The Earl's New Bride (Entangled Scandalous) (4 page)

She glanced down at where his hand still held her, at the dainty juncture of her arm, small and frail in his hand—and making his pulse hum.

His hand fell away, enabling her to turn and crouch in front of a sprawling bush with tiny yellow-centered blossoms. “Feverfew. Chew two of the leaves whenever you feel the pain begin to start.”

He bent down beside her, the light citrus scent of the leaves wafting around him.

She pointed to another plant, similar in appearance, but with smaller leaves. “This is chamomile. Make certain you do not confuse the two. While the chamomile will not harm you, it will not bring you swift relief, either. Its flowers, however, should bring you some rest.”

“I am to eat the flowers?”

Shaking her head, she stood. “Not eat them, drink them. I’ll have some tea sent up to your room.”

He pushed off his knees and stood beside her. “At this hour? I doubt any of the staff are awake.”

“Oh. Yes. Well, I-I-I can bring it to…the library when I-I-I finish.”

“When
you
finish?”

“I-I-I may not be able to speak clearly, but I-I-I can brew a simple pot of chamomile tea, sir.”

He wasn’t certain what came over him. Her selfless desire to assist him, her golden brown eyes reflecting naught but sincerity and concern, or the way her skin took on a translucent, almost ethereal glow in the silver light of the moon, but he was overwhelmed with gratitude.

And an overwhelming wave of desire.

He took a step backward, his foot pivoting toward the door. With a look back, he said, “See that you do.”

Chapter Three

The lingering, refreshing scent of pre-dawn rain showers, and the soft hazy beams of late morning sunlight pouring through Henrietta’s antechamber windows provided a pleasant and much needed contrast to the tense discord unfolding in the cool, yet cozy room.

“You did what?” Sarah sat upright on a much-loved overstuffed chaise lounge, her freckle-dusted face contorting with disbelief.

“I identified the plant and made certain he knew how to best administer its effects. Anyone with a half a heart would have done the same. He was distressed and in pain.” How the man came to be in such a state was the real mystery.

While rumpled in his appearance, he had worn his clothes from the day, his cravat limp but still tucked into his shirt, his waistcoat and jacket, even his boots, all in their rightful places—as if he were headed to dinner. Or even bed. But it had been past the witching hour when she had shoved off her covers and made her way into the gardens.

Uncrossing her arms, Henrietta snatched the nearest pillow, a ruffled cream confection, off a chair and held it to her chest.

Whatever had abetted in causing the earl discomfort had done so with striking accuracy. Her distant relation had been near the brink of unconsciousness until the feverfew had been administered.

His suffering, however, had not dimmed his intuitiveness. He had been wary of her presence in Plumburn’s extensive herb garden. But no more than she, at having been discovered by him in the early hours before dawn.

He had more than startled her, he had frayed her nerves and induced her stutter. She had panicked in her fright. No one ever wandered about Plumburn’s hallways at indecent hours. Save for her. And only when her remedies were required.

Sleep had eluded her, the disastrous introduction to the earl replaying in her mind. His full lips thinning into a straight line. His dark eyes dismissing her and searching the room for another. His face wrinkling into one of distaste at her dampened gown.

Her stomach soured at the recollection, just as it had the night prior, when she sought her personal store of herbs, only to find them gone, the wooden drawers of the small table where she had placed them emptied.

She had not visited Plumburn in five years, her father’s passing preventing her return. To expect any of her stores to remain was nonsensical, hence why she had brought with her a small allotment of her most used blends.

All of which were gone.

Someone had taken them, or, as was more likely, placed them elsewhere. No doubt in a location they thought to be more easily accessible. Where that location was, however, remained a mystery.

Not wanting to question the maid at such an early hour, Henrietta had no choice but to seek out replacements herself. Her father had encouraged her love of plants and made certain Plumburn boasted a large herb garden for her use. One that, much to her delight, had not been neglected in her absence. Chamomile, lavender, and valerian were still all found along the edges of the moonlit pebbled paths. So, too, was an earl standing in the shadows, wincing in pain.

She could hardly let the man stand there and suffer, however fearful she was of his unexpected presence. Nor could she deny him information that would ease his affliction, should it return.

Sarah groaned, her fists clenching, her head tilting upward. “You told him how to fix his ailment. He no longer requires you or your assistance.”

“No, I don’t suppose he does. But he benefits from my advice.”

Sarah slapped a palm to her forehead, the sound echoing in the small antechamber separating their rooms. “Which is why he no longer needs to seek you out.”

“You think I ought to have remained silent?” Eyes wide, she stared across the room at Sarah.

“Yes. You had his undivided attention, Henrietta. In a house where at least three other women wish to have the same. Should he suffer from the malady again, he would have sought you out. And you would have had the opportunity to speak to him again. Alone.”

Her chest constricted, her grip on the pillow tightening. “Yes, but I would have appeared contrary.”

“Until you offered him another remedy,” Sarah said, with an assured tone.

Henrietta tossed the pillow at her sister and pulled her night dress close around her, shielding herself from the cool morning air coming through the open windows. “I would have thought you more upset over my display of intelligence than my generosity.”

Tucking the pillow behind the others, Sarah turned to face her with narrowed eyes. “I am, but I thought it best to address one misstep at a time. Did he remark on your knowledge? Or question its validity?”

“He did.” With a voice that made her skin prickle with awareness every time she heard it.

“And what did you tell him?”

“The truth. That I learned about such things from a book.”

Sarah flipped her plaited hair over her shoulder and shot Henrietta a stern look. “Did I not address this concern yesterday? Did I not suggest you remain mute, simple, and—”

“Ignore my conscience? Or worse, deny him treatment? Remind me not to offer you aid the next time you feel ill, Sarah. Heaven forbid I use my brain.” Henrietta sniffed as she peered out the windows and onto the lawn, where a family of geese waddled over the grass. Likely they were not afflicted with over-meddling sisters.

Sarah snorted. “Should I fall victim to disease whilst in the earl’s company, I forbid you from coming to my assistance.”
Henrietta rolled her eyes. “At least the earl offered his gratitude, which is more than you would have done, had I found you ill in the shadows.”

“
I
do not wander about at night.”

“You would if you were afflicted with—”

“Did you say he offered his gratitude?” Sarah leaned forward, untucking her legs from beneath her.

Henrietta nodded. “I did. He-he kissed my hands.” She nibbled on her bottom lip and mulled the earl’s behavior. One could reason he had acted out of gratitude, his appreciation for her service compelling him to touch her hands…and to kiss them with his lips.

Her pulse thrumming, she shook off the ridiculous notion his actions had been anything other than gratitude. Of course he was thankful. She would do well to think on other things than the earl’s full lips whispering over her knuckles.

She had his heart to win, after all.

“And… did he kiss anything else?” Sarah asked.

A rush of heat raced to Henrietta’s cheeks. To deny that she had entertained the idea of the earl’s lips resting on other parts of her…anatomy would be an outright falsehood. Thankfully, a soft knock on the door saved her from answering. Their mother whisked into the room, Albina close on her heels.

“I have news.” Their mother eyed the door, which Albina closed with a metallic click. “Lady Georgiana will not be attending the picnic this afternoon.”

“Oh?” Sarah asked.

“It appears she has fallen ill.” Try as she might, their mother could not suppress the smile twitching at the corners of her lips.

“How dreadful,” Henrietta said, both in reference to her mother’s lack of propriety and the girl’s condition. She shot her mother a disapproving glare. “Is it known what ails her?”

“A scratchy, swollen throat, if the story is to be believed.” Albina strode toward an empty settee and sat atop the plush cushions. “Lady Isabella thinks the whole ordeal is nothing more than an act put on to capture the earl’s interest.”

“Is it working?” Sarah asked. “Is the earl interested? Does he appear distracted?”

Albina lips lifted. “Not in the slightest.”

“All of you should be ashamed of yourselves,” Henrietta chided. “Lady Georgiana is ill and requires our sympathy.”

Albina shrugged. “She appeared well enough last evening. I am in agreement with Lady Isabella. It is all a ruse. No doubt she is wandering about her bedchamber in boredom, pining after the earl and wishing him to come for a visit, so she can slip under the bedcovers and put on an act.”

“Why not test that theory?” Henrietta asked. “As soon as I am dressed we can visit her ourselves. It should not take long to verify her claims.”

Their mother’s eyes widened. “I absolutely forbid it. If the girl is truly afflicted, I do not wish for either of you to share her illness, especially you, Henrietta.” She pointed a finger at Henrietta’s chest. “I need you well and in front of the earl at this afternoon’s picnic.”

“Yes, but, if Lady Georgiana can find relief in a simple tea—”

“I am rather disappointed in your lack of excitement, dear. I had expected you to be a touch more grateful at this stroke of good fortune.”

“Good fortune?” asked Henrietta. “One of Plumburn’s guests is unwell, and you consider it good luck?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Sarah said, piping up. “Lady Georgiana is one less competitor for the earl’s attentions. We must utilize her absence to its full advantage.”

Albina came up alongside Henrietta, her finger tapping at the edge of her jaw. “Yellow, I think.”

“Yellow?” Henrietta asked. “What is yellow?”

“The color of the gown you shall wear today for the picnic.”

“You cannot be serious.”

Albina’s face turned indignant. “I am always serious about fashion, Henrietta.”

“But Lady Georgiana—”

“Has a physician at her disposal,” said their mother. “She will be well tended whilst you cater to the earl. Think of Plumburn, dear. Should Lady Georgiana become the next countess, she would not allow you access to your father’s favorite books, his chair, or your herb garden.”

Henrietta scrunched up her face. She hated when her mother was right.

…

Yellow was Simon’s favorite color.

Soft, pale, bold, the shade and the intensity mattered not. He enjoyed them all.

But were he forced to select a hue, the light buttery yellow of Lady Henrietta’s gown would be at the top of his favorites. If only for the way it brought out the flecks of gold in her brown eyes.

He took a sip of champagne, the bubbles tickling his throat and doing little to distract him from his quandary: the enticing Lady Henrietta Beauchamp.

She was not in the running for his wife and it would serve him well to remember that—even if her herbal tea had eased him into a dreamless slumber, the likes of which he had not experienced since acquiring his injury, five years past. An injury born when yet another beautiful woman, one with black hair and full, pink lips very similar to those of Lady Henrietta, had lured him into thoughts of love, happiness, and a lifetime spent in each other’s arms.

Before she had betrayed him. And took her own life, rather than be with a man scarred.

He tossed back the rest of his drink and refocused his attention on the lighter-haired, plainer Miss Saxton, and her pleasing brown eyes. Brown eyes that were a little bland and not quite as golden as—

“Lady Henrietta,” said Lord Satterfield from his chair settled deep into the thick grass of Plumburn’s lawn. “I do believe yellow is your color.”
Her cheeks turned a pleasing shade of pink, her gaze falling to the flowers surrounding her. “Thank you, my lord.”

“I helped her make the selection,” said one of her sisters. Was it Lady Albina? Or Lady Sarah? He could not remember any names—save for one.

Lord, he was becoming Byronic. Next thing he knew, he’d be composing a poem or spouting a sonnet, all over a girl he had no wish to think about.

“You have aided her well, Lady Albina,” Satterfield continued.

Simon turned to get a better look at the man who had never questioned his innocence. Had never blinked an eye at the rumors stating otherwise. A man who had known him as a young, untitled peer. Was it possible the marquess had designs on Lady Henrietta?

Simon’s chest tightened. Satterfield had sworn off women, pledging himself to the sacrosanct halls of bachelorhood. He was a marquess, yes, but he had no plans, no intentions of furthering his line—unlike Simon, who had little choice to do otherwise. If the
bon ton
thought he lived up to his sobriquet, the
Black Earl’s
brother was worse. Far worse.

And further unlike Simon, Satterfield was a whole man, with two functioning eyes—and a face that endeared him to women, instead of scaring them away.

But despite Satterfield’s good looks, the man’s disinclination to marry had Simon extending him an invitation to Plumburn to help assist in the selection of his next countess, not steal away the prospects.

Never mind he had already removed Lady Henrietta from his list of potentials.

“Satterfield,” he drawled. “I have recently come into acquisition of a mare. Perhaps you would like to take her out for a ride?” The man’s love for horses far surpassed any interest he might have in the color yellow—or the fetching woman wearing it.

“Indeed I would.”

Miss Saxton’s face brightened. “I do love a good run. I find them most invigorating.”

“Excellent. How about taking one tomorrow morning?” asked Satterfield. “We can all ride. I am certain Lady Henrietta has a solid knowledge of the good pastures, this being her father’s seat. She can lead us out.”

This was not the direction he had intended Satterfield to take. He was supposed to ramble on about equestrian lineage and his competence in such areas, not arrange another outing—and with Lady Henrietta, for God’s sake. It appeared a private conversation with the man was in order. Directly.

Her chest rising, her full breasts straining against the light-colored fabric of her modest-cut gown, Lady Henrietta smiled. “While I am flattered by your confidence in my knowledge of the estate, it is truly my sister, Lady Albina, who knows the best areas to ride. She is quite an accomplished rider.”

“Is that so?” Satterfield sat back in his chair, his gaze directed toward the daughters of Amhurst. Specifically the eldest.