Yankee Earl (18 page)

      
Considering that the late marchioness had been scarcely five feet tall and in her youth had possessed pale red hair, the comparison did not seem apt to Jason; but he knew the marquess had doted on her. “Rachel scarce has Grandmother's sweet disposition.”

      
“Ha! Just shows what the young know. In her day, my lady wife was known far and wide for the sharpness of her tongue as well as her mind. Took some taming, she did, but in the end, 'twas well worth it. Ah, the battles we had,” he said fondly.

      
Ignoring the old man's reverie, Jason said, “I assume you intend to hire another ‘bodyguard’ for Fox. This time, at least have his references verified, lest he shoot the majordomo and steal the family silver.”

      
“Eh, speaking of shooting, what is it I hear about someone mistaking you for a deer?” Cargrave's impassive expression did not completely mask his concern. “I'm given to understand you were fired upon right here on Falconridge land.”

      
Jason shrugged. “The first time, I was with Rachel. The assassin could have been aiming at her.”

      
That is not amusing—and what do you mean by ‘the
first
time’?”

      
The old man was awake on every suit. Jason cursed himself for his careless slip of the tongue. He did not want to be encumbered by yet more bodyguards watching over him as well as Fox. “I chanced upon Rachel in the woods adjoining our properties the first week I was here. The shots probably came from poachers with dreadful aim.”

      
“Hugh informed me you arrived at his home for dinner one evening bleeding like a stuck hog. Are you telling me that was a poacher, too?” His keen gray eyes skewered his grandson as he waited for a reply.

      
“No. Most probably, someone intended to shoot me that time,” he conceded. “I suspect Forrestal. He was rejected in his suit for Rachel and has taken a strong dislike to me over it. Drum is looking into the matter for me now. I'm certain we can handle it discreetly, and no more will come of it.”

      
Cargrave snorted. “Etherington's heir is as worthless as teats on a bull. Hugh and I laughed over his suit, and he dismissed it out of hand. Boy runs with a worthless crowd. Gambling and carousing without a care for their family names. Surprised the Mountjoys allow their youngest to spend time with them.”

      
Jason lifted an eyebrow with interest. “Do they, now?” He remembered Robin Mountjoy from the summer he'd spent in England. The two of them had been cast together because they were close in age, a year or two apart. The youngest of six siblings, he was thin, quiet and easily led.

      
“They may have taken him in hand. At least, the boy's safely ensconced here in the country until the fall Season. He'll be in attendance at the ball tonight. Speaking of which, I expect you and Hugh's gel to do us proud. No more of this exchanging insults and dumping glasses of champagne…else I shall hire a dozen more like Mace Bings and set them to guarding you as if you were the bloody crown jewels!”

      
Jason sighed. The old man always knew when and how to apply coercion.

* * * *

      
“He is most charming, I must say, especially considering he was raised in America,” Harriet said, giving her toilette a final inspection at the cheval glass in her sister's bedroom. “They do all manner of strange things over there. 'Tis what comes of not having a hereditary peerage to ensure that society is held to its proper course.”

      
Rachel wondered what Harry would say if she related the tale of the scalps to her sister; but, not wanting to revive her after a fainting spell, she decided against it. “The earl is…unusual, to say the least.”

      
“Ah, and ever so handsome. Is that why you have taken such pains with your appearance for a change?” Harry inspected her tall, elegant sister who was wearing a new gown. The dressmaker had brought it for a final fitting only yesterday. The deep moss green mull was a perfect foil for her sun-tinted complexion; and she had consented to wear the family emeralds, or at least a small portion of them, a pair of delicate earbobs and the lightest of the three necklaces in the collection.

      
Rachel shrugged, not wanting to admit even to herself that interest in Jason Beaumont had motivated her to order new clothing. “The mull is far cooler than the old taffeta I usually wear to the Mountjoys' ball. Come, 'tis past time we were leaving. Father and Melvin are most likely pacing downstairs.”

      
“Well, I believe you have done quite splendidly for yourself. An earl, heir to the Cargrave title and charming enough to lure birds from the trees. He could not take his eyes from you last night at dinner, you know.”

      
“Do not be ridiculous. He did nothing of the kind.”

      
“You would have taken note of it had you paid him the slightest attention. ‘Twas really quite rude, Rachel, devoting exclusive attention to the boy. What an odd American notion, allowing children to eat at table with adults; but none the less, the Yankee earl will certainly come up to scratch.”

      
“Jason wants this match no more than do I,” Rachel snapped.
 

      
“Then I would say that the banns have been posted none too soon a'tall,” Harry replied with a titter, following as her sister stalked from the bedroom.

      
During the long ride to the Mountjoy manor house, Rachel ignored the banal conversation among her family members, nodding when her agreement was solicited. As the Fairchild coach bounced and swayed over rutted roads in the dusty heat of early evening, she grew increasingly preoccupied. Everyone would expect her to dance frequently with the earl now that their betrothal had been officially announced. She would have to endure hours of smiling and posturing.

      
And dancing with him.

      
Was Harry right? Had she taken extra pains with her appearance to impress Jason? No, she decided; certainly not. After all, he had made it clear that he was quite interested in her when she wore muddy riding togs…or nothing at all. Yet she could not forget how it had felt to whirl about the floor in his arms, their steps so perfectly matched. Almost as perfectly as their heartbeats.

      
She shifted nervously on the plush seat cushion, trying to suppress the heated memories of other times when she had felt his heart beat in time with hers. Being in his arms tonight was not a good idea at all. Whenever she was close to him, whenever he touched her, she lost her ability to think coherently. A perfect example of her weakness was this afternoon, when he had reeled her in by her plait, then looked deeply into her eyes and made such an insulting comment.

      
Scalp her, indeed! And she, ninny that he reduced her to, had been unable to think of a single setdown. If he had tried to kiss her instead of releasing her, she was quite certain she'd have allowed it—nay, have participated eagerly as she had done before. But he'd at least saved her that indignity. Instead he had initiated a discussion about how they were to proceed with their plans to convince the marquess and the viscount that they would go through with the marriage. They'd agreed to be civil tonight.

      
That meant he would have to touch her.

      
And she would have to allow it.

      
When the coach pulled into the Mountjoy drive, Rachel was immersed in her troubling reverie, no surer of how she would manage the evening than she had been hours earlier. The driver reined in the horses, and the lumbering old vehicle lurched to a halt. Blinking in surprise, she collected herself and waited as her father and brother-in-law climbed from the coach to assist the ladies; but when she leaned out the door with gloved hand outstretched, it was not the viscount or the baron who took it, but the earl.

      
“I recognized the Harleigh crest and came to pay my respects, Countess,” Jason murmured. “Might as well make our entrance together and get on with it.”

      
She could feel the heat of his hand through her gloves! Ignoring the catch in her throat, she allowed him to help her from the coach with a regal tilt of her head. He released her and assisted Harry, who began chattering immediately, allowing Rachel to collect her thoughts.

      
“How kind of you, m'lord. I was just saying to Melvin what a delight it was to make your acquaintance during dinner last night, was I not, my dear?” Melvin got in no more than a nod before Harriet turned back to the earl. “Do note how fashion-conscious you have made our dear Rachel. I have tried for years and years, but you have—”

      
“I do not think the earl is in the least interested in fashion, Harry,” Rachel interjected with a telling look directed at her sister. When she turned back to Jason, the amused smile on his face made her wish him and her garrulous sister to perdition.

      
He offered her his arm with a gallant flourish, then bent to whisper in her ear, “You did not have to go to such a bother for me, Countess, as I know how much you detest fashion fallalls.”

      
“Do not preen yourself. I did nothing whatever to please you,” she replied through gritted teeth as they ascended the stairs and waited their turn to be announced.

      
“Ah, how you disillusion me. Or should I believe your sister, hmmm? Dear Harriet is quite knowledgeable about matters of the heart.”

      
Rachel scoffed. “But one must first possess a heart, an organ you lack.”

      
"Then why, when I hold you close, does something in my chest beat so fiercely? Or is it perhaps yours responding to me?"

      
Rachel was saved from an indelicate reply by a footman, who announced the Earl of Falconridge and his betrothed, the Honorable Miss Rachel Fairchild of Harleigh. As faint sounds of the orchestra wafted on the summer air, they made their first entrance as a couple.

Chapter Ten

      
Balls in the country during summer were far less formal affairs than those given in London. The marriage mart was ostensibly closed between the “Season” in the spring and the “Little Season” in the fall. Not that many a mother who'd been disappointed during her daughter's come-out would fail to keep a sharp eye out for eligible bachelors at any summer affair. But the frenetic tension of the city gave way to more casual merriment. Oswald and Edwina Mountjoy, Duke and Duchess of Kensington, always gave the first and best-attended soiree of the summer, inviting all their neighbors for miles around, from the highest-ranking members of the peerage right down to the local gentry. Dressed in summer finery, no one ever missed it.

      
The orchestra played gaily as ladies chattered and waved their fans in vain attempts to move the thick summer air. Those fortunate enough to have spent spring in the Great Wen shared the juiciest gossip with their country sisters. For the gentlemen, talk turned from politics to horse racing. Jason only half listened to the conversation between his cousin Roger and Squire Abingdon as they discussed the merits of the squire's new thoroughbred, which would be racing in an upcoming local contest. The two men, friends since childhood, droned on about gait and body conformation and the merits of adding wheat bran to the oats in equine diet.

      
Jason's attention kept drifting across the room to where his “countess” stood talking animatedly with a paunchy old man who had the sun-blistered face and calloused hands of a serious farmer.

      
She would rather discuss crops than gossip with her sister and her friends,
he realized. At the opposite side of the room he could see a group of young matrons and their younger charges clustered around Harriet, giggling and whispering delightedly. Rachel's choice of conversation topic appealed to him. He had always appreciated women with level heads and a strong dose of practicality. No one would ever accuse her of “having apartments to let,” Drum's quaint way of describing vacuity. Even so, Jason was forced to admit that it was not solely her unconventional mind that drew him, but her unconventional beauty as well.

      
He studied her while she was unaware of his perusal, a habit he had caught himself falling into of late. Whether she had tended to her appearance to please him or not, she looked especially delectable tonight. The deep mossy green of her gown complemented the healthy golden glow of her skin—and a great deal of skin was revealed by the low-cut neckline and short cap sleeves. Some women resorted to dampening the cloth to make it cling to their curves, but she did not require the artifice. Her slightest movement revealed the curve of full breasts, slim hips, deliciously long legs.

      
She was of a height with the majority of the men in the room, towering over many in her high-heeled slippers. That heavy mane of dark hair added more inches, arranged in a simple Grecian coil at the crown of her head. A few curling tendrils caressed her nape and cheeks. His fingers curled at his sides as he fought the urge to walk over to her and touch the silky wisps.