The Earl Is Mine

by Kieran Kramer

“Pippa, my dear.” Mr. Dawson leaned in and kissed both her cheeks. “He’s beautiful.” He then turned to Gregory. “Fine work, lad. I’m proud of you both.”

  Westdale put his arm around his shoulders and squeezed. “We’re exceedingly glad you’re here to share this special day with us.” He leaned toward his wife and ran a gentle thumb over their son’s wee, dimpled chin.

  Marbury did not want a one-armed embrace from Westdale, so he backed up a step. But the newly married earl managed to reach out and slap his shoulder—hard—and grinned at his former nemesis turned design partner, because admittedly, that’s what Marbury now was, and their business was thriving.

  “Thanks for getting our mentor here safely today,” Westdale told him. “I trust your travel went well, that Mr. Dawson didn’t have you scaring up valets to shine his shoes for him, did he?”

  Marbury chuckled. “Must you remind me of that marvelously pompous ass you stumbled upon in that inn? He was a memorable fellow, wasn’t he? But let’s move on.” He snapped his fingers. “I’ve learned the secret to shiny boots, one that Beau Brummel claims does the trick every time. A good soft cloth … and the finest champagne!”

  They all laughed.

  “It’s not funny.” Marbury glowered round at them all. “It’s costing me a fortune.”

  “You know, my dear friend,” Pippa began brightly—

  Marbury looked behind him, then saw that she was talking to him. “Yes?” he asked in an imperious tone, for old times’ sake.

  “If you hadn’t asked me to become Mr. Dawson’s valet,” Pippa started again with a sincerity that twisted his cold and puny heart, “and if Mr. Dawson hadn’t accepted my services, I might not be married to the man of my dreams right now nor borne our precious son.”

  “Ah now, let’s give credit where credit’s due,” broke in Mr. Dawson. “From what I know of your history, your uncle Bertie is the one who fought long and hard for this day to arrive.”

  Pippa’s face clouded but only for a moment. She smiled gently into the baby’s face, then looked up at her husband. “It’s hard to believe he’s been gone these eight months now, isn’t it?” Her eyes grew misty, and she spoke to the bundle this time. “Young man, you have some quite large shoes to fill, don’t you? Albert Michael Sherwood, your great-uncle Bertie would be thrilled to know you carry his name. Just wait until you hear the stories we have to tell you!”

  Any gloom the family felt was apparently soothed away by the balm of happy memories, Marbury was pleased to see. He was becoming softhearted around this bunch, and it scared him. What would he do when they stopped inviting him to their festive gatherings?

  He didn’t want to contemplate the notion, so he glowered at the chestnut tree branches and silently cursed them for being so twiggy beneath those fresh spring leaves of theirs.

  “My turn to hold my godson,” came a cheery voice.

  Marbury turned toward the new arrival. Ah, the middle sister. Quite possibly his favorite of the ladies in the House of Brady.

  “Hello, Lady Janice. How glad I am to see you again.” He bowed to her, annoyed with his plain sincerity, but she brought it out in him.

  “And I’m so glad to see you, of course.” Lady Janice smiled, her blue eyes bright, then turned to Dawson. “And Mr. Dawson, how lovely to have you here.” She kissed his cheek.

  Mr. Dawson had developed a soft spot for Janice during the week the family celebrated Pippa and Westdale’s elopement. The festivities were held at Ballybrook, the Bradys’ sumptuous estate in Ireland. Both Janice and Mr. Dawson shared a fondness for books—she tended to lose herself in their pages just as Dawson did. Marbury watched the two of them now and was glad to see the old man so happy.

  But he wondered if Janice truly was. He recognized her intelligence and charm, but he also sensed a sadness behind her cheerful smile. Looking at her now, laughing with her family and that obnoxiously happy couple, Lord and Lady Morgan, he had to wonder if there might be an insecure and frightened girl hiding behind the pages of Janice’s books.

  He’d grown quite fond of the entire family, and in his own daydreams, she’d become the little sister he’d always wished for.

  God forbid anyone find out how sensitive he’d become. “Is there whiskey available?” he croaked just as cries of “Toast!, toast!” filled the garden.

  Thank God. A distraction from his own mawkish thoughts. And drink to assuage the flicker of loneliness that flared up at moments like this, an emotion he’d deny with every breath in his pleasingly round, perfect body until the day he died.

  Lord Brady gestured to everyone to gather near a beech tree with a bench resting beneath it. And then the patriarch leaped nimbly upon the bench to create a makeshift stage. He bowed to the ensuing applause.

  “As ever, his lordship can’t be passing up the opportunity for an audience,” the droll voice of that crazy Irish housekeeper named Alice rang out. “Could it be that bit o’ blarney in him, I’m wonderin’?”

  The crowd erupted in hearty laughter.

  Alice gave Lord Brady a good-natured wave and then turned her attention to the newest Brady man in her life, holding Albert over her shoulder and patting his tiny bottom.

  Marbury noted that today she wore her usual cobalt-blue gown—a watered silk, no doubt in honor of the occasion—her hair in a tight chignon, and a frilly, lace-trimmed apron. The apron was completely inappropriate for a party, he mused critically, but she’d worn the same thing at Ballybrook. She probably slept in an apron.

  He’d never forget that at Ballybrook one afternoon, he’d tried to insult the strident Alice in a jovial fashion by comparing her to Wellington, which was actually a compliment. But she hadn’t taken kindly to his light remark and had given him a tongue-lashing like he’d never received before or since, telling him that if he intended to consort with the members of the House of Brady, then he’d best drop the false pride and wretched manners and become a decent human being.

  She was a harsh taskmaster, that Alice, but Marbury couldn’t help liking her, just a little.

  Heaven help him. She was on her way to see him now.

  She put her nose up to his. “Lord Marbury,” she said in low tones, “I’ll have you know you’ve earned the right to tease me now. You’re an honorary member of the family, having taken excellent care of Mr. Dawson and alleviating the worries of my darling Gregory and his beautiful bride, Pippa. So fire away.”

  She crossed her arms over her bodice and waited for an insult.

  But for the first time in his entire life, Lord Marbury was unable to speak. The lump in his throat wouldn’t permit it, nor could he see very well. Alice had become a big, cobalt-blue blob.

  “Come now, my lord. Let’s hear it,” she urged him.

  “You rot, Alice,” he finally choked out. “That apron is ridiculous.”

  “And you’re an English heathen,” she said back. “But I can put up with you, I suppose.” She held out her arms.

  He fell right into them and blubbered like a baby. He was pathetic, he knew, but it was worth it. He’d never been happier in his life.

  * * *

  Before the toasts began, Pippa sat in a chair at the party next to Marcia, her sister-in-law and dear friend, both of them cradling infants in their laps. Just three months before, Marcia had had a second beautiful baby, another daughter. The first was named Caroline, after Marcia’s mother, which was appropriate as they had the same white-blond hair. She was two now and had a special fondness for her uncle Robert, who was carrying her this very moment on his shoulders. The new baby was Suzanne, after Duncan’s late mother. Little Suzy had her father’s dark hair but the piercing blue eyes of her mother.

  Though the ladies had met a few times during their childhood years, it wasn’t until Pippa joined the Brady family that their bond became close. And now that they both shared the experience of young motherhood, they’d become inseparable whenever they met at family gatherings.

  Marcia called to her husband, Duncan, w
ho was pushing their son Joe on a swing, the squealing boy’s toes touching the leaves on the chestnut’s branches on each forward push. “Darling, not too high now! Remember that Joe got an early start on the shortbread Alice brought from Ballybrook … we certainly want it to remain in his tummy!” She turned to Pippa and whispered, “Honestly, I think that fatherhood was invented so that our men could revert to boyhood again.”

  Their mutual laughter bubbled upward, into a sky which showed patches of blue through the thinning gray clouds.

  But it was merriment well earned, not without struggle. Pippa and Gregory had come to Paris to seek out Monsieur Perot, Mother in tow to get her away from the Toad and remind her that she was still capable of adventure. Monsieur Perot had immediately offered his tutelage to Pippa, much to her grateful surprise. Mother had remained for several months exploring Paris and gaining back much of her old self, but then she’d returned to Plumtree, to her comfortable and familiar existence. It wasn’t long after when the news of Uncle Bertie’s death came, casting a gloomy shadow over their sunny Parisian life.

  Pippa and Gregory traveled to Plumtree for Uncle Bertie’s funeral and to help settle his estate. In his will, he’d left his theaters to Pippa as promised, but she made arrangements for those to be signed over to Mother—to Lady Graham and Lady Graham alone, Pippa adamantly insisted. The Toad would have not a single say in the running of the theaters, and Gregory delivered that injunction with a promise of quick and brutal action should Trickle try to circumvent it.

  Trickle whined and carried on a bit, but Mother somehow dug deep into herself, pulled out a bit of the plucky actress from yesteryear, and told her husband that he’d have to find another residence. She planned on running a high-class enterprise, and his presence certainly didn’t lend itself to anything remotely connected with gentility.

  Pippa smiled, remembering her mother’s stony expression and ramrod posture. She’d flung her arm out, as regal and beautiful as Lady Macbeth. “Out, damned Toad,” she’d cried.

  Pippa had never been more proud of her.

  Mr. Trickle had swelled like the amphibian he resembled and made the rude croaking noises they’d come to expect from him. An hour later, he’d packed his bags, and the last Pippa heard, was acting as personal assistant to Lord Hawthorne.

  Good riddance.

  She gazed with fresh pride at Mother now, who instead of wearing Uncle Bertie’s old cast-off costumes that she used to alter, was outfitted in Parisian style—thanks to Lady Brady, who sent Mother new gowns she’d custom-made for her every quarter.

  Mr. Dawson would never be the same man he once was, but he was family now. He adored Mother and was slightly stagestruck by her, which Mother found gratifying. Never had a man held her in such esteem, although Gregory and Lord Brady competed every day with Mr. Dawson to be the most chivalrous, sincerely admiring man of Lady Graham’s acquaintance.

  Yes, Pippa was well pleased that her mother had found her own calling … and her voice.

  The call for a toast continued as footmen wandered among the family and guests with brimming flutes of champagne. Once again, Pippa’s father-in-law’s hearty voice called for order.

  She leaned forward, intent on hearing every word.

  “Today is special,” Lord Brady began. Lady Brady stepped closer to him and took his hand. “My darling wife and I couldn’t be filled with a greater joy on this day when we have our beloved family and friends gathered to celebrate.” He gazed at Lady Brady—Pippa’s new second mother who’d welcomed her into the family with open arms—then swept the crowd with fond eyes and began to toast every member of the cozy gathering. “I see my boyos, Peter and Robert, fine young men that they are…”

  At the mention of Peter’s name, Pippa looked at Gregory. He raised his glass at his next youngest brother, who raised his glass back and grinned. The exchange gave her deep satisfaction. The brothers had repaired their breach, thank heaven. All was well between them.

  As Pippa listened to the toasts, she wondered how this perfect day had come to them. It hadn’t been an easy road to finding true love. Years and years it took her and Gregory to discover what Uncle Bertie had known all along … that they were soul mates.

  And though there were rocky moments here and there—two strong-willed people, both of them creative, could never agree on everything, could they?—their lives were incredibly rich.

  Love changes everything, Pippa thought, remembering her sugar castle with the broken turret. Marcia held up her infant daughter and kissed her sweet, fat cheek. Pippa looked up at Gregory, who’d come to put his hand on her shoulder.

  “You were right, Uncle Bertie,” she whispered just as the sun peeked from behind a cloud and shone upon the chestnut tree, causing little golden dapples of light to fall over the baby sleeping in her lap.

  Read on for an excerpt from Kieran Kramer’s next book

  Say Yes to the Duke

  Coming soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks

  Chapter One

  Lady Janice Sherwood—the one with the gorgeous older sister—had literally waltzed, however inelegantly, through two London seasons and still hadn’t found a husband. Everyone knew what a proper young lady did when she wasn’t in demand. She rusticated in the English countryside in the hopes she’d be missed. And it went without saying that if she were wise, she’d develop her own magical charm while she was there—perhaps even catch the attention of an eligible gentleman in residence.

  The chances that the dowager’s grandson, the fabulously handsome Duke of Halsey, would fall madly in love with Janice when she was to stay at his house as a guest of his grandmother were slim. But her parents, knowing he was to be there hovering about his prize horses, hoped the impossible would happen. Even more, Janice hoped the impossible would happen.

  Why not?

  If I have to fall in love, it might as well be with a duke, she thought. Because then she’d be a duchess, and everyone would notice her.

  Finally.

  Not that she cared for baubles and power and titles. But everyone else did. And it would be such a relief, wouldn’t it, to never have to dance to society’s tune again?

  Which was why when Lord Brady’s glossy black carriage broke a wheel at the beginning of the long drive leading to the ducal manor, she was willing to walk the rest of the way. But Oscar said no, she should wait for him to return with a fully equipped carriage from His Grace’s stables.

  “Because the daughter of a marquess doesn’t arrive on foot at the front door of a duke’s house,” he said. “Nor does she ride in a cart.”

  Of all the Brady drivers, only Oscar had the privilege of speaking so freely.

  “I thought you told me nothing happens in the country, my lady,” her maid Isobel fretted.

  Oh, dear. Perhaps Isobel had that privilege, too.

  “Nothing ever does happen,” Janice assured her. Although I desperately want something to happen to me.

  She wanted to be a duchess.

  Oh, and fall in love while she was at it. She wouldn’t marry the duke any other way. She had principles, and she’d be just like Mama and Marcia in their marriages and be absolutely head over heels for him. But she’d also be a duchess—

  Which they weren’t.

  They’d be so proud of her.

  And Mary Flinster and Louisa Bonnet would never dare ask her to hem their gowns in the retiring room at balls and call her “Shop Girl” under their breath at the punch bowl table because Mama was a lowly seamstress before she married Daddy.

  “You swear it will be dull here?” Izzy’s nerves were always shattered, and she’d been quite looking forward to a bit of boredom.

  “Dismal.” Janice hoped to change that, of course. “We’ll play cards until Oscar comes back.”

  “Very well, but you’re not very good at cards, my lady. Do you think you’ll have better luck with the duke?”

  “Izzy!”

  “Don’t you want to marry him? Every eligible young lady shou
ld if she’s got a head on her shoulders.”

  “But I want to marry for love.” She did, too.

  “That’s nice.” Izzy didn’t sound very convinced, and dealt out the cards.

  Janice arranged hers and noticed she had a preponderance of hearts. “It can’t be too hard to accomplish in a month, can it?” She was jesting, but she really wasn’t.

  She and the maid laughed at the same time.

  How long did it take to fall in love? Real love? Not silly infatuation. She’d already had experience with that.

  “That’s the spirit, my lady,” said Isobel. “You should do your best to fall in love with His Grace while you’re here. I should think loving a duke would be easier than loving someone else.” Her tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth as she eyed her cards. “Maybe,” she murmured, “you could fall in love with him the very first day.”

  “What if I simply choose to do so?” Janice had been thinking about the topic all morning. “Perhaps love is really nothing more than being polite, cheerful, kind, and an excellent storyteller over breakfast. One must also be willing to bear loads of children without complaint and kiss one’s husband at the door before he leaves for the day. If I say yes to all those things, is that love?”

  “I don’t know.” Isobel gave a slow, luxurious laugh. “The kissing part should be interesting.”

  “I suppose so,” Janice replied faintly. She’d kissed a rogue before, Finn Lattimore, who’d broken her heart but not terribly much, probably because she’d found out with him that kissing was a bit dull. She’d been able to move on, especially as he’d broken Marcia’s heart, too. “I do hope Oscar returns soon. I can’t wait to meet the duke.” And get started trying to fall in love, she wanted to add but daren’t. “And get started helping the dowager,” she said instead.

  There. That sounded so much nicer. And she did want to help the dowager. She was probably a lovely old thing who only wanted someone to look interested while she waxed on about the days when she was a young girl. Janice would hold her trembling hand and nod. She was good at nodding.