The Earl Next Door: The Bachelor Lords of London

by Charis Michaels

  “I don’t know,” said Lady Frinfrock. “Shall you? I have no idea what you’re talking about. You’ve scarcely made sense in the half hour you’ve been in my company.”

  “Right,” he said with steady calm. “Do I care what happens to Miss Grey? Yes. Yes, I suppose that is the reason that I would help her. If you must know it.”

  “You mean pretend to help her,” the marchioness corrected. She looked at Piety. “Miss Grey? What say you? The earl suggests that some measure of this may be comprehendible to you.”

  Nervously, his mouth dry, Trevor watched Piety. Before she spoke, she began to nod, and he felt himself draw breath.

  Next, in a small, foreign voice, she said, “Yes, my lady. I do understand. The earl wishes to pretend to court me so that the Limpetts will be dissuaded. The courtship is meant to be a sham. He maintains his bachelorhood, and I proceed with my motivating priority, which was to escape a marriage, not find it.”

  She smiled sadly at Trevor. It felt like a punch in the gut. He welcomed it. At least she had not sent him away.

  “Although Lord Falcondale and I would never suit in a romantic sense, we were friends, and I know this gesture comes with deep personal sacrifice. It’s very generous, really.”

  “My house in London has not yet sold,” he explained, watching her. “My plan was to eventually sail for Syria, but I have latitude with the departure. There is idle time while I await a buyer. I might as well spend it here as elsewhere.” He waited for her to affirm this, trying to see some trace of the unrelenting Piety he knew.

  Her silence continued, and he felt himself flounder—a rare feeling, indeed, and he turned away. She knew what he offered. He’d blurted it out plainly enough.

  Behind him, he heard her rise.

  “I should like to accept his lordship’s offer, my lady,” she finally said. “If you do not take issue with it. It never hurts to have reinforcements. And I shan’t be so agonized if they insult Falcondale. Not as I am when they insult you.”

  A surge of relief coursed through him, and he felt himself draw a ragged breath. Of all that he had not expected about his flight to Berkshire, Piety’s strange, sad silence had been the most disturbing surprise. How foolish of him to assume she would be unchanged in the face of this onslaught from her family. How foolish of him to assume that her sunny, effusive regard for him was guaranteed.

  Had he assumed this, he wondered? More like, he had not thought of it at all. Suddenly, it seemed he could think of little else.

  “Do not fret on my behalf, girl.” The marchioness scooted from her chair. “Although I do see how Falcondale would be convenient to insult. Very well. He may stay.”

  She was hobbling to the door, but she turned and lashed Trevor with a hard look. “I assume you do know how to properly court a young woman? Or pretend to court her, I should say?”

  “Likely, I do not.”

  “Expected. I shall have to take you on, too.” She opened the door. “Very well. I am sending Miss Breedlowe in straight away, with orders to be far more vigilant than she has obviously been. There is a familiarity between the two of you that is not borne of passing in the street like neighbors. I don’t care what promises you’ve made to each other about an unattached future. I dare not ask what’s been going on in that house of yours, Miss Grey, but it shall not go on here.”

  “Yes, my lady,” said Trevor, while at the same time Piety muttered, “Of course, Lady Frinfrock.”

  “Very well. I shall return to the dining room and announce . . . ” She turned. “Well, whatever should I tell them? They deserve no explanations, but if our goal is to make a show of the courtship, we might as well talk it up.”

  Piety nodded, and Trevor shrugged. The marchioness harrumphed. “I’ll tell them that Falcondale was overcome with lovesickness after Miss Grey’s departure and has ridden for Berkshire with the goal of winning her heart.”

  Piety chuckled, and he smiled, in spite of himself. He caught Piety’s gaze and held it. The muscles in his chest clenched again. “That just about sums it up, I suppose,” he said.

  “You’re playing with fire, the both of you. I hope you know it.”

  “It is better than playing with the Limpetts,” Piety said. “There will be nothing to worry about, my lady. You’ll see. A farce, simple as that. We are grown adults. We know the story and how it should go. Thank you for allowing the earl to be included. Thank you for everything.”

  The marchioness rolled her eyes and left them, slamming the door in her wake.

  Trevor looked up.

  Piety smiled at him, not her usual smile, but much closer to it. He took a halting step toward her, fighting the urge to reach down and snatch her up. She had accepted his help, but he didn’t know how she truly felt about his presence here.

  “You needn’t worry about my illusions of grandeur,” she said. “I wasn’t lying when I assured the marchioness. I understand this is a charade. And I thank you. It might actually do some good. My mother’s primary strategy seems to be calling into question the shamefulness of my unattached state. It can only help to suggest I might actually wed. Someday. Not you, of course. But someone.”

  He nodded. It was hardly the invitation to jerk her into his arms, but he supposed he should appreciate the sentiment. She was being careful. One of them should be.

  He took another step closer. “Do me this favor,” he said. “Do not speak of the other man you may someday marry.”

  She narrowed her eyes and frowned. She hated his implication of possessiveness, but he could not seem to stop. Despite the frown, she was blushing now; she must have seen the heat in his eyes. He took another step. He was nearly to her. He was close enough to smell the familiar fragrance of her skin.

  “Yes,” she said. “No mention of future husbands. I remember now. You prefer to live within the moment of your delight and otherwise leave me to my own devices, whatever they may be. I’m proud of you, my lord. Really I am. What progressive thinking it must have required to move yourself from the moment of your”—she sized him up—“should I call it loneliness? To riding halfway ’cross the country.”

  She was baiting him, thank God. More like her former self. He was meant to volley back some retort—but his brain was mush. All he could do was want.

  He reached out and grabbed her wrist.

  “I believe I will call it loneliness,” she continued, but she didn’t pull away. “You felt lonely in London. And your solution for said loneliness was to ride here and pretend to court me. My eventual fate be damned.”

  “I . . . God, Piety. I can barely think,” he whispered, tugging her up to him. She rolled from the chair and fell against his chest with a sigh. “When does it begin?”

  “When does what begin?” she said to his shirt.

  “The courtship.” He released her wrist and slid his hands into hers, rubbing small circles in her palms with his thumbs.

  “Well,” she said softly, looking up, “Since it is only a charade, I suppose we may start whenever we like. You’re the one who rode to Berkshire, overcome by lovesickness.”

  “Now.” He clutched her to him. “It starts now.”

  His mouth was on hers in the next instant, a kiss that required no preamble. She greeted him with the same fire, the timing and rhythm familiar now, perfect, as if they kissed every day.

  “It’s only for a week or so, Piety.” He kissed her cheek, her ear, her hair, and back again to her mouth. “I cannot put off my departure for long. But maybe it will do some good? Damn, I don’t know.” He returned to her mouth, savoring the familiar taste of her. “I am a selfish bloody bastard, but I don’t care. I—”

  The door creaked open then, and Miss Breedlowe stepped inside. She gasped quietly and cleared her throat.

  “The marchioness sent for me,” she said, “and, I can see she was right. This? My lord? Miss Grey? This will never, ever do.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Jocelyn suggested an outdoor diversion—something that w
ould give the Limpetts the time they needed to adjust to the rather sudden news that Piety would now entertain a suitor. The outdoors might also, Jocelyn suggested privately to Piety, allow the reunited couple to cool their not-so-faux-looking ardor.

  Falcondale agreed immediately to a ride to Garnettgate’s pond and back. This surprised Piety, as he’d just ridden two days from London, and she was in no way accustomed to his immediate consent.

  And best not to become accustomed, she reminded herself, leaning into him as he led her outside on his arm. His agreeability, she chanted, was all for show. He did not really wish to be with her—well, he did not really wish to stay with her. It was a favor, nothing more.

  As favors went, it was highly effective. The Limpetts were incensed at the notion of Falcondale in general and a ride in particular, even with Jocelyn in attendance. The five brothers and Piety’s mother trailed them out of the house.

  “If Piety is so desperate to posture over the English countryside,” Ennis Limpett said, “then why do it with this fellow? Surely Lord Falcondale is already familiar with the charms of his own country. We, however, would love a tour, sister.”

  “You miss the point,” Falcondale said. “It’s not the countryside I wish to see; it is Miss Grey.”

  “Well,” Idelle said, huffing out a breath, “this is quite a change of tune since we met you in London last week. Why, you indicated only a passing acquaintance with my daughter.”

  “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” Falcondale replied.

  Piety looked back at their collective stunned reactions. How nice it was to have someone else engage them.

  “If Piety insists on an outing,” Eli said, stepping to the front of the pack, “then I insist upon joining the ride.”

  Some new confidence made Piety say, “You were not invited, Eli. And there aren’t enough horses.”

  “We came by carriage, which was pulled by four horses,” he said.

  “Your team requires rest, you know this,” said Piety. “Falcondale will borrow from Garnettgate’s stables, but there are only so many fresh mounts. There’s no need to abuse the livestock. Besides, you would dislike it immensely.”

  “You have no idea what I dislike,” he said bitingly.

  “If you must see the countryside, I can coordinate a group outing to the pond tomorrow. We could arrange a picnic.”

  “I don’t want to picnic,” he said petulantly. “I want to be with you.”

  “Yes, how very much you sound as if you want to be with me. You fool no one, Eli.”

  “How dare you accuse Eli of subterfuge when you have snapped your fingers and somehow materialized a suitor out of thin air,” said Idelle.

  Piety stopped walking. “Is it so hard to believe that a man would fancy me, Mother?”

  “Someone is lying,” said Mrs. Limpett, coming upon her. “Either Lord Falcondale misrepresented how familiar he was with you in London, or he is lying about his interest in you now. Or both.”

  The stables were behind them, and Falcondale and Jocelyn stepped up to speak to the grooms about three saddled mounts. Piety turned to her mother. “You look for falsehoods, madam, because of your own habit of bending the truth.”

  “I will overlook the fact that you’ve just called me a liar,” said Idelle, “if you would but cease your childish games. We’ve journeyed a very long way to see to the serious business of getting you under control. We have no time for foolishness.”

  “No one asked you to come,” Piety replied. “So pray, spare us the burden of your arduous journey to save me from myself. I do not require saving.”

  Idelle sucked in breath to retort, but Eli stepped in front of her. “How bold you have grown, Piety.” She recognized his expression from the night he tried to restrain her. “I can see now why your new friends are so important to you. They encourage your innate defiance.”

  Piety swallowed hard but refused to shuffle back.

  “Go,” he went on, nodding to the stable. “Take your ride with Lord Falcondale. Certainly I would never expect to pursue a woman who wasn’t the envy of other men. The earl fancies you, as well he should. You are a beautiful, spirited girl, and I understand his suit, however . . . sudden. That said, you should know that I expect the same attention to my own affections. I should like to escort you, too. Wherever you like. Show me this country with which you’ve become so enchanted. Surely you would not allow me to travel all this way to refuse me even one word in private. One audience.”

  “Surely I would,” answered Piety, meeting his gaze. Her heart pounded louder than the stomping horses.

  “I beg your pardon?” Eli said, shoving up to her, his chest puffed out.

  Suddenly, Falcondale was at her side.

  “No, I beg yours, sir.” The earl took her elbow and tucked her close to his side. He began to work his hands into soft leather gloves. “Mind yourself, Limpett,” he said casually, but with a faint note of threat. “There are few things more pathetic than a man playing at bully to a lady. Especially Miss Grey. Perhaps you haven’t noticed; she is beyond intimidation.” He opened and closed his fingers in the gloves and then took Piety by the hand, leading her to the hitching post.

  “Pity about the horses,” he called over his shoulder. “Sometimes there simply isn’t enough to go around.”

  Ten minutes later, Piety and Trevor stood alone in the bend of a drystone wall, overlooking the green meadow that spilled downward to Garnettgate below. Behind them, the horses grazed and Miss Breedlowe sat at the base of a maple tree, reading a book.

  Trevor sighed. “The Americans are horrible. But perhaps worse, they are persistent. Still, they are not impossible. Half the battle is standing firm in the face of their relentless rudeness.”

  “I don’t want to talk about the Limpetts,” Piety said.

  He nodded and they stared into the sunny horizon together. After a moment, he said, “I would be remiss if I did not say this one more time: You realize that I must go, Piety. After this threat has passed. I still must go.”

  She had no wish to talk about his departure, either.

  She glanced at him. “Of course,” she said.

  She plucked a flower from the wall, a frail daisy. It sprouted ambitiously from the dirt-caked grooves between the stones. She twirled it between her fingers, watching it dance, this way and that.

  “We must both understand this inevitability,” he continued. “You convinced the marchioness, but I’m not so sure. When it’s over, will you be able to walk away? When I sail east, and your family leaves you in peace, will you be happy?”

  “Will you?” She jabbed the flower in her hair.

  “No. Yes. No. But this is my choice.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I have said before that I am absolutely unfit to be anyone’s husband. Yes, I will be happy—whatever that means—because it is exactly what I’ve always wanted.”

  “Well,” she said, nodding again, “it’s my choice, too. You may rest assured that, although I lack your wanderlust, my desire to remain unattached is just as strong. So you needn’t worry.”

  It was a lie, but what choice did she have? He had never misled her about his intentions. He was here as a favor to her. And his willingness to grant favors was admittedly very slim. She would not take advantage. She would not trap him. If he needed her to tell him she could walk away unhurt, she would tell him. The hurt would be unavoidable, but what really mattered was her commitment to say good-bye when the time came.

  “Trust me,” she finally said, plucking the flower from her hair. “You needn’t worry about me becoming attached and trying to wrestle you down the aisle.” She tossed the daisy to the ground.

  “You’re sure?”

  She laughed. “You’re an arrogant one. Do you think I cannot resist you?”

  “Hardly.” And now he laughed. “On the contrary, you’re a beautiful girl, Piety. Clever. Resourceful. Charming and kind-hearted. There are hundreds of gentlemen in London who would be deliriously happy to bask in yo
ur attentions. I have puzzled over your affection for me, of all men, from the beginning, but I’m too selfish to stay away. I’m here to support you, but you’re managing beautifully on your own. You could stand up to them without me. You have never needed my help.”

  “Untrue. When we could not figure out about the stairs, I needed your help.”

  “Bollocks. I posed an irresistible challenge. I know you.” He pointed at her. “Any solution so easy and uncomplicated as hiring your own man would seem premature and under-cooked in your view. Admit it, you considered it cheating.” He turned away and leaned his elbows on the wall. “It makes no sense, Piety. I’m selfish and rotten to the core. I have no idea why you tolerate me.” He turned to stare down at her.

  “Well, you take me seriously,” she said, surprising them both. She’d never considered this in as many words, but it was true. He might as well know.

  He stared a moment more and then looked away. “Another lie,” he said to the pasture. “I’ve told you repeatedly that your new house is fantasy. I’ve been like a human stone around the neck of your ambition and your dreams. And I hate myself for it, Piety, because I know what it means to have your dream postponed.”

  “You challenged my dream, made me fight for it, but you never told me I could not have it. And you allowed me use of the passage. You designed my stairwell. You have been generous with my workmen.”

  He made a scoffing noise and shook his head.

  “If you must know,” she said nestling closer to him, “I like your hair.” On a whim, she reached out and tousled her favorite lock, the heavy, deep auburn curl that fell across his brow. He lifted his head, his eyes suddenly hot, and he leaned into her hand, pulling it from his hair to his cheek, then to his mouth. He began gently kissing her palm.

  “And I like your boots,” she continued, tapping his tall, black Hessians with her toe. “I like the way you stride around and make horrible, sweeping generalities that, deep down, you hope are not true.”

  She took a deep breath. “And I love that you cared for your mother.”

  His kisses ceased. “What?”