Engaged to the Earl
Page 33
“Do you mean delectable?”
“Yes, that’s what I said. You ought to try them. So I had nuncheon with Mrs. Gregg, and then I was going to the vicarage, but I passed Mr. Moore’s field and saw that bull of his, Old Snorter, and thought I’d give it a go. So after I fell off, I had to run away from Old Snorter and Mr. Moore, who was shouting like anything. Then I tripped over a tree-root and scraped away half the skin on my arm—”
“Did you really?”
“Well, no, but I was bleeding a bit, and luckily Miss Trevelyan came by on one of her walks, and she took me back to her house and put a sticking-plaster on it, and then I was hungry again, so Miss Humphrey made some sandwiches for me, and then we all went into the library so Miss Trevelyan could read aloud to us from the book she’s writing, which was jolly good fun, and Miss Humphrey also brought in some biscuits. I saved one for you, Father.”
Wakefield pulled from the pocket of his coat a vaguely circular object. “See? It’s only a tiny bit crumbled.”
He offered it to Anthony, who accepted it, blew off what looked like some dog hairs, and took a bite. “I say, it is good.”
Wakefield looked pleased. “Isn’t it? I ate five of them.”
Anthony took another bite, then said, “Look here, old chap, these are all very worthy activities, but you and I made a bargain. I agreed to let you stay at home and not go off to school, and you agreed to have lessons with Mr. Pressley. So you ought to stick to the bargain, don’t you think?”
Wakefield opened his mouth, closed it, kicked at the gravel, hopped on one foot, lagged behind, ran to catch up, and finally said, “Yes, Father.”
“Splendid. Want the last bite?”
“Yes, please.” Wakefield took what was left of the biscuit and ate it, and said, “I say, Father, I don’t think Aunt Margaret meant it when she said you’re the worst duke in the world.”
“Oh yes, she did,” answered Anthony dispassionately.
“There’s probably worse ones in China, Father, or in the Colonies, or Antarctica.”
“You’re a great comfort to me, my boy.”
“One does try.”
Anthony ruffled his son’s tawny hair, repressed a sigh at the thought of the predictably ghastly tea that lay ahead of him, and then the two of them passed into the stables which smelled so pleasantly of horse, hay, liniment, cheroot, and manure.
Meanwhile, over at Surmont Hall . . .
Jane Kent stood on the porch of the intimidatingly vast old house, gazing with some trepidation at the massive door of dark knotted wood and the polished knocker which was just a little above her eye-level. She was uncomfortably aware that the hem of her shabby old gown was rather short, showing far too much of her scrawny ankles in equally shabby stockings and also entirely failing to conceal the fact that her dark half-boots, though sturdy, were—unfortunately—shabby too.
She tightened her grip on the small battered valise she held in both hands, additionally aware that she was ravenously hungry, underdressed for the winter weather, not as clean as she would like after traveling in various dingy coaches for four days, and that in the tatty reticule she carried looped around her bony wrist was all the money she had left in the world.
Three pounds, four shillings, and sixpence.
No, wait, that was wrong.
She had given the shillings to a nice old man named John Roger who had conveyed her from the village—Riverton—in his gig. He hadn’t wanted to take the money, but she had insisted.
It was his wife, curiously enough, who had helped her find her way here.
Jane had just climbed out of the coach from Bristol, and was standing, stiff and cold and bewildered, on the high street, when a stout old lady had come marching up and said in a satisfied way:
You’re right on time.
Of course, the old lady, who then introduced herself as Mrs. Roger, could have been referring to the coach’s traveling schedule, but somehow Jane didn’t think that was quite what she had meant. Still, before she could gather her scattered wits to try and frame a rational inquiry, Mrs. Roger had taken her over to where her husband happened to be standing with his gig and horse, hustled Jane up onto the high front seat, and said:
You’re to ask for old Mrs. Penhallow.
More bewildered than ever, Jane had thought about the fragile, yellowed letter she had in her possession, and only said:
At Surmont Hall?
Mrs. Roger had looked up at her and calmly answered, Well, of course.
And just for a second Jane felt like she had asked a stupid question.
A loud complaining rumble from her empty stomach abruptly reminded her that she’d been standing on the wide gracious porch of Surmont Hall like a wax dummy. Well, it was now or never, she supposed.
So Jane lifted her hand and rapped the knocker in a way that sounded, she hoped, neither too assertive nor too timid—the easy, casual knock of a person who was certainly going to be admitted into this very, very grand house despite looking as if she really ought to be going around the back to the servants’ entrance and begging for a bowl of soup.
Which she might, in fact, shortly be doing.
A blast of cold sharp wind whipped at the hems of Jane’s gown and pelisse and, as if embodied in an unseen malevolent hand, it also ripped from her head her old flat-crowned straw bonnet, which flew high into the air, did three or four jaunty somersaults, and landed gracefully into the tranquil waters of the large ornamental pond which lay beyond the curving graveled carriage sweep.
Jane was just about to go darting after it (as it was her only hat) when the big dark door opened. A beautifully dressed, well-fed, very clean young footman stood there, looking inquiringly at her.
“May I help you, miss?”
“Yes, please.” Jane realized that her voice had emerged rather weak and croaky, like that of a despairing frog, perhaps, and hastily she cleared her throat. “I’ve—I’ve come to see Mrs. Penhallow.”
“Which one, miss?”
Jane gaped at the footman. Was this a trick question? How many Mrs. Penhallows could there possibly be? A dozen—a hundred—a thousand? Into her muddled mind came Mrs. Roger’s instructions and she said rather wildly, “The—ah—older Mrs. Penhallow, if you please.”
A little doubtfully, the footman said, “Is she expecting you, miss?”
“I—I have a letter.” This was true, although Jane was miserably conscious that her answer was more than a little opaque. Her stomach rumbled again, as if to helpfully remind her of just how miserable things were.
“Very well, miss. Won’t you please come inside?” The footman stepped aside, and gratefully Jane went into the light and warmth of an immense high-ceilinged hall, catching quick glimpses of an enormous fireplace flanked by gleaming suits of armor, a coat of arms carved into the massive chimney-piece, a large and unnerving display of old weapons on one wall, a wide curving staircase leading to the upstairs.
Everything was so big—and it made her feel so very small.
Jane shrank a little inside her pelisse, feeling extremely out of place among all this elegance and grandeur, and also hoping she hadn’t tracked mud inside. Her idea back in Nantwich, to upend her life because of a yellowy old letter discovered by chance, had seemed so brilliant and important at the time, but now it struck her as reckless, demented, asinine, ruinous folly.
Still, maybe there would be soup.
She thought of a nice fragrant steaming hot bowl of it, filled with, say, chunks of beef, and with carrots and parsnips and onions. Maybe some celery and diced potatoes, too.
Then she pictured a lovely thick slice of fresh bread, with a spongy tender crumb and a crisp chewy crust.
No, two slices. Why not?
In her mind’s eye she pictured herself lavishly spreading onto the bread as much butter as she liked.
Lots and lots of it, fresh-churned and creamy, with a little sprinkle of salt, perhaps.
Covering every bit of the slice, all the way to the cru
st.
She would eat these two buttery slices very methodically—it would give her soup a chance to cool a little.
Next, she imagined another slice of bread, which she wouldn’t butter, but would instead dip into her soup. It would soak up the rich beefy broth, and get all soft and drippy, and she’d have to carefully bite at it so as not to waste a single drop.
After that, she’d spoon up everything else.
Then, when she had nearly finished the bowl, she would use some more bread to mop up the last of the broth, wiping her bowl clean.
Of course, there would be plenty more soup and bread, and it would be perfectly all right for her to have seconds, so—
Jane realized that she was salivating, and that drool was just about to start spooling out of the side of her mouth. Quickly she swallowed. As she did, she heard, from within a corridor off the hall, a man say, in a deep, cool, aristocratic-sounding voice tinged with faint amusement:
“Cremwell’s been telling me that Johns—the Hastings pigman—has been grossly insulting him in the Riverton pubs, denigrating his professional expertise, mocking his appearance, and casting aspersions on his mother’s fidelity.”
“Dear me,” said another voice, a woman’s, also very cool and aristocratic. “The passions of these pigmen! You ought, perhaps, to speak with Radcliffe, before they come to actual blows.”
Nervously Jane turned toward these new voices and, her fingers clenched tight on the handle of her valise, watched as from the corridor came two people walking side by side.
One was a tall, broad-shouldered, excessively good-looking man in his early thirties, with neatly cropped brown hair and penetrating dark eyes, dressed very fine in a dark blue jacket, dark breeches, and tall glossy boots.
The other person was a handsome, slender old lady, very straight and graceful, with silvery curls and sharp blue eyes, and clad in a soft dove-gray gown of marvelous elegance and simplicity.
Jane stared at her, her heart thumping hard within her chest, hearing in her mind once again Mrs. Roger’s firm voice:
You’re to ask for old Mrs. Penhallow.
She took a few tentative steps forward. “Please, ma’am—are you—may I speak with you, please?” Her voice felt to her as if it were being swallowed up in this enormous hall, but apparently it was loud enough to attract the attention of the handsome man and the elegant old lady, for they both paused and turned to look at her.
The old lady’s reaction was more intense—far, far more intense—than Jane could ever have anticipated.
At first moving over Jane with mild curiosity, those sharp blue eyes suddenly widened, her mouth went slack, and the old lady gasped out:
“Titus!”
Her face gone white as snow, she staggered back and would have fallen, if not for the swift action of the man beside her, who wrapped his arm around her to keep her upright.
The old lady didn’t faint, but she certainly looked as if she had seen a ghost.
About the Author
LISA BERNE read her first Georgette Heyer book at fourteen—it was the effervescent Lady of Quality—and was instantly captivated. Later, she was a graduate student, a grant writer, and a teacher, and now writes witty, beautifully nuanced historical romance for Avon Books, set mostly in Regency-era Britain.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
By Lisa Berne
Engaged to the Earl
The Bride Takes a Groom
The Laird Takes a Bride
You May Kiss the Bride
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from The Worst Duke in the World copyright © 2021 by Lisa Berne.
engaged to the earl. Copyright © 2020 by Lisa Berne. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
Digital Edition MARCH 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-285236-6
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-285235-9
Cover design by Amy Halperin
Cover illustration © Anna Kmet
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HarperCollins is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America and other countries.
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