The Earl's New Bride (Entangled Scandalous)

by Frances Fowlkes

  Sarah bit her lip. “Perhaps not all, but I did not mean to harm anyone. I merely wished to keep our guests abed for a day or two.”

  “A day or two? In large doses, licorice could keep one abed for weeks.”

  Sarah rested her hand on Albina’s forehead, her face solemn. “You were so adamant in your desire for Plumburn, I simply wanted to ensure you got what you wanted, so I…I…”

  “Increased my chances of being selected as the earl’s wife by eliminating my competition,” Henrietta finished. “Dear God.”

  “Sarah,” their mother gasped. “What have you done?”

  “What have you done, indeed?” asked a deep voice from the other side of the room.

  “Simon.” Henrietta lifted her head, peering through the dim light, her heart leaping at his voice. He stood in the doorframe, the small space filled with his tall, broad form.

  “My, my lord, I am truly sorry for my daughter’s behavior,” their mother sputtered. “I did not think her capable of—”

  “I do not doubt that, madam, but your daughters”—his gaze lit on Henrietta and hardened—“have not only injured my guests, but my reputation as well.”

  Sarah shook her head. “But I told you, I never meant—”

  “What you intended is not my concern. What is, however, are the extenuating results from your interference.”

  “Her heart was in the right place,” Henrietta whispered.

  “Unlike others.” He stared at her, his gaze cold, without any trace of the warmth.

  “I never meant any harm.”

  “No, neither did your sister, or so she claims. And yet, Lady Albina lies ill, poisoned by her own twin’s hand.”

  “I never poisoned—” Sarah began, but was silenced with the earl’s chilling glare.

  “Do not lecture me on what you did not do when physical evidence lies in front of me, contradicting your objections.”

  Henrietta’s heart sank, the icy glare from his gaze causing her to shiver. “Simon—”

  “The gossip rags would have the ton believe I am a monster, a man intent on harming others, in particular those of your sex. And now, due to your machinations, your little plot to ensnare Plumburn, you have given ready proof to their suspicions.”

  His voice had gone steely, every word cutting through her, making her wince. Because he spoke the truth. A fact he would now have to contend with, all because of her selfish desire to secure her father’s home. What had she done?

  Standing, her mother touched a handkerchief to her chest. “Perhaps it would be best if we left and retreated to Rosehearst, while the dust…settles. Once Albina’s fever abates, of course.”

  “Which hopefully will not be long,” said Henrietta, her voice flat. “Of course, her recovery is determinate upon the amount of licorice in her system, but there is nothing to do but allow the herb run its course.”

  “After which we will depart. First thing,” said their mother. “I shall make the arrangements now, my lord.”

  He nodded, his jaw clenching, and walked out of the room without another word or glance in Henrietta’s direction.

  Swallowing back a lump of tears, Henrietta gripped Albina’s hand and squeezed. Things were as they should be, with her leaving Plumburn and Simon declaring for Miss Saxton…so why then, did everything feel so wrong?

  …

  A slow fire licked down Simon’s throat, the long draw of heated brandy potent in its flavor, but not its delivery, leaving him far too lucid for his taste.

  He didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to ruminate on the events of the day, wanting only to wallow in the numb stupor promised by a full decanter of liquor.

  But despite the late hour, the solitary confinement in his chambers, and the volume of the damnable liquid consumed, his thoughts continued down the path he wished them not to stray. To a dark-haired vixen, a temptress, a harbinger of pain—and one he bloody well knew to avoid.

  The lure had been strong and he too weak, despite his past sorrows and experience. How many times was he destined to fall willingly into the trap laid by the fairer sex’s seductions? Fooling himself into believing any one of them were different? Or that he was actually worth their attentions? That he alone—not his fortune, his title, the mystery behind his name, hell, not even his damn house—was enough to win their love?

  He was an ass. A damned, defeated, and heartbroken idiot who could not stop thinking about a woman whom he had actually believed had loved him. God, the very brandy he drank to forget Henrietta persisted in reminding him of her, the color of the liquor the same damnable shade of her anguish-filled eyes.

  A knock at the door had him raising his head. “Yes?” he croaked.

  The latch lifted and the heavy oak of the door creaked open. Satterfield, still in his dinner attire, strode through the frame, his handkerchief held up to his nose. “Dear God, Amhurst. I didn’t expect you to show restraint, but should the fire in the hearth get any higher, the whole bloody room will ignite.”

  “So be it.”

  Lowering his handkerchief, Satterfield rolled his eyes. “I spoke with Miss Saxton.”

  “Then we are both aware of her immediate departure and no doubt her thoughts as to my kin’s misdirected efforts to secure my hand. I applaud you on your ability to ferret out precisely that which is none of your business.”

  “I am your friend, Amhurst. I am here to assist you in your selection of a bride.”

  “While offering for the woman I selected. Seems a little counterproductive, don’t you agree?”

  “As I said before, it was out of respect for our friendship—”

  “Friendship? You call an off-handed proposal to a woman, whom I clearly stated as a consideration for my bride, an act of friendship?”

  Satterfield had the decency to hang his head. “I thought her unsuitable and Miss Saxton—”

  “Yes, well you thought wrong. Miss Saxton, as you know, is leaving at first light. I am without a bride and the reputation you were so determined to salvage, remains in tatters. My brother will inherit and the Amhurst name will be stained beyond repair. Huzzah.”

  Standing, Simon slammed his half-empty snifter atop the small table beside his bed, the fruity liquor sloshing over the rim. Whipping a handkerchief from his breast pocket, he wiped off his hand and stared out the window to the moonlit lawn.

  “Perhaps I was wrong.”

  Simon turned to face his friend, his confident, and rival. “I beg your pardon?”

  Satterfield stared at his feet. “Perhaps…perhaps my efforts were misdirected.”

  Simon frowned. “I fail to see where this little admission of yours—”

  “Lady Henrietta, Amhurst. I thought only of your desire to reenter Society. I did not stop to give consideration to any…emotional attachments. Miss Saxton was the logical choice.”

  “As you’ve already said.”

  “Yes. But perhaps Lady Henrietta, however poor her qualifications for countess, may yet be the better choice.”

  A bark of laughter escaped Simon’s lips. “How do you fancy that? You heard her, Satterfield. Her interest is in Plumburn. I am a means to an end.”

  Lifting his head, Satterfield peered through the dim light cast by the dying fire. “Do you really believe that?”

  Truth be known, he wasn’t bloody well sure what to believe.

  His one opportunity for reclaiming honor within the bon ton, Miss Saxton with her powerful father, was leaving at first light. He ought to be depressed beyond measure, despairing over the loss of his reputation and his brother’s inevitable claim to the Amhurst wealth.

  But he wasn’t.

  Oh, he was melancholic to be sure, but he didn’t give a fig about his standing in Society or whether the whispers would be silenced with a well-suited match.

  All he cared about was Henrietta.

  Jesus.

  The whispers would increase ten-fold due to her ill-fated plot…though even he could not claim full certainty of her involvemen
t. Lady Sarah had been caught with her hands dirtied, her own admission spilling from her lips…but Henrietta… Lady Sarah had denied her sister’s involvement, had declared she had acted on her own and of her own volition.

  He shut his eyes, his fingers lifting to his temple as pain, white-hot, pierced through his thoughts.

  God, why did he do this to himself? Why did he allow for hope?

  She was just like his mother, his father’s lover, and even Anne, all of them selfish in their desires…only…only…

  Henrietta wasn’t selfish in her eagerness to assist Lady Georgiana in easing her suffering. Nor was she hesitant in helping him whenever his head ached—much as it did now.

  He clenched his jaw against the pain throbbing behind his eyelids. She had waited for him in the gardens, had stood with a teacup at the ready, filled with a blend that had brought him a relief and slumber he fervently wished to repeat.

  With her knowledge of herbs, it would have been easy to bring him further harm, to disable him, to inflict more suffering upon his guests. Anne certainly would have reaped the opportunities wrought by such an advantage.

  Henrietta, however, would not. Did not.

  And never would.

  The look of mortification that had settled across her features at her sister’s confession—he needn’t have had a full view of her profile to see their effects. His position outside of her sister’s room had afforded him enough of a vantage to know, despite his initial misgivings, that she was not as involved in the ruse as he believed her to be.

  Perhaps even distant enough from her sister’s malevolence to reject him out of protection for his reputation.

  His heart jumped at the possibility, momentarily dampening the crescendo of anguish in his head.

  Was it possible she loved him? Enough to let her beloved Plumburn pass to another out of fear that her sister’s plot might ruin his chances of securing Miss Saxton’s hand?

  His heart raced, his mood lifting at the small glimmer of hope…

  He had to know, once and for all, if she held any affection toward him, if…if she loved him as his heart was determined to love her.

  And he would do so, by offering her the one thing she wanted most—Plumburn. A manor that had unwillingly become his home. The bountiful pastures, the meticulously selected furniture, hell, even the carefully framed paintings had become familiar to him. To raise a family here, to live out his years with Henrietta at his side, walking through the halls together, hand in hand…was what he desired above all else.

  A burst of light erupted behind his eyes, setting off an ache so intense he fell to his knees, his breath leaving his body before darkness pervaded and all went black.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The swaying of the coach, the dips of the washed road, and the sighs of Albina’s light snoring, were not enough to lull Henrietta into a dreamless slumber, no matter how hard she scrunched her eyes or willed her body to give in to the weariness wrought by a night spent at her sister’s side.

  She had been unable to sleep. Not because her sister ailed, but because her mind refused to still, her thoughts continually drifting to Simon. To his pain-filled eyes, the look of betrayal on his handsome features…

  Lifting the edge of the coach’s curtains, she peered at the diminishing outline of Plumburn’s stone chimneys, the first rays of dawn illuminating the curls of smoke rising from early morning fires.

  Dropping the shade, she sat back into the coach’s cushions and sighed.

  Plumburn belonged to Miss Saxton. As it should.

  Heaven knew the girl did not have a family of miscreants poisoning others to obtain Simon’s hand. Goodness… the rumors that would abound after apologies were given and the story to win the title was made known would be catastrophic. As the marquess had been apt to point out, Henrietta was less than poised to return the earl’s reputation to favor. She was subconsciously determined to ruin it.

  Simon’s marriage to Miss Saxton was for the best, for both him and her sisters, though Lord Rochester would have his work cut out for him, repairing the damage done to the Amhurst title by three conspiring relatives.

  The viscount, however, was a powerful man, and if anyone in Society had the wherewithal to dampen the effects of this entire ordeal, it would be him and his numerous connections.

  The Amhurst name would recover and Plumburn would be well looked after. Just as the pain would subside, her heart would heal, and she would recover from the anguish of having lost the man she loved.

  God, she lied even to herself.

  There was nothing for it. Life would continue. Simon would marry and she…she would likely do the same. If her reputation recovered after this incident. Though she knew full well some men cared more for the piles of pound notes promised by her generous dowry than whether she was competent enough to run a household.

  Or poison a man in his sleep.

  Dear heavens, a life of spinsterhood awaited her. No man would be foolish enough to marry her, what with her knowledge of herbs made known and the whispers of what had transpired over the past few weeks seeping into London drawing rooms.

  She was an outcast, a social pariah. An educated woman bent on making dangerous concoctions to inflict harm. The likelihood of her being invited to a ball, let alone over the threshold of any respectable person’s house, was minimal at best.

  Which was all the better. The only person she wished to see was engaged to another.

  Her stomach twisted. Shutting her eyes against the wall of tears that threatened, she took a deep breath. She would get through this, force herself to forget all that she had lost…

  A lifetime of happiness spent in the arms of the man she loved. Simon’s comforting presence filling Plumburn’s rooms. Squeals of children’s laughter—their children’s laughter—echoing in the courtyards…

  Bile rose up her throat, the sour taste seeping onto her tongue.

  Henrietta opened her eyes to find her mother staring at her with a scrutinizing glare. “You love him.”

  A succinct observation, and one that could not have been more truthful. Yes, she loved him. Which was why she was here and he was in Plumburn, offering for Miss Saxton.

  “Does he know?” her mother pressed, refusing to let up her gaze.

  “Does it matter?” Henrietta asked. “He has obligations, Mother. Responsibilities to the earldom that are best addressed without the stigma attached to my name…or actions.”

  Sarah turned her head to face Henrietta, her brow furrowing. “You love the earl?”

  “Of course I love him, but that is hardly cause enough for me to marry him. He must consider his standing in Society and—”

  “But you love him, Henrietta.” Her mother continued to stare at her.

  Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. “He does not love me.” Like a knife to her heart, the sentiment stabbed at her insides, the truth of the words crushing her soul and closing her eyes against the onslaught of moisture trickling down her cheeks.

  “Rubbish.” A warm hand settled atop her knee. Henrietta opened her eyes to see her mother’s concerned gaze peering into hers.

  “You must tell him, Henrietta. He needs to know of your feelings. Perhaps he can be persuaded to look past—”

  “There is nothing for it,” she said, hiccupping.

  Sarah harrumphed, her face taking on a look of pompous righteousness. “Goodness, Henrietta. Remind me to refuse your play should you ever take an interest in cards. You would give your hand away, so obvious are your emotions splayed upon your face.”

  “My emotions?”

  “The ones clearly declaring you don’t believe yourself. There is everything for it, dear. He has a right to know of your interest.”

  Henrietta sputtered, “But Miss Saxton—”

  “Is a ninny,” Sarah finished. “A lackluster simpleton who does not deserve the title of countess.”

  “She is his choice, Sarah. I will not interfere.”

  “But you—”
>
  “We have done enough interfering already. No.” Henrietta shook her head and clenched her hands into tight fists. “What is done is done. Things are all settled and everything is as it should be.”

  “Henrietta dear,” their mother started, but Henrietta cut her off with a piercing glare.

  “Allow me the courtesy of accepting my fate. Please.”

  Exchanging glances with Sarah, their mother nodded. “Of course, dear.” She settled into the cushions, allowing Henrietta to close her eyes against the pain.

  Henrietta woke with a start, the lurch of the coach catapulting her into her mother’s lap.

  “Goodness,” her mother said, startled. “We must be at the inn.”

  Righting herself, Henrietta nodded. The inn. Of course. The hours had somehow slipped by, a fact confirmed as the door opened and late afternoon sunlight poured into the dark interior.

  “The Cock and Hen, my lady.” The footman held out his gloved hand, which her mother took as she alighted from the coach.

  Henrietta awaited her turn, stifling a yawn as she stretched her arms. The neighs of horses and the deep shouts of men met her ears, the sounds of a busy inn yard mingling with the tantalizing smell of freshly cooked meat and bread. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, when the world had seemed full of promise and hope…and the idea of food hadn’t sent her stomach into her throat.

  Hunger, at least at present, overwhelmed heartache. She clenched her middle and lifted her nose.

  “Come along, Henrietta,” said her mother. “No need to dawdle.”

  Gripping the footman’s hand, Henrietta stepped out of the coach and onto the well-packed earth of the yard.

  “The last two rooms have been secured for us, dear.” Her mother gave her a wary look. “A bit of tea and a meal should make things a bit better.”

  Tolerable, yes, but better? Henrietta gave a sigh.

  “Come along.”

  Stepping to the side, Henrietta dodged a fresh pile of horse manure. She did not however, see the child scampering at her feet. The small body collided with hers as a strong arm wrapped around her waist, preventing her fall.