An Angel for the Earl (18 page)

Kerry held his hand out. “I owe you my thanks, and my apologies. I'll be proud to have you in the family.”

“That's big of you, Stanford.” Flint shook the earl's hand, almost squashing two fingers between his rings. “And don't worry about me embarrassing you in front of your fancy friends. Margie'll smooth out my rough edges before we come to stay at Grosvenor Square.”

Chapter Twenty

“I have to go, you know.”

“Yes, you asked Lord Westcott if you could call tomorrow. Today.”

They were sitting in his bedroom in front of the fire, Kerry in the soft chair, Lucy on the fur rug not quite leaning against his knees. He could almost reach out and touch the coronet of curls atop her head, now mostly gold with just a tinge of chestnut. He didn't reach out, however, knowing the frustration of trying to capture a mirage. Instead, he tried to tell himself he was satisfied with her understanding, undemanding company.

It was late, or early. The ball had gone on long past the usual time for country gatherings, after Goldy's announcement of his betrothal to Lady Stanford. Kerry's permission must have been taken for granted, because there was no more than a moment's pause between their return to the ballroom and the new knight's public proclamation. Footmen were already pouring fresh champagne before the earl kissed his mother's proffered cheek.

The neighbors did not appear perturbed by the alliance. Lord Stanford, in fact, was the only one the least surprised by the engagement, everyone else having long been aware which way the wind blew. Even Aunt Clara was
aux anges,
now that Flint was a knight, and promising to take her nemesis on a long bridal journey. She couldn't wait to get home to tell Nigel they'd have the place almost to themselves, but was content to bide at the assembly until nearly dawn, savoring the betrothal as her own emancipation.

The local gentry were not reticent about expressing their approval to Lord Stanford. Goldy was a favorite, it seemed. And his champagne was excellent.

Now there were only a few hours left before Kerry's appointment with Lord Westcott. “I have to do it, Lucy,” he said.

“I know.”

“Even with the rubies back, Uncle Nigel's pardon assured, and my own gambling debts paid, hard work just isn't enough. I have to do it,” he said again, as if the repetition would make the deed more palatable.

Lucy nodded. “All those people are depending on you for their living.”

“And all those lady pigs are depending on me to find them a boar.”

“And this wonderful old house is falling apart.”

“And the stables are empty, the fields are a disgrace, the cottages are hovels. And you.”

“Me?” Lucy looked up so he could see that her eyes were a warm hazel now, not that startling green of when he first encountered her.

“You, Miss Faire. Have you noticed your appearance lately? Your gown is pink. Not rose, not coral, but pink, and with a white gauze overskirt that would be acceptable at Almack's. You appear to have all your unmentionables in place, even gloves, and there's not a trace of paint anywhere. You've even begun to smell like flowers. Lilies-of-the-valley, I think. Can't you see, the odds must have turned to our favor. We're almost there. We cannot quit now.”

Lucinda savored the “we” and smiled her most winning smile, dimples and all.

Kerry groaned. “Oh, Lord, I don't want to go out to Westcott's.”

Lucy's smile dimmed, but she told him: “Felicia is a lovely girl. Refined, well-educated. She'll make you a good wife.”

“An accepting, polite wife. Is that what I want, someone who will accept me for what I have—the title, the Abbey—instead of who I am? Oh, we'll have a marriage like every other in the ton, doing the season with our separate friends, meeting at various dinners and dances. Ever so proper. Then she'll be increasing and staying on in the country, and I'll pursue my own pleasures in town.”

“You don't have to return to your former devil-may-care ways, you know.”

“Ah, but I will. Marriage to Miss Felicia Westcott will not change the tiger's stripes. I would not have minded so much once.” Before I met you, he thought, but did not say. “But now? How can I repeat the marriage vows, knowing I intend to break them? Knowing my wife is likely thinking the same, that as soon as she presents me with an heir she can have her discreet little
affaires?
”
He found distraction in winding his watch, but then he listened to its working, and heard his freedom ticking away. “Oh, how I wish things could be different.”

“And I,” Lucy said softly, aching for what could never be.

Kerry shook himself. “But they aren't. I was born an earl with an earl's duties and responsibilities, even if I am somewhat tardy in coming to them and needed a nudge from the netherworld to accept them. Right?”

She tried for a smile. “Right.”

“At least I don't have to go to Westcott with mounds of debts and Uncle Nigel hanging over my head. And here I thought hell would freeze over before I was grateful to Gideon Flint. But you're not wearing ice skates, are you?” he teased, looking down to where dainty pink satin slippers hid under her skirts. Pink satin
dancing
slippers. “I thought you'd come to the ball, since you'd never been.”

“Oh, I was talking to the second earl. He says—”

“Not now, Lucy, please. Westcott is all the duty I can handle in one day.” She started to interrupt, but he held up a hand. “No. Right now there is only one thing I want to hear, the strains of a waltz. Do you think it possible for us to have a dance, just this once? Johnny did it with one hand; we ought to be able to manage something, don't you think?”

The earl hummed a popular dance tune and explained the steps. Lucy stepped into his arms, or thereabouts, and hummed along. Yes, lilies-of-the-valley, and yes, the tingly glow he remembered, that warmth, and almost electric shock of desire. And yes, she hummed slightly out of tune. “Do you play the pianoforte like every other well-bred young female?” he asked when he could, hoping she did not hear the quaver in his voice.

“No, my father thought that led to familiarity. You know, young people standing around singing together. I play the harp.”

“Gabriel is going to love you, angel.” Kerry laughed and twirled her around.

Derek tiptoed into his master's chamber, saw the earl dancing with an invisible partner, and quickly backed out, tears in his eyes.

* * *

The rubies arrived early the next morning, along with an emerald ring for the countess. The emerald was as big as a bird's egg and the surrounding diamonds made the Crown Jewels look tawdry.

“And that's nothing,” an exuberant Goldy informed them all over breakfast. “The necklace that goes with the ring is so wide, you won't even see Margie's chest under it.”

Before Aunt Clara could ruin the old man's breakfast with a remark about the dowager's chest, Kerry thought to start preparing her for Uncle Nigel's return.

“Oh, no, dear, once a person is dead, they stay dead. You must be a little more disturbed than I thought. I mean, ghosts are all well and good, but just think what would happen if your father should decide to return now?” Which ruined everyone's breakfast anyway.

* * *

Ruby ring in hand, or pocket, as it were, Kerry set out on a raw, dreary day that matched his mood. Even the angels are weeping, he thought as a cold rain started to fall, but he couldn't see Lucy upstairs in his bed, crying her eyes out.

Rain dripping off the rim of his beaver hat and down his collar, Kerry handed Hellraker's reins to a sturdy-enough-looking groom and started to walk up the steps of Westcott Hall. Now he knew how a condemned man must feel on his way to the gallows. Every step was an eternity, and over all too soon.

A footman showed the earl to the gun room, where Lord Westcott was cleaning a hunting rifle. Marvelous, thought Kerry, looking at the stuffed trophies on the wall, the man was preparing to add an earl to his collection.

“Sit, Stanford, sit,” the marquis invited him. “You look like your knees are giving out. Haven't tamed that brute of a horse yet, eh?”

“No, Hellraker and I have come to terms. He hasn't tried to take a piece out of my flesh in days now. I doubt he'll ever be a trustworthy mount, but he'll never be a dull ride either.”

Westcott put down his rag and ramrod. “Must be another cause has you green about the gills, then, what?” He laughed, but sobered quickly. “Shouldn't tease about a serious matter. Why, I remember when I had to ask my lady's father's permission. Worst day of my life. Couldn't even decide if I wanted him to say yea or nay.”

“Then you do know why I am come?”

“I daresay the whole shire knows why you are come. Can't keep such a thing quiet in the country. Young hellion with debts, mortgages, expensive tastes”—he gave a sharp, assessing look at Kerry's corbeau-colored coat and fawn breeches—“comes asking to speak to an heiress's papa, what do you think?” He sighted down the rifle's barrel.

“I think you insult Miss Westcott, begging your pardon, my lord,” Kerry said quickly. “The lady is beautiful, intelligent, and talented, from what I heard of her pianoforte playing. I think any man, no matter his circumstances, would be tempted to offer for your daughter.”

“Well spoken, Stanford, well spoken.” The marquis put the rifle down and stared at the earl. “But you ain't what I had in mind for a son-in-law.”

“I understand completely, my lord, and I am sure I would feel the same way if I had a daughter.” Kerry stood to leave.

“Hold on. You didn't let me finish. I was looking higher, not that an earldom is anything to sneeze at, but you said yourself the gel is an incomparable, and my fortune has nowhere to go but to her and her get. But that didn't work out.”

Not for the first time, Kerry wondered why the hoped-for duke had cried off before a formal announcement. He did not think it would be politic to ask right now. He cleared his throat instead.

Lord Westcott picked up another rag and some oil. While he caressed the rifle's wooden stock, he went on: “I ain't saying you're not an out and outer, for I made a parcel on you and those bays, but there's no denying you ain't at first oars these days. Penniless knight of the baize table ain't what I wanted for my little girl either.”

Kerry started to rise again.

The rifle was aimed at his head. He sat down, wishing the man would just put him out of his misery already, like the other stuffed victims around the room.

“Nor a rakehell, a town beau, or one of those man-milliners neither.” He glared again at the shoulder-hugging cut of the earl's jacket. The glass-eyed squirrel on the table next to Kerry seemed friendly by comparison.

“I'm sorry to have taken your time, my lord. I'll just be—”

“But my girl is fussy, and my wife has a yearning to have her close by. Only chick, don't you know. So I gave you a second look. And I liked what I saw. Oh, not at the hunt, but a better-trained animal will show you to advantage next time, I'm sure. No, I mean how you're trying to make something of that ramshackle property you inherited. I said to myself, here looks like a fellow who's tired of sowing his wild oats. Maybe he's ready to settle down now.”

“Yes, sir, I believe I am. And I also believe that I can make your daughter a good husband.”

Westcott nodded. “A good woman always has a steadying influence, and they say there's no better husband than a reformed rake.” He picked up the rifle again. “I'd hate to find out otherwise.”

“No, sir, never.” And there Kerry'd been worried about forswearing his vows before the Church. Hell, the Church didn't shoot something before breakfast every day. Kerry stopped wondering why the duke had backed off. “Then I take it I have your permission to pay my addresses to Miss Felicia?”

“Her answer is yes, we already discussed it. Our solicitors can settle the rest of the details. Felicia's dowry is substantial, but most of the real money will come when I'm gone. You'll understand, I'm sure, if I insist the bulk of that gets tied up for my grandchildren.”

Kerry understood the marquis didn't trust him out of his rifle range. Of all the humiliating, aggravating—no matter, the dowry was enough. He nodded. “Thank you, my lord, for giving me this chance. If I might see Miss Felicia now?”

“I told you, you can arrange for the calling of the banns. Daresay you'll want the wedding as soon as can be.”

“Whatever Miss Westcott desires. However, I hope to hear the acceptance to my proposal from her own hps before there is any formal announcement.” He wanted to make deuced certain the girl wasn't being coerced into anything, after knowing of Lucy's plight.

Lord Westcott started polishing the rifle butt again, not meeting the earl's eyes. “Well, she ain't here right now. Your man Norris came by earlier on his way to the Widow Welford's place, looking to get the address of that breeder Tige bought his prize boar off of. I told young Norris the boar was the meanest bastard there ever was, but he wanted to check before the widow moved away.”

“Yes, Johnny told me he meant to come this way. And Miss Felicia?”

“She was going out for her ride, so went along with him. Nothing wrong in that,” the marquis hastened to add. “They've been friends since leading strings, and her groom went, too. Nothing to concern yourself about.”

The earl studied the stuffed squirrel. “Of course not.”

“Young Norris is a good man,” Westcott said in reassurance, although whom he was reassuring was questionable.

“The best,” Kerry agreed. “I trust him implicitly. In fact, I don't know how I could get on without him. He's used to commanding from his days in the army, and the men respect him more than they respect me. I still haven't earned their esteem, even after breaking my back alongside them. And Johnny's truly knowledgeable about farming, a wizard at the latest methods after studying all the journals and articles. Most admirable of all to my thinking, he's managed to keep his good humor and open manner despite all the troubles he's seen. A lesser man would have turned bitter under his handicap. Meeting John Norris again was one of the luckiest days of my life, along with the day I met your daughter, of course.”