Thankfully, Pumpernickel, their tabby cat, slinked into the room and rubbed himself against Mary’s arm. Distracted from the conversation, her daughter scooped the feline up and petted him. A godsend, because when Mary started asking questions, they could become endless, and Eve had no desire to talk about kissing with one’s tongue. Even her husband, God rest his soul, had not kissed that way. And the one time she’d attempted to do it with him, Samuel had looked at her as if she were mad.
Penny motioned to the letter Eve had begun writing. “Are you going to post it or put it in your desk drawer with all the other ones you’ve never mailed?”
Oh, she was sorely tempted to mail it. Julien wouldn’t know who she was. He’d not known a Mrs. Breckenridge. He’d known a silly girl named Evangeline Templeton. She should send it, but it would probably have no effect on the hardened, unfeeling Earl of Dartmore.
“Perhaps, I will.”
“I dare you to put it in the posts,” Penny said with a laugh.
Eve dipped her pen into the ink pot and continued with her scathing diatribe.
Dear Lord Jack-a-ninny-pea-brain,
You are a heartless gentleman! Your tenants and the townsfolk look forward to skating on the lake during the holidays, yet you have closed it to them. You deserve coal in your stocking! No longer should the scandal sheets refer to you as the Naughty Earl, they should call you Lord Scrooge.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Breckenridge
Perhaps the two exclamation points were excessive. Ha, excessive? She’d called him pea-brained and a Jack-a-ninny.
Penny leaned over Eve’s shoulder and gasped as she read the letter.
Before she could change her mind, Eve rocked the ink blotter over the parchment, placed it in an envelope, and addressed it to the earl’s Mayfair residence. She handed it to Penny. “On your way home, will you post it for me?”
Biting her lower lip, Penny stared at her. “Eve, are you sure?”
“Most certainly.” She gave a firm nod, even though her stomach felt rather queasy. The odious man deserved some chastising for his behavior.
Chapter Two
Although snow flurries danced in the crisp December air, a string of thirty servants stood on the steps of Dartmore House waiting to greet Julien as he exited his carriage.
The front door opened and his seventeen-year-old sister, Rose, dressed in some pink concoction, came flying down the steps as if assisted by wings. Shrieking, she wrapped her arms about his neck like a trained combatant who wished to cut off his air supply.
“Oh, Julien, wait until you see the house. There are boughs of evergreens everywhere and the Christmas tree is nearly twenty feet high. Mama has said I may attend the ball, even though I’ve not made my bow to the queen, and I have a new gown that is as white as the snow that is falling.” His sister stopped to catch her breath.
“That sounds lovely, Rose.” But so did breathing. He extracted his neck from her stranglehold and drew in a bracing breath of winter air, then kissed her cheek.
With the door open, he could hear more shrieking. His two youngest sisters, Violet and Dahlia, fifteen and sixteen respectively, dashed toward him, dressed in nearly identical pink gowns.
Once again, clinging arms and swaths of pink ruffles besieged him.
“Girls, girls, release your brother this instant. We cannot have him bruised for the party.” His mother gracefully moved down the steps and offered him her cheek.
He kissed her and surveyed his sisters, who possessed the same pitch-dark hair as he did. His two youngest sisters had dark blue eyes, while Rose possessed the same green eyes as he did. “Look at the three of you. You’ve all grown while away at school. You look like bean poles.”
“Bean poles,” Dahlia echoed. She burst into tears and ran back into the house.
Julien stared at his sister’s retreating back. “Good lord. What did I say?”
“You shouldn’t have said that, Julien,” Rose scolded.
“That wasn’t very kind,” Violet added.
Julien was at a loss. What had he said? He loved his sisters, but they were like complex puzzles he found difficult to solve.
“Get in the house, girls, before you catch pneumonia.” Mother motioned Violet and Rose inside.
He watched them, feeling as if he’d stepped into some parallel universe. Many men feared him. He could be ruthless if crossed, was a shrewd businessman, and an outspoken member of the House of Lords. When he walked into a room, men parted, leaving him a wide berth, but here at Dartmore House when his sisters were in residence, he always felt like a man walking on eggshells.
Julien noticed the slight grin on his butler’s face. The old retainer had been in his family’s employ since before Julien’s birth. He knew Julien found his sisters to be a rather emotional lot.
“What do you find so humorous, Stanford?” he snapped.
The man’s grin only lessened slightly. “Nothing, my lord.”
“Didn’t I sack you on my last visit here?”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Yet, here you are.” Every time he fired the man for his imprudence, Mother hired him back. The man was like a human boomerang.
Inside the entry hall with its polished marble floor and gleaming woodwork, Julien handed his coat and gloves to Stanford. Already feeling out of place in his own home, he took his mother’s arm and led her into the receiving room off the entry hall. The scent of pine caused him to glance around. Boughs of evergreens with red glass ornaments covered nearly every surface. The mantel. The tops of the windows. The doorways. It looked like an evergreen forest had exploded and scattered its branches everywhere.
He turned to his mother. “I have no idea what just transpired. What did I say to cause Dahlia to cry?”
“Julien, you were most indelicate.”
Indelicate? He rubbed at his left temple, attempting to ease the sudden pounding in his head. “Could you explain? For I am utterly confused as to what I did to cause her such distress.”
“Didn’t you notice how tall Dahlia is?”
“Of course, I noticed. That is why I commented.”
“Yes, dear, but a girl doesn’t wish to be so tall. She wants to be delicate.”
“I thought she looked lovely. I shall go tell her.”
“No use. I will go and remind her that tears will cause shadows under her eyes, which are just as unappealing as being tall.”
“Perhaps it is statements like that which make her feel her height is a detriment.”
“If she continues at this rate, she will tower over half the men of the ton. She will look like a giraffe standing next to a horse.” With a sigh, his mother fluttered out of the room.
No wonder his sisters acted so emotional. Mother made the girls believe their only virtue was their looks. How could he explain to Dahlia that some men enjoyed women with long legs? He shook his head. If he tried to explain that to her, he would embarrass them both.
* * * *
Within an hour, carriages lined the circular drive in front of Dartmore House and footmen carried trunks up to the guest rooms. The sound of young women giggling could be heard echoing in nearly every corner of the home.
The pounding that had started in Julien’s head upon arrival increased. His title, his wealth, and the fact he was no longer in mourning would make him the target of every social-climbing-matchmaking mama at this gathering. They wouldn’t care about dying secretaries or that the scandal sheets had nicknamed him the Naughty Earl.
He gritted his teeth. He should never have agreed to attend this Christmas house party, which was more of an ambush than anything else. He ran a finger around the collar of his shirt, which had grown uncomfortably tight, and tugged.
“You are causing wrinkles, my lord.” His valet gave an agitated sigh.
Perhaps if he went downstairs w
ith his hair thick with some smelly pomade and sticking up in the air, while reeking of gin, the mob of matchmaking mothers would think him unsuitable and leave him alone. Better yet, he should toss aside all his clothing and enter the ballroom naked. Then they’d truly think him mad.
That might do the trick, but most likely his mother would suffer some fatal malady and haunt him from the grave. Drawing in a bracing breath, he headed toward the gold drawing room, where guests were congregating before dinner.
At the threshold, he stopped dead in his tracks and peered at those gathered.
Good God! The ratio of women to men was fashionably even. However, the ratio of young men to eligible women was severely skewed. He appeared to be the youngest fellow in the room. Nearly every other male guest looked at least sixty-five. Most sported gray hair or bald pates. A few possessed wooden teeth.
Lord Amherst, eighty-nine, sat in his wheelchair with a nursemaid by his side and a woolen blanket folded over his thin legs. Rupert Smyth held his metal ear trumpet toward a woman he conversed with, and Lord Griffin sat in a chair snoring, his cane braced on his lap.
It would have resembled an assembly of octogenarians, if not for the young women dressed in frilly concoctions of silk, satin, and taffeta and their mamas. His mother had made sure that the competition for the women’s attention was almost nonexistent.
A hush settled over the crowd, followed by the fluttering of fans and low whispers that seemed to carry through the room like a moving wave. Some guests looked a bit scared. Understandable. He had a feeling he’d momentarily bared his teeth like a jackal.
One young woman standing only a few feet away appeared ready to dash from the room. Another was cowering behind a woman he presumed was the chit’s mother.
He smoothed out his expression.
His mother strode toward him. She smiled like a military general who’d just toppled the leader of a small country and now could dictate the fate of its predecessor.
He turned to make a quick retreat to his library, where he could fortify himself with liquor before conversing with those gathered.
The butler, who nearly matched his six-foot stature, stood like a brick wall blocking the doorway.
“Did my mother ask you to guard the door so I couldn’t make a quick retreat?”
“My lord, would her ladyship do that?”
“Without a second thought.”
The man had the audacity to grin.
“Stanford, pack your trunks. You’re sacked again.”
The butler nodded. “Yes, my lord. After I announce dinner is ready.”
His mother appeared by his side and locked onto his arm with the strength of a blacksmith’s clamp.
Damnation. The only way to dislodge her deathlike grip would be to pry each one of her fingers loose, and he feared if he did that, she wouldn’t hesitate to tackle him to the floor.
“Mother,” he growled in a low voice. “I expected your machinations. But good God…”
She smiled sweetly.
With Mother still clinging to his arm, he led the procession into the dining hall. He’d need that drink if he was going to last throughout this dinner. As he passed Stanford he whispered, “Bring me a tall glass of whiskey.”
“Julien, a glass of whiskey?” his mother hissed.
“You’re right. A glass is too small. On second thought, make it a whole decanter.”
“If I recall, I’ve been dismissed,” Stanford said.
“Don’t tell me you’ve sacked him again?” Mother shook her head.
He scowled at her. “What difference does it make? He never seems to actually leave. Tell me, Mother, why am I the youngest man here?”
“You aren’t. Sir George is here.”
“Sir George likes to pick his nose in public.”
“Does he? I wasn’t aware of that.” She offered an innocent look.
During the ball, he’d have to dance the whole night. “This is beyond the pale, Mother.”
“You need a male heir. And for that, you need a wife. If you will not consider my well-being, then think of your sisters.”
The woman was a master manipulator. Julien took his place at the head of the table that spanned thirty feet in the dining room. To his right sat an attractive, dark-haired young woman with bow-shaped lips and large hazel eyes. As she’d taken her seat, his mother had introduced her as Lady Aubrey, Lady Campden’s eldest daughter. He presumed Mother had placed her next to him because she possessed remarkable beauty. But life had taught him that there was so much more to people than their looks. Something Mother didn’t seem to understand.
He felt the woman’s gaze on him. When he looked at her, she hastily averted her eyes.
Had she read the gossip that stated he hosted wicked parties at his London residence? Did she believe at any moment he might ravish her in front of thirty guests? Or perhaps she’d heard of the deaths of his two secretaries and thought him a madman. He was half tempted to say boo and see if she scurried from the room shrieking. Instead, he smiled.
In response, the corners of her lips tentatively turned upward.
The weather was always a safe subject, and the falling snow outside had picked up speed. “Are you fond of snow, Lady Aubrey?”
“S-snow, my lord?” She peered at him as if he had asked if she was fond of sex.
He released a slow breath. “Yes, the white, powdery stuff that falls from the sky when it’s chilly.”
Lady Aubrey tipped her head to the side, causing the brown ringlets surrounding her slender face to dance in the air like marionettes. “It’s very cold when touched.”
“It is,” he replied, turning to Lord Griffin, hoping the man could give him some decent conversation.
Instead, the earl snored softly.
“I prefer the summer,” Lady Aubrey said excitedly, apparently trying to rejuvenate the conversation.
“Ah, because it is pleasant for walking about?” Julien asked.
“Oh, no! Because I can wear such lovely straw bonnets with silk flowers and birds on the brim.”
“Birds?”
“Not real birds, my lord. Faux birds. I particularly like yellow ones.” She smiled, seeming pleased with her conversational skills, or perhaps she was just smiling over her thoughts about yellow faux birds.
Good lord, it was going to be an impossibly long dinner. He spotted Victoria Redding halfway up the table and wished Mother had placed her next to him. She was smart as a whip. Someone he could converse with.
After nine courses, the women retired to the drawing room and port was served to all the men. Julien glanced out the bank of French doors. The snow had picked up speed.
When younger, he’d always loved the snow. Now he felt like it trapped him in this house. Julien walked to the double set of doors and opened one. A gust of swirling Arctic air caused the curtains to billow inward, and the crystals on the chandelier clinked.
The conversation in the room stilled.
He turned around and looked at the assemblage of mostly elderly gentlemen his mother had invited to this house party. His thoughts veered to the young women and their matchmaking mothers. Julien fought the urge to walk out those doors and into the white abyss.
“My lord?” Stanford said, moving to Julien’s side.
“Don’t worry, old boy. I know my mother would become a weeping mess if I didn’t return to the drawing room.”
The butler nodded and pulled the doors closed.
* * * *
The following morning, Julien awoke before cockcrow. Restless, he parted the curtain in his bedchamber. Under the dark winter sky lay a blanket of snow as far as the eye could see. His gaze shifted to the stone stable. His head groom and the stable hands would be rising soon to muck out the stalls and tend to the horses.
In a few hours, the dining room would be crowded
with guests for breakfast. The thought made the muscles in his neck tight. He rolled his shoulders, attempting to loosen them. He needed to escape the confines of this situation, if only for a short reprieve. Without another thought, Julien entered his dressing room and slipped on his riding pantaloons, shirt, long woolen coat, and jackboots. Two years ago, at Tattersalls, he’d purchased Boreas, a warm-blooded horse, who enjoyed the snow.
He made his way down the gravel path to the stables. Inside, the scent of horses and leather filled the air. Julien rubbed a hand over Boreas’s withers. “Would you like to go out this morning?”
As if the animal understood, he nodded and neighed.
Julien removed the horse’s saddle and blanket off their stand, placed them on the horse, and cinched the girth. Anxious, Boreas sidestepped and tossed his head.
“Easy, boy,” he crooned, running his hand over the animal’s flank.
“Who’s in here?” a gruff voice asked. His head groom walked into the dim stable, smacking a cudgel against his open palm. His gaze swung toward Julien and even in the dim light, Julien noticed the man’s face turn ashen. “Lord Dartmore, I-I didn’t realize it was you. I thought we had a horse thief.”
“Just me.” He gave the man a grim smile and led the horse out of the stable.
Once in the open land, Julien lengthened the reins, and Boreas’s hooves sent snow flying in his wake as the animal cantered across the land, his mane flying in the air.
He’d ridden for close to an hour when he reached a path that cut through the woods. In the field, he’d given Boreas his head, but not here where the morning’s early sunrays had just begun to cut through the trees.
“Easy boy. Easy.” He patted the horse’s withers and ducked his head as Boreas walked under a low-lying branch.
An owl’s screech reached his ears a moment before the animal swooped at them—the bird’s underbelly white against the dark branches reaching over them like demon arms.
The Taming of Lord Scrooge Page 2
