Page 1 of An Earl Like You (Games Earls Play #6)

T he girls were singing again.

Singing . There was nothing to see for miles except for boring trees and boring meadows, and the scorching sun was burning an angry red patch into the back of his neck.

What was there to sing about? Not a thing that Cass could see, but those blasted girls had been out here every morning since he’d come to Kent, their high voices echoing in the still air.

It was aggravating, was what it was.

He hated it here. Kent was dull and ugly, and it was too bloody hot.

It was too hot to move. Too hot to breathe. It was so hot, even the dragonflies had given up their acrobatics and were turning in languid circles over the pond.

He kicked at the dried clump of grass with the heel of his boot.

What use was a hiding spot if those silly girls kept pestering him with their stupid songs? He wanted to be alone. Was that asking too much? No one was ever pleased to see him, so he’d found a place where he could disappear, but even when he was invisible, he couldn’t get any peace.

He kicked at the clump of grass again and a shower of dirt and pebbles flew off his heel, covering him with a dusty cloud of grime.

Good. Hopefully his clothes were ruined.

Mrs. Byrne, Lord Balfour’s sour-faced housekeeper would scold, but she could nag until her face turned blue, and he wouldn’t care.

Why should he? She’d despised him from the moment his father’s servant had left him on the doorstep.

She’d hardly spared him a glance before her lips went so tight they turned white at the corners.

That was four days ago. Since then, no one had spoken a single word to him.

Not Lord Balfour, who was too preoccupied with his own concerns to spare a thought for the boy who’d been thrust upon him, and not Mrs. Byrne, who’d told the housemaids he was a sullen, scowling little hellion, and warned them to keep away from him.

He may as well have been a rabid dog, for all the welcome he’d gotten.

They didn’t want him any more than his own father did.

Well, that was fine with him. He didn’t give a toss about the opinions of some crusty old lord, especially not one who was friends with his father, who was a crusty old lord himself, and wicked, besides.

He didn’t need his father, and he didn’t need Lord Balfour, and he didn’t need Mrs. Byrne, with her grim gray gowns and pinched lips.

He didn’t need anybody.

All he needed was this tree. It was a good tree, with thick, low-lying branches that blocked the scorching sun and hid him from any curious eyes that happened to look in this direction.

It wasn’t his tree, of course. It wasn’t his pond, his shade or his dragonflies, any more than the great stone house on the top of the hill was his, or the formal gardens with the bright roses, their heavy heads nodding sleepily in the sun.

Nothing here was his.

Everything, from the bed he slept in at night to the pillow under his cheek belonged to Lord Balfour.

But not this tree. That was why he’d chosen it as his special hiding place.

The tree belonged to the gentleman whose estate bordered Lord Balfour’s. He was a lord, too. There were lords everywhere out here in the country, by the looks of it. You couldn’t toss a pebble without hitting some bloody useless viscount or earl.

The neighboring lord was called Lord Melton, or Lord Melrose, or something like that. It didn’t matter what his name was. What mattered was Cass didn’t owe Lord Balfour a single word of thanks for the branches above him or the turf underneath him.

It wasn’t much, but it would have to do until his father decided what to do with him, and who knew how long that would take? A few weeks, maybe. Or maybe a few years.

Until then, there was nothing he could do to fill the long, tedious summer afternoons but swim in the pond, and hide in the shade of the tree.

Alone. He was always alone now, aside from the girls that came down to the pond every morning, but they didn’t count, because they didn’t know he was there, and even if they had, they wouldn’t want to play with him.

No one here did.

Which was fine with him. Better than fine, because everyone knew girls’ games were boring and stupid. He didn’t want to play with them either, and if there’d been anyone around who dared to suggest otherwise, he’d have bloodied their noses for them, and blacked their eyes, too.

He knew how to fight. Every boy who’d come up in St. Giles could fight, and better than any prissy country boy, too. He was the best fighter in his mob, better even than some of the older?—

“There are no more bluebells.” The voice was no louder than a murmur, but it hung in the thick summer air. “Where have all the bluebells gone?”

Cass rolled onto his stomach and peeked through the tree branches.

It was an excellent spying tree, with thick clusters of leaves and branches lying close to the ground.

It was lowering, having to settle for spying on girls, but it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do and, as Mrs. Byrne liked to say whenever he was in earshot, beggars shouldn’t be choosy.

The girls were close, not more than five or six feet away. He could hear every word they said from his hiding place, which meant they could also hear him, so he mustn’t give himself away with so much as a twitch or a deep breath.

There were three of them. One tall one, one medium one, and a small one who was always trailing behind the other two. He’d overheard one of the housemaids say they were Lord Melton’s—or Lord Melrose’s, or Lord Whoever-The-Devil-He-Was’s—younger sisters.

The eldest one was Margaret, then there was Harriet, who was called Hattie, and then Sarah, who was a pale, sickly-looking thing, and not of much interest except that she was the proprietress of the picnic basket they brought with them, and there were nice-looking iced cakes in that basket that made his mouth water.

Aside from those cakes, the sisters were dull enough. They didn’t do much aside from lie about chattering with each other. Sometimes Margaret and Hattie dipped their feet in the pond, but mostly they wandered around the meadow just beyond the spreading branches of his tree and picked flowers.

Flowers, of all stupid things. Who cared about flowers?

“It’s sad when the bluebells are gone, isn’t it?” The youngest one dropped down on the blanket her sisters had spread over the ground. She plucked a blade of grass from the parched patch of earth and began shredding it, the corners of her lips turned down. “I love the bluebells.”

Margaret dropped down on the blanket beside her. “It’s been ages since there were any bluebells, Sarah. It’s too late in the year for them. But just look at all the daisies! Can’t you content yourself with daisies?”

Sarah plucked up another blade of grass. “Daisies aren’t blue .”

“No, but cornflowers are.” Hattie had thrown herself down on the blanket next to her sisters, but she leapt up again and brushed the grass from her skirts. “Bellflowers, too. Shall I go and find some for you?”

“Bluebells are ever so much prettier than cornflowers.” Sarah’s lower lip poked out. “Cornflowers are weeds.”

“So are bluebells, and daisies too.” Margeret stretched out on her back and threw an arm over her eyes. “Goodness, it’s hot. Shall we swim, Hattie?”

“Later, perhaps. I’m going to pick some cornflowers for Sarah first.”

“Don’t bother. Why would I want a handful of weeds?”

Sarah’s tone was so disagreeable, Cass clambered onto his knees so he could get a better look through the branches. Perhaps there’d be a brawl now. That would be something, wouldn’t it?

But Hattie ignored her sister’s fretfulness, saying only, “Because they’re pretty.”

Damn it. No brawl, then. He lay down again, his shirt sticking to his back and his scalp prickling with perspiration. Was it possible to die of boredom?

Margaret let out a yawn. “Go on, then. We’ll swim when you get back.”

Hattie wandered off, leaving her sisters to amuse themselves, and soon enough the monotonous buzz of the insects circling the pond lulled him into a doze.

He woke sometime later, his eyelids still heavy and so groggy it was as if his head had been stuffed with cotton wool.

Something had awoken him. A noise, high-pitched and joyful, like…

Laughter.

The girls were laughing, and all at once, he was irrationally, inexplicably angry, his blood boiling with fury.

What did they have to laugh about? They were stuck here in the country without any friends and not a breath of cool air, and there wasn’t anything they could do about it but lie here and stew in their own sweat.

What was so bloody amusing about that?

He struggled upright and peered through the space between the branches, all without making a sound. He was stealthy like that. He’d been chased enough times he knew how to keep still, to disappear while in plain sight.

If he didn’t wish to be seen, he could remain invisible. No one had ever caught him out at it before.

Until now.

Because there, right on the other side of the branches, close enough he might have reached out and touched her was Hattie, the middle sister.

And she was looking right at him.

Her eyes were blue. A darker blue than the small bouquet of cornflowers she’d picked. The little clutch of them had been laid to one side of the picnic blanket in favor of dozens of daisies, their glowing yellow centers like tiny suns amidst the frothy white petals.

While he’d been napping, the girls had been making daisy chains.

Their laps were overflowing with flowers, and each of them wore a cheerful crown of daisies woven amongst the bright golden locks of their hair.

They were chattering and laughing, their voices floating high above the trees and brushing the edges of the wispy clouds in the sky until they became a part of the air itself.

He and Hattie stared at each other, his heart beating a wild tattoo in his chest, but she didn’t speak to him, and after a moment he ducked back behind the branches and flopped onto his back with a thud.

Daisy crowns, of all stupid things. What use was a daisy crown? Even if he could have had one of his own, he wouldn’t want it. He’d never liked daisies, anyway. He despised them, and he despised Kent, and he despised Lord Balfour and Mrs. Byrne, and he despised Lord Melrose’s stupid sisters, too.

He despised this tree, and he was never going to come here again.

But most of all, he despised his father, because no matter how strong he was, or how clever he became, or how tall he grew, he wasn’t ever going to be good enough for the Earl of Windham.

His mother was gone. She’d died several months ago, and he didn’t have sisters or brothers. As for his father, he might as well not have had one at all, for all the attention the earl paid him.

He didn’t have anyone.

The sisters packed up their basket and disappeared not long after that, back to their happy home where they probably did nothing but eat cakes and laugh together all day. It seemed much quieter after they’d gone. So quiet, his ears rang with silence, and his chest heaved with it.

When his eyes began to sting, he stumbled to his feet and dragged his arm across his damp cheeks before emerging from the shelter of the tree.

That was when he found it.

Just on the other side of the curtain of branches, so close he nearly stepped on it was a daisy crown, and beside it, wrapped in a cloth napkin was one of the cakes from the picnic basket, the white icing melting in the sun.

That was how it began, in the summer of eighteen-hundred and seven, the summer Cassian Fitzgerald turned eleven years old.

That was the summer he first laid eyes on Hattie Parrish. A summer of heat and dragonflies and the marshy scent of the pond, her shoulder touching his as they lay on their backs under Lord Melrose’s ancient beech tree, the spreading branches swaying over their heads.

It was the best summer of his life, but he didn’t know it, then.

He only realized it months later, after his father’s servant came back for him, and he left Kent and Hattie Parrish behind.

But by then, it was too late.

By then, she was already a part of him.