Engaging the Earl (17 page)

“I have no mistress,” he answered with a slow upward curve of his mouth. “I’ve decided to save myself for my wife.”

Her cheeks flamed. “How fortunate for her.”

“Absolutely. On our wedding night, all of that pent-up energy will be completely at your disposal.”

Her wayward heart almost somersaulted out of her chest at the image of the two of them together in that way. “Hush, you are disgusting. I will never marry you.”

He picked up his wine glass and brought it to his lips. “We shall see.”

“I warn you, you are wasting your time. I never will.”

“Never will what?” Bea asked, taking a seat at the table. “I hope I am not interrupting.”

Kat exhaled, happy to turn her focus away from Rand’s intense gaze. “Not at all.” She patted the seat next to her. “Come and sit.”

Laurie appeared and set Kat’s plate in front of her, his wary gaze sliding to the earl. “Randolph.”

“Sinclair.” Rand returned a measuring gaze.

“Elena!” Bea gestured to the Amazon, who stood by the buffet table with a full plate, looking for a seat. “Come and join us.”

Rand’s mistress smiled, but her face dimmed as she surveyed the people at the table. “Perhaps I’ll sit over with Miss Campbell.”

“Do join us.” Rand sent a languid look in Laurie’s direction. “The more the merrier, wouldn’t you say, Sinclair?”

A muscle danced in Laurie’s left cheek. “By all means.”

Kat wondered at the guarded look Elena shot between the two men before relenting and joining their table. They were all quiet as they began to eat. A perplexing tension wrapped itself around their table. Having lost her appetite, Kat pushed her food around on her plate.

Rand noticed. “You haven’t eaten your quail. As I recall, it is one of your favorites.”

Laurie glared at Rand. “How would you know what Lady Katherine’s favorites are?”

Kat resisted the urge to fling the quail carcass at Rand for the inappropriate intimacy. “Our families were neighbors in Town before my come-out,” she said as coolly as she could manage. “We had occasion to meet.”

“Did you not know the earl and Lady Katherine are friends?” Elena asked him.

“I may have heard some such thing.” Laurie dissembled in a most casual tone, yet his fingers were white against the glass he gripped. “It’s not the sort of matter I would remember.”

Bea turned to Rand. “They say you are a brilliant strategist, my lord. Do regale us with some of your greatest victories.”

“Yes, do tell, Randolph,” Laurie said stiffly. “Do you learn the enemy’s every move in order to best counter his attack?”

“To the contrary, a sound strategist twists the battle to his own advantage.” Rand took a leisurely sip of his wine. “He does not allow his opponent to set the rules of the challenge.”

Laurie set his fork down in a deliberate motion. “How exactly does he manage that?”

“He ensures his opponent is drawn into playing his game. According to his rules.”

Laurie placed his hands palm down on the table on either side of his plate. “And tell us, is this strategy always successful?”

Rand’s smile held no warmth. “I suspect the Corsican would say so.” The competitive tension arcing between the two men befuddled Kat. When had these two become outright adversaries?

Bea cut into the silent standoff. “I would imagine after the frogs, my lord, you can take on just about anyone.”

Rand maintained eye contact with Laurie. “I do always play to win.”

“It’s just as well that there is nothing here to be won,” Kat said pointedly.

“Not for me at least.” Laurie took her hand and pressed a gallant kiss upon it. “I have already won the moon.”

“Some would say the moon is unattainable,” Rand said.

“Tell us about your country,” Bea said quickly to Elena, in an obvious attempt to divert the conversation. “Is Spain as beautiful as I have heard?”

“Oh yes. I think you would find my home very inviting,” Elena said. “Perhaps you will come and visit me there.”

“What about you, Sinclair?” Rand said in an easy tone. “How do you find Spain?”

“I’m afraid I have never had the pleasure of visiting Miss Márquez-Navarro’s home,” Laurie said stiffly.

“Do tell.” One of Rand’s brows lifted. “I was given to understand you are enamored of all things Spanish.”

Elena stood abruptly. “I think I shall get more food.”

Rand rose. “Allow me to fetch it for you.”

“No. Thank you, my lord.” Her dark eyes snapped at him. “You have done quite enough.”

To Kat’s relief, the remainder of the supper conversation turned to more neutral subjects, and when her mother signaled for the ladies to leave the men to their after-dinner port, she breathed a sigh of thanks. However, the reprieve was short-lived because the men joined them soon thereafter.

Laurie spied her and started in her direction, but paused for a moment to exchange a few words with the Amazon, who stood alone by the window. Elena’s brows rose at something Laurie said. When she responded, the lines of Laurie’s body went very still. He spun away from her, making a direct line for Kat, his expression tense.

She smiled in welcome, but his countenance only tightened. “What is Randolph to you?”

Her heart dropped into her stomach with a heavy thump. “Whatever do you mean?”

“First the bit about the quail and now Elena informs me the two of you once harbored a deep affection for one another.”

Elena?
“You call her by her Christian name? How could you discuss my personal business with…with a woman of questionable reputation?”

His gaze drilled into her. “Randolph is personal business to you?”

“It’s not what you think.” No, it was far worse than he could imagine, but as her betrothed, he deserved the truth. At least as much as she could bear to share with him. “When we were very young, before my come-out, we had an infatuation. That is all.”

He paled. “What happened? Why didn’t he ask for you?”

“He…did,” she stammered. “My father refused because he felt Edward didn’t have any prospects. He was a second son with no fortune.”

“Edward.” His tone flattened. “You use his Christian name.”

“It means nothing.” Guilt pecked away at her as she took in his rigid demeanor.

“He wants you back,” he said curtly. “That show at supper was all about letting me know it.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She placed a hand on his arm, noting the hard tension in it. “I don’t want him. I’ll be
your
wife in a few weeks.”

Laurie’s attention locked in on Rand standing across the room chatting with Kat’s mother, who appeared unexpectedly flushed and delighted. As if he sensed hostile eyes upon him, Rand turned in their direction. He met Laurie’s gaze and raised his glass in silent salute.

Clenching his jaw, Laurie inclined his head as though silently accepting Rand’s unspoken challenge. “He’ll try to separate us. He’s made his intentions quite clear.”

“There is nothing he can say or do to come between us,” she said in a firm voice.

Laurie exhaled, looking visibly shaken. “Would that were true.”

“In all likelihood we won’t see him again before we are wed.” Kat desperately hoped that was true. “We leave for the Harvest Home on the morrow. After that, the Earl of Randolph will be out of our lives forever.”

Chapter Twelve

Kat spurred her horse through the fields where her father’s tenants—men and women—used scythes to cut the last of the corn. Many paused to call out a greeting of welcome before resuming their task. The day was fair and it appeared they’d finish their work before rain set in and threatened to mold the crop.

She searched for her father, whose custom it was to take to the fields with his tenants on the final days of the harvest. She loved this part of the season. Soon the workers would fill the wagon with one last load of corn and crown it with flowers. They would parade it through the village before bearing the laden cart to the barn.

She inhaled, taking in the earthy smells of sunshine and fertile fields. Watching her father work the land with his people reminded her of the centuries of tradition and heritage behind each harvest. This was home, a place of peace and comfort for her. Her throat ached at the realization this would be her last harvest at Nugent Manor. Next year, she would preside over harvest festivities at Laurie’s Wiltshire estate. Her stomach cramped as reality hit her anew.

Laurie’s viscountess
.

Fighting back tears, she bit her lip, resisting the impulse to weep at the mammoth sense of loss that assailed her. It was not only the finality of leaving home that made her emotional; her marriage would also forever shut the door on Rand.

She forced her thoughts back to tomorrow’s Harvest Home. The celebration meal would be an inclusive event, with the master breaking bread with his tenants this one meal of the year. And then the singing and dancing would begin—again with the master and servants enjoying the festivities together. She would dance with Laurie, of course, who was due to arrive today, and quite possibly with some of the people from the village she’d known since childhood.

She spied her father among the workers. His perspiration-laden white linen shirt clung to his back. He’d retained his fit looks as he’d aged; she could detect just a bit of extra flesh gathering around his middle. He laughed as he and a worker lifted the load and carried it toward the wagon. The movement drew Kat’s eye to her father’s companion and she lost her breath.

Rand.
How could he be here? He’d shed his shirt in the heat, baring an impossibly lean form with no evidence of extra flesh; there scarcely seemed to be sufficient skin to cover all of the taut muscle stretched over bone. There was an angry-looking, mottled scar where his shoulder met the lean sinews of his arm. Her gaze traveled over the smattering of dark amber curls on his chest, toward the thin line of hair that trailed down his stomach, disappearing into the mysterious fold of his breeches.

Together with her father, he heaved the load of corn onto the wagon. The lean cords of muscle in his arms and back slid beneath sweat-glistened skin, which had taken on some of the sun’s golden color. He must have been at this for hours. Rand paused for a word with a small group of workers by the wagon. He seemed to move easily among the people of her childhood.

Perspiration trickled between her breasts and her skin felt unbearably hot. She thought she’d successfully removed herself from temptation, yet here it was in the form of laughing emerald eyes, strong shoulders, and miles of bronzed, bare male skin. Her father caught sight of her and hailed her over. She forced her mare forward despite an overwhelming instinct to turn and flee.

“Kat,” her father said in cheery greeting as he helped her from her horse. “Come to see us take in the final load?”

She nodded, murmuring something in response that she hoped sounded distinguishable. Rand turned away and reached for his shirt, pulling it on as a gentleman ought to in the presence of a lady.

Once he was decent, he bowed. “Lady Kat.”

“My lord.” She licked her dry lips. “What a surprise to see you here.”

Her father mopped his brow with the back of his hand. “It seems your mother invited Randolph just before we left town.”

She schooled her features into polite impartiality. “How unexpected.”

Rand smiled, and she detected the subtle amusement beneath his courteous demeanor. “Yes, I mentioned to Lady Nugent that I have much to learn about managing an estate now that I have one of my own to oversee in Devon.”

“I see.”

“So when she invited me here to observe the Harvest Home, naturally I could not refuse.”

“Naturally.”

Her father sent a broad smile in Rand’s direction. “And a fine lord of the manor he shall be. A man must be willing to get close to the land and work with his people.”

Rand returned the older man’s smile. “I’ve a great deal to learn from you, my lord.”

Kat swallowed a snort of disbelief. First her mother, and now her father. Rand had succeeded in charming both her parents. It was almost as if this offensive was part of his battle plan to win her—amassing his forces like a wave gaining momentum before it finally slammed into her. Only she couldn’t be overwhelmed if she refused to stay on the beach. “I will leave the two of you to it.”

Her father regarded her with obvious surprise. “You’re not staying for the crop parade through the village?”

“I think not. Mother will have need of me to help in preparing for tomorrow’s mell supper.”

Sadness tinged his expression. “I can’t recall the last time you missed the bearing of the cart. You’ve always loved it so. And this shall be your last at Nugent Manor.”

Something akin to regret crossed Rand’s face. “Please don’t go on my account.”

She fixed him with a haughty look. “It is time I put girlish whims into the past. Next year I shall preside over the harvest at Sinclair Hall.”

Her father beamed. “Indeed you shall.” He moved to help her into the saddle. “My Kat, mistress of the manor.”

But Rand stepped forward with a polite “Allow me.” Wrapping large, long-fingered hands around her waist, Rand lifted her easily onto the mount. His man’s scent, intermixed with the earthy smell of exertion, filled her nose. “I shall look forward to seeing you at supper, my lady.”

Heady with his scent and the raw power of his proximity, she mumbled something in response before blindly turning her mount in the direction of home.

…

The following day at noon, the long tables that had been laid out for the mell supper were filled with tenants and their families. Kat’s father stood at the head of the principal table carving the meat, in keeping with the tradition started by the first Earl of Nugent more than a century ago. After he sliced a few ceremonial pieces, footmen whisked the meat away to finish the job of trimming and serving. Likewise, Kat and her mother proceeded down the main table with beer jugs—as the first earl’s countess and daughters of the house had once done—serving a few of the tenants before footmen swooped in to take over their task as well.

A boisterous, cheery energy swirled among the tables as the tenants, happy to see the year’s harvest come to a successful end, indulged in beer and ale and mounds of food prepared especially for the occasion. Tables were stacked with boiled hams and roasted sirloins, plum puddings made by the Christmas recipe, and fresh plum loaves, some of which were still warm.

Laurie sat to her father’s right while Rand had the spot to her father’s left, having been given the other place of honor at the table. Laurie’s jaw had braced when he’d arrived to find Rand in residence, but he had not remarked upon it to Kat.

“You still hold to the traditional mell supper,” Rand was saying to her father.

“Yes, indeed,” he answered taking a swig of his ale. “Here at Nugent Manor we keep to the old traditions. On this day, the master and tenant sit at the same table.”

Rand nodded his approval. “I believe the term ‘mell’ is derived from the French
mesler
meaning ‘to mingle together.’”

Laurie winked at Kat as she slid next to him. “I never thought to see the
ton
’s incomparable serving beer to the lower orders.”

“Every daughter of the house has done so since the first earl,” her father said. “Do you hold a mell supper at your estate, Sinclair?”

“Not exactly. We hold a day of food and games,” he said. “But perhaps when Kat is my viscountess, she will bring a bit of Nugent tradition with her.”

Laurie seemed more himself today—the old friend and companion who made her feel safe and protected. “I hate that you will have to leave us on the morrow.”

He smiled with his usual easy fondness. “I must away to the Harvest Home at my estate. Next year, you shall be by my side.”

“That will be most agreeable.” She forced a light tone, determined to ignore the tangle twisting in her belly at the thought of how much her life would change in a few short weeks. Her attention went to the end of the table, where the Maid of Malagon sat near Mama. She forced herself not to grind her teeth at the sight of Rand’s mistress, who had also been invited to witness the English harvest tradition. It seemed she’d have no escape from either of them.

After supper, the sports and games began. Some of the older people congregated under trees to sip their ale and gossip while children loped through the crowds chasing each other and stealing the rare treat of a sweetmeat passed around by footmen. A large group of men congregated around the boxing challenge, chanting and roaring their approval with each swing.

To her relief, Kat managed to avoid Rand for most of the afternoon by sticking close to Laurie. Although she couldn’t help noticing that Rand mingled with the tenants as easily as he did with her father.

Late in the day, as twilight approached, she and Laurie strolled to one of the last events before the evening’s music and dancing. The climbing of the pole was a favorite Harvest Home game among the tenants. One of Kat’s blue satin ribbons was tied atop the tall pole.

“Lady Kat,” called one of the farmers. “Will you offer a boon to the gentleman who retrieves your ribbon?”

Kat gave her best coquette’s smile to the appreciative audience. “I would be pleased to, Mr. Ogilvie.” At Laurie’s questioning brow, she added, “If my betrothed husband concurs.”

“What say you, my lord?” Ogilvie called. “A maiden’s kiss for the man who conquers the pole?”

“That depends,” Laurie answered in an affable tone. “Are all allowed to participate? Myself for instance.”

Good natured cat-calls and whistles came from the gathered men, but Ogilvie shushed them. “By all means, my lord. As the lady’s betrothed, we’ll give you the first chance.”

“They’ve rendered it as slippery as a glacier,” Kat warned. “With soap and wax and who knows what else.”

“I’m a competent climber.” Laurie approached the pole, rubbing his hands on his flanks as if to dry them. “No harm in trying. Especially with so lovely a prize to be won.”

“No harm at all,” Ogilvie agreed, amidst more calls and whistles from the growing crowd of curious revelers who wandered over as word spread that the viscount intended to give the climbing pole a try.

Approaching it, Laurie embraced the pole with a strong grip, clenching his knees as he began his ascent. An agile athlete, he managed to climb a bit, before sliding back and having to regain lost ground again and again, continuing upward with a determined expression on his sweat-glistened face.

At length, he reached the first prize fastened to the pole, a sweetmeat which he retrieved and tossed to the appreciative crowd. Many lunged for it, but a young boy emerged from the crush with a triumphant grin on his young face holding up the prize.

“Well done, lad,” Laurie called from his perch above them before continuing his climb. Kat laughed and clapped at Laurie’s gallantry, enjoying his good-natured interactions with her father’s people. Yet the act of halting to retrieve the prize impacted Laurie’s momentum and, even though he repeatedly tried to regain his grip, he finally acknowledged defeat by sliding down the pole, amidst cheers and ribbing from the onlookers.

With now tousled hair, he approached Kat with a rueful grin, his blue eyes sparkling. “I guess I shall have to wait until my wedding day to gain the lady’s kiss,” he called out to the appreciative crowd, kissing her hand with exaggerated gallantry.

On it went, candidate after candidate taking to the field with little luck. Partway into the contest, her father beckoned Laurie away to make him known to some neighbors, but Kat stayed since she was essentially the prize for any man who managed to conquer the pole.

“Will none of you rustics take up this challenge?” Ogilvie called when they seemed to have run out of takers.

“I will.” The familiar masculine voice, polished yet roughened by experience, dragged shivers down her spine. Her breath hitched when Rand emerged from the crowd like a gladiator ready to do battle. In keeping with the casual tone of the event, none of the gentlemen wore waistcoats. Rand had on buff breeches and a white linen shirt. He cast a playful pitying look around to those who had tried and failed. “Behold how the climbing of the pole is done,” he said to benign jeers from the crowd.

He wrapped himself around the pole with steady hands and pulled his body upward, those long, lean lines radiating self-assuredness. Each time he hoisted his form another hard-won inch, the sleek muscles in his thighs slid under his breeches. Despite his apparent confidence, Rand had difficulty making his way up the pole. Halfway up, he seemed to falter, stopping and slipping a bit. She caught her breath and waited.

Keeping his position with one hand, he drew the other away from the pole and slipped it into the pocket of his breeches, only to withdraw it laden with sand. The crowd gave a roar of appreciation for this display of the earl’s wiliness. Dipping his chin in wry acknowledgement, Rand clasped the pole with his dirtied hand, while he repeated the same action with his other one. He began to progress quickly now, thanks to the traction gained by the sand, amidst the laughing and cheering below him.