Married to the Earl (The Wallflower Brides Book 3)

by Samantha Holt

  The door inched open and a fresh flurry of panic swirled in her belly like a rush of waves. Except this didn’t wash anything away and only increased her nerves. Ambrose had to be about the only man who could make her feel this way and for good reason. Her future happiness depended on him and what a terrifying thing that was, to make herself so vulnerable again.

  But he would be worth it, she knew that now. Just one more moment with him would be worth whatever the future threw at her.

  The butler’s stoic expression flashed briefly with surprise when he spotted her. “Mrs. Lockhart.”

  “Good morning, Bram. I was hoping to, um, see Lord Newhaven.”

  Another slight change in his expression. A pinching of the lips and a dropping of his bony shoulders. “I am sorry, ma’am, but he is not, uh, home.”

  “I see.” Was the butler hiding something for his master? Covering for the fact Ambrose had a lady with him? Well, even if he did, she would tell him in no uncertain terms that he could forget said lady. “I really do need to speak with him.”

  Bram released a hefty sigh and his shoulders sagged completely. “I would like to speak with him too, ma’am, but, unfortunately, he is missing.”

  She blinked several times. “Missing?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Has anyone gone out looking for him? He could have been set upon.” She twined her hands together in front of her as images of him beaten and helpless in some alleyway flittered through her mind.

  Bram shook his head. “I only just received word from Hampshire that he has not arrived.”

  “He went to Hampshire?”

  “By mail coach,” the butler confirmed. “Or at least that was his plan?”

  “Why on earth would he go by mail coach?”

  The man offered the tiniest curve of his lips. “I believe it was to see you, ma’am.”

  “Oh.” She pressed fingers to her lips. “We need to find him.”

  “I was just about to send some men out,” agreed the butler.

  “I’ll go,” she offered, quickly. The thought of waiting around for news was more than she could bear. “I can catch the next mail coach and try to figure out what happened to him. Perhaps you should have someone search his favorite spots in London, just in case he changed his mind.”

  “That is very doubtful, ma’am, but I shall do as you say.”

  “I’ll send word as soon as I know anything.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I—” He paused and drew in a breath. “I am gladdened to see you here. He missed you greatly.”

  “I missed him too,” she said with a soft smile. “Do not worry, I shall do my best to find him.”

  “I have no doubt you will, ma’am. Send word should you come across him.”

  “Of course.”

  Joanna marched swiftly down the street to the nearest mail coach stop. Parcels were stacked on the pavement, ready to be loaded, but only two people were waiting to travel, much to her relief, so she would not have to wait for another. It arrived at least half an hour later than scheduled, as the redheaded gentleman waiting with her kept muttering, each complaint increasing in volume. The woman also waiting remained quiet, occasionally sharing glances with Joanna and rolling her eyes at their travelling companion.

  Before climbing aboard, Joanna spoke with the driver, who could not recall anyone of Ambrose’s description, but he blamed his failing eyesight, which did not make Joanna any more keen to travel in the coach. However, if she was to find Ambrose, she had little choice. The best way of finding him would be to retrace his steps.

  God, she hoped he was well.

  The woman patted the seat next to her and Joanna slid in beside her, grateful not to have to be seated next to the gentleman who did his best to occupy his entire side, his legs taking up almost all of the space in the coach and forcing her to squeeze past him.

  “Mrs. Poole,” the lady said by way of introduction with a warm smile. “I’m heading to Dorset to see my sister. How about you?” She took a long breath. “My sister has been unwell and the poor dear has six children to manage. Of course, her husband barely lifts a finger, so she wrote to me most urgently and begged for my help. Who am I not to offer my aid when my children are grown?”

  Joanna mentally prepared a brief response, but Mrs. Poole saved her by continuing to explain her sister’s illness and how rambunctious the children were. Their travelling companion gave a grunt, folded his arms, and pulled down the brim of his hat so they could no longer see his face. Before long, deep, rattling breaths emanated from him, only just drowned out by Mrs. Poole’s chatter. Joanna smiled politely and nodded here or there but hardly heard a word of it. She did not much mind the chatter because she suspected she’d feel worse in deathly silence.

  What if Ambrose was dead in some alleyway somewhere and she had never been able to tell him how much she loved him? What if he had decided not to return to Hampshire and had taken up adventuring somewhere and would never return?

  There were few logical reasons she could think of for him not arriving at home, but the most likely one was that some brigands had decided this well-dressed man would have a small fortune to his name. Goodness, perhaps he had even been kidnapped?

  But, no, surely someone would know something by now? If enough time had passed for Bram and the servants in Hampshire to communicate the absence of their lord, it would certainly be enough time for a ransom note to be sent.

  Joanna squeezed her hands together, too aware that they had not ceased trembling since the news of Ambrose’s disappearance. She should have spoken with Bram properly before running off in the hopes of finding him. She had no idea how long he had even been gone or why he had even decided to go to Hampshire on a mail coach.

  Had Bram been correct? Had it really been to see her?

  Her stomach contorted in some strange mix of horror and anticipation. Maybe he had forgiven her for her uncertainty and abrupt refusal. Now all she needed to do was find the man.

  At each stop, she disembarked and questioned locals while parcels and letters were loaded and unloaded. None could recall a handsome lord or had heard word of any sort of trouble involving such a man. After the fourth stop, she was beginning to fear he had never boarded the mail coach, and something had happened to him in London. She would have wasted so much time travelling back home.

  Hands to her hips, she stared up and down the main road of the small town as though she might spot him wandering along, that bold grin upon his face. No such luck, though.

  Mrs. Poole waved from the coach. “Coo-ee, we are leaving!”

  Joanna straightened her shoulders and headed back to the coach. As tempting as it was to return to London, she had to check every single stop first. The distance to the mail coach stop from Ambrose’s house was minimal and he would not have passed through any dangerous areas. The chances were, he had made it to the coach and thus, she still had investigating to do.

  “You must not enjoy travelling much,” commented Mrs. Poole. “I understand the feeling. If it were not for my sore knees, I would be getting fresh air every chance I could too.”

  Joanna made a non-committal noise. She had gone by mail coach a time or two when the carriage had not been available but never to Hampshire. She couldn’t be certain how many more stops there were before they reached home, but they had been traveling a good two hours and she knew their previous stop was only an hour from Ambrose’s home. If she still did not come upon anyone who knew what had happened to him, what would she do next?

  She supposed she really would have to return to London and coordinate a proper search for him. Perhaps speak to some of his friends. Of course, for all she knew he could be tucked up with some beautiful woman somewhere, having decided to have nothing to do with her ever again.

  Joanna swallowed hard and turned to watch fields pass by out of the window. Even if he had, she owed him the truth. She owed herself it too. She loved him and she was ready to move on with her life.

  When the coac
h came to a stop at a village a mere half an hour from Ambrose’s, her stomach sank. She climbed out of the carriage, her legs heavy, feeling as though she had been travelling days instead of mere hours. The village consisted of a few red brick buildings, the village store where the coach had stopped, a church further down the way, and an inn across the road. No one waited for the coach and few letters were loaded on here. It would have been difficult indeed for Ambrose to go unnoticed here and yet no one in the store knew of him and even the poor people she accosted in the street shook their heads, staring at her as though she were a madwoman. Of course, she probably looked like a madwoman. Lord knows, she was beginning to feel like one.

  Where are you, Ambrose? she wanted to cry at the top of her lungs, as though her words might somehow reach him wherever he was.

  Mrs. Poole waved from the carriage again, but Joanna ignored her, sinking onto the wooden bench outside the store and dropping her face into her hands. If he had not disembarked here, there was no hope.

  “Miss?”

  She lifted her head to see the driver standing in front of her, his cap clasped between two hands. “Are you getting on?”

  She shook her head. There was no sense in returning home. “When is the next carriage back to London?”

  He tugged out a pocket watch. “Another two hours yet, miss.” He squeezed his hat tighter. “Is all well, miss?”

  She nodded numbly.

  He gave a little shrug and muttered something about women being confusing as he climbed onto the coach. Joanna dropped her face back into her hands. He could not have vanished. He had to be somewhere, and he would be well. He had to be.

  Oh God.

  He just had to be.

  “Miss?”

  She snapped her head up, ready to dismiss the driver but clamped her mouth shut when she realized it was an older man with ruddy cheeks and wild gray hair peeking out from under a hat.

  “Yes?”

  “I heard you were asking about a man—tall, with dark hair. Rich chap, am I right?”

  She held her breath and nodded, not trusting words to form correctly in her throat.

  He grinned. “We were wondering if someone might come and claim him.”

  “Claim him?”

  “Aye, miss.” He gestured down the road. “He’s staying with me and my wife. Got himself in a little pickle. My wife will be tending to him now.”

  Joanna nearly jumped from the bench and clasped the man’s arms. “You have Ambrose? And he is safe?”

  He chuckled. “Safe enough, I reckon. Come with me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It was mightily unfair that the moment he give up drinking that he sicken. He’d rather take a hundred hangovers than suffer this sort of illness again. Ambrose supposed it was some sort of penance to pay for being such an ass for far too many years, but could he not have paid some other price? Suffered a sprained ankle jumping off a horse perhaps? Or have his favorite dinner ruined so badly that he couldn’t face the thought of eating it again?

  Lying on this straw mattress while his head pounded and his stomach cramped in the eaves of a farmhouse was certainly not the most fun way to pass the time, especially when he was meant to be standing in front of Joanna by now, either listening to her berate him for his terrible behavior or entwined in her embrace, enjoying kiss after kiss.

  He peered around the room, the heavily slanting roof making it appear too small. One window let in a little light and also far too much farm smell for his liking. Simple, rustic furnishings were brightened by several crude paintings on the wall and some carefully stitched embroidery. His bed had been carefully made too, with a blanket that must have been sewed by the farmer’s wife.

  He had vague memories of being hauled up here by the farmer and a young lad but how long had passed since then, he did not know. The wife had dabbed his brow and forced food down him at some point during his stay here but much of his time had been riddled with odd dreams and far too much discomfort. He pushed up onto his elbows and grimaced when his head swam.

  “Lie back down.”

  He peered at the doorway through squinted eyes. “I am lying,” he grumbled, his voice gruffer than anticipated.

  “All the way,” the woman ordered. She entered the room with a tray. The scent of vegetables made him wrinkle his nose. “You’ll eat this if you know what is good for you.”

  “How can I eat if I’m lying down?”

  She folded her arms under ample breasts that were emphasized by a white pinafore. Her face had that ruddy sort of kindness one expected from someone tending to one but her steely gray eyes told him this was not the sort of woman one disagreed with.

  “You must be better if you are arguing with me.”

  Ambrose opened his mouth then closed it. He pushed himself up a little further against the pillow and held out his hand for the bowl she offered. “Forgive me. I do not do being a patient well.”

  “I can tell.” She tucked a napkin into his open shirt. “But I’m gladdened your spirits are up. We rather thought we might have taken in a dying man.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Four days.”

  “Good Lord.”

  “Quite a state you were in too.” She shook her head. “The damned driver would have left you in a ditch if he could have, I’d wager.”

  Ambrose nodded. He recalled growing weaker and more sickly by the moment on his travels to Hampshire. By the time they’d reached wherever the hell they were, he was on the verge of vomiting and the driver refused to take him further lest he spill his guts all over the interior of the carriage. He only vaguely remembered the stout woman giving the driver an earful while he collapsed on a bench.

  “I fear I owe you a good deal,” he said.

  She waved a hand. “You’ve been no trouble.”

  He lifted a brow. “If I recall, you were at my bedside quite a bit.”

  The woman shrugged. “Well, I don’t much mind tending to the sick. Reminds me a little of my younger days, before I married.”

  “Oh, how so?”

  “I was a nurse before I was a farmer’s wife.”

  Ambrose released a gruff chuckle. “I could see you being a nurse.” She had that gruff tenderness that he’d seen in many of the nurses when he’d been visiting the hospitals and speaking with sick children.

  “Anyway, now you are more awake, perhaps we can find out a little more about you. There must be people missing you.”

  He paused, a spoon halfway to his mouth. “I suppose Bram is probably fretting.”

  “Bram?”

  “My butler. If you would be so kind, I would like to send him a letter. Stop the old man fretting.”

  “Is that it?”

  He dropped the spoon back in the bowl, he supposed it was. Lord, what a grim life he had been leading. None of his London friends would be missing him and he doubted Joanna knew he had vanished. “I suppose it must be.”

  “Well, finish up your broth, and I shall bring up some paper.”

  “Thank you, Mrs—?”

  “Henley.”

  “Ambrose Creasey,” he offered.

  “Always nice to put a name to my guests.” She nodded to the bowl. “Finish it up,” she repeated.

  Despite his stomach giving a few groans of protest, he managed to finish the vegetable broth as ordered. The sooner he could get back to full health, the better, so he wasn’t about to argue with Mrs. Henley. When the door to the bedroom opened again, he lifted up the empty bowl proudly. “All finished.”

  “Ambrose!”

  He nearly dropped the bowl when Joanna barreled in. Her hair stuck at odd angles from underneath her bonnet and her clothing was wrinkled but he had to check for a moment he hadn’t died and this was some strange idea of purgatory, punishing him with the woman he loved looking so damned beautiful.

  She hastened over to his side and pressed hands to his face. Before he could utter a word, she kissed him hard on the mouth.

&nbs
p; “You are certainly real,” he murmured when she pulled away.

  “Of course I am!”

  He placed the bowl to one side and took her hands in his, urging her away from him. “I have been ill, you really should not be so close.”

  “I feared you were dead,” she declared, ignoring his orders and running her hands over his face, his hair, and down his chest.

  “Almost.”

  “Mr. Henley said you were in a poor state when you arrived here.”

  “I think he is being polite there. I was in a terrible state.”

  “I did not get much of a chance to speak with Mrs. Henley before being ushered up here, but it sounds like she cared for you well.”

  “I believe so.”

  Joanna sank onto the bed beside him, making the mattress creak. “Thank the Lord, you are here.”

  “How the devil did you find me?” He paused. “And why?”

  She took one of his hands in both of hers. “Bram said you had vanished. I couldn’t think of anything else to do other than try to follow you.”

  “I don’t even know where I am,” he confessed.

  “Why didn’t you take your carriage? You would have been delivered safely home then.”

  “It’s a long and dull story but I needed to get to Hampshire with great urgency.”

  “Why?” she said softly.

  “To see you, of course.” He heard her suck in a breath. “Why did you come to London?”

  She smiled softly. “To see you, of course.”

  “I am not certain I deserved a visit.”

  “I needed to tell you...” She lifted her chin. “I’m ready. For whatever you wish of me, I am ready and I’m sorry I let fear get the better of me. I was so used to life always going as planned that Noah’s death—and...and falling for you...well, it scared the life out of me.”

  “Falling for me,” he repeated.

  “You know full well I am in love with you.”

  “A fine job too.” He pushed himself up a little further and pressed a hand over hers. “But I well understand your reticence. I had hardly proven I was the sort of man a respectable woman should marry.”