The Earl of Sunderland

by Aubrey Wynne

  “No, I suppose not, but it was my lame attempt at conversation with the second loveliest woman at the wedding celebration.”

  It took a moment for his words to reach her brain as they turned and joined a new set of dancers. They separated again and when she returned to him, he was smiling. Her breath quickened as he spun her around. “You tease me, sir. It is not gallant of you.”

  “I do not tease, Lady Grace. It is not in my nature.” He opened his mouth as if to expand on his nature then stopped. Another twirl and he began again, the smile gone. “Are you enjoying your stay?”

  “I did not come for pleasure. That is, I only came to give my support—er, assist my cousin with the wedding. She has no siblings, as you know”—the women moved around the men and came back to their partners—“and she wanted someone close to her own age during the preparations.” The couples came together and back out.

  “Will you be staying in London long?”

  “No, my mother died several years ago, and I am needed on my father’s estate. My brother is only four and…”

  They split and each moved around the opposite couple. When they were side by side, he picked up where they had left off. “You miss him.”

  Grace nodded as he twirled her again, surprised at his understanding. “I have never left him before. Never spent a night away from him. I suppose it is how a mother feels the first time she leaves her children.”

  He twirled her and bent close. “Do you enjoy your role as Lady Boldon?”

  His curiosity made her smile and put her at ease. “Yes, I prefer to stay busy and productive.” She circled around him. “There is plenty to do on the Boldon estates.”

  “A woman stimulated by knowledge. Lovely and clever, a rare combination.” He stepped gracefully around her and the other woman of the square.

  “And are you enjoying your reprieve from the war, now that Bonaparte is exiled in Elba?” Grace had heard of the lieutenant colonel’s fearless reputation on the battlefield. “Do you miss the excitement?”

  “No, combat is not a pleasant pastime for me. I miss the regiment and my men, though.” He turned her around, and they progressed again to the next group.

  “So you will return to your duties?”

  “As soon as possible. It is my preferred career choice. I appreciate the organization and logic of the military. We are of a like mind.” He chuckled as the couples came together. “London and its society bore me. I also like to be productive.”

  “We have something in common.”

  “I prefer a world with order, a protocol to follow. Perhaps I’m a skeptic who has seen too much of the world.” He stared at her with eyes the color of the chocolate her mother used to drink. They met and parted again. A slight smile still turned up his lips, and she felt bared, as if he was looking into her soul and liked what he saw.

  “Perhaps you are also a rare combination of handsomeness and honesty.” Her wit had returned, and she found herself enjoying his company. The song came to an end, and he bowed.

  “Lady Grace, may I be blunt?”

  “Since we’ve come to know each other so well,” she answered with a smirk, studying him from beneath her lashes. He had piqued her interest. “Please, speak your mind.”

  “My brother has his faults. He drinks too much, gambles but not too heavily, and never takes the blame for a catastrophe, large or small, regardless of his part in it. However, he does not have a spiteful bone in his body and will never, never cause injury to a lady.” He paused then continued with a slight nod of his head, “I thought you might like to know.”

  The sun slanted through a window, the bright rays setting fire to his red uniform and making the gold bars across the front glitter. Her heart swelled as she took in his meaning. He knew. He knew about her uncle and wanted to offer some reassurance, some mode of comfort to Eliza on her wedding day. Tears pricked the back of her eyes, and she blinked quickly before meeting his gaze again.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, hearing the hope in her voice. “I am very glad to know that.”

  “May you have a safe and swift journey home. It has truly been a pleasure, Lady Grace.” He smiled down at her. A dazzling but sincere smile, showing perfect white teeth that made his tanned skin seem even darker. She shivered, not sure if it was from the heat that rippled over her skin or the improper thoughts that flooded her brain.

  “Yes, indeed it has, my lord. May we meet again, someday.” And as Lieutenant Colonel Roker walked away, his powerful stride demanding notice, she hoped they would.

  Chapter 2

  “Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised or a little mistaken.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  Late March 1815

  Boldon Estate, northern England

  The sound of hoofbeats distracted Grace as she collected a bouquet of pink columbine, yellow daffodils, and snow crocus. The purple and white lilacs would soon bloom and fill the air with the delicious sweet scent of spring. She gathered the lace shawl around her neck, clutched the calico skirt, and hurried toward the terrace steps. Sunlight slanted over the ashen stone of Boldon, casting shadows over the back of the elegant country home. The mansion loomed above her, imposing in its precise symmetry and size. The shade muted the colorful rows of sash windows set in boxes flush with the brickwork. Passing through gardens, she made a mental note to add several herbs to the kitchen plots this year. She smiled and blew at the curl that escaped her bonnet. These months before summer were her favorite, snips of green buds, the scent of amaryllis heavy in the air, petunias pushing up through the earth. New life, new beginnings. And she was hoping for both, or at least a reprieve, after she had a conversation with Papa this afternoon. The thought of being trapped in London when Boldon was so beautiful this time of year…

  A horse and rider galloped through the gate. No great coat or cape billowed behind him in the breeze, so she assumed it was a local from the village. There might be correspondence from Eliza. If the visitor was not a post-boy, she could change quickly. The worn chintz was more appropriate for early morning forages than visitors. Not that anyone of status ever arrived unannounced this early. It amused her that morning calls lasted until dinner, when the afternoon sun was already leaning toward the west. Always an early riser, Grace considered half the day gone by the time London society had their breakfast at ten.

  As she entered the main hall, Samuel came sliding down the banister from the second floor. “Woohoo, look at me,” exclaimed the five-year-old. He unceremoniously plopped onto the rug and looked up at his sister with a grin and a mischievous gleam in his golden brown eyes. “Mrs. Woolley finds the best wax. I must thank her.”

  “Samuel, I have asked you a thousand times to stop that. What if you fell? Papa would be devastated.”

  “And you would cry until this mansion floated away, Gracie. You love me more than life itself. You say so all the time.” He pulled his knickers back over his knees and moved over to make room for Grace on the third stair.

  “Yes, I would indeed cry a river if I lost my sweet brother.” She pushed a lock of soft brown hair away from his eyes and kissed the top of his head. He was a replica of his father. “But that does not mean you can run rampant through the estate and cause havoc in your wake.”

  “How did I manage to raise such dramatic children?” chuckled Lord Boldon. He leaned against the doorframe of the library in only his waistcoast and trousers, observing his offspring. “Tell me such theatrics were inherited from your mother.”

  “Papa, eavesdropping is impolite,” scolded Grace indignantly.

  “A man does not eavesdrop in his own house. Anything that goes on under this roof is my business.” He folded his arms across his chest as if to drive the point home. “I hate to impose on this touching moment between brother and sister, but we need to finish our discussion, Gracie. My plans have changed for this afternoon, and I need to go into the village.”


  She bit her lip, his stern tone giving her pause. But her solution was logical and best for everyone, so he must agree. At least it would buy her a little time. “Yes, Papa. Let me give Mrs. Woolley instructions on dinner this evening, and I’ll be right in.”

  “Ten minutes. I will not be put off again.”

  She gave a silent sigh. Her father would be adamant about her coming out. If he would just hear her out, the compromise would be better for all of them. Oh, why was life so complicated? Why did he believe a husband would make her happier than she already was?

  “Did the post arrive while I was walking?” She handed the flowers to the housekeeper, who appeared from behind the stairs. “Please make sure Master Samuel at least consumes an egg for breakfast. He cannot survive on the worms he tried to eat yesterday.”

  “If you were lost in the jungle and hadn’t eaten in days, you would gladly try a worm.” He crossed his arms, the spitting image of his father, and glared at her. “Girls don’t understand adventure and survival.”

  “Papa, we may need a new tutor. I’m not sure I like this emerging attitude.” She frowned as her father’s shoulders shook slightly, and Sammy hid his face. “What? What is so amusing?”

  “Really, my darling girl, you cannot blame Mr. Chenwick.” He laughed now, wiping the corner of one eye. “Did you truly think Samuel would eat a worm?”

  “I tricked you! I only pretended to eat it,” cried Sammy, throwing his arms around her waist. “Papa is taking me fishing at dusk, you goose. That’s when the pond fish bite the best. They are for the fish to eat, not me!”

  Both Grace and Mrs. Woolley shared an exasperated glance and shook their heads. “Well, I’m much relieved to hear it. Now off with you. No studies, no fishing. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He skipped down the hall and turned left into the dining room. His high-pitched voice made Grace smile as he instructed the housekeeper on what kind of jam should be on his biscuit.

  One male Beaumont content, one to go, Grace thought as she followed her father into the library. He handed her a letter, Eliza’s flowing script on the outside. “Oh, I do hope there is good news.”

  “As in an heir?”

  Grace felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “Yes, Papa. It’s been almost a year since they were married. She has prayed and prayed for a child.”

  “It takes more than prayer to produce an heir.” Lord Boldon ran a hand over his face. “I apologize, daughter. I’m afraid these long bouts in the country make me forget my manners. But then you look so much like your mother. And there was never anything we could not say to each other in private.”

  The sadness in his eyes had not diminished whenever he spoke of his late wife. There had been many dark days after her death. Grace had taken on the responsibilities of the house and dealt with her grief as well as the household servants. Her father had sunk into darkness, retreating to his rooms, refusing to see anyone except his children. He held his infant son, cried for the loss of his beloved wife, ranted at the injustice of a god who would take her away. When his tears soaked the swaddling blanket, Grace would retrieve the baby and cajole her father into eating a morsel or two. It took weeks to lure him from his cave of mourning. Once out, his inherent optimism returned, and the wheels of life turned slowly once again. His smile came easier, followed by laughter. That single sound had been the balm she herself had needed to heal.

  Lady Boldon had known they would lean heavily on each other. And over the past five years, father and daughter had grown so close they could share almost anything. They had become confidantes of a sort, trying to fill the void of wife and mother for each other in some small way. Grace, however, had been more successful in assuming a maternal role than her father, walking the fine line of affection and discipline with Samuel. It was not always easy telling him no, but it was necessary. She had seen the results of overindulged heirs in London. Arrogant, thoughtless, and selfish. Her cousin Eliza had been forced to marry one such man. Samuel would grow into a kind and generous man if it killed her. An image of herself as a white-haired old lady, shaking her finger from the grave, flashed into her mind. That made her grin.

  “What do you find amusing?” her father’s question brought her back to the present dilemma.

  “That you have brought this on all yourself, Papa. I am what you shaped me to be—proud and independent.” Her chin went up, her shoulders set. “You allowed me so much freedom, as if I were the lady of the house. Perhaps I would be more eager for a husband if I had not tasted such liberty.”

  “Don’t put the blame on me. The guilt ruse worked for the first two seasons, and I won’t hear of it again. We are already late getting to London.” He sat on the edge of the huge oak desk and indicated the chair in front of him. “Sit please, so you can’t escape so easily. We must look to the future. What will happen to you when Samuel comes of age and marries? This arrangement is fine for now, but his wife will eventually be Lady Boldon. Where will that leave you? I cannot imagine my beautiful, intelligent daughter a spinster living in the west wing.”

  She sat with a huff and a frown. “I have a plan.”

  “Of course you do, my dear.” He looked at her expectantly. “And what, pray tell, are you scheming now?”

  She tried to look indignant, but the grin would not be contained. He knew her too well. “Eliza’s last letter invited us to Falsbury Castle this summer before they move on to Brighton. Or were they going to Sanditon this year? I thought perhaps instead of a season in that horrid city, we could spend a month or so in the country. Eliza’s mother-in-law, Lady Falsbury, is known for her social gatherings there. Everyone who is anyone waits for an invitation from the marchioness.”

  Lord Boldon opened his mouth to argue but she curled her fingers around his hand. “I daresay I’ll meet just as many eligible bachelors there as I would at Hyde Park or Almack’s.” This last was said with a wrinkling of her nose. “I hate crowds, and the social events in the country are so much more manageable. Please, Papa?”

  Her father drummed his fingers on the desk as he studied the Turkish rug under his polished boots. “So the argument is no longer marriage but the procedure of finding a husband?”

  Grace chewed her lip and nodded once. A tiny, miniscule piece of guilt lodged in her throat from the fib. “You promised you would not force me into marriage. And I truly believe those fanciful, frilly gentlemen I met the last time we were in London would never suit me.” She peered up her father through thick dark lashes. “I need to find a man who is practical, more salt of the earth. A man like you, Papa.”

  His chest expanded slightly, a smile brightening his face. “Well, that may be a tall order. But, er, yes. You do not need a dandy for a husband. I quite agree. We’ll look for someone who doesn’t mind rolling his shirt sleeves up and has more than a passing interest in the operation of his estates.”

  “We?” Unease poked at her confidence.

  “Gracie, I love you with all of my heart. But if I do not take an active role in this pursuit, I will be dead and buried before your banns are read. Now, I will agree to the summer visit under one condition.”

  The same unease now wound around her lungs and squeezed. “Yes?”

  “If we do not find a candidate at Falsbury Castle, you will go to London and stay with friends in September. Agreed?”

  She focused on the gold swirls in the carpet pattern, her mind racing. If she could convince her father that someone had sparked her interest, London might be avoided. Grace would set her mind to the first task once they arrived, and find a man who seemed to fit the bill. The rest would come to her, she was sure.

  “Of course, Papa,” she agreed with a dazzling smile. “Your benevolence is more than I deserve.”

  Let him think he won. Rising with the composure modeled by her mother, she kissed her father on the cheek and moved to the door. Just as she escaped over the threshold, his words smacked her in the back of the head.

  “I know your mothe
r always thought her feminine charms beguiled me. But beware, daughter, I have devices of my own.”

  Chapter 3

  “Believe me, nothing except a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won.”

  The Duke of Wellington, letter from the field of Waterloo

  June 17, 1815

  Mont St. Jean, near Waterloo

  Kit let the slow drip, drip, drip lull him, as a puddle formed near his head. Sleep was his top priority tonight, even while battle plans crowded his brain. The rain continued its patter against the tent walls. A thin sheen of moisture seeped through the rough material. He rolled onto his side, his bed at home once again a prized possession compared to the lumpy mattress that provided scant protection from the cold, damp ground. The stale straw and mold would soon be replaced by the sickening sweet smell of blood.

  They would fight the French tomorrow. Again. Men would die. Would he be among them? Was this the cause of his anxiety? Fear had never afflicted him before a battle. Now a colonel with years of experience behind him, engaging the enemy still brought on thoughts of mortality but never this eerie foreboding. Fingers of dread scratched up his spine; the knot in his belly pulled tight.

  Bonaparte had escaped Elba and retaken Paris. As the new French army multiplied, British Field Marshall, the Duke of Wellington, ordered troops back to Belgium. While waiting in Brussels, the lovely Duchess of Richmond had asked her husband to host a ball as a distraction from the upcoming conflict. Wellington agreed it would be good for morale, and the officers cheerfully attended. The event was a success until a messenger brought news the French had crossed the border and were making their way to Brussels. Kit had heard the duke ask his host for a good map and knew the evening would not end well.