Never Entice an Earl

by Lily Dalton

  “She shouldn’t have waited so long to come to us,” choked his mother. “We would never have turned her away.”

  His father grasped her shoulders, pulling her into an embrace. “She wanted to protect us.”

  “Protect you from what? Her…illness?” Cormack stared at his sister.

  “No, my dear boy.” His mother stared at him through swollen eyes. “From—from—” Her voice broke into a sob.

  His father pressed a hand to his eyes, and whispered, “The scandal.”

  “Scandal?” Cormack repeated. “What sort of scandal?”

  The doctor straightened from where he’d bent over Laura, his features grimmer even than before. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid she’s gone.”

  Cormack stared at the man’s lips, not believing. Laura, gone? She couldn’t be.

  “Laura?” he demanded, taking hold of her hands.

  Just then a sound came from somewhere in the house, a wailing cry that filled the room and chilled his blood and made him want to cover his ears. The nurse disappeared from the doorway to rush down the corridor, but the sound only continued, increasing in intensity and volume until he feared he could bear it no longer.

  That sound. What sort of creature made such a sound?

  But then, Cormack realized…

  He knew.

  Chapter One

  London, in April

  Two years later

  I think it all sounds perfectly horrid,” Daphne Bevington declared, glancing toward the door of the conservatory to be certain that no one had overheard any part of her and her two sisters’ conversation—most especially their mother, Lady Harwick, who would no doubt be horrified by the scandalous topic of discussion.

  Only when she’d confirmed they remained unobserved did she look back to her older sister, Sophia, the Duchess of Claxton, and urge with a sly smile, “But don’t let that stop you from telling us more.”

  Clarissa, the youngest of them, bit into the corner of her bottom lip and toyed with a tendril of her hair. “It also sounds vexingly strenuous. And sweaty. Is it…very sweaty?”

  Their rattan chairs creaked in unison as they both leaned forward, eager for whatever bit of forbidden knowledge Sophia would share next. In a large gilt cage in the corner, two lovebirds fussed and flitted about.

  Sophia laughed, her eyes sparkling. “Sweaty. Hmm, well, it certainly can be.” She took after their dark-haired mother, while Daphne and Clarissa were both sunshine-and-fair like their father, the late viscount. Sophia had married the Duke of Claxton two summers ago. “But only when it’s especially good.”

  The three of them fell into another round of stifled giggles. They could have shut the door, but knew from collective experience that nothing would draw their mother’s suspicion more quickly than that. They sat around a narrow table, surrounded by lists and envelopes and various tea accoutrements, addressing engraved invitations to Daphne’s debut ball, to be held in two weeks’ time.

  Utterly flustered, Daphne scrutinized her portion of the list. The Ns. Wasn’t that where she’d left off? She attempted to compare the names on her list against those she’d already written out, to be certain no one had been omitted, but her mind couldn’t seem to make sense of things. Sophia’s wicked revelations had scrambled her thoughts!

  “No wonder mothers wait until the morning before the wedding to have the talk,” Clarissa said, with a dramatic wave of her ostrich quill. Yesterday, while out shopping on Bond Street, they’d each purchased one, dyed in a luxurious shade of emerald, peacock, and, in Clarissa’s instance, scarlet, certain such decadent writing implements would make the dreaded task of writing five hundred invitations pass all the more quickly. “If we all realized our fate, none of us would ever agree to a season. Daphne, can you imagine granting such liberties to your Lord Rackmorton—”

  Daphne grimaced at the mention of the named gentleman, who of late always presented himself at her side and remained there as if he owned her, glowering at any other man who approached. He had sent her roses the day before, and the day before that, which made her exceedingly uncomfortable despite her mother’s assurances that she would receive flowers from many gentlemen this season.

  “He is not my Lord Rackmorton.” She rocked the blotter across the envelope she’d just addressed. “I have not encouraged him in the least, and do not intend to do so.”

  “Good, because I don’t like him,” said Sophia, placing another envelope on the stack, flap open. On Friday, two of the footmen would finish them all with the earl’s distinctive green wax seal. “Not one little bit. He has cold eyes, and I swear I caught him staring at your bosoms more than once.”

  “I thought I was the only one who noticed,” Clarissa sniffed. “I also overheard him being rather cruel to one of Lord Bignall’s footmen at the end of the evening when his hat and coat were returned. Can you believe he accused him of holding the hat too tightly and smudging its brim? Why, he threatened to speak to Bignall and have the poor fellow dismissed, and I do believe he would have followed through, except…well, let’s just say that Daphne entered the foyer, and that the footman has her bosoms, and the distraction they provided, to thank for his continued employment.”

  Daphne sighed heavily. “I just knew he was a cretin.”

  For any young woman tasked with finding a match, the challenge of distinguishing a potential husband from a terrible mistake could be disconcerting. What a relief she had no intention of ever marrying.

  She’d even gone so far as to officially inform her family, because everyone knew the London season was above all a marriage mart, and her conscience wouldn’t allow her to proceed under false pretenses. Her grandfather and mother had told her not to be rash and to keep her mind open to possibilities—and most of all, to enjoy her debut season. Her sisters just pretended as if she’d never said the words, and they looked amused whenever she reinforced her decision.

  None of them had taken her seriously, of course, and they thought she was just being skittish about standing upon the precipice of womanhood. But eventually they would come to accept the finality of her decision, the same way she had. They just needed time to understand the person she’d become. Not wanting to hurt their feelings or worry them, she’d done as they encouraged her to do—and yes, she’d gotten caught up in the excitement, which truly made her very happy, because in the end how could she disappoint Clarissa?

  Since their days in the nursery, they had dreamed of a season together and delightedly planned every last detail a thousand times over. It would break her sister’s heart if they didn’t partake in all the festivities together. Not only that, but Lady Margaretta had privately begged for Daphne’s assistance in watching over the wildly romantic Clarissa, who she feared would lose her heart to the first determined scoundrel who paid her court. London abounded with them, men consumed with personal ambition—Rackmorton being a prime example, more eager to wed to increase his wealth and political connections than for any care of a young woman’s heart. But Clarissa saw right through him, which gave Daphne renewed hope for her sister’s future.

  Sophia reached for another card. “Clarissa and I weren’t the only ones who noticed Lord Rackmorton ogling you, Daphne. Claxton was prepared to call His Lordship out over it last night, but I calmed him, saying any uproar would only embarrass you, rather than the culprit. I hope I wasn’t wrong to intervene.”

  “No, you weren’t. I’d have told His Grace the same.” Daphne sighed, still pleased to hear of the duke’s concern. “Claxton is such a dear.”

  Indeed, Claxton treated their sister like a queen, and spoiled her and Clarissa with the sweetest of brotherly affections. To think they’d all been two seconds from murdering him just last year. Which made the whole subject of men even more confusing, because if Claxton had undergone such a transformation, couldn’t others? Still, she didn’t believe Lord Rackmorton was at all salvageable. She certainly wouldn’t choose him for Clarissa.

  “Claxton is indeed a dear,” Clarissa
agreed. “But Lord Rackmorton is a toad. And yet by the opinion makers of the ton he is considered to be a highly prized catch. I think we all know why.” Her eyes narrowed in discernment.

  “He is very rich,” murmured Sophia, dipping her blue quill into the indigo. “And connected.”

  “Handsome is as handsome has,” Daphne declared wryly.

  The youngest Bevington harrumphed. “How many times have we heard that ridiculous statement, as if all that matters is a man’s title and fortune?” She chuckled. “Those awful Aimsley sisters are clearly in agreement. Every time Lord Rackmorton speaks to you, Daphne, they both turn crocodile green and grow sharp pointy teeth to match. But do you think they would want him so badly if they knew about the rest?”

  Daphne lifted her teacup. “All young ladies certainly understand that intimacies will be expected when they marry.”

  The thought of being touched by Rackmorton in the way Sophia had described just moments ago made her queasy.

  Clarissa poked her sleeve with the fluffy end of her quill. “But no one talks about the details, and that might make quite a bit of difference to some if they knew beforehand what to expect. Why, it’s wrong for us to be kept in the dark. If not for Sophia thinking it proper to share with us, we’d have no idea of the wild passions that may very well ensue during those private times…the heat and nakedness, and all the touching and squeezing and the…the…”

  Her mouth worked to produce another word.

  “Turgidity?” Sophia calmly supplied, her green eyes bright with mischief. She, too, glanced toward the door.

  “Tur—tur—GIDity!” Daphne sputtered, half-choking.

  Her sisters must have conjured much the same images, because their faces contorted with mirth.

  “Yes! The turgidity!” exclaimed Clarissa, the flush on her cheeks darkening from pink to scarlet. “Why, I had no idea.”

  “I’m still trying to comprehend that particular phenomenon,” Daphne blurted. She had seen nude male statues, of course, but none that depicted such an inflamed state.

  Clarissa gasped for breath. “If it’s true that male bodies transform so bizarrely—”

  “Oh, it’s true!” Sophia interjected, eyebrows raised.

  “Well, then, it’s no wonder they don’t tell us anything more.” Clarissa hovered on the edge of hilarity, lips trembling and eyes watering. “Why, if word got out, there would be anarchy in the drawing rooms of Mayfair and Belgravia.” She threw her arms wide.

  At the thought of London’s well-bred debutante population unanimously declaring revolt, Daphne’s throat closed on another sudden rush of laughter. She coughed, and coughed again, before reaching for her teacup, which she lifted to her lips.

  Sophia leaned forward in her chair, her countenance aglow. “It would be the end of civilization as we know it. Can you imagine? The streets would be jammed with curricles full of young ladies fleeing town for the safety and seclusion of the country, never to return for another assembly or musicale or ball.”

  At the idea of scores of young ladies vacating London in a wild jumble of pastel ribbons and flowered hats, Daphne gave a little yelp. Only she’d just taken that sip—

  Everything stung, from her nose to her brain.

  “Ow! I think tea came out my nose!” She planted her teacup onto its saucer, where it clattered.

  “It did,” Sophia gasped, nearly sobbing. “I saw it, you spurted. Watch out, the invitations!”

  She thrust a napkin at her, which Daphne seized to her nose.

  They all laughed until they could laugh no more.

  Clarissa collapsed back against the cushioned rattan headrest. “Sophia, now that you’ve shared these secrets from the marital boudoir, how will we ever be able to look our suitors in the eye?”

  “All I intended was a nice sisterly talk.” Sophia dabbed tears of laughter from her eyes. “How did things turn so…so…so prurient? It’s because the two of you urged me on, and coaxed me into saying things I ought never to have said.”

  “Such as the detail about you actually enjoying it?” Daphne gave her sister a wicked wink.

  “Yes!” the duchess exclaimed, wide-eyed. “That. I should never have told you.” She pressed both hands to her cheeks.

  “Claxton, that rascal, has turned you into a wanton.” Daphne sighed, then added in a quiet voice, “I can’t imagine ever actually wanting it to happen.”

  Yet her sister appeared deliriously happy. What would it be like to wake up each day in love with one’s husband? Daphne found a number of male acquaintances attractive and interesting, but no one made her feel warm and jittery and anticipatory inside. No one inspired dreams of forever. All for the best, she thought. Not everyone was meant to experience a grand love affair, or else such love affairs wouldn’t be grand at all, but common.

  “Oh, but you will,” assured Sophia, once again proving she did not accept Daphne’s self-recusal from the state of marriage. But…how could Daphne be angry when she knew Sophia only wished for her happiness?

  With a blissful sigh, Sophia eased back in her chair, looking drowsy and flush cheeked. She rested her hand on the barely visible swell of her stomach. Prurient? No, not prurient at all, because as a result of all the marital love and passion described by Sophia, in three months there would be a sweet new baby for them all to adore and spoil. “But as I said, only if you marry someone that you respect and love—”

  Daphne wouldn’t, though. She didn’t intend to ever fall in love. To one day lose a beloved spouse or a cherished child? Thank you very much, but no. She would not accept an invitation to that painful future. She had lost quite enough loved ones in her life already with the death of her brother at sea, and then her father two years later to an equine accident…one that should never have happened. Instead she would devote herself completely to her widowed mother and her elderly grandfather, for as long as life allowed, and become a favorite aunt to her sisters’ children. Truly, she wanted nothing more.

  “Of course,” Sophia concluded. “It also helps to find whomever you marry to be immensely attractive.”

  “We can’t all marry someone as handsome as His Grace,” said Clarissa, but her eyes were full of hope that she would.

  Their elder sister shook her head, her expression earnest. “I didn’t say ‘handsome.’ I said ‘attractive,’ which means something very different for all of us. You’ll see. You will. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Wait for something special to happen, because it will. And it’s worth it.” Sophia smiled and exhaled. “Oh, my dear sisters, is it ever so worth it.”

  “I’m very happy for you.” Daphne reached for her sister’s hand and squeezed. “That you and Claxton worked through your difficulties.”

  At that moment, their mother, Margaretta, Lady Harwick, appeared in the archway of the conservatory door, dressed in a meadow-green morning dress. Her eyes widened in dismay. “Daphne and Clarissa, why are you still here when I told you to watch the time? I know each of you has a perfectly accurate timepiece, because Aunt Vivian gave them to you as gifts for your last birthdays. Up, up! We leave for Lady Buckinghamshire’s in one hour.”

  Clarissa’s shoulders slumped. “Can’t we miss just one party, Mother? There will only be the same people there who we saw yesterday…and the day before.”

  Daphne knew the real reason why Clarissa wasn’t interested in attending. The night before, a certain Mr. Christopher Donelan had informed her that he had other obligations and would not be in attendance. The handsome and well-connected Mr. Donelan was Clarissa’s latest fascination—since Tuesday evening, to be precise. Before then she’d been completely enamored of the dashing Captain Musgrave, who on Tuesday afternoon had sadly lost her love when he’d bent to kiss her gloved hand with an unfortunate glob of clotted cream nestled in his tawny mustache.

  Daphne had witnessed the whole tragic incident. It didn’t matter that the poor fellow hadn’t realized his unintended faux pas. By then it was too late. The moment Musgrave’s
back was turned, Clarissa had discreetly pulled a change of gloves from her beaded reticule, and after brief soliloquy of regret shared only with Daphne, released him from her heart.

  They could be friends. Of course they could. Always! But anything more was now impossible.

  While her sister was exceedingly romantic, she also had highly idealized expectations of what an amour should be. Unfortunately for Captain Musgrave, when he had smeared Clarissa’s glove with the remnants of his tea plate, he had disqualified himself from that category forever. It wasn’t that Clarissa was shallow, not at all. Quite the opposite. It was as if she felt so intensely and too quickly, hoping to find true love, that the slightest crack in the mirror of perfection could shatter her perceptions completely. It was why their mother, and Daphne as well, feared that the wrong man could win her quickly and later, when it was too late to turn back the clock, break her heart.

  But in this moment Clarissa did speak the truth. At Lady Buckinghamshire’s Venetian breakfast—which of course wasn’t to be a breakfast at all, but an afternoon party—they would see all the same people they had seen the day before. Thus far the season had been a blur of activity, and wouldn’t it be nice to spend an afternoon at home, and to be done with the invitations, once and for all?

  Hoping to support Clarissa’s cause, Daphne added, “And Sophia and Claxton have only just returned from Belgium. We’ve barely visited with her, with all the coming and going.”

  Margaretta tilted her head and spoke with gentle authority. “Of course you can’t miss the party. Lady Buckinghamshire has taken a special interest in seeing the both of you successfully matched and wed, which I don’t have to tell either of you is quite an honor.”

  Daphne exhaled, biting her tongue, for this was just another indication no one took her declaration never to marry seriously.

  A potted red amaryllis stood on a small three-footed table beside her. Lady Margaretta plucked off a wilted bloom and dropped it into a rubbish receptacle near her feet. “It would be ill-mannered to miss her breakfast. It’s all she’s talked about for weeks. Sophia, you will stay here and recover from your travels. Mother’s orders.”