A Hellion’s Midnight Kiss

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A Hellion’s Midnight Kiss Page 55

by Lauren Smith


  “The castle’s just ahead, Mr. Ferrour,” John Coachman cried, having apparently recovered sufficiently to remember proper address.

  Adam peered out the window. The country was rough and broken, but he had no trouble seeing the castle ahead. It was a huge, sprawling place made of stone, with battlements and crenellations and merlons, but even from this distance he could tell it was falling apart. With a wry sense of satisfaction Adam could see that this exercise in social climbing would cost his father a pretty penny.

  Served the old bastard right.

  Chapter 2

  “Come in, my boy, come in!”

  At least the Earl of Radston was glad to see him, but why wouldn’t he be if Adam – or more factually, old Sir Emmanuel – were going to take an unmarriageable daughter off his hands and pay him a great deal of money in the process?

  “Your Lordship,” Adam replied, making a credible bow.

  Never had he met a man who looked less like one might think an Earl should look. Short and exceedingly stout and even more exceedingly unkempt – Adam could see small remainders of the man’s breakfast adorning both his bushy beard and stained vest – the Earl more resembled an outside servitor than a member of the aristocracy. He still wore the old-fashioned knee breeches and a skirted coat the like of which Adam had not seen except on a few elderly eccentrics in years. Still, he was the eighth Earl of Radston and a Member of the House of Lords, though years had passed since he sat there.

  “No need to stand on ceremony, my boy, no need at all. Come through to the library and we’ll raise a glass together. Bentick! Bring a fresh bottle!” Draping his arm around Adam’s shoulders in what that young man regarded as a far too familiar gesture, the Earl escorted him into the library.

  Without even a chance to rest or freshen up, Adam thought in some dudgeon.

  “Need some brandy to cut the dust in your throat, I’ll wager,” Radston said with a grin. It was obvious that he had imbibed a fair amount without needing the excuse of a dusty throat. Adam tried to pull away since the man reeked, smelling more like a denizen of a Seven Dials alley than a member of the aristocracy, but the Earl only held the younger man closer. “Don’t worry… Bentick will see your traps up to your room. We don’t want to waste time on such mundanities, do we?”

  Adam surrendered. Pity his father couldn’t have seen this man whom he wanted to become his only son’s father-in-law, not that it would make any difference. He was an Earl, and that was all that mattered to old Sir Emmanuel.

  If this was the Earl, God only knew what the daughter looked like. Again, not that it made any difference. Sir Emmanuel had made up his mind.

  The library bore the ghosts of elegance; in its day it must have been a point of pride, though its day had to have been at least a hundred years ago. The wooden shelves were dry and splitting in places, the few books left stacked on them in even worse shape. Some leaned drunkenly against each other and others lay flat, all exposing irregular gaps which resembled nothing so much as long neglected teeth. Ingrained dust frosted the room, though there had been a half-hearted cleaning attempt at eye level.

  “It’s good to have you here. The nights have been demmed boring with nary a game in sight,” Radston said jovially, pouring two hearty glassfuls from a decanter, emptying it. “I know the castle is hardly easy to reach from London, so I get very few interesting guests. I do have a place much closer to London as well as one in Town itself, but unfortunately they’ve been let, all my man of business’ doing, you understand, pushy mushroom that he is. He kept claiming I had a tiny problem coming up with the ready, probably due to his mismanagement.”

  Adam accepted the glass and took a cautious sip. He had no pretensions to being a connoisseur, but he did appreciate a good brandy, and this stuff was terrible. It tasted worse than the water had his last summer in the Peninsula, but this had the burning kick of almost raw alcohol.

  Not that the Earl seemed to notice. He took a deep draught, then bellowed “Bentick! Where’s that bottle?”

  The butler, so alike to his master that they might have been brothers, came into the room, puffing slightly when he bowed. “I put young Mr. Ferrour’s bag into his room, your lordship. I’ll refill the decanter now.”

  “And be smart about it,” the Earl said, taking another sizeable gulp with every evidence of enjoying it heartily. Adam wondered that he could swallow so much of the stuff without making a face. “Traveling across the country makes a man thirsty! Hope your trip was pleasant.”

  “Actually,” Adam said slowly, “not at all. I was held up by a highwayman not half an hour’s ride away.”

  The Earl seemed completely unruffled. “That accursed fellow’s still around? May the Devil fly away with him! I’ve given my stableman leave to shoot the demmed fellow on sight. Have to tell him again, I suppose. Stupid creature doesn’t pay attention to anything I say. Hope you didn’t lose much.”

  “A few pounds and a ring, not worth much but I was fond of it.” Almost surreptitiously Adam touched the comforting bulge in his tailcoat pocket. He had emptied the coach’s hidden hiding place as soon as they had been in sight of the castle, which had appeared more and more dilapidated the closer they got.

  “Well, that’s all right then,” the Earl said, his chubby face wreathed in smiles. “So what do you say to a quick game or two, to pass the time until dinner, eh? Just for peppercorn stakes of course.” With a quick motion he opened a drawer in the square gaming table and pulled forth a deck of cards.

  A gambler, Adam realized with sudden acuity and no little distaste. Small wonder that the Earl had problems coming up with the ready, and that had to be the reason he was so eager to wed his only child to a commoner. Adam could only hope that his father had created some solid safeguards to protect both the Ferrour fortune and his reputation.

  Of course he had. He was Emmanuel Ferrour, now Sir Emmanuel Ferrour. Adam could almost find it within himself to pity the Earl of Radston, who apparently had no idea of what strictures were awaiting him.

  While he indulged occasionally and enjoyed a game or two with friends, gambling was most certainly not first on the list of Adam’s preferred amusements. Certainly he would not propose a game to a visitor even before allowing him to rest from four long days of travel. He was also certain that in a very short time the negligible stakes his lordship proposed would rise to substantial sums.

  My father’s buying the cachet of his title, Adam thought with disgust. I shouldn’t have to be married off to his daughter and owe him gaming debts as well. Vaguely he wondered if the daughter were also a gamester.

  “Perhaps later,” Adam said, forcing himself to take another small sip of the horrible brandy. “Right now I’d like to wash off the dirt of the road and rest for a while. Travel can be so wearing.”

  The Earl’s face collapsed in on itself, resembling nothing so much as an infant’s when denied a treat. His fingers fiddled nervously with the cards. “Of course, of course…” He smiled, but it was an empty one. “You young folk today can’t imagine what it was like when I was young. I could ride all day, then play all night. Did it without thinking. We knew how to live in those days.”

  It sounded like a criticism, but Adam didn’t care. As Bentick entered the room carrying an exceedingly large bottle, Adam rose, made a graceful bow to his host, and started for the door as his lordship instructed the butler to show their guest to his room – and to leave the bottle.

  At least there had been an effort to clean Adam’s room. Obviously a state bedchamber, like the rest of the castle it had once been magnificent. Now shabby, there was still grime visible in the obscure corners, but it was acceptable. Adam had billeted in much worse during his time in the army.

  “I’ve never seen such a place as this,” grumbled John Coachman, looking up from unpacking Adam’s portmanteau.

  “Are your quarters decent?” Adam asked, sprawling back on the bed as he allowed the older man to pull off his boots. Made by Hoby, those shining black ex
amples of an expert bootmaker’s art fit like a second skin, making their removal an athletic exertion. Adam wiggled his toes in relief as John Coachman slid them into his soft Moroccan leather slippers. He made a mental note to double the bonus he had promised the coachman for valeting him during this stay. Being more aware of his master’s consequence than his master was, Gaston, Adam’s excessively volatile and highly paid valet, would have swooned, then probably quit on the spot at the first sight of Clereston Castle.

  “Adequate, sir,” John Coachman replied tightly, which told Adam they were quite rough. “How long will we be staying?”

  Adam thought of the trials awaiting him. Meeting, then proposing to the daughter – Heaven grant that she was at least acceptable. If the girl had been instructed regarding what was expected of her – as Sir Emmanuel had assured Adam she had been – there would be no need for romantic posturings.

  Surely, thought Adam, there should be more to a marriage than that…

  “Perhaps two days. All should be settled by then, and we can leave.”

  Two days until he was sold to an unknown female just to satisfy his father’s ambition. For a brief moment the fantasy of simply leaving everything behind and escaping to a new life, perhaps in Australia or even the Americas, teased Adam, but he pushed them out of his mind. This was how things were done; he had heard similar tales of arranged marriages from a number of his friends. One married for any number of reasons both financial and dynastic, then found love as best one could. It was something that men of his set understood and just had to accept.

  Adam knew his inner wish of marrying someone he loved, of living his whole life with a special adored woman was nothing but a fairy tale believed only by children. The aristocracy and wealthy men married for dynastic and monetary reasons, not for love. He had told no one of his dream, not even his father, rightfully anticipating their laughter and scorn. He would do his duty, but he would not enjoy it.

  “The dinner gong will sound at eight, Mr. Ferrour,” John Coachman said, putting the last of Adam’s clothes into the aged clothes press. “I will come to help you dress thirty minutes before.”

  “Thank you.” Adam lay back on the bed. At least the bedlinens smelled fresh. “I will take a small nap until then,” he added, thinking that was a poor way to celebrate his last moments of freedom.

  Chapter 3

  Lady Amelia Radston looked into the cloudy mirror and sighed. The image looking back at her was tired and drawn, a phantom precursor of what she would be in old age. It was not a cheering prospect.

  “You must stop this, my lady,” said Martha, standing behind her trying to coax the younger woman’s silky blonde hair into a semblance of a fashionable style, which it refused to do. “You’ll worrit yourself into the grave trying to take care of this place.”

  “I don’t have a choice,” her ladyship replied in a bitter tone. “If I don’t do it, who will?”

  “And who is it that will be caring?” Martha had tended Lady Amelia when she was just a tiny child, had stood by her through growing up and her family’s troubles, and had no hesitancy about speaking her mind.

  “I will, Martha. It has to be done.”

  “They say downstairs that the young man is most well-featured.”

  Lady Amelia’s face twisted sourly. “Does it matter? He wants to be the son in law of an earl, that’s all. I don’t matter except as his tool.”

  “Now don’t go making yourself all ugly,” Martha chided, twisting the fine sunlight-colored spill in an attempt to subdue it. “He’s rich as the golden ball they say, and willing to part with a good deal of brass.”

  “Of course. Otherwise my father would never have entertained his suit. Ow!”

  Martha released her hold immediately, allowing her ladyship’s pale crown to fall in wavy disarray. “I’m sorry, Lady Amelia… it’s just that your hair is so fine…”

  Amelia knew her old servitor – the closest thing she had ever had to a mother or a friend – was upset. Normally in defiance of protocol she called her Miss Amelia; to use her title was a sign of distress.

  “It’s nothing, Martha. Here. Use the oil.” She handed over a small flagon of oil, normally used to soften her often abused hands.

  “No, Miss Amelia, it’ll darken your hair, and it’s so beautiful. You should look your best. I’ll dampen it with water instead.”

  Lady Amelia Radstock gave a short bark of laughter. “Why? This cit’s son will wed and bed me no matter what I look like as long as I’m an earl’s daughter. It matters naught, Martha. I’m already doomed.”

  Dressed in his second-best evening outfit in the new style of black and long trousers – Gaston having decreed that there was no need to use his newest and finest outfit in the far depths of the country – Adam walked down the stairs just as the deep, sonorous clang of the gong sounded. It resembled nothing so much as a funeral bell, which Adam thought highly appropriate.

  The light of a dozen or more candles softened the aspect of the great hall, hiding the grime and giving a gloss of romance to the ancient structure. Adam could see a hope of it being a respectable place again with the application of a great deal of money and time. If it didn’t fall down around their ears or the stench of the cheap tallow candles didn’t kill them first. However, he reflected, the problem was probably not theirs. Doubtless the castle – along with the title - was entailed to go to some distant relative when the Earl died, and Adam doubted his father would sink much money into something he didn’t own outright.

  “Ah, right on time,” Radston gushed. He had not changed, but someone had taken the trouble to brush the evidence of past meals from his beard and waistcoat. “Come, come, dinner should be ready in just minutes.”

  This time the Earl escorted Adam into a small parlor, obviously hastily cleaned, obviously otherwise untouched for a generation or two. Adam barely saw the outdated décor or noticed that the few candles had switched from tallow to wax. His entire attention was on the woman who had risen in respect when he entered.

  “M’daughter, Lady Amelia,” said the Earl with a singular lack of pride or fatherly affection.

  This is my future, Adam thought and valiantly stifled the urge to run from the room, from the castle, perhaps even from England.

  On the whole, she was not bad looking. Tall and slender with dull blonde hair done in a severe style, she might have been attractive if her face had not been set in such grim lines. Her dress didn’t help; at least a generation out of date it was of heavy brocade with an unfashionably full skirt that looked as if it had first been made in the antique days of panniers. She would have been laughed off the streets in London.

  Adam made a graceful bow, then placed a light kiss on the back of the surprisingly rough hand she so reluctantly extended. “Your ladyship.”

  Retrieving her hand with an unflattering alacrity, Lady Amelia bobbed a curtsey. “Mr. Ferrour.”

  Her voice, at least, was lovely. Soft to almost the point of inaudibility, but lovely.

  “Sit down, sit down,” the Earl said, settling himself in a chair, raising puffs of dust and a squeak of protest from the aged wood. “I’ll wager you two young people want to talk.”

  After a few moments of uncomfortable silence Adam squirmed. Lady Amelia had seated herself in a spindly armless chair, her voluminous skirts spilling over it in a flood. Her eyes never left the floor. “Do you like to ride, Lady Amelia?”

  “Does she like to ride?” the Earl chortled. “She is a bruising rider if there ever was one. A veritable Epona.”

  “That’s the Roman patroness of the cavalry, is it not?” Adam asked politely. It stretched credulity that the drab mouse before him could be compared in any form to a goddess, even by a doting father, which he doubted the Earl of Radston was.

  “Glad to see that they’re still teaching the classics,” the Earl said. “Well, Amelia, what do you have to say to the young man?”

  “I hardly feel I ride well enough to warrant such a comparison, Pappa,�
�� she murmured.

  “Hah! And you being out in the saddle most of your life. Do you ride, young man?”

  Adam thought longingly of his lordly Bucephalus, who was at the moment eating his head off in the mews stable in London and doubtless thinking of tricks to best his barely tolerated rider. He hoped that the groom was giving him enough exercise. “Yes. It’s one of my favorite employments.”

  “Well, then, you and Amelia must go riding tomorrow! My stable isn’t what it used to be – it’s gone downhill since I gave up riding – but I can still mount you.”

  Lady Amelia was silent.

  “Thank you, your lordship.”

  The evening did not improve. Dinner, when it was finally served in a cavernous, gloomy hall, was not only badly cooked but cold. The beef was poor and stringy, the vegetables cooked into an unidentifiable mass, the cheese unspeakable. Alarmingly, both the Earl and Lady Amelia tucked into the meal with every indication of pleasure. The wine was at least tolerable and Adam had to restrain himself from wanton overindulgence.

  The conversation was worse than the meal and when the last course had been removed Adam felt a rush of relief. He knew what he had to do, and the prospect was far from appealing, but the faster he did it the more quickly he could return to London and enjoy what he could of the little that was left of his single life.

  When the butler, pompous in his officiousness, finally carried away the last course, the Earl stood up, his face alight.

  “Amelia, my dear, why don’t you make your curtsey and say good night? You need your rest…”

  For the first time a real emotion flashed over her face, but was gone before Adam could realize what it was. Perhaps there really is a woman in there, he thought. At least for the first time he caught a glimpse of her eyes, which were a pure, clear blue.

  “Pappa… perhaps…”

  The Earl waved a negligent hand. “Nonsense, my girl, nonsense. You go on… we men have to talk, things to settle.”

 

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