Earl of Wainthorpe

by Cameron, Collette

  Was that amusement warming the outer edges of his face?

  How dare he be amused?

  “I’ve been told I’m opinionated and stubborn. And I truly am a bluestocking and quite proud of it. No dowry either. Not a quid. Oh, and I have a limp.” She joggled her sore leg. Only on occasion, but he needn’t know that. “Makes me rather an undesirable, doesn’t it?”

  “No such thing, my dear,” Lady Timberly assured her. “You’re lovely. And some men actually appreciate a sharp mind and keen wit.”

  “I’m not certain that’s ever been said of Pierce though, Nora,” Mrs. Garside quipped, her voice quavering with laughter. “I believe other…erm…attributes are considered when he’s gauging a woman’s worth.”

  Bianca coughed to hide the embarrassed giggle she couldn’t quite stifle.

  A shadow darkened his lordship’s angular features. Whether from Bianca’s near insult or his sisters’ chatter, she couldn’t determine.

  “I’m seven-and-twenty,” he finally said, leveling his sisters a stern, be-quiet-now glower.

  Only seven-and-twenty?

  Really?

  Bianca believed Pierce somewhat older. Not terribly. Perhaps in his early thirties.

  “And you are?” Didn’t he know gentleman didn’t inquire about a lady’s age?

  “Twenty on my birthday last month. Nearly on the shelf. In my dotage. Past the first blush of youth. Well on to becoming a spinster. A tabby to be sure.”

  Though she jested, a thread of truth underscored her banter.

  Mrs. Garside snickered rather indelicately, and Lady Mulbrury shook her head. “Not in the least. I was nearly four-and-twenty when I married,” she said.

  Bianca cut a glance to the waiting ladies. They didn’t dare leave her with their brother, but as long as the women were present, he couldn’t rise.

  Seems the Earl of Wainthorpe was in a fine pickle.

  Actually, rather rapt expressions adorned his sisters’ faces, too.

  Tapping her chin, Bianca gave a slow nod. “I’ll wager you’re abed so late because you stayed up until the wee morning hours pondering an answer to our predicament, didn’t you?”

  She tipped her mouth into a jaunty smile, and he glared at her, only the jet of his pupils visible between his eyelids slits.

  Oh, provoking him was such fun though. She couldn’t resist another poke. “Is that why you’re lounging about still?”

  “No, Miss Salisbury. It is not,” came his pithy retort. “I stayed up until the wee hours trying to discover where you flitted off to after I specifically said I wanted a word with you.”

  He didn’t sound annoyed. Not terribly, in any event.

  A yawn forced its way to Bianca’s lips, and she couldn’t quite stifle the reflex. After puffing out an exaggerated sigh, she closed her eyes. “Dear me, I’m quite fagged.” She opened an eye slightly. “Don’t suppose you would pass me one of those lovely, fluffy pillows you’re leaning against?’

  A laugh threatened to choke her as his eyebrows danced about his forehead in disbelief.

  “No? I presumed as much.” Fatigue weighted Bianca’s very bones, and closing her eye again, she fought the urge to lay on her side and yield to sleep.

  “Oh, my Lord, she’s just too precious,” Mrs. Garside managed between chuckles.

  Lady Mulbrury’s mirth blended with hers. “Pierce, you’re wearing the same obstinate expression you did as a child when you were forced to take your medicines.”

  Bianca opened her eyes.

  An obstinate child too? Not a surprise, really.

  There he sat, arms folded across that wide chest with just a hint of crisp black hair peeking through the robe’s parted collar. He met her gaze and his coal-black eyebrows collided in a rather ominous scowl.

  Did that thunderous look usually intimidate? Bertram enjoyed blustering and scowling too, so she was quite accustomed to being glared at.

  “Miss Salisbury—”

  “Oh, pooh.” She flapped her hand, hushing Pierce.

  Pooh?

  Had she really shushed the Earl of Wainthorpe?

  Might as well do it up brown then.

  “We needn’t stand on formality, Pierce.”

  His brows contorted again, and if she wasn’t mistaken, a muscle ticked in his hard jaw.

  “You may call me Bianca.” Head resting against the bedpost, she crossed her ankles. “I didn’t sleep much last night either. But I’m afraid, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t conceive of a respectable way out of our dilemma. Something to preserve my reputation against the gossipmongers who saw you win me last night. I don’t want to even imagine what they are saying.”

  That was the absolute truth. She cringed just thinking of it. She would be labeled a slattern, and she knew too well the fate of such women.

  Her humor evaporated. This wasn’t a parlor game.

  Popplewell spun around. He opened and closed his mouth thrice, his faded mustard-brown gaze swinging back and forth between her and Pierce. The black cloth patch covering one eye twitched with his agitation.

  Bother. Bianca had truly upset the valet. She sat straighter, acutely aware of Lord Wainthorpe’s legs beneath the covers. In her determination to needle him, she failed to consider others’ feelings.

  How stupid and insensitive of her.

  “Respectable?” Popplewell huffed, indignation rippling off his stooped form. “Your … your reputation?” he stuttered, his voice cracking with ire. “What about his lordship’s reputation? Answer me that will you, Miss? Did you give a single thought to what damage your childish actions would cause him?”

  Remorse replaced Bianca’s earlier frustration and irritation. She’d put them all in a difficult position. “I’ll go below and wait there.”

  When did this get so turned about? Now she felt guilty and ashamed. Both of which she swore as a child she would never feel again.

  Shaking his head, Popplewell turned his back, then sliced a rabid glance over his shoulder.

  “Why, unless his lordship marries you, I don’t see how he can ever hope to regain his standing now. And you are to blame, Miss Salisbury.”

  “Now you’re blathering utter nonsense, Popplewell. No one needs to marry anyone.” Pierce seized his bedcoverings in one fist. Oddly irritated, he took control of the situation. “Ladies, I am rising, so either avert your gazes or prepare to be shocked.”

  Four women whirled away—Miss Salisbury the hastiest—and presented their backs just as Popplewell yanked one of the brocade drapes across the half of the window nearest the bed.

  In one swift movement, Pierce rose then retied his banyan, making certain he modestly covered himself from his toes to his throat.

  His sisters and Miss Salisbury remained motionless.

  “Are you decent yet?” Rebecca half-turned her head, but kept her gaze riveted on the mahogany wardrobe.

  “I am.” Perhaps not decent, but at least he was covered and felt more in command.

  Head bowed, Miss Salisbury slipped off his bed, exposing shapely calves encased in peach-colored stockings in the process. Her stark black shoes didn’t suit the ensemble.

  Her own, he would vow.

  He glanced at her feet again. Rather large for a woman.

  With effort, he subdued the grin that thought prompted.

  She hustled to join his sisters, not once glancing in his direction.

  Pierce bent a knee and scratched his head. “Miss Salisbury?”

  “Yes?” She froze, her spine board straight and just as unyielding.

  “I presume you stayed at the Timberlys’ last night. Am I correct?” Lenora lived in the largest house. It only made sense. That information might also be used to their advantage to temper the gossipmongers’ flapping tongues.

  Bianca gave a short nod, exposing her fine nape hairs. “Yes.”

  Good. Then her alibi was irrefutable. Only an imbécile wishing to be ostracized, would ever infer that the Timberlys would be party to anything t
he remotest bit unsavory.

  When he didn’t say anything further, she scooted to his sisters’ sides.

  So daring and bold a few moments ago, and now the idea of glimpsing his nakedness had turned her into a timid mouse. Which meant, despite her earlier show of audacity, she led the sheltered life typical of a woman of gentle breeding.

  The notion rather pleased, but he mercilessly squashed the warm feeling. He preferred experienced women. Women who knew their way around a man’s form and displayed no inhibitions between the sheets.

  She might be his ward, but he had no intention of forming an attachment. Still, he wanted to rub those rigid shoulders, caress the tension out of her neck, and assure her he would see to her best interests.

  He hadn’t the right to, of course. Not even as a proxy guardian.

  To engage in such familiarity was unheard of unless they were kin or affianced.

  He almost snorted in self-disgust. Less than twelve hours after making Bianca’s acquaintance and idiotic—perilous—thoughts were plaguing him. Time to put an end to the absurdity.

  “I mean to shave, dress, and eat my breakfast before engaging in any sort of discussion.” After he gulped down a pot of coffee laced with headache powders. He marched to the table containing the favored brew. His bloody skull threatened to crack open every time he opened his mouth and with each jarring step. He poured a cup of coffee, ignoring Popplewell’s affronted expression that his master should stoop to so menial a task.

  “I shall call at Lenora’s at ten.” Cup in hand, Pierce glanced up. “No, make that eleven. That’ll give me time to meet with my solicitor first. Will that suffice?”

  “Yes, that will be fine.” Lenora faced him and gave him a closed-mouth, apologetic smile. “I realize now I should’ve sent a note ’round rather than intrude upon you. Do forgive our impulsiveness. We were simply worried on your behalf and Miss Salisbury’s.”

  Their intentions had been noble even if their methods created a bigger hullabaloo.

  Rebecca too offered a contrite upward tilt of her mouth. “I fear we’ve added fat to the fire, haven’t we, Percy?”

  A barrel full, but nothing that couldn’t be remedied. He hoped.

  Miss Salisbury drew her shoulders back and slowly pivoted. As she had done since last night, she met his gaze square on. She possessed admirable strength of character.

  “You’ve all been discommoded enough on my behalf already. My lord, I’ve little doubt that the proceedings last night are not defendable in court, and even if they are, I don’t want you as my guardian any more than you want me as your ward. I’ll take my leave, and we can pretend this unfortunateness never occurred.”

  If only it was that simple. But the situation was not. Pierce might be a scoundrel and roué, but he was also a man of his word.

  “It’s not that simple, but we’ll discuss all that later. I have an idea. However, I want a bit more time to mull over the particulars before I share it with you.” He signaled to Popplewell. “See the ladies out. And send a note to Simmons, informing him I’ll be at his office at half past nine. If he cannot meet me then, he’s to let me know what his earliest convenience is. Also send a missive to Churchgrove. I want him here within the hour.”

  Pierce crossed to his sisters, acutely aware of his bare toes kicking the hem of his robe, then gave them each a peck on the cheek. “Thank you for caring enough to topple from your beds before dawn. I’m certain your husbands were none too pleased.”

  Their silence answered for them.

  His brothers-in-law disapproved of him. More on point, they frowned upon his rakish lifestyle and his name being on chinwags’ tongues or bandied about in the gossip rags. Converted rogues, the lot, they felt it their duty to reform him as well. Just like Coventry, the overseer of the Wicked Earls’ Club. Little did they know that most of the unsavory tattle they heard regarding Pierce was nothing more than a practiced ruse.

  Still, he liked his risqué life. Enjoyed the freedoms it afforded him. Oh, someday he was expected to marry and produce an heir. But not anytime soon.

  In fact, perhaps never. Multiple relatives, three cousins to be precise, hoped to succeed him. A few kin quite begrudged him his inheritance. Those were the ones who resented his Indian blood and believed only an Englishman, through and through, ought to have been eligible for the entailments.

  Evidently they knew little of their monarchy’s lineage, none of which could claim pure English blood. Marriages to foreigners designed for political benefit shadowed sovereign after sovereign who’d sat upon the British throne.

  Father went that route once. Did the dutiful, expected thing. Married the blue-blooded aristocrat his parents selected for him. Yes, he produced three daughters and a stillborn son from the union before his first wife died, but he hadn’t been happy.

  He’d told Pierce as much.

  Against his family’s wishes, Father married for love the next time. When he died, he bore a peaceful smile, whispered AamA’s name, and breathed his last.

  Pierce didn’t aspire to anything as precious. Still, a union with a woman of Bianca’s ilk might prove quite entertaining. Satisfying even. She most certainly piqued his interest.

  “Don’t look so distraught.” Pierce took Bianca’s hand and gave it a brief squeeze. At his sisters’ skeptical expressions, he dropped it just as hastily. “I think you’ll like my solution.”

  No joy or excitement sparkled in her eyes or tweaked her soft mouth upward. “Not unless it involves rewinding the clock so that this fiasco never occurred.”

  “I give you my word that your circumstances will be much improved, Miss Salisbury.”

  Those big eyes, wary and wounded, searched Pierce’s face for a long, discomfiting moment before cynicism shuttered her vulnerability.

  She snorted and poked him in the chest. “You expect me to believe the word of an infamous rakehell? Do you truly think me that daft?”

  Pride still stinging from Bianca’s frank retort, Pierce entered the Wicked Earls’ Club just over an hour later on the off chance that the Earl of Coventry might be present this early in the day. Pierce couldn’t claim surprise at her reluctance. If their positions were reversed, he would be less than enthusiastic too.

  “I say, Wainthorpe, I didn’t expect to see you this morning.” Coventry extended his hand and accompanied Pierce into the sitting room. “Heard you provoked a bit of excitement while gaming last night.”

  “Pembroke or Benton felt duty-bound to share, no doubt.”

  “Actually, it was Sutcliffe.” Coventry adjusted a bronze stag statuette on a side table. “He seemed quite concerned for you. Actually sought you out here.”

  “Indeed? He needn’t have bothered.” Sutcliffe was not a member. Just how did he know about the club? “Ever heard of Lord Fairfax?”

  Coventry looked thoughtful for a moment. “Can’t say that I have.”

  “He’s Bertram Normand.” Pierce had never told another soul besides Coventry why he hated Normand so much.

  “Bloody hell, really? Well, I’m surprised you didn’t run him through.” He clapped Pierce’s shoulder. “Great restraint on your part, I must say. Don’t know if I’d have been as self-controlled. I take it you decided on another means of exacting your revenge for your mother’s death?”

  “I’ve ruined him. I own everything he has, and I’ve bought all of his vowels. And, as you are no doubt already aware, I won his cousin too.” His pulse quickened in anticipation. “Didn’t even know he had a ward.”

  “Now that’s an interesting complication.” Coventry strode to the liquor cabinet. “Can I offer you a drink?”

  “No, thank you.” Pierce shook his head and flinched. “I’m still recovering from my over-indulgence last night. I’ve sworn off anything stiffer than claret.”

  “Coffee or tea perhaps?” Coventry leaned a hip against the cabinet.

  “Neither.” Taking care not to shake his head again, Pierce eased himself onto an overstuffed chair. A man�
��s chair. Not one of those dainty contraptions a man must perch on like an oversized canary; afraid to move lest he break the delicate thing.

  “What brings you here at this hour, then?” Coventry had appointed himself the counselor and confidant of the earls who graced his club. Yet he also knew when to keep silent and not pry. Just as he wouldn’t press Pierce any further about Bianca.

  Forearms balanced on the chair, Pierce crossed his legs and twisted his mouth to the side. He was a hay cart short of a full load for even considering this.

  “I’m off to my solicitor’s.” He pulled on an earlobe. “Her mother’s dead. Her father’s whereabouts are unknown, and he, too, is presumed dead. And since that dunderhead Fairfax used her as collateral in a legal wager, I’ve decided to officially seek Miss Bianca Salisbury’s guardianship.”

  By God, he was actually going to do it. Become respectable. All for a wisp of a woman he’d just met.

  “You? An innocent’s guardian?” His countenance incredulous, Coventry burst into guffaws.

  Pierce stiffened and uncrossed his legs. “It’s not that damned funny. Not humorous at all, actually.”

  “Yes, it bloody well is.” Shoulders shaking, Coventry held his ribs. “Because you don’t even realize the truth of it.”

  Pierce stood and withdrew the “W” from his lapel. He held it between his thumb and forefinger for a long moment, then laid it on a side table, the metal pinging against the polished wood. “I don’t believe I have need of this any longer.”

  The unconditional acceptance amongst the earls was not something easily replaced or forsworn. Everyone, even irredeemable rapscallions, needed approval by those they respected and admired.

  “Wainthorpe, wait.” Coventry subdued his humor, concern replacing his amusement. “Don’t be hasty. I meant no offense.”

  “I know, but if I am to gain Miss Salisbury’s guardianship, I must dispense with all things disreputable.” He shook his friend’s hand. “Good-bye, Coventry. And thank you.”

  As his landau turned down Berkeley Square, Pierce flicked his timepiece closed.