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FELL IN LOVE WITH AN EARL
ANNA BRADLEY
1
HAWKE’S RUN, OXFORDSHIRE, MID-DECEMBER, 1812
He’d lost his hat somewhere between London and Hawke’s Run. Of the dozen different things now trying Adrian’s temper, it was the lost hat that made it snap.
An elegant hat, polished boots and a flawless white cravat—tied inTrone d’Amour, and artfully creased—separated a fashionable London gentleman from a plain country squire. He’d given up his left boot and his cravat as lost before he’d left the city last night, the latter being covered in vomit, and the former…well, he wasn’t entirely sure what had happened to his boot, but it wasn’t on his foot. He must have lost it when Lady Pamela shoved him out the window.
But a gentleman’s hat—that was one step too bloody far. A beaver hat was a precious, hallowed thing. Akin to a holy relic, for God’s sake.
Practical, too.
He ventured a glance into the merciless glare above, wincing as pain lanced his skull and hard, white sunlight seared his eyeballs. Was it necessary for it to shinequiteso brightly? He’d happily give up his one remaining boot for a comforting layerof London smog. Really, it was just this sort of unreasonable cheerfulness that made people detest the country.
Here, in particular.
If he’d known when he left his townhouse last night that he’d find himselfhere, he’d have downed a whole bottle of brandy instead of half, but it was too bloody late now. Sobriety had caught up to him somewhere near Hoddesdon, which was a great pity, as he preferred to remain as close to unconscious as possible whenever he was in the vicinity of Hawke’s Run.
Damned if anyone who saw him right now would recognize him as the fashionable, charming Lord Hawke. He looked far closer to the dissipated barbarian he actually was, and thatsmell. Stale smoke, regurgitated brandy, and the thick, cloying stench of Lady Pamela’s perfume.
Taken together, it was enough to make him…
He gagged, bile burning his throat, but he choked it back before it spewed from his lips and splashed into his lap. He reined in his horse at the end of the drive and waited until his stomach ceased its rebellion before running the tip of his tongue cautiously over his parched lips.
This was no time to cast up his accounts. He was about to appear at his country estate after…six, or was it seven? long months of unexplained absence, and he was reeking of wicked deeds as it was. Breeches splattered with vomit was doing it a bit too brown?—
“Oh, dear. Thisisa conundrum.”
The soft exclamation came out of nowhere, startling him into another ill-fated glance into the remorseless sky above. He caught a glimpse of bare, dark branches clawing at the blue, and a flash of something yellow. It wasn’t the sun this time. A remarkably large bird, then? He bloody well hoped not, as any bird such an aggressive shade of yellow was sure to be a vicious predator.
He snapped his eyes shut to prevent his retinas from bursting into flames, but they flew open again when something sharp struck him in the face. “What thedevil?” He despised the country, yes, but this was the first sign he’d ever had it despised him in return.
“Oh, no. That wasn’t meant to happen.”
This time he took the precaution of shading his eyes with his hand before glancing up. He could see nothing but shifting shadows at first, but as his vision adjusted, he caught a glimpse of the hem of a shockingly yellow cloak and a slender foot clad in a worn half-boot dangling from one of the branches above his head. “No? You mean to say youdon’tmake a habit of hurling branches at innocent travelers?”
Or guilty ones, as the case may be.
“It wasn’t a branch, but a clump of mistletoe.” The foot swung back and forth. “Rather a large clump. I do beg your pardon. How unfortunate you’re not wearing a hat.”
He gritted his teeth at the mention of his missing hat. “If I’d known I’d be attacked, madam, I’d have worn a suit of armor.”
She laughed.Laughed, as if this were all tremendously amusing. The sound echoed in the crisp morning air like birdsong, the cheerful chirp of it scraping over his raw nerves and further souring his temper. His jaw clenched. “What do you mean, hanging about in that tree like a bloody monkey?”
She gave a prim little sniff. “There’s no need to curse, sir.”
“I beg to differ, madam. How did you even manage to climb up there?” It was a large tree, at least thirty feet tall.
“Why, the same way anyone climbs a tree. One limb at a time.”
“Well, come down from there at once.”
“As happy as I’d be to oblige you, sir, I’m afraid it’s not that simple. I’m, er…attached, you see.”
“Attached? What do you mean?”