Entangled with the Earl (Tangled Threads Book 1)

by Lisbette Tomas

  You’d be bored to tears by that. The little voice in the back of her head, the one that refused to give up on the idea of a love match, did not sound approving. Teresa gritted her teeth. Better bored to tears than married to Lord Radcliff.

  No matter what, she would not do what her aunt had implied with her parting sally. Better to take a position as a governess or companion than to deliberately trap a gentleman into marriage. At least that way she’d be able to look herself in the mirror.

  Rising from her chair, Teresa tugged on the bellpull. If Charlotte was not already napping she would be soon and if Teresa wanted to look her best this evening, it would be easier to get the assistance she needed from the servants before her aunt’s demands began raining down on them. She had a ball to prepare for.

  Chapter 2

  Martin Audley, the Earl of Carlington, slumped in his chair and stared at the glass of whiskey in front of him without really seeing it. With the Season in full swing, the front rooms of the club were full of gentlemen, the mood jovial.

  It grated.

  Thankfully, there were rooms away from the noise and company, tucked in the back, where a gentleman could slip unnoticed and brood. Martin much preferred to be overlooked by his peers. It required much less effort than dealing with them.

  Given a choice, he would have been back at his estate, continuing to clean up the mess his father had left him. Spring planting was controlled chaos at best, particularly with the reforms he had introduced, and it rankled that he had to be in London every year to take his seat in the House of Lords. He did the best he could through a steady stream of post and the occasional visit, and was thankful that Allsworth was more than competent enough to handle the rest, especially this year.

  The death of his grandfather, the Duke of Debenford, had not been wholly unexpected, but the timing — early in the Season — had kept him in town much longer than anticipated, especially once the will had been read. There’d been no time for a quick visit back to the estate, only a pile of correspondence that had grown steadily taller as he’d struggled to keep up. Adding insult to injury, the normal friends he would have expected to be in town for the Season had been notably absent — Thornton off on a honeymoon tour, of all things, and Burrows at the family estate on some unspecified business for the past two months. The only bit of luck had been that Barrington & Barstow had been able to review the will privately and on such short notice.

  “Carlington!” The voice was familiar, jerking him out of his reverie.

  “Burrows!” He rose, extending his hand in greeting. “I thought you weren’t getting back until tomorrow.”

  James grimaced. “Mother.”

  “Ah.” Martin had been friends with James Hartley, Viscount Burrows and heir to the Earl of Somercote, since Eton. In all that time, James’s mother had never once made it through the Season without being convinced she was dying and requiring all her offspring at her deathbed. The only excuses Martin knew that had worked had been failure to receive permission from the headmaster or being near-death. “Nothing serious, I hope?”

  “No, no, just the normal. If I didn’t know better, I would think she timed it to make sure I was in town for the Westons’ ball tonight — which, miraculously, she has recovered enough to attend.” James settled into the seat opposite Martin and motioned to the server to bring him a whiskey. “I’m surprised you’re still in town though. Rumor has it you haven’t left once the entire Season.”

  It was Martin’s turn to grimace. “Not my choice.” He reached out and picked up his own whiskey, swirling it in the glass. Even with his lengthy absence this Season, James still spent much more time in town; it couldn’t hurt to get his opinion.

  “You heard, of course, that the Duke of Debenford passed away a month and a half ago.”

  “Of course.” James’s face was unexpectedly sober. “My condolences. Your grandfather was a good man.”

  Martin shrugged off the concern. “He lived a good life, of course, and saw his estates settled on an heir who will do him credit.” He took another sip of whiskey, savoring the smooth burn. “The reading of the will was three weeks ago, however, and my presence was requested. It turns out I was not forgotten, to the tune of thirty thousand pounds.”

  “Congratulations.” James raised his glass to Martin. “I know what that money will mean to your efforts to restore your estate.”

  Martin’s lips twisted into something that might be called a smile. “Ah, but that wasn’t all. There were strings attached. In order to inherit, I must present my bride to the new Duke within the year.”

  James’s expression of open-mouthed shock did much to soothe the wounded pride Martin had been nursing since the reading of the will, although the effect was somewhat diminished when he started laughing. “The old man always did have a queer idea of a joke. I’ll bet he had you going with that one.”

  “Unfortunately, it’s no joke.” He set his whiskey back on the table. “I asked Barrington & Barstow to take a look at the will for me, with Debenford’s permission. Met with them today. The Duke knew what he was doing. It’s all legal and the funds cannot be released to me until Charles signs a statement that he has met my wife.”

  “And the old man raised Charles, just like he did you. He won’t sign that paper unless you present your wife to him, exactly as the terms are set forward.”

  “Indeed. Just like I would in his place.” Honor demanded a man be good to his word, something his father never acknowledged. Martin set the whiskey back on the table and sighed. “I was planning on marrying once I had finished turning things around at the estate. This just moves the timetable up.”

  “Won’t that throw the marriage-minded mamas into a tizzy.” James leaned back into his chair. “You’ve been considered a prime candidate for a match for several years now — or would be, if you ever showed up at more than five events during the Season.”

  “Dealing with the House of Lords is bad enough. God spare me the marriage market.” Martin’s goal every year was to attend the bare minimum of events required for politeness’s sake. As it was, he spent a considerable amount of time closeted with his estate manager for three weeks before leaving for town, and a steady stream of correspondence kept him occupied on his nights at home. He shuddered at the thought of having to put that off in favor of more time spent in empty conversation with ladies and gentlemen concerned only with their own pleasure and the latest gossip.

  “You’ll have to deal with it now, unless you intend to wait to choose a bride until next Season starts.” James looked thoughtful. “That wouldn’t leave you much time, of course, but it is relatively late and you’re at a disadvantage to those who began courting at the start of the Season.”

  “Are there still options left or would I be wasting my time?”

  James considered this. “Enough, I would think, as long as you’re not looking to catch the eye of one of the catches of the Season. I haven’t been back long, but it’s been enough to hear the rumors. Most of them say that there’s at least two betrothals set to be announced in the next week, but there are several names I recognized as still unmatched. And there’s nothing that says you have to make a choice now if you don’t like any of the available options.”

  Nothing except moving ten months closer to the deadline, Martin thought darkly. He couldn’t afford to take time away from the estate to participate in the rounds of house parties or time at Brighton where the ton amused themselves during the summer months.

  Besides, as far as he was concerned, he had very few concrete requirements for his bride. Pretty enough to make the job easy, fertile enough to provide him with an heir, and happy to stay in the country for most of the year, amusing herself with whatever ladies did during their free time.

  If he waited until the next Season began, he was much more likely to run into the starry-eyed young misses fresh out of the schoolroom, the ones who still believed in romance and true love and fairy tales and hadn’t had their dreams dashed by the re
ality of the ton. It would be better to find a young woman who was finishing her time in the sun and already knew something of how life in the ton really worked, with fewer illusions about marriage and how they might rub along together. No, better to look now and get it over with.

  The clock in the front room chimed three times and Martin resisted the urge to sigh. The stack of correspondence from his estate manager had no doubt grown since he had left the townhouse. The problems and issues outlined in the letters were at least things he could fix — if not immediately, then through research and planning.

  All of that was going to have to wait, however. He wasn’t going to find a bride sitting in his library and that meant venturing into the social whirl of the Season. His preferred method of choosing social engagements was to ignore them all, although his position meant that he couldn’t do that. He compromised, attending smaller parties where he could trust that at least some of the gentlemen to hold up their end of the conversation and talk about something more than the latest Cyprian or hunting party.

  That tactic had worked well to avoid the marriage market for the past eight years, but didn’t provide many chances to meet eligible young ladies. James, on the other hand, thrived on the town life, with a reputation as a man of fashion and impeccable manners. It was a role he had embraced with gusto upon graduation from Oxford, always the most outgoing of their little group. James had the social graces, Martin the brains and Lord Edward Thornton, the sheer nerve.

  Even knowing that, Martin always marveled at his friend’s ability to maintain his rational faculties after such prolonged exposure to the ton. For Martin, spending two nights in a row out amongst society made him contemplate moving to the most remote location he could find. He much preferred the quiet of his library and the chance to talk with friends over a good glass of brandy.

  Only a fool turned down the advice of an expert though, and Martin prided himself on not being a fool. “So if I am committing myself to this course, where do you recommend I start?”

  “If you intend to start tonight, then that’s easy.” James answered immediately. “The ball at the Westons’. Everyone will be there. Crowded, but no better place to assess the overall field. You probably even have an invitation somewhere — the Duchess of Weston prides herself that her invitation list includes every member of the House of Lords, even if not all of them attend.”

  Martin grunted, refusing to rise to the bait. They’d had that discussion many times over the years, especially after he’d inherited the estate and the responsibilities that went with it. James didn’t approve of his decision to withdraw from social circles, even if he understood some of the reasons why.

  “From there, it’ll depend on which young ladies catch your attention.” James narrowed his eyes. “The news that you’re emerging from your self-imposed exile should be interesting enough to make sure that you have entrance everywhere, else the hostess risks losing the attendance of the Marriage Mamas.”

  Martin shuddered. “I’m hoping to keep the news of what I’m doing from them as long as possible.”

  “If you think the mothers aren’t going to smell that you’re on the lookout for a bride within five minutes of your entrance into that ballroom, you’re fooling yourself.” James grinned at the disgruntled expression on Martin’s face. “Chin up, it won’t be that bad. Weston employs one of the better chefs and there are still a few pretty faces among the unengaged ladies. One or two of them has even been known to string together a rational sentence.”

  Martin suppressed a groan. It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter 3

  The evening was not going well.

  Oh, she’d managed to make it through dinner without any social blunders, conducting herself according to her aunt’s rules of conduct for a lady. Teresa had kept her dinner conversations limited to the topics acceptable for a young lady of quality, catching any stray remarks that might hint at bluestocking tendencies before they could escape. She’d laughed at her partner’s jokes, tired as they were, and offered him a genuine smile at the close of the meal, because she’d developed a soft spot for Lord Whitehall over the past few years.

  If she were still in her first Season, she might have flattered herself to think a successful night like this meant she could still recover some standing in society. Tonight, she knew it would only serve to keep the pitying glances to a minimum.

  She wasn’t quite sure when the pitying glances had started replacing the mocking ones.

  There had been enough of both already to deflate her hopes that she might find a gentleman here who didn’t know about her history. One foolish declaration during the ball her aunt and uncle had thrown for her coming out and her reputation had been made. Now she simply watched as the ballroom slowly filled with guests, the hum of voices overwhelming the sound of the orchestra tuning up until the only way Teresa could tell the dancing had begun was the graceful movements in the cleared area near the orchestra’s platform.

  Her dance card hung from her wrist, a delicate pristine white. She had started reusing them last Season, cycling through the collection she had accumulated and taking care to change the embellishments enough so it wasn’t obvious that she was doing so. On the rare occasion that she had a partner or two, she only had to tear out those individual pages. It seemed pointless to continue wasting money on paper when she had far more sheets than she was likely to ever fill. Charlotte had never noticed.

  As far as balls to be a wallflower at, the Westons’ was one of the better ones. Comfortable chairs sat in small clusters around the perimeter, with a few standing alone for those who desired a bit more privacy. The ballroom itself was a spacious room, with a great staircase entrance opposite a raised platform for the musicians. Several balconies overlooked the festivities, with alcoves opening either onto the well-lit terrace or into dimmer hallways.

  Potted plants and small trees were grouped around the room and bunches of small branches were tied above the door, accented with violets and herbs. Teresa was reminded of an outdoor garden party, a statement that had made the Duchess beam when she heard it.

  It mostly made Teresa nostalgic for the home she’d lost. The smell of greenery and herbs had immediately brought back the long afternoons spent out in the woods with her parents, while her mother sketched and her father took notes about the flora and fauna they observed. Nobody had noticed as she made her way to one of the single chairs, partially sheltered from view by the plants meant to evoke a forest clearing.

  Even now, as the room warmed up with the heat from so many bodies crammed into it, she could catch the occasional note of sage or rosemary mixed with the smell of perfumes in the air. The more delicate scent of the violets had disappeared.

  Teresa missed it. Violets had always been one of her favorite flowers in the forest, with finding another small bunch tucked away one of her favorite ways to spend an afternoon. She’d certainly had more success hunting violets in shady groves than she’d ever have hunting husbands in the ballrooms of London.

  No. I can’t think like that. I’ll find someone. I have to. If she could prove to her uncle that she could still attract serious suitors, he might be persuaded to change his mind and allow her a little more time. Maybe not the best plan, but the only one she’d been able to come up with.

  Still, she found herself loath to leave the alcove she’d claimed. Just one more dance. It’s not like anyone asked me to dance for this one. Or for any of them.

  The ton made sure she was never bored at an event like this anyway. The social dance might be complicated but Teresa now had years of practice in reading the ebb and flow. She’d made it her business to learn after her blunder, applying herself to her observations the same way her parents studied the local flora during those long-ago afternoons.

  For example, to her right, Miss Catherine Brindleton presided over her court at the cluster of chairs, having chosen to sit out this dance in favor of a glass of lemonade procured for her by Mr. Fitzwilliam. Teresa wonder
ed if he knew there was little hope of his suit being accepted, or if his desire for Miss Brindleton blinded him to the obvious preference she showed Lord Pembrook, currently seated next to her on the couch. He would be much better served by turning his attention to Miss Lavinia Nevin, who sat towards the edge of the little group and stared at him with worshipful eyes.

  He would figure it out by the end of the Season, she was sure. When the announcement of the match between Catherine and Lord Pembrook was made — and Teresa reckoned that would happen in the next week — Mr. Fitzwilliam would finally look elsewhere.

  She made a mental note to consider approaching him then. He had danced with her once, during the previous Season, and while she found him rather boring, she also thought him a much better candidate for marriage than Lord Radcliff.

  She could almost laugh at how many of the gentlemen she knew improved when measured against that particular measuring stick.

  As the musicians finished the set, a flurry of movement drew Teresa’s attention toward the entrance. Peering around the plants sheltering her chair, she caught a glimpse of a gentleman making his bow to the hostess. Unremarkable in and of itself, although she didn’t recognize the gentleman.

  “Did you see?” Georgiana Talcott rushed up to join Catherine, eager to be the first to share with the group what was clearly an exciting tidbit of news. “It’s the Earl of Carlington! He’s here!”

  Teresa froze. Although they’d never been introduced, she knew plenty about the Earl. He rarely attended balls. Oh, he rarely attended any of the social events that made up the Season, but he seemed to have a particular dislike of balls. His preference ran toward smaller parties, with an appearance at the opera and the odd card party or night at the theater. It had been close to three years since she’d seen him in a ballroom.