My Brown-Eyed Earl

by Anna Bennett

Meg stepped into the hallway where Will waited, and shut the nursery door behind her. “What are you doing here?” she hissed.

  “I missed you.” He reached for the long, loose curl that hung over her shoulder and wound it around his finger. “So I thought I’d inquire about naptime. When is it?”

  “Not for another two hours, at least.”

  “Damn.” He scowled, and though his grave and obvious disappointment melted her a smidge, she was all too aware that the twins might have their ears pressed to the door.

  “Perhaps this afternoon isn’t the most opportune—”

  “Just meet me in the library,” he said, his gaze hot and hungry. “I promise to behave myself. Unless you’d rather I didn’t…”

  “I shall try to be there.”

  “That’s all I ask.” He released her tendril of hair, brushed his thumb over her lower lip, and stared at her mouth.

  “I must go.”

  “Until later, then.” He let his hand drop, but as she went to open the nursery door, he said, “How is Diana today?”

  Puzzled by his question, she frowned. “She is well. Why?”

  “I wondered if she had recovered from yesterday’s adventure. It must have been frightening for her, to be lost and on her own—even if she didn’t wander farther than Mayfair.”

  Meg’s heart squeezed in her chest. “Do you want to know what I think?”

  “Of course.”

  She placed a hand in the crook of his elbow and leaned toward his ear. “I think that you care more for the twins than you let on.”

  Scoffing, he shook his head. “They’re terrors.”

  “If you say so.” Unable to resist, she rose up on her toes and kissed his mouth, lingering longer than she should have dared.

  He groaned, and she smiled as she returned to the nursery, already counting the minutes until naptime.

  * * *

  Will closeted himself in his study and surrounded himself with contracts and ledgers in an attempt to appear productive for the next two hours, even if he was not.

  He wrote a few letters making discreet inquiries into Lord Wiltmore’s finances. Meg’s uncle was the closest thing she had to a father, and if she’d agreed to take the governess position, he must be in dire straits, indeed. Will had no doubt he could help the baron, but first he needed some idea of the extent of his debts and troubles.

  Will was melting sealing wax onto the last of his correspondence when Gibson cleared his throat from the doorway. “Begging your pardon, my lord. This just arrived for you.” The butler held a letter between his thumb and index finger the way one might handle a dead rat.

  The moment Will snatched the letter from Gibson, a wave of perfume assaulted his nose and stung his eyes. He recognized the expensive but cloying scent as Marina’s. “Bloody hell.”

  “Precisely, my lord.”

  “That will be all, Gibson.”

  Will turned the letter over in his hands, debating whether to read or burn it. He’d broken things off with his ex-mistress, and no good could come of prolonging their attachment—even if he attempted to keep it strictly platonic. He had no wish to give Marina the wrong idea. Especially now that he was involved with Meg.

  But, guilt niggled. He and Marina had been intimate for several months, and though their relationship had been more business than personal, he owed her the courtesy of reading her letter.

  Cursing, he unfolded the note and breathed through his mouth as he read.

  Dearest Will,

  I trust you have not changed your mind about us. I confess I am disappointed, however, I shall not beg you to come back to me. I’m sure it is no suprise to you that I’ve a multitude of options available. However, their is a matter of some import that I feel compelled to share with you, and I think we must discuss it in person. Please send word indicating where and when you’d like to meet.

  —M.

  Will read the note over again, shaking his head over Marina’s spelling and searching for a clue about what the matter of import might be. For all her faults, Marina was not one to play games, so if she wanted to speak with him, the most likely reason was …

  Shit. His mouth went dry and his head started to pound. He’d always taken precautions to avoid getting her with child, but French letters were hardly failsafe.

  Maybe she was mistaken, or perhaps she wanted to speak to him about something else entirely … but his gut told him that whatever the news was, it wouldn’t be good.

  A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. If Marina was pregnant, it could ruin everything … but he had to know, and he had to do the right thing where the child was concerned.

  He stuffed her letter in the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a sheet of paper to compose a reply. The sooner he spoke with her, the sooner he’d have his answers—and he wanted them now.

  He’d barely begun the letter when Gibson returned, looking even more self-important than usual. Will kept writing. “I’m busy, damn it.”

  “I see that, my lord,” the butler said dryly. “However I thought you might be interested to know that you’ve company in the drawing room.”

  Though Will had neither the time nor inclination to entertain, he couldn’t help asking. “Who?”

  “The Countess of Castleton.”

  “My mother?” Good God. She’d been at a house party for the last week and was probably eager to impart all the gossip that she’d amassed over the course of her stay.

  “And she is not alone.”

  “It would be helpful to know the name of the person accompanying her,” Will said through gritted teeth.

  “Lady Rebecca Damant,” Gibson intoned—as though Will should be impressed.

  And he probably should have been.

  The daughter of a marquess, Lady Rebecca was a classically beautiful and exceedingly rich debutante, widely acclaimed as the catch of the season. So much so that when she entered a ballroom, one could almost hear the collective groan of the other young women present.

  Hell if he knew what such a paragon was doing in his drawing room.

  Will glanced at the clock. He was supposed to meet Meg in the library in a quarter of an hour, which meant he would have to find a way to discourage his guests from lingering.

  “Lady Castleton requested that you not keep them waiting,” the butler said.

  Will snorted. “Tell my mother that I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  The twins were already yawning by the end of their arithmetic lesson, but Meg insisted they practice their penmanship, for good measure. When she turned down their covers and drew the curtains, they crawled into their beds, too tired to make their usual objection that naps were strictly for babies and old people. And within a few minutes, they drifted into the glorious, rosy-cheeked slumber of exhausted children.

  As Meg slipped out of the nursery, her pulse leaped at the thought of stealing a few moments with Will. She stopped in her bedchamber, checked her reflection, and frowned. Her grayish gown did little to flatter her complexion, and though she’d never fretted about her appearance overmuch, she now found herself wishing to wear a dress that belonged to a color family other than, well, drab.

  But there was nothing to be done for it … Unless. Hastily, she retrieved her portmanteau and rummaged through it till she found a length of green silk. Once when she’d worn the ribbon Julie had proclaimed that her eyes sparkled like emeralds, and if that wasn’t quite true, a bit of color certainly couldn’t hurt matters.

  Meg wished Julie were here now. She’d artfully weave the ribbon through her tresses and tie a pretty bow at a jaunty angle. Meg’s bow was limp, but it was adornment nonetheless. And thankfully, Will certainly hadn’t seemed to mind her dreary wardrobe last evening.

  She strolled toward the library, wondering if it were possible to recapture the magic they’d shared in the garden. When he’d visited the nursery earlier, she felt a glimmer of it in her belly—and she was all but certain he’d felt it too.r />
  It was far too soon to say what they meant to each other, precisely, but last night he’d made her feel powerful and respected and … adored. And that was a very good start.

  She pinched her cheeks as she glided into the library, slightly breathless and eager to see him.

  But he was not there.

  The cushions on the armchairs flanking the fireplace were perfectly plumped; the books on the side tables were neatly stacked. The room was orderly and quiet—the opposite of how it would have felt had he occupied it.

  She’d arrived a few minutes later than she’d hoped, but surely he wouldn’t have given up on her so soon. No, he’d probably gotten caught up in his work or been detained by a pressing estate matter. Mildly disappointed, she strolled the perimeter of the room, keeping an expectant eye on the door and debating whether to greet him with a flirtatious smile or a serene one, when the truth was she was incapable of either.

  For the next half-hour she waited, trailing her fingertips over a spinning globe and perusing the pages of a volume of poetry. And still, he did not show.

  She felt certain he had good cause, but how long, exactly, was one supposed to wait for the other party when meeting for an assignation?

  If he were to walk through the door quite late only to find her still waiting for him, how would that look? She suspected he’d think her desperate, foolish, or smitten. And she feared all three assessments would be vexingly accurate.

  But her time was valuable too. The earl no doubt thought his more valuable, but she had lessons to plan and letters to write and … well, other things.

  No, she would not wait for him indefinitely. Clearly, the best course of action was to exit the library slowly, so that if he did happen to approach—as she hoped he would—she could say truthfully, Oh, I was just leaving.

  A snail might have inched its way across the entire house in the time she took to make her way to the door. Drat it all. Had she not an ounce of pride?

  Straightening her spine, she resolved to return to her bedchamber at once and make the most of the twin’s remaining naptime. She’d do something more productive than wait about for the earl—like dusting the furniture or polishing her boots.

  Or perhaps she’d follow the twins’ lead and indulge in a nap.

  With the book of poetry tucked under her arm, she whisked herself out of the room and down the corridor. As she rounded the corner and made her way to the staircase, she glanced toward the earl’s study.

  The door was ajar.

  She’d been too preoccupied on her way to the library to notice it, but now she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been there the whole time. He had requested that she meet him in the library, hadn’t he? Was it possible that he’d meant to say the study?

  Almost of their own accord, her feet carried her toward the study. She peeked around the doorjamb, only to find the room as vacant as the library had been.

  The difference was that the earl had been here. His desk was a shambles, with books and papers everywhere. His pen was propped in a pot of ink as though he’d been called away in the middle of his accounting or correspondence.

  But something else about the room piqued her curiosity—a pungent, unfamiliar scent tickled her nose and enticed her to venture over the threshold. She sniffed at the air. Perfume.

  As far as Meg knew, Will did not entertain women in his study. But she had found a rather incriminating handkerchief there during her interview. How well did she really know him?

  Listening for sounds of anyone approaching, she leaned over the massive desk to peer at the paper next to the inkpot and pen, which appeared to have been abandoned mid-sentence. Even upside-down, it was easy to read the earl’s bold cursive.

  Marina,

  It’s imperative that I see you at once. Your discretion is required.

  Meet me tonight at nine o-clock at the

  Meg swallowed past the huge lump in her throat. Stomach churning, she considered possible explanations Will might have for arranging a clandestine meeting with another woman … and could think of none. She did not know anyone by the name of Marina, but it did not sound to her like the name of a feeble great aunt or dear old grandmamma. No, Marina was the name for a beautiful actress or a talented opera-singer or a … a mistress.

  But Meg would not jump to conclusions. Will deserved a chance to explain, and until then, she would give him the benefit of the doubt—even if the evidence before her did cast him in a bad light.

  And make her question her sanity for becoming involved with him.

  “Miss Lacey?”

  Meg whirled around, her face burning. The twins looked up at her, their blond curls wild and blue eyes sleepy. “Valerie, Diana. What are you doing down here?” She gently herded them into the corridor.

  Diana yawned. “We’re hungry.”

  “Your ribbon is very pretty,” Valerie said, shuffling her stockinged feet.

  “Why, thank you.”

  “May we go ask Cook for a treat?” Diana pressed a hand to her belly as though she were about to perish from starvation.

  Meg sank to her knees and hugged the girls. With them, she knew where she stood. And fortunately, they would keep her too busy to feel sorry for herself.

  “I think we all deserve a trip to the kitchen, but first, we must go to the nursery and make you presentable.”

  Diana crossed her arms, obstinate. “I want to go now.”

  Meg stood slowly, directed her gaze at Diana, and attempted the look. Her face impassive and her voice frosty, she intoned, “We shall go the kitchen after we have brushed your hair and put on your shoes.”

  Diana stomped her foot. “But I’m hungry now,” she screeched.

  Blast it all, the look was nothing but quackery.

  “I’ve no wish to make you suffer any longer than necessary,” Meg said smoothly. “The sooner we make you presentable, the sooner you may have some refreshment.”

  Diana’s nostrils flared, and her chest began to heave. Her breathing grew heavier and heavier, as though she were building up to something big.

  Valerie had the panicked look of a matador in the path of charging bull.

  Meg blinked slowly, pretending to be unimpressed. However, she was rather worried about the scale of Diana’s tantrum, which she perceived was both imminent and inevitable.

  “I … don’t.… want to brush my hair!” Diana yelled, loudly enough to rattle windows. She threw herself on the floor and kicked, her face rapidly turning red from her exertions.

  Meg observed her thrashing as though only vaguely interested. “I regret to inform you,” she said over the din, “that your hair is growing more tangled by the minute. At this rate, we’ll be brushing out knots till breakfast tomorrow.”

  Valerie tugged on Meg’s sleeve. “Sometimes Diana gets a little cranky when she’s hungry.”

  “You don’t say?”

  Meg could empathize, as she’d been known to be a bit irritable herself when feeling peckish. But that was neither here nor there.

  Because while Meg knew precious little of governessing, she knew this: one must never, ever, capitulate to a child who was in the midst of a tantrum.

  And so, it raged on.

  Before long, Mrs. Lundy rushed to the scene, frantic over the commotion.

  “Diana is fine,” Meg assured the housekeeper, even as the girl screamed and writhed on the floor like demons had possessed her. “This must run its course.”

  “Are you certain?” Mrs. Lundy pressed a hand to her chest and took a step backward.

  “Yes, I—”

  “Well, isn’t this a charming display of manners.” The earl strode toward them, his scowl suggesting he was far from amused. In his wake, a pair of women followed—one older and impeccably dressed, the other younger and impossibly beautiful.

  Meg’s stomach dropped. She wanted to grab the girls by the hands and flee up the stairs as quickly as possible … but it was not to be.

  “Mother,” he said politely while
ignoring the chaos at his feet, “I’m sure you remember Miss Margaret Lacey. She is the twins’ governess.”

  “I was not aware.” The countess’s cheeks hollowed.

  “Lady Rebecca,” Will continued, “allow me to introduce Miss Margaret Lacey. Miss Lacey, this is Lady Rebecca.”

  “A pleasure to meet you both.” Meg curtsied, because even though both women had now learned that she was a deplorably inept governess, there was no reason they should think her completely devoid of manners.

  Lady Rebecca pursed perfectly full lips as her gaze roved over Meg’s unfashionable gown. “You look familiar, Miss Lacey. Have we met somewhere else—perhaps at your previous employer’s?”

  “No, I don’t think so. This is my first real governess position.” Blast. She couldn’t imagine what had prompted her to confess such a thing.

  The countess’s thin white brows crept up her high forehead. “Your first, you say?”

  “Miss Lacey came with excellent references,” the earl lied.

  Meanwhile, Diana’s screeches gave way to sobs, drawing piteous looks from the women.

  “I know,” Lady Rebecca said, beaming. “You’re one of Lord Wiltmore’s … wards.”

  Meg’s hackles rose instantly. “Lord Wiltmore is indeed my uncle and guardian. He was kind enough to take in me and my sisters after…” Her traitorous voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. “He’s been very good to us.”

  Lady Rebecca eyed Meg’s gown again as though it were evidence to the contrary. “I’m sure he means well. But it must be difficult for you and your sisters, living with a man who is so…”

  Meg could feel a tantrum of her own brewing. She clenched her jaw and shot a warning look at Will. Lady Rebecca would do well to choose her next words very, very carefully.

  “… unconventional,” Lady Rebecca continued, inordinately pleased with herself. “He can neither know nor understand the intricacies of helping young ladies make their entrance into society.”

  Meg took even breaths through her nose. In her own condescending way, Lady Rebecca was simply trying to express sympathy for Meg’s plight. To magnanimously attribute her fashion faux pas and general awkwardness to her uncle’s negligence.