Sarah snorted. “Should I fall victim to disease whilst in the earl’s company, I forbid you from coming to my assistance.”
Henrietta rolled her eyes. “At least the earl offered his gratitude, which is more than you would have done, had I found you ill in the shadows.”
“I do not wander about at night.”
“You would if you were afflicted with—”
“Did you say he offered his gratitude?” Sarah leaned forward, untucking her legs from beneath her.
Henrietta nodded. “I did. He-he kissed my hands.” She nibbled on her bottom lip and mulled the earl’s behavior. One could reason he had acted out of gratitude, his appreciation for her service compelling him to touch her hands…and to kiss them with his lips.
Her pulse thrumming, she shook off the ridiculous notion his actions had been anything other than gratitude. Of course he was thankful. She would do well to think on other things than the earl’s full lips whispering over her knuckles.
She had his heart to win, after all.
“And… did he kiss anything else?” Sarah asked.
A rush of heat raced to Henrietta’s cheeks. To deny that she had entertained the idea of the earl’s lips resting on other parts of her…anatomy would be an outright falsehood. Thankfully, a soft knock on the door saved her from answering. Their mother whisked into the room, Albina close on her heels.
“I have news.” Their mother eyed the door, which Albina closed with a metallic click. “Lady Georgiana will not be attending the picnic this afternoon.”
“Oh?” Sarah asked.
“It appears she has fallen ill.” Try as she might, their mother could not suppress the smile twitching at the corners of her lips.
“How dreadful,” Henrietta said, both in reference to her mother’s lack of propriety and the girl’s condition. She shot her mother a disapproving glare. “Is it known what ails her?”
“A scratchy, swollen throat, if the story is to be believed.” Albina strode toward an empty settee and sat atop the plush cushions. “Lady Isabella thinks the whole ordeal is nothing more than an act put on to capture the earl’s interest.”
“Is it working?” Sarah asked. “Is the earl interested? Does he appear distracted?”
Albina lips lifted. “Not in the slightest.”
“All of you should be ashamed of yourselves,” Henrietta chided. “Lady Georgiana is ill and requires our sympathy.”
Albina shrugged. “She appeared well enough last evening. I am in agreement with Lady Isabella. It is all a ruse. No doubt she is wandering about her bedchamber in boredom, pining after the earl and wishing him to come for a visit, so she can slip under the bedcovers and put on an act.”
“Why not test that theory?” Henrietta asked. “As soon as I am dressed we can visit her ourselves. It should not take long to verify her claims.”
Their mother’s eyes widened. “I absolutely forbid it. If the girl is truly afflicted, I do not wish for either of you to share her illness, especially you, Henrietta.” She pointed a finger at Henrietta’s chest. “I need you well and in front of the earl at this afternoon’s picnic.”
“Yes, but, if Lady Georgiana can find relief in a simple tea—”
“I am rather disappointed in your lack of excitement, dear. I had expected you to be a touch more grateful at this stroke of good fortune.”
“Good fortune?” asked Henrietta. “One of Plumburn’s guests is unwell, and you consider it good luck?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Sarah said, piping up. “Lady Georgiana is one less competitor for the earl’s attentions. We must utilize her absence to its full advantage.”
Albina came up alongside Henrietta, her finger tapping at the edge of her jaw. “Yellow, I think.”
“Yellow?” Henrietta asked. “What is yellow?”
“The color of the gown you shall wear today for the picnic.”
“You cannot be serious.”
Albina’s face turned indignant. “I am always serious about fashion, Henrietta.”
“But Lady Georgiana—”
“Has a physician at her disposal,” said their mother. “She will be well tended whilst you cater to the earl. Think of Plumburn, dear. Should Lady Georgiana become the next countess, she would not allow you access to your father’s favorite books, his chair, or your herb garden.”
Henrietta scrunched up her face. She hated when her mother was right.
…
Yellow was Simon’s favorite color.
Soft, pale, bold, the shade and the intensity mattered not. He enjoyed them all.
But were he forced to select a hue, the light buttery yellow of Lady Henrietta’s gown would be at the top of his favorites. If only for the way it brought out the flecks of gold in her brown eyes.
He took a sip of champagne, the bubbles tickling his throat and doing little to distract him from his quandary: the enticing Lady Henrietta Beauchamp.
She was not in the running for his wife and it would serve him well to remember that—even if her herbal tea had eased him into a dreamless slumber, the likes of which he had not experienced since acquiring his injury, five years past. An injury born when yet another beautiful woman, one with black hair and full, pink lips very similar to those of Lady Henrietta, had lured him into thoughts of love, happiness, and a lifetime spent in each other’s arms.
Before she had betrayed him. And took her own life, rather than be with a man scarred.
He tossed back the rest of his drink and refocused his attention on the lighter-haired, plainer Miss Saxton, and her pleasing brown eyes. Brown eyes that were a little bland and not quite as golden as—
“Lady Henrietta,” said Lord Satterfield from his chair settled deep into the thick grass of Plumburn’s lawn. “I do believe yellow is your color.”
Her cheeks turned a pleasing shade of pink, her gaze falling to the flowers surrounding her. “Thank you, my lord.”
“I helped her make the selection,” said one of her sisters. Was it Lady Albina? Or Lady Sarah? He could not remember any names—save for one.
Lord, he was becoming Byronic. Next thing he knew, he’d be composing a poem or spouting a sonnet, all over a girl he had no wish to think about.
“You have aided her well, Lady Albina,” Satterfield continued.
Simon turned to get a better look at the man who had never questioned his innocence. Had never blinked an eye at the rumors stating otherwise. A man who had known him as a young, untitled peer. Was it possible the marquess had designs on Lady Henrietta?
Simon’s chest tightened. Satterfield had sworn off women, pledging himself to the sacrosanct halls of bachelorhood. He was a marquess, yes, but he had no plans, no intentions of furthering his line—unlike Simon, who had little choice to do otherwise. If the bon ton thought he lived up to his sobriquet, the Black Earl’s brother was worse. Far worse.
And further unlike Simon, Satterfield was a whole man, with two functioning eyes—and a face that endeared him to women, instead of scaring them away.
But despite Satterfield’s good looks, the man’s disinclination to marry had Simon extending him an invitation to Plumburn to help assist in the selection of his next countess, not steal away the prospects.
Never mind he had already removed Lady Henrietta from his list of potentials.
“Satterfield,” he drawled. “I have recently come into acquisition of a mare. Perhaps you would like to take her out for a ride?” The man’s love for horses far surpassed any interest he might have in the color yellow—or the fetching woman wearing it.
“Indeed I would.”
Miss Saxton’s face brightened. “I do love a good run. I find them most invigorating.”
“Excellent. How about taking one tomorrow morning?” asked Satterfield. “We can all ride. I am certain Lady Henrietta has a solid knowledge of the good pastures, this being her father’s seat. She can lead us out.”
This was not the direction he had intended Satterfield to take. He was suppose
d to ramble on about equestrian lineage and his competence in such areas, not arrange another outing—and with Lady Henrietta, for God’s sake. It appeared a private conversation with the man was in order. Directly.
Her chest rising, her full breasts straining against the light-colored fabric of her modest-cut gown, Lady Henrietta smiled. “While I am flattered by your confidence in my knowledge of the estate, it is truly my sister, Lady Albina, who knows the best areas to ride. She is quite an accomplished rider.”
“Is that so?” Satterfield sat back in his chair, his gaze directed toward the daughters of Amhurst. Specifically the eldest.
Simon ground his teeth and stood, brushing off his breeches and leveling a glare at Satterfield.
Who continued to appraise Lady Henrietta.
Simon was not the woman’s protector. He was not her father, a man who had left her well-cared for in his will. Neither was he her brother, or even her guardian. He was, however, the Earl of Amhurst, and damn if he didn’t like the looks of heated longing Satterfield sent in her direction.
Life of bachelorhood, his arse. Satterfield was a man like any other. And he was encroaching on Simon’s territory.
Duty, and nothing more, compelled him to offer his protection.
“Lady Henrietta, I was hoping you and your sisters might guide me around the lake. I have yet to acquaint myself with that area of the estate.”
Lady Henrietta’s mouth opened, closed, and opened again—but no words of acceptance were spoken. Indeed, no words at all were uttered.
Was he so horrid, so off-putting, she had to think of a creative refusal?
Her sister, Lady Sarah, he guessed, spoke for her, putting words, he knew not to be her own, in Lady Henrietta’s mouth. “What an excellent idea, my lord.”
“An excellent one, indeed,” Satterfield agreed. “Miss Saxton, did you not say you had hopes for taking a turn with the earl just this morning? Why do we not all explore the area?”
Miss Saxton clasped her hands together, her hopeful eyes peering up at Simon. “I would like that very much. I am in need of a change of scenery, and a turn about the lake would do wonders for my constitution.”
It would also do wonders for his patience—although not in a beneficial way. He shot Satterfield a frown, who in turn lifted his shoulders in a non-committal shrug.
Lady Isabella tentatively strode up beside him. “I too, would like to venture out by the lake. Plumburn has yet to disappoint, and I am certain the lake will only add to its charm.”
The words, while pretty, were forced. And so too was the smile on the gel’s face.
In fact, out of the six misses of his party, only Miss Saxton appeared genuine in her interest toward him. The others felt forced, or so repulsed by his appearance and tainted past, they removed themselves from his presence entirely.
Miss Saxton, however, did not engage his interest quite as much as the girl Satterfield now assisted off the blanket.
Simon was acting as her protector. Or so he repeatedly told himself as he stepped away from Miss Saxton and Lady Isabella to offer his arm to Lady Henrietta. “It is settled then. Shall we take a walk?”
Lady Henrietta placed her hand on his forearm. “Y-y-yes, thank you, my lord.”
Satisfaction surged at having bested Satterfield as her preferred choice—which he quickly squashed with reason. He was her father’s heir. Of course she would choose him over Satterfield. She was being polite.
Even if she chose an earl over a marquess.
Dammit. What the hell was wrong with him? She was Anne incarnate. And Anne had left him with only one damn eye.
One of Lady Henrietta’s sisters shouldered her way past the other and snatched up the arm Satterfield continued to offer. “The lake is charming this time of year. So, too, is the fishing.”
The change of topic was enough to distract Satterfield, and the group fell into a nice comfortable pace to the path leading down to the large pool of water.
Conversation struck up around him, but Lady Henrietta remained mute at his side, her eyes fixed intently on the path.
She was not a conversationalist. That, or he scared her witless.
Good. She should be afraid. But not of him. He may not want her as his bride, indeed, or trust her with even the smallest bone in his body, but she was his kin. And Satterfield was a rake.
Simon hastened their pace, putting a little distance between them and the rest of the party. Satterfield was far enough away to ease any anxiety she may have toward the rakehell.
Yet, her hand still trembled atop his arm, and her breath, while barely audible, was still loud enough to convey shaky inhalations. She appeared as though she might swoon at any moment.
He had no idea how far away the lake lay, and he was not keen on carrying her back to the house. Not with the soft curves he had viewed the day prior. God in heaven, to have those pressed against him, jostling in his arms as he stepped over every little pebble….
No. He had to do something to put her at ease. Leaning toward her, he lowered his voice lest anyone should overhear. “I want to thank you for your tea, last evening. It was quite effective.”
Her gaze lifted, her eyes searching his…for sincerity? “You are most welcome.”
“I trust it brought you equal relief?”
She had been in the gardens for her own affliction—and he could not help but to be both curious and concerned after her own health. Did she suffer from crippling headaches? An inability to sleep?
Or something far more iniquitous?
She stepped over a small dip in the path, her fingers tightening around his arm. “It did.”
“You were so effective in treating my discomfort, I cannot help but wonder if you know of something that might ease Lady Georgiana.”
Her face brightened, as though it had come out of the shade and was now in the full light of the sun.
“You wish for me to assist her?” Excitement filled her voice, her body vibrating with a giddiness felt through the hand still resting on his arm.
“I do,” he said, taking note of the sudden change in her demeanor. “She seems to have caught a slight tickle of the throat. I am concerned for her welfare.”
Nothing but an eagerness to help another shone in Lady Henrietta’s wide, golden eyes. Even her stutter disappeared.
“I can tend to her as soon as we return, though I…” Her voice faded, the light in her eyes dimming as though a cloud had passed in front of her face. “Perhaps it would be best if someone more experienced, more apt in the arts of healing tend to her.”
Tilting his head, he angled it to the side to get a better look at her. His guard had been raised, his suspicions toward her character returning in full force. She had been so eager to assist a moment prior—what had caused her sudden disinterest? A ruse, perhaps?
Lady Henrietta disconcerted him. Much like the others had in the beginning.
His mind slipped to Anne and her betrayal. Of her last selfish act and the rivers of red blood running from her wrists to the floor, the congealed pools of her life source filling her bed chamber with a heavy scent of death.
To his father’s mistress, a raven-haired beauty whispering words of love to Simon’s young, foolish mind, and betraying him to his father, who had lashed his disapproval into a lacework of scars across Simon’s back.
And then to his mother, her dark hair floating, twisted in a fan about her head, her bloated body bobbing in the pond behind his home, the voices in her troubled mind silenced, deaf to the screams of a ten-year-old boy.
His head began to ache, the pricks of pain momentarily blinding him, his feet stumbling over loose pebbles on the path.
“Are you well?” Lady Henrietta asked. Her words were sharp with concern.
He forced a smile, quick to overcome the momentary lapse in thought. “I am.”
Her eyes narrowed, the pinched lines around her pursed mouth conveying her obvious disbelief.
“Perhaps a bit fatigued,” he confessed
. “It was quite late before I retired.” He deepened his smile, seeking to soothe her anxiety. He did not like seeing her upset.
She returned his smile, her straight and even teeth glowing white against the smooth outline of her lips.
Lips begging to be touched. Kissed. Plundered.
“My, lord,” Miss Saxton cried, breaking whatever spell Lady Henrietta had cast. She waved her hand, motioning for them to join her next to the edge of a marshy spot of grass. “Come see the frog Lady Albina discovered. ’Tis quite extraordinary in size.”
He wet his lips, dropping his arms and disentangling himself from Lady Henrietta. And not a minute too soon.
Offering his protection, asking for her assistance—and God’s blood, thoughts of kissing her.
He needed a distraction. Immediately.
Chapter Four
The musty stench of damp earth and stagnant water wafted from a swollen inlet off the main pond, where a frog, if not as large as Miss Saxton proclaimed, croaked in bored indifference.
Henrietta stared at the offensive creature, uncertain if she should be insulted or grateful for its sudden appearance. As large as the rock it sat upon, the frog had somehow trumped her conversation with the earl. The man had been so eager to see the blasted thing, he had left her standing on the path, gaping at his sudden absence.
Then again, she had been speaking with the earl—about herbs. And plants. No wonder he had fled to the pond as if it were the last water on earth and he a man dying of thirst. She had no doubt bored him to tears and he, being the gentleman she presumed him to be, had waited for the first opportunity to depart politely from her side.
If not for her boorish conversation, then for her less than impressive appearance, at least compared to the stylish Miss Saxton, who, with her pink floral muslin and perfectly paired shawl and bonnet, looked as though she had stepped off a fashion plate onto the soft soil where her leather boots now stood.
The Earl's New Bride (Entangled Scandalous) Page 4
