The Seduction of an Earl Read online

  Henry could barely hide his surprise that the marquess would even know who he was, let alone be familiar with what he was trying to accomplish on his lands. “Until I received a summons from Lord Ellsworth a week ago, I actually was,” he replied with a shrug. “And I am of the opinion that there are already far too many sheep in the Cotswolds.”

  Lord Devonville considered the earl’s words for a moment. “Oh, yes. That matter of his daughter,” he said with a hint of disappointment. “Can’t say I blame him for his concern, but ...” He allowed the sentence to trail off, his eyes suddenly squinting in Henry’s direction. “Tell me, Gisborn. What exactly are you planning on that estate of yours?” he wondered, his hands sliding into the pockets of his breeches as he wandered farther into the room. He made his way to a sideboard, where a crystal decanter and several glasses were placed on a silver salver. Pouring a finger’s worth of liquor into one glass, he turned to regard Henry as he held out the glass.

  “Thank you,” Henry said as he took the heavy tumbler, realizing almost immediately the liquor within was scotch. Malt scotch. Probably from Scotland and no doubt aged at least twelve years. “I have designed a series of irrigation ditches for the farmland on my property as well as the neighboring estate. It’s my intention to be able to drain the lands during heavy rains as well as to provide water for the crops during drier times.” He didn’t add that he’d purchased new seed drills for the planting and cradles for the harvest, nor that he was working on a design for a more efficient plow.

  The marquess regarded him for a moment and then poured a glass for himself. “So, you’re aware of what Aldenwood has prognosticated for this summer, eh?” he asked as he held his own glass out toward Henry.

  Not recognizing the name in association with predictions for the future, Henry regarded the marquess for a moment. “Aldenwood? I’m afraid I’m not familiar with him, my lord,” he replied as he noticed the marquess holding his glass out in his direction.

  “James Aldenwood. The world explorer,” Devonville stated, as if that was information enough.

  A surprised Henry clinked his own glass against Devonville’s before taking a sip of the amber liquid. The scotch burned his throat as it made its way down, but the effect was as comforting as it was restorative. “Oh, that’s very good, my lord,” he said with an appreciative nod.

  “Isn’t it? My brother makes the stuff up in the Highlands,” the marquess responded proudly. “Good thing he was born second. He’s not good for anything else,” he added with a mischievous grin.

  Henry smiled in response, realizing the younger brother of a marquess was merely the spare heir in a ton family. “I am, of course, familiar with Mr. Aldenwood’s writings about his various travels,” he admitted then, wanting to be sure the marquess knew he had at least heard of the man, “But I was not aware he was a prognosticator,” Henry added as he wondered how his intent for his lands and Aldenwood were related.

  The marquess moved to the fireplace. “Aldenwood and I are old friends. I used to travel with him on occasion. He has seen things – amazing things. His writings do not begin to cover all that he has witnessed in his lifetime. Last year, he was in Australia when a volcano erupted in the Dutch East Indies. The thing apparently put so much debris into the air, the sky was completely black down there for several days. The sun was so dim, you could look at it with the naked eye for many weeks afterward. And the debris hasn’t come down. All that stuff in the air – he says it’s why we have these gorgeous sunrises and sunsets, you see,” he explained, finally taking a sip of his scotch. He seemed to hold it on his tongue for a moment before swallowing it with a great deal of relish.

  Henry stared at the marquess for a moment before taking another sip of his scotch. “And is all this ... debris ... the reason we’ve had a colder winter? More rain?” he wondered, a sense of dread settling into his stomach. Would the bad weather continue into the summer? The growing season? The spring was already proving to be cooler and rainier than usual. Although the Gisborn earldom was fairly flush economically, he could not afford to have a bad growing season. There were tenants who depended on the crops, several nearby villages that existed because of the farming done on Gisborn lands.

  Devonville pointed a finger at him. “You catch on quick, my son,” he said in a manner that suggested he was pleased with Henry’s deduction. “Aldenwood is convinced that Northern Europe and all of Great Britain will have a terrible growing season. So, anything you can do now to ensure a better yield on your crops will be beneficial. May keep your tenants from starving this winter.” The marquess drained his remaining scotch in a single gulp.

  Following suit with his own scotch, Henry stared into his empty glass before regarding the marquess. “I appreciate your telling me this. I may have the right idea about draining the fields of excess water. But now I may have to rethink what crops to plant.” What choice did he really have? Wheat, barley and beans were the only crops grown in his part of Oxfordshire. Although his words were meant to appease the marquess, on further reflection, an uneasy feeling was building in his gut; how much credence should he give the information? Devonville seemed pretty convinced of Aldenwood’s conclusions, though. Even if Aldenwood’s prediction didn’t come true, it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared in any case.

  “And while you’re doing that, tell me, Gisborn. About your meeting with Ellsworth, I mean,” Devonville said as he moved to the sideboard and refilled his glass. He motioned for Henry to bring his glass so he could pour more scotch into it.

  Henry held out his glass. “I was there to speak with him about property. Ellsworth Park is adjacent to the Gisborn lands.” He didn’t mention the discussion concerning his marrying Lady Charlotte as part of the deal.

  “Are you ... planning to marry the chit?” Devonville asked then, his gaze so direct that Henry was forced to look away.

  He sighed quietly. The marquess certainly didn’t mince words. “Joshua Wainwright, the new Duke of Chichester, will have that honor, my lord. Probably in a day or two, in fact,” Henry added, trying not to allow his disappointment to show. Charlotte had seemed the perfect woman to be his countess. She would make Wainwright the perfect duchess.

  Devonville let out a grunt. “Can’t say I blame Lady Charlotte. I think she is quite in love with the younger Wainwright. The older brother ..,” he paused for a moment and shook his head quickly. “Not so much. Most wouldn’t say so out loud, but I think the world is better off without his despicable character staining the reputation of the Wainwrights.”

  Henry forced his face to remain impassive. So the marquess was not a fan of the Earl of Grinstead – the man who would have been the Duke of Chichester – had be not died in the fire. “Indeed,” Henry answered with a nod. “Lord Ellsworth was quite insistent that I marry Lady Charlotte, even gave me a generous dowry before the fact. And I would have honored his arrangement had she ... wanted to marry me,” he stated carefully. Good God, I am here to inquire about Lady Hannah’s availability for marriage. I shouldn’t be commenting on my first choice in a wife!

  “A marriage of convenience is not always the best approach, lad,” the marquess said in a soft voice, his eyes suddenly somber. “I miss my wife. Terribly. Didn’t realize what a catch she was until after she’d borne me a fine heir, and a beautiful daughter, and put up with my philandering ways for a good decade. I must have had five mistresses before I came to my senses and realized I was in love with my own wife!”

  Henry stared at the older man, stunned that he would admit such personal details to someone he had only just met. “She must certainly have returned the favor,” he commented, cocking his head to one side.

  At this, the light in Lord Devonville’s eyes dimmed. His head lowered a notch. “She used to. She died a couple of years ago.”

  Stunned at the comment, Henry struggled for the correct words to say. Why hadn’t Charlotte warned him that Lady Devonville had died? “I am so sorry for your loss, my lord,” he said in a solemn voice. �
�It must have been very hard for you. And for your children.”

  At the mention of children, the marquess lifted his head again. “William is the oldest. He has his own naval command, but Hannah ... she isn’t yet settled. She’s had a harder time of it. Spent a year of what would have been her first Season in mourning for her mother and the second Season in mourning when my sister died,” he explained with a shrug, waving a hand to indicate Henry should take a seat. Henry did so when the marquess settled himself into an overstuffed chair near the fireplace.

  Henry realized then that the woman he had seen with the dog the night before had to be Lady Hannah. “She had six suitors this past Season,” Devonville continued, a hint of pride in his voice. He took another sip of his scotch. “And not a one of them were worthy of my only daughter,” he added before regarding Henry with a critical eye.

  Although not surprised that Lady Hannah would attract so many suitors her first Season out, the earl had to struggle to hide his initial shock. So, I’m not the only one to find her beautiful, he thought, a sense of sadness settling over him. “It is Lady Charlotte’s opinion that your daughter would be a suitable match for me,” he said as a way to introduce his reason for calling on the marquess. “I know we have only just met, but do you suppose you might find me worthy enough for your daughter?” Henry wondered, holding his head up and meeting the marquess’ direct gaze without flinching. Better to discover how he fared with the father before even trying to convince the daughter of his suitability as a husband.

  William Slater regarded him for several seconds before turning his attention to the fireplace. He drained his glass, setting the empty tumbler on the table next to this chair. “Did you ever meet your first betrothed?” he wondered in a quiet voice.

  Henry had to stifle a gasp. How did the marquess know about that? “I met Lady Jennifer when she was quite young. I ... We did not renew our acquaintance prior to her death,” he stammered. “She was ... quite young,” he repeated, not sure what else to say about his first betrothal.

  “Is it true you have a bastard son?” Devonville asked, his visage suddenly so stern, Henry thought perhaps the marquess had already decided he wasn’t good enough for his only daughter.

  “I do, my lord,” Henry answered with a nod, not allowing his surprise to show. How did the marquess know of his son? “I have raised him as such since his birth.”

  Nodding, Devonville leaned forward. “And what of his education?”

  Henry wondered at the man’s curiosity. “He had a governess until early last year, he has had a tutor ever since. He will go to Abingdon this fall and Eton when he is thirteen. I ... hope he will wish to attend a university after that, but it will be up to him to decide which one and for what discipline.”

  Devonville’s bushy eyebrows hiked up on the man’s forehead, as if he was surprised by Gisborn’s answer. “And what of the mother?”

  Bristling at the question but deciding it was better to offer the truth, Henry sighed. “I have wanted to marry his mother since we were quite young, but she has refused all my offers.”

  Devonville seemed taken aback by his response. “Whatever reason could a woman devise to turn down an earl’s offer of marriage?” he wondered, his bushy eyebrows now furrowed in disbelief. “Is she ... frequently beset by the vapours?”

  At that moment, Henry wanted nothing more than to disappear into the expensive Turkish carpeting that covered the floor of the drawing room. The marquess had voiced the very question Henry had asked of Sarah the last time he proposed marriage to her. “She was not born to our class. She has known I would inherit the Gisborn earldom since we were in our teen years,” he explained quickly, wanting the marquess to know he had tried to legitimize the son. “She feels it is my duty to seek a wife at least equal to my station, so she has rebuffed all my offers to make her my wife.” Although he had given a very similar answer to Lady Charlotte just the afternoon before, somehow it seemed a rather lame excuse when he was saying it to a marquess.

  There were several instances of viscounts and earls who had married women from outside the aristocracy. Some of their wives had done just fine in assimilating themselves into the life of the ton in London. Some others, however, were never accepted by the fickle aristocracy. They spent their lives on their husband’s country estates, never to be seen in London.

  The marquess seemed impressed by his answer – or impressed by the mother of his son – Henry could not be sure which. “So, she is your mistress, then?” Devonville half-asked.

  Again, Henry remembered his conversation with Lady Charlotte from the day before. He had never considered Sarah his mistress, and yet, that’s exactly the role she had played over the years. He intended to continue their relationship even after he wed. He loved her. “I ... Yes,” he finally agreed, a bit embarrassed at having to admit to keeping a mistress when he was there to ask for the man’s permission to court his daughter. “If we suit and if you allow me to wed your daughter, my lord, I promise I will provide protection and the very best of everything for her and our ... children,” Henry stammered again, cursing at himself for losing his confidence in the middle of the exchange with the marquess. “Lady Charlotte implied ...” He stopped then, wondering if he should tell the marquess what Lady Hannah’s friend had told him about the younger woman’s opinion of husbands.

  “Lady Hannah has rather peculiar ideas when it comes to men,” the marquess interrupted, realizing Lady Charlotte had probably shared Hannah’s odd opinion of men with the earl. When he noted Henry’s arched eyebrow, though, he wondered if she had explained it in terms the earl could understand. “It is my daughter’s opinion that men only really love their mistresses and merely need their wives to bear them children,” Devonville admitted with an exaggerated sigh. He recognized the earl’s discomfiture for what it was. “Although I kept all those mistresses for several years, I know now I was a fool to do so. I loved my wife. And I have tried in vain to convince my daughter of that fact for the past couple of years,” he insisted then, his ire increasing with every word.

  “I do not require she love me,” Henry stated then, his head shaking a bit. “And, as long as she loves the children she bears, I should consider myself a very lucky man, my lord.”

  The Marquess of Devonville stared at the Earl of Gisborn for several moments, his features set in an unreadable expression. And then a bit of mischief appeared in his eyes. “Then I suggest you get on with the business of courting her,” Devonville stated before rising to his feet. “To the extent she can be ... courted,” he added with a grin that seemed to indicate more mischief. “The third time is the charm, they say,” he murmured, referring to his daughter being Gisborn’s third wife apparent. “I wish you luck, Gisborn,” he added as he extended his hand to the earl.

  Henry stared in disbelief at the marquess. What was the man not telling him? He finally took and shook the proffered hand. The third time. “Thank you, my lord. I ...” He stopped as he considered why the marquess would even give him permission to court Lady Hannah. “May I ask why it is you’re allowing me to court your daughter?”

  The gleam of mischief still in his eyes, the Marquess of Devonville regarded Henry with a slight grin. “You’re an earl and yet you work your land. Most of the idiots in the ton would find that offensive, but I do not. You’ve done right by your son. I expect you’ll do right by my daughter. And whatever grandchildren you manage to produce.” He straightened. “By the way, you’ll find Lady Hannah in the parlor.”

  Henry nodded, surprised at the man’s candor. “May I call on her now?”

  “Of course. Her earlier caller, Lady Bostwick, left a bit ago. She’s Hannah’s other best friend, by the way,” he said in an off-hand manner, but Henry got the distinct impression the information was provided to help him in his quest. “Oh, and Harold is with her. Let me tell you a bit about my daughter’s pet. Just so you’re ... prepared.”

  And for the next few minutes, the Marquess of Devonville described the ab
ilities and antics of the Alpenmastiff that had been with the family for ten years.

  Allowing a smile at Devonville’s descriptions, Henry realized the dog had become equivalent to another child in the Slater household. And he was obviously near and dear to Lady Hannah.

  “Now, off with you,” Devonville said with a wave as he indicated the study door.

  Henry grinned. “I will not disappoint you.”

  The marquess regarded him, his eyes narrowing. “See that you don’t.”

  Chapter 4

  Lady Hannah Meets Lord Gisborn

  Standing to the side of the front window of the Devonville House parlor, Lady Hannah Slater watched as the unmarked coach pulled up into the semi-circular drive and deposited its rather handsome occupant onto the crushed granite. A coin was tossed to the driver, who nodded and set his crop aside once he’d climbed back onto the box. So ... the coach was no doubt hired and expected to stay put for the duration of the gentleman’s visit.

  But who was the fare?

  She watched as the tall man approached the front doors, his gaze directed straight ahead. His top hat was well suited to his height, his dark topcoat and buckskin breeches tailored to fit him precisely. There was a shine on his boots that suggested his valet had seen to them that very morning.

  Hannah wondered why he didn’t seem to direct his gaze to the rest of the house as most did when they approached the Palladian mansion in Park Lane. Perhaps he had already caught sight of her staring out the window and did not wish to embarrass her by looking in her direction. She stepped back and to the side a bit more, to keep his figure in view until he passed one of the Grecian columns that flanked the entry. Dark hair, long sideburns, a square jaw – he looked familiar, but Hannah could not be certain she’d met him.

  Oh, if only Lady Charlotte were still in town. She would know the man who was now being let into the vestibule by Hatfield. Charlotte knew all the gentlemen of the ton and several cits, besides. Having been betrothed nearly her entire life, Charlotte had no need of considering every man she met as a potential suitor. As such, she made friends with men for the sole purpose of having dance partners at balls. For Hannah, though, two Seasons lost to mourning meant she was still becoming acquainted with the available bachelors of the ton. Although she’d had six suitors her first year out, none were particularly interesting, and all but one were clearly angling for her dowry more than for her hand in marriage. The other was barely eighteen and apparently wanted to get married so he could escape his domineering mother.