The Earl's New Bride (Entangled Scandalous) (3 page)

“It would set you apart, but not in a favorable way.” Sarah peered up at her, a sadness filling her eyes. “You would do best to resort to tried and true methods, Henrietta. Mother and Albina will make certain you appear your best at all times.”

Albina nodded, her glossy curls bouncing.

A dead weight filled Henrietta’s stomach. Her knowledge of plants was where her strengths lay—not in ribbons, or worse, the art of flirtation.

“But, but, I-I-I-”

“You will have our full support,” Albina assured. “I will make certain the earl’s eyes are focused entirely on you.”

“That is precisely what I-I-I fear,” Henrietta sputtered. “You saw what happened this morning. I do not possess—”

“You possess a pretty face,” said her mother. “And a rather large dowry. Not to mention a good name, impeccable connections, and a pristine reputation. He would be foolish to consider another.”

Foolish, yes. But not entirely unwise. Especially if he enjoyed flirting.

“And you, Sarah?” Henrietta asked. “Will you be assisting too?”

“Of course. I shall endeavor to make certain your nosegay is always filled and pinned to the inside of your corset, lest your nerves get the better of you again. We wouldn’t want you to appear the fool in front of the earl, now would we?” Sarah gave her a reassuring smile.

Their mother snapped open her fan and cast a determined look in Henrietta’s direction. “Mark my words, you will be the next mistress of Plumburn. We’ll see to that.”

…

Simon stared down at the previous day’s issue of London’s most popular gossip rag, the thin flame of a solitary candle illuminating the curled pages spread out across his library desk. Not a hint of his past graced the fine print.

Until he flipped a page. His name stood out in bold letters—adjacent to his moniker and the details of a death he could not put to rest.
Anne
. Her limp body cradled in his arms. And the ill-timed visitors who witnessed him weeping over the woman who had betrayed him.

He crumpled the paper and hurled it into the grate, the dying embers of what remained of the fire licking at the foolscap. How was he supposed to counter the rumors? It had taken five bloody years for Anne’s sister to come forward. Five years for facts to be polluted with lies, for his reputation to sour, and the title to become tainted with scandal.

A scandal that seemed determined to flourish, no doubt fed by Simon’s younger brother. If Philip could somehow push Simon to the same fate that had claimed Anne, the earldom would be his, and the significant Amhurst fortune along with it.

Which was why Simon was so damned desperate to take a wife, preferably one with powerful connections and a pristine reputation, to not only lift his name from the mire, but with the gift of an heir, prevent his avaricious brother from inheriting.

Rubbing his temples, he sought to ease the mounting pressure building within his head, an annoying ache that made it almost impossible to think of little else.

Almost.

Try as he might, he could not dislodge a certain pair of golden brown eyes from his memory. They remained fixed, staring at him, their translucent depths filled with a curiosity equal to his own.

And worse, they were attached to a body no innocent should possess. Visions of her standing before him, trembling in her sheer gown, made it harder than hell to focus, let alone sleep. She waited for him in his dreams, taunting him with her beauty. If he didn’t know the anguish she indubitably promised, he would meet her there, to wake with an erection and his right hand ready to ease his frustration.

He had done his best to divert his thoughts to the other ladies present. He had tried in earnest to recall each of their names, but the effort was in vain. None of them had captured his interest.

Which was precisely why they were perfect candidates for his wife. Lady Henrietta Beauchamp was not in the running for his bride. He had trusted in three dark-haired beauties and each time had emerged from their grasps scarred, betrayed, and scorned.

He had to eliminate Lady Henrietta from his mind. She promised nothing but misery. And he’d bloody well had enough of misery.

Lifting the sputtering candle, he made his way into the hall, desperate for relief. Brandy, rum, he wasn’t particular. The former earl had to have some hidden stores located throughout the house. He was a father to three daughters, after all.

Moonlight streamed through the hallway’s lead glass windows, casting pools of silver across the floor and on the clawed feet of the numerous tables lining the walls, saving his toes from certain anguish.

The creak of a door froze him by one particularly gnarled looking chair leg. The soft pad of feet had him blowing out the candle and casting around for somewhere to hide.

It was past three in the morning. Who would venture out at this time of night—besides a man afflicted with what was quickly becoming the worst headache this side of the Thames?

Setting down the brass holder, he placed his back against the wall, leaning a smidge past the edge where the hall intersected with another. If he hadn’t had his wits about him, he would have sworn a specter floated down the darkened corridor, a blur of white muslin…only those were legs carrying it over the carpet.

And pale little fingers opening a door leading out to the garden.

He glanced around the hall. Not willing to let the vision escape him, he followed behind, lifting the latch to the outside exit and walking out into the cool evening air.

A bundle of white crouched over a plant, near glowing in the pale light cast by a full and bright summer moon. She was ethereal, almost fey-like, her dainty hands caressing selected stems with something akin to tenderness.

She placed first one blossom, then another, into a small woven basket at her side. For a time, his pain receded, but as the breeze died, a sharp pain, like a blacksmith’s hammer striking an anvil, pounded his temple, causing him to inhale sharper than he intended.

Her face tilted and she caught sight of him standing behind some pungent shrub.

“My lord.” She said the words on a gasp of air. And for the first time he could see who was entrancing him at ungodly hours.

Christ.

His blood stirred, his pulse quickening at the sight of her face. Of all the girls in attendance, it had to be her. The one he was doing his best to forget. The one who made his head and other parts of his anatomy ache. For two entirely different reasons.

“I-I-I—” She glanced down at her basket and up at him, her eyes widening.

He clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding together as another wave of blinding pain crashed through his skull. He clasped the side of his head, the silk ribbon of his eye patch digging into the tender flesh at his temples.

“Are you well?” Her words were naught more than a whisper, but they rang out like a deafening scream. Stars exploded behind his eyes.

Cool hands rested atop his. His eye fluttered open to see her concerned pair peering into his. “Are you s-s-suffering from a malady of the head?”

Her breath was sweet, tickling his nose and providing a small measure of comfort. But all he could do was close his lids and give a small nod, praying he didn’t fall against her.

“I-I-I have something that will ease the pain.” Her hands left his, their chill and the relief that came with them, disappearing.

His throat parched, he swallowed.

“Here, chew this.” She returned with two green, citrus-scented leaves and held them up for his inspection.

Simon removed a hand from his head to pinch her offering between his fingers.

“Go on,” she urged. “It will help. I-I-I promise.”

He placed the leaves in his mouth, their bitter flavor sharp on his tongue, and settled his hand back against his temple. The pain was…intolerable.

Her hands swept across his forehead, her cool palms coming to rest atop his knuckles. “Keep chewing. They should bring some relief soon.”

Slipping his left hand from beneath hers, he pressed her soothing palm against his temple. Simply having her cool flesh against his brought relief, the nimble touch of her fingers a comforting balm to his malady.

He swallowed, the acrid flavor of the plant she had given him, while still fresh against his tongue, already dulling the pain that had near brought him to his knees.

He stood there, her hands under his, a slight breeze stirring both the garden plants and Lady Henrietta’s plaited, raven hair, a few loose silky strands tickling his face. Minutes passed, five, ten—he didn’t know or care—his only concern the lifting of his intense headache and the relief wrought by the petite woman standing before him. Were it not for her knowledge of plants, he would have been bent over in agony.

He slid his hand to her wrist and pulled her fingers to his lips, kissing their soft pads, his gratitude for her assistance more than he could express in words. Inhaling her sweet floral scent, he released his hold—and his inquiry. “What are you doing out here at this hour?” he demanded, his voice booming in the stillness.

She stepped back, her breath catching, her eyes darting about the smooth stone path. “I-I-I was…” Her gaze fell to the basket filled with an assortment of plants. “Well, I was…” A frown creased her smooth brow, and she lifted her face toward his. “Most people offer their gratitude when rendered a service.”

“And most people are abed at this hour.”

“And yet here you are, my lord.”

His lips twitched at her forthright reply. “Indeed, I am, my lady. As are you. Alone. And at a very late hour. One is inclined to ask why.”

She lifted her chin. “I-I-I could not sleep.”

He studied her face, for the first time noticing the slight bruising under her eyes, the touch of weariness gracing her delicate features. His fingers itched to wipe it away, to ease her malaise as she had his.

He shook his head. She was like all the others—his mother, his father’s mistress, Anne—whose dark-hair and pretty face undoubtedly hid nefarious secrets. He had fallen prey to the charms of beautiful women before. He would not do so again. “When I cannot sleep, I do not stray out of doors and into a garden—unless I am following someone who appears to be rushed and headed that way.”
Lady Henrietta tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, the glossy lock reflecting a blue sheen in the moonlight. “You are not the only one with ailments, my lord.” She bent down and picked up her basket.

Indeed? What had kept this girl awake at ungodly hours? What sort of ailments could she possibly possess? She was beautiful. Bewitching. And avoiding his original inquiry with evasive skill. Simon eyed her. The ache in his head had lessened, the throbbing at his temples dulling into a mere annoyance. She obviously held some knowledge of herbs, but why not select the plants in the light of day instead of at night?

Unless she had something to hide.

“So you seek out remedies by moonlight?” he asked.

“When necessary, yes.” Her arms tightened around the basket. “The plants are most potent when freshly picked.”

He could not refute her logic. His relief alone was proof her words carried truth.

And yet…

“You require an entire basket to ease your affliction?” His ache had been eased with two medium-sized leaves. Her basket, while admittedly small in size, overflowed with various-colored blossoms.

She glanced down at her collection and back up at him. “I-I-I have not visited Plumburn for some time. My stores are empty and require stocking.”

As the daughter of the former earl, she had likely utilized an alcove or two for her private use. He held no concern with her familiarity of the house or her desire to refill its medicinal stores. He did, however, wish to question why she sought to fill them. Now. In the early hours of the morning.

“Is this a recurring ailment? Your inability to sleep?”

“Is yours?” she asked.

He cast his gaze to the plants at her feet. “I am not inclined to share such personal information.”

“And neither am I. But if you do—suffer that is—I-I-I can help you seek out treatment. Headaches are a common enough ailment and easily treated—”

“How is that you came to possess such knowledge?”

Dresses, shoes, gossip—those were the topics most women in his acquaintance enjoyed. Anne had been given to such conversation, prattling his ear off with idle nonsense, her concerns over who wore what best driving him mad with boredom until he silenced her with kisses and diverted her thoughts to activities more pleasurable. And much more suited to his interests.

Lady Henrietta, however, did not seem to be content with such trivial things.

“Books, my lord.” Lady Henrietta’s voice was flat, toneless. He lifted his head.

Her brows were puckered, her lips pinched, and her cheeks flushed. Eyes downcast, she burrowed her chin to her chest and moved to make her way past him.

It would be sensible, of course, to let her go. He was a man, alone in a garden with a beguiling woman in nothing but her nightdress. Should anyone find them in such a state, he would be forced to offer his hand to a woman he was determined not to marry.

And yet—his hand reached out, his fingers catching Lady Henrietta’s elbow and preventing her passage. She peered up at him, questions and unease clouding her eyes.

“My relief is a testament to your knowledge in an area where I am lost. Should my ailment return, I confess to not knowing which plant you administered or how often I should partake of its effects.”

Her eyes softened, relief replacing disquiet. She tilted her head to the side. “Feverfew.”

The entire garden loomed behind her, stretching from one end of Plumburn’s stone walls to the other. Her words meant nothing. He could not discern one plant from the next.