When a Girl Loves an Earl (Rescued from Ruin Book 5) (5 page)

Eyes of deep, coniferous green gleamed knowingly. “Am I?”

Her lips pursed on a smile. “Perhaps I am merely the curious sort.”

“I think you desire that which you perceive to be unattainable.”

“Miles and miles,” she murmured, largely because she had no better answer. He was not wrong.

“As you are Miss Lancaster’s friend, I shall offer this advice: Flirtation for a woman of your beauty is a dangerous game, doubly so when one’s chaperone prefers napping to minding her charge.”

“You think me beautiful?”

He sighed. Straightened away from her. “I knew I should not attend this evening,” he muttered, his gaze drifting up past her head to the other side of the room, his jaw flexing. “No good can come of it.”

She disliked seeing his focus wander away. How could she persuade him of their obvious affinity if he did not look at her? “I beg to differ. In the unlikely event that Lady Reedham has managed to keep her third French cook, I expect you shall have an excellent meal. That is one good thing, is it not?”

Ah, yes. That did it. His eyes returned to her, both exasperated and amused. “Aye. A good meal is a good thing.”

“There you have it. Of course, if her cook has departed, we may be subject to an evening of dreadful music. You must brace for that eventuality.”

“Do you always chatter on this way?”

“Only when I wish to converse with someone who interests me.” She tilted her head in mock inquiry. “I could teach you, if you wish.”

He snorted. “No. Thank you.”

She raised her brows. “Really, conversation, when done well, can be most … stimulating.”

Perhaps she had pushed too hard, for his green eyes narrowed and his massive arms crossed. “Miss Darling.”

“Yes?”

“I suggest you find your chaperone and remain at her side, come what may.”

“Are you concerned for my virtue, Lord Tannenbrook?”

He leaned forward to murmur close to her ear. “No, lass. For mine.”

When he withdrew and strode away, his gargantuan shoulders creating their own path through the throng along one wall, she could only stand like a dizzy goose, breathless and swaying on her feet. He smelled heavenly, like the pines around the lake near her home in Cheshire. And he
was
warm. As warm as a great hearth. Having his breath so near her cheek had sent gooseflesh shimmying over her skin.

She’d never felt the like.

She wanted him. James Kilbrenner, the Earl of Tannenbrook. She wanted him as she’d never wanted another thing. Ever. This was more than the Inkling. This was destiny.

And he would be hers, she decided, still struggling for breath, her gloved hand brushing the side of her neck where she’d felt his words slide over her skin.

One way or another, he would be hers.

*~*~*

CHAPTER THREE

“Ah, yes. How swiftly ‘daring’ becomes ‘foolhardy’ when one recklessly abandons all good judgment to gain favor with the object of one’s affection.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her son, Charles, upon learning of another disastrous outing involving a malfunctioning carriage, unruly weather, and a certain widow.

“A little advice, James,” said James Kilbrenner’s best friend as an unruly gust of wind attempted to unseat them from their mounts and topple them onto the gravel-and-tan of Rotten Row. “Avoid swearing that you will never marry. It only invites the fates to laugh and plot your comeuppance.”

James grunted at Lucien Wyatt, who spoke from experience. After Lucien’s unlikely marriage to the sister of the man who had shot Gregory in a duel, Lucien was well acquainted with the perversions of fate. First, he had inherited his brother’s title. Then, he had plotted revenge. Then, he had promptly fallen in love with the instrument of his vengeance, Victoria Lacey.

James had remarked often that it was a good thing Victoria was the forgiving sort. Lucien always agreed.

James now cast his friend a sidelong glance, noting the contentment on the too-handsome features, etched there permanently by Victoria’s gentle hand. “Marriage has served you well, Luc, I surely cannot deny it.”

Lucien raised a brow and navigated past an aged man who had stopped in the middle of the path to retrieve his windblown hat. “But?”

Shifting in his saddle, James sighed. “It is not for me. You know I have my reasons.”

Lucien had been present the day James had returned to his mother’s cottage after seeing his son’s grave. Never again could he endure such pain. And if he avoided marriage, then he would not have to. In James’s estimation, the logic could not be simpler.

“You realize your title and the care of Shankwood Hall may only pass to your heir, yes?”

James shot him a glance. “Why do you suppose I am in London for the season?”

“Not to find a wife, clearly.”

“No. Because
she
demands that I participate. Wretched old woman.”

Lucien’s lips twitched. “Remind me again why you are permitting Lady Wallingham to lead you about like a prized ox through the marriage mart?”

This time, James’s grunt was one of frustration. “Gates has reached a standstill with his inquiries. Lady Wallingham is the only known link to the grandmother of my heir presumptive. She refuses to contact the woman until I meet her demands.”

Indeed, James had only learned that he had an heir presumptive two years prior, when Hargrave had died. James still mourned his longtime solicitor, who first had been his guardian in all estate matters until he’d reached his majority, then had been his advisor and friend. He missed the man as he would a father.

Yet for years, Hargrave had misled him, insisting no other line of the Kilbrenner family remained to inherit the Tannenbrook title and take charge of Shankwood Hall. James could only guess that, much like Lady Wallingham, Hargrave had wished to force him to accept his duty to marry and procreate—a duty to which he’d been decidedly resistant.

But upon hiring his new solicitor, Mr. Gates, James had learned of a distant cousin from a branch of the family that had settled in America. According to Gates’s research, James’s great-uncle, Robert Kilbrenner, had married an Englishwoman named Ann-Marie Roxham before leaving Scotland to work as a printer in Philadelphia. Robert and Ann-Marie’s grandson, Elijah Kilbrenner, would inherit both title and estate if James failed to marry and beget a legitimate heir.

Providing the man was alive. Reports were conflicting in that regard.

“I assume you have attempted to contact your heir’s grandmother, yourself,” said Lucien, brushing a wayward seedpod from his shoulder and tipping his hat at a pair of elderly women in a passing landau. The women fluttered and blushed as though they were thirty years younger.

“She refuses to answer anyone except Lady Wallingham. Apparently, they have shared a correspondence since they were girls. Lady Wallingham claims Ann-Marie Kilbrenner is her ‘source inside the Colonies,’ and she does not wish to press her and risk the connection.” James paused while another gust blew a leaf past his nose. “Which is perfect rot, but I cannot find a better option. According to Gates, Ann-Marie’s son remained a British loyalist throughout the American rebellion, returning to England after the war. Gates has determined that while the parents appear to have perished in a house fire, it is unclear what became of Elijah Kilbrenner. All traces of the boy disappear around that time.”

“Mmm. Uncommon name, Kilbrenner,” Lucien observed. “I assume he either changed it or—”

“Or he is dead.” James tightened his jaw. “Yes, it has occurred to me. Hargrave may have known, but I’ve found only vague references to a living heir in his papers. Unless Gates discovers some new revelation, Lady Wallingham is my only conduit to the truth.”

Lucien snorted. “You do not wish to be beholden to the dragon. Trust me on this.”

“There is nothing for it.”

“You could reconsider—”

“No.”

“Come now, marriage can be delightful with the right—”

“No.”

“—woman. Imagine having one at your disposal, managing your household, seeing to your comfort, legally bound to obey you.”

James shook his head. “Victoria obeys you, eh?”

“Victoria is different.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“She is less a woman and more an angel. Divine creatures do not adhere to earthly rules.”

Unbidden, a face appeared in James’s mind. Not the gentle, even features of Victoria Wyatt, but a vision of pure ivory skin, black-lashed eyes as blue as twilight, a nose so tiny it was but a whisper, and lips as sweetly curved as flower petals. He had never imagined such beauty existed. Until two weeks ago, when it had sparkled up at him, glimmering with mischief and fascination, glowing like a gem warmed by moonlight.

And, of course, at every gathering he had attended since, the daft woman had pursued him with intractable persistence and a concerning lack of caution.

“Leave off,” he grumbled now, perturbed that she had intruded on his thoughts again. She was a flirtatious fribble, a tiny sprite he could crush with one careless hand. Even if he had desired a wife—which he did
not
—she was the last woman he’d choose.

Lucien chuckled. “Very well, no more talk of marriage. For now. Incidentally, what has brought you so readily to the toilsome task of locating your heir? You are in excellent health if your bout at Gentleman Jackson’s is any indication.”

Silence fell between them for long minutes, the only sounds the clop of hooves upon gravel, the chatter of passersby, and the relentless rush of wind through newly sprung leaves.

Lucien clicked his tongue. “No answer. This is dire, indeed. Is there a murderous plot afoot? Someone has, at long last, tired of your surly ways and weighty brow. Or perhaps has grown resentful of your general intransigence.” He sighed theatrically and shook his head. “It was bound to happen. I would guess Gibbons.”

James glowered. “My valet?”

“He has the patience of a saint, unquestionably, but every man has limits. Merely stuffing those gargantuan feet of yours into boots each morning would send anyone into fits of madness. Say nothing of tying a cravat ’round that thick neck.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Gibbons and I get on quite well.”

“Your tailor, then?”

“Nobody is aiming to murder me, ye daft sod.”

Lucien’s glance was half sardonic amusement, half concern. “Then, what is it?”

He did not wish to say. It would only serve to reopen Lucien’s old wounds. But Luc’s dark gaze would not leave him, rocking in time with his horse. James squeezed his reins tighter before deliberately loosening his fists. “Gregory.”

Lucien’s eyes shadowed and flattened. He turned to glance ahead for a moment then gave a single nod.

Gregory had been Lucien’s brother and James’s friend. More than that, he’d been honorable through and through. James had stood at his side the day of the duel. He had watched the Duke of Blackmore put a ball through a good man’s heart from forty paces.

He shifted in his saddle, pushing past the memory to continue explaining the nature of his urgency. “My father died of injuries caused by a fire. Hargrave died of a lung complaint.” He blew out a breath and gestured to the path before them. “Bloody hell, I could have died right here last winter.”

Lucien grimaced. “It would take more than a scurrilous knife attack by a pair of brigands to kill you. I’d wager their bells are still ringing.”

“Perhaps. But my duty is to those who depend upon me. I cannot leave matters unsettled.”

Shooting James a considering glance, Lucien opened his mouth to speak, but a commotion from behind them had them twisting in their seats. It was a phaeton, speeding recklessly toward their position. A dark-coated gentleman and a bonneted female sat on the high-perch driving bench, the man struggling to regain control and the woman keening her distress and gripping the man’s arm.

Swiftly redirecting his horse nearer the wooden fence bordering the Row, James squinted to get a view of the driver’s face. His eyes widened as recognition settled in.

“It’s Wallingham.” Lucien had fallen in behind James on his own mount. “What the devil?”

The driver was Charles Bainbridge, the Marquess of Wallingham—Lady Wallingham’s son. James shared Luc’s incredulity. Lord Wallingham was among the foremost horsemen of the aristocracy. His stable was legendary, his skills as a driver nonpareil. In his youth, the man had co-founded one of the most exclusive driving clubs in London. Further, his air of quiet dignity and competence virtually precluded any act of recklessness—of which losing control of one’s high-perch phaeton on Rotten Row whilst accompanied by a frightened female constituted a perfect example.

“He lost hold of the reins,” James called to Lucien as the carriage careened toward their position. The pair of white horses galloped as though they’d been bit, eyes rolling, reins dragging and whipping as they skipped along the horses’ flanks and grappling legs.

Above the escalating clatter of wheels and hooves, warnings from Wallingham, cries of distress from his companion, and exclamations from other riders fleeing the carriage’s course, James shouted to Luc, “We must slow them!”

Nudging his own horse forward, he pointed to indicate Luc should take the right side then accelerated to match the pace of the approaching carriage. Soon, the phaeton pulled between them, the white pair heaving and pounding as though the devil himself were waving a torch at their backsides. Eyeing the path ahead and the pace of the horses, calculating that he had perhaps thirty seconds to slow the vehicle before it careened into a sedate barouche, James inched his mount closer, patting the animal’s neck to reassure him as they drew within feet of the frightened carriage horses. He levered carefully up in the stirrups, steadying himself with a hand on the pommel, then reached across to the mid-back of the carriage horse, taking pains not to frighten it further. Slowly, he reached out, brushing the rein terret with gloved fingers. Light leather reins flicked and slid through the metal loop. The horse shied, its pace faltering for one heart-stopping moment.

“Bluidy hell,” he muttered before edging close once again, repositioning himself until, at last, his fingers slid between hard metal and writhing leather, taking the strings in his fist.

“James! You have it?” shouted Lucien.

“Aye! Slow them easy, beginning now!”

Simultaneously, he and Lucien tugged the reins. James focused on slowing both the phaeton and his own mount, balancing his weight in the saddle to maintain his seat. The pounding pace of all four horses eased gradually to a walk and, finally, a stop. The barouche sat a mere thirty yards away.

“Tannenbrook. Atherbourne,” uttered a pale but otherwise remarkably calm Wallingham. “I am in your debt.”

Lucien’s half-grin was wry, his breathing still fast from the sudden sprint. “We accept payment in horseflesh, Wallingham.”

“Done.”

Laughing, Lucien shook his head. “A jest, my good man.” He nodded toward James. “Tannenbrook here has a penchant for heroics.”

Frowning at his best friend, James touched the brim of his hat and nodded to the pair. “It is reward enough to see you and your companion are safe.”

Wallingham’s companion, an attractive blonde whose bloodless lips currently matched her lavender pelisse, shrugged against the comforting arm wrapped around her slim shoulders. While Wallingham did not release her, he did introduce her. “Gentlemen, may I present Lady Willoughby.” James watched Wallingham’s gloved hand squeeze her upper arm gently, as though willing her to remain calm. “Our rescuers are Lord Tannenbrook and Lord Atherbourne.”

As he moved to return the reins to Wallingham, James noted the man’s hat had flown off in the melee, exposing a full head of dark hair dusted with white at the temples. The hair reminded him of Hargrave, but the nose reminded him of Gregory, long and prominent with a slight hook at the end.

“Th-thank you both,” Lady Willoughby panted, her eyes darting frantically between them. “You saved our lives.” Obviously, the woman was still frightened out of her wits.