An Unexpected Earl Page 10

  Guilt pinched her stomach. Oh, that was a lovely way of stating that they’d behaved scandalously and gotten caught!

  But Frederick had been away at school the night when Papa caught Pearce in her bedroom, and she would have sworn that Papa wouldn’t have told him for fear that her brother would have revealed it to his cronies during some drunken rout. No, he must have figured out on his own how much she and Pearce had once meant to each other. Dear heavens, had they been that obvious?

  She leveled her gaze on him. “What, exactly, are you asking of me?”

  “Oh, don’t pretend naivete with me.” He cut her an accusing glare. “Surely, he still has an attraction for you. After all, beneath the uniform and finery, he’s still just a former tavern rat.”

  “Frederick!” How dare he! To insult Pearce like that—

  “Use your feminine charms, Amelia! Men like Pearce fall for that sort of nonsense all the time.” When her eyes narrowed to slits, he added, “You don’t have to let him do anything untoward, of course.”

  “Well, thank goodness,” she drawled sarcastically, so furious that her hands trembled as she picked up the cloth and shook it out. “Someone more mistrusting might think you wanted me to compromise myself.”

  He placed his hands on his hips in aggravation. “Why can’t you be serious?”

  She’d never been more serious about anything in her life. Her world was about to come crashing down around her—again. But this time, no one would be there to help her pick up the pieces.

  Except possibly for Pearce. If he’d truly been sincere in his offer to help her.

  “Smile at him, flatter him, laugh at his comments, twist your hair around your finger—”

  “Twist my hair?” The calmness of that question belied her simmering anger.

  “Just be nice to the man, will you?” Exasperated, Freddie ran a hand through his hair. Fitting. Because she wanted to yank it out of his head. “For God’s sake, half the wives in the ton pretend for their entire lives that they like the men they’re married to. The least you can do is pretend to like Sandhurst for the next fortnight.”

  No. That wasn’t the least she could do. The least she could do was let Frederick go to the dogs.

  But that meant letting herself—and the shop—go down with him. She could never do that.

  “I will try,” she half-heartedly promised.

  “Good. Because I hope to see him tonight at the Black Ball.”

  She let out a surprised squeak. “Pardon?”

  When Frederick had purchased tickets to White’s grand gala six weeks ago, she hadn’t known that Pearce was back in London, let alone would be attendance. As the sister to an MP, her presence was expected—mandatory, if Freddie had any say in the matter. But seeing Pearce again was the very last thing she wanted. She’d come too close to confiding in him yesterday. If she saw him again, if old memories stirred—

  No, she had to keep away from him. Avoiding him completely was the only way to ensure that he wouldn’t learn Freddie’s secrets. Or hers.

  “The earl is attending?” Trepidation panged hollowly in her belly. “Are you certain?”

  Her brother grunted in answer, clearly distracted by thoughts of cornering Pearce at tonight’s ball. But from everything she’d discovered about him since the masquerade, he wasn’t the type of man who let himself be trapped. Several thousand dead French soldiers proved that.

  “I’ll pull him aside at some point and demand an answer,” Freddie mumbled to himself. “Perhaps in the game room when he’s distracted by cards and drink.” He waved his hand dismissively and once more began to pace. “You know how these evenings are for gentlemen.”

  She sighed a bit mockingly. “No, not really.”

  “Don’t, Amelia.” He leveled a quelling look at her. “Do not minimize the importance of this. Everything we have is at risk.”

  “I am well aware of that.” For heaven’s sake, she was standing right in the middle of it. War widows who depended upon her charity to survive were most likely out in the shop at that very moment, whispering about the two of them and this latest argument they’d gotten into.

  “Good.” He tugged at his cuffs, then at his waistcoat. That same nervous gesture that Papa had done whenever he wanted to remind himself that he was a wealthy businessman who had risen so far in the world that he nipped at the heels of the aristocracy. One of her brother’s inherited traits which she despised. “Then we’ve come to an understanding. You’ll do whatever you can to bring Sandhurst over to our side.”

  No. She hadn’t agreed to anything of the kind.

  He picked up the silk cloth she’d been examining. “You have a lovely shop, Amelia, you truly do.” He released the panel and let it fall to the table. Then he wiped his hands together, as if ladies’ things disgusted him. “But you won’t be able to save it if I’m ruined.”

  Was that a threat? All the tiny muscles in her stomach twisted, and for a moment, she feared she might cast up her accounts. Wouldn’t it be a shame if she ruined his shiny new shoes?

  “I mean it,” he warned as he moved toward the door. “Do not do anything to dissuade Sandhurst.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she mumbled as he left.

  When he was out of sight, she hung her head in her hands and let her shoulders sag, gulping down mouthfuls of air to calm her roiling stomach. For this one moment only, she let the anguish sweep over her about the mess life had become, the loss of control, that despised feeling of helplessness that was once again descending…

  But only a moment. She’d learned long ago that feeling sorry for herself solved nothing.

  Gathering her strength with a deep inhalation, she ignored her trembling fingers as she reached for two of the silk panels and spread them out across the table.

  That was it—lose herself in her work, just as she’d always done…when Pearce was forced away, when Papa died and she’d been left to suffer Frederick’s anger about the will, then again when Aaron left her. Plans for a better future had always sustained her. Just as they would now.

  After this mess was over, once her charity and Bradenhill were both safe, she would never let herself be under another man’s control again.

  “Which is better, hmm?” Talking to herself, she turned her attention back to deciding which of the silk pieces to keep in stock and which to rotate out of inventory. “The red roses with their green leaves or the pretty peonies?”

  “I prefer the roses myself.”

  With a surprised gasp, she wheeled around. Her eyes landed on Pearce as he stood in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame.

  “But then,” he drawled with a shrug of a broad shoulder as his gaze wandered over her, “I’ve always been fond of scarlet.”

  The silk slipped through her fingers and puddled on the floor at her feet.

  Like a cake of a girl, she stared at him, all dusty and rumpled from riding, his posture both rakish and defiant. Good God…he so easily took her breath away.

  The dark-green jacket that stretched over his shoulders only served to make him look more dashing than usual, impossibly broader and more muscular, from his shoulders all the way down over the tan riding breeches hugging at his hard thighs. Unlike how other gentlemen dressed, he wore no hat or neckcloth, as if he couldn’t be bothered with unnecessary bits of clothing or dandyish fashion trends. The slightly open shirt collar that just peeked out from beneath the plain tan waistcoat scandalously revealed his bare neck, making him look like nothing more than a common worker or ruffian drifting in from the docks. He knew it, too, based upon the defiant gleam in his eyes.

  But of course Pearce would snub both fashion and decorum. When had he ever followed society’s rules? That he was part of it now would make no difference.

  She swallowed hard as he shoved himself away from the door and stepped into the room, uninvited. H
is eyes left hers only when he stopped in front of her and bent down to pick up the silk. But the reprieve was short-lived, and heat streaked through her when he rose to his feet, his gaze traveling slowly up the length of her and lingering in all kinds of places it had no business being.

  She would have told him so, too, if he hadn’t left her speechless. And aching.

  “Good afternoon, Amelia.” His deep voice played like warm fingers down her spine.

  “Pearce,” she forced out breathlessly. The world was spinning beneath her, and she reached out to grasp the edge of the table to keep from falling away. “What are you doing here?”

  “I went to your brother’s house. The butler said you were both here.” He cast a leisurely glance around the room before landing his gaze on her. “I’m not surprised you run a shop. Your father was one of the most successful businessmen in England. It must be in your blood.”

  “No, it’s not.” She laid the silk panel aside. She never wanted to be compared to Gordon Howard. “And it’s not a shop.”

  “Could have fooled me,” he mumbled dryly, reaching for a small vial of perfume containing a new scent that one of the women had recently concocted and which Amelia was considering offering for sale.

  “It’s a charity.” She sounded defensive, even to her own ears, but she couldn’t help it, feeling like a mother protecting her child. “I give employment to women who otherwise have no means of support.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me either. You always were caring.”

  He removed the cork and wafted the scent beneath his nose, then curled his lips in an appreciative expression that spun through her all the way to the ends of her hair. The same way he used to look at her when they were younger. Right before he proposed some wild scheme that undoubtedly ended up casting them into trouble. Like the time they’d sneaked into the Twelfth Night celebrations and drunk so much punch that she’d gotten sick. Or when he’d asked her to go sailing on the boat he’d made, only for it to sink in the middle of the river, forcing them to be rescued by the ferryman. And all those times when they’d gone off alone into the fields for picnics or stargazing, lying on a blanket in each other’s arms… She’d thought they’d always be like that, always going from one adventure to the next. Together.

  But fate had never been her friend.

  Slowly, she took the bottle out of his hand and replaced the stopper. She had no time for memories of a past now best left to the shadows.

  “Freddie’s not here. He left about ten minutes ago, most likely for Boodle’s. So you don’t have to stay just to be polite.” She set the bottle aside before he could see her shaking hands. “I’m sure you have more important things to do than visit a ladies’ charity shop.”

  Instead of leaving, though, he folded his arms and leaned a hip against the table beside her in a pose of such masculine confidence that her belly tightened with desire. The memories of giving him her first kisses as a girl, and other intimacies, came flooding back unbidden. And mercilessly.

  “We were interrupted in our conversation yesterday,” he said. “I think we should finish it, don’t you?”

  No. Finishing that conversation was not at all what she wanted. Instead, she smiled, dismissing his concerns by turning to show him out of her shop. “I asked you to help me by delaying and declining the trust, and you agreed. So there’s nothing more to—”

  “I didn’t agree.”

  She stopped. Holding her breath in a silent prayer that she’d misheard, she looked at him over her shoulder. “What did you say?”

  “That I didn’t agree to scuttle the trust.”

  Dread rushed through her as she turned to face him. “But you did. That’s why you haven’t given Freddie your decision yet, because you’re delaying.” For me.

  “I haven’t given my decision because I need more information.” He tilted his head slightly to the side, studying her. “About your brother’s reason for wanting this trust so badly, about the trustees he’s picked…and you, Amelia.”

  “Me?” Instead of the squeak she’d expected, the word emerged as a throaty rasp. Drat the man for having this effect on her! “I don’t want that turnpike.”

  “I know. What I can’t figure out is why.”

  He pushed away from the table and straightened to his full height. Good Lord, she’d forgotten how tall he was, how she’d had to tilt back her head to look into his eyes whenever they’d stood as close as they were now. And to let him kiss her.

  Clearing her throat, she stepped away. “I told you. I have other plans for Bradenhill.”

  “What plans, exactly?”

  “For my charity.” She would surrender this small bit to keep the rest hidden. Sometimes the best place to hide was straight behind the truth. “I want to expand it by starting a trade school and workshop at Bradenhill where women from all over England can learn skills. Weaving, lace-making, pottery—whatever we can teach them, and give them a safe and quiet place in the country to live while they master those skills.” She couldn’t hide the pride she felt in her charity, or the determination to make it even better by helping more women. And by helping them, help herself by giving her life a purpose. “That’s why I don’t want a turnpike across my land. I’d rather dedicate it to helping people than making a profit.” She quietly added another truth beneath her breath, “But these days, apparently, Frederick cares only about himself.”

  Nothing visibly changed in his expression, but she felt a tension rise in him. A familiar pang sent it pulsing through her, the same way she’d been able to discern his moods when they were children. As if he were merely an extension of her. Apparently, to her foolish heart, he still was.

  “I didn’t realize that charity work meant so much to you,” he murmured. His eyes roamed over her as if attempting to reconcile the girl he’d known with the woman she’d become.

  “You wouldn’t have.” She gave him a reprieve from any self-blame. If any of the boy she’d known still lurked within the man, he’d be chagrined at not knowing about that part of her life when he’d always had access to the rest of it. “I was only able to dedicate myself to it after we moved to London.”

  “After your father died.”

  “Not immediately after,” she answered, reaching past him to fuss with the silk. “He died unexpectedly when I was eighteen. We were still in Birmingham then. I had just returned from Scotland and—”

  “Scotland?” Genuine surprise colored Pearce’s voice. “I was told you went off to school.”

  “I did. In Scotland. Papa banished me all the way to Aberdeen, as far away as he could.” She smiled grimly. “If Calcutta had had a boarding school for aristocratic young ladies, he would have put me onto the first ship bound for India.” She picked up the silk panel and shook it out, holding it in front of her like a rose-covered shield. He stood far too close for comfort. “I thought your uncle would have told you.”

  “My uncle was glad to have me gone and no longer his responsibility.” To her surprise, no bitterness came from him. Just acceptance. “His letters were few and far between.”

  And most likely not at all concerned with the whereabouts of the daughter of a neighboring factory owner, not knowing the reason why the Earl of Sandhurst had so graciously—and expeditiously—bestowed Pearce with an officer’s commission. Her father had made certain that no one but the four of them knew what had happened that night, including Pearce’s uncle.

  “I wish you had told me where you were,” he said quietly.

  I wanted to, so very much! “I couldn’t. If I tried to contact you, Papa would have punished both of us. You know that.” That old feeling of helplessness came flooding back. Dear Lord, how she hated it! “Even if I’d dared try, I had no idea where you were, what regiment you were with… I didn’t know how to reach you.”

  “And after your father died?”

  She flinched, unable
to steel herself against the pain. Or keep her hand from rising to her throat and to the locket dangling from its blue ribbon, which she’d replaced five times over the years when it had worn and frayed from wear. He waited for her answer, but her throat tightened too much for her to find her voice.

  “That was ten years ago,” he pressed gently. “Why didn’t you try to contact me then?”

  The desolation of that time flashed over her with a vengeance, so strongly that she had to hide her face by turning her head away. To hide her shame of having to beg Frederick to help her find out what regiment Pearce was in, to beg him to help her write to him. “I did… I wrote you letters…” And letters and letters—Dear God, so many confessions of her love and pleas for him to return to her! Not one of them answered. In little more than an aching breath, she scratched out, “You never replied.”

  He went deathly still, holding his breath as what she was revealing registered inside him.

  “I never received them.” His voice was strained, suddenly hoarse. “The wars… Mail was sporadic. I didn’t even know that your father had died until last year.” A drawn and bleak expression darkened his features. “We were constantly marching across the Peninsula back then, from battle to battle. Supplies could barely keep up—”

  “I know.” She cut him off gently, unable to bear the truth that swept through her like an icy wind. He hadn’t refused her letters, hadn’t simply thrown them away into the fire as she’d always believed. She pressed her fist against her bosom, to keep her heart from shattering anew. All these years…

  He simply hadn’t known.

  “I wish you had tried again,” he said quietly.

  The agony of all she’d lost enveloped her until she could barely breathe, until she could barely force her numb lips to form the soft confession, “I would have, but…”

  But by then, when she’d considered pressing Freddie a second time for help, she’d already met Aaron, and she would never tell Pearce what happened after that. The way he would look at her if she did, with such pity at her utter stupidity in trusting so blindly, at so desperately wanting the life she’d been denied with him that she’d allowed herself to be robbed and abandoned… She couldn’t have borne it.