As an Earl Desires (21 page)

A
rch
was desperately in need of advice, and he couldn't go to the
one person in all the world whom he trusted more than any other,
since the advice he was seeking had to do with her. So he went to
the Duke of Harrington, stopping at his country estate before going
on to London.

“Let me offer you some whiskey,” the
duke said. “My half-brother sends it to me from Texas.
It's got quite a kick to it, and you look to be a man who
could use something that doesn't go down too
easily.”

Arch nodded to the offer of whiskey. He explained
the letter that the countess had left with Camilla, how she'd
only recently read it. He didn't explain why she'd
waited so long, and the duke
didn't ask.
Arch suspected that, having once been surrounded by scandal, the
duke was less likely to pry into others' affairs but tended
to be satisfied with information shared and leave it at that.

Arch finished with, “They've located
him. He's on his way to London, and I'm going to meet
him there.”

Harrington stilled, holding the bottle at an
awkward angle. “Can't say that I'd be thrilled to
learn that my older brother was suddenly resurrected.”

Arch shook his head. “I have no quarrel with
the man being given what is rightfully his.”

The duke finished pouring the drinks and handed a
glass to Arch. “I'd suggest taking a good healthy
swallow.”

Arch did and thought his throat was in danger of
catching on fire. Tears filled his eyes before he could blink them
back. “Good God.”

“Once you get accustomed to it, it tends to
hit the spot,” Harrington said. “Have a
seat.”

Arch sat in one of the wing-backed chairs in front
of the fireplace. The flames offered welcoming warmth, but he
remained chilled. He was beginning to wonder if that might be the
case for the remainder of his life.

The duke took the chair opposite him. He
didn't press Arch to speak, but rather simply sat there
quietly, watching, waiting while Arch gath
ered
his thoughts, because certainly the duke had to realize that the
discovery of the heir was not something that required his
advice.

There was no hope for it except to blurt it out.
“I've fallen in love with Camilla.”

“That doesn't come as a surprise. I
figured that out when we were at Sachse Hall.”

Arch held the glass between his hands, studying the
way the firelight played over the contents of the glass. The color
reminded him very much of Camilla's hair. He didn't
think she'd appreciate the comparison, but then almost
everything reminded him of her these days.

“I'm not familiar with all the laws and
rules that affect the aristocracy, but it is my understanding that
if a woman is a commoner and she marries a man of rank and he dies,
she retains his title. But if she then marries a commoner, she
loses her title.”

“Yes, that's the way of it.”

He'd so hoped he'd not properly
understood how it all worked.

“Camilla's reasons for not marrying me
were twofold: she could not give me an heir and she desired to be a
duchess. With one she was unselfish, with the other selfish.”
He lifted his gaze to the duke's. “You've known
her longer than I. She told me once that she'd rather die
than be a commoner again. Do you think she meant it?”

The duke bestowed on him a look fraught with
pity.

“Never mind,” Arch said, as he came to
his feet. “No need to answer aloud. We both know how much she
values being part and parcel of the peerage.”

He walked to the fireplace, put his hand on the
mantel, and stared at the dancing flames. “I'm not
certain why I came here. I knew the answer before I walked through
your door. I no longer need an heir, but marrying me would require
her giving up what she values so highly.” He shook his head.
“I can't ask that of her.”

“What would it hurt to ask?” the duke
inquired. “She might surprise you.”

Or break my heart
.

“She has spent a good deal of the past few
months surprising me—rather pleasantly.”

He took a gulp of the whiskey. It didn't burn
nearly as much, but it still managed to warm him throughout.

“She was never really mine,” he said
quietly. “Even when she was mine, she wasn't mine.
I'd grown so accustomed to having her in my life that
I'd forgotten that she was only on loan.” He finished
off the whiskey and turned to face the duke. “I shan't
miss your world.”

 

He went to the main London residence, the one in
which Camilla had lived. Although it had been closed up for the
winter, as the servants were making it ready for a guest, he was
very much aware of Camilla's presence wherever he went. He
slept in her bed, which even with clean linens still smelled of
her. He smiled when he spotted her French book. He found the skates
sitting in a corner as though she might have plans to use them
again.

He walked through the house capturing images of
her, to fill in the few tiny places in his memory where she
didn't yet dwell. There were so few. Eventually he realized
that he was on a senseless quest, because he could never reach a
point where he was completely satiated with thoughts of her. His
mind would always make room, would always let in a bit more of
her.

The futility of his efforts was doing nothing
except prolonging the inevitable.

So, he set himself to the task of going over the
books for the estates, making certain that everything was in order
and could be easily handed over to the rightful earl when he
arrived. A thousand times he considered returning to Sachse Hall
and letting Camilla know that the heir had been found, explaining
that decisions needed to be made, and offering her a choice. Him or
a dukedom?

Him with his simple life in the country, his school
of boys with eager, young minds, his teasing brother, and his
married sister who was once again with child. He and Camilla could
share his sister's children, they could look after the boys
at the school. She would have children in her life, even if they
didn't come from her womb.

But she would sacrifice her title. Completely and
absolutely. Not only would she never be a duchess, but she would no
longer be a countess. How could he ask her to give up all she
valued?

He couldn't.

How could he put her in the unconscionable position
of breaking his heart to his face?

He couldn't do that either.

So he buried himself in the books and drowned
himself with whatever was available in the liquor cabinet. Meals
were brought to him that he ignored. He had no appetite. He
couldn't escape the irony of his situation.

In the spring, he would have lost her
anyway—to the Duke of Kingsbridge. But he could have
convinced himself that it was because she wanted Arch to have an
heir that she was making herself unavailable to him and marrying
the duke. Now he could hide behind no pretense. He no longer
required an heir, and in all the nights since they'd
discovered that there was a chance that Thomas Warner was alive,
Camilla had never once said,
“If they
find him, and you no longer need an heir, then I am
yours.”

Although in truth, neither had he dared to ask her,
“If they find him, and I no longer need an heir…what
then?”

“Ah, Camilla,” he mumbled, rubbing his
face, roughened with a beard that had grown for too many days to
count. When had he last shaved? He couldn't remember. He
couldn't remember anything beyond Camilla. He lifted his
glass. “To your happiness, my darling.”

He brought it to his lips, only then realizing that
it was empty. As empty as his life would be without her.

He released an outraged cry torn from the depths of
despair and his heart. With a mighty shove, he sent the books and
ledgers that represented all he'd once owned crashing to the
floor. He knew a time would come when he'd draw comfort from
memories of her, but tonight all he felt was the pain of incredible
loss. He laid his head on the desk and wept, finding no comfort, no
solace, no hope.

 

He'd never found fault with the sunlight, but
this morning he found fault with the way it slanted through the
windows and sliced across his eyes. He found equal fault with his
head for aching and his mouth for containing a most dis
gusting taste. His neck was stiff and sore, his
shoulders tight. He'd never felt this badly the morning after
battling a fire; but then with a fire, the risk was only to his
body, not his heart.

With a groan and a moan, he pushed himself up
slightly and planted his face in one of his hands. He would have
preferred using both, but one of his arms was numb. It was coming
to life now, adding to his misery.

“Here, drink this,” said a deep, slow
drawl.

With great difficulty, he lifted his squinting eyes
to the man standing before him. He was tall and wore something that
greatly resembled a greatcoat, but somehow wasn't. Arch
dipped his gaze to the glass in the man's hand.

“What is it?” His voice sounded as
though it was scraping over rocks.

“My own version of hair of the dog. It tastes
like hell, but it'll undo some of what these empty bottles
say you've done to yourself.”

Arch's hand shook as he reached out and took
the glass. “What's in it?”

“You don't want to know. Just drink it.
The best way is one long gulp without breathing, so you don't
smell it and are less likely to taste it.”

Arch did as instructed, downing the nauseatingly
thick liquid. A chill and a shudder coursed through him. He set the
glass on the desk, only then noticing that the ledgers had been
neatly
stacked along one side. He gave his
attention back to the man. “Who are you?”

The man sat in the chair, lifted a leg, crossed his
ankle over his knee, and a balanced a hat that Arch had never seen
in fashionable London on his thigh.

“You tell me,” the man said.

“The devil…come to bargain?”

The man's laughter was deep and sonorous, his
dark eyes glittering. “I'd certainly bargain my way out
of this if I could, but according to old Spellman, I've got
no choice in the matter.”

“You're the Earl of Sachse.”

The man's jovial mood seemed to desert him.
“That's what I've been told.”

“I can see the resemblance between you and
your father.” And a little between the man and himself.
Generations separated them, but evidence of the Warner bloodline
was there.

With a heavy sigh, he sat back in the chair,
surprised to discover that he was feeling a trifle better.
“I'd not planned to make your acquaintance under such
degrading circumstances.”

Sachse shrugged. “Over the years, I've
downed my share of good whiskey—and not-so-good whiskey. I
apologize if it was the discovery that I wasn't dead that
turned you to the bottle.”

“Oh, no, not at all. I never grew truly
comfortable wearing your shoes. I shan't miss it, but there
are matters that concern me that I'd like to dis
cuss with you. I'd prefer to make myself
presentable first, if you don't mind.”

“Don't mind at all.” He rubbed
his jaw. “Could use a little sprucing up myself.”

“I'll have the servants show you to a
bedchamber. Shall we meet back here in an hour?”

“An hour will be fine.”

“Splendid.”

Although Arch didn't feel exactly splendid,
he wasn't certain he could blame it all on the spirits.
Rather that before the day was over, he'd be rid of all this,
and already he missed it.

 

Arch had been fully prepared not to like the man,
but Thomas Warner was an incredibly likable sort.

“Are you hungry?” Arch had asked once
they'd met again in the study.

“Starving.”

“Let's get you something to eat then.
You need but ask the servants for anything you want, desire, need.
They'll see to it immediately as their job is to please you
and make your life as comfortable as possible. I'll introduce
you to everyone and explain their various duties.”

Sachse grinned. “Some fella at the top of the
stairs thought he was going to help me get dressed.”

“That would be the earl's
valet.”

“Well, I'm perfectly capable of
dressing myself. Had to aim my gun at him to make my
point.”

“You have a gun?” Arch asked.

“Peacemaker. I don't go anywhere
without it.”

“Well, I assure you. Guns aren't needed
here.”

“I feel naked without one strapped to my
thigh.”

Camilla was certainly going to have her hands full
with this earl—and just as quickly, he realized that
she'd soon be giving all her attention to her duke.

“No need to be getting all sad about the
gun,” Sachse said. “I don't usually wear it
indoors.”

Arch forced himself to smile. “No, I was
thinking of something else. Come along. Luncheon should be
ready.”

They sat across from each other, one on each side
of the narrow portion of the table, rather than at the distant
ends, because the earl hadn't wanted to talk loudly to be
heard. Arch liked the way he thought.

“What can you tell me about my father?”
Sachse asked.

“Not a great deal. I never actually met
him.”

Sachse looked across at him. “You're
his cousin, right?”

“Distant cousin, yes. So I'm your
cousin as well.”

“I figure he must not have been too likable
for my mother to have done what she did. Either that, or she
wasn't real fond of me. I can't remember
her.” He shook his head. “Can't
remember him.”