Beauty and the Earl

by Patricia Grasso

  “You did not leave me the flowers or the note.” Amber set her napkin on the table. “Please, excuse me, my lord. I must finish my packing.”

  Miles reached out and his hand covered hers. “Don’t leave. I want you to stay and become better acquainted.”

  Amber felt confused. His touch on her hand sent anticipation skittering down her spine, every nerve aware of his masculinity. Sergei had touched her hand many times, but she had never felt like this. If they made love, his body would cover hers as his hand now covered her hand. She felt a melting sensation in the pit of her stomach.

  Though unable to put a name to her feelings, Amber knew she wanted this man to be her husband. And her wanting had nothing to do with her desperate situation or her inexperience with men.

  “I did leave you the flowers and the note.”

  Amber looked into his eyes and saw no pity in his expression. She knew he was lying but loved him for it. “I will stay if you dine with me instead of watching. You need not wear your mask, either. I do not fear scars.”

  Miles inclined his head, acknowledging her sentiment though not agreeing to it.

  “Since my eighteenth birthday several men have sent me flowers,” Amber said, pretending to believe his lie, “but none have meant as much as yours.”

  “Why should my flowers be special?” Miles asked, skeptical amusement appearing on his face.

  “Your gift is special because it comes from you.” Amber saw that she had caught him off guard.

  “You scarcely know me.”

  “We met only yesterday,” Amber said, “but I feel as though I have known you longer.” She knew she had spoken too boldly when he lifted his hand from hers. “Will you take me on a tour of your home?”

  “Some pressing work requires my attention,” Miles hedged. “You may wander wherever you will.”

  “Can you not spare one hour? We can become better acquainted. I promise to keep you no longer than an hour.”

  “Very well.” His reluctance was obvious, but she didn’t have time for a long courtship.

  Miles spoke of inconsequential matters while she finished her breakfast. Then he stood and offered his hand as if inviting her to dance. A twinge of excitement shot through her. She placed her hand in his and rose from her chair.

  “Shall we start on this floor, Your Highness, and work our way up?”

  “I want to see the kitchen,” Amber said.

  “The kitchen?” He sounded surprised.

  “Baking relaxes me.” Amber wondered, not for the first time, the reason people were always surprised to learn that royalty enjoyed simple pleasures. “Princes and princesses do not pass their lives wearing crowns and marching around palaces.”

  “Thank you for enlightening me about that.”

  Large windows flooded the spacious kitchen with light. Set with cook’s equipment, an enormous pine table stood in the middle of the room. There were stoves and ovens and an open hearth, complete with drip pan and cauldron and kettle. On a side wall hung copper pots and pans.

  The staff stopped working when they walked into the room. Cooks and maids and footmen stared in obvious surprise at the earl and his guest.

  “Your Highness, I present Arden Hall’s head cook, Mrs. Meade,” the earl said.

  The woman curtsied to her.

  “I thank you for the delicious meals you have prepared for me,” Amber said.

  Mrs. Meade gave the earl a pointed look. “Her Highness didn’t eat very much last night.”

  Miles grinned. “The fault belongs entirely to me.”

  The friendly relationship between the earl and his servants surprised Amber. Pleasantly. If her uncle’s cook had spoken to him so familiarly, Uncle Fedor would have beaten the woman.

  “I wonder if my invading your domain would create a problem?” Amber asked the cook.

  Mrs. Meade looked puzzled.

  “Baking relaxes the princess,” Miles explained, drawing surprised looks from the staff.

  “Your Highness is welcome here,” Mrs. Meade said.

  “I would like to bake something special for His Lordship. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

  “We will look forward to your presence.”

  “We’ll go this way,” Miles said, his hand at the small of her back, guiding her out of the kitchen and down the corridor. “The painter’s passage leads to the south drawing room.”

  “You know your kitchen staff,” Amber said.

  “Of course, I know them.” Miles gave her a puzzled look. “Mrs. Meade has been in Montgomery service since I was a boy. I also know the footmen, maids, gardeners, coachmen, and stableboys.”

  “Uncle Fedor never bothered to learn the names of his servants.”

  The passage was a wide corridor, its floors uncarpeted hardwood, its walls sky blue with white trim. Ornate portraits hung on the walls while marble busts and statuary stood on both sides of the passage. There were the busts of Julius Caesar, Alexander the Great, Aristotle, Zeus, and Socrates.

  “This appears to be the corridor of the gods,” Amber said. “Where are the ladies?”

  “You think I need a few images of women?” Miles asked, amused.

  “Aphrodite, Helen, Cleopatra, and Dido would make attractive additions.”

  “Why do you choose those women?”

  Amber cast him a flirtatious smile. “History only remembers notorious women.”

  Miles laughed out loud, his first in four years. He put his arm around her in easy camaraderie. Amber gave him a sidelong glance. She liked the feel of his arm around her but would keep that thought to herself.

  Oriental carpets, woven in red and gold and ivory, covered the hardwood floor in the south drawing room. Upholstered chairs sat in cozy clusters, and neutral beige walls emphasized the artwork.

  Next on the tour came the two-story salon, large enough for a country ball. It had hardwood floors and a carpeted stairway that led to the second floor. At one end of the room was a white marble fireplace. A piano had been set near the hearth.

  “Originally, this room was the inner courtyard of the Elizabethan section of the house,” Miles told her. “My grandfather enclosed it when he was making renovations.”

  Amber gestured to the piano. “May I?”

  Miles inclined his head.

  Settling herself on the bench, Amber flexed her fingers and gave him an apologetic smile. “I have not sat at a piano for months.”

  She played well, choosing an uplifting song. The melody held a jaunty air and irresistible rhythm. Her music conjured elemental forces—a playful breeze, a chuckling brook, a dancing sunbeam.

  Miles applauded when she finished. Falling in with his mood, Amber rose from the bench and curtsied to her audience of one. She stepped closer, a smile on her face, her eyes sparkling.

  “My lord, will you honor me with a waltz?”

  “We have no music.”

  “We will make our own music.”

  “I haven’t danced in years.”

  Amber stepped into his arms. “I trust in your ability.”

  Miles placed his hand in the center of her back. She placed her left hand on his arm and gave him her right hand to hold.

  Humming the tune of a waltz, the earl and the princess swirled around the ballroom. He danced with the ease of a man who had waltzed a thousand times. She felt comfortable in his arms and followed his lead as if they had danced together for years.

  When their waltz ended, Amber dropped him a throne-room curtsey. Miles bowed and placed a kiss on the back of her hand.

  He gestured toward the stairs. “Shall we go to the second floor?”

  Amber held out her hand. Miles hesitated for a fraction of a moment and then, to her relief, took her hand in his.

  The salon’s second level had upholstered benches and chairs placed along walls covered with artwork. Another portrait of the dark-haired woman hung in a position of honor facing the stairs.

  “You saw the library yesterday,” Miles said, his hand on her back a
s he guided her toward the corridor.

  “I must confess,” she said, blushing, “I felt much too nervous to notice anything.”

  “In that case, welcome to my library.”

  Amber stepped inside. At one end of the library stood the earl’s desk. A giant, five-foot globe rested on a wooden stand, marking the end of the library and the beginning of the earl’s office. Over the great hearth’s mantel hung another portrait of the woman.

  “My library contains more than forty thousand books,” Miles told her. “That includes one Gutenberg Bible and one Shakespeare folio.”

  “I love reading,” Amber said. “Without ever leaving my chair, I can travel to faraway places and long-ago times. Reading eases a person’s loneliness for a little while.”

  “Have you ever felt lonely?”

  “I have felt lonely my entire life.” Amber took a fortifying breath and walked across the library. The time had come to face her competition for the earl’s affection. Stopping in front of the hearth, she looked up at the portrait. “This woman’s image hangs in every chamber.”

  “Brenna, my late wife,” Miles said, his voice choked with remembered pain.

  “She was very beautiful.”

  “Yes, Brenna was a beauty.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “Why?”

  Amber heard the suspicion in his voice and shifted her gaze to the earl, but his eyes had fixed on the likeness of the other woman. “Your wife must have been special to have inspired such love and devotion. You cherish her still.”

  “We met at a ball and fell in love,” Miles told her, his gaze on the portrait. “I suppose we were devoted to each other the same as other couples.”

  “I have never witnessed marital devotion,” Amber said, drawing his attention. “My father murdered my mother, and Uncle Fedor locked his wife in an insane asylum.”

  “I am sorry,” Miles said. “This Sergei must have been devoted to you, though.”

  “I told you last night I would never have married Sergei,” Amber reminded him. “My unacknowledged bastardy made me unacceptable to his family. They would have approved of his taking me as his mistress, I suppose.”

  “If he loved you,” Miles said, “Sergei would have defied his family to make you his wife. Forget him.”

  “That is one reason I left my homeland without bothering to ask for his help.”

  “Why did you leave home?”

  Amber gave him an ambiguous smile. “You will know the answer to that if we reach an agreement.”

  “Tell me the reason you fear the dark.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “I do not fear the dark.”

  “You sleep with a night candle burning and the bed curtains open.”

  “I prefer the light,” Amber said, “but that does not mean I fear dark, closed places.”

  Miles cocked a brow at her. “I never used the word closed, Princess.”

  Amber faltered, momentarily at a loss for words. She had good reason to fear dark, closed places but refused to share that weakness with him.

  “You will never finish your ledgers if we linger,” she said, changing the subject.

  “The third floor has the bedchambers,” Miles said, ushering her out of the library.

  She pointed toward the dark end of the corridor. “Where does that go?”

  “The state bedchamber and the nursery. The fire destroyed the whole east wing. You must never go there.”

  “You did not restore it?”

  “With my wife dead, I saw no need.”

  “What caused the fire?”

  Miles shrugged. “I assume a fallen night candle.”

  His answer surprised her. “You never investigated?”

  “An investigation would not have returned my wife to me.”

  “I understand.” Amber did not understand. If her love had been killed in a fire, she would have wanted to know how the fire started. “May I walk outside?”

  “You are not my prisoner, Princess.”

  “Will you join me?”

  Miles glanced toward the library. “My ledgers demand my attention.”

  “Thank you for the tour.” Leaving him there, Amber walked downstairs to the foyer and stepped into bright sunshine. There was nary a passing cloud in the sky. Flower fragrances perfumed the air, and masses of greenery bordered the stately brick drive.

  Circling the manor, Amber entered the west-facing garden. Lilacs grew against the mansion beneath her bedchamber window. Everywhere she looked was a profusion of color—purple irises, asters in a variety of hues, and roses.

  Amber saw a gardener inspecting a sad-looking rose bush and called, “Good morning.”

  The man turned at the sound of her voice and instantly doffed his cap. “Good morning, Your Highness.”

  His greeting surprised her. “You know who I am?”

  “Everyone at Arden Hall knows who you are,” the man said. “We’ve been waiting years for you. Now you’re here, even if a bit tardy.”

  Amber blushed at his words, her complexion pinkening to the color of her gown. The earl’s retainers seemed to regard her as a cure for what ailed him. She could never fulfill their expectations.

  “What is wrong with this rosebush?” she asked, giving it her attention.

  “Failure to thrive,” the gardener said. “I’ll need to remove it.”

  “Leave the rosebush to me,” she told him. “I can cure it.”

  “How will you do that, Your Highness?”

  “My love will coax it back to health.”

  The man grinned. “You’re a true gardener, then?”

  “I am that.” Amber gave him her sunshine smile and touched the rosebush. “Tomorrow I will bring my mandolin and revive your spirit with my music.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Your Highness,” the gardener said, and walked away.

  Amber thought the south-facing grounds looked like paradise. Purple irises abounded in the flower garden. In the foreground on a terraced slope was a sunken garden with an octagonal pool surrounded by yew topiary. Two rectangular pools edged in solid blocks of yew appeared in the distance. Beyond that stood a small stone building encompassed by a cobblestone wall.

  Amber strolled in that direction and found the family chapel and graveyard. She opened the wooden gate and walked down a few stone stairs into the graveyard. How peaceful eternity would prove if she could lie beneath the sod in this secluded place.

  Amber wandered the graveyard and read the names of the earl’s ancestors. Her heart ached for him when she read his wife’s: Brenna Montgomery, 15th Countess Stratford. August 1793-November 1816. And her unborn child.

  His wife had been pregnant. What a double tragedy for the earl, who, in all probability, had not been in attendance at the funeral due to his own injury.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Lady Brenna,” Amber whispered to the dead woman, “but I need him now. Rest in peace, for Miles will always love you.”

  “Get away from my wife!”

  Amber whirled around at the sound of the earl’s shout. She could see the fury etched across his features.

  “Go away.” Miles towered over her, his dark gaze cold. “You don’t belong here.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Get out.”

  Amber bolted past him and raced up the stone steps. She looked over her shoulder once and saw the earl with his head bowed and his hands covering his face. Gulping back tears, Amber ran around the manor to the front drive and through the front door. She burst into the foyer, surprising the majordomo, and dashed for the stairs.

  “Your Highness, may I help you?” the majordomo called, hurrying after her.

  “No.”

  Her cry of refusal held all the anguish she had felt during her twenty years. A lifetime of being alone, unwanted, shunned.

  * * *

  Miles stood at his wife’s grave, angry with himself for upsetting the princess, angry with the princess for charming him, angry with his wife for
dying and putting him in this position. “My love, you lie in an early grave,” he whispered, touching the stone marker, “but I am a flesh-and-blood man.”

  He should never have shouted at the princess. His wife’s death wasn’t her fault. He would apologize to her later.

  Miles walked back to the house and went to his study to work on business ledgers. Sometime later, he looked up when the majordomo walked into the room.

  “Shall I serve you lunch here, my lord?”

  “I’ll eat with the princess.”

  “Her Highness sends her regrets,” Pebbles told him, giving him a meaningful look. “She suffers with a headache and is resting in her chamber.”

  “Serve me here, then.”

  Apparently, Pebbles had witnessed the princess’s return to the house. Her Highness was sulking in her chamber. He had no intention of apologizing to a sulking woman. Brenna had never sulked, and he would not tolerate it in his home.

  After lunch, Miles started on the estate ledgers. The household ledgers followed that. The next time he looked up, Pebbles was setting the tea tray on the table in front of the settee.

  Miles stood and stretched, his muscles protesting the long hours at his desk. He saw the solitary cup and saucer and realized how lonely his life was. Until the princess arrived.

  “Her Highness will not be joining me?”

  “Her Highness is taking tea in her chamber.”

  Later, Miles walked upstairs to dress for dinner. Living in seclusion, he had dispensed with changing his clothes in the evening but, with the princess in residence, had resumed the custom.

  Miles glanced at the connecting door and wondered if he should apologize now. After a moment’s indecision, he crossed to the door and raised his hand to knock. Losing his nerve, Miles dropped his hand to his side. He had never been very good with apologies. Instead, he would pretend that nothing unpleasant had passed between them.

  When he walked into the dining room, Pebbles handed Miles a glass of sherry. He crossed to the windows and looked outside at the night.

  Five minutes passed and then another five. Ten minutes became fifteen.

  Miles heard the sound of the princess and turned around, but only a footman had entered and now gestured to the majordomo. He whispered something to Pebbles, who nodded.