Undone by the Earl

by Elizabeth Rue

Her gaze was drawn again to Lord Wareton, who was starting on yet another cup of tea.

  What type of woman would become his countess? Someone well born, certainly, and rich, and likely as handsome as he was. The sort of woman who would probably look the other way should she discover he had a mistress or two, quite possibly a woman who would even expect as much.

  She thought once again of the mysterious account entries. Inexplicably, her mood sank even lower.

  Lord Wareton’s secrets were none of her affair, she reminded herself. The only thing she must concern herself with was keeping him from discovering her own.

  Later that morning Adrian checked on some repairs he’d ordered. In a field not far from the manor, he assisted the workers in clearing some brush that had overgrown a gate. When the breeze suddenly picked up, he paused and loosened his cravat, letting the air cool the sweat on his neck. He breathed deeply, and along with the scent of brush came another scent, one that was increasingly familiar.

  Roses.

  Was he imagining it or—

  He spun toward the road. Miss Colbrook stood several paces away, staring at him.

  “Lord Wareton?” she said, her eyes wide. Her gaze lingered on his bare neck.

  “Miss Colbrook.” He wiped the sweat from his brow with one gloved hand and strolled towards her. “You are surprised to see me here?”

  “I…no,” she lied. He had learned that she really was a poor liar. Her blue eyes were simply too honest, and her full mouth too expressive, so quick to frown or—though rarely at him—to smile.

  “You are visiting a neighbor?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Which neighbor?”

  Annoyance flashed across her face. And something else. Evasiveness?

  “Mrs. Hunter," she said.

  “Mrs. Hunter? Where does she live? I don’t recall hearing her name when we toured the estate.”

  “She lives to the east, not far from the river,” she said vaguely. “If you will excuse me, I am in haste.” She curtsied and turned away.

  In haste? He’d heard her discuss her plans for the day with the other ladies at breakfast, and he knew it was unlikely. Did she dislike his company so much that she wished to escape quickly, or was it something else? Did she have some other secret she didn’t wish him to discover?

  “Wait a moment,” he said.

  Her shoulders stiffened as she turned back to face him.

  “Does Mrs. Hunter live in the cottage by the river?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She fidgeted nervously with her skirt.

  Yet they had settled the matter of the low rent. Had she misled him about the situation? There was one way to find out.

  “It is quite fine weather,” he said. “Perhaps I shall accompany you.” She gave him a look as if he’d just asked to splatter her with mud.

  “Accompany me? But surely you are too busy—”

  “I am not.” He straightened his cravat. “I could use the walk. And I’d be pleased to meet another tenant.” He wanted to learn what she might be hiding, but he also realized that he enjoyed her irritation. What was it about her that made him wish to bedevil her?

  He smiled. “Wait a moment.”

  He arranged for one of the workers to return his horse to the manor, and then he strolled to her side.

  She continued to frown at him. Even so, she looked especially attractive today. The sunlight favored her, bringing out the brilliant blue of her eyes and the red in her hair that peeked out from beneath her bonnet.

  They walked in silence for a few moments, leaving the fields behind and passing through a small wood of ash and birch trees.

  He watched as she lifted her skirt slightly while stepping over a puddle left by the heavy rains overnight. The plain white muslin gown fitted her curves well. He found the way that her skirt shifted as she walked, revealing and then concealing the shape of her thighs, or permitting a glimpse of her ankle, oddly distracting for such a modest dress. He dragged his gaze away from her legs.

  He really needed to get out more.

  “How old were you when you came to Wareton?” he asked, trying to distract himself.

  “Ten.”

  “You lived in Lyme before then?” He’d heard that her father’s shipping business had been in Lyme.

  “My father did, but my mother and I moved to Portsmouth when I was five.” She dropped her head, the bonnet now concealing most of her face.

  “You did not live with your father after that?” This was news to him. Even Lady Carlton had never mentioned this bit of her past. Had both her mother’s marriages been unhappy? Was this somehow behind her own reluctance to marry?

  “Not until right before he died,” she said, her voice suddenly flat. “But I never expected to end up at Wareton,” she added, her tone lighter, “and to gain a stepsister. I’ve been very fortunate.”

  Perhaps in some ways she was fortunate, but he still felt a surge of empathy for her. Her parents had lived apart, and her father had died when she was eight. Then her mother had died when she was twelve, leaving her with a stepfamily that, except for Madeline, he knew only tolerated her, never loved her. Many people wouldn’t view such a life, no matter how materially comfortable, as advantageous. Yet she seemed quite sincere in focusing on the positive.

  Unlike him.

  At that moment he felt a flare of shame for all his wasted years.

  He’d failed his brother and sister miserably.

  When his younger brother had been home visiting from school, Edmund had followed him about incessantly, wearing him down with questions, wishing to do everything his elder brother did. Each time Edmund returned to Eton, Adrian always needed a great many drinks to forget the sadness in his brother’s face when he wished him farewell. And Adrian needed a great many more drinks to stop reliving the moments he’d lost his patience with Edmund during his visit.

  Visiting his sister had been equally agonizing. Afterwards, as he left their aunt’s house, he often watched Cecelia peer out the window after him, her pale hands curled into small fists against the glass. Looking back at her from the window of the carriage, he would count the short number of days of his visit and the total days he’d seen her that past year, and always find it a terribly small number. He could bring her to Eastgate to live with him, and hire the best governess to care for her, but what would she see?

  Her oldest brother living like a wastrel.

  At least, during his short visits with Cecelia at their aunt’s home, he had been able to pretend to be someone else, someone he wasn’t ashamed for Cecelia to know. And guilty as he felt for leaving her each time, he knew she was better off in the company of their respectable aunt than with a disreputable brother.

  Thanks to a bottle kept stashed in the carriage, he would usually be well on his way to a stupor after only a few miles, and able to bury his guilt once again.

  Years of drunkenness and rowdy behavior passed before he’d finally realized he was selfishly lamenting his parents’ deaths, and that he’d shamefully neglected his responsibilities to his siblings.

  Miss Colbrook had been orphaned at about the same age he had been, and she had far fewer advantages afterwards, yet she dealt with tragedy far better. While he had indulged in self-pity far too long, such wallowing apparently wasn’t for her.

  “Here we are,” she said. They reached the top of a small hill, and a small stone cottage set back from the road came into view.

  Moments later, they were welcomed by Mrs. Hunter, a thin, chestnut-haired woman, and seated at a small table in the front sitting room. Toys were scattered about and two young girls, about six and eight years of age, stood near the doorway at the back of the room, eyeing Adrian warily.

  “Where are the other children?” Miss Colbrook asked as Mrs. Hunter set down saucers and teacups. Out of the corner of her eye, Miss Colbrook glanced towards him, so quickly that he would have missed it if he hadn’t been staring at her.

  “Emma is sleeping,” Mrs. Hunter said
, “and my sister has taken the other two to town, thankfully.” She disappeared into the back of the house.

  The younger of the two children ventured near and tugged on Miss Colbrook’s skirt. “Will you sing the fish song with me?”

  “Do not bother Miss Colbrook,” Mrs. Hunter said as she returned and set a plate of biscuits on the table. “Let her have her tea.” From a backroom, an infant began to cry.

  Miss Colbrook immediately tensed, glancing at him.

  “The baby again,” Mrs. Hunter said. “Emma just needs a good burp, and she’ll go back down. Excuse me.” Mrs. Hunter hurried away and a moment later the crying stopped.

  The girl continued to tug at Miss Colbrook’s skirt. “The fish song, please?”

  “I would be glad to, Meg,” Miss Colbrook said, turning to the girl. “Come sit beside me.”

  Meg climbed onto the chair beside her, and they turned to face each other. They began to sing a rhyming song about a fish swimming in a brook. The song involved a complicated patty cake technique they both had mastered. Miss Colbrook glanced at him nervously at first, but she seemed to quickly forget about him and sang louder. Unfortunately.

  She sang terribly. For a well-bred young lady to sound as if she’d never had a single voice lesson was quite startling. But Meg seemed not to care at all, and the girl smiled broadly as she sang—only slightly better than Miss Colbrook did. Usually poor singing grated on Adrian’s nerves, but as he watched Meg glowing from the attention, he found that he didn’t mind.

  Miss Colbrook clearly had a soft spot for children. But did that mean she wanted to marry and have her own?

  Soon after, Mrs. Hunter joined them. She and Miss Colbrook exchanged gossip about some of the neighbors, many of whom Adrian was still unfamiliar with. While they chatted, he talked with the girls, who introduced him to their calico kitten, Lady Havoc, named for her ability to knock over objects. The girls were thrilled when, against the advice of their mother, he took the cat in his lap and scratched its head until it purred.

  “Are you really an earl?” the older girl, Diana, asked, watching him with the kitten.

  He laughed. “Should earls not hold cats?”

  The girl frowned, pondering the question for a moment. “I think they should,” she said, her face grave, “every day.”

  Adrian laughed and his gaze wandered to Miss Colbrook. She was staring at the little girl with unconcealed amusement and affection, her face lit up with happiness. She caught his gaze and for a moment, she was smiling at him.

  As he stared back at her, the room grew suddenly quiet.

  “You are dropping Lady Havoc!” Diana scolded, snatching the cat from him. He glanced back at Miss Colbrook. She quickly looked away and fumbled for the teapot.

  “Please, let me,” Mrs. Hunter said. She poured Miss Colbrook a fresh cup, glancing at Adrian with an odd expression.

  He frowned. What was wrong with him, becoming so distracted? Enjoying the visit was well enough, but he must not forget his purpose. Yet it appeared Miss Colbrook had told him the truth about Mrs. Hunter and her children. So why did it still seem as if she were hiding something? She’d tensed when the baby cried. What was it about the infant that had her worried?

  Mrs. Hunter served them each another biscuit, pausing to brush some stray crumbs from her gown before she sat down again. Her white gown.

  A sudden suspicion hit him. Followed quickly by irritation that Miss Colbrook thought to conceal such a thing from him. He stifled his annoyance for the time being.

  As soon as they were alone, he would get the truth from her.

  Lord Wareton was angry.

  Anna was certain of it, though he had done his best to conceal it from Mrs. Hunter and the children as they said goodbye. They’d been getting on so well, too, having a surprisingly pleasant time together. And when Diana had instructed him to hold kittens every day, the way he’d laughed and the startling way he’d looked at her had made her wonder if they might even become friends. But soon after, the warmth had vanished from his eyes.

  Had he guessed the truth about Mrs. Hunter?

  “Lovely children,” he said as they walked away from the house.

  “You are fortunate the other two were not here or you might not think so,” Anna said. “Meg and Diana are the best behaved.”

  He said nothing for a moment, until they were back on the road and had rounded a corner, out of view and earshot of the cottage.

  “How long ago was Mrs. Hunter widowed?” He clasped his hands behind his back, keeping his gaze on the road.

  She should have guessed that he would ask. He was not a man of few questions, as she had learned all too well.

  “Not long ago,” she replied, trying to keep the worry from her voice.

  “But she does not wear mourning clothes,” he said. “More than a year, then?”

  “I do not recall the exact date.” With his attention to detail, she should have known he’d put things together quickly.

  He abruptly stopped walking. “How odd. Such a vague answer from a usually so precise woman.”

  She knew she was caught. She would not lie outright, and he could easily learn the truth from someone else anyway. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t put up a fight if necessary to protect her friend.

  She lifted her head and met his stare. “Two years ago.”

  “And she has not remarried?” He glared down at her.

  “No.”

  “But the baby is hers?”

  Her throat tightened. “Yes.”

  “I see.” He took a step closer and raised his voice. “And you thought it best to conceal this from me?"

  She wasn’t accustomed to men towering over her, particularly angry ones. She resisted the urge to step back.

  “Her old landlord was unkind to her and her children,” she said. “He wanted her gone.” As most landlords would, unkind as it was. “That is why I offered her the cottage—”

  “And you assumed that I would want her gone as well? That I would send a widow and her children off into the streets?” He straightened and looked away, as if he’d just realized he was losing his temper. After a moment he gazed at her again, his expression composed, and he added quietly, “Miss Colbrook, exactly what kind of monster do you think I am?”

  “No, I…” Her face felt hot. She clenched her hands together, tugging at her gloves.

  He was not a monster at all. In fact, to her surprise, she was beginning to believe quite the opposite. Mistresses or not.

  “I am sorry,” she said, meeting his gaze. “I was wrong.”

  His eyes widened. Clearly, he hadn’t been expecting an apology, at least not so quickly. The anger left his expression, but he continued to stare at her.

  Say something, she thought. Anything.

  “It would seem your charity towards fallen women extends to your own neighborhood,” he finally said. “Tell me, are dozens of such women living throughout the estate?” A hint of a smile softened his face.

  He was angry only a moment ago, and now he was teasing her? She might have been annoyed if she wasn’t so relieved.

  She lifted her chin higher. “Just Mrs. Hunter.”

  He smiled. “She is fortunate to have you for a friend.”

  “Thank you,” she said softly, gazing up into his hazel eyes. She’d noticed they changed with the light, sometimes an emerald green, and sometimes a paler green, like summer grass.

  She realized she’d been holding his gaze too long. Quickly, she turned away and began walking again.

  He fell into step beside her in silence. The open sky, stone walls, and hedgerows gave way to the cover of tall trees as the path turned away from the fields and into the woods.

  No, she thought, he was certainly not a monster. Unpleasant as he could be at times, more and more he seemed to be quite an agreeable gentleman. Nothing like what she’d expected.

  When she’d first encountered him during her walk, his cravat loose and sweat glistening on his neck and
forehead, her first thought had been disbelief that he was laboring along with the workers. Her second thought, and even more surprising, was how utterly handsome he looked.

  And still looked.

  As they walked, the filtered sunlight dappled his dark coat and made patches of gold in his hair. And she would have to be blind not to notice his broad shoulders and muscular legs. He didn’t wear the skintight fashions that many dandies preferred, but his clothes were well-fitted and did little to hide his fine form.

  She forced herself to keep her eyes on the path. Most of the time. What on earth was wrong with her? For years, she’d kept herself from liking any gentleman. Even with Mr. Harley, she’d never felt anything like the awareness she felt for Lord Wareton. It was only natural that she would notice him, she supposed, sharing a house with him and seeing him so often. He was turning out to be such an interesting gentleman.

  His manner with their tenants was especially remarkable. She never would have predicted finding him working alongside them. Most men of his rank would be uncomfortable socializing with those so beneath him in status, but there was nothing snobbish about him. And while many landowners would refuse to rent to someone in Mrs. Hunter’s situation, he didn’t seem the least concerned other than being angry that she had tried to conceal it from him.

  Nothing in his past suggested such good qualities. His parents had been lost at sea while traveling back from France when he was thirteen. He’d been left in the guardianship of an elderly uncle, a senile man who had allowed him to become spoiled and wild, setting him on the path to the wastrel he became later. Yet despite his wild behavior, somehow during that time he’d clearly learned a great deal about how to manage an estate.

  Still, she couldn’t rest all her fears about him inheriting Wareton. There was the matter of Eastgate being indebted.

  “Did you manage Eastgate yourself all these years?” she asked. Her worry must have shown on her face.

  “You have heard Eastgate is in debt.”

  “I heard you’d had some difficulties,” she said hesitantly, surprised by his candor.

  “It is true that some of the debt is my own doing, from my gaming days, but while I was in France it became far worse. I left the management in less than capable hands, although I did not realize the magnitude of my error until my return.”