Undone by the Earl

by Elizabeth Rue

  “You are not fond of the temple?” she asked.

  “Not especially.” He shrugged. “The design is outdated.”

  Outdated? She bit back an angrier retort and said instead, “To tear down recent improvements seems wasteful.” Not that she was surprised, knowing the financial state of Eastgate.

  He gave her a sharp glance. “The materials might be used elsewhere.”

  “I suppose.” She tightened her grip on the reins and nudged her mare faster, until they were out of sight of the hill.

  The estate was his now, she reminded herself, feeling even more out of sorts. He could be as impractical or foolish with his property as he wished. She only hoped that she wouldn’t have to see all of her hard work undone.

  Soon they reached a fork in the path and went left. The air felt cooler as they moved into the shade of an apple orchard. He slowed his horse.

  “If this grove was cleared,” he said, “the view from the manor to the wood would be improved.” He looked closely at the trees. “And many of these are old and unhealthy. Why haven’t they been removed?”

  She straightened on her horse. “They have been deliberately left. They provide cover to watch for poachers.” Which he might have realized, if he had read A Guide to Game Keeping.

  He frowned, as if he could read her thoughts. “They should at least be pruned more carefully,” he said stiffly. “I shall speak to the steward.”

  The small bit of satisfaction she felt from that exchange soon faded.

  Over the next two hours, they toured the woods, fields, and many tenant properties. He questioned her relentlessly about everything from the quantity of game in the forest to the tiniest detail of haymaking.

  At first, she responded to his questions easily, and he was clearly surprised at the extent of her knowledge. But to her embarrassment, after a while she couldn’t answer more and more of his questions. Much of what she couldn’t tell him were details that the steward or others kept track of. Other things likely no one knew, such as the year certain old tenant homes were built or what crops had been grown over a decade ago.

  Clearly, she’d been wrong in believing that he left all the work to his staff and knew little of running an estate. He was extremely knowledgeable—and enthusiastic. She should be pleased, or at least relieved. Yet each question he asked irritated her more.

  “When was this built?” he asked as they rode over a small stone bridge.

  “I do not know,” she said. “It was well before I arrived.” The bridge was in good condition, so what else mattered?

  He pointed beside the road. “And this stone wall?”

  “I could not tell you.” Again, unless it needed repairs, why should he concern himself with its age?

  They rode on, his inquiries seemingly endless. As they neared the southern orchards and the small lake that marked the estate border, he finally fell silent. She breathed a sigh of relief that he seemed to have at last exhausted his questions.

  But the silence was brief.

  As he reined in his horse at the edge of the water he asked, “Are there any fish in here?”

  “None that I know of.”

  “Turtles?”

  “No. There are fish and turtles in the natural lake to the west.” She couldn’t keep the irritation from creeping into her voice. He didn’t seem to notice.

  “Another question, Miss Colbrook.”

  No, she thought, she couldn’t endure any more.

  “This water,” he asked, “how deep is it?”

  She scowled at him. How should she know the answer to such a question? Did he think she went swimming in the lake? Or regularly ventured into it with a measuring stick?

  “I do not know,” she said, letting out a long sigh. “Perhaps you should ride into it and find out.”

  For a moment it was so quiet that she could hear the faint calling of birds at the far side of the lake. He moved nearer and reined to a halt facing her. The sun glinted off the small gold and pearl pin in his cravat as he stared at her.

  “Miss Colbrook,” he finally said, his voice unexpectedly soft. “It is clear from your extensive knowledge of the estate that you have done far more for Wareton than merely see the last earl’s wishes implemented. You have done an excellent job managing the estate,” he added, “and for that, I am most grateful.”

  She only stared at him, too stunned to speak. Had he not only admitted her knowledge was extensive but was also expressing his gratitude? She hadn’t expected him, of all people, to be at all gracious.

  “But tell me,” he continued, the gentleness leaving his voice, “for how long will you punish me for the crime of inheriting Wareton? Or is it my past behavior that continues to earn your contempt?”

  She suddenly felt hot, and she knew she was likely blushing. With embarrassment.

  He was right. She was behaving badly and treating him unfairly.

  The truth was that part of her didn’t want to see that the estate was now in good hands. She loved Wareton and wanted it to continue to prosper, truly, but knowing it would go on without her… Her chest felt tight and tears threatened, but she forced them back.

  She realized her fingers hurt from clutching the reins too tightly. She relaxed her grip as she struggled to respond.

  “I am sorry for any offense I caused you in the past,” he added. “But it was six years ago. May we have a truce?”

  “Yes,” she finally managed. She knew that she should apologize as well, but she was still too shocked to say anything more.

  “Good,” he said. “Perhaps it would be easier if you would stop judging me by my past behavior?” His somber expression gave way to a smile. “At the least, perhaps you can find new reasons to dislike me?”

  She meant to smile in response, but her words came out seriously. “No doubt I can.”

  He laughed—not the dry, sarcastic laugh she recalled from the past, but a deep, resonating laugh. As he gazed at her, his eyes suddenly seem disturbingly warm. “No doubt,” he said, grinning.

  Then something beyond her caught his eye, and his smile faded. Anna turned to see a rider moving slowly down the hill on the far side of the lake. After a few seconds the man raised his arm in greeting, and he turned his dappled gelding toward them, onto the path by the water.

  “Sir Neville Kent,” she said. “His estate borders Wareton. Are you acquainted with him?”

  “We have met,” Lord Wareton said, not meeting her gaze.

  Had they? She didn’t recall Sir Neville mentioning they knew each other.

  “Did you know that he was knighted and granted his estate by the Prince Regent?” she said as they rode slowly towards Sir Neville. “He rescued several gentlemen who were being attacked by robbers. Though he was wounded in the leg, he still saved everyone.”

  “I believe all of England knows the tale,” Lord Wareton said, sounding bored.

  So much for his improved manners. “But did you know that two of the gentlemen he saved are from Somerset?” she said. “Lord Harwick and Mr. Roland, the old earl’s solicitor.”

  “Indeed.” He sounded no less bored; in fact, he appeared to be stifling a yawn.

  They stopped their horses and waited in silence as Sir Neville approached.

  “Miss Colbrook.” Sir Neville halted his horse close to her and tipped his dark hat, briefly revealing the peppering of gray at his temples. He was only thirty, the same age as Lord Wareton, but he looked much older. The past year had been especially hard on him.

  She smiled. “Good day, Sir Neville. I believe you are already acquainted with Lord Wareton?”

  Lord Wareton inclined his head. “Sir Neville.”

  “It has been some time, Lord Wareton.” Sir Neville’s usually mild brown eyes narrowed.

  “It has.” Lord Wareton’s tone was amiable, but his shoulders seemed to stiffen.

  “Sir Neville,” she said, “you never told me you were acquainted with Lord Wareton.”

  “Didn’t I?” Sir Neville said.<
br />
  “No,” she said, “I am certain of it.”

  “It must have slipped my mind.” Sir Neville’s voice was clipped.

  She didn’t believe him for an instant. Clearly Sir Neville thought little of Lord Wareton, reformed or not.

  After a few moments of awkward conversation about their estates, Sir Neville excused himself, citing a meeting with his steward.

  “I shall be away the next week,” Sir Neville said, “but I look forward to seeing you at the Dunbury’s ball, Miss Colbrook.” A smile briefly softened his handsome face. “Lord Wareton,” he added curtly, his smile vanishing.

  Sir Neville turned and rode back toward his estate. Did she imagine it, or did he push his horse faster than usual?

  At least she wasn’t the only person who didn’t believe Lord Wareton’s arrival was the greatest event of the year. But why they were so cold to each other?

  “Where did you first meet Sir Neville?” she asked.

  “In London, I believe.” Lord Wareton offered no more details and turned his horse back the way they had come.

  “Where in London?” she asked, catching up to him.

  “I do not recall,” he said.

  He remembered, he just didn’t wish to tell her. Perhaps they’d met at a gaming hell or other place unsuitable to discuss with a female, although Sir Neville had a reputation for strictly avoiding anything improper. More likely, during his wild years Lord Wareton had offended Sir Neville somehow. There were few respectable people whom he hadn’t offended back then.

  He might not wish to tell her how he knew Sir Neville, but she would probably learn eventually. And in the meantime, she would keep talking. Tight-lipped as Lord Wareton seemed, he still might reveal something interesting.

  “Were you acquainted with Sir Neville’s wife?”

  “No.”

  “He was widowed only last year,” she said.

  “I have heard.” He kept his gaze on the path.

  “Lady Mary was ill for many years. They never had children. And Sir Neville’s ward, who was like a daughter to them, went to Scotland to stay with relatives. So now he is all alone.”

  “How unfortunate,” he said, again sounding bored. Clearly, he wanted her to drop the matter.

  “So it was over a year ago,” she said, “that you first met him?”

  He abruptly stopped his horse. “I could not say,” he answered curtly. “But perhaps you would assist me with something else, Miss Colbrook.” He met her gaze. “I began to look into the financial accounts last night, and I discovered a few issues that the steward could not help me with.”

  She tightened her grip on the reins. He’d already looked into the finances on his very first night here? Surely, he wouldn’t have concerned himself with the marriage settlements so soon? No, it was unlikely such affairs would be a priority. She should still have more time, hopefully much more, before he began prying into those details.

  But it was all the more reason to help him with the accounts. She might be able to steer his interest away from such matters, at least for the time being.

  “I should be glad to help,” she said. “When?”

  “Tonight, after dinner?”

  “Tonight?” She imagined them in the study going over the books together, late into the night. Alone.

  She felt a strange flutter in her stomach. Hunger, she decided quickly. She’d eaten barely any breakfast.

  “Unless another time would be more convenient?” he said.

  She shook her head. “Tonight would be fine.” She was still shocked that he had thanked her for caring for the estate, and now he had even asked for her help with the accounts. And he was an earl while she was only a step-relation, and—as his aunt had so enjoyed pointing out—the daughter of a merchant, closer in status to his servants than to him.

  The gossip seemed to be true. He’d indeed changed dramatically from the man she’d known before. Why was that idea so…unsettling?

  “Good,” he said. “Also, perhaps I might ask you now about some documents that are missing—”

  “Surely that can wait until later?” she said. She quickly turned her mare towards the manor. “Should we give the horses some proper exercise on our way back?”

  “Are you proposing a race?” he said from behind her.

  She glanced back at him and nodded. Anything to distract him from asking too many questions. And if she were to win, it would definitely improve her mood.

  A moment later, they were racing towards the manor. He passed her, fell behind, and then caught up again. He rode close to her—almost dangerously close. As she briefly met his gaze, a wicked, challenging smile lit up his rugged face.

  Again, she felt the strange flutter in her stomach. Her pulse sped up even faster. Only because of the race, she quickly told herself.

  She pushed her mare even harder, but she still couldn’t pass him. She resisted the urge to glance at him again. Instead, she kept her sights on the manor in the distance.

  No matter how improved his character, no matter how charming he was, she mustn’t let down her guard. With his keen interest in finances and his aunt’s desire to marry her off quickly, concealing certain matters wouldn’t be easy. Yet she would find a way.

  Wareton might be his estate now, but there were still some secrets she must keep from him.

  3

  As the time neared when Miss Colbrook had agreed to meet him in the study, Adrian found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on his work. The financial ledgers that had engrossed him for the past two days now only made him restless. He closed up the books before him on the table, and he glanced once again at the clock. She should arrive shortly and, in the meantime, he would examine the nearby storage room. Perhaps some of the documents that he’d been unable to locate were there.

  The scent of dust filled his nostrils as he opened the heavy door. Stepping inside, he raised a lamp to dispel the shadows. There were no books or documents within the small chamber, only portraits—dozens of them, leaning upright against the walls.

  He shifted the lamp closer and scanned the paintings. And burst out laughing.

  All the portraits of his granduncle Alfred that had once hung throughout the manor now collected dust in this storeroom. Adrian had already noticed that some portraits he recalled from years ago were gone, but he’d not realized the full extent of the changes.

  Miss Colbrook’s doing, no doubt.

  Well, she’d saved him the trouble of ordering them removed.

  He scanned the portraits again, stopping as the light fell on the largest depiction of Alfred Sinclair, one that must have been painted within the last decade of his life. The artist had captured the old man eerily well.

  Adrian’s smile faded. He set the lamp on the floor and crouched before the painting. He studied the old earl’s countenance—the dark eyes sunken beneath bushy brows, the pallid skin, and the perpetual scowl. The depiction was so accurate that he even felt a chill, just as he had on the few occasions when he’d been forced to interact with his late granduncle.

  The old earl had never shown any interest in him, even after his son Gerard had died and Adrian became second in line to inherit the earldom. The day of Gerard’s funeral was the only time Alfred ever spoke to Adrian about the possibility of inheriting. When Adrian had stammered out his condolences on Gerard’s death, Alfred had stared at him in silence, his eyes full of malice. You must be pleased, he’d finally said, as this puts you one step closer to becoming earl.

  But Adrian never wished for his cousins to die, strangers that they were, and he never wanted to be earl. At that time, he could barely live up to being simply Mr. Adrian Sinclair, master of Eastgate Manor.

  Alfred had added, Should something befall your cousin Horace, it would not be the first time that a wastrel has inherited Wareton. Hopefully, it will survive even you. And at least neither your father nor I will be alive to witness it.

  That had been the extent of the old earl’s remarks on the sub
ject. Adrian had soon laughed off the comments, as he had nearly everything important in his life at that time. But every so often he would allow himself to remember the old earl’s words, and he would imagine what his father would think of the man he’d become. It would then take a great deal of drink to drive away those depressing thoughts.

  “He was…a very unpleasant man.” Miss Colbrook’s soft voice jarred him from his reverie.

  She stood in the doorway, gazing down at him with a sympathetic frown on her face. How long had she been watching?

  “Indeed,” he said, “the old monster was kind to no one.” He grasped the lamp and rose. “You least of all.”

  He immediately regretted his words. Though her face was in shadow, he saw her flinch. A floorboard creaked beneath him as he stepped closer to her.

  He raised the light until he could see her face clearly.

  Pain shone in her eyes, though she quickly concealed it. She tilted her head to meet his stare, her face composed. Only her hands, now curled into fists at her side, gave away her emotions.

  “I always considered his dislike of me a compliment,” she said.

  He smiled.

  She might hide any bitterness she felt about her inferior station, but he had no doubt that her situation had often been painful. Outside of Madeline, who clearly adored her, he knew that Miss Colbrook had never been embraced by her stepfamily, merely tolerated. The old earl, as he recalled, had barely even done that. The past six years, without anyone at Wareton to remind her that she was but a poor relation, must have been delightful for her.

  Until his arrival had changed everything.

  She looked away, and he realized he’d been staring. Staring at her while standing only an arm’s length apart in the shadowy room.

  “I was just noticing how much you resemble your mother,” he said quickly. He turned and gestured to one of the few paintings not of the old earl. It appeared to be a wedding portrait of her mother, Victoria, and the old earl’s son, Gerard, Madeline’s father.