Unraveling the Earl

by Lynne Barron

  It seemed to the Earl of Hastings that the light spilling from the chandelier narrowed, pooling over lined faces and sparse gray hair before settling over the single purple feather that glinted as if sprinkled with diamonds dust.

  Lady Morris was the last to move, slowly stepping back and turning to face the doorway, her gown making a swishing sound reminiscent of heavy velvet over boards worn smooth under countless players’ feet.

  Henry blinked, feeling oddly lightheaded and off-kilter.

  Georgie Buchanan stood smack dab in the center of his family.

  But this Georgie was not his Georgie. She was a stranger, a poised and regal lady, draped in cream silk embroidered with lavender blooms no bigger than his thumb, each adorned with an amethyst at its center. The bodice of her gown was modest, the sweetheart neckline enhancing her bosom and showcasing those damnably lovely collarbones, the sleeves mere scraps of lace falling down her arms.

  The gown hugged her slim waist without benefit of sash or belt, as if she’d been stitched into the glowing silk. The fabric parted low on her belly, the edges trimmed in ribbon and caught up in graceful drapes secured on either side by jaunty purple bows. The underskirt was comprised of lavender silk dotted with dozens of smaller purple bows, each bedecked with tiny pearls that picked up the light from overhead.

  She’d pulled her hair back from her face, somehow tamed the coils and spirals into an elegant twist at the crown of her head without so much as one unruly curl escaping its pins. Tucked into the neat chignon was a single feather jauntily angled to dangle just above her right eye.

  Amethyst and pearl jewels hung from her ears, swinging and sparkling as she lifted her chin.

  A matching choker wrapped around her graceful neck, a diamond as big as a coin dangling just below the hollow of her throat.

  Lace gloves covered her arms to just below the elbows, a wide bangle of silver and amethyst encircled one wrist while the other was bedecked with more diamonds.

  As Henry stared at the lady who bore only a faint resemblance to the woman who’d perched on his knee in nothing but his robe feeding him bread with butter and sweet wine, he became aware of fifteen pairs of eyes looking at him.

  Then, as if choreographed by a dance master, fourteen of those sets of eyes shifted to the elegant stranger in their midst.

  Georgie smiled, slow and sweet, a blush painting the hollows of her cheeks a soft pink.

  Conversation resumed, softer and interspersed with hushed laughter, as the guests began to shuffle out of the room.

  Olivia sprang into motion, rushing to Henry’s side and latching on to his elbow. She steered him around Lady Morris and Mr. Statham, coming to a stop before Georgie.

  “Miss Buchanan, I am pleased to introduce you to my brother, the Earl of Hastings.” Olivia beamed at the other lady while nudging her brother with her elbow.

  Henry bowed, his head feeling so light he wondered if it might float away from his neck.

  Georgie dropped into a curtsy so low he wondered if he might have to help her up again.

  When she rose unaided and silence descended around them Henry recognized the conundrum into which he’d been tossed.

  He could either announce to Olivia and anyone else within hearing distance that he and Georgie were, in point of fact, acquainted with one another, opening up the door to a multitude of troublesome questions.

  Or he could perpetrate a ruse that was bound to unravel seeing as Alice, Easton and Bentley were well aware that a connection existed between the earl and the Scots lass, even if they believed it to be entirely one-sided.

  Olivia swung her gaze between Henry and Georgie, a frown marring the lines of her forehead.

  He’d dithered too long.

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he finally blurted out, immediately recognizing his error, wishing he might somehow go back in time to correct it.

  Georgie did not so much as blink at his blunder. “The pleasure is all mine, Lord Hastings.”

  “I…that is…you…perhaps we have met…er…sometime previously,” he stammered.

  “I rather doubt it, my lord,” she replied, her voice soft and lyrical. “I would like to think I would remember had I been introduced to a gentleman such as your lordship.”

  “No, no, we’ve met,” he countered, desperate to undo the damage.

  “My lord, there is no need—”

  “I know you and you know me,” he insisted.

  “Henry, really,” Olivia admonished, staring up at him as if he’d sprouted a third eye. Or horns sticking out from beneath his hair.

  “I am truly sorry, love,” he murmured, battling the urge to step forward and take Georgie in his arms.

  “You needn’t apologize to me,” his sister replied. “Although I do believe you owe Miss Buchanan—”

  “I am an ass.”

  “Henry,” Olivia exclaimed, her hands fluttering about. “Whatever can you be thinking to curse before a lady?”

  “Two ladies,” Georgie corrected primly.

  “Three.” Lady Morris tossed the word over her shoulder as she disappeared into the hall.

  “Come along, Miss Buchanan.” Olivia linked arms with the lady. “I was going to request that Hastings escort you in to dinner but clearly that would be a mistake.”

  “You mustn’t be too hard on the poor man,” Georgie said as she was led away. “He looks as if he’s been ridden hard and put away wet, as my cousin would say.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever met his grace,” Olivia replied.

  “Oh, you would remember if you had.”

  “His grace?” Henry turned on his heel to follow them, belatedly wondering what story Georgie had concocted that had persuaded his sister to invite her to dine with the elderly contingent of the family.

  The ladies, with the earl trailing in their wake, got no farther than the spacious front foyer.

  “By God, I don’t believe it!”

  The Earl of Somerton rushed forward, tossing his hat and cane to the side, the former to be caught in midair by Pendergrass while the latter fell to the floor with a clatter.

  “Shit,” Henry muttered, stepping forward and placing himself between his uncle and his woman.

  “Out of the way, Hastings.” Somerton gave him a shove that caught him off guard and sent him stumbling into Olivia.

  “Ow, Henry! What is wrong with you?”

  “Pardon,” he muttered as he grasped her arms to prevent her toppling over.

  “She warned me you would come calling one day,” Uncle Robert bellowed as he stopped before Georgie.

  “Now, see here,” Henry began, knowing full well his uncle was all bark and no bite. But Georgie could not know it and he would not allow the man to cause her so much as a moment of worry.

  “I’ll be damned if she wasn’t right,” the older man continued, looming over Georgie.

  “Who, my lord?” Georgie asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “The Dowager Duchess, of course.”

  “Lady Joy warned you?”

  “She told me Mountjoy’s reckless daughter would be knocking on my door someday, poking her nose into business best left in the past.” The Earl of Somerton’s eyes were bulging from their sockets as he took her in from head to toe.

  Georgie let lose an inelegant snort followed by a breathy little moan that ended in a hiccup.

  And promptly burst into tears, loud wrenching sobs that shook her slender form as she bent her head into her hands.

  “Goddamn it!” Henry roared, barging between them and swooping Georgie up into his arms.

  “Henry!” Olivia exclaimed.

  “What the devil?” Somerton shouted.

  “No, no, no,” Georgie whispered around a broken sob, wiggling about so that he nearly dropped her.

  “Hush, love,” Henry crooned, pulling her tight against his chest.

  “Put Miss Buchanan down this instant,” Olivia demanded.

  “Have Georgie’s carriage brou
ght around.” He ignored her words as the doorway to the dining room filled with curious relations.

  “What? Whose carriage?” Olivia shrieked, her hands waving about frantically. “You cannot carry her out to the street!”

  “You there,” Henry motioned to the tall dark-haired servant manning the door, “bring the bloody carriage around now.”

  The footman, a boy no older than fourteen or fifteen, shot his gaze to Olivia, seeking his mistress’s approval as he ought.

  “Have you lost your mind, Henry?” Olivia hissed.

  Georgie wrapped her arms around his shoulders and buried her face against his neck. “My carriage is just around the corner.”

  Undone by the quiver in her voice as she whispered the words, Henry shot a glare to his uncle that promised future retribution and turned for the door, fully prepared to walk right through the heavy wood had the footman not hurried to throw it open.

  “Shh, it’s over. No one is going lambast you ever again,” he vowed, taking the steps at a clip while Georgie continued to cry, her back shaking in an alarming fashion and odd little grunts and snuffles falling from her lips and billowing against his neck.

  Henry took off down the street, turned the corner to find her carriage parked on the little used lane running along the side of Raleigh’s Folly.

  Brain hopped down from his perch on the boot of the cumbersome conveyance. “What the hell’d you do to Georgie?”

  “Open the door.”

  “Is Georgie crying?” the boy demanded, clearly shocked by the possibility.

  “Georgie don’t cry,” Silas hollered from the driver’s bench.

  “Open the bloody door,” Henry snarled.

  “Tag’ll have your head,” Brain muttered, whipping the door open and releasing the steps.

  “She’ll have to stand in line.” Right behind the woman in arms.

  He should have known Georgie would take matters into her own hands when he declined to introduce her to his family.

  He’d given her request no more than a passing thought in the days since she’d disappeared from Idyllwild, instead believing that he’d adequately explained his refusal and that she’s seen the wisdom of his words.

  Georgie had given him no reason to believe otherwise. Even when she’d run off it had never occurred to him that she’d fled from a promise he was only now coming to understand he’d broken, however unwittingly.

  Henry ducked his head and crawled into the carriage, gratified when Georgie curled her legs back to keep them from bumping the sides of what was an inordinately large portal.

  Soft light from two lanterns bolted to the interior walls cast a warm golden glow around an interior that was surprisingly luxurious. Decadent, even.

  Plush teal-blue velvet seats complete with a dozen or more jewel-toned tasseled pillows propped here and there, vibrant green-and gold-striped silk-covered walls and matching drapes embroidered with peacocks created an intimate space more suited to a boudoir than a carriage.

  A finely wrought leather chest was pushed beneath one seat, another of dark mahogany wedged into the corner and a small oval mirror hung above the back window.

  Henry took it all in at a quick glance as he lowered himself to sit facing forward, Georgie held securely in his arms.

  Brain poked his head through the open door.

  “Drive on,” Henry ordered.

  “Where to, your lordship?”

  “Home,” Georgie whispered.

  “Right you are, Georgie.” With a grin and a quick salute that was all too lighthearted to fit Henry’s present state of mind, Brain retreated to the street, slamming the door behind him.

  “We’re to take Georgie and the gent home to Bedford Square,” the boy shouted to the driver.

  Georgie drew in a ragged breath and lifted her head from his shoulder, peeking up at him from beneath her lashes, her feather waving in the air.

  Henry angled his head to look into her face, expecting to find trembling lips, blotchy skin and eyes swollen nearly shut.

  Georgie’s skin was a touch pink on the crests of her sharp cheekbones but her eyes were bright and quite large. Her lips trembled for a moment before lifting in a smile that began at one corner and slowly worked its way to the other.

  “Gracious me, but your uncle is a fearsome man,” she said, her voice laced with laughter as she smacked him lightly on the shoulder. “But I could have handled him. There was no need for you to play the gallant and whisk me up in your arms.”

  “You were crying.” Except her eyes were bright and clear. And dry.

  “I thought to faint but I never did master the art of the elegant swoon.”

  Henry only stared at her, certain he must have misunderstood her words and the smile that had reached her eyes, setting them to twinkling.

  “With my luck, no one would have caught me,” she continued, scrambling from his lap and plopping down on the seat across from him. “To be sure, I’d have gone tumbling to the marble floor, likely cracking my chin and biting clear through my tongue.”

  “You were faking,” he accused.

  “Were you fooled?”

  “Damn it, Georgie.”

  “Huh, I thought for certain you knew what I was about when you caught me up in your arms, all bellowing, masculine temper.” She reached up and pulled the feather from her hair, tossing it to the seat beside her. “You ought to have carried me back to the parlor so everyone could fuss over me while Lord Somerton stewed in his guilt.”

  “It was all part of a strategy?” Henry asked, trying to keep up with her agile, and alarmingly cunning, mind.

  “Somerton would have been begging my pardon within three minutes, and offering up all of his considerable resources to find the elusive Connie.”

  “You lied to my family.”

  “Faking a crying fit is lying?”

  “They must think I’ve lost my mind,” Henry muttered, an image of the stares from the dining room and Olivia’s fluttering hands filling his mind.

  “They’ll still love you,” she replied cheerfully.

  “Of course they will but that is not the point.”

  “Will they seek guardianship over your estate?” she asked, kicking off her slippers and wiggling her toes. “Marry you off to some bossy miss in hopes she might control your erratic behavior? Lop off your bollocks to prevent you from breeding, thereby putting an end to the madness that courses through your blood?”

  “Madness does not course through my blood.”

  “Then what has caused your sudden madness?”

  “You have caused my sudden madness,” he answered, unable to hold back a smile as he watched her tug at the buttons of one lace glove. “Give me your hand.”

  Georgie complied immediately, leaning forward to offer her right hand palm up across the space that separated them.

  “I hardly think I have single-handedly driven you around the bend,” she said as he set to work on the buttons at her wrist. “I won’t deny that I might have given you a little nudge, but you were already on your way.”

  “Why?” The tiny amethyst buttons proved to be trickier than he could have imagined.

  “Pull the gems off,” Georgie suggested. “You seem in need of a smidgeon of madness.”

  “No, why—”

  “Did I open a floodgate in your sister’s foyer?” she interrupted. ““It was rather something of a surprise to learn that while I was promising Lady Joy that I would allow the past to stay buried, a death-bed promise mind you, she knew I would not hold to my word. I needed a moment to gather my wits. And your uncle seemed quite ready to raise a ruckus. I had to turn things around.”

  “No, why did you run away?”

  “From Idyllwild, you mean?

  “From Idyllwild and from me.”

  “Just give a good yank, my lord, and jewels will come right off,” she said, lowering her head over their hands. “Tag can sew them onto something else. It’s not as if I shall ever wear this gown again so what need h
ave I for amethyst-studded gloves?”

  Henry yanked, the delicate thread snapped and a small amethyst no bigger than a tear fell to the floor.

  “Don’t lose the jewels,” Georgie cautioned, bending down to pluck up the gem and toss it to the seat beside him. “They belonged to Lady Joy and I’ve a sentimental attachment to them.”

  “You are the daughter of a duke.” In all the commotion of her latest staged drama, he’d not had time to process that bit of knowledge.

  “Did you not know?” she asked, her eyes widening.

  “How should I have known?”

  “I told you my father was George Buchanan,” she replied.

  “And from that one clue I should have deduced all?”

  “’Tis true, he was only duke for two years and was never expected to inherit the title at all, being the third son of a forth son. But Buchanans were dropping like flies for a time. Why, my grandfather held the dukedom for only a month. But as Lady Joy liked to tell anyone who would listen, once a duchess always a duchess and I suppose it holds true for dukes’ daughters, as well.”

  As Georgie beamed a smile his way and another gem came loose to be caught on his palm, Henry made the connection. “Gilroy Buchanan, the Duke of Mountjoy.”

  “Are you acquainted with Killjoy, then?”

  “Mountjoy is your cousin.” The duke was a degenerate rake, an ugly carrot-topped man as tall as a mountain with hands the size of ale kegs. And odd purple eyes, darker than Georgie’s and forever filled with challenge, most often involving bare-knuckle brawling.

  “Twice removed.”

  “I suppose he adores you,” Henry suggested, knowing it was so. How could anyone, man or woman, spend more than a day or two in her presence and not come to adore her?

  “He likes to pretend I am little more than a pesky burden,” she replied with a husky laugh. “But I know better.”

  “Perfect.”

  Henry had been dallying with the Duke of Mounjoy’s beloved cousin. He’d had her six ways to Sunday and even now, as he held her hand in his and she smiled at him in the close confines of a decadent boudoir on wheels, he wanted her again. And again and again.