Noble Satyr: A Georgian Historical Romance (62 page)

Embarrassed by her acute disappointment to
this news and annoyed that he should feel a stab of inadequacy at
not being able to provide this heartless jezebel with a brood of
brats, he snapped back impatiently, “Miss Despard, it is not only
very possible, it is fact. Now you will excuse me. My carriage will
collect you tomorrow at eleven and convey you to my house in
Grosvenor Square where a private ceremony will be conducted without
pomp and circumstance. And, God willing,” he muttered to himself as
he crossed the Turkey rug, “with very few persons in attendance to
witness my humiliation.”

A blank-faced footman opened the door for
the Earl.

The sheaf of parchment on the little
escritoire awaiting Jane’s signature fluttered but was ignored.

Jane forced herself up off the chair and
scurried after him, determined to say something but her thoughts
were such a jumble of mixed emotions that she had no idea where to
begin or what to tell him. She certainly couldn’t bring herself to
inform him there and then that the physicians who had advised him
he was barren had got it wrong. He would not believe her without
proof. Jacob Allenby’s constant sermons about the wanton wicked
ways of the nobility had her convinced that the Earl was not the
sort of nobleman to concern himself with the fruits of his
couplings and she had been given no reason to disbelieve him. But
here was the Earl telling her that he was infertile and had
believed himself to be so for the past ten years! Why then had
Jacob Allenby lied to her? How then was she to disabuse the Earl of
his conviction? And when?

Jane did not know what to say, or how to
tell the Earl that he was as fertile as the next man, without
breaking down into a flood of tears for the loss she had suffered.
So she kept her mouth shut. When the right time presented itself
she would confess all to him, but that time was not now.

At the door, the Earl hesitated, turned on a
low heel, and almost collided with Jane who was close at his back.
She managed to pull herself up only inches from falling into his
arms, which he had instinctively thrust out to stop her falling
forward. They were so close that her hooped petticoats crumpled
against his long muscular legs and she caught a hint of his
masculine cologne. It was such an evocative scent that she was
gripped with a sudden frisson of desire and was so shocked by it
that she quickly stepped away and hung her head.

Salt gently tilted up her chin with one
gloved finger, forcing her to look him in the eyes. Wordlessly, he
searched her beautiful face, a knot between his brows. Her liquid
blue eyes stared back at him with such frankness that he could
almost deceive himself she was without guile. The pouty curve to
her lovely lips was so rosebud red and made for kissing that he
wanted to crush her mouth under his until they were bruised and
numb.

Bruised and numb…

That’s how he felt, had been feeling for so
many years now that he was drained of hope. He wanted to blame her
and the false promises of love and devotion he had tasted in her
kisses. Beauty such as she possessed was utterly beguiling and yet
so wretchedly deceptive. He reviled everything about this young
woman who was to become his wife and countess and yet there was no
mistaking her inherent allure. She had captivated him four years
ago, trapped him, made him lose his head, forget all that he had
been taught about being a gentleman and what he owed his name, and
made him cast caution to the four winds.

He had allowed his heart to rule his
head.

In a single night of passion he had ruined a
gently bred girl of good family, destroyed his honor and given
Jacob Allenby the means by which to have his revenge on him. He
hated himself for what he had done to Jane, but he reviled her for
not having the strength of character to believe in him; to wait for
him; to be constant and true. She had not waited. Worse, she had
not kept secret their night of passion as she had promised and was
rightly disowned by her humiliated father. Even more appalling, she
had run to the protection of Jacob Allenby, a man he loathed and
despised, a reprobate who masqueraded as a moralizing windbag.

The passage of time and countless lovers and
he convinced himself he was cured of Miss Jane Despard. And then,
two years ago while on the hunt, he had come across her gathering
mushrooms in a field scattered with awakening wildflowers. With a
sickening thud of realization he knew he had been fooling himself.
He was not cured. He festered with guilt for ruining her and for
still wanting her. He sunk lower still by giving his word to her
dying father that he would indeed honor the pledge made to her in
the summerhouse on her eighteenth birthday and marry her.

Marriage, if it did nothing else but expunge
the burden of guilt and restore his sense of honor, was worth the
humiliation of friends and family. He could at least get on with
his life with a clear conscience of righting a serious wrong. That
he still wanted her, desperately, he could easily cure. He would
make her his wife, bed her, and then banish her to his estate, lust
and honor both satisfied. Yet, the gentleman in him made one last
futile attempt to force her to realize what sort of union she was
entering into.

“Miss Despard, you are a young woman with
many child-bearing years ahead of you. With your face and figure,
you could easily ensnare yourself a wealthy husband capable of
giving you children. Release this barren earl from his
obligation.”

Jane curtsied but kept her gaze lowered
because her eyes were brimming with hot tears of shame. Real regret
sounded in her voice. “I am sorry to disoblige you, my lord, but I
must marry you.”

There was the briefest of silences and then
the Earl was gone, the door slammed so hard that Jane jumped and
took an involuntary step back fearing it had come off its hinges.
Alone, she crumpled to the floor in a billowing balloon of
petticoats and gave in to her disordered emotions.

If you enjoyed this preview

buy the complete
book

Alec Halsey strode into the cool of the wide
marble hall of St. Neots House, home of his godmother the Duchess
of Romney-St. Neots, and hastily struggled out of greatcoat,
leather riding gloves, sash and sword. He pressed these on an
attending footman and then went up the curved marble staircase two
steps at a time. On the first landing he paused, as if remembering
his manners, and leaned over the mahogany balustrade. “Neave?” he
called out to the butler, “Tell the Duchess I’ll be with her
shortly!”

“Her Grace has guests to nuncheon, sir!”
Neave called up into the dome of the cavernous entrance foyer. “And
Miss Emily is—” Alec Halsey’s head of black curls disappeared from
view and the butler spun around, saw two footmen juggling the
visitor’s belongings between them and pointed a finger at the
youngest, a freckle-faced youth with a mop of red-hair. “Go after
him! He’s not to disturb Miss Emily. Your job on it, boy.”

Alec was in the passageway that led to the
rooms occupied by the Duchess’s granddaughter when quick breathing
at his back made him turn. A young footman came scrambling towards
him much in the fashion of a puppy not grown into its long
legs.

From behind a set of double doors came the
sounds of female chatter and laughter.

“Sir? Please, sir. No!” the young footman
pleaded, coming to a dead stop in front of the tall, loose-limbed
gentleman. “You can’t go in there! Mr. Neave will have m’job if you
do!”

Alec paused, long fingers curled about the
door handle, and stared down at the freckle-faced youth who
respectfully lowered his eyes and shuffled his feet. Something
about the boy was oddly familiar and made him pause. “What’s your
name?”

The footman gave a start. The pleasant
drawling voice wasn’t angry, just curious and it made him glance up
warily to wonder what was the intent behind the gentleman’s
question. But there was no hint of insolence in the kind, friendly
blue eyes that crinkled at the corners; no fancy airs and affected
voice like so many of the visitors to St. Neots House. Even the
clothes this gentleman wore were not out of the ordinary; no silver
lacings, no frothy lace at his wrists, no diamond buckles in the
tongues of his leather shoes; just good dark cloth, a plain linen
cravat and shoes without high heels. Perhaps he could reason with
him and not have his ears boxed for doing his job. He swallowed
hard and let his gaze wander to the door, “Beggin’ pardon, sir.
Thomas Fisher was what I was christened but most call me Tam,
sir.”

“Thomas Fisher,” stated Alec, racking his
brain for a memory; he made no immediate connection. He followed
the boy’s gaze to the double doors. “Well, Thomas Fisher: Tam, I’m
going in there with or without your approval. Think me presentable
enough to announce?”

Tam wondered if he was being roasted. There
was a look in those blue eyes he could not make out. If Neave
discovered him in conversation with a visitor, he’d be out on the
streets again. And gentlemen callers, if they were gentlemen, did
not enter a lady’s private apartments; they certainly didn’t
canvass the opinions of footmen. So he set his jaw hard and put
just enough insolence into his voice to make the gentleman know his
place. “Presentable, sir?”

Alec lifted a hand. “I’m not fragile. Out
with it. It’s the hair, isn’t it?” he said, gathering the shoulder
length hair tidily at the nape of his neck and retying the ribbon
that held it in place. “Not enough wax and no powder. Can’t abide
either.”

In spite of himself, Tam grinned. “It’s just
as you say, sir. Your shoes will pass inspection. Females don’t
care a whisker for dust on y’shoes, yet they like a gentleman to be
neat
. Least that’s what Jenny says. She can’t abide an
ill-fitting wig or one with not enough powder. Says it ain’t right.
But your hair—”

“—is my own. Yes. It’s my one concession to
vanity,” said Alec with a wink and slipped behind the door before
the footman could stop him.

Tam cursed under his breath and dashed after
him, saying as he crossed into the decidedly feminine sitting room,
“Please, sir! Miss Emily is with her dressmaker. She ain’t
receiving visitors and I doubt—”

“Don’t worry, Tam, I’ll vouch for you with
Neave.”

“—she’ll notice your boots or your hair on
account of the celebrations.”

This brought Alec Halsey up short and he
turned and stared at him, puzzled. “Celebrations?”

Tam stepped up to him. “The engagement
celebrations, sir. There’s to be a weekend party here. Here at St.
Neots House.”

“Engagement celebrations?
Here?
”

Tam saw the gentleman’s look of total
confusion. It was obvious these tidings were new to him. “Yes, sir.
Haven’t you been told, sir?”

“I returned yesterday from the Continent.
I’ve been away eight months. An engagement celebration you say.
Whose?”

“Miss Emily’s, sir.”

“No!”

“Yes, sir. Miss Emily is engaged to be
married.”

“
When
?”

“Pardon, sir?”

“When.
When
did this happen?”

“Jenny, she’s Miss Emily’s maid—”

“I know who Jenny is!”

Tam lowered his eyes. He’d never seen a face
turn as white as a sheet. He’d heard the expression. The
housekeeper used it quite a bit. He was witness to it now. Alec
Halsey’s angular face had not only drained of natural color, but
under his linen cravat his throat had constricted. He suddenly
looked ill. Tam wondered if he should fetch up a brandy.

Alec swallowed. “I didn’t mean… It’s
just—”

“No need to explain, sir,” Tam said quickly,
averting his gaze and shuffling his feet, feeling the gentleman’s
embarrassment. He wished he could help him in some way. He didn’t
care for Miss Emily’s betrothed, despite Jenny’s opinion that the
Earl of Delvin was the handsomest nobleman in the kingdom. Lord
Delvin certainly presented well dressed in the latest fashionable
powdered wig, tight-shouldered frockcoat of elaborately embroidered
silk, diamonds in his shoe-buckles and yards of frothy lace
gathered up at his wrists and throat, but there was something about
the nobleman that would not wash. Tam wished he had tangible
evidence for this feeling, particularly when Jenny continually sung
the Earl’s praises. “Jenny told me, sir,” he said glumly. “Miss
Emily became engaged three days ago.”