Married to the Earl (The Wallflower Brides Book 3)

by Samantha Holt

Before Noah’s death, she had adored this house. It was her freedom. It still could be. Most of Noah’s finances had passed onto his cousin but the house was hers, all hers. It could have been so many things to her this year, but she neglected it out of fear.

  Frowning to herself, she moved through to the drawing room, stiffening her spine in preparation. She tried to view it all coldly. As mere belongings rather than the ghost of a future that would never happen. There was his book, as predicated, a bookmark firmly in place. She moved over to it and fingered the inlaid gold lettering. She had never much enjoyed Greek myths, but Noah seemed to take great pleasure in them. She supposed had they been married longer, she might have learned to share his enjoyment.

  On a small round table, a lone cup remained. It was empty, with just the stains of tea marring the bottom, but it was tilted to one side, abandoned and forlorn. She could still recall dropping the cup on the saucer, not caring if it broke or not, because she had just received the news that her whole life had been thrown to the wind. Every plan she had put in place, the picture of a happy future with her husband had been shattered. What did it matter if one cup shattered too?

  Except it hadn’t. And neither had she. However, it might very well be likely that the only reason she had not was because she’d been avoiding too many truths.

  Life was unpredictable. She could never have fathomed she might fall for Lord Ambrose Creasey of all people. Nor could she have predicted she would be widowed so young. She had thought that she rather relished the unpredictability of life—that she was the sort of person who could embrace anything and still continue on, but perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps she was more set in her ways than she’d thought. Her plans had been scattered and she did not like that one jot.

  And it probably explained why she had reacted so badly to Ambrose proposing. Marrying him had not been part of her plan. Oh, indeed once they had become lovers, she pictured them remaining together, making love many more times. But marriage? How could she give herself up to another man so soon? How could she possibly love again?

  But love was unpredictable, was that not what Augusta said? Love knows nothing of time. Nothing of grief.

  Joanna sank onto a chair, grimacing as a small cloud of dust puffed into the air from the cushion. She glanced around the house that had once felt warm and exciting. Aside from the twittering of birds outside, nothing could be heard, not even the ticking of a clock. For a moment, as she skimmed her gaze over the bookcase, the empty fireplace, and the writing desk by the window, she fancied herself quite well indeed. Or at least, numb to it all. But then her nose tingled.

  Damn it. Why could she not just avoid these awful emotions and tuck them away forever?

  Because you will never move on, a voice whispered.

  And she’d never be able to love again. Not properly.

  A tear trickled down her cheek and she swiped it away. As her throat tightened, more tears came and she ignored them, letting them fall in big, ugly drops onto her lap.

  “God damn him,” she muttered, though she wasn’t certain whether she was talking of Ambrose or Noah.

  Rising, she marched over to the abandoned cup and swept it onto the floor in one sudden movement. It thudded against the rug, remaining intact.

  Joanna glowered at it through a haze of tears. How dare it remain in one piece? How dare life go on without her? How dare Noah leave her to deal with this alone? She found his book next and flung it to the floor, the bookmark slipping out and sliding across the wooden surface. Next, she started on the bookcase, snatching up piles of books between both hands and flinging them to the floor with a thud. Pages burst open and leather split.

  “None of these books are even mine,” she spat at the empty room.

  This house, this lovely, warm house, didn’t even feel like hers. Not without Noah. Not without that life she had pictured. It was gone and that feeling would never return. But she could have had something with Ambrose, something different—something wonderful.

  So why the hell would this grief not let her go? Why couldn’t she take this leap and be as bold as everyone presumed her to be?

  A big sob escaped her, and she pressed her hands to her face and let the tears consume her, sagging down onto the chair by the writing desk. The emotions came in big, overwhelming waves, threatening to drown her until finally she was dry and wrung out, swept up on the shore like a shipwrecked sailor. She wiped her face with her gloved hands and gulped down several breaths then tugged off the damp gloves and set them aside.

  Her mother was right. She’d been avoiding all the awful emotions. She thought if she just involved herself in other things, she would be just fine. But how fine could she be if she could not even face this house? Or accept Ambrose’s love?

  Rising from the chair, she knelt and scooped up the discarded books, carefully closing them and putting them back in place. Then she retrieved the cup and walked through to the empty kitchen. It hurt to see everything empty, everything left waiting for someone to come and fill the house with love. She had anticipated having children and growing old here.

  Joanna carefully rinsed out the cup and placed it to the side to dry. Turning around, she leaned against the sink and eyed the darkened room. Maybe this house would not be hers to fill with love or perhaps it would, she could not be certain, but it deserved more than being left to rot. And she deserved more than that too.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Swiping a hand over his face, Ambrose grimaced. He was beginning to feel like he was mightily hungover which was damned unfair, considering he had not touched a drop of alcohol for over a week. He removed his hand from his face when Bram entered the drawing room. There was no need to worry the old chap. The chances were he’d caught a cold from his time at the hospital and it would pass.

  “Mr. Sinclair and Lord Fraser are here to see you, my lord.” The disapproval was clear on the butler’s pinched lips.

  Well, Bram needn’t worry. In the state he was in, he had little desire to be drinking with his friends. In truth, he’d been avoiding them. Their one and only idea of entertainment was copious drinking followed by some suspect activities. Not all of his London friends were the same but a vast many went happily along with these activities and Ambrose was ashamed to admit he had too. After all he had seen at the children’s hospital, it seemed frivolous to waste one’s time and money on alcohol and entertainment of the female variety.

  “Tell them I am not entertaining tonight, Bram,” he said with a wave of a hand.

  The butler’s features grew further pinched. He didn’t miss that disapproving look. Whilst he had nothing to prove to his butler, it had been somewhat of a relief not to see the man peering down his nose constantly at him.

  “I do not think they are looking for entertainment, my lord.”

  Ambrose scowled. “What the devil does that mean?”

  The butler sighed. “Perhaps you should speak with them. I do not think they will listen to me.”

  With a grunt, Ambrose eased himself off the armchair. His damned joints were beginning to ache. He was most definitely ailing. If Sinclair and Fraser were playing some foolish games to encourage him to spend the evening with them, he’d give them an earful.

  He stilled when he reached the hallway. Arm looped around Sinclair’s shoulders, Fraser appeared asleep. For a change, however, it did not appear as though alcohol had been the cause. Blood trickled from his nose and purple swelling sealed and masked his right eye. The man was awake but only just.

  His expensive jacket was ripped and the collar of his shirt tinged red. He’d taken quite the beating and it looked like Fraser had tried to intervene as he also sported a graze on his lip.

  “What the devil happened?” Ambrose demanded. He gestured to the drawing room before Sinclair could answer. “You had better put him down in there.”

  Ambrose helped Sinclair heave Fraser through and laid him out on the chaise. It was not the first time Fraser had been passed out on the chaise but certa
inly the first time he’d done so because of a fight.

  “Bram, will you fetch some cold meat?”

  The butler nodded and hastened from the room. Ambrose turned his attention to Simpson. “Were you set upon?”

  Smythe lifted a shoulder. “In a way.” He thrust a thumb toward the window. “Fraser got into a fight. It seemed better to bring him here than try to get him home.”

  Ambrose folded his arms. The stench of alcohol clouded the room in a sickly-sweet stew. Both men had been drinking hard, and though the fight must have sobered Sinclair up somewhat, his words were slightly slurred, as though his tongue was too thick.

  “Do I need to send a runner after the attackers?” Ambrose asked.

  Sinclair shook his head and sank onto the armchair by the fireplace. Almost the same age as Ambrose, Smythe was a long, slim chap with a thick head of golden hair and a firm chin. Though he had no title, he had plenty of wealth and a viscount for a cousin. He was not much different to Ambrose in that women came easily to him and his life had been relatively blessed. “Your lip is going to scar, I’d wager,” Ambrose said.

  Sinclair chuckled, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed his mouth. “The ladies love scars.”

  He eyed Fraser, who had barely moved since being positioned on the chaise. “Has he remained awake?”

  Smythe nodded. “He took a blow to the head and ribs, but he’ll recover.”

  Ambrose sighed and moved over to the drink’s cabinet. There was likely no need to send for the doctor, and as much as he didn’t want to spend the night drinking with Sinclair, he couldn’t very well throw the men out on the street. He poured them both two fingers of whiskey and passed it to Smythe before perching on the arm of the chaise.

  “What was the fight about?” he asked, jerking his head toward Fraser. The man gave a groan and rolled onto his back.

  “Damned grubby bastard...” he muttered.

  Ambrose lifted his brows and looked Sinclair.

  Sinclair shrugged. “Some old chap had a problem with Fraser. Waited outside the club for us then pounced on him. It was a fine job I was there.” Sinclair drained the whiskey then offered up the empty glass for more. “A fine job you were home,” he said with a grin then winced and dabbed at his lip. “I heard tell you were playing nurse and cuddling up to all the sickly children in London.”

  Curling a fist, Ambrose ignored the empty glass. “I was inspecting the hospitals to see what the charity could do for them,” he said tightly. “Might as well put my money to good use.”

  Smythe smirked. “I could think of many good ways to waste your money, Creasey. You don’t need to throw it at people no one will miss.”

  He tightened his hand. He’d known some of his friends had callous attitudes but either he hadn’t been paying attention or Sinclair had never spoken to him so boldly before, because he’d never realized quite what a bastard Sinclair was.

  Or perhaps he hadn’t cared to notice.

  Visiting the hospitals and actually speaking with the children there hadn’t changed him, no, but it had certainly made him realize Bram was right. He’d been paying lip-service to the idea of charity. It had been a little fun, that was all.

  So no bloody wonder Joanna hadn’t taken him seriously when he proposed marriage. He hadn’t changed his mind, but she’d been right to turn him down and send him on his way. He’d asked her because he was selfish, because he wanted her as his own, and he cared little for whether she was ready for it or not. When she had declined him, he’d been like a petulant child and had run off to sulk. No bloody wonder she’d said no.

  “The more privileged of us have a duty to those in need,” he said softly.

  Sinclair’s smirk increased. “It’s that woman, is it not? Trivett said you were spending time with some widow in Hampshire. She’s got you by the balls and won’t let go, I’d wager, and now you’re trying to prove yourself a better man.”

  “Watch it,” Ambrose said on a growl.

  “Face it, Ambrose, you will never change, especially not for a bit of skirt.”

  Ambrose opened his mouth to snap back when Bram returned with the cold meat. Ambrose took it off him and sent the butler on his way. Kneeling down beside Fraser, he pressed the cold meat to the man’s face. Fraser groaned and opened his one good eye. “That hurts like the devil,” he moaned.

  “Not surprising. Someone wanted you dead by the looks of it.”

  Fraser shook his head slightly. “Not dead. If I’m dead I can’t marry the bastard’s daughter.”

  Ambrose stiffened. “Marry whose daughter?”

  Fraser’s good eye dropped close and his jaw slackened. A loud snore swiftly echoed through the room. Ambrose shook his head and sighed, leaving the cold meat resting against Fraser’s face. If the man could snore so heartily, he suspected he was just fine. Rising to his feet, he turned to Sinclair. “Whose daughter?” he repeated.

  Sinclair waved a hand. “Just some fishmonger’s daughter. No one important.”

  “And why would he want Fraser to marry her?”

  Sinclair tilted his head and eyed him. “Because she’s increasing, of course.”

  The next breath Ambrose took hurt his lungs. The one thing, the one code, he had always lived by, was to never get a woman with child. For all his flaws, he’d never be careless enough to let that happen.

  “I take it Fraser has no intention of marrying her.”

  Sinclair laughed. “Of course not. God Lord, Creasey, all that time in the hospital has addled your wits. Marry a fishmonger’s daughter?”

  “He has offered to help then?” Ambrose asked, knowing the answer before it even came.

  “The girl shouldn’t have opened her legs, should she?”

  That was it. The man’s smirk was the undoing of him. The arrogant smile as he discussed some poor girl as though she were barely even human sent heat rolling under his skin. It was made all the worse because he recognized that smirk. He might never have been so callous as to consign some girl to a life of ruination and poverty, but he’d worn that smirk too, far too often. He took two quick steps forward and hauled Sinclair from the chair by his collar.

  “What the bloody h—”

  He didn’t finish his sentence. Ambrose shoved him against the door of the drawing room and then out into the hallway. Sinclair pulled free and stumbled, losing his footing and sliding across the polished floor before landing at Bram’s feet. The butler eyed the man with one thin brow raised.

  “I take it Mr. Sinclair is going home.”

  “Damned right he is.”

  “I didn’t even bed the girl,” Sinclair protested.

  “Fraser can think himself lucky that he has already taken a beating, or I’d be happy to give him one myself.” Ambrose snatched the man’s arm and hauled him to his feet, bending his arm behind his back. Perhaps if Sinclair weren’t inebriated the man would have more fight in him but even in Ambrose’s weakened state, it was easy enough to shove him toward the door that Bram had so usefully opened.

  “This isn’t like you, Creasey,” he protested as he steadied himself against the doorway. He turned and tried to force his way back into the house, but Ambrose pushed him back and he staggered down a few steps before coming to standstill. “Does the woman have gold between her thighs to make you act this way? God knows I want a taste if it’s enough to make Ambrose Creasey a different man.”

  Ambrose barreled toward him and connected a fist with Sinclair’s jaw. He barely registered the contact until pain jarred its way through his knuckles. Sinclair fell back onto his rear with a grunt.

  Ambrose thrust a finger at him. “Never speak of her again,” he hissed.

  Sinclair narrowed his gaze at him and cradled his jaw. “You won’t bloody hear from me again,” he muttered. “I can promise you that.”

  “Good. I’ll have Fraser sent home as soon as he is capable of moving.” Ambrose turned and made his way back into the house, pausing only briefly to watch Sinclair stagger hi
s way down the street.

  He put a hand to Bram’s shoulder. “Ensure the carriage is ready to send Fraser home as soon as he’s awake. I don’t want him under my roof for longer than necessary.”

  “Of course, my lord.” A little gleam of something shone in the butler’s eyes.

  “And if you can have someone find out who this girl is. I’d like to offer her aid if Fraser cannot be persuaded to do the right thing.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Ambrose wrapped a hand around his sore knuckles. “And pack a bag. I’m going back to Hampshire.”

  “But the carriage, my lord...”

  “I’ll go by mail coach.”

  Bram blinked a few times. Ambrose well understood the man’s surprise. He’d never once travelled by mail coach, but he couldn’t wait any longer. He needed to see Joanna. Even if it was just to thank her for waking him from the stupor that was his life. Or to tell her properly that he loved her, that he’d wait for her to be ready, even if that was never.

  “What is it?” he demanded as that strange gleam entered the butler’s eyes once more.

  “I am...proud of you, my lord.”

  “Good Lord, Bram, never say anything like that again.”

  Bram’s expression shuttered quickly. “Quite right, my lord. Never again.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Clamping her shaking hands at her side, Joanna peered at the black-painted door in front of her. All she had to do was reach out and pull the brass bell beside it. Her stomach bunched. What if Ambrose no longer wanted her? What if he had found someone else? She tried to swallow the knot gathering in her throat, but it refused to budge. Her feet were rooted to the spot, too.

  That was no bad thing, she told herself, straightening her shoulders. He would not have found someone else. He would still want her. All the doubts about their relationship had been her own, she was certain of that.

  She pulled the bell before another flicker of doubt could enter her mind. The bell ringing echoed through the door. She tilted her head, listening for sounds of footsteps, but she couldn’t hear anything over the noise of her pulse thumping in her chest or the passing carriages and carts.