Page 9 of An Arranged Marriage with a Cruel Earl (Marriage Mart Scandals #2)

Emmeline opened her eyes to the sound of birdsong. She sat up, running a hand through her tousled, loose hair wearily. Her head pounded and her back ached. She slipped out of bed, feeling exhausted. She had slept badly, and her body was ramped and sore despite the soft mattress and the clean, warm bed. She limped to the nightstand and rinsed her face, then drank a glassful of ice-cold water. She was at Rilendale Manor, and she was alone.

“I wish Mama and Amelia were here,” she said aloud as she rang the bell for the maid. She did not even have her maidservant from home—or not yet. She would arrive later, when Stanely arrived. She hoped her mare would arrive soon, too. Being with her dear horse and riding across the heath was the only thing that could ease her mind.

Her maid arrived and Emmeline stepped behind the screen to change into her gown. She had chosen a pale blue one from the luggage she had brought with her—it was elegant enough and remote enough to convey nothing at all.

He seems to want as little from me as possible, she thought angrily.

It was strange, she reflected, as she sat down at the dressing table, that she had been so scared of being alone with Andrew, but the fact that he had left her by herself was somehow making her angry.

He had been so distant, so cold when he spoke to her in the hallway. She had thought he might give her one of those rare smiles like he had when they had first spoken, but he had been so aloof. She wondered if she had just imagined that smile.

“There you are, my lady,” her maid said, stepping back so Emmeline could stand up.

“Thank you,” Emmeline said a little distantly. She gazed at her hair distractedly. It was rather more formal than she usually styled it; a severe bun pulled back and with the excess hair wound several times around it. It was decorated with a blue ribbon that matched the gown.

She thanked her maid again and, taking a deep breath, made her way to the breakfast room.

“Good morning, my lady,” Andrew greeted her as she entered. He stood up and she blushed as his gaze moved over her. Heat rose to her cheeks. Was it admiration she saw in his eyes? It disappeared so quickly that she was sure she had imagined it. She looked down at the table, feeling sorrowful. She should not care what he thought—he was a murderer, after all.

“Good morning,” she murmured softly. Andrew had evidently just eaten—his plate was covered with crumbs from a pastry and his teacup was half-full. Emmeline reached out for a piece of toast, feeling too tense to try and sample the pastries in the basket. She was not sure her stomach would even accept the toast.

“I will be riding to London today, on matters of business,” Andrew said formally as he poured himself some tea. “I will be back at lunchtime.” He tilted his head consideringly, and Emmeline realised he was waiting to see if she wanted tea. She nodded.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“I am often busy during the mornings,” Andrew continued, not looking at her. His blue gaze was focused on the window opposite. “I am sure you will find plenty to occupy yourself. There is a pianoforte in the drawing room, should you wish to play. And I trust paints and other things can be found should you wish to practice any other accomplishment.”

Emmeline gazed down at the table. He knew her so little! He had barely exchanged ten sentences with her before, so it was unsurprising that he had no idea how she liked to spend her time. She cleared her throat.

“Thank you,” she replied.

A small flare of defiance glowed into being within her. If he had no desire to get to know her, then she would not help him. He could try and guess as much as he liked, but she was not going to tell him how she planned to spend her morning or what pastimes she liked.

“Should you need anything, Pearson will assist you,” he added. He lifted his tea and drank, already pushing back his chair.

Emmeline said nothing, since she could think of nothing to say. She had never met someone who was quite so cold. Even total strangers were more forthcoming than this man when she spoke, she thought angrily. He had been horrid and unkind—not bothering to speak to her, barely exchanging pleasantries, and now hurrying off and leaving her in a house that she didn’t know for hours by herself. She looked down at her plate and she heard his chair scrape back.

“I wish you a good day,” he murmured. When she did not hear his footsteps immediately heading to the door, she looked up from buttering her bread .

“I wish you a good day, as well,” she replied neutrally. She could have been speaking to an acquaintance she had bumped into in London.

He looked at her and she bit her lip, feeling like laughing as she saw him look irritated. Perhaps he was annoyed by her aloofness as she was by his.

She was still enjoying the small victory over the cold, arrogant man when she heard footsteps in the hallway.

She looked up, expecting to see Mr Pearson, who she already trusted considerably, but it was Lady Rilendale, the dowager countess. The elderly lady limped in; the sunlight bright upon her white hair. She smiled at Emmeline; her soft hazel eyes bright with warmth.

“Good morning, Emmeline,” she greeted her warmly.

“Good morning, my lady,” Emmeline replied. She knew she could have spoken more intimately to the older woman, but she was so much older that she needed respect.

“A fine day,” the dowager countess murmured as she drew out her chair and sat down.

“Very fine indeed,” Emmeline replied softly.

She bit into her toast and chewed, tasting the sweet, slightly bitter taste of orange marmalade. She had been pleased to see it on the table—it was one of her favourite things. She expected that the dowager countess would be as aloof as her cold, unkind son, but when she looked over at the older lady, she met a pair of hazel eyes regarding her with warmth.

“My dear, you must join me on my morning turn about the grounds. It’s so stuffy here in the manor—it's a pleasure to get outdoors now and again.” She smiled; her eyes gentle.

“Yes. I imagine so,” Emmeline murmured. She had done her best to ignore the state of the breakfast room, but it certainly was depressing, with the wallpaper scuffed and damaged and the floor badly in need of polish. The velvet curtains were worn here and there, and the fire smoked a little, sending a smoky, harsh scent into the air. The furniture—a lot of it—was old and neglected and there was almost no coal in the coal scuttle.

“I always walk down to the pond,” Lady Rilendale continued, bringing her thoughts back from her observations. “When we have eaten, you must join me.”

“Thank you, I would like that,” Emmeline admitted. She had not allowed herself to dwell on the thought, but the prospect of being alone in the big, sprawling manor by herself for hours and hours was not exactly alluring.

“You must tell me a little about your family,” Lady Rilendale asked as they sat and ate. Emmeline sipped her tea, allowing her mind to drift to Amelia and her mother. Her throat tightened with sadness, and she found it hard to find words.

“I am an only child. My Papa passed away, as you know,” she explained a little awkwardly. “It was just a year ago,” she added, feeling her heart twist.

“I am sorry, dear,” Lady Rilendale murmured. Her expression was tender and sincere. Emmeline swallowed hard, doing her best not to let tears fall. Lady Rilendale’s kindness touched her more than Andrew’s cruelty.

“My closest family besides Mama are Amelia, Aunt and Uncle. You met them all,” Emmeline reminded.

“They seem very pleasant,” Lady Rilendale assured her.

Emmeline smiled at her. In the face of Lord Rilendale’s callous cruelty, his mother’s sincere kindness was like a salve, easing her wounds.

“Thank you.”

They chatted a while longer, and then Lady Rilendale pushed back her chair.

“It’s time for our walk, I think,” she said, taking her walking cane and walking slowly to the door.

Emmeline walked by her side, and they went slowly downstairs.

“When I see that tree, I recall the day that Andrew climbed up it,” Lady Rilendale said with a smile as they passed a huge, towering pine tree that grew perhaps ten yards from the door.

“He did?” Emmeline giggled despite her serious mood. The image of Andrew climbing anything—even as a child—was impossible.

“He did! He was a fine climber as a little boy. He used to shoot straight up the trees. Especially that one. One day, I thought he had got stuck.” She laughed; her hazel eyes bright at the memory.

Emmeline’s eyes widened. “You did? What did you do?”

“I fetched Mr Pearson. I thought perhaps he could climb up and rescue the poor boy, but imagine my surprise when Andrew jumped down. I screamed! Poor Pearson thought I would have a fit of apoplexy, but my heart held up well to the strain.” She smiled and Emmeline had to laugh .

“Was he hurt?” she asked, bringing her thoughts back to the account Lady Rilendale related.

“Not much,” Lady Rilendale said with a grin. “He was a hardy little fellow. His ankle was a little sprained, and he hurt his wrist, but aside from those he was quite all right. In a week or two he was sprinting around the grounds again, showing Randolph how fast he could run.” She smiled and Emmeline saw her eyes cloud over. She guessed Randolph was the former Lord Rilendale. She shivered. Mention of him reminded her of the rumours of Andrew having murdered him.

“He was close to his grandfather?” she asked. In one way, she hoped they had been enemies. It would make it seem somehow less wicked if at least he and Andrew hated each other.

“Oh, two people could not be closer. Andrew was like our child. Almost,” she murmured, and Emmeline saw tears form in her eyes. In spite of her shock at the news, she held out a hand to Lady Rilendale. The older woman squeezed it briefly, then let go. “Sorry, dear. Sometimes it hits me. Andrew looks so much like his father. So much like my dear Hugh.”

“I’m sorry,” Emmeline murmured.

Lady Rilendale shook her head. “No need, my dear. It just all comes back to me sometimes. Losing Hugh so young. But having Andrew made it possible to bear. He was a light for me and my husband. Kept us sane.”

“I imagine,” Emmeline said, heart beating. She wished there was some way to ask the older lady if the rumours were possibly true. But what if this sweet woman did not know of them? She did not want to ruin the dowager countess’ memories of her much-cherished grandson by suggesting such a thing.

“He was such a funny fellow,” Lady Rilendale continued warmly. “Running around on the lawn. I remember his riding lessons. He was a demon on horseback!” she laughed aloud.

“Really?” Emmeline was intrigued. She leaned closer, listening attentively.

“Oh, yes! He was always trying to speed off somewhere. His riding master was a dear fellow—Mr Carisbrooke. I remember him well. He was so patient, but his patience was sorely tried by our dear grandson.” She chuckled. “Andrew was a natural horseman, you see, and he soon outclassed anything his tutor expected of him.” Her eyes were bright at the memory .

“I did not know he rode,” Emmeline said slowly. That was something they had in common, at least. Her heart thumped faster. That story made him seem a little more human, a little less like a cold, distant stranger.

“Oh, yes!” Lady Rilendale nodded. “He’s a fine rider. His horse is a fine thoroughbred. He often goes off riding for hours at a time. Lots of good riding estates nearby.”

“I see,” Emmeline replied. Her brow creased with a frown. All the things his grandmother had revealed showed a very different character from the one she expected. She had thought he had very few interests outside business, and that he would be too cold and precise for there to be any funny stories about his youth. She was surprised.

They had followed a circular path around the garden and reached a pond. Emmeline stared over it. She had expected it to be overgrown and filthy, in keeping with the rest of the manor grounds, but the water was clear and fresh and the weeds around it had been kept from encroaching on the surface too badly.

“This was Adeline’s favourite space,” the countess murmured softly. Emmeline guessed that she was referring to Andrew’s mother. “She often sat here. I remember that well.” Her eyes clouded as she looked into the past.

“How long was she here?” Emmeline asked. “I mean, how long was she countess?” she added, looking at her hands. She did not want to upset the older lady, but any fact was welcome.

“Four years. She passed away when Andrew was three. Both of them did. My son and her.”

“I’m so sorry,” Emmeline breathed. She could imagine nothing worse. She held the older woman’s hand, and they sat in silence, staring out over the pond. She imagined little Andrew sitting here with his mother and her heart twisted painfully. The poor little boy, to lose his parents so young. However cruel and wicked he had become, no child deserved that much pain.

“It was all so long ago, dear,” Lady Rilendale murmured. “It just comes back to my mind sometimes. I upset you,” she added, staring into Emmeline’s eyes worriedly.

“No. No, you didn’t,” Emmeline said quickly. “I am all right.”

“Good. Good,” Lady Rilendale said caringly .

She paused. “Um...Lady Rilendale,” she managed to say, her throat so tight she could barely get the words out. “You might have heard, um...what the Ton is saying with regard to the late Lord Rilendale?”

“You mean Hugh?” Lady Rilendale’s eyes were angry.

“No. No,” Emmeline soothed. “I mean...” she swallowed hard and tried to say it directly. “I mean that they say Andrew murdered his grandfather.”

“What?” Lady Rilendale’s horror was every bit as huge as she expected. “No. No, dear.” She shook her head firmly. “Those rumours have no truth to them. My Randolph died suddenly, that is true. But it was his heart. I can tell you that right now. I knew for a few years that all was not well with his health. It was not my grandson’s doing. That I can tell you.”

Emmeline let out a breath she had not been aware she was holding. “Thank you,” she whispered. Her shoulders slumped with a relief so great it almost moved her to tears. She had not known how terribly the weight of that rumour had been pressing down on her, making her jumpy and afraid every moment. Certainly, Andrew seemed far from friendly and pleasant—he was cold and distant, and she would not have described him as affable or even tolerable. But he was no murderer.

His grandmother would deny it, a small, nagging voice reminded her. Of course, she would not wish to believe he did it.

She pushed the voice away. There was no good to be gained out of imagining Andrew was a murderer, and if his grandmother had long been aware of her husband’s heart condition, it seemed unlikely it was Andrew’s fault. She should not continue to torment herself with that belief when there was no real evidence for it. The Ton often spread malicious gossip and if those closest to him could not believe it, then perhaps it was just more of that sort of slander.

They sat silently for a moment longer and Lady Rilendale shivered as a slight breeze rustled in the surrounding shrubbery.

“It’s getting cold,” Lady Rilendale noted quietly. “We should go indoors.”

“We should,” Emmeline agreed.

She walked back with Lady Rilendale and then made her way slowly up to the drawing room. She sat down on the chaise-longue with its pulled, scuffed velvet, but she barely noticed the dilapidated room around her. Her mind was reeling .

All the stories Lady Rilendale told suggested a sweet, loving youth. How was it possible that a caring, gentle boy could have grown up to be a heartless killer?

It made no sense. She could not continue to believe it.

She stared into the fire and tried to focus and gather her thoughts. Her mind insisted that she needed to investigate more, that the words of a grandmother who adored Andrew were not enough to prove his innocence in the matter. Her thoughts chased themselves

round and round in wild circles and she took a deep breath. Thinking about him and the murder was easier than thinking of his coldness and feeling hurt and angry about it and she was glad and grateful to Lady Rilendale for their talk.

She hoped they could talk again soon.