When a Girl Loves an Earl (Rescued from Ruin Book 5) (6 page)

“Be at ease, my lady,” James replied, keeping his voice low and holding her unblinking gaze with his own. “All is well. The horses merely suffered a fright. They’ve calmed now.”

Her lips pressed together, and her eyes sheened for a moment before she blinked and nodded. Notably, her resistance to Wallingham’s soothing gave way, and her shoulders relaxed beneath the marquess’s protective arm.

When James and Lucien finally bid the pair good day and continued on their course along Rotten Row, James expected Luc to rib him about his habit of rescuing all and sundry. But Lucien said only, “Locating your heir suddenly seems a rather sensible thing to do.”

As they approached the barouche, now halted awkwardly in the center of the Row, James spotted one of its passengers standing in the rear-facing seat, leaning across one of her companions, her gloved hand holding the top of a dark-blue bonnet upon her black curls. The hat appeared to have white feathers on it. And beneath its brim were eyes as blue as twilight.

“Lord Tannenbrook,” she called breathlessly. “That was … astonishing.”

Her companion pushed at her hip, which currently pressed the companion’s nose. She did not move.

Beside him, Lucien leaned forward with interest. “Who is that? She is quite—”

“Nobody,” James snapped.

Lucien raised a single brow. “Well, she is obviously somebody, or you would not be so out of sorts.”

“Ignore her.”

“Now, that would be ill-bred of me. And of you, should you offer insult to one so lovely and so clearly admiring of your gigantic self.”

“Bloody hell.” James released a breath of exasperation. “Very well. We will speak to her, but only for a moment.”

James could not be certain his gritted message was received, because a grinning Lucien had already turned his mount toward the center of the Row where the carriage was parked. He felt the usual prickle of irritation beneath his skin, tightening and tingling at her presence. Swallowing it down, he followed Luc and approached the newfound bane of his existence.

“Miss Viola,” he greeted her, unable to disguise the vein of annoyance in his voice. It must be annoyance. What else could this prickling heat be?

He quickly introduced Lucien to Penelope’s mother, the chaperone with a tendency toward napping, before repeating the process with the two Darling cousins. Penelope, who continued attempting to elbow Viola’s hip away from her nose, was older, so he introduced her as the first Miss Darling. Referring to the second Miss Darling as Miss Viola forced him to turn his tongue around her given name. For some reason, saying it always sent an odd, pleasurable sensation down his spine as though he were committing an act of intimacy. Annoying, indeed.

“I daresay, I have never witnessed such bravery,” the vexing Viola said, her eyes positively glowing, her pale cheeks delicately flushed, her gloved hand moving from the top of her bonnet to lay flat over her bosom.

Drawing his eye. Making him imagine what lay beneath her bodice.

“Anybody would do the same,” he replied.

“Oh, but anybody didn’t.
You
did. It was extraordinary.” As usual, her gaze was fixed upon him, devouring his shoulders and thighs and face. She scarcely acknowledged Lucien’s presence. Given that Lucien nearly equaled her aesthetic perfection—albeit in a male form—this was unexpected.

He glanced to gauge his friend’s reaction and wanted to groan. Luc’s grin was wide and knowing as it ricocheted between James and the vexing Miss Darling.

“An admirable display, indeed, my lords,” echoed Penelope, who had finally scooted to the other end of the bench, allowing Viola to plop down in the seat nearest him. Penelope’s nasal tones and ungainly features compared poorly with her cousin’s. And he had found the girl’s wits approximately as sharp as a soup spoon. But she was a good-natured sort who displayed no resentment or jealousy of her beauteous cousin. Penelope leaned forward to address Lucien. “Lord Atherbourne, I had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with Lady Atherbourne before your marriage. Is she in town?”

While Lucien explained that Victoria had stayed behind at Thornbridge with their son, James dodged the twilight gaze of the daft chit who had set her sights relentlessly upon him. She wore blue today. Pale, sky blue approximately the same shade as the inner ring of her eyes. Those eyes were darker around the edges. More the color of her bonnet. They were quite the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen. But, then, she was quite the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Not that it mattered. Despite her persistent and bewildering regard, he had no intention of taking what she offered. None whatsoever.

A quiet snore sounded from the seat opposite Viola and Penelope. The aunt had fallen asleep while her charges conversed with two men. But he did not glance in the aunt’s direction. His gaze had snagged upon Viola’s lips. Full and curvaceous, the petals were parted ever so slightly, as though they longed for his tongue.

He swallowed. “I fear Lord Atherbourne and I must be on our way.”

“We must?”

Ignoring Lucien’s dry tone, James tipped his hat to the Misses Darling—and the somnolent Mrs. Darling—and took his leave. Blindly, he directed his horse down Rotten Row, feeling a bit like he’d stared into the sun too long. Fifty feet on, he heard Lucien chuckle. “She is still watching you.”

“Matters not. She is nobody to me.”

Lucien’s infernal grin only grew. “Hmm. An interesting nobody, indeed.”

*~*~*

You are a perfect goose,
Viola castigated herself as she absently refreshed her tea and stirred in a bit of sugar.
You will see him again this evening. For now, focus upon your embroidery.
But she couldn’t. She still hadn’t stopped tingling, could scarcely draw breath, hours after witnessing Tannenbrook’s daring rescue. The strength of the man, the sheer power in his arms and his thighs.
Oh, his thighs.

“Mama has fallen asleep again,” said Penelope, completing another perfect red stitch in her embroidered floral masterpiece.

Glancing down at her own efforts, Viola grimaced, her fingers tightening on the embroidery hoop. Loose brown loops formed what should have been a pinecone, but instead resembled a pile of muck. She sighed and set the hoop down on the sofa beside her without touching the needle. Tea. She was adept at pouring tea, she reminded herself as she picked up her cup and took a comforting sip.
Tea and conversation. And dancing. Do not forget dancing.

A snuffle emanated from Aunt Marian’s end of the sofa.

“Oh!” exclaimed Penelope. “Perhaps she is awake after all.”

Viola smiled gently at her erstwhile cousin. “No, dearest. She is simply breathing. I believe our adventurous jaunt may have overtaxed her delicate constitution.” Indeed, as their barouche had arrived at the family’s shared town house on North Audley Street, Aunt Marian had managed to shake herself awake. She had even conversed pleasantly for an hour or so before drinking her medicinal tea and slumping into her current state.

Laughing with her distinctive honk, Penelope agreed. “She
is
delicate, I daresay. Do you suppose she will be rested enough to accompany us to the Pennywhistle supper this evening?”

Alarmed at the possibility that they might be prevented from attending a function where
he
would be present, Viola looked to Aunt Marian’s sleep-pooched features. “She will accompany us if you and I must lift her into the carriage upon our backs.”

“Oh, dear. You are not vexed with Mama, are you?”

“No.” Viola calmly sipped her tea. “I am determined. Tannenbrook will be there.”

“You fancy him.”

Viola nearly rolled her eyes at her cousin’s tendency toward stating the obvious, but she managed to suppress the urge. Instead, she settled for a dry tone. “Rather a lot, actually.”

“He is not handsome.”

Viola disagreed, but she would not argue the point.

“Nor as amusing as my Lord Mochrie.”

Amusing. She supposed Penelope would consider the Scottish baron so, although Viola found him a frightful bore. Further, her cousin had not witnessed the subtle spark of humor in Tannenbrook’s eye, piercing the green like a shaft of sunlight through a woodland canopy. He found humor in odd things, such as Lord Reedham’s obsession with snuff and Lady Jersey’s nickname—Silence, in reference to the woman’s unceasing chatter. Viola often had to stifle her urge to smile and laugh along whenever she spotted the small quirk of his lips.

“And he is quite … large.”

Heat washed her skin. She sighed quietly and closed her eyes, picturing him as he’d been earlier that day, gripping his horse with his thighs, balancing his great, muscled bulk as he deftly grasped the reins of the speeding vehicle. “Yes,” she breathed, her heart even now pounding as the horses’ hooves had done. “He is.”

Every time she saw him, her fascination grew. Charlotte had cautioned her against it, saying he did not bend easily to another’s will, and that Viola was entirely too accustomed to having her own way. That last bit had stung, but Charlotte favored honesty over politeness.

“Well,” continued Penelope, focusing on rethreading her embroidery needle with green floss. “One cannot deny he is gallant. As is Lord Atherbourne. Now,
handsome
—oh my, yes.
That
one is positively splendid. Pity he is already married. Still, Lady Atherbourne is most pleasant, as I recall.”

A number of the gentlemen who routinely sought Viola’s favor were handsome, too. Viola did not want their sort of handsome. She did not want fawning compliments or elegant brows or thin, spindly shoulders. She wanted Tannenbrook.

“Penelope.” Viola plastered a bright grin upon her face as her cousin glanced up. “I believe I shall wear the new gown.”

“To the Pennywhistle affair? Oh, but it is only a supper. Surely a ball would be more fitting.”

“It is time Lord Tannenbrook comprehends the seriousness of my regard.”

Blinking slowly, Penelope lowered her embroidery hoop to her lap. “Er—Viola?”

“I must persuade him that we are ideally matched. And this evening, I shall begin that effort in earnest.”

“Oh, I should think—”

Aunt Marian snorted and jerked as a knock sounded upon the paneled drawing room doors. “What—what is all that banging about?” she said, dabbing the usual bit of moisture from the corner of her mouth and pulling herself upright on the sofa.

Owens, their butler-cum-footman-cum-valet, entered the room accompanied by an unwelcome, unannounced guest. “Mrs. Cumberland to see you, miss.”

The woman was ungainly. Tall and mannish with a florid complexion and dark eyebrows that did not match her white-streaked, wheat-colored hair. Additionally, she always wore gray and white. Gray pelisse, white gown. Gray spencer, white gown. White turban, gray gown. Very well, that one had been silver. But now, standing here in Viola’s drawing room, the woman was once again garbed in gray—a dark-gray riding habit with frog closures across the bosom, to be precise. Viola would wager every shilling in her reticule that Mrs. Cumberland wore a white gown beneath the lightweight wool. And surely she could have selected a hat in a color other than white.

“Miss Viola, I do hope you will forgive my intrusion.” The woman’s brisk, authoritative demeanor chafed Viola’s patience. Nevertheless, Viola rose to greet her, as was proper. Mrs. Cumberland would, after all, be her stepmother one day soon. “Mr. Darling asked that I wait with you.” She glanced about the sparsely furnished drawing room, her expression carefully neutral to Viola’s eye. “He wished to settle his horse after our ride in the park.”

No sooner had the woman spoken his name than he appeared. Her papa. Merry eyes so like her own. A short, slight frame with a small paunch at the middle. Twin tufts of gray hair flanking his spotted-ivory head. To her, he was adorable, a welcome sight in his brown riding coat with the black lapels she had selected for him. He slipped past Owens, grinning and handing the servant his hat before clasping Viola’s elbows and bestowing his usual affectionate kisses upon her cheeks. He smelled warm and comforting, like bay rum and her childhood in Cheshire.

“Papa! I did not expect you to return quite so soon.” Viola smiled wider and moved her eyes to Mrs. Cumberland. “Or to return with the delightful Mrs. Cumberland. How lovely.”

“Yes, yes,” he replied, patting the sides of her shoulders and aiming a baffling ray of affection toward the other woman. “We were having a bracing ride, weren’t we, until the wind absconded with my hat.” He laughed and shook his head. “Ah, led me on a merry chase. How was your turn about Hyde Park?”

Everyone chatted for a bit as Viola poured tea. Mrs. Cumberland sat primly erect in a yellow painted chair. Papa listened to Penelope’s tale about the Great Phaeton Rescue. And Aunt Marian nibbled a biscuit in an effort to stay awake.

“Lord Tannenbrook, you say?” Papa’s eyes twinkled at Viola. “He is the one you fan—”

“Oh, dear,” Viola interrupted, rising and moving to the doors. “It appears we’ve run out of biscuits. I shall ask Owens to bring more.”

If she hoped to escape the conversation with Papa, she was soon disappointed. For, he followed her out into the corridor. “Viola, dearest. I had hoped you might spend a bit more time in conversation with Mrs. Cumberland. You know she and I have had an … understanding of some duration.”