The Earl's American Heiress (HQR Historical)

by Carol Arens

For an instant earlier she had thought to become his wife in the way God intended, but he’d said it with his own lips—not tonight.

  Until there were no secrets between them, she could not.

  Neither would she send him away as if his silence on the matter meant betrayal. How could she? Not when she concealed something of her own.

  “Stay with me, Heath. It’s cold outside and I can’t seem to get warm without you.”

  He glanced at the chairs. She nodded at the bed.

  “Do you trust me? Even though you do not know what I’m doing?”

  She nodded. “Would you trust me if I had a secret that I could not share with you?”

  “I would, of course. Unless it was a terribly wicked one.”

  He might think her blatantly disobeying him was terribly wicked. To her it was terribly necessary.

  Dishonesty was a nasty burden to carry.

  “Come to bed, then. Tell me what you can of your day.”

  She eased out of her shawl and set it on the back of the chair. She walked toward the bed but he caught her hand, turned her to face him.

  “I’ve another secret, Lady Fencroft. It’s one I can tell you.”

  “Oh, good, then please do.” He had the most peculiar look on his face.

  “I love you.”

  Her breath caught. It took a moment for the words to settle in her brain, wrap around her heart.

  She could not imagine his other secret, the one he refused to tell her, would be bigger than the one he’d just revealed.

  Stepping close to him, she touched his chin where the bruise from the other morning had begun to fade. She guessed the injury, along with his sore shoulder, had to do with whatever he kept from her. For now she would not question it.

  “Love, my husband, is not a secret. If one looks closely enough it’s plain to see.”

  “You are still wearing the pearls.” His smile grew wider.

  “What might that reveal, do you think?”

  “I’d like you to tell me.”

  He tugged her closer. She felt the thump of his heart. Inch by slow inch his lips came nearer.

  “It reveals that I love you, Heath. I would not have expected to, not given how things started—”

  His kiss said he did not care to hear the rest of what she had to say. And why would he? He knew how things had started between them.

  The way they ended up? It would depend upon the secrets kept from one another.

  But love was a start.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hours later, Heath stood beside the window in Clementine’s bedroom. He watched water from the fountain blow sideways in the wind.

  He ought to be sleeping. He was due in Parliament within four hours.

  Ah, but he’d like to see the man who could resist the woman slumbering so contentedly only feet away. His mind pictured her even when he wasn’t looking at her.

  She lay on her back, red curls splayed across the pillow. Her left hand brushed the curve of her cheek, palm up and fingers curled. Her wedding ring glowed warmly in the light of the fire he’d just rekindled.

  It was wickedly cold and he wanted nothing more than to get back in bed with her, soak up her warmth and give his heat back to her.

  The problem was, it was getting more and more difficult not to touch her the way a man ought to touch his wife. There was a flame within the woman. Passion simmered just under the surface of her reserved demeanor.

  Knowing this, and finding that his touch brought a temptress to life, it was becoming nearly impossible to restrain himself. He was a man—a newlywed man. Just because he had set down restrictive rules did not mean he did not have strong desires.

  It was why he was standing at the window shirtless, without feeling the cold draft seeping through the glass. Burning up with want of a woman would do that to a man. Make him edgy and frustrated, as well.

  Leaving the window, he crossed to the bed and stared down at her. He clamped his hands behind his back because his control would not hold if she moved and inadvertently made a seductive gesture—there was only so much he could take.

  Slowly her eyes opened. Even in the dim light they glowed nearly emerald.

  “You aren’t wearing a shirt,” she murmured dreamily. “You are quite well made—so handsome and manly. I want to touch you.”

  Clearly she was still dreaming. That was not how she acted while awake.

  She reached her hand toward him. Heaven help him. He allowed her fingers to trail a path from his chest to his navel before he ended the intense pleasure by catching her hand.

  He sat down beside her on the bed. “Wake up, love.”

  Long-lashed eyes blinked, came into focus on his bare chest.

  “Heath Cavill, you’ll catch your death. Put on a shirt.” She sat up and shoved a hank of hair back over her shoulder. “Why are you smiling?”

  Was he smiling? That was surprising, given that he was about to tell her something he would regret. Then again, how could he not smile knowing how she really felt about his bare chest?

  “You make me smile, Clementine.”

  “Call me ‘love’ again. I like it.”

  “Love,” he said, leaning forward and causing the mattress to dip. He kissed her nose—he truly did love that nose. “There’s something I need to say.”

  “Might you be able to say it under the covers? It’s frigid even with the fire going.”

  “That’s the thing. I think it best I sleep in my own room from now on.” That was not quite right; it wasn’t best, only necessary.

  “Oh, I see.”

  He didn’t think she did. But then she sighed, yanking the covers to her chin.

  “That thing you are keeping from me is also keeping us apart. And now that we have declared how we feel about each other, intimacy on a friendly level has become more difficult. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes. That’s it.”

  “Well, please do find a solution to the issue you are embroiled in. If not for us then for your own safety.”

  With that, she lay back down, flipped onto her side and drew the blanket over her head.

  “Good night, Heath.”

  He stood up. “It’s morning.”

  Apparently she had nothing else to say, so he went back to his own cold bedroom, where no one had bothered to light a fire. Why would they? Married men slept with their wives on cold nights—as well as hot, sweaty, fervid ones.

  Using a word that a gentleman ought not to utter, he grazed his hand over the stubble that had begun on his chin.

  How early did Creed rise? he wondered.

  They really did need to make contact with their informer. Taking children from Slademore House was about as effective as putting a bandage on a gushing wound.

  For every child they delivered to Rock Rose Cottage, the baron took two more in.

  Heath put on his boots and heavy coat and went out into the predawn.

  * * *

  Creed was more of a man than he was, Heath thought, wondering how he was able to sleep after the ordeal they had been through in taking the baby.

  He heard the coachman’s rhythmic snoring through the closed door of his quarters in the stable. He pounded upon it, heard a curse and the thump of feet across the floor.

  The hinges groaned when the door opened. So did the man looking at him with bleary eyes.

  “With all respect, my lord.” He scrubbed his large hand across his chin. “I’m in no shape to go out again. The horses aren’t, either.”

  “No, I wouldn’t ask. But would you mind speaking with me for a few moments?”

  “I’ll set a fire in the stove.” He waved at a stool, indicating that Heath should sit on it.

  Creed sat across from him on a saddle placed over a sawhorse.

  “We need to make an end
to this, Creed. It’s past time we exposed Slademore.”

  “Aye, the rescues are getting more risky. I’m thinking that even the girl can’t keep on with what she’s doing without getting caught.”

  The thought was one that had occurred to Heath, as well.

  “We’ve become predictable. Each time the risk of getting caught gets greater,” Heath said.

  “Do you suppose the girl would be bold enough to speak against Slademore?”

  “I wonder. It depends in part what her relationship is with him.” Heath shivered. “Has it always been this drafty in here?”

  “A fellow gets accustomed to it.”

  “I’ll hire someone to make repairs.” He rubbed his hands together briskly, trying to ease the ache setting in from the chill. “But about the woman, is there anything else the tavern girl said?”

  “Oh, aye—she said she’d not give me a kiss no matter how I begged. But about the other? Only what we already know. A female, slightly built and waifish looking.”

  “I can only think she has some sort of connection with the place or she would not have seen us that first time when we took Wilhelmina’s baby. She would not have known to send messages to you.”

  “If she’s seen us, someone else might, too. I wonder if we ought to stop this. We won’t do anyone any good in prison.”

  “We ought to do what is safe.”

  “But—” the stableman stomped on the floor with his bare foot, stirring up straw and dust “—we will not.”

  “No, we will not. I’ll pay a call on Slademore House. See if anyone reacts to my presence.”

  “All due respect, sir, if there’s danger, it should be me facing ruin. The whole of Fencroft depends on you.”

  “I’m proud to call you a friend, Creed.” The man had put himself in enough peril as it was. To be caught snooping around Slademore’s place would mean certain prison for a man of his station. “But I’m going.”

  “You are a married man, my lord. I am not.” Creed shook his head. “It ought to be me.”

  “How would you get into the house? You can hardly pay a social call on Slademore. No, this is for me to do.”

  To do for Willa.

  To do for Clementine.

  * * *

  Clementine read a book to the children gathered about her on the floor with only half her attention on the story.

  Worry for Heath took up a good bit of her focus. He had not revealed what he did during the nights he was away, but whatever it was, it was not safe. His mysterious scrapes and bruises attested to that.

  Did he lead a secret life as a cat burglar? Operate a clandestine gambling hall in a seedy part of London?

  While not impossible, she thought it highly unlikely. He was a better man than that.

  But what was it? How was she ever to sleep another night while wondering if he would return home safe and hale?

  Simply said, she would not. No, she would be forced to spend her days yawning, trying to concentrate while her thoughts skittered every which way.

  Refocusing her attention on Jack and the Beanstalk, she made a great show of describing Jack’s bravery in climbing the stalk.

  The dining room door creaked open. The frail-looking young woman she’d seen on her first visit to Slademore House came into the room carrying a tea tray instead of an infant.

  She set the tray on a table beside her chair. She looked even paler than she had the first time Clementine had seen her. Clementine hoped the baby was not ill.

  At about the time Jack reached the top of the beanstalk a child began to weep. A small girl had her hands balled into fists while she pressed them against her eyes.

  Clementine motioned for the child to come to her.

  Leaping up, she ran forward and hid her face in Clementine’s sleeve, whispering through her tears.

  Mrs. Hoper, who had been lightly dozing through the tale, came suddenly awake and lurched out of her chair.

  “What did she say?”

  Clementine took her time answering, wiping the tearstained cheeks with her fingers.

  Once the child was calmed she gave her attention to the nurse.

  “She wants a beanstalk so she can climb to Heaven and see her mother.”

  “Magic beans won’t do it,” the woman mumbled.

  “A word, if you please,” Clementine stated.

  The woman blushed and followed Clementine to a more private corner.

  “That was a rather harsh thing to say to the child.”

  “I imagine it sounded so. It’s just that I am rather tense this morning. That Abductor kidnapped a baby from us last night.”

  “Oh, I see.” Clementine’s heart rolled, quivered.

  “We are all distraught, but the girl, she’s been carrying on over it all morning.”

  “It’s understandable. I’m surprised she was able to serve tea with a steady hand.”

  “One does what one must. A lady of your breeding would not be expected to understand.” She anchored her fat fingers at her waist, nodding her head sharply. “To survive we must toughen our hearts. Even these children must, as young as they are. Crying is strictly forbidden.”

  “Living here at Slademore House, I would think they would be protected from the harshness of life to some degree.”

  “Yes, well, filling their minds with a belief there is magical treasure to be had at the end of a beanstalk will only make dreamers of them.”

  “That is an odd thing to say in regards to young children. Dreaming is a part of childhood, is it not?”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Hoper’s face blanched. “I did not mean that so much as—that didn’t come out right. I’m not in the habit of conversing with an American countess and I quite chose the wrong words.”

  “Regardless, I will continue to read about magic beanstalks and the like because it might lift the sorrow over what they have lost, even if it is only for the moment.”

  “As you say, Lady Fencroft.” The woman bobbed a half-hearted curtsy and then went back to her chair to sit down.

  She would have words with Baron Slademore today about this employee. He could hardly refuse to hear her given the amount of money she was donating, and also because of her higher social standing.

  Perhaps there was an advantage to bearing the title of Countess of Fencroft. People had to listen to her whether they cared to or not.

  Returning to her chair, she sat down and resumed the tale.

  Finding her place was not easy because once again her attention was on something else.

  The sixth Earl of Fencroft.

  Was her husband going out in the night trying to apprehend the Abductor?

  While that was a noble thing to do and she loved him all the more for trying, it was also extremely dangerous.

  The Abuductor was the vilest of the wicked. Depraved in the worst way. Harming a child was the worst thing she could think of.

  Still and all, it was for the constables, not Heath Cavill, to apprehend him—if in fact that was what he was up to.

  * * *

  Heath sat in a bathtub placed in front of the grand fireplace of the master suite. Warm water laved his muscles and washed away the aches of the day. Spending hours sitting on a bench, discussing every aspect of a political point of view, could be grueling on joints that were already sore. For all that men argued their opinions, nothing was settled.

  No more than anything was settled in his own life.

  Today they had discussed forming a committee to address—what was it? The day blurred in his mind, but whatever it was, the discussion over forming it had been going on for ten years with no resolution, or so he had been told.

  To Heath’s way of thinking it was a ridiculous situation. Nothing of importance should be dragged on for so long. If it was not worthy it should be dropped once and for all.


  Anything of consequence ought to be dealt with straightaway.

  Not only in Parliament but in his own life.

  Especially in his own life! His marriage was of great consequence.

  He clenched his fingers on the lip of the tub.

  He’d hoped to see Clementine before retiring—needed to see her.

  Things could not go on as they were. Now that they had admitted to their deepest feelings, declared their hearts, everything had changed.

  He looked about the room, gazing at the large window, the huge hearth and the great four-poster bed.

  The space was elegantly appointed. A perfect blend of refinement and comfort.

  Flames in the hearth reflected warm golden light off the drapery and papered walls. It cast flickering shadows on the bed, a reminder that the room was lacking the most important thing.

  Lady Fencroft—Mrs. Heath Cavill.

  Without her, there was no point to any of these fine appointments. He might as well live in the stable for all the joy he took from the surroundings.

  It was enough!

  If she was willing to have him, to accept that sometimes he would be called away in the night, and if she was willing to not question it—if she could trust him that much, then—

  He stood up from the bath, felt the chill as warm water slid off his body and cool air nipped it. He plucked up the towel and rubbed briskly if not efficiently.

  Still half-damp, he snatched the robe from the chair and shoved his arms in the sleeves. He yanked the sash into a knot. Water droplets fell from the tips of his hair to dampen the silky cloth but he had no time to deal with it.

  He was going to claim his bride.

  * * *

  Clementine sat on a stool in front of her small mirror, absently watching the movement of her fingers while she plaited her hair for bed.

  Bedtime had become a lonely affair of late.

  Funny how she had slept alone her whole life and not been lonesome or cold. Evidently once one became accustomed to the presence of a large, warm man in one’s bed there was no going back from it. Especially when one had come to love that man quite desperately.