The Gossip of an Earl (The Widows of the Aristocracy Book 1)

by Linda Rae Sande

  Jane gave him a long glance before returning her attention to the red brick manor. Ours alone, she thought, rather liking the words.

  Although it was impossible to tell what might have come first—the west wing or the east wing—the bricks all looked nearly new. The hall between them was imposing and yet the greenery below and the charcoal slate roof above made it somehow welcoming. Except for where the drive led to the front doors, recently cut grass surrounded the building. A series of topiary trees, their shapes depicting perfectly formed spirals, lined the front entrance. The pump for the fountain in the center of the drive hadn’t yet been primed, but she could imagine how the water would spout from its various figurines once it was working.

  “Have you chosen your bedchamber yet?” she asked, finally tearing her gaze from the building to regard him.

  Andrew lowered his gaze to hers. “Wherever you choose to spend the night is where I’ll be,” he countered with an arched brow. “Although I will warn you that there are not yet any servants on the grounds,” he added in a quiet voice.

  Jane allowed a smile. “Then we should claim our bedchamber before other family members do so,” she replied. “And spend the night in order to reinforce our claim.”

  Rather stunned she would put voice to such a plan, Andrew nearly stopped in his tracks. “I do like how you think, my lady,” he replied happily. “I have an apartment in mind,” he said carefully. “But I will show you them all to discover if we are of a like mind.” He was about to lead her to the front doors when he suddenly held up his free hand. Returning to the curricle, he pulled out a cloth-covered basket. He offered his free arm as he rejoined her, aiming another wink in her direction.

  Jane suppressed the urge to giggle, practically running as they made their way into the house.

  She wasn’t expecting a curved staircase, nor the homage to Greek mythology on the ceiling. She wasn’t expecting polished marble floors, nor the alcoves and carved wooden doors to studies and parlors and cloak rooms and a library with its own set of spiral stairs to the second level above. She wasn’t expecting a breakfast parlor with a huge round table capable of seating ten. She did expect the dining room to be magnificent in size and seating and yet was still impressed. She wasn’t expecting two long hallways with doors to a multitude of bedchambers.

  She was expecting one of the bedchambers to make itself known as the master suite that she and Andrew would claim as their own. After opening more than a dozen doors along each hallway, she finally turned to Andrew in exasperation. “Have I missed one?” she wondered quietly.

  Andrew allowed a grin before he bussed her on the cheek. “Not exactly,” he replied in a whisper. “We just haven’t visited all of them yet. Come.” He led her to the very end of the west hallway. “Although it’s bright in the late afternoon, it’s not the first bedchamber to be lit in the mornings,” he said as he opened the door facing due west.

  Jane stepped through and stopped in her tracks, marveling at the apartment before her. Unlike any of the other single-room bedchambers they had visited, this one featured a parlor in the front. Beneath the window overlooking the side garden, a rosewood escritoire was just one piece of an arrangement that included velvet-clad furnishings in deep blue. One carved door led to a master suite while another led to the mistress suite. Each bedchamber included dressers and huge beds with posters for canopies, although neither had been dressed with bed linens.

  Between the two suites, a bathing chamber featured the latest in running water and a flushing toilet. The large copper tub, plumbed for water and drainage, took up an entire wall. A dressing room, with doors to connect both bedchambers, was adjacent to the bathing chamber.

  “This one,” Jane said after she had hurried into each of the rooms of the apartment. “Oh, can it be this one?”

  Andrew could barely contain his chuckle at her excitement. “Partial to blue, are you?” he teased, noting how her carriage gown made her look as if she were already at home in the elegant surroundings. “I am,” she acknowledged with a nod. After a pause, she added, “Did I choose the right one?”

  Andrew smiled. “Since it was entirely up to you, then I suppose you did my lady,” he replied with a grin. Before she had a chance to protest, his lips were on hers. Relief and yearning mixed to make for a tentative kiss that deepened only when Jane relaxed against the front of his body. His arms moved to embrace her as hers lifted to his shoulders, one hand making its way to the back of his neck.

  When they finally ended the kiss, Jane sighed. “I was quite serious about spending the night,” she murmured. “And now I’m quite sure you’re having second thoughts about taking a wife who would put voice to such a scandalous …”

  Andrew cut off her sentence when he recaptured her lips with his. “I am not,” he whispered with a quick shake of his head. “I’m too old to be concerned with propriety,” he added after he nipped her lips again. “Although, I suppose we’ll have to locate some bed linens …” he started to say as he glanced around the room, wondering where he might find them.

  “And food,” Jane said with an arched eyebrow.

  Andrew grinned. “I brought a picnic basket filled with everything we need for supper,” he countered.

  Impressed by his forethought, Jane angled her head. “I think I shall rather like being married to you,” she commented.

  Frowning, Andrew’s head angled in the opposite direction from hers. “I would hope you will adore being married to me,” he countered in a teasing voice.

  As they made their way back down the staircase, Jane suddenly stopped her descent. At Andrew’s look of concern, she sighed. “I spoke with Mr. Pepperidge today.” Andrew didn’t respond, but she could tell from his quizzical expression that he didn’t recognize the name. “The editor of The Tattler.”

  Andrew rolled his eyes and continued his descent, Jane right beside him. “Did you threaten him with torture, or death, or to simply cancel your subscription?” he asked in a voice that tried but failed to tease.

  Jane had to suppress a grin. “First of all, I don’t have a subscription to The Tattler. Second, I was there to request a retraction of the article that claimed you were kissing Lady Jane …”

  Andrew stopped at the base of the stairs, turning so Jane was left on the first step and standing nearly nose to nose with him. He regarded her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “You didn’t!”

  A bit surprised at his response, Jane allowed a nod. “I did. Mr. Pepperidge is going to print it in next week’s issue.”

  “In exchange for …?”

  Jane frowned. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “What did you have to give him to make him agree to print a retraction?”

  The air seemed to go out of Jane all at once.

  Oh, dear. She had agreed to let the man publish the story of how she and Andrew came to be betrothed and married, not believing it was a story that could be told anytime soon. She hadn’t realized Andrew was going to propose that very day. “He would like to write and print an exclusive story about us.”

  Andrew frowned. “Us?”

  Jane nodded. “He’s a hopeless romantic at heart, and wishes to tell the story of how we came to be in love.”

  His eyes widening at this, Andrew couldn’t decide if he should be incensed at the news or not, especially given that Jane had just admitted something very important. “And how, pray tell, does he know about us?” he wondered.

  Her eyes gave a sideways glance at the same time one shoulder lifted in a slight shrug. Then she remembered seeing Felix Turnbridge, Earl of Fennington, at Lord Weatherstone’s ball. He had been waltzing with Lady Morganfield at the same time she and Andrew were dancing. “He said I wouldn’t have requested a retraction of the news that sullied your reputation unless I felt affection for you. Which is true,” she admitted. Leaning forward a bit, she rested her forehead against his and closed her eyes. “And he saw us dancing together at Lord Weatherstone’s ball. Did I do wro
ng?”

  Deciding he rather liked being on the same level with Jane so that they could touch foreheads as they were doing, he allowed a sigh. He supposed any perceptive man would have noticed how much he adored Jane just by watching them as they danced, which had him wondering where Mr. Pepperidge might have been in the crowd.

  But how did a gossip rag’s editor snag an invitation to the Weatherstone ball?

  “It sounds as if you did what you thought you had to do,” he finally answered, one of his arms moving to wrap around her waist to pull her closer.

  “I did, actually. I suppose this is where I’m supposed to tell you I love you,” she murmured.

  “That depends. Do you?”

  Jane allowed a grin. “Oh, yes. Very much,” she admitted before her grin disappeared and her lips suddenly pressed against his. She may have startled him just a bit with the move, but Andrew soon joined her in the kiss, wrapping his other arm around her shoulder to pull her entirely against the front of his frame. When the tip of his tongue separated her lips, he felt her entire body shiver beneath his hold. His tongue invaded her mouth, tangling with her tongue and tasting her teeth and lips. He delighted in her soft inhalations of breath, in her soft moans, in how her entire body thrummed against his. When he finally pulled his lips from hers, he left his forehead pressed against hers.

  “How will we be sure Mr. Pepperidge keeps his word?” he suddenly whispered. “That he doesn’t write something scandalous about us?” There was a hint of alarm in his voice.

  Jane allowed a mischievous grin. “Why, that’s the best part, my love. I know Mr. Pepperidge’s true identity. He won’t be publishing anything that puts us in a bad light for he knows if he does, I shall inform the ton as to whom he really is.”

  Andrew angled his head and finally allowed a small grin. “I don’t suppose you could share your knowledge with me?” he whispered, one eyebrow lifting. The cur had caused a good deal of trouble with his having mistaken a young rake’s identity for Andrew’s own.

  Screwing up her face as she considered the question, she finally shook her head. “I don’t suppose I could. Besides, I rather doubt you even know the lord.”

  The lord?

  The man was a peer of the realm?

  Why, of course he was! Else how would he have snagged an invitation to Lord Weatherstone’s ball?

  Someone was writing the gossip of the ton and printing it. And probably making damn good money at it.

  Disappointed but not surprised Jane would keep a secret that had obviously come at a cost, Andrew sighed. “Let’s indoctrinate the breakfast parlor, shall we, and have something to eat? Afterwards, I’ll see to putting the horse into the stables, and then we can indoctrinate the …” He paused, a flush suddenly rising to color his throat and face.

  “The bedchamber?” Jane finished for him, an eyebrow arching in question.

  Andrew nodded, his thoughts of a gossip monger replaced with far more carnal thoughts.

  Jane felt a sense of relief at the change in topic. She wanted desperately to tell him about the Earl of Fennington, but she had implied she would keep the man’s secret. To do so, it would be easier if her mind was on something else.

  Something else entirely.

  Chapter 30

  Breaking in a Bedchamber

  We regret we were otherwise engaged and couldn’t see to reporting on an ongoing story involving a widow and a widower. Are they merry? Or about to marry? See the next issue of The Tattler for details! ~ A note of apology in the May 14, 1818 issue of The Tattler.

  May 8, 1818, back at Merriweather Manor

  “I found them!” Jane called out happily, pulling a set of folded bed linens from the bottom of a walnut wardrobe. The scent of cedar wafted from the crisp, white linens as she tossed them onto the bed.

  “As did I,” Andrew said in confusion as he walked into the mistress suite carrying another pile of linens.

  “For the bed in your room, no doubt,” Jane said as she set about unfolding her stack.

  “Oh,” Andrew replied, the sound of disappointment evident in his voice.

  Jane gave him a grin. “I’ll help you if you help me …” She stopped when she noticed his crestfallen expression. “But we really only have to make up one of the beds. I should hope.”

  Andrew immediately brightened. He turned and went back to the master suite, dumping the linens onto the bed. He was back in the mistress suite just as a large swath of linen floated out from Jane’s hands and settled onto the mattress. “You’ve done this before,” he remarked, moving to the other side of the bed to straighten and tuck in the sides.

  “As have you,” Jane replied, impressed the man would know what to do when dressing a bed.

  “Watched it being done, is more like it. I used to have a crush on one of the maids here when I was a young lad. Followed her from room to room and watched as she went about her duties, imagining how we might mess up the linens if she ever suggested a tumble.”

  Jane blinked, rather surprised to hear him put voice to such a story. “And did you ever? Tumble her?”

  Andrew’s eyes widened in alarm. “Never, my lady!” he claimed with a shake of his head. “She had twenty years on me and was married to one of the footmen. Didn’t find out that last bit until I’d followed her for an entire fortnight!”

  Giggling, Jane was about to admonish him when she realized she was the age now that the maid would have been back then. “Have you always found older women attractive?” she wondered suddenly.

  Frowning, Andrew gave her question some consideration before finally saying, “No. Truth be told, you were the next woman for whom I felt affection,” he said softly. “And I believe we are about the same age.”

  Jane stilled her body, one of the bed linens half unfolded as she regarded him. “No scullery maids, or Cyprians, or mistresses?” she countered, a bit surprised by his claim.

  Andrew shook his head. “No,” his comment quite matter-of-fact.

  Angling her head to one side, Jane thought back to when the two had met. The Countess of Norwick, David and Daniel Fitzwilliam’s mother, Dorothea, had introduced them at her garden party. Although Jane had seen Maximilian Andrew Burroughs at other ton events, she knew he wouldn’t inherit a title—he was the third son of a duke. Still, the attraction was evident the moment he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. He hadn’t merely brushed his lips over her knuckles, but had actually kissed her fingers, the pillows of his lips leaving behind a hint of moisture that made her entire hand tingle. Why she wasn’t wearing gloves at the time, she couldn’t quite remember, but the man’s kiss had left quite an impression.

  “You felt affection for me at Lady Norwick’s garden party?” Jane asked as she unfolded the other bed linen.

  Andrew chuckled. “I felt affection for you long before we were finally introduced,” he replied with a nod of his head, reaching out to take a corner of the bed linen from her.

  Jane straightened. “How long?” Goodness, she hadn’t had her come-out until the month before that garden party. When would he have had a chance to even see her before that day?

  The banker sighed. “Since the day your father brought you into the Bank of England … to provide your signature for his accounts.” He averted his eyes a moment, busying himself with pulling the bed linen into place over the bottom sheet.

  Jane stared at him, trying to remember how old she was when her father informed her she was to accompany him to the bank. “I was … ” She shook her head.

  “Fifteen,” Andrew finished for her. “I remember quite well because I quizzed my uncle about you for some time after you and your father took your leave of his office.”

  Her eyes wide, Jane regarded Andrew for several moments, finally moving to assist in pulling the bed linen into place. “I had no idea,” she murmured.

  She couldn’t remember him even being in the bank that day, the day of her first visit to the Bank of England. She remembered her trem
bling hand threaded through her father’s arm as he led her through the huge doors held open by a footman. The tap-tap of her father’s Hessians as they made their way to Sir William’s office. The smell of tobacco and leather assaulting her nostrils as they entered his office. The feel of the thick carpet beneath her feet as her father led her to a huge chair. And then meeting the venerable Sir William Burroughs, who turned out to be one of the nicest men she had ever had the pleasure of meeting.

  He had settled himself back into his massive leather chair, his hands resting on his rounded belly, not unlike the way women who were expecting babe’s held their hands over their middles.

  Jane had signed her name on a number of documents placed before her, completely unaware of why she was signing her name. And then, less than ten minutes later, she was up and curtsying to the banker and her father was offering his arm, and they were taking their leave of the huge building in Threadneedle Street.

  “Where were you?” Jane asked, her eyes finally clearing when she realized Andrew was staring at her.

  Andrew was about to reply, “Right here, my lady,” when he realized she was referring to that day at the bank. “I was there in my uncle’s office.”

  Jane stared at him a moment. “Where?”

  The banker lowered his head, not surprised she wouldn’t have noticed him. “My desk was in another part of the office.” He paused to pantomime where he would have been located with respect to his uncle’s desk. “I would have been to your left and a bit behind you. I don’t think you ever looked in my direction the entire time you were in my uncle’s office, though,” he said quietly, feigning offense.

  Inhaling sharply, Jane shook her head. “I’m so sorry. I don’t remember you. I was so …”

  “Awestruck, yes,” he finished for her. “Much like every other young lady who was ever ushered into Sir William’s office.”

  “But you remembered me.”