A Most Unusual Earl

by Felicia Greene

  A Most Unusual Earl

  by Felicia Greene

  Witford house stood in glittering splendour, its doors flung wide open for guests. Although the hosts were a duke and duchess, with other titles dotted about the family tree like ladybirds, the number of aristocrats among the guests was surprisingly low—a testament, perhaps, of the scandalous marriage that had resulted in the household. The more respectable members of the ton sat stiffly at home, sure that the gathering would involve the most devious sort of debauchery.

  They weren’t entirely wrong. On the first anniversary of the Duke and Duchess of Witford’s wedding, the reason for the splendid ball, a plot was being carried out. None of the guests were aware of the complex machinations at work. Not even Adam Merricott and Susan Withersham, the victims of the scheme.

  The Duke and Duchess of Witford, celebrated couple and chief plotters, sat happily in a small alcove that faced the boisterous groups of dancers. Samuel Taunton drank champagne, Reginald Parr watched the revellers with a note of disapproval, and Diana Harrow, Duchess of Witford, spoke softly to her husband.

  ‘I chose periwinkle because it makes her eyes shine brighter. A darker blue would dull them. Susan has lovely eyes, and they become even lovelier when they’re flattered with the correct gown. And the hem-length is ever-so-slightly shorter than her usual length—not to be scandalous, of course, but to highlight the gracefulness of her steps. I’ve never seen a woman walk so gracefully.’

  ‘Not that I wish to interrupt the scintillating talk of hem-lengths and certain shades of blue. I had no idea of the secret world at play just beyond my field of vision.’ Taunton could be marvellously eloquent, even when he was subtly displaying his irritation with the subject at hand. ‘But how are we sure that any of it is going to work?’

  ‘Well.’ Diana looked expressively at her husband, His Grace William Harrow, before turning to the other gentlemen. ‘It depends on what you mean by work.’

  ‘What do you think Taunton means by work?’ Parr shrugged. ‘A proposal, of course. A declaration. Something that’s going to stop Miss Withersham marrying that flat-footed Lord Walcote. Should we tell Merricott about him, at least?’

  ‘I don’t see the point of that. He’d be too damned noble to interfere. Even without telling him about a rival, I doubt we’ll get a proposal tonight. Taunton grinned. ‘At most, a secret assignation in a nearby shrub or linen-closet.’

  ‘That is, as my mother’s favourite housemaid used to say, beyond my ken.’ Diana watched Susan Withersham practically float across the room, the gown giving her a sparkling, ethereal grace. ‘Proposals, declarations or assignations are unpredictable. But as for Adam Merricott noticing her in a different light…’

  As one, they all turned towards the table where the champagne was stacked. Their friend Adam Merricott, Earl of Merston, was standing still as a statue as thirsty ballgoers ebbed and flowed around him.

  ‘Good Lord.’ Parr’s voice had a new reverence. ‘He looks as if he’s been hit with a club.’

  ‘Two clubs.’ Taunton raised an eyebrow. ‘Does he realise he doesn’t have any champagne in his glass? Does he realise he isn’t blinking?’

  Harrow turned to his wife, astonished pride evident in his voice. ‘You’re a genius, my darling. An absolute miracle-worker. They should build statues to you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ Diana stared hard at Merricott’s dumbstruck face, watching him truly see his childhood friend for the first time. Not as a dishevelled girl with mud on her shoes and unbrushed hair, but a woman—an elegant, cultivated woman, with all of the natural charms her sex could bestow. Not to mention a few unnatural charms supplied by Diana, in the form of rouge and a periwinkle gown. ‘I have merely tilled the soil, so miracles can flourish.’

  This was, without any doubt, an epiphany. Adam Merricott wasn’t used to having epiphanies of any kind, especially in the middle of ballrooms, and every reaction he could think of seemed utterly unsuited to the gravity of the moment.

  Should he leave? No—that would mean he would have to stop looking at her. Looking at Susan Withersham, one of his oldest friends, who had transformed into a goddess from one evening to the next.

  Her hair, her eyes, the shape of her in her gown as she flitted from corner to corner… everything was subtly, glowingly different. As if a candle had been lit inside her, warming the room with its light.

  He had seen Susan yesterday. They had taken tea together in the morning room, flanked by the new maid Alice. They had spoken as they always had, the same topics flowing agreeably between the both of them: beasts of the field, birds of the air, the correct way to feed a flock of goats. She had waved as she usually had, carelessly, her silhouette illuminated in the setting sun…

  … and then, apparently, she had gone home and made an offering to Aphrodite.

  What had happened? And had it happened to her, or to him? It couldn’t be entirely Susan’s doing—something had to have changed in him as well, from yesterday night to this evening. He hadn’t slept well, that was true—what had he been thinking about, in those silent hours of exhausted frustration before finally closing his eyes?

  He had felt lonely. That was true. He had avoided marriage for an astonishing number of years; most of his friends had already succumbed, apart from the men in his closest set. His thoughts had become troubling, almost, leading him into places he had never previously explored. Was he destined to die alone, because he had never found a prospective bride?

  Yes. That had to be it, spurring on the sudden discovery of Susan Withersham as beautiful. What remained a mystery to Adam, as he stood transfixed with his champagne glass forgotten in his hand, was what on earth he was going to do about it.

  His first instinct was to do nothing. His sudden realisation that Susan was beautiful, quite the most beautiful woman he had even known, didn’t mean he had to tell Susan this. She was be confused, and most probably upset—they had only ever been friends, after all, the very best of friends.

  Why were they the best of friends? Because Susan was also the kindest, wittiest and most cheerfully eccentric person he knew. Now that she was also the most beautiful, Adam felt his heart rise to his throat in a sudden surge of panic.

  She was everything. Why he had to realise this now, in the middle of a gathering with gossipers on all sides, was a question that only a mischievous universe could answer. He had been given years and years to notice Susan in this way, years of collaboration and humour and warm, close friendship, and had missed it completely. How many times had they chased rebellious puppies together, or helped a sheep through a difficult birth, without him looking at her and thinking yes?

  Yes. Susan Withersham was perfect. She had always been perfect. Even years ago, when she never thought to brush her hair or buy new gowns, and her sly nickname had been the Wild Girl of Hallwood. Adam had shielded her from the worst of it, never caring a whit for how she dressed, already enamoured of the soul beneath.

  Not only did he love her now, he had loved her then. He had always loved her. Such moments of realisation were meant to be joyous, but all Adam felt was a constriction in his throat. As if he were drowning in new knowledge, with no way to put any of it to good use.

  Sweating into his cravat and gripping his champagne glass wasn’t going to help. Neither was going to where his friends sat in laughing repose—they would mock him mercilessly for this sudden discovery, given how many aggrieved hints they had given him over the years. Samuel Taunton, Marquess of Bixby, had always been an irritating thorn in his side when it came to Susan—Adam couldn’t bear the idea of letting the man know he was right.

  He was going to have to talk to her. He would have to talk to her now, this very moment, unless the feeling
that had overcome him with such fierce swiftness left him with equal rapidity. It could be the champagne, a trick of the light, a brain fever…

  No. It was nothing but the truth, and he would have to mark it with words. Even if the resulting conversation spoke of nothing but the weather, it would have a sacredness to it that would never fade.

  He put his champagne glass down on a nearby table, noting absently how sweaty his hands had become. Biting his tongue, wondering when was the last time he had felt so large and clumsy and utterly unworthy of speaking to anyone, he made his way towards the woman who he had spoken to without incident for the greater part of his life. He looked quickly at his friends, worried that Samuel had seen him beginning to approach Susan—but Samuel, Wesley, Diana and Reginald, somewhat unusually, were all looking as far away from him as possible.

  Was something afoot? No, no time for that now. Shaking his head, hoping that the warmth of the room and his own tension hadn’t rendered his face and hair a glowing mess, he walked towards Susan Withersham with a gulp.

  She was surrounded by admirers. That was new and unusual in itself—Susan normally clung to the edges of the ballroom, or sat happily in the seats unofficially reserved for spinsters with Adam laughing next to her. Now, thanks to whatever magic she had wrought, there were men in the Witford ballroom discovering Susan Withersham’s wit and wisdom for the first time—and Adam wanted to murder all of them.

  For a man who didn’t even enjoy eating meat, such violence was new and unwelcome. Inwardly cursing, his feet scuffing on the polished wood, Adam cleared his throat as Susan turned to him.

  A look wasn’t meant to feel like a physical blow. Especially not the happy, slightly apprehensive look of an old friend who has something important to say. Adam forced himself to appear normal, keeping his eyes fixed on Susan’s face for fear of lingering on the just-discovered shape of her body.

  ‘Withers.’ He bowed, hoping that the gentlemen around Susan would melt away. Fortunately they did, all of them wearing an expression that suggested they would return the minute Adam turned his back. ‘How goes it?’

  ‘You know how it goes. We spent four hours yesterday planning a new border for the rose garden.’ Susan smiled; Adam blinked, sure that the sun had risen despite it being late in the evening. ‘And Witford House is as lovely as it always is, and Diana is as nice as she always is.’

  Adam nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the little tartlets with redcurrants in them are good to nibble on. I left one on the lawns for the birds to eat.’

  ‘... Yes.’

  He was normally a better conversationalist. Adam thought hard, watching Susan’s expression grow more uneasy, until he finally blurted out a sentence that managed to sound mangled despite the lack of words in it.

  ‘The dress. Your dress. Is—it’s new, isn’t it? I think it’s new.’

  ‘It’s so new that there are practically still pins in it. I’m sure a seamstress is following me around at a distance, making sure I don’t trip over the hem or spill anything on the sleeves.’ Susan’s smile faded a little. ‘Do you like it? Everyone else seems to think it’s marvellous. Diana said it’s wonderful.’

  ‘Yes.’ It wasn’t the dress that everyone was complimenting. If Adam ignored who was wearing it, the garment became deceptively plain in nature. It was Susan in the dress, the way it made her so much more of herself, that made the fabric and tailoring shine. ‘It’s… it’s very pretty.’

  ‘Good. Now that I have the Merricott seal of approval, I can enjoy it much more than before.’ Susan nodded gravely, her eyes alive with the usual sarcastic mischief that had made so many of Adam’s days brighter. ‘And… and I hope that everyone will enjoy seeing it.’

  ‘I’m sure that everyone already is.’

  ‘Well.’ Susan moved a little closer, her voice lowering. A wild, giddy hope rose in Adam’s heart—a foolish hope, considering he had said or done nothing concerning his private epiphany. ‘Perhaps some more than others.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘A certain few.’

  ‘Whatever number you think best.’

  ‘Merry, stop being silly.’ Susan frowned. ‘I’m trying to tell you that a single person, just one person, needs to think this gown is more pleasant than any other gown in the room.’

  Adam’s hope, foolish as it was, grew wings and flew to his throat. He leaned closer still, hoping beyond hope that Susan had managed to read his thoughts.

  ‘Lord Walcote.’ Susan subtly gestured to a distant corner of the room. Adam followed her gesture, his hope sinking into the base of his stomach with a stab of pain. ‘Mary says he’s taken a liking to me. Diana has made encouraging noises as well. Goodness knows why—they’ve never taken any interest in my prospective suitors before.’

  Adam looked away before he saw the figure of Lord Walcote. He had never met the man before, although he’d heard his name. To his profound annoyance, he couldn’t think of anything immediately offensive enough about him to tell Susan.

  Best that he not say anything. Best to let his hopes die in his breast, try to forget the joy of Susan’s beauty, and accustom himself to a life lived in quiet agony. It was the only honourable thing to do—and although Adam wished he were an unscrupulous rake sometimes, he knew that he would never be anything but a good man.

  Still. How irritating. How painful.

  ‘He’s called upon the house twice, now. Never for very long, but still.’ Susan shrugged, the gown tightening about her shoulders with the gesture. ‘And we are to take tea together before long, I think. He’s the first reasonable gentleman I’ve ever met who seems to be leading towards a proposal.’

  I’m a gentleman! More of a gentleman than Lord Walcote, at any rate! And the minute we take tea together again, Susan, I’m going to go down on one knee at the speed of lightning and… and…

  … And tell her that he had only just realised that she was beautiful? That he had been blind to it, completely blind, before a blue dress and a trick of the light had made him realise all that he was missing?

  She would think he was the most stupid man in the world. He thought he was the most stupid man in the world just for thinking it—imagine how he would sound saying it. He was too late, far too late, and he would have to put up with it.

  ‘But we’re still going to look for birds tomorrow.’ Susan smiled. ‘Aren’t we?’

  Adam nodded, his heart in ashes. ‘Of course.’

  He bowed, turning as if pulled on invisible strings as the crowd of smiling men surrounded Susan again. All he saw was her slightly perplexed smile before he turned his head, making his way back to his original spot.

  No. Not his original spot. Out onto the lawns, where Susan had left the rest of her crumbs. He would stand and look gloomily at the dark sky. Perhaps he would even smoke—he would have to find a cigar, and learn how to light it.

  On his way to the open doors that led to the gardens, he caught the eye of William Harrow. The duke of Witford, Adam’s oldest friend, raised a single eyebrow to express his curiosity.

  Adam could do nothing more than grimly shake his head. With a sigh, as exhausted as if he had run the length of the Serpentine, he made his way out into the cold and dark.

  Where did Merry go, after we spoke? And why were there so many of those redcurrant tarts still available at the end of the ball? I should have taken home a tray… Diana would have let me take a tray…

  Susan Withersham’s thoughts were often jumbled with her dreams as she woke, and the morning after the ball was no exception. For a moment, before she had opened her eyes, a crystal-clear image of Adam Merricott holding a tray of redcurrant tarts sprang into her mind as clear as day.

  ‘Oh, bother.’ Susan rubbed her eyes, the image vanishing as she swam into wakefulness. Sitting up in bed, smoothing down the crisp cotton sheets with aching fingers as she looked out of the window, she smiled as she saw the Withersham deer herd nibbling at the grass on the lawn.

  They weren’t
really the Withersham deer. They were Merston deer, which meant they belonged to Adam. Yawning, arms outstretched, Susan prepared to begin the business of the day—and stopped, holding a hand to her chest, wondering why she felt a pain beneath her breastbone that didn’t seem to come from any physical malady.

  Odd. That was the only word Susan could assign to how she felt. The strange, treacherous storm of feelings growing in her breast was new to her, requiring care and attention, and she lacked the time and inclination to do either.

  She would settle for feeling odd. Odd could comfortably exist along all of the other things she needed to do this morning: breakfast, letters, speaking to the housekeeper about the purchase of a new rug. Feeding all of the cats that lay yawning on the grass around Hallwood House was another task, a long one, but could be seen quite easily as a pleasure.

  Then watching for woodpeckers with Diana, Wesley, Samuel, Reginald… and Adam. But she didn’t need to think about that now. Why she didn’t wish to think about it, well, that was another mystery.

  She looked at herself in the mirror as she dragged a comb through her tangled hair, wondering where the bewitching creature from last night’s ball had gone. She had seen a glimpse of the illusion for a moment when Diana had helped her dress, her friend’s delighted smile acting as proof that the colour of the gown was perfect. Perfect, and bewitching—had she ever been capable of bewitching a man before?

  No. She had never made a man look at her in anything but horror before, or sheer confusion at a woman of breeding being so badly dressed. Apart from Adam, of course—Adam had always looked at her with gentle contentment at her presence, whether she was coming to a ball or a pigpen in need of redesigning.

  Apart from last night, of course. He had looked at her differently last night. But really, why was she thinking about how Adam had looked at her last night, when Lord Walcote had looked at her with such appropriately flattering covetousness? Even if Adam had looked very odd indeed. Perhaps he was sickening for something.