When a Girl Loves an Earl (Rescued from Ruin Book 5) (7 page)

Yes. She knew. She knew that he intended to marry Mrs. Cumberland, and that he had delayed their union for over a year because he wished to see Viola settled in a marriage of her own before he brought the other woman into their household. He’d assumed a match for Viola would be a simple matter, but as she had explained to him, none of the gentlemen she’d met last season had tempted her in the slightest. So she had asked for a second season, one he had hinted they could ill afford. In his usual indulgent fashion, he had granted her wish.

Now, the time had come to repay his generosity. She could see in his eyes, in the avidness of his inquiry, that Papa—an infinitely patient and kind man—was growing anxious. He wanted her safely married so that she would leave his household and he could marry Mrs. Cumberland and they could live together without her in Cheshire.

A queer, sickly sensation twisted her stomach. Perhaps it was the biscuits.

Straightening her spine, she gave him her prettiest smile and grasped his hand, squeezing her reassurance. “Not to worry, Papa. I understand your dilemma perfectly. And I have found a most promising prospect.”

“Lord Tannenbrook does appear to be a gentleman of great character.”

The knot in her stomach began to loosen. “He is.” She felt her lips curving more naturally, just speaking of him. “The finest of men. Brave. Loyal. Selfless.”

“Well, now, I would never doubt your Inkling, my dear, but have you considered this Mr. Farrington chap? I understand he is as keen for you as a calf for clover. A future baronet—not an earl, mind you, but not bad. Then, there is Lord Reedham’s son. The teeth are a bit unfortunate, but deep pockets compensate for any number of ills, I daresay.”

Again, she smiled as though he’d said something silly. In fact, this was not the first time he’d advised looking elsewhere in her husband hunt. For that matter, he was not the first person to suggest cultivating alternatives—Charlotte had done so only days ago. But, as Viola had explained, her hunt was not for a husband in general. If it had been, she could have landed a duke’s son on the first outing of her first season. No, her hunt was for a
particular
husband. Tannenbrook. Thus far, her Tannenbrook Hunt, as she’d dubbed it, had met with only minor success—an introduction, a handful of “chance” encounters, such as today’s serendipitous meeting. But she had only just begun her pursuit.

“Mark my words, Papa. I shall be Lady Tannenbrook before the leaves begin to fall.”

Papa smiled, his eyes soft and fond. “If that is what you want, then I’ve little doubt. He’d have to be mad to resist you, my beautiful girl.”

*~*~*

CHAPTER FOUR

“Size is not important. Cleverness. Character. These are the qualities one must seek in a … oh, very well. It matters. Are you happy, now?”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Berne after enduring said lady’s unseemly laughter during a discussion of potential matches and desirable attributes.

He was ignoring her. Sitting right there, four chairs away, across the Pennywhistle dining table, he had not looked at her once. Not once.

“Best plan a trip to Angelo’s, Bennett,” Lord Reedham’s son, who sat to her left, sneered at the gentleman on her right. “Your rapier could use some sharpening.”

“Rapier? Perhaps
your
sword is deserving of that description. Mine is more nearly a broadsword, I daresay.”

Viola set her spoon precisely next to her small lump of strawberry trifle and gathered her patience.

They had been at it for the entire meal—two hours of incessant sparring and insufferable boasting with her playing the bone between two dogs. She was tempted to dump the silver tureen of béchamel sauce over both their heads.

I did not wear my new gown for this,
she thought
.
No, she had worn layers of delicately embroidered indigo silk for
him
. Her eyes wandered again across the table to Tannenbrook’s shadowed crags and flexing jaw. Tonight, he wore gray. Dark gray and white. Across those broad shoulders, somehow, the colors were not objectionable in the slightest. But he refused to look at her, casually taking another bite of fish and nodding at something Mrs. Pennywhistle said. Of course, she’d noticed how he had fled from her in the hour before dinner, escaping the drawing room to who-knew-where until she’d been forced to hide behind Charlotte’s tall form to keep him from leaving Pennywhistle House altogether. Thankfully, her quarry had calmed and stayed for the fish and trifle and poorly salted white soup.

“… stalked a stag with a crown at least seven feet in breadth.”

“In Yorkshire. A broad tale, indeed.”

“The trophy is displayed in my father’s library there. Perhaps you will find his descriptions persuasive, as I am certain your hired post-chaise would make Yorkshire a
costly
journey.”

The none-too-subtle jab at Mr. Bennett’s financial difficulties made Viola long for a return of the sword comparison. “Gentlemen, have you contemplated a bout at Mr. Jackson’s boxing saloon? I understand the sport is most refreshing to the spirits.”

Reedham’s greedy eyes settled upon her lips. “Miss Darling, you say the most amusing things. Females are not permitted at Gentleman Jackson’s, of course.”

Bennett took a drink of his wine. “Would that they were. I should like for Miss Darling to witness my victory.”

The two men continued to ignore her by attempting to astound her with ever more florid descriptions of their superior pugilism skills.

She sighed and sipped her own wine, contemplating how best to proceed without Charlotte, since her best friend had disappeared from the Pennywhistle drawing room a half-hour before dinner. According to Mr. Farrington, Charlotte had been summoned by her father, who was visiting from America. While Viola hoped the meeting proved amiable for Charlotte’s sake, she now must substantially revise her plans for the next phase of her Tannenbrook Hunt. Her scheme for this evening required sound timing, a facility with persuasion, and a stomach for mild deception. Charlotte lacked only the latter.

Viola’s second choice of partner, on the other hand, lacked all three. She grimaced as said alternative laughed—nay, brayed—at something Lord Mochrie said, the honking sound carrying the length of the gold-toned room. Grateful not to be seated near enough to hear what passed for Mochrie’s humor, Viola nevertheless leaned forward to glimpse Penelope’s profile. Her cousin was flushed, the tip of her long nose pinkened by wine.

Blast. This plan could prove a disaster.

She examined the men to either side of her. They now sparred behind her head. Next, she looked to Tannenbrook. A warm ache invaded her midsection as she lingered over his shoulders, which must be at least a yard in breadth.
Nothing for it. I must speak with him alone, and I cannot very well visit him at his residence.
“Penelope it is,” she muttered beneath her breath.

“Beg your pardon, Miss Darling?” inquired Mr. Bennett.

“I heard your dulcet voice, Miss Darling, but I fear the words did not register in my ears,” echoed the Reedham heir.

She gave them each a smile as false as their flattery. “How refreshing it is to taste strawberries this early in the season.”

Thereafter, the two men vied to establish which of them possessed a superior understanding of glass houses and fruit cultivation.

For her part, Viola sipped her wine and plotted, gazing upon her future husband with growing relish.

*~*~*

“Take the thoroughbred foal, Tannenbrook. I insist.” Lord Wallingham took a swig of his port. “It is the least I can do.”

James frowned. “Is Lady Willoughby—”

“Furious with me.” The flat line of the older man’s mouth curved wryly. “Not for the first time. But she is safe and well, apart from the fright, and I have you to thank.”

“No need to thank me. I am gratified all ended well.”

“I shall have the foal delivered to your stable.”

Raising a brow at the man’s presumption, James began to suspect Charles Bainbridge resembled his mother in more than intellect, although his quiet mien certainly gave no indication of it. “If you are determined to offer a reward, I would ask instead a favor.”

Wallingham frowned. “Whatever you require.”

“Intervene on my behalf with Lady Wallingham.”

“Except that.”

Now, both of James’s brows rose.

“Waste of time. My mother will not heed a word I say. Take the foal, Tannenbrook. Trust me on this.” The other man’s matter-of-fact delivery spoke far more eloquently than his words.

Sighing, James finished his own port and placed the glass on a nearby tray. “I feared as much. Apologies, Wallingham, but having negotiated with her for months now, I am perplexed as to how a man might change her course.”

Wallingham set his glass next to James’s and gave a nod of deep resignation. “As are we all. Whatever her course, she believes it is right and just and best. Attempting to persuade her otherwise will only end in abject frustration.”

“How do you manage?” James did not intend insult—he was genuinely impressed.

Wallingham shrugged. “Avoidance, primarily.”

Just then, Mr. Pennywhistle announced it was time to rejoin the ladies. Wallingham followed James out of the library toward the drawing room, continuing their conversation as they traversed the corridor. “What sort of bind does she have you in?” Wallingham asked.

“She has a contact in America who may be able to help me locate my current heir. The contact will correspond only with her.”

“What has she demanded of you?”

James felt the scowl descend upon his face. He nodded to indicate their surroundings—the Pennywhistle drawing room, white-walled and glittering with candlelight. “That I be here, among other things. She wishes me to mingle among the husband-hunting set for the entirety of the season.”

“Ah, yes. Has you dancing upon her strings, I expect. My condolences. I fear you may be reaping what I have sown. My mother has made it her life’s purpose to force me to remarry and do my procreative duty, as is proper for all titled gentlemen. My resistance has no doubt placed you keenly in her sights.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Only because you do not think like her. If she can force you to bend to convention—and to her will—then it is a victory for her argument.” Wallingham chuckled, the sound surprisingly affectionate. “She has turned meddling into a perfectible craft. Impressive, really, even when one is the target of such … determination.”

The comment made James think of another determined female. One with moonlight skin and midnight hair who simply refused to alter her course. He had seen her earlier, flitting about the drawing room, laughing and charming her flock of dandified admirers. She had not yet approached him, but he suspected he’d only been granted a brief reprieve.

“Here now, Tannenbrook, it is not as bad as all that,” Wallingham smiled his sympathy. “Rest assured, my mother won’t kill you. You’ll simply be miserable for a time. Then, she will fulfill her side of the agreement and deliver what you asked. Endurance. Patience. These will keep you sane.”

“Really.”

“Well, not sane, precisely.” Wallingham’s wry wit reminded James of the dowager. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, given that she had birthed the man. Eyes with the same sharp intelligence gave him an assessing glance. “I shall inform her that you saved her only son’s life. It won’t win you surcease from the marriage mart, but she may look more kindly upon you, which will make your misery moderately less pleasurable to her.”

James huffed out a laugh. “You are too generous.”

During their conversation, James had managed for several brief intervals to forget about the tiny, too-lovely thorn in his side. But the respite lasted only until he spotted the thorn’s cousin approaching. The pearls laced through Penelope’s curls swung oddly against her cheek, adding a comical element to the young woman’s equine features. He nodded stiffly. “Miss Darling.”

“Lord Tannenbrook. And Lord Wallingham! My, I do hope you have recovered after—”

“I am well, Miss Darling. Thank you. Won’t you excuse me? I see a gentleman I must speak to about a horse.”

“Oh, I … yes. A pleasure.” She turned to James and blinked. She was taller than Viola, more square and brown. Red stained her cheeks and the tip of her nose. Too much wine, perhaps? “Lord Tannenbrook, thank heavens I found you.”

“If you had not, I might have recommended spectacles.”

Slowly, the girl blinked. The perceptive spark he was accustomed to seeing in the other Miss Darling’s gaze was entirely lacking. “Spectacles?” she murmured searchingly.

Probably best to forge on,
he decided. “Why are you glad to have found me?”

“You are the tallest man here. And I have a peculiar circumstance for which I must beg your kind assistance.” She spoke slowly, pausing and lingering over each word as though she’d memorized the sentences. At the end, she nodded, sending those pearl loops swinging against her cheek.

“What is the circumstance?” He asked only because he wished to know how Penelope might explain a request that had obviously originated from Viola.

“A glove.”

He waited.

“Upon a tree limb. A
high
tree limb. In the garden. Outside.”

He glanced pointedly at her two gloved hands.

She followed his gaze, waggling her fingers experimentally. Her flush deepened. “Not
my
glove. A—a friend went out to the terrace for a bit of air after dinner. She was donning her gloves when the wind took one of them and landed it upon the limb. The tree overhangs the balustrade …” She swallowed upon seeing his expression. “Yes, you probably know. Naturally, we attempted to retrieve the glove, but to no avail.”

“Miss Darling.”

“Yes?”

“What precisely does Miss Viola wish me to do?”

Penelope’s mouth formed an O.

It was not her fault. Viola was a gale-force wind when she’d set her mind to something. Now, he decided, it was time to inform her in no uncertain terms that her pursuit had grown tiresome and, further, that she was wasting her time because, most emphatically, he would never marry her.

“She—she wants you to speak with her alone. She is w-waiting beneath the tree. Downstairs. Outside. In the garden.”

“Very well,” he gritted. “Come. You shall accompany me.”

“Oh, but I was told my part would be finished—”

He gently placed her hand upon his arm and waved her forward. “Nonsense. We shall need you there to ensure there are no improprieties.”

“My mother—”

He nodded to a chair in the corner. “Is sleeping.”

“Oh.”

In the end, Penelope conceded. Considering she was unmarried, he ran a risk in choosing her as their chaperone. But despite the girl’s dull wit, she would not taint her family’s reputation by allowing Viola to generate a scandal, for Lord Mochrie would cry off their match before the moon had set on this night.

They entered the garden from the Pennywhistle parlor on the ground floor. The wind was still gusting as it had earlier, rustling the new leaves of a small ash tree. The trunk rose from a garden bed surrounded by a low stone wall.

He looked at the sky, cursing the dark clouds that always seemed to shroud London. What he wouldn’t give to return to Derbyshire, to look up and see stars rather than smoke. Squinting up through the branches, he saw that Viola had, indeed, managed to toss her glove onto a limb. She’d chosen carefully, making it too far from the edge of the upper terrace to reach and too high to retrieve from the ground.