Not the Kind of Earl You Marry

by Kate Pembrooke

  “So her claims are baseless?”

  “Completely. And you needn’t worry that she will continue to repeat them. I will see that she doesn’t.”

  Once again, they’d paced the length of the hallway. They turned around and William was surprised, but pleased, to see Lady Serena Wynter coming toward them. He’d been eager for Miss Hurst to meet her, and the timing couldn’t be better—a friendly face to counterbalance the unpleasant confrontation with Lady Bohite.

  “Thank heavens I caught you before the performance began,” Serena burst out before he had a chance to make the introductions. “I gave Papa my solemn promise I’d be in my seat before Mrs. Siddons takes the stage. She’s a great favorite of his, and he’s quite excited about her special appearance tonight. But when I heard you’d arrived in the company of a lady, I knew it had to be your fiancée. So naturally I was eager to meet her and extend my warmest congratulations on behalf of Papa and myself.” She gave him a pointed look as if to say Well, get on with the introductions.

  Which William did with alacrity, glad to see that Miss Hurst wasn’t at all taken aback by Serena’s somewhat forward manner, since he hoped a friendship would blossom between them. Serena’s father, Lord Huntington, was his political mentor, and more than that, had become like a second father to him since his own father’s unexpected death shortly after William turned eighteen. He held a great deal of affection and esteem for both of them.

  After exchanging pleasantries, Serena pulled out a small notebook and pencil from her reticule.

  “So, this isn’t just a social call,” William said with a wry smile. Serena had a penchant for involving herself in a variety of charitable projects. “What worthy endeavor have you embarked upon now?”

  “It’s the same one that’s occupied me lately. Helping destitute war widows. The Duke and Duchess of Rochester are hosting a subscription ball to raise money for the cause. Can I put you down for two tickets?”

  “Of course.” His reply drew a swift glance from Miss Hurst. No doubt she didn’t like the idea of attending a ball with him. “We wouldn’t want to miss the chance to support a worthy cause, would we?” He slanted her an innocent look.

  “No, we wouldn’t,” she said, putting an ever-so-slight emphasis on the word we. “I adore worthy causes, even ones that involve a ball.”

  Touché, Miss Hurst.

  Serena scribbled a notation in her notebook. “I knew I could count on you to support us. Especially now that you have a fiancée to accompany you.” She turned to Charlotte. “If you meant what you said about worthy causes, there’s a great deal to be done yet to help these women who lost their husbands on the battlefield. Perhaps we could get together one afternoon and discuss it further.”

  “That would be lovely,” Miss Hurst said, sounding sincerely interested now.

  A theater attendant hurried over to them. “They’re getting ready to raise the curtain, my lady.”

  “Thank you for letting me know. Well! This has been a disappointingly short chance to talk, but I must fly if I’m to make it back to our box in time. Au revoir then. Miss Hurst, I’ll be in touch very soon.”

  “I look forward to it,” Miss Hurst said.

  “We’ll walk with you to the stairs,” William said firmly, “and then the attendant can see you back to your father’s box.”

  “That’s completely unnecessary. I know the way back and I’m perfectly capable of seeing to myself.”

  “Indulge me. Even at the theater, an unaccompanied lady can attract unwanted attention.”

  “Sometimes, William, your gentlemanly instincts are a little too finely honed for my taste.”

  “As I’m well aware, Serena.” They exchanged a look that acknowledged past differences. “But I have to live with my conscience.” It was a lesson his father had drilled into him from a young age—to always do what was right; that a man must satisfy the dictates of his conscience.

  “All right, you win this time.” Serena rolled her eyes at him, a gesture that made him laugh. “Anyway, you know I don’t have time to debate with you.”

  When they parted ways at the stairs, William paused before continuing down the hallway in the direction of his theater box. “Are you ready to return to our seats? Or would you like some more time to compose yourself?”

  “I think I’m about as composed as I’m going to be. But even if I weren’t, I don’t want to miss the play. I’ve looked forward to it so much. I’m not going to let that dreadful Lady Bohite completely ruin the evening for me.” There was an almost defiant tone to her voice now, and her eyes held a spark of determination.

  This was the Miss Hurst he was coming to admire, the quiet bluestocking who sparked to life when the occasion called for it.

  “Then let’s go in there and show them a happily engaged couple enjoying a night at the theater.” He smiled and leaned toward her in a conspiratorial manner. “It will drive Lady Bohite crazy.”

  Chapter Seven

  It was long after midnight when Charlotte finished getting ready for bed. She didn’t normally keep such late hours, but instead of being sleepy, she felt oddly restless. She’d seen no sliver of light at the bottom of Phillip’s bedroom door when she’d passed it earlier. Normally she appreciated that he was the sort of brother who didn’t believe it necessary to monitor her comings and goings, but tonight she’d have welcomed his company.

  She sighed. If she wanted companionship, it looked like she’d have to find it in a book. Her gaze fell upon the copy of Waverley on the bedside table.

  Perfect. She’d read until sleepiness overtook her. She climbed into bed, plumped the feather pillows into place behind her, and finally satisfied with the arrangement, reached for the book. She leaned back into her cozy nest, taking a moment to study the cover, to run her fingers over the leather, to feel the weight of it in her hands as she imagined him holding it thus.

  Her fingers tingled.

  She was being foolish. There was no reason to go all tingly over a man’s book, for heaven’s sake. Clearly the late hour was affecting her even if she didn’t feel tired.

  The late hour, Charlotte? some corner of her conscience taunted her. Couldn’t those tingles be the result of spending the evening in the company of a handsome, charming man? A handsome, charming man who’s also your betrothed?

  She dropped the book like it was a hot coal.

  It sat on her lap until, with a heavy sigh, she picked it up.

  No tingling. No shivers running up and down her spine. No heart palpitations. Thank goodness and hallelujah!

  She turned to the first chapter, determined to lose herself in the story. This resolution lasted only for a few pages. Because now, with the copy of Waverley open, she could catch the faint scent of sandalwood. Just barely, but it was there.

  His book. His scent. Lingering within the pages.

  A melting warmth flooded through her.

  She was reading his book in her bed.

  It felt intimate, and a bit wicked.

  You are being a complete ninnyhammer! she scolded herself. She took another deep breath, trying to regain some semblance of the levelheaded sensible girl she usually was.

  But tonight her sensible self was nowhere to be found.

  Instead, some impish, indecorous girl had taken her place.

  And that girl lifted the book to her face, buried her nose right in the middle of the open spine, and inhaled.

  Images of him flashed through her mind. The way his finely molded lips quirked into an amused smile. The intensity of his grayish-blue eyes looking into her own when they spoke, as if what she had to say was of the utmost interest to him. The way his dark wavy hair, with its unruly tendency to stray from its carefully brushed perfection, tempted her to forget herself and smooth it back into place.

  Well, all right then. He was a very good-looking man. It would probably be odd if she didn’t feel some sort of attraction to him.

  It meant she was human, but it didn’t mean she was fool en
ough to start believing the lie. This betrothal was only a means to an end—a political appointment for him, an intact reputation for her. No matter how much he sent her pulses racing, it would never become more than that for any number of reasons.

  There was too great of a divide between them socially and temperamentally. His family background and political ambitions would dictate the type of life he’d lead, and by extension, the type of wife he’d choose—one like him, who belonged to the elite social circles of the upper crust, whose connections would enhance his desire for a career in politics, not hinder it. Someone who would be comfortable acting as a political hostess in addition to the usual social demands placed upon the wife of a prominent peer. Someone nothing like her.

  Unlike the earl, Charlotte didn’t have grand ambitions for her life. Her preference would be for a quiet life in the country, well away from London with its gossip and rumors and people like Lady Bohite. Her tastes were simple, and her interests, which would be considered dull by many, gave her a great deal of pleasure, whatever they might lack in excitement.

  None of that was going to change just because the earl had a handsome face and a winning manner. For the two of them, this engagement was a means to an end. Nothing more.

  She closed the book and set it back on the nightstand. Her life had been turned upside down in the past two days, she’d been thrust into a role she was reluctant to play, and then to top it all off, she’d been verbally assaulted at the theater tonight. Naturally she was overset, and not reacting as she normally would. What she needed more than anything was a good night’s sleep.

  She threw back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Perhaps some warm milk would make her drowsy. She could always throw in a splash of whisky. Her former governess, Miss Holmes, always swore by the efficacy of either warm milk or a bit of good Scotch whisky to cure insomnia. The two in tandem should do the trick, so wrapped in her dressing gown, she headed for the kitchen.

  The next morning, she was still tired when she headed down to breakfast.

  “Late night?” Phillip inquired, looking up from his plate. “You could’ve slept in, you know.”

  “I planned to, but I was wide awake by a quarter of seven,” she said, filling a plate with toast and some stewed fruit.

  She didn’t add that her early awakening had been the result of a dream. One in which she and Lord Norwood had been at the theater. There had been a number of books scattered around his theater box, some on the seats and some piled on the floor. She and the earl had each picked a book, then seated themselves in the front row of the box just as they had the night before, except instead of watching the play, they’d begun reading.

  When one of them came upon a particularly clever passage, they read it aloud to the other, and it had actually been a pleasant dream up to that point. But then the earl, after reading a snippet to her, had said, “Do you mind if I kiss you?” And she’d replied, “Oh, I wish you would.”

  Then he’d leaned in much as he had on the carriage ride, and just before his lips touched hers, she’d awakened, heart pounding and disappointed that the dream had ended when it did. There’d been no possibility of sleeping after that, so she’d gotten up.

  Taking a seat, she reached for the pot of black currant jam, and spread some on a slice of toast. She yawned widely, then took a bite, tiredly glancing at the large stack of correspondence next to her plate.

  What she needed was a good, strong cup of tea. She started to take a sip from her cup, and then realized she hadn’t poured any yet. So she reached for the teapot and remedied this oversight.

  She and Phillip ate in silence, which was very much to his preference. Her brother wasn’t a great believer in mixing conversation with the act of eating one’s meal, and this morning Charlotte was inclined to go along with him.

  Happily the food and the hot, sweet tea had the desired effect of perking her up and making her feel much more able to face the day. She poured another cup, mixing in the milk and sugar with a liberal hand, then turned to the letters, invitations, et cetera. that Hopkins had set at her place. The pile was much bigger than normal. Not surprisingly, her social standing as the fiancée of Lord Norwood appeared much greater than it had ever been pre-engagement.

  She pulled out a few of the invitations and glanced through them. Three were invitations to balls, one to an evening soirée, another to a musicale, another to a poetry reading…and this represented a mere dent in the quantity of stiff, creamy cards in the pile. Furthermore, of those she’d opened, she recognized the names of only two of the hostesses, and she really had no idea which invitations she ought to accept and which she should decline. As Lord Norwood’s fiancée, she suspected the act of choosing what to attend involved more than merely following one’s own inclination. She decided to change tack and move on to the letters.

  The first was a note from Lady Peyton informing Charlotte that she would come by at two o’clock with her carriage for the planned shopping trip. She set this aside and was breaking the seal on another when Hopkins entered bearing a small package, which he handed to Charlotte. “This just arrived for you. I was instructed to place it into your hands right away.”

  She took the proffered package. “Thank you, Hopkins.”

  “Looks like a jewelry box,” Phillip remarked. “Must be from Norwood.”

  Charlotte refrained from delivering a sarcastic reply. Really? And not from one of my other suitors? Oh, that’s right. I don’t have any other suitors. Although when you come right down to it, he doesn’t really count as one either, does he? It wasn’t Phillip’s fault she’d gotten such a poor night’s rest. Nor was it his fault she felt ill at ease with all that had transpired in the last two days.

  Instead, she said doubtfully, “I can’t imagine why he’d send me jewelry.” She balanced the box on her palm, raising and lowering it as she considered its weight. A small brooch perhaps?

  If not jewelry, what could it be? She couldn’t think of many other things that might fit in the box. A seashell? A pretty pebble? A small flower? But why would he—?

  “You might try opening it,” Phillip suggested, interrupting these internal speculations. “Saves the bother of endless guessing.”

  “Yes, right,” Charlotte replied, pulling on one end of the thin ribbon that tied it. The bow unraveled and the brown paper wrapping fell away. She drew off the snug-fitting lid, and there, nestled in the folds of a piece of white satin, was a ring.

  She swallowed, or tried to. Her throat had suddenly gone dry as a stale biscuit. Not a brooch, nor any other ordinary item.

  A ring.

  A very fine ring. And the last thing she would have guessed it to be, even though a ring ought to have been the obvious choice, given that a betrothal ring was the usual symbol of one’s engagement.

  He’d chosen this one to symbolize theirs.

  She took it from the box, holding it gingerly as she examined it. The gold band had a delicate filigree pattern engraved upon it, while a modest sapphire resided in the setting, with a pair of small, sparkling diamonds on either side. It was lovely without being too showy, and exactly the sort of thing she would have picked out for herself.

  “Do you like it?” Phillip said. “Norwood asked me about your taste in jewelry, but I’m afraid I wasn’t much help. Truth is, I wasn’t any help, since I’ve no idea what you like when it comes to jewelry and feminine gewgaws like that. But I must say what he chose looks like something you might like.”

  She didn’t reply, just continued to study the ring as thoughts tumbled through her mind. Thoughts which boiled down to one thing—wearing his ring would make this charade seem uncomfortably real.

  “Well, dash it. Don’t you like it? Looked like you did when you pulled it out of the box.”

  “Yes, I like it. Of course. It’s lovely.” Too lovely. She wished she didn’t like it because then she wouldn’t mind so much that she had to give it back. “I can’t accept it, though it was very thoughtful of the e
arl.” At her brother’s perplexed expression, she added, “You didn’t think I’d keep it, did you? It would be completely inappropriate for me to accept such an expensive—and very personal—gift from him.”

  Phillip continued to look at her as if she were speaking gibberish.

  “That is to say, we’re not really engaged. And this is clearly meant to be a betrothal ring. I can’t accept it under those circumstances.”

  “Under what circumstances?”

  “False pretenses. A pretend betrothal. Those circumstances.”

  “First of all, it’s temporary, not pretend. You always ignore that distinction. But either way…” He spread his hands wide. “I fail to see what’s the problem here.”

  Of course Phillip didn’t see a problem because from a logical perspective there wasn’t one. The idea of wearing this ring scared her for reasons she didn’t particularly care to delve into, and which she could hardly explain to her brother.

  She drew in a long breath. “The problem is,” she repeated after a moment, “that I can’t keep this ring. It’s much too fine, and obviously, it’s a family heirloom, since the style, while beautiful, is rather old-fashioned. I’m sure he didn’t just pick this out at Rundell and Bridge. But even if he had, I couldn’t accept anything so…so…” Meaningful. “…irreplaceable.”

  “Try it on, Charlotte,” Phillip urged. “Norwood requested I send over one of your rings so he could have this one sized to your finger.”

  “Didn’t you hear a word I just said? There’s really no point,” she objected, even as a tiny part of her wished that there were.

  “Maybe not,” Phillip agreed. “But he went to enough trouble that you should try it on anyway. Makes his effort seem less of a waste if you at least try it on your finger to see if it fits.”

  Charlotte wasn’t entirely convinced by this reasoning, but she supposed it couldn’t hurt to put it on. Just for a minute. It really was a lovely ring.

  She slipped it onto her finger and held her hand out at arm’s length, turning it to admire how nice the ring looked, with the gemstones sparkling in the morning sun that streamed through the windows. The earl had impeccable taste.