The Red Hot Earl

by Burke, Darcy

  “What estate was that?”

  Harris let out a soft chuckle. “Actually, it was Thornhill.”

  Ash watched his eyes widen in the mirror, then looked up at Harris behind him. “Did you see any of those men while we were there?”

  “I recognized the groom when we arrived, but he didn’t behave as if he knew me. I certainly didn’t greet him.”

  Ash could understand that. He also had no trouble believing Thornaby’s staff was as cruel as he was. Ash was more glad than ever that he’d promoted Harris. “I know what it’s like to feel as though you’re a misfit,” Ash said.

  “I can’t imagine that, my lord.” Harris finished with the shears and set them on the dressing table. Then he went about brushing the shorn hair from Ash’s banyan to the floor.

  “It’s true.” Ash hadn’t felt like he fit in until he’d started to box. No one in his pugilism circle had seen the small, terrified boy he’d been at Oxford, the misfit who’d been ridiculed and excluded. They’d only seen the fierce, mostly silent, warrior.

  “Hard to think of you, an earl, being an outcast.” Harris went to set out Ash’s evening clothes.

  While Ash had overcome the worst of his disease, he was still different from everyone else. But now he couldn’t hide in the shadows. He was an earl, but to some extent, he still felt excluded. Because he hadn’t been born to the title, and he had much to learn.

  Now there were new expectations. He had to speak in the House of Lords and present himself at court and in Society. He also had to wed.

  Bee came to his mind, her exuberance, her outspokenness, her staunch loyalty. She accepted him precisely as he was—or so she seemed to. Would she still if she knew he was tainted?

  It didn’t matter. She’d been quite clear in her desire to remain unwed. Furthermore, she detested London, and since he would spend half the year there, a union with her would be lonely. He’d spent most of his life feeling lonely. When he wed, he hoped it would be to someone with whom he could share everything. Together, they would build a family, and if any of their children suffered his affliction, he would love them and nurture them in ways his father hadn’t.

  Ash stiffened when he thought of him, how horrified he’d been by Ash’s twitches and outbursts, especially when they’d intensified as he’d gotten older. When his father’s older brother, the earl, had suggested Ash attend Oxford with Lyndon, Ash’s father hadn’t been able to agree quickly enough.

  Then he’d ignored Ash’s pleas to come home. After a few months, Ash had given up and known he was on his own. When his father had died a few years later, just before Ash graduated, Ash had felt relieved. But there was a guilt that came with not mourning one’s father.

  “My lord?” Thankfully, Harris interrupted Ash’s maudlin thoughts.

  Ash stood and prepared for dinner.

  A short time later, he went down to the dining room, which was set with just two places as usual. His mother arrived a moment later.

  “You are home,” she said, crossing to him.

  Ash kissed her soft cheek and noted the crease in her brow. “Yes.” He went to his seat at the head of the table.

  “You weren’t due until tomorrow. What happened?” The footman helped her into her chair to the left of Ash, and then Ash sat.

  He shrugged. “I was bored, and I’ve far too much to keep me busy here.” The estate ledgers were a mess, and there were many issues with the tenants to address, from repairs to cottages to plans for increasing sheep herds.

  “I’m sorry to hear it wasn’t engaging.” Martha Rutledge was the kindest person Ash had ever known. Ash had no living siblings—two older sisters had died in their youth—so his mother focused all her attention, and love, on him. She always worried about her son, so much so that Ash had long ago tried to keep her from fretting. He’d kept his troubles at school from her, as well as his frustration and disappointment with his father.

  “I’m sure it was nice to see old friends,” she said with a smile as the soup was served.

  No it wasn’t, with one sparkling exception. “Lady Bianca was there. It was lovely to see her after so many years.”

  Mother’s deep brown eyes lit. “Was she there? I’ve always liked her. She had such a trying time when her father was ill. I used to see her in town regularly, but I saw her less and less as his sickness progressed.”

  Ash had kept up on the local happenings somewhat via his mother’s letters, but admittedly, he hadn’t paid much attention. “The duke was ill for some time?”

  Mother nodded while she sipped her soup. “My goodness, for a couple of years at least. And Lady Bianca bore the brunt of it. Her sister is married, of course, but you would have thought Chill would have come home to help.”

  “He didn’t return at all?”

  “No, but neither did you.” She gave him a slightly vexed look. “I had to come visit you in London.”

  “I was busy.” He focused on his soup.

  She exhaled. “I know, and quite successful too.”

  Yes, he had been. Before Lyndon had died, Ash had been deciding between a potential position with the government or purchasing a commission. Two very different paths, neither of which he’d pursue now.

  “Do you miss it?” she asked.

  “Sometimes.” The boxing mostly, but he’d fashioned a large sack that he hung in a corner of the stable to hit. He had to regularly refill the bag with dirt and straw to keep it firm for his practice, but the concept worked. The sack also didn’t hit back. Was that what he missed? Or was it the accolades that came with winning a fight?

  “There is plenty to keep me occupied here,” he said, hoping to turn the conversation. “Especially with the Christmas season almost upon us. Lady Bianca told me Chill won’t be hosting the St. Stephen’s Day party this year.”

  Mother had dipped her spoon in her soup and now dropped it in reaction. “How can he do that? The townspeople will be so disappointed, to say nothing of his retainers, I’m sure.”

  He’d thought his mother might be upset, but her reaction was greater than he’d anticipated. “It will matter that much?”

  She nodded. “Oh yes. It’s perhaps the most important day of the year. It’s a tradition dating back generations.” A deep frown marred her features. “Why isn’t he hosting it?”

  “I don’t know, but Lady Bianca is doing her best to change his mind.” Or come up with an alternative. Was she still planning to ask Thornaby? Ash couldn’t think she would, not after what had happened earlier. She’d staunchly defended him, turning the tables to become his rescuer. But then he’d no idea what might have happened after he left.

  “Good,” his mother said. “We shouldn’t discount her abilities.”

  That much was true. Still, it did sound as if her brother might be immovable. And then what? Ash didn’t want to disappoint the villagers or the people of Hartwood or his mother. Or Bee.

  “I’m sure she’ll find a way to make it happen.” He’d do whatever he could to support her. If she wanted him to. He had no idea what she thought of him after today’s outburst.

  His gut twisted. He had to stop thinking about that, about the way those men had made him feel. Again.

  He’d thought he’d left those emotions behind, that “Ruddy” had died. To think that people judged him for who he’d been and not who he was now was incredibly disheartening.

  No, to think that people judged him for an affliction he couldn’t control was infuriating.

  He took a deep breath to calm his racing pulse. He wouldn’t think of them. There was no cause to see them ever again. Except Thornaby in the House of Lords. And potentially all of them at a St. Stephen’s Day event, provided Bee was successful.

  Of course she would be successful. Even if she wasn’t, it was ludicrous to think he wouldn’t see them again. How would they all behave after today?

  Hopefully, he could simply avoid them. At the party, in London, wherever he might have cause to encounter them.

  O
r he could beat them all senseless. Yes, that sounded fun.

  Ash reached for his wineglass and nearly drained it. He wasn’t going to hit anyone. He was better than that. He was better than them.

  Why, then, did they still have the power to hurt?

  * * *

  “Good morning.” Bianca sailed into the breakfast room and glanced at her brother. He sat at the table, his plate before him, his nose buried in a newspaper.

  He didn’t look up. “Why are you home?”

  “Good morning, Bianca, how lovely to see you. You’re home early from the house party. Is anything amiss?” She glowered at her brother. “It’s not difficult to be pleasant.”

  His gaze lifted slowly from the newspaper and fixed on her with cool irritation. “Good morning, Bianca. Why are you home early from the house party?”

  His second attempt was laced with sarcasm, but she’d take it. “Because it was dreadful.” She went to the sideboard and served up her plate before taking a seat opposite her brother at the table.

  She didn’t really want to get into the specifics—the horrid way in which Ash had been treated. “The new Earl of Buckleigh was there. It was wonderful to see him again.”

  Calder had looked back down at the paper and now he glanced up, his brow creasing. “Lyndon’s cousin?”

  “Yes. Ash,” she said, picking up a piece of toast.

  The furrow in his brow deepened as he regarded her. “‘Ash’? That sounds awfully familiar.”

  “I knew him when we were children. I always called him Ash. ‘Buckleigh’ or ‘my lord’ is just odd.”

  “It’s also proper.” His tone took on an edge of condescension. “He, however, is not. I’d prefer you stay away from him.”

  Bianca’s jaw froze as she chewed her toast. She took a drink of tea to wash it down. “How on earth is Ash not proper?”

  “Stop calling him that. He had a reputation in certain circles in London.”

  The hair on the back of her neck stood up. “What sort of reputation?”

  “A dangerous one.” He gave her a pointed stare. “He was a pugilist. I saw him fight a few times, and he’s brutal. Definitely not the sort of man with whom my sister should associate, let alone be familiar with.” He scoffed as he returned his attention to the newspaper and his breakfast.

  Bianca stared at the window that looked out over the rolling parkland of the estate. A sloping hill met a stand of bare-branched trees beneath the dove-gray sky. It looked cold and forbidding, not at all like the fire-haired gentleman who’d made her laugh just yesterday.

  “I can’t believe that’s true.” She shook her head and cut a bite of ham.

  “What, that he’s a pugilist or a particularly fierce one?” Calder lifted a shoulder. “Both are true. As I said, I saw him fight. Or do you doubt me?” He pierced her with his frigid stare, challenging her to cross him.

  “I don’t doubt you think it was him, but I just can’t see it.” Ash had always been kinder than most everyone. Together, they’d saved animals and insects and talked about how they wanted all the women and children at the Institution for Impoverished Women in Hartwell to have a warm hearth and a full belly. To that end, Bianca had always done her best to support Hartwell House, which was the name everyone called it. Did Ash feel the same as he had in their youth, or had London corrupted him somehow?

  She recalled his evasiveness when discussing his time there and the sensation she’d had that he’d left something out. She also thought of how quickly and savagely he’d shot the pistol, hitting the target with almost no effort. Then there was the malice and fury in his eyes. The emotions had been well earned, but was there more buried within him?

  “Whether you see it or not, it’s true, and I don’t want you associating with him. He’s certainly not marriage material—not for you, anyway—and that’s where your mind should be. Thornaby would be a good match.”

  She couldn’t keep from snorting in disgust. “Thornaby is a bully. He’d be a good match for a simpleton with no sympathy or capacity to care for others. And what’s more, my mind is on St. Stephen’s Day and what I shall do if you insist on not hosting the party.”

  Calder looked at her sharply. “There will be no party. Not here.”

  She stared at him a long moment, trying to find the caring brother she’d grown up with. “You really mean it, don’t you?”

  “I don’t say things I don’t mean.” He shifted his attention back to the newspaper.

  “Then I shall have to find another way. I refuse to disappoint the people of Hartwood and Hartwell.”

  “If you think a party has the means to keep from disappointing people, you’ve a great deal to learn. Life is more than parties and celebrations and tradition.”

  At least he knew tradition was part of it. But he also didn’t seem to care. “Yes, life is more than that,” she said softly. “It’s also family and duty and loyalty and love.”

  He glanced toward her briefly, his lips pressed into a flat line. “Duty—at least we agree on that. Consider Thornaby, or, if you’d rather, I’ll come up with a list of potential suitors. You should have a few in mind when you get to London for the Season.”

  “I’m not going to London for the Season.” She’d told him that a dozen times, and he never seemed to listen.

  “Of course you are.”

  She sweetly tossed his words back at him. “I don’t say things I don’t mean. I’m not going to London.”

  His gaze lifted at a glacial pace. His stare was so cold, so unfathomable, that she imagined he’d scare just about anyone with it. Not her, however. “It isn’t up for debate.” His lips barely moved. Was he actually carved from ice?

  “I would agree. I’m not going, and that’s final.” She stood from the table, having lost her appetite. “I am, however, going to Poppy’s. Perhaps it’s warmer there.”

  “You are going to London, and that’s final.” He looked back down at the newspaper. “I doubt it’s warmer at Poppy’s. She’s only seven miles away. It looks like it may snow, which means you’ll have to stay the night. Prepare accordingly.” He picked up the newspaper and held it up, blocking his face from her.

  Apparently, she was dismissed.

  A combination of frustration and agitation propelled her from the breakfast room. Perhaps she would ask Poppy if she could move in with her and her husband. They wouldn’t mind.

  But she couldn’t. Poppy and Gabriel had their own troubles, and Bianca didn’t think she could live with the tension. With Calder, she could mostly avoid him. However, she couldn’t avoid her sister, especially when she suffered such heartache… In fact, that was maybe another reason Bianca should consider at least staying there for a period of time. Such as for the entire Christmas season…

  Well, she would discuss it with Poppy next time she saw her. That wasn’t, however, going to be today. She had another destination in mind.

  Energized, Bianca flew up the stairs to “prepare,” as Calder had put it. She wanted to get on the road within the hour, and she would pray it wouldn’t snow.

  A devilish grin sprouted across her lips, unbidden. Actually, she might not pray that hard.

  Chapter 5

  The coach slowed in front of Buck Manor. With a tall Palladian façade and sprawling wings to the east and west, the house commanded respect and awe. It wasn’t as large as Hartwood, but it was larger than Poppy’s home, Darlington Abbey.

  Thinking of her sister only reminded Bianca that she’d lied to the coachman upon leaving Hartwood. She’d had him stop the coach after the first two miles, when it had become necessary to change course, and told him of her change in destination. He’d seemed hesitant at first, but that was largely because he was concerned it would snow.

  Both he and Calder had proved right. The snow, falling softly at first, was now coming down in earnest. As Bianca stepped out of the coach, she tilted her head up and was promptly rewarded with a snowflake landing on her nose.

  She smiled and started to
ward the house. Donnelly, who’d accompanied her, followed.

  “My lady?” the coachman said, causing her to stop and turn. Donnelly paused with her, then stepped out of Bianca’s line of sight so she could see the coachman.

  “Yes?” Bianca asked.

  “Will this be a quick visit?” He glanced up at the sky.

  “It won’t be terribly long, but why don’t you take the horses to the stables where they will be warmer?”

  He nodded and returned to the vehicle while Bianca continued toward the house. They didn’t reach the door before it opened. The butler ushered them inside.

  “Welcome to Buck Manor,” he said. “May I take your cloak?”

  Bianca pivoted and unclasped the outer garment. “Thank you. Please let his lordship know that Lady Bianca is here to see him. Can my maid warm up somewhere and perhaps have a cup of tea?”

  The butler removed her cloak, and she handed him her gloves and hat. “Of course, my lady. I’ll see to it. May I show you to the drawing room?”

  “That would be lovely. I hope there’s a fire.”

  He smiled as he handed her things off to a footman. “Indeed there is.” He looked toward the footman and murmured, “Please see her ladyship’s maid to the downstairs parlor.”

  Bianca nodded at Donnelly before following the butler from the hall into a large reception room decorated in greens and golds. She went directly to the massive fireplace and warmed her hands before the crackling flames.

  Would Ash mind that she’d come? Would he ask her to leave? She flicked a glance toward the windows, where she could see the snow was falling at an even greater pace. Could she leave even if he wanted her to?

  “Bee?” Ash’s voice carried through the large drawing room, sending a surprising dash of heat up her spine. Surprising because her back was away from the fireplace.

  And probably she didn’t want to consider that Ash was the source.