Noble Intentions Read online

  “Stop!” she screamed in his ear, startling him into compliance. Gripping his arm, she leaped over his legs and flung herself off the phaeton.

  Dear God, she was going to get herself killed weaving in and out of the heavy traffic like that! Weston snarled an oath to himself, tossed the ribbons to his tiger, and leaped out after his soon-to-be-bride before she was flattened.

  He was shaking by the time he reached her side, but whether from anger or fright he didn’t know. He suspected it was both, and clenched and unclenched his hands in an attempt to keep from strangling her on the spot. He took a deep, calming breath, mopped his handkerchief across his perspiring brow, and reminded himself that he was by nature a calm man, a placid man, a man fully in control of his emotions, and he would be damned before he allowed the daft Amazon to get the better of him.

  “What the devil do you mean, leaping off the phaeton like that, madam?” he bellowed at her. “Have you no brains, woman? You might have been killed!”

  Gillian looked up from where she was kneeling on the sidewalk next to a ragged street urchin and scowled at him. “Hush, my lord. You’re frightening the child.”

  Weston boggled at her. Did she just order him to be quiet? He shook his head. No one, not even a clearly deranged woman like Gillian, would be so foolish.

  “Miss Leigh,” he ground out between his teeth, trying desperately to leash the raging volcano of temper seething inside him. She’d taken at least ten years off his life, scaring him with her heedless actions. “Would you be so kind as to inform me why you saw fit to leave the safe confines of my phaeton to dash recklessly across the road?”

  Gillian was crooning softly to a small, extremely dirty street Arab. Weston guessed the child was female only because there was a wilting clump of pathetic violets clutched in the urchin’s filthy fist.

  “My lord, surely you must recognize that this poor child is in distress and in need of our care.”

  Two soft brown eyes peered up at him through a curtain of matted hair. The imp had the cheek to grin at him as she cuddled closer to Gillian.

  Weston counted to ten before he addressed the woman kneeling before him. “I appreciate the fact that you have a kind and sensitive nature, Miss Leigh, but now is hardly the time to impress me with your good works. You could have been kil—”

  “Impress you with my good works, my lord?”

  If Weston didn’t know better, he’d believe the glitter in the eyes of the woman who slowly rose to her feet before him indicated annoyance. He nodded and waved toward the child, who had her eyes greedily fixed on the earl’s watch chain. “It is obvious to me that you seek my approval and wish to demonstrate your concern for the less fortunate, but it is not necessary.”

  ***

  Gillian stared at him openmouthed. God’s nightgown, the arrogance of the man was overwhelming! Impress him, indeed! If he hadn’t addled her brains so thoroughly by standing there looking every inch the handsome rake she knew he was, she’d give him a piece of her mind. What remained of it, that is. A tug at her sleeve reminded her of her duty, however.

  “My lord, a coin, please.”

  “A coin?” Weston frowned at her outstretched hand.

  “Yes, a coin for the child.”

  He seemed so surprised by her request that he handed her a coin without thinking. She knelt before the child. “Now, my dear, don’t fret. I shall take charge and you will not have to live on the streets any longer, subject to cold and hunger and the abuses of strangers. I’m sure my aunt and uncle will be happy to take you in and see to your welfare. You’ll be educated, of course—perhaps trained as a lady’s maid? Would you like that? Yes, of course you would. You don’t happen to speak French, do you? ’Tis of no matter; take my hand, sweet. Lord Weston will drive us somewhere we can feed you, and then he’ll escort us home and you’ll have a bath and—”

  Weston started to interrupt but was cut short when the child spat out a curse, snatched the coin Gillian held, and dashed off into the crowd.

  She watched the child disappear, then closed her mouth with an audible snap and turned to face the earl. “Don’t say it.”

  He looked for a moment as if he would take exception to her instruction, then without a word held out his hand and escorted her back to his phaeton.

  An hour later, as he was handing her down in front of her uncle’s house, she couldn’t help but shiver at the sight of his cold, unmoving face. Surely a man who had gone through as many trials as he had during their drive should be showing some emotion by now—annoyance over the scene with the street urchin, exasperation when she argued vehemently that they were traveling in the wrong direction based on the position of the sun and the direction of the wind, and finally, there was that painful episode with his horses…but no, it was best to put that behind them. The Lord of Granite held her hand for a moment longer than was proper, and when she looked up into his eyes, he held her gaze.

  Her mind went completely blank of all thoughts but those of the man standing before her. Slowly he raised her hand to his lips. Gillian gulped at the shock of the touch and tried to think of some way to apologize for the disastrous outing, but couldn’t form words under the penetrating scrutiny of those silver-gray eyes.

  “Tomorrow, madam.” He bowed and turned to leave. Gillian floated up the steps and through the opened door with only a brief greeting to the footman.

  Tomorrow? What could he mean?

  “What does he mean?” Gillian asked three hours later, as she lay prone on her stomach on Charlotte’s bed, kicking her feet in the air and watching her cousin’s maid create long blond ringlets out of the girl’s mass of hair.

  “For heaven’s sake, Gillian, you are a goose! I can’t believe you’re seven years older than me. He’s paying court to you, of course. Just as the dangerous Raoul did to Beatrice in The Castle of Almeria.”

  Gillian looked thoughtful as she picked at the soft shawl in front of her. “Was that the novel that opens with the heroine covered with blood after she believes she murdered her father who tried to rape her and is later befriended by the kindly vegetarian?”

  “No, that was Louisa, or The Cottage on the Moor.”

  Gillian tapped a long finger on her lower lip. “Is it the one that had the heroine beset with wolves and marauding strangers after she’s kidnapped by her sinister father’s men, only to be nearly ravished in a French château?”

  Charlotte frowned briefly, then shook her head. “No, that was Romance of the Forest.”

  “Then it must be the one where the heroine strangles the nefarious lord who attempts to sully her virtue, and the evil villainess gets an unspeakable disease due to her lust for anything in trousers.”

  “Yes, that’s Almeria, although I don’t understand why Madam de la Rouge was made out to be such an evil woman. I quite understood her fascination with the count. And the blond footman. And, of course, that rogue of an under-gardener. However, as I was saying, Lord Weston is clearly made of the same romantic material as Raoul. Just as Raoul fought the kidnappers, pirates, and the evil brandy-swilling monks of Clermont in order to be with his true love, so, I feel sure, would Lord Weston fight for you.”

  Gillian rolled her eyes and made an unladylike snort. “Oh, yes, why didn’t I see that? Of course, it makes perfect sense. Here is a man—wealthy, enormously attractive even if he is thought to be a murderer, and in possession of a title—and he falls madly in love with untitled, poor, freckled, opinionated, clumsy me. How could I have missed such an obvious fact?”

  “Don’t be sarcastic, cousin, it will give you spots. You have many charms, even if you don’t have a dowry or a title. Perhaps Lord Weston is enamored with you. After what you’ve told me about your drive this afternoon, such a romantic gesture would certainly fit with his actions today.”

  Gillian sucked in her lower lip and considered Charlotte’s comments. She possessed eno
ugh self-awareness to realize that the attraction she felt for the Black Earl went beyond what was acceptable for casual acquaintances, and in an honest moment she even put a name to the emotion. That same honesty forced her to admit that such instantaneous and overwhelming attachments were rare and not, as a rule, duplicated on the gentleman’s side. Pride drove Gillian into wanting the earl to spend time in her company not because he was bored and had nothing better to do, but because he found her witty, amusing, and completely captivating.

  She frowned at the figure seated before the dressing table. “What charms?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You said I have many charms. What, in particular, do you consider my many charms?”

  Charlotte waved away her maid and turned to look at her cousin sprawled out across her bed.

  “Stand up.”

  Gillian sighed and rose from the bed, trying without success to smooth the wrinkles out of her new gold evening gown.

  “You’re tall,” Charlotte pronounced, circling her cousin and eyeing her from ears to toes.

  “I know that,” Gillian replied tartly. “I’m taller than most men.”

  “But not taller than the earl. In fact, you come only to his nose. That’s good.”

  Gillian rolled her eyes again but kept her comments to herself.

  “You carry yourself well.”

  “Oh, come now, cousin! I fall over my own very substantial feet!”

  “Only when you aren’t watching where you are going. Henceforth, and especially when you are in his lordship’s presence, you will watch where you are walking.”

  “This is ridiculous.” Gillian waved a hand in a gesture of defeat. “He’s not really interested in me; he’s only passing the time until he finds someone suitable to wed.”

  “Why would he pass time with you when there are suitable women available now who would throw themselves at his feet?”

  Gillian thought about that for a moment. Her hopes and reality were separated by a deep, dark abyss. “I believe I amuse him. His mouth is always twitching, as if he wants to smile but won’t let himself.”

  “Aha! Compatibility! It’s very important in married life. I wouldn’t want you to dislike your husband. Now, let’s see…” Charlotte continued her tour around Gillian. “You’re intelligent. You can speak three languages and you’re very well read.”

  “Only in the classics, although I have been enjoying the novels you’ve lent me. Uncle Jonas wouldn’t let me read them—he said they are sinful and depraved and would lead to the downfall of society as we know it.”

  It was Charlotte’s turn to snort. “Weston is surely a man who appreciates a mind in a woman, no matter what she reads. I can’t see him with a simpering idiot like Diana Templeton, can you?”

  “She does have a large dowry. And a large…er…bosom. Men like that too.”

  “She’s also the daughter of a marquis, but she has the wits of a common garden toad. No, your brain is sure to appeal to Lord Weston, and your bosom is just as large as hers, so you’ve met both of those requirements.” Charlotte tipped her head as she considered her cousin. “I hope you’re not afraid to speak your mind in front of him.”

  Gillian smiled. “Have you ever known me to be able to hold my tongue?”

  Charlotte continued to look thoughtful. “No, but I don’t anticipate that that should be too much of a problem. I fancy Weston enjoys honesty.”

  “So I have all the necessary ingredients to make me the perfect wife to the Black Earl?”

  “Yes, I believe so,” Charlotte replied cheerfully and checked her own figure in a long oval mirror.

  “Except one.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He’s not in love with me.”

  Charlotte turned and looked at her cousin with a gentle, pitying smile. “What has love got to do with the earl asking you to wed him?”

  “Charlotte! I couldn’t possibly marry a man who didn’t love me.” Charlotte gave her a weary look that spoke of wisdom beyond her eighteen years. Gillian looked at her hands, twisting the gold gauze of her overskirt. “I suppose a love match is out of the question—no one marries for love anymore.”

  “Only romantics and women of a low station,” Charlotte agreed.

  Gillian released the handful of gauze and smoothed her palm over it. Meeting her cousin’s eyes in the mirror, she smiled. “As if it matters—we’re talking foolishness, my dearest Charlotte. The earl has much plumper pigeons to pluck than me.”

  Charlotte gave her gown a final tweak and spun around. “We’ll see what happens tomorrow. If he calls for you again, we’ll know he’s serious. Mama wouldn’t allow him to dally with you if his intentions weren’t honorable. Heavens, there goes the second gong. Papa will be furious if we hold up dinner!”

  The two women hurried down the hallway.

  “What will you wear tomorrow?” Charlotte asked, pausing to pirouette before a mirror at the top of the stairs.

  “What does it matter?”

  Charlotte made an annoyed sound and started down the stairs. “What you wear matters greatly! You don’t want to appear before the earl in another of your work gowns,” she tossed over her shoulder. “You should strive for a look of sophistication and elegance, as I do.”

  “A gown isn’t going to make me sophisticated and elegant.” Gillian laughed. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, made a face, then turned and sprinted down the stairs. “I have red hair, green eyes, and freckles, Charlotte, and I’m not in the least sophisticated or elegant. You can put your faith in the fact that no matter how well suited you might believe us to be, the earl will not pay his addresses to me.”

  Charlotte gave her cousin a mysterious smile as she swept into the dining room.

  ***

  Unaware that he was the object of discussion, Noble Britton, the most infamous of all the Black Earls, sat in the smoke-filled card room of White’s and proceeded to win most of the family fortune of Manfred, Lord Briceland. Despite his reputation as a merciless, cold predator, Noble did not enjoy destroying men, even foolish young men like Lord Briceland.

  “My vowels, Lord Weston.” The young man’s hand trembled as he scrawled his signature.

  “You will, of course, be by in the morning to redeem them?” Weston drawled as his long fingers stroked the tablecloth. The earl had every intention of refusing to accept the viscount’s money, but he wanted him to spend a sleepless night considering the implications of his foolish behavior first.

  Pale and looking distinctly ill, Lord Briceland nodded and staggered out of the room, calling hoarsely for a whiskey.

  “Well done, Noble, you haven’t lost your touch. I do hope the young man is duly appreciative of the fact you saved his fortune from the likes of Mansfield and the other vultures who have been circling him all evening.”

  “Thank you, Harry.” Weston acknowledged his friend’s compliment and waved him and Sir Hugh into nearby chairs. “Brandy, gentlemen? Dingle! Three brandies.”

  The Marquis Rosse adjusted his spectacles and took the offered balloon of brandy. Like Weston, he was in his evening blacks, creating a somber counterpoint to Sir Hugh’s emerald waistcoat and indigo coat and breeches. Weston thought the younger man looked like a peacock as he sat casting nervous glances around the room to see who was present, fiddling with several watch fobs, his quizzing glass, and two large emeralds on his pudgy fingers. He had reason to know those emeralds were paste and not the real thing.

  “Where have you been?” Rosse leaned back and questioned the earl. “I thought you were taking Mariah to that play at the Lyceum. It’s all she and Alice talked about today.”

  Weston rubbed a finger across his lips, enjoying the burn of brandy down his throat before it formed a warm pool in his stomach. His eyes narrowed as an acquaintance began to move toward the threesome, then, catch
ing sight of the earl, turned on his heel and left the room. Another cut. They were getting bolder about it, too. “Does it occur to you that our mistresses are entirely too forthcoming with one another about our private plans?”

  Sir Hugh snorted as Rosse grinned. “They are twins, Noble. And they do like to talk. I suppose it’s only natural that they share us, so to speak.”

  “I suppose so, although it matters not. I will be giving Mariah her congé tomorrow.” Weston pulled a silver case from his coat and offered a cheroot to his friends. A servant dashed forward to light the men’s cigars.

  “Tired of her already?” Sir Hugh asked, surprised. Although Weston did not often employ a mistress for any length of time, he had set up Mariah only two weeks past.

  “Tired of her incessant chatter, yes, but that’s not the reason I am dispensing with her services. I will be marrying in three days, and much as it would shock the ton if they knew, I intend on honoring my marriage vows.”

  Rosse and Sir Hugh both choked on their brandy. Five minutes later, when Rosse was once again able to breathe without gasping, he replaced his spectacles and stared at his friend.

  “Who’s the lucky chit?”

  “Gillian Leigh.”

  “Leigh? The Amazon?” Sir Hugh squeaked, almost dropping his brandy. “Good Lord, Weston, have you lost your mind? She’s nobody! You can’t marry her, even with her connection to Collins.”

  In his distress, Sir Hugh did not notice the menace in the earl’s sudden stillness, but the marquis did.

  “Tolly…” he began warningly.

  Weston raised his hand. “No, let him continue, Harry. I would hear what words of wisdom our young friend has to impart to me.”

  Sir Hugh sputtered under the gaze of the mocking gray eyes. “’Pon my word, Weston, you’re jesting with me! You can’t be serious—a man of your consequence can’t marry some penniless chit from the colonies, no matter how badly he wants to bed her. Offer her your house in Kensington if you’re finished with your bit of muslin, but for God’s sake, man, don’t waste your name on an undesirable!”