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Engaging the Earl
Mandy Goff


FOR RICHER OR POORER…To help her destitute parents, Emma Mercer must marry very well. And very soon. Love is irrelevant, only security matters…doesn’t it? Aided by her friend Olivia—and Olivia’s brother Marcus, Earl of Westin—Emma quickly gains society’s notice. But Marcus himself, the only man whose company Emma truly enjoys, seems oblivious to her charms.With his finances in jeopardy, Marcus knows he can’t be the wealthy groom Emma needs. Instead, he’ll see her properly engaged to the right man…and break his own heart. Yet Emma’s determination and Marcus’s resolve may be no match for love, faith—and a scheming sister determined to end Emma’s husband’s hunt right at Marcus’s side.










“You will be helping me find a husband?”

His teasing smile gave way to a sheepish expression. “My sister has decided that I will, so it seems highly likely. When I arrived, she presented me with the following list of gentlemen I’m supposed to bring to call on you. Were you unaware of my sister’s plan to have me bring you a husband?” Lord Westin asked.

“No! That is, I was aware of the plan, but I didn’t know that you were to be a part of it. She said that she knew the man to help put the plan into action. I hadn’t the slightest notion that she meant …”

“Me?” Lord Westin also rose to his feet, the motion fluid and graceful.

She decided then that no man should be able to move with the kind of lethal grace he did. Nor, Emma continued—since she was already in a making-pronouncements-mood—should any man be quite as handsome as the earl.


Dear Reader,

I want to thank you for picking up Engaging the Earl and seeing it through to the end! You enable me to do what I love most—craft stories that hopefully warm the heart and lift the spirit.

I’ve been in love with Marcus since he waltzed into the drawing room in his sister’s story. He was everything I felt a good brother should be … protective, loyal and perhaps comically aggravating. But in his own tale, he became a complex hero … more complex than I thought he would be. Little did I know in the beginning that Marcus would have a long list of faults and foibles. Crazily enough, I think it only made me love him more.

And then there’s Emma. Forced to shoulder a heavy burden, she continually had to deny her own wishes and desires in order to serve the greater benefit of her family. But in spite of her strength and courage, she let fear govern her actions, even to the point where it separated her from the man she loved.

These two needed each other. And in a way, I needed them. Writing Marcus and Emma’s story continually reminded me that God’s provision is greater than my biggest imaginings and that there is no situation He can’t redeem if only I let Him.

I hope you’ve been blessed by this love story. And I always look forward to hearing from my readers. I can be found online at www.mandygoff.com or can be reached via email at mandy@mandygoff.com.

Blessings,







Engaging the Earl



Mandy Goff








www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Do not fear, for I am with you; do not anxiously look about you, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, surely I will help you, surely I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

—Isaiah 41:10


To Cheryl, who has been a truer friend than I ever deserved. Considering the countless hours we spend plotting and brainstorming, our shared frustration over searching for just the right word, and your willingness to read my manuscripts again … and again … and again, I can honestly say that I would not be able to do this without you. You’ll never know just how much I thank God for putting you in my life.




Acknowledgments


As always, my deepest gratitude to Daniel and Brie, for making my life not only complete, but also full. I love you both so much that I could never explain well enough to do the depth of it justice.

To Mom, Dad and Megan … for simply being wonderful. I love you all.

And, of course, many thanks to my editor, Elizabeth Mazer, who offers her wisdom, insight and expertise as I chase my dream.




Chapter One


Emma was going to be fired.

She never should have given in to her parents’ entreaties to lie down and rest awhile after supper before she returned to her employers’ house. But Emma had been so tired that a chance for a nap had been too tempting to resist. Opportunities for rest at the Roth residence were scarce—her young charges saw to that. But Emma had assumed her parents would wake her before the hour grew too late. It appeared that in this case, as in so many others, they hadn’t employed simple common sense.

Emma bid a hasty farewell to her parents, both of whose eyes were bleary with sleep and surprise after she barged into their bedroom. The clock in the hall struck midnight—which had been the alarm to rouse Emma from her slumber—and was still chiming as she closed the front door and stepped out onto the street.

At this hour, there was little to no chance of finding a hackney cab on her parents’ quiet, shabby street. Her best opportunity at hiring a hack to take her back to the Roths meant going a few streets over where there was more traffic—and rather more danger, as well.

Even this late, that part of the city still bustled with activity. Light, laughter and the smell of gin poured out from a pub she passed. Emma wrinkled her nose in disgust. She was leery enough passing through this area while visiting her parents during the day, and now with night bearing down on her, she was frightened.

Minutes into her walk, the feeling of something creeping along the back of her neck made Emma stop in her path and turn around. Other than some ruffians many paces behind, however, no one was there. Chiding herself for being paranoid, Emma pulled her pelisse tighter around her and quickened her step.

Footsteps on the stone walk behind her made Emma tense again. This time, however, she kept walking without turning to see what was behind her. She didn’t have time for any foolishness. Her employers had been expecting her return four hours earlier. If Emma didn’t find a hack soon, she would have to walk, which would add another hour or so to her journey.

And Lady Roth didn’t brook such tardiness.

Possibly it was nothing but a trick of the mind, but Emma felt like when she sped up, the steps behind her sped up, as well.

Something coming from the left caught Emma’s attention, and when she looked, an attractive gentleman was approaching her with all possible haste. The glint of determination in his eyes made her step falter. For a moment, all Emma could do was stand stupidly on the sidewalk, watching the man come closer.

I’m about to be robbed. Or murdered.

Emma’s hesitation gave the stranger enough time to come abreast of her.

“Darling,” he said, taking ahold of her arm and propelling her forward, “where have you been?”

Emma stared at him, her mouth agape. In her surprise, the stranger was able to drag her forward several steps.

“Get away from me,” she said after a second’s pause as she dug her heels into the sidewalk to slow the onward progression. But the command lacked any heat or force … no doubt because she was too shocked to be authoritative.

Clearly her lack of forcefulness was amusing, because the gentleman laughed, loudly … as though he was playacting for an audience. “Don’t play your games, my love. Someone might think I’m trying to abduct you.”

Did he just nudge her?

No matter how hard she pulled or twisted, Emma couldn’t break herself free of his hold. “That’s exactly what you’re trying to do,” she hissed back. Screaming wouldn’t have been much help because thus far no one had paid their little tableau any attention. No doubt such interchanges were commonplace in this area and hardly worth notice or intervention.

“No,” her assailant murmured in a voice solely for her ears. “I’m trying to protect you.”

The statement was so ludicrous, Emma couldn’t even respond. Clearly the only person she needed protecting from was him.

“A man’s been following you,” he whispered.

Abandoning her attempts to free her arm, Emma swiveled to look behind them. That would explain the chills along the back of her neck. And the footsteps. But she hadn’t seen anyone. So far, the only person to accost her was the man pinned to her side.

“Just let me go … please,” Emma pleaded, “I’ll be fine.”

He huffed. He actually huffed. “Could you be quiet? I’m trying to think.”

Think about where you’re going to dispose of my body?

The man might be nicely dressed—much too nicely for this part of town—and Emma might have thought that his expression, when he smiled, was most pleasant. But just because the stranger was handsome didn’t mean he wouldn’t murder her and dump her body in an alleyway.

So this time, she yanked against his hold.

Hard.

Instead of freeing herself, though, she caused them both to stumble. Emma’s shoe caught on the hem of her dress, and there was a suspended moment when she lost her balance. Instinctively, her grip on the gentleman’s arm tightened, probably to the point where she was digging her nails into his skin. And when she flailed her free arm at the same time that he leaned forward to offer assistance, Emma’s elbow connected with something hard.

And if his muffled “oomph” were any indication, the something hard was probably his face.

That further startled her … to the point that she wobbled even more wildly. Emma would have fallen face-forward if the man hadn’t hauled her upward and against his chest.

Her first thought was that his embrace felt unexpectedly nice.

Of course he had to spoil the effect when he opened his mouth.

“Enough,” he snapped. “I’m only trying to help you.” His annoyance was impossible to miss.

Emma was supremely agitated herself. Both because of his interference and the fact that she couldn’t seem to push herself away from him … maybe a little more so about the latter. An interlude with a possibly deranged stranger—albeit a handsome one—wouldn’t have been welcome at the best of times, but this was really not a good day. Lady Roth was probably watching the clock, ticking off each passing minute with a mean-spirited glee. The viscountess didn’t much care for Emma. Which was fair—Emma didn’t much care for her, either, or the very spoiled Roth children. But she needed to keep this job. Her parents were almost entirely dependent on her income.

“No one’s around now,” she said to her self-proclaimed rescuer, casting a look about them. “So while I thank you for your help, I must be on my way.”

He opened his mouth, probably to argue, but Emma didn’t give him a chance.

“Let. Me. Go,” she said forcefully.

And apparently loudly enough to arouse the curiosity of a passing constable.

The short, stocky officer retraced his steps, walking back toward them. Emma could have cried with relief.

“What’s the trouble here?” the lawman asked.

I’m being harassed by a bedlamite, Emma wanted to shout.

She didn’t have a chance to utter the first syllable, however, because the man, who smoothly released her from his hold, was already chatting with the officer.

“How are you, Constable Hilliard?” the stranger asked, tipping back the brim of his hat and making his face more visible.

The law won’t care how attractive you are, you’re still going to Newgate, she thought when she got a better view of his face.

It was admittedly very attractive. Dark eyes. High cheek-bones … a nose that would have been the model of perfection if not for the small, almost unnoticeable bump from where it had likely been broken. And his lips, which were curved in a strained smile, most certainly weren’t unpleasant to look at. Her eyes traveled back up his face, locking momentarily with his. Emma wanted to shiver at the depth of them.

In the few minutes that had passed, however, his eye was getting increasingly swollen. For a brief moment, Emma felt a pang of guilt for elbowing him, but had he only let her go, she wouldn’t have—accidentally, of course—given him what would likely become a black eye. And he was clearly crazy … possibly homicidal. She needed to keep reminding herself of that before she softened or allowed herself to feel too badly.

When the constable saw the gentleman’s face, he floundered for a moment. Then, after several seconds of righting his uniform, seemingly making sure no crease was misaligned, he executed a smart little bow. “My l—I mean, Mr. Fairfax, I didn’t recognize you at first. How are you doing, sir?”

“Fine, Hilliard, fine.” The man now identified as Mr. Fairfax indicated Emma with his free hand, “I’m just seeing this lovely lady home safely. There are some ruffians about tonight.”

The lawman, who seemed eager to please, bobbed his head in agreement. “There certainly are”

“Haven’t had any trouble out here tonight, have you?” Mr. Fairfax asked.

“Not too much,” Constable Hilliard answered automatically. But then he looked at Mr. Fairfax closer. “Though it looks as if you might have met your share of trouble.”

Mr. Fairfax’s hand went up to touch his swollen and bruised eye. “Oh, this,” he said. “Only a bit of an unexpected tussle.”

“Something you’d like me to take care of for you?” the constable asked, eager and ready to please the man on Emma’s arm. Apparently he was someone of importance—or at least of more importance than this neighborhood usually boasted.

And with that thought came the sudden fear that Mr. Fairfax might try to have the constable apprehend her. Emma felt faint.

But when the moment came that Mr. Fairfax could have exposed Emma for her unintentional crime, the strange man waved off the constable’s question. “It’s of no concern,” Mr. Fairfax dismissed.

“Well,” Constable Hilliard said, for the first time addressing Emma, “it’s a good thing Mr. Fairfax found you. He’ll get you wherever you’re going safely.”

And that would be helpful, she thought, if he could somehow manage to get me there four hours ago. As it stands, I’m growing later by the minute, and this additional delay is hardly helping. She smiled tightly at the constable in response.

As if he sensed her frustration, Mr. Fairfax swiftly drew the exchange to a close. “Good night, Constable Hilliard.” Then he wasted no time pulling her away and down the sidewalk. “My carriage is not far. I’ll take you home,” he said to Emma.

Emma let herself be pulled along, while trying to decide exactly what she should do.

It was hardly ideal to accept an escort from a man she had not properly met. If she saw anyone who knew her, the resulting scandal would be sensational. But who were they likely to encounter at this hour? And the constable had seemed entirely convinced that Mr. Fairfax was respectable. The most compelling reason of all to go along with him was that she wouldn’t have to walk back to the Roths, costing herself even more precious time in the process.

So Emma allowed him to guide her past the puddles of indefinable liquid on the street, away from the leers and jeers of men congregating in their path. And it was actually rather nice not to feel exposed and in danger.

Mr. Fairfax’s carriage appeared in the distance. Within minutes, she was safely ensconced in the luxurious coach and had given Mr. Fairfax the Roths’ address, which he conveyed to the driver.

“I appreciate your assistance,” Emma said rather grudgingly once the gentleman took a seat across from her.

The man had helped her a great deal. Emma had not spotted a single hack during her exchange with Mr. Fairfax and then the constable. Were it not for Mr. Fairfax’s offer of his escort, she would be facing the unpleasant prospect of a long walk through some rather unsafe streets.

Not that a carriage ride would save her from being fired.

“Why so pensive?” Mr. Fairfax asked quietly.

“I’m wondering what my employer will say about my tardiness.” She didn’t know what possessed her to share that; her plan had been to enjoy the ride in stony silence, not wanting to converse with Mr. Fairfax any more than necessary.

“Employer?” he repeated. “You’re going to work at this hour? What do you do?”

“I’m a governess.”

“Ah,” he said.

It was on the tip of Emma’s tongue to ask him what that meant, but she bit the question back.

Mr. Fairfax stretched out his long legs, and because of the close confines of the carriage, Emma felt even more crowded. She resisted the urge to shy away from him.

“What were you doing in this part of town so late?” he asked.

Emma had no intention of answering that question.

“That’s personal.” The words came out more snappish than she’d intended.

Mr. Fairfax frowned. “This isn’t a safe place for a gently bred lady to be.”

“I hardly think that would concern you at all.” Emma bristled at his tone.

Mr. Fairfax didn’t back down. “You need to think carefully about where you travel, especially at night.” Along with the I-know-better-than-you attitude came a strong note of disapproval.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Fairfax. I think I can manage without your pearls of wisdom—” A phrase she decided on instead of her first choice, which had been “overbearing dictates.”

His nostrils flared. “Had I not troubled myself this evening, you would have found yourself robbed … or worse,” he said ominously.

“So you say,” Emma said stubbornly. She didn’t want to concede the smallest point to her new adversary. “I never saw anyone behind me anyway.”

“I came to your assistance before he had a chance to accost you,” Mr. Fairfax argued.

The battle over who could be the most intractable continued until the carriage rumbled up to the Roths’ townhome. Emma made a move toward the coach’s door, but Mr. Fairfax was faster. Swinging the door open, he jumped down to the street and reached out his hand to help her descend.

“Thank you for your unnecessary assistance,” she grumbled, dropping her hold on his hand once both of her feet were on the ground.

“My pleasure.” He bit out the words.

When Emma began walking toward the back of the house, Mr. Fairfax followed her.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed, reaching around, grabbing his arm and pulling him into the shadows.

“Walking you to the door,” he said, as though he were a typical gentleman escorting a young lady home after a leisurely stroll.

Their situation was anything but typical.

“Are you mad? What if someone sees you?”

“Who do you expect to be awake at this time of night?” he asked with a lift of his eyebrow.

Emma didn’t bother mentioning that Lady Roth was undoubtedly waiting for her. “You can’t very well tell me you expect a band of ruffians or thieves to be hiding behind the bushes, waiting to accost me,” Emma said instead.

Mr. Fairfax obviously thought answering her wasn’t necessary, because he only held out his arm, indicating she should lead and he would follow. Throwing her hands up in disgust, she resumed her walk to the house and didn’t bother to look back to see if he was following.

But of course he was.

When they reached the servants’ entrance, Emma motioned for Mr. Fairfax to step back into the shadows. Surprisingly, he complied without comment, and she blew out a heavy breath of relief.

“I suppose I should thank you for the escort,” Emma said, hesitating on opening the back door.

“But you’re not going to?” Mr. Fairfax asked with a smirk. The shadows obscured most of his expression, including his injured eye. Emma briefly noticed the effect was actually quite dashing.

“Thank you,” she replied, working to push the errant observation out of her mind. Her words of gratitude sounded rather grudging, however. Very grudging.

“I’ll wait here until you’re inside,” he told her.

Emma didn’t argue. Even with only their brief acquaintance as a guide, she knew it would have been pointless. But she did steal one last look at the handsome man standing in the shadows before she pulled the door shut behind her and stepped into the darkened kitchen.

Back in the carriage, Marcus Fairfax, the Earl of Westin, relaxed with a sigh as the driver turned toward home. His evening had run on longer than he’d expected—and the conclusion of it had been rather more exciting than anticipated, too. He prodded gently at his injured eye and winced at the sting. The fiery little governess had gotten in quite a good blow. He wouldn’t be able to see his face in the glass without remembering her for a few days at least.

Not that he was likely to forget her anytime soon—injury or not.

In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time a woman had so thoroughly engaged his attention—despite the fact that many had tried to spark his interest over the years. Marcus’s title was old, his name was well respected and his fortune was considerable. Not to mention he still had his health, his wits and all of his teeth. Even half so many attributes would be enough to draw the notice of matchmaking mamas and their ambitious daughters. But none had caught and held his eye like the young woman who had seemed so very determined to escape his company.

He was still musing on the fire in her eyes when the carriage pulled up in front of his town house. Before Marcus could open the front door, however, someone pulled it open from the inside. The earl was mystified to find Gibbons standing on the other side. The butler looked remarkably alert, considering the late—or rather, early—hour.

“Gibbons?” Marcus asked, blinking in surprise. The servant actually doing his job during daylight hours was notable. This was flabbergasting.

His butler looked just as surprised to see him. The eye, Marcus supposed.

“Were you waylaid by a band of ruffians, my lord?” the older man asked.

“No, Gibbons.” Marcus sighed.

“Attacked by a throng of marriageable young misses?”

Closer to the truth, Marcus reasoned, but still, he shook his head in denial.

“Trip over your feet?”

“Leave it, Gibbons,” Marcus ground out. Gibbons was an old family retainer and, as such, had the liberating knowledge that his position was secure. However, for some reasons mystifying even to him, Marcus was too fond of his butler to dismiss him. Although the notion was occasionally tempting.

Gibbons quirked a smile but then sobered suddenly. “Though I’m curious to know who accosted you, we’ve no time for game-playing, my lord,” he said as though the persistent questions were somehow Marcus’s fault.

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” Marcus said, stepping into the house. His eyes—well, the one that wasn’t swollen shut, at least—were tired, and his tongue felt thick and unwieldy. He’d been up now for nearly twenty-four hours, and fatigue weighed heavily on him.

“I’m going to bed now, Gibbons,” Marcus said, pulling off his greatcoat and passing it to the butler.

“I think you might want to go to the blue salon instead,” Gibbons suggested.

“Has my bed been moved there?” Marcus quipped.

“I don’t believe you left explicit instructions for us to do so in your absence.”

“Then I can visit the blue salon tomorrow. Right now, I’m going to sleep.” Thinking was becoming a struggle. If Marcus didn’t move quickly, he might end up sleeping in Gibbons’s chair because he couldn’t make it any farther.

“Shall I tell your estate manager to rest while he awaits your leisure?”

Marcus stopped in his path to the stairs. He turned to face Gibbons, trying to ignore the knot forming in the pit of his stomach. But Gibbons wasn’t smiling, smirking or doing anything that suggested he was joking.

“Grimshaw is here?” he asked.

Gibbons nodded. “He arrived twenty minutes ago.”

What could his estate manager want? Marcus knew that whatever had happened, Grimshaw’s coming to see him in the middle of the night was an ill omen. Anxiety momentarily banished his fatigue, and the earl nearly sprinted to the salon.

“Grimshaw? What are you doing here?” Marcus asked as he entered the room. Any thought of exchanging pleasantries faded at the sight of his employee’s haggard expression.

“My lord,” the older man said, rising from the chair. He took a step forward as though to shake Lord Westin’s hand but then quickly stepped backward. “I’m sorry to have woken you.”

Marcus could have corrected him, but he didn’t bother to. “I’m only surprised to find you here so early,” he said instead.

Grimshaw nodded. “Forgive me, my lord. I wouldn’t have intruded were it not of the utmost importance. But once I received the news, I left immediately for London.”

“What news?” Countless possibilities paraded through his mind, each one more dire than the one before.

“You made an investment with Lord Rutherford for some American timber,” Grimshaw said slowly.

Marcus nodded. He only vaguely remembered the investment itself—Grimshaw handled those details—but he did recall the estate manager mentioning it to him several months ago. The investment seemed sound, and Marcus had authorized the man to deal with it accordingly.

“What about it?” Marcus prompted when Grimshaw hesitated.

“The ship transporting the goods has been in a storm. We can’t say for certain, but I’ve received some information that the ship and the merchandise …” Grimshaw trailed off, obviously unable—or afraid—to say anything else.

“The ship and the merchandise, what?” Marcus pressed.

“Well … they might have … it’s not certain, you understand … really, we won’t know anything further until more information surfaces …” Yet Grimshaw still didn’t get to the crux of the matter.

“Grimshaw, it’s much too early in the morning to be playing guessing games.”

“The ship has most likely sunk,” the estate manager blurted.

Marcus thought through the ramifications for a few moments before he said anything.

“It’s certainly a tragedy if that’s the case, Grimshaw. But I’m more concerned about the crew and any other people who might have been aboard the ship. We can only pray that the reports are untrue.”

“But the merchandise, my lord?”

Marcus waved the concern away with a negligent slash of his hand. “Undoubtedly, it would be unfortunate. But it’s hardly worth traveling across the country before dawn. I appreciate your diligence in keeping me informed, but I don’t see that this is a matter of any urgency. Surely nothing can be done until the reports have been confirmed.” He made a move toward the door to call Gibbons to ready a room. “Stay here tonight and get some sleep before you return to Westin Park.”

“You don’t understand, my lord …”

Marcus sighed and paused in his trek. “I’m not pleased to have possibly lost the funds. But that is paltry in light of the other concerns if the ship has indeed sunk. That’s why I’ve never gambled much money in schemes. They all have the potential to fail.”

At this, Grimshaw lowered his gaze to the floor.

Marcus noticed the change in his demeanor. “What is it, Grimshaw?”

“You’ve trusted me for years with your estates and with your investments, have you not, my lord?”

Marcus nodded. Nothing about the shift in conversation inspired confidence in him.

Grimshaw nodded almost reflexively. But he still wouldn’t meet Marcus’s eyes. “And you’ve given me the liberty to handle the funding as I saw fit, for the most part.”

“Yes?” More a question than an answer.

“I might have funded the investment from the Americas with a larger than usual portion of your ready funds.”

The knot of worry in Marcus’s gut grew and twisted his insides until they felt like mush. “How much?” he managed.

“In hindsight, more than I should have,” Grimshaw hedged.

“What does that mean?”

“Bad news … if the ship has sunk … which of course we don’t know for sure …” Grimshaw added hastily.

Marcus didn’t want to ask this next question, but he had to. “If it has sunk, what does that mean?”

The time it took his estate manager to answer was grossly exaggerated by the fear gripping Marcus. “It means you’ve lost most of your fortune.”

Even though Marcus had been bracing himself, the news still hit him hard. He raised a hand to rub his weary eyes and flinched when he pressed on the growing bruise. It was almost laughable—earlier that evening, he had fancied himself a heroic rescuer, sweeping in to save the fair maiden.

But who was going to ride to his rescue?




Chapter Two


Across town, Emma Mercer found herself occupied with her own need for rescue. As expected, she’d entered the Roth residence to find herself summarily dismissed from her position. To make matters worse, Lady Roth had not even allowed her a night’s rest before setting her on the street, with her belongings already stowed in her valise by a maid. Notably missing among those belongings was any type of letter of reference.

Emma couldn’t return to her parents.

Yes, sooner or later, she’d have to tell them she had lost her position, but she couldn’t bear to wake them with that dreadful news so soon. Not until she devised a plan to find different employment and provide them with the income on which they depended.

That left her with only one place to go—Olivia’s house.

At Olivia’s, the butler, an imperturbable man by the name of Mathis, showed her immediately into the drawing room as though there was nothing unusual about a predawn visitor. Olivia joined her there minutes later, still in her nightclothes but with an alert and determined expression. One look—plus whatever information Mathis had given her—was apparently all it took for Olivia to understand exactly what had occurred.

“I never liked you working for that puffed up snob anyway,” Olivia, the Marchioness of Huntsford, announced as she entered the room, talking over Emma’s attempts to apologize for the early hour. “You are far too good for those terrors she calls children, and besides, she gave you scarcely any time at all to come by and visit me.”

“This isn’t exactly good news, Olivia.” Emma felt compelled to interject. Although her friend’s enthusiasm had a grudging smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Nonsense, this will be like a holiday, having you here—because, of course, you’ll be staying.” Olivia continued. “And none of your protests about it being extra trouble, or me being too kind. I’m being entirely selfish in looking forward to having you stay with me. Mathis will have a maid prepare you a room in no time at all, won’t you, Mathis?”

“Certainly, my lady,” the butler replied with such assurance that one might have supposed he always kept rooms at the ready for newly dismissed governesses.

“There, you see?” Olivia said as she seated herself on a sofa. “Now, while Mathis takes care of that, why don’t you sit down here with me and tell me all about it?”

Relief and gratitude poured over Emma in a wave as she all but collapsed onto the seat next to her friend. Soon, the whole story had come out—oversleeping at her parents’ house, rushing back to the Roths’, the confrontation with Lady Roth ending in her swift but final exit. The only thing Emma left out was her meeting the man—Mr. Fairfax. But surely she could be forgiven for glossing over that. It had, after all, been merely a chance encounter with a gentleman she’d likely never see again.

Olivia listened with her usual amount of patience—which was to say, none whatsoever—interrupting frequently with exclamations of surprise and outrage on her friend’s behalf. Emma was used to constantly having to bite her tongue around Lady Roth and the little terrors masquerading as children, and around her parents. Frankness was a sure way to offend the former and hurt the latter. Despite the bleakness of the situation, it was relaxing to finally say exactly what she thought without fear of the consequences. If Olivia were the type to be easily offended, they never would have become friends in the first place.

Granted, a marchioness and a governess were an odd pairing for a friendship. The origins of the friendship had been equally unique. During a walk through the park a few months earlier, David, one of the Roth children, had flung a handful of mud at his sister, Marie—only to have it miss and hit the unsuspecting Marquess of Huntsford as he and his wife were strolling. Emma had been suitably mortified, but the Huntsfords had been cheerful and gracious.

Since then, Olivia had been a stalwart friend. A stalwart friend who was now entirely too eager to find a silver lining in Emma’s situation.

“We just need to build the proper strategy,” Olivia continued.

“For what?” Emma asked, her dread rising as she wondered how much of the conversation her reminiscing had caused her to miss.

“For finding you a husband.”

“Olivia,” she said in a warning voice. Considering the evening she’d had, and the early hour, Emma could think of a hundred reasons not to have this conversation. Maybe a thousand reasons.

Her friend paid her no mind, which wasn’t surprising at all. “Emma, it’s a good plan.”

“Your suggestion hardly constitutes a plan,” Emma argued. “Besides, who would have me?”

The question was met with a blank stare. “You must be joking, Emma. There are no end of eligible bachelors in Town for the Season. It will be a small matter to make one of them fall in love with you.”

“But do you think I’m going to find it that easy to just fall in love with someone myself?” And Emma prepared herself to receive a lecture on how she shouldn’t be choosy. Not only was it much too early for the plan, but for lectures, as well.

But Olivia didn’t chide. She looked rather crestfallen. “I’m sure there’s someone out there who you might find …”

“Never mind, Olivia. I know,” Emma said gently because she couldn’t stand how her friend looked when she thought her brilliant plan—that wasn’t so much of a plan—wasn’t going to work. “But I still don’t see how I can be expected to compete with the other eligible ladies.”

“They’ll be foolish to try to compete with you,” Olivia insisted. “You’re beautiful—no, don’t shake your head, it’s nothing more than the truth—you’re kind, generous, practical, good with children and you’re from a highly respectable family.”

“A highly impoverished family, you mean. Uncle is the one with money, and he doesn’t speak to Papa.”

Olivia waved the problem away. “He’s a recluse. He doesn’t speak to anyone. No one will expect you to be his closest correspondent. Simply the fact that you are his niece and therefore, eventually, his heir will earn you entrance into many circles.”

“But my uncle won’t be the one to provide me with a dowry.”

“So we’ll find you suitors who don’t need to gain money from marriage.” Olivia reached out to take hold of Emma’s hands. “Truly, Emma, a husband is what you need. As a governess, you will always be subject to your employer’s whims. You’ll never have security, never have stability, never truly be able to help your parents in any lasting way since you’ll never be able to guarantee your income from one month to the next.”

The last bit was a low blow, but Emma had to admit everything Olivia said was the truth.

“I know this may not be exactly what you’d planned for your life, but can you at least try?” Olivia asked. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll figure out something else.”

Olivia looked so hopeful, Emma could only nod. “I suppose I can try,” she said grudgingly.

“Wonderful!” Olivia exclaimed. And her mouth quirked into a smile, and her eyes sharpened. “It really would be the perfect solution. A handsome, wealthy, godly gentleman will fall madly in love with you and all of your problems will disappear.”

“But I wouldn’t get my hopes up, Olivia.?… My agreement to try doesn’t mean …”

It was no use; her friend was hugging her as though Emma had fulfilled her most earnest desire.

“I’ll put together a list of the most suitable gentlemen, and we’ll go from there.”

“And how am I to meet these suitable gentlemen?” Emma couldn’t help but ask. She covered her mouth to hide a yawn.

“Leave that to me,” Olivia insisted. “I have just the man in mind to help.”

Two days after the incident in Cheapside, Marcus wasn’t in any better mood. There had been no further news on the status of the ship, so he’d spent his time reviewing his accounts, trying to determine just how badly he’d be impacted if the ship was truly lost.

Very badly indeed, as it turned out.

“So you’re convinced the ships are lost?” Marcus asked during his morning meeting with Grimshaw and the Fairfax family solicitor, Mr. Wilbanks.

“I’m afraid so, my lord,” Grimshaw said with a sigh.

It was clear that this financial struggle concerned Grimshaw just as much as Marcus. Marcus had learned that his estate manager’s cousin was one of the timber merchants involved with the investment. That explained why so much had been funneled in a single project—Grimshaw had seen the opportunity to help his cousin and benefit his employer with a potentially highly profitable venture. He’d acted with only honest intentions, but his family loyalties had made him disregard the risk.

The guilt over acting with so little foresight was clearly weighing on him now.

“What can we do if the ships are gone?” Marcus asked. He was unwilling to give up hope that everything might, in fact, turn out fine.

However, his solicitor, Mr. Wilbanks, an older gentleman who had served Marcus and his father before him for years, was silent; obviously, he thought the worst.

“The numbers aren’t good, my lord,” Wilbanks said with the same dejected manner as Grimshaw. “In your grandfather’s time,” he explained, “the entirety of the family’s income came from the rents on your estates. It was your father who made the decision to begin investing in various enterprises with the surpluses from the estate funds—a practice which you have continued, and which has doubled your income.”

Marcus already knew the family’s financial history, and he wanted to tell Wilbanks to speed up the explanation. But instead of barking at the solicitor, he tried to wait patiently.

Wilbanks took a steadying breath before continuing.

“But all of the monies in the investment accounts were used for this timber project of Lord Rutherford’s. If the ships are lost, that portion of your income is gone. It will take years of surpluses from the estates before you would be able to build those accounts up enough to begin investing again.”

“How much is going to be left?” Some claimed Marcus was rich as Croesus, which might have been an exaggeration, but the truth of the matter was that his accounts had been quite large. And now they were empty—and would remain so, unless the ship and its merchandise could be recovered.

All was not lost, Marcus supposed. He did still have a vast amount of property at his disposal. Property that earned a fair amount of income—enough so he would hardly have to worry about starving, or lacking a roof over his head.

But all the other uses he made of his money—the charitable donations, the investments into facilities to help the underprivileged, all his plans to use his wealth and position to drive interest in generating labor and housing reforms … it would all have to come to a halt. The very thought was appalling.

Wilbanks fumbled, but Grimshaw seemed to take pity on the solicitor, naming a number that made Marcus wince.

“It’s enough to maintain your estates until the next round of rents come in,” the estate manager continued, trying to be consoling. “And to cover moderate personal expenses. Not much more than that, though. No lavish living,” he finished.

“Mr. Wilbanks,” Marcus said, turning toward the solicitor, who looked like he might rather be having his teeth pulled out one by one and without any numbing effect than to be sitting in the room with them. “Is that right?” Marcus didn’t care so much about the not living lavishly part … but it would have been nice if there had been something other than eking by on the horizon.

“From what I can tell of the paperwork …” Wilbanks sighed. “Yes. It is, unfortunately, true.”

“How long?” Marcus croaked, his throat and mouth parched.

“How long until what precisely, my lord?” Wilbanks asked. He looked twitchy and uncomfortable. Grimshaw didn’t look much better.

Marcus scrubbed a hand down his face. “How long until we can recoup?”

The solicitor consulted some papers in front of him. “It is difficult to say. The estates generate sufficient funds to cover most living costs. Unfortunately, most of the income from the recent rents collection went into the investment funds. The estate expenses are, of course, paid first, so there are no outstanding costs there, but the monies in your personal funds will have to last you until the next rent collection date. At that point, the situation should become more stable—and if you are careful with your expenses, then you may still have some surplus to go back into the investment accounts.”

After Marcus muddled through the headache-inducing explanations, he decided that at least that was a bit of heartening news.

“I will also see about possibly leasing out some of your secondary estates to bring in some more funds,” Wilbanks continued, “but any significant expenditure—” Wilbanks tiptoed carefully around the reform investments Marcus had discussed with him so many times “—will have to wait for … I’d say six or seven years, at the least. If you begin to conserve, make cutbacks, then the funds will, of course, accumulate faster—”

“I don’t care about whether or not I’ll be able to go purchase a new pair of boots every week,” Marcus interrupted.

“Would you be willing to temporarily raise the cost of rent from your tenants?” Wilbanks asked bluntly.

“No,” Marcus said before the man even had time to close his mouth on the question.

“Not even to help—”

Marcus slashed his hand through the air. “I said no.” He wasn’t going to burden his tenants to fund his own social-reform agenda. “We’ll find another way.” He didn’t know whom he was trying to convince—the two downtrodden men, or himself. “And I won’t abandon all hope that the ship is, indeed, safe.”

Grimshaw opened his mouth to speak then promptly closed it again. Another time or two of the same routine, and the estate manager finally found his voice. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up, my lord. No one has heard from the ship. Nor have any of the rescue ships sent out located any sign of it.”

“I’ll continue to pray,” Marcus said.

The two men stayed for only a few more minutes. Really, there was nothing left to discuss. And when Marcus was left alone in his study, he felt the weight of his predicament bearing down on him.

What was he going to do? The urge was strong to stay in his study and keep searching his finances for answers. Pouring over ledgers and account books wouldn’t make a difference in the reality of the situation, however. He trusted Wilbanks and had no reason not to take the older man at his word. If anyone knew the state of the family’s coffers, it was the solicitor who’d been serving the Fairfaxes for years.

Marcus was trying to devise an outing that would occupy his mind for a bit when his butler brought in a letter from his sister, Olivia.

Drop whatever you’re doing. I urgently need to see you.

Less than half an hour later, his sister’s butler, Mathis, barely had time to open the front door of the house before Marcus was pushing his way in. In the time it took him to ride to the Huntsford town house, he’d had ample opportunity to envision what might be wrong. After Wilbanks and Grimshaw’s ill tidings, the earl was primed to expect the worst.

Mathis’s stoic exterior should have given Marcus some reassurance that things were fine, but the butler’s expression never changed. A thief could have a gun trained on him, and the most the older man might do was blink.

And because of his completely unflappable nature, Mathis didn’t say a word about seeing the Earl of Westin with an eye that was an impressive display of mottled blues and purple.

A butler who didn’t feel the need to offer unsolicited commentary on everything … it was a refreshing change.

“Your sister will meet you in the yellow parlor, my lord,” Mathis said.

Without asking the location of the yellow parlor, Marcus headed down the hall. In the months since his sister’s marriage, Olivia’s new home had become as familiar to him as his own.

Marcus paced the length of the room while he waited for his sister to appear. Just when he was seriously beginning to contemplate going and finding her, the door opened.

“Good morning, Marcus,” Olivia said cheerfully.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Marcus asked, taking a few steps toward her.

Olivia’s brow furrowed in confusion as she hugged him. “Nothing,” she answered.

Marcus still wasn’t convinced. “Has something happened?”

“No.” She paused. “Why would you think so?”

“Your letter said to come immediately. It sounded … frantic.”

“I think you probably read too much into my request,” Olivia said with a shrug.

“When your request contains the word urgently, I don’t really have to read into it much.”

“We’re not here to discuss your overly active paranoia,” his sister returned. “Besides, I’m in no mood to argue with you. I need your help,” Olivia said, taking a seat and offering to ring for tea.

After declining the tea service, Marcus relocated to a chair, curious to hear about Olivia’s problem … hopefully, it would distract him from his own. Whatever was wrong with his sister was consuming enough that she had yet to ask him about the injury to his eye.

Not that he minded that omission from the conversation, of course. Olivia would be much too amused by the story. Not to mention when Nick—her husband and Marcus’s best friend—found out, Marcus would be lucky if he ever lived down the humiliation.

“What do you need my help with?”

He was pleased Olivia had come to him for assistance. Since she’d married, she hadn’t seemed to need her older brother anymore. And as someone who had spent his entire adult life caring for his sister, the sudden change after her marriage made Marcus feel a little bereft.

“I’ve a made a list,” Olivia said, digging in the pocket of her skirts and finally producing a folded-up slip of paper.

“A list?” he echoed, taking and unfolding the paper so he could read it.

His sister sat quietly while he scanned down the rather long collection of names.

“What’s this?” he asked finally.

“A list.”

Marcus barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, I think I have a fairly good understanding of what constitutes a list. But all I see on here are names. Would it be too much to ask what the significance of them would be?”

“Those men,” Olivia continued, pointing to the paper, “are eligible bachelors.”

Marcus stared at her, waiting for further explanation.

“They’re for a friend.”

“A friend?” Skepticism oozed in his voice.

Olivia sighed. “It’s a complicated matter, Marcus. And I’m going to need your assistance and discretion. So I’d appreciate it if you would at least try not to be difficult.”

“I hardly think my trying to make sense of your inadequate explanations should classify as being difficult.”

Olivia sighed. “I have a friend who needs a husband.”

Marcus’s cravat tightened, and his mouth was suddenly so parched he wished he’d accepted the tea. He couldn’t dismiss the suspicion that Olivia had more of his involvement in mind than just being a keeper of the list.

Clearing his throat, he scrambled for an easy way to break it to her that he wasn’t going to be eligible bachelor number one. “Olivia … you understand I have quite a bit to focus on right now …” he began, “and I’m not in any place to be considering taking a wife—”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Do you see your name on the list, Marcus?”

“Well … no … but—”

She waved her hand as though to shut him up. “Then stop being dramatic. I certainly wouldn’t have put you there.”

“And why’s that?” Marcus asked before he could consider the advisability of voicing such a question.

This earned him another look. “I doubt my friend would have you,” she said breezily.

“I’m considered a fairly decent catch by most of the matchmaking mamas.” Marcus couldn’t believe himself or the words coming out of his mouth.

“She seems to think a scholarly gentleman will suit her.”

“I was at the top of my class at Oxford.” Clearly he was out of his mind.

Olivia only stared at him.

“Fine. I’m not on the list … not that I want to be,” he added just in case he hadn’t been clear on that. “So, since I’m not worthy to be there, would you mind telling me what you think I’m going to do with it?”

“You know the gentlemen on that list, right?” she asked.

Marcus nodded.

“How difficult would it be for you to arrange to bring some of them by here to meet my friend while she’s staying with me?” Olivia picked at an invisible piece of something on the skirt of her dress as she asked the question.

He wasn’t going to refuse her. There was little he could refuse his sister. But that didn’t mean Marcus planned to give in easily.

“You want me to round up the men and parade them through the house like a Tattersalls auction?” he asked.

Olivia rolled her eyes. “I don’t want them all here at the same time, Marcus. It would make much better sense for you to bring them by individually.”

He gaped. “There are at least thirty names here.”

“I don’t want Emma to have to settle,” she said as though he were a barbarian for suggesting otherwise.

Emma.

So that was the mysterious friend’s name. He liked it, Marcus decided. Not that it mattered what he thought of the name or even the woman herself. Supposedly, they wouldn’t suit.

“Suppose I decide to help,” he said finally. “Why exactly would I be doing it again?”

Olivia sobered. As she leaned forward, Marcus saw the concern lurking behind the humor in her eyes. “Emma really needs a husband, Marcus. I want to help—and I told her that you would be happy to, as well. You do want to help, don’t you?”

“A damsel in distress?” he muttered.

Olivia nodded, without any trace of irony.

With that, he was sunk—and he could tell Olivia knew it. But before he could say anything, there was a gentle tap at the door.

“Come in,” his sister called out, and Marcus could hear the door behind him open.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” a woman—Emma?—said. “I didn’t realize you had company.” Her voice was pleasant, Marcus noted. Low and sweet, and … oddly familiar.

“No, Emma,” Olivia said, motioning her forward. “You’re fine. Please come sit with us. Marcus and I were just talking about you.” The woman crossed around the room to take a seat beside Olivia, giving Marcus his first look at her. It was a struggle not to let his shock show.

Damsel in distress, indeed, he thought to himself, as he stared at the governess from Cheapside.

So this is Emma. He looked down at the list of names in his hand and frowned. He hadn’t liked being left off the list even before he knew for whom it was intended.

For some reason, he liked it even less now.




Chapter Three


“Maybe I should leave the two of you to your meeting,” Emma said, rising from her seat and preparing to make her escape from the room.

“Not at all,” Mr. Fairfax answered before Olivia had a chance to. His smirk widened.

A red-hot blush stole through Emma’s cheeks, making her feel like the temperature in the room had risen dramatically. “No, truly,” she argued, “I can talk to Olivia later. Right, Olivia?” she asked, looking to her friend for assistance.

Either Olivia was oblivious to Emma’s distress, or she found the situation humorous, because the marchioness didn’t seem willing for her to go.

“Of course you won’t leave. I have to introduce you,” her friend said.

“You really don’t,” Emma muttered. She was sure no one had heard her until she noticed that Mr. Fairfax’s smile had widened impossibly further, and his eyes glinted mischievously.

“Marcus, allow me to introduce my friend, Emma Mercer.” She smiled at Emma, as though to reassure her that Mr. Fairfax wouldn’t bite. “And Emma, this is my brother, Marcus Fairfax, the Earl of Westin.”

Her brother?

An earl?

Emma thought she might throw up.

She had punched an earl in the face … albeit accidentally. Was there any way to slink out of the room and pretend she’d never knocked on the door?

Sadly, it appeared too late for that option.

“There was no need for the introductions, Olivia,” the man said, drawing Emma’s gaze.

Emma hated the fact that he was more handsome than any man had a right to be. And she hated the fact that she’d noticed.

“There isn’t?” Olivia asked. Her look of surprise was almost comical. If Emma had been inclined to find anything about the situation remotely humorous, that was.

Mr. Fairfax—the Earl of Westin, she amended—looked to be enjoying himself far too much. He nodded. “Who do you think gave me the black eye?”

Marcus barely contained his laughter. He wasn’t sure whose expression amused him most. Olivia looked like she might fall out of her seat … either that or injure her neck because she kept whipping it back and forth between Marcus and Miss Mercer.

As for the other lady … Well, Marcus quickly decided that anger only made Miss Emma look even more appealing. Which was fortuitous, he supposed, because she looked mad enough to blacken his other eye. Purposely this time.

“Who … she … you …?” Olivia couldn’t seem to form a complete thought. With each half-uttered word, his sister looked at him and then back at her friend. The gaze leveled at him was slightly accusatory.

Miss Mercer had her hands folded together in her lap, a beatific look on her face as though to suggest she would be the last person capable of doing anyone bodily harm.

Marcus could have made it easy on her. Could have explained to Olivia that the injury was accidental. But he wasn’t in the least inclined to do so and ruin the fun of the moment. Heaven knows, he could use some amusement after the fear and uncertainty that had swamped him for the past few days.

Finally, Olivia settled on a reponse. She turned to look at her friend. “You hit Marcus?” Olivia’s tone was surprised … not censuring.

The young woman looked like she was about to answer, even though Marcus thought it seemed pretty clear that the only thing she wanted to do was pick up her skirts and run from the room. “Well … we … it’s really …”

He was going to be a chivalrous gentleman and rescue her. “Don’t look so surprised, Olivia. I recall you having a violent streak of your own.”

The comparison was enough to rile the previously tongue-tied Miss Mercer. “I hardly have a violent streak!” she defended. “It was an accident.”

Marcus made a “hmming” noise deep in his throat. Mostly just to irritate his sister’s friend. He found that he quite liked the high flush on her cheeks and the fire in her gray eyes.

“And even if it weren’t accidental—which it was,” she added as an impassioned aside to Olivia, “you would have deserved it for accosting me.”

If Miss Mercer had noticed how wide Olivia’s eyes grew with speculation at that statement, she probably would have stopped her passionate defense. As it was, with the two women sitting side by side, Marcus was the only one with the benefit of reading both expressions.

Olivia’s was the height of amused curiosity.

Miss Mercer’s bordered on horrified.

Smothering a laugh, Marcus interrupted her. “I was rescuing, not accosting. Which you wouldn’t have needed had you not been on such an unsavory street at such a late hour.”

Miss Mercer’s eyes narrowed. And Marcus had the distinct impression that she might now like to punch him in the mouth instead.

“I was perfectly safe.” She turned to Olivia as though she was about to try and convince her friend of the truth of that statement.

Marcus could tell by Olivia’s expression that his sister was too busy trying to smother her own smirk than trying to tamp down her interest in the saga unfolding before her. “Don’t worry about me, Emma,” she said, her voice almost choked with laughter. “I’m just listening quietly.”

Emma whirled back on him. “And you should tell her it was an accident!” she nearly yelled. “It’s not as though I would have hit you on purpose.”

“You wouldn’t have?” he asked, keeping his face as impassive as he could manage.

“That might not be true right now,” she nearly growled at him.

Olivia rose suddenly from her seat. “Did someone call for me?” she asked no one in particular, as though the room were populated with at least a hundred people.

“No!” Emma said at the exact moment Marcus said …

“Maybe.”

Olivia smiled approvingly at him. With a nod, she brushed out her skirts and began walking toward the door.

“I think I’ll just go check,” Olivia said. She spared a look for Emma that was probably supposed to be apologetic. But her expression was too speculative to be sincere. “It’s a big house. People are always needing something. You just never know.” Then the marchioness shrugged.

“No, you never know,” Marcus agreed, relaxing back against his seat, enjoying the rapid-fire emotions that flitted across Miss Mercer’s face.

While he would never be so ungentlemanly as to accuse a gently bred woman of doing so, he couldn’t help but notice to himself that his sister ran from the room.

Leaving a murderous-looking Miss Mercer in her wake.

“No one was calling her,” the lady said unnecessarily.

“No, they weren’t,” he agreed with a small smile.

“You’re an awful person,” she said then.

Marcus tensed a little, wondering if he’d taken his teasing too far and now she was truly put out with him. “Why’s that?” he drawled slowly.

“For letting your sister think I hit you. She might be upstairs packing my bags for me.” While the words had a forced lightness to them, Marcus could hear the genuine fear underneath.

All the humor drained from the situation. And Marcus felt like a cad.

It was impulsive—and probably foolish—but he rose from his seat and crossed the few steps to be at her side. He covered her hands with one of his, stopping her from wringing them together.

“Olivia’s doing nothing of the sort. Honestly, if she thought you’d hit me on purpose, she’d probably be out buying you a gift. I can only estimate how many times she’s wanted to do the same.” Marcus hoped his smile put her at ease.

That brought out what looked to be a genuine smile … although a small one. Marcus felt a flash of elation and pride at having wrested that expression out of her anxiety. And when he noticed that she hadn’t tried to pull her hands away from his, he felt something else … something warmer, more indefinable.

“Olivia shut the door behind her,” Miss Mercer said then, surprising him with the sudden change in conversation.

But Marcus followed her gaze and laughed. His sister was nothing if not enterprising.

“So why do you think she ran out of the room?” Miss Mercer asked after a few seconds.

Marcus grinned. “She was giving us some time alone.”

The complete innocence in Miss Mercer’s expression was refreshing. “Why?” she asked.

“To see what we would do.”

“What we’d do?” she echoed.

Marcus nodded. “She probably thought you might like the chance to punch me again.”

Miss Mercer laughed. It was the first time he’d heard her do so, and Marcus decided that she was exceptionally beautiful when she laughed. Her gray eyes twinkled. And as she tossed her head back, some of her shiny black hair slipped out of her fancy arrangement, tumbling to her shoulders. Her full lips quirked in a smile.

“So what did Olivia think you might want to do?” the lady asked. A guileless question.

Why, then, did Marcus want to answer her with a kiss?

Not that he would, of course. No, it was a completely inappropriate urge, and … and a ridiculous idea, besides. His lack of sleep was playing tricks with his head. After years of ducking and dodging every predatory female on the marriage mart, surely he wasn’t succumbing to tender feelings just because a pretty woman—this particular pretty woman—smiled at him. The very idea was absurd.

Yet, for all that, he was still careful to take a step away from temptation before he answered.

“Olivia likely thought I’d want to talk about the particulars of finding you a husband.”

Emma choked.

On air.

“You will be helping me find a husband?”

His teasing smile gave way to a sheepish expression. “My sister has decided that I will, so it seems highly likely. She’s accustomed to getting her way. I’d like to lay the blame on her indulgent husband, but I’m afraid her indulgent brother was the first to set the trend in place.”

“So you will … that is … you—I don’t understand.” Mentally, she scolded herself for sounding like such a ninny, but really, how was she supposed to respond? Olivia had truly asked the man she’d assaulted to find her a husband? What if he married her off to a boxing master in revenge?

“I’m here today by Olivia’s summons,” the earl explained. “When I arrived, she presented me with the following list.” He waved a piece of paper in the air. “It’s the names of all the gentlemen I’m supposed to coerce into calling on you—by means of physical force, if necessary.”

Emma felt her back go rigid. Coerce into calling on her? By physical force? As if a man would have to be tricked or strong-armed before he’d consider courting her?

“I’m teasing, Miss Mercer,” he said, sitting back slightly when he must have felt her stiffen.

“I know that,” she snapped.

“Well, I wasn’t teasing about Olivia’s plan, but I am certain no coercion will be required once the gentlemen of London learn you are here,” he amended. “That’s truly my role in this arrangement—to arrange introductions.”

“I suppose I should be flattered by your optimism,” she said briskly. Rising quickly from her seat, Emma was almost surprised that the earl didn’t topple over to the floor. She hadn’t realized until then how much he’d been leaning against her.

“Were you aware of my sister’s plan to have me bring you a husband?” Lord Westin asked.

“No! That is, yes,” she stammered, turning her head to hide the blush. “That is, I was aware of the plan, but I didn’t know that you were to be a part of it. How could I have? I had no idea that you were her brother until moments ago! She said that she knew the man to help put the plan into action—I assumed she meant her husband. I hadn’t the slightest notion that she meant …”

“Me?” Lord Westin also rose to his feet, the motion fluid and graceful.

She decided then that no man should be able to move with the kind of lethal grace he did. It wasn’t decent. Nor, Emma continued—since she was already in a making-pronouncements mood—should any man be quite as handsome as the earl.

Handsome men didn’t bother her in general. And she’d known quite a few individuals who she would say had been given more than their fair portion of beauty. Olivia’s husband, for instance. The Marquess of Huntsford was attractive. In a completely nonthreatening, pleasant way.

Not so with the earl.

It wasn’t merely the handsomeness … although there certainly was that. It was the shrewdness, the playfulness and the intensity in his eyes, which all seemed to coexist in some strange commingling.

But Lord Westin was the last man for whom she should let herself feel an attraction. Olivia had recruited him to help her find a husband, which clearly meant that she did not consider him to be a good prospect—and who would know better than the man’s sister? Besides that, Emma couldn’t help but remember the condemnation in his eyes in the carriage on the way to the Roths’, when he scolded her for being in Cheapside. What would he think if he knew that her parents lived so nearby? Surely an earl would disdain anyone with such low connections.

Why should that thought bring her pain? What did she care for his good opinion? He was overbearing and teasing and … and he smirked too much.

“Maybe I should go find Olivia. Maybe she needs help with … whatever it is she’s doing.” Emma at least had the presence of mind to be embarrassed by her pathetic excuse. That didn’t, however, stop her from moving toward the door as she spoke.

“I doubt my sister needs your help eavesdropping,” he returned. With only a few, long strides, Lord Westin was by her side.

“I’m sorry if my teasing you has upset you,” he said seriously.

Deciding to take his proffered olive branch, Emma assured him she was fine—just worried about Olivia.

When Emma had turned her back to him and was preparing to continue her path toward the door, Lord Westin said suddenly, “You never did tell me what you were doing in Cheapside.”

“That was intentional,” she returned.

There was a little too much fervency in his tone for the question to be only polite curiosity. But she still had no intention of answering.

Olivia’s brother was probably a perfectly decent and caring man. Clearly he had been concerned that his joking had upset her. Maybe he wouldn’t treat her with disdain if he knew the truth. But Emma still didn’t want to tell him.

Nick and Olivia were the only people she’d told all about her family’s circumstances. Not that there were many people she could have told. Lady Roth had been entirely uninterested in the details of why she’d sought a position, and there was no one else to whom Emma was close. But even telling her friend had made Emma feel exposed and ready to be judged. She never forgot that she was associating with the nobility.

The Mercers were a respectable family, but even when her father was at his wealthiest, he’d never been a member of elevated society. The second son of a landed gentleman, her father was a scholar … a scholar who was unfortunately an abysmal custodian of the money he’d received as his inheritance in lieu of the estate that had passed to his older brother.

And now even that money was nearly gone. Emma didn’t want Lord Westin’s pity once he discovered how desperate circumstances were for her family. She didn’t want to think about how differently the earl might treat her if he knew the truth.

She’d seen similar situations far too many times during her employment with the Roths. If Emma happened to be visible during one of the family’s parties, the young men would flirt with her and act as though they valued her presence and conversation above all else.

The moment Lady Roth let it be known—in a voice that was much louder and shriller than necessary, in Emma’s opinion—that she was nothing more than the governess, most of the gentlemen would scurry to far corners of the room. The ones who stayed weren’t doing so for any noble purposes.

Emma knew how these kinds of things worked. With the exception of her friends Olivia and Nick, nobles didn’t waste their time with those outside their social spheres. And wrong though it might be, Emma was enjoying the ease of this moment with Lord Westin too much to spoil it.

So she clamped her lips together. Let the earl think whatever he wanted. Because as far as she was concerned, nothing he came up with could be quite as bad as the truth.




Chapter Four


Emma really shouldn’t have climbed up in the tree. It didn’t matter that Olivia’s rather extensive garden showed no signs of other inhabitants. With a bit of a self-deprecating smile, she thought that if Lady Roth could see her now, the viscountess would feel vindicated in terminating Emma’s employment. Who wanted a tree-climbing hoyden watching over her children?

Olivia and Nick were both gone, visiting Nick’s aunt, the Duchess of Leith. Emma had been invited but wasn’t quite ready to face anyone else in the ton. Especially since there was one particular member of high society that she couldn’t seem to get out of her head.

Stop thinking about him.

Really. It will do you no good.

You’re being a fool.

Ever since the day before, when she’d realized who Mr. Fairfax truly was, Emma had alternated between being irritated that he hadn’t immediately told her who he was, and being irritated with herself for caring at all. Climbing the tree had been a desperate attempt to find something to occupy her mind, which had been much too busy with thoughts of the Earl of Westin. She hadn’t even attempted climbing trees since she was a child, and in her aggravated state, it had seemed the perfect challenge for the moment. Frankly, even now she was rather impressed that she hadn’t broken her neck. But now that she was treed for the time being, she was left with nothing to do but think.

Her first priority had to be finding another job.

She’d agreed to go along with Olivia’s plan, but surely the husband hunt her friend envisioned would never succeed. It was ridiculous to think that rich, eligible men would form a line to catch her attention. And besides, any man who did fall all over himself to earn the favor of a former governess of no particular distinction could hardly be sensible. How could she depend on a man like that to shelter and protect her and her family? No, she’d have to do as she had always done—rely on only herself.

It had been three days since Lady Roth had dismissed her without a letter of reference. Three days since she should have gone straight home and confessed everything to her parents. Emma hadn’t been able to do it yet, though. She hadn’t been able to fortify herself enough to see her mother’s and father’s hearts break.

Waiting, in the hopes of having some good news of a new position to alleviate the bad tidings of her lost job, was perhaps the most asinine plan Emma had ever concocted. But staying with Nick and Olivia made it so easy for her to not go home yet, to keep the problems to herself for a little while longer. To hope that some wonderful new opportunity would come to light soon.

Emma had already written to the different agencies in London, praying that they might have families in need of a governess. And while her personal contacts weren’t extensive, Emma had sent missives to anyone she could think of, asking if they, or anyone they knew, needed a governess or even a lady’s companion. Too little time had passed for her to receive any replies.

Father, let me find a job, had become a constant prayer. And let me forget about that irksome earl, had become a constant follow-up.

And while Emma was an avid believer in the power of prayer, she never felt any kind of confidence afterward that her entreaty would take care of the matter where Lord Westin was concerned.

Her life had spiraled so far out of her control that Emma wasn’t certain she’d ever be able to rein it back in. Like a leaf tossed about by the gusting wind, she had little say over what happened to her anymore. And it scared her. Giving up control didn’t come easily to her. Surrendering her concerns to God sounded fine in theory, but it was one of Emma’s biggest struggles.

“Why am I not surprised?”

Emma started from her position on the branch, shaking the stout limb until she feared she might fall.

“Careful,” the voice cautioned her.

She looked down toward the ground, wishing she could disappear farther up into the tree when she saw that it was Lord Westin standing below her.

Where had he come from?

“You’re not about to drop out and knock me down, are you?” His mouth curved in a smile, and Emma felt her own lips upturn in response.

Emma said, smirking, “Not unless you provoke me.” Which, considering their short, volatile history, was a distinct possibility.

Lord Westin, once assured that she wasn’t going to be taking a nasty tumble, stepped back a few feet. He leaned almost negligently against a gatepost opposite her tree. “I’ll try to be mindful of that, then.”

Emma tried to look as stern as possible—something a bit difficult considering the undoubtedly ludicrous picture she presented. “You would do well to do so.”

“So, are you in the tree for any particular reason or are you indulging a long-held desire to be a bird?” The gleam in his eyes teased her.

“I thought it might be a peaceful place to contemplate,” she hedged.

For a moment, Emma was afraid he’d mock her, but Lord Westin nodded solemnly. “Understandable.”

The two of them stared at each other for a few moments … it couldn’t have been too long, just enough time to make Emma look away uncomfortably. She hated the fact that her wit and social graces seemed to fail her when he was around.

“Did you wish to be alone?” she asked finally.

“Not really,” he replied.

Emma waited for him to say more, but Lord Westin didn’t offer any explanations.

“Are you sure?” she persisted, “Because I could leave if you wish me to.”

“Not at all. You were here first.” As he shook his head, Emma noticed how delightfully mussed his hair looked.

Emma couldn’t think of anything else to say. She decided that whatever the rest of the conversation held, it would be preferable if her part took place on the ground rather than in the air. Emma thought about asking him to help her down, or at least asking him to turn around so she could descend with a shred of her dignity intact. But without knowing how she would possibly phrase either question, Emma stared at the distance from her feet to the ground. And she jumped.

Lord Westin was at her side in an instant, steadying her by wrapping his arm around her waist.

“Are you all right?” he asked, looking her over as though she’d fallen headfirst.

“I’m fine, Lord Westin,” Emma said, trying to step back and regain the distance between them.

“Don’t do that again.” His voice was harsh, commanding. His jaw was set, and his hands were a vise around her.

Her chin raised, and her eyes glinted in defiance. “How do you think I usually get down?”

Grudgingly convinced that besides being perhaps addled in the head, there was nothing wrong with her, Lord Westin released his hold and stepped away.

As soon as he let go of her, she felt the most disconcerting stab of emptiness.

“I stand in amazement that you made it to adulthood,” the earl drawled.

Emma could tell he was trying to calm his own panic by the way he was breathing slowly, exhaling audibly. It was oddly pleasant to have someone so concerned about her welfare even if “show concern” for the earl seemed to translate to “be bossy and insufferable.”

“You and my parents,” she quipped.

His expression sharpened with interest. “Your parents? I haven’t heard much about them.”

There’s a very good reason for that.

For a moment, she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. “It’s not like you’re brimming with stories about yours,” she countered. If she’d been thinking more clearly, Emma would certainly never have brought up the undoubtedly painful subject. She knew from previous conversations with Olivia that their mother had committed suicide after her husband’s death.

The Earl of Westin’s face shuttered, becoming a blank mask.

“I’m sorry,” Emma said, her voice earnest. She even took a few steps forward, thinking she might grab his hand … some physical touch to try and imbue her regret into him.

“Don’t apologize.” His voice was gruff, although not angry.

But she couldn’t leave it there. Emma already felt like a brat for firing back at him. So in an effort to offer an olive branch, she said, “I shouldn’t have brought up such a painful subject. Olivia has told me about your mother’s …” Emma’s words trailed off as her brain caught up to what she’d nearly said. In her rush to apologize she’d forgotten that the circumstances of the former Lady Westin’s death were a secret.

Society would shun Olivia and Marcus if it were known that their mother had taken her own life. “Th-that is to say,” she stammered, “she has told me what a struggle it has been for you both to come to terms with your losses.”

He gave her a considering look. “I see that Olivia has told you a great deal, indeed. The two of you must be quite close.”

Emma nodded. “I don’t know what I would have done without her these past few days.”

The considering look sharpened. “And just how many days have you been here? Since about the night that we met?”

Emma shrugged. “Lady Roth didn’t appreciate my tardiness.” She tried to sound unconcerned. Lord Westin didn’t need to know how devastating and upending her termination was. Or how confused and adrift she felt over what to do next … join Olivia in a husband hunt or confess to her parents and beg for their forgiveness?

He frowned. “She’s not exactly a sympathetic figure, is she?”

“I see you’ve met her, then …” she joked.

His chuckle was low and warm. “So, what are your plans now? I know my sister’s plans for you—but you’ve already shown that you’re entirely unwilling to fall in line with others’ expectations.” He cast a significant glance up at the tree she’d so recently conquered. “Do you agree with her intentions to find you a husband?”

Emma averted her eyes, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m still trying to figure that out,” she said quietly.

Despite her attempts to look away, brown eyes bored into hers. The inspection was so steady that Emma had to force herself not to be the first to break the connection. “What do you want?” he asked.

Why did she feel like the question was something more than it seemed?

“To be happy.”

Her words hung in the air, almost taking on a life of their own. No matter how awkward she felt or how much she might have wished that she hadn’t been quite as frank, it was too late to change the moment.

And when Lord Westin whispered, “Me, too,” she was fine with that.

When Marcus saw the wistfulness in Miss Mercer’s eyes, he couldn’t help but be moved. He’d come into the garden with his mind full of all of his own problems. Another round of endless hours spent analyzing his accounts had brought him no good news. But Miss Mercer, in a situation far more pitiable than his, still seemed to cling to hope for the future. He admired her for that.

What would bring her the happiness she sought? Was it a husband, as Olivia seemed to think? She would hardly be the first woman in London to seek happiness in a wealthy match. Yet Marcus didn’t really think that she was a single-minded husband-hunter. While he couldn’t claim to understand the feminine mind, something about the fiery young woman being so materialistic didn’t quite ring true to him.

But could he really deny his help in trying to make Miss Mercer’s life better? Since she’d lost her job, maybe finding a spouse was her only hope.

He chose not to examine the way that thought rankled.

Marcus had come to call on Olivia today with the sole purpose of telling her that he couldn’t participate in her matchmaking scheme. Getting his affairs in order to enable him to live on his new and much-reduced income would be an enormous undertaking. He’d have little time to devote to arranging routs and luncheons to find Miss Mercer a husband. But now, in light of her wistfulness, Marcus found himself reconsidering.

As he stood there looking at her, Marcus resolved that he wouldn’t tell his sister “no” just yet. Admittedly, he wasn’t thrilled with the prospect of what he was going to have to do, but if it would bring a smile to Miss Mercer’s face … well, that might make the ordeal worth it.




Chapter Five


Emma shifted nervously in her seat in the pew beside Olivia. This was her first week at church since she’d begun working for the Roth family. While Lady Roth was a faithful church attendee, she hadn’t wanted to be bothered with having her offspring underfoot during her time with God. So Emma had always been relegated to staying at the house with the children. She’d always tried to find a moment to herself at some point during the day to say her prayers and read some passages from her Bible, but she’d wished for the chance to attend a regular worship service again.

A wish that she was regretting now.

Oh, the church itself was lovely, and she had no reason to believe the service itself would be otherwise, but even though they had arrived only ten minutes earlier, the stares were already starting to grate. The other churchgoers had quickly noticed the unfamiliar face in the Huntsford pew and were abuzz with rumors and speculation.

Emma’s seatmate was just as bad—though Olivia’s speculation was of a rather different sort. “That’s Mr. Beckett,” she said, nodding discreetly at a stout gentleman of perhaps four and twenty making his way down the aisle. “Pleasant man, good family, income of, I’d say, four thousand a year. Very fond of cats. You like cats, don’t you?”

“I … No, actually, I hate them,” Emma replied. Olivia looked momentarily disconcerted.

“Pity,” she murmured, before her expression cleared. “Still, there is his cousin, Mr. Wainwright—the one in the blue jacket. Handsome, don’t you think?”

While she nodded, Emma remained uncomfortable. Mr. Wainwright was likely considered handsome, by most women. It was hardly his fault that he did not quite match her idea of a truly handsome man—tall, tanned, dark hair and eyes along with an irritatingly engaging smile …

She was relieved when the minister began welcoming the congregation, signaling that the service was about to begin. But her relief shifted to shocked dismay when the Earl of Westin slid into the empty space to Emma’s left. “Sorry I’m late,” he muttered to the rest of them.

Both Nick and Olivia whispered back words of greeting. Emma, however, wasn’t able to do much more than force herself to continue breathing. Why did Lord Westin’s presence seem to take the air out of the room? It was disconcerting. And even more disconcerting was the fact that none of the other gentlemen Olivia had pointed out had affected her nearly so strongly.

As she tried to ignore the fact that the lack of room on the pew meant that Lord Westin was practically pressed against her, Emma shot furtive looks at the other gentlemen in the congregation. Oh, they were all pleasant-looking enough. Some even could be called quite handsome.

Emma slid her gaze to the left. Her attempt at catching a discreet peek at the earl was thwarted when she caught his gaze. A corner of Lord Westin’s lips quirked in a smirk, and he raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

Instead of responding to the wordless query as to why she was casting furtive glances his way, Emma stared at her hands, clasped in her lap. Hopefully, he’d turn his attention back to the minister so he wouldn’t notice that her face was an undoubtedly unbecoming shade of crimson.

What was it about the earl that simultaneously bothered and intrigued her? Emma pondered that question seriously for a few minutes, but came to no conclusion. While not having a wealth of expertise on the subject of men, she’d known her share of charmers and rogues. In all fairness to the earl, however, Emma could hardly deem him a rake—but a charmer, most certainly.

That assessment of him made Emma feel a bit better about the fact that she was quite unable to stop thinking about him. After all, it could hardly be her fault when the man was an accomplished flirt. She would simply do her best to avoid him … well, as much as their close connection would allow.

The minister’s impassioned plea for the congregation to show Christ’s love to others—which was really a yelled statement—roused Emma out of her thoughts. And she immediately felt ashamed for them. Here she was, in God’s house, too distracted by the man sitting next to her to focus on anything else.

To add another sin at her feet, Emma had missed most of the sermon while rambling about in her mind. Whatever it was must have been fairly rousing because an elderly woman a few pews away brushed at gathered tears with a square of linen. A quick look to her right showed Olivia staring at the front, obviously as engrossed in the reverend’s closing as she’d been in the entire message.

Good job, Emma. Your first time back at church and you don’t even pay attention.

Saying a quick, silent prayer of repentance, Emma folded her hands demurely in her lap, ready to listen to the rest even if her mind became so full of other thoughts that it burst. And as was her luck, Emma was in time to hear the closing thoughts and the calls for the congregation to heed the words—whatever they had been—of the message.

The reverend concluded his closing with a plea for the congregation to remember the Earl of Westin in prayer.

Emma’s eyes immediately swung to meet the man’s beside her—she couldn’t help the reflex. Was something wrong with Lord Westin? Was he sick? In trouble?

Naturally she was concerned. Who wouldn’t be? It didn’t mean that she felt anything other than supreme irritation at his presence. Emma was simply concerned, wondering what could be so dire that the earl sat stiff and unyielding beside her.

And why did he look so panicked?

Marcus tried to shutter the emotions running through him before Miss Mercer noticed something amiss. His hands clenched. Every muscle in his body clenched in anticipation. What did Reverend Beresford know? How much did he know, and who had told him? Most important, what was the minister thinking, bringing up his financial difficulties in front of the whole congregation?

It wasn’t as though his new “circumstances” wouldn’t surface eventually. There were too many wagging tongues in the ton to ever believe he’d be able to keep something as intriguing as a shipwreck and lost fortune quiet. Marcus wanted more time before it came out, however. He wanted certainty, not merely grim speculation or even near certainty.

But Reverend Beresford seemed oblivious to Marcus’s discomfort.

“His lordship might not appreciate me taking the liberty to discuss this with everyone …”

His lordship certainly wouldn’t.

“… but prayer is powerful. And I think we should ask God to give him courage …”

And restraint.

“… to accomplish his task.”

What?

“Being a voice for society’s abused and neglected is never easy. Lord Westin needs our prayers that he remain a tireless champion of God’s work.”

Marcus could have whooped with relief. But embarrassment quickly followed. The eyes of those in the congregation honed in on him. He’d always tried to avoid any kind of attention for the work he was trying to do in Parliament. Seeking rights for the underprivileged and ignored wasn’t a platform for him to build a political career. The earl wasn’t fighting for any reason other than to right a wrong.

The stares had almost a tangible weight. Though he noticed the person closest to him was studiously avoiding his gaze. Interesting.

Marcus could honestly say he’d never been so glad to have a preacher begin to pray. At least then everyone should have their eyes closed instead of training them on him. When the congregation was dismissed, Marcus didn’t stand right away. He wanted to give the curious folks time to make it out the door.

As though the rest of the family sitting on the pew wished to show their solidarity, neither Olivia, Nick nor even Miss Mercer moved. The four of them watched as others strolled along, chatting with their friends and acquaintances.

“Are you all right?” Miss Mercer leaned over to whisper.

The lovely lady couldn’t have surprised Marcus more if she’d kissed him on the cheek.

Instead of answering, he turned to smile politely at her. “Am I that obvious?” he asked.

“No,” Miss Mercer rushed to assure him. “I was just watching closely.”

His strained smile shifted into an honest grin. When she realized what she’d said, Miss Mercer’s face flushed. “That’s not exactly what I meant,” she said.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Marcus said quietly instead of pressing her on her statement.

“Good,” Miss Mercer said on a sigh. Marcus wasn’t sure if that was necessarily a statement about his well-being.

“Emma, look,” Olivia hissed, gesturing in a manner that Marcus supposed his sister considered subtle. “There’s Baron Chivers—and he’s looking right at you.”

Marcus had heard of the baron. Actually, the man was supposed to be a decent sort—if a bit young still. And Chivers’s mother was actually one of the most giving, generous women Marcus had ever met. Baroness Chivers ran a charity for downtrodden ladies.

Marcus looked casually over in the direction his sister had indicated. Though he hadn’t met the baron before, it wasn’t difficult to identify him. In fact, it would have been nearly impossible to miss him. He had his mother’s hair, his father’s bearing and an absolutely besotted expression on his face as he stared unabashedly at Miss Mercer. The speed with which Chivers took an interest in Miss Mercer bothered him … although Marcus wasn’t precisely sure why.

Well, he had an idea of why, but it was better not to think about ridiculously foolish things. It would be absurd to be jealous. Even before the recent stress to his finances, marriage had not been in his plans for several more years, at least. And now, of all times, the burden and expense of a society wife was the last thing he could handle. Besides, he was all wrong for a woman like Emma Mercer—even his sister, Olivia, had said so, and every ounce of reason and practicality he possessed told him that was for the best.

So why did it feel wrong to think of Miss Mercer becoming the wife of any man in London except him?




Chapter Six


Three days later, it had become widely known that there was an incredibly beautiful, unmarried lady staying with the Marquess and Marchioness of Huntsford. As a result, Marcus found himself having to fight a sea of callers to get in the front door of his sister’s house.

Not that he was vying to add his name into the sea of potential suitors, of course. He’d simply wanted to get away from his home and the pile of letters on his desk reminding him of the work he could no longer do, the assistance he could no longer offer. Some time spent with Em—that is, with Olivia would be the perfect distraction.

“Unusual burst of activity, isn’t there, Mathis?” he asked the butler once he was shown inside.

“Thanks to Miss Mercer, my lord,” the old man said with a surprising grin.

That stopped Marcus in his tracks. He’d never seen Mathis smile. Ever.

It was almost enough to make him remain in the foyer and interrogate the servant as to what had truly happened, but the door was opening once again to let in two more ladies, a mother and daughter. Marcus knew them by sight, although not by name. The younger of the two looked like she’d just swallowed an entire lemon. The mother, on the other hand, looked like she’d be glad to wipe the sour expression off her daughter’s face so long as no one was around to see her do it.

“I suppose my sister is …” he began asking Mathis.

Only to be interrupted with, “In the yellow parlor, my lord.”

“Of course,” he muttered, hurrying to beat the newest arrivals in there.

But Nick caught him in the hallway before he could make it to the parlor.

“Marcus?” Nick asked in surprise. “I didn’t know you were coming by today.”

Why did Marcus feel guilty to be caught by his friend? It wasn’t as though he was doing anything wrong. He was paying a call on his sister … and on the woman he’d promised to help find matrimonial happiness.

When Marcus didn’t say anything, Nick steered him toward the stairs. “You don’t want to go anywhere near that part of the house. Trust me on that,” he said.

“Is that so?” Marcus asked, hoping that he didn’t sound overly interested.

Because he wasn’t … overly interested, that was.

“I can’t count how many people have been in and out in the last day or two. I think I’m going to have to send Mathis away to one of my country estates to recuperate for a while,” Nick said with a laugh.

“That bad?” Marcus asked. His voice was a little more dispassionate than he might have preferred it to be. Because there was an incredibly fine line between sounding too interested and not sounding interested enough. Either way was suspicious. And with someone like Nick, a former spy who thrived on the subtle clues a person unwittingly gave away, Marcus wanted to be certain not to draw any undue attention.

“It’s almost humorous,” Nick said. “I think I understand better how you felt being responsible for Olivia all those years.”

Marcus thought back to having to fend off Olivia’s more ardent suitors and found that the thought of Miss Mercer receiving similar attention bothered him just as much.

But only in a different sort of way.

“Any offers for her hand?” Marcus asked, only joking in an effort to keep the conversation going while Marcus tried to figure out how much information he could pry for without Nick reporting to Olivia that he was interested.

“One yesterday,” Nick said without laughing.

“You jest,” Marcus said, so surprised that he almost stumbled on the steps. “Miss Mercer hasn’t even been out to any events in society yet. How would a gentleman know enough about her in only a few days of afternoon calls to want to marry her?”

Nick shrugged. “She’s very beautiful. The man came calling with his mother yesterday. Apparently, the young buck decided from meeting her that the two of them would suit very well.”

Marcus waited for some punch line … like that the gentleman had been the infamous Viscount Danfield, an errant suitor of Olivia’s who had loved his mother more than he loved good sense.

Nick didn’t immediately confirm or deny, however.

“It was Danfield, wasn’t it?” Marcus said, trying to prompt him to finish the joke.

Nick shook his head. “No. Baron Chivers.”

A proposal from the baron already? He certainly acted quickly. Too quickly.

Wasn’t there some fable or cautionary tale about a man who made up his mind too fast and how he was likely to quickly change it again? If there wasn’t one like that, then there should be.

“So was Chivers heartbroken when you sent him away?” Marcus asked as they finally crossed into Nick’s study. He was striding perilously close to sounding overly concerned. Yet he didn’t seem capable of stopping himself.

Nick looked at him, the expression inscrutable. “I didn’t send him away.”

It was beyond belief. “You’re going to let someone court Emma after only speaking to her once?” the earl asked, outrage and indignation lacing his words. All thoughts of discretion were forgotten in the haze of his incredulity.

Nick held out his hands in surrender. “Emma needs a husband … a fact which my wife reminds me of daily … hourly even. What kind of person would I be to turn away someone as kind as Chivers?”

“He’s an infant,” Marcus countered, immediately incensed by the suggestion that the baron might be a suitable match for Emma.

Nick gave him an odd look. “He’s only a few years younger than we are,” he said, his expression suggesting that Marcus was acting crazy.

“A few years can make a large difference,” Marcus defended.

Nick didn’t dispute that, but he also didn’t back down. “Emma can decide for herself if they suit,” he said, much too nonchalantly for Marcus’s liking.

The earl could feel himself getting angry. How would Emma, who had never been a part of society’s marriage mart, know anything about what would be best for her? That was why she needed Nick and Olivia to intercede for her. But obviously, his sister wasn’t going to be any help. Marcus had looked at the names on that list … and he hadn’t been overly impressed with any of them. Olivia seemed quite prepared to throw Emma at any gentleman who stood still long enough … except for her own brother, of course.

And now his best friend was also turning out to be a traitor. Stopping Chivers should have been the first thing Nick did. It would have sent a message to the other suitors—that any attempts to secure Miss Mercer’s affections were going to be taken seriously and handled with the utmost care and discernment.

Instead, Nick had essentially declared open season for any jackanapes who wanted to try and woo a beautiful woman.

“I actually think Emma will probably get along quite well with Chivers,” the marquess said as though he couldn’t bear to leave the subject alone.

Marcus couldn’t sit down like Nick invited him to do. He was suddenly filled with so much restless energy he thought unless he could pace back and forth the length of the whole house he’d have a fit.

“Yes, you’ve made that clear,” Marcus snapped.

Nick didn’t acknowledge the abrupt change in tone or the way Marcus looked like he might want to bloody Nick’s nose.

Nick shrugged, the gesture at once careless and calculated. “Actually, I believe Chivers is downstairs, without his mother this time. You may want to go see for yourself how they get along since you won’t take my word for it.”

Marcus was halfway across the room by the time Nick finished his thought. And Marcus was on the other side of the door by the end of it. And as such, and since he didn’t turn around, he couldn’t tell that his friend was trying … rather unsuccessfully, actually, to muffle his laughter.

Emma didn’t want to be rude to the guests, but wasn’t there somewhere else everybody would rather be? She understood that, at the moment, she was a curiosity, a stranger everyone wanted to inspect for themselves. But she was weary of the constant deluge of people with their endless questions….

Are you related to Mr. Albert Mercer, that wealthy recluse from Cornwall? “Yes, he’s my uncle.”

How long do you plan to remain in Town? “Until I’m needed back home.”

What musical instruments are you accomplished in? “None. At all.”

Question …

After question …

After question …

And Emma wanted to scream.

That would defeat the purpose of being nice to the eligible young men who came calling, however. Olivia sat in one corner of the room, doing her best to keep the most gossipy of the women away from her … a service for which Emma was inexpressibly grateful. That left only a few of the younger women, who had obviously come to see whether Emma was going to be any serious competition.

The rest were gentlemen, varying in ages and stations in life. There was a viscount, a baron and, if she remembered the introductions correctly, there was also an earl in the mix. It was unusual for such loftily titled men to come calling upon a nobody.

She supposed she could credit the interest in her uncle’s rather bizarre behavior. But for all his elusive and reclusive ways, the size and scope of his assets had always been sufficient to ensure that Mr. Albert Mercer was well respected in society and would, no doubt, have been well received if he could be bothered to venture to Town. No one knew, of course, that Emma’s father and uncle hadn’t spoken since her grandfather passed away. Her uncle, the oldest son, had inherited the Cornwall estate, and Emma’s father had been given a healthy stipend of money.




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