Enchanting the Earl (The Townsends)

by Lily Maxton

  He took a spyglass from the pier table, where it sat among shells and rocks, between a vase filled with yellow gorse and one filled with thistle. He studied the object with an absentminded frown. “My mother married a physician instead of a peer. He never forgave her for it, I suppose. We didn’t even know about him—not that he was an earl, not that he was even alive. She told us both of her parents were dead.”

  Annabel tilted her head. “That didn’t give you much warning, did it?”

  “None at all,” he said with a wry smile.

  “He was married twice, and neither woman had any children before they died. My aunt said he was in London just last year, probably looking for another wife.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt he did everything he could to supplant my mother as his heir.”

  “He wasn’t very lucky in that regard,” Annabel said. “But I don’t feel very sorry for him. From what my aunt told me, he was furious when his brother married her. She’d been an actress briefly in her youth. I think sending her to this castle after her husband died was as much punishment as charity.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Which part?” she asked. “My aunt being an actress or the old earl reaching new levels of bastardy?”

  “Neither part,” he said, and she smiled. He set the spyglass down, laying it in its place with surprising gentleness. For a moment he simply touched it, his face contemplative, before his hands slid away.

  “Have you never seen a spyglass before?”

  He peered at her in the dim light. “I’m trying to figure out what purpose it serves as a decoration.”

  “I like it. Is that not reason enough?”

  “Your shelves and tables are filled with things without any apparent use. It’s very untidy.” He sounded perturbed, and she felt another smile tugging at her mouth.

  “And it’s such a sin, is it? To be untidy?”

  “I prefer order.”

  “Yes,” she said, still a little amused. “No doubt you do.” Propriety and rigid rules. The things he clung to she had no use for anymore. If she ever had to begin with. When he was silent, she continued, “I found that washed up on the shore of the sea loch one day. I was quite taken with it. Who knows who possessed it before me—a pirate, a privateer, a sailor trying to make his way home to his love? Did his ship sink before he could find his way back?”

  “Most likely,” Theo said. “Or it wouldn’t have washed up on the shore.”

  “Well, that is quite literal.” If there was an ounce of whimsy in that hardened soul it was buried deep. She had a strange yearning to try to draw it out, which, as any sensible woman would do, she repressed. “But that’s why I display it,” she continued. “I enjoy the idea that there’s a history there, a story I’ll never know.”

  He contemplated her. “You like the mystery?”

  “Something like that. Or…” She tried to frame her thoughts. “The possibilities, perhaps.”

  His mouth quirked. “I find I don’t much care for possibilities. I’d rather have facts.”

  “Don’t you ever feel stifled?”

  His brow furrowed as he looked at her. “No. Why should I?”

  “There is much more to this world, to this life, than facts and order. There’s beauty and hope and…and love.” She felt silly after she said it, but it was too late to take the words back. It was odd—she thought of herself as a sensible woman. She was a sensible woman, but somewhere in her depths was a core of idealism that she couldn’t quite shake.

  A moment passed before he spoke, and when he did, there was something underneath the wry tone of his voice, but she couldn’t place it. “What do you know of love?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid.” She loved her aunt, sister, and niece fiercely, yes, but for some reason she didn’t think he was speaking of familial love. “I’ve always imagined it would be a bit like lemon cream.”

  “Lemon cream?” he asked, looking bemused.

  “Exciting, at first taste, because you’ve never known the flavors before, and it’s strange to think that something can be both tart and sweet. But as you grow used to it, I would assume it becomes familiar, a taste that reminds you of things, of memories, and brings you a warm sort of happiness rather than a thrilling one, and feels safe, like being wrapped in a blanket.”

  Good Lord, she could feel her face grow hot as he regarded her. She hadn’t meant to sound so entirely…pathetic. She sounded exactly like what she was in that moment—a spinster who’d spent far, far too much time contemplating the nature of romantic love, considering it was something she would never experience.

  “Or something like that,” she muttered.

  “I don’t know much of love, either,” Theo remarked into the awkward silence that followed. “But I do enjoy lemon cream.”

  She smiled and looked down at her hands. Suddenly, she felt uncertain. He was trying to put her at ease, something he hadn’t done before, and it made her want to like him. But liking him at all would be a mistake. “I recall. You’re not an utter beast, obviously.”

  “You threw that poem in the fire, I hope.”

  “Perhaps,” she said noncommittally. “Perhaps not. When a Sassenach thinks they can write a poem as well as Rabbie Burns, it’s only fair to hold on to proof of their failure.”

  “How kind,” Theo said drily. “But is it fair for a Lowlander to call me a Sassenach? Edinburgh is not quite so far from England. Truthfully, you sound as English as you do Scottish.”

  Her eyes widened. “I do not sound English.”

  “You do.”

  She huffed and rearranged one of the shells on the table, just for something to do with her hands. But his tone was almost teasing, and she found it difficult to be truly annoyed. “Tiresome man.”

  A silence fell between them, but it wasn’t a particularly tense silence. In fact, it was such a companionable silence that Annabel began to feel uncomfortable. She shouldn’t be enjoying spending time with her self-proclaimed gaoler. But she was drawn again to the dark circles under his eyes, and a pang went through her chest.

  How long had it been since he’d had a full night’s sleep? Surely he couldn’t sustain such a restless existence for very long. Surely, at some point, something had to break.

  “You should go riding,” she said, more concerned than she wanted to admit to herself. “There’s nothing quite like racing across the moors. It makes one feel gloriously alive.”

  His gaze flickered to her. “I already told you I don’t ride,” he said with a new edge to his voice. And just like that, the hostility was back in place between them, the invisible wall. He must have forgotten, for a moment, just as she’d forgotten, that they weren’t simply a man and a woman alone in the dark.

  “That doesn’t mean you couldn’t try,” she said stubbornly. “You might enjoy it.”

  Theo’s face hardened. “Simply because you fill your day with frivolities doesn’t mean I wish to do the same, Miss Lockhart.”

  A little sliver of hurt went through her. “You think me frivolous?”

  “I haven’t seen anything to indicate otherwise.”

  She pushed back from the mantel. If she hadn’t seen a flash of vulnerability in those haunted eyes, she might have been tempted to rail at him or do something else she’d regret. As it was, she stuffed down her indignation.

  Arguing with Lord Arden was a lost cause. She could tell he’d just dig his heels in from pure male stubbornness.

  And anyway, his problems weren’t her concern. It wasn’t as though he’d concerned himself with hers.

  “Good night, Lord Arden.”

  His mouth parted slightly and then snapped close.

  She felt a flash of satisfaction at the surprise on his face. Had he expected her to argue with him? He’d have to learn that she hated doing what was expected of her.

  She was frivolous like that.

  Chapter Eleven

  After a restless night, Annabel came to a decision. Her attempts at
deception hadn’t worked. Warring with him certainly didn’t work. Lord Arden was more determined than ever to wash his hands of her and Aunt Frances once and for all.

  She would, she thought rather grimly, have to play nice.

  But not too nice. He’d be suspicious if she was too nice.

  She needed to make him like her just enough. Enough that he wouldn’t mind if she stayed, even if he wasn’t fond of the idea. He’d said he’d been contemplating it, before the wolf incident—surely she could get him to contemplate it again.

  And maybe if he grew to trust her, and to like her a little, he would take some pity on her sister’s plight. It wasn’t ideal—ideally, Lord Arden would leave for good—but that obviously wasn’t going to happen, and she needed to find a way to salvage the situation. She couldn’t keep Fiona and Mary hidden from him forever.

  She wasn’t sure if she could trust him with her secret, though. Not yet. And she wasn’t about to risk her sister and niece’s safety. First, she needed to get Lord Arden on her side. She needed to be sure he wouldn’t pack them off to Colin, just as he wanted to pack her and Frances off to Edinburgh.

  It should have been easy—she wasn’t completely inept at charming men—the few she’d been acquainted with, at least. They might not have wanted a dowry-less, free-spirited, somewhat eccentric woman as a wife, but they’d enjoyed her company.

  It would be more difficult with Theo. She needed to be careful not to try too hard with him, or he’d guess her motives. It would be like walking a knife’s edge, but luckily, she had some inkling of how to do it.

  She waited in the drawing room early the next morning, the scent of fresh coffee heavy in the air, and cleared off the edge of the table to play with a knucklebones set she’d managed to find in a forgotten, dusty corner of the castle.

  Theo Townsend, Earl of Arden, had a weakness he hadn’t been able to hide even from her.

  He was competitive. Deeply competitive. There was really nothing else that would make a man who was abysmal at poetry attempt to write a poem just to prove her wrong.

  So she’d give him someone to compete with.

  And if her attempt to rouse his competitive spirit also happened to ease that shadowed look in his eyes…well, that would be a happy accident.

  She made a clumsy throw of the small wooden ball.

  When Lord Arden entered the room, she stilled the ball on the table with her palm and glanced up. He looked almost approachable in the gray morning light. Softer somehow, the harsh planes of his face rubbed to something muted and more open. Of course, when he saw her, he tensed subtly, and she wondered if her impression before was only a mirage.

  “My lord,” she greeted warmly. “Have you played this game?”

  The wariness of his stare nearly made her laugh. “As a child.”

  “Oh, good. We should be about even then. It’s been years since I played it, as well.”

  “Has it?” he asked. He still hadn’t moved. “I’m not certain why a grown woman would play children’s games.”

  She barely refrained from rolling her eyes. His voice simply oozed with how frivolous he found the idea. “I usually go for a ride or a walk at this time of the morning, but as you can see”—she exaggeratedly stared out the window—“it’s much too rainy for that. Now, as long as you’re going to follow my every move, make yourself useful and play with me.”

  He stiffened, no doubt offended by her remark about making himself useful.

  “Unless you are afraid you’ll lose,” she said, with a smile that she realized wasn’t forced at all—she was surprised by how natural it was, by how much she enjoyed teasing him.

  He frowned at her, but he seemed to be contemplating it. For about two seconds. Then he swung around, retrieving the coffee pot from where she’d placed it by the fire to keep warm. She heard the sound of coffee being poured.

  She made a few attempts at the knucklebones set. A lazy throw of the ball and sweep of the bones. Before she could catch it, the ball clattered to the table. Behind her, the silence was heavy.

  She bit her lip. “I’m not very good. I suppose you must be even more abysmal than I am, if you won’t play.”

  He snorted.

  She threw again. Swooped again. The knucklebones scattered away from her grasping hand.

  “I’m not surprised,” she continued absentmindedly. “It takes a quickness of motion, this game. Most people don’t have it, though I did play with Mr. Cameron once, and he was quite good.”

  Theo pulled out the chair next to her, so abruptly that it scraped loudly across the floor, and then eased himself down, bracing some of his weight on his cane as he did.

  He pushed his coffee cup a safe distance away and looked at her with a curious expression. Somewhat resigned, but determined, too.

  “Not too frivolous for you, then?” she asked, glancing up at him through her eyelashes.

  “I suppose a frivolity here and there never hurt anyone,” he said, surprising her.

  “Only one?”

  “One, maybe two, but certainly not three. Beyond the pale…three frivolities.”

  The silence that followed this remark was complete. Her world felt like it had tilted on its axis. “Was that a jest?” she exclaimed.

  Irritation flitted over his features. There, she thought with relief, that’s more like it. That was the man she was used to. “Good God,” he said. “I am capable of joking, you know.”

  “Are you?”

  He lifted his shoulder. “Perhaps once a week.”

  Her mouth curved, an involuntary response, and she looked down at the knucklebones set, angry with herself. One silly jest from Lord Arden should not cause a fluttering in her stomach. She wasn’t some young, naive girl to be swept away so easily, so carelessly. She hadn’t been young or naive for years.

  But then, why did his teasing suddenly feel like an intolerable threat?

  “You can go first,” she said generously. “Would you like a few practice trials?”

  “I’ll do without,” he answered drily.

  “We can do a forfeit, to keep things interesting.”

  She thought he might refuse and was surprised when he simply lifted his shoulder, which she took for acquiescence.

  He tossed the knucklebones onto the surface of the table so they scattered. Then, in a motion that was surprisingly graceful, he tossed up the ball, plucked one of the bones from the table, and then caught the ball in his open palm. He did this quickly, methodically, precisely, until all the bones were picked up.

  During his second round, he finally made a mistake, dropping one of the two bones in his hand. He offered her the ball, and their bare fingers brushed, sending a jolt like lightning through her. She quickly withdrew her hand, face averted. She was, for some reason, having trouble looking at him.

  As Theo looked on, she threw the ball up and deftly grabbed a bone. She may not have played the game in years, but she and her sister had played it so much as children when their guardians had wanted them out of the way that her arm remembered the motions. It was embedded in her memory, like a waking dream. Her first round passed nearly as quickly as his had, as she picked up each bone, one by one, making no mistakes.

  She felt his stare.

  “You tricked me.”

  “Tricked you?” she asked with a slight widening of her eyes.

  “You missed on purpose while you were practicing,” he accused.

  “Oh, that. Yes, I did,” she said.

  He barked out an abrupt, startled laugh.

  “I had to make you think you had a chance, after all.”

  “How do you know I don’t have a chance?”

  She lifted her shoulder in a delicate shrug. “I shall reserve judgment. For now.”

  And there it was. A spark in his eyes. A light to burn away shadow. She felt a savage satisfaction deep in her chest.

  He was, unfortunately, better than she’d realized. For most of the game, they were neck and neck, and he reached the las
t round before she did, scooping up all four bones but missing the ball. Which meant she had a chance to win. She found her own competitive spirit stirring. It was silly. It didn’t really matter who won.

  But she still wanted to. She supposed Theo Townsend wasn’t the only one who was competitive.

  She squeezed the ball in her hand, prepared to win and take the forfeit, but then she made a fatal mistake. She glanced at Theo, at almost exactly the same moment she released the ball. He was smiling slightly, just a bare curve to his lips—a wistful, tentative thing. And just like before, it caught her off guard, but for entirely different reasons. This wasn’t the smile of a young, carefree man. It was the smile of a man who knew regret. Who’d done things, perhaps, that he wished he could take back. Who’d seen things he wished he could un-see. It spoke of a depth of sorrow, and an equal potential for joy.

  It was a beautiful smile, and for an instant, she was captivated. Utterly, inexorably captivated.

  And in that instant, she lost track of the ball. It came back down with more force than she’d anticipated, thumping her on the head and then bouncing into Theo’s coffee with a splash.

  A wave of coffee overflowed onto the table, flecks of it coloring Theo’s cravat and waistcoat.

  He blinked down at the stains.

  She rubbed her head.

  Theo laughed, and even through a throbbing pain in her skull, she liked the sound, a little too much. “Is that your strategy when you find yourself in a close game? Cause as much damage as possible?”

  “That was an accident,” she said loftily.

  In an automatic gesture, she picked up a handkerchief and leaned toward him, dabbing at his cravat and waistcoat, though the fabric was already hopelessly stained. She didn’t even realize she’d done something unusual until he breathed in sharply.

  She looked up, realized their lips were only inches apart, and everything in her froze.

  Theo’s expression contained all the blank stillness of a startled deer, which was a little insulting.

  “Were you attempting to surreptitiously damage that tapestry?” Theo asked quickly, drawing her attention away from his lips. “I wouldn’t blame you if you were.”