Not the Kind of Earl You Marry

by Kate Pembrooke

  “Must be new,” Lord Norwood remarked after the man left. “I don’t recall exactly what used to occupy that spot, but I know it wasn’t an artist’s shop.”

  “I’d like to know what it is about that shop that’s drawing so much attention,” she said. “Would you mind helping me down?”

  “Certainly. Let me summon someone to tend the horses while we’re gone.” He exited the curricle and walked to her side to help her alight.

  “If you prefer to stay with the curricle, I’m capable of visiting the shop by myself,” she said. “I’d be in your sight the whole time.”

  He shook his head as he again waved over a waiter. “It could draw unflattering comment if you went unattended. Besides, you’ve got me curious now.” He produced more coins and offered them to the man who’d answered his summons, instructing him to hold the reins until they returned.

  They crossed the road, walked past Gunter’s, and joined the crowd in front of the shop window. Charlotte noticed that they received a number of sly glances from those around them. A prickle of unease flitted across the back of her neck, and she gave herself a mental shake. Honestly, she was letting all this attention turn her into someone scared of her own shadow.

  The wares displayed in the window looked innocuous enough—a series of small seascapes done in watercolors, a few miniatures rendered in oil, a large painting of a horse with a pack of hounds milling about it. Nothing very remarkable, and she chided herself for allowing her imagination to run riot. People were simply reacting to seeing her with the earl in the wake of that betrothal announcement and nothing more.

  If Lord Norwood hadn’t leaned in for a better look at a framed print in the lower corner of the large front window, she might have missed it. But he did, and her gaze traveled to the spot as well.

  It was a cartoonish drawing of the sort created by caricaturists and sold in shops all across London, but in this one, she recognized the exaggerated figures of herself and Lord Norwood, though not that of a third figure, a modishly dressed lady with blonde curls, pink cheeks, and a disgruntled countenance.

  Was it meant to represent young ladies in general who were disappointed the earl was no longer on the marriage mart? Or one in particular? The golden-haired Lady Jane, for instance.

  The artist had pictured Lord Norwood in the middle, wearing a leering grin and looking toward the “Charlotte” figure, although the likeness to herself was tenuous at best. Still, it resembled her enough that there was no question in her mind who it was meant to represent in this little trio, even though the artist had chosen to depict her wearing a smug expression on her face and cradling a gently rounded abdomen. The caption read Beware of Man Traps.

  Her chest tightened as a strange numbness began to work its way along her limbs. Here was the artistic representation of Lady Bohite’s accusations and yet another confirmation of what she’d feared when she had agreed to this mad engagement scheme—that no one would believe she’d won Norwood on her own merits. Instead, she was portrayed as a lady of loose morals who’d caught him by playing on his sense of honor. Unfortunately, she found no satisfaction in being correct. Seeing a piece of gossip rendered into a picture and set up for sale was even more mortifying than she could have imagined.

  “Don’t let it bother you,” Lord Norwood murmured. “These things come and go, and you know there’s not a grain of truth in it.”

  “Would that were true of more people,” she muttered, then compelled by a desire to know the worst added, “I’d like to see what else they have for sale.”

  “That’s not a—” Lord Norwood began, but she’d already headed for the door.

  Once inside she quickly spotted a table displaying several similar caricaturist prints. To her relief no others lampooned her and the earl. The majority of them poked fun at Prinny, the high-living Prince Regent. A few were political in nature, a pair of prints seemed to be making fun of a beleaguered gentleman who appeared to have inspired (according to the print’s caption) An Epidemic of Swooning Ladies in London This Season and another that proclaimed Feminine Faints or Feints? This one depicted the gentleman standing in a ballroom, the ground at his feet littered with unconscious young ladies. The rest of the offerings for sale appeared to be mocking society in general.

  She let out a long exhale, only then realizing she’d been holding her breath. Lord Norwood, who’d followed her inside, watched her with a concerned frown.

  He leaned close and spoke softly, “I know it’s small comfort, but take heart that we were only featured in one of them. It means we aren’t interesting enough to merit more.”

  She gave him a tight smile. “Thank heavens for Prinny and his antics.” Nonetheless, the earl had the right of it being small comfort to be featured in only one of the prints for sale. And who could say there wouldn’t be more in the future? To distract herself, she glanced around the shop’s interior. It was mostly devoted to the sales of framed oils and watercolors, with a few displays of art supplies. The table of prints, however, appeared to draw the most attention from the shop’s customers.

  “Seen enough?” Lord Norwood asked.

  “Yes.” She turned to exit and that’s when she saw a pile of printed papers on a shelf next to the exit. A large sign was propped next to them. GET THE LATEST EDITION OF Tattles and Rattles About London, it read. A pair of matrons each dropped some coins in a basket before grabbing copies of the scandal sheet.

  “I wouldn’t bother,” the earl said, anticipating her intention.

  Charlotte steeled herself, since she knew her willpower wasn’t sufficient to simply walk past and ignore it.

  WHO IS SHE? teased a bold headline.

  Who is she, this mysterious miss who has captured the heart of Lord N? As far as can be gathered Miss H is newly come to London, but she certainly hasn’t let the grass grow beneath her feet, has she? She has achieved what countless others have failed to accomplish, including (if our source is to be believed) the beauteous Lady J, daughter of the Duke of M. What a coup for Miss H! One can only guess how she managed such a feat—an unknown miss capturing the hand (and heart??) of one of the most eligible bachelors in London. Tongues are wagging and speculation is rife. Time will tell whose guess turns out right!

  Their lovely outing was quickly becoming a nightmare. She didn’t get the chance to read more, because Lord Norwood’s hand clasped her elbow and he gently pulled her out the door. As they headed back to the curricle, he leaned close and spoke into her ear. “Can you manage a smile?”

  “What?”

  “Smile as if I’m whispering lovers’ nonsense to you,” he said, still speaking close to her ear. So close, his warm minty breath stirred tendrils of her hair, tickling her cheek and neck. “As if we’ve already forgotten that load of claptrap they published about us.”

  Like an automaton, she managed to curve her lips in a stiff smile, then rallying her mettle, said, “Lovers’ nonsense? How unromantic you are.”

  He continued to lead them back to the curricle. “Oh, I can be plenty romantic.” They reached the carriage and he clasped her hand to help her up. “Do you wish to see a demonstration of my romantic nature sometime?” He tilted his head to the side and regarded her with a challenging light in his eyes.

  Her mouth suddenly felt dry, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t move as the seconds lengthened and she remained frozen, pinned in place by his steady blue gaze, which seemed to suggest possibilities too dangerous to contemplate. But oh so tempting all the same.

  Finally, she said, “That’s not necessary. I’ll take your word that it exists.” And anyway, what had that kiss in his sister’s sitting room been if not a demonstration of…well, his passionate side if not his romantic one? Quickly, she climbed into the curricle, but he still clasped her hand though it was no longer necessary he do so.

  “What…?” she began, but the words died away as he lifted her hand to his lips, placing a lingering kiss on her knuckles before giving her a
look so smoldering it made her toes curl. Then, as if the last few moments hadn’t somehow tipped her world out of kilter, he dropped her hand without a word and casually strode around the curricle to the waiter patiently holding the reins. He gave the man another coin for his services, then climbed up beside her and chirruped the horses.

  * * *

  Berkeley Square was well behind them before Miss Hurst spoke again. “Was that really necessary?” she demanded. “I told you I didn’t need any romantic demonstrations.”

  William kept his eyes on the road, but he could feel her gaze upon him, and could imagine the spark of aggravation in their blue depths. “Oh, that wasn’t for you. That was for our audience back there, a dramatic exit to give them something to talk about besides that silly print. Was it necessary…?” He lifted one shoulder. “I suspect our opinions differ on that point, but I figured it couldn’t hurt.”

  From the corner of his eye, he could see the movement of her bonnet as she slowly shook her head. “If that print in the window is anything to go by, your efforts were in vain.”

  He frowned. That damned print. He hated that it had upset her, but she was giving it entirely too much weight. “That print only proves people love mean-spirited gossip, and there are some who are happy to profit off that side of human nature. Anyway, in the end it doesn’t matter what people think.”

  “Easy for you to say,” she muttered. “But I can’t wait for all this to be over. How am I supposed to go about in public holding my head high knowing that prints like that exist and that people are influenced by them?”

  “Because appearing in public is the best way to refute that rubbish. Do you think I enjoy seeing myself portrayed as the leering despoiler of innocents? But since I can hardly control what others think, I don’t dwell on it. It doesn’t change who I am. And whatever they choose to think about you, it doesn’t change who you are.”

  “I know that,” she said swiftly. “But it’s different for someone like you, who’s already so well-known, whose…whose place in society is well established…people aren’t going to form their opinion of you based on a print like that. But it isn’t the same for me. They will believe that unflattering portrayal because they don’t know anything about me beyond what they see in that print, and I’m skeptical there’s much I can do to change that no matter how many carriage rides we take, or plays we attend, or…or anything else we might do together.”

  “You’re right,” he said quietly. “I do have a certain advantage when it comes to people knowing more about me. I’m so sorry you were hurt by what you saw back there. You have a right to be upset. The first time I saw myself lampooned in a print, I wasn’t able to dismiss it too easily either.”

  “The first time? How many times have you been the subject of a satirical cartoon?”

  He gave her a wry smile. “A half dozen, at least.”

  “How awful.”

  “I’ve become indifferent to it. Even that print today—nasty as it was—only bothers me because it hurt you.”

  “Those other prints depicting you…what were they? Political in nature? Or personal?”

  “Political mostly. Though there was one that showed me in a group of bachelors running down the street pursued by several wild-eyed young ladies. I think the caption was something like The Ladies’ Yearly Hunt Commences.”

  “That one doesn’t sound too horrible,” she said.

  He grinned at her. “I found it amusing. Unfortunately, so did my sisters. They still tease me about it every year when the social Season starts. And then there was the one Libby had framed and gave to me for my birthday.”

  “Oh no, she didn’t,” Miss Hurst said.

  “Oh, but she did. I have it hanging in my study. It’s titled A Lot of Hot Air from the Silver-Tongued Orator of Berkeley Square. The artist drew me with a large cloud of words floating above my head in front of a dozing audience.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t chuck it in the dustbin.”

  “It’s a good reminder not to be a prosy old bore.”

  “Do you need such a reminder?”

  He laughed, because something in her teasing expression suggested that he probably did need such a reminder. “No more than any other man, I hope.” He paused, then added, “It’s good to see the sparkle back in your eyes.”

  “If your objective in telling me about these prints is to cheer me up, I admit it has. But I’ll still be glad when this betrothal is behind us and I won’t be fodder for the satirists. Obscurity has its advantages.”

  He didn’t reply right away. For some reason, her comment bothered him far more than the caricaturist’s print had. “So you’re still eager to jilt me?” he said at last.

  “Why, yes. Nothing has changed in that regard.” She sounded surprised that he might think otherwise.

  “I see. If nothing’s changed, then what was that kiss?” He gave her a questioning sideways glance.

  “A mistake,” she said firmly. “One that we won’t repeat.”

  He hoped she was wrong about that. Not that he necessarily planned to kiss her again, but he hadn’t planned not to, either. She might put the possibility of another kiss between them in the definitely not category, but he preferred to keep the option open.

  “So it didn’t persuade you that we might be better suited than you previously thought?”

  “No,” she said. “Not at all.”

  “Hmm…now that is disappointing.” He wasn’t quite sure what their kiss meant, but he wasn’t willing to dismiss it as easily as she was.

  “Disappointing…how?”

  “I thought I might have been promoted from fake fiancé to real suitor. Or at least a potential suitor.”

  She shook her head. “That would not be a good idea.”

  “Pity, that,” he murmured.

  “You know I’m right. The differences between us are too glaring.”

  “But are they?” he pressed. “You can’t deny we enjoy each other’s company.”

  Not to mention they’d both enjoyed that kiss. That was equally undeniable.

  “If we do—and I don’t dispute that we do,” she added quickly, perhaps sensing he’d object if she didn’t concede the point. “That simply means this betrothal, while it lasts, won’t be as unpleasant as we might have expected, given that initially we didn’t like each other too well.”

  “What are these glaring differences you base your conclusion on?”

  “Well, if you need them spelled out…for one thing, I prefer a quiet life; you enjoy the hurly-burly world of politics. Here in London, hardly anybody knows who I am, and practically everybody knows who you are. I like to read books—”

  “Ha! I like to read books, too,” he said, his voice triumphant.

  “Yes, but to finish my sentence…I like to read books more than going out to parties. Somehow I don’t think that’s true of you.”

  “It depends on the party,” he said, giving her an amused sidelong glance.

  She let out a long sigh. “You’re not taking this very seriously.”

  “One could say you’re taking the differences between us too seriously.”

  “You know what I think?” She twisted around on the seat, angling herself so she could study him with a serious expression. He slowed the horses’ pace to a slow walk. The residential street wasn’t busy; he could give her the bulk of his attention.

  “I think the reason you’re so willing to entertain the thought of a match between us is because you know I have no interest in one. Ergo, your pride is behind this notion”—she twirled a hand in the air—“that there could be something between us.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” he said flatly.

  “Is it?” Her blue eyes stared into his, intent, probing, looking for confirmation that she was right.

  “Yes. Absolutely. It’s ridiculous.” Would a prideful man practically beg a girl to give him consideration as a suitor? Granted the circumstances of their relationship were highly unusual, but even if he
hadn’t pursued her in the beginning, he didn’t think the idea of doing so now was as outlandish as she evidently did. Pride, indeed. She’d been shredding his pride from the moment they’d met. “I suppose, though, it’s good to know where things stand between us,” he said at last.

  “Exactly where they always have. That kiss didn’t change anything.”

  He might have argued the point further, but they were nearly back to the Hurst residence. They rode in silence until he pulled the curricle up in front of the town house on Berners Street. His groom, who’d been lounging on the entrance steps, scrambled to his feet. William climbed down and handed the lad the reins before helping Miss Hurst descend from the curricle. Again, silence prevailed as he walked her to the front door.

  “Thank you,” she said. “For the driving lesson, and for treating me to an ice at Gunter’s. I can see myself inside.” She smiled, but her expression was guarded. She’d retreated behind those walls again, the emotional barriers she erected to keep him at a distance.

  One part of him wanted to insist on taking his leave of her in the entryway, rather than here on the doorstep, but he quickly decided the better choice was to let her have her way. In the art of persuasion, sometimes being agreeable was the more effective course. He’d give her the victory this time.

  “I will see you at the Huntingtons’ dinner party tomorrow night?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Phillip and I will both be there.”

  “Until tomorrow then.” As he’d done outside of Gunter’s, he reached for her hand and brought it to his lips for a longer-than-strictly-proper kiss.

  “Was that another performance?” She glanced behind him toward the street. “For the neighbors, this time?”

  He looked down at their still joined hands, before reluctantly releasing hers. He smiled, lifting his gaze to meet hers. “No. This one was for me.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The next day seemed interminable to William. Partly, he imagined, because he’d spent too much of the night tossing and turning with insomnia as he pondered the conundrum of his relationship with Miss Hurst. Was she correct in thinking his pride was the reason he wished to consider the possibility of being more than…than whatever the hell they were. Allies, he supposed.