The Earl Is Mine

by Kieran Kramer

  “As I was saying, Lady Damara”—Gregory’s tone was muted but polite—“shall we dine?”

  “La, I never eat,” Lady Damara said with a pretty sigh.

  Pippa hated her.

  “Especially sweets,” Lady Damara added.

  Pippa hated her all the more.

  But like a good servant, she kept her eyes averted when the couple glided by her. It was maddening, truly, for she longed to toss Gregory a scornful glance to let him know that she didn’t care: He could fall in love with the wily, undernourished Lady Damara. He could have a wicked liaison with her, too.

  Pippa had more important concerns to worry about than what Gregory did with his time—her own future was at stake. Every second that passed made her long more and more to leave this blasted house party, where she’d be forced to watch Lady Damara work her charms on the Earl of Westdale.

  She walked to her designated corner and did her best to sit meekly down, succumbing only briefly to the temptation to cast a highly disapproving glance at Gregory’s back at the sideboard. Lady Damara’s shoulder was touching his upper arm.

  The woman was such a hussy!

  Or perhaps it was that there was no room to spread out. Yes, that must be it. A footman had come in with another hot dish and was busy situating it on the sideboard, and when he’d finished, he withdrew.

  Pippa breathed a sigh of relief when, instantly, Gregory moved over to increase the space between him and Lady Damara, who picked up a grape from a bowl of fruit and popped it in her mouth.

  “How rude of me,” she said. Yes, it was, Pippa agreed. “But I simply couldn’t resist. They’re at the peak of ripeness. Do try one, Westdale.”

  And she held up a plump, juicy grape.

  Pippa found herself riveted to the scene, her own mouth hanging open in horror. But she slammed it shut when Lady Damara actually pushed the grape into Gregory’s mouth, allowing her fingertips to caress his lips while she held it there. And she wouldn’t let go—not until he bit the grape in half.

  No, thought Pippa. No, no, no!

  Lady Damara’s lilting queen of the fairies laugh rang out. “We’re like Zeus and Hera. I could feed you all day long and never tire of it.”

  Gregory mumbled something unintelligible in return, and when he turned around to carry his plate to his seat, Pippa couldn’t help herself.

  She sent him her best death stare.

  She’d only done it once before, and that was when she was fourteen and he’d been nineteen. On the night of Uncle Bertie’s birthday dinner, he’d brought her a book of poems by Shelley and said, “No doubt your young girl’s heart must be pining away for the man. My stepsisters are constantly sighing over his poetry. You have that treacly look about you right now.”

  And everyone at the table had laughed.

  Well, she’d been practicing for weeks how to look at him at the table to tell him with her eyes that she loved him! It had nothing to do with Shelley, that look—it had been about him. And then he’d made fun of her!

  Treacly, indeed.

  And now that same look came back to her, but tenfold, because she was furious at herself in a way she hadn’t been when she was fourteen. He’d told her he was to be avoided. Why did she keep ignoring her head? And as for her heart, it was firmly committed to following her dreams. Mother’s sad face flashed before her eyes. In the space of two husbands, she’d changed completely, from a fabulous actress to a shy rabbit.

  No man would keep Pippa from her dreams.

  Gregory’s expression, when he caught her gaze, was inscrutable.

  Damn him.

  She’d like to put his Irish self into that doggy cottage with the Irish wolfhounds. And she’d dearly love to drop a plate of eggs all over him and let those dogs clean up after her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dawson rose from his chair. “Harrow and I were about to go on a walk. Any recommendations?” He looked between Gregory and Lady Damara. “I’m torn between the lake and the woods.”

  Lady Damara’s cheeks turned shell pink when she looked at Gregory. “I highly recommend the folly myself.”

  “Do you?” Mr. Dawson looked mildly intrigued. “So the lake, then.”

  She nodded. “There’s something about that pile of stones that sets my heart racing. It’s difficult to believe it’s been there only four years and not four hundred.”

  But she looked at Gregory as if he were the one who set her heart racing. Had he kissed her at the folly? Pippa seethed just thinking about it. She knew how Gregory kissed. He’d send any girl’s heart racing.

  “The folly’s an attractive piece,” the womanizer in question remarked. “I wonder who designed it?”

  Mr. Dawson hesitated. “A nobody, I imagine.”

  “It stopped a little short of being ironic, in my opinion.” Gregory shrugged. “A folly should represent more than an homage to the past if it’s to be noteworthy.”

  “Are you suggesting this folly falls short of the designer’s intention?” Mr. Dawson asked.

  Pippa was listening intently.

  “Perhaps not,” said Gregory. “Perhaps he purposely made it nothing more than a pile of stones and thought no one else would notice. After all, that’s about all that most people expect from a folly. I get the feeling the past isn’t a subject that excited the designer’s interest terribly much.”

  More houseguests entered the room along with their host and hostess, whose eyes were agog at seeing the valet among the diners. Pippa gave them a low bow and made her escape while Mr. Dawson fielded the usual polite inquiries after his health and other guests remarked on the lovely sunshine and cool temperatures.

  She hurried to the entryway, where the butler and two footmen stood guard not only of the house but the upper-crust British way of life. The far side of the front door is where she waited for Mr. Dawson. The butler and two footmen glared at her, and she did her best to look humble.

  “Who the deuce do you think you are?” the butler hissed. “Eating with the proper folk. Lady Thurston is very upset, I’ve no doubt.”

  “It’s not my fault.” Pippa shrugged. “Mr. Dawson asked me to enter the breakfast room with him.”

  “But he’s only a poor cousin.” The butler drew in his ponderous chin. “He has no status in this house. You can expect a proper set-down in the kitchen tonight.”

  “I won’t be taking my meals there,” Pippa told him. “I’ll eat in Lord Westdale’s chamber.”

  “Right,” scoffed the butler. “The future marquess.” He pointed at Pippa. “You’d best watch your back. There’s nothing worse than a hoity-toity servant coming here and ignoring our house rules.”

  “If I’m not the first, then what are you so upset about?” Pippa asked him, kicking her boot on the marble floor.

  “Stop doing that with your boot,” the butler said. “You’ll leave a mark, and one of the maids will have to clean it.”

  “Sorry,” she said, abashed.

  “And you are the first,” the butler said. “Not even the Prince Regent’s servants took their meals anywhere but the kitchen.”

  “Prinny was here?” She was vastly impressed.

  The butler nodded. “Four years ago. The folly was built in his honor.”

  “My goodness,” she said. “I can’t wait to see it!”

  “We’re very proud of our grounds,” said the butler. “You make sure you show them the proper respect.”

  “I promise.” Pippa meant it, too. She’d never intentionally be ill-mannered toward anyone or anything. “Look,” she said apologetically, “I’m very sorry I’ve got everyone’s back up in the servants’ hall. I—I’ll eat my meal there tonight. I’ll do my best to fit in better. I won’t venture into the breakfast room.” She straightened up and lifted her chin. “You’ll see a new man in me, starting here and now.”

  The butler’s glare softened, and he offered a ghost of a smile. “That’s better, lad.”

  “As soon as I finish with Mr. Dawson.” P
ippa gestured with her thumb over her shoulder. “He asked me to go on a walk with him. I can’t go back on that promise.”

  “Very well.” Once more, the butler glowered. “But if you plan to be here two weeks, you’d better change quickly. Right, boys?” He looked at the two footmen, who nodded their heads in unison.

  “See?” the butler said. “The household is behind me. So watch your step.”

  But before Pippa could say, “Yes, sir,” Mr. Dawson bounded out of the breakfast room, his face lit with a huge smile. “A walk,” he said with spirit. “It’s just the thing we both need, Harrow. It’s been a memorable morning, and a walk will only improve it, I think.”

  “Yes, sir, we’ve had enough excitement.” She ignored the fact that the butler was looking at her through slitted eyes. “A peaceful walk will do us good.”

  * * *

  Until Gregory had gone to America, cultivating tonnish manners had felt as natural to him as breathing air. His drawing room conversation was generally scintillating; his waltz, superb; his company at White’s, Tattersall’s, and Gentleman Jackson’s was much sought after. In short, he was the supreme London gentleman, and his Irish roots, fascinating family, and future prospects only made him a more compelling figure to his peers in society. Invitations of all sorts were boundless: to routs, soirees, balls, Venetian breakfasts, and to the beds of genteel widows and actresses alike.

  He’d been invited to join the elite world of architects, too, by both his father and Uncle Bertie. Everyone had been welcoming to him. He had the family background and the proper education, after all, and he was beginning to get a few commissions. Nothing big, but a man had to start somewhere, didn’t he?

  But more and more lately, Gregory had begun to feel a fraud. London and the knowledge that the Season had been under way for a month didn’t excite him as it once had. He actually dreaded going back to confront the silver salver that he knew would be overflowing with invitations on his desk. His secretary would be chomping at the bit to catch him up on all the goings-on in Town, as well as getting his approval for the new furniture that he’d ordered on Gregory’s behalf. The town home Father had just bought for him as his own residence was in dire need of being filled up, and Mama and the girls would be going in and out of the building over the next month with drapery makers and painters.

  And now, sitting next to Lady Damara, who’d dragged him out of the house to the folly, Gregory felt especially a fraud. He’d tried to tell her the evening previous that he wasn’t interested in an affair, but she hadn’t understood him or was ignoring the hint. At the folly, she’d angled for a kiss several times. She was extremely attractive, he must admit.

  At one point, she’d pretended that her bodice had slipped on its own, and he’d caught a glimpse of rosy nipple. He could have done anything or nearly nothing with her at that point, and she would have been satisfied—even with a chaste stolen kiss.

  The old Gregory would have taken advantage of his position and her infatuation or her ambition and indulged in a pleasurable dalliance with her. But he’d looked away when her bodice slipped, giving her a chance to fix it. And after she had, he’d taken her straight back to breakfast, claiming extreme hunger.

  When he saw Pippa dressed as a valet and parading about the breakfast room ten minutes later, he’d nearly laughed out loud with relief. He felt more alive around her than he did around a thousand Lady Damaras. If he’d had her at the folly, she probably would no longer be a virgin by the end of the excursion—at least in his fantasies.

  “So I think you should consider a spa area,” Lady Damara was saying to Lady Thurston.

  The only reason Gregory noticed was because as she spoke, her hand glided lightly over his thigh.

  Lady Thurston looked at her husband with a grave face. “Do you think so, too, Kelso? A spa is in order?”

  “But of course they need a spa,” said Lady Damara before Lord Thurston could speak. “How else does one stay healthy? A cool bathing area must be had, well ventilated with an opportunity to bask in the sunlight or shadow, depending on one’s whim.” She lifted her teacup and sipped, quickly replacing it in the saucer as her eyes opened wide. “Oh, yes, and if possible, refreshing mineral waters. Have you thought of that, Lady Thurston? It might extend their lives. You could order a crate from Bath, and the caretaker can offer them a daily dose.”

  Gregory had ignored Damara’s first sensual attack, but when she rested her hand upon his thigh once again and then began dancing her fingertips toward a target he could not possibly misconstrue, he cleared his throat, threw one leg over the other, and crossed his arms over his chest, all in an effort to appear a little antsy in his chair because he was a red-blooded male who’d rather be outside shooting or hunting. He tossed Damara a blasé smile to avert an emotional scene later and tried to resume his attention upon the table conversation.

  Here he was, surrounded by the powerful and elite of society, cultured people who could speak with ease on the theater and music scenes, the political climate, and the quality of modern literature as opposed to classical—and he was bored to tears.

  He was never bored at home with the family or at Uncle Bertie’s. At either place, they could converse on the same subjects, but there was a layer of warmth and liveliness to the dialogue that was missing in most of his social interactions.

  Lord Thurston, good man that he was, was also the same man who consistently voted to adjourn parliamentary sessions early so he could resume his sporting life as soon as possible, no matter what crisis lay before the country.

  “I don’t know, my dear,” he said to Lady Thurston. “A spa? I’d have to think on the pros and cons. But perhaps you should ask an architect. We’ve got one right here. Is it tomorrow you’ll be turning in your sketches for our perusal, Westdale?”

  “Yes.” Lady Thurston smiled at Gregory. “They’ll all give them to me tomorrow night. I assume you found it amusing to discover that you weren’t the only architect from whom we requested sketches?”

  “It was a surprise, yes,” Gregory said. “But I welcome the competition.”

  “You should,” said Lord Thurston. “Nash himself shall look them over. He’s a good friend of ours.”

  “This might be quite an opportunity for you,” added Lady Thurston.

  “I agree.” Gregory took a sip of tea and wondered where Pippa was at the moment.

  “Do tell, Lord Westdale.” Lady Thurston giggled hopefully. “Have you designed a spa for the dogs? And if the answer is no, would you consider amending your plans?”

  “A commission might lie in the balance,” Lord Thurston reminded him.

  Lady Damara laid her fingers on Gregory’s arm. “Please say you did design a spa, or that you will. The Thurston wolfhounds are a delightful throng of hairy beasts, but Lady Thurston is right—they need their own space, and it should be special.”

  “They can visit here as guests,” Lady Thurston said, “but their cottage shall be their new home.”

  “You did tell me that,” said Gregory, “so I designed an area specifically for the caretaker’s comfort.”

  “Because you must have someone in good health tend to them,” said Lady Damara.

  “Of course,” said Lady Thurston. “Lord Westdale, about that spa?”

  She was certainly persistent.

  Gregory exhaled. “I assumed the dogs would bathe in the lake, as they always have, according to your letter.”

  “Yes, I did mention that, didn’t I?” Lady Thurston sounded impatient. “But I like Lady Damara’s idea of the spa better. It’s more—”

  “Civilized,” provided Lady Damara.

  “Exactly.” Lady Thurston beamed at her friend.

  “And it will be a charming sight when guests come to visit,” said Lord Thurston. “Perhaps a more popular destination than our folly.”

  Lady Damara clapped her hands. “The early bird gets the worm, Lord Westdale,” she said. “Had you not come to breakfast, you’d never have known of
Lady Thurston’s secret wish.”

  Gregory didn’t mention that the secret wish hadn’t been wished at all before Lady Damara had mentioned it.

  A footman came by and began pouring everyone a fresh cup of tea.

  “None for me, thanks,” said Gregory, and pushed himself out of his seat. “I think I’d like to ride out to see the far reaches of the property.” He strode to the window and flicked back the curtain.

  “Want company, Westdale?” Lord Thurston asked.

  Gregory looked over his shoulder. “Don’t bother, Thurston, although I thank you for the offer. I’ll be riding hard, and I know you complained of your back last night. I wouldn’t want to put it out.”

  “You’re such a thoughtful guest,” Lady Thurston murmured, and shared a not-so-secret smile with Lady Damara.

  Gregory knew then that if Lady Thurston had a vote with the dog cottage designs, he’d already won it. And judging from the pleased look on Lord Thurston’s face, Gregory had won his vote, too.

  If he came up with a design for a spa, that is. That seemed to be the crucial requirement.

  He spun around again. “Are you sure a drawing room won’t be enough for the dogs? One with a cozy fire and five large beds strewn about? Leaving enough room for their own private sofa to climb upon and sleep above the fray if they so choose?”

  Lord Thurston chuckled. “I like the sound of that.”

  “But we need more,” Lady Thurston insisted. “We need a spa.”

  “Very well,” he said, and returned his gaze to the window while the three at the table went back to discussing London life and the latest scandals.

  Gregory had a brief pang of guilt about Marbury. Even though the fellow had worked hard in his own way to sidle his way into his host’s good graces by courting Mr. Dawson’s favor, he didn’t stand a chance at winning the commission if Lord and Lady Thurston had anything to say about it.

  But there was still hope for the eccentric lord. It was possible that Nash could easily overrule the Thurstons—he should, as the expert—and choose Marbury’s plans, whatever they were. Gregory had seen Marbury’s work before—he was competent and true to form, even bold.