Page 5 of Falling for the Earl (Improper Ladies #2)

A fter Mr. Nash had left her at her and the trembling maid at her aunt’s door, Lucy watched him ride away before going inside. He had been quite warm toward her and made another arrangement for next week. She didn’t want to see him again. Not after catching sight of a gossip sheet some lady held at a ball with the heading screaming: Who is the mystery heiress? It must have referred to her. And it was indisputable that a solid wall, caused by her foolish lie, stood between her and any prospective husband. Was there a way to convince them she really wasn’t an heiress? But how to manage it without reflecting poorly on her family and angering her aunt? She thought of Lord Dorchester’s warning. Would her family be shunned? What else could she do? She could only continue to deny it, should the matter be mentioned.

On the following Tuesday at a rout, she searched the crush of guests for the earl, but he did not attend. He was the only person with whom she could discuss her problem. But he wouldn’t want anything more to do with her. And after all, what could he do to assist her?

Gentlemen wishing an introduction always sought her for dances. Many called at the house for morning tea. Lucy searched their faces but found few looked at her with any interest in her as a person, and the one who blatantly ogled her made her neck prickle. Some gentlemen were nervous and fiddled with their cravats, and one looked down his nose as if she were too far beneath him to be bothered with. Then why was he here? Another, she thought, was too brash when he spoke at length of his prowess with the reins and how he’d won a carriage race to Brighton. While her aunt presided over the tea tray and engaged the men in conversation, Lucy counted the minutes until they took their leave.

“Mr. Holcombe is an amiable gentleman,” Aunt Mary said, packing away her embroidery after the last of them had departed. Her gaze settled on Lucy’s face. “Didn’t you find him so?”

“Mr. Holcombe?” Lucy searched through the men who had called that afternoon to recall a face. “Wasn’t he the one who has a sister called Florence?”

Aunt Mary frowned. “No. That was Mr. Greenvale.” With a sigh, she left her chair. “Do try to pay attention, Lucy.” She shook her head. “You might make an effort to talk to them. It appears you don’t want to be married. If that is true, why come to London?”

Lucy bit her lip as they left the drawing room. “I want to marry and have children, Aunt. It is my most fervent wish. But a relationship must begin on solid ground. And how can it when…”

“Not that business again. You made an error in judgement when faced with gossip about your father. Please put it behind you. The rumors will die down soon.” She turned on the stairs with a frown. “I blame your father.”

“No, Aunt, it is entirely my…” Lucy firmed her lips and followed her up the stairs.

“All is not lost, my dear.” Aunt Mary’s voice grew more enthused as they reached the landing. “Mr. Nash has not lost interest, and Mr. Douglas Rattray—you must remember the red-haired gentleman who danced with you at the Forster’s ball—is a very engaging fellow, and much liked by the ton .”

“Oh, yes. I remember him.” The Scottish gentleman of some thirty-five years had sat talking to her aunt after he and Lucy had danced a Scotch reel, and he’d remained when she’d danced again with Mr. Greenvale. Mr. Rattray was unfailingly polite, but Lucy could not warm to him. It wasn’t his appearance, exactly, although she thought him rather old, but something in his gray eyes. “He sat with you a long time, Aunt. What did you talk about?”

“I told him how difficult you have found it to fit in to London life since you came from Bath. He was most sympathetic.” She slipped her arm through Lucy’s as they walked to Lucy’s bedchamber to change her gown. “You must admit, he is an attractive man. I was quite impressed with his interest in your welfare. I do miss your Uncle Peter’s wise counsel.”

Lucy regretted troubling her aunt. A prickle of unease passed down her spine. “But we don’t know Mr. Rattray well. Perhaps it’s best not to confide in him.”

“Well, why ever not? What harm can it do, foolish girl?” She patted Lucy on the back and walked ahead of her into the bedchamber. “For a debutante from the country to have a man with such exemplary family connections interested in you is a tour de force. He tells me his brother is Baron Maitland, of Scotland.”

Lucy decided she was probably being unduly cautious. And as Aunt Mary seemed confident with her judgement, she let the subject go and listened politely as her aunt spoke about their next engagement at a garden party.

“How lovely. I enjoy wandering around gardens. I used to visit the park in Bath quite often,” Lucy said, trying to show some enthusiasm.

“Yes, Lord and Lady Kemp have a magnificent estate at Hampton. Wear your muslin with the lavender-blue butterflies and the bonnet with the matching ribbons. The color suits your fair complexion. Put on a spencer too if it’s cool.”

After luncheon two days hence, they set out in the coach for Hampton, which, with the roads so busy, proved over an hour’s drive from London.

Upon arrival on the perfect spring day, they found the grounds filled with guests wandering about, enjoying the sunshine. Footmen roamed among them with trays of champagne and lemonade, and a maid followed them with platters of hors d’oeuvres.

Lucy followed Aunt Mary as she introduced her around. The reception wasn’t as warm as she would have wished. She noticed the murmuring from onlookers and prayed it wasn’t about her. What was it they said? That she was a fake heiress, or an heiress of some note? Worry dried her throat, so she took a good sip of the lemonade a footman had offered her.

Lucy’s gaze roamed over the guests while her aunt talked to a woman in purple lace. She drew a deep breath. Lord Dorchester strolled through the gardens with an older lady on one arm, and a tall, brown-haired young woman in white muslin with a flower-decked straw bonnet on the other. It was the same young woman Lucy had seen with him in the landau at Hyde Park. She spoke to him in a familiar manner and bent to smell a red rose on a bush laden with blooms. He leaned over and plucked it, holding it out to her. She giggled and her presumed mother reprimanded him, but with a smile on her face.

Lucy told herself it didn’t matter. That she had always known he wasn’t free, but the thought seemed hollow and gave her no relief.

“There’s Lord Dorchester,” Aunt Mary said. “That must be the lady it’s said he is to marry.”

As usual, he was elegantly dressed. Lucy wanted to turn away before he caught her watching, but the sight of him held her captive. In that moment, he looked up and saw her. He bowed his head, his eyes meeting hers.

Her heart squeezed. Castigating herself, Lucy bobbed, then turned back to her aunt.

“And here is Mr. Rattray, who promised to join us,” Aunt Mary said merrily as the smiling, red-haired gentleman strode across the lawn to them.

Lucy swallowed a groan.

He smiled at Lucy. “My, Miss Kershaw, your aunt said you were out of sorts, and you still look a little pale. I wonder what I can do to cheer you.”

“It’s entirely unnecessary, thank you, sir,” Lucy said.

Undaunted, Mr. Rattray addressed her aunt. “Shall we view the rose arbor and then have a cup of tea?”

“Oh, yes,” said Aunt Mary, “a splendid idea.”

As Lucy trailed behind them, she allowed herself one more glimpse of the earl, who appeared to watch her while the two women talked together. When the young woman put a hand on his arm to gain his attention, he bent his head to listen, and he glanced back at Mr. Rattray. Might he have knowledge of Mr. Rattray her aunt should know about? Lucy wished she could ask him.

“Lucy, do keep up,” Aunt Mary said. “I am growing parched in this hot sun.”

*

“You seem distracted,” Lord Dorchester,” Lady Ashton observed. “Perhaps you are not a devotee of gardens.”

“Oh, Mama. Few men are I imagine,” Miss Ashton said crossly. “Shall we go in?”

“I confess to a scarce knowledge of flowers,” he said with a warm smile of apology for his disinterest. “Ask me about breeding sheep or horses, or cultivating land, and I’ll keep you engaged for hours.”

“I doubt that very much,” Lady Ashton said with a wry smile.

As he escorted them into the house for afternoon tea, Hugh tried to ignore his eager response to seeing Miss Kershaw. It was downright foolish, especially with Miss Ashton standing beside him, but something he seemed to have little control over. And there was something about Rattray that gave him cause for concern, but that was none of his business. Hugh sighed inwardly as he settled the ladies at a table. He should not have been thinking of Miss Kershaw when his betrothed required his attention.

The next morning, Miss Ashton and her mother set out for home, and Hugh, with a promise to call in to see them at their neighboring property, left London the following day. His gelding, Chance, needed exercise, and he had some overdue estate matters awaiting him. Hugh also wanted to reassure himself that his mother had recovered well after her jaunt to Bath. Would he find Sarah in good spirits? Or was it too much to hope that Lord Cardew, her inexcusably casual beau, had come up to scratch?

He wanted to persuade Sarah to come and stay with him in Mayfair for a few weeks. Perhaps when facing some stiff competition, which he was sure would result when his comely sister appeared in London, Cardew might decide he wanted her for his wife, or better still, he might lose his hold over her. Although he was not Hugh’s favorite choice for her, he would welcome their marriage if the man made her happy. He didn’t want Sarah to be hurt, and he would be more than willing to teach him a lesson should he misbehave.

Driving his team along the tree-lined avenue toward Woodcroft, his gray stone manor house, he went over the previous day in his mind. Miss Ashton had seemed more light- hearted, but neither she nor her mother had given any indication of when, or if, they would return to London to see out the rest of the Season. Despite coming to London, he and Miss Ashton still hadn’t formally announced their betrothal or set a wedding date. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. A little guilty, perhaps. But if he’d been a keener prospective bridegroom, would Miss Ashton have been different? He had tried, but some emotions couldn’t be faked, especially when Miss Ashton’s response was so lackluster.

Was Miss Lucy Kershaw beginning to enjoy London? Hard to tell from her small smile as she’d curtsied to him. He hoped the fuss arising from the mistaken belief in her father’s prospects had died down. Some gossip was like the influenza and moved with speed through society, while some slowly filtered through. He hoped any such talk would have been dismissed before then without any new gossip to feed it. Although perhaps not among those angling for a wealthy bride. Hugh wished her well. In different circumstances, he would have taken great pleasure in rescuing her and improving their acquaintance. He recalled all too well how perfectly she’d fit into his arms on the dance floor. Small and slender, she gave the impression of delicacy, but she fought fiercely where she found injustice. The thought crept into his mind that she would be a passionate lover.

Enough of that! He urged the horses on after they’d passed through the gates to Woodcroft, and there on the far hill was the massive roof of his home above the towering, ancient trees of the park, chimneys sending curling, gray smoke above the treetops. It was always a welcome sight, with the sun setting in the west, painting the sky a myriad of colors, from aqua to purple and rose pink. He drove the curricle to the stables and left the groom to see to the horses.

Sarah awaited him at the front door with a welcoming smile. “I’m so glad to see you. We can play chess tonight. I have been utterly bored since we returned from Bath.”

“Yes, I have had a pleasant journey, thank you.” Hugh chucked her under the chin.

“Oh, I am horribly selfish,” she admitted with a sad lack of remorse.

“I gather you haven’t heard from Lord Cardew?”

“No.” She bit her lip, pain in her blue eyes. “His mother holds him by the apron strings.”

Hugh clamped down on his jaw. “Then can he be the right man for you?” He bristled at how badly Cardew had treated her. He wasn’t good enough for Sarah, but to make too much of it would only send her into Cardew’s arms.

“Oh…” She put the back of a hand to her forehead. “But I do care for him so very much.”

“You are entirely too dramatic for your own good. Where is Mama?”

“She is resting.”

Hugh handed his hat, coat, and gloves to a footman. “I’ll change and go to her.”

His mother looked pale but sat up eagerly in bed when he entered. “Darling! You must tell me all your news,” she said, tidying the white, lace cap over her gray-brown locks with her fingers.

“I have nothing of much interest to relate.” He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over to kiss her cheek, breathing in her familiar violet scent.

“Oh.” She looked crestfallen. “Then Miss Ashton…?”

“Nothing confirmed in that direction.”

She gasped. “Why ever not? Don’t they know you’re the catch of the Season?”

“Are you biased?” Hugh asked with a laugh.

“Nonsense. Of course I’m not,” she said affectionately. She eyed him carefully, reaching out to smooth the lapel of his coat. “What will you do?”

“I don’t like to force matters, but I’ll ride over and see her tomorrow.” He stood. “Will you come down to dinner?”

“Of course. It isn’t often we share a meal of late.”

Candlelight flickered, casting a warm glow over the white, linen cloth and making the crystal sparkle. James served the fish from a silver platter, the delicate flavors scenting the air. It was good to see his mother at the dinner table again. While she and Sarah talked of what would happen once Hugh and Miss Ashton were married, his mind filled with dread at the thought of it. Seeing his betrothed again hadn’t improved matters, and while he must take some of the blame for that, Miss Ashton did tend to keep him at a distance. It made him wonder why.

“You’re quiet tonight, Hugh,” Mama said.

Hugh raised his eyebrows. “You wish me to join in to your discussion of ladies’ fashion?”

“Yes, do tell what you think of the latest bonnets,” Sarah said with a laugh.

“What I know of such things you could write on the head of a pin.”

“You would be more interested in the lady wearing the gown, I imagine,” Sarah said cheekily.

“Sarah!” her mother admonished.

Hugh laughed. She had him there.

At noon the next day, Hugh rode Chance the six miles to the neighboring property. The Ashtons’ major domo, who had been working for the estate for years, greeted him. Tyndale never seemed to age, his brown hair still without a thread of gray, although his middle had expanded and pushed at his waistcoat buttons.

“Miss Isabel is at the church, my lord.”

“Thank you, Tyndale. I’ll go and see her there.”

It was four miles to the small, stone church on the edge of the village. When Hugh dismounted, he saw the family’s trap waiting outside with the horse tugging at the grass.

He entered the shadowy interior and saw, before the altar, Miss Ashton and Mr. Benson bending over a vase of white roses, their heads close together.

Hugh gave a start. There was something disturbingly intimate about the scene. He couldn’t recall noticing anything unusual between them, but he only saw them at church on Sunday. The youthful vicar, Benson, was a slender fellow, unmarried, with a pleasing, almost poetical face. Should he be paying such close attention to a young single lady in his parish?

Hugh made a lot of noise walking down the aisle.

They both looked up and stepped away.

“My lord?” Mr. Benson said, coming toward him, his face wreathed in smiles. “How good to see you.”

Hugh nodded. “Mr. Benson.”

“Lord Dorchester, Mr. Benson was admiring my roses. I picked them this morning. The dew is still on the petals.” Miss Ashton looked flustered, her cheeks pink and her eyes bright. Hugh had never seen her like this in his company. Was there something here he should know about? “Come home to tea? Mama would love to see you.”

“Certainly.” He held out his arm to her and escorted her back down the aisle.

“Shall we see you at church on Sunday, my lord?” Mr. Benson called.

“If I’m not called back to London.” Hugh touched his hat. “Good day, Vicar.”

After a quick glance at the vicar, who remained, watching them leave with a troubled frown, Miss Ashton accompanied Hugh from the church.

“What went on there, Miss Ashton?” he asked, once they were outside and out of earshot.

Her hazel eyes looked worried before she glanced away. “Nothing. Why do you ask? The vicar and I share an interest in plants.”

Hugh nodded and helped her into the trap before untying the reins attached to a post. Had he imagined something between them? Instinct told him it would be unwise to pursue it. He might hurt her or force her to tell him. Whatever Miss Ashton felt for the fellow, the family would never agree to such a marriage. But the time would come, and soon, when Hugh and his prospective bride must address their feelings and settle this between them.