The Earl Is Mine

by Kieran Kramer

  Gregory didn’t say a word. He was overcome. They were together, and they had no secrets. What was it like—to be able to trust someone else that much?

  “Dougal hated you for a long time,” Eliza went on somberly. “But I told him not to. I told him it was entirely my fault. Not yours. I was adrift … My choices were my own. I knew exactly what I was doing. My parents wanted us together. I was miserable, but I surrendered to them. To you. The very next morning, I couldn’t stop thinking I was throwing away my life, and I told Dougal I loved him in my back garden. The truth is, Gregory, I ruined you, and not the other way around.”

  He looked down at her. “No, Eliza. I wasn’t marrying you for the right reasons, either. You deserve a man who loves you. If it makes you feel any better, the truth is, I’m fine now. More than fine. I’m in love.”

  “Oh, Gregory.” She wiped away a quick tear. “I’m so happy that’s true.”

  “Don’t cry,” he said. “It’s all right. I still wish Dougal had been honest with me. But it’s in the past, and I’m ready to move on—to move past this. All’s forgiven. If you’ll forgive me, too.”

  “Of course I do.” She reached for and caught his hand, holding it to her heart. “I don’t care that everyone is staring at us right now. Why do you think they brought us here, encouraged us to bring the baby? To see drama unfold. The idiots.”

  Gregory allowed himself a small chuckle at that. This spirited Eliza was so different from the quiet debutante he’d known.

  “I’m only too happy to give them what they’re looking for,” she went on. “But what they don’t know—or don’t care about—is that real human hearts are involved, and they still need healing.”

  That was true. Seeing baby Walter had actually brought home to him how vulnerable he was. He’d been reacting to life, almost shutting down. He hadn’t been operating from the center of his being where the piebald stallion pawed the air, where all his hopes and dreams shone brightly, lighting the way to a destiny he could create if only he were brave enough.

  Eliza released his hand. “Dougal and I had no idea you were coming here, and even though at first it felt like a giant catastrophe—a dirty trick—right now I’m glad. So glad. I didn’t realize what a burden this has been, how many nights I’ve lain awake wondering how you’re doing. How many times I’ve looked at my men—Dougal and Walter—and felt sorry for them for the loss of you in their lives. And I’d caused it.”

  The others had scattered now. Perhaps the presence of a smiling baby in the arms of Lady Thurston made them ashamed that the two-penny drama they’d hoped to see unfurl before them was actually more the culmination—or the remaking—of a genuine tragedy, enough so that they made an attempt to respectfully look away.

  Everyone but Dougal, who stood frozen at the folly, watching them on high alert.

  This time when Gregory caught a glimpse of Eliza’s husband over his shoulder, he didn’t look away from him.

  Like a broom, a bundle of scraggly emotions that came from the hundreds of wonderful times he and Dougal had shared—as well as the occasional crisis—brushed through him and swept him clean, leaving only one thought:

  Best friends.

  Did that not mean something? The same way brother meant something?

  And it came to him then why Dougal and Peter hadn’t been honest with him—even why Eliza hadn’t been. He hadn’t let them in. Not really. He hadn’t let anyone know him. Not since he was thirteen.

  The memories slashed him hard.

  “Swear you won’t tell, darling. It would only hurt Daddy’s feelings.”

  “I swear, Mother. I’ll never tell. Never.”

  “What’s wrong, Gregory?” Eliza asked worriedly.

  “Nothing.” But that was a lie. Everything was wrong. His façade was cracking in the worst way. But he mustn’t let it. He mustn’t.

  “Dougal!” Eliza gripped Gregory’s arm hard so he couldn’t escape, the way a mother would. “Get over here right now.”

  In the mirrored surface of the lake, Gregory saw a peaceful world reflected there, a world he wished existed. Now that he was trying to breathe again, he realized that here on shore, he’d been walking underwater since the day his mother died … and slowly drowning.

  The next thing he knew, Dougal was at his side.

  “Everything all right?” He looked hard at Gregory, his eyes lit with concern.

  Dougal was a good man. He’d taken on Eliza’s baby willingly. He didn’t care that Walter might have been Gregory’s son.

  What if—

  What if Father didn’t care that Gregory had been fathered by someone else?

  But of course he would! Otherwise, Mother wouldn’t have acted so fearful that Gregory would tell the secret. She wouldn’t have sounded so ashamed …

  But there was Dougal, stepping up. He couldn’t be the only man in the world to have done so with a willing heart.

  A tiny ember of hope lit Gregory’s heart.

  “I’m all right,” he said. “Really. And I want to apologize to you, Dougal. You’ve always tried to be a good friend to me. And I—I didn’t quite let you. If I had, we never would have gotten to the point we did.”

  Dougal laughed. “We made a mess of it, didn’t we? I’m sorry, too. I should have told you I had feelings for Eliza. I had no idea she did for me, not until that day in her garden, and then”—the couple looked at each other—“and then there was no turning back.”

  “We won’t leave you ever again.” Eliza wrapped her hand through the crook of Gregory’s right arm.

  “No, we won’t,” said Dougal. “But it means you must be Walter’s godfather.”

  “Yes,” said Eliza. “That entails a great many duties. He likes being carried around like a great sack of potatoes at the moment. And I suspect he’ll demand to build a fort with you when he’s older. Since you’re an architect, of course.”

  “I’d consider it a great honor,” Gregory replied with a grin. “I accept on all counts.”

  “Remember our first fort?” Dougal asked him.

  And together they walked back to the house, talking about how spectacular that stronghold had been.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Pippa couldn’t believe how closely she’d come to giving up her last vestige of pride and telling Gregory she loved him. What a big mistake that would have been!

  Yes, the confession would have been over in thirty seconds. But she knew now that those thirty seconds would have haunted her the entire half-year she planned to stay in Paris. They’d have haunted her the rest of her life.

  Her hat in her hand, she walked through the kitchens in a stupor, not believing what she’d seen with her own eyes: Gregory’s child.

  He’d slept with Eliza.

  The rumors were true. All it took was one look at his face as he looked at that baby to know that he and Eliza had been together, that his body had been intimately joined with hers.

  No wonder he’d been so desperately angry that day in Lord and Lady Baird’s garden.

  Pippa liked to think she wasn’t judgmental—after all, the night before, she’d come to pleasure under the skilled manipulation of Gregory, master lover. He was very tempting. No wonder Eliza had succumbed.

  But was he over his feelings for her?

  Or not?

  His face had registered shock when he’d seen the baby. And then when he’d looked at Eliza, all Pippa could see was his utter despair—despair that he’d lost his child, no doubt. But perhaps there was also despair that he’d lost the child’s mother.

  He’d tried so hard to hide his devastation beneath a veneer of politeness, but he was broken. She’d sensed it, even if no one else had.

  How could she not wonder if he still loved Eliza? Especially now that she realized how powerful love was: Mix it with the compelling force that was sexual intimacy, and one could hardly be expected to easily recover—if ever—from the captivating combination that had the entire world in its thrall.

 
It was why there was Shakespeare. And Shelley. And every other poet, writer, playwright, painter, and composer who’d ever experienced both the victory and surrender that came with opening one’s self to another.

  She felt like knocking her head against the wall. How many times would it take for her to learn that Gregory wasn’t hers and never would be?

  But instead of useless self-pity, she decided to work on the mission—most likely, with no allies. First, she’d tell Mr. Dawson she hadn’t kept up her end of the bargain, and he was free to withdraw his offer. Next, assuming he would, she’d leave the house party on her own in the morning, and she already knew how. She’d ride on the back of the milk wagon that came by before dawn. She’d heard the house cook talking about it. She’d go as far as she could and then sell her earrings. After that, she’d purchase a ticket for the coast. She’d travel to an unlikely port—which would mean Plymouth was out of the question, being the closest major one. She’d go east as far as Southampton and get lost among the hordes of travelers queuing up for berths aboard packets heading to France.

  And then she’d work as a companion and pray that Monsieur Perot would take her on. She’d go back to her original plan and approach him as a man. It was too dangerous, otherwise.

  She found Mr. Dawson in the drawing room, standing at the tea tray and gulping down a cup of tea.

  “Come in, Harrow,” he urged her, then poured himself another cup.

  She walked briskly past a disapproving footman into the room. She didn’t care anymore about following house rules. She wasn’t hurting anyone talking to Mr. Dawson anyway.

  It turned out he wouldn’t let her go alone to Paris, after all.

  “I heard about the baby,” he said in a low voice. “We don’t know if it’s Westdale’s or not, but it’s an ugly environment to be in right now here at Thurston Manor. I need to get you out of here. I blame my cousin for this debacle. Shame on her. And shame on her husband.”

  Pippa rather thought Lord and Lady Thurston were wicked, too, to purposely create an awkward situation. “Are you sure you’ll still come with me?”

  “Of course.” His voice was so reassuring, Pippa nearly choked up. “In fact, I’ve already sent a footman to the stables. They’re readying us a carriage now.” His brow furrowed. “I refuse to ask my cousin for permission or tell her where we’re going. She’s brought this on herself.”

  “I’m so grateful for your help, Mr. Dawson. Where are we going first?”

  “Let’s talk in the carriage,” he said. “Swallow a cup of tea as fast as you can, and then pack swiftly. We must leave before the others come back.”

  “I’ll skip the tea.” She moved to the door, then came back and took a biscuit off a china plate. “But I’ll take one of these, thanks.”

  “Snitch them all, why don’t you?” He chuckled. “We might need them.”

  “Very well.” She poured them into her hat and trotted to the door again. Her heart felt lighter, now that she was taking action and she had a friend to share her adventure. And blast it all, she was hungry. They had at least several hours’ travel ahead of them.

  * * *

  The first leg of Pippa’s journey to Paris was uneventful. She and Mr. Dawson left ten minutes after their conversation, long before the majority of the guests had come home from the excursion to the folly.

  “I designed the thing,” Mr. Dawson said as the carriage rocked back and forth over the bumpy road. They’d long left behind the smooth gravel drive of Thurston Manor.

  “The folly?”

  “Yes.” He smiled.

  Pippa was astonished. “I had no idea you were an architect.”

  “Very few people do. I’m the architect who never makes the papers. I labor in a dreary office and lend my expertise and intuition to important men like John Nash.”

  “You know John Nash?”

  “Very well—Lord and Lady Thurston are acquainted with him through me.”

  “But they tried to act as if he’s one of their dear friends and that you’re their country cousin of no real consequence—but much beloved, of course.”

  “Typical of them. Lady Thurston has always enjoyed being in the limelight. I let her. I couldn’t care less if I am.”

  “Were you at Thurston Manor, then, on Nash’s behalf, to evaluate the dog cottage designs?” Pippa asked. “Lady Thurston said he’s planning on helping them choose the winning one.”

  “I was.” Mr. Dawson spoke without a great deal of enthusiasm. “I was to send over my recommendation to him. He’ll ultimately choose the winner, but I was to play a small part.”

  “That’s hardly a small part,” said Pippa, and then she remembered their conversation about the folly they’d had earlier that day. “Why did you pretend you didn’t know who designed the folly?”

  “I quibbled. I am a nobody. But I must say I was most impressed with Lord Westdale’s evaluation of the design.”

  “Were you?”

  “Yes. He was uncannily accurate—he thought that perhaps the designer wasn’t fond of the past. Which is true. I don’t like it.”

  “Why is that?” Pippa asked.

  He smiled gently. “I was married for thirty years, and my wife died, five years ago, right before I was asked to design the folly.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you. So I was in no mood to elevate the past. I’m still not fond of rehashing it. But my cousin insisted I design the folly for Prinny’s visit to Thurston Manor. As much as he is a purveyor of arts and culture, I have very little respect for the Prince Regent. So that mawkishly sentimental pile of stones is actually a testament to my dislike for him—and my dislike of the past. Now, however…”

  “What?”

  “Now I wish I’d reached beyond my own trifling feelings and built a true monument worthy of the ages. The best artists forget themselves in their work. Whatever they create is for everyone, not to satisfy a petty impulse. Now every time I look at that folly, I’m reminded of my own meanness.”

  “You’re not mean,” Pippa insisted. “You’re human.”

  “I suppose I am.” Mr. Dawson chuckled.

  “What will Lord and Lady Thurston do if you’re not there to help them with the dog cottage sketches?”

  Mr. Dawson shrugged. “They’ll have to figure it out for themselves. I know for a fact John Nash won’t be interested in helping them if I’m not involved.”

  Pippa’s shoulders sank. “I feel sorry now for the designers.”

  Mr. Dawson sighed. “I knew you’d say something like that.”

  She bit her lip. “I can’t help thinking of Lord Marbury, of how hard he tried to ingratiate himself with you. He thought you were only a cousin—can you imagine how much more eagerly he’d have worked to win your favor had he known you were John Nash’s colleague?”

  “Thank God he didn’t know. I could hardly take another second of his company.”

  “But if you thought his design was best, you would have recommended it, correct?”

  “Of course. I can separate personal feelings from my business dealings. However, a good architect knows how to get along well with others. He consults with the customer and the contractors.” The carriage gave a hefty bounce then—an unexpected pothole, perhaps—and Dawson paused to reposition himself on the seat. “He stays abreast of trends. A good architect certainly doesn’t work in a vacuum.”

  “I wanted Gregory to win that contest, silly as it was,” Pippa confessed. “Perhaps it would have boosted his career to make contact with John Nash. And now … now I’ve ruined his chances and everyone else’s—just so I could pursue my dream.”

  “If talent is there, it will out, I promise you,” Mr. Dawson assured her. “One lost opportunity doesn’t stop the ambitious. Nor does it stop the creative soul with a passion for his work from continuing to create. What’s the other option? Quitting? Not for the truly dedicated.” He gave a wry smile and fixed her with a direct look. “Missed opportunities weed out the pre
tenders.”

  “You’re certainly blunt,” she said, feeling a bit intimidated.

  “I’m merely speaking the truth. Take it, or leave it.” He crossed his arms over his chest and looked out the window, looking every inch the influential architect and not merely the sweet little man she’d thought him.

  Funny how there were different sides to people, how they could change right before your eyes. For now he leaned toward her, his palms on his knees. “Let’s consider your Gregory, for instance,” he said in a low, menacing tone.

  “Mr. Dawson.” She shrank back in her seat. “You sound so … angry.”

  He frowned. “I’m not angry. I’m merely observant. Your precious lover—”

  “What?”

  He made a wry face. “Let’s be honest, Lady Pippa. The man is a renowned rake. I don’t hold it against you if he had his way with you, but I certainly hold it against him. Here he’s gotten a babe on Lady Morgan—”

  Pippa caught her breath. What mortifying talk!

  “We can’t be sure of that yet,” she said hastily. And it was true. She’d been so willing to believe that he was Walter’s father—as had Gregory, obviously, from that stark look on his face when he first saw the baby—but Eliza had been married for almost a year, and it was perfectly possible that little Walter had been a product of her union with Dougal.

  “You’re naïve,” Mr. Dawson said when she explained that reasoning to him. “Westdale has thrown away so many chances. I’ve seen his work in London. He has great potential. And he shows up at my cousin’s to design a dog cottage? It’s a waste of his talent.”

  “He had misgivings,” said Pippa. “He only designed the dog cottage because Lady Thurston asked him to—and he wasn’t excited at the prospect. But when he heard John Nash was involved, of course, he grew more interested.”