Page 2 of Falling for the Earl (Improper Ladies #2)

Bath Assembly Rooms, England, March 1814

M iss Lucy Kershaw turned this way and that before the mirror in the ladies’ withdrawing room. She bit her lips, pinched her cheeks, then smoothed her skirts, satisfied the white muslin trimmed with spring-green satin ribbons compared favorably with the other ladies’ gowns here tonight. She had only completed the final hem yesterday.

Papa had insisted she come, and although she’d finally agreed to make her first appearance among Bath society, she was still concerned about the financial pressure that would place on him. He had been downhearted since his investment in an African goldmine company that had found no trace of gold. So certain of the venture’s success, he’d borrowed heavily from a London cent-per-center to pay for Lucy’s come out. Next week, she was to travel to London for the Season, but that looked doubtful now. She tried to hide her disappointment from her father and was determined to make the most of what Bath offered.

Lucy took a deep breath and ventured into the elegant ballroom, where the chandeliers sprinkled a myriad of sparkling lights over the dancers performing a quadrille. There were some guests here she knew from childhood, but there was always a large influx of people visiting Bath to drink the waters, bathe, and attend the functions. Tonight, the ballroom seemed to buzz with expectations as some important personages had attended. As Lucy moved through the crowd intent on finding her father, two women she knew only by name drifted past her, fanning themselves vigorously in the warm, smoky air.

“Losing money to an adventurer, I could weep,” Mrs. Hoskin, a lady of middle years in a dress of violet satin, said to the lady walking beside her.

“As do I, my dear,” Mrs. Vellacott, a dark-haired widow of a similar age, in gray silk, responded bitterly. “To think we accepted the advice of someone who has barely two pennies to rub together. Had I known Mr. Kershaw lacked breeding and financial competence, I would not have invested in the company he recommended. There was never any chance of discovering gold. I might as well have thrown my twenty pounds into the river!”

“We must warn others not to be taken in by him,” Mrs. Hoskin said bitterly, her tight, fair curls bouncing.

Lucy, furious on her father’s behalf, came up to them. “A broker assured my father of the company’s success,” she said fiercely, standing before the surprised women. “And Papa, although he gained nothing from recommending it to you, would have wanted you both to benefit from the investment.” Seeing a smirk on Mrs. Vellacott’s lips, Lucy propped a gloved hand on her hip and glared at the women. Upset for her father, the lie seemed to come from nowhere. “And I am surprised you don’t know my father is the Marquess of Berwick’s heir. I’m sure you’re aware the Kershaw’s are very wealthy.”

Mrs. Hoskin opened and closed her mouth, seemingly struck dumb. Mrs. Vellacott, her face burning, took her friend’s arm and hurried her away among the milling guests.

“Nasty women,” Lucy muttered.

“Quite so,” said a deep voice behind her.

Lucy spun around.

A tall, exquisitely dressed gentleman bowed before her, a spark of humor in his startlingly light-blue eyes. “I beg your pardon. We have not been properly introduced. Dorchester. How do you do?”

Recognizing the earl by his name, Lucy sank into a curtsey. “Miss Kershaw, my lord.” Mortified to have been caught out in such a blatant lie, Lucy gazed up into the earl’s eyes that searched hers. He seemed so elegant and self-assured that she sank into her slippers. A horrible thought struck her. Was he familiar with the marquess’s family?

She was furious the women would say such distressing things about Papa. If only she’d stopped to think of the repercussions of such a declaration. Papa was a second cousin once removed from Fergus Kershaw, Marquess of Berwick, but their branch of the Kershaw family was the poorer and lesser known one. As Lord Berwick had two sons, there was absolutely no possibility of her father ever inheriting the title.

Lucy dropped her startled gaze to the broad stretch of the earl’s waistcoat embroidered with an intricate pattern in silver thread, the exquisitely cut cobalt-blue tailcoat and crisply tied white cravat at his strong throat, while waiting breathlessly for him to contradict her. She sagged with relief when he showed no such inclination and talked instead about the hot ballroom, and how crowded and smoky it was, and she could only murmur in agreement.

Lucy recalled that the Marquess of Berwick’s estate was located near Carlisle, close to the Scottish border. She imagined the family would not often come to Bath or be rarely seen in London, so perhaps this would go no further. But she still wished she hadn’t said it. On reflection, her father had mused about their connection to their wealthy relatives, but it was a tenuous connection.

She’d been guilty of the odd lie on occasion. Not wishing her friends to know how her father’s gambling affected her, it had been necessary to pretend to her companions that she was interested in their more trivial concerns when she was actually worried about paying the staff wages. And there were the smaller lies. Such as when her friend Alice Grahame had asked her if she’d liked Alice’s new bonnet, which had been positively ghastly, to which Lucy had replied, “It’s lovely.” But this brazen lie was dangerous! What if they found her out? Oh! She would never do so again!

“Have you tried to drink the waters?” the earl inquired.

While these thoughts were rapidly passing through her head, the impossibly good-looking gentleman seemed to wait patiently for some sort of reply. Despite her nerves, she screwed up her nose at recalling it. “I did once. It tasted disgusting.”

The corners of his mouth quirked. “That bad? I wonder why people come from all over the British Isles to drink it.”

“I suppose they believe in its healing properties,” Lucy said. “I am in good health, so I don’t need it.”

His gaze roamed over her, making a flush rush up her neck. Drat, being fair is a curse. Dark-haired girls never shone like a glowing ember.

“You certainly appear to be in glowing good health.”

There. She was right. Her face blazed. She felt the heat. Lucy resisted putting her gloved hand to her cheek and struggled to find something less inane to say. But it proved unnecessary, for he bowed again. She’d barely had time to respond with a low curtsey before he’d left her.

Lucy watched his tall, lean figure as he made his way through the crowd. He carried himself like a soldier, with the confidence of an earl. Guests bowed to him, while others moved back to make way for his passage. What must he have thought of her? Did he know she’d lied? The thought made her hot all over again. The Earl of Dorchester? She’d heard of him. Mellicent Gibson, while in London last year, had mentioned him in her letters. She had considered him a great catch until she’d discovered he was betrothed.

Lucy sighed. She remembered the twitch of his attractive lips. Had he found her amusing? Would he relate this story to the ton in London and make them laugh at her expense? Or even worse, would it amount to a scandal? She cringed at the thought. Surely, it didn’t matter, as she wasn’t to stay in London with her Aunt Mary and attend the Season now. Perhaps that was a blessing after such an embarrassing episode. With her quick temper and strong sense of injustice, she wasn’t fit to mix among the scrupulously polite members of the ton . But the disappointment at having her dreams turn to dust still brought hot tears to her eyes.

She swallowed, and, firming her shoulders, went in search of her father. She found him in the games room at the faro table, concentrating on his next play, and her heart sank.

Lucy turned away and walked back toward the ballroom.

“What is it, Lucy?” Her father soon caught up with her.

“I’d like to go home now, Papa.”

He smiled and took her arm. “The game is over, and it’s stopped raining. Why don’t we walk?”

With no gray in his blond hair and a trim physique, her father was still a handsome man at fifty. His smile could charm the birds from the trees, but despite her unfailing loyalty, she’d come to distrust it. Had he spent his last shilling at the table and couldn’t afford a hackney? She couldn’t ask him. He was never happier than when indulging in card play, even though it often put a strain on his finances.

As Lucy and her father walked along the street, Papa put his hand in his pocket and jiggled it. “I had a splendid night at the tables.”

“Oh. Did you?”

“Yes. They were playing for high stakes.” He turned to her, his brown eyes gleeful. “If we’re careful and your Aunt Mary agrees to sponsor you, there’s enough to send you to London for a Season.”

Lucy stopped, her heart thudding. “Oh, no, Papa. I cannot leave you here alone.”

“Nonsense. I have gained my second wind.” He sobered, and with a fond smile, said, “I want you to go, Lucy. It will do my poor old heart good to give you this chance.”

Lucy sighed. She squeezed his arm, and they walked up the street in silence. London beckoned, but it had become a poisoned chalice. If only she could learn to control her tongue.

*

Hugh Fairburn, Earl of Dorchester, had come to Bath to visit his mother and sister, who had rented a house to enjoy society and take the waters. His sister, Sarah, twenty years old and some eight years his junior, drew him aside.

“I saw you talking to a young lady.” Her serious, blue eyes met his, thirsting, no doubt, for any scrap of knowledge. “Who is she? Was she in need of our help?”

“Not at all. I merely made a comment in passing about the stuffiness of the ballroom.”

She tipped her head to the side. “So, it had nothing to do with how pretty she was?”

“Nothing whatsoever,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“Beg pardon, Hugh.” Sarah laughed, her fingers ordering the arrangement of her brown curls. “But Mama has expressed a concern about your betrothed. Miss Ashton emerged from the schoolroom well over a year ago but shows little eagerness to come to London.”

“She is still young, Sarah. Surely, there’s no rush.”

“I’m sure I don’t know why she isn’t champing at the bit to marry you. You are a handsome fellow with excellent breeding.” With a cheeky smile, she tucked an errant, dark-brown lock behind one ear. “Although it hasn’t been announced, it’s still the world’s worst-kept secret. And I’m sure her parents are eager for the match.”

Hugh raised an eyebrow. “You are comparing us both to horses?”

“Don’t be silly.” She scoffed. “Miss Ashton is very pretty.”

“Miss Ashton is beautiful.” A rather cool beauty of late. Or was it only with him? “She has written to say that she and her mother plan to spend a sennight in London very soon.”

“That still seems vague to me. I am more than a little annoyed at Papa for placing you in this position with our neighbor.”

“Hush. Don’t speak ill of the dead. You loved Papa.”

“Yes. And I miss him. But still…”

“This matter shall resolve itself in time.” With a disappointing marriage, more like.

“I daresay.” She held out her hand. “Come. I’ll allow you to take me into supper.”

“What about your loyal suitor, Lord Cardew?” Hugh looked around. “He is usually close by.”

She grimaced. “Robert is not here tonight. His mother asked him to take her to some affair or t’other. She wants him to marry the Duke of Kendal’s daughter, Lady Gwendolyn, and has hopes in that direction.”

“Surely, it is up to Lord Cardew to decide? After all, he is twenty-five years old. That is no longer a boy.”

“If only that were possible.” She frowned. “But if he always does what his mother tells him to do, then he is not the man for me.”

“Quite so.”

Hugh smiled at his attractive sister. He hoped she meant it. She’d wasted far too long mooning over Lord Robert Cardew, heir to the Skelton Earldom. Sarah had dampened the hopes of many admirers, only wanting one man, it seemed. Hugh wished it were not so. He detested how Cardew kept Sarah guessing. It made her nervous and unsure of herself. He offered his arm. “Shall we console ourselves with food?”

Sarah giggled and put her hand on his arm. “I hope they serve some of those delicious crab patties.”

An hour later, after seeking his host and hostess to offer the usual courtesies, Hugh escorted his mother and sister to their townhouse. Intent on an early night, he planned to set out for London after breakfast. As he removed his cravat at the mirror, thoughts of Miss Kershaw entered his mind. Unsurprising, as she was undoubtedly fetching, small and dainty with her blonde curls and guarded brown eyes, but it was more her fierce determination to defend her father from those two insufferable women that had struck him. So much so, before he knew it, he’d stopped to converse with her. Something he never did. And despite her being a young, unaccompanied lady of surely no more than twenty-one, who had never been introduced to him.

He almost wished for her sake that it was true about her father. It wasn’t, of course. Hugh knew the Kershaw family, although not well. The marquess had two strapping sons, unlikely to turn up their toes in the near future, although one never knew what fate had in store for anyone. Hugh had experienced the vagaries of fate, while on the battlefield. There might well be other relatives in line for the title too whom he didn’t know about. He frowned. Those two women could spread nasty gossip about Miss Kershaw and her father, and he had to admit to feeling sorry for her. Especially if she was to make her come out in London this Season.

What am I about? he asked himself as Wickstaff pulled off Hugh’s boots. Miss Kershaw had told a lie. One could not forget that. Having no answer for his reaction, beyond his attraction to the spirited, pretty girl, which any male would have succumbed to, he let it go.

Miss Ashton was meant to make her debut this Season so they could at last move forward. He felt frustrated by inertia while waiting for his betrothed to be presented, declare their engagement official, and set the date for the wedding. Despite indulging in empty dalliances or retreating to the country to improve matters at his estate, he constantly fought wretched restlessness and almost wished himself back in the army, for at least there, his duties had kept him from dwelling too much on the unresolved matter of his betrothal. Like Sarah, he too was angry that his father had placed him in this position, after making the agreement with Miss Ashton’s father, Sir Phillip, all those years ago. It had been the reason Hugh had signed up, against his father’s wishes, not wanting to kick his heels aimlessly in London until Miss Ashton was out.

If his father still lived, Hugh might have been able to overturn it. The last time he and Miss Ashton had met, he’d feared his mother was right. There was a decided lack of attraction between them. But now, he had made the commitment to honor his father’s wishes and would carry it through. Hugh assumed that Miss Ashton, whom he had last found rather subdued, would be enlivened once she was introduced to Society. Yet he couldn’t help comparing his lack of response to her to the spark of desire he’d felt for the young lady he’d met tonight. Best to leave that alone , he thought grimly.

Hugh cursed. He had his mother, who wasn’t in the best of health, and his sister, who refused to give up on Lord Cardew and find a suitable husband, to concern him, and he just wanted it all to be settled. The desire to spend a peaceful life at Woodcroft running his estate appealed to him more and more as he approached thirty. But he wanted to share that life with the right woman. Someone he could love and respect. Someone whose company he enjoyed.

Hugh dined the following evening with an old university friend, Lucas Beaufort, who seldom came to the city these days. Hugh had seen little of him since he’d returned to England. After Luke had lost his pregnant bride in a house fire, he’d managed his brother’s estate, Longview Hall, while he’d been away on business. Now the Earl of Ballantine was married, Luke had restored the burned-out wing of his mansion and moved back there.

“Good to see you, Luke.” Hugh greeted his dark-haired friend, who appeared to be more at ease than he’d been the last time they met, his face lightly tanned from working outdoors and his blue eyes filled with lively interest. “And looking fit.”

They made their way to the table in White’s dining room.

“Damian is blissfully happy with his lovely countess. They have inspired me to marry and fill my empty house with a family.”

Hugh nodded. “Excellent news.”

“Perhaps you can recommend a lady,” Luke said, his blue eyes twinkling. “One you are prepared to part with?”

“No one suited to your needs,” Hugh said as a waiter brought them wine. Then a pert, little face framed with blonde curls and furious brown eyes entered his mind, and he realized Miss Kershaw had never really left it. “The women I spend time with aren’t inclined to marry. I cannot afford it to be otherwise.” Miss Ashton’s name hung unspoken in the air.

Luke’s smile was one of commiseration. “Let this be a better year for both of us.”

With a sigh, Hugh raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”