“Undoubtedly, especially with your cook sending up dishes finer than those served at Polcrave. I may steal her away with me when I leave Plumburn, dear chap.”
So long as the cook was the only thing Satterfield intended to steal. He could live without the mouth-watering pies and stews the cook sent up from the kitchens. He could not, however, live without Henrietta.
He’d fallen captive to her charms, enthralled by both her beauty and winsome personality. Simon had never met a woman so giving, so selfless and caring as the woman he wished to take as his wife.
He adjusted his sleeves, rolling up the muslin that had worked itself loose after hours of physical labor spent repairing the stone wall of a tenement farmer. While thankful for the distraction the task had provided, he was eager to return to Henrietta and make his intentions known.
But first he had his obligations to the farmer. And Henrietta’s mother.
Blood pounded in his ears. While certain the matriarch would give her blessings to the match, he was anxious all the same. What if, despite his kinship and wealth, she refused him for her daughter, his past too much for their name to bear?
“If you wish to make dinner and gorge yourself on Cook’s offerings, we better finish up here.” Simon motioned his head to the remaining stack of lumber and the broad-shouldered farmer who was making his way toward the pile.
Taking out his handkerchief, Satterfield mopped at his brow. “We wouldn’t want to miss the delicacies…both food and otherwise.” He shot Simon a wicked grin. “Have you given consideration to your selection of bride, Amhurst?”
“I have,” Simon said, his voice curt.
“And?” Satterfield prodded.
“And I shall make an announcement once I make my offer.”
Satterfield eyed him warily. “I can only advise that is soon. This morning’s rags were not complimentary.”
“Oh?” He hadn’t had time to read them today, so distracted by Henrietta, he’d barely made it back to his room before his valet entered to inform him of the farmer’s plea for help.
“Despite our efforts to affirm your innocence, the ton continues to think otherwise.”
A few days prior, and the news would have unsettled him. This afternoon, however, he didn’t give a damn what the ton thought of his past. Only what one woman thought of his present.
“There is one,” Satterfield prattled on, “who has been outspoken against the ton’s harsh censure.”
“And who is that, Satterfield?” Outside of Satterfield and Mr. Livingston, he had no allies, no one in the House of Lords who would be willing to risk their name for the sake of his.
“The Viscount Rochester.”
Simon’s eyes narrowed. “Miss Saxton’s father?”
“Indeed. He has taken quite a stance in your favor.”
“For a price.”
“He has powerful allies, Amhurst. Lord, even I know not to trifle with the man. That he had a bit of bad luck with his finances is easily overlooked.”
“And you think marrying his daughter will buy back the good graces of the ton.”
“Yes. She is a comely girl, if a bit plain. You could do worse, Amhurst.”
“And I could do better.” Would do better. With Henrietta at his side.
“Don’t tell me you are still considering Lady Henrietta. Why, only last evening at dinner, she stumbled over her words.”
“Her nerves got the better of her,” Simon said, defensively.
“And her hand the better of her spoon. Her mother tried to hide the stain with her napkin, but cream sauce still darkens muslin. The girl requires a firm hand. And a tutor to refine her manners.”
“Both of which I am more than willing to provide.”
Satterfield shoved his handkerchief into his pocket. “Your reputation does not afford you to take on a social blight, Amhurst. Society may overlook an unrefined girl under tutelage, they may even be persuaded to forget about a long dead mistress. They will not however, be so obliging to overlook both.”
“My lords.”
Simon lifted his head at the soft voice. The tenant farmer’s daughter stood before them, her skin flushed, her hands clasped tight together in a knot in front of her. “My father would like to know if you have finished today, or if you would be willing to stay for one of my mother’s mincemeat pies. They are nice and hot, and just out of the oven.”
Giving the girl a smile, he nodded. “A pie sounds most excellent. Please tell your mother I would be delighted to take part in your meal.” It would behoove him, as the Earl of Amhurst, and owner of the land on which they farmed, to better acquaint himself with his tenants. His reputation needed reparation not only with those of the ton, but those living on the estate as well.
The girl beamed, turning her hopeful eyes to the marquess. “And you, my lord? Will you be joining us?”
“I am afraid I have some matters I must attend. Please forgive me.” He gave a stiff bow.
The girl’s smile faded, her hopeful eyes turning downcast. “I’ll tell Mother, then.” She curtsied and made her way back to the house.
“Amhurst.” Satterfield bent into another bow. “It’s been a pleasure as always, but I’m afraid I am spent. A short nap is needed before we regroup for this evening’s entertainments.”
Entertainments, indeed. Henrietta and her fetching dresses begging to be unbuttoned, awaited him…after a good meal with a grateful farmer.
…
Early morning haste did nothing but bring Henrietta the news that Lord Satterfield and Simon were out assisting a tenant farmer and would not return until dinner.
Wishing to avoid the overwhelming temptation to scream, if only to silence Miss Saxton’s incessant gloating, Henrietta removed herself to her private alcove.
With its calming scents and familiar bunches of drying herbs, the room provided a small measure of comfort to soothe her anxiety-riddled mind. It also provided her a distraction. With the herbs remaining in her possession, and those she had gathered earlier in the morning, she had enough to concoct a healing salve—and one that would, with any luck, ease Simon’s headaches, as well as smooth his scars.
Her most ambitious project to be sure—and one that had not yet yielded the desired results. The salve wasn’t so much the calming balm that she required as it was an irritating paste that produced small welts on her flesh whenever she had the misfortune of dipping her finger into the blend. Her misfortune, however, was also a blessing. Had the salve whipped together quickly, she would not have the excuse to remain in her alcove, escaping her mother’s tears and her sister’s looks of sympathy. She wasn’t certain which annoyed her most, the idea her sisters thought her incapable of capturing the earl’s interests, or their faith in Miss Saxton’s claim for his wife.
But beyond confessing her indiscretion and admitting the earl had declared his interest in her before dawn, Henrietta had been unable to convince them otherwise.
She slapped her palm down on the table, a cloud of dust rising with her frustration. Waving away the swirl of motes, she settled her gaze on her scribbled notes detailing her blend, though reading them was absolutely pointless. She had read the last few lines at least ten times and still could not remember the words. Her mind was with Simon and Lord Satterfield, her lips smiling at the first and grimacing at the second.
For the life of her, she could not understand how the marquess had found her actions encouraging or in any way displaying her interest in him as a spouse. She had to speak with him in a firm manner, relaying her preference for Simon at the earliest possible moment to avoid any further misinterpretation.
“Lady Henrietta?”
She spun around, her heart pounding. “Lord Satterfield?”
What the devil was he doing here? Now?
Of course she wanted him here, to dispel his notions of her affection, but she had spent the better part of the day working on her salve—she had not actually spent much needed time determining the precise words to say to him.
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and smoothed her skirts. Heaven only knew how she appeared, her hands covered in hastily wrapped bandages, the apron protecting her gown sporting a collection of smears. And while she did not want his attentions, she did not want to appear flustered or worse, affected by them.
“At last. You are a difficult woman to find, my dear. I must have visited every room in the estate.”
“Oh?” she asked, her voice far more frantic than she wished for it to sound. “Yes, well, this is where I go to…think.”
“Think?” His eyebrows lifted.
Dear heavens. Would she ever learn to mind her tongue?
“I was informed you inquired after me,” he continued, peering at her with open curiosity. Taller than Simon, the marquess filled the doorway, his gray eyes centered intently upon her.
Her stomach flipped.
“Yes, I did,” she said, willing a sternness into her voice. “There is something of grave concern that I wished to discuss.”
“As do I.” Lord Satterfield entered the room and crossed the small space separating them, his large hands grasping hers.
Henrietta gulped, her tongue weighing heavy in her mouth. She couldn’t afford for it to seize up, not now.
“Your hands. You are wounded.” He gingerly ran his thumb over a bandage, his eyes having left her face to stare at the crisscross of bandages across her palms and fingers.
“I-I-I—”
“Are you in need of assistance? Would you like me to have the physician summoned? He is still in the area, what with Miss Saxton and—”
“Thank you, but no. I-I-I do not require his services. I will heal fine on my own.”
He eyed her warily. “Lady Henrietta, I—”
“Have you spoken with Lord Amhurst this morning?” she asked, pulling her hands from his.
He frowned, his thick brows furrowing together. “I have.”
“And?”
“And he is in good health and high spirits. Indeed, he appeared more jovial than I have him seen him in quite some time.”
She swallowed, willing the heat in her cheeks to dissipate. “Did he mention his plans for the evening?”
“He did.”
“And you approve of his selection?”
“Of pork over fish? No. I was rather upset he gave away this morning’s catch to the tenants, but then I suppose they need it more than you or I.”
“What? No,” she said, her words rushed.
“Have no fear, my dear,” he assured. He placed his hands on her wrists. “I can catch some more on the morrow.”
“No, I-I-I—” Henrietta swallowed, willing her mouth to form the words she needed to speak. “You misunderstand, my lord. I-I-I wished to know if the earl mentioned if he had selected his bride.”
Lord Satterfield’s lips lifted into a smile. “Ah, that he did. He said he would make his choice known at dinner this evening, though one would have to be blind not to know whom he has selected as his countess.”
“Is it that obvious?” she asked. Her entire body warmed with the memory of Simon’s hands on her skin, his lips on her—
“Why, yes, I suppose it is.” He gave a short laugh. “He has chosen well. Miss Saxton will make an excellent bride—as soon as she recovers, that is. Though, I must confess, Miss Saxton admitted to me this very morning that with the earl’s impending declaration, her health has vastly improved. I would wager my entire fortune her presence at dinner is assured.”
The room started to spin, the air that had been in abundance only a few moments before, now in short supply.
“Lady Henrietta? Are you well, my dear?” The marquess led her to a chair. “You have lost a touch of color.”
She had misheard. Had somehow been misinformed. She placed a hand on the top of the chair but did not sit, her mind too busy trying to comprehend the marquess’s words to make her limbs relax.
“The earl…I…”
The marquess stared at her expectantly, but she could not will her tongue to move. She dropped her gaze to the floor.
Lowering his voice, the marquess said, “The earl is a man changed since I met him last. Were it not for his desire to enter into Society, he would not have arranged this party at all. Though, I am thankful for his effort. For without which, I would not have had the pleasure of getting to know you.” He placed his hand over hers.
Her gaze flitted from his hands to his face. “My lord, I-I-I—”
He lowered his head and captured her lips with his.
Her breath caught in her throat, his kiss silencing her protest. Squirming, she pressed her hands into his chest and shoved.
“My lord,” she hissed, her heart pounding. “You presume too much.”
“I don’t understand.” His forehead creased. “I thought you were aware of my intentions.”
“I-I-I am aware, though only because I was informed by my sister, Lady Sarah.”
“Then I fail to see your objection. I am a marquess, and you, the daughter of an earl. Ours is an advantageous match. You have nothing to want.”
“No, I-I-I” she grasped for something, anything, to divert his attentions. “There is Plumburn,” Henrietta asserted, though it was a lie. She no longer needed the security and comfort the house afforded. Their importance had diminished next to Simon’s vigor, his larger-than-life presence, his integrity and his past tragedies. It was him she sought above everything else. The loss of the house to another would not be nearly as upsetting as losing him to Miss Saxton’s clutches.
The marquess lifted a brow. “You desire Plumburn?”
“Should I not? It is my father’s home, and that of the Amhurst line.”
“That it is. But Polcrave Heath is not without its merits.”
“That I-I-I do not deny, sir. Many boast of Polcrave’s grandeur. It is not, however, my family’s seat.”
“Is that your only objection to our union?” he asked. “Your ties to Plumburn? I assure you the earl and I remain amiable. Should you desire to visit your family’s house, arrangements can be made. Nothing will be denied you, my lady.”
Nothing, that was, but her happiness. And that included Simon. As her husband. “A most generous offer, my lord, though I cannot accept it.”
“Have I caused you offense?”
“No.” She took a step back and gripped the wooden edge of her chair.
“Then why do you object?”
She could hardly own to her late evening activities. To do so would not only tarnish her reputation, it would harm Simon’s. That he had deflowered the daughter of his predecessor, on top of the lies floating about, well, it would not do.
Henrietta let out the breath she had been holding. “Why do you seek my hand, Lord Satterfield?”
The marquess’s face warmed. “As I stated before, Lady Henrietta, you and I are a good match.”
“And so are my sisters. They are both daughters of an earl, are they not?”
“Yes, but—”
“And intelligent, beautiful women.”
“They are, though your beauty—”
“Is not enough to form the solid foundation of a relationship, my lord. Beauty fades. My personality endures.”
The marquess smiled. “Indeed. Which is why I am eager to engage yours, Lady Henrietta.”
He advanced toward her. She lifted a bunch of lavender and held it in front of her chest as a protective barrier. She had to make him see reason, to understand.
“A most honorable pledge, but I confess my heart belongs to another.”
The marquess stilled, his head tilting. “Another?”
“The Earl of Amhurst has—”
Her declaration was cut short by the marquess’s deep laugh. “Amhurst,” he wheezed. “My dear, the earl is a close friend. Trust me when I say he is not a man receptive of affection, especially from women who are…”
“Who are?” she prompted. Her heart pounded. What sort of woman was she?
“Who are as uniq
ue as him,” the marquess said, his voice low. “He requires someone eloquent and strong in both their…speech and presence.”
Her hands went lax, the lavender falling from her grasp onto the floor. “Are you referring to my stutter?”
A hint of pink flushed the marquess’s cheeks. “An impediment I find most endearing.”
“But an impediment nonetheless.” She closed her eyes, remembering the earl’s earlier assurances her imperfections were not noticed, at least not by him.
And yet…the marquess spoke with conviction.
“I do not require my marchioness to be a gifted conversationalist,” he continued. “My reputation is such that it does not require any assistance.” His hands rested lightly on her arms.
“The earl cares naught for other’s opinions,” she whispered, though her sentiment didn’t sound convincing, even to her ears. After all, the man wore a patch. And one that brought him discomfort. Would he do so if he were not concerned with what others thought of him?
“He is the Earl of Amhurst, my lady. A man hoping to start anew and put the old rumors of the Black Earl to rest. I can assure you he very much cares about Society’s perceptions, especially where they concern him.”
She nibbled on the bottom of her lip. The marquess’s words boasted a truth, however small. The earl’s reputation would not improve as greatly with her as it would with someone more gifted and comfortable with easy conversation. Her speech was stilted and her less than distinguished behavior…legendary.
Was it possible, in her excitement, she had selfishly overlooked what might be best for Simon, and even her sisters’ future?
She shuddered, her gaze flitting to the floor. Would she, with all her imperfections, be able to give the earl the platform required to erase his past? Society might forget an earl’s sins, but they would not be as forgiving of her present blunders—or her ‘unnatural’ interest in books and plants.
“Fear not, my dear,” the marquess whispered. “My impeccable reputation will more than make up for any faux pas or stumbled over word, just as Miss Saxton’s will cover the earl’s…less than pristine past. You will both be well-received in Society.”
“But the earl,” she persisted. “We have…” She swallowed, her cheeks blazing. She was no doubt the same shade of red as a tomato.
The Earl's New Bride (Entangled Scandalous) Page 14
