The Earl of Sunderland

by Aubrey Wynne

  “That depends on what you ask of me.” Kit enjoyed the look of challenge in her direct gaze. Where had the doe-eyed girl gone from this morning? This woman would be a formidable opponent in anything she set her mind to.

  “You will need to apply the salve twice a day, in the evening before you retire and when you rise in the morning.”

  “Consider me a willing patient.” His tone was low, meant only for her ears. “Especially if you apply it for me.” The pink creeping up her face made him grin, but her words hid any embarrassment.

  “I believe Mrs. Whitten might still box your ears if you act untoward.” A mumble of agreement sounded from behind them. “Do not think because of our close quarters, you may act with any kind of familiarity, sir.”

  He flinched as she applied the fresh compress with unnecessary force. She had certainly put him in his place. But her next words had him grinning again.

  “No matter how handsome or charming you may be.”

  Kit suspected Lady Grace might be the best cure for what ailed him.

  Chapter 10

  “I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle.”

  Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

  Mid July 1815

  Grace dressed quickly and smoothed the chemise over her hips. She wrinkled her nose at the corset but slipped it on. With a skilled hand, she reached behind, yanked the ties in the middle, and then pulled the strings at the bottom. Her maid would tighten it properly when she dressed for breakfast. The poor thing had been appalled to learn Grace had dressed herself the first morning. She’d learned to do a passable job around thirteen when she began her early morning forays. With the bodiced petticoat, silk stockings, and garters in place, she donned her pale yellow morning dress. The white lace trim on the neck and sleeves was wearing thin but no one would see her at this hour.

  A routine had been established in the last week. As always, Grace rose between six and half past. She would peek in Sammy’s room then take the narrow back stairs, wander several hallways, another set of stairs, and find herself in the kitchen. The gardens just beyond were peaceful and smelled heavenly. The fresh morning dew sparkled silver on the leaves, accentuating the yellow, pink, and red petals that were in bloom. She stopped by the herb plot, ran her fingers over the rosemary, and held them to her nose. The pine and lemon scent tickled her nostrils as she looked beyond the gardens to the rolling hills beyond.

  Twice this week, she had seen Lord Sunderland on his great black horse, far off in the distance, cantering up a hill or into the woods. His tall form, dark in his mourning coat, stood out against the stark white trunks of the silver birch that mingled with towering oaks. The fact he rose even earlier than she made her smile for some reason. Though, the man himself seems to have made it his mission to make me smile, she thought as she absently rubbed the soft green needles again.

  “Rosemary is for remembrance,

  Between us day and night.

  Wishing that I may always,

  Have you present in my sight.”

  Grace’s hand froze midway to her nose. Her stomach fluttered as the sultry voice dripped over her. Without turning to face him, she replied with a quick wit,

  “And when I cannot have

  As I have said before,

  Then Cupid, with his deadly dart,

  Doth wound my heart full sore.”

  “Do you often surprise gentlewomen strolling alone in the garden, my lord?” How could she have not felt his approach? His presence was almost overpowering. Her skin prickled, and she resisted the urge to rub her bare arms.

  “Only the most beautiful of women, Lady Grace.” He stepped in front of her and bowed. “I do apologize if I frightened you. So do you believe in the power of rosemary?”

  “For memory? I don’t know, but the poem is lovely. A medieval ballad, isn’t it?” She looked at him under the cover of her long lashes. So handsome. His eye had healed completely, not even a faint bruise remained. “You don’t seem the poetic type, Lord Sunderland.”

  “My mother taught me that one when I was young. Yes, I do enjoy a well-written line. You might find I’m full of surprises if you get to know me, my lady.”

  Had he just thrown down a gauntlet? How she loved a challenge. “If you are staying the length of my visit, I will do my best. But for now”—she looked around, realizing they were alone—“I must take my leave before someone thinks we arranged a tryst.”

  With a bow, he bid her good morning. “I shall see you later today then.”

  With a brisk stride, Grace hurried up the path. There was no one but their own families present, but servants could be just as bad with gossip. Papa would be mortified if he thought she was alone in the garden with an eligible bachelor. Or he’d turn a blind eye and cross his fingers.

  During a game of Loo a few evenings past, her father had asked the earl what his plans were if Eliza had a boy. Sunderland had shrugged. He would return to a military career unless his father needed him. That had led to a discussion of politics, and in turn, Bonaparte and Wellington. Halfway through a discourse of the French rise and ultimate fall, Sunderland paused and begged pardon from the ladies for the dull conversation.

  “Nonsense!” Papa’s voice had boomed across the room. “It’s only our two families, and I often discuss current events with my daughter. She’s quite astute, you know.”

  The pounding of her heart had echoed through her core as Sunderland regarded her. “I have no doubt,” had been his only reply, but his eyes had gleamed with humor.

  While the evenings might have been sedate compared to London entertainment, she found herself looking forward to the nightly games in the drawing room. Lady Falsbury was a wicked whist player. Her stoic face never showed her hand until she giggled with glee and took the pot. Eliza played the piano while Grace joined in with lyrics. Sammy would lend his clear, high voice and bow formally afterwards, as if he’d performed on stage. There was no dancing, of course, since the hosts were in mourning. She didn’t mind. The company was wonderful and such a change from the usual book or embroidery in front of the fire. By the end of week, Eliza’s color had returned, and both women were having a splendid visit.

  One evening after dinner, the ladies were enjoying tea. Lady Falsbury and Eliza both had their heads bent over their needlework when the men joined them.

  “I must say, when these color patterns first came out, I thought it silly,” commented the marchioness. “But the weaker my eyes become, the more I appreciate not squinting to see the color. The headaches it can give one.”

  “The stitches are very small. I cannot wait to see these tiny boots on the baby.” Eliza rubbed her stomach with a contented smile. “My mother is sending me scraps of material from her dresses and scraps of clothing from my childhood to make her a quilt.”

  “To make him a quilt. That will be an excellent project for cooler weather,” agreed her mother-in-law.

  Grace didn’t have the patience for needlework, though she blustered through when necessary. She hated to sit without some type of activity and last night had finished The Corsair by Lord Byron. “Papa, would you care to play a game of Spillikins?”

  He shook his head and patted his belly. “I fear after such a good dinner and fine port, I’m enjoying a sedentary activity, watching these fine ladies at work.”

  “A walk around the room, Lady Grace? I also find myself loath to sit,” asked Lord Sunderland. He stood and offered his right elbow.

  Grace rose and placed her hand in the crook. Her eyes widened when he pulled his arm closer to his body. Without thought, her hand tightened. When she looked up, his brown eyes darkened as he smiled. They sauntered down the long room, making pleasantries about the day’s weather. The length of the space allowed for quiet discussion without being overheard. After a turnabout, Grace took a deep breath and blurted out what had been on her mind.

  “It was kind of you to allow Eliza to use your given name. Under the circumstances, I can
understand how the use of your title might be disconcerting.”

  “A small enough gesture. She was devastated, you know. That may have been one reason I offered. Her grief was sincere, and I imagine looking into the twin of your dead husband would be alarming enough. My father was not pleased but then he rarely is.” He looked down, considering her. “Do you disapprove?”

  “While I believe in protocol for many things, this situation is not one of them. It was a thoughtful token that eased her pain,” she explained. “I cannot disapprove of that.”

  “Are you enjoying your visit so far?” They passed the others as they looped around the room. Eliza grinned at her, her eyebrows raised.

  “Indeed, sir. Falsbury is stately, yet provokes the imagination.” Grace loved this old castle. The unexpected hiding places in dark passages, ancient stones, and narrow winding stairs.

  “Let me guess, the turrets and arrow slits have you fancying kings and queens with their banners, knights in battle, all the medieval romantic notions,” he said.

  “I hate to sound a bore, but I can’t imagine war being romantic.” He did not respond at first. She peeked at him under her lashes and he halted. His gaze locked with hers, the pain evident in his eyes. “No, I can see it was not.”

  “I don’t think I could ever describe the true horror of battle. The sounds, the smells, the wrenching of one’s soul when another life is taken.” His face paled. “The aftermath may be even worse than the actual killing.”

  The agony on his face shocked her. He stood there, looking at her but not seeing her. His mind was in a terrible place, caught in a poignant memory. Grace wanted to hold him, comfort him, murmur soft words that the terror would fade. But she could not play him false. He deserved better than that, so she only stood quietly with a slight smile and waited for him to come back. His head jerked, his eyes focusing on her face. With a slight pressure on his arm, she stepped forward and they resumed their pace.

  “You make a fine figure on a horse. I would like to see you on a white steed, my lord,” she remarked, hoping to pull him from his wretched thoughts.

  “And you, my lady, make a fine figure at any time and any place.” He bowed, his previous humor returning. “I see you were reading Byron. A fan like most of the young ladies, I presume?”

  With a giggle, she shook her head. “I do enjoy his prose. However, I do not carry his portrait in a locket so I may look at him and swoon. And yes, I have seen it happen.”

  “I am cheered you are not jingle-brained, Lady Grace. In the military there are two kind of women, and neither are fatwits.” He seemed to consider her. “I believe you would fare well as a soldier’s wife.”

  “I believe that is a compliment. Why do you think so?”

  “It is a different strain of female that will follow her husband to war. Not that they don’t bring along fineries, or make friends in nearby cities and attend events, for that is all a needed distraction from the real issue.”

  She waited until they had once again passed her father and the ladies. “Which is?”

  “The reason such women come along is to know what happened. They want the last word, the last look, the last kiss they can steal from fate before their husbands raise sword and pistol and charge against the enemy. I’ve seen wives follow their men into the fray.” He gave her a mischievous smirk. “I believe you might have been that sort of woman.”

  “Oh my. Pistol waving above my head, screaming to stand down or face my fury.” Grace rolled her eyes. “I’m sure I would have been a terror.”

  “Perhaps not, but you have the strength and courage for the job.”

  His words filled her with pride. She enjoyed this man, and worried for him. Papa had always said a man never knows the effects of war until he has come home. She wondered what ghosts chased Lord Sunderland.

  Grace and the earl continued their evening strolls, in either the drawing room or the garden on cooler nights, discussing current events and politics, literature and music. Perhaps there was no harm in some mild flirtation with the earl. Eliza praised him as considerate and understanding. “And as handsome as Lord Byron if not as poetic.”

  Papa had noticed their mutual appreciation. If he thought there was a possibility of a match between them, would he not drop the subject of suitors, at least until Eliza gave birth? If Eliza had a son and heir, Sunderland would probably return to his old life and she would return to hers. They could both go their own ways, no harm done.

  But if she had a girl? The earl would be forced to marry just as his brother had. Did he consider her a prospect? If she did have to marry someone, he would indeed be a good candidate. Her body heated at the thought of his intimate touch, his fingers stroking her skin, his lips trailing hot kisses along her neck and finally claiming…

  “Grace! Have you heard a word I’ve said?” Eliza asked sharply. “You’re wearing the most ridiculous expression.”

  She jumped, guilty at the scandalous thoughts running through her mind. “My mind was elsewhere.”

  “On Kit, I would wager. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way his eyes light up when you enter a room, or the pink in your cheeks when he teases you.” Eliza linked arms and pulled her from the library. “With all your common sense, you were blushing this morning at breakfast when he said your morning dress brought out the gold flecks in your green eyes.”

  “It was only flummery,” she mumbled.

  “I didn’t warrant any compliments,” Eliza argued. “Oh cousin, do you think a match is possible? He is such a good fellow. How many men would be so kind to a woman who might steal their title from them in a few short months? Never a harsh word, always asking about the baby and my health.”

  “I’m happy you’ve found a better life,” Grace said, giving her a squeeze as they ambled down the hall. “And I admit I enjoy the attention. For the first time in my life, I understand why girls swoon and whisper about this man or that. But I still have no desire to marry.”

  “Gracie, how can you say that when your parents were so devoted to each other?”

  “Where did it get my mother? Do you remember what my father went through when she died?” She shook her head, her lips pressed together. “And I could never leave Sammy. Papa would be devastated without me to run the house. He’s just worried about my future.”

  “Or his. He might marry again.”

  Eliza couldn’t have hurt her more with a knife to the heart. “What? Do you think he wants another wife?”

  Her cousin stopped and placed a hand on Grace’s cheek. “He’s still a handsome man and in good health. Why should he be alone when he has so much more to give?”

  Grace was horrified. It had never occurred to her that her father might consider remarrying. Is that why he was so adamant to find a match? Her world tilted as she mulled the possibility. How selfish she had been. Everyone’s life did not revolve around her, but her world revolved around them. She had made sure of that, so another kind of existence would never tempt her. And love would never rule her heart. “Sammy would have a real mother, not a sister usurping the role.” Tears pricked her eyes. “I’m afraid my ego has blinded me when it comes to my family.”

  “No, no. They love you, Gracie. Where would they have been without you the past five years? But we grow and change and move on, don’t we? That’s no one’s fault, it’s just life.”

  “I suppose.” How could she tell Eliza that she also feared childbirth? It might frighten her cousin and harm the baby. “Let’s enjoy our visit together for now and worry about the rest later. Agreed?”

  “Agreed. Now, let’s find Sammy and give your father a reprieve until dinner.”

  They found Sammy and Papa out on the lawn, playing Battledore and Shuttlecock. Eliza clapped as they batted the shuttlecock back and forth between the paddles. “Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three,” she cried. “The last time I tried this, my partner and I couldn’t keep it up more than three or four passes.”

  Lord Bolon stretched toward the gr
ound to save the weighted feathers, his strike somewhat haphazard but successful. Sammy jumped as high as he could and missed. “Ha! You spoke too soon, Eliza my dear.” He waved his paddle. “Another go, son?”

  Grace watched the two of them as they played. Her father had hung his coat on a branch of a nearby Rowan tree, his light brown hair darkened by sweat. He moved like a younger man, his face alight with pleasure as he swung the battledore up. Her mind wandered back to the earlier conversation. The Earl of Boldon was a passionate, vibrant aristocrat with lands and wealth. Why hadn’t it occurred to her he might love again? The knot in her stomach stretched and tightened. Marriage was not an unreasonable expectation for any daughter. She enjoyed dancing and light flirtation, not that she’d had much experience with the latter. The social events within ames-ace of Boldon were somewhat limited but country dances were popular. Many were held on their own estate.

  Her life would be so different, wouldn’t it? She had grown used to her independence. Papa never questioned her expenditures; in fact, she kept the household books. A husband would expect her to be obedient and mind her words. She could never act like one of those dimwitted debutantes, always in agreement with the man, their eyes cast downward. Nor could she be one of the brazen girls who openly trifled with men and quickly earned a reputation.

  Sammy fulfilled her maternal longings. She couldn’t imagine not seeing her brother every day. Even if her father didn’t need her, Sammy would be heartbroken. And would a second wife want to raise another woman’s child? Stop it! She scolded herself. Who could not become attached to that little boy? Take off the blinders and stop making excuses.

  “Do you play, Lady Grace?”

  She closed her eyes, his breath warm against her temple. The winged creatures took flight in her belly again. How did he manage to keep slipping up beside her without notice? “Yes, I’m rather good. And you?”