Engaged to the Earl

by Lisa Berne

  But despite her shortcomings, Wynda provided, for now, just the sort of amusement he preferred, especially since she was married, had entered into their arrangement with equal enthusiasm, and posed no threat to his happy bachelor state. Had it not been for his sister Gwendolyn’s Season, he’d be avoiding the various ton events as he found them rather dull and, worse still, heartily disliked navigating his way among the matchmaking mothers and their daughters, who struck him, on the whole, as insipid and overeager.

  Someday, he supposed, he’d find someone he liked well enough to marry.

  Though it was hard to imagine what sort of girl that might be.

  Gwennie, now, had found her match without much difficulty—said she’d fallen in love with the Earl of Westenbury at first sight, and practically within minutes of arriving in London. They seemed awfully happy together. Percy glanced over his shoulder, to where Gwendolyn and the Earl rode side by side, with that French fellow next to the Earl.

  It was hard to like de Montmorency: too many years of war between their respective countries, for one thing. For another, Percy didn’t care for his manners—he was too suave by half.

  As for the Earl, his future brother-in-law, he seemed a decent enough chap. Very pleasant and easygoing, qualities ladies liked, Percy supposed. And besides, it didn’t matter what he thought. What mattered was what his sister thought.

  Percy glanced back again. Gwendolyn was smiling up at the Earl. She looked so happy that it was impossible to entertain any doubts on that score. Fancy that! he thought. The second of the five of them getting married: first Hugo, now Gwennie. He wondered who’d be next. Not him, that was for certain. And not Bertram, the youngest of them all—he’d stake his life on that. All Bertie cared about was science. You might even say it was his great love.

  Percy looked back a third time, to where Francis was riding next to Helen. She was talking and Francis was listening. He was glad Frank had agreed to come to Town, the dear old boy. It took a lot to tear him away from his precious books. He seemed rather to live in his own head these days. No doubt thinking lofty theological thoughts. Egad! Percy grinned. Give him the carefree life of earthly—earthy—delights instead.

  Speaking of which: Wynda tonight, he hoped, and a couple of bottles of champagne. A few hours of snatched pleasure and a quick, discreet exit before the Viscount came home. And then Percy turned his full attention back to the Duchess who, apparently, hadn’t noticed his lapse.

  Judith, the Duchess of Egremont, had in fact observed that young Percy had fallen silent, but as this little break in their conversation gave her an opportunity to ponder some of the things currently on her mind, she made no objection.

  Firstly, it was impossible to deny that so far, Helen’s Season had not been going well. And there was no reason why it shouldn’t, as Helen possessed all the advantages of breeding, an enormous dowry, and a pleasing appearance. Eligible gentlemen swarmed around her. Yet she responded to them like—well, like a horse being bothered by flies. Why, the Duchess wondered, perplexed, had she agreed to come to London then?

  Secondly, she had just received a letter from an acquaintance who was traveling through Austria, and claimed to have seen Almira’s scapegrace son, Philip Thane, in Vienna. If true, this was the first sighting of Philip in a long time.

  The Duchess repressed a long, deep sigh.

  She and the Duke had done their best to help raise Philip when, as a young boy, he had joined the Egremont family upon the marriage of his widowed mother to their only son; however, it had not been an easy task.

  Even as a youth Philip had been wild and obstreperous, and in adulthood these unfortunate qualities had not subsided into anything resembling a more sober maturity. Nonetheless, the Duchess’s strongly ingrained sense of family responsibility had never faltered; she did hope Philip was all right, wherever he was.

  Thirdly, she had not failed to notice that both her grandson Owen and Mr. Beck were looking the worse for wear this morning, and it wasn’t difficult to guess why. Percy, on the other hand, was evidently unimpaired, which suggested a remarkable capacity for drink. This sort of thing was what young men did, but it wasn’t really the Town polish she wanted Owen to acquire, nor did she like the idea of Percy following in Philip’s footsteps. Yet what right did she have to interfere in Percy’s life?

  As for Mr. Beck, she knew nothing of him except for Percy’s careless introduction as an old friend. But there was something about him that she quite liked, the way he carried his tall rangy self with a quiet assurance, and the deep intelligence in his dark eyes. Very gentlemanly in his manners, too, not strutting about as so many young men did nowadays. Also, she had noted earlier with approval, he rode his horse well. Altogether, she now thought, a fine addition to their party.

  As they rode along side by side, Julian, the Earl of Westenbury, looked at Gwendolyn with a rush of pleasure. He never tired of looking at her—would never tire of it. She evoked for him all the wonder, all the mystery, of womanhood. Aphrodite. Helen of Troy. Cleopatra. Guinevere. Lady Godiva.

  Julian gazed at Gwendolyn’s shining gold hair and wondered what it would look like, unbound, falling free about her bare shoulders and breasts. It was thick, lustrous, living silk; it was easy to understand why a woman’s hair was thought to be her crowning glory.

  He wished he could bury his face in it right now—gently wrap a long gleaming length of it about his throat, binding himself to her.

  Julian shifted a little in his saddle. It was a splendid idea to get married sooner. He wanted to see Gwendolyn like this. He’d been waiting a long, long time for someone who could make him feel this way.

  He thought back to the first time he had seen her, when he’d come into Almack’s that memorable evening. Her beauty had struck him with almost a physical force and, at the same time, with it was a subtle and wonderful sense of having already known her, of immediate familiarity.

  Perhaps this was why he’d rushed off to Whitehaven, without a word to anybody, to request her hand in marriage. This feeling that they belonged together; had, somehow, already belonged together. He wasn’t a believer in the so-called transmigration of souls—the fanciful idea that he and Gwendolyn had been together in a previous life. It was just that he felt so, well, at home with her. And what a relief it was, after so many years of being incessantly targeted as a highly eligible prospect on the Marriage Mart.

  Speaking of home, wasn’t there something in regard to that which Gwendolyn had asked him about?

  Oh, yes, she’d asked him to write to his sisters and persuade some of them to come to London. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now, as he tried to envision Agnes, Martha, Sarah, and so on gallivanting about Town, his imagination failed him. Country girls through and through, as he’d tried to explain to Gwendolyn.

  No, not a good idea, really.

  Still, he’d promised to write to them.

  A promise was a promise, wasn’t it?

  And about the wedding—yes, yes, he was all for advancing the date. Though it would be a bit of a shame to not have Prinny at the wedding. Or a large convivial breakfast afterwards, with all his friends. Still, the planning of weddings was a woman’s purview, not a man’s. Julian was glad his mother would soon be in Town. She would be a great assist; she’d know exactly what to do. Bless her, she always did.

  Christopher rode in companionable silence next to Owen FitzClarence, the thin, pale young Marquis of Ellington. Owen, Christopher had come to learn during last night’s revels with Percy, was a pleasant but largely monosyllabic fellow and so this morning, with both of them suffering from the aftereffects, he’d felt no particular urgency to carry on a conversation. Fortunately, the fresh air and warm sun were working wonders, and he felt himself at last to be in good trim again.

  He looked to where Percy and the Duchess rode at the head of their group. He was no stranger to spirits, having more than once overindulged while abroad, but Percy’s capacity had astonished him. As he’d drag
ged himself out of bed in his new lodgings this morning, he wondered if Percy would even be able to dress himself, much less ride a horse—and yet Percy had arrived at the Duchess’s townhouse clear-eyed and energetic, not a whit the worse for wear.

  The resilience of youth, Christopher thought, and grinned to himself. Good God, he must be getting on.

  He suddenly remembered Mauro della Valle saying, Perhaps you’ll marry, and settle down.

  He didn’t know about the settling-down part, but all at once he remembered the look on Gwendolyn Penhallow’s face as she turned last night to greet her fiancé the Earl. The joyful glow. The obvious, nearly palpable sense of connection she felt for him.

  That, Christopher thought, must be a splendid thing.

  Not that he’d ever experienced it himself, really. Occasionally he’d fancied himself smitten, but in reality those brief amorous interludes in his past, while enjoyable, had been only that—quick, pleasurable moments in time and then done with.

  “Owen,” he said, “ever been in love?”

  Owen looked even paler, if that were possible. “No.”

  “Do you want to be?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Owen was silent for a while, then finally produced, slowly: “Must marry sometime. For duty. Last of my line, you know. No point thinking about love.” He slumped a little in the saddle, as if exhausted by the effort it took to string together so many words.

  Well, that was one problem he didn’t have to confront, Christopher thought, looking sympathetically at Owen’s melancholy face. Marrying for dynastic purposes.

  Bloody hell, what a concept. Time-honored among the aristos, of course, with their obsessions about bloodlines and so on. As if they were racehorses. It had been his observation that among dogs, mongrels tended to be healthier, more robust, than purebreds.

  It wasn’t much of a stretch to apply the same reasoning to humans.

  By way of poignant example, you only had to look at the royal house of Hanover. Inbreeding going back centuries, and here they were with poor old incapacitated King George. Mad as a March hare. His ancestor Mary Queen of Scots and her father James V suffered similarly, and their country suffered right along with them. There was a lot to be said, Christopher thought, for the radical American experiment in democracy. The odds were good it wouldn’t last another decade, of course, but it was certainly interesting to watch from afar.

  He grinned again. These were probably not good topics to introduce while he was traveling in such lofty circles—rubbing elbows, as it were, with a duchess, an earl, a marquis. A French nobleman. And, of course, the Penhallows. As a side note, how pleased Father would be to hear about his son’s social ascendancy!

  Thinking of his father, Christopher’s grin faded.

  Father didn’t even know he was back in England. Would he care?

  Christopher thought about all those letters he had begun and never finished.

  What now?

  His train of thought was broken when his gaze suddenly focused on Owen’s mother, Lady Almira, who was riding ahead of them on a docile little gray mare. He thrust his own horse’s reins into a surprised Owen’s hands, slid onto the ground, and quickly went to Lady Almira who was listing dangerously far to the left.

  “If you’ll excuse me, ma’am,” he said, and gently propped her upright.

  “Oh! Thank you, Mr. Beck!” exclaimed Lady Almira, whose tall feathered hat promptly fell off. “I thought something was amiss! It came upon me so gradually I supposed it was my vision going awry.”

  Christopher picked up Lady Almira’s hat and handed it to her; then, with a hand to the reins, he brought the compliant mare to a halt. “Ma’am, may I check your billets and girth?”

  “My—I beg your pardon, Mr. Beck?” Lady Almira looked so taken aback that Christopher, schooling himself not to smile at her confusion, quickly answered:

  “The fastenings of your saddle, ma’am.”

  “Oh! I see! Billets and girths. What odd words! They rather remind me of fish. Yes, by all means, Mr. Beck, thank you so much.” Smiling gratefully, Lady Almira put her hat back on (backwards), and waited while Christopher checked to see that her mare’s saddle was still properly secured.

  “All’s well, ma’am,” he said, and ran a caressing hand along the little horse’s velvety muzzle before giving back to Lady Almira the reins she had dropped while replacing her hat on her head.

  “Oh, that’s comforting to hear, thank you, Mr. Beck.” Lady Almira leaned down to whisper confidingly, “I’m not a very good rider, you see. I do try, you know, but I never seem to get the hang of it. The truth is, I’m dreadfully frightened of horses. They’re quite large, aren’t they?” She looked so suddenly full of despair, with the tall feathers in her hat now pitifully crumpled, that Christopher said:

  “Would you feel better if I rode with you, ma’am?”

  Lady Almira lit up at once. “Oh, Mr. Beck, would you? But I’m afraid it will be a ghastly bore for you.”

  “Not at all,” he said, and swiftly retrieved his horse from Owen, brought himself back into the saddle, and made his way to Lady Almira’s side. She immediately began talking—about her three children (Philip, Helen, and Owen), about her first husband (the late Mr. Thane), her second husband (the late Marquis of Ellington), the book she was reading (Lucy Dale, by Gwendolyn’s sister-in-law Katherine), her inability to really enjoy opera (“It just sounds like cats screeching”), her delicate constitution (which made eating anything cold an unnerving risk to the health of one who so enjoyed ices), and so on.

  With a long open road before them, empty of other riders or carriages, most of the members of their party now enjoyed that hearty gallop Percy had suggested last night. Christopher glanced at them, but kept his attention fixed on Lady Almira who only shrank a little in her saddle as she watched the others race along. To be sure, he would have enjoyed a gallop himself, but he’d had plenty of that in his day, and would have further opportunities in the future. In the meantime he only said:

  “Don’t worry, ma’am, we’ll catch up to them soon enough.”

  “Oh, Mr. Beck, do you think so?” Lady Almira said anxiously. “They won’t leave us behind?”

  “I’m sure they won’t, ma’am.”

  Lady Almira looked a little less worried, then kept on talking.

  And Christopher listened, with a patience that would have astounded his seventeen-year-old self. For he had, he thought, been lucky enough to learn over the years—and most definitely the hard way—that kindness mattered.

  Chapter 5

  As Christopher had predicted, their party was reunited before too much time had elapsed: those who had embarked on a vigorous gallop turned their horses back and retraced their steps until they came abreast with Christopher and Lady Almira. Percy and Helen, in the lead, raced neck-and-neck, with Owen FitzClarence close behind; hard upon these three came Gwendolyn, the Earl, the Duchess, and, lastly, Étienne de Montmorency.

  Helen, flushed and exhilarated, pulled up her horse, looking, Christopher thought, very pretty in her animation, and Percy exclaimed:

  “Well done, old girl! You nearly beat me!”

  Helen laughed at him. “I could have! You sprang your horse too soon.”

  “Ho! I don’t take kindly to critiques. Race me again, when the horses have rested.”

  “Maybe,” answered Helen, and glanced around. Francis wasn’t among the group of returning riders, and then she saw him, ahead in the distance, slowly returning, walking his horse. When everyone caught up with him, he turned his horse about; Helen brought hers alongside and said, anxiety in her voice:

  “I say, are you all right?”

  Francis blinked and turned his vivid blue eyes to her. “I beg your pardon?”

  She repeated her question, and Francis answered, sounding a little baffled, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You fell behind. I—I thought something was wrong.”

  “No. I was think
ing about Emanuel Swedenborg.”

  “Who?”

  “Swedenborg. He was an eighteenth-century theologian and philosopher who defined ‘correspondence’ as a series of relationships among the spiritual plane of the mind, the Creator, intention, and so on.”

  “Oh! How—how interesting.”

  “Yes, I’m writing an essay about him. Kant, of course, thought he was a fraud, and published a vituperative little book, Träume eines Geistersehers, in the hopes of exposing him.”

  “Oh. Ah. Really?”

  “Yes. It was absolutely scathing. Three years prior to that, curiously enough, Kant met Swedenborg and thought him to have what he described as a miraculous gift. And so when Kant published Träume eines Geistersehers, his friend Moses Mendelssohn thought he might have actually been joking about the whole thing.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, it’s all very interesting, especially since Kant published it anonymously. I’d like to figure out if he was serious or not. I wish I’d brought along his Critique of Pure Reason with me, or at least his Brief Gesammelt prior to 1780. I looked in your grandmother’s library and there’s practically nothing on German theology—only a rather dubious volume of Der Franckforter.”

  “Oh.”

  Helen had lost her animated look, and onto her face was creeping an expression of despair which, however, Francis didn’t seem to notice, for he went on:

  “I did find a copy of Ephraim Udall’s Communion Comlinesse, though, with the original binding. What a remarkable fellow. He broke away from the so-called Great Rebellion in 1641, you know, and announced his support of the established liturgy. The resulting uproar was tremendous.”