I Love the Earl (3 page)

“How do you know?” Margaret was torn between looking for Miss Cuthbert and leaving, and hearing all the scandalous gossip about the men who swarmed her. This was an alluring proposition. Miss Cuthbert would hardly reveal a man’s objectionable side unless it was related to his station or connections.

“When you’re unwanted, hardly anyone notices you,” said Clarissa with brutal candor. “I hear everything, and no one minds because I’m no one of importance.” She nodded toward Viscount Aston, who had kissed Margaret’s hand the other night and complimented her fine eyes. “
He
once told Freddie I had the face of a bulldog and the mind of a goose. I suppose even the geese in London know he has the French pox. Any time a gentleman resorts to cosmetics, suspect the pox.”

“Oh.” Margaret tried not to wipe her hand on her skirts. She took one look down at the pale pink silk, embroidered with silver rosettes on the stomacher and underskirt, and the urge passed. This gown was her favorite, and even if it were not, the silk alone had cost seventy pounds. It was as much as she’d spent on clothing in a year, before Francis inherited. “My companion neglected to offer that advice.”

“Well, she probably considers him eligible. A very old title, you know, and a beautiful estate.”

“He must be in want of money,” said Margaret, eyes fixed straight ahead. “Everyone presented to me is.”

Clarissa laughed, a full jolly sound. “I can’t think of more than four or five peers who aren’t! And one of them is your brother. Even those with a healthy income would always welcome more, and the easiest way to get it is to marry it.” She inhaled sharply. “But no one is more in want than
he
.”

Margaret followed her new friend’s gaze, which had grown alert and intense. As soon as she found the focus of Clarissa’s interest, though, it was apparent why. The man across the room was like a shade of night come into the glittering ballroom. He wore a suit of dark blue, which only made his swarthy skin darker above the white ruffle of his linen. His hair was brushed back and neatly queued, but unpowdered; a dark blot among all the wigs and powdered coiffures around him. His profile was strong, even fierce, with a sharp blade of a nose and a square chin. He smiled at something his companion said, and a slash of dimple appeared in his cheek. He looked like she had always imagined the Barbary pirates might, which was both fascinating and alarming.

“Who is he?” she whispered.

Without taking her eyes from him, Clarissa leaned closer. “The Earl of Dowling. He’s utterly ruined; a flood swept away all his sheep, or some such thing, although how a man can be ruined by dead sheep, I’m sure I don’t know. Oh, I hate to say it, but he’s looking this way.” She turned to Margaret and grasped her hand. “Of course you don’t know me, but I would recommend great care with him. He is certainly looking for a wealthy bride, but he’s a bit untamed. One of those Welsh, you know.”

Margaret’s jaw firmed. That was all she needed to know. Lord Dowling was indeed watching her with a possessive expression as he wound his way through the crowd toward her. In her younger years, as a hopeful, somewhat naive, young lady, she would have been tongue-tied with excitement at the approach of such a man. Tonight she felt her patience fray and finally snap. What a lark, that a man as handsome as sin itself would be strolling toward her with purposeful intent. She’d had enough of fortune hunters. Francis could keep his money, and Miss Cuthbert could find another victim for her machinations.

He came to a halt in front of her. Another man was with him, unnoticed until now, but he stepped forward and bowed with a great flourish. “Miss Stacpoole,” he said to Clarissa with a wide smile. “How delightful to see you again.”

“I would wholeheartedly repay your compliment, sir, if we had ever met before,” said Clarissa, much to Margaret’s hidden glee.

A flicker of consternation crossed the fellow’s face. Margaret could tell he was a Society fribble of the highest order, possibly even one of what Miss Cuthbert disparagingly called “those macaronis,” from his glittering shoe buckles to the exquisite lace that tumbled over his hands at his cuffs. The embroidery on his waistcoat alone put her beautiful new gown to shame. “Have we not met? Surely I could not have imagined it. I distinctly recall congratulating Mr. Eccleston on his betrothal to you, and toasting your upcoming marriage.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Clarissa. “You know Freddie? Well, that is near enough to knowing me. How do you do, sir?”

“Very well,” said the man with a mixture of relief and amusement. “I am Lord Clyveden. But I have brought my friend, Lord Dowling, who most particularly wished to be presented to you and your companion.”

Lord Dowling bowed. There was no froth of lace spilling from his cuffs and his shoe buckles were plain, but he drew the eye far more than his glamorous friend. “Good evening,” he said in a slightly raspy voice edged with a trace of accent.

It irked Margaret how much she liked his voice. He even sounded as she imagined a Barbary pirate would sound, just before he ravished a maiden. She lifted her chin and nodded regally to him. Miss Cuthbert would probably expire in despair that she hadn’t risen and given a proper curtsey to an earl, but she was beyond caring. And where was Miss Cuthbert anyway? How long did it take to summon the bloody carriage?

“May I present Miss Margaret de Lacey,” Clarissa was saying. “It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord. Are you also friends with Freddie?”

His gaze hadn’t left Margaret. “I have not the honor, Miss Stacpoole,” he replied. “I confess, I shamelessly forced Clyveden to introduce me so I might beg a dance of Miss de Lacey.”

Her temper, never meek or quiescent, overshot its bounds. He thought she would fall into his penniless grip like an overripe plum. Ten years ago he wouldn’t have noticed her if she’d flung herself naked in front of him. For the first time she realized Francis’s money had reversed the usual positions: Before, she was the item for sale by marriage, and now she was the buyer. She looked him up and down, as one might inspect a horse for sale. “Completely destitute, are you?” she asked coolly.

His face froze, his dark eyes blank with surprise. Lord Clyveden made a strange choking sound. Even Clarissa’s eyes widened. Margaret didn’t care, and over Lord Dowling’s shoulder, she saw Miss Cuthbert returning at last, a worried set to her grim features. She got to her feet, righteously ready to cut one vulture off before he got started. “You’re the third earl to ask me to dance tonight. One trampled my shoes and the other hardly knew the steps, so I don’t think I shall risk a third try. I hear you lost all your sheep, which is very sad for the sheep, but I don’t consider myself a suitable replacement for any flock. My brother told me I shall have my choice of suitors, and I think it only sporting to tell you now that I shan’t choose you, no matter how many people you coerce into presuming upon slight acquaintances with my friends for an introduction. In fact, I have recently decided I won’t marry at all this year, or even next, so unless you have a reserve supply of goats or cows to tide you through a very long and arduous courtship, I suggest you seek your dancing partners among the more available heiresses.”

She turned to her new friend, who regarded her with slack-jawed awe. “Good evening, Clarissa. I hope to see you again soon.” And she turned on her heel and walked away, waving Miss Cuthbert toward the door as she went.

Rhys watched her go. He hadn’t said more than “Good evening” to her, and she tore him to shreds. Her blue eyes blazed with scorn as she looked him over as if he were a maggoty side of beef, and she walked away from him and Clyve without so much as a curt nod of farewell. She strode through the ballroom as regally as any queen, twitching her lavishly embellished skirts from side to side to avoid crushing them, and people fell out of her way with bowed heads. He’d never seen the like.

Lady Charlotte the pursuable heiress was forgotten; so too was any thought of even meeting the other lady on Clyve’s list. Miss de Lacey wasn’t a beautiful, biddable girl. She was something else: a woman of passion and spirit with a sharp, bold wit, and even without forty thousand other charms, Rhys would have felt the pull.

“A reserve supply of goats!” Clyve was almost strangling on his laughter. “Great God! What an introduction!”

“Yes, indeed,” he murmured, his mouth beginning to curl in anticipation. “And by God, she’s the one I want.”

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

M
iss Cuthbert was not pleased she had dismissed the Earl of Dowling, but Margaret said he’d been impertinent and that ended the discussion. She felt a bit of shame impugning the earl when in all fairness he had done no more than ask her to dance, but mostly she was so relieved to have one less avaricious suitor, the feeling was easy to ignore. The entire matter was soon forgotten, as Miss Cuthbert secured an invitation to the Countess of Feithe’s spring garden party. Margaret wasn’t sure it was such a triumph as her companion presented it, since the invitation was really to Francis, but Miss Cuthbert assured her it was one of the finest events in the London Season, and the very cream of society would be in attendance. It was quite astonishing how their lives had changed. She had never met a duke before her brother became one, and now Miss Cuthbert swore she would be presented to three this very day.

Lord Feithe had built an impressive estate on the western edges of town, almost to Chelsea. They went by boat, as it turned out the Durham estate included a small yacht. Margaret caught her brother’s eye as they traveled upriver, but he just grinned and strode off to stand by the helm and direct the captain. Of all the inherited riches and responsibilities of Durham, it was clear Francis liked the yacht best.

“I beg you to remember your dignity today,” said Miss Cuthbert. Her face was as white as the foam plowed up by the bow of the boat, slicing through the murky waters.

Margaret lifted her face to the stiff breeze, keeping her dainty chip bonnet from flying off with one hand. Francis was right about the yacht; she liked it, too. Perhaps if Miss Cuthbert would close her eyes and enjoy the breeze, she wouldn’t look so sickly. “Of course,” she murmured. “When have I forgotten it?”

“This is—this is a very important invitation,” replied the woman with an audible gulp. “One breach of etiquette will mean—mean you are not invited back.”

“I’m only invited because everyone is so wild with curiosity to see Francis. As long as he is unmarried and willing to accompany me, I doubt I shall be in want of invitations.” Margaret glanced at the older woman. “Miss Cuthbert, do sit down. You look quite green.”

“You are too careless,” insisted Miss Cuthbert, clinging stubbornly to the rail. Margaret edged a step away, not wanting to risk her crisp skirts if her companion should become violently ill. “Gentlemen care for more than just a lady’s dowry.”

Margaret faced the breeze and said nothing. Did they truly? Miss Cuthbert meant her demeanor and bearing, her ability to play a proper lady, but Margaret wanted more than that. Did the men she met care for her thoughts, her feelings, her hopes? They certainly hadn’t shown much interest in any part of her before she had a fortune. She didn’t blame Miss Cuthbert, who was only trying to bring her out in society as promised. But she was no longer the starry-eyed girl who longed so fiercely to be sought after, courted, and married. She was old enough to have seen unhappy marriages, contracted with amorous or avaricious speed and repented until death parted them. Living on her brother’s charity was a far sight better than being wed to a man who wanted only her money. Marriage might last a lifetime, but money did not.

“I promise I shall be the very picture of grace and charm,” she said at last. “I shan’t humiliate you, Miss Cuthbert.”

“Do not be ridic—” The boat hit a swell and the prow rose unexpectedly before dropping with a tremendous splash. Margaret caught her breath with excitement at the sudden feeling of lightness inside her, Miss Cuthbert went white and folded herself over the rail, and behind them both Francis laughed.

“An apt preparation for the day’s events, Miss Cuthbert,” he shouted. “I feel quite the same way!”

They reached the landing soon after, and Margaret put her arm around Miss Cuthbert as the poor woman staggered up the stairs to the broad terrace. Once on dry land again she recovered quickly and resumed her air of command, rather unfortunately in Margaret’s opinion. But then, she supposed Miss Cuthbert would force herself off her deathbed to present a good front at Lord Feithe’s famous garden party. In spite of herself she was curious, and even a tiny bit hopeful.

It turned out to be much the same as every other society gathering she had attended, though, with the sole saving grace of being set outside in a lovely park on a beautiful day. Francis, the lout, took one look at the beaming, breathless throng of ladies awaiting his arrival and decamped to the house, no doubt intending to hide away in the smokiest corner until it was time to go. Miss Cuthbert, on the other hand, refused to leave her side, hovering at her elbow and murmuring information about each gentleman’s prospects and family until Margaret had enough. She stared down her companion, announced she was going for a solitary stroll, and slipped out of the garden by dodging into a row of hemlocks.

Outside the confines of the formal garden, it was quiet. Some of the breeze from the river swept up the lawns, and she breathed deeply of it. Up river from London, the air was fresh and crisp, free of the stench of tanneries, slaughterhouses, and sewers. It reminded her of her childhood home, far from London but blessedly devoid of fortune hunters as well.

She strolled along a gravel path, glad for a peaceful walk. Heiresses and sisters of dukes weren’t allowed nearly as much freedom to go out alone as ordinary spinsters were. She wished Clarissa Stacpoole was in attendance, but so far she hadn’t seen her. Clarissa might be impertinent and gossipy, but it was a great deal more interesting to talk to her than to Miss Cuthbert or any of the would-be suitors who trailed after her. Margaret thought of her long-standing friends from Holborn, and felt caught, lonely and isolated, in the chasm between her old life and her new.

Lost in thought, she didn’t see the man on the path until she almost walked into him. She stopped short. “I beg your pardon, sir.”

“Not at all, Miss de Lacey.” He bowed as his voice resonated in her blood. She remembered that voice. It was the poor earl she had verbally thrashed the other night, just for asking her to dance.

Stiffly she dropped a curtsey. “I did not mean to intrude, my lord. Pray excuse me.”

“On the contrary,” he said as she started to go back the way she’d come. “I was hoping to meet you again.” She darted a wary glance at him. He was watching her with darkly amused eyes and a slight smile curving his mouth. The breeze caught the black bow at his nape and fluttered the ends over his broad shoulders. Today he wore lighter colors, a moss green coat of fine wool over an ivory waistcoat and breeches, but it didn’t make him appear any less pirate-like. Perhaps even the contrary. There was something very intriguing about an untamed man in the veneer of a civilized gentleman. “Perhaps this time I might improve your opinion of me.”

Margaret felt again the prickle of discomfort at the way she had abused him. “I’m not in such an ill temper today,” she said. “I must beg your pardon for making light of your sheep tragedy.”

He dipped his head. “Thank you for the condolences.”

She hesitated. “How many died?”

“Almost five thousand head.” She gasped. “It was a flood,” he added. “A sudden torrential rain. They were caught in a valley, and would not run uphill despite the herders’ efforts.”

“And none were saved?”

“Not many. Sheep aren’t the cleverest creatures.” He raised his eyes to the heavens wearily. “Bloody idiots, really.”

She laughed before she could stop herself, and then tried to mask it with a cough as Lord Dowling cocked his head and quirked his lips. “I hope you didn’t expect more of sheep.”

“No. I wish I’d had the benefit earlier of your suggestion to invest in goats or cows.”

“Perhaps you should keep them all out of valleys, just to be safe.”

He laughed. Margaret smiled in reply, then realized what she was doing and wiped it from her face. He was acting so warmly because he wanted to marry an heiress, she reminded herself. “I must return,” she said, her voice stilted. “Your pardon, sir.”

His eyes glinted at her. “So you can suffer the importunate attentions of other destitute gentlemen?”

She raised her chin. “I’m sure it isn’t any of your concern what I intend to do. I was wrong to be so curt the other night, but you and I are strangers still. Good day, my lord.”

“We won’t be strangers for long,” he said with that trace of amusement that irked her so.

“Did you not listen to what I said the other night? My brother has given me the choice.” She couldn’t resist looking him up and down once more, although without the chilly scorn she had managed the first time they met. Had she really been so quick to dismiss such a dangerously attractive man? He was one of the many fortune hunters chasing her, true, but he was the handsomest one of the pack. From his splendidly muscular calves to the dark waves of his hair, he was utterly beautiful.

“I heard you.” He came closer, his shoes crunching on the gravel of the path. Margaret kept her face smooth and composed, but she couldn’t make her feet move and walk away. The nerve of him! To stand there caressing her with his gaze as if he wanted
her
—her, not her money. It was shocking and impudent and rude and . . . and . . . and somewhat thrilling. Which was even worse than rude, she was sure.

“But what you didn’t allow for, my dear,” he went on softly, “was that you’ll choose me.”

What nerve he had! “I am quite familiar with the concept of impossibility,” she snapped back. “I refuse to marry any man who needs money.”

“No, you’re going to marry me.” He lowered his eyelashes and gave her a wicked smile. “And we’ll be very happy.”

She stared at him for a moment. In spite of her outrage, something inside her hummed like a barely plucked string at his tone, deep and rough and tinged with the promise of something so sinfully pleasurable . . . she couldn’t even imagine it. She didn’t
want
to imagine it. “You’d swear the same to any heiress. They say you’re utterly ruined.”

“Not ruined. Destitute. There’s a difference.” He held up one finger as she started to speak again. Somehow he had moved close enough to touch her, as he did now, laying that bare finger against her lips. “But we’re the same sort. We belong together.”

She jerked away from him. Her lips tingled from the touch, and it was all she could do not to lick them. “I fear lunacy has overtaken you, sir.”

He laughed, a low, easy rumble that made her heart skip a beat. “Undoubtedly! That doesn’t change the truth of my statement, though. We’re two of a kind, you and I.”

She sniffed. “Good day, Lord Dowling. Take care on your way back to Bedlam.”

“We neither of us arrived at our current circumstances through our own actions,” he called out as she walked away. “You’re an heiress through the fortunate providence of Arthur de Lacey’s death without issue.” She whirled to face him, mouth open in fury, but he only nodded as he strolled after her. “I’m on the brink of ruin because my father, and then his appointed guardian, thought our family fortunes lay in the colonies. Unfair in both cases, don’t you agree?”

She found her voice. “I never asked to be an heiress. I told my brother to keep his money. The ducal branch of the family cut us off decades ago. How dare you imply I reveled in the death of—”

“Of a cousin you never met, and probably would have disliked if you had.” He grinned again. “I knew him in passing. He would have been just like his father, miserly with his patronage and cruel to his servants. No one in England was sorry to see him meet an untimely end.” He paused. “Although I do believe he was near sixty. Hardly cut down in the blush of youth.”

“I never knew him, and didn’t realize until after his untimely death what it meant for my brother,” she said coldly. “I was happy as I was!”

“Were you?” His gaze wandered down her bare throat and bosom, over her tightly laced bodice, past her striped silk petticoat, all the way to her embossed red leather shoes tied with jaunty black ribbons. Margaret had never felt so studied, and even though her face flushed at his impertinence, some small, wicked part of her liked it. If he was merely pretending to find her attractive, he was doing a very flattering job of it.

Which was ridiculous. He would say anything to seduce her, and once she succumbed to his charm and married him, he could lock her away in his attics and spend every last farthing of Francis’s money.

“I
was
happy,” she told him with hard finality. “I had dear friends—who now are too inferior for me to associate with, for all their kindness and good natures. I had a comfortable home—not a mansion, but warm and safe and cozy. I was never hungry, or cold, or despised.”

“But did you ever have passion?” he murmured. “A lover? A husband to protect and provide for you, to hold you in his arms at night, to give you children?”

The charge struck home, but she hid her flinch. “One doesn’t need those things, my lord.”

“No?” He arched a brow. “Perhaps some do not . . . most likely because they don’t know what they’re missing. But you, my dear, you need them. You crave them. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be strolling Lord Feithe’s grounds wearing a dress worth more than a farmer makes in a year. You’re disgusted by me, and every other man simpering over you, because you want someone who will love you, not your dowry.”