Cocky Earl: A Regency Cocky Gents Novel

by Annabelle Anders

  “I like her.”

  “You conversed with her? In the orangery?” On some level, he’d not expected Miss Jackson to get on well with the other young ladies.

  It hadn’t been a fair assumption to make.

  “Creating the floral arrangements today was an invigorating activity. The orangery.” She fluttered her free hand in the air as though searching for her next words. “The colors and the scents and the air. I could spend all day in there. And it’s not only beautiful but practical.”

  “My grandfather built it with practical purposes in mind. It supplies herbs and fresh fruits and vegetables for us and many of our tenants throughout the year. My father added on to it. You can see where the roofline changes.”

  “Your sisters mentioned that this afternoon. They have been more than gracious to me.”

  “Of course, they are.” Only the moment he spoke, an ugly truth had him feeling protective of her. Was she accustomed to being ignored by other ladies in social circumstances? He’d assumed as much himself but felt an unsettling guilt now that he was coming to know her. “I am rather proud of the young women my sisters are becoming.”

  “Becoming?” Miss Jackson slid him a smirk. “In case you haven’t noticed, they already are.”

  Indeed, she wasn’t wrong in this.

  Although Tabetha was far too excitable for her own good and Bethany too much the opposite. “It’s difficult to acknowledge this, as their guardian,” he admitted.

  “Lady Felicity gets along well with them.”

  Ah, yes. They were back to her seeing him as dishonorable. “Tabetha and Bethany are closer to Felicity than most of our cousins.” Jules extended one of his fingers until the knuckle shifted. His sisters were not going to be pleased with him when he announced his betrothal to Miss Jackson. “Our mothers have always joked about a match between their children. I’m certain that if they’d had any sons, it would have been the same for my sisters.”

  “How long ago since your father passed?” She’d been staring at the portrait while they’d conversed but turned toward the next painting, which was of his mother.

  “It will have been exactly five years on the tenth of April.” His gut clenched at the memory. No matter how much time passed, he never failed to experience the same sensation of guilt at the mention of his father’s death.

  She turned to look at him and, even in the shadows, he saw the regret in her expression. “I don’t remember the exact date of my mother’s death.” She tilted her head. “She was ill for a long time and before that, we didn’t get on all that well.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  She didn’t look as though she could be much older than that now. “Being at odds with one’s parents at such an age isn’t all that unusual. My guardianship of my sisters is in place until they turn five and twenty. It seems, now, as though Tabetha has been hating me forever.”

  “She did mention something to the effect of her older brother being overly protective and bossy.”

  “Only once?” Jules teased.

  “At least twenty times.” She smiled but then shot him a look with raised brows. “Along with mention of how it was high time you marry Lady Felicity.”

  Jules grimaced. Felicity was as much a sister to him as Tabetha and Bethany. He’d hoped that would change but as time passed, the nature of his feelings for her had only solidified.

  “For which I have no one to blame but myself. Until now, I’ve done nothing to dispel the notion of a union between our two families. I believe our mothers have gone so far as to discuss wedding plans.”

  “You were walking with her,” she said almost too casually. “You escorted her from the hothouse.”

  Any other chit and he would have imagined such an accusation to be jealousy. Miss Charlotte Jackson indeed needed schooling on the behavior of polite society.

  “What kind of gentleman would I be if I refused a young lady who requested my escort?”

  His question momentarily silenced her.

  “A gentleman who was not very kind.” For all her stubbornness, Jules appreciated that she was open-minded to opinions that weren’t originally her own. “So, you are not promised to one another?”

  Jules exhaled. “I am not. A betrothal was never agreed upon, either in writing or verbally. I wouldn’t have agreed to your father’s wager if that had been the case.”

  “But you didn’t really consider it a risk. Since nothing is official.”

  Jules guided her to his grandfather’s portrait. “I did not.”

  “But there was an implied agreement,” she pressed.

  “That is not the same as if I’d given my word.”

  She disengaged her hand from his arm, putting some distance between them. “That makes it even worse.”

  Chapter 7

  LEATHER AND SMOKE

  For a man who expressed such passion upon the subject of his honor, Lord Westerley possessed an uncanny ability of turning circumstances to suit his purposes. Charley would be wise to remember this.

  “I respectfully disagree, Miss Jackson.”

  “Of course, you do. What would a gentleman such as yourself know about believing one thing and then later discovering that what you believed had only been implied? How is that any different from lying?”

  He had stopped to stare at her. “Did someone do that to you, Miss Jackson?”

  Someone had, but she wasn’t about to discuss how stupid she’d been with the earl.

  So instead, she clasped her hands behind her back and kept walking along the line of portraits. Tamping down the shame of her naiveté, she focused her attention on the subjects in the portraits. The fashions changed, falling farther and farther back into history as they moved along the cool corridor. “All of these people are your ancestors?” Walking here was almost like visiting ghosts.

  A tingling sensation ran up her spine and she shivered.

  “Take this.” Lord Westerley held out his jacket.

  “It’s not necess—”

  He settled it about her shoulders anyway. “Take it.” He didn’t even attempt to hide his annoyance. “I asked you a question, Miss Jackson. As you’ve decided that we should speak candidly with one another, I’d appreciate your answer.”

  She burrowed into his coat, and oddly enough found some comfort in its warmth as she remembered how gullible she’d been.

  “Perhaps.” Her voice came out little more than a whisper.

  “A man?”

  “Yes.” Charley really didn’t want to discuss this. “It’s embarrassing.”

  She strolled to the next painting. A woman—likely his great-great-great grandmother or some such.

  “Why would it be embarrassing to you, if he’s the person at fault? Unless we are comparing apples to oranges, I take it he was a suitor of yours?”

  Part of her could rationalize this, but some other part of her couldn’t help but think she should have been more aware—less inclined to imagine the attention had been more than a casual flirtation. “Nash Whittley.”

  “Of Whittley Spirits?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “Nasty beverage.”

  “Nasty person,” she agreed, grateful that he wasn’t pushing for details. And she was happy to forget all about it when she caught sight of the second to the last painting hung on this particular wall. A soulful-looking bulldog! “Is this your great-great-great grandfather dog, by any chance?” She smiled at the exaggerated jowls and deep frown before moving on to the last painting along the wall. In this one, the artist had lovingly captured the likeness of a grey shorthaired cat with a kind round head and beautiful amber eyes.

  “Miss Jackson.”

  He spoke in a tone that politely but sternly demanded her attention. And when she met his eyes, she could not deny the sincerity she recognized in them.

  “I should not have accepted the bet. It was a mistake. But in my defense, I have never intentionally misled anyone
. I am at fault for going along with the general idea. But as far as your father is concerned, I intentionally gave him my word, which makes a world of difference. It isn’t ideal, by any means, but there we have it.”

  It was difficult to argue with a man who sounded so earnest, not to mention ridiculously reasonable.

  “It won’t be a problem in the long run,” she reminded him.

  “Perhaps.” He pointed at the painting in question. “The dog’s name is Westy and the cat is Miss Perkins. And if you must know, there are cats running about the estate that are quite likely direct descendants of Miss Perkins.”

  “And Westy?”

  “Likely has more ancestors than the Westerley line itself.”

  Charley met his teasing gaze with one of her own. “You are making it difficult for me to dislike you, do you know this?” How grand of a mistake would she make for giving him the benefit of the doubt? Because by some odd twist of fate, Lord Westerley and his sisters were the nicest people she’d met in weeks—months even.

  “As is often the case with me,” he half-grinned, half-smirked.

  Even when he wasn’t being arrogant, he somehow managed to express himself in a cocksure manner.

  “Well, you’re not as stuffy as I thought you’d be,” she said. “Although it pains me to admit as much.”

  “So you no longer think me a liar and a phony?”

  She tilted her head and then pursed her lips. “I wouldn’t go that far.” She smiled at him, meeting his eyes.

  Only he didn’t smile back right away. He simply watched her with a sort of wonder. When he blinked, the look fell away. She’d been imagining it, of course.

  “This way.” He took her arm and quickened their steps until they reached a doorway that led upstairs to what she believed to be somewhere in the main part of the house.

  Charley snuck a quick glance in his direction. He was storming through her barriers too easily. Before he even met her, he’d not had any doubt that she would consent to marrying him. And here she was, laughing at his jokes and…

  Feeling things.

  Was this how he’d gone through life? Never being denied? And if it was, was it because of his title or because of the man himself?

  Likely a combination of the two.

  She inhaled and her knees went weak. And not in a bad way. But because she was partial to his scent, which was somehow becoming familiar to her.

  “Leather and smoke.”

  “Pardon?” He paused and leaned his ear lower to her, managing only to heighten her awareness of him.

  “Um.” She needed to stop uttering whatever thought jumped into her head. It was possible she’d spent a little too much time alone over the past few years. “Your perfume.”

  “My what?”

  “Your scent. I mean.” She might as well explain. “I inventory them… the interesting ones.” And the pleasant ones.

  “Leather and smoke.” This time, it was she who leaned closer. “But the other notes are difficult. Something sweet. Vanilla? Cherries? Not wine…” She frowned.

  “Leather from the saddle, I imagine, and Chaswick’s pipe this afternoon, no doubt.” His gaze caught hers with that quizzical expression again.

  But something else. “Bergamot in your soap. And an aroma that is distinctly from your person. You, my lord, are your own particular brand of earl.”

  He was still holding her arm, and she’d drawn closer than she’d initially intended. “Your next line of whiskey. Distinctly Earl,” he joked.

  Good heavens but he was intoxicating. His scent, his voice, and most of all something far too elusive to be identified.

  She stepped back, needing to clear her senses. “Or we could go with something more straight forward: Westerley.” And then she wanted to kick herself for even joking about naming one of her blends after him. As if this English nobleman needed any more accolades to add to his confidence. She’d name them after his ancestral cat first.

  “Almost anything would be an improvement on that, Miss Jackson.” He opened a door and drew her into a room she hadn’t seen yet. “Perhaps Westy, or Miss Perkins.”

  Was he reading her mind?

  His hand at her back gently urged her to step into a room of such grandeur that her brain stumbled to process it.

  “The ballroom?” She counted nine chandeliers that had been lowered to the floor where they rested on large tarps. By the scent of lemon polish in the air, each one of them had just undergone a thorough cleaning and also been loaded up with tapers that had never been burned.

  “They are on pulleys and will be lit and then lifted to the ceiling just before the musicale planned for this evening.”

  It was beautiful but… “Do you not consider any of this wasteful?” She knew families back home who rationed the burning of their candles so that they wouldn’t go without when absolutely necessary.

  And all of this opulence… Only a small number of individuals would ever benefit from it. At least she could appreciate the practical usefulness of the orangery.

  “Must everything have an industrial purpose, Miss Jackson?”

  Before she could answer with a resounding yes, she caught herself. Lined up on one long table, the arrangements they’d created earlier that day were placed on different levels and at various angles, making for a surprisingly delightful display.

  His stare followed the same direction and then moved around her to approach them. “You made one of these?”

  Sitting amongst the others, hers didn’t look nearly as impressive as it had been in her own mind and she hated that it reminded her of how she felt while standing beside other ladies her age.

  He studied them carefully as he walked around the table. Many of the ladies had incorporated large and beautiful roses. They were pretty but would be cloying. Lord Westerley moved along, pausing at some, passed hers, and then stepped back to it again.

  After somewhat of a pregnant pause, he pointed at it. “You made this one.”

  “Is my name on it?”

  He laughed and met her eyes. “Who else could create something so perfectly balanced and delicate? I knew right away yours wouldn’t be ostentatious. You are far too subtle for that.”

  Charley felt her face flush because her hair was more ostentatious than all of the arrangements put together.

  But for that moment, she allowed the warmth of his words to wash over her.

  It was as though he’d known the perfect complement to use on her. He liked her whiskey and now he liked her flower arrangement. If he’d called her beautiful, or even pretty, she would have known he was playing her false. But to compliment something that she’d created…

  Even her father often resisted tasting her blends, only considering them after she’d pestered him endlessly. Her ideas weren’t practical, he’d insist. And in her mother’s eyes, she’d never been frivolous enough. As independent as she tried to be, she hated that she craved even her grandparents’ approval—which of course, she’d never have.

  She blinked and turned away, catching sight of an orchestra dais. “I’m relieved that there won’t be any dancing.” She forced a smile into her voice.

  “Surely, you enjoy dancing, Miss Jackson.”

  She grimaced. “I do not.”

  “That’s because you have never danced with me.”

  “No, even you couldn’t make a difference,” she said. “I don’t know how.”

  He’d turned his back to the table now, his hands along the edge so that he was partly sitting on it as he watched her. “I have a proposal for you.”

  “Another one?”

  “Bethany tells me that your grandparents have lined up a particularly tedious schedule of lessons for you.”

  The reminder stole any anticipation she’d felt to hear what he had to say and her heart sort of just… dropped. Nonetheless, she nodded.

  What scheme was he cooking up now? He might be honorable, almost to a fault, but she suspected he was not disinclined to participate in subterf
uge when it benefited him in some way. And the mere fact that this made sense to her proved yet again that she needed to take everything he said with a grain of salt.

  “And why would my decorum lessons concern you?”

  “Am I correct in assuming you find my sisters to be pleasant company?”

  “I like them, yes.”

  “And also, that you find their brother to be pleasant company as well?”

  The man’s confidence knew no bounds. “Tolerable.” She bit back a grin when he raised his brows in disbelief.

  “I will take these lessons as an opportunity to court you.”

  Oh, good lord. She laughed at his audacity but was beginning to understand. “And when I return to my grandmother’s house, the lessons will no longer be necessary.”

  “Indeed. And as your betrothed, I will vouch for your newfound talents.”

  “Ha!” Charley couldn’t help herself.

  “You must concede it sounds more enjoyable than endless lessons in Thornton House with Lady Thornton supervising.”

  He’d obviously met her grandmother.

  “I’m not certain your sisters would agree. They have no need of such instructions.” Likely they’d be bored to tears.

  “This will accomplish three objectives and I’ve come to realize you hold efficiency in high regard.” He dropped a slow wink but then continued right on, oblivious that he’d sent an unfamiliar tingling through her. “If my sisters are concerned with managing your instructions, Tabetha will have less opportunity to get herself into mischief and at the same time we ensure the ton isn’t injured by any of your American ways. They are delicate flowers, you must understand. Heaven forbid a lady speak with intelligence.”

  Secretly delighted that he considered her intelligent, she almost laughed again before reminding herself that everything he said was perfectly calculated to win her over. And not because he was attracted to her, but because he needed to uphold his blasted honor.

  Even so, he certainly was laying it on thick. “And?” She narrowed her eyes at him.

  He tilted his head in question.