Not the Kind of Earl You Marry

by Kate Pembrooke

  To her relief, his voice held a wry, teasing quality once again. Best to keep things light between them. She could feel his gaze upon her, waiting for an answer, but she didn’t dare take her eyes off the road. They were nearing the Serpentine and traffic had picked up a bit.

  “If you already recognize your overweening vanity, then how effective would a reproof from me be?” she asked.

  “And who’s twisting words now?” he said. She imagined him raising one dark aristocratic brow while making this remark. He often did when he was being ironic. “I wasn’t admitting I have an overweening vanity, merely acknowledging you think I do. So I was surprised you passed up an opportunity to take me to task.”

  “I did so with great reluctance because it’s always tempting to prick that conceit of yours,” she said, indulging in a little teasing of her own. “But I’m concentrating on my driving.”

  “Ah, Miss Hurst, what will I do without you to keep me in check when this betrothal ends?” He sounded amused, and she pictured him with one side of his mouth quirked up in a careless smile, a glint of lazy good humor in his eyes.

  “Become even more insufferable?” she suggested, softening the words with a smile.

  He chuckled and gave a rueful shake of his head. She could see the gesture from the corner of her eye. She liked that he didn’t take himself too seriously.

  “More likely I’ll hear that tart tongue of yours chiding me in my mind, and keeping me in line, even from afar.”

  “I doubt you’ll even think of me once we’ve parted ways,” she said. “What with all the eager hopefuls rushing to fill my vacated spot as your fiancée.”

  “I don’t think I’ll find you so forgettable.” There was no bantering tone in his voice now, and she wished she could see his face to gauge his mood. Did he mean he wished he could forget her, but couldn’t? Or that he didn’t want to forget her?

  A small tingle flared in the pit of her stomach, but she ruthlessly squelched it.

  It doesn’t matter, Charlotte.

  “We’re getting close enough to Rotten Row that traffic will be picking up. I can take over now if you’d like.”

  “That’s fine with me,” she replied. “My arms are getting tired anyway.”

  He placed his hands in front of hers on the reins. “You can let go now.” She did, and he transferred both lines to his left hand. “And lest you’ve forgotten, you promised to look properly infatuated in exchange for a driving lesson. I’ve kept up my end of the bargain.”

  The path was indeed becoming more crowded with riders and carriages. They were nearly to Rotten Row, the wide, graveled path that traversed the southern section of Hyde Park where much of London’s upper crust congregated on fine afternoons. The part of the drive she’d been dreading was upon them, but she’d given her word, and she wouldn’t go back on it.

  “And I’ll keep up mine. I’ll flutter my eyelashes and look like a smitten idiot,” she said, though admittedly she didn’t sound very enthusiastic about it.

  He glanced at her. “If it makes you feel any better, you won’t be the only one in this carriage looking like a lovesick nitwit.” He guided the horses toward a gap in the line of vehicles and riders already promenading along the Row, placing the curricle between a pair of bucks on horseback ahead of them, and a stately barouche behind.

  Ironically, his attempt at being reassuring fell short of the mark. Because while no one would question her desire to marry him—He’s wealthy, titled, handsome! What more could a girl want?—everyone would be questioning his interest in her. So, of course, he must look like a man in the throes of infatuation. Otherwise, they had little hope of convincing people they were happily engaged.

  But she was suddenly having second thoughts about her ability to remain unmoved by his warm, speaking glances, his secret smiles just for her, his appearance of being captivated with her. Heaven help her, if she’d learned anything on this drive it was that he was too appealing by half.

  You’re a sensible girl, Charlotte. You know this is only playacting.

  “Smile,” he murmured as he tipped his hat to the occupants of a carriage passing them from the opposite direction. “Cue the smitten idiots.”

  Charlotte forced her lips into a stiff smile, hoping it appeared genuine to the trio of ladies parading past. Thankfully, their attention seemed to be mostly on Lord Norwood. “By all means. Let the performance begin.”

  Chapter Four

  William pulled up to the front of his London town house after seeing Miss Hurst to her home. They’d spent an hour driving along the Row pretending to be enamored with each other, a performance that hadn’t required much effort on his part. Miss Hurst had turned out to be a diverting companion, who, true to her word, played her part to perfection.

  There’d been an awkward moment when they passed a carriage containing the Duchess of Maitland and her daughter, Lady Jane. They’d returned his and Miss Hurst’s polite nods of greeting with frosty stares of acknowledgment. He could tell Miss Hurst had been taken aback by their response, though she didn’t say anything, and thankfully no one else had displayed such obvious hostility.

  Climbing down from his curricle, he handed the reins to a waiting groom and made his way up the front steps, taking them two at a time. Once inside, he deposited his hat and gloves on the hall table and turned to his butler, who stood in the entryway.

  “Lady Peyton called on you, my lord. She left ten minutes ago.”

  “Should I be glad I missed her?” William asked. His sister must have been in high dudgeon over his lack of communication today.

  “I really couldn’t say, sir. But she instructed me to give you these.” He handed William several notes. A quick glance revealed all but one were addressed to him in Elizabeth’s handwriting. The lone exception bore his sister Lydia’s girlish script.

  “Did she write all these while she waited for me?” William asked in amazement. There were at least seven missives from Libby.

  “No, those arrived earlier. She came herself when she didn’t receive any response from you. I explained you’d been out all day and hadn’t seen them. She said to tell you she wanted a reply immediately upon your arrival home.” Coates paused before adding, “Her ladyship placed special emphasis on the word immediately.”

  “Very well, Coates. Please have a light dinner sent to my office. I will see to this immediately.” William headed for his study. He settled himself at his desk and scanned the notes from his sisters. Lydia’s was full of congratulations and good wishes, while Libby’s progressed from annoyed, but congratulatory, to just highly exasperated with him in the final note, which according to the opening lines had been written at half-past four this afternoon. It was a short note, the gist of it contained in the next-to-last paragraph…

  Honestly, William, you might have seen fit to make us acquainted with her before news of your betrothal got splashed across the pages of the newspaper. I had so many callers today, bombarding me with questions, and what could I tell them? That you’d gotten yourself engaged to a girl whose existence I knew nothing about before today? Hardly! I hope you plan to introduce her to us as soon as possible. I can’t rely on fobbing off people’s inquiries with vague generalities forever! I must say, William, you’ve managed this badly so far. I can’t imagine what got into you to bungle things this way. Did you not realize the amount of gossip you would stir up by going about it like this?

  He folded the note and laid it on top of the others. He couldn’t blame Libby, really. He’d send her a reply, explaining what he could, which presently wasn’t much more than his conjecture that a political rival was behind it. He glanced through the stack of correspondence that Stevens, his secretary, had placed on his desk, looking for a reply to an inquiry he’d sent out earlier in the day. Finding it, he broke the seal and read.

  The message from the Morning Post stated they could offer no information about the identity of whoever had inserted the fake betrothal notice in that morning’s paper. After
questioning their staff, they’d ascertained it had been delivered by a man attired in neat, but nondescript, clothing and who’d given the impression he was his lordship’s secretary. Naturally, the description they’d supplied of a short, stocky man did not match the build of William’s actual secretary, Mr. Stevens.

  So, nothing truly helpful like a messenger wearing an identifiable servant’s livery. William wasn’t surprised by this. It was precisely the method someone wishing to cover his tracks would use. Still, the inquiry had been worth raising, even if the answer was what he’d expected. He doubted further investigation would turn up much, but he’d put out some more feelers, and keep his ears open for any gossip that might provide clues to the culprit’s identity. Not that identifying him would necessarily help at this point. The mischief had been unleashed. Now it was a matter of trying to contain the damage.

  Which meant planning another outing with Miss Hurst. He leaned back in his chair, contemplating the possibilities. He imagined she’d jump at another chance to drive his curricle, and while he wasn’t opposed to letting her drive again, he thought they ought to vary up a bit. What else would allow them to be seen by a lot of people, and yet was an activity to which she’d readily agree? His fingers drummed on the arm of his chair as he considered various ideas.

  A dinner party was too limited in scope. He received invitations to any number of routs and soirées, but he suspected she’d object to attending any of those unless she’d also gotten an invitation, and given how their paths had never crossed before now, he thought it unlikely there’d be much overlap.

  The theater. Perfect.

  A night at the theater would offer an excellent opportunity for them to be seen by a large number of people, and his sisters could easily join them. A show of family solidarity could help erase any lingering questions in peoples’ minds.

  But first, he needed to write to Libby and explain the nature of his engagement. Persuading her to attend a performance at Covent Garden would be easy. All his sisters adored the theater. He reached for a pen and some stationery. Forty minutes later, the note to his oldest sister was sanded, sealed, and entrusted to a footman for delivery. He dashed off a shorter note to Lydia, before turning to the plate of food, which had been brought in nearly thirty minutes ago. He lifted the silver cover and began to eat the roasted chicken and potatoes.

  As he ate, his thoughts turned to Miss Hurst. Charlotte. It was a pretty name, but not fanciful. It suited her. And although he suspected whoever had paired them in that fake betrothal announcement had chosen her because she was such an unlikely candidate for his fiancée, he was unexpectedly pleased with the selection of Miss Hurst. She had a sharp wit and a sense of humor not unlike his own.

  That he found her attractive was without question, since he’d nearly acted upon that ill-advised impulse to kiss her earlier, an action so out of character he was still taken aback by it. What was it about her that provoked such a strong response in him? Maybe nothing more than that he still hadn’t recovered from the shock of seeing that announcement in the morning paper, since angrily storming over to the Hurst residence had been an equally uncharacteristic response for him.

  It was nearly eight o’clock before he went upstairs to dress for the evening. He planned to stop at his club before heading to a standing engagement at the residence of Lord and Lady Millhouse. They hosted a weekly political salon, which William was in the habit of attending when he didn’t have other plans. He was particularly keen to go tonight. These gatherings were a good place to pick up gossip. Maybe he could glean some clue as to who had placed that betrothal announcement.

  It was the wee hours of the morning when he returned home. He’d gained no further information as to the origin of that false report of his betrothal. Disappointing, but like the dead end he’d encountered with his inquiry to the Morning Post, not particularly surprising.

  A sleepy-eyed Coates was waiting to give him another note from Libby. William sent the butler off to bed, then read Libby’s note as he climbed the stairs. He was forgiven (mostly), although Libby strongly felt she should have been consulted straightaway. But she agreed showing Miss Hurst as a member of the family circle at the theater would help calm the gossip mill.

  It wasn’t until after his valet, Thompson, had finished helping him out of his evening clothes that he realized a glaring oversight on his part. He hadn’t yet invited Miss Hurst to accompany him to the theater. He cast a longing glance at his turned-down bed. He was exhausted, but he shouldn’t leave this task until the next day. He had an early meeting with his solicitor, which he suspected would last most of the morning, after which he must head to the Palace of Westminster for an afternoon meeting with some members of the House of Commons. He crossed over to the small writing desk in the corner and, once seated, drew out a sheet of stationery from the drawer. After a moment’s thought, he dipped his pen in ink and began writing.

  My dear Miss Hurst…

  * * *

  By half-past seven the next morning Charlotte was at her desk in the sitting room attending to household matters when Hopkins brought in a note for her.

  “This just arrived for you,” the butler informed her. “I was instructed to see you received it straight away.”

  A strange foreboding gripped her as her mind immediately leaped to the idea that some sort of disaster concerning her betrothal had occurred. Had their deception come to light?

  “Not bad news, I hope.” She took the missive from the servant.

  “I can’t really speculate as to that, miss,” Hopkins responded.

  “I’m sure I’m being silly and overreacting,” she assured Hopkins. “Just because this came so early, doesn’t automatically mean it spells doom.”

  Brilliant, Charlotte. Bad news and doom. Why don’t you mention a catastrophe, too, and really give the servants something to chew over belowstairs?

  Though she trusted the discretion of their servants, the suddenness of her betrothal had to have raised a few eyebrows. No need to raise their curiosity even more.

  “Thank you, Hopkins. That will be all.” Charlotte nodded a dismissal.

  She stared at the note a moment. The handwriting on the outside of the folded sheet was unfamiliar, but her name was written across it in a bold scrawl that was unmistakably masculine. Since she had no beaus who might be penning her billets-doux, it wasn’t hard to guess who had sent it.

  She broke the wax seal and unfolded the single sheet of expensive paper, the weight and feel of it indicating it had come from one of the more exclusive stationers. A glance at the signature proved her suspicion correct—it was from Lord Norwood.

  My dear Miss Hurst,

  She frowned. My dear? My dear? That seemed unnecessarily familiar to her. She gave a little shake of her head and resumed reading.

  My dear Miss Hurst,

  I’m writing to request your company at Covent Garden Theatre tonight. It should be a packed house as Mrs. Siddons has been persuaded to come out of retirement and reprise her role of Lady Macbeth. If you’ve never seen her perform, you’re in for a treat. I’ll call upon you at seven o’clock sharp. It goes without saying your brother is welcome to come along as well. I don’t know if he routinely acts as your chaperone, or whether you employ someone else in that capacity, but either way, my town coach can accommodate us.

  It will be an excellent time for you to meet some of my family, as two of my sisters will also be attending tonight’s performance, and they are, understandably, eager to make your acquaintance. My eldest sister, Elizabeth, will be there and I expect she will coerce her husband, Robert, Lord Peyton, into attending. My younger sister Lydia will also be present (she’s fourth in the birth order of the five of us, in case you wish to keep track of such things), as will Lydia’s husband, Lord Chatworth. They’ve been married only a few months, and are still in that honeymoon phase of inseparability.

  Since you’ve never met them, let me give you some idea of what to expect. Both of my sisters are fair-
haired and similarly featured. In terms of personality, though, they are quite dissimilar; Elizabeth is prone to managing those around her, the bossy one you might say (and I do), while Lydia has a sweet, gentle nature. You will adore Lydia. Everyone does, and don’t be surprised if she considers you one of her bosom bows right away because I know my sister, and this is simply how she would treat my fiancée, even one who only intends to occupy the position temporarily.

  As for the men, Libby’s husband is dark-haired, while Chatworth has chestnut hair. Both are pleasant fellows. I hope this helps you sort them out, as it would be best for our charade if you act as if you’re already acquainted with them.

  Until we meet again, I remain

  Your most humble and devoted servant,

  Norwood

  So, not news of a disaster, but rather an invitation.

  A flutter of nervousness ran through her at the thought of meeting his family. She supposed it was inevitable she do so, but she hadn’t expected it would happen at Covent Garden in front of a multitude of theatergoers.

  “Let’s hope all eyes are on Mrs. Siddons,” she muttered to herself.

  She set the note on her desk. His plan to call upon her so they could ride to the theater together wouldn’t work. A maid was sufficient to accompany her on errands, but not for an excursion to Covent Garden Theatre.

  Phillip had other plans for the evening, and even if he didn’t, her brother was no fan of theater, be it plays or opera. However, since there was no one besides her brother to act as her chaperone, she’d arrange to have Lord Norwood meet the Hurst carriage at the entrance.

  While engaged couples might have a bit more latitude in these matters, since they intended to call their betrothal off at some point, it was especially important to adhere to the strictest propriety so there would be no reason for anyone to question her virtue when she did cry off. However, meeting him in the presence of their fellow theatergoers was akin to having dozens of chaperones.