hapter One

 

Derbyshire

January, 1819

 

It was a universally accepted principle that no good deed ever went unpunished. For Ernest, love of scandal manifested an inherent flaw of the human race, which often encouraged society to kick a man when he was low, and he endured almost five years of such abuse, in a particularly extended campaign that tested the limits of his patience, given he did nothing wrong. Indeed, in light of the outcome he did everything right, yet he remained an outcast.

As the second son in an estimable lineage, he worked hard to fulfill the expectations of those who should not matter but whose criticism he tried but failed to ignore. So he endeavored to persevere in a world governed by shallow appearances and easy friendships, which often altered with the wind, that he might persist not so much in happiness, because that was not possible without the woman he loved, but in a constant state of ennui.

How often he thought of his little bird, Henrietta. But her father sent her to live in Kent, eleven years ago, and he had no word from her, despite the letters he dispatched. At some point, he simply stopped writing, yet he never forgot her, and he hoped she was happy.

“Why so quiet, brother?” Barrington, the eldest Howe and the marquess of Ravenwood, drew rein, as they toured the eastern border of the estate that surrounded the ancestral pile, Garring Manor. “I had hoped we could talk, as you have scarcely uttered a word, since you arrived from London.”

“I am not sure what you want me to say.” The pain of the past unfurled and flared, blanketing him in a morbid chill, and Ernest swore under his breath, at the unfairness of it all. “You fled an accusation of murder, abandoned the marquessate and your fiancée, took up piracy, committed untold heinous offenses during four years on the run, which necessitated an official pardon from the Crown, and yet you are summarily forgiven and embraced by the ton.” He snorted. “On the other hand, I stayed and fought the good fight. In your absence, I defended you, I settled our debts, sparing us an embarrassing declaration of insolvency, and I did my best to protect Lady Florence, yet I remain a social pariah.”

“That is because people adore a scandal and a villain, second only to a tale of salvation and love, which I gave them.” Barrington shrugged. “While it is not fair, I would argue there are few things in life that are just. For most, I represent the ultimate redemption story, because the devotion of a good woman helped me see the err of my ways, I returned to London, faced my demons, married a lady, got her with child, and all is forgiven.” He glanced left and right, waggled his brows, and then he leaned near. “What most do not realize is that in the bedchamber, I remain very much a buccaneer.”

“I am so happy for you.” Ernest rolled his eyes, because, as usual, Barrington reduced everything to matters of the flesh. “So what do you suggest I do, take a wife and start a family, just to appease the horde?” The mere thought sent a shiver of dread down his spine, because his heart belonged to another. “Any candidate, in mind?”

“That is for you to decide, as I found my mate, but you must admit the idea holds merit, and you never know what tomorrow may bring.” Barrington shifted in the saddle. “For what do you wait, as you are not getting any younger? And you have a natural instinct for cultivating relationships, as evidenced by your ability to thoroughly assume my position without the rank, while I was away.”

“And we travel full circle.” Frustrated, Ernest gritted his teeth. “Why must you throw that in my face, when you know my motives were honorable?”

“Ah, but you mistake my meaning.” Chuckling, which only unnerved Ernest more; Barrington stuck his tongue in his cheek. “You see, had I attempted something so brazen, I would have failed miserably, because I have not your talent with words. But without the proper credentials, you secured the requisite credit to maintain Garring Manor and Howe House. Then you convinced a reputable barrister to take a case no one expected you to win, and you lost only because you could produce no proof of my demise. And had my stubborn bride not enacted a pretend illness to avoid the altar, you might have married her.”

“In hindsight, I am grateful she persisted, because you own her heart—you always have.” And Ernest did not love Florence, at least, not like that. He considered her more a sister than anything else. “And I only wanted to safeguard her, given the horrid gossip that plagued her, after you left. You know how the ton can be with scandalous figures.”

“I know that, now.” His elder sibling frowned. “But when I was alone, my thoughts conjured the most awful conclusions, and I regret that.”

“I can accept that.” Ernest focused on the horizon, as the agony resurfaced and swelled. Indeed, the anguish cut to the core. “What I will never understand is how you could have suspected me of committing murder and attempting to cast blame on you for the barbarous offense, when I did naught but defend you. That is what hurts, brother. That is what functions as a very real barrier between us, given you know not what I sacrificed to protect you.”

“And I would make amends.” Barrington made it sound so simple to atone for past injuries, and that was his downfall. Born into power and privilege, everything came easy to him, whereas Ernest, the second son, worked for his fortune. And their father had an unusual method for inspiring Ernest. “Tell me what to do, and I shall do it.”

“Therein lies the rub.” He trailed the flight of a graceful osprey, as it soared through the sky. “Some things cannot be effortlessly erased. They linger. They fester. They poison all successive connections, rendering the afflicted a forsaken soul, to wander through life in misery and solitude.”

“No.” Barrington shook his head. “I will not allow that to happen to us. Yes, I made mistakes, but I learned that nothing is set in stone, and you and I are no different. We will retrench, brother. I swear on my firstborn, we will recover.”

Of course, Barrington thought Ernest referenced his brother.

It never occurred to anyone that he missed Henrietta.

“I wish I shared your optimism.” But from Ernest’s perspective, the future appeared rather bleak, given his lack of prospects. “If you do not mind, I would prefer to tour the north fields on my own, as I need to think.”

“As you wish.” With that, Barrington saluted and turned his stallion. “Then I believe I will join Florence for a nap, because she rests better with me at her side. When you are ready to resume our discussion, I am at your disposal.”

Heeling the flanks of his hunter, Ernest steered toward the dirt path that led to the most picturesque part of their ancestral estate in the Peak District. As he charged the verge, the resplendent vista of a clear azure sky, amid which a peregrine danced in search of prey, and vibrant verdure spread before him. It was a place in which he always found comfort, as he reminisced of cherished childhood memories and simpler times. Indeed, it was the only point in his life he was happy.

As he bent to clear a decumbent branch, a swatch of bright color caught his gaze, amid the canopy of a massive yew, and he noted a shapely calf. “Oy. Is someone there?”

A feminine shriek portended doom, and he urged his mount forward, just as a tangle of ruffles and lace dropped into his lap. Given the damsel in distress landed facedown, he admired her shapely bottom, as the skirt of her sprigged muslin dress stretched taut across her derriere.

“Oh, dear.” She shifted in his grasp, yanked on her wool pelisse, and her elbow bumped his most prized protuberance, which woke with a vengeance. “My, but you gave me such a fright, and you really should not have shouted like that. Are you all right?”

“You fell from a tree, almost breaking your lovely neck, and you worry about me?” As he flipped her over and upright, he glimpsed the most astonishing, velvety brown eyes, which seemed to see right through him. For a moment, she stared at him, and he admired her heart-shaped profile, her pert little nose, her lush red lips, and her thick chestnut locks, which struck him as oddly familiar. Indeed, there was something comforting in her expression, as if he knew her, yet that was not possible. “Are you sure you are not injured?”

“Hello.” Favoring him with a welcoming smile, she stunned him, when she wrapped her arms about his shoulders and hugged him. “How are you?”

“Much better, now.” As she pressed her soft and feminine body to his, he savored her warmth and tried to calm the fully loaded cannon in his crotch, because it had been more than two months since he parted ways with his last importuning mistress, and the beast was hungry. “Are you always so friendly to strangers?”

***

“Strangers?” Henrietta Katherine Graham studied the man who had occupied her thoughts and dreams for the better portion of her life, especially the last eleven years, and blinked in astonishment, because she could never forget him. Yet, it was painfully clear Ernest did not recognize her.

How many nights had she planned their reunion? Too many to count. But in her fantasy, he welcomed her, as would an old, treasured friend. Quick as a wink, she recovered her wits, tamped her dismay, and rallied. “Why, I presumed you knew all the ladies in these parts, or are you not Lord Ernest Howe?”

“So did I.” He chuckled in his signature tenor, which harkened to honey on a hot scone. “And you are correct.” Tightening his hold, he canted his head and grinned. “May I escort you somewhere, Miss—”

“Actually, I planned to tour the north fields, as I cherish many fond memories there.” When he arched a brow and his muscles tensed beneath her, betraying his not so indifferent state, she smiled, as she would claim that small victory. “Since you journey the same path, perhaps you will consent to join me?”

“You know my ancestral estate?” He nudged the impressive hunter, and they traveled further into the grove of trees, as she studied the lines about his eyes. “Let me guess. You are Lord Clifton’s daughter, and you venture, unescorted, into the countryside to rebel against your father’s overbearing manner.”

“I know Garring Manor quite well.” In play, she averted her stare, cursing his assumption, but she should have known he would think her a lady, as he was always a proper sort. “And I know no such connection, although my motives may prove just as bold.”

“But you know my family?” In so many ways, he had not changed a bit. His once unruly, wavy blonde hair had been close-cropped, yet it framed his chiseled patrician features, and his eyes, so crisp and clear, cut to her core. It was the remarkable transformation of his physique, especially his broad shoulders and strong arms, which set her heart racing, as he embraced her in his lap, and she could sit there for hours, as she did when they were children. “You are acquainted with my brother, Barrington?”

“In some respects, I know your family as well as my own.” Henrietta nodded, still disappointed that he did not recognize her. “And I am very familiar with Lord Ravenwood, as well as his wife, Lady Florence.”

“Then you must give me a hint.” As they emerged from the copse of ancient yews, beneath which they once sat and ate sweetmeats he pilfered from his mother’s fancy tea parties, Ernest anchored an arm about her waist, heeled the flanks of his horse, and set a blazing pace across a picturesque meadow, and she could not contain a squeal of delight. “Please, I beg you, as the anticipation is killing me. What is your name?”

“Oh, no.” Resting her head to his chest, she giggled, as she teased him, just like old times. “This is too much fun.”

“So you are a temptress.” With that, he flicked the reins, and they soared down a hill, laughing all the way. “Do you know what becomes of such women?”

“I cannot imagine, sir.” Nestled in his embrace, Henrietta rode a wave of unshakeable confidence. “Do tell.”

Slowing to a halt, he cupped her chin. “They are destined to be ravished by their pursuer.”

“And that is bad?” In truth, she would not protest being ravished by her childhood sweetheart, because he held her heart. He always had. Given the intensity of his scrutiny, she swallowed hard, as he focused his attention on her mouth. If only he would kiss her. Then he would recall that special day, beneath the yew on Oker Hill, when they first touched lip to lip. To her surprise, he bent his head and inched near. In a whispery summons, she beckoned, “Ernest.”

Dismay functioned as a bitter pill, when he flinched, retreated, and cleared his throat. “I should return to Garring Manor.”

“Time for high tea?” As usual, she concealed her chagrin behind a polite façade born of years of practice, in service to the noble classes.

“Indeed.” With the skill of a master equestrian, he turned the hunter. “Would you be my guest for an afternoon refreshment?”

“What a marvelous suggestion.” And just like that, her spirits lifted. “Do you still favor the souchong?”

“How do you know my preference?” He frowned and then snapped his fingers. “Are you one of the Beauchamp girls?”

“Fie on you, sir.” Now that insult stung, because they were horrid girls. “Which of those two braying asses do you imply I resemble?”

“Ha.” In a moment of levity, he settled a palm to her hip, in a brazen display of intimacy. Then he started, as if she burned him. “Forgive me, as I took liberties.”

“Believe me, Lord Ernest, it is not the first time.” To ease the tension, Henrietta elbowed him. “And I hope it will not be the last.”

“Upon my word, but you are a saucy lady.” Soon, he would discover she was no lady, as they passed the main gate. “Please, I beg you, tell me your name.”

When she shook her head, he groaned.

At the grand entry of the Portland stone mansion, which she once looked upon as her home, Henrietta slipped from his grasp and gained her footing. A stablehand held the lead, as Ernest dismounted. Arm in arm, they crossed the threshold of the elegant structure, and she marveled at how little changed from what she recalled.

From the gold flocked wall coverings and mahogany paneling and trim, to the Aubusson carpets and the James Reynolds long case clock, with its ebony trim and shallow champfer top surmounted by a gilt urn finial, the house seemed frozen in time, and she glanced at her appearance in the oval hall mirror. After tucking a stray tendril behind her ear, she smoothed her skirts and faced her host.

“Brother?” In the side hall, Lord Ravenwood, sans coat and cravat, strolled forth, carrying a tray, with a couple of covered dishes, a teapot, cups, and saucers. “I thought you were for an extended ride.”

“I was, until an unexpected visitor landed in my lap.” Ernest tugged the bell pull. “Were you not supposed to nap with Florence?”

“That was the plan, but she is hungry.” It was then Barrington noted her presence, and he smiled. “Hello, Henrietta. Your father told me of your impending visit, which I withheld from Ernest, because I thought it best to let you surprise my brother, and I see you did. When did you arrive?”

“Hen?” Ernest’s eyes widened, evoking her nickname.

“Yesterday.” She gulped. “Late in the evening, to be exact.”

“My sincerest sympathies, over the loss of your aunt.” Barrington strolled to the grand staircase. “How was your journey from Kent?”

“Hen?” Ernest rested fists on hips.

“Thank you, Lord Ravenwood.” She shifted her weight and wrung her fingers. “And it was a long drive, so I was happy to reach my destination.”

“Your father has spoken of nothing else.” Barrington chuckled. “And Florence was thrilled, as she increases with our second child.”

“Hen?” Ernest seemed on the verge of an apoplectic fit.

Finally, Barrington exhaled and said to Ernest, “Why do you keep repeating her name?”

“Because he did not recognize me.” And she hated to admit it.

“You must be joking.” Barrington scoffed. “Though I must say you have grown since we last met. What were you, eleven? Twelve?”

“She was eight.” Ernest’s expression softened, as he took her hands in his. Was it her imagination, or did tears well in his eyes? “And I was but twelve.”

“Then I shall leave you to your happy reunion.” Barrington turned and ascended the stairs. Halfway up, he halted. “It is good to have you home, dear friend. You have been too long from Garring.”

“Thank you.” For a few minutes, she held Ernest’s stare, and so many emotions invested his countenance.

“You rang, sir?” A very proper butler bowed.

“Ah, there you are, Crawford.” Ernest tucked her at his side. “Miss Graham and I will take tea, scones, and some strawberry preserves, in the back parlor.”

So he remembered her partialities.

“Yes, my lord.” Crawford nodded once.

Again, silence fell on the foyer, and she wondered if she should have stayed in Kent.

At last, Ernest dragged Henrietta down the narrow corridor, to the rear of the grand residence. In the lush appointed but comfortable gathering place, he hauled her to the center of the room, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her.