Married to the Earl (The Wallflower Brides Book 3)

by Samantha Holt

  After being introduced to the trustees and greeting Mr. Bartlett, Joanna could not help but fear Lord Newhaven was correct about them being dull. All of the men had to be over sixty and none of them seemed to have an interesting idea in their body—with the exception of Mr. Bartlett, whose determination amongst such men could be commended.

  The talk was drawn out and Joanna must have managed to speak only two full sentences without being spoken over. By the end of what had been an interminably long hour, she was fighting to keep her eyes open and her mouth shut. So much of her itched to jump out of her chair and demand they listen to her ideas.

  They were good, she knew they were, and from the looks Lord Newhaven kept giving her, he was interested in hearing them, yet these five old men were more inclined to discuss the weather than the actual hospital.

  “If we could just—” Mr. Bartlett started, only for Sir Gamble to interject with a coughing fit.

  “I think we should have a break for some tea,” Lord Newhaven suggested.

  Joanna waited until all the trustees had left for the drawing room or to smoke a cigar in the library before dropping her forehead on the table. Lord Newhaven chuckled.

  “A dry lot, are they not?”

  She nodded against the cold wood.

  “If you would like, I can ensure they listen to you.”

  Joanna lifted her head with a scowl. “I would rather they listen to me on my own merit.”

  “Did you see Sir Gamble’s face when you entered the room? These are men of an older generation. They are not used to listening to women.”

  “And you are?”

  “Indeed. As I told you, I adore women.”

  “Oh yes, I noticed.”

  “Meaning?” He leaned back in his chair, his hands nonchalantly behind his head.

  “You seemed to be enjoying Mrs. Hughes’ company a great deal at the ball the other night.”

  His lips quirked. “There is no need to be jealous, Mrs. Lockhart.”

  A dismissive noise escaped her. “Jealous?”

  “An adjective, Mrs. Lockhart. To feel envious of something one does not have.”

  “I feel no envy I assure you.”

  Lord Newhaven lifted his shoulders. “If you insist.”

  “I do insist!”

  “Good. Then perhaps you ought to insist those old sticks listen to you.”

  “I was trying to be polite, especially given that we are under your roof.”

  He rose from his chair, coming behind her and leaning over. “All the more reason for you to be impolite,” he murmured in her ear. “In fact, I would rather relish it.”

  A shiver trailed down her spine as his breath caressed the shell of her ear. She curled her fingers into the tabletop and waited until she heard his footsteps vanish out of the room before releasing the tension in her body.

  He would relish it. The way he had said it thrummed through her, repeating over and over in his deep tones. He’d relish it…or her?

  Joanna shook her head. No. This was not what she was here for. She was newly widowed—not even out of her first year of mourning yet—and she needed to find purpose. Lord Newhaven lived and breathed to charm and flirt, regardless of who he was with. Had she not witnessed that at the ball? She was simply the target because she was the only female in the room.

  Not bothering to join the men for tea and certainly not cigars, Joanna opted to wander the gardens for a little while before returning to the dining room. Drawing up her shoulders, she eyed each of the old men while the overpowering scent of cigar smoke wafted into the room with them.

  Two of them were shorter than her. One had failing eyesight as he kept squinting at everyone. Mr. Barnes walked with a cane. Simply because they were the opposite sex did not make them infallible. Nor did it make them any more correct than her. She would do as Lord Newhaven suggested and throw aside politeness. The hospital deserved as much—and she deserved their attention.

  “Now, ah...” started Mr. Bartlett.

  Joanna cleared her throat. “If I could have a moment—”

  Mr. Barnes smiled patronizingly at her, peering over wire-rimmed glasses as though she were some little girl. “We surely will get to your little ideas shortly, Mrs. Lockhart. We just need to—”

  “You do need funds for the hospital, do you not?” she asked him directly. “I was under the impression the charity did not have enough to fully staff it or ensure its continuation.”

  Mr. Barnes shifted in his seat and glanced at the barely legible notes in front of him. “Ah, well...”

  “And yet we have not managed to discuss that once today.” Joanna caught the earl’s eye as he leaned back in his chair, his lips curving marginally, but she quickly glanced away, lest she find herself smiling in return.

  She jabbed a finger at her own notes. “We have talked politics, the potential name of the hospital, the potential doctors...goodness, we have even discussed from where we should get a cat to help keep the rat population down. Yet no one has managed to figure out how exactly we will pay for any of it.”

  Mr. Bartlett pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead, giving her a kindly smile. “I take it you have some ideas, Mrs. Lockhart.”

  She returned his smile then turned her attention to the other men at the table. “That is what I am here for, is it not? After all, what is a woman best at, if not persuading people an expense is entirely necessary?”

  A reluctant laugh rumbled around the table. She felt Lord Newhaven’s gaze firm upon her, but she couldn’t look his way. She didn’t need his approval and yet...well, she rather hoped she had caused enough impoliteness to gain it.

  Which was entirely ridiculous.

  “If you are ready to listen, gentlemen...” She peered around the room and folded her hands on top of the table. “I have some excellent ideas.”

  “Well, we must—” began Mr. Barnes.

  “I have some excellent ideas,” she repeated, louder and more firmly.

  Mr. Barnes peered around the room and clamped his mouth shut. Joanna smiled politely, catching the earl’s eye, and enjoying the amusement in his expression far too much. She lifted her shoulders and fixed her gaze upon the elderly men.

  “Good, then I shall begin.”

  Chapter Six

  The last flickers of sunset vanished over the horizon as Ambrose returned home on horseback. The charity meeting had continued longer than he’d expected, mostly thanks to Mrs. Lockhart’s ideas, so he’d been unable to take a ride until later in the day.

  He smiled to himself. She’d certainly lit a fire under those old stick’s arses, and he could not deny he’d taken great pleasure in watching them fidget. Without her there, he’d have most likely been the subject of their derision and so he felt slightly responsible for the battle she had found herself in the middle of. He did not much care what any of them thought of him, but he regretted she had more of a fight on her hands than she clearly anticipated.

  However, she did rise to the challenge so beautifully so he could not feel entirely riddled with regret.

  As he approached the house, a few oil lamps were being lit inside. He saw the glow warm one room, then the next, travelling across the bottom of the house from window to window. The golden warmth contrasted with what was turning into a gray, dull evening.

  Avington often struck him as austere on such evenings, despite its relatively new frontage and decadent gardens. It was no gothic house in the middle of the moors as so many writers were fond of writing about, but he struggled to feel any sense of warmth about the place.

  He’d spent much of his childhood here, enjoying the gardens and the many house guests, but those memories had been tainted by times alone, when his mother travelled to be away from his father or both parents went to London without him. Even now, he felt too damned small for the place.

  He guided his horse toward the stables. Of course, he could have invited friends from London to keep him company but even his closest ones
had been baffled by his decision to quit Town and pursue this ‘charity nonsense.’ If he was going to figure out what the hell he wanted from life, he could do without their disdain.

  After handing over his horse to a groom, he strolled around the front of the house, hands clasped behind his back. Today had certainly been different to what he’d anticipated. Much of it had been tiresome, but Mrs. Lockhart’s ideas—and the way she handled the trustees—had been interesting indeed. Invigorating even. Seeing the enthusiasm she had for the excellent ideas almost imbued him with it too.

  It did not hurt that watching her talk was about one of the most compelling things he’d ever witnessed, of course. Her eyes would light up and she often bit down on her bottom lip as she considered how to answer something. She’d gesture with her hands and lift her chin when someone disagreed with her. Mrs. Lockhart was about the most captivating woman he’d met in quite some time.

  To say he’d been tempted to invite her home with him had been an understatement. Though, he was not certain what she would have said. There was still a wariness about her when they interacted. And he was damned certain there’d been a hint of jealousy behind her eyes when they’d spoken of the ball. But she was utterly unlike any other widow he’d encountered. So many of them relished their newfound independence, unconstrained by the shackles of having to be accompanied everywhere and free from husbands who had not been of their choosing. Mrs. Lockhart certainly had an independent spirit, but she didn’t relish it like many others.

  He tugged off his gloves as he entered into the hallway. Bram greeted him and swiftly helped him remove his coat. “A rather cool evening, my lord,” the butler commented.

  “It has turned a little chilly.”

  “There is a Mrs. Smythe waiting in the drawing room for you.”

  Ambrose frowned. “Mrs. Smythe?” He only knew one Mrs. Smythe and he had not seen her for several months. As far as he knew, she was still in London and had no reason to be in Hampshire.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Mrs. Smythe,” Ambrose murmured, straightening his cravat. “Tall? Chestnut hair? Rather, um....” He indicated to his chest with two large handfuls.

  Gregg’s mouth thinned until his lips were almost invisible. “Yes, that Mrs. Smythe.” He cleared his throat. “I believe you spent time with her in London not long ago.”

  “I did.” Ambrose rubbed a hand across his face. “You could have told her I was not here, Bram.”

  The butler’s gray brows dipped. “I had thought you were expecting her company, my lord. After all, it has been some time since you have had any company of the, uh, female persuasion.”

  “Damn it, Bram, are you tracking my sex life now?”

  “Nothing of the sort, my lord.” He straightened, his cheeks reddening. “I merely meant...”

  Ambrose waved a hand. “I know what you meant.” He blew out a breath. “Mrs. Smythe is a fine woman but in case you have forgotten, Bram, I am attempting to make some changes in my life.”

  “Forgive me, my lord. I was not certain—”

  What he meant was he did not think Ambrose had truly intended to find something a little more meaningful in his life. If he was honest, he could not blame the man. After all, there was nothing to say one could not have a meaningful life whilst enjoying the pleasures the opposite sex has to offer. However, now that such pleasures were most certainly on offer, he was not certain he wanted it.

  “Should I send her away, my lord?”

  “God no.” Ambrose ran fingers through his hair. “She has come all this way and I shall not have anyone say Ambrose Creasey is a heartless cad.”

  “In that case, shall I have some tea sent up?”

  Ambrose pursed his lips. If he knew Mrs. Smythe—and he did, intimately—she would not be here for tea and a polite chat.

  “I’ll ring if I need anything.”

  Bram ducked his head. “Of course, my lord.”

  Drawing in a breath, Ambrose made his way to the next room. It was not that he did not enjoy Mrs. Smythe’s company, but he was in no mood for it today. Or perhaps any day. He wasn’t certain how the headstrong woman would take that, however.

  She lifted her head as he entered the room, eyeing him from her position on the sofa. A small fire had been lit behind her, offering a warm glow like a halo about her body. Chestnut-haired, curvaceous, and twenty years his senior, Mrs. Smythe had been a friend for a good deal longer than she had a lover, but they had naturally progressed into it after the death of her husband. She was no retiring wallflower type and he’d always appreciated that about her. The room smelled of her perfume—Floris Lavender—one of his favorites. Normally he’d stop to take a long inhale of it but tonight, it seemed a little pungent and not nearly so appealing.

  “Whatever are you doing in Hampshire, Eleanor?” he asked, approaching the sofa as she rose to her feet. He dropped a kiss on the back of her fingers then seated himself on the matching chair opposite.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  “Had you not heard? I was taking an interest in the family charity.”

  A smile curved her lips, crinkling the corners of her eyes. Mrs. Smythe had always been an attractive woman and even age had not diminished that. He’d always enjoyed her confidence and boldness, both of which made for attractive attributes in the bedroom.

  “I had heard but I did not believe it for one moment. Is it true?”

  “It is indeed.”

  She narrowed her gaze at him. “Why ever would you choose to quit London to aid with charity of all things?” Eleanor gave a light laugh. “People are saying you are going addled.”

  Ambrose chuckled. He could not deny he’d had vague thoughts of that himself when he’d first found he was losing interest in all the things he’d always adored doing but those thoughts hadn’t left him nor had he ended up addled out of his wits. “You object to me aiding those worse off than me?”

  “It is not that, Ambrose, but...charity?” She made a clicking sound with her tongue. “I mean...it is a little beneath you, surely?”

  “If a titled gentleman cannot help those in need, then who can?”

  She blinked at him and leaned forward. “Are you certain you are not addled? Or being forced into this somehow?”

  “Eleanor, you have known me for several years. When have I ever not known my own mind or been likely to be coerced into anything?”

  She sat back. “You are right, of course.” She glanced around the room. “Seeing as I am here, I wondered if you might be interested in a little...time together.” She ran a finger down the column of her throat.

  He shifted in his seat. He was not used to declining willing lovers but...well, he wasn’t interested. Not just in Eleanor but in, he supposed, anyone.

  At least save for—

  A loud laugh escaped her, drawing his startled attention. She shook her head with a grin. “I did not want to believe it, but it must be true. Ambrose Creasey is in love!”

  He let his brow furrow. “Love?” he echoed.

  She lifted her shoulders. “Why else would you be doing all this charity nonsense? And declining a quick tumble in the sheets?”

  “You make it sound as though I am heartless.”

  “Not heartless, no. And I think your heart might very well be beating rapidly for someone else, but you have never shown the remotest interest in philanthropic pursuits.”

  “I know women tend to hold the most accolades for changing but a man is allowed to change too.”

  She shook her head vigorously, sending dark curls bouncing against her neck. “Men only ever change for a woman.”

  He shrugged. “I do not know what to say, Eleanor. I am doing this because I wish to, not because I have fallen head over arse for a woman.”

  Eleanor watched him for some time, her dark eyes appraising him. He offered her nothing but an open posture and a neutral expression. He had little to hide. He’d taken this change in his life because he’d damned well felt li
ke it. Maybe once the charity stuff was done, he’d be rid of that frustrating itchy sensation that nagged at him to do something fulfilling and he’d be back to his old life.

  But he wasn’t certain.

  “It must be a woman,” she finally murmured.

  “I do not know what to say to you, Eleanor. It is not.”

  She gave a hefty sigh. “Well, I shall miss you, Ambrose, but if this is what you want, I will offer any aid you should require.”

  “I would appreciate that very much.”

  “I am travelling to Devon to see an old friend, but I shall be back in London by the end of the month. You can contact me there.” She rose from her chair. “And, of course, if you change your mind, I can always make myself available.”

  Ambrose rose from his seat and closed the gap, sweeping a brief kiss across her cheek. “You are a wonderful woman, Eleanor.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Not as wonderful as whoever has persuaded you to quit your life of rakishness.”

  He didn’t argue with her as she left. Clearly, no one could believe the Earl of Newhaven might have a desire to do something a little more important with his life than party, dance, and take a tumble in the sheets. If he cared for the opinions of people, he might wish to prove them wrong, but it mattered little what others thought.

  Well, with the exception of Mrs. Lockhart perhaps.

  He wasn’t doing this for her, he was certain of it, but, hell, her presence didn’t hurt one jot.

  Chapter Seven

  Joanna flexed her hand and groaned aloud. She eyed her ink splotched fingers then the stack of letters, bound and ready to be posted. She loathed letter writing; she really did. Rubbing her wrist, she twisted it a few times and eyed the list of potential helpers for the charity fair.

  “Still at least ten to go,” she muttered to herself and made a face.