The Earl's Enticement (Castle Bride Series) (14 page)

Yancy heaved a gusty sigh. “The English court system is a muddled mess, as you well know, Clarendon. Half the time, an innocent man stands accused of a crime, based purely on hearsay or someone hired to swear the accused committed the crime.”

He straightened the papers on his desk, adding, “Punishments as harsh as hanging are administered within hours. Then there are cases of guilty parties greasing someone’s fist, bribing their way out of prison, or living in luxury under house arrest for months, even years, on end.”

Roark angled his head in agreement. “Money, power, and position are used against the accused as often as they’re exploited to exonerate the guilty.”

He snorted in disgust. “Even suspected of poisoning our mother and stepfather, attempting to abduct and despoil Yvette, and betraying England, I fear Edgar may walk away a free man.”

He slapped his palm against the cabinet. The crystalware clinked and tinkled. “It’s the injustice of the situation that infuriates me.”

How was it possible the same blood ran in his and Edgar’s veins? Was Roark capable of such dark acts? He had the temper, though he kept a tight rein on it. Where did such corruption come from? He wiped his hand across his brow.

Asinine question, dolt
.

Roark knew full well.

Their sire. Sherman Marquardt. Evil personified. He’d inherited the earldom when his older brother had broken his neck in a hunting accident.
A suspicious accident
. Sherman’s first two wives died young, one during childbirth, and one after throwing herself from an upper story window after one of Sherman’s terrible beatings. Maman had been seven and ten when she’d been forced to marry the three and fifty year-old despot.

And she’d died by her youngest son’s hand. May God forgive Edgar for Roark wasn’t sure he ever could.

Staring at the floor, he clenched his hands into tight fists. Rage and grief squeezed his chest in a sharp, unyielding vice. He couldn’t pull in any air.

God, he was suffocating
.

Breathe. That’s it. Take a deep breath and let it out. See, the pressure is easing.

Maman’s whispered words of assurance carried to him across the expanse of time. The iron band around his ribs relaxed.

Roark gave himself a mental shake. He lifted his gaze to Yancy’s sympathetic one. Blister it, had he spoken his thoughts aloud? Heat crept across his face.

The secretary cleared his throat and directed his attention to the papers he held. “I’ll respond to these today.” He lifted the letters slightly. “Thank you for bringing them directly here. I know it cannot have been easy for you.”

Roark offered a cynical smile and shrugged. “We all make sacrifices.”

He set the empty glass on the cabinet. “I must be off.”

After shaking Yancy’s hand again, he left the secretary frowning over Ewan’s correspondences.

Stepping onto Horse Guards Avenue, Roark blinked several times against the sun’s unyielding glare. He set his hat on his head before taking Tenacity’s reins from the sweating groom. Poor sot. He handed the chap a shilling. “Here, get yourself something cool to drink.”

Wiping his dripping brow and face with a none too clean handkerchief, the groom bobbed his head saying, “Thank you, my lord.”

Roark swung into the saddle. The mare quivered and sidestepped, as eager to be away from the city as he was. If he left now, and paced the mare carefully, he’d make Cadbury Park by nightfall.

Turning in the saddle, he cast a cursory glance at the White Hall. He bent and smoothed a hand across Tenacity. A thick rope-like scar encircled her whisky-colored neck. “What say you, my beauty? Can we be home by nightfall? It’s not an easy ride.”

Tenacity tossed her head and nickered. Roark smiled. The Flemish mare would die for him. He’d saved her from brutal abuse. He’d come across her, bloody and beaten, too weak to stand, and being dragged by the neck. Her owner had been intent on delivering the young mare to the slaughter house, all because of a mild stifle injury, no doubt caused by another of the sot’s thrashings.

Roark hadn’t known if she’d live or die. He’d spent two weeks by her side. He slept in her stall, using every bit of medical knowledge he possessed to save her. She’d shown such tenacity in her will to live, Roark had named her thus. Her devotion to him was only outmatched by his to her.

He’d like to breed her, and several other mares, to that stallion of Adaira’s. They’d produce a splendid line of horseflesh. That’s why Roark had hinted a breeding partnership would do much to appease his ire.

Sir Hugh seemed amenable to the suggestion. Adaira had some exceptional young horseflesh Roark was determined to acquire. Somehow, he doubted the Scot’s saucy daughter would willingly oblige.

What was Ferguson thinking, permitting her to be involved in such a masculine endeavor? Horse breeding of all things? It was long past time someone curtailed Adaira’s uncultivated ways.

It’s none of your affair, whispered his conscience.

It became mine when she locked me underground.

Roark headed for home. He trotted Tenacity along the avenue, her hooves clattering over the cobblestones. An idea began to bloom, burgeoning and growing along with his ever-widening grin.

By God, he’d do it. He would.

He touched his sore lip with his tongue. Her small tongue had touched there. His length hardened against his thigh. Confound it. Thinking of her had him aching to bed her.

He had just the thing to bring Adaira Ferguson up to scratch, once and for all.

He’d make a lady of that wild Scottish vixen yet.

CHAPTER 15

Adaira punched the pillow in her lap. Legs crossed, she sat in the middle of her bed.

“I won’t do it. I won’t. They cannot make me. I’ll run away to Tante Floressa’s. She’s invited me to visit her many times over the past two years.”

Never mind the French Wars had prevented any such thing. Tante Floressa was somewhat of a flibbertigibbet. The one time Adaira had visited France, her aunt nearly swooned when she spied freckles on Adaira’s nose. She hadn’t even been six yet.

Wonder what she’d make of my breeches
?

A momentary smile hitched the corners of Adaira’s mouth before shifting into a scowl. There would be no more breeches.

She punched the pillow twice more with sharp hard blows, pretending it was the Earl of Clarendon’s smug face. “I’m glad I hit him,” she muttered.

“Wish I’d hit him harder. Wish I’d broken that perfect, straight, arrogant nose of his.”

Whap.
She slugged the pillow again, this time hard enough, it flew across the room. The cushion bounced off an armchair before tumbling to the floor. She knew she sounded like a petulant child, and was acting like one too. She didn’t care. She hugged another small pillow to her chest.

Father had confiscated her riding crop after his lordship squawked she’d attacked him in the crofter’s cottage. She hadn’t meant to strike Lord Clarendon with the weapon, and the earl knew it. Now, how was she to protect herself? She supposed she’d have to start toting a dagger sheathed to her thigh like Yvette’s Romani cousin, Lady Warrick. Wouldn’t that put the earl in a dither?

The punishment Adaira’s parents levied on her, dictated by the earl, of course, was far too harsh for her crimes. He’d not been seriously injured. His detainment hadn’t been torturous or lengthy. Yet, the sentences imposed on her were both of the latter. A year at Miss Hortensia Doddington’s Finishing School or a Season in London.

Adaira had to choose.

Three months of torture or nine?

Hell or Hades
?

She sighed, dropping the pillow to her lap. No, she’d not blame her parents. This chastisement was the earl’s doing, the pompous prig. He’d hinted at dire consequences if they didn’t cooperate. They’d all heard his veiled threats during the meeting he insisted upon. The blackguard’s demands were nothing short of extortion.

Adaira blinked fiercely against the scalding tears welling in her eyes. She wouldn’t cry. Her throat and head ached from the effort. She’d not give that interfering churl the satisfaction.

She peered around the bed. She lifted the pillow on her lap. Nope. Not there. She tilted one muslin clad knee up, then the other. She snuffled loudly. Where was that dratted handkerchief? She spied the wadded lacy square under the chair before the fireplace. Oh, she’d thrown it on the floor in a fit of temper. With a shrug, she wiped her nose on her sleeve.

So there, your lordship.

No more breeches. No more shirts or vests. No more knee-high boots. Just proper lady’s gowns. And footwear. And—gads, the worse of it—perfectly coiffed hair
all the time
. No more tying it back with a ribbon or letting it hang loose.

Even a suitable habit for riding Fionn was dictated. One of those heavy military styled atrocities, no doubt. The poor horse wouldn’t know what to do with all that fabric draped across him.
She
wouldn’t know what to do mounted on him sidesaddle.

Another preposterous constraint used by men to control women. As if seeing a woman’s legs were sinful. What drivel. God gave females legs. The only thing immoral about them was what was imagined in men’s wicked minds.

Truth was, even if she had a riding habit, Adaira wasn’t confident she could keep her seat in a sidesaddle. It had been years since she’d ridden on one of the ridiculous things, and that had been on a pony. She certainly couldn’t ride neck or nothing, much less jump fences or hedges. No a safe, sedate
boring
trot or slow canter was all she could expect to be permitted.

In any event, that issue was moot. Thanks to the earl’s ruddy meddling, she wouldn’t be riding Fionn for some time to come. Not until she had a riding habit made, not until she learned to ride sidesaddle again, and not until Fionn was trained to carry her that way. Oh, he was going to hate this as much as she did.

Several fat tears plopped onto her clenched hands. Drat, drat, and drat. Confounded waterworks.

Confounded earl.

She flopped onto her back, staring at the bed’s ivory and blue canopy while toying with her necklace. She had to acknowledge, that in the scheme of things, the earl’s options were vastly better than Newgate Prison or hanging, but. . .

At her age, she was far too old for finishing school or a coming out. Plus, the little Season didn’t start until the end of August, and Miss Doddington’s lessons wouldn’t commence until the end of September.

So, the earl had
generously
suggested Adaira’s instruction in refinement begin with a round of English house parties this summer to, “Introduce her to society and allow her a more private environment to acquire the behavior and manners expected of a refined lady of quality
.”

Twaddle and claptrap. Another pillow sailed through the air, hitting the wall with a distinct thump.

To imply she received no instruction in proper decorum was insulting to her parents. Why were they allowing his high-handedness? What leverage did he have over them?

The earl proposed her journey into sophistication begin with a month-long house party at his estate. Was the man short on wits? Why, in God’s name, would he want her anywhere near him? She’d no desire to be within a day’s ride of him, no, a fortnight’s ride. Had he made reforming her his personal mission? To tame her? To what end?

She toyed with the cross at her neck. After three weeks absence, he had the audacity to return to Craiglocky two days ago. This time her confinement was self-imposed. She’d no intention of encountering that lout unless absolutely unavoidable.

A light rapping interrupted her thoughts.

“Who is it?” She wished she’d been able to lock the door, but Father still held the key.

“It’s Yvette. May I come in?”

Adaira sat up and muttered a watery, “Yes.”

The door opened with a slight swish. Yvette glided into the room. “I’ve come to help you prepare for your visit.”

Adaira swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “Visit?”

She stood. “Visit,” she repeated, “as in, Cadbury Park visit?”

Even to her ears she sounded like a simpleton. She cleared her throat and tried to pin several loose curls back in place. “Surely, we aren’t to leave for Lord Clarendon’s this soon?” She thought she’d have a few more days to prepare, to brace herself emotionally.

Yvette smiled, her sapphire eyes reassuring. “Not yet, but in a week’s time.”

She scanned the room, taking in the pillows and handkerchief on the floor. There was no condemnation in her eyes. “Your mother and sisters will be here shortly.”

Before she finished speaking, the three woman filed into Adaira’s chamber. She ran her hands over her rose and jonquil chintz dress, smoothing the wrinkles from the gown.

“Why must we begin packing this soon, Mother?” Adaira crossed the room to pick up one pillow. Dangling it from her hand, she moved to the other. “Surely a week in advance is not necessary.”

She bent and retrieved the second pillow. After tossing them both on her bed, she folded her arms across her chest and waited for an explanation.

“We’re not packing as yet, Addy, just taking inventory,” Mother said.

Adaira turned to the mirror in the corner and made an attempt to straighten her mussed hair. Her tear-swollen eyes peered back at her, taking in her rumpled dress and her stockinged feet peeking from beneath the ruffled hem of her gown. She looked a sight.

“Ewan and Yvette will leave for London tomorrow. He has pressing business to attend to.” Mother swung open the doors of one of Adaira’s armoires. She removed a morning dress in palest lavender. “While they’re in Town, Yvette has generously offered to make the rounds and purchase anything we might need in the way of gloves and other fripperies.”

Isobel looped her arm through Yvette’s and smiled at her. “Hopefully we won’t overwhelm you with purchases.”

Seonaid joined them, taking Yvette’s other arm. “We don’t mean to be a bother.”

Adaira sensed her sisters’ excitement. Even shy Seonaid was anticipating the extended stay at Cadbury Park, though it meant time away from her beloved pets. Attired in the latest fashions, their hair intricately twisted and pinned atop their heads, Adaira couldn’t help but notice how lovely the three were.

Yvette flashed Seonaid a brilliant smile, then patted Isobel’s hand resting on her arm. “I shall enjoy making the rounds. I assure you, it will be no trouble. I quite like shopping.”

Laying the dress across her arm, Mother pulled out another gown. This time, a simple white silk adorned with emerald green ribbons and embroidered in green and gold along the hem and bodice. She poked around the bottom of the wardrobe and frowned. “I was sure you had gold slippers.”

A stab of guilt sliced Adaira. She cast a covert glance to her bed. The ruined shoes were hidden beneath it. She’d meant to dispose of them but forgot due to the ordeals of the past weeks.

Removing four more gowns from the wardrobe, Mother sailed to the bed. She laid them atop the rumpled coverlet. “Yvette and Ewan will travel directly to Lord Clarendon’s from London. It takes less than a day. They’ll arrive at Cadbury Park a day or two after we do.”

A ray of hope stirred. “Might I go with them?”

Adaira didn’t care if Ewan and Yvette arrived one hour later than everyone else. It was one hour she’d be spared the earl’s stodgy presence. The shopping she could well do without, but it was a sacrifice she was willing to make.

Mother shook her head. “No,
chére,
I’m afraid not. His lordship was most insistent we arrive before the last Friday in July for a ball he’s hosting.”

Once more before the armoire, she continued to remove Adaira’s gowns.

It seemed they had this all worked out didn’t they? She squashed a surge of bitterness. She wouldn’t take her vexation out on Mother, Yvette, or her sisters. They weren’t the target of her irritation. She shrugged her shoulders. “Let’s be about it, then.”

The others bestowed relieved smiles upon her. Evidently, they’d expected a battle. The knowledge caused Adaira a painful twinge. Was she truly that difficult?

Two hours later, wardrobes had been discussed and planned to the minutest detail. Yvette possessed a rather substantial list of items Mother deemed essential to a successful month-long visitation to the earl’s. The women made their way below stairs, all of them, except Adaira, intent on a spot of coffee or tea and pastries.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to join us, Addy? Sorcha made fatty cutties,” Isobel said with a teasing smile.

Adaira nearly groaned aloud. Fatty cutties? They were her favorite sweet biscuit, bless Sorcha’s heart. Adaira slid her hand into a glove, tugging the snug fabric over her splayed fingers.

“And fresh marmalade,” Seonaid chimed. “You know how you adore marmalade on warm scones.”

Her lips curved in a gentle smile. Laying her hand on Adaira’s arm she gave it a slight squeeze. “We’ve missed your company.”

Gratitude warmed Adaira’s heart as she tugged on the other glove. Her sisters were trying to lighten her mood and make her feel included. She’d been rather distant, spending a great deal of time alone, wandering the paths by the loch or secluded in her room.

Anything to avoid Brayan or the earl, and truth to tell, her family.

She’d disgraced not only herself, but her kin, and the full impact of her impulsive actions weighed heavily on her. Although she was truly repentant, she resented his Royal Stodginess’s meddling. He ought to leave the matter of her discipline to her parents.

Adaira gave her sisters a quick hug. “Thank you, but not today. Tomorrow I will, I promise.”

She squeezed Yvette’s hand and smiled at Mother to include them. Forcing another upward tilt of her mouth, Adaira left the women at the foot of the stairs. She crossed the entry hall with quick strides. She had just stepped over the threshold when Mother called.

“Addy?”

Adaira half-turned in her mother’s direction. “Yes?”

“
Chérie.
” Mother’s gaze skimmed Adaira’s bonnet and dress. “You’re not riding.”

It wasn’t a question.

She bit back a glib retort. This wasn’t her mother’s fault. She wouldn’t behave like an
overindulged, cosseted child
. Those were the earl’s words, spewed at her in the dungeon.

“No, Mother, I don’t intend to ride. I want to spend as much time as I can with Fionn and my other horses before we leave. I’ll not do more than walk him round the paddock today.”

Mother approached her. She scooped a lacy white parasol from the stand beside the entry. “Here, take mine. You’d best get in the habit.”

A parasol? Adaira stared at it. Had she ever used a parasol? Did she even own a parasol?

“Thank you. I surely would have forgotten.”

And not accidentally either
.

She obediently grasped the ivory handle. “We cannot have my fair complexion ruined by unsightly freckles, can we? Do be sure to add some of these to the list of essentials to transform me into a respectable woman of quality.”

A momentary flash of pain glinted in her mother’s eyes. Instant remorse pricked Adaira. Would she ever be able to control her rebellious tongue? She must.

“I’m sorry. That was hateful of me.” Adaira kissed her mother on her cheek. “I promise to use it every moment I’m outdoors. After all, I wouldn’t want anything else to compromise me or my standing.”