The Earl With the Secret Tattoo (11 page)
Read The Earl With the Secret Tattoo Online
Authors: Kieran Kramer
Tags: #Romance, #Adult, #Historical
“Exactly.” James grinned. “Your father said he knew I was better than the way I was
behaving. He’d known my father, and he even remembered me as a little boy. He said
he refused to give up on me, and he wouldn’t let me give up on myself. And for that,
I’ll be forever thankful to him.”
Eleanor’s eyes began to burn. “We both had excellent fathers.”
James gripped her hand. “We did.”
She stopped and faced him. “I received a letter today.”
“Oh?”
“From a family who wants me to serve as governess to their children.” Her chest constricted
with worry. What if she were imagining everything? What if this love she felt for
James wasn’t returned? Yes, he liked to kiss her—and he did it exceedingly well—but
what if she were simply a distraction from the fact that he had nothing exciting to
occupy himself with anymore, except the regular duties of an earl?
“This family is in Devon,” she continued. “So…it’s not
too
far from London. And my mother. Which is a good thing, now that she’s improving.”
“Really.” James didn’t look terribly happy for Eleanor.
Hope rose up in her, like a butterfly.
“Yes,” she said. “The family wants me to start in two weeks.” She began walking again.
“Will you interfere again this time?” She kept her tone light.
He didn’t say anything for a long time, his eyes on the one fluffy cloud in the sky.
“No,” he answered firmly. “I won’t.”
They continued strolling, and Eleanor’s heart fell so hard to her feet, she couldn’t
feel them anymore. It felt as though she were walking through sludge.
But she wouldn’t show it. “I’m glad,” she managed to say without sounding as if her
world were ending.
“I’m done protecting you, remember?” He squinted at her as the sun was behind her
head.
She nodded, hating that he looked so handsome, so rough-and-tumble. “I don’t need
you to protect me anymore, much as I appreciate the sentiment.”
They walked on and on, and it grew harder and harder for Eleanor to breathe.
And then James stopped. “But I wondered something….”
“Yes?” There was a big gust of wind. The leaves on the trees rustled; their branches
swayed. Eleanor’s heart didn’t know
how
to beat at this point. It simply did. First, fast. And then slow. And then somewhere
in between fast and slow, the longer she looked at James and recognized what a good,
good man he was.
“Would you be interested in protecting
me
?” he asked her, and her heart took off again at a ridiculous pace.
“From what?” she asked.
He pulled a strand of hair out of her eyes. “From a broken heart, you see. Because
if you go, Eleanor, I’ll never be happy again.”
A robin swooped down on a nearby branch and flitted off again on another gust of air.
“You won’t?” she whispered.
“I won’t,” he said, and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Not unless you’re with
me. I love you. You’re my heart. And soul.” He kissed her. “Marry me, Eleanor. Please,
my darling.”
She smiled so broadly, she caught another strand of hair, this time in her mouth.
James pulled out the wisp of dark gold and held it to his lips for a kiss of its own.
“Yes, I’ll marry you, James Dawbry,” Eleanor said.
And in his eyes, she saw their story—its beginning, its vast, as-yet-unknown middle
that she longed to write with him, but no ending.
Because love, Eleanor knew, was forever.
Read on for an excerpt from Kieran Kramer’s next book in the House of Brady series
THE EARL IS MINE
Coming in March 2013 from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
Chapter 1
For Lady Pippa Harrington, it wasn’t going to be the usual Sunday family dinner at
Uncle Bertie’s. Those were full of ridiculous speeches by her stepfather, Sir Harold
Tavistock, followed by taut silences and the occasional
grrr
from one of Uncle Bertie’s eight corgis under the table. No, tonight, Pippa’s great-uncle
was celebrating his birthday, and as always, he would have the same guest, his godson
Gregory Sherwood, Lord Westdale, son of the Marquess and Marchioness of Brady—one
of the most eligible bachelors in London and a talented young architect.
An architect! One, by the way, whom Pippa couldn’t bear to see. But that was a story
for another day.
“Pippa, dear?” The timid voice came to her from the kitchen door.
“Yes, Mother?” Pippa looked up from work that was her greatest pleasure. She was attaching
the final miniature crown to a tiny window on a pale silver sugar sculpture she’d
made for Uncle Bertie’s birthday celebration. Hip-to-hip with her at the work table
was Mrs. Dodd, Uncle Bertie’s elderly cook, who was like the grandmother Pippa had
never had.
“Why, hello, Mrs. Dodd.” Mother’s limpid blue gaze took in the pretty disarray of
molds, marzipan, and cutting tools on the table. The aromatic smells of roast beef,
gravy, and various side dishes wafted from the stove and oven. “You’re hard at work,
I see.”
“Good evenin’, my lady.” The cook bobbed a curtsy and smiled. “Lady Pippa’s managing
this evening’s confection without me. I’m merely an onlooker.”
“Mrs. Dodd has prepared a lovely meal, Mother.” Pippa was kitted out in a fashionable
pink satin frock protected, for the most part, by a sunny blue floral apron. “I did
most of the work this morning while you were at the vicar’s tea, but I’m putting the
finishing touches on it now. What do you think?” She spread her arms wide so her mother
could experience the full effect of viewing the miniature castle unimpeded.
“Yes, well”—Mother pulled distractedly at her pearls—“very nice, Mrs. Dodd.”
Pippa’s spirits drooped, rather like the top of the freshly baked apple pie sitting
atop a nearby shelf. It was painful to witness the dismal effect years and years of
unhappiness had had on her mother’s cheerful temperament. It hurt to have a mother
who didn’t really
see
her.
Very carefully, Mrs. Dodd laid her rough, warm hand over Pippa’s and gave it a squeeze.
“The earl’s in the drawing room,” Lady Helen told her daughter, “and he’s looking
forward to seeing you again.”
Looking forward, indeed!
Pippa threw her parent a brisk smile. “I’ll be there in a moment.”
“Very well.”
Pippa saw that it took everything in Mother to lift the corners of her mouth before
she turned and crept back down the corridor toward her awful husband and their beleaguered
uncle, the sole person standing between them and the poorhouse. And then there was
Lord Westdale waiting as well.
Pippa’s heart nearly gave out at the thought of him.
She decided in that moment that she needed a new story.
“One that
I
choose, not Mother or Uncle Bertie or anyone else,” she announced to Mrs. Dodd as
she smoothed the little window crown into place and stood back to admire her handiwork.
“My aim is simple—to be happy. By hook or by crook.”
“A grand purpose, my chicken, seeing as we have only one life to live and everyone
wanting a piece of it.” Mrs. Dodd muttered something about taxes, ungrateful husbands,
and goat-stealing neighbors as she walked to the stove and gave the oxtail soup a
good stir. “Your uncle wants to see you happy before he dies.”
“Not that he’s going anywhere anytime soon,” Pippa fretted.
“Oh, no.” Mrs. Dodd chuckled. “He’s stout as a horse, even at eighty-three. And your
mother wants to see you happy, too.”
“Do you think so?” Pippa couldn’t help wondering.
“Of course.” The cook twisted her thin neck and shoulders to look in Pippa’s direction.
Pippa caught a glimpse of the dull gold locket Mrs. Dodd always wore tucked into her
bodice. “Think, child. If you weren’t afraid and there were no rules, what would you
do? Where would you go? Who would you be?”
The question was so intriguing, Pippa laughed. “I’d be the finest sugar sculptor in
the world,” she said, and meant it, too. It was a fierce wish, one that made her heart
pound with excitement, her gut clench with ambition, and her imagination soar.
“Oh, that’s nice.” Mrs. Dodd gave a contented sigh.
Pippa began a slow walk around the table, hand over hand, her fingers lightly grasping
its edges, and kept her eyes on the small silver castle. “I’d make fantastical creations
that children would clap their hands for, that women would swoon over, and that even
men would look at and wish—” She paused and bit her lip.
“Wish what?” Mrs. Dodd looked fair to bursting with curiosity.
“To be gallant princes, much like the one who must live inside
this
delightful abode.” Pippa bent down and squinted through the tiny window, then stood
up again. “But full-sized princes, of course. Ones who honor their women. Who stand
for right. Brilliant thinkers who love freely and laugh easily. They’d all be handsome,
too.”
And one of them—one in particular—would love me. And be proud of my talent.
Oh, if there were no rules and she weren’t afraid.…
Briskly, she swept up some crumbs of sugary dough into her hand and flung them into
the fire. “There,” she said to Mrs. Dodd. “Now you know my wildest aspiration.”
Or almost all of it.
The cook laughed, too. “Cor, I like it.” She fondled her gold locket and stared at
the little castle. “If you weren’t a woman—a lady at that, with all the responsibilities
being a lady entails—you could train under the great Monsoor Perot in Paris. He’d
teach you the finer tricks of the trade.”
“Yes. If only.” Pippa suppressed the wistfulness bubbling up in her like a cursed
witch’s brew. What was the point of indulging in such a dream? It wasn’t to be hers.
Mrs. Dodd reached into a bowl, pulled out some parsley, and began to arrange it around
a tray of cheeses. “My brother-in-law’s cousin’s apprenticeship with Monsoor is almost
over. And then he’ll go off to some fine hotel in Europe and make a name for himself.”
“Lucky fellow.” Pippa sighed, her fist perched on her hip, and tried to be glad for
Mrs. Dodd’s brother-in-law’s cousin.
A thick silence descended over them.
Mrs. Dodd, her eyes soft with concern, looked up from the cheese tray. “You’ll need
to find a husband who understands you, the doting kind who’ll let you make as many
sugar sculptures as you want in your own lovely kitchen.”
“
Mrs. Dodd
,” Pippa gently chastised her friend. “I’m not interested in marriage. Really.”
An unwelcome image came to her: she as a married woman creating sugar sculptures and
stacking them high on a kitchen worktable—useless, unseen by anyone but herself and
her kitchen staff. There’d be no joy in that.
And she’d seen what had happened to her mother. God forbid she ever look the way Mother
had tonight … the way she looked every day now.
“You’re not your mum.” The cook read Pippa’s mind. “Not every marriage is like hers.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” Pippa lingered over the castle, gently pushing open a miniature
door which had melted shut.
Mrs. Dodd clucked and gave her a light nudge on the back. “I know when my words are
falling on deaf ears. Off with ye now. To the drawing room.”
“But I’m not quite ready,” Pippa protested.
“It’s time.”
“All right.” Reluctantly, Pippa took off her apron and hung it on a hook by the kitchen
door and turned slowly around. “I don’t want to go,” she whispered.
There was a second’s silence as she locked gazes with Mrs. Dodd.
“It can’t be easy,” the cook said plainly. “Lord Westdale is quite the intimidating
presence.”
Pippa nodded, relieved her friend understood.
“I think you didn’t tell me everything about your wildest aspirations, did you?” Mrs.
Dodd gazed fondly on her.
“No,” said Pippa, blushing. “I did leave out a part. But it can’t be. I can’t have
it all. Especially when part of me can’t abide a certain … someone. He’s truly the
last person I want to see on earth. And even if I did want to see him, and he suddenly
changed from being shallow and bad to sincere and good, he’d ruin everything, everything
I want. Which is not marriage. No.” She scratched her temple, effectively putting
an end to her awkward speech.
“Don’t judge.” Mrs. Dodd wagged a wooden spoon at her. “And don’t go inventing rules
for yourself. You’re not daunted by mere mortal men, are you?” Her eyes shone with
challenge. “Not the girl who’s going to find happiness by hook or by crook.”
“Certainly not.” Pippa felt huffy at the thought and drew herself up. “Thank you,
Mrs. Dodd.”
“You’re welcome, my lady.”
* * *
When Pippa rounded the shadowy corner and peeked in the drawing room of her uncle’s
country estate to spy on his birthday-dinner guest, her whole body reacted with a
suffusion of heat. In the soft glow of early evening candlelight, Lord Westdale was
deep in conversation with her uncle and Mother, while Pippa’s stepfather Sir Harold
glowered in the corner, alone.
But then Lord Westdale saw her, and the edge of his mouth tilted up. He stood, eyeing
her as if she were the only woman in the world.
Pippa pretended she hadn’t stopped to stare at him and walked in with all the sangfroid
she could muster.
“There she is.” He grinned. “My gorgeous, charming,
cheeky
little sister.”
Damn him. Damn him for so many reasons! She wasn’t his sister in the least. And as
for
gorgeous
and
charming
, she could debate him on those, too. He’d been right on
cheeky
, but she only gave as good as she got.
“Lord Westdale, how are you?” Her voice was throaty, an obvious giveaway that he’d
gotten to her in more ways than one.
She found she had to gather her wits when he bent that head of glossy black hair over
her hand.
“So good to see you again,” he murmured smoothly.