An Earl Like You

by Caroline Linden

  He didn’t bother to wait for someone to see if Finch had returned with the carriage. He left instructions for his driver when he returned and set off on foot. It wasn’t far, and would be faster to walk, with the street clogged by carriages. He hoped Eliza had gone home for a happy reason; a child! And so soon after their marriage. Perhaps it had been Livingston, but his steps sped up as he imagined Eliza pregnant. Holding their child in her arms, singing softly. A dark-haired son. A little girl with wide green eyes and a shy smile.

  “Where is Lady Hastings?” he asked the butler as he walked through the front door, already peeling off his coat and gloves.

  Wilkins bowed. “She retired to her room, my lord.”

  Hugh was halfway up the stairs. “Excellent.” Should he send for a doctor to examine her? He ought to have asked his mother. He grinned, taking the final steps two at a time. He ought to ask Eliza.

  But she was not in the room. Mary, her maid, was there, arranging a pot of tea and accoutrements on the table near the fireplace. “Lady Hastings?” he asked, a touch impatiently. Surely she should be in bed.

  “She said she wanted to fetch a book from your study, my lord,” said the girl.

  Hugh paused. His study? “Very good,” he said, but his enthusiasm had suffered a sudden chill. Why would Eliza go there for a book? The library was small but had a fine selection of novels, thanks to his mother and sisters. There was nothing half so entertaining in his study.

  But when he pushed open the study door, she was not choosing a book. She sat in the chair behind his desk, her head bowed. Willy popped out from behind the desk at his entrance and loped across the room for a greeting. Hugh rubbed the dog’s ears without looking away from her. “Eliza?”

  Her head came up. Her face was ghostly white, and he came forward in sudden alarm, only to stop short as she lurched to her feet. “I am such a fool,” she said thickly, bracing her arms on the desk.

  He frowned. “No. What do you mean?”

  For answer she opened her hand and scattered a handful of crumpled papers on the desk. Hugh’s stomach dropped as he realized what they were.

  “He bought them all, didn’t he?” she said, appearing mesmerized by the debt notes, the word Paid standing out on one like the imprint of a cloven hoof.

  In spite of himself Hugh’s temper stirred again. He should have burned those notes, true; but to find them she had gone through his desk. Eliza wasn’t the sort to do that on a whim. Someone had told her. Was this what Livingston had done? But no—how could Livingston have known? “Yes,” he said, more harshly than he intended.

  She nodded, a stiff, jerky motion. “At least fifty thousand pounds.”

  “Close to eighty.”

  She flinched. “I never was good at sums.” She raised her eyes to his. They were flat, almost empty. “That’s a lot of money.”

  He said nothing. Who the bloody hell had told her? He hadn’t told a soul—not his mother, not his solicitor, not a single friend. The only other person who knew the whole story was her father. Why on earth would Cross tell her, though? Especially now, when they were married until death parted them, when he’d fallen in love with her, and when she might be carrying his heir?

  Was that it? Cross had been particularly keen to have contact with his grandchild. He must have noticed Hugh was not eager for that to happen. Perhaps this was a plot to separate them—

  Hugh closed his eyes for a moment. That wasn’t it. He’d become so attached to the idea of a child, in just the time it took him to walk home, that he’d begun to believe it was true. But Eliza hadn’t come home because pregnancy made her ill; there probably was no child. She’d left the ball because she wanted to search his desk.

  His wife straightened her shoulders. Her mouth pulled down at the sides and she looked miserable for a moment. Then she took a deep breath and faced him, her chin high and her eyes beginning to blaze. “Was it all a lie?”

  His mouth twisted cynically. “Ask your father.”

  Her chest heaved. “Was there ever ore on your Cornish property?”

  Hugh hesitated, but what was the point of lying now? She clearly knew, from the tone of her questions. The only one who could have told her everything was Cross, or someone Cross had told, and if her own father had broken the vow of silence he extorted from Hugh, there was no reason he shouldn’t answer her. “Not that I know of.”

  “Did you really mean to allow him to dig it up on the chance there was?”

  “No.”

  “Was it chance when we met at the theater, and the Thayne ball?”

  “No.”

  She quivered as if struck. “Did you know my father would be away when you called in Greenwich?”

  “Often. Yes.”

  Her chin went up and down, nodding faintly as he confirmed everything she probably already knew. “Would you have ever come to Greenwich if my father hadn’t done this?” She waved at the debts.

  Unexpectedly frustration and anger rolled over him again, as fresh as the first time he’d gone to Cross’s house, tense with dread and anxiety about why the man had bought every debt he owed. When Cross had let him know that he had Hugh hooked like a trout—no matter how hard he wriggled, the barb was in deep and wouldn’t be dislodged. “No,” he said in a clipped tone.

  A tear slid down her cheek. “Was everything a lie?”

  “A lie? No.” His gaze tracked down her figure, over her plump, soft breasts, her slender waist, the curve of her hips, back to her face, which had become so beautiful and so dear to him. “When I kissed you it was not a lie. When I made love to you, it was not a lie.”

  “But not because you cared for me, not then.”

  His hands were in fists. No more lies. “Not the way I do now.”

  “Now?” She snatched up the balled-up debts and threw them at him. “You expect I’ll believe anything, don’t you? You let me believe you cared for me—even loved me!”

  “I never said it,” he pointed out, “until I meant it.”

  “No,” she said bitterly. “You never said it. You paid compliments to turn my head so I wouldn’t realize the truth. You sent me bloody flowers, and like an idiot I fell for it. Your mother knew, didn’t she? That’s why she was so cool when I came to tea!” Her eyes widened. “You made her invite me, didn’t you? Dazzle the awkward spinster so she’ll fall desperately, stupidly in love.”

  Hugh flinched. That was exactly what he’d done. “I am sorry for that.”

  “I never expected a man would fall in love with me and be swept away by passion,” she said in a slightly calmer voice. “I should have known. It was too good to be real.”

  “But it is real,” he said in a low voice. “Now.”

  “Now. Now.” She was crying, tears sliding down her cheeks. “Why should I believe that? Is Papa dangling some other enticement in front of you now?”

  His temper broke. Hugh knew he deserved her wrath, but her father—her beloved papa—was the one who had caused the whole thing, and she’d said not one word against him. “You should ask him,” he lashed out. “Ask your dear papa why he did it. Ask him what conditions he put upon the bargain he offered me—that I not tell you, that I court you properly, that I win your heart—conditions I had no way to counter, since he owned enough debt to ruin me and my family. And before you protest that he wouldn’t have done such a thing,” he added in a near-snarl, as she opened her mouth in outrage, “he said he’d set the bailiffs on me if I breathed a word of his plan to you. Do you envy my choice? Go to prison, or court a girl.” They stared at each other, Eliza white-faced and infuriated and Hugh breathing violently. “I only agreed to it because you didn’t know,” he said, some of his fury spent. “You were kind and lovely, and I thought there was a chance . . .”

  “A chance I would be gullible enough to fall for it?”

  A chance he would come to care for her. God alone knew how well that chance had paid off. He loved her to distraction. But now she was staring at him with revulsion, and a l
ittle piece of his heart died. As she’d said: it was too good to be real. “A chance we would be happy together,” he said quietly. “Go ask your father.” He turned on his heel and left.

  Chapter 28

  Eliza stood gasping in shock as her husband walked away from her. He hadn’t denied a thing. His footsteps sounded like shots as he walked away, until the distant slam of the door told her he’d left the house.

  Willy nudged her hand and whined. Eliza started, and reached down to comfort her dog without thinking.

  Dear God. It was all true. Papa had coerced Hugh to court her and marry her. Even if he did care for her now, it had all been a lie. She’d been duped, conned, swindled, made a perfect fool.

  By her own father.

  She didn’t consciously start moving, but somehow she went up the stairs to her bedchamber, Willy at her heels, and rang for Mary. When the girl appeared, Eliza was sitting at her dressing table, pulling the pins from her hair. “Fetch my blue serge,” she said.

  “Now?” the maid blurted in astonishment. “I thought you were unwell, my lady . . .”

  “I’m perfectly well.” Aside from a brutal wound to her heart. “Bring the dress. I’m going out.”

  “But . . .” Mary’s protest faded under a quelling look from Eliza. “Did the tea not please you?” she ventured.

  Eliza hadn’t touched it. “There’s nothing wrong with the tea. You may bring it here.” Mary scurried over with the tray and poured the cup. “Please just brush out my hair and pin it up as usual.”

  She could see her maid in the mirror. Mary was confused and upset as she ran the brush through Eliza’s hair, taking down the soft twists and pinned-up tendrils that had looked so lovely earlier. “Don’t be alarmed, Mary,” she said, reaching for the tea. “I have to go somewhere, and wish to travel more comfortably.”

  “So late, madam?” Mary coiled her hair into the chignon she wore every day.

  “I have to go at once,” she softly replied. She couldn’t sleep in her bed—Hugh’s bed—without knowing exactly what her father had done. Had Hugh exaggerated? Had he told her everything, or was there worse to come?

  Most of all, though, she wanted to know why her father would do such a thing to her. How many times had he told her it was just the two of them? How many times had he promised to protect her always, never to hurt her, even when her hurts were as trivial as a broken stem of the flowers she picked? Could he really have stolen her choice of husband, forced Hugh to deceive her, and set her up to look like the stupidest girl in Britain? Her heart hurt until she thought it might rupture.

  Clothed in her sturdy blue dress, no longer in silk and jewels, she went down and sent the footman out to hire a hackney.

  “My lady?” he asked uncertainly.

  She forced a smile. “I must go tonight, Thomas. And you know Finch is still waiting on the ladies at the ball. He won’t be home for hours.”

  There was one good thing about being a countess; the servants didn’t dare argue with her. Thomas nodded and put on his cap to go get a carriage.

  How desperately she wished Sophie or Georgiana were here. They had always been the leaders, always brave and bold. They would know what to do, and be decisive and clever about doing it. But Sophie was at Chiswick, rusticating in the country with her honestly devoted husband, and Georgiana was still at the Montgomery ball, no doubt dancing in Lord Sterling’s arms at this moment, blissfully certain of his love. She had been that way herself, just hours ago. In anguish, she dashed off a note to Georgiana and told Wilkins to have it delivered first thing in the morning. Depending how things went, she might need a friend.

  The carriage arrived. Thomas helped her in, and Eliza instructed the driver to take her to Greenwich. She meant to get the truth from her father.

  Hugh strode into the Vega Club still seething.

  How quickly and cataclysmically one’s life could change, he thought furiously. In the space of a few minutes, he had fallen from his wife’s favor and perhaps lost her love as well. Damn Cross and his loose tongue. Just when Hugh had made peace with what he’d done, realized how fortunate he’d been, and surrendered his heart to her, Eliza threw it all back in his face. And even if he deserved it, the tide of despair was black and thick and made him want to punch someone.

  He ordered a large brandy. Normally he did not drink much at Vega’s, but tonight it was necessary. He downed it without savoring or even tasting it, moodily watching a spirited round at the hazard table. Hazard was a fool’s game. He never played a game so devoid of skill and strategy.

  He was, however, a crack hand at other games.

  Eighty thousand pounds. Cross had bought him for that sum. Hugh swished the last of his brandy and thought of what it would take to win that much. He didn’t need to—he hadn’t needed to gamble since he began courting Eliza. His accounts were flush now, thanks to her dowry and the release of any obligation to pay old debts. He’d begun putting plans into effect to raise the income from his estates, which was still shockingly low for an earl. It would take time to rebuild his estate to true prosperity, but it would have been impossible without Eliza.

  But if he could repay Cross . . .

  It would ameliorate the guilt of what he’d done. It was the only thing he could do to demonstrate to Eliza that her father’s money might have motivated him in the beginning, but no longer. He put down his glass and moved toward the tables with no limit, where people played for the highest stakes, and found a place playing loo. Loo was his best game, and with no limit, one could make a fortune at it.

  Of course, one could also lose, but this time Hugh did not mean to lose.

  He started well. Luck was on his side tonight, ironically, and he racked up five thousand pounds in short order. At some point Robert Fairfield slid into the chair next to him. “Back at it, Hastings?” he asked as the cards were dealt again. “You’ve not been here in weeks.”

  Because he’d been trying to win Eliza. Hugh collected his cards. “I was busy.”

  Fairfield laughed. “Of course! Now you’ve got your bride settled, and can return to your old haunts.”

  He was only here because he couldn’t be with her. It would take a long time to forget the expression on her face, shocked and disgusted and deeply hurt. Hugh tossed some markers into the pot for his ante. “You should only sit there if you came prepared to lose badly, Fairfield.”

  His friend roared with laughter and tossed in his own ante. “We’ll see, we’ll see!”

  Hugh won almost three thousand pounds from him before his old schoolmate pushed back his chair. “You weren’t joking with me,” said Fairfield under his breath. “Absolutely vicious, Hastings.”

  “I look forward to playing with you again.” Fairfield put up his hands in surrender and walked off, still laughing. Hugh studied his markers. Up nearly ten thousand. Normally he would consider it an evening well spent and go home. But it was only a fraction of what he needed.

  “Fancy seeing you here again, Hastings,” said a sly voice.

  He looked up to see Robert Grenville taking Fairfield’s seat. It took all his equanimity not to stand up and walk away. The last time he’d played with Grenville had been the disastrous night when he let thirteen thousand pounds slip through his fingers.

  The same night, now that he thought about it, that Edward Cross had first approached him.

  It did not inspire a warm or welcoming feeling in his chest. “Grenville,” he said in barely civil greeting.

  The other man laughed. “Come, you can’t hold it against me. Our last game, I mean,” he said as Hugh glanced sharply at him. Grenville leaned close and lowered his voice. “All’s fair at Vega’s tables, aye?”

  Hugh had never thought anything else, and yet there was something about the man’s tone that put him on guard. “Not everything, Grenville,” he said with unusual hauteur. “A gentleman would know.” He held up a hand, stopping the dealer from giving him cards. “Not this hand.”

  Grenville’s face dark
ened. He took his cards and threw a handful of markers into the center of the table. “Lost your stomach for risk?”

  “No,” said Hugh evenly. “For the company.”

  Now the man openly scowled, although it disappeared soon. “No matter.” He played, tossing the queen of spades onto the table and winning the trick. “For the right inducement, you’ll sit at a table with anyone, just like the rest of us. Isn’t that right?”

  “No.” Hugh lounged in his chair, spinning his brandy glass between his fingers. He hadn’t drunk anything beyond the one glass when he’d stormed into the club, vibrating with anger and anguish over the confrontation with Eliza. He never drank when gambling. Now he watched Grenville, trying to decide if he hated the man because he’d won that night many weeks ago, or because he was an arrogant ass.

  “No?” Grenville wore a queer little smile. “Perhaps not. Not since you’ve got your heiress and can afford to be fastidious again.”

  “Do not mention my wife,” Hugh said, very quietly. His dislike of Grenville veered close to hatred when the man said her name.

  Grenville threw down another card and won the round. “When I’ve known her all her life? I’ll speak of her if I please, Lord Hastings.”

  His glass came to a stop. Hugh breathed through his nose. “All her life?”

  “That’s right.” Grenville’s smile turned smug and vindictive. “Such a sweet little girl she was. And grown into a very pleasant lady. Fit to be a countess.” He laughed, but no one else did. “Her father always said so.”

  He could hear his own heartbeat, hard against his ribs. Grenville and Cross were friends. Of course. He’d never put it together. Cross had said something about never playing against Grenville, and Hugh had believed that meant he didn’t care for the man—which was all wrong.