An Earl Like You Page 8

  “And for God’s sake, let her invite her friends as usual the next time you come to the theater,” Hugh added. “She’ll become suspicious if we keep meeting this way, and a woman’s heart is influenced by her friends’ approval.”

  Cross gave him a sharp look, but Hugh ignored it and walked away, into the crowd of people leaving the theater.

  He was considering the evening, and realizing with some surprise that it had been more enjoyable than expected, when someone slung an arm around his shoulders. “Hastings,” exclaimed a voice in his ear. “As I live and breathe, man! What are you doing here?”

  He laughed and shrugged off his friend’s hold. Robert Fairfield, younger brother of the Duke of Raleigh, punched him in the shoulder, grinning broadly. “Fancy seeing you here. I didn’t know you liked opera.”

  Fairfield made a face. “Not much. My mother’s in town. She thinks I ought to get married or some ridiculous thing, and she’s dragged me ’round to balls and theater and I don’t know what else. It’s a bloody miracle I haven’t succumbed to an intense affliction of stupendous boredom.”

  “You, married? That is ridiculous,” agreed Hugh.

  “Right!” His friend grinned. “But you, apparently not. Got your eye on Double Cross’s daughter?”

  Hugh paused on the brink of denying it. He couldn’t confirm it, not yet, but he did need to start planting seeds. “Double Cross? You mean Edward Cross?”

  “That’s the one. Stole a promising investment right from under Raleigh.”

  “Stole?” repeated Hugh slowly. “How?”

  “Well—stole.” Fairfield made a face. “My brother was in a lather over being denied it. Blamed Cross. Something about canal bonds, I don’t know. All I was told is, Cross fights dirty and we should all hate his guts.”

  His muscles eased. He already knew Cross played dirty, and it wasn’t wrong to say he hated the man, either. “I’ll keep an eye on my investment, then.”

  “And your back,” warned Fairfield. “Before you know it, Cross will have swindled you right out of your trousers and your braces, and leave you holding your small clothes up with both hands.” Then he grinned slyly. “Of course, if you think to win his daughter, that would steal a march on him . . .”

  “Miss Cross seems a lovely girl, I must tell you,” he said, deliberately ignoring the rest. “My sisters would call her sweet. Not like her father at all.”

  “No?” His friend looked thoughtful, then shrugged it off. “Are you headed for Vega’s tonight?”

  Of course he was. If by some miracle the gods of luck smiled on him, he might yet win enough to give Edith a proper dowry. Of course, Cross would still own him, and Hugh didn’t think all the luck in the world would enable him to win enough to pay that debt. “I’ll see you there,” he told Fairfield, who raised one hand in farewell and ambled off with some other young bucks.

  Well, he’d known all along it would attract notice. If merely entering a box caught Fairfield’s attention, Hugh should assume half of London would know about it by tomorrow. He would have to think of what to tell his mother and sisters.

  Chapter 9

  Eliza was having a hard time keeping herself from thinking of Lord Hastings.

  She had never had this problem with any of Papa’s other partners. It was probably because most of them were neither handsome nor charming, while the earl was both, but it was more than that. Mr. Grenville had used to bring her sweets when she was a girl, and Sir David had used to tell her she looked like her mother, but it was clear they didn’t have any interest in her. The earl actually spoke to her, asking about Willy and complimenting her voice. At times he seemed more interested in her than in her father, which was rare. Papa was a larger than life personality, with a booming laugh and a brash, bold way. She told herself that couldn’t possibly be the case, and no doubt the earl was simply being polite. Georgiana had often told her true gentlemen, like her fiancé Viscount Sterling and surely the Earl of Hastings, had exquisite manners.

  But goodness, she took far too much pleasure in the man’s polite attention.

  When she wasn’t daydreaming about the earl, Eliza had more to worry about. Her friend Sophie had landed in a spot of scandal. Sophie, who supported herself by gambling at the Vega Club, had made a shockingly large wager with the Duke of Ware, who was known to be adamantly opposed to wagering. Georgiana had teased Sophie about the duke’s rakish young brother, Lord Philip, whom Georgiana believed—or more likely, hoped—to be madly in love with Sophie, but Sophie laughed and called him more trouble than he was worth. Eliza didn’t think Sophie, who had watched out for herself since she was orphaned at the age of twelve, would lose her head over Lord Philip or his brother, but her concerned letters had gone unanswered, which was very unlike Sophie. When she turned to her father for help, he promised to find out what he could, but then reported that Sophie had not been out in London as usual; he thought she might be ill. Eliza was becoming worried.

  She went to her garden to think, as was her habit, pacing the gravel paths and cutting flowers while she pondered what to do to help Sophie. Miss Jane Harby was getting married tomorrow, and since Jane’s sister Mary was Eliza’s personal maid, Eliza had offered to supply flowers. Mary had just taken in the first basket of freshly cut lilac and columbines when Eliza looked up from neatly raked beds to see Lord Hastings making his way out to her.

  She almost dropped her shears. Willy, who had been sunning himself on a patch of grass, leapt up and bounded toward the earl, who gave him a pat on the head. He was here again. At least this time she was presentable. She curtsied as he drew near, her heart hammering.

  “I hope you’ll pardon me, Miss Cross,” he said, his eyes crinkling in that way that made Eliza willing to forgive him anything on the spot. “Your butler agreed I might walk out to join you as it’s such a fine day.”

  “Of course, sir,” she said. “I suppose Papa has been delayed? He did tell me he would be home early today.” He’d made a special point of telling her so this morning at breakfast. He hadn’t said why, but he must have been expecting the earl.

  “We had an appointment for two o’clock,” confirmed the gentleman in question. “Do you mind if I wait and hope he arrives soon?”

  She smiled, all worries about Sophie fading for the moment. “Certainly.”

  He fell in step beside her. Willy barked and sniffed around their feet before trotting off to investigate the rosebushes. “I feel as though I have imposed on you a great deal lately, Miss Cross. I must apologize.”

  “Not at all!” Her face felt hot, remembering how she’d daydreamed about him. “Of all Papa’s partners, you are by far the most charming and least imposing.”

  He laughed. “You’re very kind. Is there a steady stream of them through your drawing room? Men discussing steam engines and balloons and other investments?”

  “Not a steady stream, no.” She glanced up at him. “Are you investing in railway steam engines? Papa thinks they’re death machines, liable to explode.”

  “I happen to agree with him,” said the earl with a wink. “If they can stop them exploding, though, that would be a different matter.”

  “Yes, not killing everyone nearby would be a great improvement,” she said somberly.

  Hastings laughed again. Eliza’s heart seemed to dance around her chest at the sound. “There may be ore on my Cornish property,” he said. “Your father has offered his expertise.” He made a slight grimace. “I know nothing about ore.”

  “Neither do I. But I have heard Cornwall is beautiful.”

  “It is—at least, the small part of it I own.” Real pride warmed his voice. “Have you never been to Cornwall?”

  “I would like to go,” she said frankly. “Papa has been, many times. He always tells me he visits the dirty disagreeable places and I wouldn’t like it.”

  He made a soft tsk. “Then you must never go with him. I could show you the most beautiful spot on earth—Rosemere House. It sits above Plymouth Sound near S
altash. My father rebuilt the house, but there are the remains of a Norman keep on the grounds. You can see the sea from the house, and there is a reflecting pool in the garden that looks like a map of the celestial sky on clear nights.”

  “How lovely!”

  “It’s the most peaceful place on earth,” the earl went on. “The name, Rosemere, is for my mother—a Rose by the sea.” He glanced around. “Although I do believe the gardens are a trifle more ordinary than yours, Miss Cross. You would surely work wonders if you were given free rein there.”

  She warmed with pleasure. “Thank you, sir. I’m sure they are splendid—I plant what I like to see when I look out the windows. There’s no art to it, only my personal whim.”

  He stopped. Eliza looked up in surprise. “Never say there’s no art to it,” he told her. Goodness, his eyes were dark and mesmerizing. “I know peace and beauty when I see it, and there is more in this garden than anywhere else I’ve ever been.”

  She knew it was flattery, she knew it wasn’t true, but she still felt a small explosion of joy in her chest that he would say it. “That’s because the irises are in bloom,” she tried to say, but he shook his head.

  “I don’t mean the irises.”

  But he couldn’t mean her. Flustered, Eliza caught sight of Mary coming back with the empty basket. “Do you mind if I continue cutting flowers, my lord? A girl from the village is getting married tomorrow and I promised to send some to the church.”

  “By all means. Is she a friend?”

  “No, she is sister to my maid, Mary. She’s to marry a shipwright from Deptford.” Eliza took the basket from Mary and sent the girl off. There was no reason for that except that she wanted to have Lord Hastings to herself.

  “How very generous of you to send the flowers,” he said as they strolled the paths.

  “Generous!” She laughed, flipping one hand in dismissal. “Not at all. I have plenty, and no wedding should be without flowers. Jane was here this morning to choose the ones for her bouquet. These will only be on the altar.” She knelt down to cut some lilies and added them to her basket. And when Lord Hastings offered to hold the basket as she cut some irises and more lilies, she couldn’t keep a silly smile from her face.

  “Thank you for carrying that,” she said after a while. They had continued talking as she cut, and she’d lost track of everything. The basket was now bursting with greenery and she reached to take it from him.

  “It was my pleasure, Miss Cross.” He held it out, waiting patiently as she pushed her shawl out of the way and pulled off her gardening gloves. Eliza reached for the basket, but it was heavier than expected, and she almost dropped it. With a quick motion Lord Hastings righted it before the flowers could spill out, and in the process stepped very close to her.

  “Sorry,” she said breathlessly as she hefted the basket in both hands.

  He didn’t let go. Eliza looked up and her breath caught in her throat. He was looking at her, and his expression made her heart start to pound and her hands start to shake.

  “Miss Cross,” he began. “I hope you don’t think me presumptuous, but . . . I am rather glad your father was delayed today.”

  She couldn’t blink. She couldn’t move. He reached out and drew her shawl lightly over her shoulder from where it had drooped.

  “Do you?” he asked softly.

  “What?” Her voice sounded faint and dazed.

  Hastings’s mouth curved, and his eyes crinkled, almost teasingly. “Think me presumptuous,” he whispered. “You can tell me.”

  “No!” It burst out of her like a shout, but she had only enough breath for a whisper.

  Something shifted in his eyes before he lowered his lashes. He took her hand in his and raised it. Eliza quaked inside as his lips brushed slowly, softly, over her knuckles. His hands, still gloved, were so large and strong around her limp fingers. His eyes flashed up for a moment, as if gauging her reaction, and then he turned her hand over and touched his lips to her wrist.

  Eliza thought she might have whimpered out loud. She must have dozed off in the sun and was having another dream about him, one in which he looked at her with those obsidian-dark eyes and gave her the slow smile that made her stomach jump and leap, but no—this felt real. The handle of the flower basket was digging into her palm, her heart was pounding so hard she could almost hear it, and he was so close she could see the beginnings of stubble on his jaw, right near his beautiful mouth—

  “Good day, Lord Hastings!”

  Papa’s voice broke the spell. Eliza startled so badly the basket tipped and dropped half the flowers onto the path. Lord Hastings released her hand. Willy gave a happy bark and ran to meet Papa.

  “I would apologize for keeping you waiting, sir, but I’ve been home this quarter hour or more.” Papa reached them and gave Eliza a fond smile.

  “Have you been? Good Lord.” The earl smiled disarmingly. “I scarcely noticed the time passing. Miss Cross was kind enough to entertain me in the meantime.”

  Papa chuckled. “I cannot fault you for forgetting me, then. She’s far better company than I!”

  Hastings gave Eliza a warm glance. “I cannot disagree.”

  Oh dear. She felt dazed and light-headed at the way he was looking at her. “It’s always a pleasure to see Lord Hastings. I don’t mind entertaining him in the slightest, unlike some of your partners, Papa.”

  Her father gave a bark of laughter. “I don’t doubt it! Well, Hastings, shall we go inside? Down to the drudgery, eh?”

  The earl gave Eliza another look, and she smiled back helplessly. He did not look enthused at the prospect. “Good day, Lord Hastings. Thank you for carrying the basket.”

  “It was my pleasure, Miss Cross.” He bowed, and followed Papa into the house.

  Eliza watched until they disappeared, then gave a little moan. She knelt and began gathering the flowers before Willy could trample them. Flowers for a wedding, in the church where she’d sat every Sunday since she was a child. Where a girl in love would pledge herself to a handsome fellow who looked at her with deep, dark eyes and smiled a crinkly little smile meant only for her. A bridegroom who looked very much like the Earl of Hastings in her mind.

  There would be no stopping her imagination now.

  Chapter 10

  Hugh could feel the two separate strands of his life begin to converge.

  One of them, the one where he had agreed to court Eliza Cross, was going more smoothly than expected. He still harbored a deep and abiding resentment of Edward Cross, but he felt more and more drawn to Eliza. Her father calculated everything down to the inch, and connived to have that inch measured in his favor, while Eliza cut flowers from her own garden so a maid’s sister would have a beautiful wedding. Her father schemed to have his daughter married to an aristocrat, while Eliza brought home a mutt she’d found under a bush. She was warm, generous, and honest, with a quiet but droll sense of humor, and he found himself looking forward to seeing her.

  He could hardly believe she was Cross’s natural daughter. The more time Hugh spent with her, the less resemblance he could see. Perhaps Cross had found her on the side of the road, and they were no relation at all. It gave Hugh some dark amusement to think so.

  The other sphere of his life was not so easy to manage. As expected, people had noticed when he spent the evening in the Crosses’ box at the Theatre Royal; within a day his mother had heard it, and soon drew him aside. “I hear you were at the theater the other night.”

  “I was. Edith recommended the opera, and I thought I would see what the fuss was.”

  His mother’s brows rose. “Edith thought it was dreadful.”

  “Did she?” Hugh frowned. “I must have become confused and wandered into the wrong production . . .”

  “And right into Edward Cross’s box?” She gave him a reproving look. “He’s not your usual companion, dear.”

  Hugh felt no obligation to speak highly of the man. “Not at all. But he believes there may be ore at Rosemere an
d he’s mad to find out.” He made a distasteful expression. “Nothing will come of it, I’m sure.”

  “Rosemere!” His mother’s eyes went wide, and she pressed one hand to her throat. “You wouldn’t really let that man dig up the grounds of Rosemere, would you? It’s bad enough we must let it out to tenants when we might be there ourselves, where your father and I were always so happy—” She stopped, her lip quivering.

  Hugh reminded himself that if things went well with Eliza Cross, if he did indeed end up married to her, Rosemere would never be in danger again, either from tenants or speculators looking for ore in the fields. His mother would be able to spend the rest of her life there, mourning and venerating his father, who had put Hugh in this impossible position, and he would never need to spoil her memory of him.

  But for now, he had to keep up the pretense. “I’m sure nothing will come of it,” he repeated with a wave of one hand. “Don’t trouble yourself, Mother.”

  Her eyes shone with gratitude. “Of course not. I should have known better, dear, forgive me—I know you would never do something so abhorrent, not only to me, but to the very honor of Hastings. Rosemere is your birthright.”

  Rosemere was mortgaged to the eaves of its mansard slate roof. The elegant new wing, with its splendid plasterwork and silk-upholstered furnishings and crystal chandeliers, had been built with Edith’s dowry. The landscaping must have cost Henrietta’s dowry, and the two hundred acres his father had bought five years ago, to provide privacy and an unimpeded view of the sound from the house, would have funded a widow’s dower for his mother. Rosemere hardly felt like Hugh’s at all.

  For a split second he thought of what Eliza might do with the property. Her garden was a riot of color, from the roses sprawling over every arbor and fence to the irises and lilies raising their regal heads above the humbler grasses and ferns. Hugh liked it. Rosemere, for all its beauty, had neat, bounded gardens that might have been outside a Tudor kitchen, where one felt constrained and restricted, not at ease.