This Earl Is on Fire

by Vivienne Lorret

  “Perfectly agreeable, Your Grace. He has made no fuss, nor any demands. I dare say, he has also been generously forgiving of our familiarity,” Lady Boswick—Bunny, as he was asked to call her—said before she inclined her head and left them to their privacy.

  Some of Aunt Edith’s ruffled feathers smoothed upon hearing this. “Thankfully, your manners are impeccable, even when you’re being a scoundrel and your name is all over the scandal sheets.”

  His aunt had a wonderful way of focusing on what truly mattered. Yet, with a bit of charm, she would soon see his transgressions as trivialities. “But you always forgive me, and that is how I know that I am your favorite nephew. Under the circumstances, admitting it would be acceptable. Fear not; I won’t tell Vale.”

  She shushed him but fought a smile as she settled into the vacant chair that had been left at his bedside. “You know very well that I do not hold favorites of my nephews and niece. All I desire is your happiness. Though perhaps one day you will find it without causing gossip.”

  “I have managed to remain free of scandal for these past few days, Aunt.”

  “Yes, but at what cost to your hosts? They have a daughter.”

  “I am well aware of Miss Pimm’s existence,” he said with a wry laugh that died the moment he caught his aunt’s expression. “Why does this statement of fact earn your curiosity? You said yourself that Lord and Lady Boswick have a daughter, and I merely confirmed it.”

  “But it is not often that a debutante earns your notice,” she said with a peculiar smile that made Liam shift against the pillows.

  The movement caused a sharp hitch in his side once more. The pain knifed straight through his ribs, to his stomach, and to the center of his skull, but he made every effort to conceal his discomfort. Thankfully, a maid entered the room with a fresh pot of tea, allowing him a moment to recover. After placing the tray within the fluted edge of the side table, the maid took a step back and curtsied.

  When Aunt Edith hesitated to dismiss the maid immediately, a sense of wariness filled Liam. He studied his aunt. Her brow was still lifted in curiosity, her eyes narrowed slightly. Damn. Liam knew that look. It was the same one that warned him she was up to mischief. And since they had just been speaking of Adeline, he could just about guess that she was deciding whether or not to ask the maid to fetch Miss Pimm.

  Liam steeled himself, not revealing the frisson of alarm spiking his pulse. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t want his aunt to see both him and Adeline in this room together.

  Thankfully, after a watchful moment, Edith inclined her head and dismissed the maid.

  Once they were alone again, Liam made a point of setting the record straight. “No notice was taken of Miss Pimm, I assure you. Other than my mistaken assumption that she was a servant.”

  She pursed her lips as she poured the tea. “Come now, her manner, features, even her hands are far too delicate.”

  “Until a few hours ago, my head was bandaged, including my eyes. I saw no one. I had to take their word that they were who they said they were.” He was determined to refute whatever notion his aunt possessed. Yet now that he said it aloud, it seemed odd that he had trusted them at all. Again, he wondered at the state of his gray matter.

  “Bandaged . . .” she said, her voice broke, her expression fretful. “And not one of your own family to know the worst of it.”

  Ignoring the pain, he reached out and laid his hand over hers. “I did not want to worry you needlessly. My hosts have done everything for me that my own family would have done, of that I am certain.”

  She offered him a tremulous smile and patted the back of his hand. Since their own was not the warmest of families, they both knew this was an overstatement. He could never imagine Edith carrying a breakfast tray to his room and then feeding him. She would have, however, penned a marvelous letter to a physician and assigned the best servants to his care.

  “For a man with such a razor wit, you rarely give such high praise. Perhaps I should add them to the guest list for the dinner I’m hosting at Vale’s, in honor of your Uncle Albert and Cousin Gemma’s return from abroad in a fortnight.”

  Liam settled back into the chair, battling another wave of dizziness. “Just as long as Uncle Albert does not try to sell Lord Boswick any of the artifacts from his travels.”

  It was known only between Liam, Aunt Edith, and Vale that most of Uncle Albert’s supposed artifacts were forgeries. Not even Uncle Albert knew. In order to keep Albert from being embarrassed, they’d all agreed to keep the secret. Apparently, the poor man had been swindled by whoever had sold to him.

  “Though perhaps a mere dinner would not be enough to repay them,” Edith said.

  And now was his chance to make amends. He hadn’t wanted to make his reason for sending the letter to her obvious. Knowing his aunt’s desire to see him settled, he didn’t want to give her any amount of chain to see him shackled. Therefore, the invitation needed to be her idea.

  “It just so happens that they are attending the opera this evening,” he said with a practiced air of disinterest. “Though, I must warn you, Miss Pimm is a rather proud creature and has refused the use of my box.”

  Curiously, his statement caused her to grow still, her cup paused mid-lift, and he didn’t understand why.

  “You asked Miss Pimm and not her parents?”

  Shrill alarm bells began pinging inside of his skull. Realizing his mistake, he made a quick amendment. “All the Pimms are quite proud. Worse, they believe that any member of our society would have come to my aid as they did and likely would have refused any form of repayment. Therefore, I thought appealing to their daughter first would garner their excitement and willingness to accept.”

  Edith nodded as if in perfect understanding, and not even a hint of mischief marked her expression. “And so you offered your box?”

  “Of course,” he said, relieved that she did not see every slip of his tongue as a prelude to nuptials. “Surely, you would agree that it is the very least I could do.”

  “But if you knew that you were not well enough and planned on asking me to assist you, then why not offer Vale’s box instead?”

  To him, the answer was obvious. “Because mine is better. It has the best vantage point for the performance, and I would like to repay them with . . . a London adventure.

  “And yet, Miss Pimm refused an invitation from an earl.” She tsked. “When I met her moments ago, she seemed perfectly sensible and agreeable. Whatever did you do to make her spurn you?”

  “Spurn me? Ha!” Since he had dealt out plenty of teasing to his aunt over the years, he supposed it only right that he allow her to mock him this once. “It was an invitation refused, nothing more. Regardless, none of that matters.”

  “And why ever not?”

  This time he didn’t bother to conceal his grin. “Because Miss Pimm will not refuse you.”

  “Dear Liam,” she laughed. “I believe you’ve been spoiled for too long. You’re used to getting precisely what you want.”

  With everything settled, he released a satisfied breath, closed his eyes, and rested his head. “I see nothing wrong with that at all.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “The opera,” Adeline breathed, crossing the threshold behind her parents.

  It was like stepping into another world. Everything appeared glittering and bright, with walls adorned with intricate plaster moldings, statues tucked into alcoves, and crystal chandeliers hanging overhead. And all of this was accompanied by the animated chatter of hundreds of people rising to the domed ceiling.

  “Unfortunately, the only tickets available were for Seville, which we have already heard.” Father shook his head, disappointed.

  But this was far different from their home. It was common to have their house open during the day with dozens of villagers filling the foyer and main hall. They lined up to talk to father about important issues or sometimes bringing wares to sell or bestowing gifts. Yet even then, their home was never as cro
wded as the opera house was tonight. And certainly none of the villagers were as well dressed.

  Adeline looked down at her pale-pink satin gown. She’d worn her new rose-and-ivory striped half boots this evening, having saved them for this special occasion.

  Mother patted Father’s forearm absently as she too looked around in wonder. “Though this particular venue makes it seem new to me, and I haven’t even heard the players.”

  Mother wore a lovely bronze satin gown, her hair in a twist. Unfortunately, Adeline’s hair had not cooperated with combs, pins, or any manner that Hester could fashion. She’d even given the maid permission to cut some of the length, but Hester had wanted to get Mother’s approval first. It seemed that her parents’ efforts of treating her as a fully grown, capable woman were more successful than those of the servants.

  Frustrated, Adeline had settled on a herringbone braid, tucked under and interwoven into a weighty and out-of-fashion chignon. Even with the failure, she still felt rather pretty. In fact, she’d almost given in to an impulse to show herself to Wolford, but then thought better of it. After their last encounter, she hadn’t quite decided whether or not to forgive him. She would see how the night progressed before making her decision.

  A footman asked for their ticket and Father also gave him the dowager duchess’s card. Then they were escorted up the stairs, down a carpeted hall, and past archways draped in heavy brocade.

  The dowager duchess greeted them with a smile, reaching out a gloved hand to press Mother’s while nodding to Father. “Lord and Lady Boswick, I am so very pleased and honored to have you as my guests this evening. For the generosity and kindness you have bestowed on my nephew, I cannot thank you enough. Each of you,” she said, her gaze alighting on Adeline. “And Miss Pimm, how lovely you look this evening. I believe Liam intimated that this is your first opera.”

  When the dowager duchess initially extended an invitation to join her at the opera, Adeline had wondered how much Liam had divulged. Had he asked his aunt for this favor out of pity for the Lord and Lady and their lame daughter who’d helped him?

  Like earlier, however, the dowager displayed no outward sign of sympathy, revulsion, or even cast the barest glance down at Adeline’s feet. Could it be that Wolford was too much of a gentleman to mention her limb?

  Wanting it to be true and leaning ever so slightly toward the side of forgiving him, Adeline nodded. “It is, Your Grace.”

  She decided not to go into the details of how she’d seen operas in her home. The last thing she wanted to do was arouse questions regarding the reason. She wanted her London life to be different, and without people pitying her or seeing her as helpless. Thankfully, her parents did not elaborate either. Adeline gave them a quick smile of appreciation before she spoke again. “I’m overwhelmed by Your Grace’s generosity. The view from your box is positively stunning!”

  The dowager duchess smiled. “It is quite exceptional, isn’t it? But I must confess that I usually sit in the Duke of Vale’s box, my other nephew,” she explained and then pointed with her fan to the shadowed one across the way, on the corner. “This belongs to—”

  And even before the dowager duchess spoke his name, Adeline knew. Wolford seemed to be here with them, his own smirk in the faces of the sculpted cherubs in the molding.

  “Liam,” the dowager duchess confirmed.

  Oh, that man! Even after she had refused his offer to sit here, he’d found a way to get exactly what he wanted. He deserved to be scolded for this manipulation. After all, she could have enjoyed the opera from the floor just as well.

  Perhaps.

  Feeling cross with Liam once again and with those smirking cherubs, she was thankful that her parents interjected their astonishment and praise, promising to pass on a word of gratitude to their houseguest when they returned home.

  During their small exchange, two more guests arrived. The dowager duchess introduced the two women as Zinnia, Lady Cosgrove, and her cousin, Juliet, Lady Granworth.

  Adeline forced herself not to stare in awe at Lady Granworth. She was beautiful. Flaxen hair, flawless complexion, and enigmatic eyes that were even bluer than Mother’s. There was something incandescent about her too. Like gold shimmered from within, coming out through every strand of her hair. A veritable goddess walking amongst mere mortals. Goddess . . .

  Instantly the column in the Standard came to mind. Could this be the one and only Lady G?

  Lady Cosgrove was similar in appearance, though perhaps Lady Granworth’s senior by twenty years. Her hair was neatly coiffed and threaded with silver, her posture refined. Adeline felt dowdy by comparison and subtly straightened her shoulders. Then she made sure to plant her corrective half boot firmly down so that she did not get tangled in her skirts as she curtsied.

  Once the introductions commenced, Adeline stepped over toward the edge and rested her hands on the brass railing. While she took in the sights before her, the dowager duchess drew Lady Cosgrove and Adeline’s parents into the hall for more introductions.

  The view from the balcony was breathtaking, not only of the stage, but of all the other boxes and the floor as well. A sea of people churned below them. In the boxes opposite, the audience held their lorgnettes to study everyone . . . including her.

  Her first inclination was to ensure that her half boot was hidden beneath her skirts. Which was silly, since a short plaster wall blocked their view of her lower half. She fidgeted all the same but stopped when Lady Granworth came up beside her.

  “I have found that if you smile and tilt your head just so, they train their glasses on another quarry.” Lady Granworth offered a demonstration. Soon enough, several heads and lorgnettes turned in unison, their focus on the box next door. “Clever trick, is it not?”

  Adeline nearly laughed. “There is much I need to learn about living amongst the haute ton, my lady. Having arrived late for the start of this Season and having lived in the country, Father warned me that I’d likely be a curiosity.”

  A warning she had not taken lightly.

  “Indeed, you are, though perhaps there is one other reason why.” Lady Granworth hesitated long enough for Adeline to feel her heart lunge up into her throat before continuing. “You have gained favor with the Dowager Duchess of Vale, and there are not many who have accomplished such a feat.”

  Too relieved to form a response, Adeline swallowed and smiled.

  “Is society much different from where you live?” Lady Granworth asked.

  “Somewhat, though not entirely. Since my village is small, everyone knows everything. There are no secrets.”

  “Then I am certain you will adjust quite easily to London society, for it is the same here. I cannot fan myself when the room is overly warm without it appearing in the Standard the following morning, accused of using my wiles.”

  Adeline thought of the edition she’d read this very day. “Then it is true. You are, indeed, Lady G.” The moment the words tumbled forth, she cupped her hand over her mouth. “Forgive me, please, my lady. That was incomparably rude.”

  “Please, you must call me Juliet,” she said with a musical laugh. “You see, London is not so very different from your village. I dare say, however, that the frequent appearances of my name may have something to do with a scandalous wager I made with the Marquess of Thayne. Even I knew better than to incite their interest. I do not know how else to explain it, other than Max brings out the worst in me.”

  In that moment, a dark-haired gentleman joined them near the edge of the box. He flashed Juliet a daring grin that seemed to simmer in his brown eyes. “The feeling is most definitely mutual, Lady Granworth.”

  “Do try to be civil, Max. Miss Pimm and her parents are new to town and I would like for her to have a good impression, if you can help it. Adeline, this is Maxwell Harwick, the Marquess of Thayne.”

  “Pleased to meet you, my lord.”

  “Thayne, please,” he said with a nod, his hand splayed over the center of a black satin waistcoat beneath
a brushed pewter-colored tailcoat. “After all, from what I understand, you saved Wolford’s life, or very near it.”

  “Not I, but my father. We are thankful that we found him when we did.” For the most part anyway. There was still part of Adeline that wished she’d never met him.

  “I see that calculated gleam in your eyes,” Juliet interjected, closing her fan with a snap and pointing it at Thayne. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  He lifted his brows in innocence and darted a glance to Adeline. “I do not know what you could mean.”

  “That Wolford’s injury will soften the hearts of the ton.” Then Juliet directed her next comment to Adeline. “Max believes that Wolford is the perfect candidate for this Season’s Original.”

  Adeline fought a laugh. “When Wolford explained this contest to me, I’d assumed the person named would have to be . . . well . . . someone the ton admired, not reviled in the Standard.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Juliet said.

  Thayne’s grin never faltered. “Then you will be doubly surprised when he is named at month’s end.”

  “You believe that Wolford plans on reforming?” Adeline tried to hide her amusement. It would be rude to laugh aloud, even at such a ridiculous notion.

  The marquess did not seem too bothered by the question. He merely shrugged. “It is all a matter of perception. I have already heard the whispers this evening about Wolford’s daring escape from Death’s clutches. About the Samaritans that saved him, took him in, and earned favor with his aunt.”

  “Rumors certainly do travel quickly. We have not been present for a quarter hour,” Adeline murmured. Her gaze skimmed over the boxes of voyeurs, who once again trained their glasses on Wolford’s box.

  Juliet seemed to notice as well. Though instead of smiling as she was a moment ago, her delicate brow furrowed with fine worry lines. “If that is true, then a certain Miss P will make a first appearance in the Standard tomorrow morning. For your sake, Adeline, I hope not. Sweet whispers often turn sour when one least expects it.”