Christine Merrill - How Not To Marry An Earl

‘I will be the only woman in the room, Dill,’ she said, putting on her glasses and staring at her reflection. The results were…

Passable. She looked as well as she ever did. She was displaying an unusual amount of skin, which men generally liked. But there seemed to be too much. A gown like this required jewels and she had none.

Then a thought hit her and she smiled. ‘Dill, go to Grandmama’s room and bring back the case with the Comstock diamonds.’

A decent maid might have questioned her right to wear the things, since they were reserved for the use of the Countess. But Dill was merely adequate and did not bat an eye. She simply returned with the box and placed them on the vanity. Then she pulled a set of ear-bobs from their place and hooked them into the ears that had been exposed by Charity’s carefully styled hair.

‘The necklace, as well, I think,’ Charity said, feeling oddly like she was a little girl again, playing dress up with Grandmama’s jewellery.

‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ Dill answered, draping the heavy chain over her head until the teardrop-shaped lavalier fell in the hollow between her breasts.

It was an excellent choice. But not for the reason her maid thought. It would give Potts something to look at, other than her. With a three-carat stone in front of him, he would have no reason to care whether the woman wearing it was pretty or not.

And there could be no better way to assure the auditor that the entail was intact than to bring the Comstock diamonds out at the first opportunity. Once he had seen it, she could assure him that the rest of the parure was safe and accounted for. This, the most important item to be inventoried, could be checked off his list. And if he noticed that the stones she was wearing were paste?

She would claim to be just as surprised as he was. Either way, she would be able to draw conclusions about his intelligence and observational abilities. It was information she could use against him later.

She felt somewhat more confident about herself now that she had a plan. But it would not make the dinner any easier. Her stomach filled with nervous butterflies as she walked towards the stairs, only to see him coming down the hall on the opposite side of them.

‘Miss Strickland,’ he called. ‘Ahoy! Or perhaps, avast. I am not sure which is more appropriate in this case.’ He walked towards her with a cockeyed grin on his face, looking more appealing than she cared to notice.

She smiled back at him. ‘Ahoy is meant to call my attention. Avast is a request that I stop. Which did you want?’

His eyes swept her from head to toe, pausing for the briefest of instants to register the presence of the necklace. Then his gaze returned to her face, still smiling. ‘Both. I need an escort to the dining room. This house is not precisely a maze, but it is a long jaunt from end to end. I am likely to starve before the meal if left to my own devices.’ Then he held his arm out to her, as if he was about to lead her to the dining room.

But not really. At dinners and balls, the men who took her arm were either assigned to the task by some sympathetic hostess or volunteered because they hoped to make a good impression on one of her sisters. As she walked with them, they did not pay attention to her, but glanced over their shoulders to be sure that someone else was observing their gallantry.

But tonight, the man in front of her was focused solely on her, as if she was the prettiest girl in the room, just as Dill had said. Because they were alone. He was looking at her because there was nowhere else to look. There was nothing personal about it.

‘Miss Strickland?’ Now he was wondering at her hesitation.

‘Just thinking,’ she said, trying and failing to duplicate the light, flirtatious smile that her sisters used at times like this. But it was all wrong. She could not manage to look empty-headed while claiming to think. And now she could not decide how she was supposed to look, which must make her seem more dim-witted than thoughtful.

If her shifting expression seemed odd to him, he did not indicate it. He simply continued to smile and guided her down the stairs.

Chapter Five

When they arrived in the dining room, Charity Strickland chose a seat halfway down the table and indicated the place opposite that was set for him. It seemed that the staff had ignored her change in rank as the only family member present and put her in her usual place instead of moving her closer to the head of the table. Even when they were not here, empty places had been left for her sisters.

And for him, as well. The head of the table, where the Earl should be seated, had a place setting, but no chair. He could not help a small shiver of dread at the sight of it and the weird, undeserved respect that was offered to a supposed lord and saviour that none of them could recognise even when he was in the house with them.

‘My maid promised that a fire would be lit,’ she said, mistaking the reason for his shiver.

‘I am fine,’ he assured her. ‘If you are comfortable, do not concern yourself.’ He tried not to glance down at the expanse of ivory skin on display above the neckline of her gown, or to look even lower, searching for her body’s reaction to the cold room. Perhaps English gentlemen did not have such thoughts, but the crass American that he was thanked God for the superior view afforded a lowly visitor who was placed opposite Miss Charity instead of at the head of the table.

Her long neck had looked ridiculous in the high-collared dress she had worn this afternoon. But in a dinner gown, her exposed throat swept gracefully down to the swell of her fine, full breasts. Though there had been little light beneath her skirts when he had boosted her up the chimney, he had been holding a fine pair of ankles and felt delightfully rounded calves pressed on either side of his head.

And though her hands moved with masculine efficiency as they sliced the lamb on her plate, the fingers were long and tapered to fine, almond-shaped nails.

There was much to enjoy in the young lady that everyone had been insisting he marry, for duty’s sake and the good of the Empire. But there was also one thing he did not like at all. Dangling between those perfect breasts was what had to be the crowning glory of family jewels. The excessively large teardrop pendant would have dazzled him, had he not known it was a worthless copy. Now it merely depressed him.

Did she know? he wondered. Of course she did. The truth was supposed to be a secret passed from Earl and Countess to Earl and Countess. The Dowager had blurted it out to him the first time they’d met, then sighed with relief as if she’d transferred a back-breaking burden on to his unsuspecting shoulders.

As the youngest granddaughter, Miss Charity should know absolutely nothing about it. But she struck Miles as the sort of woman who was exceptionally good at ferreting out secrets. Which begged the question as to why she would flaunt it in front of him at the first available moment.

Because she wanted to convince him that nothing was amiss. Despite himself, he smiled. It was a pleasure to be in the company of a female whose actions had purpose.

She smiled back and the effect on her features was transformative. And for a moment, he forgot himself, grinning back, smitten.

Then she looked at him with a gaze as sharp as an eagle’s and said, ‘So, Mr Potts, tell me about yourself.’

He could feel the smile freezing on his face, as his brain struggled for an answer. At last, he replied, ‘There is not much to tell.’ It was true. He had not bothered to invent a past to go with his nom de guerre , so what could he possibly say?

She set down her knife and steepled her fingers. ‘Tell me anyway. I am fascinated.’ She did not look totally sincere, but she did look persistent. ‘I have never met an American before.’