The Earl's New Bride (Entangled Scandalous) (15 page)

“I-I-I am aware, though only because I was informed by my sister, Lady Sarah.”

“Then I fail to see your objection. I am a marquess, and you, the daughter of an earl. Ours is an advantageous match. You have nothing to want.”

“No, I-I-I” she grasped for something, anything, to divert his attentions. “There is Plumburn,” Henrietta asserted, though it was a lie. She no longer needed the security and comfort the house afforded. Their importance had diminished next to Simon’s vigor, his larger-than-life presence, his integrity and his past tragedies. It was him she sought above everything else. The loss of the house to another would not be nearly as upsetting as losing him to Miss Saxton’s clutches.

The marquess lifted a brow. “You desire Plumburn?”

“Should I not? It is my father’s home, and that of the Amhurst line.”

“That it is. But Polcrave Heath is not without its merits.”

“That I-I-I do not deny, sir. Many boast of Polcrave’s grandeur. It is not, however, my family’s seat.”

“Is that your only objection to our union?” he asked. “Your ties to Plumburn? I assure you the earl and I remain amiable. Should you desire to visit your family’s house, arrangements can be made. Nothing will be denied you, my lady.”

Nothing, that was, but her happiness. And that included Simon. As her husband. “A most generous offer, my lord, though I cannot accept it.”

“Have I caused you offense?”

“No.” She took a step back and gripped the wooden edge of her chair.

“Then why do you object?”

She could hardly own to her late evening activities. To do so would not only tarnish her reputation, it would harm Simon’s. That he had deflowered the daughter of his predecessor, on top of the lies floating about, well, it would not do.

Henrietta let out the breath she had been holding. “Why do you seek my hand, Lord Satterfield?”

The marquess’s face warmed. “As I stated before, Lady Henrietta, you and I are a good match.”

“And so are my sisters. They are both daughters of an earl, are they not?”

“Yes, but—”

“And intelligent, beautiful women.”

“They are, though your beauty—”

“Is not enough to form the solid foundation of a relationship, my lord. Beauty fades. My personality endures.”

The marquess smiled. “Indeed. Which is why I am eager to engage yours, Lady Henrietta.”

He advanced toward her. She lifted a bunch of lavender and held it in front of her chest as a protective barrier. She had to make him see reason, to understand.

“A most honorable pledge, but I confess my heart belongs to another.”

The marquess stilled, his head tilting. “Another?”

“The Earl of Amhurst has—”

Her declaration was cut short by the marquess’s deep laugh. “Amhurst,” he wheezed. “My dear, the earl is a close friend. Trust me when I say he is not a man receptive of affection, especially from women who are…”

“Who are?” she prompted. Her heart pounded. What sort of woman was she?

“Who are as unique as him,” the marquess said, his voice low. “He requires someone eloquent and strong in both their…speech and presence.”

Her hands went lax, the lavender falling from her grasp onto the floor. “Are you referring to my stutter?”

A hint of pink flushed the marquess’s cheeks. “An impediment I find most endearing.”

“But an impediment nonetheless.” She closed her eyes, remembering the earl’s earlier assurances her imperfections were not noticed, at least not by him.

And yet…the marquess spoke with conviction.

“I do not require my marchioness to be a gifted conversationalist,” he continued. “My reputation is such that it does not require any assistance.” His hands rested lightly on her arms.

“The earl cares naught for other’s opinions,” she whispered, though her sentiment didn’t sound convincing, even to her ears. After all, the man wore a patch. And one that brought him discomfort. Would he do so if he were not concerned with what others thought of him?

“He is the Earl of Amhurst, my lady. A man hoping to start anew and put the old rumors of the
Black Earl
to rest. I can assure you he very much cares about Society’s perceptions, especially where they concern him.”

She nibbled on the bottom of her lip. The marquess’s words boasted a truth, however small. The earl’s reputation would not improve as greatly with her as it would with someone more gifted and comfortable with easy conversation. Her speech was stilted and her less than distinguished behavior…legendary.

Was it possible, in her excitement, she had selfishly overlooked what might be best for Simon, and even her sisters’ future?

She shuddered, her gaze flitting to the floor. Would she, with all her imperfections, be able to give the earl the platform required to erase his past? Society might forget an earl’s sins, but they would not be as forgiving of her present blunders—or her ‘unnatural’ interest in books and plants.

“Fear not, my dear,” the marquess whispered. “My impeccable reputation will more than make up for any faux pas or stumbled over word, just as Miss Saxton’s will cover the earl’s…less than pristine past. You will both be well-received in Society.”

“But the earl,” she persisted. “We have…” She swallowed, her cheeks blazing. She was no doubt the same shade of red as a tomato.

The marquess continued to peer at her, waiting for her reply.

Simon had never made her any promises concerning their future, indeed, had never formally declared his intentions after she had thrown herself at him. While she had assumed he would offer for her after their assignation…he had not given any assurances.

If an impeccable reputation was what he required to restore the title to its former grandeur, the least she could do was prevent any further scandal from tarnishing his good name. For Simon was good. He was wonderful.

And he deserved the best.

But so, too, did her sister. And her heart was set on the very man who continued to watch Henrietta.

Freeing her arms from his grasp, she clenched the back of a chair. “I apologize, my lord, but I must decline your offer.”

His lips thinned, his gaze falling to where she gripped the chair so tight her knuckles had gone white. “Lady Henrietta.”

“I-I-I cannot marry you, Lord Satterfield. It would not be fair—to either of us.”

“I must ask you to reconsider, my dear.”

“I-I-I cannot.”

With tears pricking her eyes, she rushed past the marquess and out of the alcove.

Chapter Thirteen

Simon brushed past a large rose bush, the thorns stabbing through the soft leather of his gloves, though he barely noticed their prickly ends. He peered across the meticulously kept herb garden, the innocuous appearing flora stirring in the slight breeze. Aside from the flutter of a few hungry birds, the garden was empty, void of the person he wished to see most. He had assumed she would be here, where he most often found her, surrounded by her beloved plants—

Of course. The alcove. If she was not here, she was bound to be mixing together something or another.

He chuckled and sprinted toward the door, near smirking with Satterfield’s outrageous idea of marriage to anyone but Henrietta. Miss Saxton, indeed. He had pledged himself to Henrietta the moment he had crossed over the threshold of her door last evening. He was a man of honor. And one besotted.

He could think of nothing but her laugh, her smile, her silky black hair. He was bewitched, enraptured by a woman who held his heart in her tiny hands.

After swinging open the doors, he whisked around the corner and into Henrietta’s small alcove. She stood with her back to him, her elbow bent as she moved her pestle against a marble mortar.

“Henrietta.” His lips lifted at her name, and the memories it evoked. Of her sighing with pleasure in his arms…

“My lord.” She spun around, dropping the heavy pestle, flinging her hands behind her. An upturned nose and a pair of light brown eyes revealed it was not Henrietta who startled at his presence, but her sister, Lady Sarah. “I was not expecting you.” She stepped to the side, blocking his view of whatever was laid out on the table.

He admittedly did not know much about Henrietta’s sisters, other than they did not share her stumbling speech or her singular beauty. He certainly had not given consideration to the idea that they engaged in similar interests, especially one as unique as the study of flora.

Though, were they to share interests, as it appeared they did, Lady Sarah held a basic understanding of herbs and their uses—good and bad. He peered at her, for the first time noticing the frantic look in her eyes, the way she held her hands a little too tightly behind her back…

“Forgive my intrusion. I did not mean to startle you. I have come in search of your sister, Lady Henrietta. Mayhap you have seen her?”

She relaxed a little, her chest falling ever so slightly. “Not since this morning.”

“Have you any idea where I might find her?” He edged into the room, doing his best to casually glance over her shoulder and to the table behind her.

She skirted to the right. “If you have returned from your task with the farmer, then I presume she is with Lord Satterfield. She was quite intent on speaking with him.”

He snapped his head upright. What in heaven’s name would she have to discuss with Satterfield?

Or, more importantly, what sort of things was Satterfield relaying to her?

Lady Sarah skirted another inch to the side and into a soft beam of late afternoon sunlight. Her hand clasped the edge of the table where a small pool of light had gathered—revealing a red, angry rash spread across her ungloved hand.

One that, for all he could discern, appeared to bear the same striking similarities as the rash on Lady Isabella’s cheeks and neck.

“My lord?” Lady Sarah asked. She followed his gaze and retracted her hand as though it had been scalded.

A sick, dead weight plummeted in his stomach.

“Your hand. It has been injured.” He reached for her arm, but she darted to the left.

“An accident to be certain.”

He gazed down at the table and the cuttings spread haphazardly across its surface, at an acrid smelling paste settling ominously in a mortar.

His heart sped, his pulse beating wildly at his neck. Dear God. Why had he not seen it before? “An accident?”

“I am rather clumsy, I’m afraid. Much like my sister.”

Simon shook his head. “I think we both know the rash on your hand is far too similar to the one spread across Lady Isabella’s face to be a mere coincidence.”

He lifted his gaze from the table to the set of wide eyes staring disbelieving in his direction.

Lady Sarah’s chest heaved, her eyes darting around the room with panic. “I do not know what you mean.”

He took the root off the table and held it in front of her face. “Have you been mixing teas with this? Or slowly poisoning my guests?”

She swallowed. “Of course not. I would never do such a thing.”

“So you deny making a concoction that has spread boils across half of Lady Isabella’s face?”

Her gaze darted from her hands to the paste in the mortar. “I…I never meant to hurt anyone.”

He tossed the root onto the table and turned a steely gaze to her. “No, only make them ill enough to cast doubt on my claims of innocence. To keep my reputation tarnished.”

“I never wished to sully your name. It is mine, after all.” She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “I did not intend to dredge up your past. I simply meant to…”

“Sarah? What are you doing in my alcove?”

Simon’s breath hitched at the warbled voice behind him. He turned to see Henrietta standing in the doorway, her face stained with dried tears.

“My lord?” she asked.

Dear God. Had Satterfield said something to her? Simon reached for her, an urge to protect her surging through his veins, but Lady Sarah sidestepped around him, blocking him from the woman he wished to take as his wife. “I only wanted to make you happy,” she wailed. “You wanted Plumburn so badly I thought to—”

“Plumburn?” He stilled, a stab of pain shooting through his chest, as though a knife had pierced his flesh. He lifted his gaze to Henrietta. “Did you put Sarah up to this? For Plumburn?”

A horrible, sickening unease spread through his limbs as he stared at her.

“Simon? What are you talking about?”

“Lady Isabella,” he breathed. “Lady Georgiana, Miss Saxton…their illnesses, Henrietta. Did you—”

“I acted of my own accord,” Lady Sarah assured. She lifted a rag off the table and wiped her hands on its stained folds. “She had no part of my plan.”

“What plan?” Henrietta asked, her gaze darting between him and her sister. “What the devil is going on?”

“Yes, what the devil are you two about?” Satterfield’s face appeared above Henrietta’s bearing an expression of contempt. “Half the staff are leaning this way, their ears red from eavesdropping.”

Satterfield? Frustration and irritation bubbled inside Simon. “What are you doing down here, in Lady Henrietta’s alcove?”

“Looking for Lady Henrietta, of course. Why are you not at tea with Miss Saxton?”

“What do you mean, looking for Henrietta?” Simon asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “What have you done, Satterfield? What have you said to her?”

“Nothing outside of the truth.”

“Good God, man,” Simon breathed.

“You know as well as I, Miss Saxton is a better choice for your bride. Hell, you know very well my reputation is better able to weather the scandals related to the daughters of Amhurst than yours.” He turned to Henrietta and said, “I ask you to place the needs of your family, of both your sisters and of the earl, above any hesitations you may have against me, Lady Henrietta, and accept my offer for you to be my wife.”

Good God. He was proposing. In front of Simon. To the very woman Simon had held in his arms naked, less than twenty-four hours earlier. This could not be happening. He was in some sort of terrible dream…

“That is quite the generous offer,” Lady Sarah whispered beside him. “And one my sister will most undoubtedly consider, Lord Satterfield.”

Henrietta peered up at Simon, her eyes filled with sorrow. “I am so sorry,” she choked.

Jesus
. His knees were giving out, the entire room swirling past his line of vision. He couldn’t be hearing properly.

“What Lord Satterfield says is true,” she continued, her voice hollow. “Miss Saxton will make an excellent countess.”

He shook his head. “Miss Saxton is not the one whom I wish to—”

Henrietta interjected, “As Lord Satterfield stated, his name is better equipped to weather this scandal. My sister, however much she acted on my behalf, did not account for the damage her actions would bring to our name. You are already burdened with your past, Simon. To take on this incident, of her misconceived poisonings…why, it would be your ruin.”

His heart plummeted, his flesh going numb with shock. “Are you suggesting I marry Miss Saxton?” he asked, unable to believe the words passing between his ears.

Henrietta gave a curt nod. “I am.”

“But—”

She held up a hand, her face void of emotion. “Miss Saxton is the better choice.”

“Henrietta—”

“I-I-I only ever wanted Plumburn, my lord.”

Plumburn? Had everything been for Plumburn? The furtive glances, the sighs of pleasure in his arms…the way she’d pretended tenderness when she touched his scars… All for a piece of property? Was she as conniving as Anne and as greedy as his brother, after all?

Despite Lady Sarah’s denial, had Henrietta conspired since the beginning to poison the other contenders for the position of his bride?

She’d confessed she wanted the house more than him…

God, he could barely breathe. Satterfield’s broad hand clasped Simon’s shoulder. “It is in both of your best interests to accept the course of things as they are, Amhurst. Miss Saxton’s impeccable reputation will carry you through this little ordeal, and her father will be able to rid the
ton
of your ridiculous moniker. All will be as it should.”

His head fell forward into his hands. He needed to time to think, to get Satterfield’s buzzing voice out of his ear, to wrap his head around what the hell was happening.

“Yes,” Henrietta echoed. “All will be as it should.” A rustling of skirts sounded, and he lifted his head to see her slip behind Satterfield and out of the door.

No, he had to stop her. Demand she tell him the truth. “Henrietta,” he yelled, his voice nothing more than a hoarse rasp.

“Let her go, Amhurst.” Satterfield gave Simon’s shoulder a squeeze. “’Tis for the best.”

If the best meant having his world break apart into a thousand little pieces. “I love her.” The words themselves were freeing, a weight off his shoulders. He loved her. Loved everything about her…

“Amhurst, you can’t be serious. What of your reputation? And your brother?”

“What about them?” Simon asked.

“Your wish to enter into Society, it will all be lost with her as your bride.”

“To hell with Society.” He shrugged off Satterfield’s hand. Society meant nothing if he didn’t have Henrietta by his side. He had to speak her with her, to ask, once and for all, if she loved the damn house over him…

“Your mind is muddled, Amhurst. Drunk on possibilities, not reality. You aren’t thinking straight.”

“To hell with you, Satterfield. I’m in a right enough mind to know you infringed upon our friendship to offer for the woman I wish to take as my wife.”

Satterfield snorted. “To save you from yourself. I am your friend, Amhurst. Stop and think man.”

“I can’t think with you interrupting my thoughts.”

“Thoughts that will lead you to your own demise. I admit to being taken with Lady Henrietta, yes, but my offer is as much to protect you as it is to save her. You both benefit from my proposal.”

“My lord.”

Simon lifted his head. The plump cook stood in the hall, waving her spoon to be seen around Satterfield. “It’s Lady Albina. She has collapsed. With a fever, my lord.”
A light gasp sounded in the corner of the room. Spinning on his heel, he turned to see Lady Sarah with her hand to her mouth, her wide eyes peering over her fingers.

Christ.

He’d forgotten she was there.

“Find Henrietta,” he told Lady Sarah. She nodded slowly. Her hands lowered as she slipped out of the room.

“What of Lady Albina, my lord?” the cook asked.

“Take me to her.”

“Amhurst,” Satterfield started, but Simon shrugged him off, his ears deaf to his protests.