Not the Kind of Earl You Marry

by Kate Pembrooke

  She drew out a sheet of her stationery and began to write.

  Lord Norwood, she penned. Would he notice the lack of dear in the salutation, and understand her reproof of his earlier familiarity? Or was she being too subtle?

  I am anticipating with pleasure the performance of Macbeth tonight. However, I must decline your offer of transportation. I haven’t hired a chaperone for my sojourn in London this Season. Phillip, who could normally function in that capacity, is otherwise engaged for the evening. If you could apprise me of the time I should arrive, I’ll simply meet you at the theater.

  I look forward to making the acquaintance of your sisters, and never fear, I will be sure to pretend I’ve a prior familiarity with them. All this subterfuge, however, brings to mind the following quote:

  “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.” Are you familiar with Scott’s poem? Don’t you think this line is apropos of our charade? Until this evening, I remain

  Your humble servant,

  C. Hurst

  Charlotte rang for Hopkins, who promised to have her note delivered with all haste. One hour later, while she was still laboring over the household accounts, Hopkins brought in a reply.

  My dear, dear Miss Hurst,

  No chaperone? How shocking. While I admit, I find their presence is often more annoying than not, I’m surprised you’re willing to let your brother fill that role. Or rather, that he is the only option you have for someone to fulfill the role. Then again, perhaps he enjoys the ever necessary trips to the modiste or the milliners or the myriad of other shops that provide all the sundries you ladies seem to need while in Town. (And yes, I speak from personal knowledge with those four sisters of mine, which is why I’ve always employed the necessary chaperones for them.)

  This leads me to the crux of this note. My great-aunt is willing to function as your chaperone tonight. We will call for you, as originally planned, at seven o’clock.

  Ever your most devoted servant,

  Norwood

  P.S. Naturally I am familiar with Sir Walter Scott’s work. Have you read Waverley yet? A rousing good story. I highly recommend it.

  P.P.S. I hope you don’t object to the presence of a cat during the carriage ride. Aunt Florence is quite devoted to her pet and takes him everywhere.

  Charlotte reached for a sheet of stationery.

  Lord Norwood,

  There is no reason to disturb your aunt’s (and her cat’s) evening. I am perfectly capable of getting myself to Covent Garden Theatre by my own means. However, I sense that you will insist I arrive there via your carriage, so I will offer no further objections on the matter. I will be ready at seven o’clock as requested.

  As for my lack of chaperone (beyond having Phillip or my maid act in that capacity), there is nothing shocking about it. I originally arranged for my former governess to act as such during my time in London. However, just prior to our coming, she met with an unfortunate accident while trying to rescue a kitten from a tree. Miss Holmes is currently recovering from a broken leg.

  I decided to forgo trying to find someone else to come in her stead. It seemed possible to spend these months in London sans chaperone since neither Phillip nor I are social gadflies, and besides, I’m practically on the shelf. I didn’t think a lack of formal chaperonage would prove injurious to my reputation. Although, I confess I find attitudes in London toward unaccompanied females to be much stricter than in the country. Which is funny considering one might expect Londoners to be more permissive about it, since things, in general, seem to be looser here, and vices are more readily tolerated. Not that I’m suggesting being an unaccompanied female is a vice of any sort. Still, it does seem unfair, given all that men can get away with, and no one blinks an eye. But I am rambling…

  Your humble servant,

  C. Hurst

  P.S. The feline in question is friendly, I hope.

  P.P.S. I haven’t read Waverley, but I shall see about obtaining a copy.

  A bit later, while Charlotte was having a light repast, a footman delivered a reply from the earl. Charlotte easily recognized the bold strokes of his handwriting by now. She couldn’t help smiling in anticipation.

  My dear, dear, dear Miss Hurst,

  She rolled her eyes. Clearly, he was funning her with his ridiculously effusive salutations.

  Practically on the shelf? There’s no reason to make yourself sound like a dried-up spinster. I’d never characterize you thus, and as a man, my opinion should carry some weight when it comes to a lady’s looks.

  In answer to your inquiry, the feline in question is most friendly. Perhaps too much so, but if he is overly enthusiastic in his attention toward you, I will (manfully) deal with him, risking an injury from tooth or claw to protect you from the rascal. He has (or so my aunt claims) a weakness for pretty ladies. You are forewarned.

  And at the risk of also rambling, I agree that society unfairly places more strictures on the female than the male. I sympathize with you at the rules that frown upon an unmarried female being able to run simple errands without someone accompanying her. Social mores are slow to change, but take heart, at least chastity belts are no longer in fashion.

  I remain your most devoted servant,

  Norwood

  P.S. No need for you to buy a copy of Waverley. I’ll lend you mine.

  You are forewarned.

  So his aunt’s cat supposedly gravitated toward pretty ladies, and he felt the need to warn her? Did he think her pretty? His statement seemed to imply as much. It was silly, but she couldn’t help feeling a flush of pleasure at the thought. Especially since Lord Norwood was capable of choosing from the loveliest of society’s unmarried females, those diamonds of the first water in whose company Charlotte most definitely did not rank.

  Apparently, she had her own streak of vanity.

  You are forewarned.

  The man wasn’t without charm, that much was certain. She hurriedly finished her meal, then hastened to her writing desk, and once again pulled out a sheet of stationery.

  Lord Norwood,

  Your sympathy is appreciated. However, I can no longer remain silent. (I mean this figuratively, of course, since I’m writing these words rather than speaking them.) I must object to the overly familiar tone of the salutations and closings of your notes. Were we to correspond often enough, you would eventually need to cover an entire page with “dears,” requiring a second sheet for the body of your message. Ridiculous, but I wouldn’t put it past you! And my “most devoted” servant? Really? Need I remind you this is only a pretend betrothal? I know we must put on a show in public, but surely there is no need for a display of such excess of feeling in our private notes.

  Your humble servant,

  C. Hurst

  My dear Miss Hurst,

  First, let me say your notes have been an unexpected bright spot in what has proved to be an otherwise tedious day. Therefore, I’ll acquiesce to your wishes and confine myself to one “dear” in the future. (I presume you would also object if I switched to my darling Miss Hurst.) Perhaps you can find it in your heart to address me with at least one “dear” in our correspondence. Even though I am only a temporary fiancé, it wounds my vanity that I don’t rate even one “dear” from you. As for the closing, I’m afraid I do consider myself…

  Your most devoted servant,

  Norwood

  P.S. I wouldn’t object if you changed your closing to “your obedient servant” in lieu of being a humble one, since I imagine obedient fiancées are the most manageable type to have.

  Dear Lord Norwood,

  Are you happy now? (Although I have grave reservations about feeding your vanity! I fear it is much too big already.)

  As for the suggestion in your postscript…ha!

  Your humble servant,

  C. Hurst

  She sent off the note and went back to her work, but every time Hopkins or a footman was in her vicinity, she looked up expectantly, and every time felt a sma
ll stab of disappointment when she realized they weren’t delivering a reply from Lord Norwood. Well, she reasoned, he had work to do, just as she did. Her brother’s household didn’t run by itself. She still needed to go over next week’s menu with the housekeeper, Mrs. Bridwell, and she ought to write an advertisement for a new upstairs maid, since the current one had just given notice.

  Still, she wondered if he’d found her last note amusing, and if he had, what he might have written back in reply. Not that it mattered, except she was curious. It felt a bit like missing the last part of a serialized story.

  At any rate, she blamed this unsatisfied curiosity for the sense of breathless anticipation that dogged her through the rest of the day as she counted the hours until the planned excursion to Covent Garden.

  Chapter Five

  Precisely as the clock chimed seven, Hopkins announced the arrival of Lord Norwood. Charlotte’s breath caught in her throat as the earl walked through the doorway. Resplendent in his evening clothes, he was even handsomer than she remembered. Had it just been yesterday when he’d stormed into her life? In some ways it already seemed a lifetime ago, and in others, so recent she almost felt like pinching herself to make sure this wasn’t all a dream.

  “Miss Hurst,” he said, striding toward her, reaching for her hand as she rose from her seat. He clasped her fingers in a warm grip. “You’re ready with admirable punctuality. Dare I hope you’ve been as eager for my company as I have yours?” he murmured, bending over her hand, and brushing her fingers lightly with his lips.

  “You may dare anything you like,” she said, deliberately keeping her tone light despite her quickening heartbeat. “Who am I to stop you?”

  “Who indeed?” He grinned cheekily. “As my betrothed, I thought you knew it was your bounden duty to manage me and keep me in line.”

  “If you’d mentioned that yesterday morning, I’d have agreed to this engagement with a good deal more alacrity.”

  He laughed. “Ah, Miss Hurst, you never disappoint. Always with the clever comeback.”

  “I was simply stating the truth.”

  “I know, which only makes it more refreshing.”

  Their gazes caught and held for a few seconds until Charlotte, suddenly skittish of her own emotions, blinked and looked away. It was then she noticed he carried a small squarish package wrapped in brown paper.

  Seeing that it had caught her attention, he presented it to her. “I brought you this.”

  Charlotte took it from him. “Should I open it now or later?”

  “Open it now.”

  She undid the neatly tied bow, wondering if he’d wrapped it himself or given the task to a servant. He’d done a very creditable job if he had. The corners were crisp and the paper was tucked around the ends with smooth efficiency. Very unlike the carelessly done-up packages she received from Phillip on her birthday. Freed of the confining ribbon, the wrapping fell away to reveal a book.

  It was a copy of Waverley. A very fine copy. The cover was made of dark brown, fine-grained leather, soft and smooth to the touch. She traced a finger over the gold embossed lettering on the front, then raised her gaze to his and smiled. “Thank you for delivering it so promptly. I’ll start it tonight. I always read before bed. It helps me sleep better.” She felt her cheeks warm as she realized her bedtime habits weren’t an entirely suitable topic to discuss with the earl. To hide her embarrassment, she ducked her head and opened the book, slowly turning the pages.

  “Open to the flyleaf,” he said.

  She did as he requested. A bookplate had been pasted in. William Atherton, she read, somewhat surprised he’d written his given name rather than his title. Then she saw the inscription on the inside cover.

  To C. Hurst,

  I hope this gives you as much enjoyment as it did me.

  Warmly,

  Norwood

  Glancing back toward him, she saw he was regarding her with an almost boyish expectancy. He meant it as a gift. A strange warmth flooded through her at the thoughtful gesture, but this was quickly followed by an instinctual reluctance to allow things to get too cozy between them.

  “Oh, but…you shouldn’t,” she demurred. “This is your copy. I wasn’t expecting you to give it to me.”

  “I know, but I’d like you to have it.”

  It was a very ordinary statement, and yet a prickle of excitement chased along her skin. Was it her imagination, or had his voice held a hint of something else, something beyond the simple meaning of the words?

  It’s your imagination, Charlotte. What else would it be?

  Honestly, she needed to get hold of herself, but she’d turned into a quivering mass of feminine sensibilities ever since he’d bowed over her hand and kissed it. No doubt such gestures were second nature to him, but she was unused to receiving those sorts of gallantries from a man, and clearly it had affected her good sense. Trying to regain some semblance of her usual nonquivering self, she placed the book on the nearby sofa table, then busied herself with carefully folding the wrapping paper and the satin ribbon.

  “If you’re ready,” he said when she finished her task, “we should go. My aunt is waiting in the carriage.”

  “Yes, of course.” She’d momentarily forgotten about his aunt who’d come along to perform the duties of a chaperone. “I never meant to keep her waiting. Let me call for my cloak, and we can be off.”

  They met Hopkins in the entry hall, where he stood holding the satin garment, ready to help her into it. Lord Norwood looked on as Hopkins draped it around her shoulders. Charlotte reached up to fasten it, but aware of the earl’s gaze, she found herself fumbling with the metal clasp.

  “Would you like assistance, miss?” Hopkins asked.

  “Yes, I believe I would,” Charlotte said, feeling quite foolish that she let herself yet again become so discomposed by the earl.

  “Allow me,” Lord Norwood said, stepping forward and gently pushing her fingers aside. He leaned in slightly as he peered at the closure. Only inches apart, Charlotte caught the masculine scents of sandalwood and clean linen that clung to him.

  “Ah, I see how this works,” he said. Charlotte swallowed hard. His fingers brushed the skin at the base of her throat as he worked the halves of the clasp in place. “There you are,” he said, stepping back.

  “Thank you,” she said, hoping he didn’t notice the slight trembling of her hands as she drew on the elbow-length gloves Hopkins handed her. She was reacting like a green girl of sixteen, rather than what she was—a levelheaded woman of three and twenty, who (up to now anyway) had never been susceptible to bouts of feminine nerves in the presence of a gentleman.

  Once outside, she drew in deep breaths of the evening air, trying to cool her response to the earl. By the time he helped her up into the carriage, she’d regained her equilibrium enough to barely notice the warm clasp of his gloved hand about hers.

  * * *

  William climbed in after Miss Hurst and wasn’t at all displeased to see that his aunt’s pampered pet, a large ginger cat, was sprawled across the leather seat next to its owner, forcing him to sit next to Miss Hurst. He’d barely taken his seat when the coachman directed the horses to “walk on,” and they took off with a lurch.

  While William performed the necessary introductions, the cat raised up and stretched its legs, before perching itself on the edge of the seat, its large green eyes staring intently at Miss Hurst, who gave the creature a tentative smile. The cat reached out with one paw and lightly batted at Miss Hurst’s knees.

  “He wants to get to know you,” his aunt said. “He does like the ladies, my Harry does.”

  “Harry?” Miss Hurst said. “That’s a very appropriate name for him. He possesses such a luxuriant coat of fur, and he’s quite friendly, isn’t he?”

  Harry, whose balance was amazingly unaffected by the movement of the carriage, was now resting his front paws against Miss Hurst’s knees while his back legs remained planted on the seat across from her. She reached out to p
et the cat under his chin.

  “Aye, that he is. Furry and friendly is my Harry,” Aunt Florence said. “He’s named after a former beau of mine, the Honorable Henry Albers, a ginger-headed rascal who went off to fight in the American colonies. We had an understanding before he left England, but he was wounded and captured at the Battle of Yorktown…” She shook her head and let out a long sigh. “Alas, he didn’t return, and I never gave my heart to another.”

  “Oh, how tragic,” Miss Hurst said.

  As if sensing his mistress’s melancholy, Harry turned and jumped onto the older lady’s lap, rubbing his face against her shoulder. The sound of the cat’s purring filled the coach as his owner began crooning over him and scratching his head fondly. She reached for a small pouch on the seat beside her, pulled out a few yellow morsels, and fed one to the cat. “You do love your cheese, don’t you, my boy?” The purring increased in intensity.

  “Aunt Florence’s tale of lost love isn’t quite as tragic as you may be imagining,” William murmured into Miss Hurst’s ear, feeling compelled to set the record straight. “Her feckless beau survived the war, married the daughter of a wealthy Bostonian merchant, and as far as we know, is still a hale and hearty citizen of Massachusetts.”

  “It’s still tragic for her either way, don’t you think?” she whispered back. His aunt was too occupied with her pet to notice this side conversation.

  “Perhaps, though I suspect she’s well rid of such a fickle beau. One has to wonder if he proved an equally faithless husband,” he observed.

  “I take comfort in the fact I have my memories of him,” Aunt Florence said, still feeding Harry, who was greedily gulping the pieces of cheese. A fond smile wreathed her face. “You couldn’t trust that rapscallion in a closed carriage. My maid was suspiciously unaware of Harry’s wandering hands. I suspect he bribed her not to notice his liberties.” She let out a cackle of a laugh. “Not that I minded. I always preferred a man with a robust appetite.” She peered closely at Miss Hurst. “Girls today are so missish.”