The Earl's Betrothal

by Tuft, Karen

  She needed to be cautious, she told herself as she headed to the village pub. Handsome as Lord Halford was, Amelia had spent her life dealing in practicalities, not fantasies.

  “Ho, Miss Clarke! Good day.” Thomas Braddock, owner of The Green Man, the local pub, called to her as she neared, wiping his hands on his apron. “Good news at the manor house, eh?”

  “Hello, Mr. Braddock. Yes, good news indeed.” Village news always traveled with extraordinary speed, and today’s news, as miraculous and welcome as it was for the villagers, would fly like the wind.

  “For the life of me, I’m not sure I’ll believe it until I see him with my own eyes,” Mr. Braddock said. “Those young lads were a fine pair, always full of mischief, they were. Nearly gave them the back of my hand a few times, despite their lofty station.” He chuckled at the memory. “Aye, fine lads, and fine lords. It’s been sad times these many months, what with them both dying and then his lordship’s poor health and all. And now Lord Anthony has returned to us, after all that he was dead, and a service for him at the church and everything. Well,” he nodded, “the family deserves today’s good fortune, and that’s that.”

  “Yes,” Amelia said. “And the village as well. There’s to be a fete in honor of Lord Halford’s return. Can I count on your assistance with it, Mr. Braddock?”

  “Oh, aye, Miss Clarke, that you can. Ashworthy has held many a grand fete, and assemblies and dances as well before you joined us here.”

  “Miss Clarke! Miss Clarke!”

  They both turned to see who had called Amelia’s name. “’Tis that old hen, Lady Putnam, if you’ll be excusing me for saying so, Miss Clarke,” Mr. Braddock grumbled, “and her daughters too, no less. I’ll be heading back to work now, then. You can count on me the day of the fete.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Braddock.” She wasn’t sure he had even heard her reply, so quickly did he disappear back inside The Green Man.

  “Miss Clarke, I would speak to you.” Lady Putnam, wife of Sir Frederick Putnam, baronet, announced in a shrill tone that brooked no argument.

  “Good day, Lady Putnam, Miss Putnam, Miss Charlotte.” Amelia made her curtsies, and the girls replied in kind.

  “Miss Clarke, I must know if it is true. I daresay one cannot rely on servants to get the facts straight, but I believe I heard Lord Ashworth’s son has actually returned alive and whole from Spain. Can this be so?”

  “It is, Lady Putnam.” Amelia was quite sure the woman had heard the news from more than one reliable source. In fact, she could probably give Amelia details of Lord Halford’s return Amelia did not know herself.

  “Well,” Lady Putnam replied. “Well, well, well.” Her eyes narrowed in thought. “That changes things around here, doesn’t it, girls?”

  Amelia was tempted to say something that went beyond the realm of ladylike behavior. The woman was already plotting to snare the earl for one of her daughters, and the poor man had not been home for even half a day!

  “But, Miss Clarke, what is he like?” the eldest Miss Putnam ventured. Amelia had hoped to become friends with Harriet Putnam when she’d first arrived at Ashworth Park but had been soundly put in her place when Harriet had realized Amelia was the lowly daughter of a vicar. Being a paid companion, even to a marchioness, had not elevated her status enough for Harriet Putnam.

  There was nothing for it. Amelia must answer, though she loathed sharing any details with the likes of Lady and Harriet Putnam. Charlotte was a nice enough girl though, especially considering she’d been raised in the same household as the other two. “He is tall and dark like his father. Very serious.”

  “And he is the heir now,” Harriet added, a feral glint in her eye.

  “That it true,” Amelia said.

  “Is the family receiving?” Lady Putnam asked. “I feel it is only natural that Sir Frederick and I welcome the young man home after such a long absence.”

  The last thing Lady Ashworth needed was the likes of Lady Putnam showing up at the front door. “They are not receiving yet, my lady,” Amelia replied. “You will understand, of course, that, while wonderful, this has been a shocking turn of events. The marquess and his wife need time alone to be with their son.”

  “Of course,” Lady Putnam demurred, although it was apparent she wasn’t happy with Amelia’s answer. “Well, perhaps later, then. Come along, girls. There is shopping to be done.” She sailed off, her daughters trailing behind, Charlotte shrugging her shoulders in silent apology and waving at Amelia as they went.

  Amelia shook her head and made her way to the church to speak to the vicar and his wife about the fete. Poor Lord Halford if Lady Putnam’s and Miss Putnam’s reactions to the news of his return was any indication. Amelia suspected there would be many eager young ladies lining up to attract the earl’s attention as well. He would be facing a new battle now that he was home, and it was going to be a full-scale attack on his status as an eligible young gentleman. She hoped he was skilled in defense tactics. He was going to need them if he intended to end up with a lady of his own choosing.

  * * *

  “Saddle Bucephalus for me, will you, Tom?” Anthony said.

  “Right you are, my lord.”

  By the time Anthony had left his father’s room, he was in need of air. Again. For the second time in one day. And, more importantly, distance from Ashworth Park and his father and the demands that had already been thrust upon him. He had been home less than a day, welcomed joyfully by all and sundry, and yet felt as Atlas did, with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  Bucephalus was a great black beast of a stallion Anthony had spotted in London before leaving for the Peninsula. He and Alex had wandered Tattersalls together one morning to appraise the horseflesh on sale there before going to White’s.

  “I am buying that horse,” Anthony had said at the time. “And I am naming him Bucephalus.” Bucephalus had been the name of Alexander the Great’s horse, and it had seemed fitting for such a marvelous creature.

  “As I recall, Bucephalus had a rather fiery temper in addition to his black color and great size,” Alex had replied. He’d then moved closer to inspect the horse’s flanks and been snapped at by some impressively large teeth. Alex had landed on his backside in an attempt to avoid the assault.

  They’d both laughed uproariously over it at the time. “I like his temper so far,” Anthony had joked. “Besides, I am better at dealing with unruly cattle than you.”

  “That may be so, but I am much better with the fairer sex than you are, little brother.” Alex had crossed his arms and studied the horse from a safe distance. “By all means, buy your horse. I shall lay down a hundred quid at White’s that you cannot bring him up to snuff before you leave to join your company.” He’d smiled wickedly.

  “Done.”

  Anthony had, of course, bought the horse and had succeeded with its training as well. And because he had bet against his brother—and several others who had placed bets against his success in the betting book—he’d ended up several hundred pounds the richer. The money had come in handy on the Peninsula, buying supplies and, on occasion, information from some of the greedier French deserters he’d encountered. Bucephalus had spent the time Anthony had been gone in Ashworth Park’s stables under Tom’s expert care.

  “Here you are, Lord Anthony. Beggin’ your pardon, that is, Lord Halford.” Tom pulled on his forelock in deference.

  In Anthony’s mind, Alex would always be Halford. “Tom,” he said, clapping the man who’d helped teach him to ride on the shoulder before taking the reins from him. “I have been Anthony to you for the past two decades at least. I do not see a need to change that now.” He pulled a carrot from his pocket for Bucephalus, who whickered at him in recognition. “How are you, old boy? Fattened the family purse for us with your offspring yet?” He then asked the question he dreaded. “Tom, it wasn’t Bucephalus who—”


  “No, my lord. ’Tweren’t Bucephalus. That were a different horse what was involved in Lord Alex’s . . .” He coughed to avoid saying the word death. “Leastways, that horse is gone now. I seen to it myself.”

  Anthony nodded. It would have been like Alex to take Anthony’s horse out for exercise while he was gone. It was a relief to know Bucephalus hadn’t been the cause of Alex’s death.

  He mounted the horse and set out for the least populated areas of the estate, away from tenant farmers and anyone else who might be inclined to wave him down and bid him welcome. Then he allowed the horse to run.

  Bucephalus’s hooves churned up the ground beneath him, and Anthony allowed himself this momentary exhilaration, this feeling of pure freedom as they flew across the pasture land. Bucephalus sailed easily over fences, needing little encouragement from Anthony to do so. He would not think about Alex or the jump on horseback that had ended his life. Not now.

  When Bucephalus tired, Anthony led him to a stream and dismounted. Bucephalus drank greedily. They had skirted the village completely and avoided seeing anyone so far. When the horse’s thirst was sated, Anthony patted his neck fondly and scratched his withers. “Well, old boy, I’m afraid it’s time to return to Ashworth Park and the duties that await,” Anthony said. Bucephalus nickered in reply. “I promise we’ll do this again soon. Hopefully tomorrow. I’m sure we’ll both need it.”

  He remounted, then turned Bucephalus onto the road that led from Ashworthy back to the manor. It was only then he heard the first rumble and took in his surroundings. Devil take it; when had all those clouds gathered? He had been so caught up in his thoughts and his ride that he’d not noticed them. He must be losing his wits not to have remembered how unruly English rain could be.

  A few fat drops fell, and then it began to rain in earnest. Anthony turned up the collar of his coat. He’d neglected to bring a hat, knowing full well he would be racing Bucephalus at top speed and hadn’t wanted to deal with the blasted thing.

  Bucephalus was winded now, so Anthony kept him at a walk and allowed himself to get reacquainted with the weather of his boyhood and youth. He lifted his face to the sky and let the rain wash over him. He had bathed once today, and he might need another to warm himself when he arrived home, but the rain felt cleansing and was oddly a source of happiness. A baptism.

  He was already soaked to the skin.

  He decided he’d better pay attention to the conditions of the road, which were getting slicker by the minute. It would not do to have Bucephalus hurt himself.

  It was then he noticed a small figure hurrying toward the estate. A woman hunched in defense against the storm and carefully picking her steps around the puddles. Her shawl did nothing to protect her from the rain, her bonnet was a soggy, dripping mess, and her plain gray dress clung to her form.

  Her rather shapely form.

  She looked up as Anthony drew alongside her, and Anthony realized it was his mother’s paid companion. “Miss Clarke,” he said, “what the devil are you doing traipsing about in this deluge? You’ll catch your death.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, my lord, but I have only my two feet at present, and they are taking me home as quickly as they are able.”

  Well, that was a saucy reply! Although he supposed he deserved it.

  “Miss Clarke, my apologies. I accused you of something that I myself am guilty of—that is, getting caught in a rainstorm. It goes against my honor to leave you to your own two-footed resources. I have six feet between me and my good friend, Bucephalus, here. Allow me to take you up on the horse in front of me. It will get us both home more efficiently, you must agree.”

  Her eyes widened at his offer, which surprised him. He briefly wondered if she was afraid of Bucephalus or himself.

  “My lord, I do not think—”

  “Then don’t. Think, that is.” The rain was coming down with a vengeance, and if Anthony was already uncomfortably drenched, Miss Clarke, in her light shawl, must be even more so. “Give me your hand, Miss Clarke, and step on my boot. I insist.”

  “Oh, all right,” she said with more bravado than he suspected she actually had. She did as he had instructed, setting one hand in his and one on Bucephalus. It was an effort for her to reach his boot in the stirrup; she truly was a petite thing.

  Concentrate on the rain, Anthony, not on Miss Clarke’s lovely dimensions, he mentally chided himself as she boosted herself up onto his foot. He placed his free hand under her arm and hoisted her the rest of the way onto the saddle.

  She was now seated sideways in front of him and was struggling to find her balance. “Place your arm around my waist, Miss Clarke, and you will feel more secure,” he said.

  Her wet, cold arm crept around him beneath his coat and clutched the back of his waistcoat tightly, and he slipped his free hand around her waist as well. “That’s better,” he said. “I must allow Bucephalus to find his own footing as we go, but he’s a smart fellow and a gentleman, so you are in good hands.”

  “Are you saying you are not a gentleman, my lord?” she asked. The little minx. He was glad to see she had some spirit left, considering the fear he’d thought he’d seen in her eyes at the idea of joining him on his horse, let alone under such slippery and potentially dangerous conditions.

  Dangerous in more than one way, he thought as his eyes wandered to the corkscrews of dark hair that had escaped her sodden bonnet and now clung wetly to the nape of her neck.

  “It goes without saying that I am a gentleman,” he said, pulling his gaze away. “But I wasn’t entirely sure you had been introduced to my friend Bucephalus, and I wanted to assure you of his character.”

  “It’s true I have not met Bucephalus formally before, although we have eyed each other from a distance on occasion.”

  “Warily, no doubt.”

  “True, at least from my point of view. He is quite intimidating, you must admit.”

  As Miss Clarke seemed to be feeling more settled atop the horse, Anthony gave Bucephalus a nudge to continue. Miss Clarke kept a firm grip on his waistcoat from behind, though. Occasionally, when she turned her head enough for him to see past the brim of her bonnet, he caught a glimpse of long lashes, spiky from the rain, and those vivid green eyes. At the moment, her skin was damp and pale from the cold, but his masculine mind told him it would be creamy and soft in more agreeable circumstances.

  Hmm, not good. He shouldn’t be observing his mother’s companion this closely or allowing his mind to wander in the direction it was currently taking—although, to be honest, it was difficult to ignore someone who was, for all intents and purposes, sitting on his lap. He shook his head to clear it, sending a spray of rainwater shooting out in all directions, and nudged Bucephalus to a slightly faster gait.

  “Miss Clarke,” he said, searching for a topic of conversation. “Thank you again for the service you have provided my mother the past several months. Despite my gratitude, I cannot help but wonder at the circumstances that took you from your own family and brought you to mine.”

  He felt her body tense and wondered why his words affected her so. Perhaps his approach had been too blunt. He was out of practice dealing with gently bred young ladies. He would have to remedy that—and the sooner the better. He would do well to practice his skills now, since the opportunity had presented itself.

  “My mother died when I was quite young, and my father was a vicar,” she said. “After my father’s death two years ago, a new vicar replaced him, and with his own rather large family, there wasn’t room for me to remain.”

  “You have no family with whom you could have lived?”

  “No, my lord. No one of whom I am aware.”

  How odd. “None at all, Miss Clarke?”

  “None, my lord.”

  The tension in her back and the tone of her voice signaled that Anthony might have ventured into bluntness again. “My apologie
s for the direction of my inquiries, Miss Clarke. I am only trying to understand, and the idea of having no known relatives is baffling to me. One would expect you to be acquainted with grandparents, aunts and uncles, and the like. On either side of your family tree.”

  “My parents rarely raised the subject. I confess I was a curious child, but they only told me they had married for love and had no family to speak of. Eventually I replaced curiosity with resolve not to know, for if these other relations existed, they never wrote, did they? They never came to visit.”

  “Your curiosity was replaced with a sense of loyalty to your parents.”

  “Precisely.”

  It made sense, in a way, and yet Anthony’s own curiosity was piqued now, if hers was not.

  A hare chose that instant to hop out of the trees, and Bucephalus, startled, danced away from it. Anthony pulled Miss Clarke tightly against him, making sure she was secure as he brought the horse under control. He felt the woman suck in her breath and found himself hoping her reaction might at least in part be because of him. It was deuced difficult to have her so close, with those spiky lashes and green eyes peering up at him and her full, rosy lips close enough to reach with his own, and not be affected by it. He may feel broken and haunted, but he wasn’t dead. Lucas had made sure of that.

  And Miss Clarke, sitting before him on his horse, had proven it.

  If Anthony were to guess, he would estimate her to be a half-dozen years younger than his own thirty. She would be considered well and truly on the shelf compared to the scores of debutantes gracing the ballrooms of the London Season.

  He would be traveling to London soon if he was to fulfill his promise to his father. And yet the idea of courting one of those very young, very innocent young ladies he had become used to seeing during the Season before buying his commission made him shudder. How could any one of them ever cope with the man he was now?

  It would have to happen somehow, heaven help him. But thankfully not today.