A Match for the Rebellious Earl

by Lara Temple

  He waited for the door to close behind her before turning to Mary. ‘How the devil can you stand it?’

  Mary shushed him with her hands, her worried gaze on the door. ‘Hush, she is not that bad. Losing your grandfather has been dreadfully hard on her. It is a good thing Genny convinced her somehow to end her mourning and come to London, for she looked likely to stay there sunk in a brown study indefinitely. She has not yet recovered her spirits.’

  ‘She seems plenty recovered to me. I had forgotten what a poisonous snake she is. You cannot stay with her, Mary.’

  ‘I cannot leave her. Where would I go? I do not wish to become a burden to Emily when she is about to begin her married life, and I cannot imagine setting up house alone. And, more to the point, I cannot leave poor Serena all alone with her. That would be quite unfair.’

  There was a finality in her voice that checked Kit. His stepmother’s soft-spoken kindness was often mistaken for weakness, but he knew better. When something mattered to her, she could be as stubborn as his grandmother. It was a pity she’d chosen this hill on which to make her stand.

  Still, he made another attempt to dislodge her from it.

  ‘She wouldn’t be alone. Having seen Genevieve Maitland’s modus operandi last night, and today, I would say she provides ample protection for her sister. I’d back her against the old crone any day.’

  ‘Pray do not make fun of Genny.’

  ‘I’d as soon make fun of Napoleon. But that is beside the point—which is that guilt is a poor reason to remain in purgatory.’

  ‘It’s not guilt, Kit. It is duty.’

  His skin must have thinned considerably since his return to London, because her comment pierced it and prodded his temper back into life. ‘Ah, here comes the reprimand.’

  She flushed. ‘I did not intend it as a reprimand. It is a fact. The one balm of my existence during these years, other than Emily, has been my friendship with Serena and Genevieve. I will not leave them here at your grandmother’s mercy.’ She hesitated. ‘Or her at Genny’s.’

  ‘Are those two constantly at war?’

  ‘Oh, no. Nothing so obvious. Genny is...’ She frowned, her eyes on the row of figurines, and pointed to the one he’d set down. ‘She’s like that sheepdog. She herds. And when there’s a fox prowling she can...well, she can be protective in her own way.’

  ‘So you and Serena are the sheep?’

  ‘You are being harsh again. Oh, I do wish I had not chastised her as I did. You do not know how much she has done for us since she came to live with Serena. She is the only one who could manage your grandfather and grandmother.’

  ‘All the more reason to leave her to it.’

  ‘But that is wrong—can you not see? She isn’t even a Carrington. Perhaps if she had married Julian when he offered...’

  ‘Julian offered for her?’

  ‘Oh, several years back. But it came to nothing and they remain good friends. My point is that, unlike Serena and myself, she has no duty to your grandmother.’

  ‘Nor do you. That old bat treats you worse than she does her cacophonous canary.’

  ‘That is only because she is unsettled. I think she feels guilty that she is enjoying coming out of mourning and seeing her old friends after so long. We must be patient.’

  Kit realised that at least was true. As had been Mary’s comment about her lack of choice. She had been living for other people since her marriage to his father, when she was seventeen, and the birth of her daughter the following year. He could see that, for her, the thought of setting up her own household must be almost unbearably daunting.

  If he wished to remove Mary from his grandmother’s influence he would have to provide a suitable alternative. The only problem was that he had no idea what that alternative might be. The best thing for her would be to marry again, but playing matchmaker was well beyond the scope of his skills.

  ‘Very well,’ he conceded, rolling back his guns. ‘I won’t press.’

  ‘Thank you, Kit. And you will come with us to the theatre?’

  He looked down at her pretty, hopeful countenance and felt a wave of gratitude roll over him. She’d been younger even than Emily when she’d found herself in a marriage of convenience, and yet she’d tried so hard to be a good wife to a grief-stricken man and a caring stepmother to his equally grief-stricken son.

  She was still trying. He ought to do the same.

  ‘Of course I will come, Mary.’

  Chapter Six

  ‘He’s drinking, Miss Genny,’ said Mrs Pritchard as she gazed down at the basket resting on a bale of hay in the stables. ‘And he had a little sliver of mutton just now.’

  Genny smiled at the housekeeper and crouched down to inspect the tiny cat. The basket was a trifle large, for it had recently been populated by three ginger kittens a stable hand had found abandoned in the alley between Carrington House and the mews stables.

  Likely their arrival at the house had scared the mother away, and only one of the litter had survived the week. Genny had learned not to name them until they could feed on their own. Even now she hesitated, waiting for some sign that it wouldn’t suddenly weaken and fade as the other two had.

  ‘Well, I’d best be about my duties, miss. I’ll keep an eye on him.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Pritchard.’

  When she had left, Genny sat on the bale of hay and plucked the tiny cat from the basket. It circled itself into a ball on her lap, the agate eyes slitting and razor teeth flashing as it yawned.

  ‘Did you like your mutton, you stubborn little ball of fluff? You did, didn’t you, sweetheart?’

  She purred encouragingly as she ran her finger from its little bony head down the curve of its soft back. She could feel its vertebrae shift like a bead necklace as she traced it again and again, murmuring foolish words to this sole survivor.

  The kitten stiffened suddenly and Genny stopped, realising someone was standing in the alley. She turned, expecting to see one of the servants.

  ‘This is an unusual place to hide, Miss Maitland. I take it your need to see the housekeeper was an excuse for a strategic retreat?’

  His voice was even deeper in the confines of the stables. Genny considered standing as he approached, but remained where she was. She was at distinct disadvantage, seated on her bale of hay, but standing in this confined space would be even worse. His tone clearly indicated that he was intent on attack, and if she must be loomed over she preferred to do it from her throne of hay with a kitten between them.

  ‘If you wish to think so, my lord, then it was.’

  ‘What I wish for and what I am likely to obtain around here are evidently two altogether different things.’

  ‘Dear me—should I feel sorry for you? How quickly you have fallen from prodigal son to mere sacrificial lamb.’

  He sank down on his haunches with a suddenness that made her lean back slightly.

  ‘Don’t mistake me for a lamb of any kind, Miss Maitland. I’m not a good subject for whatever herding games you like to play in this household.’

  His eyes, more silver than blue in the gloom, were fixed on hers, a hint of a smile softening his sharp-cut mouth.

  ‘I don’t play games, Lord Westford. What I do, I do for a reason.’

  ‘Which is?’

  She wanted to look away, but strangely she couldn’t. She also felt the urge to swallow, but knew he wouldn’t miss that tell-tale sign of unease.

  ‘To get through the day,’ she replied, keeping her voice light.

  ‘Yes, I remember that,’ he said slowly, his gaze moving over her, his cheekbones catching the faint light from the doorway. ‘You were always on your guard. Your grandfather said you could have made your mark in the army, had you been a boy.’

  A stab of pain pierced her between abdomen and chest. It was cruel of him to use her grandfather’s
words and unfulfilled wishes against her. She didn’t want him talking about her grandfather as if he owned part of him.

  ‘I’m well aware of my failings, Lord Westford.’

  ‘He meant it as a compliment,’ he said, and his voice softened, as if in regret. ‘He also said he was likely to go off tilting at windmills like Don Quixote, if not for his Sancho Panza.’

  ‘That is certainly not a compliment to either of us. I may be short, and secondary, but no one could say of my grandfather that he was a deluded romantic.’

  ‘Don’t twist what I said, Genny. Your grandfather was a brilliant and generous man, but like everyone he had his blind spots, and he trusted your judgement, despite your youth. It might have upset some of the men under his command to have you hovering in the wings, but anyone with an ounce of sense knew better than to underestimate your impact on him.’

  ‘I think I prefer the comparison to Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. Now I sound like a scheming harridan and he a malleable fool.’

  ‘Now you are merely twisting my words in the other direction. You understand me very well.’

  ‘You certainly appear to think you understand me very well, Lord Westford.’

  ‘Let us say I am beginning to remember quite a bit from those days.’

  ‘Surely you have better things to occupy you than my relationship with my grandfather?’

  ‘I do, but since you appear to be impacting upon most of those “better things”, in a rather surprising manner, I find I am curious about my old commanding officer’s eminence grise.’

  ‘So now I am not only short, and scheming, but also grey? And there I was, believing Mary when she said your reputation for deadly charm was well deserved.’

  He smiled—his first real smile for her.

  ‘You must have some French fencing blood to go with that name, Genevieve. You parry beautifully—though a little forcefully. If I were a gentleman, I would have been grovelling a dozen times by now.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’re not. I hate grovelling. I’m too tempted to kick snakes when they’re down.’

  ‘Ouch. I’ve never been likened to a snake before.’

  ‘It’s better than a peacock.’

  His smile widened, causing the same softening about the eyes that had had such an unsettling effect on her on the dance floor.

  ‘Nothing pea-sized about me, sweetheart. Certainly not my—’

  ‘I don’t need you to flash your feathers for me, Lord Westford,’ she interrupted hastily, grateful for the gloom of the stables. ‘There are plenty of young women in Town all too willing to oblige if you need your vanity fluffed.’

  ‘It’s not my vanity that needs fluffing, Generalissima.’

  ‘No, that needs a good flattening.’

  ‘You’re doing a damn good job of that,’ he said musingly. ‘You’re still winning this parrying game.’

  ‘It’s not a game, Lord Westford, and I’m not your enemy.’

  He didn’t answer, his gaze holding hers as if he would force some revelation out of her that she herself wasn’t aware of. She tried very hard not to waver, but her breath began to fall out of rhythm, as if she was forgetting the most basic of physical actions.

  Finally, he moved—but only to sit on a bale of hay next to her.

  She wished he would leave. She should leave, but somehow she didn’t want to. It was damnably confusing, and she didn’t like feeling so stretched and pulled in opposite directions.

  She especially didn’t like feeling suddenly so young. As if somehow his vision of her as a taciturn, cautious, almost-eighteen-year-old was forcing her back to that strange time where she’d been clinging to her world by untried claws like the little ginger cat.

  She stroked the ball of fur and the kitten, which had been happily asleep, gave a mewl, its tiny claws pressing into her skin.

  He glanced down at it. ‘I remember that too. Genevieve...patron saint of strays.’

  His voice was low and soft, and the undercurrent of hostility was gone. She felt a strange flush spread out from the knot between her abdomen and lungs.

  He leaned closer, stroking the arching back of the ginger cat with one finger. The kitten’s eyes narrowed to blissful slits as he ministered to it, making long, gentle strokes from the crown of its scruffy head to the brash burst of its tail, stopping just short of her fingers. She held herself against the need to tighten her hands about the kitten as its purring went from silken to rough velvet against her palms.

  ‘Where did this fellow come from?’ he asked.

  ‘He was found with two other kittens in the alley by the stables. The mother never returned and now he’s the only one left,’ she murmured, keeping quite still as the kitten wallowed in shivering bliss. She felt Lord Westford’s gaze shift to her, but his stroking didn’t lose rhythm.

  ‘He’s a good size already. He’ll make it.’ He spoke in a voice almost with the timbre of that purr. ‘I’m sorry about the others.’

  ‘There’s no point in being sorry. They rarely survive. This one shall have more mice to choose from in the stables. And too many cats upset the dogs.’

  He looked around. ‘There are dogs here as well?’

  ‘Not here. At the Hall in Dorset. Milly and Barka. Barka is too old to chase anything, and spends most days dozing in the stables, but Milly has enough energy for both of them. Hopefully by the time we return there Leo will be large enough to stand his ground.’

  He stopped stroking, resting his elbows on his knees as he remained leaning towards her. ‘Leo? He doesn’t look like much of a lion.’

  ‘Leo is short for Leonidas.’

  ‘Good God, poor fellow—’ He broke off with a soft laugh. ‘Are Milly and Barka also named for long-dead warriors?’

  ‘I’m afraid they are. Militiades and Hannibal Barka. I had to name them something...’

  ‘What is wrong with dog names like Bouncer, or Dancer, or Rover?’

  ‘I’ve used them all through the years. Also Juno, Thunder, Lovely, Lady, Lovely Lady, Hector... That one gave me the idea of going to the Greeks, so then there was Mars, who was a brute, and Zeus who was spoilt and ill-tempered, and Athena, who was quite the least intelligent dog I ever had.’

  His laugh was every bit as beautiful as he—a warm rumble that reverberated through her far more deeply than Leo’s purring.

  ‘I remember you gave some odd name to that great scruffy brute who adopted you in Talavera. What was it?’

  ‘Oh, Archidamus! Archie was a dear, but already quite old by the time he found me.’

  Kit smiled, leaning back to look up at the wooden beams of the stables as if they were opening up and beyond them was a view of some long-ago memory.

  ‘That’s true. Strays of all forms did seem to find you. Your grandfather used to grumble that whenever we barracked for longer than a few days the place soon began to resemble a menagerie.’

  ‘That wasn’t my fault. Soldiers always attract foraging animals during a war. I didn’t feed them any more than the others did.’

  ‘Yet they always seemed to follow you about. Like that Archie fellow. I never did understand why he left the village with us; he must have lived there all his life.’

  ‘The mayor’s wife told me his family had been killed. Maybe he wanted to start anew, go on an adventure before...’ Her words ended on a strange intake of breath. She let it out slowly, stroked the ginger kitten once more, and replaced him in the basket, where the little ball of fur curled up into soft sleep.

  ‘Before he died,’ he completed.

  The shaft went home, surprising her with its sharpness. And with a strange hurt that he had driven it home.

  His hand touched hers briefly and drew away just as abruptly, leaving a trail of sensitised fire and her nerves twanging like an angrily plucked harp.

  She shrugged. She had no clear
idea how he had gone from an inquisition to this strangely intrusive sympathy. She didn’t want his sympathy. The inquisition had been less unsettling.

  ‘They all do. It was a long time ago.’

  ‘Two trite rationalisations that have little to do with the pain of losing someone you care for,’ he said.

  She bent to pluck straw from her skirt, pressing back the completely unexpected threat of tears.

  She’d never succeeded in putting Captain Carrington in a safe box, so she’d done her best to keep her distance from him during that year in Spain. Now she could see her instincts had been completely justified. He did not play by any rules that she could see. He seemed to adapt himself to whatever situation he found himself in and yet remain aggravatingly, impenetrably, the same.

  She had no idea why he seemed to think she’d succeeded in parrying his thrusts. She felt like an emotional pincushion. Perhaps he’d learned that annoying skill as the Captain of a less than respectable ship—adjusting to capricious oceans and whatever political games were being played out on the grand chessboard of the world’s powers.

  Whatever the case, she knew he wasn’t...safe.

  ‘I’d best go inside.’ She stood and then hesitated. ‘Are you coming to the play tomorrow evening? I didn’t mean to dissuade you.’

  ‘I’m aware of that. Now. That little manoeuvre was aimed at cornering me into agreeing to attend, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Not cornering. Prodding. Society will make a deal of it whether you join your grandmother at the theatre or stay away. Sometimes bold is best.’

  He remained seated on the bale of hay, looking up at her, his eyes catching the faint light from the stable entrance. Like the sea under a heavy cover of cloud. She felt absurdly nervous suddenly.

  ‘Sometimes it is...’ he replied at last, with surprising hesitation. ‘I admit I allowed you and my grandmother to goad me into saying I would come, but I don’t wish to do Emily any harm.’

  ‘If there is one thing I have learned since I came to live with the Carringtons, it is that you should never give society the upper hand. That means never revealing a weakness. Individually, people can be kind, but as a group they are vicious and unforgiving.’