Her Christmas Earl (6 page)

“A likely story,” Sir Theodore sneered. “Even if it’s true, that doesn’t explain her presence in your bedamned bedroom.”

“Uncle, I had good reason for being here,” Philippa said shakily.

“Apart from brazen stupidity, I can’t think what,” her uncle retorted.

In silent pleading, Philippa’s eyes fastened on Amelia. Erskine wasn’t remotely surprised when Amelia failed to come to the rescue. Philippa, of course, was too honorable to tell tales. Odd how well he knew her, but he believed to his bones that she wouldn’t betray her sister.

Although, to give Amelia the little credit she deserved, what was the point of confessing to the letter? Her lapse would only compound the scandal of her sister caught in a rake’s bedroom.

Sir Theodore looked ready to explode. “I’m the closest thing that the brainless chit has to a father. I can’t let this insult go unchallenged.”

God above, could this get any worse? With every moment, Erskine found less room for maneuver. He had no intention of shooting Sir Theodore. The man was at least thirty years his senior. And if Erskine was any judge of men, the plump baronet had devoted most of those thirty years to drinking. The fellow couldn’t hit a bull elephant at five paces.

With a horror that this time looked genuine, Mrs. Sanders abruptly ceased bawling and stared aghast at her brother. “Theodore, don’t be a fool. In a duel, Erskine will make mincemeat of you.”

The wrong thing to say. Tact apparently didn’t run in Philippa’s family. Tact or good sense. Which was a sodding pity, considering Erskine’s likely future.

Sir Theodore puffed up. “This is all your fault. You’ve let these girls run wild, Barbara. Although I always thought Philippa had a scrap of sense, unlike that twit Amelia.”

“Uncle!” Amelia spluttered. “At least nobody’s ever found me in a man’s room after midnight.”

Only for want of opportunity, Erskine felt like saying, remembering her letter. The problem was that hardened, selfish little flirts like Amelia kept an eye to their own advantage and rarely faced the consequences of their behavior. It was innocents like Philippa who were always caught out.

This had gone far enough. He drew himself up to his full height and shot a speaking glance at Mills. “We’ve provided enough Yuletide entertainment for your guests, Sir Theodore.”

Erskine raised supercilious eyebrows at the louts in the doorway. He’d perfected the look years ago to squash the pretensions of social-climbing mushrooms. As usual, it succeeded. The boisterous young bucks shuffled back muttering.

At a nod from Erskine, Mills closed the door and stood at the entrance like a tall, thin gatekeeper.

That left Philippa, Amelia, Mrs. Sanders and Sir Theodore. A more manageable group, although Erskine wasn’t deceived about his cronies’ discretion. The events of this Christmas Eve would be general gossip in London before the day was out.

“Much better,” he said calmly. There had been quite enough theatricals. “Sir Theodore, may I get you a brandy?”

The older man nodded, then frowned as though disappointed that the high drama descended into something resembling a family meeting. Even Mrs. Sanders seemed less inclined to histrionics, although her eyes retained their beady, acquisitive light.

“Just what do you intend to do about my little girl?” she asked, her show of concern for Philippa too late to convince. “She’s ruined.”

Mills shifted from the door—Erskine’s dismissal had succeeded, the threat of invasion had faded. The valet moved to the sideboard and poured generous brandies for Sir Theodore and his master. Then after a considering glance at Mrs. Sanders, one for that lady.

Erskine stepped next to Philippa and once more took her small, cold hand in his. His deliberately ostentatious gesture wouldn’t be lost on her mother and uncle. Or her sister.

Ignoring Philippa’s frantic attempts to pull away, he straightened and spoke words that yesterday hadn’t been on his horizon. “Sir Theodore, would you honor me with your niece’s hand in marriage?”

FOR PHILIPPA, THE next four days became a nightmare from which she couldn’t wake. She felt like a ghost in her uncle’s house. Or like a prisoner in a dungeon. Again and again, she protested that under no circumstances would she marry Lord Erskine, yet still arrangements proceeded for the hurried wedding.

Why should her mother change a lifetime’s habit and listen to her now? The triumph of capturing the elusive Scottish earl for her daughter made her mother deafer than usual to common sense. Not that her triumph was untrammeled joy. Even as she prodded at Philippa to show some enthusiasm for this ill-judged match, she bewailed the fact that Lord Erskine had chosen the wrong daughter. How it irked her that the beautiful older sister would become a mere Mrs., while plain little Philippa joined the ranks of the aristocracy.

Amelia’s reaction to the engagement was no surprise either, which made it no more pleasant to endure. Like their mother, she was convinced that Philippa had engineered this awful mess. In Amelia’s mind, Lord Erskine had been ready to steal her away from her betrothed. Only Philippa’s spite had stymied that glorious outcome. As a result, Amelia retreated into a seething silence that Philippa correctly diagnosed as a first-class sulk. Even Mr. Fox noticed that his chosen bride had been elated on Christmas Eve and noticeably downcast and snappish since—and nobody would describe him as the most perceptive of men.

The only blessing in the whole miserable situation was that, thanks to the almighty scandal, all guests not directly linked to the family had departed the house by Christmas night. Unfortunately that left Philippa with her betrothed, her vile cousin Caroline, her sullen sister, a mother who ignored her every plea, and an aunt and uncle never much interested in her, who now treated her like she carried a contagious disease. Mr. Fox was kind but a stranger, and he’d taken to retreating into the smoking room to avoid his grumpy fiancée.

Philippa tried to warn her sister about her behavior toward Mr. Fox and got no thanks for her trouble. After that, she decided to let Amelia stew. Philippa had problems of her own. It was all very well knowing that she was blameless—she refused to feel guilty for enjoying Erskine’s kisses. He was a notable rake; he could probably make a saint kiss him back. But when the world viewed her as a scarlet woman, and, more galling, an overweening social climber, it became difficult to hold her head high.

Gossip had spread horrifically quickly. Even three days later, she shuddered to recall the ordeal of church on Christmas morning. She’d pretended not to hear the whispers from pew to pew when the Sanders and Liddell families arrived for the service. Under the avid stares, Philippa had wanted to curl up and die. She didn’t like being the center of attention, particularly attention bristling with malice and disapproval.

It irked her that Lord Erskine had taken his new circumstances in his stride. On Christmas morning, he’d been so cool under fire that she’d wanted to skin him alive. Almost as much as she wanted to skin him for setting this marriage in train without asking her first.

She’d been right all along. He was an arrogant swine.

Trapped in that dark dressing room, she’d wondered if he was a better man than she’d thought. And despite everything that had happened since, she’d never deny how marvelous his kisses were. Those moments in his arms had been astonishing, a rapturous experience that would fuel her dreams.

But by daylight, Lord Erskine had returned to the supercilious creature she’d so disliked. And she was sick to death of the world acting as if in marrying him, she won some wonderful and completely undeserved prize. Just as she was sick of the pity and surprise directed at Erskine when people heard of his sudden engagement.

Nobody apart from her mother and Amelia had the nerve to say it aloud, but Philippa knew that everyone thought such a plain girl was lucky to capture this rich, handsome man. The sly glances silently congratulating her on her clever game were almost worse than the pity.

Generally Philippa prided herself on her self-control. In her family, only her calmness and cool reason held their fragile world steady. Right now, she was ready to scream and throw china and slam doors like the most spoiled debutante. After four days of playing Lord Erskine’s inadequate bride, she burned to end this horrible farce.

But devil take the man, despite a heavy fall of snow, he’d left for London on Boxing Day and she hadn’t seen him since. It was enough to make even the most complacent woman want to smash something. Preferably Blair Hume’s thick skull.

His absence meant that she was yet to share her plan for their mutual rescue. He’d written to her uncle since reaching London, she knew. Only because Sir Theodore, who spoke to her almost as rarely as Amelia did, had informed her at last night’s dinner that Lord Erskine was expected back today, with the wedding to take place the following morning. The dizzying speed of events left Philippa queasy with helplessness. This was like being tied to the back of a runaway horse.

Well, this afternoon, the runaway horse submitted to the bridle. Philippa heard the quick, confident step approaching through the barren woodland behind the Chinese summerhouse. On wobbly legs, she rose from the wooden bench outside.

“My lord,” she said flatly as her betrothed turned the corner of the icy gravel path. She curtsied briefly. When she straightened, she huddled into her old black winter coat, several seasons out of date but warm. Thick drifts of snow lay about them and the cold was perishing. “You got my note.”

“Apparently, or I wouldn’t be here,” Lord Erskine said lightly, although his green eyes were watchful. A faint smile twitched his lips and when he spoke, his breath clouded in the chilly air. “And good afternoon to you, Miss Sanders.”

She blushed. She kept forgetting that he wasn’t her enemy. He was a victim, too. She supposed a real fiancée would inquire after his health, ask about his journey. But of course, she was only the girl he’d been cornered into marrying. “Good afternoon.”

He smiled fully and despite her determination to end this travesty, her foolish heart skipped a beat. He really was a spectacular man. “Is this meeting wise?”

Wise? She suppressed a hollow laugh. She’d moved beyond reach of anything resembling wisdom. Desperation had driven her to ask Mills to deliver the note requesting a private conversation. Over the last days, she’d come to approve of Mills. Nothing seemed to disconcert him and he treated her with a sincere respect that she’d encountered nowhere else since Christmas Eve.

“My reputation couldn’t get any worse,” she said morosely, rubbing her gloved hands together to warm them.

Erskine’s amusement drained away, leaving deep concern in its place. “Has it been bad?”

This time the hollow laugh escaped. “How long have you got?”

“I’m sorry, Philippa. I left you in a damned spot, but I had to get the special license. The sooner we’re wed, the better for everyone.” He didn’t sound like the haughty rake she loathed. He sounded like the man who had been unfailingly good-natured sharing a cupboard with a woman he’d never have chosen as companion. The man she’d kissed so ardently.

His apology soothed her resentment, although she’d spent the last four days cursing his high-handedness. She stifled a complaint about him calling her Philippa. After all, if their marriage took place, he’d have rights to much more than the use of her Christian name.

She met his eyes, then wished she hadn’t. If he’d been lethal to her common sense in the dark, here lit with gold in the late sun, he was devastating. He was dressed for the country in buff breeches and a dark blue coat that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and his height. His thick dark hair was disheveled as though he’d recently run his hand through it.

“That’s…that’s what I want to talk about.” She wished she sounded more confident. But something in the way he studied her reminded her of his discomfiting kisses.

He watched her as though he guessed how unhappy and confused she’d been. “I know you’re worried—”

She spoke quickly. “Can we go into the summerhouse? It’s freezing, and I feel exposed out here.” If anyone reported her meeting Lord Erskine, it would only add fuel to the catty gossip about her brazenness.

“Very well.” He gestured for her to precede him up the shallow flight of stairs into the wooden pagoda. Even when determined to dislike him, she’d noted Lord Erskine’s perfect manners.

He paused in the doorway as she subsided onto the red lacquer bench running around the room. The building, cleared of furniture and fabrics, felt cavernous and cold. She’d chosen this place for its seclusion. She wanted a frank and uninterrupted discussion. Only now as she looked up at Lord Erskine’s shadowed face did she question that decision. Something about the isolation and the pretty, empty room suggested a lovers’ rendezvous.

The last impression she wanted to convey.

“Please sit down,” she said shakily, staring down to where her hands twined together in her lap. It wasn’t much warmer inside than it had been outside. “I’m sure you know why I asked you to meet me.”

He stepped into the summerhouse, sitting beside her but not, she noted with relief, too close. “I’m hoping it’s because you want more kisses.”