Good Earl Hunting

by Suzanne Enoch

  ”–for Belle to make a match with a man every other female in England is after,” she finished. “I told you to leave me out of it. I’m terrible at polite conversation; you know that. And Vashton called me a cold fish at the Carmichael ball, if you’ll recall. I hardly think mud on my ear will ruin Belle’s prospects.”

  “You were being rude to him, as I recall.”

  She hadn’t been. Not truly. It was only that Vashton had clearly asked her to dance as an afterthought, that during their waltz he kept smiling at every other girl on the floor, that he looked so...perfect, when she felt so awkward. And silly thing that she was, for a moment as she’d stepped onto the dance floor with him, she’d felt excited. Aroused at the heat of him. That, however, had evidently rendered her incapable of making polite conversation on her own behalf – much less that of her sister.

  The most confusing bit was that he’d been nice to her today. After all, no one else had so much as noticed her pressed up against the oak tree, and he’d actually missed the remainder of the hunt and come back to make certain she wasn’t hurt. And he’d walked her back to the house when he hadn’t needed to do any such thing. Was he interested in Belle, after all, and trying to make a good impression with her sister? He didn’t quite seem the sort to care what anyone else thought, or to spend his time not talking to the lady everyone – well, everyone here – thought he should marry, but she supposed it was possible.

  “Your past conversations don’t signify, I suppose,” the viscount muttered, looking past her again at the circle of females around the earl, “since he did accept my invitation to come to Beldath. But please make an attempt to be pleasant to him. I did go through a great deal to arrange all this, you know.”

  Again she merely nodded, rather than informing him about what she’d learned earlier, that at least six other papas had had the same idea and had arranged the very same sort of house party in order to lure the Earl of Vashton to join their family. And that Vashton had left all six parties an unmarried man and a half dozen foxes short.

  She hated the idea of telling her father he’d erred; he would much rather have been reading or fishing, and yet there he was galloping through fields after a fox, just so Belle could make not merely a good match, but the best match possible. And then he would still have the much more difficult task of finding someone for his younger daughter. She glanced over her shoulder at the flock of females, each one prettier than the last, all clustered around Geoffrey Kerick. Perhaps they should have flushed two foxes for the chase.

  “I know you did,” she said aloud. “Just think how much more charming Belle will look when compared to me.”

  The viscount shook his head, which he kept close-cropped now that his hair had begun to thin. “I know you can be charming. And this is important to your sister. So try, for Belle’s sake.”

  “I shall be charming.” Or as charming as she could manage, anyway. Why was it that no one else flustered her, but in Vashton’s presence she felt like a one-legged chicken?

  Her father kissed her on the other cheek. “When Annabel is settled with the future Marquis of Haithe, we’ll find a man for you. So yes, please practice being pleasant, and try to avoid insulting everyone who isn’t as bookish as you.”

  She didn’t do that. Well, perhaps she did, but only if someone went about spouting facts she knew to be blatantly untrue. But this was for Belle’s sake, so she would be good. Even if she found Vashton...unsettling. Even if she wasn’t quite relieved to know there were other, less troubling men who would likely make perfectly acceptable – and simpler – husbands for her when her turn came.

  Her mother had begun fluttering on the far side of the pavilion, gesturing everyone to take their seats at the quartet of banquet tables. If they were going to bother with an al fresco luncheon they should all likely be sitting on blankets on the ground, but there was no way that Lady Bresch or her sister Miss Mary would ever be able to rise again if they attempted such a thing. One or both of them might well roll into the pond. And of course if only the Jameson sisters were allowed a table, Lady Harriet Ithing would refuse to dine at all, and from there the entire house of cards would collapse.

  “Please, take seats where you will,” Lady Beldath called, smiling. “You know we don’t stand on formality out of doors.”

  Theodora squared her shoulders and walked forward. She would rather have been chatting with Belle and her friends, but a member of the Meacham family at each of the tables would ensure that no one felt slighted. Theoretically, at least.

  As she started to pull out a chair, a hand closed over hers and did it for her. “Thank y...” she started, then looked up to see deep blue eyes, one of them beneath a lifted eyebrow, gazing down at her.

  “You’re welcome,” Vashton returned, standing patiently while she decided she’d best take the seat he offered or risk a riot as other young ladies rushed to fill the vacancy.

  The moment she seated herself, he sat directly beside her. Several of her friends – and those who called themselves her friends but seemed to have come visiting mostly in hopes of netting the earl – were glaring at her, but she ignored them. At the same time she could almost feel the disbelieving stare from Belle behind her and her parents on either side, and that was worse. Heaven knew she was near enough to having an apoplexy all on her own without adding anyone else’s ire. “What the devil are you doing?” she whispered.

  “Chatting with you,” he replied, handing her the salt.

  She didn’t need salt, but it took her a moment to realize that and pass it on to Mr. Francis Henning on her other side. “You already chatted with me, and rescued me from...well, from walking back to the house alone, I suppose. I have an older and more pleasant sister. Talk to her.”

  “Pleasantness if overrated,” he returned. “And I’m occupied with talking to you.”

  That stopped her. Theodora looked at him all over again, from his mud-spattered riding boots he hadn’t bothered to change to his crisp crimson jacket to his dark, unruly hair and those...compelling eyes that were still gazing at her. “I don’t understand,” she finally admitted, her voice not quite steady. “I’m not the one to whom you need to pay attention. Aside from that, we didn’t manage a single civil conversation in London, out of the two I attempted.”

  He laughed, the sound low and musical. It began something fluttery low in her stomach that didn’t leave her feeling the least bit calmer. “If those were your best attempts at civil conversation,” he returned, “I shall wear armor when you’re annoyed.”

  Theodora scowled. “You made me nervous.”

  Slowly the smile faded from his expression. “Why?”

  “‘Why?’” she repeated, keeping her voice quiet. “Have you looked at you? You’re handsome, witty, fabulously wealthy, and the heir to the Marquis of Haithe. Every father wants to claim you as his son-in-law, and every mother wants you to marry her daughter.” Theodora frowned. “Her eldest daughter,” she amended.

  For a moment he fiddled with his utensils. “So I’m too good for you,” he finally said.

  Oh, the arrogance. She opened her mouth to correct his misapprehension then saw a muscle in his lean jaw twitch. He was teasing. Him. With her. “You’re bamming me!” she stated.

  “Of course I’m bamming you.”

  “But why?” she asked, less annoyed than she likely should have been.

  “Go for a walk with me this afternoon, and I’ll enlighten you.”

  “A group of us generally go for a stroll before dinner,” she said desperately, beginning to feel as if the earth was shifting beneath her feet. Was she misunderstanding his suggestion? It made no sense. And worse, even this little public chat could be hurting Belle’s feelings.

  “Not ‘we’,” he countered. “You. And me. A walk. At three o’clock. We’ll meet behind the stable.”

  Theodora cleared her throat, lifting her napkin and setting it back in her lap as her stomach fluttered nervously. “No. You need to go walking with Annabel
. I won’t be seen as competing with my sister – which would be a ridiculous failure even if I wasn’t supremely aware of how I present myself.”

  “Y–“

  Luckily on her other side sat Francis Henning, a friend of her cousin Robert and a tireless – if unintentionally amusing – conversationalist. She seized his hand. "I heard that you are an acquaintance of Lord Dare, Mr. Henning. You must share some gossip about him."

  Surprise crossed Henning’s round face, but as he seemed to be at least a passing acquaintance with nearly everyone in Mayfair, he did have several amusing stories. Behind her she heard Rachel Henry attempting to regale Vashton with the state of the weather, and that was fine with her. Rachel was nowhere near as charming as Belle.

  "Why the fascination with Dare?" Vashton cut into her conversation. "The man's a fortune hunter."

  Theodora caught her breath, something she couldn’t put a name to making her pulse speed. Annoyance. It had to be annoyance. "And I have a fortune," she returned, though the money was of course her father's. "Why the fascination with my conversation?”

  He met her gaze levelly. "You are not the means to a prize, Theodora Meacham. You are the prize."

  Oh, dear. He couldn’t be serious. Not when her lovely, well-spoken sister sat one table away. "I was under the distinct impression that previous to today you didn't like me, Lord Vashton, so I don't understand your sudden...concern over the topic of my conversation. Two months ago you couldn't be bothered to look me in the eye while we danced."

  "Two months ago you began pummeling me with cross words before we'd taken three steps onto the dance floor."

  So he at least remembered their...confrontation. She couldn't truly call it a conversation. "What has changed, then?" she asked, genuinely curious.

  "I've had an additional two months to realize that no other young lady has spoken crossly to me since – or even before – I inherited the earldom. Not even when I was rude to her and not paying sufficient attention."

  This didn’t make any sense at all. "But you called me a cold fish."

  Vashton grimaced. “A poor choice of words, and an inaccurate one. I apologize.”

  “Why? Why now?”

  "You spoke your mind," he countered. "And you have a mind. At the very least I find that worth a second attempt at an acquaintance, Miss Theodora."

  Well, this was utterly...stunning. A shiver ran down her spine to her fingertips. He found her interesting? Aside from the fact that Vashton was meant for Belle, Theodora knew for a fact that she'd been a complete halfwit at that London soiree, annoyed to be pushed at him as the less obvious choice to chat about her sister and hating the way everyone – except him – looked at her when they'd danced, as if they knew she couldn’t possibly be dancing with him on her own merits. "If you are attempting to embarrass me, you will find that I am not above returning the favor."

  He lifted an eyebrow. "Threats, now? Very well. If you want to get to the bottom of my evidently diabolical plan, you'll simply have to go walking with me." Vashton leaned a breath closer and lowered his voice. "That was teasing. I'll inform you in the future so you don't mistake my intent."

  "I assure you that I'm not that thick, my lord."

  The earl nodded. "Good. Neither am I. Three o’clock. Behind the stable."

  Chapter Three

  THEODORA GLANCED OVER her shoulder, but Annabel and she were seated back to back. For a dark moment Geoffrey thought she would refuse again, but finally she returned her gaze to him and nodded. “If no one else knows.”

  It was hardly an auspicious beginning, but at least it was a beginning. “Agreed.”

  With that Geoffrey turned his attention to the eye-fluttering girl seated on his other side. He remembered calling Miss Meacham a cold fish, but for God’s sake, she’d lambasted him for nodding politely at other people while they danced. Though truthfully it had been several other people. Or more than several. But he didn’t entirely blame himself; she’d spent the first two minutes of their first waltz chatting breathlessly about her apparently perfect sister. It was only when she’d gotten mad at him that things had gotten interesting. Had he been so arrogant then, though, that he would never manage a simple conversation with her now? All the more fool him, if that was so.

  She was most definitely not a cold fish. No, Theodora Meacham practically crackled with fire, and he wanted to taste her. She was not the sort of lady, however, that one trifled with. Especially when she – and everyone else – thought he was there after a fox and her sister. If he began a pursuit in earnest and then changed his mind, they would both pay for it. So first he needed a private conversation to determine for himself that his interest was more than a lust-tinged curiosity. He’d already made his one mistake where she was concerned, and before he’d even realized it would matter.

  "You must tell me about Vashton Hall," the lady on his left was cooing, her lips forming a circle that was no doubt meant to remind him of kissing. His first thought was that she actually looked like a water spigot. Lucifer’s balls, he couldn’t even remember her name, so many women had been flung at him in the past months.

  "It's a house," he said, half his attention on the conversation that had resumed between Theodora and Francis Henning. He remembered her name, damn it all. "With windows, doors, and a roof."

  "But I've heard that you have a splendid pond with fish, and a garden with a magnificent temple to Athena at the edge of the water."

  "You seem to know more about it than I do," he returned, summoning a half smile. "No need, then, for me to describe it at all."

  The pretty brunette blushed. "But the -- what of the weather there? Is it pleasant? I find today to be a bit chill, don't you? And the clouds are moving quite swiftly."

  He reflected that in the battle he'd seemed to have begun with Theodora Meacham, neither one of them had yet seen the necessity of discussing the weather, or the speed of clouds. Inwardly sighing, he nodded again. After all, he'd been accused of being arrogant; if she overheard him being brusque with this chit, she would slam him over the head with it later. "The weather is a bit cooler overall here than it is in London, I believe, and there seems to be more rain. And yes, with the state of the clouds I've begun to wonder if we might be in for a wet evening."

  She smiled hugely. "Oh, yes, I agree."

  That seemed to satisfy her for long enough that he managed to finish his baked ham. Then, after a round of discussing how well he sat on a horse and the craftsmanship of his saddle, the luncheon began to break up and he made his escape. What seemed like half the female contingent present followed him into the house, chittering and hopping about like birds attempting to gain a mate by fluffing their feathers. Good God.

  The moment he could manage it, Geoffrey retreated to his borrowed bed chamber and summoned Grosvenor, his valet. "Find me something understated," he said, shedding the crimson fox hunting coat and dropping it onto the back of a chair.

  "Understated, my lord?" the valet repeated. "Do you mean dark, or plain?" His lip curled as he spoke the last word; Grosvenor didn't approve of simplicity.

  "Both," Geoffrey returned. "The jacket I wore to the museum dedication in Surrey will suffice."

  "The brown one? Then I suppose you'll wish the gray waistcoat and the buckskin trousers."

  "You suppose correctly. And be quick about it. I need to be somewhere at three o'clock."

  "Three... I'll never have the mud off your boots by then, my lord."

  "Then I'll wear the Wellingtons."

  "But--"

  "Tick tock, Grosvenor."

  Practically wringing his hands, the valet fetched the plain black boots and the plain, unornamented jacket and even tied Geoffrey's cravat in what he termed a "damnably simple" knot. It had to be done; he'd offended a lady, and the more overstuffed he appeared, the less likely she would be ever to forgive him. And the more plainly he dressed, the better chance he had of going unnoticed.

  Once he'd finished dressing, he angled his chin toward the
door. "See who's lurking in the hallway, will you?"

  Grosvenor cracked open the door and leaned out, then retreated and shut it again. "Three young ladies, one mama, and one papa."

  Cursing, Geoffrey turned around and walked to the tall window that overlooked the garden. Unless he was mistaken it had the finest view of any room in the house, and luckily for him also featured a trellis of vines running up the wall directly beside it. Well, Theodora didn’t want anyone to know they were meeting. This would suffice. "Stay in here, Grosvenor," he ordered, pushing open the window and sitting to swing his legs over the sill, "and converse with yourself."

  "About what, my lord?"

  "I give you leave to disparage my choice of wardrobe. If anyone knocks, I'm tired from my journey yesterday, and I’m resting.”

  The valet sighed. "And if you fall and break your neck attempting to climb to the ground, my lord?"

  "Then you may also disparage my athletic abilities."

  "Very good, my lord."

  Not even bothering a glance at his valet, Geoffrey reached for the trellis, swung out to the latticed wood, and clambered down to the Beldath garden. He supposed he had no right to complain about his circumstances; after all, he was an earl – a wealthy one – with several large properties to his name and the future Marquisdom of Haithe before him. No one else wanted to hear that he was the younger brother, or that until two years ago he was contentedly Lord Geoffrey Kerick. They didn't want to know that he'd loved his older brother, or that Timothy had been stupidly patriotic enough to take up colors and ride for England against Bonaparte. They both had been, but only one of them had made it home.

  Shaking himself loose of the maudlins, he set off at a crouching run through the stands of roses for the carriage path and the stable yard. The barrage of eligible females had stunned him at first; yes, he'd been a popular dance partner and lover before the war, but back then he wouldn't have given a wife a title or pin money worthy of an empress. Now he could scarcely turn around without having to dodge an engagement. For his own sanity he needed to marry, but the idea of taking up with one of the hounds pursuing him didn't sit well at all.