The Earl's New Bride (Entangled Scandalous)

by Frances Fowlkes

  The woman reeked of femininity, and should Henrietta have had the insight to tote along a dictionary, she had no doubt a painting of Miss Saxton would be under the word “refined.” A word that most certainly did not define Henrietta, what with her pale yellow hem now damp from the soggy surroundings, and her boots soiled and sinking into the thick mud.

  Henrietta sighed. Even Miss Saxton’s speech was flawless, the woman’s elocution precise and pleasant enough to win her a vote should she be a man campaigning in the House of Lords. How was she to compare? She could barely breathe the first letter of the sentence before her tongue tripped, her lips mouthing tortured words and slaughtering them to pieces.

  Perhaps Miss Saxton was the more suitable bride for the earl. She not only looked the part of a countess, she sounded like one, too.

  Sarah stepped beside her, her anxious expression reflecting Henrietta’s concern, but she voiced her comment to the earl. “Albina has quite the eye, does she not?”

  “That she does,” said the earl politely. “Lady Albina, however did you spot the creature? He blends so well into the environment.”

  Too well. If she didn’t know her sister better, Henrietta would have thought the diversion a desperate attempt to capture a man’s waning attention—such as the Marquess of Satterfield. Only it was not the marquess who appeared enthralled by her sister’s findings, but the Earl of Amhurst, the man whom Henrietta had hoped to distract and—

  And what? Enrapture with her cleverness on plants and teas? Good lord. As if a countess would babble on about flora and the books she read to quench her thirst for knowledge. She should be on bended knee, thanking Albina for saving her from further mortification.

  “His croak,” Albina answered, sounding rather pleased. “No doubt he is seeking his mate.”

  Poignant, especially given their party held the very same intentions. Though awkward, as everyone lowered their gazes—except for Henrietta and the earl.

  She peered across the marsh, taking in the earl’s dimpled chin, his square-cut jaw, and undeniably handsome features. Were it not for the patch covering his eye and the questions surrounding his past, he would have a gaggle of female admirers hanging on his every word, following him about every ballroom, waiting anxiously for him to ask them to dance.

  But even with his injuries, he cut a striking figure. Her heart fluttered every time he caught her gaze—as he did now.

  She cast her eyes to the frog as the earl’s deep voice rose above a chorus of croaks. “Perhaps he is expressing his pleasure after a large meal. Goodness knows he must have recently eaten. I have never seen another equal to his size or girth.”

  Miss Saxton tittered. Lady Isabella laughed. And Henrietta feigned a smile as she did her best to quell a surge of something eerily resembling jealousy.

  “Quite so, my lord. I’d wager the beast to be at least one stone,” said Mr. Livingston. She turned her head and stared at the rather squat, overly round man. Kind and quiet, the elder gentleman had thus far kept his opinions to himself, preferring to observe the party from behind his quizzing glass, rather than actively participate.

  She could certainly respect his preferences. She, too, would like nothing more than to get away from the crowd and slip into the quiet, cool garden behind Plumburn’s kitchens, with its worn stone paths and pungent flora.

  Mr. Livingston offered her a smile, which she returned.

  “One stone?” Lord Satterfield asked. He leaned forward, peering at the frog still perched on the rock, seemingly oblivious to its gathering of admirers. “A boy of this size merits at least two.”

  A highly unlikely estimate. Even with his impressive girth, the amphibian, at least from her vantage point behind the marquess, was no more than the one stone Mr. Livingston had originally declared.

  Stepping forward, she offered her opinion. “Given his height and width, my calculations align with those of Mr. Livingston.”

  No stutter impaired her tongue. Her words were crisp, clear—and entirely inappropriate. Especially if she were expected to play the simpleton.

  Sarah flashed her a reprimanding glare. Albina covered her mouth with one of her hands. And the earl peered at her with an eye the same shade as his coffee-colored hair.

  Her knees wobbled, her heart tripling its pace, as she took in his smoldering gaze. How nonsensical her reaction. She swallowed and took a deep breath, forcing her nerves to quiet. He was only a man, and one whom she had likely offended by contradicting the marquess, his close acquaintance, adding another strike against her. Miss Saxton would never have commented at all. But then, Henrietta wasn’t entirely certain Miss Saxton knew how to multiply, either.

  “I agree,” said the earl, breaking the silence. “You are overgenerous with your measurements, Satterfield. I’d wager this frog nearer ten pounds than the twenty-eight your two stones demands.”

  Henrietta blinked. Divine intervention. Nothing less could have saved her from the earl’s expected ire. Well, that, and sound mathematics.

  Pushing her luck and disregarding good sense, she said, “There is a scale in the kitchens, should either of you wish to prove your theories. That is, if you are brave enough to face Cook’s wooden spoon, should she catch either of you placing a frog in her domain.”

  Mr. Livingston shook his head. Lord Satterfield and the earl’s faces, however, both brightened at the challenge, their expressions gleaming with boyish interest.

  “Let us make this an official wager then,” Lord Satterfield said, his voice eager.

  “A pound for each one of his pounds you were off?” suggested the earl, amusement lacing his words.

  The marquess centered his gaze on Henrietta. “I was thinking of something more along the lines of an evening stroll, chaperoned of course, with a lady of our choice.”

  Why was he staring at her? Should he not be diverting his attention to her sister, who, along with Miss Saxton and Lady Isabella clapped their hands together, their mouths stretched wide with smiles.

  “An excellent idea,” squealed Miss Saxton.

  “Yes.” The earl’s gaze followed that of the marquess’s. Henrietta’s breath caught, her entire body tingling from his intense glare. So befuddled was she that she almost missed him adding, “And one I shall agree to, should you carry the frog to the kitchens, while the rest of us distract the cook.”

  “A generous idea, but who will validate Lord Satterfield’s claim?” asked Sarah. “Someone must assist him to make certain he does not weigh the scales in his favor.”

  “I do not cheat,” said the marquess, his boyish smile contradicting the solemnity of his words.

  “A valid point, my lady,” uttered Mr. Livingston. “I will accompany Lord Satterfield and make certain his measurements are fair.”

  “As will I.” Albina’s face beamed with excitement. “I know the location of the scale, as well as the servant’s entrance to the kitchens. I can lead the entourage without attracting attention.”

  “Chaperoned, of course,” added Sarah. “By Miss Saxton’s aunt, perhaps?”

  Miss Saxton’s young widowed aunt was the most forgiving, playful chaperone of those present. If anyone were to give their approval to the silly and risky venture, it would be her.

  “My aunt would be more than delighted. I am certain of it, especially with the stakes being as favorable as they are.” Miss Saxton batted her eyes at the earl.

  Remnants of luncheon soured on Henrietta’s tongue.

  She bit the inside of her cheek. This would not do. At all. She needed to be the earl’s selection, strolling alongside him in one of the fragrant gardens surrounding the castle, not Miss Saxton with her perfect elocution.

  Plumburn and its frog-infested marshes were at stake.

  She had to do something to turn things in her favor. Something to gain his attention, to make him forget the other ladies present and select Henrietta as his prize for winning a wager literally weighed in his favor.

  But as to what that elusive thing was,
she was uncertain.

  “Well, then, let us not stand about here fighting the flies, but head to Plumburn’s kitchens. Satterfield, if you would,” said the earl. He nodded toward the slick-looking frog croaking on its perch.

  “Ah, yes of course.” For all his boasting and earlier eagerness, the marquess was hesitant in his approach, eyeing the frog with an obvious look of disgust. His gaze flicked between his white gloved hands and the slime-covered amphibian. “Well, I, well…let’s see here. I suppose I just—”

  “Lift him,” Sarah said. “You lift him with one hand on each side, so as to prevent him from jumping into the water.”

  Henrietta tasted blood, so hard was she biting on her cheek to prevent the peals of laughter from escaping her mouth.

  “Yes, quite right,” said the marquess. “Excellent advice.”

  “Would you like some assistance?” asked the earl, his amusement at the marquess’s discomfort evident in his voice. “Or shall we stand here until dinner arrives?”

  Lord Satterfield shot the earl a dark look, but removed his gloves and handed them to Mr. Livingston. “There is nothing to it. I was simply determining the best approach.” He leaned down and clasped the frog, the creature croaking his disdain.

  “I don’t believe you have a sporting chance, Amhurst.” The marquess lifted the frog and held it at arm’s length. “He is easily the two stones I originally estimated.”

  “Then let us prove your superior intellect. Lady Albina, we are at your direction, for I fear I am hopelessly lost.” The earl bowed to her sister, who still had her eyes on the marquess and his prize.

  “Yes, this way.” Albina stepped past Henrietta, but stumbled, her hand clutching Henrietta’s arm to steady herself in the sodden grass.

  Henrietta, however, was not prepared for the sudden imbalance and tottered into the mud—with Albina alongside her.

  …

  Simon’s breath caught, his entire body stiffening as two daughters of Amhurst splashed into the marshy, wet earth. Feminine screams rent the air—along with muffled laughter and thinly concealed sniggers.

  He rushed forward, bent his knee, and lowered himself into the mud, uncaring how much of the muck stained his breeches and boots, for it nowhere compared to the amount covering the two women.

  Lady Henrietta lifted her head, her eyes bright against the dark slop dripping down her face. He was certain, were the layer of mud removed, her skin would have burned ten degrees of red.

  “M-m-my lord,” she stuttered. Her eyes widened, even as more sludge dribbled down her face, half concealing her eye.

  She had lifted her hand to no doubt wipe away the slimy dollop, when Lady Albina sat up, splattering both Lady Henrietta and him with thick clumps of wet earth. “Oh, Henrietta,” she cried. “How clumsy you become when you are nervous.”

  To the best of his recollection, it had not been Lady Henrietta who had tumbled first into the mud, but the sister who glared in her direction.

  Stunned, Simon sputtered, extending his palm to Lady Henrietta. “My lady, grab hold of my hand.” Both Lady Albina and Lady Henrietta reached for him, the unexpected sodden weight of both women tugging him forward and pulling him head first between them.

  Simon quickly sat up and reached for the handkerchief in his front left jacket pocket. There, beside him, was Lady Henrietta, her eyes twinkling, her bright teeth flashing against the dark mud, looking all for the world as though she wished nothing more than to laugh.

  And why shouldn’t she?

  He was drenched, covered in a layer of muck no single handkerchief could possibly absorb.

  And sitting beside a woman whose beauty could not be hidden beneath any amount of brown earth.

  A deep rumble started in his chest, and his glee burst forward, loud in the quiet of the marsh. His heart warmed at the absurdity of the moment, at the very idea an earl’s daughter would rather laugh at life’s folly than pout at her misfortune.

  Lady Henrietta startled, her eyes blinking, her mouth widening.

  She giggled, her hand shooting out to cover her lips. Mud slung over her, drenching her hair, and she laughed harder, her rich high peals complementing his own.

  The party did not, at least in its entirety, share in the mirth. While Satterfield and Lady Isabella added their laughter to his, Mr. Livingston, Miss Saxton, and even Lady Sarah refrained, their near reproachful expressions a stark reminder of the breach in decorum. Earls and their kin did not cover themselves in mud.

  He stood abruptly, the laughter dying on his lips. Offering both of his hands to Lady Henrietta, he spaced his feet apart to ensure he did not repeat his earlier infraction.

  She lifted her hand and placed it in his, her firm grip surprisingly strong through the mud and thin layer of her glove.

  His heart pounded, though not from the exertion of righting her, but from her nearness…and the immodest way her dress clung to her curves.

  She peered up at him, her face beaming. “Thank you.”

  Were they alone, he would have kissed her, mud-encased lips be damned. But as it were,

  Lady Albina cleared her throat and held up her hand, which he grasped, lifting the other miss out of the slop.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said in crisp, staccato tones, clearly not sharing in their merriment. “I am afraid I will have to withdraw my earlier offer. I am unable to lead you to the kitchens in my present state.”

  He nodded. Similarly indisposed, neither was he. But should Satterfield somehow win the wager, the man was hell-bent on offering Lady Henrietta a stroll through the garden—and Simon could not allow that to happen.

  Though neither could he select her as his prize. That honor would go to the simpering Miss Saxton. A delightfully fair-haired, plain-faced, non-tempting choice.

  “I shall lead them,” said Lady Sarah to her sister, “while you and Henrietta lead the earl to the servant entrance on the lower west side. There, he can explain to Mother why she should not whip you both for ruining your clothes.”

  “Excellent,” said Lady Albina. She peered up at Simon while pulling off a sodden glove. “Shall we go then, my lord?”

  He had no choice but to agree, his cold, soiled clothing, along with a lack of knowledge of his own estate, preventing him from escaping Lady Henrietta’s disconcerting nearness.

  He trudged up the path, following behind Lady Albina. He turned briefly and said, “When I win, Satterfield, please have the final weight sent to my room. I wish to see how badly you overestimated.”

  “Underestimated,” Satterfield huffed. His arms were held out at awkward angles, the frog slipping as he adjusted his grip. “This beast is massive, and I shall prove it.”

  “Well then,” said Lady Sarah. She gave both of her sisters one last look and stepped toward the right. “This way to the kitchens, Lord Satterfield.”

  “And this way to the west entrance.” Lady Albina motioned toward the left with her muddied arm.

  Simon nodded and quickened his strides. He’d be damned if he stayed in the rear. Lady Henrietta was tempting enough. Her bottom swaying tantalizingly in front of him required a restraint he simply did not have.

  Now or otherwise.

  Chapter Five

  Henrietta sat at dinner, her lips grazing the edge of her silver spoon so as not to spill her steaming hot soup. Heaven knew what would happen should a single drop of the creamy base land anywhere but in the confines of her mouth. The world would end as she knew it. And her mother would fly deeper into her most impressive rage to date.

  Irate was an understatement. Her mother had been incensed at the sight of Albina and her, encased in a thick layer of mud, their delicate, new, and quite expensive muslins beyond saving.

  Had it not been for the earl’s equally sodden appearance, along with his persistent assurances an accident had been had, Henrietta and Albina would have been resigned to the lowest levels of Hades, their mother’s disappointed looks casting them into a lake of further shame.

 
; Even if the whole ordeal was quite humorous. Honestly. The earl had been completely covered in mud, his impeccable waistcoat and crisped cravat as filthy as her muslin—and yet, even he, as the earl, had seen the humor and indulged in a laugh.

  A laugh that made her face flush at its sheer memory. Deep, rich, and above all sincere, his throaty chuckles had her momentarily forgetting her humiliation—until her mother had taken to reminding her with sharp reprimands.

  If Albina had not revealed their purpose for being in the marsh in the first place, their mother might have placed a switch to their bottoms.

  Thankfully, she had been mollified with the assurance that it mattered not which man won the wager, Albina or Henrietta was a certain contender for a strolling partner.

  Albina was confident in Lord Satterfield’s selection. And Henrietta prayed the earl would see past her uninspired conversation and give her a second chance. Their mother need not know their assurances, at least in Henrietta’s favor, were based on a one in three chance. A small percentage was larger than none at all.

  But more than wanting to win for Plumburn, she wanted to win for herself. To have his soulful gaze centered solely upon her because he wanted to know more about her, while she learned more about him, his past, and the injuries he carried—both inside and out.

  A foolish notion to be certain, but one she didn’t want to relinquish…at least not yet.

  Lowering her spoon, she peered at the earl. Sarah had refused to reveal the winner of the wager, her mouth sealed under the promise of secrecy. Apparently the earl was to reveal the results sometime during the course of dinner, as he wished for everyone to be present when the winner was announced and the selection for the strolling companion made.

  Henrietta pursed her lips. If the earl had won, he did not show it, his mask of idle indifference making her wonder if, in fact, the frog had eaten stones before the marquess had placed the slimy creature on the kitchen scales.

  For if the earl appeared indifferent, the marquess bore a confidence he had not earlier held.

  One he did not attempt to hide in his gaze toward her.