The Earl Is Mine

by Kieran Kramer

  “Don’t scare her,” said Lady Brady, and swatted his arm playfully.

  His face took on a stubborn quality. “It’s not Lady Pippa who should be frightened,” he said, “but my son. The House of Brady had best be in good order. If it’s not, I’ll see to it that it will be set aright. Immediately.” Pippa felt herself shaking—just a tad—in her buckled men’s shoes. “Now if you’ll excuse me, please.”

  He made a light bow to both of them and stalked off to the rear of his carriage, where he spoke to the tiger.

  Lady Brady put a delicate hand on Pippa’s arm. “Please don’t worry about Lord Brady. He’s Irish, and he’s got a temper. It rarely comes out, but when it does, it’s best to stay out of his way.”

  “I understand,” Pippa said. “I—I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She began to walk away, but Lady Brady caught up with her.

  “You’re not going anywhere alone,” she said. “And definitely not round the inn to the back. We’ll find a place to freshen up inside. You’re a lady, however you’re dressed, and you’re still in a mild state of shock. From what, I don’t know. But it must be very interesting if it involves your dressing as a man.”

  From the sideways glance the lady sent Pippa, she could tell that there was only one thing to do. “Would you like to ride with me and Mr. Dawson to Thurston Manor?” Lady Brady’s face brightened. “I can tell you everything, from top to bottom.”

  Almost everything.

  Well, maybe half would do.

  “Oh, yes,” said Lady Brady. “I’d love that. And Lord Brady won’t mind a bit. He’s got a fine book to read, and he might even take a nap. He’ll want to be at his best when we arrive.”

  “Lovely,” said Pippa, and felt a wave of nerves assail her. But there was really no turning back. She’d caught herself in this net all on her own.

  On their way into the inn, Pippa was oblivious to the fact that she had that long lock of hair dangling near her face—that is, until two farmers who strode past her and Lady Brady stopped dead in their tracks.

  “What the devil?” said one.

  “She’s a woman!” cried the other. “Dressed as a man!”

  “It was a dare,” she called over her shoulder, remembering how often Gregory used to make her accept his.

  “Ohhhh,” one of the farmers said, his face lit with understanding.

  “And it’s none of your business, gentlemen,” Lady Brady said airily. “Move on, please.”

  Which they both did, with alacrity.

  After her lemonade and back in the carriage, where Mr. Dawson snored lightly on his seat, Pippa removed her hat, hairpins, wig, cravat, and spectacles. Then she had a bit of bread and cheese. When she felt more herself, she determined to tell Gregory’s mother as much as she could—without embarrassing her to the point that she’d need smelling salts.

  But that point never came. Lady Brady kept nodding, and listening, and never once did a judgmental expression cross her face.

  So Pippa found herself having divulged all of her story.

  Well, almost all.

  Certainly far more than half.

  “Poor Mr. Dawson.” Lady Brady stole a glance at the sleeping figure then returned her concerned gaze to Pippa. “And I’m so very sorry for you, for undergoing such a trauma.”

  “I’m fine.” Pippa tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Now.”

  “Everything else pales in comparison to the fact that you’re safe, thank heaven.” Lady Brady squeezed her hand. “But we still have other issues to address.”

  “Of course,” said Pippa.

  “If you don’t feel up to discussing them now, I understand. Perhaps you’d like to rest?”

  “No, thank you.” Pippa swallowed. “It would relieve my mind to talk with you about the last few days. I think I could use an advisor as I don’t have my own mother here. But even if I did, I’m not sure Mother would know what to say. She has so many concerns of her own.”

  “I understand,” Lady Brady said kindly. “I’ll be happy to help.” She took a cleansing breath, and Pippa did, too. “So,” Lady Brady said quietly, “you slept in Gregory’s bedchamber.”

  Pippa nodded, and although she was frightened, she kept her gaze on Lady Brady’s.

  “Is there any chance you’re with child?” The marchioness tilted her head just so and waited.

  It was a delicate moment, indeed.

  Pippa’s cheeks heated. “I can assure you on that point. Absolutely not.”

  Lady Brady gave her a tender smile. “I know how it is, dear, to fall in love. I know the perils. There are many.”

  “You do?”

  “Oh, yes. Pleasures, too.” Lady Brady gave a light chuckle and looked out the window, lost in some memory—perhaps a recent one. Judging from the way the marquess and marchioness clung so cozily to each other in public, they were very much in love.

  Pippa found herself with her own dreamy smile on her lips, too, thinking of Gregory. But she quickly erased it. It wouldn’t do. This was Gregory’s second mother she was talking to, after all.

  “The road to true love isn’t easy.” Lady Brady was still watching the scenery go by out the window. The sun was past its zenith—and shining brightly on the passing field. “And not all of us find it. But if you do, your life doesn’t suddenly become a pretty cake with pink icing.” She looked back at Pippa and arched a brow. “Does it?”

  “Most definitely not,” Pippa agreed.

  “But having someone to share in your joy and your grief, when it comes—as it will to all of us—is a great blessing.” Lady Brady patted her hand. “So my advice to you, dear, is to pursue true love if you think you’ve found it. I can’t imagine Gregory going through what he has with you and not caring for you very deeply.”

  “Really?”

  “He could have turned around and taken you back to Plumtree. But something in him didn’t want to.”

  “I was putting pressure on him. I feel guilty about that now.”

  “Don’t. You have a right to your feelings.” She took Pippa’s hand in her own. “I have no doubt you swayed him, but not simply because you know your mind. I suspect that beneath all his bluster, Gregory wanted to make you happy.”

  Pippa’s eyes boggled.

  “And”—Lady Brady raised an index finger—“he wanted to stay in your company. If he dropped you off in Plumtree, he’d have to leave you there.”

  Pippa blushed. Again. “Do you really think so?”

  Lady Brady laughed and nodded. “Of course. This is a man whom other men make way for when he walks into a room. He’s not someone to be pushed about. He has his own reasons for everything he does. And my dear, I believe you’ve become his priority.” She squeezed her hand. “Do you love him?”

  “He’s everything to me,” Pippa said. “Everything.”

  “Oh.” Lady Brady’s eyes pooled with tears. “How lovely to hear you say that about our Gregory.”

  Pippa took a quick swipe at her own eyes. “I hope he loves me, too.”

  “Darling, I suspect he must.” Lady Brady gave a hearty laugh.

  Pippa felt a surge of hope. The very idea that Gregory might love her sent butterflies ricocheting through her stomach. “I don’t know, Lady Brady. I wish you could have seen the way he looked at Eliza today. I’m afraid he still loves her.”

  Lady Brady sighed. “He never loved her.”

  “He didn’t?”

  “No. After he left for America, Peter told us what had happened in the garden. Gregory was about to propose to Eliza.”

  “He was?” Pippa’s heart sank.

  “Yes,” said Lady Brady, “but it was for the wrong reason. Let me explain from the beginning, if I can.”

  “Please do.” Pippa would hang on every word.

  Lady Brady got that happy, distant expression on her face again. “I’ve known Gregory since he was very young. I was working as a seamstress, running my own small shop, in London.”

  “You were?”
>
  “Yes. That’s a story to save for later”—she waved a hand—“but suffice to say, the boys used to come in to be measured for their clothes. The ten-year-old Gregory was always quite rambunctious—your typical boy who hated to stand still to be measured—but he was also very solicitous of his mother. I was always very impressed by this quality in him. After she died, he was still all boy, but he was also very hard on Peter and Robert, ensuring they behave when they came to see me to be measured. I could see that he felt a sense of obligation to be the big, responsible brother. But he began to be inflexible, and I sensed sadness—a heaviness—beneath his cheerful countenance.”

  “That’s exactly what happened to him at Uncle Bertie’s.” Pippa sent her a wry smile. “He used to be an amusing companion. He enjoyed being with me even though he was five years older. But after his mother died, he never showed me affection again. He spent all his time in Uncle Bertie’s library.”

  “What a shame,” said Lady Brady, looking deeply pained.

  “Just a few nights ago,” Pippa went on, “he took responsibility for me from Uncle Bertie’s shoulders, and I didn’t like it one bit. I can admit to you now that not only was he interfering with my plans to go to Paris—it upset me that he was willing to marry me off to another man. Although I understand he was also trying to relieve Bertie of the stress of seeing me well placed.”

  Lady Brady gave a short laugh. “Yet again, I suspect Gregory had his own motive there. He might not have wanted to admit it to anyone—especially himself—but I’m sure his interest in your welfare goes beyond his obligation to assist Bertie.”

  “Do you?” Pippa would love it if that hypothesis were true.

  Lady Brady pulled back and observed her shrewdly. “Tell me, Pippa, did you leave the house party more to get to Paris—or to escape Gregory?” She wore a mischievous smile.

  “To escape him.” She spoke quietly, astounded at the knowledge that Gregory had become her focus now, even more than her dream.

  Lady Brady shook her head sadly. “I’ve heard the rumors, too, of course, about Walter’s parentage. I’m good friends with Eliza’s mother, as you well know. It was a trifle awkward, but she came to me as soon as those rumors started and assured me that Walter is not Gregory’s son. He looks exactly like Dougal’s grandfather, and we’re women—we both counted back, and the lad was conceived not long after Gregory went to America. The idea made for a good scandal. But it simply wasn’t true.”

  “I’m so glad.” Pippa’s heart felt a great deal lighter. “For Gregory’s sake. The way he looked at Walter … it was heartbreaking, really. The pain I saw on his face was almost too difficult to witness. I’m sure he wondered if Walter were his! And then he did what he usually does—he put on a brave face.”

  Lady Brady sighed. “I wish I had known he wasn’t sure himself. I would have told him what Eliza’s mother said. I assumed he and Eliza hadn’t—”

  She hesitated, and Pippa knew very well why.

  “Oh, it was probably silly of me to presume there wasn’t a chance.” Lady Brady’s cheeks turned slightly pink. “Especially as Peter informed us that Gregory was about to offer for Eliza. It could be why he took it so hard when he discovered Dougal was involved—not because Gregory loved Eliza but because his best friend, of all people, stood between him and his duty.”

  There was a brief silence, more sad than awkward. Neither one of them liked to think about that day.

  Pippa decided she must be completely honest. “Even if Gregory does care for me”—she simply couldn’t be bold enough to assume he loved her—“I have plans, Lady Brady. I—I’m afraid to marry. I’ve seen what happened to my mother. You know the story. She was a thriving actress with a great deal of joie de vivre—but no longer. I can’t believe that Gregory is like either of Mother’s husbands, but I’m frightened of becoming something I don’t want to be. For example, I have no particular desire to be a London hostess—I hope you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “Not a bit,” said Lady Brady with vigor. “From the time I was ten years old, one of my greatest passions was—and is—sewing. I haven’t stopped just because I’m a marchioness. Yes, I’m very active in the social whirl in London, with all the busyness that entails. But I’ve found I do enjoy it. And it’s because I’m with Michael.” Her eyes softened, and Pippa was flattered she used his baptismal name with her, as if they were bosom friends.

  “He never once asked me to give up my sewing,” Lady Brady went on. “I’m proud that I can stitch a frock that any queen in the world could wear proudly. I made the one I’m wearing now.”

  It was a light blue muslin with a row of matching darker-hued blue ribbons running down the center of the skirt, from right below the bodice to the sophisticated flounced hem.

  “Did you?” Pippa was so impressed. “It’s beautiful. And very French.”

  Lady Brady grinned. “Thank you. And I’ll have you know I still work on commission occasionally. For a while, when Janice was at boarding school in Switzerland, I made gowns for her European schoolmates, some of whom were princesses. They adored her clothes and couldn’t believe her mother made them.” She chuckled. “Once a lady makes money, Pippa, it’s difficult to give it up.”

  “You’re such an inspiration to me, my lady.”

  “I don’t mean to be.” She smiled. “All I’m suggesting to you is that if you have a passion, it’s wonderful to be able to share it with the man you love. In marriage, two people should honor and respect—my goodness, they should celebrate—the talents the other person brings to the relationship. Those gifts are part of who we are. In my case, it wasn’t just sewing that I loved. All women are encouraged to sew. I also loved designing clothes for other women and girls and running my own shop. Not many gentlemen of the ton would approve of that, much less marry a woman in that position.”

  “Exactly,” said Pippa. “But Lady Brady—”

  She didn’t know how to say it.

  “What, my dear?”

  “Gregory doesn’t want me to go to Paris to study sugar sculpture. Not really. He did offer to take me with you and your daughters for several weeks, which was generous of him. But he’s very disapproving of the idea in general. He says I have a duty to marry. He insists I should be in London.”

  Lady Brady drew back. “Did you say Gregory offered to take you to Paris?”

  “Well, yes.”

  The marchioness laughed loudly enough that Mr. Dawson stirred in his sleep. “Pippa”—she laid her hand over hers again—“Gregory adores his sisters and me, but he can’t stand traveling with us unless we’re outnumbered by the men in the party. Since he left Oxford, he’s turned down every opportunity to do so, claiming that the women of the house bring too many trunks and in general create such a fuss that he has a headache for days on end. He’s quite adamant about it. So the fact that he said he’d take you to Paris with us in tow”—she laughed again—“I can’t wait to tell Marcia, Janice, and Cynthia.”

  “You can’t?” Pippa let a little chuckle escape.

  “This is proof enough for me,” Lady Brady said, her chuckles subsiding. “I’ll bet my very best gown—the one I wore to Janice’s presentation at Court—that Gregory’s in love. I probably shouldn’t say so, but a mother knows—it’s the little things.”

  “That’s very kind of you to bet your best gown.” Pippa felt like laughing one second and crying the next, she was so stressed—and euphoric—from being in love and not knowing what to do about it. “But I think I’ll have to hear the words from Gregory himself.”

  “Of course. Ask him why he wants you in London. I dare you.” The marchioness grinned.

  “I will, then,” Pippa said, and grinned back.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  It was three o’clock when Gregory saw the gray carriage in the distance, coming toward him at a spanking pace, another carriage following behind. His relief was so great, he didn’t even think what the presence of the other carriage could mean. He pulled Pr
ince up short so he could catch his breath. The piebald gave a whinny of frustration, but Gregory soothed him with some comforting words: “She’s back. We have another chance, Prince, to win her.”

  He hoped. He’d spent the past few hours on the wrong roads, searching in the wrong direction. What if the carriage were empty—or contained only Mr. Dawson?

  He must have properly conveyed his concern to the horse because Prince stood alert—his ears pricked, his neck long—and waited, too. Well in advance of the two carriages’ approach, Gregory put his palm in the air to alert the one in front—the one he hoped carried Pippa—to his presence. The driver began to slow almost immediately, and some twenty seconds later, came to a full stop in front of Gregory. The next one did the same.

  And Gregory’s heart nearly stopped. The black carriage’s driver wore the signature Brady coat, the one with the large, flat gold buttons.

  What the devil?

  “Horace! Is that you?” he yelled at the top of his lungs.

  “Yes, Master Gregory!” the driver of the black carriage called from the box. “I mean, Lord Westdale!”

  He heard a door flung open from that second carriage. A second later, a well-dressed gentleman leaped down to the road. “Gregory?” It was Father. “Your mother and I are here to pay a visit.”

  Good God. Father came striding down the road, stood beside the gray carriage’s door, and crossed his arms. He looked none too happy. What did he know?

  And what the hell was going on?

  But Gregory couldn’t take time to wonder. Seeing Pippa was all.

  “Hello, Father,” he said somberly, then looked at the driver of the gray carriage. “Where is she?” he yelled from Prince’s back, and didn’t care who heard the agony, the desperation, in his voice.

  “It was a mistake,” the driver said in a low, frightened tone. “That old man made me do it. I just want to go home. Lady Pippa is inside, and she promised if I behaved—”

  “Is she inside?” Gregory held his breath. The driver nodded, and Gregory released it silently.

  Pippa was back. Thank God.