Undone by the Earl

by Elizabeth Rue

  Lady Stratford grasped Adrian’s arm as they strolled toward the lake, trailing some distance behind the others. Her perfume seemed heavier and sweeter than usual this afternoon. Too sweet. Adrian looked towards the east, where Sir Neville’s carriage moved slowly along the road to the lake. He could make out Miss Colbrook’s pale bonnet above Madeline’s darker one.

  All afternoon he’d tried his best not to look in Miss Colbrook’s direction. He’d attempted to focus on Lady Stratford and to not think about what he must say to Miss Colbrook. But he kept reminding himself that telling her to marry Sir Neville was for the best. It was sensible, the only practical things for everyone—

  “I have been patient, Lord Wareton,” Lady Stratford’s voice broke through his thoughts, “but even I cannot wait for an answer forever.” She tapped her fingers lightly on his forearm.

  He snapped his gaze back to her. How long had he been staring after the carriage? And what the devil had been the question?

  Lady Stratford sighed. “I asked about your plans for going into town next month.”

  “I have not decided yet,” he said.

  “Obviously.” She was smiling, but her blue eyes remained cool. “You have been quite distracted of late.”

  “Forgive me.”

  “You know,” she said, glancing towards the carriage, “he clearly has a great deal of affection for her. And she seems like a woman who would be far happier with a husband who can put his heart above other considerations.” Lady Stratford sounded as if she almost admired Miss Colbrook for her romantic tendencies. Almost.

  “Indeed,” Adrian said, keeping his voice neutral.

  “How wonderful that Sir Neville is also wealthy. And their backgrounds make them eminently suited for each other.” There was an undeniable question in her tone. He glanced at her; she watched him with hard eyes, smiling faintly. “Anything else might only bring her heartache. And I can see how fond of her you are,” she added, gently squeezing his arm. “I know you only want her happiness.”

  Adrian’s throat tightened. As if he needed one more person to tell him how Sir Neville cared deeply for Miss Colbrook and how she would be better off with him.

  “Yes, it is a fitting match,” she continued. “He has no close family to be damaged by his choice of wife, no sisters or cousins. Rank, building connections—these things apparently matter little to him and even less to her.” Lady Stratford smiled up at him and lifted one hand to grasp the locket at her neck, a gold oval engraved with the crest of the Barony of Stratford. She tapped her finger gently against the metal. “She belongs in a different world from people like us, does she not?”

  Adrian found himself unwilling to answer. He forced a smile.

  “Here comes Mrs. Shelby to join us,” Lady Stratford said, glancing ahead. Before Mrs. Shelby was within earshot she added, “You will have to let me know soon, Lord Wareton, whether I can depend on you in London next month. Or whether I should look for other company. I cannot wait forever.”

  17

  Anna leaned against the stone wall that lined the road and watched the rest of the party draw near.

  At the front of the group, the duke and Cecelia walked side by side. As usual, he moved stiffly, his head held high, his arm rigid as he escorted Cecelia. In contrast, Cecelia leaned into his arm and spoke animatedly, seemingly unfazed by his stern demeanor. But sometimes, just for an instant, Anna thought Cecelia’s eyes betrayed the truth: she didn’t give a fig for the duke. She was merely doing what Lady Carlton and many others had told her time and again was expected of her. But above all, Anna suspected that Cecelia was trying to please Lord Wareton.

  Anna frowned. Why on earth did he want his sister to wed such a dull man?

  Because he was a duke of course, and because rank and money were everything, unquestionably far more important than compatibility or personal attraction. Lord Wareton had said as much last night in the garden. It was simply how it was done, but the idea of Cecelia trapped with the duke for a lifetime made Anna’s heart sink.

  Walking behind the duke and Cecelia, Lady Carlton looked smug but watchful, a displeased-looking Mrs. Dunbury at her side. Lady Carlton kept her gait purposefully slow, forcing the others to hang back, allowing a large space to open behind the couple. Whenever Mrs. Dunbury or her daughters, who walked behind their mother, tried to increase their pace, Lady Carlton slowed even more, using her broad figure to block them from moving forward.

  At the end of the procession, Lord Wareton strolled with Lady Stratford and Mrs. Shelby. The two ladies were talking, but Lord Wareton seemed distracted, falling a few steps behind them. He looked up and caught sight of Anna; even a glance from such a distance made her heart speed up.

  He was the handsomest and most intriguing man she’d ever met. For one instant she wished desperately that he wasn’t an earl, that he was only a gentleman of modest means and background. Or not even a gentleman, but a tradesman or farmer or soldier—anything that could make their positions equal enough to allow her absurd dreams to come true.

  Lady Carlton saw that the duke and Cecelia were just about to reach Anna.

  “Miss Colbrook,” Lady Carlton called out, “I wonder if I might have a word with you.” Anna let the duke and Cecelia pass and waited for Lady Carlton.

  “Yes, Lady Carlton?” Anna said.

  “I, ah...” Lady Carlton apparently struggled to find a reason for having summoned her back. “Why did you not ride all the way with Sir Neville?” she finally asked, frowning.

  “I decided I needed a walk after all.”

  “You should have at least brought a parasol. This is why you look positively brown. And that dress, the color is all wrong for you...” Anna half-listened as she droned on, wishing she could turn and see what Lord Wareton was up to. She could only occasionally hear him over his aunt’s prattle.

  Thankfully, after only a few minutes of being lectured, Mrs. Shelby rescued Anna from Lady Carlton’s company. After joining them and chatting for a brief time, Mrs. Shelby took Anna’s arm and drew her aside to examine some wildflowers. She only allowed Anna to begin walking again when Lady Stratford and Lord Wareton reached them.

  For a few moments, Mrs. Shelby chatted about the scenery, but there was a sparkle in her eye and a slight smile on her face as she glanced around.

  “Lady Stratford,” Mrs. Shelby said, “would you care to walk ahead and speak with Cecelia? She mentioned earlier that she wanted our advice on preparing for the season.” Mrs. Shelby smiled at Anna and raised one thin red brow, glancing at Lord Wareton.

  Mrs. Shelby knew as well then. Was there anyone who didn’t yet realize she had feelings for him? And good friend that Mrs. Shelby was, she was trying to be helpful. As if there were any real hope.

  To Anna’s surprise, Lady Stratford agreed to move ahead, leaving Anna with Lord Wareton. Lady Carlton glanced back, scowling, but she apparently feared leaving Cecelia too much to stop Anna and Lord Wareton from walking together. As Lady Stratford and Mrs. Shelby approached, making their way towards Cecelia and the duke, Lady Carlton seemed to forget about Anna entirely.

  As she and Lord Wareton strolled silently, Anna forced herself not to look at him, but it wasn’t easy. Just a glance at the sleeve of his coat, his strong legs flexing beneath his dark breeches, or his hand swinging gently as he walked was enough to re-ignite memories of the previous evening. She flushed to recall what he’d done to her, how he’d touched her and made her feel... And when he’d left rather than choose dishonor, his strength and integrity had made her realize how deeply she loved him.

  Last night had changed everything.

  And at the same time nothing had changed. They still strolled as if the day were an ordinary one, as if they’d never shared such intimacy, as if they meant little to each other. As if nothing had ever happened between them and nothing ever would in the future.

  And likely it wouldn’t.

  His boots were dusty from the road and beneath the film of dirt, the leather
didn’t shine as it normally did. He was usually so meticulous with his appearance, but today in addition to his boots, the hair curling out beneath his hat was rumpled, his cravat was wrinkled, and a hint of stubble darkened his chin. He looked as if he’d shaved hastily or his valet hadn’t seen to his duties as usual. Could it be because he hadn’t slept at all? The shadows under his eyes also suggested as much.

  Surprisingly, she had slept last night, exhausted from sobbing after he left her in the garden, but her dreams were troubled. She awoke twice, her bedclothes twisted around her, her skin as hot and tingling as if he were touching her. And in the morning she’d been restless, still aching from the memory of his caresses.

  Could he be filled with as much longing for her? He’d said that he never wanted a woman as he wanted her. The memory of those words made her feel warm and a bit breathless. She tried to distract herself by focusing on the lake ahead.

  The distance between them and the rest of the party had grown quite wide, far enough that no one could overhear them.

  “Lord Wareton,” she said.

  “Yes?” His voice was tense, sharp. Did he fear she would mention what happened last night? What was there to say that would not cause them both more pain?

  Mr. Sinclair, she reminded herself. She must speak to Lord Wareton about his brother and try to prevent a duel. Now was the best opportunity she might have for some time, for she doubted she would allow herself to be alone with Lord Wareton anymore.

  “Did you ask your brother not to join us?” she said.

  He frowned but nodded. “I sent him to town.”

  “Why?”

  “To keep him away from Sir Neville.” He kept his gaze straight ahead.

  Did Lord Wareton only fear Sir Neville would challenge his brother, or did he also suspect his brother wished to confront Sir Neville? She doubted Mr. Sinclair could be persuaded to stay away from Sir Neville for much longer, not if the amount of despair he’d displayed the other evening was any indication.

  “There is something I never had a chance to tell you last night,” she said. “I believe your brother may wish to fight Sir Neville.”

  “Nonsense.” He scowled but his gaze shifted nervously, a hint of doubt in his eyes.

  “The gun you found, I caught him practicing with it. I am afraid of what might happen—”

  “Practicing? Why should he wish to admit his guilt to Sir Neville now, after all this time?” He shook his head. “I do not believe it.” His tone made it clear he didn’t wish to discuss it.

  Could he really not see the truth, or did he simply not wish to? She sensed he might react badly if she pressed the issue, but she had no choice. He was the only one who had a chance of persuading his brother to stop.

  She took a deep breath. “Perhaps he’s tired of having you hold his mistakes over his head.”

  He stopped walking and glared at her. “What?”

  She halted beside him and kept her head high, looking him directly in the eyes. “You are terribly harsh with him.”

  “Am I?” He crossed his arms. “Well, why shouldn’t I be, after what he’s done? Would you defend him, particularly after you were so unforgiving when you believed I was guilty?” He looked down at her with such anger, it pained her to meet his gaze. But she did.

  “I do not defend what he did, but perhaps he’s ready to finally take responsibility for it.”

  “Ready to commit suicide you mean?” Lord Wareton spoke a bit too loudly. Ahead, Anna noticed the others were glancing back at them curiously. “He would never,” he added, his voice softer. “God forgive me, but even if Edmund were suddenly possessed with a fit of bravery, he would be slaughtered by Sir Neville. Sir Neville is renowned for his marksmanship. Edmund cannot shoot.”

  Stubborn man, he wouldn’t admit what was right before his eyes.

  “At least he would be doing what is right,” she said, “even if he should be shot—”

  “I’ll not let him be killed.” He began walking again. She hurried to stay by his side.

  “You will not let him take responsibility for his own mistakes, the very things you criticize him for?”

  “He became what he is following my example. They are my mistakes as well.”

  “Is that why you took the blame for him?”

  He glanced at her sharply. “Should I have allowed him to be killed? And likely disgrace our family from the scandal? And yes, it was also my duty, for I was also to blame for what happened to Miss Howe.”

  “How?” She thought for a moment that he wouldn’t answer her.

  “Edmund copied me growing up,” he finally said, some of the anger gone from his voice. “He saw how wild I was and behaved as I did. Only he carried it farther than I ever did. Too far.”

  “With Miss Carpenter?”

  “Before then. Long before.”

  “What happened?” she asked.

  He looked at her, considering, then sighed. “He was just out of school. I found him with a servant girl in our father’s bed. I shall never forget how he looked lying there, drunk, foolish... He thought I would be proud of him. Proud.” He shook his head. “I stopped my wild behavior. I went into the army a month later.”

  So that was what he’d held back from her before, the real reason he enlisted in the military so abruptly. The shock of finding his younger brother in such a situation had apparently stunned him into finally recognizing his own failures and caused him to change. But did he still carry the burden of guilt after all these years? Was that why he seemed unable to forgive himself for his past or to forgive his brother?

  “When I returned home,” he continued, “and learned about Miss Carpenter, I should have watched him better, kept him from being alone with Miss Howe.”

  “You are not responsible for your brother’s actions.” She reached out to him, stopping herself an instant before she would have grasped his arm. She shouldn’t touch him, not after last evening. Perhaps never again. The thought made her heart ache. She let her hand fall to her side.

  “I was responsible,” he said, still gazing down, apparently oblivious to her having reached out to him. “Our parents were dead. He looked up to me for guidance, and I failed him. Miserably. Cecelia too. I left her to live with...” He glanced ahead to where Lady Carlton marched angrily behind Cecelia, the duke, Mrs. Shelby, and Lady Stratford. “A less than ideal caretaker.”

  “What could you have done instead? You were but a child yourself much of that time.”

  He shook his head. “I was unforgivably selfish, wasting years when I should have been caring for them.”

  One word he’d said in particular echoed in her mind.

  Unforgivably.

  That was what tormented him. Much as he insisted that others no longer judge him by his past, he refused to do the same. He was constantly measuring his behavior against a debt he believed he owed. The guilt was behind his every decision—whom to marry his sister to and whom to marry himself and how to treat his brother.

  “Even the old earl despised my behavior,” he said. “He told me once that the earldom would survive even a wastrel like me. I laughed at the time. It took me years to see the miserable old monster was right.” He walked in silence for a moment, staring into the air.

  “I have worked hard to become worthy of my inheritance,” he continued, “to try and make up for years of mistakes. That is why now I must do the best to atone for my errors and protect Edmund from his folly. And see Cecelia settled well.”

  Cecelia. Another burden of guilt he carried. And one he was also trying to solve in completely the wrong fashion.

  “You believe the duke is the best match for her?” she asked.

  “Of course.” His face darkened. “He is one of the highest-ranking bachelors in England. And the closest in age to her.”

  “But do you believe she will be happy?”

  “It is what she wishes as well.” His clipped tone made it clear he didn’t want to discuss it. “And her future is also affecte
d by the choices I make for myself. I do not deserve to make selfish decisions, choices that will not help my family.”

  He believed that if he married poorly, the duke might cry off Cecelia, and the status of the whole family would suffer. He was telling her again why, despite the attraction between them, they could never marry. As if she’d ever had any real hope. And yet, that he even defended his reasoning surprised her. Was the pain in his eyes simply from guilt over his dishonorable behavior, or was some of his anguish because he truly cared for her? At least he trusted her enough to confide in her. He must have some feelings for her besides lust, however they might pale compared to her own affection for him. It was the most she could ever expect.

  Mr. Sinclair had said that his brother would never allow himself to fall in love, and now she saw that he was right. Lord Wareton was punishing himself so brutally for his past that even if he could love a woman, and even if she was his equal in birth, Anna doubted he would ever allow himself such happiness.

  Adrian hated to look at her, yet he couldn’t stop.

  His gaze wandered to her constantly, devouring the sight of her. Every aspect of her tormented him. Her shapely ankles flashing beneath the flounced hem of her walking dress, the outline of her legs, her full hips, the luscious indent of her waist that seemed so slender beneath the swell of her breasts, breasts that he ached to caress again. Her beautiful face. Her striking blue eyes that saw far too much for his comfort. She was troublesome and infuriating, and even when he was angry with her, he wanted her with an intensity that terrified him.

  And he was angry with her for implying Cecelia might not be happy with the duke, and even more upset at her for suggesting Edmund wished to fight Sir Neville. Yet as his temper cooled, he became increasingly worried that she might be right about Edmund. His brother was behaving strangely, and too many details didn’t add up any other way. Miss Colbrook had said she heard Edmund went shooting while at Lady Camden’s recently, something Adrian had dismissed as a false rumor. But what if it were true? And now he’d apparently been practicing with the pistol. And just this morning he said that he no longer wished to hide from Sir Neville. Adrian had tried to convince himself that his brother was merely trying to irritate him, but whenever he recalled the determined light in Edmund’s eyes, his gut tightened.