When to Engage an Earl by Sally MacKenzie (5)

Chapter Five

Jane scowled at her reflection. She was quite sure the neckline hadn’t been so low the last time she’d worn this dress. Had Poppy somehow altered it?

Ridiculous. The cat might be . . . unusual, but Poppy couldn’t sew.

She fastened her mother’s pearls around her neck, but they didn’t begin to cover the vast expanse of exposed flesh. She tugged on the fabric, but of course that didn’t help, either.

What she needed was a fichu. She would have sworn she’d packed one, but she hadn’t been able to find it in her luggage just now. Hmm. Now that was something Poppy could have had a hand—or a paw—in. She wouldn’t put it past the cat to have snatched it out of her portmanteau when her back was turned.

She blew out a long breath. She should have known better than to bring this dress. She’d worn it only once, to attend a ball the first Lady Davenport had held before Anne went up to London for her debut Season. That was . . . lud! She counted the years in her head and then recounted them.

The dress was almost ten years old. Not only was it immodest, it was dreadfully out-of-date.

She squeezed her eyes shut. I’m going to look a complete fool. I should change.

But she was so tired of her only other choice: a serviceable white frock she trotted out for every Loves Bridge party.

She’d wanted to look special for this gathering.

She grimaced. She certainly looked special—like unfashionable, skimpily clad mutton dressed as lamb.

Oh, why was she worrying about how she looked? No one would pay her any attention.

Her shoulders slumped. Right. To be honest, she’d thought the silly dress would give her courage. She’d wanted to look beautiful, composed, and confident.

She’d wanted to impress Lord Evans. More, she’d wanted him to admire her.

Apparently, she’d let Randolph’s suggestion that the earl had had a hand in this invitation take root and grow like a weed one didn’t know was there until it suddenly poked up from among the flowers.

How mortifying.

Admiration was not what she’d seen in his eyes when the butler had presented her and Randolph earlier. The earl had hidden his reaction quickly, but not quickly enough.

He’d been shocked and, she thought, dismayed.

“I’m such an idiot,” she said out loud as if actually hearing the words would cause her stupid heart to let some sense into its murky center.

She looked around the elegant bedroom, at the mahogany washstand, the rich yellow bed hangings and matching window curtains, the bright paintings in their elaborate, gilt frames. It was a good thing the earl wasn’t interested in her. She didn’t belong here. She belonged in Loves Bridge, in the old, comfortable Spinster House.

Well, it wasn’t that comfortable.

She’d never admit it out loud, but after years of wanting to live on her own, free of the need to consider Randolph’s preferences and tidy up after him, she’d expected to be wildly happy every single moment she spent in the Spinster House.

She was not.

Some days she wanted more companionship than an independent, inscrutable cat could provide.

She stared back at herself, lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders. Ridiculous! The problem was simply a matter of adjustment. Her friends had moved on in their lives. Anne had physically moved to her husband’s estate, and Cat was consumed with all her new duties as duchess.

She’d only been in the Spinster House for a few months. Things would improve. For now, she—

Someone knocked. It must be Randolph, the person responsible for dragging her into this uncomfortable situation.

She opened the door—and stepped back. She might not have kept up with the latest fashions, but apparently Randolph had.

Well, she couldn’t actually say whether his waistcoat was fashionable or not. She squinted.

“Are those peacocks?”

“Yes.” He tugged on it, stretching it tight over his thickening middle and making the peacocks’ tails spread wider. “Do you like it?”

“Er.” It was pretty in a gaudy sort of way. “I suppose so. Did you get it in the village?” Though she couldn’t imagine Mr. Wilcox, the Loves Bridge tailor, working on such a flashy garment.

“No, London.”

Randolph had gone up to Town? London wasn’t far from Loves Bridge, but Randolph didn’t make a practice of going there, particularly to waste time and money shopping.

Hmm. There had been a few days when he’d left the office early and hadn’t got back before she went home to the Spinster House, but she’d just assumed he’d had business elsewhere in the village.

He cleared his throat and tugged on the peacocks again. “Well, I’ve come to take you downstairs,” he said. “Are you ready?”

Something in the way he’d said “downstairs” made her focus on him rather than the peacocks. There was an odd tension about him as if he were both anxious and excited.

Perhaps he was off balance as well.

“I should change.”

He frowned and looked her over. “Why? You’ve got a dress on.”

Clearly, her brother hadn’t really looked at her. “It’s not suitable.”

“It’s fine.”

“Randolph, the neck is too low.”

He glanced at that portion of the dress. “It looks all right to me, but if it bothers you, take a shawl.”

She consulted the mantel clock. “It’s only just the hour now. We don’t want to be the first ones in the drawing room.”

“We won’t be.” Randolph took a half step down the corridor. “Do come along.”

He took another half step.

She didn’t want to find out.

And there was no point in delaying. She couldn’t magically conjure a new dress from thin air—or from the window curtains—and she truly didn’t want to wear her white gown every single night. A shawl would have to do. Likely the other guests would be too transfixed by Randolph’s peacocks to notice her.

“Very well.” She grabbed her shawl, wrapped it around her shoulders, and stepped into the corridor. When she put her hand on her brother’s arm, she felt how tense he was.

Clearly, she wasn’t the only one dealing with a fit of nerves. “Why are you so eager to go down to the drawing room, Randolph?”

She felt him flinch ever so slightly.

Perhaps that had sounded a bit harsh, especially as she could think of only one reason for his tension. She tried to soften her tone.

“I know you said you’d like to find someone to marry, but I’m very much afraid you won’t have any luck here. From what Lady Chanton said when we arrived, this is a small, family gathering.”

Which raised the question again—why had they been invited?

Randolph shrugged and didn’t meet her gaze. She waited for him to say something.

He didn’t, which was unlike him.

Alarm bells went off. Something was indeed up.

She was not about to face a roomful—or even a handful—of strangers without knowing if there were hidden traps to stumble into.

“Randolph, what aren’t you telling me?”

More silence.

Good God, there was something.

“You have to tell me.” She stopped, grabbing his forearm with both hands and squeezing. “I can’t go in there not knowing.”

He hesitated—and she squeezed harder.

“Very well, though it’s nothing that affects you. I told you I’ve been corresponding with Lord Chanton’s cousin.”

“Yes. And you expect him to be here.” Randolph could not be this nervous over seeing an old friend.

He smiled. “Her, Jane. I expect her to be here.”

“Oh.” He’d been corresponding with a woman. So that was why he’d been so keen on fetching the post recently.

The notion threw her a bit off balance. They might not discuss their lives with each other, but she’d never have guessed Randolph had secrets. Certainly he’d never hidden his weekly visits to Mrs. Conklin.

“Jane, I’m not sure if you’re aware—I don’t believe we’ve ever talked about it—but before Mama and Papa died, I was . . .”

His voice trailed off. Normally, she would push him to continue, but this time she didn’t. She was a little afraid of what he would say.

“When I was nineteen, I fancied myself in love.”

“Ah.” So the rumor had been true.

A muscle jumped in Randolph’s jaw. “Papa was furious.”

Papa was often furious. “Was the woman unsuitable?”

“No. He thought I was too young.”

Nineteen was too young.

“He came up to London to have it out with me, but I refused to give in. He left in a complete fury. I’d never seen him so angry.”

Randolph wasn’t one to exaggerate. She didn’t remember Papa being angry that day, but then she’d tried to escape Papa’s tirades, either by going for a walk or losing herself in a book. And, to be honest, her memories of that horrible time were very hazy.

“The next day he drove his carriage into a tree, killing himself and Mama.” His voice was clipped, his expression, bleak as though he—

Jane inhaled sharply. “Randolph! You don’t blame yourself for their deaths, do you?”

She saw in his eyes that he did.

Lud! Her brother had carried this guilt for over a decade, and she never knew. Never even suspected. “It was an accident. A simple, unfortunate accident.”

“Papa was an excellent whip.”

“Yes, but even excellent whips have accidents. And Papa was driving a new horse, remember. I distinctly recall hearing him say when he first bought the animal that it was hard to handle.”

Randolph looked off down the corridor. “Perhaps. But, Jane, I’d truly never seen Papa so angry as he was during our, er, discussion in London. I think he and Mama must have been arguing about me, and that’s why he lost control at that curve.”

That was possible.

But it was just as possible something else had caused the crash.

Jane shook Randolph’s arm. “Stop! You can’t know that. A bee might have stung the horse or a rabbit startled it and it bolted at just the wrong moment.”

He shrugged, clearly not willing to accept her explanation.

“I wager Papa regretted arguing with you as soon as he got back to Loves Bridge, if not sooner.”

Her brother snorted.

Well, yes, she doubted it too.

“In any event, if Papa’s anger did cause the crash— which we have no evidence is the case. You know he was often very angry and yet he’d never crashed his curricle before. But if he was so angry that he lost control of his horses, then that was his fault, not yours.”

Randolph’s jaw was set—he was not buying her argument. Very well then.

“Even if you were to blame, you’ve more than paid your penance. You had to give up all your plans to come home to take care of me.” She’d never told him how much she appreciated that. She shook his arm in an appreciative way this time. “Thank you. I am sorry you had to make such a sacrifice.”

He frowned. “It wasn’t a sacrifice. I’d always intended to come home and take my place in the firm. The accident just made that happen sooner.”

“But I’m the reason you didn’t marry.” She forced a smile. “It’s really not surprising the woman didn’t want to take on mothering a girl only a few years younger than herself.” She should be completely honest. “An opinionated, stubborn, unhappy girl. I realize I could not have been an easy charge.”

Randolph’s frown deepened. “That wasn’t it at all. Oh, I don’t doubt Imogen’s parents used you as an argument against our marriage, but they had never favored the match. They didn’t want their daughter to waste herself on a mere solicitor.”

“Oh!” She would like to find these people and give them a piece of her mind.

“And a penniless one at that.”

“It wasn’t as bad as that.” Though it was true Papa had not left them in a good way. Things had been very difficult those first few years.

“It was that bad, Jane.” Randolph shrugged. “In any event, Imogen married Eldon. When I read of his passing, I wrote her a note of condolence and she replied. And when the invitation for this celebration arrived, I hoped she might be attending.”

He grinned, barely contained elation in his voice. “And she is here. Can you wonder I’m anxious to go down and see her?” He tugged on his waistcoat, bringing the peacocks to attention. “It’s been years and nothing may come of it.” He looked endearingly hopeful. “But something might.”

Jane managed to smile back at him. She was suddenly swamped with love for him—and worry. What if this Lady Eldon hurt him?

But what if she didn’t? What if Randolph married the woman?

Oh, God. First Cat and then Anne and now perhaps Randolph. Everyone she cared about was pairing up two by two like the animals going into Noah’s ark.

She was the one left behind, standing out in the rain as the floodwaters rose around her—

Ridiculous! There was no rain or ark or any such nonsense. She didn’t need a partner to be complete—she was complete by herself. She was the Spinster House spinster.

Though she did wish Lord Evans had wanted her to attend this gathering.

* * *

Alex strode into the drawing room where everyone was to gather before dinner. He’d come down early to find the room empty and had taken a turn or two or three around the terrace, trying to get his feelings under control.

It had not worked.

But now Roger and Diana were here. Excellent. It was time to get a few things settled.

“Alex.” Roger slapped him on the back. “Sorry I missed you earlier. Had a tenant issue I needed to address.”

“Oh? How convenient that the problem came up just the moment I arrived.”

Roger grinned, not at all repentant. “Yes. Funny how that happened.”

There was nothing funny about it. Roger had long practice in avoiding the worst of Diana’s machinations.

Alex turned to his sister and spoke quietly—but emphatically—keeping one eye on the door. “I cannot believe you invited Miss Wilkinson to this family gathering.”

He’d wanted to corner her and Mama after Mr. and Miss Wilkinson had gone up to their rooms, but his wily relatives had accompanied their guests, ostensibly to be certain they were comfortable. He’d waited and waited in the drawing room for Mama and Diana to reappear and had finally gone in search of them, looking in Roger’s study, the music room, the library, and finally the nursery, where he found his three youngest nieces.

He smiled inwardly. The girls had been delighted to see him. Their words had stumbled all over one another’s telling him about “Stinky.” They’d showed him their dolls and got him to read several stories, Martha, the youngest, in his lap and Judith and Rebecca leaning against him on each side. Their sweet childish excitement, their innocence, their easy laughter filled him with happiness and with longing for children of his own.

When he could finally break free, it was time to get ready to come down here.

“I thought you’d thank me,” Diana said. “You are looking for a wife, aren’t you?”

“Diana, I don’t need your help.”

Her right eyebrow arched up. “Oh, really?”

Roger cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should change the subject.”

Alex and Diana ignored him.

“Miss Wilkinson is the Spinster House spinster, Diana.”

“Precisely. That means she’s available.”

“No, that means she has no interest in matrimony.”

Diana snorted. “Pshaw! Every woman has an interest in matrimony.”

“Not Miss Wilkinson.”

“Even Miss Wilkinson. She just hasn’t met the right man”—his sister grinned—“until now.”

He would not strangle Diana, much as he would like to. “But she has met me. Several times. You know that.”

Diana’s smile turned rather sly. “Yes, I do. Just as I know that when you got back from the Lake District, you rushed off to Loves Bridge without stopping overnight at the Hall or even coming inside.”

“That was to avoid you and Mama.”

“Oh? So why didn’t you go to London or one of your other estates?”

“I, er . . .” He cleared his throat. He had a good reason.

“Horatio was tired and Loves Bridge was relatively close. And I’d heard about the fair when I was there in the spring. I wanted to see how it turned out.” He would not run his finger under his collar. “And my good friend, the Duke of Hart, is now at Loves Castle, you know.”

“Ah. And I suppose you went straight to the castle when you arrived?”

She wouldn’t say that unless she knew he hadn’t, blast it. Diana and Mama had spies everywhere.

“Since I hadn’t sent word I’d be coming, I went to the inn, of course. To show up on the duke’s doorstep unannounced would be rude.” Not that Marcus would agree.

What else could he say to throw Diana off the scent?

There was no scent to be thrown off of. Diana was completely misconstruing his minor connection to Miss Wilkinson. He merely enjoyed teasing the woman.

“And since the fair was the next day, it was more convenient to stroll over to the village green from the inn than to ride in from the castle.”

Even Roger choked on that one.

“Ah, yes. Of course.” His sister’s voice was dripping with sarcasm. “You are such a devotee of village fairs, you seek them out wherever you can.”

“Diana . . .” He looked at Roger to rein in his wife.

Roger smiled and shrugged—and fled to the sherry decanter.

He felt Diana’s hand on his arm. “I saw how she looked at you this afternoon.”

“How—” No, he would not ask Diana what she meant. If she thought Miss Wilkinson had looked at him with anything other than disdain, she was mistaken. The woman had been quite chilly—glacial wouldn’t be an exaggeration—toward him when she’d arrived and had clearly been eager to leave him for the sanctuary of the room Diana had assigned her.

Diana shook his arm slightly. “I only want you to be happy, Alex.”

He sighed. He knew that. “You can make me happy by not meddling in my concerns.”

Diana continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “And I wasn’t thinking only of you when I invited the Wilkinsons.”

“Oh?” What new trick was this?

This time Diana was the one who dropped her voice and watched the door. “I told you Imogen had been in touch with Miss Wilkinson’s brother.” She smiled. “She has a tendre for him.”

“Shh! Do you want them to hear you?”

“They aren’t here to hear me.”

Diana smiled far too knowingly. “I suspect they’ll be down at any moment.”

“Ah.” He should not feel a jolt of anticipation at the thought of Miss Wilkinson’s imminent arrival.

He would consider Randolph instead. Unlike Diana, he didn’t waste time wondering about a man’s marital intentions, but now that he had, he was surprised to realize that Randolph was only a few years older than he.

“I’m hoping they will make a match of it,” Diana said.

This could actually be a good thing. If Diana was busy poking her nose into Randolph’s business, she’d have less time to meddle in his.

He heard voices in the corridor then—and his heart jumped. Diana was right—the Wilkinsons had come down early. He turned to see them enter the room. Randolph glanced around eagerly as if he were looking for someone—and then only partly hid his disappointment when he didn’t find . . . Imogen?

Perhaps Diana wouldn’t have to expend much energy on that match.

Miss Wilkinson hung back. If Alex didn’t know her better, he’d think she was trying to hide behind her brother.

“Mr. Wilkinson, Miss Wilkinson,” Diana said, dragging Alex along with her to greet them, “you are the first to arrive downstairs.” She smiled at Randolph. “I believe my husband wishes to have a word with you, sir.”

Alex would wager Roger was going to be quite surprised to hear that.

Wilkinson looked puzzled, too, but nodded and walked over to Roger, exposing his sister to Alex’s interested eyes.

“I’ll leave you in my brother’s capable hands, if I may, Miss Wilkinson. I’m afraid there’s something I must check on.”

Diana went off on her imaginary errand. Probably just as well. Miss Wilkinson looked uncomfortable, though that could be because her shoulders and chest were swathed in a heavy wool shawl.

“Cold?” he asked. It was October, but the weather was quite mild.

She raised her chin and glared at him as if something—the temperature?—was his fault. “Yes.”

She was so warm, her cheeks were flushed. Why in the world was she wearing that shawl?

He could just ask, but what fun would that be? “Then please step over to the fire.”

She hesitated.

He mentally rubbed his hands together with glee. “I assure you it is much warmer there.”

Now would she admit she was too hot? Not Miss Wilkinson.

“Er, thank you.”

He walked with her to the blazing grate. “I hope you found your room to your liking?”

“Yes, it is very nice.” She stopped several feet from the hearth, but Alex went closer so she had to come with him or betray herself.

Of course, the problem with this game was that he might melt. “I believe my sister put you in the yellow bedroom?”

“Yes.”

Sweat beaded on her forehead....

“I hope your trip from Loves Bridge was uneventful?”

“It was.”

. . . and above her upper lip. She had nice lips—thin, but well shaped. At the moment they were parted, and she was panting slightly.

“If there is time, perhaps I can take you—and your brother, of course—over to see my estate. My lands march with Chanton’s.”

Two beads of sweat joined together and ran down her nose to dangle on its tip.

“That would be pleasant.” She flicked the sweat away—and tried to fan herself with her hand at the same time.

This was ridiculous. “Miss Wilkinson, surely you would be more comfortable without that shawl.”

She gripped it as if she feared he would tear it from her. “No. Thank you. I’m fine.”

She did not look fine.

“Well, perhaps you would like to use a corner of it to dry your face.” He probably should not have said that, but he was worried she would make herself ill. He felt quite heated himself. “Good Lord, one would think you were naked under that thing.”

He definitely should not have said that.

Zeus! Did Miss Wilkinson turn even redder? He eyed the offending drapery. Was she naked?

His cock reacted in predictable fashion.

A pity.

Fortunately, before he could act on any of the insane thoughts ricocheting around his brain, he was distracted by a voice coming from the corridor.

He turned to see two more guests enter the room. His eyes slid over the dark-haired woman in the lead to focus on the demure, blond girl behind her.

Charlotte.

His heart stopped. This was the first time he’d seen her since before her father had brought him word their wedding was off.

Good Lord, had she always looked this young?

His heart started beating again. He felt . . . well, embarrassed to think he’d ever thought himself in love with her.

He was suddenly very happy Lord Buford had paid him that visit.