Meet the Earl at Midnight

by Gina Conkle

  “Why it’s yours, of course.” Edith tugged off Lydia’s sleeves. “Step out of the dress, if you please.”

  “But who’s that?” With an eye to the portrait, Lydia held the bedpost as Edith peeled away her dress and patched underskirt.

  “Lady E., er, Lady Elizabeth, his lordship’s mum.” Miss Lumley tossed the garments over her shoulder. “This is, or was, her room, which now, of course, will be yours. Let’s get this on, shall we?”

  The maid bunched up the frothy nightgown. Copious pink and yellow ribbons, shiny strips of silk, dangled in the air. The garment must belong to the woman in the portrait. Lydia shook her head and raised her hands in protest.

  “Oh, no, no thank you. I’m fine with what I have.” She glanced from the painting to the maid, not willing to wear countess garb, even for sleep. “I’ll stick with my chemise.”

  Edith frowned at her thin, short-sleeved chemise, eyeing a threadbare spot.

  “At least take the robe. You’ll catch your death of cold without proper garments.”

  Lydia grimaced. No corset and only one underskirt. She stood in her chemise and drawers with nothing else but a pair of stockings. Even when her dress and underskirt dried, she couldn’t very well walk around the earl’s home corsetless. Wearing the cloak indoors would be silly, all in the name of modesty.

  “I suppose his lordship shouldn’t see bobbing breasts about his house, should he?” Lydia announced.

  “Oh, my.” She chortled. “You’re a cheeky one, miss. Just what his lordship needs, I think. Now, be a good girl and put this on. I see the gooseflesh on your arms. Best be sensible, I always say.”

  Lydia hesitated but slipped into the luxuriant robe, belting the pliant velvet. The lush fabric caressed her arms, tempting her with shimmering softness.

  Her brain couldn’t help but latch onto the question: What exactly did his lordship expect of her? Other than an heir and a second, which seemed like overly functional thinking. The earl spoke of children, babies, after all. She contemplated probing the older woman for information, but the energetic maid had lost herself in what must have been a mental “to do” list.

  The maid poked the fire, and above her head, Lady E. stared, full of hauteur and sophistication. Lydia, never one for fashion, leaned on the bedpost.

  “Does the countess live here?”

  Miss Lumley replaced the poker and moved to the bed. She slipped her hand under a pink bed ruffle. Out came the rim of a chamber pot.

  “Just so you know, miss.” She tapped the porcelain rim and stood upright. “The countess? Live here? Oh no, her ladyship has apartments in Bath and her own estate, Ashton Manor, nearer to Lady Jane, the earl’s sister she is, and her little ones.” Edith winked and lowered her voice. “Don’t worry. Lady E.’s at least a good two or three days’ journey from here. She’s not big on visits to Greenwich Park anymore.”

  Lydia absorbed this news and slipped her hands into the robe’s deep pockets, while Edith retrieved her candle from the dressing table.

  “All’s well prepared, I think.” The maid cupped the flame and smiled. “At least I hope so, since we got word of your coming. Of course, tomorrow will be much better when your things arrive.”

  “You had word of my coming?” Lydia fisted her hands encased in velvet.

  Lord Greenwich was confident of his plan.

  “Why, of course. We were informed of your arrival two days ago. Such a bustle to get the room ready. But if you’re quite comfortable, I’ll be off to get a mite of sleep.” Miss Lumley pointed at the long pink cord near the dressing table. “Give that a tug if you need anything.”

  Lydia’s only decent clothing departed the room on the woman’s shoulder. She grinned: a melodramatic escape from the phantom’s lair would not be an option tonight.

  Once the door closed, her toes wiggled on the fine pastel carpet. She leaned a hip against the bed and slipped off her stockings, all the better to feel the expensive pile under her feet. The old stockings floated to the floor. That’s when the porcelain winked at her. She leaned over and pulled out the chamber pot all the way.

  “Pink. Of course.”

  Her heel nudged the ceramic bowl back, and Lydia flopped onto the voluminous comforter. Her splayed fingers rubbed and swirled over the pink silk bedcover, and that’s when she remembered: her fingers had touched Lord Greenwich’s abdomen, firm male skin, pleasant to the touch.

  The earl sported well-exercised, hard flatness…an interesting state for a recluse. This was not her first exposure to a man; nor was she one for fits of hysteria at the sight—or feel—of male flesh. But then Lord Greenwich wouldn’t know that. Her gaze wandered to the elegant portraiture.

  “How do you feel about your son marrying a woman like me?” She crossed her arms. “But therein lies my trouble. To save my own mother, I must do this. Wouldn’t you want your son to do everything he could to save you?”

  Lydia slid off the bed and picked up the brass snuffer to extinguish the candles. She paused, hand in midair, glancing at the dominating portrait.

  “I don’t relish marriage to any man. No more than you probably relish me marrying your son.”

  And there was that slight misunderstanding that needed to be rectified. She rubbed her tired eyes and set the snuffer down. A shaft of light beamed from under an adjoining door. Of course, the door to the earl’s room. Lydia tucked a thick lock of hair behind her ear.

  “At the very least, clear the air,” she decided aloud.

  The soles of her feet sped over the luxuriant pile, and her fist poised to knock on the adjoining door. She stopped short and cocked her head. Voices, a man’s and a woman’s, carried faintly. Lydia stared at the narrow beam under the door. Was that Miss Mayhew’s voice? What game did his lordship play? A valet perhaps would attend at this hour, but not a woman. Her apology and confession fell by the wayside. Lydia grabbed the doorknob, ready to give Lord Greenwich a few choice words.

  Five

  Clear conscience never feared midnight knocking.

  —Chinese Proverb

  She scanned the room, heart pounding, and braced herself for…silence. Not a soul was present. There had been voices, in particular his lordship’s voice, somewhere in all this…mess.

  The whole room cried disaster. Mismatched furniture competed with an abundance of books. Three bookstands acted as stems for massive tomes. Near those bookstands, a large, poorly crafted table held sizable sheaves of paper. Maps from the look. Everywhere, volumes stacked in such a scrabbled mess.

  Not at all what one expected of nobility, then again, neither was the adjoining pink monstrosity. Large pillar candles blazed brilliantly, leaving excess wax pooled on tabletops. A man’s clothes piled in haphazard array across a rough sea chest. A pile of breeches taunted her, reminding her of where her hand had been less than an hour past, and the humbling fact that she owed Lord Greenwich an explanation…no, scratch that, explanations in the plural. Moments ago, she’d made base assumptions about him and his housekeeper.

  Worse yet, she’d marched uninvited into a man’s bedchamber well past midnight. Her record of decision making this eve left much to be desired.

  And then she spied him.

  A dark blond head showed above the back of a large leather chair. Lord Greenwich, oblivious to her presence, faced a roaring fire, his stocking feet propped on a leather stool. Lydia slowly, carefully let the air from her lungs. She could turn back. Wait for morning. Her hands clenched into fists. When she opened them, Lydia willed control.

  “My lord. A moment of your time, if you please.”

  Her words shot like a musket blast through the quiet room. Masculine feet jerked off the stool, and a male hand set a crystal glass on a side table with care. Firelight played inside the jostled amber liquid.

  “Miss Montgomery. I thought you were asleep.”

  He didn’t stand up to face her, but his tanned fingers gripped the crystal glass.

  Emboldened, Lydia strode a few paces forward. “
I’m surprisingly awake.” She rubbed her chilled hands. “When I saw the light under your door, I thought I heard voices…”

  “That was Miss Lumley taking the laundry.”

  “I see.” She fidgeted, feeling a little silly about her suspicions. “I’m glad you’re up, because I want to speak with you. With the evening’s excitement and all—”

  “Go to bed.” The terse command came from the chair’s expanse, cutting her short.

  “What?”

  “Do as you’re told and go to bed.” His voice carried across the space, sharp on each syllable.

  “Wha…” Lydia choked down an indignant snort.

  Lord Greenwich’s earlier considerate, gentleman’s veneer had worn off and been replaced by the type of nobleman she’d run into far too much: young, privileged, and full of themselves to excess. She was in his home, after all. Something snapped within her adaptable nature, and she closed the distance, her bare feet making quick swipes on the rug.

  “So that’s how it is. Get what you want, and those polished manners of yours disappear. You may be the high and mighty Earl of Green—” Lydia stopped in her tracks when he stood up.

  Her spine chilled. The back of him looked menacing. His linen shirt hung loose, and firelight limned broad shoulders through wrinkled fabric. Lord Greenwich stood tall and imposing, his mane of blond-brown hair hung free just past his shoulders, more highwayman stirred from repose than aristocrat at ease.

  “Don’t come any farther,” he commanded and gripped the mantel with both hands. “Return to your chamber, if you please.”

  “I do not please, sir,” Lydia said, but she finished the space to his chair with caution. “I will not be ordered about like a child.”

  He inhaled sharply when she moved closer, and his back expanded like some kind of cornered beast about to spring. The part of her brain crying for restraint could not douse her ire.

  “What’s wrong with you? You orchestrate my removal from my home in the dead of night. Then, you threaten my mother if I don’t go along with your ridiculous plan.” Her volume increased with each condemning phrase. “And, talk about the height of bad manners…you, you rudely show me your back—”

  “I’m trying to spare us both any discomfort,” he snapped. “Stay where you are.”

  “I came only to clear up some misunderstandings.” Lydia moved beside the great chair and hooked bothersome hair behind her ear.

  “Don’t come any closer.” His long fingers rubbed the back of his neck. “Whatever it is, consider the matter cleared. Now, please, return to your room.”

  He said the words as if he were the very soul of patience, with a touch of pleading as he finished. Lydia made an inelegant sound and moved closer just to spite him. She wanted to shake that lordly shoulder and make him face her.

  “I realize I’m not a lady of nobility, but at the very least, acknowledge my presence, sir.” She clamped her arms under her breasts.

  “I deplore histrionics,” he said. “And status of birth matters little to me.” The earl chuckled, a dry, humorless sound, as he kept his face to the wall. “You’ll find I’m equally rude to those of my class, if not more so.”

  His bald statement threw her. Lydia shifted on her feet, not knowing how to respond, and the way his shoulders bunched and tensed under his shirt, she had poked and prodded the cornered beast, testing his limits.

  “I’d hoped discussions could hold for morning, when we’re both rested and in a better frame of mind”—his head dropped, chin to chest—“but apparently you can’t wait.”

  Before her eyes, the beast uncoiled, and Lord Greenwich turned to confront her.

  Her hands shot up to her cheeks as shock splashed her cold.

  “Your face…”

  “Yes. My face.” His scornful smile told her she wasn’t the first distressed maiden to see him.

  Half of his face, shadowed by gold and brown whiskers, showed male perfection, but the other half, a bizarre pattern of scar lines and puckered flesh. Truly, staring at his face was akin to seeing a painting of two men, split down the middle. Lydia recoiled as much from the hot anger flashing in his eyes as from astonishment. The chair hit the back of her knees. Down she sat. Hands on hips, he loomed over her.

  “I can’t be sure if you’re irritating or obtuse,” he said, growling the words.

  She swallowed hard. “Most people find me very agreeable.”

  One doubting brow rose. Untidy hair spread across his shoulders; more dark brown sprung from his nape, some of it curling. She had it all wrong at the Blue Cockerel; the Phantom of London was more menacing than mysterious.

  “Very agreeable, actually,” she whispered, wide-eyed.

  She took in every detail of his face: the blade-straight nose, the small white cleft, that tiny scar she noticed by his right eye, long brown lashes, gold-tipped in the light, and wide, frowning mouth.

  “You’re staring,” he said. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that’s the height of bad manners?”

  Lydia’s eyelids shuttered at having her own words dumped back on her. She forced herself to concentrate on the front of her robe. The earl’s harsh bark of laughter made her squirm.

  “On second thought, why not get your fill?” Lord Greenwich leaned in close.

  His hands braced the chair arms; she shrunk from the sharp, glinting eyes a mere hand’s breadth from her face. The aroma of scotch and lye soap came with every overbearing inch. Her curious questions, the need to know and see what had been hidden from her at the inn, turned fuzzy in the face of peril.

  But heaven help her, she looked.

  Tawny hair fell forward, framing handsome features and taut skin browned from the sun. The grain of his unscarred skin stretched over twitching jaw muscles. And the other half…lines moved in maplike array across his left cheek. What must be small burns dotted his skin into pale discoloration, going down his neck.

  “Get a good look at the Greenwich Recluse, Enigma Earl, or whatever drivel London’s busybodies call me these days.” Well-formed lips pulled tight in a grimace. “Of course, you must have the complete picture.”

  Lord Greenwich stood up and yanked his shirt to expose part of his chest: more lines, more small dotted burns, and puckering flesh on one section of his upper torso. Lydia flinched deeper into the cracked leather chair. His lordship took a step back and released his shirt. His hard brown eyes turned weary and hooded.

  “Had enough?”

  Numbness dissolved into an altogether different feeling. Pity? Confusion? Lydia dropped her head into her hands. Thankfully, her hair curtained her, giving respite for the moment. If he’d wanted her to feel small, he’d succeeded.

  “If only I’d known, this could’ve gone much better,” she groaned.

  “Nothing could make this better.”

  Her head snapped up.

  “I’m sorry for this, so sorry…for what happened this evening, truly…for everything…George’s and Tristan’s theft, what happened out front tonight…everything. But what did you expect? That I’d stay in my room to await your bidding?”

  “Sounds reasonable,” he said, glaring at her and crossing his arms tightly across his chest.

  “Oh, please,” she snipped. “A total stranger whisks me away after some secret, late-night meeting, expecting me to wait like a biddable mouse for who knows how long?” She folded her arms across her chest. “What would you do if you were in my place?”

  His jaw muscles ticked under the scars, as though he weighed her argument and found solid reasoning.

  “I said we’d talk in the morning. And the middle-of-the-night meeting was your stepfather’s idea. Remember, I thought you were fully informed. And as you so aptly pointed out at the inn, my previous matrimonial arrangements haven’t gone well. Circumstances turned critical. I was prepared to move quickly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The earl leaned a shoulder on the mantel. “Not relevant at this time.”

  She wanted to probe th
at cryptic comment, but his topaz eyes glittered in a way that issued warning bells in her head.

  “What is relevant, Miss Montgomery, is the fact that you came to my room, requesting a moment of my time—” He spoke softly as the corners of his mouth turned up in an unfriendly smile. “Unless exhaustion has finally claimed you.”

  With him standing there angry, in stocking feet and open-necked shirt, Lydia’s equilibrium went askew. Dark-eyed and unkempt, he looked primitive. No, he was primitive and bore no resemblance at all to a refined earl. Her right hand gripped the neckline of the robe, closing it high under her chin.

  “I know nothing about you.”

  “Edward Christopher James Sanford, ninth Earl of Greenwich.” He said each syllable with the enthusiasm one gives a list for a trip to the market. Yet his eyes…they blazed, sharp and assessing, like he could read her every thought.

  But what happened to you?

  She couldn’t help that. He knew that question hung between them; she guessed as much in the hard glint of his eyes and the tightness about his mouth. Was he daring her to ask the impertinent question out loud? No instructive social manual existed to tell a woman how to engage reclusive noblemen in cordial conversation well past midnight. What was she supposed to do?

  Behind the earl, a log split in two, both pieces rolled apart inside the massive hearth, and pulsing orange embers spilled near his feet. She flinched, but the sudden noise didn’t bother Lord Greenwich.

  “A-And?” she asked, pulling her robe tighter under her chin.

  “And what?” He sighed, starting to sound more annoyed than fierce.

  Her lips parted, but no words came, couldn’t because the sensation of wool filling her mouth made talking difficult. Under the weight of his harsh glare, Lydia squirmed inside the chair: her velvet-clad bottom rubbed the leather, making the only sound amidst awkward silence. Asking the obvious question would wait for another time. Then one of his eyebrows rose slowly, imperious and lordly in effect.

  “Perhaps you can begin by telling me why you barged into my room at this late hour.”