Cocky Earl: A Regency Cocky Gents Novel

by Annabelle Anders

  Charley and her father didn’t walk much farther before a horse and rider appeared on the horizon.

  A sharp awareness had her straightening her spine—along with a dash of resentment. Because the rider was none other than the earl.

  She only required a single glance to confirm her assessment. Something in the way he held himself in the saddle. His posture sent off the same air of confidence that had bothered her the evening before.

  With the grace of a cat, he swung himself off his horse, turned to face her, and, touching his fingertips to the brim of his top hat, bowed. “Beautiful morning.”

  Charley hadn’t an opportunity to study him close up the evening before and expected his looks to diminish in the full light of day.

  She was sorely mistaken.

  Her father intruded on her thoughts. “It is indeed, my lord. Have you met my daughter yet?”

  Charley averted her gaze away from the incredibly handsome gentleman and narrowed her eyes at her father. There was something unnatural in the manner in which he’d greeted the younger man. Her father seemed… shifty.

  Lord Westerley slid pale blue eyes in her direction. Or perhaps they were gray? “I have not yet had the pleasure.”

  He stood at least a foot taller than her father and although he was not nearly as brawny, he wasn’t without well-developed musculature either. He sent a welcoming smile in her direction, and for the briefest instant, reminded her of his sisters.

  The resemblance ended with his smile, however. Everything else about the earl’s appearance, from his chiseled and arrogant features to the polished boots on his feet, positively screamed masculine nobility.

  Cocksure confidence.

  “Miss Charlotte Arabella Jackson.” Her father, of course, would introduce her by her full name. “Charley, this is our host, the Earl of Westerley.”

  Handsome. A lord. Arrogant. She mentally checked off every assumption she’d made the night before as she went to shake the man’s hand.

  A clearing of her father’s throat had her dropping into a curtsey instead.

  “Lord Westerley,” she murmured, trying to remember if she was addressing him properly. Or was she supposed to address him simply as ‘my lord’?

  It bothered her that he caused her to feel so… inadequate. She spent a good deal of her time convincing herself of the opposite.

  He didn’t respond right away, but removing his hat with one hand, he took her hand with the other and bowed over it. She barely felt the brush of his lips through her woolen gloves before he stood upright again, studying her in a way that made her feel like squirming.

  A shiver ran through her as she forced herself to meet his gaze straight on. It was bad enough being a woman in America, trying to affect business in a world run by men. England took patriarchy to an even higher level, referring to a select few of them as lords.

  Why couldn’t a woman be a lord? The thought had her letting out a very indelicate and derisive snort.

  “Magnificent mount, Westerley.” Her father said, moving away to examine the earl’s horse.

  What are you up to, Father? She narrowed her eyes in his direction. Daniel Jackson was only ever interested in horses in so much as they could assist in shipping or production.

  The earl dismissed her with a nod so that he could regale her father with some pedigree nonsense.

  Not that Charley didn’t like horses, or riding for that matter. It was the rider to whom she was not partial. She was certain she’d feel the same for any of these lordly types.

  “I’ll escort Miss Jackson back to the manor then.” Charley jerked her head in the direction of the two men just as her father mounted the earl’s horse.

  “Where are you going?” Her heart skipped a beat at the idea of being alone with Lord Westerley. Not because she was afraid to be alone with him, she promptly assured herself, but because she had no wish to make meaningless conversation with someone with whom she had nothing in common.

  She’d heard all about how English misses conversed about nothing more mentally taxing than the weather and the latest fashions when speaking with their male counterparts, and she wanted none of that.

  “His lordship has invited me to ride this magnificent beast back to the stables.” Her father sent her a look that she knew was a warning. Do not insult our host. She read his meaning far too easily. Then he nodded toward Westerley before turning the horse and cantering in the direction of the manor.

  Her father knew exactly how she would feel about being left alone with this man. Was it a punishment for her earlier outburst? Or something more sinister? Her father had not become known as the Whiskey King because of his straightforward business practices.

  Feeling both betrayed and curious, she glowered after him until an unexpected sound had her shifting her attention back to the earl.

  “Did you just crack your knuckle?” she asked. It did not seem at all like something one of England’s lordish types would do.

  “Shall we?” Ignoring her question, he held out an arm, a glimmer shining in the back of his eyes. Ah, yes. Blue and silver. She caught herself staring and blinked.

  He lifted his elbow as though she needed further prompting.

  She had been quite certain she’d heard knuckles cracking… She frowned. Perhaps she’d been mistaken. “I’m not finished walking yet. Please feel free to return to your manor without me.”

  He looked as though he was going to oblige her request but then clenched his jaw. “We can walk together then.” He gestured in the direction of some distant hills and, smartly realizing that she had no intention of hanging onto him like some sort of barnacle, clasped his hands behind his back.

  Aside from being outright rude, Charley had no choice but to accept his company.

  An uncomfortable silence settled upon them for several steps and then he asked, “Are you enjoying your visit to England?”

  Thus would begin the inane conversation.

  Remembering her father’s parting glance, Charley searched for some sort of intelligent answer. “It certainly is different than America.” Which sounded much better than saying that she couldn’t wait to return home to where people didn’t go about acting so ridiculously formal. Where people didn’t cook kidneys and other foods that ought never to be set upon a table.

  The low chuckle that she barely heard made her think he understood her meaning all too well. “What strikes you the most?”

  “Everything is so old and formal and ridiculously stuffy.” The words flew out before she could stop them. Perhaps she wasn’t the person best suited to establish connections on behalf of her father.

  His laugh wasn’t quite as hushed this time and the breathy tone sent a shiver dancing down her spine. “Is there anything at all, even one thing about England that you might be partial to, Miss Jackson?”

  “Your accent.” In fact, despite his boorish display of lordliness and in direct contradiction to the opinion she’d already developed about him, she really did like his voice. Rather than come across as stuffy and… British, the cultured tones caressed and cajoled at her in an effortless manner.

  “The English accent varies significantly form shire to shire. Some even say it sounds different from village to village.” His lips tilted up just so, as he spoke, showing his teeth, which weren’t clenched but sort of… supporting one another.

  He shrugged as though this wasn’t something he had much of an opinion on.

  “It’s the same in America.” Charley slowed her speech to what she could recall from her visits to Knoxville. “Maah daddy’s raht hand mayan down in Tennessee takes forevah to git his poin’ across.”

  The earl had stopped to gape at her almost as though she’d begun speaking gibberish. He blinked a few times before resuming his steps.

  Charley felt a little embarrassed. Talking about whiskey production, however, could never embarrass her. “I suppose dialects are similar to soil, that way.” She hadn’t considered this until now and twisted her mouth tho
ughtfully as she contemplated her revelation. “A person needs to understand the regional characteristics, however, before they can identify the more precise nuances. People, on the other hand, do not act scientifically. They are less predictable.” She tapped her lips. Some behavior was quite predictable in humans.

  “I understand your mother was English.” The earl’s comment interrupted her musings. “And that you are to reside with your grandparents indefinitely.”

  “Visiting. I am only visiting my grandparents, Lord Westerley. Not,” she corrected, “residing indefinitely.” She’d rather go to work for Daisy’s prior employer than reside indefinitely with her grandparents.

  “Of course, as my wife, you will move to Westerley Crossings.”

  As his what? Move… where? She stumbled and would have fallen if he hadn’t been there to grasp her arm. “Excuse me?” Charley jerked to a halt and this time, it was she who stared at him as though he was speaking gibberish. Surely, she’d not heard him correctly.

  “You mustn’t worry about our differences. My mother can assist in training you.”

  Frustration thickened her throat. “Training me for what, exactly?”

  “Why to act as my countess, of course. You can’t exactly preside over much of society,” the earl waved his hands in front of her with a quizzical smile dancing on his lips, “as you are, presently.”

  And with those words, the appreciation she’d had for his voice evaporated.

  Miss Charley Jackson looked up at Jules with her mouth dropped open and he found himself wanting to peer closer at her eyes. A myriad of flecks making up nearly every shade of green possible danced around each respective pupil. Emerald, forest, sage, mint with dark red lashes fringing them.

  In this moment, they were wide with shock … Indeed, the expression on her face could be mistaken for nothing other than outright dismay.

  Her father, it seemed, had not yet informed her of her good fortune.

  Vague unease crawled over Jules. He’d thought he could avoid this entire wooing business by presuming it to be a done deal. What chit didn’t want to marry an earl? One who had all his teeth, no less, and if he did say so himself, one who wasn’t terrible to look at?

  Was it possible her father had known what he was talking about when he’d insisted upon an actual courtship?

  Perhaps he’d made a slight miscalculation.

  She wasn’t nearly as tedious as he’d expected. And upon closer inspection, her looks were… striking—vibrant if one were to put a positive spin on them. Brash and ostentatious if viewed pessimistically. The disturbing sensations she provoked in him were likely due to the promise he’d made to her father. Without a doubt, it was the thought of matrimony itself that soured the contents of his stomach.

  He fisted his hands at his sides as he recalled the game of cards he should have won the night before. A game that had changed his life, and soon, his future.

  “As your what?” Her words echoed between them and were emphasized by two spots of red that appeared on her pale cheeks.

  “You needn’t pretend it isn’t why you are in England. Why, I’d wager any lady worth her salt would change places with you in the blink of an eye. It’s quite the coup, you realize, for any young woman, let alone an American, to land a titled husband.”

  She closed her mouth. Opened it again. Closed it and then opened and closed it a third time. The pink hue on her cheeks had spread to nearly all of her face and down her neck. Jules checked himself to keep from wondering if all of her skin flushed such a delicate color…

  “Where would you get such a pigheaded idea as that?” The question sounded half astonished and half disgusted.

  He peered closer. Tiny freckles that he hadn’t noticed before dotted the bridge of her nose. He’d embarrassed her. American ladies perhaps weren’t as sophisticated regarding such arrangements.

  Several strands of fiery red hair slipped free when she turned her head from side to side. The wind immediately caught the wayward locks and she brushed at them, then smoothed them behind her ears.

  “My father.”

  Oh, bollocks. Jules winced.

  “What did my father do?” The tenor of her voice had dropped an octave and she blinked rapidly, then swiped her arm across them to hide her imminent tears.

  Jules rubbed his fingers together and rolled his shoulders, uncertain as to what to expect from her next. Would she cry, or worse, unleash her temper on him? Perhaps the sheen of brightness in her eyes were tears of joy.

  A stiff breeze raced up the valley, pressing her coat against her figure. She folded her arms across her breasts and hugged herself. When he moved to step toward her, she turned away. “I’m not a fool. Please tell me why you are under the assumption that I would… that you and I…” She stumbled over the words.

  Jules didn’t always behave as a proper gentleman ought, but his honor mattered a great deal to him. Honesty was an essential element of honor. So he decided to come clean with her. He owed her that much.

  “Your father and I,” he began warily, “have an agreement.”

  “Is he paying you?” She glanced over her shoulder. “Because I have no intention of honoring any sort of agreement the two of you have concocted.”

  “I,” Jules winced as he searched for an apt description of what had taken place the night before, an apt description that might be flattering to her. “Won you.”

  He wished he could read her expression, but she remained standing with her back to him. This morning wasn’t going at all as he’d anticipated.

  “In a game of cards,” he added.

  In a flash, she whirled around to face him, her eyes flared in accusation. “You… won me?”

  Jules nodded. “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Then my father.” She swallowed hard. “Lost me?”

  The pain in her voice pierced his conscience. Her trembling lower lip turned the knife.

  Oh, hell. He wasn’t going to be able to put a shine on this either way. Furthermore, he couldn’t in all good conscience allow her to believe her father lost her in a game of cards.

  “Technically, I was the loser…” He met her gaze and wished he could take the words back the instant he spoke them. “But let’s not consider this in terms of winning or losing.”

  He studied his hands, then jerked his head back up when an indelicate scoffing sound came from her.

  “Did you just snort?” Jules wasn’t sure if he should be annoyed or entertained.

  “The same way you were cracking your knuckles earlier.”

  This young woman was nothing like the chits he’d become accustomed to.

  She entertained him. Challenged him. Definitely intrigued him, which was a surprising twist in and of itself.

  He didn’t often stumble upon a lady who wasn’t eager to fall into his wishes.

  Refreshing, indeed.

  And since she was on to him anyhow, he tilted his head just so until his neck produced a satisfying cracking sound.

  She rewarded him by turning and walking in the direction she’d initially been going. “Fear not, Lord Westerley,” she sang out. “There is no need for you to worry that you will have to relinquish your freedom by marrying me.”

  “My lord,” he corrected her, knowing as he did so that it would rile her. “You needn’t keep calling me Westerley, as I’m the only lord present. My lord will suit just fine.”

  She halted, pivoted and glared at him. “My Lord.” And then she continued her march to wherever she thought she was taking them.

  “And I don’t see it as relinquishing my freedom.” He caught up with her with a few long strides. “I’m simply upholding my word of honor. What exactly is it that you dislike about me, anyhow?” Jules grinned to himself. Really, he was quite a catch.

  “I release you from your word. And please don’t take it personally. I would dislike any person who’d accept such a bet.”

  She must be livid with her father then. Although Jules had initially belie
ved the man’s motives to be grasping, Jules wasn’t so sure now. Manipulative, yes. But perhaps he was merely being proactive for his daughter’s sake.

  They’d reached the edge of the small stream that ran across the estate by now, and she crouched to the ground to sift her fingers through the soil. “Hmm.” She hummed as she scooped a handful up and allowed it to sift through her fingers.

  Jules folded his arms across his chest and widened his stance. “You, Miss Jackson, are not in the position to release me from my word.”

  “It’s not sandy enough,” she murmured.

  “We’re too far from the sea.”

  “But it’s interesting.” She lifted it to her nostrils and inhaled. “Rich and loamy.”

  “It’s too damp here.” He lowered himself beside her.

  She nodded, brushed her hands and then rose again. As she did so, she wobbled a little and he took hold of her arm. He expected her to feel sturdier but even through the sleeve of her coat, she seemed almost fragile. He considered it a small victory that she didn’t resist when he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her toward the nearby bridge.

  “We get too much rain to produce a good barley,” he added.

  “I’m inclined to agree. A shame, though. Are we near the edge of your property yet?”

  Jules answered the rapid-fire questions she sent his way, all the while well aware that she was ignoring his… Had that been a proposal?

  He ought to simply allow her to release him. If she declined him at the end of the house party, then there was nothing either he or her father could do about it.

  “My tenants and I have shifted from relying solely on agriculture to raising a variety of stock,” he replied, still intrigued by her abject refusal to marry him. “I’m afraid I cannot take no for an answer, Miss Jackson.”

  She hardly skipped a beat, watching the ground as they walked. “I realize my father will be disappointed. As will my grandparents and my aunt and even my maid, for heaven’s sake. But that is my final answer.”

  “That is your answer now. I promised your father I would convince you to marry me before the house party is over. If I fail,” he said, shrugging nonchalantly. “Then you will be free of me. However, I plan to succeed. I will uphold my honor and,” the devil had him adding, “come summer, you’ll be begging to marry me.”