The Reluctant Earl (6 page)

“And eligible young men, of course.” The dowager sniffed again. “A lot of expensive nonsense, if you ask me. In my day a young lady’s father chose a suitable match for her, and that was the end of it.”

An easier option than the elaborate rites of the aristocracy’s Marriage Mart—which were as foreign to Julian as the deserts of Araby. An impecunious younger son, he’d left home, school and family behind for the navy at the tender age of thirteen and never learned to navigate the subtleties of polite society. Or women.

Senses drawn once again to Miss Vance, Julian watched as she sidled away from the family and found a chair alone by the window. Careful indifference almost—but not quite—masked an aura of loneliness as she drew her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.

“Ah, Elizabeth. There you are.” Sotherton left Teresa to greet his wife as she joined them in the drawing room.

Elizabeth’s grimly pursed lips echoed the dowager’s dourness more than Maman’s serenity, as if such expressions were contagious.

Perhaps they were. Already tension tightened along Julian’s jaw.

His sister’s gaze brushed past him without acknowledgment before alighting on her daughter. “Don’t slouch, Teresa.”

Insecurity wavered in Teresa’s violet-blue eyes as she whipped her shoulders to attention like a new recruit. The wind rattled against the window, memories carrying Julian back to his first days as a midshipman, to the uncertainty and anxiety and loneliness of an ignorant boy trying to please a demanding captain.

He glanced over his shoulder in time to see Miss Vance’s jaw tighten. Julian’s reluctant respect for her rose.

“Where’s Reginald?” Elizabeth’s querulous tones set his teeth on edge.

“I’m here, aunt!”

Miss Vance flinched, as if trying to make herself smaller inside her shawl.

“Finally.” The dowager’s cane thumped against the floor as she rose from her chair. She tottered for a moment, then clasped her son by the elbow.

“Late as usual, Reggie.” Disgust darkened Killiane’s eyes as a young man with black curls and an apologetic grin dashed into the room.

Elizabeth’s mouth flattened into a narrow white line as her glance slid to Julian. As the highest ranking gentleman in the room, etiquette required she take his arm and allow him to escort her to the dining room. Mischief bubbled up in him and he returned her frown with a knowing smirk. Her antipathy tonight couldn’t hurt him more than her twenty years of silence.

With a lift of her chin she sailed to Killiane’s side. Given the disdain still stiffening the viscount’s lips, the two could share a charming evening of mutual misery.

Julian strolled toward his niece. “Lady Teresa?”

“Yes, my lord?”

“‘My lord’ is so formal, considering our relationship.” Not to mention the specters the title brought to mind. “I would welcome being your uncle in truth as well as in name.”

“I should like that. Uncle.”

“I realize I am not exactly an eligible young man, but may I escort you to...” His words died away as he followed the line of Killiane’s narrow-eyed stare to Miss Vance.

Reginald Fleming waited with proffered elbow and challenging stare to usher the governess to the dining room. Revulsion and...fear?...churned in her eyes, but she lifted her chin and pasted an impassive expression on her face.

“Uncle?” queried Teresa.

“Ah...” He yanked his attention from Miss Vance to Teresa. “Yes, dinner. My apologies.”

A sly grin tweaked one corner of his niece’s mouth and washed the lingering shadows from her eyes as she tugged on Julian’s arm. Not toward the dining room but in the opposite direction. Toward her governess. “Perhaps you can be...the mysterious older gentleman. Uncle, do you know my cousin Reggie Fleming?”

“My lord. Rather cold here, isn’t it?” Fleming bowed with a flourish. His overly bright eyes, faint slur and potent breath bespoke a fondness for liquid warmth. “What brings you to Northamptonshire this winter?”

“Business.”

Teresa released Julian’s arm and positioned herself between her cousin and Miss Vance. “You made a grand entrance, Reggie.”

“I arrived late just to annoy Niall.”
Or to swallow a few last drops of brandy,
Julian thought.

“A shame you don’t put your efforts to more constructive purposes.” Teresa grabbed his arm and led him in the direction of her mother. “Imagine what you could accomplish.”

“And destroy my reputation with respectability?”

Their playful banter faded as they moved away, leaving Julian alone with Miss Vance. At least tonight he could be assured she wouldn’t search his belongings while he dined.

A frown drew down the corners of her mouth as she stared after her charge.

“Come now, Miss Vance.” He extended his arm. “You seemed to enjoy my company on our previous...encounters. Surely a dinner doesn’t warrant such a fierce scowl.”

“I seem to remember our previous...encounters somewhat differently.” She rose from her seat and reached for him, the shawl slipping off her shoulder.

He lifted a lacy edge and slid it back in place. “Your handiwork?”

“My mother’s.” She rested her palm on his arm, her slender, well-formed fingers curling around his sleeve. The chill in her hand permeated the fabric and raised prickles of awareness on his skin.

Together they approached the dining room. Chairs ringed a long table shimmering with crystal and silver. Without awaiting his sister’s instructions, Julian led Miss Vance to an empty seat and held it for her. Her back brushed against his hand as she sat, the wool warm against his skin. Then he claimed the chair beside her for himself. Right next to his sister.

“With your permission, Lizzie?”

“If you insist, Chambelston.” She used his title, not his name.

“Of course. Why would I wish to forego your gracious company?”

“So you can conclude your business with Benedict and be on your way.” And here he’d thought the presence of others would minimize the snide remarks he would have to endure.

“No doubt your husband anticipates many more such evenings of unpleasantness, but I thought I should reserve this one for myself.”

Elizabeth’s chin rose again. “I believe father got his just reward when he ended up with you as his heir.”

“Your sentiments no longer surprise me.” Nor did they particularly concern him—unless his father had shared them.

* * *

Wedged between Lord Chambelston and the detestable Reginald Fleming, Leah shifted on her seat and swallowed her discomfiture with a forkful of fish. Unfortunately both lodged in her throat, seemingly determined to destroy her dinner as surely as Lady Sotherton’s sniping. For a woman so concerned with appearances, if not authenticity, she should realize the staff could overhear every taunt. Gossip would supplement the meal below stairs tonight as those servants present during her fit of pique shared the details with their colleagues.

Leah’s father would have used the opportunity to point her to the appropriate axiom, perhaps one of Johnson’s witticisms or that verse from Proverbs—the one about a dry morsel and quiet being better than a feast and strife. She grabbed a goblet and tried to wash the fish from her throat and the reminders of her parents’ faith from her mind.

What would they think of her...supplementary income? Of her lies and disloyalty and downright treason? She stole a glance down the table where Lord Sotherton—her employer—engaged his mother in meaningless repartee that had the dowager chortling with amusement.

“My grandmother seems in rare good spirits tonight,” Viscount Killiane said to the old woman’s companion.

“I’m glad to see it. She had another episode this morning.” Despite the bleak darkness of Miss Godwin’s dress, her sable hair hinted of former beauty just as the gold locket at her neck suggested a former love. “I thought we should send for the doctor, but her ladyship quite insisted against such a course. I worry for her.”

And for herself? As a mere companion, Miss Godwin’s future depended on the dowager’s longevity. The poor woman occupied a position even more precarious than Leah’s. And doubtlessly more wearisome, given the dowager’s normally difficult nature.

Mr. Fleming inclined his head toward Leah, a smirk curling on his mouth. A scar, only partially hidden by the ebony curls, bisected his forehead above his left brow. When she’d last seen the mark, it had been raw, red. Bleeding. “And how have you been, my dear Miss Vance?”

Her stomach knotted around her dinner. Memories of that horrible day engulfed her mind. The summer heat. The smothering helplessness. The poker she’d used to save herself from his assault. She shoved the images away, determined not to let him see her agitation. “My life seems to have taken a sudden turn for the worse again.” In more ways than one.

His chuckle gusted wine-soaked breath across her face. “You are frowning mightily at your meal, Miss Vance. Does the fish displease you?”

“Truly, sir, I am not so ungrateful as to scorn any fare this winter, no matter how humble.”

“Huzzah, Miss Vance!” From across the table, the dowager’s exclamation pierced all other conversation and brought it to a halt. “In my day young people showed the proper respect for what was provided.”

Awkward silence hung over the guests for several interminable moments while all attention focused on Leah. In no one’s imagination was she a
young
person anymore. She stifled a sigh, waiting until the polite hum of tedious conversation resumed.

Truly, despite the quality and quantity of the fare, Leah much preferred the company when she ate her usual meal alone, without her disapproving employer, the leering Reginald Fleming or Lord Chambelston.

Infuriating. Irritating. Intriguing.

“Tell me, Miss Vance, how do you amuse yourself when you have a few minutes of your own?” The soft rumble of his masculine baritone snared Leah’s awareness and drew her gaze.

“I’m much too serious to concern myself with entertainment, my lord.”

“But surely you must have some...interests.” Lord Chambelston’s fine blue coat stretched across broad shoulders that alluded to his previous livelihood. The gilt buttons winked in the candlelight with a gleam that rivaled the sardonic glint in his eyes. “Do you sketch?”

“Badly.”

“Perhaps then you embroider?”

“Dreadfully.”

“Surely doing something poorly doesn’t negate the enjoyment of the activity. I like to sing, but others tell me I should save my musical endeavors for those occasions when no one else is near enough to hear.”

“A pity you aren’t musical.” Viscount Killiane leaned forward in his chair. “Miss Vance is an accomplished pianist.”

“Unfortunately we tended to use the space on frigates for water and gunpowder, not large musical instruments, so I can’t make the same claim.” Chambelston tilted his head and studied Leah until heat crept into her cheeks. “I hope I have an opportunity to hear you sometime.”

Lady Sotherton tapped Killiane’s arm. “Miss Vance will be entertaining us after dinner.”

Oh, would she? Leah’s fingers tightened around the handle of her fork.

Lord Chambelston edged closer until she detected the subtle spice of his scent over the aromas of her dinner. “Don’t let Elizabeth’s presumption spoil the things you enjoy.” His whisper stirred the hair by her cheek, and delicious warmth radiated from the shoulder that brushed hers.

Leah lifted her chin. “How do you know I enjoy the piano?”

“Because unlike sketching or stitching, you apparently do it well.”

* * *

Julian sat with Killiane and his brother-in-law, and forced himself to listen to their deadly dull political discussion. Not an easy task when his attention kept drifting to his niece and the merriment she shared with Fleming and his friend. Befuddlement had replaced Warren’s taciturn reserve as he anchored his stare on Lady Teresa. Under his untidy dark locks, his ears glowed redder every time she chanced to glance his direction.

Over where she embroidered with the dowager, Elizabeth had also noticed the young man’s interest and aimed fierce frowns his direction. From the other corner of the room Miss Vance accompanied the dowager’s companion—Miss Godwin, wasn’t it?—on the piano on a suitably slow and proper air.

“Chambelston?” Killiane called Julian’s attention back to their debate about taxes and appropriations. “What do you think?”

“Ah...I’m not sure this is the right time.”

Another burst of laughter reverberated from Teresa’s group. Elizabeth’s lips narrowed to a concerned slit. She tucked her work away and rose from her chair with a swish of impatient skirts. “Teresa, why don’t you and Miss Vance play the piece I heard you practicing earlier.”

“But Mother, I’ve only recently begun...” The mirth seeped from Teresa’s eyes and lips, and color rushed to her cheeks. “Yes, Mother.”

She shuffled to the piano and exchanged nods with Miss Godwin, who ambled to a seat beside the dowager. Miss Vance slid over to make room and offered Teresa a taut smile of encouragement.

A few whispers passed between the women, one even eliciting a giggle from Teresa. Then they launched into the piece together. Even Julian’s musically ignorant ears appreciated the difficulty of the work.

And recognized Teresa’s difficulty with it. Each mistake brought another wince to her lips, another shadow to her eyes. Miss Vance adjusted her playing to the younger woman’s skill. After one particularly egregious blunder, Fleming rose from his chair and approached the piano. He tapped Teresa on the shoulder and the music stopped.

“Excuse me, cousin. Mr. Warren had a question about a local site. Perhaps you could assist him while I take over for you here? I practiced this piece in the not too distant past. So complex. Took me weeks of work.”

Relief eased over Teresa’s face as she relinquished her place to him. Fleming inched closer to Miss Vance, who stared at the music, tension stiffening across her shawl-clad shoulders. With a curt nod, she began again. Fleming played with enthusiasm, if not exactly accuracy. He reached for a lower note on the keyboard, crowding close enough his arm brushed hers.

Miss Vance’s fingers stumbled, the flub obvious enough to interrupt even Sotherton’s lengthy discourse about the duties on spirits. She leaped from the seat, her face flushed with her agitation as she looked to Elizabeth. “As Mr. Fleming said, a difficult piece. I fear I’ve developed a headache, my lady. With your permission, I shall retire.”