The Earl's New Bride (Entangled Scandalous) (5 page)

Simon ground his teeth and stood, brushing off his breeches and leveling a glare at Satterfield.

Who continued to appraise Lady Henrietta.

Simon was not the woman’s protector. He was not her father, a man who had left her well-cared for in his will. Neither was he her brother, or even her guardian. He was, however, the Earl of Amhurst, and damn if he didn’t like the looks of heated longing Satterfield sent in her direction.

Life of bachelorhood, his arse. Satterfield was a man like any other. And he was encroaching on Simon’s territory.

Duty, and nothing more, compelled him to offer his protection.

“Lady Henrietta, I was hoping you and your sisters might guide me around the lake. I have yet to acquaint myself with that area of the estate.”

Lady Henrietta’s mouth opened, closed, and opened again—but no words of acceptance were spoken. Indeed, no words at all were uttered.

Was he so horrid, so off-putting, she had to think of a creative refusal?

Her sister, Lady Sarah, he guessed, spoke for her, putting words, he knew not to be her own, in Lady Henrietta’s mouth. “What an excellent idea, my lord.”

“An excellent one, indeed,” Satterfield agreed. “Miss Saxton, did you not say you had hopes for taking a turn with the earl just this morning? Why do we not all explore the area?”

Miss Saxton clasped her hands together, her hopeful eyes peering up at Simon. “I would like that very much. I am in need of a change of scenery, and a turn about the lake would do wonders for my constitution.”

It would also do wonders for his patience—although not in a beneficial way. He shot Satterfield a frown, who in turn lifted his shoulders in a non-committal shrug.

Lady Isabella tentatively strode up beside him. “I too, would like to venture out by the lake. Plumburn has yet to disappoint, and I am certain the lake will only add to its charm.”

The words, while pretty, were forced. And so too was the smile on the gel’s face.

In fact, out of the six misses of his party, only Miss Saxton appeared genuine in her interest toward him. The others felt forced, or so repulsed by his appearance and tainted past, they removed themselves from his presence entirely.

Miss Saxton, however, did not engage his interest quite as much as the girl Satterfield now assisted off the blanket.

Simon was acting as her protector. Or so he repeatedly told himself as he stepped away from Miss Saxton and Lady Isabella to offer his arm to Lady Henrietta. “It is settled then. Shall we take a walk?”

Lady Henrietta placed her hand on his forearm. “Y-y-yes, thank you, my lord.”
Satisfaction surged at having bested Satterfield as her preferred choice—which he quickly squashed with reason. He was her father’s heir. Of course she would choose him over Satterfield. She was being polite.

Even if she chose an earl over a marquess.

Dammit. What the hell was wrong with him
? She was Anne incarnate. And Anne had left him with only one damn eye.

One of Lady Henrietta’s sisters shouldered her way past the other and snatched up the arm Satterfield continued to offer. “The lake is charming this time of year. So, too, is the fishing.”

The change of topic was enough to distract Satterfield, and the group fell into a nice comfortable pace to the path leading down to the large pool of water.

Conversation struck up around him, but Lady Henrietta remained mute at his side, her eyes fixed intently on the path.

She was not a conversationalist. That, or he scared her witless.

Good. She should be afraid. But not of him. He may not want her as his bride, indeed, or trust her with even the smallest bone in his body, but she was his kin. And Satterfield was a rake.

Simon hastened their pace, putting a little distance between them and the rest of the party. Satterfield was far enough away to ease any anxiety she may have toward the rakehell.

Yet, her hand still trembled atop his arm, and her breath, while barely audible, was still loud enough to convey shaky inhalations. She appeared as though she might swoon at any moment.

He had no idea how far away the lake lay, and he was not keen on carrying her back to the house. Not with the soft curves he had viewed the day prior. God in heaven, to have those pressed against him, jostling in his arms as he stepped over every little pebble….

No. He had to do something to put her at ease. Leaning toward her, he lowered his voice lest anyone should overhear. “I want to thank you for your tea, last evening. It was quite effective.”

Her gaze lifted, her eyes searching his…for sincerity? “You are most welcome.”

“I trust it brought you equal relief?”

She had been in the gardens for her own affliction—and he could not help but to be both curious and concerned after her own health. Did she suffer from crippling headaches? An inability to sleep?

Or something far more iniquitous?

She stepped over a small dip in the path, her fingers tightening around his arm. “It did.”

“You were so effective in treating my discomfort, I cannot help but wonder if you know of something that might ease Lady Georgiana.”

Her face brightened, as though it had come out of the shade and was now in the full light of the sun.

“You wish for me to assist her?” Excitement filled her voice, her body vibrating with a giddiness felt through the hand still resting on his arm.

“I do,” he said, taking note of the sudden change in her demeanor. “She seems to have caught a slight tickle of the throat. I am concerned for her welfare.”

Nothing but an eagerness to help another shone in Lady Henrietta’s wide, golden eyes. Even her stutter disappeared.

“I can tend to her as soon as we return, though I…” Her voice faded, the light in her eyes dimming as though a cloud had passed in front of her face. “Perhaps it would be best if someone more experienced, more apt in the arts of healing tend to her.”

Tilting his head, he angled it to the side to get a better look at her. His guard had been raised, his suspicions toward her character returning in full force. She had been so eager to assist a moment prior—what had caused her sudden disinterest? A ruse, perhaps?

Lady Henrietta disconcerted him. Much like the others had in the beginning.

His mind slipped to Anne and her betrayal. Of her last selfish act and the rivers of red blood running from her wrists to the floor, the congealed pools of her life source filling her bed chamber with a heavy scent of death.

To his father’s mistress, a raven-haired beauty whispering words of love to Simon’s young, foolish mind, and betraying him to his father, who had lashed his disapproval into a lacework of scars across Simon’s back.

And then to his mother, her dark hair floating, twisted in a fan about her head, her bloated body bobbing in the pond behind his home, the voices in her troubled mind silenced, deaf to the screams of a ten-year-old boy.

His head began to ache, the pricks of pain momentarily blinding him, his feet stumbling over loose pebbles on the path.

“Are you well?” Lady Henrietta asked. Her words were sharp with concern.

He forced a smile, quick to overcome the momentary lapse in thought. “I am.”

Her eyes narrowed, the pinched lines around her pursed mouth conveying her obvious disbelief.

“Perhaps a bit fatigued,” he confessed. “It was quite late before I retired.” He deepened his smile, seeking to soothe her anxiety. He did not like seeing her upset.

She returned his smile, her straight and even teeth glowing white against the smooth outline of her lips.

Lips begging to be touched. Kissed. Plundered.

“My, lord,” Miss Saxton cried, breaking whatever spell Lady Henrietta had cast. She waved her hand, motioning for them to join her next to the edge of a marshy spot of grass. “Come see the frog Lady Albina discovered. ’Tis quite extraordinary in size.”

He wet his lips, dropping his arms and disentangling himself from Lady Henrietta. And not a minute too soon.

Offering his protection, asking for her assistance—and God’s blood, thoughts of kissing her.

He needed a distraction. Immediately.

Chapter Four

The musty stench of damp earth and stagnant water wafted from a swollen inlet off the main pond, where a frog, if not as large as Miss Saxton proclaimed, croaked in bored indifference.

Henrietta stared at the offensive creature, uncertain if she should be insulted or grateful for its sudden appearance. As large as the rock it sat upon, the frog had somehow trumped her conversation with the earl. The man had been so eager to see the blasted thing, he had left her standing on the path, gaping at his sudden absence.

Then again, she had been speaking with the earl—about herbs. And plants. No wonder he had fled to the pond as if it were the last water on earth and he a man dying of thirst. She had no doubt bored him to tears and he, being the gentleman she presumed him to be, had waited for the first opportunity to depart politely from her side.

If not for her boorish conversation, then for her less than impressive appearance, at least compared to the stylish Miss Saxton, who, with her pink floral muslin and perfectly paired shawl and bonnet, looked as though she had stepped off a fashion plate onto the soft soil where her leather boots now stood.

The woman reeked of femininity, and should Henrietta have had the insight to tote along a dictionary, she had no doubt a painting of Miss Saxton would be under the word “refined.” A word that most certainly did not define Henrietta, what with her pale yellow hem now damp from the soggy surroundings, and her boots soiled and sinking into the thick mud.

Henrietta sighed. Even Miss Saxton’s speech was flawless, the woman’s elocution precise and pleasant enough to win her a vote should she be a man campaigning in the House of Lords. How was she to compare? She could barely breathe the first letter of the sentence before her tongue tripped, her lips mouthing tortured words and slaughtering them to pieces.

Perhaps Miss Saxton was the more suitable bride for the earl. She not only looked the part of a countess, she sounded like one, too.

Sarah stepped beside her, her anxious expression reflecting Henrietta’s concern, but she voiced her comment to the earl. “Albina has quite the eye, does she not?”

“That she does,” said the earl politely. “Lady Albina, however did you spot the creature? He blends so well into the environment.”

Too well. If she didn’t know her sister better, Henrietta would have thought the diversion a desperate attempt to capture a man’s waning attention—such as the Marquess of Satterfield. Only it was not the marquess who appeared enthralled by her sister’s findings, but the Earl of Amhurst, the man whom Henrietta had hoped to distract and—

And what? Enrapture with her cleverness on plants and teas? Good lord. As if a countess would babble on about flora and the books she read to quench her thirst for knowledge. She should be on bended knee, thanking Albina for saving her from further mortification.

“His croak,” Albina answered, sounding rather pleased. “No doubt he is seeking his mate.”

Poignant, especially given their party held the very same intentions. Though awkward, as everyone lowered their gazes—except for Henrietta and the earl.

She peered across the marsh, taking in the earl’s dimpled chin, his square-cut jaw, and undeniably handsome features. Were it not for the patch covering his eye and the questions surrounding his past, he would have a gaggle of female admirers hanging on his every word, following him about every ballroom, waiting anxiously for him to ask them to dance.

But even with his injuries, he cut a striking figure. Her heart fluttered every time he caught her gaze—as he did now.

She cast her eyes to the frog as the earl’s deep voice rose above a chorus of croaks. “Perhaps he is expressing his pleasure after a large meal. Goodness knows he must have recently eaten. I have never seen another equal to his size or girth.”

Miss Saxton tittered. Lady Isabella laughed. And Henrietta feigned a smile as she did her best to quell a surge of something eerily resembling jealousy.

“Quite so, my lord. I’d wager the beast to be at least one stone,” said Mr. Livingston. She turned her head and stared at the rather squat, overly round man. Kind and quiet, the elder gentleman had thus far kept his opinions to himself, preferring to observe the party from behind his quizzing glass, rather than actively participate.

She could certainly respect his preferences. She, too, would like nothing more than to get away from the crowd and slip into the quiet, cool garden behind Plumburn’s kitchens, with its worn stone paths and pungent flora.

Mr. Livingston offered her a smile, which she returned.

“One stone?” Lord Satterfield asked. He leaned forward, peering at the frog still perched on the rock, seemingly oblivious to its gathering of admirers. “A boy of this size merits at least two.”

A highly unlikely estimate. Even with his impressive girth, the amphibian, at least from her vantage point behind the marquess, was no more than the one stone Mr. Livingston had originally declared.

Stepping forward, she offered her opinion. “Given his height and width, my calculations align with those of Mr. Livingston.”

No stutter impaired her tongue. Her words were crisp, clear—and entirely inappropriate. Especially if she were expected to play the simpleton.

Sarah flashed her a reprimanding glare. Albina covered her mouth with one of her hands. And the earl peered at her with an eye the same shade as his coffee-colored hair.

Her knees wobbled, her heart tripling its pace, as she took in his smoldering gaze. How nonsensical her reaction. She swallowed and took a deep breath, forcing her nerves to quiet. He was only a man, and one whom she had likely offended by contradicting the marquess, his close acquaintance, adding another strike against her. Miss Saxton would never have commented at all. But then, Henrietta wasn’t entirely certain Miss Saxton knew how to multiply, either.

“I agree,” said the earl, breaking the silence. “You are overgenerous with your measurements, Satterfield. I’d wager this frog nearer ten pounds than the twenty-eight your two stones demands.”

Henrietta blinked. Divine intervention. Nothing less could have saved her from the earl’s expected ire. Well, that, and sound mathematics.

Pushing her luck and disregarding good sense, she said, “There is a scale in the kitchens, should either of you wish to prove your theories. That is, if you are brave enough to face Cook’s wooden spoon, should she catch either of you placing a frog in her domain.”

Mr. Livingston shook his head. Lord Satterfield and the earl’s faces, however, both brightened at the challenge, their expressions gleaming with boyish interest.

“Let us make this an official wager then,” Lord Satterfield said, his voice eager.

“A pound for each one of his pounds you were off?” suggested the earl, amusement lacing his words.

The marquess centered his gaze on Henrietta. “I was thinking of something more along the lines of an evening stroll, chaperoned of course, with a lady of our choice.”

Why was he staring at her? Should he not be diverting his attention to her sister, who, along with Miss Saxton and Lady Isabella clapped their hands together, their mouths stretched wide with smiles.

“An excellent idea,” squealed Miss Saxton.

“Yes.” The earl’s gaze followed that of the marquess’s. Henrietta’s breath caught, her entire body tingling from his intense glare. So befuddled was she that she almost missed him adding, “And one I shall agree to, should you carry the frog to the kitchens, while the rest of us distract the cook.”
“A generous idea, but who will validate Lord Satterfield’s claim?” asked Sarah. “Someone must assist him to make certain he does not weigh the scales in his favor.”

“I do not cheat,” said the marquess, his boyish smile contradicting the solemnity of his words.

“A valid point, my lady,” uttered Mr. Livingston. “I will accompany Lord Satterfield and make certain his measurements are fair.”

“As will I.” Albina’s face beamed with excitement. “I know the location of the scale, as well as the servant’s entrance to the kitchens. I can lead the entourage without attracting attention.”

“Chaperoned, of course,” added Sarah. “By Miss Saxton’s aunt, perhaps?”

Miss Saxton’s young widowed aunt was the most forgiving, playful chaperone of those present. If anyone were to give their approval to the silly and risky venture, it would be her.

“My aunt would be more than delighted. I am certain of it, especially with the stakes being as favorable as they are.” Miss Saxton batted her eyes at the earl.

Remnants of luncheon soured on Henrietta’s tongue.

She bit the inside of her cheek. This would not do. At all. She needed to be the earl’s selection, strolling alongside him in one of the fragrant gardens surrounding the castle, not Miss Saxton with her perfect elocution.

Plumburn and its frog-infested marshes were at stake.

She had to do something to turn things in her favor. Something to gain his attention, to make him forget the other ladies present and select Henrietta as his prize for winning a wager literally weighed in his favor.

But as to what that elusive thing was, she was uncertain.

“Well, then, let us not stand about here fighting the flies, but head to Plumburn’s kitchens. Satterfield, if you would,” said the earl. He nodded toward the slick-looking frog croaking on its perch.

“Ah, yes of course.” For all his boasting and earlier eagerness, the marquess was hesitant in his approach, eyeing the frog with an obvious look of disgust. His gaze flicked between his white gloved hands and the slime-covered amphibian. “Well, I, well…let’s see here. I suppose I just—”

“Lift him,” Sarah said. “You lift him with one hand on each side, so as to prevent him from jumping into the water.”

Henrietta tasted blood, so hard was she biting on her cheek to prevent the peals of laughter from escaping her mouth.

“Yes, quite right,” said the marquess. “Excellent advice.”

“Would you like some assistance?” asked the earl, his amusement at the marquess’s discomfort evident in his voice. “Or shall we stand here until dinner arrives?”

Lord Satterfield shot the earl a dark look, but removed his gloves and handed them to Mr. Livingston. “There is nothing to it. I was simply determining the best approach.” He leaned down and clasped the frog, the creature croaking his disdain.

“I don’t believe you have a sporting chance, Amhurst.” The marquess lifted the frog and held it at arm’s length. “He is easily the two stones I originally estimated.”

“Then let us prove your superior intellect. Lady Albina, we are at your direction, for I fear I am hopelessly lost.” The earl bowed to her sister, who still had her eyes on the marquess and his prize.

“Yes, this way.” Albina stepped past Henrietta, but stumbled, her hand clutching Henrietta’s arm to steady herself in the sodden grass.

Henrietta, however, was not prepared for the sudden imbalance and tottered into the mud—with Albina alongside her.

…

Simon’s breath caught, his entire body stiffening as two daughters of Amhurst splashed into the marshy, wet earth. Feminine screams rent the air—along with muffled laughter and thinly concealed sniggers.

He rushed forward, bent his knee, and lowered himself into the mud, uncaring how much of the muck stained his breeches and boots, for it nowhere compared to the amount covering the two women.

Lady Henrietta lifted her head, her eyes bright against the dark slop dripping down her face. He was certain, were the layer of mud removed, her skin would have burned ten degrees of red.

“M-m-my lord,” she stuttered. Her eyes widened, even as more sludge dribbled down her face, half concealing her eye.

She had lifted her hand to no doubt wipe away the slimy dollop, when Lady Albina sat up, splattering both Lady Henrietta and him with thick clumps of wet earth. “Oh, Henrietta,” she cried. “How clumsy you become when you are nervous.”

To the best of his recollection, it had not been Lady Henrietta who had tumbled first into the mud, but the sister who glared in her direction.

Stunned, Simon sputtered, extending his palm to Lady Henrietta. “My lady, grab hold of my hand.” Both Lady Albina and Lady Henrietta reached for him, the unexpected sodden weight of both women tugging him forward and pulling him head first between them.

Simon quickly sat up and reached for the handkerchief in his front left jacket pocket. There, beside him, was Lady Henrietta, her eyes twinkling, her bright teeth flashing against the dark mud, looking all for the world as though she wished nothing more than to laugh.

And why shouldn’t she?

He was drenched, covered in a layer of muck no single handkerchief could possibly absorb.

And sitting beside a woman whose beauty could not be hidden beneath any amount of brown earth.

A deep rumble started in his chest, and his glee burst forward, loud in the quiet of the marsh. His heart warmed at the absurdity of the moment, at the very idea an earl’s daughter would rather laugh at life’s folly than pout at her misfortune.

Lady Henrietta startled, her eyes blinking, her mouth widening.

She giggled, her hand shooting out to cover her lips. Mud slung over her, drenching her hair, and she laughed harder, her rich high peals complementing his own.

The party did not, at least in its entirety, share in the mirth. While Satterfield and Lady Isabella added their laughter to his, Mr. Livingston, Miss Saxton, and even Lady Sarah refrained, their near reproachful expressions a stark reminder of the breach in decorum. Earls and their kin did not cover themselves in mud.

He stood abruptly, the laughter dying on his lips. Offering both of his hands to Lady Henrietta, he spaced his feet apart to ensure he did not repeat his earlier infraction.

She lifted her hand and placed it in his, her firm grip surprisingly strong through the mud and thin layer of her glove.

His heart pounded, though not from the exertion of righting her, but from her nearness…and the immodest way her dress clung to her curves.

She peered up at him, her face beaming. “Thank you.”

Were they alone, he would have kissed her, mud-encased lips be damned. But as it were,