The Earl's American Heiress (HQR Historical)

by Carol Arens

  “I believe you’ve been found out,” she whispered toward the bush.

  “If you tell on me I’ll never know if there’s really a giant at the top of the beanstalk.”

  “Where did you get to this time, you miserable brat?” the governess mumbled while rounding the corner of the path. “Oh, Lady Fencroft, I didn’t see you.”

  “I imagine you did not.”

  She shifted her weight to further disguise Victor’s hiding place. But given that she was sitting on the stones with the book open on her lap, Victor was sure to be revealed.

  But what was also revealed was the true cause of Victor’s habitual hiding. His governess was a tyrant.

  “Good day, Mrs. Bentley,” she stated, then nodded by way of dismissal. With some difficulty, she resisted the urge to address her as Madame Oppressor, since a countess was supposed to be regal-mannered in all situations and in control of her tongue at all times.

  Mrs. Bentley curtsied while her gaze darted from shrub to fountain to tree.

  “Are you searching for something?” Clementine asked.

  “Master Victor has run off again. Have you seen the boy?”

  “I’m sure he will turn up in good time.” While this was not an answer, neither was it a lie.

  “May I ask what you are holding in your lap, Mrs. Cavill?”

  Clementine pictured the notes Grandfather had written about the correct forms of address. She was fairly certain her title had been disrespected.

  The crafty old bosom must think her dim-witted because she did not acknowledge the insult, but there was a more important issue at hand.

  “As you can see, it’s a child’s book.”

  “It belongs to my charge.” The governess did have an impressive frown.

  Still, it was no match for a Macooish brow arch. “Yes, it does.”

  “If you know where he is, and I believe you do, you must tell me. He’s a stubborn learner and requires a firm, strict hand.”

  “He’s a small boy and must be taught with patience.”

  “I have many years of experience. I do know what is best in this matter.”

  “When it comes to her son, it’s Lady Shaw who knows best. You may take the afternoon off while I discuss the matter with her.”

  “Lady Shaw understands the importance of a strict education. But you are an American. I suppose I must make an allowance. You do come from a country of illiterate cowboys, so one could hardly expect more.” Mrs. Bentley’s expression was the most snobbish she had seen—even among the aristocracy. “But if you like, I will teach you to read Jack and the Beanstalk along with the boy.”

  Victor lunged from the bush and landed in her lap.

  “Cowboys can read! My auntie says so!”

  “There you are, you little beas—Master Victor.”

  Clementine wrapped one arm about Victor’s small ribs. With her free hand, she motioned for the governess to keep her distance.

  A dozen censorious words leaped to the tip of her tongue but another voice spoke before she could settle on one.

  “As it turns out, Mrs. Bentley,” Olivia declared, stepping out from behind the shrub, “having been standing on the other side of this bush for the better part of your conversation, I now understand a good many things.”

  She reached a hand down to her son. He leaped from Clementine’s lap to hide among the folds of his mother’s skirt.

  “My sister-in-law is correct in that you will take the day off. Spend the time packing your belongings, for I am terminating your employment as of this moment.”

  It felt diminishing to be sitting on the ground and having to look up. And her bottom was chilled through. Clementine stood, clutching the book to her chest.

  “Lady Shaw! That woman is turning you against your own kind.”

  Mrs. Bentley made an odd sound in her throat, turned toward Clementine and launched a glob of spittle. It missed her skirt by an inch.

  Clementine withdrew a handkerchief from her sleeve and held it out to the woman. “Surely you did not expect someone to clean up after you.”

  Victor emerged from a swath of brocade and squatted down to give the slime closer inspection. “I’m not allowed to spit since I might be an earl one day—unless I go to America and be a cowboy.”

  “Whatever made you think you are my own kind or the countess’s?”

  “Mother is not allowed to spit, either,” Victor explained.

  * * *

  Two weeks after the spitting incident, Fencroft House hosted a ball.

  The affair was not his wife’s idea but his sister’s.

  Olivia had been disturbed at the disrespect shown to her sister-in-law by a mere governess and was determined that the Cavills would demonstrate to society, from the highest level to the lowest, that Lady Fencroft was not a despised necessity but a member of the family.

  A masterpiece of organization, the gala had come together splendidly. Olivia had a gift for entertaining, and Heath thought the ball would benefit her as much as Clementine.

  Olivia liked a display of pomp when it came to hosting a ball. She was something like Oliver in that. In her opinion there needed to be thousands of candles, lace swags and satin pillows on every chair.

  Clementine allowed it but only to a financially responsible degree.

  In the end the presentation was elegant, with satin cushions for every chair, a smallish twenty-piece orchestra and huge bouquets of flowers everywhere one looked.

  The flowers were requested by Clementine and they filled the air with springtime fragrance, even though it was early autumn.

  As far as balls went, Heath was enjoying this one. Now that he was a married man and his wife was standing beside him, he was no longer pursued by fresh-faced debutantes.

  Standing beside the most beautiful woman in the room and being able to call her his made this more than a pleasant event.

  When he’d first seen Clementine descending the grand staircase in her exquisite blue gown, Heath had nearly tripped on the rug.

  Tenderness overwhelmed him. Admiration caught his breath and snatched it away.

  The Countess of Fencroft was the belle of the ball, her beauty well-bred. From his mother’s comb tucked becomingly in her curls to her slippers winking in the gaslight, she was as much a lady as the queen herself.

  If Clementine was ill at ease being the center of attention, it did not show. Even though he well knew she did feel uncomfortable with it, she put up a good account of acting a peer. She smiled graciously at everyone, even those who clearly resented her for being “the ruin of polite society.”

  Not everyone did, though. Both Olivia and Lady Guthrie made a great show of treating her with respect.

  Since everyone wanted to be in the duchess’s good graces, they would probably follow her lead.

  It could not be long before those who were willing to would know his wife for the genuinely compassionate and sensible countess she was.

  Hours passed, swallowed up in chatting with this baron and that marchioness. All at once he noticed that Clementine was no longer at his side.

  He glanced about but did not see her anywhere.

  “If you will excuse me,” he blurted to the clear surprise of a woman discussing the Plumage League’s campaign to outlaw feathers from hats.

  No doubt his bride had sought a moment of peace. He decided to follow her example.

  His office was the closest place to escape to.

  Walking down the long hallway, he looked at the line of large, potted shrubs spaced a distance of ten feet apart along each wall.

  The greenery reminded him of Derbyshire, of the precious moments he had danced with Clementine beside the river.

  Coming to the spot where two hallways intersected, he heard whispering. There were always whispers. No interesting gathering would be withou
t them.

  He hesitated to cross the hall for fear that he would interrupt a secret liaison.

  Which left him hovering at the corner, a voyeur to each quietly spoken word.

  As it turned out, they were not lovers but gossips. Three of them, perhaps four.

  “Don’t be silly, Glenda. I’m certain the earl would have picked you had he not been forced to marry that American woman.”

  “You do know she planned the encounter in the garden in order to catch him. Why else would he even have looked at her?”

  Because she is exceedingly beautiful, he refrained from shouting. He peeked around the corner so he could see who the women were who thought to judge his wife.

  Three heads were bent together, the speakers so intent on their ugly talk that they did not notice him.

  Even if his marriage had not been arranged with Clementine, he would not have chosen one of them. Not that their plain faces would have mattered, but their mean, shallow attitudes would have.

  “And she is as ordinary as a mouse.”

  “Oh, quite. And not at all interesting. I hoped she would be as lavish in her entertainment as the Duke of Farelone’s American heiress was. Don’t you remember how she hired a trapeze act? Set them up over the ballroom?”

  “It was scandalous how they were dressed! And swinging so low we could nearly touch them.”

  “Emily Blaine! You loved every second of it. In fact, you did try to touch the man. I clearly saw you reach for his—”

  Giggles, giggles and more giggles made him cringe. Made him know how lucky he had been to marry a woman and not a cackling girl.

  He had his mouth open to tell them so, when across the hallway he saw someone emerge from hiding behind a potted plant.

  A red-haired, blue-gowned someone.

  Clementine was hidden from the women since she was in the same spot he was, just on the opposite side of the wide hallway. She motioned for him to stay silent.

  “Mark my words, the new countess is going to be as dull as her gown.”

  Dull? Her gown brought many images—tempting, alluring, bewitching—to mind. They were as far from dull as one could get. Luckily, Clementine did not appear to be offended by the comment. She looked at him and shrugged her shoulders.

  Of course, she would not want to cause a scene. To give even more reason for their tongues to wag. He understood and respected that, but at the same time he didn’t know how many more insults he could listen to.

  “She might look frugal, but mark my words, she will run the earl’s fortune into the ground.”

  To that Clementine arched a brow. He rolled his eyes, which made her smile. How close a bond was growing between them that they might carry on a conversation across a dim hallway with no words spoken?

  If he was not falling in love, he did not know what this peculiar turn of his heart might be. Only the fact that Clementine did not seem overburdened with the whispered nonsense kept him from charging to her defense.

  “I shouldn’t talk about it, and it’s to go no further—”

  “You know us, Emily. We are as discreet as—well, anyone.”

  “I heard that the Fencroft estate was bankrupt and that is why the earl married her.”

  What? He’d been nothing but discreet about that. So had Olivia. Apparently one of the creditors had not been.

  “I thought it was because she seduced him in Lady Guthrie’s garden.”

  Across the way, he watched Clementine tap her lips with one finger, clearly reminding him that the seduction had been half on her part.

  “It’s true, she did. I was there that night.”

  Heath frowned, thumping his chest with his thumb. He wanted to make it clear that he had been the seducer and she the innocent.

  For some reason she must have thought it funny, for she attempted to hide her smile behind a balled-up fist.

  “As I see it, now that he’s got her money, he can divorce her and marry you, Glenda.”

  All of a sudden Clementine’s fist fell away, and her smile vanished.

  Evidently the option of divorce had not occurred to her any more than it had to him.

  He shook his head vigorously: she had to know he would never do it.

  “It’s not as though there will be an heir.”

  Clementine crossed her arms over her middle, staring down at the floor.

  “Quite. Everyone knows American women aren’t fertile.”

  “Maybe they are but their husbands don’t want to touch them.”

  This husband did! The need to do so was a constant itch.

  “Well, even if she does manage it, the baby’s bound to be a girl.”

  Enough! He dashed across the hallway behind the gossips, hardly caring if they saw him or not.

  He caught Clementine around the waist, briefly hugged her and hurried her away toward the door that led to the garden.

  * * *

  “Ill-bred magpies.” Heath’s voice rumbled in his chest. Clementine felt the words thrum against her arm. Truly, if he hugged her any tighter she would not be able to breathe.

  A door at the end of the hallway led to the patio and the garden beyond. He ushered her outside.

  Rain poured down upon her head. Surely the stars had been twinkling only hours ago.

  If she could do things over again she would not have tried to escape the ball.

  Really, the affair had been lovely, but one could only carry on starched conversation for so long.

  Over the years she’d learned that hallways made excellent retreats. So she had made her escape, meaning for it to be a brief one.

  At first, overhearing the whispers of those women had not overly disturbed her solitude. Women did like to prattle and they hadn’t said anything that she would not have expected them to.

  American heiresses were infamous—whether the reputation was deserved or not didn’t matter. The flighty image was accepted to be true.

  What she could not fight she would not let bother her.

  And then Heath had appeared on the far side of the hallway intersection. They had been carrying on a rather nice conversation without words.

  Being familiar enough with another person in order to be able to indulge in that skill was an intimate thing. She could only describe those moments as tender, wonderful in an uncommon way.

  But then—oh—the things the women said had pierced her heart, squeezed the joy out of it.

  Divorce? She hadn’t considered it—and in that moment she found she did want a child. Girl or boy, it hardly mattered. But suddenly it mattered to her that there be one. And not for Grandfather’s sake, but for her own.

  Heath hugged her, caressing her back as though trying to wipe away what those girlish women had said.

  Rain pattered loudly on the stones. It sluiced down her nose and made her hair sag.

  Heath took off his coat, placed it over her shoulders and tugged it about her throat.

  Water soaked his thin lawn shirt. It became translucent, revealing the ruddy hue of his skin, the glistening line of shoulder and bicep.

  She had to place—simply could not resist—her palm on his chest, tipping her forehead close and breathing in his wet male scent.

  Over the pelt of rain and her heartbeat, she heard his intake of breath when he brushed his cheek across the top of her head. Felt the exhalation before he kissed the crown of drooping curls.

  He dipped his mouth close to her ear. “I wouldn’t.”

  She drew back to look at his face. “Wouldn’t?”

  Water slid off the tips of his hair and washed off his lashes.

  “Divorce you—I would never.”

  “And I would never squander your fortune.”

  He cupped her cheeks with his thumbs, wiping away the moisture. The calloused tips felt delightfully abrasive.


  “Clementine Jane Cavill, I think, I believe I want to—”

  His mouth came down upon hers, slick with rain.

  She touched his hair, felt wetness and the heat of his scalp under her fingertips.

  “I believe,” she murmured once she caught her breath, “I want you to do it again.”

  All of a sudden he tipped his face up at the rain and laughed quietly.

  “Last time we were in a garden at a ball...” Funny that a simple smile could make her feel warm when she ought to be shivering. “I thoroughly compromised you without even getting to kiss you.”

  He touched his lips to hers again, playfully this time, just a quick nip.

  “Yes, well, I do recall the event.”

  “What those women in the hallway said? About you seducing me? That was on me alone. I knew what I was doing. Kissing you was the most important thing on my mind. I’m only grateful it all turned out as it did. I’m not certain I could have gone through with it—getting married I mean—had it not been to you.”

  “As I recall the way it happened, I’m the one who invited you to fly away. It was overly bold of me and did smack of seduction, you must admit.”

  “Ah, but in the sweetest way.”

  In the distance she heard raindrops tapping an umbrella. As much as she wanted to ignore the intrusion she could not. Footsteps marched purposefully toward them.

  “There you are!” It was Olivia’s voice and it did not sound pleased. “People are noticing their hosts are missing. I suggest you get back inside before you create a scandal.”

  Clementine’s lips twitched because, really, the situation was funny if one looked at it right.

  “We appear to be making a habit of creating a scandal,” she said, watching Olivia balance the umbrella while trying to hold the hem of her skirt out of the water.

  “Don’t be foolish.” For some reason her harsh words did not match her softening expression. “Go back to the house and change into dry clothes.”

  Spinning about, Olivia hurried back toward the house.

  Heath slung his arm over her shoulder, leading them behind his sister.

  “What if we don’t?” he said.