When a Girl Loves an Earl (Rescued from Ruin Book 5) (4 page)

“Fiddle-faddle. They seek to possess a shiny bauble. To them, I am a novelty. Nothing more.”

Charlotte sighed and rolled her eyes. “Believe as you will, but I have seen it. Even my cousin Andrew has fallen under your spell.”

Tiring of the subject, Viola replied, “Perhaps if one of my admirers had hoisted Mr. Maynard aloft with a single hand and tossed him upon a refreshment table defending my honor, I would take their regard more seriously. However, I have not been so fortunate.”

Her friend’s snort was followed by a shake of her head. “If you are so intrigued by Lord Tannenbrook, I shall introduce you. Once you see us together, all will become clear.”

A silvery shiver ran down Viola’s spine. “He is in town for the season?”

“Mmm. Arrived two days ago. He may even attend Lady Reedham’s gathering this evening. Have we decided if it is a supper or a musicale? Her note was rather vague. I do hope it is a supper. Musicales are …”

Viola did not hear the rest. The most peculiar sensation had settled in her belly—like a glowing stone surrounded by excitable champagne. Something about this Lord Tannenbrook quickened her breath. Made her want to dance and twirl for no reason at all. “I should meet him,” she breathed.

“Well, yes.” One red brow arched in a queer look. “I thought we had agreed upon that point.”

“Tonight.”

“If
he attends.”

“Will you ensure he does?”

“Viola.”

“Please. I wish to meet him.”

A gentle hand settled upon her arm. Viola peered up into Charlotte’s dear, freckled face. It crinkled with concern.

“He is not like the others, Vi. You mustn’t harbor fanciful notions—”

“Tell me what he is like. Everything.”

Silence. Pink lips pursed and sighed. “He is … a mountain. A great, solid mountain.”

The warmth in her belly expanded until it pulsed against the underside of her flesh. “I must meet him.”

Charlotte huffed out a chuckle. “I heard you the first time. Bear in mind, he is not a hat with little white feathers that can be purchased on a whim. He is a man. He will have a say in where this Inkling of yours leads.”

The warm stone resisted every word. Every one. She squeezed Charlotte’s fingers harder. Insistently. “Please.”

A long sigh fell between them. “Very well.” Then her friend’s smile turned wry. “In any event, it is doubtful you could miss him.”

*~*~*

The Earl of Tannenbrook was not handsome—his nose was blunt, his brow heavy, his jaw hard and wide. On the whole, his face resembled granite that had been carved with an axe. He did, however, stand two heads taller and two times wider than any other man in Lady Reedham’s drawing room.

Viola’s breath had left her the moment she’d glimpsed him, leaning in the oddest way with arms crossed over his chest, one enormous shoulder braced against the window casing, as though he wished not to be noticed. As though such a thing were possible.

He wore the same clothing as all the other gentlemen—black tailcoat, white cravat. His waistcoat looked to be fawn brocade, his breeches white to match his stockings. The garments were finely made, well fitted to his sizable frame, obviously of superior quality.

But in no other way did he resemble any gentleman of her acquaintance. From the size of his gloved fingers to the cleft in the center of a squared chin, he was … different.

“Ah, I see he has answered my summons,” came a voice from behind and above her. “How unexpected.”

She turned to greet Charlotte, dragging her eyes away from the extraordinary man only with the most determined effort. “Introduce us.”

Charlotte grinned. “Patience, Vi. I fear you are about to be accosted by my cousin. First, you must attempt to dissuade Andrew of his foolishness. Then we shall—”

Viola gripped Charlotte’s elbow and tugged a bit harder than she’d intended, causing Charlotte to stumble. “Now. Please.”

Perhaps Charlotte protested, perhaps not. Viola dragged her past the blur of ladies either glaring or smiling, eager men murmuring, “Miss Darling,” with varying degrees of hopefulness, and entirely too many pieces of mahogany furniture. She heard nothing, saw nothing except a man who was different from the rest.

“Oh, apologies, Lady Randall,” Charlotte muttered as Viola tugged hard to wrench her friend past a particularly cozy pair of matrons. Their disgruntled gasps mattered not a whit.

Viola was close. Then, she was there, sidling past the final obstacle, her steps slowing to a stop as she came within feet of her quarry. The window was dark behind him, candlelight reflecting richly gold in its panes, in his hair—dark blond, thick, and shadowed. His face was turned slightly away, his eyes focused on a door to the right of the fireplace on one end of the Pomona-green room.

My, he is indeed a mountain,
she thought breathlessly, neck craning, gaze flared wide to take him fully in.

“Er, Viola. I seem to have dropped my fan somewhere in this crush. I expect you will help me locate it, considering your dratted impatience is the reason—ow! Stop that.” The last bit came out as a hiss when Viola’s fingers unwittingly dug into the crook of Charlotte’s arm.

“Terribly sorry,” Viola whispered, loosening her fingers and glancing to where her friend stood beside her. She met green-and-gold eyes and an exasperated smile. Returning that smile sheepishly, she reiterated, “My sincere apologies, Charlotte. Truly.”

“You are forgiven. Come. Before you generate a calamity more severe than damaging my arm or knocking Lady Randall’s turban askew, allow me to comply with your gentle invitation. Are you ready?”

Viola swallowed. Pressed her lips together. Nodded. Followed Charlotte as she approached the towering, dark-blond mountain. Inside, she was floating in champagne—bubbling and fizzing, warm and giddy.

“Lord Tannenbrook,” said Charlotte cheerfully.

The mountain turned, dropping his arms to his sides and straightening away from the window. Although he gave Charlotte a polite nod, and his expression softened around the eyes, there was no welcoming smile, only a look of stoic forbearance. “Miss Lancaster. A pleasure.”

Oh, his voice was a rumble. A deep, resonant rumble like distant thunder or rolling rocks. It traveled across her skin in pleasurable shivers.

She wished to see his eyes. She wished to know their color.

“… present James Kilbrenner, the Earl of Tannenbrook. Lord Tannenbrook, this is Miss Viola Darling, one of my dearest friends. Her grandfather is Lord Redlington.”

At last, he turned to her. Green. They were deep, dark green, the irises nearly black in the low light. She waited for those eyes to flame and surge upon glimpsing her, as other men’s were wont to do.

Instead, they journeyed slowly from her hairline to her chin before she received the same polite bow he’d given Charlotte. “Miss Darling,” he said.

Her answering curtsy, lowered lashes, and murmured “Lord Tannenbrook” was intended to give him time—time to display the spark of interest she was accustomed to seeing. Perhaps he required a moment longer than other gentlemen. Surely that explained his odd restraint.

Charlotte filled the ensuing silence with inquiries about Tannenbrook’s journey from Derbyshire to London, which he answered with brief, uninformative rumbles. “Damp,” he replied. “And long. As one might expect.”

He was not precisely curt, although if Charlotte had asked a similar question of Viola, her answer would have been far lengthier and more detailed. For example, she might tell about the innkeeper with an amusing lisp who persisted in offering the “fineth thoop in Thropthire.” Or share her memory of dew shimmering like crystals upon budding branches as they embarked on the final morning of their journey to London.

But not Lord Tannenbrook. It appeared he favored fewer words and single syllables.

Perhaps he requires stimulation,
she thought. Some people were naturally loquacious, whereas others needed a bit of conversational encouragement.
He must be one of the latter.

“How true, Lord Tannenbrook,” Viola interjected, catching his gaze. “My father and I traveled from Cheshire early for the season and encountered no fewer than five storms. Each one proved too much for either horses or driver, so we were granted the opportunity to partake of innkeepers’ hospitality at nearly every village between Warrington and London. Although, I must tell you, ‘hospitality’ might be a bit of an exaggeration.” She laughed lightly.

He did not.

She fluttered her lashes.

A subtle frown etched creases along his heavy brow.

Charlotte cleared her throat. “Travel certainly does test one’s mettle, does it not?”

“Indeed,” he responded, shifting his eyes back to Charlotte. “Many necessary things do, though they must be borne in spite of it.”

Viola considered whether he was making an oblique reference to her. Given his obvious—and bewildering—disinterest, it was certainly possible, albeit rude. Before she could probe further, however, Charlotte’s cousin, Andrew Farrington, approached from her right.

Sand-haired and red-cheeked, he bowed to her more deeply than necessary, his eyes dropping for one greedy glance at her bodice. “Miss Darling,” he cooed, his tongue lingering long on the syllables. “You are a vision. Each time my eyes fall upon you, I stand in awe of your radiant beauty, thinking you could not possibly be real. And yet, here you stand to prove the fault in my logic.”

Granting him a lighthearted chuckle, she replied, “How you flatter me, Mr. Farrington. I fear your words are far prettier than any lady could hope to be.” She had employed similar responses to gentlemen of every rank and age whenever they’d uttered fawning blather over the past two seasons. She did not doubt their sincerity. She doubted their depth. Determined to shift his focus before the young man embarrassed himself further, she inquired, “Are you acquainted with Lord Tannenbrook?”

Mr. Farrington’s eyes finally left her face and moved to the much larger man. “Indeed. Tannenbrook.”

“Farrington.” His rumble drew her again to his face. He was still frowning. At her.

Her heart gave a tiny flip, knocking against her breastbone. For a moment, she dared not breathe as those green eyes scoured her features, lingering on her mouth.

That was when Charlotte, in a moment of inspired brilliance, stepped in. “Tannenbrook, I hope you will excuse my cousin and me. He and I must speak with my aunt and uncle, for I see they have arrived.”

Mr. Farrington’s eyes flared. “Er, but—”

Charlotte grasped her cousin’s arm and discreetly tugged him past Viola toward the fireplace. “Come, Andrew,” she gritted. “Aunt Fanny is waving to us.”

Then, they were gone, weaving back through the crowded drawing room. Leaving Viola blessedly alone with the fascinating lord who made her insides effervesce and her blood run uncomfortably hot.

She swallowed. “Miss Lancaster speaks highly of you, my lord.”

“Call me Tannenbrook.”

“She described your encounter with Mr. Maynard.”

“Did she, now?”

The air felt thick around her, turning her words breathless. “I found her tale most … captivating.”

“Why?”

“You defended her honor in a way most gentlemen would not, a way that put Mr. Maynard and all others who would insult her firmly in their place. I find much to admire in such bold actions.”

Enormous shoulders rolled in a shrug. “Nothing to admire. Maynard deserved what he received.”

“Do you enjoy dancing, Lord Tannenbrook?”

“No, Miss Darling.”

She inched closer, wondering how warm he would be if she pressed herself against him. Surely a body of his size would heat her through until her skin tingled. “Are you certain? Perhaps with the right partner, you would—”

“Where is your chaperone?”

She blinked. Twice.

He glared. Hard.

“Well, I … I suspect she may be napping.”

“That explains much.”

“My aunt has an infirmity. These late evenings are trying for her. Often, she must find a quiet corner in which she may rest her eyes unnoticed, the poor dear.”

“Leaving you free to proposition men you have only just met.”

This time, she blinked at least four times while she came to the stunning realization that his disapproval was genuine. He was outraged. At
her
. “Proposition? Silly goose. I inquired as to whether you enjoy dancing. It is called conversation, Lord Tannenbrook. I trust they have such a phenomenon in Derbyshire.”

He moved closer, robbing her of what little breath she had remaining. Now, he loomed like a great granite ledge, his head bowed. Finally, his eyes had ignited. Except that the spark of interest resembled displeasure far too much for Viola’s liking. “I have no wish to be rude, Miss Darling.”

“A bit late for that,” she breathed, her eyes devouring every ridge and slope of his enthralling face.

“But you should know I’ve no interest in marriage.”

“My, you have positively
galloped
ahead of me. Miles and miles. You are in another county altogether.”