Simon sagged against her, the weight on his shoulders lifting, if ever so slightly. Five years he had kept the anger, the anguish, bottled inside, while others kept their distance, fearful the rumors might be based on truth and Simon DeVere, the newly christened Earl of Amhurst, was a killer.
No one had ever offered their condolences. Anne was a courtesan, an actress, a woman skilled in the arts of deception—and one unwelcome in polite circles. Most pretended she did not exist, or believed her beneath him, unworthy of his grief.
Lady Henrietta, however, offered sympathies without hesitation. He rubbed his hand over her back and took comfort in the arms still wrapped around him.
Until his stallion whinnied, jolting her from his embrace. “My mother,” she whispered, her round eyes widening. “She will be—”
“No doubt worried should your return be delayed.”
Her swollen lips wobbled into a smile he could not resist. He lowered his head, taking her flesh between his teeth, teasing himself with her taste. She gasped and stilled, her body stiffening in his arms…then relaxing against him. She eased into his chest, her curves soft and warm against the length of his body…in direct contrast to his painful erection.
God, he wanted her. Like he had no other. But she was not his, as the impatient stallion reminded him with a firm stomp of his hoof against the grass.
With a sigh, he pulled himself away from her far too tempting form and grasped her hand in his own. “We have at least a half hour before we reach the estate.”
“Yes,” she said simply. She blinked and nodded, as though shaking herself awake. “Though if we cut through this field we can shave a few minutes off our arrival.”
He led her to his horse, his fingers slipping from her hand to her waist.
“The nettle,” she said. “Are your hands still—”
“No.” Truth be told, he had long forgotten about the irritating tingle, his attention not on any pain but on pleasure. “Your remedy has proven quite effective. And you, your injuries—”
“Are already forgotten.”
Smiling, he lifted her into the saddle and hooked his foot into the stirrup. He joined her atop the horse, the intoxicating scent of her lavender perfume enticing him to turn the stallion in the very opposite direction of the house. A hunting lodge, a servant’s cottage, he wasn’t particular…only she was not a courtesan. She was his predecessor’s daughter, and she deserved far more than a quick tumble or secret tryst. With such intelligence, such gentle kindness, she deserved far better than him.
Simon settled in to the saddle, adjusting as the beast traversed the lush green field. An increasing wind prevented conversation, but he did not need words to understand the change that had occurred between them.
One he did not want to acknowledge for fear of its implications…and the realization that he may be in very real danger of losing more than just his restraint.
Chapter Nine
Silence in and of itself was not exceptional. Henrietta often sat in Plumburn’s rooms without the need for words, content to sit alone and admire the grandeur of a home that had been in her family for the past three generations.
She had not, however, ever sat silent in them accompanied by an assortment of females politely sipping tea and peering at her over the rims of their cups.
Awkward did not begin to describe the tense, quiet stillness pervading the room. Narrowed eyes, pursed lips, and stiffened shoulders replaced conversation, displaying the general displeasure felt amongst the room’s guests.
In particular, the dagger-like glare of Miss Saxton. If looks could kill, Henrietta would have been dead ten minutes ago, her heart impaled by the scathing scowl cast her way. The girl’s eyes could not get any thinner, or her nose any wider, the membranes of her nostrils flared to their maximum range.
Given the earl’s earlier preference for the brown-haired daughter of a viscount, Miss Saxton likely believed herself to be the forerunner in his selection for his wife.
Until Henrietta had disappeared with the man for a better part of the afternoon. And had allowed him to kiss her beyond rational thought and bade him to touch her as no man had before.
Her pulse still sped from his hungry advances. He had devoured her as though he had never partaken of a woman’s pleasures, his wicked tongue and passion-filled kisses filling her with desire. Her body warmed at the memory of his manhood, bulging against her thighs, willing her to unleash it from behind the fall of the earl’s breeches.
Her fingers had ached to comply, stilled only by the very tiny voice of reason urging her to remember the rules of decorum…or at least wait until the two of them were somewhere private and unable to be seen before proceeding.
She supposed, when one considered the extenuating circumstances, Miss Saxton was more than justified in her fury.
“I did so enjoy the ride about Plumburn this morning,” Miss Saxton’s aunt said, her airy voice breaking the tense silence. “The grounds have much to offer. The view from the crest of the eastern hill is quite breathtaking in its scope.”
Henrietta’s mother let out the breath she had apparently been holding and gave the young widow a large smile. “Yes, Plumburn’s grounds are most majestic when viewed from that side of the estate, especially in morning when the sun rises over the ridge.”
“While beautiful, they would have been even more remarkable had their master been there to present them to us,” Miss Saxton said vehemently, her shrill voice cutting through the room.
“More remarkable, possibly, but not nearly as enjoyable.” Sarah gave Miss Saxton a thin smile. “I found great comfort knowing he was looking after the safety of his guests rather than strutting about the top of the eastern outlook, like a peacock showing off his feathers.”
Henrietta choked on her tea, her cup clanking against the china saucer. Her mother sent her a warning glare and then turned her wrath to her sister who sat across from them, her features composed into one of angelic innocence.
“Yes, I suppose,” Miss Saxton continued, “but had all of the guests shown skill in their horsemanship, a rescuing would not have been required.”
“Jane.” Miss Saxton’s aunt and chaperone patted her niece’s arm. “Perhaps we should go for a stroll in the gardens. You did so enjoy them earlier.”
“I did. But then I was with the earl. And things are remarkably more enjoyable whilst in his presence.”
That, they were. Miss Saxton could not have spoken a greater truth.
Henrietta set down her tea and saucer, trying hard to still the shaking of her hand so as not to clink the porcelain. Her mind raced, her heartbeat speeding alongside it. A thought pricked at her swollen self-confidence. Was it possible the earl’s clandestine meetings in the garden were planned? Scheduled enough apart to look spontaneous, but perfectly timed to allow him to be alone with each woman vying for his hand?
A selection based on the woman he found to be the most pleasing or the most skilled in lovemaking?
No. The earl was not the rake Society seemed determined to label him. She was certain her encounters with the earl were nothing more than the coincidences she originally believed them to be.
Miss Saxton’s vehemence more likely stemmed from jealousy. The girl, however much Henrietta wished to ignore the notion, had feelings for the earl.
The other ladies present had confided their reluctance in attending the earl’s party to Albina, who had openly, and gleefully, shared the juicy bits of gossip with Sarah and Henrietta.
None of them wished to wed a man with a dark past and an even darker eye patch covering half his face. As was often a lady’s lot in life, they had been forced to attend, their financial circumstances, or worse, their familial aspirations, compelling them to offer smiles and polite conversation to a man they had no wish to pursue.
Miss Saxton, however, shared Henrietta’s interest in the earl, her attraction genuine, at least from Albina’s observation.
Which made the eloquent, poised, and doe-ey
ed Miss Saxton, Henrietta’s greatest competitor for the earl’s attentions.
And while it was true, Miss Saxton was the logical selection, what with her poise and…restraint, it was not her the earl had kissed beyond measure.
Sarah’s gaze caught hers. Trepidation flared in their depths, but was it invoked by Miss Saxton’s scathing remarks or from the earl’s apparent lack of judgment in his selection of strolling companions? She picked at a piece of white lace trimming her sleeve. “I believe the earl has a fondness for the gardens. Just yesterday Lady Henrietta came upon him with his hands sunk into the earth, and his arms soiled up to his elbows.”
A collective gasp rent the air, her sister’s comments setting off a torrent of tittering laughs and muted objections.
“Is that so?” Lady Georgiana asked, her skin still pallid from her recent illness. “Did he offer an explanation for his state?”
All eyes were on Henrietta, including Miss Saxton’s, which had been reduced to snake-like slits. “W-w-well—”
The entire room awaited her reply, with not a breath stirring the silence. She swallowed, willing her lips to form the vowels, the consonants, required for an intelligent reply. “Yes.”
Heaving a great sigh of relief, she celebrated her achievement with a smile that was quickly construed as an act of superiority, if she properly interpreted her mother’s glower.
“Which was?” Lady Georgiana prodded.
“Oh, yes,” Henrietta said, near forgetting the original inquiry. “The earl said he came across a plant that had been uprooted and was placing it into the ground until one of the staff could tend to it.”
“How very kind and courteous,” Miss Saxton’s aunt replied.
“Indeed,” said Miss Saxton, her voice tight.
Something about Miss Saxton set Henrietta on edge. She wasn’t certain if it was the girl’s interest in the earl, her overall high-strung demeanor, or her testy response, but Sarah must have sensed it, too, for her gaze caught Henrietta’s.
“But curious.” Miss Saxton’s aunt frowned. “Why would anyone uproot a plant? It seems so…provincial.”
“I suppose to harvest the roots and make a tea, much like Lady Henrietta did for me,” Lady Georgiana said matter-of-factly.
Once again, all eyes were on Henrietta.
Henrietta gripped the edge of her seat. Her interest in herbs was not a secret, but neither was it a widely known fact. Such an unusual interest often raised more questions than answered them.
“Without which, I would still be suffering from my malaise,” Lady Georgiana continued, her contribution to the conversation diverting some of the curious glances.
“I was not aware you were gifted with plants,” said Miss Saxton’s relation. Her gaze swept to Henrietta. “Were I aware, I would have advised Lady Georgiana to ask for your assistance.”
“How thoughtful of you, though there was no need for your concern,” Lady Georgiana assured.
“How fortuitous Lady Henrietta should know of a remedy. Let us hope it was not one requiring the roots of a bedraggled plant.” Miss Saxton stood and nodded to her aunt. “I believe I require a bit of fresh air.”
She required much more than a turn about the garden, but Henrietta doubted a change of character was likely to be found amongst the roses and hydrangeas.
Miss Saxton’s aunt gave a quick curtsey to the rest of the room and scurried outside on the heels of her pernicious niece.
Henrietta sat, stunned into silence, her lips unable to move, even if her mind had been able to conjure some witty reply.
“I would not give Miss Saxton much consideration dear,” said Lady Dewbury. Her thin nose lifted. “While the girl is a daughter of a viscount, she has no money to her name. The fortune is gone, and her opinions hardly worth noting.”
Henrietta’s mother pushed off the sitting room’s plush settee and stood. “Be that as it may, I would like to offer my assurances that Lady Henrietta’s interest in plants is a hobby and one she only utilizes for the benefit of others.”
Henrietta peered up at her mother. “No one suggested otherwise.”
“Because they didn’t need to,” said Sarah. She stood and clasped her hands. “I believe I shall retire before dinner.” She shot a glance at Henrietta, her head motioning ever so slightly to the door.
“An excellent idea. I shall join you.” Henrietta brushed off her skirt and joined her mother and sister in standing. Lowering into a curtsey, she dipped her head, preparing to leave the room, when Miss Saxton’s aunt filled the door space, her light-colored skin even paler than when Henrietta saw her last.
“It’s Jane,” she wheezed. “She has gone ill in the gardens.”
…
Simon paced the length of his study, his plodding footsteps in synchronization with the low, steady tick of the corner grandfather clock. He swiveled at the end of the long and narrow room, the light of a full moon illuminating the dark outlines of the heavy, masculine furniture.
Furniture, hell, even a room he had hopes of one day passing on to his son. He could readily envision a lad, his dark head bent over the marble chess set, sitting in the middle of the room, studying the board. Perhaps a younger sibling might join him there, challenging his strategy…
Then again, siblings, at least in his experience, often proved more meddlesome than beneficial. If he believed his brother held the imagination and mental capacity required to engineer his current nightmare, where half of his females guests lay inflicted with some malady or another, he would have summoned the cad and forced the confession from his smug mouth.
Philip certainly had the motive. His recent connections in illegal rum trades had driven Simon’s younger brother mad with greed. He lusted after the Amhurst wealth.
But Philip, as corrupt as he had become, had never been bright. Poor financial decisions had led him to Lord Fenton and his underhanded dealings, and he appeared more than content to be the muscle for Anne’s former lover.
Philip may want the earldom’s wealth, but he did not have the wits to obtain it. Lord Fenton, on the other hand, had more than the brains required to injure Simon. He had the wealth and numbers of loyal men to do so.
What Fenton lacked was a motive to ruin him. Anne had chosen him over Simon. And shortly after her death, the scoundrel had promptly replaced her with another mistress. He cared little for women, concerned only with what they might do for him.
There was little Simon possessed that Fenton did not. The arrogant viscount certainly had a title and copious amounts of wealth.
But if not the viscount or Philip, who then had cause to injure Simon through his female guests, preventing him from not only selecting a bride, but damaging his reputation further by lending credence to the rumors? Who would wish to make him look as though he were as guilty as Society wanted to believe? That he had murdered one woman and was now intent on repeating the crime.
Christ.
As if he would ever harm a woman. He grunted and paused, standing in front of the meticulously arranged chessboard.
It seemed only his female guests were afflicted with malaise. Though that could be easily explained away by a more delicate constitution. And, were he to be honest, a desire to earn his sympathies and attention—though the illnesses thus far had been genuine.
However, while the illnesses appeared to be nothing more than simple afflictions, he was no longer convinced of their insignificance. That they had all happened consecutively and within a short period of time could not be mere coincidence.
A game was afoot. He was certain of it. One with malicious intent and directed toward the women in consideration for the role of his wife.
And he wanted to play.
He would ferret out the weasel intent on hurting his guests and make them wish they had never crossed the Earl of Amhurst.
He simply had to find them first.
The grand clock to his left whirred, its gears prepping for announcing the time. Two deep rich chimes echoed in the stillness
of the room.
God, it was late.
He hadn’t realized the hour, had not paid attention to the fire gone cold in the grate or the emptying of the decanter of brandy on his sideboard.
He stretched his arms heavenward and proceeded to light a candle and make his way to bed.
The house loomed empty and quiet around him, his muffled footfalls the only sound greeting his ears as he made his way down the long corridors and past the darkened rooms.
Careful not to wake his guests, he took care to tiptoe up the stairs leading to his chambers—and paused.
A click met his ears. A latch was lifted, a door was opened…and he had a good idea who chose to roam the halls at this late hour.
Turning the corner, he lifted his candle and smiled.
Lady Henrietta’s hand flew to her mouth, muffling a shriek as two round eyes peered over the tips of her fingers and up at him.
“I could not sleep,” he whispered simply.
She nodded, her hand still against her mouth.
“Are you not feeling well?” Jesus. What if she was unwell? Another victim? He crossed toward her, setting his candle on one of the tables hugging the wall.
She lowered her hand, her eyes never leaving his. “I-I-I am well,” she whispered.
Simon let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
She took his hand and his pulse jumped. “I could not sleep, either. Miss Saxton…” She glanced down the hall and back up at him.
“What is it?” he asked. Had the woman’s health taken a turn for the worse? The physician had ensured him that she was suffering from nothing more than an upset stomach. No fever plagued her—
Lady Henrietta held a finger to her lips. Simon stilled, listening for the faintest of sounds, but nothing but the thick silence of early morning stillness met his ears—at least until her nightdress rustled as she tugged him toward a door.
Good God.
Temptation beckoned, and he damned well knew it. Placing himself near Lady Henrietta whilst in the presence of her private chambers—chambers that included a bed—did not bode well. But he had questions…
The Earl's New Bride (Entangled Scandalous) Page 11
