This Earl Is on Fire Page 5

  Mother looked up from her list. Glancing at the Standard, she cleared her throat. “While your father and I frown upon the practice, I know it is the breadstuff of society.”

  Adeline nodded sagely. “Actually, this article—”

  “Though I must confess that I find it all rather”—Mother interrupted, sitting forward, her voice falling to a whisper—“thrilling. To a certain extent.”

  Adeline’s mouth dropped open. “Have you been reading society columns?”

  Mother glanced upward to the roof as if worried that Gladwin might overhear. Then she nodded. “Mrs. Harvey has a niece who works in a bookshop here and sends a paper or two through the post. Sometimes we sit in the parlor and discuss the important events.”

  Her mother and their housekeeper gossiping in the parlor? It was something she never expected. And more than that . . . “I wish you’d invited me to these chats.”

  Then again, they were likely harboring the one man who could impart far more interesting gossip, and about himself.

  What illicit tales might he tell? Surely, he could tell Adeline many things about which she had never experienced. Never even considered.

  Of course, illicit was far from the word she would use to describe her own experiences with the opposite sex. Thus far, she had received only a single kiss—and a rather bland one at that—from Paul Wittingham, their parish curate.

  A year ago, he’d professed a desire to marry her. Or more aptly—to care for her for the rest of her life. “I would cherish you and never once overtax you or impose upon your limitations. Happily, I would shoulder the burden of the demands of a man in my position in order to keep you comfortable.”

  The offer had left a sour taste on her tongue. Clearly, he saw her as helpless and unable to care for herself, let alone him or even their fellow parishioners. Needless to say, she’d refused him. Adeline didn’t want to marry a man who pitied her. One who only saw her shortened limb instead of seeing her. She’d already endured a lifetime of well-intentioned coddling from her parents. And she never intended to spend her entire life in the same cocoon. Though clearly that was the only life she could expect.

  “Speaking of society gossip . . . this activity is not something about which I am proud—oh and you must promise not to tell your father,” Mother said with an uncharacteristically sheepish expression. “I fear he would not understand. He might imagine that I have been discontented all these years in Boswickshire, when the contrary is true. I simply prefer a . . . taste of London from time to time.”

  “I will keep your secret,” Adeline vowed. “However, I fear that our guest might very well be the prime focus of today’s gossip.”

  Mother lifted her brows and took the folded edge. “Truly?”

  As she handed over the Standard, a lack of confidence washed over Adeline. Moments ago she’d been certain of her mother’s reaction. Such wasn’t the case any longer. Would Mother be scandalized by the column . . . or intrigued?

  Adeline feared it might be the latter. She also feared that the main trait she’d inherited from her mother was a penchant for news of the illicit variety.

  “In all honesty,” Mother said after skimming the page, “I had assumed as much about our guest. Especially considering how we’d found him. Obviously the man, or men, who’d abused Wolford so grievously was not his friend.”

  “Does it bother you that what the column says might be true? That Wolford is”—Adeline swallowed down a wayward thrill—“a rake?”

  In response, Bunny Pimm’s indigo eyes lifted from the paper and trained on her like a falcon eyeing a field mouse. “Hmm . . . does it bother you?”

  Truth be told, it intrigued her. The stories he could tell her would be like an adventure on its own, and one that would not ruin her reputation, just offer her things to ponder once she returned to Boswickshire as the different version of herself.

  Though if he was hers . . . the news might have made her a trifle jealous. Thank goodness she needn’t worry over that possibility. “I see no reason why it should.”

  Liam didn’t need his eyesight in order to know how harried his steward was at the moment. Then again, an afternoon drizzle would rattle Rendell, with him feeling the need to count each and every drop. The reason Liam could tell was because—whenever something went wrong—Rendell used a copious number of my lords. He’d surpassed a dozen already and he’d just arrived.

  “Had I known, my lord, that you were injured, my lord, I would have searched each one of your residences, sent word to your hunting boxes, inquired at Arborcrest—”

  Liam interrupted Rendell’s obsequious servility. “And should I ever go missing again, I would appreciate your thoroughness. Although I will spare you one errand, as you are not likely to find me at Arborcrest for another thirty years.”

  Arborcrest was Liam’s boyhood home and ancestral estate. More than that, however, it was a pastoral, quiet place, full of fond memories. One day, he would take a wife and live with her there. Though not until he was sixty years old or so, as his father had been. Liam knew all too well that it was a fool’s errand to entertain the notion of matrimony as a young man.

  In the meantime, Liam was determined to live a full life before settling down and begetting an heir. He did everything he could to avoid Arborcrest and left Mr. Ipley in charge of the estate.

  “Yes, my lord. I’ll make a note of it, my lord.”

  Liam’s head was beginning to throb again, directly behind his eyes. He lifted a hand to his bandages where pale light seemed to illuminate the jagged veins beneath the flesh of his eyelids. He hoped it was a good sign—that he could see anything at all—but he could not be certain. “Rendell, I would appreciate it if you would spare me the additional my lords for the remainder of our meeting today.”

  “Yes, of course, my l—” The steward cleared his throat. “My apologies, my l—”

  “All I ask is that you do your best.” Liam breathed through his clenched teeth. “Now, what business have we to discuss?”

  Again the steward cleared this throat, the rapid staccato hemming just as grating as the my lords, if not more. The rustle of papers followed. “I brought the invoices for your latest acquisitions from the Continent. Where would you like me to send them, my lord?”

  “You’re making excellent progress. Only one that time,” Liam said patiently, if a bit mockingly. “As for the pair of Oriental vases, I should like them delivered to Brook Street. The Elbe urn should go to Wolford House. Send the French sofa next door. I will require it soon.”

  “There is one problem, my lord. Your housekeeper has threatened me with bodily harm should I send any more objects into what she calls her domain. According to Mrs. Brasher, there simply isn’t any more room, my lord.”

  Liam exhaled. He’d been adding to his collection exceedingly as of late. The increase had begun during a recent trip to the Continent, shortly following Vale’s wedding. The problem was there were too many interesting items that required further study. So many that he’d needed to buy another house in order to fit them all. “Fine. Then send the urn next door as well. I have a house that I can fill.”

  “Not entirely, my lord,” Rendell said with a nervous sniff. “You purchased the furnishings within each of the terraced houses as well.”

  In other words, Liam’s most recently acquired property might not hold enough of his collection either. “For our next meeting we’ll talk about rearranging a few of the pieces in order to make the appropriate accommodations. There is also the possibility of filling the third property here instead of letting it.”

  “Begging your pardon, my lord, but Lord Caulfield has offered quite a substantial sum for the Roman pottery.”

  “And as I have explained before, I will not sell any part of it, regardless of the offer. After all, it isn’t as if I require money.” Liam had inherited a fortune that could not be spent in five lifetimes. Therefore he chose to live the way he pleased. This included buying whatever bric-a-brac took his fanc
y.

  He considered himself a lifelong scholar, reminiscent of his father’s tutelage. The late Callum Cavanaugh used a collection of artifacts to teach Liam about history, the native peoples who created the work in question—their methods, tools, and indigenous resources—the philosophic teachings of the time, and even mathematics, among other things. And with such a vast collection of his own, Liam would require decades to study each piece in depth.

  “Very good, my lord.” Rendell’s words were accompanied by the scraping sound of a pencil scribbling over a page—likely indecipherable, as the man had abominable handwriting. “Once I received word of your situation, I took the liberty of having your valet pack a satchel of clothes for you while you remain here. Mr. Neville would have come himself, I’m sure, but he experienced a sudden bout of nausea when informed of your unfortunate accident. Also, for your convenience, I’ve begun interviewing candidates for the positions next door, to ready your rooms as soon as possible. If you prefer, I could send an order to your valet to assist you here.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Liam wasn’t going to have Neville here to look down his nose at Boswick’s family. Besides, if they could survive without servants, then so could he. “I rather prefer no one fussing about. And if you are going to interview candidates for next door, begin with my current staff.”

  “Yes, my lord. And one more thing, I took the liberty of retrieving the key to the adjoining door. If you’ll recall, it is located across the hall from this chamber. I thought it would be easier for you to manage if you did not have so many stairs to navigate.” He scuffed his feet across the floor and placed something metal on the bedside table. “I’ll just leave the key here, my lord.”

  Before Liam had purchased this terraced house, he’d learned where the adjoining doors were, all of them hidden either by panels or large paintings. Fortunately, he wouldn’t have to traverse the stairs when the time came for him to leave. Yet, thinking of the eventuality, his headache intensified, throbbing and threatening to crack open his cranium.

  “Brilliant, Rendell. I knew there was a reason I kept you.” Liam waved a hand in the steward’s general direction. “However, that was the last my lord I can tolerate for one day, so see yourself out, if you please.”

  He wanted relief from the pain. Automatically, he found himself listening carefully to the sounds in the house. Rendell’s lumbering steps down the stairs. Boswick’s deep baritone. The door closing. He held his breath, listening intently. But there was no Miss Pimm.

  Peculiarly, her voice served as a tonic that he already found himself requiring. Tonic? He nearly laughed at the notion. What idiocy! Exhaustion, that was all this was. And perhaps the blow to his head had rattled his good sense.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Adeline couldn’t sleep. So, as she brushed her hair in her bedchamber, she listened to the steady cadence of Father’s snores from the far end of the hall, as well as the clamor of traffic outside the window. The sounds of two opposing worlds—country gentility and London society. The latter were just now beginning their evenings.

  Tomorrow evening, that would be her as well.

  Setting down her brush, her cheeks lifted in a grin. Father had sent Gladwin to the opera house to procure tickets. The opera! Adeline had never attended one before. She had, however, heard a few performances over the years. Father hosted various musicians, singers, and play actors, inviting them to stay in Boswickshire. He had wanted to give the best of the world to his wife and daughter.

  During the first years of her life, Adeline had felt rather spoiled in that regard. This lasted until she was eight years old, when a village girl revealed the truth that had changed everything.

  According to Miss Georgiana Hatch, coming over to play with Adeline was part of the weekly chores that all the village girls their age had to endure. But they were told never to say anything about her leg. That was when Adeline had begun to feel secluded instead of pampered. From that moment on, she’d feigned a stomachache whenever her assigned playmate was scheduled to arrive.

  She’d always wanted a friend, someone with whom she could feel comfortable, not pitied. In fact, part of her hoped she might find that here. Perhaps she would meet such a person at the op—

  A sudden thunk startled Adeline. The low oath “Bloody hell!” followed. She looked to her open door, the sound coming from across the hall.

  Alarmed, she snatched the lamp from her side table and rushed to their guest’s door. She paused at the threshold for the barest moment. When she heard Wolford cursing under his breath again, she entered the room without knocking.

  Then she stopped short, halting so abruptly that the lamp sputtered.

  The greenest eyes she’d ever seen stared back her, the enigmatic clover color holding her transfixed for a moment. Liam did not move either. He was sitting up in bed, his legs draped over the side, and—more importantly—with the length of his bandage curled in his hand.

  After speaking to him and sitting at his bedside for hours on end—with nothing to do but memorize the features exposed to her view—she already knew he was handsome. She’d gone to sleep thinking about the angular line of his jaw, the tendons on his throat that shifted when he swallowed, the shape of his mouth . . . She just never expected him to be this handsome.

  How could she have guessed that the slope of his forehead was utter perfection? That his dark brows were so thick and tapered? That the length of his lashes served as a frame for those eyes, making it nearly impossible to look away? And that with the natural contour of his beard that he would look like a veritable pirate?

  “You removed your bandage,” she said, dumbstruck and unable to state anything other than the obvious.

  He closed his eyes briefly and exhaled. Then when he opened them again, he grinned. “Miss Pimm.”

  The warmth of those two syllables caused her to blush, but the unbidden effect helped her to break eye contact. Pulling herself together, she stepped into the room and set her lamp on his bedside table. She knew in an instant that she shouldn’t have dared to stand so close to him. Her skin tingled all over, from her scalp to the soles of her feet. Her fingertips pulsed as if yearning to glide over his brow, to trace those chiseled features, to memorize the texture of his skin.

  Drawing in a steadying breath, she reached down and took his bandage from his grasp. “You shouldn’t have done so.”

  “I was tired of the constant darkness,” he said, his gaze unwavering. He studied every minute activity she did—winding the gauze, brushing it free of the ruffles down the center of her night rail when it started to cling, pulling a wayward length of her light brown hair free of the bundle, tossing that hair over her shoulder—and missed nothing.

  Neither did she. Once the alarm faded, she realized she was standing before him in her night rail. She hadn’t even thought to grab a wrapper. Thankfully, the garment was layered, thereby offering a measure of modesty. Or at least, that’s what she told herself as she moved toward the sideboard to set the bandage down and pour him a glass of water.

  “You’re limping,” he accused. “Did you hurt yourself on the way to my room?”

  Adeline tensed. The question felt like a poke at a bruise that would not heal. While she would rather no one learn of her secret, there was no hiding it now.

  Drawing in a breath, she prepared for the pity that would inevitably come. “I’m lame, Wolford. I always limp, unless I wear my corrective half-boots.”

  He pressed his lips together and nodded, his gaze dropping to her feet. “Ah. That explains the shuffled step.”

  While her left foot was planted cleanly on the floor, her right was on tiptoe. With the length of her night rail nearly reaching the floor, she was sure he couldn’t see much of her feet, but she felt the need to flare her hem wider for concealment, nonetheless. “Pardon?”

  “Whenever you walked into the room, your steps would shuffle,” he said matter-of-factly. “Your father’s footfall is crisp and heavy. Your mother’s is s
teady and light. And yours . . .”

  “Shuffles,” she finished for him, feeling more ungainly than usual.

  “Those are things I’d never noticed before. All sorts of sounds. While I’d always thought I was an astute observer of people, I never knew how much I’d relied on my eyes to assist me. Hearing only the cadence of a voice and not seeing their stance or expressions was difficult to overcome.” His gaze lifted, and there appeared to be a question in his eyes.

  She braced herself. Usually, along with the pity, people wanted to know exactly how she became lame. And she hated telling that story.

  “You did not come to me again after your outing with your mother.”

  Surprise stuttered out of her lungs. Was that all he had to say about her leg, just a mere observation and nothing more? She doubted that was the end of it.

  “How did you know when I returned?” Likely, he’d heard the sound of her ungainly, doddering footfalls.

  Yet he surprised her again with his next words.

  “Your voice has a certain . . . quality to it that is easy to recognize,” he explained with the hint of a grin. The upward tilt of his mouth caused a curved, narrow fissure to line one cheek. “And I heard you return early this afternoon.”

  A certain quality? What could that mean? She wondered whether it was good or bad.

  “You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you,” she said, stating a partial truth. “Father believes sleep is important for healing.”

  “He is a wise man, for I do feel better. Certainly relieved.” He lifted a long-fingered hand, gesturing to his eyes.

  She noticed that his breathing was less labored than before, but not entirely easy. Holding the water glass, she moved toward the bed. Without thinking, she lifted it to his lips. When she realized how pointless her effort was, she stammered, “F-forgive me. I did not mean to—”

  Yet before she finished or even lowered the glass, he stopped her by curling his hand around hers. Then, tipping the glass, he drank every drop. And his eyes stayed with hers the entire time.