The Thirteenth Earl (2 page)

“I know. I find it exciting. And you?”

Cassandra scooted back on the bench. The truth was, she definitely felt the same, but voicing it would not do. “Surely I do not.”

“Pity. I was thinking I might like to kiss you.”

A few things about the sentence stunned her—its bluntness, the unceremonious tone, the fact that it did not sound like a lie. To what end would he say such a thing? If it were just to shock her, she would not give him the satisfaction.

“You cannot do that. And you well know it.”

“Hmm,” he said, pulling back a bit and shaking his head. “You are right. Too much chance of discovery. You would not want to be saddled to me. Miles is a nitwit, but I am unacceptable.”

Cassandra ignored the part of her that felt disappointed. She had not been kissed since Amberson had been so bold at the Solstice Ball. That made for a total of three kisses in all those years, including one from Miles himself. It seemed a shame that she should not experience even just one more. And, she admitted to herself, she very much wanted to kiss Lord Thaxton.

Even if he did smell like a distillery.

“You are too, too presumptuous,” she said, grasping hold of her composure. “I am looking forward to getting to know Miles, and I have no fear about my nuptials.”

Cassandra felt she could taste that lie. Something passed over the viscount’s face, a shutter going up. He stood, bowing his head to her.

“I should go before I say anything else to make you dislike me,” he said. “Good day, Miss Seton.”

“Good day,” she said to his back, his departure leaving her slightly stunned, as if his presence had been a poisoned dart.

Her daze continued as she helped Eliza plan the dinner party and unpacked her trunks. Two weeks. Two weeks adrift in the countryside with her future husband and all she could think about was his haunted-looking cousin.

Cassandra observed the drawing room where the guests of the Spencers’ house party were gathering before dinner. Eliza’s family, decidedly less distinguished than Percy’s, could be identified by their cooing enthusiasm. The earl’s family, unlike the young earl himself, was a mostly staid and static affair, much concerned with image.

She played a game of titles, as she was wont to do when passing time. It always amused her how organized the social hierarchy was, how ingrained they all were to respect it. The highest level of peerage in this room was a duke, which she knew because she had overhead a conversation. So, one presumed duke in attendance but not one she had been introduced to. She discreetly folded one finger back to keep count. Two earls, Spencer included. She folded back two more fingers and squinted her eyes to peer across the room. A smattering of random lords and one lonely knight of the crown.

Precisely one viscount.

Cassandra lost track of her tally. She didn’t want to be looking at the despicable viscount, but there was nothing else to do. Eliza had gone to check on the dining area. A local chaplain went on about that week’s sermon, and she certainly couldn’t listen to that. The only thing left to do was to look at Thaxton, who was leaning against a bookshelf on the far end of the room. Must he lean on everything?

He was alone, of course, glaring at the assembled crowd. He looked a little neater than earlier; he had made an effort to clean up for dinner. His wispy brown hair benefited from a brush, and his eyes—a bluish gray that sometimes looked green—were a touch sharper. Not that a bit of tidying and brushing could cover the permanent scowl lines.

“It is terribly rude to be gawking in a social situation.”

Cassandra’s head snapped to her stepmother’s voice, low at her ear and containing its familiar hint of displeasure. The Marchioness of Dorset’s short stature was no impediment to her bearing, however, because she still managed to be terrifying. She kept her hair hidden under an elaborate wig that had a tinge of pink, something that she’d decided looked fashionably French. When Cassandra’s mother died five years before, Dinah had sniffed around the marquess until he noticed her. It had not taken long—Cassandra’s father viewed marriage as a transaction, and Dinah was from an old family, the widow of an earl to boot. Cassandra suspected that Dinah had been around for a long time before her mother had even fallen ill; she had once heard her grandmother say the marquess “did not care for fidelity.” As soon as the proper mourning period was over, Dinah became the new Lady Dorset, which all but confirmed her suspicions. Since then, the woman had been desperate to get Cassandra out of the house.

“I apologize,” Cassandra said. “I am merely anxious about Miles’s arrival.”

“I am sure he will be just as charming as he was.”

“I quite agree.”
Even if the most exciting thing about it is getting away from your meddling,
she thought but did not say.

“We shall begin planning the wedding straightaway,” Lady Dorset said, for the fifth time in two days. “Tonight you will be escorted by Malcolm Hewett—Baron Islay—you remember him from last season. The rest of our time here you will be with Miles, of course. I believe you should wear the lavender tulle tomorrow.”

This was usually the point where Cassandra started ignoring her stepmother’s rambling. All that was required of her were smiles and nods. Eventually, a patroness pulled Lady Dorset’s attention away. Cassandra’s eyes started to wander, inevitably to the viscount.

What a horrible man. He seemed bent on insulting her from the moment they met. Cassandra had not felt at ease since the encounter with him, though Eliza had apologized profusely. She’d said that Thaxton was prone to offend anyone who stepped into his rarefied air. She frowned. The viscount tilted his head to the ceiling, presumably to glower at a sconce. He seemed a very angry man—but in a muted sense. Not the type to get violent, the type to simmer quietly. For a titled man with presumably few worries, he had the air of someone who had been denied something. It was not anger on his face, she decided. It was frustration. He was quite attractive, she had to admit, but it hid beneath layers of insomnia and poor manners.

Someone touched her on the arm, and Cassandra turned to find Eliza, a look of suspicion on her face.

“You are staring, Cassie,” she said.

“At what? No.”

“I should have known,” Eliza said. “When I first met that man, I thought of you. Handsome, brooding, witty—he is your every weakness. He is entirely unsuitable for a proper lady, or I would have introduced you earlier. Also, you are engaged.”

“I am, which is why I was not staring at Lord Thaxton.”

“But should you find yourself looking his way, you would do well to stop. Even if Miles weren’t arriving tomorrow, Thaxton’s reputation is among the worst. He is practically a leper. He is Percy’s oldest friend, but do you see him talking to anyone?”

“Not that I have been keeping a vigil, but no. Ah, wait. He talked to the dowager earlier.”

Eliza raised her regal eyebrows to tell Cassandra that she was onto her. “Tell me you haven’t been counting how many glasses of brandy he has drunk.”

“Too many,” Cassandra muttered.

“Best to leave it alone,” Eliza pronounced, steering Cassandra to her spot in the dinner procession line, away from any view of Thaxton.

And leave it alone she did. Cassandra only looked his way once or twice or fifteen times during the whole meal.

He was not going to look at her. Thaxton mustered every bit of self-discipline he had. He resisted, though he could feel Miss Seton’s eyes making a feast of him. He did not look at her. Would not. Could not.

He did not look at her in the parlor; he did not look at her during dinner. He endeavored to lower his standards to join in the dull-headed conversation at the table, which turned out mildly successful. He managed to keep down his food, or to push it around his plate enough that it appeared he was eating. All the while, he did not look at her.

The first time he felt any sort of a spark when he looked in a woman’s eyes and it was Miles Markwick’s bloody fiancée. The irony of it might have been delicious, if he could taste anything at all anymore.

He retired to the parlor with the men after dinner, per Spencer’s request. Thaxton did not much care for talk of horseflesh or politics, and feigning interest became difficult. He left for his room as soon as he could; he found he would much rather obliterate his brain with alcohol while alone.

Back in his chambers, he tried to read himself to sleep, a trick that sometimes worked if he found a particularly dry book. It did not work this evening. He blew out his candles thrice, only to light them again, as his wakeful mood persisted. Unbidden, he wondered what Miss Seton was doing. Probably sleeping, dreaming of damned Miles, who did not deserve his good fortune. He had another glass of brandy and prayed for sleep.

Yet another unanswered prayer.

As he turned another boring page, he could swear he heard moaning. Not groans of pleasure, but thin and disembodied wails. Thaxton was used to the noises of a house settling, as he had studied them many sleepless nights at his own home. The sounds echoing in the hall of Spencer House did not match, nor did they seem real. Neither prospect was appetizing. True wails would have macabre implications. But if they were not real, then he was mad.

Likely the latter,
he thought. He set his glass down and put his ear to the door, feeling silly about it. For a moment there was silence, then another noise—keen, plaintive, and protracted.

“Good god,” he said aloud, though he was alone.

What if someone was in trouble? He was only half-dressed, having abandoned both jacket and gloves, shirt untucked and waistcoat unbuttoned, white tie hanging loose on one side underneath his collar. Thaxton tapped his foot, staring at the back of the door. He crossed his arms and rocked back and forth on his heels. It seemed as if he could not in good conscience ignore what he was hearing. Unless he wasn’t hearing anything. In that case, he might be discovered by a footman and look like a buffoon, earning his nickname by wandering witlessly around the estate, chasing after voices that no one else heard.

Well past shame, he turned the doorknob and peeked into the hallway. Nothing. He was about to shut the door and drink to the bottom of the bottle in humiliation when the sound came again. This time it was clearer, winding its way from downstairs. He could not believe it had not woken everyone else on the floor, but he was the only one in the hallway. For a few seconds, he could not force his feet to move.

When he finally did, the creaks of the floorboards rasped under his boots. He could hear someone snoring, probably Lord Hartwell, who slumbered three doors down. Thaxton crept down the stairs, wishing he had thought to bring a candle. Everyone was abed, leaving the house almost black. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, hearing the sound again. Improbably, it had grown quieter and sounded farther away. His best guess at its source was the so-called blue parlor at the far end of the ground floor, a lush cavern that had been a favorite of Spencer’s mother before she relocated to the dowager house on the edge of the estate.

The hallway carpet muted the sound of his boots, not that anyone would have heard him. The ground floor was deserted, not even a footman in sight. Thaxton realized he had no idea what time it was—lately, time had become an imprecise thing, slipping by or crawling, passing unmarked.

He froze with his hand on the doorknob, remembering that the wood creaked when you opened it. The dowager countess hated interruption, and that very creak had preceded lectures when Spencer and Thaxton were children. Going to the blue parlor, hearing that creak: it always meant they were in trouble.

This time, after the creak, he saw Miss Seton.

She yelped, and her hands flew to her mouth to stifle the sound. Her skin practically glowed in the moonlight, and by god, Thaxton was annoyed. How dare she look like that, and how dare she be there now. Without stopping to think, he shut the door behind him. Her eyes widened, a persistent type of blue.

“What,” he demanded, “are you doing here?”

“Shh,” she said, doing a frantic dance with her hands. He frowned. A woman who gestured excessively—not a good sign.