Defying the Earl Read online

  “Odd circumstance, but I find myself against a wall and I don’t like the position. My son, Leonard, is smitten. Poor fool. Taken in mind and heart by Lady Fiona and I won’t have it. The chit may be the fairest debutante of the season, but her father is the biggest mutton-head in England. He serves in Parliament two aisles from my seat and boldly uses his power to support reduced taxation. I could never condone my only heir bound to a family whose patriarch displays such alarmingly shallow intelligence.”

  “Indeed.” Valerian inclined his head in agreement and cleared his throat to disguise the growl of his objecting belly. He skimmed his eyes over the far wall. Was there a liquor cabinet nearby? A brandy would be welcome.

  “The debate is fairly academic. No man in sound mind would sustain reduced taxes benefit the majority, yet since the Battle of Waterloo and the social upheaval opposing higher income tax, a large population has championed its abolition. Lord Nobles has led the battle cry against my efforts and that of my colleagues. His limited scope of foresight will cripple this country.

  “Now the girl may be as foolish as her father, I would not know, having never conversed with her, but the consideration signifies little. My son believes the sun rises and sets on the chit’s existence and has ignored my advisement he end the relationship and set his cap at another. Impetuous romantic heart of his. A curse from his mother’s side of the family. Women are plentiful in London. Leonard will be happier with someone else. Are you following, Dashwood?”

  “Yes.” It seemed the right thing to say though Valerian’s mind reeled with the ridiculous logic constituting the marquess’ objection. The man would deny his son a future of happiness for his selfish unwillingness to associate with the proposed father-in-law.

  Not that true love existed.

  Valerian believed it as tangible as a unicorn.

  Caroline proved that true years ago.

  For less than a breath, his heart ached with the memory.

  “Man of few words, are you?” Rigby approached, his eyebrows drawn, his forehead furrowed. “You do perceive the undertaking? I need my son disentangled from Lady Fiona with haste. Any further delay and Leonard may do something rash or worse, Parliament may begin to see reason in Nobles’ blather. I can’t take the chance.” A frown puckered his brow. “Lord Nobles is mad as hops if he believes he can convince the House of Lords to pursue financial reduction on the subject of taxation. He is brash and loud spoken and I will not have my name associated with such weak-minded theory.”

  “Understood.” Rigby didn’t seem to mind the pithy answer, too engrossed in his own objective.

  “Indeed.” The marquess nodded his head in affirmation. “Leonard will escort Fiona to the Collingsworth gathering tomorrow evening. I’ve already secured your invitation.” He reached into his left breast pocket and produced a letter written on ivory paper. “Your service comes highly recommended. A resourceful endeavor, if I may say, and of course, there is the matter of your price.” Rigby’s eyes flared, as if he wished to communicate everything left unsaid. “While an extraordinary amount, I’ll stop at nothing to see this through. Your associate explained the delicate nature of your finances and the oddity of circumstance.”

  Rigby paused and a flash of conflicted sympathy colored his eyes.

  Val’s right brow climbed. Delicate nature? Oddity of circumstance? The very devil. What did Jasper suggest to the man?

  “When our business is completed, you’ll be richer by five thousand pounds.”

  Rigby’s last three words yanked Val from his Jasperian considerations, and this time he remained silent, any final comment dissolved by the prospect of financial recovery.

  Wilhelmina lowered the brim of her bonnet a full two inches before darting a glance beyond the overstocked shelves of McMulberry’s Literary Emporium. In a stroke of pure serendipity she’d visited Bond Street Millinery two days previous and found herself unwittingly involved in a conversation debating the intricacies of tatted blonde lace. Lady Rigby insisted the finest fripperies were imported from Belgium, while her companion, a formidable dowager with silver hair, insisted the most delicate creations originated in Spain. Wilhelmina, having entered the shop to purchase an agreeable muslin befitting a matchmaker’s gown, was drawn into the argument by fault of proximity and asked to settle the issue. She had no opportunity to object as a swath of each trimming was forced into her hands. Wilhelmina had chosen Belgium lace much to the overt disagreement of the silver-haired dowager who stormed off mumbling her discontent. In turn, she’d won the allegiance of Lady Rigby, who’d come to the millinery to purchase a gift for her son to offer the lady who’d caught his eye. Without pause, Lady Rigby launched into a lengthy dissertation on her yearning for grandchildren, thus presenting Wilhelmina the ideal opportunity to extend her matchmaking services. With alacrity, Lady Rigby accepted.

  Now, awaiting an assignation with a woman she hardly knew, Wilhelmina hoped the marchioness proved the answer to her prayers. If things went well, Lady Rigby might inform other exacting mothers, anxious to see their sons and daughters settled, and Wilhelmina’s temporary foray into the business world could flourish.

  She huffed a small breath to steel her courage. It all equaled money for Livie’s treatments. This solitary reason eased Wilhelmina’s anxiety and smoothed her far ruffled feathers touting she should not be in public unescorted nor keeping secrets from her aunt. The clock on the wall showed half past noon. She would need to craft a solid excuse for having stayed away so long. Since coming to live with Aunt Kate, life had proceeded with a predictable and simplistic pattern. She occasionally joined the tea social, favored morning walks to take the air, and often read a book in the modest garden behind the town house. She could never be labeled a social butterfly, her range of activities fairly conservative.

  Much to her relief, Lady Rigby entered a heartbeat later. They made eye contact and together melted into the back shelves of the biography section, guaranteeing a modicum of privacy away from the Palladian glass windows decorated with literary enticements aimed to lure customers.

  “Thank you for meeting me under such unusual circumstances, but if there is one place I know my husband would never enter, it’s a bookshop. Never mind the biography section. He’s too interested in his own point of view to expand his mind with ideas from others.”

  “I see.” Wilhelmina thought it best not to remark further. The sooner she concluded their agreement, the better. “As I explained, it is vital my identity and purpose be kept secret, so your subterfuge serves us well. Do not give it another consideration. Now how may I help you?”

  Lady Rigby darted her eyes left and right and lowered her head, her voice a conspiratorial tone. “My son is very interested in Lady Fiona. He speaks of her ad infinitum, and I can tell from the twinkle in his eyes, she is firmly planted in his heart. Yet for an unidentifiable reason, the lady appears reluctant. Leonard couldn’t be more dashing, his cravat is always freshly starched and his manners impeccable. He epitomizes the proper gentleman.” Her face displayed unconcealed worry. “I would despair were he heartbroken, but with your assistance, perhaps the lady may come to recognize the fine prospect my son represents.”

  Wilhelmina considered the situation, despising her need to manipulate the truth and interfere in love’s path, but in truth, she would merely encourage the couple. Notwithstanding her reservations, matchmaking was a common practice among the ton and this effort was purely for Livie’s benefit. Were Wilhelmina to achieve success with this scheme, his mother’s recommendation would reach far within social circles ensuring more funds for her sister’s care. Her conscious inched closer to assuagement.

  “Of course, I’m prepared to pay you handsomely if you accomplish this goal.”

  The mention of money was the very incentive to snap Wilhelmina’s attention to the forefront. The ladies finalized the remaining details and Lady Rigby strode away, mixing with the other shoppers exiting the bookshop as if planning her son’s future composed a dai
ly occurrence.

  Not so for Wilhelmina.

  Her heart pounded a fierce beat at the thought of entering society under false pretenses, conversing with strangers, and encouraging their advances. Her reserved, quiet nature was never challenged in the country and as of yet, her experiences in London had been limited to Aunt Kate’s weekly tea social. Attending large-scale engagements reached beyond her comfort, but she’d manage for Livie. For both of them, truly.

  Head bowed for fear of being recognized by an acquaintance, Wilhelmina concentrated on the tips of her slippers as she swept from the bookshop and pushed forward into the crowded London walkway. Anxiety took a stronger hold with each step on the pavement, echoed in the rattle of carriage traffic and vendors hawking their wares. A newspaper boy’s call for customers was accompanied by the steady bark of a dog near his feet. The crack of a leather whip, a horse’s whinny, the sudden laughter of shoppers as they passed her within the crowded bustle, suffocated from all sides.

  Had she not been lost in thought or preoccupied with manufacturing reasons as to why her actions were justified, she may have paid more heed to her progression and noticed the large wheel ruts, filled with gravel and murky water, just beyond the curb. Lost in deliberation as the dense crowd flowed along the pavement and parted for no apparent reason, Wilhelmina forged ahead, unaware the smarter patrons had moved aside to avoid the roadway disaster. By the time she’d realized her mistake, it was too late. She splashed into the pitted grooves and lost her footing, her best slippers, stockings, and hems drenched on contact with London’s thickest muck. Arms flailing in panic, her gloved hand landed upon a solid wooden banister and without a glance, she held tight, scrambling to hoist herself up before she fell bottom down in the middle of the avenue.

  Yet a second later, the railing gave way, and a string of expletives filled the air no matter the loud din of the city surrounding her. Exuberant cursing continued, but there was no time to consider it. A gentleman splashed into the puddle beside her, the weight of his intrusion splattering muddy water across her cheek and chin. She sputtered an exclamation over his tirade as he chided her desperate attempt to gain leverage by use of his…arm.

  Oh dear.

  Wilhelmina met his gaze and her breath caught. London had resumed its bustle, dismissing the two muddied people knee-deep in dirty water near the edge of the walk; still she could hear nothing but the heavy thud of her heart.

  “You have no idea what you’ve done.” A warning sounded in his voice as the words lashed her ears in a thunderous tone.

  Oh, but she did. Paralyzed, Wilhelmina dropped her eyes and a heavy knot settled in her stomach. Muck squished between her toes. The grit of gravel and roadway scratched through her wool stockings. Her slippers were forever ruined and with no money to purchase a new pair, her careless, clumsy mistake left her utterly bereft. Yes, she knew the predicament well.

  “Did you hear me?”

  The impervious tone of his menacing question demanded her response. Wilhelmina shifted her attention to the right and skimmed her eyes from the top button of a black velvet waistcoat, higher over a tight-knotted cravat. She paused a breath to note the deep ridge in his firm set chin and then continued upward where her eyes lingered on his mouth for a reason she could not name…perhaps she waited on his next word.

  A constricted sound emanated from his throat, clean shaved but for a shadow of dark whiskers and she shot her eyes straight to his, absorbing the fierce condescension evident in his intense glare. Despite the livid anger, his eyes glowed like the midnight sky, as blue as lapis lazuli, filled with glistening specks of light, part mystery and invitation, each framed by long lashes, black as coal, creating a brilliant contrast to the remarkable shade of his irises. Eyes that appeared furious.

  For a split second, her mouth would not work; her brain completely preoccupied with the misfires of heart and mind. Then a more sensible part shook her loose and she formed the only words that seemed appropriate.

  “I’m very sorry. I thought I’d caught a railing to prevent my fall.”

  Some unexpected emotion flickered in the depths of his fathomless stare. Nothing she could identify as it disappeared before she could examine it. Still she took in his chiseled cheekbones, his obdurate glare, and her stomach continued to dance.

  “That railing was my arm.” He huffed an angry exhale. “Sorry will not pay the cleaning bill, will it?”

  The mention of money gained her attention. Would the gentleman expect reimbursement for the trouble she’d caused? Her eyes slanted over his shoulder to the haberdashery he’d most likely exited. It was the most expensive shop on Oxford Street. No wonder he appeared so angered. She ruined his boots, dirtied his suit, and who knew what else? He possessed very fine taste and she’d virtually bathed him in roadway filth. How would she compensate for her foolish mistake? She already needed new slippers and had yet to sew her matchmaker gown. Tears pricked at her lids but with resolute determination, she refused to let them fall, and curled her fists at her sides in fortification.

  Seemingly mollified by her silence, the gentleman climbed from the ruined roadway and extended his gloved hand. With reluctance she clasped his palm, her fingers lost in his large grasp, and allowed him to guide her away from the pedestrian bustle who continued their daily business while her world grew smaller and smaller, one shilling at a time.

  Chapter Four

  He would throttle her as soon as he stopped looking at her, this unexpected interruption in way of delightful creature. Good God, she was lovely. Beautiful, despite mud splashed across her cheek and the glistening threat of tears in her eyes. He took a deep breath to diffuse his anger.

  “You are troublesome.” It was the best he could manage under the circumstances, although a solemn intensity laced his tone.

  “I certainly didn’t mean to be, although it’s rude of you to point it out as true.” Her previous intimidation appeared to have vanished, her tone gaining strength and prickliness as each word passed over her pretty blush lips.

  Intent on finding his handkerchief, he reached into his breast pocket, realizing too late he had nothing to offer the lady; the ill-fitting coat not his. Jasper had gained it in a game of dice, literally winning the shirt and waistcoat off his opponent’s back. It had come in handy earlier, but served little purpose now.

  “Are you all right?” Somehow the entire situation had gotten out of hand.

  Her gaze fell past her serviceable gown to the tips of her muddy slippers and for an awkward moment she revealed not a hint of her thoughts.

  “I will be, yes.” Her whisper held a sharp edge although a frown puckered her brow.

  He removed his left glove and slanted her chin upward with the tip of one finger. Her eyes remained lowered, the fall of her mahogany lashes against her pink cheeks enough to make his chest ache for no reason he could label. He wiped away the mud on the slope of her chin, noting the delicate angle of her heart-shaped face, then with the pad of his thumb moved to do the same at the corner of her lips. Her eyes shot to his, a question hidden in their sable-brown depths. It stalled his progress to a slow, careful stroke. His breathing stopped altogether.

  She jumped backward as if stung by a bee, neatly jarring into a random passerby before recovering her balance and gaining another step. She allowed the crowd to swallow her in their mass, lost to his sight before he could ask her name, or note the color of her hair beneath her tidy bonnet. Valerian turned with a disparaging mutter and one final expletive before pushing further down Oxford Street.

  As he replaced his soiled glove, he considered the incident, thankful it had taken place after meeting Rigby and conducting his business at the pawn shop, the latter settling a heavy burden on his heart. Perhaps that anger, no, better to label it resentment, had permeated his sharp retort to the lady lost in the wheel ruts. In retrospect, the whole incident was not well done of him, but that bespoke of the desperation eating at his soul; the need to solve his financial woes.

 
How did one go about matchbreaking anyway? There were no rules of which he was aware, although Caroline taught him the darker side of affection. He scoffed, the reasons too plenty. Faced with Jasper’s ingenious scheme, the conclusive realization indicated Valerian would need a new wardrobe. One couldn’t borrow misfit waistcoats and parade around London ballrooms dressed as a buffoon. While he’d rusticated in the country everything he owned had gone out of style. He shook his head in hopeless resignation. Destitution had a way of hammering humbleness into one’s spirit. Pride nearly broken, it was time for dire measures.

  After meeting with the marquess, he’d located a pawn shop and sold the one dear item he owned. The act effectuated emotion and threatened his resolve, despite his best efforts to squash the reaction. Selling his mother’s pearl pendant proved the desperate scrape at the bottom of the barrel. Fond memories of his father pinning the charm to the lining of his waistcoat for good luck during business ventures flooded his mind, rousing to break his melancholy were it not for the vague remembrances of his mother that followed quickly thereafter.

  She’d died when he was still a lad, his father forced into the role of nurturer and provider. The old man had done a bang-up job in all the ways most important, free with his time, both loving and patient. He never wished to remarry and could often be found admiring his wife’s portrait when he believed no one observed.

  Valerian shook his head in cadence to his footsteps across the cobblestones. His father had given him his mother’s pendant while on his deathbed. It was an odd little charm composed of a teardrop pearl with a silver clasp engraved in a scrolled design. The owner of the pawn shop had remarked on its unique craftsmanship. Val hoped it remained available when he pulled himself from debt because he never wished to sell it, vainly maintaining optimism Jasper would repair his ways before it became necessary. As of yet, things had not proceeded in any promising manner.