In the Arms of an Earl

by Anna Small

  He stole another look at his companion. The apples of her cheeks were stained pink from the crisp air and her constant blushes, which he found endearing. He enjoyed listening to her quiet voice, which rose only when she discussed music. Then, her gestures became animated, and her eyes lit up. He’d never met anyone so enthusiastic about playing. Besides himself, of course.

  Thinking about music inevitably reminded him of the night before. He didn’t know why he’d suggested they play together. He was no seducer, but the idea had crossed his mind more than once as he shared the narrow bench with prim Miss Brooke. He was all too relieved to bid her good night, as one more glimpse of her round eyes staring up at him was enough to make him forget his obligations to his friend and violate the trust he sensed Miss Brooke bestowed upon him.

  Unable to sleep after she’d gone, he’d restlessly paced the drawing room until he was finally forced to return to bed. All he did then was relive the memory of holding her hand. She’d gripped his with astonishing fervor, her innocence belying any other kind of message he might have inferred. He’d hastily dressed in the morning, impatient to see her in the light of day.

  He looked forward to spending the rest of the afternoon in her company. They would surely have more time to play Lucinda’s pianoforte, and there was the upcoming ball to be discussed. He’d enjoyed dancing before the war and rather looked forward to taking up that pursuit again. As long as Miss Brooke was his partner.

  Behind the pursed lips and matronly hairstyle, he sensed a passionate soul. How fortunate the man who could unlock the secrets hidden in her heart. Eager to read his favorite poems to her, he wanted to see her reaction, to experience her delight when she realized there was more to life than the mundane existence she’d had so far.

  But why should he care? She was going home in a few weeks and probably had numerous suitors awaiting her return. Besides, she could not be more than, what—eighteen? Younger?

  As if her age was a hindrance to marriage. Admit it, Blakeney—women want a whole man. Not one whose scars were more than just surface deep.

  A sudden dip in the path turned his heel just enough to make him wince as a pain shot up his leg, ending in his groin, where he’d been injured by shrapnel from Napoleon’s army. He’d mastered his affliction for so many years his outward appearance would not have changed. He knew how to laugh through multiple attacks on his shattered nerves so as not to offend present company.

  He carefully steered her around a small puddle. She rewarded him with a grateful smile, her gaze locking with his in the space of a heartbeat.

  For a moment, the aches and pains lessened, and he almost felt like his old self again, before the war had taken away everything he used to be.

  Fortunately, Jeremy and Lucinda’s presence prevented him from sweeping innocent Miss Brooke into his arms and kissing the most perfect pink lips he’d ever seen.

  Chapter Seven

  After luncheon, Jane waited for Colonel Blakeney to move toward the library. She fidgeted with her fork.

  “More cake, Jane?” Lucinda asked.

  “No, thank you.” She tried not to look at the men, who were discussing the Battle of Waterloo, where Colonel Parker had fought. She looked pointedly at Lucinda. “Did you want us to join you in the library now, Lucinda?”

  Colonel Blakeney stopped talking and sipped his tea. His eyebrows furrowed. “Ah, yes! Robert.” He rose from his chair and gave a little bow. “Our reminiscences have betrayed my promise to these young ladies for an entertaining and most instructive engagement in the library. Will you excuse us?”

  Colonel Parker stifled a yawn. “Of course, dear fellow. I will then keep my previous engagement with my favorite divan and nap. Jeremy, stay out of your sister’s hair for the rest of the afternoon.”

  Jane averted her eyes from Jeremy’s hard stare. No one else seemed to notice. Colonel Blakeney offered his arm, as if he were about to escort an elegant lady through a ballroom. Her heart leapt at the prospect of spending more time with him—even if it was in Lucinda’s presence.

  They entered the library, and Lucinda scanned the room, as if deciding where best to pose them. She gave a satisfied nod. “Please, sit by the window. The light’s better, and you can sit beside each other, which will help me tremendously.”

  Jane sat on the window seat. It was narrow, which meant the colonel would be very close to her. She ignored a sudden fluttering in her middle.

  “I shall fetch my things, while the two of you choose a book.” Lucinda scurried from the room.

  The colonel selected a large book of Greek mythology and brought it to Jane. Detailed drawings of various gods and goddesses adorned the pages. Jane gaped at some of the drawings depicting a half-naked Zeus chasing down one terrified maiden after another. Her conscience urged her to close the book, but the images intrigued her. The colonel’s voice was quiet as he retold some of the stories, pointing to a part of the picture in turn.

  “Have you never studied mythology?” he asked at length.

  When she turned to reply, she realized with a start he was sitting closer than before. Every instinct told her to move away, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She caught the woodsy scent of his soap and noted a tiny nick on his jaw where he’d cut himself shaving. She forced her hand to remain in her lap, though she wanted nothing more than to stroke his jaw.

  The shock of her attraction was like a physical blow. Lucinda returned and gave her a quizzical look.

  “Are you comfortable there, Jane? I can fetch another pillow.”

  “Everything is fine.” She faked a little cough, as if it were the cause of her trembling voice. She turned to the colonel again. “I have read some Norse mythology.”

  His eyes twinkled. “Vikings and thunderbolts, Miss Brooke? I would think you’d find Greek and Roman mythology infinitely more entertaining.”

  Lucinda held up her hands in the shape of a frame and regarded Jane and Frederick with a presumably expert eye. “Did not Zeus beguile every human female he met? Jane, you must read one of Jeremy’s books.” She arranged her brushes and wads of cotton beside her on a little table. “There are so many suggestive stories they make The Canterbury Tales appear almost innocent.”

  The colonel cleared his throat. “I was referring to the stories about the heroes, Lucinda. I am sure your brother has more interesting things to occupy his time.”

  Lucinda shook her head vehemently. “Oh, he enjoys ever so many things, Colonel B.” She numbered a list on the fingers of one hand. “Dancing, hunting, riding a fast pony—” A frown crossed her face. “There must be more.”

  “I’m sure there are. Well—” The colonel paused, as if allowing the awkward air to float by them. “Returning to mythology, I wished to speak of the heroic adventures. We can leave the more earthly ones to Mr. Parker.”

  He began describing Homer’s Iliad, but Jane found it difficult to listen. Rather, she enjoyed watching his mouth move as he spoke, the way his eyes lit up while describing beautiful Helen of Troy who had caused the destruction of so many.

  “And it was all for love?” Lucinda loaded a brush with the familiar brown mixture she used for Jane’s hair.

  “Yes. Love and an over-abundance of youth, I’m afraid. But her husband still wished her back, which says something about her beauty.”

  “Or his desire not to lose her dowry and to keep his reputation intact,” Jane interjected, lowering her gaze when he lifted one eyebrow with amusement.

  “Have you no romantic spark in that marvelous brain of yours?” he asked.

  Lucinda giggled. “Oh, Colonel B., you must hear her discuss astronomy with Papa. She is a born Copernicus.”

  Jane wished she could run from the room and hide from Lucinda’s laughter and the colonel’s smile.

  “Cleverness can be romantic, Lucinda,” he chided, but his voice remained kind. He closed the mythology book, effectively changing the subject. “Tell me about your home, Miss Brooke, if you please. It will distract
us from Lucinda’s puzzled looks while she paints us. Colonel Parker told me Hartleigh is a rather spacious farm.”

  Relieved she could speak on something so dear to her heart, she described Hartleigh and its animals and tenants and how she’d helped Weston’s doctor from time to time. He nodded with interest, encouraging her, and before long, Lucinda held up her canvas with a flourish, a triumphant smile on her face.

  “Did I not catch your very likeness here, Jane? And Colonel B., I decided against Hades, as you do look more like Perseus. Do you not think you complement each other with your dark hair and features? You could be related, the way you two resemble each other. Why, Jane, you needn’t blush at all. I’ve designed a most respectable Grecian dress that covers most of you, and Perseus is well enough away from you, except for the arm on your waist. Colonel B., do not you agree?”

  “I do not know about being confused for Perseus, but you have captured my dour expression very well.” He examined the painting for a few moments and handed it back. “Your talent has improved since my last visit.” He winked at Jane, and she chided herself for hanging onto his every word. “Miss Brooke, there are countless drawings of me all around the house, if you take the time to find them. I have been Robin Hood, King Arthur…hmm, who else?” He drummed his fingers on his chin.

  “Sir Lancelot,” Lucinda piped. She scooted off her chair and skipped to the other end of the library, returning with a charcoal drawing of the colonel, dated several years before. The childish technique had since matured, but Jane recognized Lucinda’s signature turn of the colonel’s brow, and the cleft in his chin was a dark apostrophe.

  “I’d forgotten the noble knight.” He admired the sketch with Jane.

  “You are very good,” Jane affirmed, while Lucinda basked in their praise.

  “I should do a set, Colonel B., with Jane as Queen Guinevere. Oh, Jane, you must…”

  He laughed. “My dear Lucinda, you have painted Miss Brooke to death. Why not pursue some other entertainment? We can take it in turns and read for a while. Would you prefer reading, Miss Brooke?”

  She was relieved he’d understood her silent wish. “I would enjoy it. Do you mind, Lucinda?”

  The young artist shook her head, already lost in concentration as she stared from the colonel to Jane and back again. Jane recognized the intensity of Lucinda’s gaze. She hastily rose from the window seat before Lucinda could suggest another pose.

  “I daresay Robert has some poetry. Would that be to your liking?” he asked. She stammered before she could respond, and he quickly shook his head. “Or we can read on our own…”

  “I would like to read together.” It sounded too intimate. “But you make the selection, if you please, Colonel Blakeney. I’m afraid I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  He indicated she should follow him to the opposite end of the room. One shelf contained a jumbled array of books, as if a voracious reader had been searching for a particular tome. He selected a book and replaced it a moment later.

  “I’ve changed my mind. Lord Byron is too intense for a Wednesday,” he teased, taking another book. “You might like this—Robert Herrick. Have you heard of him?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “He has some spiritual themes, but he also wrote of the sea.”

  His mentioning the sea reminded her of his symphony, which carried with it a sharp picture of sitting beside him at Lucinda’s pianoforte. Distracted, she picked up the Lord Byron he had just replaced. “I wouldn’t mind Byron. You do like his work, you said.” She handed it to him. No more religious works for her.

  “So I did.” He indicated their previous spot on the window seat. “You may do the honors and read, if you would be so kind. My head is a little sore.” He smiled apologetically.

  “Would you rather end the afternoon?”

  “Believe me, Miss Brooke,” he said, sighing as he sat and leaned against the wall, “being in the company of Lucinda and you makes all the difference.” He waved his hand at the book. “Any one of his poems will do.”

  She flicked through the pages until one poem caught her eye. “‘On This Day I Complete My Thirty-Sixth Year.’” She glanced up to seek his approval.

  “I do not know it, but it sounds intriguing.”

  “Colonel B., are you not thirty-six?” Lucinda asked, already deep into the outline of her drawing of Jane as the queen who’d divided her heart between two men.

  “As old as that! Do I look so ancient, Miss Brooke?”

  A blush worked its way up her throat. She wanted to say he appeared not a day past five-and-twenty, but shook her head instead.

  “How old are you, then?” Lucinda asked pertly.

  “Thirty-four.”

  “Only two years younger than being so ancient,” Lucinda teased. Both girls laughed, and he with them.

  “Miss Brooke, please read what the illustrious Byron has to say about turning the ancient age of thirty-six.”

  She read the first stanza and set the book down. “It is quite depressing.”

  “Do read, Jane!” Lucinda looked up from her painting. “Is it very naughty? Jeremy told me Byron was a naughty fellow.”

  “It is not naughty, for goodness’ sake,” Jane said. “Colonel Blakeney, I should choose another.”

  “Let me see it first. I will decide if it is naughty enough for Miss Parker.” He took the book from her.

  “’Tis time the heart should be unmoved,

  Since others it hath ceased to move:

  Yet, though I cannot be beloved,

  Still let me love!”

  He stopped, pondering the page as if there were some foreign object on the paper rather than black ink. Jane was anxious he stop before he read the rest, for she had skimmed ahead, but something invisible seemed to be driving him.

  “What is next?” Lucinda swept her brush across the paper.

  He cleared his throat, blinked.

  “My days are in the yellow leaf;

  The flowers and fruits of love are gone;

  The worm, the canker, and the grief

  Are mine alone!

  “Good heavens!” He sighed loudly, waggling his eyebrows comically. “Has the man not had enough paramours he should write about losing love at the end of his life? The unknowing reader would assume he’d lived as a monk.”

  Jane giggled behind her hand, appalling herself in the next instant. “Truly, you don’t have to finish.”

  “Oh no—please, go on,” Lucinda begged.

  He shrugged. “He does ramble on about Greece for a bit…ah! Here’s the final, bitter note:

  “If thou regret’st thy youth, why live?

  The land of honorable death

  Is here:—up to the field, and give

  Away thy breath!”

  The flush returned to his cheek. Jane clenched her hands in her lap, agonized. Lucinda’s words about the lady who’d cast him off came back to her. His hand shook slightly.

  “Seek out—less often sought than found—

  A soldier’s grave, for thee the best;

  Then look around, and choose thy ground,

  And take thy rest.”

  Chapter Eight

  She’d looked forward to playing for the colonel later, but he didn’t come down for supper. Trying not to appear disappointed, Jane occupied her time by glancing at the drawing room door and listening with half an ear to Lucinda, who was naming her various acquaintances who would attend the ball.

  On the third time she glanced at the door, Jeremy looked up from his gazette. “He’s not coming down, Miss Brooke. His injury is bothering him.”

  Lucinda broke off in mid-sentence at her brother’s interruption. She clucked her tongue against her teeth. “Poor Colonel B.! Jane, it really is a shame. I do not comprehend how he can feel pain in a missing limb, but he does. It’s very strange, really.”

  Embarrassed because Jeremy had seen through her surreptitious glances at the door and guessed her intent, she pretended to be surpris
ed by the turn of the conversation.

  “I thought we were having tea brought in.” No one had ordered tea. Jeremy had not stopped looking at her, and she turned away, her face hot.

  “You can play the pianoforte for us, if you’d like,” he said, after a pause. “We promise not to instruct or criticize, eh, Lucy?”

  “Oh, Jeremy.” Lucinda shook her head as if dismayed by his comment, but giggled. “Jane, you are very lucky Colonel B. has not criticized your playing yet. Why, I do not even walk near the pianoforte when he is here in case he calls my arpeggios lazy.”

  Flustered, Jane strode to the window and pretended to look at the park. “You are both very lucky to have a friend who can instruct. We have nobody in Weston. I’ve had to teach myself, which is less than adequate.”

  “He will probably be all right in the morning.” Lucinda went back to sorting her pile of ribbons.

  “Perhaps we should bring him some tea,” Jane said without thinking.

  Jeremy cocked an eyebrow. “I shall bring him some.” He rose from his chair. “It is getting late, and I wanted to ride again early tomorrow. I’d invite you along, Miss Brooke, but I’m sure you’d much rather play nursemaid.” His heels rattled on the parquet floor as he strode from the room.

  Lucinda stared after him. “I wonder what that was all about.”

  Jane gulped back her anxiety. “I cannot imagine.”

  ****

  Jane bolted upright in bed, the hairs at the nape of her neck standing on end. The cry of a wounded animal, or possibly the wailing of a ghost, had interrupted her sleep. Disoriented, she clutched the coverlet to her chest. Lucinda snored softly beside her. Surely, Lucinda would have mentioned if Everhill were haunted.

  A low, agonized moan broke the silence. Jane held back her own scream, until she realized what it was. Without considering her actions, she scrambled out of bed and fled the chamber, snatching her wrapper as she went.

  Colonel Blakeney’s room was at the end of the corridor. His moan reached her again. She should call for Colonel Parker, or at least the housekeeper, who could summon a doctor if he had taken ill.