The Earl's New Bride (Entangled Scandalous)

by Frances Fowlkes

She shook her head. “No. Especially when he is ill.”

  “I am not ill.” He winced, and Henrietta rolled her eyes.

  “And I-I-I am not convinced. The kitchen is but a short stroll away. We can admire the quiet of the garden while denying blatant truths, or we can seek the relief waiting in the kitchens, whilst enjoying each other’s company. Your choice.”

  The corner of his mouth lifted, and he gave a small bow. “The kitchens await.”

  Warmth spread through her. She turned away, lest he see her rebellious lips and the smile that threatened to stretch them thin.

  He came beside her, smelling of sage and leather. She had sage in the garden and admittedly, not far from where they stood, but this scent was far stronger than any stirred by an errant breeze.

  Perhaps his soap was infused with the herb. She leaned toward him in as subtle fashion as she could contrive. Which, of course, was not subtle at all.

  She stumbled to the side…and into the earl’s strong arms.

  God in heaven.

  Her heart leaped at his touch, at the warm enclosure provided by his limbs. Her pulse thrummed, her blood roaring in her ears as she sought to right herself and reclaim a small measure of her dignity.

  “Lady Henrietta? Is there something…amiss?”

  She flushed and gripped the tea cup with increased ferocity. “Shall we start then?” She slid out of the earl’s grasp and lowered herself to lift the small candle at his feet. “This path leads us straight to the kitchen—or rather a door with access to the kitchens.”

  He quirked a brow. “And you visit the kitchens often?”

  “Not so much the kitchens as the garden. The door simply provides me easy accessibility…when I-I-I wish to escape the notice of the other guests.” And her mother’s prodding. “Should you ever wish to find me, you will most likely find me here,” she continued.

  “Tending to the garden?”

  Yes. But she could not very well admit to dirtying her hands. She would appear even more undistinguished than her stuttering afforded.

  “Reading. And enjoying the solitude.” Henrietta smiled. A partial truth, of course, but better than appearing too provincial and unworthy of filling the role of his countess.

  “Reading.”

  Henrietta winced. She had slipped up. Again.

  “Novels. You know, silly things, and only when I-I-I am b-b-bored.” Her tongue was heavy, not at all suitable for forming words.

  “Some of my favorite books are silly novels.”

  Henrietta blinked. “You read novels, my lord?”

  “And poetry, gossip columns, and anything else that strikes my fancy, though I must confess, the novels are my favorite. It is within their pages of fantasy, in their words of mayhem, that I am allowed, for however brief a moment, a reprieve.”

  “A reprieve from what?”

  “Life itself.” He was quiet for a moment and then added, “And the rumors.”

  Of course he knew of the rumors. She had been foolish to believe otherwise.

  She tilted her head, allowing a quick glance at his profile. His jaw was clenched and his eye, for a brief moment, closed.

  “Your discomfort…does it occur after a long bout of reading?”

  He peered down at her, his forehead furrowed. “On occasion. Why do you ask?”

  “I-I-I wonder if you are overtaxing your eye. An excessive amount of reading may be placing too much strain—”

  “My pain results from a sordid act of betrayal, crippling heartache, and an overwhelming fear that should I somehow be able to procure a wife, she will not bear me sons and my blackguard of a brother will inherit Plumburn. I can assure you that reading is the least taxing and the most rewarding of my pursuits.”

  Her breath caught. She could not open her mouth and speak even if she had wished it.

  “Forgive me,” he said, gruffly. “I did not mean to burden you with my personal woes.”

  “No, it is—”

  “Irrelevant. This tea you make, will you be partaking of its effects this evening?”

  “Well, I-I-I,” Henrietta floundered for words. “I, yes?”

  “Yes, you will?”

  “No, I mean, well, that I-I-I—” She paused, her skirt catching on a stone. She lifted the edge and noticed the stalks of lavender beside the path gently swaying in the slight breeze. Henrietta pinched off a stem and lifted the fragrant flowers to her nose.

  With a deep inhale, she focused on the muscles of her mouth, allowing the soothing scent to help center her thoughts and relax her nerves. “I make many different blends, my lord. Each one is unique, prepared to soothe a specific ailment or ease a particular discomfort. Yours is meant to hasten rest.”

  “And your blend? Does it do something different?” His gaze fell on her stem, his dark brow lifting in polite inquiry.

  “Yes.”

  “And what is that?” he asked.

  “Clarity of mind.”

  The earl offered her a small smile. “Then let us drink, Lady Henrietta. To each other’s health.”

  And to the tea’s effectiveness. Heaven knew she was going to need it. Her thoughts were full—of a dark-haired, one-eyed earl.

  Chapter Seven

  Simon was on his second cup of morning coffee when the breeze carried tittering voices through the opened windows of his study—Lady Henrietta’s flittering soprano fortunately not discernible amongst them.

  “Mother says he wishes a wife to fill his nursery, but the paper this morning says he’s here to take another lover. To dispose of as he did the last.”

  “You don’t think he’s innocent?”

  “Do you?”

  Pushing away from his desk, he stood, straining to better hear the chit’s reply.

  “Amhurst?”

  Simon startled at the familiar voice. Satterfield strolled through the door and past the hearth. “I don’t suppose you have time for a ride? That is, after you finish eavesdropping about your torrid affairs.” His head nodded toward the window. “What is it today? Your former lover’s specter has been seen moaning for vengeance?”

  Simon rolled his eyes. “That would be preferable. It seems I have arrived on England’s shores after five long years to seek out another lover—to dispose of.”

  “Ah, yes. And have you?” Satterfield asked. “Selected a lover? Or rather, the woman you wish to take as your wife?”

  Simon lifted his gaze to catch that of his friend. “You don’t expect me to own to that after only two days with my potential candidates,” he said, emphasizing the word my as a none too subtle reminder of the purpose of their current frivolities.

  “It does not take long to ascertain which candidates are more suitable than the others. Take Miss Saxton, for instance. The gel is clearly smitten with you.”

  “More like my deep pockets, but I suppose she has been more willing than others to see past the…” Simon waved his hand about his face.

  “The eye patch?” Satterfield offered. “That is the least of your offenses, my dear friend.”

  Simon lifted a heavy brass letter opener off his desk and rubbed his thumb along the engraved handle. He did not need Satterfield’s reminder to know how much his notoriety had cost him—how much he needed a respectable wife with an unsullied background and pedigree to counter his past and finally put an end to the public scrutiny.

  “Miss Saxton has an impeccable reputation,” Satterfield continued. “And has much to commend her as the daughter of a viscount. She is not without distinction.”

  “She is not. But neither is Lady Isabella or…” Simon paused and glanced out the window, his pulse quickening as Lady Henrietta strolled into view. “Or any of the daughters of Amhurst.”

  Satterfield chuckled, the flesh around his eyes crinkling. “I suppose so…if one overlooks their reputation.”

  “Oh?” He had not heard anything sullying their character—other than their connection to him and his alleged crimes.

  Satterfield gave a flippant shru
g of his shoulders. “They are heavily invested in their American brethren’s shipping company.”

  “Yes, so too is the Duke of Waverly, last I heard. In fact, I believe it was you who informed me of his interest in such things, along with his ties to the Beauchamp family.”

  “Precisely.”

  Simon frowned at Satterfield’s expectant features. “I’m afraid I fail to see how my title is at risk by entertaining the notion of marriage to one of my distant relations, due solely to their American sympathies. If anything, their connection to the Duke of Waverly could be quite beneficial to my endeavor to gain favor in Society.”

  Satterfield shook his head. “I sincerely doubt it. The duke and his wife are tolerated because he is a duke, and one who happens to have the favor of the Regent. Well, that, and I suppose because he is abysmally wealthy and half the ton owes him money in some form or another. He is a good man, yes, but his wife’s reputation stains his title, despite his denial to the contrary. His wife is an American and certain stigmas are attached to them as they are to their kin. Your kin.”

  “You are splitting hairs, Satterfield.”

  “If not their American sympathies, then because of their lack of decorum,” he persisted. “The girls are silly. A laughingstock of the Beau Monde, especially the eldest, Lady Henrietta.”

  “Lady Henrietta?” Simon said sharply.

  “Yes.” Pulling out a handkerchief out of his jacket, Satterfield swiped a touch of dust off his boot. “The poor gel seems cursed with misfortune. If she is not stumbling over her words, she is falling into mud or dousing herself with water. Although, I must confess, her bumbling is not without merit. The figure revealed by her awkwardness more than makes up for—”

  “She is the daughter of my predecessor.” Simon’s grip tightened over the opener’s heavy handle. “Logic would dictate that she or one of her sisters would be the most sensible selection.” Never mind he had no intentions of marrying any one of them. He did not like the primal look of lust that had settled over his friend’s face while recalling Simon’s distant kin.

  And the woman who filled his head with deliciously wicked thoughts.

  “Logical, yes, if they held any poise. You cannot seriously consider the Beauchamps, Amhurst. I thought the aim of this gathering was to select a bride who could not only bear you sons, but lift your name to its former luster.”

  “I have not wavered in my purpose.”

  “Then I highly encourage you to consider Miss Saxton as your countess. Though impoverished, she holds the standing of a viscount’s daughter. And a very powerful viscount at that. Should you earn his favor, he could persuade others to forget your past. The trial would finally be put behind you. He is the man for it, Amhurst. You must take the girl in hand. And soon. Before your brother puts two and two together and realizes you have returned to fill your nursery and lessen his chances of inheritance. God forbid that dolt assume the title. The Beauchamps wouldn’t stand a chance of making sound matches. Your selection of bride is as much for you as it is for them.”

  Simon gave a slow nod. The advice was sound. It would make sense to select a bride quickly, before his dimwitted brother discerned the truth behind Simon’s return. And Miss Saxton certainly met his expectations for a bride. She was as Satterfield had proclaimed—a woman of distinction, the daughter of a respected peer who had the potential of smoothing the rough edges the Amhurst title had acquired, and in turn aiding his relations in their quest for affable husbands.

  Miss Saxton was an excellent choice for his bride. Why, she even appeared unaffected by his injury.

  But her laugh was too high. And her eyes were quite bland. And, if one were to be scathingly honest, her conversation remarkably dull. He had little in common with the girl—outside of their shared desire of marriage. The idea of being permanently attached to the creature was…less than titillating.

  The idea that someone else marry Lady Henrietta, however, made his fists clench.

  A curt knock on the door sounded and his butler appeared, his drooping face bearing a somewhat blank expression.

  “Alfred.” Simon motioned the man forward.

  “Lady Dewbury wishes to send her regrets this morning. Lady Isabella is not feeling well, and as such, will not be in attendance for the day’s activities. Lady Dewbury wishes to stay with her daughter as she ails.”

  Simon frowned and set the opener on the desk’s cluttered surface. “Did she give a reason beyond her health?”

  “No, my lord. Other than that Lady Isabella had become unsuitable for public display.”

  Satterfield cast a glance in his direction. “Unsuitable?”

  “Yes,” affirmed Alfred. “She requested that I send word to the physician.”

  “Of course. Please send her my sympathies and best wishes for her recovery.”

  Alfred bobbed his head and exited from the room.

  Two young women sickened one after the other? What were the odds?

  Satterfield stared out the window, then turned his gaze to Simon. “I would declare my intentions soon, Amhurst. Before Miss Saxton has a change of heart and follows suit.”

  “Follows suit?” Simon frowned. “You believe Lady Isabella’s illness feigned, Satterfield?”

  “I believe it a possibility.” He dropped a quick glance at the desk and snorted. “You heard the whispers outside your window. And here,” he said, pointing to one of the gossip pages laid out on Simon’s desk. “The speculation continues in print. You’ve seen today’s unfortunate rag. One must give consideration to the idea that while these women are in desperate want of a husband, they are not willing or able to take on the burden of your reputation.”

  “Possible? Perhaps. But they were well acquainted with the rumors before they accepted their invitation.” Simon ran a hand through his tousled mane, his gaze catching on a wooden bookstand behind Satterfield’s shrugging shoulders.

  “Yet, the reminder is in black and white, arriving daily on their doorstep,” Satterfield said. He shuffled the papers on Simon’s desk. “I would strike while the iron is hot…and before more rumors start to simmer.”

  Simon slipped past Satterfield, his gaze intent on the illustrated pages of the open book on display. “Sound advice, but I wonder…”

  “Wonder what?” Satterfield glanced at the book in front of Simon and frowned.

  “I must decline your invitation to ride this afternoon, Satterfield. I promised Lady Henrietta a walk at dinner. And we both know how much I hate broken promises.”

  …

  Something strange was afoot.

  Beyond last evening’s stroll in the garden with the earl. And her mother’s suspicious glances directed at her for the entirety of the morning.

  Henrietta had fended off prodding questions from both her mother and her sisters until the scent of the lavender nosegay in her corset was no longer enough to calm her rattled nerves, and a retreat into the kitchen was required.

  She searched through the plant clippings from two evenings prior, her fingers taking care not to bruise the delicate blossoms. She sorted through them, her nails scraping over the small worn table set aside for her use. Tucked away in a little alcove off the main kitchen, the cozy space with its brick walls and lone window was perfect for drying her harvest and mixing her healing blends. Few knew of the cozy room’s existence, and even fewer dared to venture into an area restricted to the efficient and very busy Plumburn staff.

  And yet, her stores were reduced by a quarter. She was certain of it. Even with the teas she had made for herself and the earl, she was missing chamomile blossoms, peppermint leaves, and marshmallow root, to name a few.

  The plundered harvest was odd, but even queerer was the misplacement of the supplies she had so diligently brought with her from Rosehurst. None of the maids could recall ever seeing any satchels filled with her dried blends.

  Supplies didn’t suddenly disappear or vanish into thin air. Someone was taking them, of that, Henrietta was certain, but w
ho? And why?

  She would have more than willingly offered her stores to anyone requiring their aid. She was not one to deny someone relief, which was why she was so upset they were taken. She needed the peppermint and marshmallow for Lady Georgiana’s irritated throat—a condition that, upon Henrietta’s inspection this morning, and much to Albina’s chagrin, was proven true.

  Along with the irritable looking rash gracing the entirety of Lady Isabella’s downtrodden face. The miserable girl’s flesh had reacted terribly to something she had encountered, though what that something was, eluded Henrietta. She had gone to visit both girls against her mother’s wishes, but doing so had endeared her to her guests, for both maladies were easily quelled with a good, hot cup of one of her blends…so long as Henrietta had the necessary ingredients.

  She lifted a stem of lavender to her nose, inhaling the calming scent of its blossoms. There was naught she could do but ponder why her stores were missing, and pondering did not make remedies to relieve pains.

  Making a mental note of which herbs she needed to replace, she set down the lavender stem and made her way toward the back door of the kitchen and the path leading into the gardens.

  The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, the salty breezes from the ocean far cooler now than they had been on her evening walk with the earl. She raced down the familiar path, her slippers tapping over the worn and moss-covered stones.

  She rounded the last corner and ventured into the flowering garden. Yellow and white petals dotted the green foliage, the heady perfume of the plants heavy in the wind-whipped air. If it were allowed, Henrietta would have long snuck a pillow and blanket down to the garden to sleep amongst the comforting plants.

  But there, kneeling on the path, with his hands covered in dark English soil, was the Black Earl.

  “My lord?” His shoulders were hunched forward, his striking profile one of intense study. What was he doing? Here? In her beloved garden with his sleeves rolled up over arms elbow-deep in dirt?

  He tilted his head, his rich brown eye showing no signs of surprise at her arrival.

  “Ah, Lady Henrietta. I wondered when you would return. Come to tidy your mess?”