The Earl's New Bride (Entangled Scandalous)

by Frances Fowlkes

  Bringing his attention back to the sodden enchantress and her kin, Simon dipped his head to offer his acknowledgement of their introduction—as an ear splitting sneeze rent the air.

  Lord, he’d heard quieter sounds from squealing piglets.

  Were it not for the red stain infusing Lady Henrietta’s cheeks, he would not have believed her to be the source of the sound. Surely such a delicate creature could not have the lung capacity to—another sneeze escaped her body, shaking the girl from head to foot.

  He stood corrected.

  Though he could hardly discredit the genuineness of her reflex, his head throbbed from its effects. In an effort to put both of them out of their misery—he from her headache-provoking sternutation, and her from further public humiliation, he stepped backward, slipped his fingers into his waistcoat pocket, and pulled out a white linen handkerchief.

  He handed her the pressed square, the pale skin of her face further darkening to the shade of a perfect, ripe summer berry.

  Her lips parted, full, rosy things that made his chest tighten.

  “Thank you.”

  Her gloved fingers took his gift, brushing against his, her eyes flicking upward through a fringe of lashes the same shade of black as the ink standing in his well.

  His blood hummed at the simple action, a flirtation that appeared unpracticed, and yet, was as sensual as if delivered by a courtesan.

  Lady Henrietta pressed the linen to her nose, another sneeze raking her body.

  “I am afraid my sister is not feeling well. Please excuse us.” The girl to Lady Henrietta’s right took her elbow, the tension in the room tangible as the two girls strode toward the exit.

  Clasping his hands behind his back, he did his best to remove Lady Henrietta and her ochre-colored eyes from his addled mind, and set about the arduous task of selecting a wife.

  Chapter Two

  A warm breeze tickled the lace curtains of her mother’s intimate drawing room, prompting Henrietta to pull out her fan to aid the late afternoon air in its paltry efforts in cooling her heated flesh. Despite the room’s advantageous location on the north side of the estate, where the shadows were their longest, the room was stifling.

  Though that could in part be due to her mother’s scorching glare. “Ladies do not sneeze.”

  Henrietta stared at her mother, not certain if the elder woman was stating a fact or attempting her hand at humor, because neither tactic was proving successful.

  “They do not snort either,” Sarah interjected.

  “You heard it, too?” Albina snickered. Her shoulders hunched with mirth.

  Their mother shot them both a quelling look, the lines around her pursed lips whitening with rage. “I don’t give a fig what sound the countess may or may not have been emitting this morning.” She pushed herself off the small drawing room’s velvet chaise and pointed toward Henrietta. “The only actions that have me incensed are the ones you displayed this afternoon. In front of your father’s successor.”

  As if Henrietta needed to be reminded of the horrific incident. Her stomach still roiled with embarrassment, her cheeks still burned from the flush of humiliation, and her mind would not cease replaying the look of casual indifference the earl had cast her way.

  Plumburn had been lost to her forever. By a sneeze.

  She lifted the white linen the earl had so generously offered to her nose. A subtle blend of peppermint, sage, and leather wafted from the square. Such an unusual combination suggested a man familiar with herbs…or at least of one requiring their effects.

  The earl was definitely afflicted with an injury, but sage was more commonly used for digestive ailments, unless he suffered from an excitement of the nerves, in which case—

  “Henrietta,” her mother asked. “Are you listening to me at all?”

  Henrietta lifted her gaze to her mother’s agitated glare. “What do you wish for me to say, Mother? I did not intend to sneeze.”

  “No. Nor, do I suppose, you meant for the vase to topple its contents all over your gown. But it did.”

  “At least the earl knows her name. One cannot deny she made a lasting impression.” Sarah set the book she had been reading atop her chest and spread her hands over the worn cover.

  “Yes, she did that. But of what sort?” their mother asked. “She appeared…appeared…”

  “French?” Albina offered.

  “Immodest.” Their mother snatched a fan off the nearest side table and waved it in front of her face. “Indecent. Tawdry. And entirely inappropriate for an earl’s daughter.”

  Sarah adjusted herself, settling deeper into the plump cushions of the chair. “You wanted at least one of us to gain the earl’s attention, and one of us did.”

  “Yes, but not in such a—”

  “Were you aware of his injury?” Henrietta asked, interrupting what was certain to be an escalating squabble. “I did not know he was maimed.”

  Albina’s pencil stilled, the form of yet another horse taking shape on her page. “Nor, I, but I found his eye patch quite dashing. It lends him a certain roguish appeal, don’t you think?”

  “What I think,” Sarah said, “is that his patch protects his eye from further damage. It matters not whether it makes the man appealing.”

  “Either way, it gives a measure of validity to the gossip going round about him,” Albina countered. “Why only this morning, Lady Georgiana could not stop talking about the suspected way in which he took his mistress’s life.”

  “And how is that?” Sarah asked.

  Henrietta turned away, not wanting to hear the answer. She had heard the rumors—everyone had. They were the latest on-dit, the only topic of conversation the other guests wished to discuss.

  And the ones she wished least to hear. The earl’s innocence had been proven—not that the ton placed any weight by the verdict. For, despite a long awaited witness coming forth to support the earl’s claims, those in charge of the trial were easily swayed, often paid to look in the opposite direction, thus leaving many in the ton with doubts as to the earl’s credibility. A credibility further strained by common knowledge dictating that charges, even of the murdering sort, were rarely brought against a peer when the victim, like the earl’s mistress, was of a lower class.

  Albina answered loud enough for the entire room to hear. “Poison, of course.”

  “Absolute nonsense. I should box your ears for even listening to the rubbish spouted by Lady Georgiana.” Their mother snapped her fan shut. “The earl, lest you need to be reminded, is your father’s heir. Her words reflect poorly on our name as well. He may be a DeVere, but he is the Earl of Amhurst.”

  “Yes, but he is also the Black Earl,” Sarah added. “His reputation precedes him. Everyone knows his mistress was found dead, and he, a few weeks later, fled to the Continent. Innocent men have no cause to run.”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. His innocence has been proven by a court of law. Whatever reasons he had for leaving were his own. It is not for us to question. He is an earl, for heaven’s sake. With an empty nursery,” said their mother. “He is in need of a wife.”

  “Henrietta will do nicely…for an innocent man.” Sarah nodded toward Henrietta.

  “I would have, had I not repulsed him.” Henrietta shook her head. “No. His opinion of me has been cast, and I fear it is not a favorable one.”

  Sarah snorted. “Nonsense. If anything, you have made yourself more alluring.”

  “Alluring?” Henrietta scoffed. “Did you not witness his indifference?”

  “No, I did not. I witnessed him offering you a jacket when no other came forward. And a handkerchief when you continued to sneeze. Are they not the acts of a gentleman?”

  “A gentleman, yes. A man interested in offering me marriage? No.” Henrietta threw the pillow into the back of the settee. She might as well prepare her farewells to her father’s home. The earl had clearly dismissed her as a possible candidate for his wife, the memory of the bland expression he directed towa
rd her enough to make her tremble—without being doused in cold water.

  Their mother wove between the chairs, her skirts rustling with her movement. “Your father was generous in his will with your dowries and my allowance, but I fear if we do not secure this match, Plumburn will be lost.”

  “Papa made certain we would be comfortable at Rosehearst, which is not entailed, and where, for the past five years, we have lived quite amicably.” Sarah ran her thumb along the spine of her latest read. “We do not have cause to want.”

  Their mother tilted her head to the side, pearl earrings dangling from her lobes. “But Rosehearst is not—”

  “—Plumburn.” Henrietta peered at her sister, willing her to understand the attachment, the bonds she held to the paper-covered plaster walls of their ancestral home. “Papa never lived at Rosehearst. Never walked its halls. Never read its books.” Or sat in its chairs as he took her onto his lap to dry her tears when her tongue slipped. “The memories are here.”

  Albina drew her pencil across her sketchbook. “And so is the earl. Along with three other ladies of distinction, all vying for his hand.” She stared pointedly at their mother. “Whether they wish it or not.”

  Their mother rapped her fan against the back of Henrietta’s chair. “I will not lose Plumburn to Lady Georgiana or any other half-wit undeserving of your father’s legacy. You must garner the earl’s attention, capture his interest, and be a constant fixture in his presence.”

  Sarah sat up, setting her book on the seat beside her. “We can be in his presence, but that doesn’t ensure our selection, nor do I wish it. I do not find him all that alluring as a potential spouse, Plumburn or not.”

  Not alluring? Henrietta glanced at her younger sister, Albina’s twin, though the two did not bear identical features. How could she not find the earl alluring? Or, at the very least, intriguing?

  His eye patch notwithstanding, there was an element of mystery about him that drew her in—as though his apathy was a shield for the vulnerability wrought by the truth behind the gossip, the secrets, the events that must have occurred for him to be disfigured.

  Which only added to his allure—along with the cropped, coffee-colored hair covering his head, and despite a clean shaven face, the shadow of black whiskers hinting at dark growth across a square jaw. His functioning eye, as if making up for the loss of its twin, had pierced through her from across the room, deepening from a clear chestnut to a mesmerizing walnut.

  Her pulse quickened at the memory of his assessing glare, of his full lips turning down with what she could only surmise to be disappointment as he had taken in her wet gown and rumpled appearance.

  “He is fair,” Albina added. Her sister’s hand moved with practiced, deliberate strokes. “But he is not Lord Satterfield.”

  “Indeed, he is not.” Henrietta stood, if only to move away from her mother’s menacing fan still clenched within her fist. “But love and attraction hold little weight in the selection of a spouse. This is Plumburn, for heaven’s sake. Our father’s home. Do none of you wish to champion for her?”

  Albina and Sarah exchanged glances, their shared births giving them a connection Henrietta never fully grasped.

  “It is but a place of dwelling, Henrietta,” Sarah said, her voice low. “And while we have wonderful memories of Papa living amongst these walls, our attachment to them is not as deep as yours or Mother’s.”

  Henrietta’s chest constricted. Her sister spoke blasphemy. “But what of the memories of Papa? Are they not worth any sacrifice? His presence can still be felt in the selection of the furniture and the scores of books lining the library walls.”

  Albina stared up at her, her eyes forlorn. “You were his favorite, Henrietta. He did not dote on us as he did you. You were the one who needed him most.”

  “It is true,” their mother whispered. “He favored you because you were the most like him.”

  Indeed, she was. Their shared impediment had cultivated a deep connection between them—a connection she was determined to save, this morning’s blunder be damned. Henrietta threw back her shoulders, resolve straightening her spine. “Then there is nothing for it. I must be the one who saves Plumburn. I simply have to attract the earl and somehow make him forget this morning’s debacle. All without bringing attention to my stutter.”

  She was asking the impossible. Pigs had a better chance of sprouting wings than she did in making the earl forget what had transpired.

  Albina lowered her gaze to the floor. Their mother lifted her eyes to the ceiling. And Sarah stared intently at the gold embossed lettering on the front of her book.

  They no more believed in the success of her scheme than she did. Things were looking worse than hopeless. They were ridiculous.

  Sarah sat up, her eyes bright. “We need to focus less on the forgetting and more on the remembering.”

  “But there is nothing I wish for the earl to remember about this morning.” Henrietta wrinkled her brows. “Nothing.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Sarah said. “I don’t think he’ll be forgetting your silhouette anytime soon.”

  “Sarah Elizabeth,” their mother exclaimed.

  “I speak nothing but the truth. Of all the things for him to remember about this morning, Henrietta’s silhouette ranks high among them. Tomorrow, we make him recall exactly why he cannot forget her, by placing her in one of her new gowns.”

  The idea was not entirely horrible. Except for the part where they replayed the mortification of the morning by placing her in another one of her new, exceptionally tailored dresses from a French modiste insistent upon showcasing Henrietta’s fuller curves.

  “I had not intended upon wearing them,” Henrietta confessed. “I found them to be a bit too—”

  “French?” Albina asked, a smile lifting her lips.

  “Revealing.”

  “Nonsense,” said their mother. She flitted around the room, thumping her fan into her palm, her dark brows furrowed. “Those gowns were commissioned for the sole purpose of obtaining a husband for you, which is what you require. We will ensnare him with your beauty.”

  “And what if he values intelligence above physical traits?”

  While she bore fine features and possessed a figure the modiste had assured her was most preferred by men, Henrietta held her intellect above her outward appearance.

  Her sisters and mother, however, thought otherwise. All three women shook with mirth, Albina even snorting.

  “You cannot truly think that.” Albina clasped her arm around her waist. “Everyone knows men prefer beauty over intelligence.”

  “Even I have to agree,” Sarah said begrudgingly. “While you and I may prefer the opposite to be true, men are simple creatures who like simple women.”

  Henrietta peered over her sister’s head to the large painting hanging on the wall. It was one of Albina’s first masterpieces, of the pasture where the horses often grazed on Plumburn’s east side. The scene was a simple one, filled with a riotous display of colorful wild flowers, the sun lighting them to their full brilliance. Their father had insisted on framing it as soon as the last stroke of paint had dried, so proud he had been of Albina’s creation.

  Tears pricked at Henrietta’s eyes. The pasture, the flowers, even the painting were the earl’s, all his by inheritance. Were she a man, they would be hers and this discussion unnecessary. She would be free to wander the fields, searching for the herbs she found so captivating and resourceful.

  “What of my interest in herbs?” Henrietta asked, thinking aloud. “Could it not set me apart from the other ladies, my interest in something other than ribbons and—”

  “It would set you apart, but not in a favorable way.” Sarah peered up at her, a sadness filling her eyes. “You would do best to resort to tried and true methods, Henrietta. Mother and Albina will make certain you appear your best at all times.”

  Albina nodded, her glossy curls bouncing.

  A dead weight filled Henrietta’s stomach. Her knowle
dge of plants was where her strengths lay—not in ribbons, or worse, the art of flirtation.

  “But, but, I-I-I-”

  “You will have our full support,” Albina assured. “I will make certain the earl’s eyes are focused entirely on you.”

  “That is precisely what I-I-I fear,” Henrietta sputtered. “You saw what happened this morning. I do not possess—”

  “You possess a pretty face,” said her mother. “And a rather large dowry. Not to mention a good name, impeccable connections, and a pristine reputation. He would be foolish to consider another.”

  Foolish, yes. But not entirely unwise. Especially if he enjoyed flirting.

  “And you, Sarah?” Henrietta asked. “Will you be assisting too?”

  “Of course. I shall endeavor to make certain your nosegay is always filled and pinned to the inside of your corset, lest your nerves get the better of you again. We wouldn’t want you to appear the fool in front of the earl, now would we?” Sarah gave her a reassuring smile.

  Their mother snapped open her fan and cast a determined look in Henrietta’s direction. “Mark my words, you will be the next mistress of Plumburn. We’ll see to that.”

  …

  Simon stared down at the previous day’s issue of London’s most popular gossip rag, the thin flame of a solitary candle illuminating the curled pages spread out across his library desk. Not a hint of his past graced the fine print.

  Until he flipped a page. His name stood out in bold letters—adjacent to his moniker and the details of a death he could not put to rest. Anne. Her limp body cradled in his arms. And the ill-timed visitors who witnessed him weeping over the woman who had betrayed him.

  He crumpled the paper and hurled it into the grate, the dying embers of what remained of the fire licking at the foolscap. How was he supposed to counter the rumors? It had taken five bloody years for Anne’s sister to come forward. Five years for facts to be polluted with lies, for his reputation to sour, and the title to become tainted with scandal.