The Earl's American Heiress (HQR Historical)

by Carol Arens

  Tonight even the bright fire snapping her hearth was inadequate to warm her completely.

  But where was he? Having a late night at Parliament? Out doing whatever secret, dangerous thing he did?

  She had not heard him come home but he might have. He might be sleeping soundly while she worried and fretted.

  If that were true she would have a thing or two to say about it. He ought to have let her know he’d returned.

  He ought to be here—with her. It was where he belonged.

  The more thought she gave to the matter, the more wrongheaded he seemed. A man did not declare his love and then keep his wife at a chaste distance. That was hardly the way to fill the manor with happy little heirs.

  Upbraiding him for his neglect of her would be a relief, since if she was able to do it, that meant he was safely in his bed. Clementine let go of her braid, watched it unravel.

  Enough was enough! There was only one way to let go of this worry and that was to go to his quarters and see for herself.

  Without bothering to put on a dressing gown, she rushed across the room, the words she was going to use to scold him dancing on the tip of her tongue.

  He claimed to love her? From now on he was going to act like it!

  Flinging open the door, she rushed into the hallway.

  And there he was. Large, damp and so close she felt heat pulsing off him.

  He gripped her forearms. A strand of wet hair dangled across his forehead, skimmed his dark brows. It dripped on the bosom of her nightgown and then her nose, when he drew her closer to his chest.

  “I’m done.” His voice sounded deep, raspy. His warm, moist breath puffed on her face.

  “Done with what?” She knew what, of course, but the words did bear saying.

  “Done with waiting for everything to be right.”

  “It’s right enough.”

  A decided draft whooshed along the hallway. It stirred the hem of her gown, ruffled the bottom of his robe. As always, her long toes felt icy.

  All of a sudden he scooped her up. She’d never thought of herself as the swept-away type but found she rather liked it.

  Oh, yes. When he carried her toward his suite, she liked it more than a little. Maybe because his arms were so strong, the muscles around her back and under her thighs so firm. Or maybe because she had the odd sensation of floating.

  No doubt the sensation had to do with the fact that he was kissing her while he carried her, robbing her of breath and sensible thought.

  Whatever, it was delightful and she did not want it to stop.

  “You will not be sleeping in your room tonight.”

  “Good, then.” Her room was lovely, but this was where she belonged.

  Right here on the vast, canopied bed he was setting her down upon.

  “Do you trust me? Even not knowing everything, do you trust me enough to give yourself to me?” he whispered against her hair.

  The mattress gave when his greater weight settled next to her. She tipped toward him, felt his warmth seep into her.

  “The secret I’m keeping from you—it’s nothing immoral.”

  “Only dangerous?” She touched the bruise on his face, which was only beginning to heal.

  He nodded. Turning onto his back, he stared at the ceiling with his hands cradled under his head.

  She eased up on her elbow and traced the shape of his eyebrows with her fingertip.

  When her finger drew close to his mouth, he caught her hand, kissed it.

  For some reason, she could not catch her breath.

  “I want you,” he murmured. “But sometimes I’ll get called away in the night. Do you trust me enough not to ask me about it?”

  He trailed one finger from her jaw to her throat to the curve of her shoulder. As if by magic he summoned a line of gooseflesh on her skin.

  “This is the second time you’ve asked that question. I’m still here in your bed, so yes, I do, Heath.”

  He really did have the most compelling smile.

  “Do you want to know one of the things I love about you?” He kissed the tip of her nose.

  “Don’t you dare say my nose.” She snuggled closer to him because it felt utterly natural to do so. “And, actually, I want to know all the things you love about me.”

  “Your forthrightness.”

  “Honestly, Heath.” She poked him in the belly, felt the smooth satin of his robe slide against his abdomen. “Those are not the romantic words every girl dreams of.”

  “No?” He rose above her, lowered his mouth and gave her a long, sultry kiss. He hadn’t fully lifted his mouth from hers when he uttered, “What if I said you were the most open-hearted, guileless woman I have ever met?”

  She would say he was mistaken in thinking so. He was not the only one with a secret he was unwilling to reveal.

  Perhaps that was what made overlooking his secrecy something she could do.

  And at least she knew she was overlooking something while he did not.

  “I love you for your honesty,” he murmured.

  Oh...well. She nuzzled him with her icy toes because she did not want to dwell on dishonesty in the moment, not his and certainly not hers.

  What was honest, what was true, was what mattered.

  She honestly loved him. He honestly loved her. No other truth was necessary.

  “You’re freezing!” He gasped when her toes poked his knee.

  Sitting up, he caught her leg and made slow, circling motions with his fingers as he stroked a trail down her calf. He cupped her foot.

  “Oh, that’s heavenly.” She sighed, closing her eyes. “Your hands are like heaters.”

  “Are you cold anywhere else?”

  “Everywhere.” Actually, she was fevered everywhere, a condition she suspected he was well aware of.

  “Well, then, sweet wife, it would be my pleasure to ease your suffering.”

  She could not say it was suffering she felt so much as a craving, a yearning that pulsed in her veins with the intensity of an ache.

  His hand, tangled in the hem of her nightgown, created urgency in her nerve endings of a sort she had never experienced.

  “There’s no going back for us,” he murmured, shifting his weight over her and sliding her gown up at the same time.

  How had she never noticed how the cotton slid over her skin in such a tantalizing way before?

  But then she was being washed in a thousand sensations she had never experienced.

  “I don’t want to go back.”

  * * *

  Heath woke in the deepest part of the night hearing wind-driven rain batter the window.

  He didn’t mind being woken by the storm, not when he could draw his wife’s warm body into the curve of his and wrap his arms about her.

  The rhythm of her steady breathing, the slow beat of her heart, was the most wonderful thing he had ever felt.

  Perhaps he ought to have shown more restraint during the past hours, but Clementine did not appear to want restraint. She had been wildfire in his arms. A blaze that burned away everything he had ever been and left behind a husband, a true one in the way God intended.

  Also a contented one. Wouldn’t it be fine to spend the rest of their lives just so, curled together, with nothing, not even a breath of air, between them?

  He traced his thumb along the delicate line of Clementine’s collarbone. She smiled in her sleep.

  He could not imagine how life had delivered such fortune to him—a wife who was virtuous and earthy, all in one beautiful body. A body he intended to enjoy one more time before sunrise and the demands of being Earl of Fencroft called him away.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Clementine stepped down from the cab, lifted her skirt and stepped carefully over mucky puddles. She climbed the steps of Slademore House a
little slower than she normally did.

  To the casual eye she might appear normal. Ah, but there was the most delightful glow within her that felt like a smile radiating out of every part of her body.

  In some sense she felt like a new person.

  One who woke this morning to kisses, sweet nuzzles and declarations of love.

  She was a married woman, bonded to Heath by the most intimate and personal of acts.

  How was she to keep her mind on reading The Prince and the Pauper when all she wanted to do was race home and meet Heath beneath the covers of their great bed?

  “Good day, Lady Fencroft.” It was the thin young woman opening the door to her today. “The children are waiting for you.”

  “I do look forward to reading to them today. I’m sorry,” Clementine said. “But I did not get your name on my previous visits.”

  “It’s Lettie, my lady.”

  “Lettie, I can’t say how sorry I am for what happened to your baby. If there is anything I can do?”

  “Oh, he wasn’t mine. Just one here that I cared for.”

  “I must have misunderstood Mrs. Hoper.”

  “Well, they do all feel like mine.”

  “What a horrible thing to have happened! But how are the others?”

  “They don’t know about it, poor lambs. T’would only frighten them if they did.”

  “I hope the police will catch that villain soon.” This could not go on much longer without it happening. Everyone was on edge.

  “I fear he will—” Lettie clasped her hand over her mouth and coughed. “Will not be, that is. Not soon.”

  “I imagine the children were not able to play in the garden this morning because of the mud,” Clementine said, in part to direct the conversation another way.

  “No, they did not play in the yard.” The girl glanced down and then away.

  “They will be restive, then. I hope the story holds their attention.”

  “These children need you, Lady Fencroft,” she murmured. “Are you—”

  Mrs. Hoper stalked into the room. A guarded expression crossed Lettie’s face.

  “They need you to read to them,” she said in a louder voice.

  “Will you be here to listen, if you haven’t had the opportunity to read Mark Twain? He’s quite good.”

  Lettie glanced at the nurse, clearly seeking permission.

  “Oh, I’m sure that would be acceptable.” Those were the words Mrs. Hoper spoke but Clementine sensed the woman did not truly find it acceptable. “Just as long as your chores get done.”

  Mrs. Hoper was a woman with secrets. It seemed that lately, everyone had them.

  Clementine entered the parlor and sat down in her customary chair. She greeted the children with smiles, opened the book and showed them a page with artwork on it.

  While they looked at the drawing she spotted a boy she hadn’t seen before.

  No. That was not right. She thought she might have seen him. With his shock of red hair he resembled the urchin she’d noticed from the window the other day.

  She could not be sure, of course. That boy had been dirty and this one appeared freshly scrubbed.

  At the same time, she noticed another child absent. The little girl who had been crying and wishing for a beanstalk.

  “Where is Lucille today?” she asked Lettie, who had taken a chair near a window that had a view of the street.

  It was Mrs. Hoper who answered. “Sick. The doctor says she must have bed rest.”

  “I’ll be sure to visit her on the way out,” Clementine said.

  “That would be lovely. Lettie will make sure she’s not sleeping. If she is, perhaps you can see her another time.”

  Lettie turned her gaunt, sallow-cheeked face away and stared out the window. The crown of a top hat bobbed past the window. Lettie seemed to be watching its progress going by.

  What an odd day this was. There was a sense of something being amiss here that she had never noticed before.

  No doubt it was because of the missing baby and because Lucille was ill.

  Mark Twain, she hoped, would be able to brighten things up.

  “‘In the ancient city of London,’” she read, “‘on a certain autumn day in the second quarter of the sixteenth century, a boy was born to a poor family...’”

  This ought to capture their attention since the same could be said of each child sitting at her feet. Wealthy orphans had relatives to take them in. These sweet ones had only Baron Slademore to depend upon.

  She regretted the doubts she had just entertained about Slademore House. This home was a great blessing. Everyone praised it.

  And yet the one person whose opinion mattered very much to her had forbidden her to come here. Knowing him as she did, she thought he must have a good reason for it.

  Still, whatever the reason might be, it was not good enough to make her desert these children.

  Lettie was correct. They did need her.

  She read on about the birth of another child, this one to a wealthy family.

  Clementine’s children would be born to wealth and privilege. Love was all they would ever know.

  For a moment she sat silently with the book open on her lap. She tapped the page with one finger, feeling that she wanted to run outside and gather up orphans, bring them home and keep them safe.

  “Did the poor one die?” the red-haired boy asked, his young brow wrinkled in worry.

  “No, no, he didn’t. And you are all quite safe here with the baron to watch over you.”

  All of a sudden Lettie gasped.

  “There’s a visitor, Mrs. Hoper,” she said more calmly than her first reaction accounted for.

  That was odd.

  A knock rapped on the door.

  “How delightful,” the nurse stated. Funny how her expression did not reflect delight when she rose from her chair and walked into the foyer to open the door.

  “Lord Fencroft. Welcome to Slademore House.”

  “I’ve come to call on Baron Slademore.”

  “I’ll see if he is in, my lord. But won’t you join the countess in the parlor while I find him.”

  Clementine dropped the book on the floor.

  * * *

  “Which countess?” he asked through gritted teeth, even though he was certain he knew which one.

  “Why, your countess, sir, Lady Fencroft.”

  The very Lady Fencroft he had forbidden to come here?

  The same one whose honesty he had praised—loved her for, only last night?

  Had his soul suddenly been cast in lead it could not have felt any heavier. Who was this woman he had taken to his heart?

  Coming into the parlor he saw her sitting on a chair, her face pale as a bleached sheet. A dozen or so small children sat on the floor gathered about her skirt, looking up at him in wide-eyed fascination.

  Perhaps they had never seen an earl. They had, however, seen a countess. He could only guess how many times.

  “Lady Fencroft,” he said once he gained control of his voice. “What a surprise to see you here.”

  “Did I not say I wanted to read to the children?” Color was beginning to rise in her cheeks. “I’m certain I did mention it.”

  “We mentioned many things, as I recall.” He forced his voice to sound pleasant. The last thing he wanted was to scare the little ones. They had enough be frightened of as it was.

  He glanced about. For all that Slademore House looked like paradise, he was not fooled. Not like his wife clearly was.

  He’d come here for a reason—which was not to catch his wife disobeying him, but to try to discover a waifish-looking woman who might be working here. One who knew the secrets kept within these walls.

  The nurse hurried back into the parlor, looking flustered.

  “I’m a
fraid the baron has stepped out.”

  No doubt. He probably escaped out the back door as soon as he saw Heath coming to the front.

  For as much as Heath tried to hide his animosity when around Slademore, the fellow had to feel it.

  The baron would feel more than a scorch as soon as he found the informer and convinced her to reveal all she knew.

  For a man to take copious donations for orphans, then keep the funds for himself, and to let the children go hungry and tattered while his dog wore diamonds made him the worst kind of human.

  Clementine would think these children pampered because that was what she saw. What she did not know was that as soon as she went home, the fine clothes would be stripped from them and they would be taken to that dark room in the basement and fed gruel for dinner while the dog ate sumptuously.

  Picturing it made him half sick.

  What would his wife think if she knew those children would be sewing shirts by the light of grease lamps when they ought to be sleeping? Engaging in labor meant for adults, making a wage.

  And all to earn Slademore a few more pounds?

  Heath could only wonder why Slademore valued money more than a child’s welfare. The baron was fond of adoration. That was part of it, no doubt. Perhaps the more prosperous he appeared, the more respected he felt—the more envied.

  Too fond a love of gaming might have to do with it. Heath had seen Slademore in gaming rooms a few times. He always appeared to be anxious, great circles of sweat dampening his fine clothing.

  One time Heath had seen him forget the presence of his bejeweled dog while deep in a game of whist. The pet had wandered out into the garden and become lost. It had taken a dozen servants the better part of an hour to find it.

  A fondness for games of chance combined with an expensive image? No doubt the man was in debt.

  He was certain that not all Slademore’s orphans were in this room. In another part of the house there would be others hidden from the public eye.

  But he was going to end this. As long as he could find the woman and convince her that he would protect her if she told what she knew.

  He would need to deal with his wife’s disobedience, but that was for another time. He was here to find what he could of the informer.