Page 1 of Falling for the Earl (Improper Ladies #2)
The Pyrenees Mountains, Spain, July 1813
W eary to his bones, the boom of musket fire still ringing in his ears, although it was now eerily quiet, Captain Hugh Fairburn pulled off his gloves and his bicorn hat and entered his makeshift tent.
Arthur Wellesley, Marquess of Wellington, and the Fourth Division had achieved their objective. Marshal Soult’s incursion across the border to relieve the French garrisons in Pamplona and San Sebastian had been cut off, despite the men struggling with shortness of breath in the thin air and fatigue on steep slopes as they’d marched uphill and along narrow trails, while maneuvering cannons and wagons. Fighting alongside Spanish and Portuguese soldiers, they’d been tired when they’d faced the French forces in intense combat, with musket fire, bayonets, and the artillery exchanges making their efforts difficult. But Soult’s forces had eventually retreated, after failing to relieve the besieged garrisons.
Inside the tent, Hugh’s batman waited. “This message just arrived, Captain Fairburn,” Wickstaff said, handing the letter to Hugh.
The brief missive was from Mr. Collins, the family solicitor. Seated on the camp bed, Hugh took a deep breath, then tore it open and read it through, knowing in his heart what news it bore.
After a short illness, his father had passed, and Hugh was Earl of Dorchester.
His lordship left a letter for you, my lord , Mr. Collins had written. He wanted you to know he had complete faith in you. He was confident he left Woodcroft in good hands and believed you would make an excellent earl. And he went to his final rest with the knowledge you will take good care of your mother and sister.
Deeply regretful not to have been able to say goodbye to his father, Hugh shook his head, distress tightening his throat. He had planned to see his father when next in England. To make amends. But death was final. They had not parted on good terms because his father had never approved of him joining up. “It seems we are going home, Wickstaff,” Hugh said, his heart heavy. “Pack the bags.” He raked his hands through his dark hair and propped a booted foot on a chair for Wickstaff to rub away the dirt and mud. When he gazed into the small mirror, his blue eyes stared back at him dark with grief. “I must speak to Wellesley.”
“I’m sorry to hear of your father’s passing,” Wellesley said when Hugh had found him in his tent and explained. “What you were able to endure and subsequently accomplish inspired the men. Of course you must sell out, but you’ll be missed.”
“I’m sorry to leave, sir. But I’m glad I served in the army and witnessed you and the men’s triumph under such trying conditions.” Hugh saluted.
Within hours, he and Wickstaff, a sturdy, unflappable Yorkshireman, rode toward the Channel and home, with Hugh’s thoughts resting on what awaited him there. As earl, he had inherited great responsibilities: to his people, his staff, his tenants, and the House of Lords, as well as the upkeep of invested properties. Hugh would be expected to attend the king and the Royal Court. More still was his need to support those who depended on him, his delicate mother and his mutinous younger sister, plus the importance of producing an heir. He must now face the marriage his father had arranged for him many years ago, to Miss Isabel Ashton, daughter of his neighbor, Sir Phillip Ashton.