When a Girl Loves an Earl (Rescued from Ruin Book 5) (9 page)

But he didn’t. He could not possibly understand the relentless intensity, the pressure of resisting her over and over and over. Turning away from those adoring eyes and plump, petal-shaped lips and sweet, peony-scented curves. It was driving him mad.

“I cannot attend a house party with her present.” The words emerged from him like a boulder dragged from the sea—heavy, low, and reluctant. An admission of weakness.

“I see,” Wallingham repeated, smoothly finishing his signature and sanding the ink. He blew the grains away. “If it is any consolation, Grimsgate is a vast property. I once hid from my governess by moving from room to room in the castle. She waited three days before admitting to my mother that she had ‘lost’ me. Naturally, Mother found me within hours, and I never saw the governess again, but you see my point. Vast. Hundreds of rooms, along with a great deal of land. Additionally, Mother’s parties rarely last longer than a fortnight, as that is the limit of her patience.” A smile curved the man’s flat mouth. “Avoidance, Tannenbrook. The key to sanity.”

James accepted the paper from Wallingham. The signed note transferred ownership of a prized foal from one of the finest stables in England. To him, James Kilbrenner. An English earl who should have been a Scottish stonemason.

Charles came around the desk and clapped James’s shoulder. “Come. Perhaps if you speak with my mother, you two may come to a better accord.”

James stood and followed the man out of the library.

Twenty minutes later, he yanked his hat from the starchy butler’s hand and stuffed it onto his head before yanking open the front door. If anything, upon meeting with James, Lady Wallingham had grown more determined to sink her everlasting tentacles deeper into his life. “If you resist further, Lord Tannenbrook,” she had decreed from a red-and-gold chair in her bright-yellow lair, “I shall insist upon seeing you partner Miss Darling for a waltz at Lady Gattingford’s ball. Do not test me, boy.”

He had stifled his protest. Then he had taken his leave of her. Now, he descended the steps to Park Lane, waiting for his horse to be brought around by one of her many servants.

“Trouble, Lord Tannenbrook?”

He closed his eyes, hoping he had imagined it—the voice, sweet and crystalline, like a fountain. He heard that voice in his dreams and woke up aching.

“Do say you have a better plan than simply ignoring me. I should hate to think your fortitude is lacking.”

He sighed and refused to look at her, keeping his eyes trained on the green of Hyde Park. “What are you doing here?”

The quiet tap of her footfalls came closer, stopping as she drew even with him. “I was invited to attend Lady Wallingham’s luncheon. My cousin and aunt elected to go for a stroll about the park afterwards. I elected to stay and speak with Miss Lancaster before taking the carriage home and ridding myself of an abominable headache.”

He frowned, hearing the weariness in her voice. The slight slur of someone in pain. It pulled him around to face her. She wore a blue spencer that matched her eyes and a gown of lighter blue muslin embroidered with white dots and vines. Upon her black hair, she wore the same dark-blue bonnet she had worn four days earlier in Hyde Park.
Likely her favorite,
he thought.

“Does your head pain you often?” he murmured, seeing how she winced at the bright light of midday. He repositioned himself to stand between her and the sun.

She sighed, the tiny frown between her brows easing. “Thank you. Not often, but when it does, I must have a lie-down.” Her smile was strained. “What brings you to Wallingham House, if I may ask?”

He did not know why he answered. Perhaps because his horse had not yet arrived. Perhaps because she seemed subdued, and he wished to cheer her. Perhaps because he savored the sound of her voice, as gentle as a river caressing its banks. “Lord Wallingham signed a note to transfer ownership of one of his foals and to document its pedigree.”

“Could he not have sent the note?”

“I met with Lady Wallingham, as well.”

“Oh, dear.”

Against his will, he felt a smile tug at his lips. “The dowager does try one’s patience.”

Despite her pain, she returned his smile with a bright one of her own and tilted her head inquisitively. “Have you business with Lady Wallingham, as well? Or are you simply a glutton for punishment?”

Again, he hesitated to answer. He should be withdrawing from the lass, not satisfying her curiosity. “She is helping me locate my heir.”

Why had he said that? A frown settled over his brow. Why the bloody hell was he even speaking with Viola Darling? He should be working to discourage her interest.

“Relying upon the dowager’s help? A glutton for punishment, indeed.” She glanced over her shoulder as a familiar barouche headed toward them. “One thing I do admire about Lady Wallingham is her constancy. If she has promised to help, then she will.”

“Mmm,” he murmured. “Not without exacting a steep price for it.”

“Naturally. What is her assistance costing you?”

My sanity
, he thought. But he could not say that, for it would reveal too much. “She wishes my presence in London for the season. She claims I have neglected my social obligations for too long.”

Viola tilted her head, reading his eyes. “Mmm. This explains why you attend so many ton events when you obviously would prefer to be elsewhere. Perhaps having a tooth extracted or a bone reset.”

“Indeed.”

She nodded to her coachman as the vehicle pulled up. “Do not despair, James,” she said softly, her hand discreetly stroking his forearm. “Let Lady Wallingham tend to her task. Meet her demands as you must.” Her lips curled up at one corner. “Remember to breathe. Trust that all will come right in the end.”

Inexplicably, he felt tension draining from his neck and shoulders, the sweetness of twilight blue washing away the day’s frustrations. The sensation reminded him of falling backward into the river’s cool rush after a week of hauling stone. It made him dizzy. Made him want more.

“I must go,” she said, giving his arm one last caress.

Automatically, he assisted her into the carriage, holding her gloved hand a bit longer than necessary. Feeling the difference in their sizes, the delicacy of her bones before reluctantly releasing her, he swallowed. “How is your head?”

Her glazed, narrowed eyes and subtle wince answered him.

“Where is your footman?”

“He is driving.”

Glowering first at her then at the young servant manning the reins, he ordered, “Hold them steady whilst I raise the hood.”

The coachman-cum-footman blinked up at cloudless skies in confusion but obeyed his command.

James swiftly unfolded the hood at the back of the open carriage and locked it into place, giving Viola a refuge from the glare of the sun. “Take her directly home. Do not tarry.”

“Aye, m’lord.”

Moments before the reins snapped and the barouche pulled away, he heard her sigh his name. Just that. “James.”

As he watched the carriage recede down Park Lane, the most peculiar ache stole into his chest. Right in the center, where his heart lived. It was almost as though he … missed her. His thighs burned to move. His gut ached to follow her and ensure she was laid upon a bed of downy feathers in a darkened room. To be there when she awakened, her smile glowing up at him, free of pain.

What was this strange urge?

Foolishness,
he answered himself.
Guilt, perhaps, for rejecting her affections. Everyone suffers pain from time to time. Hers is none of your concern.

He must tend those matters that
were
his concern—finding his heir, introducing the man to the responsibilities that would pass to the next Earl of Tannenbrook. And seeing to the continued prosperity of those who relied upon him.

These were his tasks. These would be his focus.

No room for a lass so bluidy beautiful she makes you ache, Jamie Kilbrenner. No room whatever. Turn your mind to better things, and soon enough she will forget you.

As a liveried groom arrived leading his horse, he watched the barouche turn off Park Lane and disappear from view. Then he wondered if, in truth, a better thing existed on earth than Miss Viola Darling.

*~*~*

CHAPTER SIX

“I prefer to be the wielder of coercion, Humphrey. Not the recipient.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her boon companion, Humphrey, upon discovering the avidity of said companion’s fondness for squirrels.

June 15, 1818

Northumberland

Viola’s first glimpse of Grimsgate Castle coincided—not unexpectedly—with the drawing of blood. “Ouch!” she gasped as her embroidery needle pierced the pad of her thumb. Plopping the bloody thing in her mouth, she lowered her hoop to her lap and resumed peering out the window of their travel coach.

The castle was an enormous presence, perched on a hill above a flat, coastal landscape. Square turrets anchored the four corners of a massive central keep while high stone walls encircled the entire hilltop, running lengthwise to encompass acres to either side. Altogether, the keep and turrets and walls and gatehouse, along with numerous stone outbuildings, resembled a dragon sprawled victoriously upon its throne, preening against a clear Northumberland sky.

“You will have to remove that stitch if you do not wish to leave a tangle on the reverse side.”

Viola closed her eyes and gathered her patience before turning away from the window to face the woman who would soon be her stepmother. What Papa found to love in her was yet a mystery. But, she was the woman he intended to marry—provided Viola could land Tannenbrook by the end of the house party. After nearly three months of running headlong into his stalwart resistance, she judged that result to be far from certain.

“Thank you, Mrs. Cumberland. How kind of you to alert me to possible calamity.”

Her ruddy face framed by the brim of a gray bonnet, the stout woman nodded and returned to her own sewing—a white shirt she was mending, possibly for Papa.

He had elected to ride with the coachman, leaving Viola, Penelope, Aunt Marian, and Mrs. Cumberland to occupy the enclosed carriage.

For four bloody days.

Viola had spent the first two hours of their journey from London conversing with Penelope, who could talk of nothing except her upcoming nuptials with Lord Mochrie. The conversation had only served to remind Viola of her own appalling failures, so she had borne Penelope’s enthusiasm as long as she could before pleading a headache and pretending to nap. After that, she had begun assembling a gift for James, a small token of her affection. It was a handkerchief, a white linen square with a bit of embroidery in one corner.

Of course, such a project would have been quite simple if anyone else had attempted to make it. But she was Viola, Mutilator of Stitchery.

On the first day, she had spent two hours cutting the linen. By the time she had finished, the square was half the size it should have been. Then, she’d spent the next six hours hemming three of the edges. The fourth edge had proven the most problematic and now bulged unevenly along one corner. By the time she was finished, she could not bear the thought of reworking the thing yet another time.

Then had come the embroidery. Because she and James had spent a good deal of time together—the natural result of chasing him everywhere short of his front door—she had managed to learn a fair amount about him. For example, he favored coffee over tea and ale over coffee. Wine he only drank for politeness’ sake. Also, he was an earl by blood, but he sometimes exhibited subtle contempt for his fellow aristocrats, particularly the insufferable ones. And, his favorite thing to do whenever he had time enough for leisure was fishing. She had coaxed him to talk about it one evening when the tedium of their third musicale had driven them both to the brink of desperation.

“What sort of fishing?” she had probed, grateful to have garnered a response other than dismissive grunts and transparent evasions.

“Rivers, mainly.”

“No, silly. What sort of fish?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I wish to know more about you.”

“You are daft, woman. Why can you not let me be?”

“Because.”

“That is not a reason.”

“What reason have you for failing to answer a simple question?”

“Because.”

Into the silence had fallen a sour note upon the pianoforte, courtesy of one of the Pennywhistle daughters.

“Very well,” he’d grumbled. “Trout. I like to fish for trout.”

She’d brightened, seeing the first small glimmer of hope since the day he’d handed her up into a barouche on Park Lane. She still felt warm remembering how he had raised the hood to screen her from the sun’s glare, all to give her a tiny bit more comfort.

That was why she loved him. Unequivocally, unreservedly loved him.

But, if his coldness toward her throughout the rest of the season were any indication, he did not return the sentiment. No, he merely tolerated her presence with a flexing jaw and a stony expression the way she tolerated Mrs. Cumberland’s embroidery advice. Occasionally, he would relent and converse with her, as he had about fishing, but those moments of connection were all too brief and infrequent. While she winced at his persistent rejections, she craved his company too much to abandon her Tannenbrook Hunt.

Now, as she attempted to stitch the tail of a trout on her uneven square of linen, she felt three months of failure weighing upon her until her shoulders wanted to sag with it, until her throat swelled nearly shut with it. She could delay no longer. Papa deserved to be happy with Mrs. Cumberland. He deserved to see his daughter safely married after paying for a second season he could ill afford, to say nothing of the expense of traveling all the way to Northumberland.

If she could not bring James around to accepting her as his wife before the end of the house party, then she would be forced to marry another. It was the only fair course for Papa.

Every inch of her skin, every ounce of her blood, every thought in her mind rejected the notion of taking another man as her husband. Letting another man kiss her. Touch her. Father her children. No. She could not bear it.

“If you take a bit more care with your needle, you should be able to draw the threads back through without knotting—”

“Mrs. Cumberland,” Viola snapped. “Thank you, but I shall manage well enough on my own.”

The woman’s mouth tightened, and she nodded primly before returning to her own work, smoothly pulling the thread tight on another perfect, invisible stitch.

Aunt Marian awakened with a snort. “Have we arrived yet?”

“The gatehouse is just ahead, Mama,” Penelope replied, her voice surprisingly low as she cast Viola an acidic glare. “Thank heavens.”

A short while later, as they entered the grand hall, Viola took a deep breath and closed her eyes, savoring the relief of exiting the cramped coach. She stood alone and still in the center of the room. Behind her, Papa inquired after Mrs. Cumberland’s comfort, and Penelope honked out a laugh at something her mother said. The butler—a lanky, rust-haired man named Nash who managed to be both haughty and obsequious at once—directed footmen in the unloading of their coach.

Viola stood apart from all of them. In the very center of the room, she opened her eyes and gazed up at wood-paneled walls rising twenty feet into a majestic vaulted ceiling. An enormous fireplace—larger than any she’d ever seen—anchored the right side of the hall while three arched openings at the back apparently led to a gallery of windows or glass doors, judging by the bright light streaming onto the floor.

Distantly, she heard the clacking tick, rapid and scrambling, of paws upon polished stone. Spinning in a full circle, she looked about for the source of the sound.

“Humphrey! Do calm yourself.” Lady Wallingham’s distinctive voice called moments before a waist-high, droopy-faced hound bounded through the left arch, charging straight for Viola. “Your enthusiasm is most undignified.”

Upon seeing the folds and jowls flapping in rhythm with the dog’s pendulous ears, Viola’s heart skipped a beat. Upon being knocked nearly on her backside by the dog’s momentous leap, and receiving copious snuffling kisses with a long, wet tongue, she fell in love.

“Humphrey! That is quite enough.”

Viola could not help it. She giggled and hugged his neck, scratched his ears, and kissed his brown head. Dark, soulful, droopy eyes gazed up at her adoringly.

“Like most males, you are making a cake of yourself over Miss Darling. Slobbering upon her will only result in her rightful disgust. Stop it at once.”

Laughing in delight, Viola shook her head and gently eased the dog’s front paws to the floor. She bent forward and took his sweet face in her hands, touching his forehead with her own. “Later, we shall take a walk together,” she whispered. “Would you like that?”

His tail wagged his hips comically as he emitted a deep whine of agreement.

She gave his wrinkled forehead one last kiss and straightened.

Then, her breath left her in a rush of heat. Leaning against the casing of the center arch was the object of her heart’s most fervent desires. Impossibly wide shoulders. Thick arms folded across a massive chest. Eyes of deep, coniferous green staring unblinkingly, flashing hungrily. At her.

“James.” The airless whisper was pure reflex. She could not help it. When he looked at her that way, she wanted to melt against him, to feel the enormity of his hands upon her again. His name was the only word she knew.

She managed to blink upon hearing Lady Wallingham’s voice ring out against wood paneling and polished stone like a trumpet blast. “It seems every male in existence is destined to fall prey to your charms, Miss Darling.”

Unable to tear her gaze from Tannenbrook’s, Viola felt the curve of her smile dissolve into a kind of sadness. “Not
every
one, my lady.”

*~*~*

He was dying by slow degrees. First, he had heard her laugh. The sound had echoed from the grand entrance hall like a musical fountain, promising succor to a man perishing of thirst. He’d been lured to find its source, to see her again after an agonizing ten days without a drop. Then, he had seen her. Black hair shining without her bonnet. Soft curves gowned in rosy-pink muslin. Skin glowing like alabaster.

And her smile. Ah, God. It twisted him up inside like a sheet being wrung violently dry. He needed more. But it was fading the longer she stared back at him, turning the corners of those tempting lips in the wrong direction.

“… have stated before, men are simple creatures, but not necessarily easily managed.” Lady Wallingham’s pontificating snapped the silvery line that bound him to Viola. He blinked. Breathed. Waited for his heart to slow its pounding.

The butler passed between them, approaching the dowager to discuss disposition of the guests.

James willed himself to leave. He needed to stop staring at her.

Instead it was she who turned away. Her bosom rising on a deep breath, Viola calmly removed her gloves and began examining the room, her eyes curiously devouring the large tapestries hanging on two of the walls.

Inexplicably, he wanted her eyes back on him.

One of her gloves plopped onto the floor. Humphrey scuttled away from Lady Wallingham’s side where he’d sat shivering, emitting grunting whines, and gazing longingly at Viola for the past minute or two. James could empathize with the dog’s sentiment.

As the dog grasped the small leather glove in his mouth, Viola released a surprised laugh. Then Lady Wallingham barked a command which Humphrey ignored, instead playfully running away with his prize, long ears flopping like great banners as he raced toward the archways and, presumably, a safe place to stow his captured treasure.

Calmly, James moved into the dog’s path. Paws skidded to a stop. A canine rear hit the polished limestone floor as James held out a commanding hand. He turned his palm up. A slobbery glove dropped obediently into his grasp. With his other hand, he scratched the hound’s ears. “Mustn’t be greedy, now,” he muttered, wondering if he was warning the dog or himself.

He wiped the glove with his handkerchief then delivered it back to its owner. Her long, lush lashes formed fans against her cheeks as she eyed the returned prize.

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Tannenbrook,” he corrected, though in truth, he wanted to hear her speak his real name again. James.

The fans lifted. Twilight blue shone up at him like a starry sky. “Tannenbrook.” It was a caress, her lips pursing and pouting over the syllables. “How do you find Northumberland?”

He did not know why he answered with his rusty humor. Too much time in Lucien’s company, perhaps. “Some use a map. I simply rode northward until I was bound to enter either Scotland or the sea. Fortunately, I stopped before suffering either fate.”

She burst into laughter, her eyes lighting as though he’d said something brilliant and shocking or silly and delightful.

He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to make her laugh again.

Mostly, he wanted to kiss her.

“Just when I am certain you have no more surprises in store, you manage to prove me wrong,” she said.

She smelled of peonies, sweet and full and rich. He breathed in her scent, storing it up in his lungs.