In Compromise with the Earl by Ava MacAdams

Chapter One

Mercifully, Oswald managed to slip into his Hall undetected by his mother and went to his chamber, to disrobe and fall into bed. He would call for a bath and coffee after he had a satisfactory nap, however, no sooner had he pulled the covers up when his mother’s rapid, hummingbird knock sounded on his door.

“Damnation,” he muttered under his breath. To his door, he lifted his voice, “One moment.”

Slipping out of bed, he snatched the dressing robe off the back of a chair and hurriedly donned it. Opening the door, his gaze dropped to his diminutive mother, Henrietta Bristol, Dowager Countess of Tennesley.

“Yes, Mother?” He heard the tiredness in his voice and at her sympathetic moue; she had heard it as well.

“Didn’t sleep well, Dear?” she asked.

He sagged on the doorjamb and raked a hand through his hair. “You might say that.”

She reached up and tapped his face, “I’m sorry, Dear, but your cousin Leo is here for breakfast, would you please come join us?”

“Mother—” he sighed, sagging on the wall as fatigue made his body heavy.

He rubbed his face. “Give me a few minutes to get somewhat presentable. I will be down soon.”

With a small smile, she nodded and went down the corridor, and Oswald retreated to his chamber. He went to his bathing chamber and dunked his hands into the basin to splash water on his face and rinsed his mouth so they would not smell the alcohol on his breath.

He didn’t bother with his hair, but slipped a pair of loose trousers under the robe and went to join his mother and priest cousin in the breakfast room.

Entering the room, he spotted his mother and Leo there conversing over cups of tea and coffee respectively. His mother’s light-blonde hair shimmered in the sunlight, while his cousin’s was a shade darker but still blond.

Leo, a priest in the Anglican Order was two years younger than Oswald’s eight-and-twenty and had this calm, serene air about him. He stood and smiled. “Ah, here is my cousin. Risen from the dead, I see.”

“Hardly,” Oswald stuck out a hand and shook his cousin’s. “I wasn’t aware you’re in town.”

“The Diocese afforded me a new apartment in London because I’m being transferred and will join the church at St. Bride’s.”

“Ah, good for you,” Oswald nodded as he took his seat, and poured out a large cup of coffee. “I suppose that means I will be seeing you much more, then.”

Swallowing a mouthful, Oswald felt the rich, bitter brew spread artificial warmth through his chest. “Wonderful.”

Then, his mother and Leo shared a look that caused suspicion to bloom in Oswald’s chest. He gently set the cup down and flicked a gaze between the two before he asked, “What are you two planning?”

Leo lifted his hand in surrender. “Not I, Cousin. I only came to give Aunt a listening ear to her idea.”

“What idea?” Oswald felt an ominous sinking feeling drag his stomach down to his feet.

His mother gave him a warm, sympathetic look that always made Oswald’s heart lurch. He hated that look, absolutely despised it, but he could not say a word about it. It was her right to pity him knowing—as all of London did—what his wife had done to him. But he had hoped that after a year, that look would have vanished; sadly he was wrong.

“Oswald, I know you are still hurting, and it is plain that you spend your nights in solitude, but I think that is only harming you more,” his mother said pleadingly. “I think it’s time for you to find a demure woman, marry and have an heir.”

“Mother—” Oswald groaned.

“I know it will be difficult, but you must try,” she said. “Sooner or later, you will do it, but it will be much harder if you wait.”

“She is right, Cousin,” Leo spoke up in that quiet, steady, priestly tone that grated on Oswald’s nerves. “The more you shrink from life, the harder it will be to integrate with it later on.”

Looking between the two, Oswald found that he was outnumbered. He could object and tell them that he did not need any help, but he felt it hard to reject his mother. She had allowed him months to mourn and had never objected to his life.

How hard would it be to oblige her for this once?

Oswald was hiding from the world, and he knew it. Unable to keep his bluster up, he rubbed his forehead. “And how do you propose I do this?”

“You agreed to attend Lady PandoraRavenswood’s soiree a few weeks ago,” his mother reminded him. “The ball is tonight. But you must make an impression. Lady Ravenswood only takes twelve men and twelve women to her country Estate for the matchmaking.”

“Ah, the indomitable Matchmaker of London,” Oswald said dryly. “I hear she is a force to be reckoned with.”

“It seems so,” Henrietta smiled kindly. “Which is why I think she is your best option to find a fitting match.”

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll attend, but no promises.”

His answer made his mother frown a little, but she managed to smile anyway. “It’s a start, that’s all I want.”

With a curt nod, Oswald poured himself another cup. “Will you be coming with me tonight, Leo?”

His cousin’s lips stretched into a good-natured grin, “I’m not suited for being a society lady’s husband,” he said. “I think its best if I marry a humble country miss who knows how to cook hare stew and knows the cure for infant colic.”

“Suit yourself,” Oswald said, while filling his plate with coddled eggs and slivers of ham. Thinking about Claire’s barefaced adultery his heart chilled. “Maybe that’s best, God forbid you end up with a wife like mine.”

An uncomfortable lull dropped over them, and Oswald looked up to see the mirroring uneasiness on both his mother and his cousin’s face. He lifted a brow. “I’m sorry. Was that uncomfortable?”

* * *

The Ravenswood townhome in Grosvenor Square looked fairly new, as far as the other stately London homes went. Tall columns of cream-colored marble rose up to gilded Corinthian capitals where they met the painted roof. Oswald stepped out onto the marble steps and headed to meet the livered footman at the door.

After showing his invitation, he was directed to the parlor where the guests would mingle before going to the main ballroom. Cream-and-gold gilt wallpaper matched the tiered chandeliers above and Oswald noted members of some of London’s most titled families were there.

If they were all there to find fitting mates, he might not measure up enough to be chosen. Then again, which lady in her right mind would choose me? I’m the cuckold of London—a laughingstock.

Already, he could feel gazes skirting up the side of his neck and tried not to turn around and glare at those who were staring. If they were all there for the same thing, who were they to judge?

He smoothly snagged a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and downed half of it. A part of him had expected cut-rate champagne, but he was only tasting pure, rich, Veuve Clicquot-Ponsardin.

Dryly gazing around the room, he found the eyes of Lady Faven, a Baroness who had lost her husband in a similar fashion as he had lost his wife, only her spouse had been poisoned and not stabbed. She lifted her glass to him, and he replied in kind. Maybe she could be his match; they would have similar stories to share.

“Lord Tennesley in the flesh. I thought you had gone off to be a monk,” a teasing voice said. He turned and saw a young woman he had never seen before, but clearly knew him.

She was lovelier than he’d expected, slender and petite, with a fine and delicate facial structure and a perfect, bow-shaped mouth. Her skin glowed with health and vitality, and her blonde hair was piled up on her head and cascaded down her back, showing the thickness and luster of the mass.

Her brilliant blue eyes held his while he inclined his head. “You have me at a disadvantage, My Lady. You know who I am, but I am a bit at a loss of who you are—?”

Her brows lifted. “And here I thought my father’s reputation would precede me. I’m Aphrodite Newfield, daughter of the Viscount of Kingsley. I, however, have heard of you. My sympathies on your late wife, but you’ve been hiding away from the world. Why?”

“Well, I suppose I went into hibernation,” he said dryly.

“Funny enough, a few people thought you were dead,” she remarked.

“In many ways I was,” he said, while looking into his flute. “But I’ve come back from the proverbial grave.”

“I can see that,” she remarked. “And in good style too. I think it’s good to see you defying the odds.”

“And those odds are?”

“That you would dare to get married again,” she replied. “I mean, if you are here with the rest of London’s outcasts, aren’t you looking for a match?”

Cocking his head, Oswald asked, “Where are you going with this, My Lady?”

A flirtatious smile made the mischief in her eyes grow more apparent. She clinked his flute with hers. “I think its commendable of you to show the detractors that they are wrong in their assumptions. Good evening, My Lord.”

He could not stop his eyes from following her and his lips pursed when he saw another woman dressed in gray—probably her maid—hurry after her. “What a curious, sphinxlike young lady,” he murmured.

“Viscount Kingsley’s daughter is an enigma,” a man next to him said. Then he gave Oswald a contrite smile. “I apologize for listening to you two, but I must give you a word of caution. What she said about her father is true, he is a Lothario.”

“And you are?”

“Quentin Draven, Earl of Easton,” the man with dark-red hair, dark-brown eyes and a slanted grin, stuck out his hand. “At your service.”

“Oswald Bristol, Earl of Tennesley,” he replied while shaking. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. So, you’re here…with the rest of us castoffs.”

Swirling his drink, Quentin said, “Sadly. It seems that I am not social enough to find a wife, so…here I am.”

“Join the club,” Oswald muttered. “For one thing, I think this service is smokescreen humdrum, so don’t be too disappointed if nothing happens.

“I don’t know,” Quentin mentioned, while sticking his hand into his pocket. “You never know. It might be truer than you think.”

“And I’ll eat my boots,” Oswald snorted. “This will only end up as material in her gossip column. No one will marry, mark my word.”