This Earl Is on Fire (15 page)

T
he Season Standard—the Daily Chronicle of Consequence

Our infamous Earl of W— is making quite the recovery. Dashing as ever, he escorted the Dowager Duchess of V— to a dinner party of so little importance that it is hardly worth the mention. The fascination lies in the sudden emergence of whispers, naming W— as a potential candidate for the Original!

Of course, we must not forget our dear Lord E— who has been a favorite for many weeks . . .

A
deline marveled at the swift alteration in the
ton
's opinion of Wolford. Because of the daily accounts in the
Standard,
even her family had begun to receive invitations in the days that followed. Most surprisingly was one from Lady Falksworth, who'd slighted them at the opera. Apparently, Juliet had been correct. Society could now show favor to the family who had aided Wolford instead of branding them with the stamp of ruination.

Tonight, she attended a party at Lord Tarlston's. Adeline was pleased to be better received now that her reputation had been repaired. At least for the time. There was no telling what one unfavorable report of Wolford's activity might do. It was still odd to her that the collective thoughts of the
ton
were so eager to jump to conclusions, vacillating from one extreme to the other. If they vilified Wolford, then her reputation was sullied. And if they esteemed him, then she was a veritable vestal virgin.

Given her white satin gown, she certainly looked the part this evening.

Little did they know how scandalous her thoughts had become since she'd met Liam.

“Are you feeling warm, dear?” Mother asked, mistaking an errant blush for an illness. She plucked at the fingertips of her glove as if she meant to strip it off and press a hand to Adeline's forehead.

Adeline did not doubt that she would too. And while standing in the parlor with guests milling about.

She took Mother's hand in an affectionate squeeze and lowered it. “I am feeling perfectly content.”

That motherly indigo gaze still scrutinized her. “I don't believe our host waters down his wine as he ought.”

“I drank only one glass.”
And a half
, she thought, remembering how efficiently the footman had refilled her goblet in between courses. She also had a wonderfully handsome table companion by the name of Lord Ellery. The viscount was affable as well, and there was a certain soulfulness in his eyes that spoke of a sincerity, which many of those she'd met lacked.

Even with his wonderful qualities, however, she had not felt drawn to him. Not even a little. Her skin did not tingle at the very thought of him. The study of his mouth while he ate did not stir her. She never once imagined her lips on his.

Her lips, so it seemed, were only eager for the press of one single gentleman. And he was not even in attendance.

“I wonder why Wolford did not attend,” Mother said, mirroring Adeline's thoughts. “His aunt is here, so I imagine he received an invitation.”

The dowager duchess was across the room, conversing with Juliet and Ivy. In the hall before dinner, Ivy explained that her husband had been distracted by one of his “brilliant inventions” and, therefore, did not attend. But that did not stop Ivy from glowing at the mere mention of him.

“Perhaps he is with his cousin, the duke,” Adeline said, hoping that was correct. Yet a dark jealousy churned in her stomach. He could very well be at another party. Perhaps even like the masquerade he'd attended the night of his attack. Which shouldn't matter to her. She knew the type of man Liam was. He could very well be engaged in an assignation, his lips on someone else's mouth right this instant.

“Are you certain you are feeling well?”

Adeline realized she'd pressed her fingertips to her lips as if she were trying to capture the fleeting essence he'd left behind. She nodded to her mother. Noticing her probing stare, however, she quickly looked for a distraction. “Oh look, Father and the other gentlemen have finished their port.”

Mother turned her head in his direction and smiled. “I wonder if anyone will play the pianoforte this evening. After all, one would assume the reason we gathered here with the instrument in the room would be for entertainment. Perhaps you should be the first. Your father would love to hear his favorite piece of music.”

Adeline wasn't certain that was proper etiquette in this circumstance. Thinking of Juliet's prior instruction, she said, “Perhaps we should inquire with our hostess.”

But before she could, Miss Ashbury sat down at the pianoforte, arranged her skirts, cleared her throat with a slight cough, and then began to play. Adeline felt her mood darken again. From her previous encounter with Miss Ashbury and her bosom companion, Miss Leeds, Adeline knew that both young women were all affectation and little substance. Even a young woman from the country could see the difference.

“She plays beautifully,” Mother commented. “Perhaps we could sit near our friends. I do believe the settee across from the dowager duchess is now available.”

Mother began walking, intercepting Father along the way, but when Adeline noticed that the hem of her gown was caught on the toe of her half boot, she paused to tug it free. By the time she lifted her gaze, Miss Leeds had stepped in front of her.

The fair-haired young woman offered a thin smile reminiscent of a snake in need of a charmer's flute to return to its basket. “Miss Pimm, I am told you hail from a small hamlet in the countryside.”

Adeline nodded, both in answer and by way of greeting her cordially, if not carefully. “Yes. Boswickshire has been home to my family for generations.”

“It is such a small world we live in, for my family has a scullery maid in our employ who also claims such a birthplace. Perhaps you know her.” Miss Leeds clasped her hands before her and smugly pursed her lips. At the same time, Miss Ashbury offered a trilling of the keys. But to Adeline it was like the rattle of a snake's tail.

Alarm jolted through her, but she made every effort to conceal it. She fixed her own smile in place on an indrawn breath. “With fewer than two hundred villagers living there, I'm certain we have met.”

“Are you not curious about her family name? Perhaps I could pass on a good word from you. Of course, under different circumstances I wouldn't think to inquire. However, rumor has it that your family is rather unconventional.” Miss Leeds dropped her voice to a whisper and slithered closer. “Tell me—is it true that you arrived in London without your servants? And that you undertook Lord Wolford's care on your own?”

Adeline saw a trap yawning before her. If she answered any of the questions posed to her, others would likely arise; whispers would abound no matter how careful she was. Though, quite honestly, she didn't see that it was any business of Miss Leeds. “We are so new to town, I was not aware that you were introduced to my parents. I will be certain to
pass on a good word from you
. Unless you wish to tell them yourself. We could join them now.”

“You are too kind, but I am needed at the pianoforte.” Her smile thinned as she inclined her head and slithered away without another word.

Unfortunately, that was not the last encounter that Adeline had with Miss Leeds.

Later that evening, both Miss Leeds
and
Miss Ashbury ambushed her in the retiring room.

Adeline was adjusting the laces of her half boot, her back to the door, when they both walked into the room. Hurriedly, she tried to conceal the thick cork sole.

“Why, Miss Pimm, I would know the back of your head anywhere. I dare say I have never seen a braid on a woman in public past the age of her debut,” Miss Leeds said with great hauteur.

“Perhaps Miss Pimm longs to cling to her girlhood years,” Miss Ashbury said. “Is that the reason you waited so long to come to town for a Season?”

“Or perhaps she wears her hair styled so simply because she does not wish to strain her
friendship
with her maid. Assuming, of course, that you have a maid, Miss Pimm. Or does your mother style your hair?”

Adeline held her ground, though she had little experience dealing with mean-spirited people. Those who pitied her on sight usually never sought to degrade her character and for them, she employed a calm, assuring demeanor. Somehow, she doubted that would work in this circumstance.

“I have a maid,” Adeline said, turning to face them. “She is most excellent in fashioning various hairstyles. Since we have only seen each other at two social events, I am certain you haven't had the opportunity to witness the wide variety of her skills.”

“Oh yes, now that you mention it, I do notice that your hair is woven with baby's breath, whereas at Lady Strandfellow's it was interlaced with ribbons.” She grinned with a look of
oh, yes, I noticed and found you lacking!
before continuing. “I also recall hearing a whisper about you only knowing one dance.”

Miss Ashbury feigned a gasp, covering her mouth with her hand. “A country dance, no less, where the elegance of . . . footwork . . . is of little concern.”

The pair of them glanced down to the hem of Adeline's skirts. She knew that her half boot was concealed, but all the same, she felt as if she were standing completely nude in the retiring room. It suddenly became clear that Miss Leeds had learned a great deal from the servant who hailed from Boswickshire.

Adeline stiffened, preparing for the worst.

Miss Leeds's eyes flashed in revulsion. “Once I learned of your singular skill, I did mention your name to my lady's maid for a laugh. She mentioned your name below stairs, and sure enough, one of our sculleries knew of you. All about you, in fact,
and
your deformity.”

“It is no wonder your parents kept you hidden in the country.” Miss Ashbury sneered. “I imagine they took great pains to ensure you appeared to be like all the other debutantes, but you cannot hide a deformity, can you?”

This was the moment Adeline had been dreading all along. Her worst fear coming to fruition. And as she stood there, taking their jabs, feeling more freakish by the moment, she realized that this was her moment. The one she'd been waiting for. The chance to prove that she was just like every other debutante.

But she wasn't like every other debutante. She was different. And quite unexpectedly, she was grateful for that fact.

“No, I cannot,” she answered, straightening her shoulders. “While some deformities are only on the outside, I have just now discovered that the ugliest are those that lie beneath flesh and bone.”

She was prepared to walk out of the room with her head held high. But Miss Leeds had a little more venom in her fangs. And unfortunately, poison hit the mark.

“Which only proves how little you understand your purpose,” Miss Leeds hissed. “A debutante's goal is to secure a husband. The best you could hope for is to find a man who takes pity on you.”

L
iam sat in a wing-backed chair in Vale's study with his legs crossed at the ankle and the toe of his boot rocking a wooden cradle. This was not the usual way he spent his evenings.

“No. That won't do. It is too fast.” Vale crossed his arms but with one fist propped beneath his chin as he stood over the contraption. “The persimmons are rolling over and colliding with the side walls.”

“Yes, well, far be it from me to point out that your child will be neither as small nor as round.” Liam's observation went unheard, as many words spoken in his cousin's study often did.

Whenever Vale was in the midst of a new invention, he rarely focused on anything else. Of course, being a duke, he'd learned to put on a good show of attentiveness. But Liam had seen through all of that long ago.

This evening, Liam had merely dropped by to deliver his gift to Vale and Ivy. But with the duchess, in addition to Aunt Edith, out for the evening, somehow Liam found himself enmeshed in his cousin's latest invention.

At first, when he saw how distracted Vale was, he intended to leave the gift with a note and be gone. However, the thought of returning to his collection at Wolford House, or even on Brook Street, didn't appeal to him. Neither did the notion of joining his usual crowd at Lady Reynolds's for one of her infamously wanton parties. While he might have the appetite for indulgence, he was not recuperated enough to take part in hours of debauchery, or so he told himself. He almost believed this excuse too.

“Perhaps a sack of barley would be more appropriate,” Vale murmured as if to himself, reaching into the cradle to collect the fruits. “After all, what child is as small as a persimmon?”

Liam suppressed a laugh. “You have a brilliant mind, Cousin.”

Vale glanced up with a start, proving that he'd forgotten he wasn't alone. Then when Liam offered a small wave, Vale shrugged and scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, nearly losing a persimmon in the process. “I've been somewhat distracted since the news.”

Liam lifted his brows in mock surprise.

“ 'Tis rather obvious, I gather.”

“Only to the untrained eye,” Liam teased and found a persimmon launched at him. He caught it handily and with only a slight hitch in his side from the sudden movement. He thought again of his reasons for being here instead of Lady Reynolds's, but he didn't like the answers that floated into his brain. His life of indulgence didn't satisfy him anymore. He wasn't sure if it ever had. So then why was he doing it?

He shrugged off another uncomfortable question that he did not want to answer and gestured to the box on the corner of Vale's desk. He'd laid it on top of a stack of papers and a handful of ledgers. “I came bearing a gift, if that earns your forgiveness.”

When Vale's hands were empty, he picked up the box and removed the lid. His brow furrowed slightly as he glanced over at Liam.

“An ancient Roman rattle, unearthed at Caulfield's excavation site. I thought it would make for the perfect gift, under the circumstances. You can tell little Northcliff that his uncle Liam will teach him all about the people who made it when he is old enough to understand.” Liam shifted in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable. By the alteration of Vale's expression, Liam realized that his little speech had revealed more than the simple amusement he'd intended. “Of course, since we are merely cousins, your offspring would be another cousin, so referring to me as ‘uncle' would not be appropriate.”

Vale grinned and shook the tinkling rattle. “I think
Uncle Liam
has a nice ring to it.”

With that settled and behind them, Liam stood and stared pointedly down at the contraption. On the outer foot of the cradle, Vale had attached a series of gears that resembled the inner workings of a clock, accompanied by a heavy weight that swung like a pendulum. “Let's try this out with a sack of grain, shall we?”

It shouldn't have surprised him that Vale had one at the ready, but it did. Vale withdrew a plump burlap sack from one of the many cluttered shelves that lined the walls. “Hmm . . . approximately eight pounds, I'd gather.”

“I surely hope you are not suggesting that little Northcliff resembles his mother,” Liam said as he watched Ivy step into the room behind her husband.

Vale hefted the grain to his shoulder and pretended to pat it fondly. “All the better for him, I should think.”

“What are you talking about?” Ivy asked, stopping short when she saw Vale. “Are you
cradling
a sack of grain?”

To his credit, Vale did not even shift his stance or demure in the slightest. “An
eight-pound
sack of grain.” As if that made all the difference.

Apparently, it did. Ivy beamed instantly and moved toward her husband and their barley child, offering a kiss to the former and a pat for the latter. “Did I hear Liam call him
little Northcliff
?”

“And he has asked to be called
Uncle Liam
,” Vale said with a taunting smirk in his direction. “Not only that but he brought the first gift.”

Discovering the rattle, Ivy gifted Liam with one of her smiles. “Thank you, Uncle Liam. It appears the two of you have been quite busy. I wish I'd remained here instead of living through the torture of the
ton
.”

Vale's demeanor changed immediately. He lowered the burlap and lifted Ivy's chin to his gaze. “What happened?”

“Careful. We don't want to drop our little Northcliff,” she said, curling her hand over Vale's.

Liam looked away from the intimate family scene, feeling a weight press against his chest. While he'd been privy to many forms of sexual touches and looks of hunger and satisfaction, none had been more intimate than this. Such moments kindled a longing that Liam had been ignoring for a lifetime—to be part of a family. His own. Yet if he were ever going to make a life with someone, it would have to be honest and true. Unfortunately, he'd learned years ago that deception came in many guises. And now, like always, he was nothing more than a voyeur.

“We left early. Aunt Edith pleaded a headache, though truth be told I was ready to do the same. Either that, or I would have doused Miss Leeds with punch.”

Vale's countenance darkened. “Is Miss Leeds still antagonizing you?”

“Not me,” Ivy said with a glance to Liam. “Miss Pimm.”

Liam stepped forward. “What happened?”

Before she could answer, his gaze already veered to the door, and he thought of the quickest path to take to Lord Tarlston's.

“Miss Pimm is no longer at the party,” Ivy said, a level of understanding in her pale blue eyes. “As is Miss Leeds's nature, she made certain that Miss Pimm felt most unwelcome. After their encounter, Aunt Edith and I offered to drive Juliet, Bunny, and Adeline to their homes.”

“Bunny?” Vale asked while Liam contemplated the door.

“Oh yes, Lady Boswick insists upon it, just as I have asked her to call me Ivy. Aunt Edith, however, is not as modern. At least, not yet.” Ivy stepped into Liam's field of vision and lifted her brows in question. “It is a late hour, to be sure, but perhaps you could stay awhile longer and tell me about this rattle. I could certainly use the distraction.”

Likely Ivy saw that Liam was the one who needed the distraction, or else he might find himself making the wrong choice—leaving directly and seeking out Adeline. It would be improper to call at such a late hour. Therefore, with a nod, he remained in their company and told them of the dig at Caulfield's country estate.

For the next hour, however, he was still lost in thought. He might have tried to tell himself that he was debating whether or not to drive to Sudgrave Terrace, but the truth was he'd already made up his mind. He was merely biding his time.

E
ven after Mrs. Simmons had made her a glass of warm milk before turning in, Adeline couldn't sleep. The night had not ended as she'd hoped. Yet another misadventure. So far, the only time she felt as if she'd had a true adventure was when she was with Liam.

But her journey to London wasn't really about adventure. She'd wanted to prove herself capable of handling any situation. Tonight, she'd failed. Again.

She stared at her reflection in the small round mirror above her washstand. There was nothing she could do to alter her limb, but perhaps there was something else she could do to change her outward appearance . . .

And cutting her hair was the answer.

Even though it became tangled and caught under her from time to time, it was still a part of her. If it were merely a burden, her decision would have been simple. But how many hours had she brushed it and found comfort in the act? Too many to count. How often did she luxuriate in the feel of the heavy tresses gliding over her bare back after her bath? How many times had she pretended to be Lady Godiva, veiling herself with only her hair? Well . . . only in the privacy of her bedchamber. No one ever knew.

But the truth was, when she looked in the mirror, she saw a girl. Not a lady. Certainly not the woman she knew herself to be. At two and twenty, she had a mind of her own. She had determination to do whatever it took to prove herself.

Now, more than ever, she felt a need to see something different. Therefore, it was time to lose these yearling locks of hers and look every bit the woman.

She let out a breath, picked up a glass of the brandy she'd secreted from Father's study, took a hefty swallow, and then coughed as it burned all the way down.

Sweet heavens, how do men tolerate this spirit?

Once her coughing subsided, she took another swallow and hissed out a breath, wondering if flames would erupt from her throat. But gradually, it warmed her inside. Her breathing came easier, filling her with a modicum of confidence.

She picked up the razor she'd liberated from Father's shaving kit. When her hand trembled, she forced herself not to think about it too much.

Hefting her braid, she held it up above her head, and then . . . sliced through her hair.

Or she would have, if she'd had the strength. On the first pass, she only freed one-third and ended up sawing through the rest. And when it was done, she looked in the mirror and cried.

W
hen Liam arrived at Sudgrave Terrace, he went directly to the connecting door from his place to Boswick's residence. Since Adeline had left the key behind, he used it now.

His conscience warred with him. Should he be here in the dead of night?

Likely not. Though Liam reasoned that his purpose was purely altruistic—he only wanted to ensure Adeline's well-being. Besides, Boswick had mentioned on several occasions that Liam was always welcome . . .

Yet Liam's conscience knew that even the affable Boswick would frown upon this visit.

Therefore, he was careful to listen to the sounds of the house to ensure no one was about. All he needed was one look at Adeline, and he would feel reassured.

Aside from the faint glow of the street lamps shining through the open drapes at the end of the hall, the house was silent and dark. Though having spent much of his time in the dark, Liam was able to maneuver quite easily.

Even from this distance, he could hear the steady cadence of Boswick's snores. It was as good as an invitation.

As he moved down the hall, he noticed another light as well. And it was coming from Adeline's bedchamber.

From the other side of the door, he heard a shocked gasp.

“What have I done?”

Pain rasped in her voice, hitting him hard with worry and fear. He opened the door, propriety be damned. What he saw halted his steps.

Adeline stood across the room, her head bent as she stared down at her hands. One clutched an open razor. The other held a long rope of hair. Her hair.

His eyes darted up to see waves of fawn-colored tresses kissing the tops of her shoulders. But no, not fawn-colored any longer. This color was a shade deeper, a richer brown than before. And without the heavy weight, it curled in loops at each end. Tendrils now framed the face that he knew by heart—the winged brows, the gently sloped nose, the soft divot in her plump bottom lip. The same lip that trembled now.

Reaching behind him, he closed the door with a soft click. Adeline's gaze lifted, but she didn't startle. Her liquid eyes simply held his, beseeching.

“Shh . . .” he crooned. Then crossing the room to her, he gathered her in his arms, taking care to set the razor on the washstand first.

“What have I done?” she asked again, pressing her wet face against his coat.

He shrugged out of the garment, dropping it to the floor without letting her out of his arms. A single instant felt too long. “It looks as if you've cut your hair, darling.”

She nodded and sniffed against his waistcoat, drawing the bundle of her lost tresses between them. “I have. I did this to myself. I am so—”

“Beautiful,” he said with a certainty that no one could argue against. He always thought so, even before he'd been able to see her. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and to her temple. Lifting his hands to smooth the riotous looping tendrils away from her face, he kissed her brow, her damp lashes, the bridge of her nose, the upper crest of her cheek, all the while repeating his declaration.

Adeline released a stuttered breath and shook her head. “You are being kind, pitying me for my impulsive foolishness.”

“A harsh mark against my character, to be sure.” Liam continued to press tender kisses to her face, blotting away each tear with his lips. Each salted droplet caused him agony. He couldn't understand this keen desperation to rid her of these. He'd seen other women cry, though mostly crocodile tears for attention. None had ever been true. And none had ever affected him this way. Her sadness crippled him, and he would do whatever it took to banish it. “You know me better than that. I am more prone to mockery than to pity.”