The Beleaguered Earl

by Allison Lane

  You’ve compromised her. The voice belonged to Terrence.

  “Not really,” he muttered, trying to convince himself. And even Terrence agreed that she was technically safe – if he discounted all the tête-à-têtes.

  He would keep it that way. He was not ready for marriage, and certainly not with a country spinster who did not understand society. She had no concept of honor, as shown by her acceptance of his own admitted dishonor. Most ladies would remove to a hovel rather than share a roof with the company he had assembled, and none would have acknowledged Missy’s existence, let alone nursed her with their own hands. Yet he had to applaud her efforts.

  He sighed. Instead of accompanying his guests to Brent Tor today, he would remain behind. Not only would it bolster tomorrow's claim of needing to work, but it would allow him to tour the dower house and order repairs.

  So far he’d been lucky. His unsuitable guests kept anyone from calling, and no one would seek out Miss Ashburton while her mother was so ill. But that would change shortly. He would need the good will of his neighbors, which meant he must move to the dower house immediately. It offered the only shelter he could claim here for the next seventy-five years.

  Nodding in satisfaction, he headed downstairs.

  A squeal emanated from the music room. Peering through the door, he saw one of the Price girls trying to escape Dornbras’s embrace.

  He swore. Considering his new insights into the man’s character, this situation could explode out of control all too easily. Had Dornbras learned that Max was on the verge of denouncing him? That was the most logical explanation for this insult. If he had nothing to lose, why ignore his own urges?

  But perhaps Miss Ashburton was right. Dornbras might consider him too stupid to care. Maybe he believed that a little flattery would cover everything.

  He would proceed as if nothing else were wrong, he decided grimly. Exposing his true feelings could hurt too many others.

  “I thought I made it clear that my staff was not available for dalliance,” he said lightly.

  “She’s only a maid.” But he let her go – forcefully enough that she staggered into the wall.

  “She is one of my tenants. You will leave her alone.”

  Dornbras shrugged, but his eyes promised vengeance. For the first time Max detected the spark of evil Miss Ashburton had mentioned. Goose bumps tripped down his spine. He kept his face impassive, though he would not have been surprised if a footpad with a knife had attacked him from behind.

  Dornbras stalked off without another word.

  Max sighed. Dornbras would take insult at the termination of the party, for there was no way to make it seem natural now, but that no longer mattered. He would have to protect the Prices as well as Missy and Hope. His groom would follow Dornbras until he could hire runners to look into the man’s activities.

  He turned to Daisy. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded.

  “Ignore the cleaning until everyone leaves on today’s excursion,” he ordered. “He needs time to recover his temper. You and your sister can help your mother in the kitchen for now.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” She dropped a clumsy curtsy.

  “Has he pestered you before?”

  “I only seen him once, my lord. His words was coarse, but another gentleman joined him before he could touch me.”

  “He will be gone soon. In the meantime, remain with your sister whenever you are working.”

  He went in search of Blake, who must make sure that Dornbras remained with the others today. He didn’t want him preying on village maidens.

  * * * *

  Max again awakened to pounding. This time Miss Ashburton’s face was dead white. His heart sank.

  “What is wrong now?”

  “M-mother.” Tears brightened her eyes. She was shaking. “Rose— She c-can’t b-b-”

  He’d seen her angry, terrified, laughing, and serious, but never before had she come close to hysteria. “Relax,” he crooned, drawing her head against his shoulder. It nestled into the crook of his neck. “Cry it out. You’re not making sense yet.”

  Her noisy tears made him uncomfortable, though these were neither false nor manipulative. He lightly rubbed her back, struggling to ignore her arms as they slid around his waist. There was nothing sensual about the move. In fact, he suspected that his willingness to hold and comfort her had smashed her self-control far more than whatever crisis had sent her here. She had been holding the household together for so long, that she might not remember leaning on another.

  “Mo-mo-mo-” she sobbed, clinging harder.

  Helpless, he carried her to the couch and settled her onto his lap – dangerous, for it teased his groin into readiness. When her sobs finally slowed, he poured a glass of brandy and shifted her to the seat beside him.

  “Drink, Miss Ashburton,” he ordered.

  “Y-you m-must—”

  “Pull yourself together, my dear,” he urged, wrapping her hand around the glass. “I cannot understand you while your teeth chatter like rooks mobbing a cat.”

  She tried to smile.

  “Good. Drink up. We will deal with the problem as soon as you relax.”

  He had to hold her hand in place so she could lift the glass to her lips. And very delectable lips they were, he admitted, thankful that she was no longer in his lap.

  She choked on the first sip. He waited until she had managed two more before speaking.

  “Can you explain now?”

  Inhaling deeply, she nodded. “Rose woke me – she was sitting with Mother.”

  He kept his face placid, though the words tumbled ice into his gut. If Mrs. Ashburton died, the gossips would descend like crows, picking up enough tidbits to keep the shire talking for years.

  “Mother is worse,” she continued. “She is gasping for breath and burning with fever. I don’t think she knows that anyone is with her, though I managed to feed her some tea just now.”

  “Easy,” he murmured when she again began shaking. One hand rubbed her shoulder. “Let’s take a look at her.”

  “C-can you send for the d-doctor?”

  “I will go, but it would help if I could describe her condition.”

  She fisted her hands to keep them still. He helped her up, then padded after her, not waiting to find his slippers.

  Mrs. Ashburton’s room was stifling. Rose hovered near the bed, wispy gray hair dangling about her face and onto her worn robe.

  “You can take a break, Rose,” said Hope quietly, her tone offering no hint that she had been crying incoherently only moments before. His admiration soared. “Fix yourself some tea. I will call you if I need further assistance.”

  Max ignored Rose’s departure as he stared at the woman in the bed. He could see where Hope had acquired her red hair and high cheekbones. The mother would have been just as delectable in her youth. But now she was gasping for air, her distress obvious.

  “I will raise her,” he said, recognizing the sudden tightness across his chest. “Pile pillows behind her shoulders. She will breathe better in a more upright position.”

  Hope complied.

  “Dickie,” mumbled Mrs. Ashburton as he laid her on the pillows. “Where are you?”

  Max met Hope’s startled eyes.

  “Burning in hell,” cried Mrs. Ashburton. “Don’t hate me. Come back. Dickieeee…”

  “Where will I find the doctor?” He backed away from the bed, hoping his touch had not triggered some unspeakable memory.

  “The first house in the village.”

  He nodded. “Try to pour more tea down her throat. Do you need colder water?”

  “No. This is quite fresh.”

  “I will be back as soon as possible. If you need anything, rap on my door. Blake will be there.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise.

  He pulled her into a comforting embrace, pressing a light kiss to her brow. “You are not alone this time, Miss Ashburton. We will do whatever we can to pull her thro
ugh, though I had no idea she was this bad. I can’t promise success.”

  “I understand.”

  Mrs. Ashburton was again mumbling, drawing Hope back to the bedside. Max tossed on some clothes, then went to wake Blake. Fortunately his friend was alone.

  He had not mentioned his real reason for establishing Blake in his room. Dornbras’s fury had not abated since their morning clash. If anything, his tension had increased. The man was ready to explode, even if doing so meant alienating his host. He’d glared during dinner, making no attempt to be congenial. Nearly everyone had noticed, though manners prevented any mention of it.

  So he could not risk leaving his room empty while he was out. Locking the door would do little good. Most of the room keys could open it. If Dornbras found an empty room, he would explore the wing beyond, with disastrous consequences.

  So Blake must remain on guard.

  A few words conveyed the situation. Blake did not even cavil at Max’s use of the bedchamber.

  Locking the door behind his friend, Max headed for the stables.

  * * * *

  Hope sponged her mother’s face and tried not to think about crying all over Merimont or sitting on his lap with her arms clinging to him.

  She blushed.

  Yet he had not taken advantage of her. He was far more complex than she’d dreamed. Instead of the shallow pleasure seeker she had expected, he was a very caring man. Yes, he could be infuriatingly arrogant, but he also tried to protect others from harm – a most unusual trait, in her experience. And tonight his sympathy and support had astounded her. Even his suggestion to prop pillows behind her mother’s head and shoulders was working.

  So how had a man so willing to help become so autocratic? She was still in shock that he was fetching the doctor himself rather than sending a servant.

  Danger, warned her mind yet again.

  But it was too late for warnings, she admitted. His touch had awakened something that she had never realized was sleeping, something bigger than that vague restlessness she’d felt in recent days, something specific, incited by his powerful shoulders and soothing caress. What would those shoulders feel like under her palms?

  She tried to ignore the question, for speculation could only lead to disaster, but he had overwhelmed her senses and teased her imagination. It insisted on recalling the changes she’d felt under her hip when he’d pulled her into his lap.

  She blushed.

  Yet he had not ravished her. And that was not her only reason for questioning his rakish reputation. He’d been alone whenever she’d sought him out. He might merely be protecting her mother by indulging his appetites elsewhere, but she’d seen no evidence that he was pursuing the other girls. So why had he not taken advantage of her?

  She wished she knew more about society. It was one subject her mother had been unable to teach, because she had never entered it herself. Were rakes less venal than she had been told? Merimont certainly fit none of the images her mother had painted. Nor did he resemble Millhouse or her uncle.

  But this pointed out a new danger. By considering his differences from other men rather than noting his similarities, she risked forming a tendre for him.

  A shiver touched her shoulders as she again recalled how he had held her – for comfort, she reminded herself sharply, though how she knew his motive was another question; no man had ever tried to comfort her. She should have recoiled from his touch as she’d done when Dornbras had grabbed her, but she had felt safe.

  Safe? In the arms of an acknowledged rake?

  This time the shiver was shock, for she had indeed felt safe. His chest was hard, his arms powerful – yet he had not turned that power against her, unless freeing a desire to feel those arms again counted.

  She concentrated on cooling her mother. But every stroke elicited images of Merimont’s hand caressing her. When the opening door drew her eyes to his return, she blushed.

  “Where can we wait while Doctor Jenkins examines your mother?” he asked, drawing her from the bedside.

  “Her sitting room.” Passing through a pair of dressing rooms, she led him into the former master bedchamber.

  “How is she?” He kindled a fire.

  “Her breathing is easier, thanks to your suggestion.” She suppressed her new awareness, though his genuine concern made that more difficult than ever.

  “I am glad to hear it.” He wandered restlessly about the room, fingering her mother’s well-worn Bible, turning a collection of sermons over in his hand, touching the last living flower in a vase that had not been refilled in more than a week.

  She cursed herself for neglecting her duties. She should have at least removed the withered stems.

  “Is Dr. Jenkins prone to gossip?” he asked at last, pausing near the fire.

  “No, which irritates several ladies no end.” She managed a credible smile. “They are constantly after him to reveal details of everyone’s infirmities, but he refuses.”

  “Excellent. That means he can check on Missy.” He resumed his pacing – to the window, the tapestry frame, the fire, then back to the window and on around the room again. And again. She was ready to demand that he sit still when the doctor joined them.

  “Her chill has turned into an inflammation of the lungs,” he announced bluntly. “I will be honest with you, Miss Ashburton. Such conditions often prove fatal, but we need not despair just yet. A friend recently sent a new remedy for just this situation.”

  “What is it?” asked Merimont.

  “The root of the purple coneflower. He visited the Americas last year and claims startling results.”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” said Hope.

  “Not surprising. It is not grown here.” He described its use.

  Hope returned to the sickroom, her mind full of unanswered questions, but she was too tired to think. The news that a cure might be available had pushed fear aside, allowing exhaustion to rule.

  Chapter Eleven

  Max watched the fog enshrouding Redrock House pearl to lustrous silver. He had witnessed far too many dawns of late.

  The night had been exhausting. First the scene with Hope, then his dash to the stables to saddle his horse – at least he could do that without waking a groom; his history of disobedience had taught him to saddle and harness his own cattle. Dr. Jenkins had been at home, thank heaven – he’d had visions of chasing over half the shire looking for him. But the man’s reaction to finding Mrs. Ashburton at Redrock House had sent Max’s heart plummeting to his toes.

  He’d ignored the knowledge for days, though his friends had tried to warn him. Terrence had even gone so far as to leave, but neither had flat-out told him he was wrong. Perhaps they’d feared that he would refuse to listen – was his stubbornness really that ingrained? Or maybe they believed that his station put him above reproach, which might well be true. But looking at the situation through the doctor’s eyes had forced him to admit that he had badly compromised Hope. He might be immune to censure, but she was not.

  Abandoning the window, he held his hands over the fire in a futile attempt to warm them. He had moved into her home knowing that she had no acceptable chaperon, and he had often met with her alone. He had forced her to share a roof with five courtesans, to say nothing of Dornbras. If Blake had not rescued her, she would be ruined. Then he’d complicated matters by making it impossible for her to seek help without entering his bedchamber, where he had entertained her twice, clad only in a dressing gown.

  He could still feel her in his lap.

  At least she made an enticing armful. Honor demanded that he offer for her and press his suit when she turned him down – which she would, flaying him with that razor tongue in the process. He was not looking forward to that particular encounter.

  His feet resumed pacing as he imagined it, halting abruptly when he spotted the incongruity in the image. It was not his offer that he found annoying. It was her refusal.

  For the first time in his life, he faced proposing marriage.
Why did she have to be the one lady in England who would not leap at his prospects? She did not merely distrust gentlemen. She feared them, he realized with another sinking sensation. Especially rakes.

  Not that he was truly a rake. Devereaux and Millhouse were rakes. Mannering and Wroxleigh were rakes. Reggie was a rake. He had merely kept a series of mistresses, which was hardly unusual.

  But that was beside the point. She feared him, along with all other men. He should have realized it sooner, though she’d tried hard to hide it. Mrs. Tweed had echoed her employer’s beliefs when she’d described men as beasts and tools of Satan. He’d already known that Hope feared her uncle and considered all men alike. And her tirade against marriage had made her views clear.

  Yet he must wed her, though proposing would be useless just now. He must first convince her to trust him. Perhaps he should flirt with her for a few days to soften her antagonism. She needed time to see him as a suitor, and he needed to show her that her fears were misplaced. He would never harm her.

  At least the night had brought benefits as well as problems. For all his shock at the living arrangements, Jenkins had given Missy the same attention that he’d offered Mrs. Ashburton. And though he’d made no overt criticism, Max believed that they understood each other well enough.

  “Those injuries were no accident,” Jenkins had stated once he’d left Missy’s room.

  “I know. The culprit departed the moment I learned of the incident.” He’d had to lie about that, for he wanted no one to go after Dornbras until Hope was safe from reprisals. He doubted that Jenkins knew the identities of any of the guests.

  “I had not expected even that much consideration from you, my lord.”

  “He will pay in the end,” he’d vowed. “Though the public reason will be different.”

  “One can hardly call him out over a courtesan,” Jenkins had agreed dryly.

  “How is she?” he’d asked, leading the way down the spiral stair, all the way to the first floor.