The Earl Next Door

by Amelia Grey

  “As do most ladies, I’ve heard,” Lyon said, swinging the brown velvet wing chair away from the warmth of the fireplace so that he could face his aunt from the end of the settee.

  “I suppose times are changing—though not too keenly by some of us, and certainly not for the better. A boarding school for girls is highly irregular.” She shook her head as if forgetting her train of thought for a moment and asked, “Why did you say the school is opening in our neighborhood?”

  “I didn’t, Aunt,” he answered making himself comfortable in his chair. “I have no idea.”

  He didn’t want to mention Lady Wake by name to his aunt. Cordelia could find out about the countess living there on her own.

  Lyon had known when he left London last November that his elderly neighbor, Mr. Bottles, was in poor health and grumbling that his daughter never came to see him. Perhaps the man had passed and the new Earl of Wake had bought the house for the countess as part of her allowance. Not that it mattered to Lyon what the spirited lady did or who occupied the building at the back of her house, he reminded himself again. Right now, he wasn’t interested in getting better acquainted with her.

  He sipped his brandy again. All he wanted to do was forget about her and their meeting, but he was finding that difficult to do.

  “Why didn’t you ask more questions about the school? I would think you’d have great interest since it’s so close to you.”

  “I arrived at an inconvenient time and, quite frankly, I’m not as inquisitive as you and Mrs. Feversham. I had no reason to ask many questions after it was made clear to me the neighborhood was not in jeopardy.”

  “I can’t fault you for that. Men have never been as prying—” She stopped and smiled knowingly at him. “I mean as curious as ladies. I suppose there’s nothing wrong with teaching deserving, decorous young ladies how to be proper, as well as enhancing their skills with a needle and quill. It sounds quite admirable. Perhaps they’ll have a French tutor as well. Do you know?”

  “I’ll leave it to you to find that out, Aunt,” he said patiently. At least Cordelia was now curious instead of upset. “I only returned from Lyonwood late in the evening yesterday. I spent the entire day meeting with my solicitor, who didn’t have all the account books in his possession that I’d requested to see. Most of the ones he put before me had pages that had somehow gotten damp and were unreadable. The man had all winter to get them in order and hadn’t. I arrived back home to find you here and in a fit of concern thinking something dastardly was happening next door. I erased that fear. It’s all I can do.”

  “And you did it quite well. I do thank you for asking Brewster to let me know you were back in Town. I’m sure you didn’t expect me to come over on your first day back, but I couldn’t ignore Mrs. Feversham’s pleas this afternoon.”

  “I’m always happy to see you, Aunt,” Lyon said, and meant it. “I never mind you stopping for a visit.” He couldn’t take out his frustration on his aunt for an unsuccessful visit with his solicitor or his disastrous meeting with Lady Wake.

  “Still, I shouldn’t have burdened you with our concerns. Mrs. Feversham was really quite unsettled and I’m afraid I let that influence me. I mean what else were we to think after what she saw?”

  Lyon smiled. “Perhaps that she shouldn’t spend all her days and nights looking out the window in hopes of seeing something her neighbors are doing.”

  “Now, don’t be harsh. It’s really a shame she couldn’t walk after her fall last spring.”

  “I’m not trying to be insensitive. Why don’t I walk you next door so you can explain to her there is nothing unsavory going on and ease her mind.”

  Cordelia gave him a wry smile. “Are you not going to let me finish my drink?”

  That would take three days at the rate she sipped a thimbleful of brandy. Lyon smiled indulgently. “Of course, finish it and tell me what’s kept you busy over the winter.”

  “When the weather wasn’t too cold and dreary to leave my house, I did the usual—cards, parties, teas, and gossip. Goose feathers! What a boring life I lead. Now, do you want to tell me what kept you busy while at Lyonwood?”

  “No.” He then took a sip of his brandy.

  Cordelia laughed with vigor. “I thought not. Nor do I really want to know what a handsome young gentleman does.”

  “Have you seen the marquis over the winter?” Lyon asked, though it was the irritating countess who kept sweeping through his thoughts, invading his peace.

  “Yes, of course. Your father wouldn’t miss a social gathering of any kind, and you know I seldom do either. The dreadful man is his usual self. Handsome and arrogant as ever. My hair grows thinner and grayer by the hour and he never seems to age a day. It’s most unfair how life favors that man. But, of course it’s fine that you take after him with your dashing appeal.”

  “You have always been too coldhearted with my father and not severe enough with me.”

  “That is the way it suits me.” An innocent smirk quivered the corners of her mouth. “Marksworth was never good enough for my sister, but he was good enough to give us you. I do appreciate him for that, though I’d never say it to him. And I don’t expect you to say it to him either. It would be lovely if he were to begin to stoop a little. Maybe hobble when he takes a step or two. Perhaps lose one of his front teeth, or at least forget what he was going to say once in a while. The man is still so robust it’s simply maddening to watch him grow old but not get any older.”

  Lyon shook his head over his aunt’s comments and watched her put the glass to her lips as if she was going to take a sip. He knew she never tasted the brandy. It amused him that she always wanted to have a glass with him but never took a drink.

  “Did you see him today?” she asked.

  “There was no time.”

  “I heard he planned to return to Marksworth for a few days. Perhaps he has already left.”

  “You know, life would be much more pleasant if you two would settle your differences and, if not become friends, at least speak when you see each other.”

  “Oh, we speak if we must,” she said with a smile. “But why would we want to change anything between us after all these years? Everyone so enjoys gossiping about how we’re sometimes seated beside each other at the same dinner party and never say a word of greeting.”

  Lyon often wandered if their dislike of each other was really just a game they played because they realized how much alike they really were.

  “He has taken very good care of you, Aunt.”

  “Yes, of course he has, but only because he knows my sister would rise from the dust of her grave to haunt him if he didn’t.” She inhaled the brandy again and smiled over the edge of the glass. “You do know he’s going to marry again, don’t you?”

  Lyon leaned forward in his chair and cupped both hands around his glass. “No. I haven’t seen or heard from him since I left his estate shortly after Boxing Day.” Not that hearing about pending nuptials surprised Lyon. His father was as active today as the day Lyon was born. By a cruel twist of fate, the marquis had outlived Lyon’s mother and two other wives. Whenever Marksworth was a widower, matrimony was always on his mind even though he had mistresses all over London.

  “Who is she?”

  “Miss Helen Ballingbrand.”

  That was a bit of a surprise considering his father was now nearing the age of fifty. “Another miss?”

  “An older one this time, it seems. Still quite a few years younger than your father. Apparently her uncle, Viscount Chrisville, who is very wealthy as you know, decided to gift the spinster with a sizeable dowry of fertile land, and suddenly Marksworth couldn’t seem to resist her beauty or her charm.”

  “Ah, yes,” Lyon murmured before sipping his drink and leaning back in his chair again.

  What the bride brought into the marriage was always important to the marquis. From his own lips, since Lyon’s mother passed, his father hadn’t married for love. As mercenary as it sounded, Lyon knew that
increasing Marksworth’s estate holdings was always at the forefront of his father’s marriages. And if it had been up to his father, Lyon would have married years ago and for the same reasons. But that’s not what Lyon wanted.

  “I’m sure I must have met her when she made her debut a few years ago,” Cordelia said. “I don’t remember her and apparently you don’t either. I’m told she was extremely shy and hated the crush of people at the balls and dinner parties. She never returned after the second week of her first Season. I’m assuming she’ll attend the parties this year and we’ll all be reacquainted with her. I know your father will attend every event he’s invited to.” She sighed. “I don’t know where he gets the energy to do so night after night, month after month, and year after year. It seems to invigorate him.”

  Aunt Delia kept talking, but at the mention of the Season Lyon’s thoughts turned from his father to Lady Wake as easily as waves washed upon the shore in the warm days of summer. If only the emotions she caused inside him were as peaceful. They were turbulent and seemingly as relentless as swells upon the deep blue sea during a storm.

  That he could remember, he’d never experienced being truly angry at a woman. And certainly not one he desired. How could the two emotions even go together? It wasn’t the normal order of things, but it was both desire and anger he’d felt when she struck him.

  Thoughts of her suddenly reminded him just how long it had been since he’d been with a woman. He’d returned to London with the aspirations of changing that drought, but right now it didn’t seem likely.

  No matter what had transpired between him and Lady Wake, or with his unsettling feelings about it, the countess was the only woman on his mind.

  Chapter 4

  He was a beast. Except he wasn’t.

  For three days Adeline had stewed about her neighbor. Well, some of that time she’d simmered and a time or two she’d sizzled. But no matter when or how she’d thought about the man, heat was always involved.

  Which was ridiculous. What kind of gentleman simply assumed the worst about a neighbor he’d never met and barged into their home? And, it had taken him far too long to tell her who he was and express his regret for thinking her the madam of a secret brothel. Even then she had her doubts whether it was a sincere apology.

  She would never forget how he boldly took in every detail of her face as if taking a thorough inventory of something valuable before letting his gaze skim down her neck, across her breasts, and over her bare shoulders. Remembering it now, her breaths deepened. She’d never seen any man peruse her so openly and show such real, unadulterated appreciation of her beauty in his expression. A thrill of something akin to desire had raced through her.

  It was unexpected and heady.

  She was horrified that she’d slapped the earl. Not that he didn’t deserve it. He did. Invading the privacy of her drawing room. No matter that he thought he had good reason. Assuming she was … well. Suggesting he would like to … But neither of those things had disturbed her nearly as much as the fact that she’d thought about kissing him. That was where her true anger lay.

  With herself.

  How could she have even considered the possibility of his lips on hers? And why wouldn’t thoughts of him go away and leave her in peace as had every other man she’d seen and had discussions with since becoming a widow?

  At night Lyonwood plundered her dreams. Every morning she’d sworn she wasn’t going to think about the dastardly earl anymore, and every day she’d failed.

  Today would be different, she promised herself. She had reason to celebrate and be joyous with much more important and wonderful matters to occupy her mind than a brazen rogue. Except for a few minor details yet to be settled by their solicitor, Mr. Clements, everything about the school had been properly negotiated and signed. Even though she and her friends were now freer to carry out their own choices concerning every aspect of their lives than when they were married, it was still almost impossible for a lady to make her own business decisions without the aid of a male to negotiate for her. Thankfully, Mr. Clements was a young, forward-thinking man who’d allowed them to lead the way in how they wanted the school organized and managed.

  The girls had arrived yesterday, and Julia and Brina would be joining her soon. The three of them were going over to the school together to welcome everyone.

  Adeline stood in the small portion of her back garden that separated her house from the plain, white, three-story building that used to be a servants’ quarters. It had been quietly transformed into The Seafarer’s School for Girls. The name hadn’t been her choice, but now that she saw it written in small simple lettering posted over the entrance, she knew it was the right one. At first, Adeline thought it carried too many sad memories of the people lost in the sinking of the Salty Dove. Now, looking at the name, she saw it more as an honor to all the sailors and workers who went down with the ship. It showed how something good was coming from an event that had been so devastatingly horrific for so many.

  She could have waited inside for her friends to arrive, but she was anxious to be out in the morning sunshine and underneath a rare flawless blue sky so early in the spring. There was something comforting and satisfying about it warming her shoulders and the back of her neck while the chilly air cooled her cheeks. It always gave her an inspiring feeling of renewal to see the trees and bushes budding with tiny bits of green after the last vestige of winter days had passed.

  An errant wind fluttered across Adeline’s face, causing a few strands of hair to find freedom from the side of her wool-covered bonnet and tickle the side of her face. She continued to stare at the school sign and slowly, unbidden and unwelcomed, Adeline’s thoughts started clouding with memories of how the idea for the school took shape. It was as if her mind had been a void waiting to be filled with recollections that suddenly wouldn’t be shut out.

  She wasn’t in London when news arrived that the Salty Dove had broken apart and gone down off the coast of Portugal in a ferocious storm that took the lives of almost everyone on board.

  When Adeline heard her husband wasn’t among the few survivors, she was where she’d spent most of her married life, at Wake’s country estate in Sussex. She left for London immediately and took up residence in their Town house, which she realized had, in the blink of an eye, become her brother-in-law’s—the new Earl of Wake’s—house.

  Over the next few weeks, he had gone about doing the things that were necessary for him to officially assume her husband’s title and possession of all its entailed properties. Adeline had begun to heal her body and spirit. The new earl and his wife were kind, insisting she stay with them during her mourning—the mourning that only she knew never took on the deep sorrow a wife should feel. She couldn’t find a place in her heart for that, but she understood and respected his family, friends, and others grieving over his loss. That was all she could do.

  It was months after the ship sank that Adeline’s new, freer life truly began. She’d renewed her acquaintance with Lady Kitson Fairbright and met Mrs. Brina Feld. Their husbands had also lost their lives on the Salty Dove. Neither the place nor the reason for the widows meeting was a pleasant one, but she’d never forget that fateful afternoon. It was where the root of her idea for the girls’ school was planted.

  Before that day, Adeline had never been anywhere near London’s docks. It wasn’t an area for ladies.

  Unsettled swirls of fog had drifted in off the water. Nestled between the occasional distant squawk from a seabird were irreverent shouts and sometimes-raucous laughter from men working on lines, hulls, or decks of the boats and ships. She was close enough to hear the continuous clank of riggings tapping against wooden masts and water lapping at seawalls. The smells would be forever etched in her mind as well. Dank water, dead fish, and putrid waste were mixed with faint, vagrant traces of salted, muggy air.

  A large square near the waterfront and down from the shipping channel had been chosen to display what few belongings had been recovere
d from the passengers aboard the Salty Dove. The items were lined up in rows, available for family members who wanted to wander through the collection and retrieve their loved one’s final possessions.

  Adeline’s brother-in-law had asked her to join him for the heartrending but necessary task since she would know better than anyone what personal items her husband had with him on the voyage. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

  She had learned early in her marriage that she didn’t know her husband at all. And the awkward truth was that he wasn’t a man she wanted to know or to mourn. She was grateful for the generous allowance he’d left for her, but she would never return to the estate where he’d forced her to live, and demanded to know day after day after day why she wasn’t in the family way. He didn’t seem to care that Adeline wanted a babe, too. A child would have given her someone to love.

  Near the waterfront that sorrowful afternoon, the three widows were drawn together because none of them had the need to sift through the articles that had washed ashore. They couldn’t watch the few who did.

  Off to the side and down the boardwalk, Adeline noticed another group of people huddled together. Mostly women and children. She heard gentle crying, sniffling, and softly spoken words from some of them. All were poorly dressed, but there seemed to be a special bond among them as they hugged, talked, and comforted one another.

  Adeline found herself drawn to them because they seemed to be experiencing the true mourning she’d never felt for her husband. She overheard a red-haired, freckle-faced little girl asking, “Mum, what are we going to do now that Papa is gone?”

  “I don’t know, my little one,” the mother had whispered desperately, brushing through the girl’s tangle of long, red curls with a shaking hand. “Ye know I don’t have a delicate hand when it comes to a stitch and that yer Papa was only being kind when he said I made the best bread he ever ate. I can find someone who’ll pay me a wage to clean their shop for ’em. Don’t worry yeself, lassie. I’ll find work somewhere.”