Page 1 of An Arranged Marriage with a Cruel Earl (Marriage Mart Scandals #2)

“Go away! No!”

Andrew’s own cry of horror jolted him awake. He sat up in bed, his heart pounding, sweat sticking the sheets to his skin. Images from his dream hovered before his eyes. His grandfather’s face contorted with pain before him; breath rasping as he struggled to draw in air. He gasped and struggled as Andrew tried to help him back onto his feet. Andrew stared into his face, but his expression changed from shock to accusation. His hazel eyes usually so full of love narrowed with hate. His voice was a harsh whisper. You did this, he hissed at Andrew, his gaze venomous. You have killed me.

Andrew ran a trembling hand over his face, trying to push the images away. The dream, so vivid and haunting, left him shaken. He closed his eyes and exhaled; his voice low. “It’s just a dream,” he murmured to the empty room. “Just a dream.”

The dream in which his grandfather died in his arms and Andrew had to watch, helplessly, came whenever he was tense and upset. This new variation, in which Grandfather accused Andrew of causing his death, was a fresh torment. Grandfather had died in his arms, but Andrew had not killed him. He, of all people, had to remember that. If he did not, the dream would drive him mad. It was easy to believe that he had been responsible. If they had not been arguing, perhaps Grandfather would never have been taken by the apoplexy that had killed him. It was altogether too easy to imagine that.

Andrew slid out of bed, gazing down at the sweat-soaked sheets that clung to his muscled torso. He shivered, his flesh and his dark hair still damp with sweat. He walked across to the nightstand to drink some water. He gazed out of the window, his blue eyes widening to take in the grey-shadowed lawn and the overhanging trees beyond the window. It was early morning, the sky outside a dull, uncertain grey. Even from the bedroom window, he could see how neglected the garden was; the weeds claiming more and more space every day.

He tugged on his high-collared, starched shirt and buttoned it over his lean muscled chest. The looking glass on the wall opposite showed him the outline of his long, chiselled face, his skin pale in the half-light from the window. Even in the darkness, it was possible to see the grey rings of exhaustion and the haggard expression on his face.

“I need to do something about this,” he said to the empty room.

There were too many worries on his mind.

It was because of the rumours. He had tried to convince himself that it meant nothing, that being accused by most of the Ton of compliance in his grandfather’s murder was something ordinary and trivial. But it had wounded him more than anything else could and had made him flee London and return to Rilendale estate, his home just two miles away from the city.

And it was why he was having nightmares again.

The rattling of a trolley made Andrew look up as he walked into the hallway. It was the butler, on his way to the breakfast room. Andrew wanted to laugh at the astonished look on the man’s face upon seeing the Earl of Rilendale awake at a few minutes past five.

“Good morning, my lord,” the butler greeted politely, struggling to contain his astonishment.

“Morning, Pearson,” Andrew greeted mildly as if there was nothing odd about being awake so early. He walked past and went downstairs and through the front door.

Being in the garden did not lift his tension as he had hoped. The overgrown shrubs and untrimmed trees, the weed-choked flowerbeds and tumbledown walls only served to highlight the neglect into which the estate had fallen. Feeling more distressed, Andrew headed indoors towards the breakfast room.

The butler had already set out the food and Andrew breathed in the scent of toast and pastries. There had been fresh pastries cooked every day during his childhood, but since the money had dried up, the cook only baked them on Tuesdays.

He took a seat, his stomach growling with hunger at the smell. As he poured tea for himself, he looked up in surprise at a noise in the hallway.

“Grandma?”

The Dowager Countess of Rilendale, his grandmother, was eighty years old, and she walked slowly, leaning on her expensive ebony walking stick that tapped the floor. Her small, frail form was clad in dark blue velvet as she came into the room, still in mourning for Grandfather. The early sunshine shone on her pure white hair, making it seem to halo her soft oval face. She blinked in surprise as Andrew stood up politely from his place at the table. A serene smile spread across her face.

“Andrew! Grandson. You’re up early.” Her dark eyes scanned his countenance, a small frown forming between her brows. She had noticed his haggard appearance. He gave her a reassuring smile.

“I could not sleep any longer,” he explained gently. “And it seems you also awoke early?”

She sat down. “I often wake this early,” she told him softly.

Andrew reached for the teapot, pouring her a cup of tea. She thanked him, then added a lump of sugar and stirred thoughtfully. Her eyes held his.

“You worry too much, Grandson,” she said consideringly. “It does not suit you.”

Andrew laughed. His grandmother had always had the ability to surprise him. Gentle and kindhearted, she was keen-eyed and observant to an even greater degree.

“Thank you, Grandma. I’m not sure if I should be complimented or not.” He grinned.

She laughed at his comment, but her piercing gaze never left his face.

“I know you worry,” she began. “But it doesn’t help. And locking yourself away here at Rilendale doesn’t help either,” she added, reaching for a pastry. Andrew watched as she bit into it. “Lemon curd,” she told him, looking up mildly.

“Oh?” Andrew’s stomach twisted ambivalently. He liked pastries, but lemon curd was not his favourite. He decided to focus on buttering one slice of toast and ignore his grandmother’s advice about visiting other places. He knew that it was sound, but he preferred to ignore it. He added some blackcurrant jelly and bit into it. “Not bad.”

“You need to seek diversion, Grandson,” his grandmother continued, dabbing the crumbs off her mouth with her napkin and ignoring his attempt to divert her attention. “Go into London, mayhap. Attend a gathering or two. Shutting yourself away here does not help.”

“Grandma...” Andrew began, not sure how to argue since her advice was undeniably wise.

“I know whereof I talk,” she said simply. “Being miserable does no good. I miss Randolph terribly. I know you miss him too, but he would not wish either of us to shut ourselves away. ”

“I'm sure that’s true, Grandma,” Andrew began gently. He sometimes forgot that his grandmother had lost Grandfather too. His own experience of Grandfather’s death had been so horrible that horror had isolated him from her and from everyone around them. He had not discussed it, or the fact that he blamed himself. His death just confirmed his belief that he was cursed somehow and that those near him would always pass away.

“You require companionship, my dear boy,” Grandma insisted, her soft voice interrupting his thoughts. “You can’t go rattling about in this empty house by yourself.” Her gaze was intense and shrewd.

“I have you for company,” Andrew said instantly, but she smiled.

“That’s not what I mean, Grandson. You need a family. Someone to fill these walls with laughter and light again.” Her expression was sorrowful, and Andrew reached for her hand, guessing she was thinking of her own son Hugh, his father, who had been taken from them both so early. Andrew’s father and mother had perished in a carriage accident on the road to Brighton when Andrew was just three. His parents had been heading to the coast to take the restorative sea air and Andrew had been too young to join them. He had remained at Rilendale with his grandparents, which was the only reason that he had survived the accident. Losing his grandfather, and in such a tragic manner, had been all the more traumatic because he had already lost so much of his family. Blaming himself for all of it was easier than accepting that tragic things can simply happen without reason.

“Grandma,” he said gently, “I cannot...start a family. How could I bring anyone here? The place is falling apart.”

She raised her eyes to meet his own. “Well, a woman could help with that,” she said slowly. “Women bring substantial dowries, you know.” She wasn’t smiling, but her eyes sparkled.

“ Grandma !” Andrew blinked in astonishment. His grandmother always surprised him, and she did so severally before the day had even started. “I couldn’t do that! I...” He trailed off. She smiled at him warmly.

“You could, you know. There’s no reason not to,” she told him honestly. “And besides, a match that begins as a cold arrangement need not remain so. I did not expect to fall in love, yet I did. And so shall you,” she said softly, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. “Randolph and I were not in love at first, but as we came to truly know one another, affection soon blossomed.” A tender smile graced her lips at the memory.

Andrew shook his head. The thought horrified him .

“No, Grandma,” he said directly after he had gathered his thoughts. “I do not think I can.” He looked down at the table, not wanting to meet her gaze.

He had no words to offer her—he couldn’t even understand why he, himself, believed he wasn’t capable of falling in love. He was eight-and-twenty, and it seemed to him as though he had lived a hundred years of bitter sadness.

“You can, Grandson,” she told him, holding his stare. She lifted her napkin and dabbed her lips again, then drank her tea and stood up slowly. Andrew pushed back his chair and stood too.

Andrew smiled at her. “Mayhap someone will visit me,” he told her. He stood as she went to the door.

“Good. Good, Grandson.” She tilted her head, her eyes—crinkled with her smile—holding his gaze. “Every person you talk to helps.”

Andrew nodded, agreeing with her. When she had exited the room, he ate a pastry, wincing at the taste, then drank some tea and went to his study.

His thoughts were reeling. His grandmother’s idea held some appeal, but it would be almost impossible to carry out. He avoided London ever since the rumours started. Even if he had wanted to follow her suggestion, what young lady in the Ton would wed a man who was accused—by rumour at least—of murdering his own family member?

He stifled a yawn and tried to focus. He had a lot of work to do. Checking the household accounts was something he had to do once a month, and it was a torment. Perhaps fear of the horrid task was partly responsible for the bad dreams, he thought wryly. He sat down at his desk, drew Mr Pearson’s neatly ordered accounts book towards himself and peered at the pages.

As the clock struck, Mr Pearson knocked at the door. Andrew gazed up, exhausted, from the books. He had been checking the tallies for hours.

“What hour is it?” he asked, sounding weary even to his own ears.

“Ten o’clock, my lord.” Mr Pearson sounded grave.

Andrew sighed and ran a weary hand through his hair. “Is there something amiss?” He knew the man well and knew he would never disturb him unreasonably.

“Apologies, my lord. Lord Neville is here to see you,” Pearson said smoothly.

“Neville!” Andrew exclaimed happily. “Show him in, please. ”

“At once, my lord,” Mr Pearson agreed, bowing low.

A few seconds later, Neville stood in the doorway. His long, thin face lit up with a grin, his brown eyes bright with warmth as he saw Andrew there. He was a neighbour, but he was also a valued friend.

“Andrew! There you are,” Neville greeted warmly. “I say, old fellow! You don’t look well. Have you slept at all?”

Andrew chuckled humorlessly. “Somewhat, yes.”

Neville took a seat opposite him at the desk, then rested his hand on the account book that lay there. “Do stop reading through that thing,” he told Andrew firmly. “You’ll just make yourself blind staring at those figures in this light.”

Andrew chuckled. “If that could happen, I’d be blind already, old chap,” he assured him with a grin. “I’ve been staring at the books for three hours.”

“Three hours !” Neville gestured to the door. “Come on. Out of here right away. We’ll take that tea to the drawing room when it arrives. At least it’s light in there. No point hiding in the dark. It’s not exactly a summery day, but it’s dashed better than it looks in the study.”

Andrew smiled to himself as he followed Neville down the hallway. His friend was the one person who would always lift his mood. Besides Grandma, Neville was the only person who Andrew let in behind his guard.

Neville’s father, Viscount Esterfield, owned land that neighbored Rilendale’s extensive holdings and he and Andrew had grown up together, going on long trips in the countryside with their horses. They had pushed each other in the stream and shared their thoughts and aspirations as they climbed walls and played sword-fighting with each other.

Andrew rang for the butler and Neville flopped down on one of the spindle-legged chairs in the drawing room. Andrew winced, but it was a new one that Grandfather had bought before they knew they discovered the deficit in their finances, and it held Neville’s weight easily. Andrew sat down across from him on one of the matching chairs.

“I had a pleasant ride to London yesterday,” Neville began.

Andrew found his gaze roaming around the room as he listened to Neville talk. He had become used to the scuffed, worn flocked silk that covered the walls, the velvet curtains that were threadbare, the floor that was damaged from years of booted feet and the fireplace that was smoky, since they could not afford to have the chimney unblocked. When he looked at everything with the thought of having guests there, though, it became plain how badly in disrepair it was.

“...and so, I took lunch at the Glendale club, and...” Neville paused. “Andrew, you’re half asleep.”

Andrew blinked and nodded. “I am.”

Mr Pearson came in, interrupting them for a moment, and left the tea on the table and Andrew reached for the teapot to pour.

“Dash it, old chap,” Neville said, reaching for a slice of the pound cake. “You’re working too hard.”

“It’s not that,” Andrew murmured, pouring tea for them both and adding sugar to his cup. “I just didn’t sleep much.”

“You worry too much,” Neville told him, echoing Grandma’s observation from earlier.

“I do not think it is possible to worry too much, Neville,” he told him, running a hand distractedly through his own thick, dark hair. “If it were, it would have made me sick years ago.”

Neville nodded. “I imagine that’s true. You need to take action, old chap.”

Andrew made a sour face. “Grandma already said that.” His humour lifted as he recalled something. “And you know what her solution was?” His eyes twinkled. In this context, it sounded amusing. “Find an heiress. That was what she said, more or less. Can you imagine?”

Neville blinked. “It’s an idea, Andrew, honestly.” His expression was bright as if Andrew had made a good suggestion.

“ What ?” Andrew stared at his friend, agog. “Neville! I could not.”

Neville raised a brow. “You’d be far from the first, old chap.”

“I could not. Truly.” He did not know how he could convey what he meant. “Besides, can you imagine what someone would say, seeing a house like this?” It wasn’t the reason, but it was one everyone might understand.

“It is only a house, old boy. Houses can be fixed, you know.”

“Mm.” Andrew made a vague noise that could have been dissent or acknowledgement. He reached for a slice of cake. At least if he was eating, Neville might stop peppering him with good suggestions.

“Well, I just came to chat, and invite you on a ride to London tomorrow, if you’re interested,” Neville said after a minute. “I have some business to discuss at the Glendale club, and I thought you might like to come along. ”

“No, old chap,” Andrew said sorrowfully. “I have to stay here to keep an eye on things. Besides, those wretched accounts still need doing. I shall see the task through tomorrow.”

“Mm,” Neville said, sounding thoughtful.

“It was very kind of you to come and see me,” Andrew said sincerely. “And I wish I could come with you. I just—cannot.” He couldn’t show his face in London for so many reasons. And he did not want to meet new people. What if the curse he seemed to carry around touched them, too?

“No bother, old chap,” Neville said kindly. “I shall go to the Glendale club tomorrow, then. And who knows? I might have some news for you when I get back.” That thoughtful look was back again.

“Mm,” Andrew replied distantly. “I wish you luck,” he added. He knew Neville was going to talk to some investors about investing in a sea voyage to India. He couldn’t invest, even if he had wanted to, so there was little point in Neville’s informing him.

“Thank you, old chap,” Neville said after a few minutes of talk. “I’ll call on you as soon as I come back.” London was a two-hour ride from Rilendale Manor, but it was not unusual for Neville to drop in on the way to his own home.

“I shall see you tomorrow, then,” Andrew said a little sadly as his friend went to the door. He enjoyed talking to Neville, and it would have been pleasant to ride with him. He just could not go into London again. He walked with him to the door, where Neville cantered off on his big brown thoroughbred.

Neville’s advice drifted through his thoughts, but he pushed it aside. It was preposterous. Nobody would wed a man with no money who rumours whispered was a murderer. He would have to find some other solution.