husbandly, protective. It was as if he had been entrusted with something—not helpless, she was not that—but something precious.

  She was his to watch over and he found he was grateful for it.

  He might easily have been resentful, angry to have been forced into a life he hadn’t chosen—but no, he was thankful.

  Because of his position, marriage was something he was duty bound to carry through with. Any woman with a fortune might have been his lifelong companion. She might have been an unlovely shrew.

  Now, watching Clementine’s joy over the prospect of visiting her new home, he felt quite blessed.

  * * *

  “I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you, grieving for your brother and at the same time having to leave this place. Derbyshire is breathtaking.”

  He gazed out of the carriage window, imagining he was seeing the rolling green hills for the first time, just as it would look to her.

  Had he been able to look ahead in time to this moment it might have eased the crushing blow of his brother’s death somewhat. Foreseeing that he would continue to breathe, would rise in the morning and do what was required of him and, in the end, be bringing his wife to Fencroft Manor—yes, he would’ve been very grateful.

  He’d heard that adage—“Life goes on”—and now he knew it firsthand. While he would always shed tears for Oliver at unexpected moments, he would also laugh.

  “You would know something of that since you did the same thing.”

  “I’m not grieving for Madeline. Only heartsick with worry. And as for having to take her place?” She swung her gaze away from the window, let it settle upon him. “Things might have been a great deal worse.”

  “I hope in time—” once the business with Slademore was finished, once and for all “—we can spend most of our time here. It’s beautiful every season of the year.”

  “Everything looks so green and fresh. Are those white buildings the town?”

  He nodded. “Village more than town. Sometimes I like to get out of the carriage and take a walk through before going on to the manor house.”

  “Oh, yes! Let’s do that.”

  Heath tapped on the carriage roof. The carriage slowed down and a moment later Creed opened the door.

  Stepping down quickly, Heath turned and took Clementine’s hand to help her down. He might have let his coachman do it but he did not want to miss the chance to touch her, even for the briefest moment.

  She was his wife and by rights he ought to be able to touch her whenever it was proper. He would have to keep reminding himself that what was proper was not what was right, at least not for him. Not until Slademore was no longer a danger.

  Heath stood still, closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. Fresh country air filled him up, cleansed his body of the smog of London. The sounds of birds in the bushes and the gurgling rush of the river nearby cleansed him of the hectic noise of town.

  He opened his eyes and saw that Clementine appeared to be doing the same thing.

  “We can walk through the village or along the river,” he suggested, letting go of her fingers. “Whichever you prefer.”

  “The village, I think. Your tenants will want to know you are home.”

  They walked up a low grassy rise to get to the road leading to the village.

  “I’ve no doubt they already know.” He touched her under the elbow to lead her up. “But it’s you they’ll be anxious to see. Fencroft Manor has been without a mistress for a long time now.”

  “Perhaps the river, then.”

  Before they could shift course, a child emerged from the blacksmith’s and ran across the knoll, carrying a handful of wildflowers. It was too late to take the river walk.

  He was only the first of dozens of people to come out of the half-mile-long row of shops and homes, bearing flowers and good wishes.

  Clementine tucked the bunches of flowers into the crook of her arm, smiling graciously as each one was presented.

  As soon as they left the village Clementine spotted the manor house, its roof just visible beyond a large grove of fruit trees.

  “There are a great many children living here.” Clementine glanced back over her shoulder to see them standing at the edge of the village, waving their hands.

  He stopped, touched her elbow. “They do not know how close they came to being put
out. Because of you they never will know. We really have no way of giving you the thanks you deserve.”

  “The flowers are thanks—but tell me, do they know how to read?”

  “Yes, and write. Most of them anyway. We have a teacher who lives in the village.”

  “I see.” The flowers sagged in the crook of her arm and she watched the ground while she walked.

  “Teaching means so much to you?”

  “It rather does, yes.”

  “Working for a wage is not what a countess does.” But surely if it was what she wanted? It was not right that everyone benefited from this marriage but her. “But they do volunteer. Charity work is acceptable. Would you want to do that if I can find a good cause? Will that suit?”

  She gasped, lunged for him and squeezed him tight. Blossoms and leaves from her bouquet tickled the back of his neck.

  “It would suit.” She let go of him far too quickly. “Honestly, Heath, I was within a moment of stealing away to the stables to teach the chickens.”

  The image put a picture in his mind—Clementine standing in front of a row of hens clucking on a fence, while she instructed them in their ABCs. It made him laugh out loud. By the time he had finished chuckling over it, the house had come fully into view.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “It’s not so grandly formal as some we’ve passed by, and I adore it!”

  “You do? Truly?”

  “I can scarce believe I will get to live here.” She hugged the flowers to her chest.

  Nor could he. Somehow this marriage of convenience was becoming quite a bit more.

  * * *

  If Los Angeles was the City of Angels then Derbyshire would be the angels’ vacation spot.

  Clementine stood on the wide front porch, watching the sun go down. In the distance she saw daylight dim on the tops of village buildings. Night shadows crept across emerald green hills. From where she stood, she saw sheep huddling together for the night.

  The manor house was large, but for all its size it felt comfortable. It would be a fine place to raise children if she were blessed with them. Of course it was far too soon in her unusual marriage to give the matter more than a passing thought.

  So far there had been only two kisses between her and Heath, the splendid one when they’d become engaged and the one to seal their vows. She did not know a great deal about the marriage bed, but she did know that children did not happen because of a kiss.

  All that might come in time, but for now her mind was happily occupied wondering about Heath’s promise to find a way for her to teach.

  She hoped it would be soon, or she really would begin teaching livestock.

  A figure on horseback emerged from the grove of fruit trees between the house and the village. Her heart softened when she recognized that it was Heath.

  He drew the horse to a halt at the foot of the porch steps, giving her a wide, happy grin.

  Oh, but that smile was finding a place in her heart. And didn’t he look happy to be home? It was as if, in leaving London behind, a load was lifted from his shoulders.

  “Come. The tenants are having a celebration in honor of your arrival.” He straightened, reaching his hand for her.

  When was the last time she had ridden double on a horse?

  Never was when. She was not sure—

  Heath wagged his hand at her. “You will enjoy this.”

  So far she had enjoyed everything about Fencroft Manor, so she skipped—nearly skipped, anyway—down the steps.

  Heath leaned down, placed his arm about her waist and swept her up behind him.

  Oh—my, but he was strong. For some reason that made her insides shiver.

  Coming out on the far side of the orchard path, she heard music—happy music. If she was required to dance to it she would not know how.

  As they entered the village, the laughter of men and women along with the higher voices of children came to her.

  The aroma of a dozen different kinds of food filled her senses at one time.

  In California they would have called this a fiesta. Many times Madeline had sought Clementine out in the seclusion of the garden and whisked her off for an evening of fun.

  This, she thought, glancing at fiddlers, dancers and children dashing happily about, was nothing at all like a ball.

  Instead of sidelong glances making her feel unwelcome, greetings, smiles and wishes for a blessed future met her.

  “You are tapping your foot to the music.” Heath nudged her in the arm with his elbow. “Would you like to dance?”

  “Oh, that would be lovely, but I don’t know the steps to these dances.”

  He winked, smiled and led her by the hand to the spot by the river where the carriage had let them off. The music was fainter here but she could still hear it clearly enough.

  “Now we can dance in any way we choose and no one will see us,” he said, sweeping his arm about her waist and pulling her close to him.

  He took a small step sideways and then another in the other direction.

  “I do not recall this dance, Heath.”

  It was more like swaying to the music.

  “It’s better for conversation.”

  “Hmm, I believe you are right.”

  From the side of her vision she saw their moonlit shadows meld into one. Saw the dark shape of Heath’s arm come up and toward her face. She felt the rough texture of his finger when it stroked her cheek.

  “You are very soft,” he whispered.

  “Am I? No one has ever pointed that out.”

  “I am honored to be the first, then.”

  He would be the first for many things—she hoped.

  “Are you warm enough? It’s getting chilly.”

  “Just warm enough.” The truth was, cool air was beginning to seep through her gown, but she would not give up this moment for a mere chill.

  She closed her eyes to better hear the violin and the rush of the river flowing past—to better appreciate the warmth of Heath’s hand at her waist, the hint of his heated breath on her nose.

  “Are you lonely?” he asked. “You must miss your grandfather.”

  “It’s not the first time he’s gone away on a trip, but—”

  How did she explain what she was feeling?

  “But you have never been without everyone and everyplace familiar to you?”

  “There was always Madeline, and some of the staff at home were like family, so I always felt secure even when Grandfather went away.”

  “And now?”

  “I’ll be glad when he returns.” Of course she would. “But I like being here in this moment. In this place—with you.”

  “This is your home now. You see how welcome you are.” He caught her chin, lifted it so that she could look nowhere but into his eyes while they “danced.” “And I am your husband—you will always be safe with me.”

  Chapter Nine

  The visit to Derbyshire had not lasted nearly long enough. She hadn’t wanted to leave. Neither had Heath, but he had promised they would return soon.

  Even given the short time she had spent there, it had begun to feel like home.

  Today, walking in the town house garden, Clementine found she did not keep constant watch on the balcony of Grandfather’s apartment in hopes of seeing he had returned.

  While she did miss him, she did not think of him with endless longing. She wondered how he was faring. But as far as yearning went, her feelings had shifted.

  Just now she yearned for the night to come in hopes that Heath would once again share her bed.

  It was all very chaste but she was glad he hadn’t chosen his own room to sleep in. Given that he was gone all day, nighttime was the only time they had to get to know one another more deeply.

  At the same time, she was not
so naive as to not realize there was some simmering going on under the covers.

  Just how well would they need to know one another before he would act upon it? Last night, she’d felt that with only the slightest encouragement, he would have kissed her. She was certain it would not have been his usual buss to the tip of her nose and a “Sweet dreams, sleep well.”

  For now she would focus her thoughts on his promise to find her a voluntary teaching position.

  He was, she thought, a man she could trust to keep his word.

  To keep his word in everything. Olivia was mistaken in her belief that he had a mistress. When he vowed he did not have one, she believed him.

  She sighed. The large shrub beside her rustled. Surely she had not exhaled that hard.

  While she stared at it a flash of blue fabric moved within the leaves.

  “Hello, kitty, kitty,” she crooned.

  “Meow,” purred a familiar four-year-old voice.

  She crouched down, parted the branches and looked into a pair of blinking violet-blue eyes. It was Victor. “Poor kitten, are you hiding from your governess again?”

  “Kitties don’t need them.”

  “I suppose not.” She touched his hair, as if petting it. “If there was a boy hiding in here, why would he be, do you think?”

  “His mean old governess would want him to read a book and he doesn’t know how to.”

  He pushed her hand away. The leaves hid him once again.

  “I would imagine not, if the boy was only four years old.”

  “He would be.”

  “I suppose someone of that age might be curious about the story, though. He might even have stuffed the book in his back pocket.”

  “Meow.”

  “Poor little fellow might like to have it read to him.”

  A small hand shot out between the leaves, gripping the book.

  Settling down upon the chilly stones, Clementine arranged her skirt around her.

  When she opened the book and began to read, what was out of kilter in her life shifted back into place.

  “Master Victor!” a strident voice called, silencing the happy twitter of birds.