My Wicked Earl by Kathleen Ayers
10
Helping himself to a glass of wine, Colin winced with distaste as he took a sip. French. Probably expensive. Still tastes like sour fruit. He’d never developed a taste for the stuff, though he dutifully tried. He preferred whiskey or even brandy, but neither was currently being served in the drawing room.
After Zander’s interruption earlier in the day, he’d had no time to resume his conversation with Cam. The Marquess of Cambourne had dutifully gone to fulfill his responsibilities as host. After being introduced to the Cottinghams and barely sparing them more than a cursory glance, Colin excused himself. He was not presentable, he explained, after the journey and needed to retire to his rooms before dinner.
Secretly, Colin wished to catch a glimpse of Miranda. And unlike Ridley, Colin’s chambers were in the family wing.
Walking down the corridor he had paused at Miranda’s door, sensing her presence on the other side. Placing the flat of his palm against the door, he willed her to open it. Since the day in the Dowager’s sitting room at Cambourne House, Colin found it increasingly difficult to hold on to the anger that had sustained him for the last six years. Especially after seeing the pain in Miranda’s face earlier.
Colin purposefully came down to the drawing room a bit early, hoping that Miranda would appear. Instead he found only Lord Hamill curled into a large wing-backed chair, snoring softly in his evening clothes.
The attendees of the Dowager’s house party slowly filtered in and flitted about, admiring the formal drawing room of the Marquess of Cambourne. Tapestries and objects d’art were littered about, so much so that the room resembled a museum more than a place for gathering. This was not a room that the family used often for themselves. The drawing room was specifically designed to inspire awe in anyone visiting Gray Covington. Every alcove, painting, and tapestry fairly resonated with the wealth and power of the Cambournes.
It was a beautiful room.
High vaulted ceilings gave way to gentle arches through which one could spy tiled hallways. One hallway led to the formal dining room, the other, to the conservatory. The ceilings were painted by a gifted artist, for only someone with such talent could have created the scene above his head. If one were to lay on the back lawn of Gray Covington and tilt their gaze to the sky, one would see the same view. The ceiling mimicked the sky above the estate at twilight, with the sun beginning to set just over the arch to the dining room. Fluffy clouds and a flock of ducks dotted the darkening blue sky as the edges of Gray Covington’s magnificent gardens could be seen.
Tapestries, ancient and mellowed with age, hung from the walls, each panel depicting a Greek myth. The designs were so intricate, Colin often marveled at the skill of those long ago Cambournes responsible for such beauty. The remains of an old castle lay entombed at the far end of the woods and Colin imagined these tapestries once hung there. The Cambourne family stretched back to the time of William the Conqueror, holding this land since the arrival of the Normans in England. Once upon a time, Colin had fought the Battle of Hastings with Nick and Cam at that old castle.
He adored this room. When visiting Gray Covington Colin would sprawl out on his back against the Persian rug that now lay beneath his feet. Imagination running wild, he’d invent stories, only to scratch them out later in his journal. Even the tapestries spoke to him. On one wall, the Kraken threatened Princess Andromeda as Theseus, his sword drawn, hastened to save her. The trials of Hercules, including his battle with the hydra, took up most of the left side towards the entrance to the conservatory while Persephone’s marriage to Hades hung at the far end of the room. A pomegranate lay next to Persephone’s sandaled feet while the god of the underworld lurked over her shoulder. He could still hear Miranda’s footsteps as she trailed behind him, adoration shining from her eyes as she clutched a raisin cake to her chest. She would break off a piece and offer it to Colin if only he would tell her the story of Persephone again. Just one more time.
Self-important lad that he was, Colin often shooed her away.
Loss crashed over him like waves against a rock. His anger towards her, once so fierce and thick, had softened. His bitterness still festered, but the edges frayed. Colin’s gaze lingered over Persephone’s beautiful, doomed face. Had Persephone truly forgiven Hades for his deceit?
“What a lovely room,” Lady Cottingham, standing just to his left, uttered in her annoying, breathless way. “So grand and majestic. Why it’s absolutely breathtaking.”
Colin steeled himself for the embrace of the ladies Cottingham.
Lady Aurora Cottingham and her daughter, Lady Helen Cottingham immediately sought Colin out after entering the drawing room, reminding him of a pair of bloodhounds about to corner a rabbit.
Towering over her smaller daughter, Lady Cottingham’s stout build and thick fingers betrayed her more common beginnings. Swathed in a gown of deep violet, her dimpled figure rippled beneath the thin silk. A headpiece of precious stones sat perched atop her faded yellow hair, twinkling in the candlelight.
Lady Cottingham reminded Colin of a giant blueberry. A very determined blueberry.
The descriptions of Lady Helen did not do her justice. Pale golden hair the color of spring wheat was coiled about her head with a tiny cascade of curls gently touching her perfect ears. Her features were delicate and refined, at complete odds with her mother’s appearance. Cornflower blue eyes gazed at Colin with frank appraisal.
“Lord Kilmaire.” Lady Helen bobbed, taking her time in straightening up. All the more to give him a view of her more than generous bosom.
“Lady Helen.”
No virgin should exude such raw sexuality, if indeed she was one. Colin doubted it the moment her falsely innocent eyes ran down the length of him. He surmised that Lady Helen, if not already compromised, was well on her way to ruination. Lady Helen reminded Colin of an over-ripe peach begging to be plucked.
No wonder her parents wanted her married as soon as possible.
“I must tell Lord Cottingham how marvelous it would be to have tapestries such as these hanging in our drawing room at Crestmont. I’m in the process of remodeling parts of the estate as Lord Cottingham’s cousin’s taste was not our own. I imagine Runshaw Park has a room such as this.” The faded gold curls at her temple wiggled in anticipation of his answer.
“I’m afraid this room is rather unique to Gray Covington. Runshaw Park pales in comparison. No tapestries of such beauty, I’m afraid.” Colin bestowed a polite smile on the her.
My father sold all the tapestries at an auction before I turned twelve. And no amount of paint or plaster would hide the cracks in the ceilings of Runshaw Park.
“Oh, that is a shame, Lord Kilmaire.”
Colin nodded. There was not a doubt in his mind that in addition to knowing more about the state of disrepair of his estate, Lady Cottingham could probably recite the whole of Colin’s dubious pedigree. She probably fell asleep each night with Derbett’s Peerage clutched to her chest like a talisman. Lady Cottingham, formerly a dairy farmer’s wife, would note that the earldom was one of England’s oldest and ignore the fact of Colin’s mad, Irish mother. She would tell herself that Colin’s scar was the result of a duel, and not a carving knife. She would strive to ignore the string of tragedies that marked the Earl of Kilmaire and his family.
Lady Cottingham’s gaze traveled over his left cheek before lifting to examine the ceiling once more. “I cannot imagine how such was painted.”
Oh, how she wanted to ask him about that scar. He could see it in every small twitch and shuttered glance. She was horrified yet titillated, only her determination to present herself as a woman of good breeding prohibited her from questioning him. The dairy farmer’s wife that she had been not so long ago wished to gape at his puckered flesh and boldly ask if the Mad Countess were truly insane.
Perhaps I should trade her the story of the scar for some advice on the dairy cows at Runshaw Park.
Lady Cottingham looked at him with expectation, no doubt waiting for him to enlighten her.
“I’m told the artist,” Colin said, trying not to sound bored, which he was, “spent the better part of a year on the project,” he looked up, “lying on his back to paint it. Very much like Michelangelo.”
The giant blackberry before him quivered. Confusion clouded Lady Cottingham’s face for a moment.
Lady Cottingham had no idea who Michelangelo was.
Her mouth opened to reply, lips quivering, to further delight Colin with her limited efforts at conversation but changed her mind. She merely nodded in agreement before turning to examine the tapestry before her.
He could almost hear her mind working. Have I met Lord Michelangelo at the opera?
Lady Helen took full advantage of her mother’s embarrassment and attention to the tapestry. Leaning into the space between herself and Colin, she gave a small half shrug, pushing the top of her generous breasts upward until they appeared ready to spill from her bodice. She blinked artfully at Colin her eyelashes fluttering madly. The move was so practiced Colin assumed Lady Helen rehearsed it in front of a mirror.
Colin wasn’t the least impressed. Or interested.
“I’m not overly fond of Greek mythology, Lord Kilmaire. All those gods and goddesses one has to remember. The only one I can remember is Aphrodite.” She cast him a seductive look beneath her lashes. Her breasts pressed lightly against his forearm.
“Romans, Greeks, Egyptians,” she continued, “I can’t keep them all straight, I’m afraid. It’s all so much dust now, at any rate.” A slightly bawd laugh left her lips. “I’d much rather concentrate on the present.”
Colin gave her a courteous nod.
Lady Helen seemed not to notice Colin’s lack of interest.
“I’m a bird watcher.” She lowered her voice an octave as if imparting some great secret. “I find them to be incredibly fascinating creatures. There are so many beautiful species, all with their own small quirks. And I adore feathers.” A giggle burst from her lips.
A hand raised to Colin’s lips to hold in the yawn that threatened. “Do go on.”
“I’ve begun keeping a journal, a trophy book of sorts, where I track down those birds that others find difficult to spot. I am a relentless hunter, Lord Kilmaire. I record my assessment of each specimen, my observations and such. I even draw sketches. Possibly I’ll share my findings with the Royal Museum at some point, or perhaps one of England’s universities. I feel certain that as an expert in this field, my observations have merit and would be welcomed.”
Colin found that highly unlikely, though he respected her passion. It was the only appealing thing about Lady Helen besides her dowry.
Lady Helen’s eyes glistened with feverish intensity as she proceeded to relate the details of her intrepid search for a particular species of thrush. Apparently, the bird made it’s home in the wooded meadows surrounding Gray Covington.
Colin reminded himself that he didn’t have to find Lady Helen fascinating. He thought they would probably get along well. She’d probably cuckold him before their first wedding anniversary.
He doubted he would care.
“Few ladies, my lord, let alone a countess, would climb a tree to gain a glimpse of a ruby throated thrush.” A pout crossed her lips as the brief brush of her fingertips pressed his forearm in a suggestive manner. “But, I have.”
Lady Helen should learn the fine art of subtly.
“Helen,” Lady Cottingham turned from the tapestry to her daughter, nostrils flaring as if she were a deer scenting danger. “I do not think it appropriate to mention your unladylike behavior to Lord Kilmaire.”
Lady Helen shot her mother a mutinous look but dutifully took a step back from Colin.
“I’m afraid my daughter can be a bit reckless, Lord Kilmaire.”
“Not at all, Lady Cottingham.”
As if climbing a tree made one reckless. Or possibly Lady Cottingham assumed that the very idea of her daughter’s exposed calves would incite lust in Colin. Why he might forget himself, so overcome by the thought of her ankles that he would pounce on Lady Helen and ravish her.
Lady Cottingham worried needlessly.
“Perhaps we can go birdwatching during our stay at Gray Covington?” Lady Helen murmured in a low voice.
Colin waited for Lady Cottingham to chastise her daughter again, but the lady’s attention was drawn to the entrance of the drawing room. Her cheeks reddened and the fingertips of one gloved hand fluttered against her neck.
“It would be my pleasure, with your parent’s permission, of course,” Colin answered loudly enough for Lady Cottingham to hear. Unfortunately, Lady Helen’s mother wasn’t listening.
Lady Helen’s rosebud mouth pursed a bit, not caring for his answer. “Of course, my lord.”
Did the chit think he was stupid enough to agree to an assignation? For that was what Lady Helen implied. Her parents would happen upon them, of course, and Colin would need to do the honorable thing.
Shouldn’t I want that? Cut the courtship short. Return to Runshaw Park with my pockets lined with Lady Helen’s dowry?
Lady Helen wished to float about the ton as a countess. Colin wished to return to Runshaw Park. They were each other’s means to an end. There was little shame in that, he reminded himself. Virtually every other marriage in the ton was cut from the same cloth. He would never care for her, nor would she care for him.
Yes. But she bores me silly. She’s pretty enough and rich enough but I’m sure she doesn’t know how to catch a frog. I doubt she wiggles her toes as she reads, if she reads at all.
“Lord Kilmaire?”
“My apologies, Lady Helen. I was thinking how your hair shines like gold in the candlelight. I fear it struck me speechless for a moment.” I can be charming, he mused, watching the way Lady Helen preened at his compliment.
“You flatter me, Lord Kilmaire.”
Her eyes slid to her mother, confirming that Lady Cottingham’s head was still turned away before boldly touching his forearm with the tip of her fan. “I look forward to our bird watching, Lord Kilmaire.”
“As do I,” he returned.
Oh yes, I shall count the minutes until we search for the ruby throated thrush.
Lady Cottingham was still turned towards the front of the room. Her mouth opened slightly as one hand flew up to pat her coiffure. A languid sigh escaped her lips. She had totally forgotten her daughter and Colin.
Colin drained his wine in disgust.
Lady Cottingham’s behavior could only be attributed to one thing, or rather, one person. No woman seemed immune. Once Colin saw an elderly duchess fan herself furiously at being exposed to such potent allure. The woman had to have been at least eighty.
How in the world did Alex tolerate such nonsense?
Lady Cottingham gave another heartfelt sigh as if she’d just been awarded her heart’s desire and pressed her fan against the top of her chest. She was struck dumb with rapture as the Marquess of Cambourne walked further into the drawing room.
Cam strode forward, the ridiculous green baby hanging from his ear, greeting his guests with a wide smile. Alex, his marchioness dangled from one arm, the indomitable Dowager Marchioness, his grandmother, on the other.
The Dowager was resplendent this evening in a gown of dove gray satin, a small diamond tiara set amongst the silver curls of her hair. Diamonds dripped from her ears and throat, sparkling in the light.
The thump of her cane echoed in the room as she made her way forward, surveying her guests with a shrewd glance of her emerald eyes.
Alex wore a swath of shimmering blue silk, her mass of dark, curling hair twisted into an elaborate hairstyle, no doubt designed to keep her willful locks constrained. Sapphire earrings dangled from her ears, her only adornment except for a locket she wore around her neck. Alex bestowed a welcoming smile on Lady Cottingham, despite the adoration with which the woman’s eyes followed the Marquess of Cambourne.
Cam seemed oblivious to the effect his appearance had on the fairer sex.
Colin knew he was not.
As he watched, Alex’s gloved hand discreetly pinched her husband’s forearm and whispered something for his ears alone.
Cam brought the Dowager to a large chair set in the center of the room. The position of the chair, covered in crimson velvet, as well as the chair’s size, gave one the impression of a throne.
No doubt that was the Dowager’s intent.
Gingerly, the Dowager lowered herself to sit, bejeweled fingers clutching the head of her cane. She nodded to Cam in thanks before settling herself.
Lady Cambourne left her husband’s side to greet Lord Hamill.
The aging lord’s hooded eyes roamed over Alex’s voluptuous form, settling for a moment across the tops of her breasts, before he pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
Old lecher.
Upon meeting Lord Hamill, Colin formed a very firm opinion. An elderly rake. One who still thought himself attractive to women, despite the fact his looks had long since faded. His watery eyes flickered over every woman in an assessing manner, focusing on their breasts and lips, a sure sign of his true nature. The man was reputed to be widely respected in Parliament and possessed a keen political acumen, regardless of his roguish behavior.
Miranda couldn’t seriously be considering Lord Hamill as a husband. He was nearly as old as the Dowager.
“Good evening.” The Marquess of Cambourne approached and slid next to Colin, nodding to Lady Cottingham.
Lady Cottingham took her daughter’s arm, pulling Lady Helen down with her as she executed a small curtsy.
Cam bestowed an indulgent smile upon the two ladies.
Lady Helen struggled discreetly to loosen her mother's grip.
“Lady Cottingham, Lady Helen.” Cam politely took Lady Cottingham’s hand and gently pulled her up while simultaneously bowing over her hand. “How radiant you both look tonight. I trust you are finding Gray Covington comfortable?”
Lady Cottingham appeared as if she would faint from sheer delight. “My lord,” she twittered, “we are so pleased at your invitation. I am in utter awe of the beauty of this room.”
Good Lord, she’s giggling like a schoolgirl.
Where on earth was Lord Cottingham? The man should bear witness to the way his wife was making an ass out of herself over the Marquess of Cambourne.
“My husband begs your pardon, Lord Cambourne. He is unable to join us for dinner this evening.” Lady Cottingham batted her lashes.
The effect was less than alluring.
“I hope he’s not ill.” Cam inquired. “There is an excellent physician nearby, Dr. Merwick. I can have him sent for.”
Lady Cottingham giggled again. “How generous of you, Lord Cambourne, but please do not trouble yourself. My husband sometimes becomes ill if he spends too long in a carriage. I assure you he will be right as rain tomorrow and looks forward to your tour of the estate.”
“As do I. I hope you and your daughter will permit me the honor of escorting you both into dinner? I am a poor substitute for Lord Cottingham, I know.”
A small snort sounded from Colin. He couldn’t help it. Lady Cottingham would cheerfully push her husband off a cliff if the end result was dangling on the arm of the Marquess of Cambourne.
Cam shot him a disapproving look.
Lady Cottingham beamed with pleasure and even Lady Helen’s eyes widened at Cam’s words. “Of course, my lord. We would be honored.” She had the decency to look askance at Colin.
Colin gave a polite nod of his head. At least he’d be spared taking the ladies Cottingham into dinner.
“And may I say, Lord Cambourne, that I look forward to walking in the Gray Covington gardens? I’ve long heard of their beauty, especially the midnight roses. I had the pleasure of seeing vases of the blooms once, at a ball your mother hosted in London just before her marriage to Mr. Herbert Reynolds. Mr. Reynolds is an acquaintance of Lord Cottingham,” she added.
“My stepmother.” Ice dripped from the words.
The color left Lady Cottingham’s face and her lips trembled at the rebuke.
Poor woman, she’s stepped in it now. Cam detests having people assume that bitch is his mother.
Alex silently appeared at her husband’s side, threading her arm through his. Her fingertips pressed lightly against his forearm in a calming gesture.
“We do not grow midnight roses any longer, Lady Cottingham,” Alex said in a matter of fact tone. “Alas, the plants fell victim to a horrible infestation of aphids. Really very tragic.”
“Aphids?” Lady Cottingham blinked rapidly, and two spots of color appeared on her powered cheeks.
“Birds eat aphids,” Lady Helen twittered to no one in particular.
“Yes,” Alex continued. “Unfortunately, the plants had to be destroyed. Each and every bush had to be ripped,” her eyes narrowed rather viciously, “from the ground.”
“But, surely,” Lady Cottingham who doubtless knew quite a bit about gardening in addition to dairy farming said, “some cuttings could be saved? A root ball, perhaps?”
“Sadly, no.” Alex shook her head which allowed a curl to loosen from her coiffure and bounce against her brow. “The aphids were particular to the midnight rose. Our head gardener had never seen anything like it and was quite mystified, wasn’t he my lord?”
A small smile lifted the corner of Cam’s mouth, his wife having dispelled his black mood. “Yes, mystified.”
“We’ve replanted the gardens with a much more sturdy species of rose, one that can withstand an aphid attack. I’m sure you’ll find them equally as lovely.”
Colin knew that the midnight roses were created especially for Lady Jeanette Cambourne. At her command. The petals of the flowers were meant to serve as a foil for her own pale beauty. Dozens of gardeners were sacked until one lucky man produced exactly the right shade. Lady Cambourne had permitted only midnight roses to be planted in the gardens of Gray Covington and Cambourne House. When her ladyship hosted a ball or other large gathering, she insisted that large vases of the roses fill each room, so much so that the flower vendors of London competed for cuttings of the bushes in order to grow enough to meet her demands.
The midnight rose bushes had been destroyed at Cam’s insistence once his stepmother was finally gone from London.
Alex bestowed a warm smile on the slightly bewildered Lady Cottingham who was too new to society to know of the former Lady Cambourne’s venomous personality.
“I do hope, Lady Cottingham, that the chambers I selected for you and your family meet with your approval?” Turning slightly, she addressed Lady Helen. “I picked yours, Lady Helen, especially because of your fondness for birds. Your room overlooks a particularly large maple tree. A pair of robins have taken up residence in the tree and formed a nest full of lovely blue eggs. I believe they are nearly ready to hatch. I thought perhaps you would enjoy watching them during your stay.”
Lady Helen’s lips curled in a tolerant smile. “Robins are really rather common, Lady Cambourne. Why—”
“Thank you.” Lady Cottingham took hold of her daughter’s hand, squeezing tightly in an effort to keep her daughter from offending their hosts. “You are most considerate, Lady Cambourne. I’m sure my daughter will enjoy the view very much. May I also say again, how pleased we are to visit Gray Covington.”
“My husband’s grandmother would like to renew your acquaintance.” Alex tilted her head to the seat where the Dowager now held court. “She has sent me over to collect you.”
Lady Cottingham swallowed nervously. “Of course. I must thank Lady Cambourne for her kind invitation.”
Two men stood on either side of The Dowager paying their respects. Colin recognized the large form of Lord Anthony Welles immediately, for he’d known him at Eton. The other gentleman Colin assumed to be Carstairs. The dolt.
“Please,” Alex gestured for Lady Cottingham to precede her, and took the woman’s arm when she didn’t budge. “I would also take the opportunity to introduce you to Lord Anthony Welles and Lord Thomas Carstairs. You may be acquainted with Lord Carstairs’s younger sister, Lady Gwendolyn? She’s just made her debut.”
“I’ve met Lady Gwendolyn.” Lady Helen replied before her mother could answer. “I find her—”
“Delightful.” Lady Cottingham shot her daughter a firm look.
Alex guided Lady Cottingham and Lady Helen in the direction of the Dowager who sat watching their approach with an assessing gleam in her eye.
Colin leaned towards Cam. “I must remember to thank Alex for her timely rescue from Lady Helen and her mother. I was about to be treated to a very impassioned speech on the ruby throated thrush. Whatever the bloody hell that is.”
A servant paused before Cam holding a silver tray holding two glasses of wine.
Taking one of the stemmed glasses, Colin took a sip and frowned. “You really should serve whiskey if I’m going to be forced to make conversation on birds.”
“She’s wealthy. Horribly so. Despite her eccentric hobby.”
“Obsession.” Colin corrected him.
Cam shrugged. “I’ve no wish for you to be condemned to a life of obsessive birdwatching. You have other options.”
“Borrowing so heavily from my friends is not one of them,” Colin reminded him.
Cam sighed in resignation and lifted his chin towards the group surrounding the Dowager.
“You remember Welles, don’t you?”
“I do. I understand that he now uses his aptitude with numbers and business acumen on Elysium.”
Cam lifted his glass. “Well, he had to make a living somehow didn’t he, after refusing to marry the girl his father chose for him. Now the Duke of Baunton, surrounded by his five daughters, still waits for his heir to marry.”
“The son of a duke,” Colin mused, “running a club that caters to the most decadent tastes of the ton. I’m told there are private rooms where one can indulge and explore any pleasure one wishes.”
“Welles is a silent partner. It is his half-brother who manages Elysium.”
“And Carstairs? I have difficulty believing he and Welles are friends. I’m told my horse possesses more personality than Carstairs.”
“No, definitely not friends. I believe there is property that Welles wishes to purchase from Carstairs and wanted to view it himself rather than send his solicitor. Grandmother invited them to stay for the house party since they meant to stop for the night anyway.”
“Perhaps your grandmother,” Colin bit out, hating the jealous note in his tone, “means for Welles or Carstairs to be potential suitors for Miranda.”
Laughter burst from Cam’s lips. “I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor. “Lord Hamill and Ridley are bad enough without adding Carstairs to the mix.”
Colin ignored the fact that Cam made no mention of Welles.
Behind the chair in which the Dowager sat, a gentleman entered the room, pausing at the doorway as if waiting to be noticed, frowning slightly when he seemed to garner no attention as he made his way forward.
Beside him, Cam tensed, eyes narrowed with dislike. “I was so hoping he wouldn’t be able to find his way down here until we’d already begun the soup course. The frontrunner for my sister’s hand. Lord Edwin Ridley.”
Colin’s hackles rose immediately as he took in the viscount.
Lord Ridley was tall and slender, his dark evening clothes perfectly tailored to fit his lean form. The only distraction was his waistcoat. The garment was a mélange of colors, a crazy patchwork of blue and green shot through with gold thread. A mop of carefully teased curls hung about his face.
Christ, I can smell his pomade even from this distance.
“Just seeing Ridley makes me reconsider my earlier assessment of Carstairs. Perhaps Carstairs is only pretending to have the intelligence of a potted plant. He’s hiding his brilliance for some reason and will reveal himself at an opportune moment.”
“A bit colorful, isn’t he?” What an utter fop Ridley was. How could Miranda consider such a man? The wine soured in his mouth just watching Ridley prance across the room.
“Carstairs a dandy?” Cam’s brow wrinkled. “Oh, you mean Ridley. Yes. I’m told he spends more on his clothing than a girl in her first Season. I was hopeful that Ridley would lose interest in my sister, but he seems to have renewed his suit in the last few months. I still have hope that Miranda will come to her senses. I almost prefer Hamill.” A pained look crossed Cam’s face. “Actually, I’d rather she remain a spinster than make a foolish choice.”
Colin agreed. He didn’t care for either of Miranda’s suitors. She couldn’t possibly be serious. Again, he wished to ask about the incident, but now wasn’t the best time.
“Perhaps my sister will listen to you?”
Colin choked on his wine. “Sorry,” he covered his shock at his friend’s suggestion, “you know I don’t care for wine. Why,” he passed his glass to a waiting servant, “would you think Miranda would listen to me?” Cam really didn’t know, as impossible as that seemed.
“She may listen to you. Her ‘prince’ from childhood.”
The casual remark caused his heart to contract.
“I’ll speak to her if you wish.” Colin ceded. “But, Cam. You need to tell me what happened. To Miranda.”
Cam turned away, either not hearing Colin or choosing to ignore the question. “Ah, there’s Miss Lainscott and her aunt, the esteemed Lady Dobson.” He couldn’t keep the distaste from his words. “Alex speaks very highly of Miss Lainscott.”
Lady Agnes Dobson, so spare of form with sharp angles that one was reminded of a praying mantis, strode forward towing behind her a slight young woman. Miss Margaret Lainscott was unremarkable in every way, from the color of her hair to the pale blush of her gown. Ordinary, except for the directness of her gaze and the sheen of intelligence in her eyes.
Lady Dobson tugged her niece forward, looking as if she would toss the poor girl at Colin.
Miss Lainscott’s eyes flashed with rebellion and irritation before she lowered them demurely.
Colin liked her immediately.
“Lord Cambourne, Lord Kilmaire.” Lady Dobson and Miss Lainscott dipped in unison.
“Lady Dobson.” Cam did not bother to take Lady Dobson’s hand, ignoring it in favor of Miss Lainscott’s. “May I present my friend, the Earl of Kilmaire.”
The snub was not lost on Lady Dobson. The large ostrich feather atop her turban quivered a bit, though her voice showed no hint of nervousness at being in the presence of the Marquess of Cambourne. Determination gleamed from her pale eyes as she turned to Colin.
“Lord Kilmaire.” Lady Dobson extended a boney, gloved hand, the stark white of her gloves giving the impression it was a skeleton’s hand he bent over.
Thin to the point of emaciation, Lady Dobson’s elegant silk gown hung from her meager figure, as there seemed no flesh to cling to. Everything about the woman was sharp and cutting, from the way she walked to the unseemly way she was moving Miss Lainscott closer to Colin’s side. Her beady eyes took in Colin, lingering over the scar on his face before dazzling him with a false smile meant to hide her disgust at his disfigurement. After all, an earl, even one as flawed as Colin, would be more than suitable for her niece, a niece that she was quite desperate to get rid of.
The lady would make an excellent villain in a Lord Thurston novel.
“Lady Dobson, a delight.” It wasn’t.
Sniffing in acknowledgement of the compliment, she nodded her head in agreement. The feather in her turban bobbed, strands of it floating about her head like a feathery mist.
“My niece, Miss Margaret Lainscott.” A spindly hand lay on Miss Lainscott’s shoulder. “She is the daughter of my late sister and her husband.” She propelled Margaret closer to Colin as if the girl were a sacrificial virgin.
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Lainscott.”
“My lord.” Miss Lainscott curtsied, her voice so soft Colin strained to hear it. Now that she was closer, he could see the tiny spray of freckles dotting her nose. Eyes, dark and velvety like those of a doe, looked up at him.
Colin watched as Lady Dobson jabbed a finger in Margaret’s back.
“A pleasure, Lord Kilmaire.”
“Miss Lainscott, how did you find your journey to Gray Covington?” Cam favored her with a kind nod of his head though he clutched his wineglass so tightly Colin feared the slender stem would snap and Cam might stab Lady Dobson with the shard.
Before the girl could reply, Lady Dobson answered, momentarily forgetting Cam’s frostiness towards her. “Tolerable, Lord Cambourne. Our coachman did not take great care on the road and I feared we would be jostled senseless before arriving. There is a large rut as you turn up the drive to Gray Covington. Jarring, my lord. You must send one of your servants to fill it immediately.”
Cam’s lips tightened. “I was speaking to Miss Lainscott.”
Lady Dobson stiffened and her mouth gaped open slightly like a fish that had suddenly found itself in a fisherman’s net. She quickly regained her composure, pillar of society that she was, though she likely hadn’t ever been cut so directly.
A flicker of amusement lit Miss Lainscott’s eyes at her aunt’s discomfort, though she quickly hid it. “I found the countryside beautiful, my lord. It is such a pleasant change from London. And this room,” her eyes swung around to the tapestries lining the walls,“is a work of art. I do adore Greek mythology.”
“She reads overmuch, I fear,” Lady Dobson said, inserting herself. “Margaret, Lord Kilmaire and Lord Cambourne have no desire to listen to your opinion on art.”
Harpy.
“Then it appears we have much in common, Miss Lainscott.” Colin pretended not to hear Lady Dobson and resisted the urge to swat at her as if she were a large, turbaned, housefly. “I adore Greek mythology as well.”
“As do I.” Cam uttered over his glass of wine, his gaze skewering Lady Dobson. “Should you decide to read overmuch while at Gray Covington, Miss Lainscott, I insist that you take advantage of the library. My father’s collection of Greek myths is fairly extensive. I believe there is also an entire shelf on Norse mythology as well. If you would care to expand your knowledge in such things.”
Lady Dobson’s smile faded. It was evident she was struggling to maintain her polite façade. Clearly, the Marquess of Cambourne’s dislike towards her was returned in spades. Lady Dobson might be the only woman in all of England who did not find the Marquess of Cambourne appealing.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Cam set his empty wine glass down on a nearby table. “I believe I have not greeted Lord Hamill properly.” He dipped slightly, and the small piece of jade slid through his hair.
“Well.” Lady Dobson snapped out her fan. Her eyes were riveted on Cam’s earring and she muttered something under her breath. Turning back to her niece and Colin, a sly smile crossed her thin lips. “Margaret, Lady Cambourne begs my attention for a moment. Admire the tapestry and try not to bore Lord Kilmaire until I return.”
Lady Dobson spun off, her skirts nearly swallowing up her meager form as she made her way to the Dowager, leaving her niece with Colin.
A sound of relief escaped Miss Lainscott at her aunt’s departure. Her eyes widened, and one gloved hand covered her mouth in mortification.
Colin liked her all the more for it.
“You may breathe freely now. At least until your aunt returns. I’ll test your knowledge, Miss Lainscott. What event does the tapestry before us depict?”
“The birth of Athena,” she answered without hesitation. “Born fully formed from the head of Zeus.” Stepping closer, the tips of her fingers reached out with hesitation.
“Go on, Miss Lainscott. I shan’t tell.”
Her lips turned up at the corners as she traced the outline of Athena’s sandaled foot.
A melodic laugh sounded on the other side of the room drawing Colin’s attention.
Miranda.
She was greeting Lord Hamill, and her brother. He could see the animation on her beautiful face from where he stood. She wore a gauzy creation of sea-bottle green edged in black piping, that floated over her generous curves. Jet hung from her ears, swaying as she spoke. She looked luscious and warm, like a summer’s day.
“Lord Kilmaire?”
Miss Lainscott’s gaze fell on Miranda.
“Lady Miranda is very lovely.” Miss Lainscott said. “And she’s very well versed in ancient history. I’ve had many spirited discussions with her on the building of the pyramids and their purpose.” Her brow wrinkled. “Oddly enough, she knows quite a bit about the process of embalming and mummification.”
“I didn’t realize you were acquainted.” His eyes never left Miranda. She sparkled like a rare gem from across the room.
Lord Hamill certainly took notice as he was entirely too close to her.
“I was introduced to Lady Miranda at Lady Marr’s fete a fortnight ago. She’s incredibly well read. There are several lectures at the Royal Museum she’s invited me to attend. I believe Lord Cambourne is speaking at one. It’s a recounting of an expedition through India.”
“Yes, he visited there once. But Egypt is her passion.” Colin frowned, watching as Ridley strode over and took Miranda’s elbow. “She has always adored ancient Egypt. Mummies. Pyramids.” He could still see Miranda walking with him as they strolled through the park. She was regaling him with some horrible description of a death ritual practiced by Ramses’s priests, when the breeze blew her bonnet off. The bonnet retreated out of his grasp, over and over, as if some invisible hand pulled it away from him. He’d finally resorted to pouncing on it, battering the poor bonnet and tearing off the ribbon. Instead of being angry at the destruction of her hat, Miranda had laughed in delight.
He’d spun her behind a large oak tree, out of view, and kissed her senseless.
“You seem quite intent on something, Lord Kilmaire.”
Miss Lainscott was much too perceptive for her own good.
“Not at all, Miss Lainscott.” He kept his tone unconcerned and blasé, as if watching Ridley circle Miranda with avarice written on his face was of no import to him. “I was just trying to place the gentleman speaking to Lady Miranda.”
“Lord Ridley.” Her direct gaze met his. “He seems quite taken with her.”
Before he could speak, Lady Dobson reappeared behind them. “Lord Kilmaire, if you’ll excuse us, I wish to introduce Margaret to Lord Carstairs.”
He nodded. “Of course. I look forward to our next conversation, Miss Lainscott.”
Miss Lainscott dipped in an artful curtsy. “Until then, Lord Kilmaire.”
Colin bowed. He turned back to the tapestry, determined to give Athena his attention. He summoned up the anger and bitterness that raged within him for six long, lonely years, but it was no comfort. It was natural to be attracted to her. To want her.
The musical sound of her laughter floated to him.
Was Ridley so fucking amusing? Hamill so witty?
Mine.
Only she wasn’t. Not anymore. He was here to court another woman. Marry another woman. Fulfill his obligation to Runshaw Park. Then he could retreat back to his family’s estate and restore the lands to their former glory. That’s what he wanted, wasn’t it?
“I came to give my condolences at having to engage Lady Dobson in conversation.” Lord Anthony Welles said as he drew near Colin. “Shouldn’t she have dried up like so much dust and blown away by now instead of continuing to terrorize society? No wonder Lord Dobson met his end early. I’m sure death was preferable to their marriage.”
“Welles. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“Kilmaire.” Welles inspected the scar with a piercing gaze. “That must have hurt like hell, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
He didn’t. “Like the bloody dickens.” Welles rarely minced words about anything. It was one of the things Colin liked about him.
“A fine job of stitching you up.” Welles dark head tilted closer to Colin and lowered his voice. “I am sorry, Kilmaire, for the loss of your family. A terrible thing. As one surrounded by five sisters, I cannot imagine.”
“It was a long time ago.” Colin didn’t want Welles sympathy, nor anyone’s. Nick and Cam were bad enough. “Tell me about your business venture, Welles. How is Elysium?”
