Page 13 of An Arranged Marriage with a Cruel Earl (Marriage Mart Scandals #2)

Andrew gazed out of the window. It was morning, and he had slept longer than usual. He could hear Ambrose and Lydia chatting in the breakfast room and he paused in the corridor by the big windows, hesitating before going in.

So strange to have my house invaded by guests, he thought wryly. It had been strange enough when Emmeline’s family stayed for a night, but then he had been so focused on all the strangeness of being married that he had barely noticed the three extra people in the house. Ambrose and Lydia were different. Whenever they were there, he had the uncomfortable sense that he was being watched and assessed.

Emmeline seemed to manage well, he reminded himself, his lips lifting at the corners in a grin. She had been excellent when Lydia bombarded her with personal questions. She had managed to stun Lydia without apparent effort. His gaze followed two figures walking on the winding path—one with silver-white hair, the other with a shock of auburn curls, half-hidden with a bonnet. His smile widened.

Emmeline and Grandma. They had become firm friends in the days that Emmeline had spent in the house. He often spotted them on their walks, and they were usually laughing and sharing a grin. Grandma seemed considerably happier since Emmeline’s arrival, and that had very little, if anything, to do with their change in finances. He had barely even informed Grandma that the debt was paid.

“Ambrose? Ring the bell, will you? This tea is cold.”

Andrew heard Lydia’s voice raised commandingly and he sighed and went into the breakfast room. He could not stand in the hallway forever, and besides, his stomach was twisting with hunger. He brushed a speck of dust from his pale blue velvet coat and stepped inside.

“Ah! Cousin!” Ambrose greeted him, already standing on his way to ring the bell. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Andrew,” Lydia greeted.

“Good morning, cousins,” Andrew replied, going to take a seat opposite her at the round table near the fireplace. He reached for the pot of tea and poured a cup for himself, ignoring Lydia’s raised eyebrows.

“It’s cold,” she commented .

“It doesn’t bother me,” Andrew said lightly. Cold tea was something he had become used to, since they had not—not for years—had the sort of money that would warrant replacing a pot of tea simply because it was cold. Lydia blinked at him in surprise but said nothing as he sipped his tea.

Ambrose returned to the table. “A fine day for a jaunt, eh?” he asked Andrew pleasantly.

“Mm,” Andrew replied, reaching for some toast. He glanced at the sky through the window. It was cloudy, but a soft breeze blew, and he knew that it could change quickly and give rise to a sunny day. “Mayhap. I might go later.”

“I had forgotten how much joy you took in riding,” Ambrose commented, reaching for a copy of the Gazette . Andrew tensed—it was probably about a week old. Ambrose flipped through it idly, barely reading the headlines.

“I do enjoy riding, yes,” Andrew replied. He was a little guarded in his answers. Everything his cousins said seemed to carry some unspoken judgment within it and they never sounded quite sincere.

“I recall when Grandfather bought you your first pony,” Ambrose reminisced. Andrew tensed. Grandfather had not bought him his pony—Father had, just before he passed away. “I remember you were just four, and I was eight. I could already ride a horse,” Ambrose continued.

“Yes. I recall you rode Nightshade,” Andrew replied, recalling the massive black thoroughbred that had been his father’s. He had been terribly upset at the time, since if anyone had been authorised to ride Nightshade, it should have been him, and he was only four and too small. Only the memory that Father had bought him Meadowsweet, his pony, when he was just three, had comforted him.

“Ah! More tea, please,” Lydia interrupted, speaking to the butler. Andrew saw Mr Pearson’s face shift to surprise—Andrew himself had never sent back a pot of tea for being too cold—but then he blinked and was as inscrutable as ever.

He inclined his head, addressed Lydia politely, and withdrew.

“Why! That man is impertinent,” Lydia complained as Mr Pearson went down the hallway. Andrew tensed. Mr Pearson had served him for decades when he could easily have demanded higher wages elsewhere.

“Mr Pearson is a loyal butler,” Andrew said tightly. “And I think, if you will excuse me, that I will go riding.” He pushed back his chair. The strangely judgmental comments and discomfort were too much for so early.

“Are you sure, Cousin?” Ambrose asked directly. He looked a little uncomfortable. Andrew nodded.

“Quite sure,” he replied. “I will be back by lunchtime as I have business to attend to.” He tried to sound less disinterested.

“Of course, Cousin. Accept my apologies for speaking rashly,” Lydia said quickly.

“Accepted,” Andrew replied, feeling a little guilty. He walked to the door and up the hallway, wishing he had eaten a little more. His stomach had barely even registered the one slice of toast he’d eaten.

He reached his bedroom, then hesitated. He was still hungry, and he was not prepared to go riding on an empty stomach. He turned and headed down to the kitchen.

“My lord!” Mrs Hadley, the housekeeper, beamed at him as he walked through the door. “This is an unexpected surprise. Is there aught I can do?” she added, her delighted expression shifting to worry. She, like Mr Pearson, had joined the household in his father’s time and had chosen to stay on despite the fact that she could have received better pay working elsewhere. She was a dear woman—round-faced, white-haired and with big soft eyes.

“No. No, nothing, Mrs Hadley,” he assured her swiftly. “I was just wondering...” he paused, awkwardly. “Might you prepare me some eggs? I’m dreadfully hungry.”

Mrs Hadley beamed. “Of course, my lord. I’ll prepare them for you at once. I suppose you’ll be taking them upstairs in the breakfast room?” she asked, already heading to the door to summon Mr Pearson to take them upstairs.

“Um...no, Mrs Hadley,” he said quickly. “I would much rather take them on a tray in my own quarters.”

“Oh! Of course, my lord.” Mrs Hadley smiled at him, and he watched as she went to the stove. She always fried the eggs, and they were always delicious, but it was the first time in a while that he had thought to eat eggs. He had preferred to allow Mrs Hadley to cook with them, since they could only afford a few.

His mind wandered as Mrs Hadley cooked. He wondered where Emmeline was, and a stab of guilt lanced into him at thinking that she might have been cornered by the cousins. Then again, he reminded himself with a smile, she had needed no assistance with them the previous evening. He found his mind drifting to how beautiful Emmeline had looked, her long neck proud in that low-necked green gown, her beautiful red hair in high contrast with her soft skin.

“Eggs be ready, my lord,” Mrs Hadley told him. He blinked, dragging his thoughts back to the moment.

“Oh! Thank you,” he said sincerely as Mrs Hadley slipped two fried eggs onto a fine, large slice of toast, and loaded the plate with another slice.

“Should Mr Pearson take them up to your chamber?” Mrs Hadley asked.

“Oh. No... I’ll take them,” Andrew said quickly.

She beamed and it was only when he was halfway up the servants’ stairs, using the back route to his room, that he realised she probably thought that he and Emmeline had slept late, and they were going to share them. The thought made him flush.

Lately, he had found his thoughts increasingly drawn to Emmeline. She was beautiful, undeniably so, but it was more than that. Her spirited nature and quiet strength had begun to inspire a deep admiration in him. He smiled to himself, feeling the warmth of his own thoughts as he entered his study, wishing she were there with him.

He settled down at his desk and devoured the eggs and toast, relieved that the strange cloudy sensation in his head lifted almost instantly. He frowned as he gazed at his desk. A letter from his solicitor was there, reminding him of a matter he had meant to address. His solicitor had mentioned a debt to one Mr Hall, a purveyor of furniture in London. Andrew was sure that, of all their creditors, Mr Hall had already been paid. He resolved to check, and to do that he had to consult the old records, which were filed away in the library.

He paused in his room to tug on his riding boots and then hurried down to the library.

The library was on the ground floor, just across from the dining room, and when he reached it, he noticed the door was slightly open. His lips lifted in a smile, thinking that perhaps Emmeline was perusing the collection. He pushed the door, which swung open soundlessly, and then tensed as someone let out a gasp.

“Andrew!” Ambrose said, his eyes round. “You startled me!”

“Ambrose?” Andrew frowned as his cousin hastily pushed a book back onto the shelf. “Were you looking for something? ”

“Um...yes,” Ambrose admitted, looking uncomfortable. “I was. It was a copy of a storybook Grandfather used to read to us. I wanted to find it for...just for the sake of nostalgia.” He looked around awkwardly, a little embarrassed.

Andrew shrugged. “What was the title?” he asked. The library was a little haphazard, but he could usually find what he was looking for.

Ambrose frowned. “I don’t exactly recall,” he said swiftly. “I wonder if you do. It was a story about a mariner who got lost at sea. He clung onto a floating spar and was washed onto an island of giants.”

Andrew’s brow furrowed. “I don’t recall that one,” he said as Ambrose told him the tale. He scratched his head. He did not even recall their grandfather reading to them. He searched his memory for what Ambrose described, but he had no recollection at all.

“You must do!” Ambrose insisted. “Grandfather read it so well. He did the most terrifying boom for the giant’s voice, and he made the descriptions so vivid.”

Andrew frowned, mystified. He truly, absolutely, had no recollection of that at all. He pushed aside his confusion. Ambrose was four years his senior—he would have more vivid memories of that time than Andrew himself did. And he had still been grieving for his father and mother. Perhaps in his grief, he had blocked out whole sections of his memory. He did recall very little from the year following his parents’ passing, after all.

“I’m sorry, Ambrose,” he said unsurely. “But I truly don’t know. You might find it if you look here,” he suggested, pointing to an older section of the library. “The books from when...from my childhood...are most likely here.” He did not want to say, “The books from when Father was alive.” Recalling his parents’ passing was never easy, and it was harder now when he was trying his best to forget that he might have been at fault; that he might be cursed.

Perhaps, he thought as he found the records and hastened out of the library, that was what was so disconcerting. His cousins seemed to want to talk about little besides their memories, and Grandfather, and he did not want to remember.

He took the book to the study and went downstairs. The clouds had lifted a little and he was impatient and restless. He needed to get outdoors .

He strode to the stables and went in, his spirits lifting immediately as he walked down the aisle between the stalls. The scent of horse sweat and hay was like a balm to his soul, soothing him where naught else could.

He paused as he neared his horse’s stall. He could hear one of the horses snorting and the soft sound of a whispering voice. He narrowed his gaze and his heart jumped as he made out the form of a woman in the corner. She was petting his white hunting horse, Snowflake, and her hair was auburn. It was obviously Emmeline.

“What brings you here?” he asked, delighted.

She jumped and whirled around, her hand lifting to her lips. “Oh! Andrew!” Her green eyes were wide and startled. “I didn’t know you were there. Sorry.”

“No need to apologise,” he answered gently as his horse whickered in his stall. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

She smiled, a brief smile that lit up her face and dazzled him. “Well, then. We are both contrite.”

Andrew laughed. “Indeed, we are,” he agreed. He paused. “You and Snowflake seem to have struck up some kind of friendship.”

She nodded. “It seems so,” she agreed. Her bright smile changed to a sad expression as she continued: “He reminds me of my own horse, a little.”

“Your horse?” he asked. He frowned, wondering if she meant the bay horse that he had seen her riding on as he rode past in the coach.

“Yes. She was also white. She was a small mare, part Arab.”

“She must have been quite challenging,” Andrew commented, one brow raised. He had once had a half-Arab horse, and he had been a real challenge of a ride. Headstrong and highly strung, he was not a horse for anyone less than an expert.

Emmeline smiled. “Not really,” she said, her voice warm. “I love her,” she added simply, and sympathy flooded him.

“Is she at your country home?” he asked at once.

Emmeline nodded. “Mama said she would send one of the servants here with her, but it is taking longer than I expected.”

Andrew swallowed hard. “I’m sorry to hear it,” he said with genuine emotion. “I will write to enquire where she is, if you like. But before I do that, all I can offer is a ride on Snowflake. Would you like to take him on a jaunt? I was about to go out too,” he added, gesturing lightly at his riding coat and boots. “Will you come along? ”

He held his breath. He had no idea if she would want to accompany him or not. He expected her to say no, and he tensed his back, stiffening against the disappointment.

She gazed at him, her eyes huge and round. For a second, he thought perhaps he’d scared her, and he drew a breath to reassure her.

Her expression blossomed into a grin.

“Yes,” she said, delight lightening her tone. “Yes. I would love that.”

Warmth flooded through him, and he gestured to the tack room. “We have a side-saddle,” he informed her. “I will send for the groom and have Snowflake tacked up for you at once.”

He could not wait to have a chance to speak with her alone.