My Irresistible Earl

by Gaelen Foley

  “You don’t have to apologize—I’m not saying I didn’t like it.”

  He eyed her in question, but just then, Mrs. Busby knocked discreetly on the parlor door.

  “Milady, you told me to fetch you when Master Thomas was ready for bed?”

  Mara lifted her chin, still blushing, and turned toward the door. “Thank you, Mrs. Busby,” she called back, “I’ll be right there.”

  Jordan offered her a taut, sardonic smile when she glanced at him again. “Then I shall bid you a fond good evening, Lady Pierson.” He rose from his chair. “Thank you for the sandwich and the ale.”

  “Of course.” Mara struggled with herself. Oh, blazes. Say something. She swallowed hard, gathering her nerve. “What about your plan—to help me start a new rumor?” she blurted out as Jordan started to turn away.

  “Yes?” He glanced back again with interest. “What about it?”

  She blushed harder. “Does your offer still stand?”

  “What, to be your pretend paramour?” He shrugged. “Of course.”

  Her heart was racing. “Perhaps you’re free tomorrow?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Um, I don’t know…shopping?”

  “Ah.” He winced.

  She grinned. “Bond Street is a favorite daytime haunt of all the lady gossips. If they saw us there together, it would get our rumor off to a fine start.”

  “Very well, then. What time shall I fetch you?” he asked with a deep blue glow in his eyes.

  She shrugged, biting her lip against a girlish smile. “Any hour in the afternoon that suits you, my lord.”

  “All right, I will be here at two. Do try to stay out of trouble until then, hmm?”

  She beamed at him, suppressing a most unladylike giggle; he came over and took her hand in parting. He held it for a moment, gazing at her with a world of emotion in his eyes.

  “What is it?” she asked softly.

  “You were a charming girl, but you really have become a marvelous woman.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  He pressed a kiss to her knuckles; she did not object.

  “Good night, my lady.”

  “Good night, my lord.” Her heart skipped a beat as he released her hand with a sensual slide of skin on skin.

  Then he collected his hat and gloves from the sideboard. Bowing to her, he left.

  As her butler saw Jordan out, Mara’s hand still tingled from the light caress of his fingertips across her palm.

  Heavens, it was just as well that he had gone, she told herself, swept up in a rush of giddy sensations she had not tasted since her youth. If he had stayed a moment longer, she might have been tempted to do something unspeakably reckless. Like invite him upstairs with her.

  Not to put the baby to bed.

  Chapter 8

  Any attempt at escape had proved futile, but Drake realized within a few days these men were not going to kill him. Whoever they were, they did not appear inclined to torture or abuse him. They really seemed to think they were his friends.

  He quit arguing with them, as doing so thus far had got him nowhere. But uprooted once again from the brief security he had begun to settle into with his aged benefactor, James Falkirk, he felt himself holding on by a thread.

  How could James betray him like this? Had he not saved the old man’s life? Had he displeased him somehow, that he should hand him over to these strangers? But even stronger than his hurt, confusion, and anger, he was tormented with dread for the old man’s safety.

  Everything in him warned that James was in dire peril, but with them separated, Drake was powerless to help.

  Now they were removing him from London, where James was, and with every mile they traveled, his agitation grew.

  “Here we are.”

  When the traveling coach in which they had left London a few hours ago rolled to a halt, Lord Rotherstone—or rather, Max—sent him an assessing look askance, his eyes cool and shrewd, his tone all patient reassurance.

  The marquess had insisted that Drake call him Max on account of their allegedly having been close friends since boyhood.

  “Take a look.”

  Drake warily followed Max’s glance out the carriage window. They had come to a halt on a pebbled drive in front of some large country estate.

  “Recognize it?”

  “Should I?”

  “This is Westwood Manor. Your estate. Does it look familiar?”

  Drake shifted uneasily on the squabs. “I-I’m not sure.” He was supposedly the Earl of Westwood, but how could a chap forget something like that unless he had gone completely mad?

  “Let’s go and take a closer look. Come.”

  They got out of the coach, but for a long moment, Drake stood beside the carriage staring at his supposed mansion, feeling utterly depressed. If this was home, there was nothing in his heart to tell him so.

  It was impressive enough, in the usual style. Portland stone. Great fat pillars in front holding up a classical portico. The usual rows of white-trimmed windows, slightly different in size and style on each story. Sculpted topiaries paired along the approaches to the entrance.

  There were daffodils coming up between them as gray March yielded ground to April.

  Drake scanned the tree line where the handsome green park and the horse pastures ended in peaceful woodlands. The sky was cerulean behind the leafless branches, bare wood clacking on bare wood in the sharp chill of the breeze; but some of the boughs were studded with the start of bright buds.

  “What do you think?” Max urged, studying him, his hands thrust into the pockets of his blowing greatcoat.

  “Nice,” Drake mumbled with a shrug.

  “It’s yours,” the marquess answered. “Your ancestral home. Your inheritance. You were born here, Drake. And you grew up here, too—until you were recruited by the Order.”

  “Oh.” He looked askance at him.

  Max smiled sardonically. “Come, there’s someone here whose one prayer in life has been to see your face again.”

  “Who?”

  “You’ll see.” Max walked toward the house; Drake followed, the gravel crunching underfoot. Anxiety began balling up like a fist inside his solar plexus. He swallowed hard as he walked into the shadow of the great house. Ghostly glimmers of recognition danced ahead of him, just out of reach, like streamers blowing on the breeze.

  His heart pounded as he forced himself up the broad, shallow stairs to the portico. His feet felt heavy with the reluctance of his arrival at the place.

  He did not know for a moment which would be worse—to remain forever the blank slate that he was now, or to start to remember himself and his life at last. Perhaps it was better not to know. Maybe some things were best forgotten.

  But then, suddenly, as he came up to the top of the entrance stairs, the front door opened. He stopped in his tracks as a thin, frail, bony, old lady flung open the door and stood there, staring at him, leaning on her cane. She wore a satin toque and two circles of pink rouge on her cheeks; but beneath her makeup, her face went paper white.

  “Lady Westwood,” Max greeted her with a slight bow, but she ignored him, her stare fixed on Drake.

  She seemed speechless, then her rheumy old eyes flooded with tears. Drake glanced uncertainly at Max; the marquess sent him a discreet, encouraging nod toward the woman; but she was already coming toward him as fast as her hobbling gait would allow.

  As she crossed the portico toward him, the sleeveless wool pelisse she wore over her gown blew about in the windy, warring drafts that swirled around the columns.

  Drake watched her with a certain degree of wonder and curiosity, trying to coax his brain into remembering who she was. She seemed familiar.

  He cast Max a startled look as she suddenly lurched forward and embraced him with a low cry. She sounded so distraught that he obliged her, returning her hug uncertainly. “Oh, Drake! Thank, you, God! My son’s alive! You are alive! I knew it in my heart. Oh, my dearest boy, what ha
ve they done to you? I should never have let them take you away from me—my brave young warrior!”

  As she broke down weeping his arms, Drake looked at Max in imploring bewilderment. Max’s nod confirmed that this woman was indeed his mother, but Drake despaired.

  If he could not remember his own mother, then for God’s sake, what hope was there for him? It would have been better for him if the Germans had killed him.

  But as his heart pounded, it all became too much. It overwhelmed him. Whatever he knew, he refused to remember now. It was too painful, and he had already suffered enough.

  Nevertheless, as he returned Lady Westwood’s hug as best he could, he caught a sudden whiff of her perfume…a faint hint of mingled lavender and rose that floated up to his nostrils and seized his complete inward attention.

  It tickled something far at the back of his brain, but before he could sort out the sudden tangle of his internal reactions, she stepped away again with a sniffle, still clinging to his hand. “Come in, come in! My darling son, you are home at last. Now your mother is going to look after you.”

  Drake obeyed, Max following him, the stalwart Sergeant Parker bringing up the rear, ready to shoot him with that horse pistol he wore beneath his greatcoat if he made one false move.

  When he stepped inside, a throng of silent servants stood around staring at him, marveling as he passed. Again, he was beguiled by another smell he knew as he followed Lady Westwood through the entrance hall. Beeswax polish with a hint of lemon…

  He was escorted into a drawing room, where he paused, taken aback to find a portrait of himself hanging above the mantel. As they all sat down except for Parker, who stood in the wide doorway keeping watch on him, Max endeavored to answer Lady Westwood’s anxious questions about his condition.

  “We hope that being here for a while will gradually help to trigger memories of his old life.”

  “Yes, yes, he is most welcome, as are you, my lord, and your men. Home is best for him. This is where he belongs—”

  All of a sudden, out beyond the drawing room, they heard the front door crash open, followed by the sound of swift pattering footfalls running across the entrance hall.

  Someone was coming. Drake looked over.

  Sergeant Parker whirled around to meet the challenge. “Stop! Who goes there—who are you?” he exclaimed.

  A windblown girl with long brown hair flung into the doorway.

  Parker grasped her arm, stopping her from coming any closer. With a fierce look, she pushed back against the sergeant, then frantically stared past him. She went motionless the second her gaze locked with Drake’s.

  “It’s true,” she choked out. “You’re alive!”

  “You’re real?” he uttered softly, amazed.

  “You know her, Drake?” Max asked at once.

  He just stared. “I thought you were a dream,” he whispered. She alone had been with him in his darkest hour, locked inside that Bavarian torture chamber, enduring hell on earth. A silent, tender presence watching over him, a woodland angel conjured by his madness. This lovely spirit seemed to have been with him forever, until he had supposed she was just a figment of his imagination. Yet now, here she stood, in flesh and blood.

  The girl with the violet eyes.

  Jordan realized over the next sennight that it was hard to “treat someone like gold,” as Max had said, when you were keeping so much from her. Nevertheless, he had made up his mind to follow his friend’s advice where Mara was concerned.

  Life rarely gave a man a second chance. He would seize his opportunity and see where it might lead.

  Before long, the talk about her and the Regent faded as the ton gossips began spinning a new thread: What’s going on between Lady Pierson and Lord Falconridge?

  They browsed the shops in Bond Street, took Thomas to see the trick ponies at Astley’s, and had their first shooting lesson with a target set against a hillside well outside of Town.

  On Saturday night, they attended the opera, where he introduced Mara to Daphne, Lady Rotherstone, and her auburn-haired companion, Miss Carissa Portland. The two ladies were escorted that night by Beau, since Max was still up north with Drake.

  Beau looked Mara over, then sent Jordan a discreet look of approval; meanwhile, Daphne and Carissa quizzed the poor woman about herself until Jordan took pity and rescued her. His lady friends were rather protective of him—like doting sisters, he assured her in amusement.

  Then the news arrived that the Regent had returned from Brighton, and the official announcement was made of Princess Charlotte’s betrothal to Prince Leopold.

  Now that all the world knew the happy news, Mara wanted to present the bride’s proud papa with the Gerrit Dou before Carlton House was entirely flooded with congratulatory gifts. And she insisted on having Jordan’s escort that day so he might carry the precious painting for her. The task of handling the masterpiece could not possibly be entrusted to a footman, or so she had claimed with a coy flutter of her lashes.

  Jordan ignored the twinge in his conscience and assured her he’d be happy to assist. He got the feeling she fancied the notion of showing him off to her royal friend. Perhaps she wanted to see what “George” might think of him.

  Therefore, the next afternoon, he found himself walking beside her through Carlton House. A top-lofty little steward marched ahead of them through cavernous chambers, his nose in the air.

  Jordan carried the Gerrit Dou, now luxuriously gift-wrapped in peacock blue silk and tied with a white velvet bow. Treasure though it was, however, he feared it might be lost amid the opulence of Carlton House.

  He studied the place with a cynical eye.

  Though he had feigned surprise about the royal engagement, not even so skilled a liar as he could pretend that Prinny’s ornate home was to his taste.

  Indeed, “ornate” was too mild a word for such gaudy excess. There was no plain surface to be found. Everywhere, curlicues piled on arabesques, gilding, carved friezes, Corinthian pillars in every shade of marble, flowers enough for ten funerals, painted ceilings, patterned carpets, art treasures hung on every wall. It was astonishing. From room to room, the Chinese style warred with the Gothic, both vying chaotically with the Greco-Roman craze—but clearly, His Royal Highness saw no fun in Classical restraint.

  Of course, Jordan could appreciate the size, the sheer grand scale of this monstrosity, never mind the war debt.

  It was just the décor that could give a man a headache. “No wonder he has the gout,” Jordan whispered to Mara. “I would, too, living here.”

  She pressed her lips together, then elbowed him and looked pointedly at the fussy little steward. “Don’t let him hear you!”

  Jordan could not resist teasing her some more, for one giggle from her in these marble expanses would echo for miles. “I should’ve brought supplies,” he murmured under his breath. “You didn’t tell me this was going to be a day’s forced march.”

  “Behave, rudesby,” she warned as they crossed the vastness, following the steward to the private wing where Prinny actually lived and received his friends.

  But it was true. Jordan lost count of the drawing rooms and staircases they passed. He saw chambers and halls in every shape along the way, no mere squares and rectangles for their prince of pleasure, no, indeed, but a great, soaring Octagon and a few circular rooms, as well. Two libraries, five dining halls, including the famous Gothic conservatory, which alone could seat two hundred guests, as Mara had informed him in the carriage before they arrived.

  “Honestly, I’m beginning to feel a trifle dizzy. Did you bring the smelling salts in case I faint?”

  “Don’t worry; if you do, I will revive you,” she chided in an equally playful whisper. Then: “Mind the painting, Jordan!”

  He smiled broadly at her. “Yes, dear.”

  He rested the edge of the Gerrit Dou on a dainty golden console table when the steward held up a white-gloved hand and bade them wait.

  The little man disappeared through the ne
xt door but returned a moment later, holding the door open for them. “His Royal Highness will see you now, my lady. My lord.”

  They walked into a drawing room of much more human proportions. Mara went in first and acknowledged her friend’s status with a suitably formal curtsy; Jordan set the painting down to join her with a courtly bow to the future king.

  The Regent greeted her with open arms and a wreath of smiles. “Lady Pierson! Come in, come in, my dear!” Beaming, the fifty-four-year-old prince rose in gentlemanly fashion to greet his friend.

  Oddly, Jordan’s first thought was that “Prinny” wasn’t nearly as fat as the cartoonists liked to depict him.

  The “first gentleman of Europe” was dressed in the fashionable uniform of the dandy. Jordan mused that Beau Brummell had done the nation a great service years ago in steering the Regent away from dressing in a manner that would have matched his home’s décor.

  Thank God, at least he didn’t cover himself in diamonds like Napoleon. His Royal Highness’s plain black coat was impeccably cut, his ruddy face beefy but clean-shaved, devoid of the white face powder and rouge that had been all the rage among the fops a mere decade ago.

  Ah, the dandies versus the fops. An epic struggle. These foes had come to fisticuffs in the streets insulting each other’s clothes back in the days when Jordan had first met the charming Mara Bryce.

  “Congratulations to you and to your daughter. You must be so pleased,” she was saying.

  “I am glad to have the whole blasted business settled, in truth,” he replied, lightly holding her gloved hands and gazing fondly at her. “I thought I’d never find a young man the headstrong chit would accept.”

  “Well, if a future queen cannot have a say in whom she marries, then what hope is there for any girl? You are a kind-hearted father to listen to her wishes.”

  He snorted wryly. “At least now if she ends up miserable, she won’t have me to blame. Trust me, you are lucky to have a son. A daughter is a bird of another feather entirely.”

  “It’s just her age.”

  “Yes, I suppose we are all intolerable at eighteen. But we shall see, shan’t we, Lady Pierson? When Thomas is eighteen, you tell me then if you still consider him the eighth wonder of the world. How is my godson these days, by the by?”