The Seduction of an Earl

by Linda Rae Sande

  Given there would probably be only two waltzes played during the entire ball, Hannah lifted her head and said, “I will allow it, of course,” the flutterbies tumbling in her middle.

  And suddenly, they were in the crowded vestibule, Hannah giving up her shawl to a footman as her father and the earl waited. It was then she realized she hadn’t brought a reticule or a fan. How could she forget? How could Lily allow her to get out of the house without at least a fan? She could only hope the early Season ball would not become a crush. But if it did, she hoped Gisborn would escort her on the back terrace so she might get some air.

  As she rejoined them for the receiving line, she glanced about to look for anyone she knew. She looked for Elizabeth and George but saw neither. She did notice Lady Fletcher, George’s aunt, and Lady Pettigrew as they joined the line. The two older women had their heads together, apparently continuing whatever conversation they were having in the park earlier that morning.

  Lady Attenborough raised her eyes to meet Lord Gisborn’s. Hannah watched the older woman’s reaction, pleased to see the delight in the viscountess’ face. “Why, Lord Gisborn, you’re not at all who I expected!” she said as she allowed Gisborn to raise her gloved hand so he could brush his lips over her knuckles. Lady Attenborough was positively blushing!

  Henry realized their hostess probably expected his late uncle and wondered at how they would know the man. He rarely visited London in his later years.

  Hannah, having completed her greeting to Lord Attenborough, turned and noticed the raised eyebrows of those behind them in the receiving line, realizing they had overheard Lady Attenborough’s curious remark. Afraid they would think Gisborn was a gate crasher, she was about to say something like, “Lord Gisborn inherited the title from his late uncle last year,” when Henry gave Lady Attenborough a winning smile. “I do hope your invitation is not withdrawn, my lady. I had so looked forward to a dance with you.”

  Beaming, Lady Attenborough turned to her husband. “Attenborough! Look who ’tis. Randolph’s nephew, Henry!” She turned back to the suddenly surprised earl. “We spent a very lovely week at Gisborn Hall many years ago,” she explained. “You were still in short pants and ...”

  Lord Attenborough nudged his wife. “Livvie, darling, let the poor boy be,” he admonished her. He held out his hand to Henry and the earl stepped over so he stood in front of the familiar man.

  “Lord Attenborough, so good to see you again,” Henry stated with a slight bow.

  “And you. How are the Gisborn farms?” he asked, his head tilted up a bit as he was a good deal shorter than Henry. “Still growing wheat, beans and barley?”

  “Indeed, and on a bit more land now,” Henry replied with a grin. And then he was at the end of the line and holding his arm out for Hannah. Her father had her other arm. A footman announced them to a ballroom not yet crowded. The orchestra was playing somewhere off to one side and footman scurried about with champagne on trays as they descended the seven steps to the ballroom floor.

  The Attenboroughs had spared no expense on candles. The three massive chandeliers hung above the room had hundreds of them, giving the room a bright, golden glow. The French doors to the flagstone terrace and gardens were already opened. Outside, paper lanterns bobbed in the gentle breeze, giving off light that seemed to dance. The ball had barely begun and yet everything seemed magical.

  “If you two will excuse me, I need to make someone’s acquaintance,” the marquess murmured, giving Gisborn and Hannah a nod before he walked off toward one of the corners.

  Surprised at his sudden departure, Hannah followed his apparent path to where Lady Winslow stood next to a potted palm. The widow’s face split into a smile when she spotted the Marquess of Devonville approaching her. “Oh, my,” Hannah breathed, not intending Gisborn to overhear her.

  “Something amiss?” Henry wondered, following her line of sight. He watched as the marquess lifted both of the woman’s hands to his lips. And then the woman had her arm on his as he escorted her toward the French doors.

  “Not really, I suppose,” Hannah murmured, finally turning her attention to the earl. When she realized he had been watching her father and the widow, she added, “I had no idea he had a tendre for Lady Winslow.”

  Henry regarded Hannah for a quick moment. “Does it bother you if he does?” he asked carefully. He took two glasses of champagne from a passing footman’s tray and offered her one.

  Hannah grinned as she wrapped her fingers about the stem. “No,” she replied with a quick shake of head. “I am rather happy for him, in fact,” she said, realizing she meant it. Her father had missed her mother, his bouts of melancholy less often these days but still evident when he spent too much time alone.

  Touching his champagne glass against the rim of Hannah’s, Henry cocked an eyebrow. “To your father’s happiness then?” he offered, wondering how Hannah would react.

  She responded with a brilliant smile. “Yes!” she said before taking a sip. The bubbles danced on her tongue and continued dancing down her throat, leaving her feeling a bit giddy.

  Smiling broadly, Henry took a sip of his and let the liquid stay on his tongue as long as he could. Champagne was not something kept in the cellars at Gisborn Hall. There hadn’t been much to celebrate at the estate in many years, but perhaps with Hannah as his countess, there would be a reason to stock it. “Tell me, Lady Hannah. As the lady of Devonville House, have you had to host an entertainment such as this?” he wondered, the hand holding his champagne waving in a small arc to indicate the ball.

  Hannah shook her head. “I assisted my mother with her last ball, of course, so I know the requirements of hosting such a production, but my responsibilities to my father have been to play hostess for his dinner parties.”

  Henry seemed to think about that for a moment, his brow furrowing. “Does he host them often?”

  Smiling so her dimple appeared in her right cheek, Hannah nodded. “Every week,” she replied. She took another sip of her champagne, wondering why Gisborn would ask such a question. Was he interviewing her to determine if she had the necessary skills to be a countess? “How many do you host as an earl?” she asked before finishing off the champagne and allowing a footman to take the glass from her.

  The question caught Henry off guard. He glanced to the side quickly, his attention briefly captured by a familiar woman who had just kissed the cheek of the man who was escorting her. She hadn’t even tried to hide the kiss! And now she was angling her head against his shoulder as they made their way toward a couple near the center of the ballroom floor. “I admit, I have not had the opportunity to do so,” he answered with a shrug.

  Hannah turned to glance where the earl’s attention had been diverted a moment ago. She smiled when she recognized Elizabeth and George. “Did Lady Bostwick do something scandalous?” she asked with a teasing grin, her voice seductively quiet.

  Surprised by the question, Henry blinked. “I have not been introduced to a woman of that name,” he countered, his eyes moving back to the center of the room. Hannah’s question had him suddenly wondering if he was too staid for the ball. Was it common practice for ladies to kiss their escorts out in the open? If so, when had the rules of society changed to allow such a display of affection?

  “She is the former Lady Elizabeth Carlington. Of Lady E and Associates’ Finding Work for the Wounded. What did she do?” Hannah asked as she placed her hand on his arm and turned toward the couple, making it clear the two of them would be heading in the couple’s direction.

  Henry started walking, slowly at first. “She kissed him. She didn’t even try to hide it,” he whispered, trying not to act too scandalized.

  Hannah leaned toward him, her mouth inches from his ear. “Lady Bostwick and her husband are quite in love with one another. Prior to their union, she was a prim and proper young lady, with nary a hint of scandal associated with her. Then, she and George married,” she said with a sigh, one that did not sound as if she found fault with
the union. “Ever since, Elizabeth has been quite obvious about her feelings toward her husband. It does not excuse her action, but she has a hard time keeping her kisses to the privacy of their home,” she managed to get out before they were standing before the happy couple.

  “Hannah!” Elizabeth brightened, her arms coming out so her hands could grasp her friend’s shoulders. Hannah did likewise as the two women hugged. “You look exquisite, as usual, and ...” Her attention turned to Gisborn. “I see you have arrived on the arm of a Greek god this evening. Do tell me which deity he is. I’m terrible at mythology.” This last was delivered with so much mischief and directed to the earl himself. Hannah had to fight down the urge to gasp in astonishment.

  Henry did his very best to keep his face as impassive as possible, but he found himself allowing a small smile. The woman was most outrageous! And he recognized her as the woman who had come out of Devonville House that very morning before he called on the marquess. He immediately realized that his earlier assumption of her being overweight was incorrect – she was quite round with child. And she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.

  Her husband had turned to join them at that moment, his eyes rolling and his head shaking at his wife’s comment. “Please allow me to beg your pardon for milady’s mistaken assumption,” Lord Bostwick intoned, a hint of smile giving away his humor. “Elizabeth, he is most assuredly a Roman god,” he corrected her. “I’m thinking ... Apollo?” he guessed, a dark eyebrow cocking. The man’s stern features didn’t allow him to be particularly handsome, but with his devilish grin making his eyes light up, he suddenly appeared friendly and very approachable.

  Quite certain his face was taking on a reddish cast but deciding their comments were all in good fun, Henry bowed. “Neither, I’m afraid. Henry Forster, Earl of Gisborn, at your service,” he answered, not waiting for Hannah’s introduction.

  “Elizabeth and George Bennett-Jones,” George replied in kind, bowing as Elizabeth curtsied. She held out her hand and the earl kissed the back of her knuckles.

  “Viscount Bostwick,” Hannah added, since George never seemed to mention his title when introducing himself.

  The viscount reached over to lift Hannah’s gloved hand to his lips. “And you are looking like you stepped out of the pages of ... ‘Sleeping Beauty’, perhaps?” he guessed, giving Hannah a mischievous grin.

  Hannah’s inhalation of breath was soft enough that only Henry was aware of it. He wondered what it was about the reference to Sleeping Beauty that would make her react so. Had he been given time to consider what fairy tale princess she looked like this evening, he would have to agree Sleeping Beauty was a good guess. A thought of kissing her awake crossed his mind, but he had to erase it as quickly as it appeared – his satin breeches did not allow room for the erection that was forming.

  “George!” Hannah admonished him, not wanting to admit it was her thought while in front of the vanity mirror. Turning to Henry, she said, “George is a fencer.”

  A look of recognition passed over Henry’s face. “Bennett-Jones, of course,” he spoke. “You are Angelo’s champion, are you not?”

  George dipped his head. “Guilty as charged, my lord,” he responded. “But I’ll probably lose the title during the next few months. I’m about to whisk my wife away to Sussex for her confinement. And I have estate business to attend to,” he explained quickly, his gaze on Henry one of calculation. “May I assume you are the Forster who is a friend of Lady Charlotte’s?” he asked then.

  Stunned that a man he hadn’t met would know of his connection to the Binghams, Henry nodded. “Indeed, I know Lady Charlotte – her entire family, of course – since one of their estates is adjacent to the Gisborn lands in Oxfordshire,” he explained quickly, hoping there was no hint of scandal associated with him or Lady Charlotte. “Have you heard if her father is ... recovering?” he wondered, not having ascertained the truth as the to health of the Earl of Ellsworth since returning to London.

  Moving to stand by the earl’s side, George nodded to his wife. “I know you two are dying to gossip,” he whispered, giving her a peck on the temple as if he was dismissing the friends. When the women were out of earshot, having moved off to join a group of other young matrons forming in one corner, he returned his attention to Henry. “Truth be told, the Earl of Ellsworth is in quite good health, although he does have a bump on his noggin,” George said sotto voce.

  Henry’s eyes widened, wondering at George’s need to keep the news quiet. “That is certainly good news,” he replied, although there was a part of him that thought the man deserved to die for what he had done to Charlotte. How could a father horsewhip his daughter, even if he was in his cups when he did so?

  “News that must be kept under wraps for at least a few more days,” George intoned, his voice still low. “According to my sources, Lady Charlotte’s cousin is to be charged with attempted murder and embezzlement, but until he has been dealt his sentence, he must believe the earl is on his deathbed.”

  Noting the man’s seriousness, Henry nodded. “I understand. I ... I just came from Sussex yesterday,” he said, deciding to share his knowledge of the situation with George. “Lady Charlotte was in good health and,” he paused, wishing Charlotte was truly in good health – the stitches along her whip scar were still in place just yesterday – “If the Duke of Chichester did not lose his nerve, the two of them will be saying their wedding vows in a couple of days.” The words tripped off his tongue, sounding somehow right despite how he’d felt about the situation just a day ago. My, how things have changed in only a day, he considered.

  A slow smile spread over George’s face. “Your news is the best I’ve heard in days,” the viscount claimed. He glanced to where his wife stood with the cluster of friends, a look of obvious adoration on his face. Turning his attention back to the earl, he said, “If I may say so, it seems to me our uncles were men of a similar mind.”

  Henry wasn’t familiar with George’s predecessor, so he gave George a cocked eyebrow. “How so?” he wondered, noting George’s sudden interest in him instead of the wife that was still gossiping with her friends.

  “My uncle was a miser,” he whispered, leaning in toward Henry so that he could be heard over the growing din of the ballroom. He thought of adding, “and a molly,” but decided he did not know enough about Randolph Forster to make the comment inclusive.

  His head angling a bit, Henry finally nodded, deciding it wasn’t treasonous to admit his uncle had been tight-fisted. “Mine, as well,” he murmured. “These past two years have been a struggle just to return the Gisborn lands and buildings to some semblance of normalcy.” He frowned. “When did you inherit?” he asked, wondering if George’s viscountcy had suffered the same lack of oversight and care.

  “Just over a year ago,” George answered. “I, too, have been spending a good deal of blunt trying to right the wrongs of so many years of deferred maintenance.” This last was delivered with a definite hint of disgust.

  “Oh, I like that terminology,” Henry said in admiration, taking a drink of his champagne. “May I inquire as to how you have handled your tenants’ cottages?”

  George nodded to the earl’s compliment and helped himself to a glass of champagne from a footman’s tray. “Since I don’t have much in the way of farmland, I don’t have many tenants, but all ten families have new cottages as of last month,” he said, not intending for the pride he felt to come through in his statement.

  Good grief! “You must have an estate manager very different from mine,” Henry spoke quietly, not wanting to be overheard. The Gisborn earldom could claim at least twenty cottages in all – at one time, there might have been nearly thirty. But, as far as Henry was concerned, every one of them required major work or complete replacement. He’d directed his estate manager to see to the rebuilding of one when he first inherited. The man had argued that the tenant had allowed the cottage to deteriorate through lack of regular maintenance, but time and weather had
been the true culprits in its disintegration. It was only after Henry had threatened to replace the manager when the matter was finally resolved. Nineteen to go, he thought, and another ten to build from scratch, wondering if he would still have to replace Edward Grainger. The man was downright stubborn when it came to expenditures of the maintenance sort, as if he thought his compensation was tied to how much of the earldom’s coffers he saved.

  “If you are suggesting that yours is as miserly as our uncles were in life, then I must admit, mine was as well,” George retorted, taking a drink and holding the bubbly liquid on his tongue as if he was truly appreciating the sensation.

  Surprised by the comment, Henry regarded the viscount with a cocked eyebrow. “What did you say to change his mind?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.

  Laughter bubbled up from George, the sound making his wife turn from where she stood to give him a wink. “There was nothing I could say, so I didn’t. I fired him and hired one who was a bit more ... accommodating,” he admitted with a good deal of amusement, his gaze returning to meet his wife’s for a moment. “I found the danger from poorly maintained coal mines a far greater problem than cottages that were on the verge of collapse,” he added, his countenance suddenly turning serious.

  Still fighting to hold down a blush at the couple’s outrageous behavior, Henry considered George’s words. Christ! The man owned coal mines in addition to farmland! But the idea of replacing his estate manager was suddenly at the top of his mind. The man rarely spent time out of doors and could barely ride a horse, a necessity given where his lands were in Oxfordshire. It wasn’t as if you could drive a curricle over the farmland. And lately, Henry had been the one overseeing any work being done in the fields, riding out at first light to check on his foremen and laborers and sometimes staying out until almost dark. Why pay a man who couldn’t do the job to his satisfaction?

  Henry remembered the Marquess of Devonville’s comment about Aldenwood’s prediction for a colder summer and wondered what George might think. “Tell me, Bostwick, are you familiar with an adventurer named Aldenwood?” he asked then, hoping George wouldn’t be too surprised by the change of topic.