The Earl's Complete Surrender

by Sophie Barnes

  Chapter 2

  Surely it had to be here somewhere. Running her fingers carefully along one of the shelves in the library, Chloe gave herself up to the search of the book she’d determined to find: the Political Journal. After spending several days keeping her sisters company, she’d finally managed to excuse herself and had therefore decided to dedicate as much of today as possible to her task.

  Moving slowly, she studied the various titles on the shelves while considering the most recent letter she’d received from Mr. Lambert, her grandfather’s old friend and a former spy. In it, he had encouraged her to take advantage of the opportunity her stay at Thorncliff offered and had assured her that the journal had to be there since the third Earl of Duncaster was known to have had it last. Chloe’s fingers trembled ever so slightly at that thought. If Mr. Lambert knew this, it was possible that others did as well. She might be running out of time.

  Inhaling deeply, she read each spine carefully. Letters on the English Nation . . . Great Britain’s Commercial Interest . . . The History of the Life and Reign of Richard, the Third . . . Poems by the Earl of Roscommon. Chloe paused as she studied the burgundy leather and the gold lettering that graced it. Clearly it was out of place. She tried to pull it free, but the other books hugged it so tightly she could barely manage the task. How on earth had anyone gotten it in there in the first place?

  Stubbornly, she pried her fingers between it and the adjacent volume and pulled as hard as she could. The effort seemed to be working because the book was gradually inching its way off the shelf until . . . oomph! It came free and Chloe lost her balance, staggering backward and straight into something warm and solid.

  Pressing her prize against her chest, she squeezed her eyes shut and prayed that she would vanish into thin air, because she very much feared that she’d stumbled straight into another person—­a man, to be precise.

  “May I be of assistance?” A low voice inquired. It was husky—­almost a whisper—­and underscored by the faintest rumble that brought to mind a cozy fire on a cold winter’s evening or the feeling of brandy heating your insides.

  Chloe shrugged away the sensation as soon as it formed. Men were liars and cheats. They were not to be trusted.

  Turning, she prepared to offer an apology, but as the man came into view, her mouth went inexplicably dry. Good lord! He was even more handsome than when she’d first seen him in the carriage a few days earlier. She saw now that his hair was longer than she’d initially thought, brushing against his broad shoulders while a few stray locks swept carelessly across his brow. It was black, just like his eyes. Her stomach tightened as she met his gaze, responding to the sharp look of curiosity he gave her. “Forgive me,” she managed as she took a step back. “That was terribly careless of me.”

  He studied her in silence, his expression completely inscrutable. His eyes, however, were deep pools of emotion, and Chloe found that she could not look away. Her heart beat faster until blood rushed through her veins. She hadn’t felt this jittery since her first Season when she’d been introduced to Newbury.

  The thought of her late husband was sobering, reminding her of the person she’d once been and whom she’d striven to become since his death. Straightening her spine, she prepared to excuse herself when the man before her dropped his gaze to the book she was holding and said, “You enjoy poetry?”

  “Not particularly,” she found herself saying. “I believe it was misplaced among the history books so I thought I’d try to return it to its rightful position.” Eventually, that was, once she’d determined that it wasn’t the Political Journal in disguise.

  He looked up, meeting her eyes once more. “I can help you with that, if you like?”

  “Thank you, but that’s really not necessary.” She looked around to see if anyone was paying attention to their conversation, but found that only a few gentlemen were present, all of them engaged with either a book or a newspaper. “Besides, we haven’t been formally introduced, so I really shouldn’t be talking to you at all.” There, that ought to get rid of him.

  He regarded her for a moment, then dipped his head politely and moved away. Chloe’s eyes closed on a sigh of relief, her fingers tightening around the spine of the book she was holding. But when she opened her eyes once more, she saw that he was striding back toward her and that he wasn’t alone. Her brother’s friend, the Earl of Chadwick, was with him.

  “Lady Newbury,” Chadwick said, his bright smile in stark contrast to Woodford’s cool disposition. “How do you do today?”

  Chloe’s spine stiffened. She knew precisely where this little conversation was heading and had no wish to continue it. But to excuse herself now would be intolerably rude. “Very well, my lord. And you?” The words were tightly spoken and although she fixed her eyes on Chadwick, she could feel Woodford’s gaze boring into her and tightening her skin to the point of discomfort.

  “I am always well,” Chadwick said, “though I was rather surprised to discover that the Earl of Woodford has not yet made your acquaintance. May I present him to you now?”

  A small shiver vibrated through Chloe. Not once in all her years of socializing had she ever noted Woodford’s presence at any gathering, so she very much doubted that Chadwick was the least bit surprised by her not knowing the earl. “Nothing would please me more,” she said with little effort to hide the hint of sarcasm lacing her words.

  A twitch at the corner of Chadwick’s mouth suggested that he was either amused by her irritability or bothered by it. Knowing Chadwick, Chloe supposed it was probably the former rather than the latter. Deliberately, she turned away from him and faced Woodford whose expression appeared unaltered. The bow he gave her however was perfectly executed with the sort of elegance most gentlemen spent years trying to master.

  “And this,” Chadwick declared, addressing Woodford, “is my dear friend, Lord Spencer’s, eldest sister, the remarkable and incomparable Lady Newbury.”

  Chloe dropped her gaze to the floor as she curtsied, hiding the slight amusement that threatened to touch her lips and make her smile in response to Chadwick’s exaggerated pronouncement. As saddened as she might be by what Woodford had once endured, she had to remember that he was now a man and that guarding her emotions well would serve as her best defense against whatever motive he had for wanting to make her acquaintance.

  “A pleasure,” Woodford said, his words as direct as any arrow shot with precision.

  “Well then,” Chadwick said, “if you don’t mind, I think I’ll return to my glass of brandy over there.”

  “Of course,” Chloe heard herself say in a distant voice that begged for him not to leave her alone with the earl. Catching herself, she squared her shoulders and gave a curt nod. “Perhaps you’ll join me and my sisters for tea on the terrace this afternoon?”

  “I’d be delighted to,” Chadwick said, and then he was gone.

  “Is that the Earl of Roscommon’s book of poetry?” Woodford asked, drawing Chloe’s attention back to him. “I’ve never actually seen a copy. May I?” He held out his hand.

  Chloe flinched, reminded of the book she was still holding. What was she to do? If she handed it over and it turned out to be the Political Journal, Woodford might not relinquish it again. Still, she could hardly keep it from him without explanation. Hoping she didn’t seem too reluctant or hesitant, she handed the book over and took a deep breath.

  Woodford’s gaze narrowed, his fingers curled around the spine, and then he opened the book in the middle and the edge of his mouth tilted into the ghost of a smile. “Ah,” he said as he showed her what was, in truth, nothing more than a poem. “Ode Upon Solitude: On Rocks of Hopes and Fears, I see ’em toss’d. On Rocks of Folly, and of Vice I see ’em lost . . . Somewhat mournful, wouldn’t you say?”

  Chloe expelled the breath she’d been holding, her knees as weak as pudding. “I do find that poetry has a tendency to lean in that directio
n, which is perhaps the reason why I don’t enjoy it.”

  “So you prefer more uplifting stories? Shakespeare’s comedies perhaps?” Gesturing toward the poetry section, he proceeded in that direction.

  “I confess that they can be entertaining,” Chloe said, following him with reluctance.

  “But not your ideal reading material, judging from your tone.”

  “Not especially. No.” She offered nothing further.

  He stopped and turned toward her. “Are you always such a remarkable conversationalist?”

  A caustic response flew to the tip of Chloe’s tongue. Her mouth opened, but not a single word escaped her. She held them back and turned a critical eye upon herself instead. Woodford had been nothing but a perfect gentleman so far. He did not deserve to be ill-­treated for reasons that had nothing to do with him. “My apologies,” she said. “It’s been a while since I’ve made a new acquaintance.”

  He nodded at that. “Then we have something in common.”

  “If I may offer a better answer to your question,” she said, choosing to ignore his comment, “I do have a partiality for Mrs. Radcliffe.”

  “I see.” He tilted his head a little and gave her the most peculiar stare.

  “What?”

  With a slight shrug he turned away and continued toward his destination. “You just don’t strike me as the adventurous sort.”

  Chloe’s jaw tightened. “Perhaps because I’m not,” she told his back. Newbury hadn’t thought so, that was for sure. “I like to read her books because of the exciting stories they offer, not because I dream of being part of them.”

  He grunted as he came to a halt in front of a large bookcase.

  “I like the calm with which I pass each day,” Chloe added. “There’s a certain pleasantry to be found in predictability, you see.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more,” he said as he slid the book between two others, returning it to its rightful position. “Personally, I detest crowds and loud gatherings, which is why I rarely attend balls.”

  “I’m actually rather fond of them myself, for the exact reason that you claim to dislike them. Socializing is one of my favorite pastime activities besides reading. It’s just been a while since I’ve done it.”

  A crease appeared upon his brow as he turned to face her. “You like surrounding yourself with ­people.”

  “But you don’t?” Her words came out a little breathy for some reason. Collecting herself, Chloe tried not to let his piercing dark eyes affect her. They were so intense . . . searching . . . for what, she did not know. But they prompted her to wonder what it might be like to find amusement within their depths and what Lord Woodford’s face might look like when he smiled. Soft heat settled upon her skin like fine pollen traveling on a breeze.

  His expression remained unaffected by her question. “No. I tend to favor my own company.”

  “And yet you specifically asked to be introduced to me. Why is that?”

  There was a pause, and his eyes melted into liquid black ink. “It would have been rude of me to ignore you after our unexpected encounter with one another.”

  “Again, I apologize for that,” Chloe said, her shoulders sagging a little beneath his scrutiny. “It was very clumsy of me and I—­”

  “Please. You needn’t apologize.” His chest expanded as he took a deep breath. “Truth is I’ve quite enjoyed your company, as brief as it has been. I can only hope that you feel the same way.”

  As unexpected as it seemed to her, she did. His staid manner and the candor with which he spoke had pushed aside the initial instinct she had to retreat. Instead, she felt increasingly at ease the more they spoke. “I do,” she said and to her surprise, the darkness in his eyes subsided while his mouth pulled a little to one side. It wasn’t exactly a smile, but a distinct sign of appreciation nonetheless. Chloe’s stomach tightened in response. A tremor hugged her chest and for a moment it almost pained her to breathe.

  “Are you all right?” Lord Woodford asked, his hand suddenly at her elbow as if he meant to hold her steady.

  The result, was a flash of warmth against her bare skin. “Yes. Thank you.” She pulled her arm away from his touch and took a deliberate step back.

  “Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea?”

  She shook her head, still troubled by the manner in which she’d responded to his touch and wary of what it might mean. “I . . . I should probably go.” Her feet however refused to move, anchoring her to the floor.

  “Allow me to escort you,” he said, taking a step toward her.

  “Please don’t trouble yourself.” Backing away, her legs came up against the side of an armchair, throwing her off balance. A weightless moment followed as she struggled to right herself, her heart briefly lodging in her throat until a steady surface settled against her back, halting her descent. Chloe blinked, befuddled by the awkward situation she was now in and the fact that a man whom she’d only just met had just caught her in his arms, saving her from the humiliation of landing in a most unladylike position.

  A second later, she was back on her feet with a decent amount of distance between herself and the earl. Hoping to hide her embarrassment, Chloe smoothed the skirts of her gown before daring a look around the room. A few raised eyebrows ­coupled with tight smirks pricked at her skin. She felt her cheeks flush and her heart suddenly contracted. “Thank you,” she said as she straightened her spine and raised her chin a notch.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup of tea?” Woodford asked.

  “Quite sure, my lord. Thank you once again.” He inclined his head and she took her leave of him, forcing her legs to move at a steady pace when all she really wanted to do was run.

  James stared after her as she made her escape, a beautiful woman with rich auburn hair and warm, green-­colored eyes that had snared him with their awareness. There were moments during their conversation when she had oozed confidence—­reserved aloofness even—­and others, like just now, when she’d seemed so utterly vulnerable and self-­conscious that James could scarcely fathom the contrast.

  It hadn’t surprised him when she’d spoken of her fondness for socializing, for indeed he’d rarely seen a lady more fashionably dressed in that pale green gown she wore. He watched as she opened the library door at the far end of the room and slipped through it without a backward glance. She was the first woman he’d spoken to in . . . it seemed like forever . . . and he’d felt surprisingly reluctant to give up her company.

  Crossing to one of the many sideboards placed at regular intervals throughout the length of the room, James pulled the stopper from a carafe and poured himself a glass of brandy. The book Lady Newbury had found had not been the Political Journal, as he’d initially suspected, given its odd location, so he would have to continue searching—­a task that had already taken days due to the size of the Thorncliff library. He took a sip of his drink. Tomorrow he would start looking elsewhere, but for now . . . He strode across to where Chadwick was sitting. “Mind if I join you?” he asked.

  Chadwick looked up from the newspaper he’d been reading. “Not at all,” he said, gesturing to the seat next to him. Folding his paper, he placed it on the low square table that stood at the center of the seating arrangement. He watched James with interest as James took his seat and then raised his glass in salute. “It is a bit unexpected though.” He took a sip of his drink and James did the same.

  “What can you tell me about Lady Newbury?” James asked as he set his glass aside.

  Chadwick chuckled. “Straight to the point as always, I see.”

  James shrugged. “You know me. I loathe wasting time in any capacity.”

  “Which just happens to be one of the things I like best about you. A pity we don’t get to socialize more.”

  James inclined his head. He’d always liked Chadwick. Lord Spencer too, for that matter, but with
his profession in mind, he’d always been reluctant to get too close to those who didn’t share it—­a precaution that was meant to ensure sound judgment. “I suspect you’d find my company tedious, Chadwick.”

  “Hmm . . . as I recall from our time together at Cambridge, you were always extremely well-­read—­a veritable fountain of knowledge. Your contributions in class were always of interest. I’m sure the same would be true today.”

  “And yet here I am, turning to you for information,” James murmured, determined to return to the subject he wished to discuss.

  Chadwick paused for a moment, the brightness in his eyes fading as he contemplated James more critically than before. “She’s my closest friend’s sister, but I daresay you already knew that or you wouldn’t have asked me to introduce you to her.”

  “Correct,” James said, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back against his chair.

  “Before I go any further, I think I ought to inquire about your motives.”

  “I have none,” James said blandly. “But there was something about her that puzzled me. So I’m curious, that’s all.”

  “Well, she married Newbury after her first Season, which resulted in a number of broken hearts, so I’m sure she’ll start receiving offers of marriage again now that she’s out of mourning.”

  “Really?” James couldn’t help but be surprised, for although he’d found her pleasant enough eventually, there had been a rigidity about her that hadn’t been very welcoming in the beginning.

  “She’s very dependable, Woodford, and exceptionally kind and giving too. I know she may seem cold at times, but she’s really quite the opposite. You mustn’t let her veneer fool you.”

  James nodded slowly as he filed away that bit of information. “Do you think she’ll ever remarry?”