The Earl's American Heiress (HQR Historical)

by Carol Arens

  “But I wonder...” Hmm, he might have thought of a way for her to teach after all. “There might yet be a way for you to be an instructor.”

  “Oh.” She glanced at a passing carriage, nodded to the passengers. “I thought you forbade it.”

  “I forbade you going to Slademore House, and I still do.”

  “I see,” she muttered, seeming to give her attention to a squirrel scampering across a branch with a nut in its mouth.

  But she didn’t see, not yet. “What if you invite a few ladies for an afternoon gathering and teach them to write poetry?”

  “What?” Her full attention suddenly settled on him.

  “Yes. Engage their minds. I wouldn’t know this firsthand, but I expect spending one’s afternoons stitching doilies would be tedious.”

  “It has caused a few minds to go daft. But I hardly see what good it will do society to have a few poetically gifted ladies. And no doubt it would ruin my love of poetry forever. But, if it will ease your conscience, I will consider it.”

  Never mind, then. Put that way, his idea seemed rather feeble.

  “I only hoped to—” To redeem himself in her eyes. It was true and she knew it. “I missed you last night.”

  He put his arm across the back of the cushions, an act that also placed it across her shoulders without quite touching her. He did this, testing to see if she would shy away from his advance. Perhaps she would not turn from his attempt to restore the natural way things had been between them.

  She sighed and leaned against him. She sounded resigned rather than relieved, as if being close to him was against her better judgment but she was giving in to it anyway.

  No matter, there she was in the crook of his arm.

  Given a few more moments of friendly conversation, she might be happy to be there.

  Once he gave her the gift in his pocket, all would be well. He’d be completely forgiven.

  Women adored anything bright and glittering. At least that was what was said in private conversation in Parliament. Man after man had been restored to his wife’s good graces with a pretty gift.

  Clementine, however, had not been pleased with the first gift he’d given her. Not until she discovered it had belonged to his mother. Now the comb was something she cherished every bit as much as his mother had.

  He loved her for that.

  The thought settled in his mind like a rock tossed in deep water. It went down deep, leaving behind ripples, each one echoing the thought.

  Did he love her for that? Or did he simply love her?

  He loved things about her. He loved being with her. He loved the sound of her voice and the arch of her brows. He loved the way she smelled sitting so close to him. He loved that she would rather teach school than reign as countess.

  Ripples of the thought smoothed out, but the stone that had caused them lay deep in his heart.

  He loved her.

  “Heath, you are looking at me oddly.”

  That would happen when a man discovered he loved a woman and could not tell her so.

  “I have something for you.” He wondered if his voice sounded as thick as it felt. “A peace offering.”

  He withdrew the small package and placed it in her hand.

  She hugged the box with the pretty white bow to her heart but then glanced away.

  Was his perceived offence too grievous for a trinket—an expensive trinket—to fix?

  When she turned her face to him again, she was smiling, truly and sincerely smiling. The world fell back into place around him.

  She untied the ribbon, opened the lid and withdrew the string of pearls.

  “Oh, Heath. These are exquisite!”

  They were, which made them an exquisite match for her.

  “Were they your mother’s?”

  “No. They are only yours.”

  She held them up to the sunshine. A subtle glow winked warmly on the strand. Then she handed it to him, nodding for him to fasten it around her neck.

  It was a fortunate thing her gown had a high, tight neck. At that moment he could not be responsible for what he might have done had it not had. He was a man in unrequited love holding on by a mere thread of self-control.

  “Pearls suit you,” he said, putting his mouth to use with compliments instead of kisses. “They are subtle, yet all the more beautiful for it.”

  “The necklace is wonderful and I adore it, but if you think to earn my pardon with it, it will not work.” She rolled the small miracles of nature between her fingers. “You had it already.”

  “You’re stealing the heart right out of my chest, did you know that?” Maybe he should not have admitted that much, but it had to show anyway. He did owe her some honesty.

  Clementine had never been anything but forthcoming. It grieved him deeply that to be forthcoming with her, to make her privy to what he and Creed were doing, was to make her complicit in it.

  If he was free to, he would declare his love this moment.

  It had always been urgent to expose Slademore’s treatment of the children in his care, but it was now more than ever.

  In a very real sense, his marriage depended upon it.

  “I’ve missed you,” Clementine said and kissed his cheek, right there in an open carriage in Hyde Park. “Will you come back to my bedroom?”

  The kick to his heart was such a blow it felt as if he’d fallen from the carriage and onto the path.

  The obvious answer was yes. And yet how could he? It was impossible for now.

  “The mare—she is not well enough to be left alone.” Curse Garret Slademore for forcing the lie.

  If she wondered, and who would not, why a veterinarian did not care for the mare, she did not ask.

  “Yes, I see.” She called to Creed, “Would you mind taking us home now?”

  She did not speak to Heath the rest of the ride home.

  But neither did she toss the necklace back in his face.

  * * *

  Standing by her bedroom window, Clementine watched the light of a full moon cast the garden in eerie white light. She rolled the pearls of the necklace between her fingers, absently caressing the smooth, hard surface.

  For all her confused feelings when it came to Heath, she hadn’t wanted to remove the gift he’d given her.

  Chilly air seeped through the glass. She tugged her robe tighter around her even though her room was warm from the fire in the hearth.

  Wind and cold had swept across Mayfair from the moment she set foot down from the carriage.

  Below in the garden a white cat dashed from one bush to another, appearing to be spooked by the lashing branches.

  Had her husband been here with her they might be snuggled up in easy conversation, sharing the affection that came so naturally to them.

  From the very beginning, that connection had been there.

  Tonight, bedtime was anything but close and snuggly. She had invited him back to her quarters because it seemed that the rift between them was healing.

  Then he’d claimed the mare needed him.

  Had she so misjudged the way things stood between them that the fact that a horse might or might not need him in the night was enough to keep him away?

  Perhaps Olivia was right and he did have a mistress. The pearls might be a gift to appease his guilt.

  Ninny. If she truly thought that, she would not have them around her neck; she’d have dumped them in the commode.

  At any rate, she might just as well go to bed since he was not coming.

  Not only was she a ninny but a fool. The reason she was standing at the window was to see if the stable lamp would go on, because the mare needed him.

  Not the stableman, not the veterinarian, but Heath Cavill, sixth Earl of Fencroft.

  Olivia had suggested she would discover the truth by g
oing to the stable and seeing for herself if there was an ailing horse and her sickly foal.

  Doing so would either put her mind at rest or increase her uncertainty.

  Given that she was already brokenhearted, she had nothing to lose by investigating.

  She would have to walk through the garden with its spooky, shifting shadows, with leaves blowing madly in every direction, but so be it.

  Facing the elements could be no worse than the doubts assaulting her mind.

  On the way out the door she clutched the pearls, holding them as a talisman. She had no idea what she would find at the stable but until she had proven reason not to trust Heath, she would wear the necklace.

  Moments later she leaned into the wind, wishing she had taken a moment to put on her coat. Clearly, her mind was in too much turmoil. Imagine forgetting to put on a coat in weather like this.

  Blowing leaves slapped her head. Droplets from the fountain, being carried on the wind, smattered her face and dusted her hair. But it was the wind that was the worst. It cut though her clothes, making the short walk from the conservatory to the stable feel hours long.

  It was a relief to finally step inside and get out of the wind. With no lamps burning, the place was dark. Moonlight streaming through the windows helped her see where to put her feet, but beyond that cold light, everything was dark and quiet.

  It smelled like hay, horses and the fading stench of pipe smoke. Someone must have been here recently but they were not now.

  It didn’t matter, since she was looking for a sick horse, not a man.

  The rustle of shifting hay broke the silence, then a horse’s quiet nicker.

  Moving out of the moonlight, she walked in darkness, feeling a way with her hand on the wood rails of a stall.

  Hooves shuffled on the straw-strewn floor.

  “Hello, horsie,” she whispered.

  The animal whickered and walked toward her. She saw the bold, strong lines of its body through light trickling in from the slats of a wooden window.

  The creature hardly looked ailing. It stuck its head over the gate, seeking attention. She petted the thick muscles of its neck, felt the coarse texture of the mane.

  “You are not a mare at all, are you, you great beautiful animal?”

  Her answer was a snort of warm, moist breath on her face. Even though the stall was dark, she had seen enough through a stab of moonlight to know this was true.

  There was a horse in the next stall also. As far as she could tell it was in good health.

  Before she could make her way farther along the rails, the scent of pipe smoke came again. This time it was fresh, drifting toward her on a draft filtering through the barn.

  “Hope you are rested, fellas,” a voice said in the same instant a lamp flared to life. A beam of soft light leaked from under the door. “We’ll be going out tonight.”

  Oh, dear. She really had no wish to be caught out in the stalls wearing only her nightclothes.

  She rushed to the far end of the barn, exiting through the same door she had entered.

  Cold hit and hit hard. Wind buffeted her this way and that, slapping her with icy breath.

  Coming into the conservatory, she was shivering to the point her teeth chattered.

  “Blasted cold stones,” she muttered on a half run across the room.

  All of a sudden a large, faceless shadow blocked her path. A pair of gloved hands gripped her arms.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Having the daylights frightened out of me is what!” She tried to wrench away but Heath held her fast.

  “You shouldn’t be alone in the garden at night. Anyone could wander in.”

  “The only person I’ve encountered is you.”

  He had to have heard the accusation in her voice but he did not loosen his grip.

  “Why were you outside?” It sounded as though he had to strive to remain patient. Well, let him stew, then.

  “I was worried about the sick horse.”

  Dead silence lasted for a full five heartbeats. She knew because she counted them.

  “You went to the stable?”

  “What would I find if I had? A sick mare and a foal that might not live?” She was warming up quickly, heating from the inside out. “Or a pair of perfectly healthy carriage horses?”

  He let go of her. She stared at his face in the darkness, waiting for him to explain—to give her something that was the truth.

  He did not.

  She dashed out of the conservatory.

  * * *

  Heath and Creed had saved a child tonight but not without a fight. Heath had taken a hard blow to the gut and another on the shoulder from the guards, but managed to escape on foot while Creed raced with the infant to the safety of the seaside cottage near Folkestone.

  Even with the help of their informer, this rescue had been more difficult than the rest.

  The baby had been where she noted it would be and at the right time. Heath thought he might have seen a slightly built woman peeking around the corner of the building, but then again, it might have been a shadow.

  If only he or Creed knew who she was, they might speak with her, convince her to tell what she knew. And clearly she did know.

  This time the message had come while Creed was sitting in a tavern. The serving girl handed him a crumpled note. The waitress did not know the person who gave it to her. “A gutter waif” was all she’d told him.

  So still, all they knew of her was—nothing.

  Walking from the stable to the house, he rolled his injured shoulder, trying to ease the ache. He glanced up at Clementine’s window and saw a dim orange glow.

  He guessed the fire was dying and she was asleep. There was no help for it but to wake her.

  Having been caught out in his lie he would have to tell her something—not the truth—but something.

  He entered the house through the conservatory, the same way as he’d gone out. On every night but this one it was the safest way to leave without being seen.

  Once inside he took off his shoes. He should not have to sneak about in his own house, but not many peers of the realm were wanted men. The more secretive he was the safer he would be. There was Creed to be considered, as well.

  Both of them were the Abductor.

  At the top of the stairs he did not bother to go to his own room and change clothes. First he needed to make things as right as he could with his wife—his friend.

  He wasn’t sure it was possible, or what he was going to say.

  Relief made his hand clench on the doorknob. She hadn’t locked him out.

  If she had not locked him out of her room, perhaps she had not locked him out of her life.

  He glanced at the bed. It was empty; so was her chair.

  Clementine stood beside the window, looking down at the garden, a shawl drawn over her nightclothes.

  “Hello, Heath,” she said, turning her face toward him.

  * * *

  It seemed to Clementine that it had been a dozen hours between the time Heath had crossed the garden to the stable and the time he returned. In truth it had only been two. Two hours in which she stood by the glass looking out, watching for him.

  The voice she’d heard in the stable had spoken to the horses about going out—in the dead of night.

  To her way of thinking, it also meant they were taking Heath to do something secretive.

  Exactly what, she could not imagine. But whatever it was, he’d done it before, using an ailing animal as his excuse.

  “Clementine,” he said, his voice low and seemingly anguished, in response to her cool greeting.

  He closed the door and stood beside it as if he did not quite know what to do.

  “I’m glad you are back,” she told him, giving in to the softer emotion that suddenly came
over her at the sight of him, finally home and safe.

  Yes, he had a secret. But so did she.

  He rushed across the room barefoot and wrapped her up in a great hug. He winced as if in pain when he pulled her tight against him.

  “I can’t imagine what you must think of me.”

  “I can’t, either,” she answered, lightly touching the shoulder he was favoring. “Perhaps you should tell me.”

  “I should—yes. But that does not mean I am free to.”

  “You make it sound so mysterious.” She eased out of his embrace...reluctantly.

  Until an understanding was reached between them it was better to remain clearheaded.

  It wasn’t easy keeping a distance, since all she wanted was to stand in the bay of the window, feel his arms wrap her up, relax in his solid presence and rejoice in the fact that he was here and unharmed—mostly unharmed.

  All manner of horror had romped freely through her mind while she’d watched for him to come back.

  She patted him lightly, playfully, on the cheek in order to lighten the moment.

  “Surely you are not going to admit to being the Abductor.” She smiled, winking.

  “I am not.” He curled his fingers into the edges of her shawl and drew her back to him.

  “I wonder if you have a mistress after all. Everything does point to it.”

  “Not everything, Clementine.”

  Slowly he drew her until she was flush against him. His mouth settled on hers, gently probing. She melted to him, either forgetting about her determination to remain aloof, or ignoring it—yes, ignoring because she did recall it, dimly.

  Like a match to dry grass, his kiss ignited within her a blaze burning away common sense and leaving only an urgent need to be even closer to him.

  “I do not, nor will I ever have a mistress,” he whispered. She only needed to look into his eyes to be sure of it. “But there is something.”

  “I’ll not be tricked by an ailing horse again, so you might as well trust me with whatever it is.”

  “One day I will.” He lifted her hand, kissed her knuckles. “But not tonight.”