The Earl's Betrothal

by Tuft, Karen

  “Take a scone with you, then,” Mrs. Deal replied.

  Amelia helped herself to a buttery scone and thanked Mrs. Deal before heading out the kitchen door and through the herb garden beyond. It was a beautiful day, with only the occasional cloud floating through a vivid blue sky—a sky the exact color of Lord Halford’s eyes.

  She mentally scolded herself. Such thoughts simply wouldn’t do. Lord Halford’s reappearance on the scene was a blessing, to be sure, and she was exceedingly glad for Lord and Lady Ashworth. And, yes, Amelia had found herself struck by his gaze—what young lady would not have been?—but any attraction she might feel toward him would only serve to complicate her life. She was not for him. Her status, however gently bred she had been, was far beneath his own as heir to a marquess.

  She walked briskly through the formal gardens toward a wooded area at the north end of the estate. There was a path nearby that ended by a small lake. Life at Ashworth Park wasn’t as vigorous as her life had been as the daughter of a parish vicar, so Amelia frequently walked in the park in order to stretch her legs and use excess energy.

  Her life really had been active in Little Brenchley, especially after the death of her mother when Amelia was twelve. She and her father had mourned deeply, but the needs of the parish had never stopped, and continuing to serve the good people of Little Brenchley during that time had been a godsend for both of them. Amelia had filled her days assisting her father as he’d taught the village children or checked in on the widows and the sick, and she’d read the books in her father’s modest library. The one she had with her now was a small volume of poems by Robert Burns her father had often read aloud using a Scottish accent, which had made Amelia and her mother laugh.

  She missed them both and lived daily with the sweet ache for a childhood long past. The loss of her father, however, had changed Amelia’s life from one of love and security to one of fear and uncertainty. She had no more family that she knew of and had been left entirely on her own. Money was nonexistent, having been shared over the years with the parishioners.

  Bad planning on both her father’s and her part, in hindsight.

  Undoubtedly her father had expected her to marry, but Little Brenchley had not been flush with eligible men. Amelia had emphatically refused the widowed farmer who’d been looking for a mother for his seven children, as well as the local shopkeeper, a bachelor who was older than her own father. The fact that she had never married hadn’t been an issue until her father had become mortally ill.

  Life took unexpected twists and turns, and considering the prospects Amelia had faced with her father’s untimely death, things had turned out remarkably well. He had urged her in strong terms to contact a Lady Walmsley on his passing, the dowager countess having some sort of connection to her mother, and Lady Walmsley had referred Amelia to Lady Ashworth.

  And Lady Ashworth treated Amelia almost like a daughter. Amelia had clothes and food and a warm bed to sleep in, and there was enough to do to keep her occupied, even if she wasn’t as busy as she had been in Little Brenchley.

  She wouldn’t go all the way to the lake today, she decided, as Lady Ashworth might need her, what with all the goings-on. There was a bench approximately halfway to the lake on a slight rise that afforded a nice view of the village of Ashworthy. She would walk that far and enjoy some of her favorite verses from her father’s book, with his voice lilting through the words in her mind.

  Chapter 2

  The formal gardens looked the same as they had two years ago, the last time Anthony had taken leave and come home. He should go to the stables and check on the horses after their long ride this morning, but that could mean enduring a welcome home from the stable hands, and right now Anthony wanted to be alone.

  He strode across the gardens to the wooded area beyond. A swim in the lake sounded appealing: the solitude of the place, the cool resistance of the water against muscles that ached from days on horseback. Away from Lucas’s constant nagging over a wound that was almost healed.

  He was nearly halfway to his goal when he spied his mother’s companion sitting on a bench a few dozen feet away, reading a book. He was about to retreat when she raised her head and spotted him.

  There was nothing for it now but to be sociable. “Miss Clarke,” he called out to her. “Forgive me for intruding upon your privacy.”

  “Not at all, Lord Halford.” She returned her gaze to the book.

  He doubted she wanted him there any more than he desired her company, but he had been trained all his life to be a gentleman, and to simply pass by would be ill-mannered. He walked the remaining distance, cursing his luck and silently bidding a fond farewell to his dip in the lake.

  “May I sit?” he asked, hoping she’d say no.

  Instead, she scooted over on the bench, giving him ample room to be seated by her without actually having to touch, which was as insulting to Anthony as it was a relief. Their eyes had met briefly when he had first arrived, and he had found himself drawn to her completely against his will.

  He was broken in too many ways to count, and his duties to his family would require all he had left to give. Dead brother, ill father, worried mother, the estate with all its incumbent responsibilities. He wasn’t sure he was up to the task.

  And then there were the men he’d left behind in Spain when he’d sold his commission and returned home. Napoleon’s grandiose schemes had not yet been contained, and Britain needed all her men to achieve victory.

  How did one do one’s duty to one’s family and one’s country? It wasn’t possible in all cases, and it exacerbated the guilt Anthony felt and that occasionally overwhelmed him.

  He realized suddenly Miss Clarke was looking strangely at him. Dash it all, his mind had gone wandering for too long, apparently. He did his best to offer a reassuring smile. “I beg your pardon; I was woolgathering. May I sit?” Had he asked her that already? Of course he had. Where were his mental faculties these days?

  “Of course. I presumed you would understand that when I moved over to make space for you on the bench,” she said matter-of-factly.

  Well, the lady had a bit of a backbone, then. He sat next to her, a little closer than she—or he—had intended. She had made it abundantly clear she wanted distance between them; however, he didn’t feel inclined to give her the upper hand in this initial encounter. Better to let her know he was in charge now that he was home and that his authority extended even to his mother’s personal employee. “You are given to frank speaking, Miss Clarke. I’m sure my mother appreciates such a quality in a companion.”

  Her eyes fluttered down to take in his close proximity, and a slight blush rose on her cheeks. She closed her book and set it on her lap, placing her hands primly on top. “I have been told so, my lord, and have striven to control my speech for years . . . but with little success, I’m afraid. You do not approve of frank speaking?” She looked directly at him now.

  Her eyes were a deep shade of green, a twinkle lurking in them at the moment. Not in a flirtatious manner—it would be unseemly for a paid companion to be so bold with the son of the house—but with humor and a friendliness Anthony found appealing.

  Perhaps too appealing.

  He cleared his throat. “One becomes accustomed to frankness in the military, Miss Clarke. In the course of battle, there is little time to phrase things prettily.” His blunt response was intended to put her on her guard, for both their sakes.

  She clearly missed his intent. “I imagine there is very little about war itself that could be phrased prettily,” she replied. “Although I imagine the people and the countryside were pleasant enough at times.”

  Images flashed through Anthony’s mind: eyes filled with terror and agony, swaths of land scorched and vacated to keep the French from obtaining provisions on the way west to Portugal. “As you say,” he said. He would not contradict her. “It is my fervent hope that you never experien
ce the harshness men can inflict on others, Miss Clarke.”

  “I have experienced harshness in my life, Lord Halford, though nothing to compare to that of war,” she said to him. “None of us are immune to such things. Even the bountiful lives of your parents have had their share of hardships. Especially lately.”

  “You mean to speak for my parents, Miss Clarke?” he asked.

  “I would never presume, my lord. I speak for myself and from my own observations. Your father’s grief over your brother’s death robbed him of his health, as you know. And your mother’s love for them and for you has taken a great toll on her, although not in as obvious a way as your father. It is a great blessing that you have returned to them healthy and whole.”

  “Healthy, perhaps, but war rarely leaves a man whole,” Anthony said. He was straying too close to topics he didn’t want to discuss. “But this is not a subject for a beautiful morning. England has produced a day without rain, and we should not cast a shadow over it by speaking of somber things.”

  He studied the young woman seated next to him. She looked to be petite, not quite as tall as his mother, though it was difficult to tell since she was seated. Her hair was dark and had a tendency to curl, with deep red highlights that were illuminated in the moments when they encountered sunlight amidst the shade of the trees. Anthony’s military experience had trained him to evaluate his opponents, to assess their strengths and weaknesses. Miss Amelia Clarke wasn’t precisely an opponent, but Anthony intended to be on his guard. A pretty, petite woman with chestnut-colored hair and deep-green eyes could be formidable to a man who was drawn to her, even if it was against his will.

  He had too many responsibilities, too many ghosts to be having thoughts about the likes of Miss Amelia Clarke.

  * * *

  Amelia couldn’t help but notice that the man who had approached her and was now seated beside her, in addition to being extraordinarily tall, was broad at the shoulders, though of a more refined build than his traveling companion. There was no padding added to his lordship’s coat to give him a more masculine presence, as some gentlemen were inclined to do, and it said much about the man. He must have been the type of officer who had worked alongside his men. Amelia approved of this. Her limited exposure to men of the upper classes did not impress her much when compared to their working-class counterparts, at least when it came to physical strength.

  “What are you reading, Miss Clarke?” Lord Halford asked. “I noticed you were engrossed in your book when I came upon you.”

  “Poetry, my lord. The works of Robert Burns.”

  “Ah. ‘The best-laid schemes of mice and men / Go oft awry / And leave us nought but grief and pain / For promised joy!’”

  Amelia smiled. “You’re familiar with Mr. Burns’s work. He’s a favorite of mine, I must admit.” She handed his lordship the book when he held out his hand for it. “My father used to read these poems to me when I was a girl. He’d exaggerate the Scottish dialect. They were happy times.” She needed to be careful, or she’d break down and weep at the memory. “The poem you quoted is a lovely apology to a mere field mouse. It’s a particular favorite.”

  “No lofty verse for you? No sonnets? No romantic idylls?”

  Amelia wasn’t sure if he was teasing since his manner suggested otherwise. “They have their place as well, my lord. I enjoy reading many works, poetical or otherwise.”

  “You are well read, then?”

  “I wouldn’t venture to call myself that. My father was a gentleman and well educated. He shared his knowledge freely with me, although I admit I didn’t enjoy the Greek and Latin he was keen to share.”

  “What? You disliked Cicero or Ovid? And Marcus Aurelius, no less?” His lips tipped up slightly on one side.

  Ah, he was teasing her.

  “I confess they were less to my liking than Mr. Burns here. My mother also did her best to instill ladylike manners in me. I was something of a tomboy.”

  “I see no fault in your manners, Miss Clarke. Your parents must be proud of you.” He caught himself, and his countenance became more serious. “Pardon me, you said your father was a gentleman . . .”

  Amelia inferred the question he was too polite to ask. “My father died two years ago, my lord. My mother eight years before that.”

  “My deepest condolences, Miss Clarke. It seems we both have reasons to mourn.”

  “Indeed,” she said kindly. Realizing she had spent more time outside than she’d intended, she rose, causing him to follow suit. “I think it is time for me to return.”

  “May I escort you?” he asked, clearly the gentleman in every way.

  “Yes, thank you,” Amelia replied.

  He extended an elbow to her, which she took. As they began to stroll back toward the house, her fingertips fairly tingled from the flex of his muscles.

  This was not good.

  They walked in silence for several minutes, and then Lord Halford repeated the final verse of the poem, softly, almost to himself, and in English rather than a Scottish lilt. “‘Still thou are blest, compared with me! / The present only toucheth thee: / But, oh! I backward cast my eye / On prospects drear! / And forward, though I cannot see / I guess and fear!’” He paused a beat before continuing. “May I be so bold as to ask how you came to be my mother’s companion?”

  “My mother was a schoolfriend of Lady Walmsley’s niece when they were girls,” she said. “After my father’s death, Lady Walmsley was kind enough to give me a reference and introduce me to Lady Ashworth.”

  “My mother is a relatively young woman with a husband,” he mused out loud, “not a dowager in need of idle conversation.”

  Amelia bristled. How was he to know what his mother needed? “I should hope I have provided more than idle conversation, my lord,” Amelia said. “If you have concerns about my employment, you are welcome to bring them up with her, of course. Good day.” She dropped his arm and hurried her steps, intent on making her way back alone, but the dratted man had a long stride and caught up to her easily.

  “My apologies, Miss Clarke. I did not mean to offend.”

  She continued on at her brisk pace.

  It didn’t deter him. “I expected changes to my home, Miss Clarke, but I failed to anticipate an addition among the intimate circle of my family. A lovely addition, I might add.”

  She only glared at him and kept walking.

  “Miss Clarke, my mother will rake me over the coals if I do not make proper amends to you. I have insulted you, and for that I am truly sorry.” He kept apace of her and lowered his voice. “I am also mortally afraid of my mother, so I beg you to take pity on me.”

  Amelia let out an unladylike gust of air and slowed her steps. He was attempting humor to win her over, although he himself hadn’t smiled at all. Well, neither would she, then, nor was she entirely convinced of his sincerity. She would take the high road and at least be civil. “You are forgiven,” she said coolly and continued on toward the house at a more normal speed.

  He must have had good survival instincts—he didn’t offer his arm again, as she might have been inclined to smack it with her book of poetry. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and adjusted his stride to hers.

  “Miss Clarke, may I ask—how is my father faring exactly? My mother’s letters ranged from despairing to hopeful, and unfortunately, due to my varied assignments in Spain, all reached me at the same time. It was difficult to make heads or tails of them, I’m afraid. And then I arrived here this morning only to discover that my family had been informed I had died in battle at Badajoz and that my father had taken a turn for the worse at the news. You would be doing me a kindness to share your observations so I am as prepared as possible before I see him for myself.”

  “I am surely not the appropriate person to do that, my lord,” Amelia said. “Your mother—”

  “My mother felt it best to
warn my father of my return, Miss Clarke, afraid my sudden appearance in his bedchamber would do him more ill than good. Is he that frail, then?”

  Amelia stopped walking. Some things deserved the courtesy of being said face-to-face. “Lord Halford,” she said, “your father is indeed quite ill. Your mother rarely leaves his side, and the entire household has been worried. We have all done our best to take care of him and also to support Lady Ashworth in any way possible. If we overstepped our bounds in doing so, it was only with the best intentions.”

  “Now you are putting words in my mouth, Miss Clarke. I do not recall saying you overstepped in any way. And I do thank you for your service to both my mother and my father.”

  “You may not have said I overstepped, my lord, but I saw it in your eyes, in the hall, earlier.”

  “Very well, I concede that perhaps I was somewhat suspicious when I spied you in the front hall this morning, but in my own defense, you had the most peculiar expression on your face at the time.”

  “What you observed was shock at seeing a supposedly dead man look so remarkably undead. We shall have to remove your headstone from the Ashworth graveyard with alacrity. Perhaps it can be used as a table for playing chess.”

  A burst of air escaped his lungs, sounding suspiciously like a laugh. “Touché, Miss Clarke,” he said. “My years dealing with rough enlisted men have made me cynical, I’m afraid.”

  Since Amelia couldn’t begin to imagine the day-to-day struggles that accompanied war, she decided it was time for a truce. “I have only the highest regard for your parents, who have been all that is good to me,” she said. “And I believe your return will do your father much good. Anything else, I will leave you to discern on your own.”

  They began walking again. Amelia prayed she had reassured the earl sufficiently, and she hoped with all her heart her words would be prophetic.