The Last Earl Standing

by Blackwood, Gemma

  “I’m sure you can find a way to make it up to me.”

  He kissed her. Softly at first. His lips brushed against hers as gently as the fresh sunlight that was finally appearing over the tops of the trees. She opened her mouth beneath his, expecting more, but he pressed a finger to her lips and stopped her.

  “You haven’t said yes,” he breathed.

  “Oh, that?” Anthea opened her eyes, ready to make a witty remark, but she found George looking at her with such intensity that she forgot it immediately. “Yes. I will marry you. Yes.”

  Then came the kiss that she had been waiting for. He overwhelmed her – the taste of him, the heat, the energy sparking between them. Her belly filled with fire and her anxieties dissolved like the morning mists.

  It went on for so long that they were eventually interrupted by a noise from Julian somewhere between a cough and a snort. They pulled apart, only a little, George’s hands remaining on Anthea’s waist and hers on his shoulders, to see Julian taking out a handkerchief and noisily blowing his nose.

  “I am very happy for you,” he said, dabbing his eyes with the clean edge of his handkerchief. “But please will you leave off that – that public display of amour!”

  “It’s no worse than what you put me through in Amsterdam,” said George, holding Anthea tightly.

  “What happened in Amsterdam?” she asked. He kissed the tip of her nose.

  “I shall tell you. I shall tell you all of it. I’m afraid there is rather a lot. But I’m gladder than I can say that I finally have someone to share it with.”

  Julian’s eyes were rather less damp than they had been a moment before. “And who am I?” he said, apparently speaking to the air, since George and Anthea were too busy gazing into each other’s eyes to pay much attention. “Chopped liver?” He fluttered his soiled handkerchief at them, at last breaking their embrace. “Come along, come along! I, for one, have not had breakfast. And if I were you, Streatham, I would not want to ask a duke for his sister’s hand on an empty stomach.”

  George offered his arm to Anthea, and they made their way across the grass to his waiting carriage. “I hope the duke does not call me out,” he said. “His opinion of me could well be better, and I would rather not fight a duel two days running.”

  “Alex’s bark is worse than his bite.” Anthea let George take her by the waist and lift her up the step into the carriage. “All he will ask is that you make me happy. Once he sees that you already have, the rest will be easy.”

  George ducked his head as he came to sit in the carriage beside her. “At last,” he said. “Something the duke and I thoroughly agree on.”

  Epilogue

  A final word from Lady X.

  My dear readers, it is often said that all good things must come to an end. The same, alas, is true of this column. These words are the last you shall hear from Lady X.

  But do not despair, for I am embarking on an adventure far greater than these pages allow…

  “Don’t read the rest!” Anthea begged, twisting around in her seat to the alarm of the maid who was putting the finishing touches on her hair. “It is the silliest column I ever wrote!”

  Edith dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, as she had already done at least twenty times that morning. “I think it’s terribly romantic. All those things you say about finding the ideal person. The one who lets you follow your dreams.” She clutched the newspaper to her chest and sighed. “It’s frightfully romantic!”

  Isobel pulled the paper from Edith’s grasp and scanned the article herself. A single eyebrow raised, and her lips parted in shock. “It is a very good thing that you never confessed to Alex about this,” she said. “I’m sure he would not appreciate the part about kissing.”

  “That was for George’s benefit,” said Anthea, blushing. “Outside of this room, only he knows who wrote it.”

  “And Sir Julian Stuart,” Edith reminded her, screwing up her mouth into a wince.

  “He promised me he wouldn’t read it.” Anthea took the newspaper back and smoothed it out. “Don’t crumple it anymore. I want to keep this one.” A happy, warm feeling rose inside her. “One day George and I will show it to our children.”

  Isobel’s eyes widened. “Even the part about kissing?”

  “Kissing is not so bad,” Anthea teased her. “One day, you may find someone who will make you like it.”

  There was a knock at the door, and she quickly passed the paper to the maid, who stuffed it under a cushion.

  “Are you decent?” Alex called.

  Anthea quickly checked her reflection in the mirror. Her hair stood in an elegant display of curls and white sapphire pins. A gauze fichu softened the fashionable neckline of her white dress. She had never heard Selina give stricter instructions to a dressmaker than she had for Anthea’s wedding gown.

  Which was lucky, since Anthea had almost no opinions on the minutiae of her wedding day herself. The gown, the flowers, the guests… They were all insignificant details compared to the man who would be waiting for her at the altar.

  But she was a duke’s sister, and she was becoming a countess, and Selina had insisted that certain standards had to be maintained.

  “I am ready!” she answered.

  Alex came in with Aunt Ursula on one arm and his wife, Daisy, on the other. Selina followed, looking so stately in her simple blue gown that Anthea was sure she would make a short and dumpy bride by comparison.

  Fortunately, George was not marrying her because he thought she was elegant.

  A rapturous cacophony of praise for her figure, her hair, her complexion, and various other immaterial qualities ensued. Anthea was not sure why it was necessary that a bride was thought beautiful on her wedding day, but her sisters certainly seemed to think it was important.

  Only Aunt Ursula had words of true wisdom to impart.

  “So, the man for you has been made, after all,” she said, dropping Alex’s arm and making her crooked way to Anthea, cane shuffling along the carpet. She tapped a finger against Anthea’s forehead. “Don’t let the roses and the vows fool you, girl. It’s not your heart that matters, nor your looks. It’s what’s up here. And if he forgets that, you must remind him.” She caught Anthea’s chin in a surprisingly firm grip and turned her face this way and that to plant a kiss on each of her cheeks. “Hold still now. I’ve a little something for you.”

  She fumbled one-handed deep into her bag and produced the diamond brooch.

  “Aunt Ursula! I can’t!” Anthea folded her hand over Ursula’s, trying to pass the brooch back. “What would the maharaja say if he knew you gave it away?”

  “Oh, he was as much a fool for love as any young man,” said Ursula, shaking off Anthea’s hand and pinning the brooch to her dress. “He’d say, good job it’s gone to someone who knows how to accept a proposal!” She winked, gave the brooch one last pat, and hobbled away.

  Alexander was checking his pocket watch. “We will be late if we don’t leave now,” he said. His wife tiptoed up and kissed him on the cheek.

  “It’s fashionable for a bride to be late, Alex.”

  He frowned. “You were not late to our wedding.”

  “I knew who I was marrying.” Daisy put her arm around Alexander and gave him a fond squeeze. “I’m sure George is much less fond of following rules.”

  “Call the carriages,” said Anthea, getting up. “I am ready.”

  “But Edith and Isobel are not,” said Selina, looking at them sternly. “Bonnets, ladies. Now.”

  The two youngest Balfours scrambled away, each vying with the other not to be the last one to fulfil Selina’s orders. Alexander escorted Aunt Ursula to the staircase to begin her slow way down, and Daisy went to order the carriages.

  Selina and Anthea were left standing before the mirror.

  Selina put her hands on Anthea’s shoulders and turned her to look at her own reflection. “I know you don’t set much store by anyone’s looks, particularly your own,” she said. “But you mus
t admit that you are beautiful today.”

  “Love makes everyone beautiful,” said Anthea. She met Selina’s eyes in their reflection. “It will be your turn soon.”

  Selina looked away. “Don’t be silly.”

  “Why shouldn’t it be?”

  “I have so many important things to think about, taking care of you three girls, that marriage has hardly crossed my mind,” said Selina, crossing the room to open the door. It was not lost on Anthea that her sister had turned so that her expression could not be seen.

  When Selina glanced back, however, she was smiling with perfect ease. “I shall have to thank darling George for taking you off my hands.”

  “I have never in my life referred to him as darling George!”

  “The poor man. He really is such a darling; it’s a shame you won’t admit it.” Selina put her hand on the door handle. “Are you ready?”

  Anthea let out a slow exhalation. “I suppose I must be.”

  “Not for the wedding, Anthea.” Selina gave her a knowing smile. “For your new life. For marriage. For him. Are you ready for that?”

  “Oh.” The prospect of saying a few vows in front of her assembled family and friends was rather terrifying.

  The prospect of a lifetime with George, however…

  “Yes,” said Anthea. “Yes, I am more than ready.”

  * * *

  “Hold still. Still, Streatham. Keep your head steady.” Julian was readjusting George’s cravat for the third time that morning. George stood patiently for at least thirty seconds, which, given the number of things Julian had found to fuss over, seemed more than reasonable.

  “I’m sure she’ll marry me regardless of the state of my cravat,” he said, gently but firmly pushing Julian away.

  His friend flexed his fingers nervously, as though in search of something else to straighten. “I want everything to be perfect for you, Streatham. That’s all.”

  George clapped him on the shoulder. “Julian, have you seen the girl I’m marrying? Perfection is not the word.”

  Julian rolled his eyes. “Not another speech about true love. I beg you.”

  “If you make a fuss over anything else, I’ll read you her latest column. That will really make you blush.” George turned to greet Lady Ursula Balfour as she was escorted to her seat in the front row by an usher. “Hello, Auntie.” He winked as roguishly as he knew how and kissed both her cheeks. “You look ravishing, as ever.”

  Aunt Ursula shook her finger at him. “Less of that, young man. It’s my niece you’re marrying, not me.” She took hold of his arm to lower herself onto the pew. “Good crowd you’ve got this morning.”

  George scanned the congregation. The wedding of an earl and a duke’s sister was no small event. There were several faces in the crowd that he was sure had not even been invited.

  One face, however, was missing.

  “I don’t see your good friend Lady Shrewsbury,” he said. Aunt Ursula cackled.

  “Her? Oh, she won’t show her face! Not after what’s happened with her son!”

  “Lord Shrewsbury?” asked Julian, exchanging a wary glance with George. “Has some misfortune befallen him?”

  “In his mother’s opinion, certainly. In mine… Well.” Aunt Ursula clucked her tongue. “Run off with a servant girl, he has. Last seen on a ship bound for Italy.” She shook her head. “What a shock to dear Lady Shrewsbury.”

  “I’m sure she’ll recover in time,” said George. “After all, everybody knows she loves a scandal.”

  “Hush, hush!” Aunt Ursula gave him her frostiest frown. “Get to your place, young man. You’ve a marriage to make.”

  George took his place in front of the altar, Julian at his side.

  For a man who had swum the Tiber at midnight, fenced with deadly enemies along the rooftops of Notre Dame, and stolen personal correspondence from beneath the nose of a ruthless emir, he was unaccountably nervous.

  But Anthea always had that effect on him.

  Music began to play, but he hardly heard it. His attention was focused on the grand wooden doors at the end of the long aisle as they slowly began to open.

  The golden-headed girl who walked in on her brother’s arm was slightly too short to be fashionable. Her walk was less a graceful glide than a purposeful stride. George had no doubt that, beneath her white lace gloves, her fingers were stained with ink.

  He had never seen a more entrancing sight in all his life.

  Anthea’s eyes met his as she reached the altar, dancing with the light that had first arrested his attention, and she put her hand in his.

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  For once, he was speechless. All he could do was nod.

  The rest of the ceremony was a blur. Rings were exchanged. Ancient vows were spoken. Julian sobbed louder than any of Anthea’s sisters.

  There was a kiss, close-lipped and chaste, to avoid inciting her brother’s ducal wrath.

  Then they were walking out of the church, surrounded by cheering and showers of rice. It was raining just enough to make the churchyard sparkle.

  George took Anthea’s hand and helped her into the carriage. He stood up as it pulled away and waved his hat at the guests.

  His new wife tugged at his coat tails until he fell back to the seat beside her.

  “An open-topped carriage seemed a wonderful idea,” she said, holding up his lapel to shield herself from the rain. He shrugged off his jacket and held it over them both.

  “You may write in favour of their outlawing in your first column as Lady Streatham.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I have a much better one in mind.”

  He let go of his end of the jacket so that he could pull her closer towards him. “That is why you are the journalist, and I am merely an idle layabout in the House of Lords.”

  “I never believed that,” she said. “Even when I didn’t know your secret identity.”

  “My what?”

  “Lord X, the dashing spy,” she said, gazing up at him adoringly. “Pursuing the enemies of the nation to every corner of Europe.”

  He rather liked the sound of that. “I never knew how dashing I was until I met you.”

  “Oh, dear.” She blinked as a raindrop splashed off her nose. “You were arrogant enough to begin with. What have I done?”

  He could not resist it any longer. He turned her face towards him and gave her a kiss. A real one. The sort that was entirely unsuitable for the inside of a church.

  “George!” she gasped, when they broke apart. “People will see!”

  “Anyone with any sense is inside and out of the rain.” The people of Mayfair were not known for their love of wet weather. It was only a short journey to the Balfour house, the wedding breakfast, and a long day of sharing Anthea with their friends and family. He meant to make the most of the time he had her all to himself.

  “And the people without any sense?”

  “They are the only ones who truly understand love.” He dropped the jacket, careless of the falling rain, and took her in his arms.

  “I hope I haven’t made you lose your senses,” said Anthea, finally relinquishing her resistance. “I thought I was marrying a sensible man.”

  “Did you?” he asked, kissing a raindrop from her cheek. “I will add it to the list of personal qualities I must improve to be worthy of you.”

  She laughed and turned her head to let him kiss her other cheek. “What else is on this list?” she asked, twining her fingers through the short curls at the back of his neck.

  “Politics,” he said, without hesitation. “I must finally take politics seriously.”

  “Gracious. That will be difficult for you.”

  “I must read a great deal of improving literature to develop my mind.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  “I must take great care to flatter your aunt and sisters at every opportunity.”

  “That, at least, will come naturally. You are nothing if not a flatterer.”


  “And I must love you,” he said, his face turning serious. “With every part of my soul. I must admire and adore you until my strength deserts me, and even then, it will not be enough.”

  “George,” she said, her voice softening. “You are more than enough for me.”

  “Now who’s the flatterer?” he asked, and he kissed her so deeply that they forgot all about the rain.

  * * *

  Lady Edith Balfour has not eloped with her dearest friend, Lord Rotherham. But persuading him, her family, and her own heart to believe that is proving unexpectedly difficult…

  Warm your heart watching Edith and Nathaniel fall in love in A Viscount is a Girl’s Best Friend!

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  Lady Celia Hartley has a problem. She must find a husband soon or risk being ruined forever.

  Just as she is beginning to give up hope, William Marsden asks her to dance. Young, handsome, and kind, he seems to be the perfect answer to her prayers.

  But before he can claim her as his own, they must deal with the consequences when the Earl of Scarcliffe discovers the true nature of his sister's situation...

  Also by Gemma Blackwood

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  Destiny’s Duchess

  Redeeming the Rakes

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  Let the Lady Decide

  Make Me a Marchioness