Engaged to the Earl

by Lisa Berne

  “Wasn’t it clever of Rodrigo to have found Kitty?” said Cordelia admiringly. “She had wandered onto the portico, you know, and Rodrigo simply stalked to the door and stood there squawking until we opened it. Poor Kitty had been in the most awful fight. Do you remember, Rosie? She was bloody all over and one of her ears was entirely gone. Papa went for Dr. Wilson, and how nice he was! Not a word about being a doctor only for humans. He stitched Kitty up beautifully, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, and you were a great help, Delia,” replied Rosalind. “You held Kitty so gently, and didn’t flinch once.”

  “Well, of course it was very difficult, but it was fascinating too. Dr. Wilson said I’d make a fine doctor someday. Or a veterinarian.”

  “I’d let you take care of me,” Rosalind said loyally. “And all my animals.”

  There was a little knock on the open door, and Christopher came strolling into the library. He smiled at the charming tableau they three made: Gwendolyn, as slender and golden as ever and clad in soft violet, with a pretty, dark-haired young niece in white on either side of her.

  “Am I interrupting, ladies?”

  They all smiled back.

  “We’re having a lovely visit, Uncle Christopher,” said Cordelia. “Do you need Aunt Gwennie?”

  “Yes, your papa wants her at the harbor, to give her opinion on how the new sculpture’s coming along. Want to come with us?”

  “We’d love to,” answered Rosalind. “But first I must tidy up this mess I’ve made, or Cook will be annoyed with me at tea-time. Will you wait?”

  He glanced at the low table near the sofa on which they sat; it was entirely covered with a riot of paper and notes and scraps, all anchored against the breeze by beach-shells and little rounded stones, as well as by books and pencils and erasers. “Of course, Rosie. How’s the latest poem coming along?”

  “Splendidly. Although I simply can’t think of anything that rhymes with either ‘dangerous’ or ‘discombobulate.’ Neither can Delia or Aunt Gwennie. Can you?”

  He thought about it. “I’m afraid not. What’s the topic of your poem?”

  “Grace O’Malley.”

  “The Irish warrior-queen?”

  “Yes. Supposedly she came to Whitehaven back in the seventeenth century.”

  Christopher nodded. “I once had a sailor friend named Barnabas, who said much the same thing. Well, I’d love to read it whenever you feel like sharing it, Rosie. Ready, signora?”

  “Yes indeed.” Gwendolyn gently set aside the little gray cat and rose to her feet. “Girls, we’ll wait for you in the hall.”

  Rosalind got up and went over to Señor Rodrigo’s perch, onto which he amiably climbed, and Cordelia got up too, saying, “I’ll help you, Rosie.”

  They had gathered up most of the papers, when Rosalind paused and looked at a little stack of books on the table. At the bottom of the stack was Aunt Gwennie’s book Travels with Christopher, which she had written and illustrated (and which King William, until only recently the Duke of Clarence, had publicly admired), and on top of that were three of her children’s books of original fairy tales which she had also illustrated. Then Rosalind looked over to one of the bookshelves which held all of Mama’s books, neatly lined up in a row.

  “Delia,” she said, “do you think there’s room in the family for another writer?”

  “Why not?” answered Cordelia, picking up the pencils and putting them in a silver mug. “There’s not a limit, after all. Besides, it’s about time we had a poet, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, maybe so.”

  They continued with their tidying-up, and Cordelia said, “It’s so funny to think of Aunt Gwennie engaged to somebody else, isn’t it? I can’t imagine her not being married to Uncle Christopher.”

  “Nor can I. He’s the dearest uncle there ever was.” Rosalind picked up the pile of her papers, then went toward the writing-desk on the other side of the library. Passing by the open door, she glanced out into the hallway, then suddenly stopped and stared for a few moments. Then she turned around and hurried back to where Cordelia had stooped to pet Kitty, who was curling about her ankles.

  “Delia!” Rosalind whispered, her eyes sparkling mischievously. “Guess what I just saw!”

  “What?”

  “Aunt Gwennie and Uncle Christopher kissing.”

  Cordelia nodded, and tickled Kitty’s soft chin. “Love,” she remarked sagely. “Isn’t it grand?”

  Acknowledgments

  With so much gratitude to:

  Lucia Macro

  Sophie Jordan

  Leslie Ruder

  And to you, dear reader.

  Thank you! ♥

  An Excerpt from The Worst Duke in the World

  Keep reading for a sneak peek at the next book in the Penhallow Dynasty series . . .

  The Worst Duke in the World

  . . . coming soon from Avon Books!

  The Worst Duke in the World

  Somerset County, England

  February 1817

  His Grace the Duke of Radcliffe had reached the last of the wide marble steps that led from his house onto the graveled sweep and was just about to execute a gentle left turn when from above and behind him came a piercing voice which throbbed with annoyance and disapproval.

  “Anthony.”

  He turned and looked up. On the broad covered portico stood his sister Margaret, clad in habitual black from the lacy cap on her head to the trailing draperies of her gown and sensible slippers. Her back was ramrod straight, her brows were drawn together, and her lips compressed into a thin, tight line. She had, in fact, the darkly ominous air of an avenging angel. All she lacked was a fiery sword. He said:

  “Hullo, Meg.”

  Rather than responding to his civil greeting in kind, her frown only deepened. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “To the stables.”

  “Why?”

  “To get my horse.”

  “For what purpose are you getting your horse?”

  He squinted up at her. Really, sometimes Margaret asked the most obvious of questions. “To go riding.”

  “Where?”

  “To see Penhallow over at Surmont Hall. Apparently the enmity between our respective pigmen has been escalating.”

  “Indeed,” said Margaret, although in a noticeably flat way.

  “Yes, Johns says Cremwell has been threatening to sneak over from the Hall and put calomel in the Duchess’s slops. Can’t have that, you know. Very unsporting.” Anthony watched with mild interest as Margaret’s eyes began snapping with anger.

  “Why you had to name that revolting pig ‘Duchess’ is beyond me.”

  “I didn’t have to, Meg. And it was you who inspired me—don’t you remember? Saying that I cared more for the new piglet than I did Selina. Which, of course, was not entirely untrue.”

  At this frank reference to his wife, dead these five years, and the unvarnished truth of his marriage—a dry, sepulchral, mutually loveless match of convenience—Margaret said, with more tartness than seemed strictly necessary:

  “Your remarks, Anthony, are insupportable. Selina, may I remind you, was the daughter of an earl, and comported herself at all times with the dignity appropriate to her station in life. Moreover, if she had known you named a pig after her—”

  “You’re off the mark there, old girl. I didn’t name the pig ‘Selina,’ after all.”

  “Off the mark? Why, you—you’re—flippant—and feckless—and—and—” Margaret actually sputtered, briefly fell silent, then gathered herself again for her riposte, as might a duelist prepare for the killing blow. “Your juvenile absence of seriousness on the subject is an affront to anyone with a particle of sensibility.”

  “I assure you, Meg, I’m very serious about my pigs.”

  “And,” she went on, unheeding, “the manner in which you fraternize with your pigman is a complete betrayal of your rank.”

  “Is that what you came out onto the portico t
o tell me? Far be it from me to throw your own words back into your face, but you’ve said that many times before. Also, you’ll get chilled standing there without a shawl.”

  “I came out to inform you,” Margaret said, in the tone of one forced to call upon the last vestiges of extraordinary self-control in the face of unbearable provocation, “that instead of gallivanting off to Surmont Hall to chat about pigs with Gabriel Penhallow, you’re shortly expected at tea, in your own drawing-room, where you are to carry on—if at all humanly possible—a polite conversation with the Preston-Carnabys.”

  “Who?”

  “The Preston-Carnabys, whose daughter, as I have already explained to you twice today, you are to inspect with an eye toward matrimony.”

  Anthony groaned. “Oh, for God’s sake, Meg, another one?”

  “Yes, another one. It has evidently escaped your notice that you have but the one son, which leaves you in a very precarious position. You must marry again.”

  “Five years with Selina was enough.”

  “Your feelings in the matter, Anthony, are irrelevant. You have a duty to the family and to your ancient lineage. The Preston-Carnabys are our guests, and—”

  “Your guests. I didn’t invite them.”

  “They are our guests,” Margaret said with steel in her voice, “who have come all the way from Yorkshire. Incidentally, Nurse tells me that Wakefield has not been seen since breakfast, and I got a note from the vicar saying that Wakefield didn’t come for his lessons, and your tenant farmer Moore stopped by to complain that Wakefield was seen attempting to ride one of his bulls—all of which means, I daresay, that he could be anywhere by now.”

  “Oh, Wake’s somewhere about, you know.”

  “Your only child and heir is missing.”

  “Not missing, Meg. Just not here. When I was his age I could spend half the day up a tree, or fishing by the river.”

  “And look how you turned out. When Wakefield returns, I expect you to discipline him with the utmost stringency. He’s a marquis, after all, and ought to act like one.”

  “He’s eight.”

  “And in line to inherit one of the most illustrious dukedoms in the country.”

  “Very well, stale bread and water for a week. Maybe a few turns on the rack, too.”

  In the silence that fell between them after this last utterance, Anthony would have sworn he could see actual flames shooting out from Margaret’s eyes. Finally she hissed:

  “You—you’re—you’re . . .”

  “Yes?” he said, politely.

  “You’re a very bad duke!”

  “Am I?” he said, still politely.

  “Yes! In fact, you’re the worst duke in the world!”

  “Well then.” Warm and comfortable in his wool greatcoat and tall hat, Anthony stood looking up at Margaret on the portico. The black hem of her gown fluttered in a sharp wintry wind, her nose had reddened in the cold, and her teeth were chattering ever so slightly. He knew from extensive experience that she would go on standing there until she gained her point, no matter how long it took. Little did he want on his conscience the nasty bout of pleurisy that might develop if she stayed like this much longer, so he said:

  “I’ll talk to Wakefield, Meg. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll stop by the stables to tell them I don’t want my horse after all. Then I’ll come back for tea.”

  She eyed him narrowly, then nodded and turned around. A footman had obviously been awaiting her return to the house, for the door swung open wide to admit her, and then was closed very, very gently by the same invisible hand within. Had it not been beneath her, Anthony knew that Margaret would have loved nothing better than personally slamming the great oak door shut in a way that would have made her sentiments known to everyone within a fifty-foot radius.

  He gave a little sigh.

  Poor old Margaret.

  He wished she would marry again.

  At eighteen she had been wed to Selina’s older brother, who had died after only two years of marriage. His heir, Selina’s younger brother, had promptly booted the widowed Margaret out of the house, and so she had come back home to Hastings where she and Selina had—beneath a brittle veneer of civility—lived under the same roof as might two queens jockey for the same throne, an uneasy state of affairs which lasted until Selina’s death, five long years later.

  Now here they were. He a widower at thirty-one, she a widow at thirty-three. She still wore black for the late Viscount Peete, which was a mystery to Anthony, as Skiffy Featherington had not only been exceedingly stupid, he had also been vain, arrogant, and among the most extreme of the so-called Dandy set—notorious throughout half of England for the immense shoulder-padding in his coats, the soaring height of his shirt-points, the half-dozen fobs jangling from his waist, and the jeweled quizzing-glass he carried with him everywhere including (it was rumored) bed, bathtub, and privy.

  Well, life was full of mysteries, wasn’t it?

  By way of further example, why had blight returned this past autumn to the northeastern apple orchards after a full decade of untroubled health and productivity?

  And was it true that the long white blurry swath in the night sky wasn’t a celestial sort of exhalation, as he’d been taught in his youth, but was instead, thanks to the revelations of modern telescopes, an immense grouping of distant stars?

  Too, recently he had found himself wondering why the self-styled village oracle, Mrs. Roger, had come up to him the last time he was in Riverton and said, nodding her head in a highly significant manner, You’re next, Yer Grace.

  Also, would Margaret ever stop presenting him with marital candidates, or would this dispiriting parade of hopeful females go on forever?

  Anthony turned away from the marble steps and began walking toward the stables, and as he passed a large and perfectly rounded shrub, a small form leaped out from behind it and onto the graveled path, shouting in a high-pitched childish treble:

  “Boo!”

  Anthony paused and calmly regarded his son, who in turn looked very disappointed.

  “Oh, Father, you never jump.”

  “Nerves of iron,” explained Anthony. “Only way a chap could survive in this family. How long have you been hiding behind that shrub?”

  “Ages. I heard everything you and Aunt Margaret said. I say, Father, are you going to marry Miss Thingummy?”

  “Who?”

  “You know, the lady from Yorkshire.”

  “Doubtful.”

  “Well, that’s good. I saw her in the drawing-room, Father, and she asked who I was, and when I told her, she said I ought to be away at school, and then I told her I didn’t want to go, and she said I was a foolish little boy and that you’re a nonglickful father.”

  “Do you mean neglectful?”

  “Yes, that’s what I said. And then she said that the first thing she’ll do after she marries you will be to pack me off to Eton.”

  “Fat chance of that. You’d run away and join the Navy.”

  “Yes, that’s what I told her! And guess what she said then, Father?”

  “She complimented you on your patriotic spirit.”

  “No, she said I was not only a foolish little boy, but a horrid one too.”

  “Hardly an endearing strategy to get me to marry her,” remarked Anthony. “I wonder why she didn’t think you’d repeat what she said to you.”

  Wakefield smiled a distinctly gleeful smile. “I told her I would, Father, and then she gave me a half-crown to keep my mouth shut.”

  “And yet here you are, telling me.”

  “Aren’t you glad I did?”

  “Well, yes,” Anthony admitted. “You’ve given me all the insight I need into Miss Thingummy’s character.”

  “I think you ought to give me a half-crown for that.”

  “Don’t push your luck. You’re already deep into morally ambiguous territory. By the way, what were you doing in the drawing-room?”

  “Hiding from Nurse.”

&nbs
p; “Why?”

  “She keeps wanting to give me castor oil, and it’s foul.”

  Anthony nodded, and resumed walking again. “She dosed me with that when I was a lad. Said it would fatten me up.”

  Briskly taking two or three strides to one of his own, Wakefield kept pace alongside him. “It didn’t work, Father.”

  “No, it only made me bilious. Does she think you’re too thin also?”

  “Yes. She says I’ll grow up to be a scarecrow like you if I don’t watch out.”

  “A scarecrow? How unkind of Nurse to say that.”

  “I stuck up for you, Father.”

  “Did you, Wake? That was ripping of you.”

  “Yes, I told her you don’t look like a scarecrow—you’re more like a crane. Because your legs are awfully long, you know.”

  “They may be long, my boy, but at least they reach the ground.”

  Wakefield thought this over, and grinned. “I say, Father, you’re the most complete hand.”

  “One does try.”

  “So will you talk to Nurse, then?”

  “Yes. Henceforth no drop of castor oil is to pass betwixt your unwilling lips. This is my ducal decree. Let no man—or nurse—flout it with impunity.”

  Wakefield gave a joyful skip. “That’s capital, Father, thanks ever so much.”

  “You’re welcome. Speaking of hiding in the drawing-room, why didn’t you go to the vicarage today for your lessons?”

  “I wanted to, of course,” said Wakefield, looking up at him with brown eyes that had somehow gotten all big and glistening, like those of a sweet, vulnerable fawn. “But there were so many more important things I had to do, Father.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, for one, yesterday I told Johns I’d stand guard over the Duchess for a few hours, so he could go get his breakfast. He’d told me about Cremwell’s evil plan, you see, and he stayed by the Duchess’s pig-cote all night. And when he got back, I was hungry, so I went to Mrs. Gregg’s cottage. Because she makes the most dilickable muffins, Father.”