Enchanting the Earl (The Townsends)

by Lily Maxton

  Annabel Lockhart, on the other hand, wasn’t part of his conscience, and something about her made him feel distinctly unrestful.

  He needed to figure out what to do about her.

  The sooner the better.

  …

  They sat down to a basic dinner of broiled fowl and turnips in the evening, with a small supply of whisky for the men and wine for the women. Whatever allowance Miss Lockhart and her aunt lived on must have been a modest one. They had no footmen to serve the meal, either, only the one maid, Catriona.

  Theo looked around the great hall, at the stone walls covered in white plaster, at a tapestry half hidden in shadow, and a faded coat of arms above a stone fireplace that stretched nearly the entire length of one wall. He had a disturbing sense of being thrown back in time, to a century when Scottish chieftans were the rulers of the land and the Jacobites fought their illfated battle to put Bonnie Prince Charlie on the throne.

  As he took in the room, he was also noting possible exits and estimating the time it would take to reach them, figuring out which paths would not only be the quickest but would take them to the safest place. He always sat down with his back to the wall, facing the rest of the room. He was forever looking for escape routes and points of weakness—a residual effect from battle, he supposed, but one that meant he was never completely comfortable anywhere.

  “Where are you from?” Georgina asked Miss Lockhart, breaking Theo from his thoughts. “I noticed your accent isn’t very strong.”

  “I was born and raised in Edinburgh,” she said. “Have you visited?”

  Eleanor shook her head. “Not yet. We went straight from England to Llynmore Castle.”

  “It’s a beautiful city,” Miss Lockhart said.

  “Don’t its own inhabitants call it Auld Reekie?” Theo asked.

  There was a moment of silence in which Miss Lockhart’s hand tightened around her fork. He supposed, belatedly, that insulting the town a woman had grown up in was a sure way to make her angry. But he hadn’t intended any insult. He was just stating a fact.

  He’d always been a touch reserved in company, but polite. At some point during his time on the battlefields, he’d stopped caring about politeness and grown a little too blunt for the normal social niceties. As a faint flush spread across Miss Lockhart’s cheekbones, he wondered if he could use this to his advantage.

  He irritated her by just being himself. If he was even less tactful, maybe he could irritate her enough that she wanted to leave. His foremost problem might have an easier answer than he’d realized.

  “Auld Reekie literally means Old Smoky, Lord Arden.”

  He paused for a beat. “Are you certain? I thought it was because of the smell.”

  “It’s not.”

  “No?” he raised an eyebrow. “I was certain I heard something about the smell.”

  She met his gaze, eyes like fire in the candle-gleam. “Perhaps a hundred years ago there would have been some truth to that. But since then, there have been great improvements.”

  “In sewage? You mean they don’t throw the contents of their chamber pots into the streets anymore? I was told I’d need an umbrella, even if it wasn’t raining.”

  “Can we not discuss sewage while we’re eating?” Robert asked mildly.

  A muscle in Annabel’s jaw twitched, and Theo had a feeling she was trying to calm herself before she spoke. His chest tightened with both satisfaction and anticipation. He braced himself for what she would say next. He leaned forward, strangely eager, almost against his will.

  “Whoever told you that was laughing at your expense, my lord. Edinburgh is a city on the rise. And it’s quite as clean as any other modern city.”

  “Well,” Theo said with a lackadaisical shrug, “it will never surpass London.”

  “I wouldn’t be too certain of that. The Improvement Acts are turning the city into a different place—buildings have been added to the university, which is very well respected. New Town is growing every day. Edinburgh could very well become a center for intellects and artists. In fact, I would say it has already become one.”

  Theo was unwillingly fascinated by the flush that had traveled from her cheeks to stain her throat, by the rise and fall of her chest. He was unwillingly fascinated by her passion, by the forcefulness of her gaze. What would it be like to live life with this kind of fire? Consuming? Tiring? Or did flame fuel flame? Did she draw more energy from her own depths?

  Those were questions he shouldn’t be asking. Questions he shouldn’t want to know the answer to. There was no point wondering about a woman, who would, with any luck, be disgusted by his bad manners and leave for greener pastures.

  “Perhaps,” Theo said, letting his skepticism ring clear in his voice. “I don’t expect very much from a country that actually has a day designated for eating haggis.”

  “What is wrong with haggis?” Miss Lockhart said tightly.

  “What isn’t wrong with haggis?” Theo had actually had the opportunity to try haggis at one of the inns they’d stopped at, and it had tasted fine, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. “Of course, I suppose it’s Robert Burns’s fault for writing that ridiculous poem.”

  The noise was sucked from the room. Everyone stilled as they watched Annabel and Theo.

  Theo was eyeing Miss Lockhart’s grip on her fork, wondering if it might come flying at him any second. If she were a man, he would be worried she was going to call him out. Of course, it would probably be ill-advised to assume she wouldn’t do something simply because she wasn’t supposed to do it. She seemed to relish doing things she wasn’t supposed to do.

  “I think,” she began quietly, “that there’s only one way to solve this.”

  Was she going to call him out?

  “You should write a poem.”

  “I—what?” he asked, certain he’d heard incorrectly. Ideally, he’d been hoping she would lose her temper, storm off, and contemplate whether it was really worth it to live here if she’d be living with a surly brute like him. Apparently, his plan had backfired.

  “If you think Rabbie Burns’s poem is ridiculous, I challenge you to write a poem about your own favorite food and see if you can surpass him.”

  “That is incredibly…stupid,” he finished.

  “I don’t think it sounds stupid, at all,” Georgina broke in.

  Now he knew where his sister’s loyalties dwelled…and they weren’t with him.

  “You did insult Scotland’s most loved poet,” Eleanor pointed out.

  “You slighted the dead,” Robert added innocently. “If you’re going to do a thing like that, you really must back up your argument.”

  All of his siblings were turncoats. It was not only annoying, but also quite disheartening.

  From across the table, Frances gave a weak cough. “It’s been so long since I’ve heard poetry.”

  Theo’s shoulders sagged. Defeat was heavy and oppressive—he knew this was a fight he wasn’t going to win, not five against one, especially when a sweet, frail aunt was added into the mix. The smile that crept across Miss Lockhart’s mouth was so wicked and triumphant that Theo wondered what it tasted like.

  Which was even more stupid than writing a poem about his favorite food. Miss Lockhart was his opponent—thinking about touching her at all was forbidden territory, much less tasting her.

  With an iron will, he diverted his attention from her too-pink mouth.

  “Do you accept the challenge?” she said. “Or do I have to concur that everything you said is wrong and you aren’t fit to kiss Rabbie Burns’s backside?”

  Theo stiffened at the unladylike insult. Well, when she said it like that, he had no choice but to defend himself.

  And really, how hard could it be to write one poem?

  “I accept.”

  Chapter Five

  The answer was quite hard.

  It didn’t help that while Theo was hunched over a small rosewood table in the library with a quill, parchment, and an inkwel
l spread in front of him, everyone else was there chatting and laughing, or coughing, in Aunt Frances’s case. Georgina and Eleanor were at a round table, playing a game of cards. Miss Lockhart sat beside Robert on the settee, and no matter how much Theo tried to block them out, he heard every word of their conversation.

  “I heard bits and pieces of Gaelic on our journey, the farther we went into the Highlands,” Robert was saying. “It sounds quite lyrical.”

  “Did you learn any?”

  “Only the word for ‘welcome,’ which is Fàilte.”

  “When you drink whisky you can make a toast of Slàinte mhath! It means ‘good health,’” she told him.

  “Ah, Miss Lockhart. I didn’t realize you were lovely and gracious and spoke Gaelic as well.”

  “I only speak a few phrases,” she said.

  “Still lovely and gracious, then.”

  “Of course.” Her voice was as soft and teasing as Robert’s had been.

  Theo’s stomach tightened in exasperation. The two were made for each other—they both flirted as easily as they conversed. But was it too much to ask that they keep their voices down while they engaged in their little flirtations?

  “There’s also Tha mi toilichte do choinneachadh, which means ‘I’m pleased to meet you.’”

  Robert laughed like he’d never heard anything so delightful. “I don’t think I could remember half of that. But I am.”

  “What?”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  This time she was the one who laughed, an abandoned, almost throaty sound that should have annoyed Theo for being so unladylike; instead, it made something in him quicken.

  Theo couldn’t take it anymore. “Would you all be quiet?” he snapped.

  Everyone in the library turned to stare at him.

  “I’m trying to write a poem. Do you think Robert Burns had all of these distractions?”

  Georgina was staring at him wide-eyed. “He might have.”

  “I assure you, he didn’t.” Theo turned back to his blank paper. An instant later, he felt guilty for snapping at his siblings. They were only enjoying themselves; he shouldn’t begrudge them that—he should be happy that they seemed happy.

  However, his guilt eased somewhat when Georgina said, in a none-too-quiet whisper, “Lord, he tries to write one thing and he’s already become a temperamental poet.”

  He ignored her and scrawled, Ode to Lemon Cream, on the top of the paper. Now what rhymed with cream? Was he supposed to come up with something coherent out of a mess of unrelated words? How did poets do this?

  An hour later, Miss Lockhart grabbed the parchment, making him jump. “I think you’ve had enough time. We don’t want to be here all night.”

  “I’m not finished,” Theo said. He’d only written a few lines, and he was quite certain they were the most abhorrent lines to ever grace a poem. And it was all the more embarrassing because he’d crossed out the entire thing more than once—which the vexing woman couldn’t miss. If his poem was dismal, it wasn’t because he hadn’t tried.

  Miss Lockhart smiled and cleared her throat. He was tempted to rip the paper from her hands but didn’t want to fuel Georgina’s quip about temperamental poets. And it wouldn’t have been gentlemanly, of course. Theo might have a slight problem with tact, but he didn’t go around like a raging beast, ripping things away from people.

  No matter how much he might want to.

  “Ode to Lemon Cream,” she read. She glanced down at him. “I prefer orange cream, myself.”

  “I don’t care what you prefer,” he muttered under his breath, trying to distract himself from the mischievous gleam in her eyes.

  “My favorite food is lemon cream,” she read. “It is not always what it seems. A simple treat or something else? It melts on my tongue and brings my heart such happy joy. Smooth, tart, and sweet. Anyone who abhors it must be an utter beast.”

  Georgina laughed outright. Robert and Eleanor, the traitors, barely smothered their own laughter. Even Frances, who was huddled underneath a shawl, looked amused.

  Annabel paused. “Well, it’s something.”

  Theo gritted his teeth. It was either that or blush, and he wasn’t about to blush in front of the devil woman.

  She lowered her voice and leaned toward him. “‘Happy joy’ is a little redundant.”

  “I wasn’t aware that I asked for an evaluation,” he said. Instead of looking offended, her smile widened.

  “But I do like the last line. Very inspired.” Her lips twitched.

  She was mocking him. He should be annoyed. He was annoyed, but more at the stirring of lust from her proximity than from her teasing.

  If she leaned forward just a little more, her hair, riotous, unkempt thing that it was, would brush his cheek. If she leaned forward just an inch, that sweet, clean scent he kept getting tantalizing traces of might envelop him completely.

  She straightened. He was relieved and disappointed, all at once. “Do you having something to say?”

  “Should I?” he asked irritably.

  “About Robert Burns?” she pressed, unrelenting.

  “I suppose Robert Burns’s poem wasn’t entirely idiotic.”

  “Not much of an apology,” she noted, “but it will do. For now.”

  The challenge—clear in not only her words, but her obstinate stance and the stubborn tilt of her chin—made him want to challenge her back. He’d always been competitive, but Annabel Lockhart brought out the compulsion like no one else ever had. She was so sure of herself. So bright, so quick, so very alive. Even knowing her for only a day, he knew this.

  It was clear in the haphazard display on her shelves. It had been clear when she’d taken them on the tour of the castle—every word instilled with warm affection for a place that some people would discard as a lonely pile of rocks.

  And when he looked at her…the contrast between them was so stark that it hurt, as though he was staring at the unshaded sun until it burned its indelible impression into his eyes and his mind.

  Because the sun didn’t permeate all shadows, and sometimes they were worse for being next to the light. Darkness, the weight of it, the inescapability, was his life now, and it would be a mistake to forget that.

  He suddenly needed to get away from her. As far as he could run.

  He inclined his head as he passed Miss Lockhart on his way toward her aunt, who rested in a chair by the fireplace. He needed to take care of their unresolved business, so he could go about his life as he’d imagined it on the long journey here.

  So he could go about his life the only way he could imagine it—alone, except for the three people who mattered most.

  When he came to stand by Miss Lockhart’s aunt, she gave him a wan smile.

  “You look troubled,” she said, startling him.

  “I—I’m not.” A blatant lie.

  But her eyes were kind, whether she could sense the lie or not.

  “Do you have any relatives to write to?” he began without preamble. “I want to make sure you’re both taken care of, but I think it would be best for my family if we could settle in sooner rather than later.”

  She shook her head. “None of my relatives are still living.”

  “And Miss Lockhart?”

  She glanced at her niece a little sadly. “A few. But they didn’t want her when she was younger, so I doubt they’d change their minds now.”

  Theo didn’t want to be curious, didn’t want to care at all, but his mouth didn’t seem to be taking direction from his brain. “What do you mean?”

  “She was orphaned when she was ten,” Mrs. Blair said. “She was sent to live with her father’s sister, who forced her out after two years, and then to one of her father’s cousins for some time, and then to another of her father’s cousins, who kept her around to care for their children. Once the children were older, they threatened to toss her out on the street whenever she did any small thing they didn’t like. She didn’t have an easy time of it. If I’d known
…” She sighed, very softly. “I was estranged from my family, so I didn’t know. But if I had, I would have taken her in immediately.”

  Theo felt something in him soften. He knew what it was like to be orphaned and frightened, to wonder what was going to become of you when you hadn’t even recovered from your parents’ absence. His family had been lucky that their aunt and uncle’s only child was grown, that they owned land and were well-off financially, that they hadn’t minded housing four more children.

  Extraordinarily lucky.

  Annabel, it seemed, hadn’t been.

  But sympathy didn’t change their situation.

  “You must have some income?”

  “A jointure from my late husband. It’s modest, but it’s enough. At least, it’s enough here, but here we don’t need much.”

  “Perhaps when the earl’s debts have been settled and I see what’s left over, I could set aside an allowance for you. Enough for rooms in Edinburgh.”

  He wasn’t sure how much he could commit to. The entailed land, which mostly grazed sheep and cattle, but also contained a slate quarry toward the southern edge, brought in quite a large sum. But the rest of the earl’s property was being sold off to take care of his debts. Theo wanted to make sure all the debts were paid from the other properties before he dipped into his own income.

  He was, as a first time landowner, determined to do it right. He’d already failed at an army career; he wasn’t about to fail at this stroke of luck by being reckless. If he was conscientious, he would have more than enough for his family to live on, enough for dowries for his sisters, a settlement for Robert. They could all live comfortably without Theo having to marry a rich woman.

  The idea of any marriage, whether his bride were rich or poor, made sweat break out on his skin.

  Theo’s standard for marriage was his parents, who’d loved each other openly and honestly and deeply. He knew he wasn’t capable of that kind of marriage. Not when there was a restless, guilty anger at the pit of his stomach, directed at no one and everyone and most of all at himself, and he couldn’t even think about lowering his defenses enough to let himself love, because that would mean all the ugliness inside him might come tumbling out, inevitably smashing everything good around him.