How Not To Marry An Earl

There was a long pause as he considered her words. But just as she was sure he would succumb, he baulked. ‘Stealing from the Earl would be wrong. Both a breach of the Commandments and the law.’

‘Of course,’ she added hurriedly, annoyed. If morality was seriously a concern, she might never get rid of the man. The next temptation would have to be far more subtle. ‘But there is no need for us to be discussing such things in the middle of the drive. As you said before, a storm is approaching. Come into the house and we will get you settled.’

And then she could go to work on him. Once he had seen the house and his place in it, he might be gone by morning.

* * *

When his ancestral home had been described to him, Miles had got a vague impression of a large but dilapidated manor in the country. But there was no way he could have imagined the thing that stood before him now. It appeared to be two or three large houses built cheek by jowl, as if the owners could not quite decide what they’d wanted and simply kept building on to it until the money had run out.

Having seen the accounts, that seemed to be exactly what had happened. When he’d set out from America, he’d assumed that all English lords had to be rich. But his family had run through their money generations ago. The rents from the tenants barely kept pace with the cost of maintaining the property. All that was left beyond them was the house and its contents. And the most valuable items were things he was not supposed to sell. He was expected to hold them in trust for future generations that might never be born if he could not manage to settle his business now.

But the caution to respect the entail had not impressed his ancestors. After greeting him on his arrival, the widow of his predecessor had barely taken a breath before announcing that the diamonds in the Comstock family jewels had been replaced with paste long before she became Countess. The Earls and Countesses of Comstock had been telling lies about their value for so long that it might as well be declared a family tradition.

On hearing this, he had assumed that there was nothing left of value. But though the collection of silver-framed miniatures on the hall table was not enough to save an earl from a life of ruin, the humble Miles Strickland could sell a sack full of them and have enough to live modestly for a good long time.

‘What do you think of it?’ He had almost forgotten Cousin Charity, who had led him in through the front doors and introduced him to the butler, Chilson, who had signalled for a footman to take his valise and another to remove the snapping dog from the saddle bag.

‘I do not know where to begin,’ he said, peering down the hall at what seemed to be an endless line of doorways, then staring back at Charity.

‘Do not worry. I will help you.’ There was no flirtation in the smile she gave him, only a sly twinkle in her eye that made him think any aid he received would benefit her more than him. Her companionable self-interest was an improvement on recent interactions with the fair sex.

When they realised he had a title, the women of London were friendly to the point of predation. He could hardly blame them for it, since they took their cues from the mamas and papas who were practically throwing their daughters into his path. Even the damned Prince who was currently running the country said that an earl without a countess was not doing his duty. He was supposed to marry, soon and well, for the sake of the title’s succession.

Apparently, he was to be bred like livestock. If the activity hadn’t involved marriage, he would have been all for it. But since a legitimate child was required, it took much of the fun out of his newfound popularity.

Since this distant cousin didn’t know who he was, she was currently treating him with the same indifference as women had before his sudden elevation. But since Charity was also the last unmarried girl in the family, the condition was likely temporary. Once she guessed his identity, she would chase him like a hound after a coon.

‘Thank you for the offer of aid,’ he replied. ‘And I assume this help will be in exchange for everything I can tell you about the new Earl?’

‘I think I know all I need to on that front,’ she said, with a frown that surprised him. It looked almost like a grimace of distaste.

‘Has he done something to put you off?’ Miles said.

‘He has done nothing so far,’ she said. ‘That suits me well, but I doubt it will continue. And the last thing I need is for him to arrive on my doorstep with a proposal.’

‘Your doorstep?’ He glanced around him.

‘Metaphorically speaking,’ she replied. ‘It is technically his house. I plan to be out of it before he arrives. But I am not quite ready to go yet, hence my hope that he will stay in London until Parliament ends its session.’

‘And you do not want to marry him,’ Miles said, strangely annoyed.

She shrugged. ‘It is not logical to expect instant compatibility, based on the convenience of a family connection. It is not as if I believe in something so foolish as the need for romantic love when marrying. But I do not want to rope myself to him or any other man for a lifetime without bothering to learn if we are temperamentally similar.’ She glanced down her nose at him, in frank and unladylike appraisal. ‘So far, I have not found many available men to my taste. I have exceptionally high standards, Mr Potts.’

He stared back at her, just as rudely, ready to say that plain girls were not usually so particular. Then he remembered her fine ankles and bit his tongue. ‘And so you should, Miss Strickland. If you meet him, you will find that the new Earl is not a bad fellow.’ Not totally bad, at least. ‘But you are right not to expect a marriage from him, sight unseen.’

She smiled at him in earnest now. The brightness of it transformed her face into something that was not beautiful, but held a certain allure that her frowns did not. ‘You are the first person to say that to me, Mr Potts. It is quite a novelty to hear such frankness.’

‘There is no reason for me to be anything else,’ he said, ignoring a stab of guilt. He had not been in any way frank. Worse yet, he had been talking about himself in the third person.

He cleared his throat. ‘And now, where would you recommend I begin my search—that is, my inventory?’

‘I suggest you begin by settling into your room and washing for dinner,’ she said with another shrug and an innocent blink. ‘If the accounting of Comstock’s possessions has waited for years, there is no reason to begin them this minute. You will find the job less daunting after a good night’s sleep and a decent meal.’ She walked up the stairs in front of him, casting a look over her shoulder to see if he followed. ‘Well?’

He paused. In any other woman, he might have thought it flirtatious, should she lead him straight to his bedchamber. But even on such a brief acquaintance, it was clear that Miss Charity did not flirt.

She likely did not know any better. He started up the stairs after her. ‘Surely it is not necessary for you to show me to my room.’

‘I shall be showing you a lot more than that before we are done with each other,’ she said.

He started in surprise.

Now her look was faintly exasperated. ‘You want to know the house, don’t you?’

‘Well…’ He did, of course. But was she really so unaware of him that her words held no hidden meanings at all?

‘Then you might as well enjoy the best of it.’ At the top of the stairs she marched briskly to the far end of one hall, waving at the corridor behind her. ‘The family stays in that wing. Grandmama is at the end, as is the Earl’s suite. The corridor to our right leads to the old part of the house. This side is for guests.’ She had reached a door at the very end. ‘And this is the Tudor room.’ She threw open the door and stood in front of it, gesturing inside. ‘It is said that Henry Tudor himself stayed here.’

He racked his brain for a moment, to attach significance to the name. ‘The King with all the wives.’

‘Six,’ she said with a deadpan look that announced her opinion of his limited knowledge of local history.

He held up his hands in surrender. ‘I can tell you everything you might wish to know about George Washington, if that makes a difference.’

‘I can tell you about him, as well,’ she said, arching an eyebrow. ‘There are books in England, you see.’

‘In America, as well.’ Damn few of them in his past, of course. But that was no fault of his. He looked ahead at the room in front of him. ‘So a king stayed here.’

‘And now, you shall.’

He supposed he should be honoured. He rarely cared about the previous occupants of the room, as long as the bed was soft and the sheets were clean. This would be luxurious, though not quite as good as the master suite he was entitled to. But he could hardly ask for that. Then he stopped to wonder. ‘Why would you give an auditor the best room in the house?’

By the time he’d turned to hear her response, her face was pleasant, passive and hospitable. But before that, had he seen a flash of something else? Alarm, perhaps?

If so, it was gone and she appeared to be the perfect hostess. ‘I want you to be happy. You are the Earl’s friend, after all. I can hardly treat you like staff.’

He glanced into the room, filled with any number of items worth taking when he went on his way. ‘How very kind of you, Miss Strickland.’

She gave a concluding nod. ‘Now, I will leave you to refresh yourself. Dinner is in the dining room at eight, Mr Potts. Do not be late.’

He hesitated for a moment, at the sound of the unfamiliar name, before getting his story straight and responding with an equally polite nod. ‘As you wish, Miss Strickland.’

Then she was gone down the hall, leaving him alone in the bedchamber of a dead king. He shut the door quietly behind her and turned to the matter at hand, his private appraisal of the room’s worth. What was there in this room that was worth selling? The furniture was valuable, the canopied bed hung with slightly dusty velvet on brass rings as thick as his thumb. Interesting, but not worth the effort of dragging down the drapery. The crossed swords over the mantelpiece gave the room a distinctly masculine air. If they were a relic of the room’s namesake they might be priceless. But to get them away he’d have to march through the entire house with a sword on his shoulder. The bedchamber he occupied was as far from the front door as it was possible to get.

His train of thought ground to a halt, then circled back, trying to think why that statement seemed so important. She’d said she’d put him in this room because of his supposed friendship to the Earl. But he had just told her that he had no real acquaintance with Comstock. Had she forgotten?

There was something about Miss Strickland that made him think she did not often lose track of the details. Which meant she’d simply told the first lie that had come to mind to explain her choice. There was something strange going on and he meant to find out what it was.

Chapter Three (#u8043bf5e-6032-5746-b912-09b0ca18cfe3)