Regina Scott - The Irresistible Earl

Chase shook his head. “Is that all you noticed? She has a admirable presence, a commendable loyalty and an enviable intelligence.”

“Yes, and strength and vitality. By all means hire her as your sister’s companion, but look for more in a wife.”

“What makes you think I’m looking for a wife?” Chase asked with a laugh.

“Miss Price is obviously no danger,” Trevor replied. “Why else show such interest?” He moved from his chair to the one Meredee had vacated and leaned closer. “Listen—I had word from a friend today. That’s why I was detained. Delacorte is back in London.”

Chase snorted. “His creditors will no doubt be delighted to hear it.”

“But you should not. It seems he blames you for his troubles, or so he confided over too much wine. He claims Phoebe loves him, and you forced them apart.”

Chase felt his mouth tighten. “He has no right to speak of Phoebe, not after trying to force her into marriage.”

“Agreed. I only tell you to warn you.”

Chase nodded. “And I appreciate that. I promise you, I won’t allow the man to hurt my sister.”

But Phoebe would not make his job any easier, Chase thought as he and Trevor went to join the ladies in the withdrawing room. His sister seemed stuck in perpetual girlhood, always focused on her own needs. He’d never told her about Victor Delacorte’s plan to abduct her and force her to marry him. Chase and Trev had stopped him before he could carry through with his plans, and Chase had decided not to explain it all to Phoebe, concerned he might frighten her into a shell. But would she act any more sensibly if Delacorte showed his face again?

When Chase and Trevor entered the withdrawing room, Phoebe was playing at the spinet while Meredee and her stepmother sat on dainty chairs, listening. Trevor immediately went to turn pages for Phoebe. Chase joined his other guests.

“Your sister is an impassioned player, my lord,” Meredee ventured, her gaze on Phoebe’s flying fingers.

“My sister seldom does anything without passion,” Chase replied. “Do you play, Miss Price?”

“No. My father thought it more important that I memorize the Latin names of seashells than to learn to play. I sing on occasion.”

She said it without rancor, but the way she continued to watch his sister told him she wondered what it would have been like had it been otherwise.

“Perhaps you would care to share a song with us,” he suggested.

Her gaze did not waver, though her cheeks reddened. “I’m sure you would much rather listen to your sister.”

Something in her tone indicated that she’d far prefer to listen. Yet the more he knew of her, the less he believed that she was shy and retiring. She spoke her mind easily enough. Why not sing? Most women he knew loved performing. “We cannot require our kind host and hostess to furnish all the entertainment,” her stepmother put in. “I’m sure you would not want Lord Allyndale to take us in dislike.”

She paled at that, as if losing his good regard meant the noose. Was it her stepmother who was pushing her at him then? He’d certainly met a few marriage-minded mamas since he’d ascended to his title.

He leaned closer to Meredee and caught the scent of lavender from her golden hair. “My sister adores being the center of attention. Sing only if it amuses you, Miss Price.”

She met his gaze, her gray eyes dark and unfathomable. Once again he had the impression that she could see deep inside him, knew every thought in his head. This time he found it far more intriguing.

“Thank you for your kind offer, my lord,” she murmured. “If you’d like, I’ll sing.”

He felt the oddest urge to reach out and press her hand in thanks. Instead, he rose and called to his sister. “Miss Price has agreed to favor us with a song.”

Phoebe immediately stopped playing and clapped her hands. “Splendid! Let’s see what we both know.”

Meredee rose to join her, and the two conferred a moment, Meredee’s golden crown near Phoebe’s darker blond curls. They settled on a song quickly, agreed on the key, and Phoebe played an introduction. Chase took a seat beside Mrs. Price.

Meredee’s voice was high and sweet, the song encouraging. He felt himself leaning forward, nodding along. She kept her gaze focused in the distance, as if unaware of her rapt audience, every part of her tuned to her task. Funny, he’d always wondered how angels would sing. Perhaps now he knew.

Meredee’s heart was pounding so loudly she wondered that anyone had heard a word she’d sung. Yet there was Lord Allyndale, smiling at her as if she’d discovered the way to reach the moon. She wanted to bathe in the glow, drink deeply of his pleasure. But, as she finished, his butler coughed behind him, and he rose to go speak with the fellow in low tones. Sir Trevor joined them.

“Very nice,” Lady Phoebe said, closing the sheet music. Meredee nodded and wandered back to her stepmother. She hadn’t noticed that the room was so dark. It had seemed much brighter when the earl was smiling at her.

Lord Allyndale returned to their sides and eyed Meredee and her stepmother. Gone was the smile, to be replaced by a frown that sent a shiver through her. “I’m afraid I have bad news. I cannot allow either of you to leave this house tonight.”

Meredee gasped. Did he know? Had someone sent word that Algernon was in Scarborough? Had she somehow given them away by singing her stepbrother’s favorite song?

Mrs. Price rose shakily to her feet. “Stay here? Why?”

“I’m told a storm has sprung up,” he replied. “Between Phoebe’s playing and our location at the back of the house, we didn’t notice.” He paused a moment, and Meredee knew she wasn’t the only one listening. Now she heard it, an uneven rising and falling, as if harsh winds drove pouring rain this way and that.

“Oh,” Mrs. Price said, sinking back onto her seat with a strained laugh. “A storm. Of course.”

“My lord, we cannot impose,” Meredee started, but the earl held up his hand.

“And I cannot be responsible for turning my guests or my staff out into this deluge. You and your coachman will spend the night here. I’m sure the inn will hold your rooms.”

“Well certainly, but …” Mrs. Price trailed off and looked helplessly at Meredee.

She was fairly sure she knew her stepmother’s concern. Algernon would be waiting to hear what they’d learned about Lord Allyndale’s purpose in Scarborough. When they didn’t return, what would her stepbrother do?

“It’s settled then,” Lord Allyndale said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll instruct the staff to arrange rooms for the three of you.” As if their agreement was never in question, he strode from the room. Sir Trevor also excused himself to check on his horse.

In short order, Meredee found herself ensconced in an elegant bedchamber. She was surprised that Lady Phoebe hadn’t chosen it for herself, for the walls were a pale pink edged in white like the inside of one of her father’s shells, and the furniture was rosewood with gold appointments. A cheery fire was already burning in the white marble fireplace. How lovely it would be to sink into the thick mattress, snuggle under the pretty coverlet. Yet was it advisable to stay?

She pulled aside the heavy crimson drapes and peered out into a dark night where darker shapes of trees whipped back and forth, and rain pattered on the glass. Staying indoors was definitely safer. If only she could be certain Algernon would do the same!

She wasn’t sure what she was to do about toiletries and sleeping attire, but a harried young maid brought her an ivory-backed brush and comb and a lace-edged white flannel nightgown that smelled faintly of camphor.