The Earl Who Loved Me (Tales From Seldon Park: The Short Stories Book 1) Read online

  The Earl Who Loved Me

  A Tales From Seldon Park Short Story

  By Bethany M. Sefchick

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright ã 2014

  Bethany M. Sefchick

  All rights reserved

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

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  About the author

  Chapter One

  January 1820

  Amelia Banbrook peered into the dimly lit corridor, thankful that for once, Lord Weatherby's servants were being frugal with the candles. Or perhaps they were more interested in setting the mood for the house party. Either way, it did not matter. She simply did not want anyone to see her as she attempted to skulk off to her room for the rest of the evening, especially as the parlor games were still well underway.

  As the daughter of the Earl of Hollinworth and an invited guest, she was expected to fully participate in the silly, childish games that marked the penultimate evening of the Twelfth Night celebration at Weatherby Hall. Except that she could not tolerate parlor games and had thought Lord Weatherby - or David as she privately referred to him - could not, either.

  Then again, as the host of their party, he could not precisely say no to the repeated requests from his assembled guests for evenings filled with fun and frivolity, either.

  Though he could have said no to the rather overt attentions of Lady Lydia Parham, daughter of the Viscount Colebrooke, who clung to David like a leach to skin. That, she was certain, he could have said no to at least in some fashion.

  No, that was mean, Amelia chided herself as she scurried into the hall, praying that no one had noticed her departure from the ballroom. It was not David's fault that the chit was empty-headed and simpering. If anything, it was her parents' fault for too often indulging their overly spoilt offspring in her every whim and desire. Not that Lady Colebrooke would ever view her daughter in such a disparaging way, of course. After all, Lady Lydia had been raised from the cradle to be a peer's wife, a countess or perhaps even a duchess. At the moment, however, given the way she was attached to David's side as a burr might be to a saddle, she seemed perfectly content to aspire to the title of countess.

  That aspiration made Amelia's head throb and her heart ache.

  Not that she truly had any reason to feel thus, of course.

  After all, it wasn't as if Amelia herself had any claim over David. Not specifically anyway. She also most certainly should not be thinking of the Earl of Weatherby by his Christian name, despite the fact that he had known her since she was a babe and he not much out of leading strings. That was far too familiar a thing for their current positions in life.

  No, Amelia did not have that right. No one did. But she wanted to. Very much so. More than she had wanted anything in a very long time.

  For at some undetermined point over the previous season, Lady Amelia Banbrook had done the one thing a shy, unremarkable bluestocking of a spinster with an occasional sharp tongue should never even contemplate. She had stupidly - foolishly even - gone and fallen in love with one of the most handsome, eligible and sought-after men of the ton. None other than her childhood friend and country neighbor, Lord David Rutledge, the Earl of Weatherby.

  Even though he most decidedly did not love her in return.

  Not that his lack of romantic affection for her should come as a surprise to Amelia. After all, she was already five and twenty, well past the prime marriageable age of a debutante, and she had never made much of an impression on the marriage mart, let alone Society in general. Much like her person, her seasons had all been remarkably unremarkable.

  Neither hideous nor beautiful, Amelia was somewhere in the middle of the debutantes with nothing much to commend her except her family's fortune, her rather overly large dowry, and her childhood connection to the Earl of Weatherby, which, to her surprise, opened far more doors to her than she would have anticipated.

  Well, her connection to Weatherby helped, certainly. However, she was also wise enough to know that her father's country estate, Fallstaff Grange, bordered not just one but two estates owned by rather infamous men of the ton, which also helped to increase the rather enormous amount of invitations she received. Anyone that might bring with them a bit of gossip about two of Society's most notorious bachelors was always welcome in the drawing rooms and ballrooms of London.

  Before her debut, Amelia had given very little thought to the location of Fallstaff Grange, simply accepting that everyone had neighbors. Hers were simply slightly more notorious. David's estate lay to the west of her family's, while Overlook Hill, the ancestral home of the infamous - and, were she being honest, somewhat terrifying to most - Adam St. Vincent, the Duke of Enwright, lay to the east.

  Amelia had never thought Adam all that terrifying, actually. Cold and remote certainly, and thrust into the dukedom well before his time, but never cruel or horrid, as some chits of the ton had whispered behind his back over the years. If anything, to Amelia, he had seemed rather sad and alone. In recent years, especially after his marriage to Lady Lucy Cavendish, he had become even less terrifying, but no less fearsome when crossed. He and his wife even called upon the Banbrooks with some frequency when he was in residence at Overlook to share some fine brandy or port.

  However, for as dashing and handsome as Enwright had been in their youth, it was the young Earl of Weatherby who had won Amelia's loyalty and love. Merely because he was kind to her more often than a boy several years older than she should have been, she supposed. David should have dismissed her as a youthful pest, but instead, he had grudgingly invited her along on his adventures with his cousin, Hugh Sykes, the future Earl of Hewdon, when they were in residence at the hall.

  When David's parents had died in a carriage accident when he was merely four, he was not at all capable of managing the title that had been thrust upon him far too soon. In truth, he was more interested in mud pies than seeing to flooding fields that left tenants unable to farm and the estate teetering on the edge of destitution. So his uncle, James Sykes had stepped in, temporarily relocating his own family to Weatherby Hall a few months out of every year until David was old enough to go off to school and leave the estate in the capable hands of a carefully chosen steward.

  It was during those early years that Amelia and her parents had visited the Hall frequently, and she had found in David a playmate who was more willing to allow her to accompany him than the children of her parents' own servants.

  The seeds of Amelia's love for David had been sown so very long ago but had remained dormant for years, undisturbed like so much fallow ground, neither producing anything nor changing in any way. Until this previous season when she had danced with the dashing earl at the wedding of her distant cousin, Lady Amy Cheltenham to Doctor - and now Lord - Gibson Blackwell.

  The dance had been a waltz. She and David had waltzed together for years, including many times at Almack's, without incident. It was simply the done thing. He was her long time friend and she? Well, she was someone he took pity on, someone whose shy nature and occasional bad habit of saying precisely what she thought did not exactly endear her to the young bucks wh
o lusted after the prettiest and oftentimes less moral debutantes. Not even her dowry could overcome that flaw in her personality and she well knew it.

  Even now, Amelia could not say what changed that night. All she knew was that when the music had begun and David had taken her hand in his, there had been a monumental shift inside of her, as if she was looking at her old friend through new eyes. Almost as if she was seeing him for the first time.

  He was handsome. She had known that, of course, as she was not blind. She also knew that he had been chased all over the drawing rooms of London by marriage-minded mamas and their title-grasping daughters. He was, after all, one of the most eligible bachelors in all of England with a fortune that would make many a duke hang their heads in shame. He also had a lazy smile and a quick wit that could charm even the birds right out of the trees.

  Still until that night, Amelia had never realized how his thick, brown hair fell in lovely waves around his head or how his eyes were more green than brown, a shade that was most peculiar and most becoming at the same time, like a lush and sunlit summer forest. She had also never realized how small her hand felt in his much larger one, or how his muscles bunched delightfully as he moved, the power of his body harnessed. Leashed. Controlled. Waiting.

  Then, she had looked into this eyes and realized all of that and more. She had, in an instant, fallen in love with a man she had known for most of her life. More fool her.

  With the passage of time, Amelia realized that there was probably a part of her that had loved David all along. After all, one did not instantly fall in love. Well, the practical side of her didn't believe so. It was absurd to even consider the notion. The more romantic side of her, the one she carefully kept hidden from everyone, including her mother, however? That part of her did believe in love at first sight. Which was not precisely what had happened with David but close enough.

  That night was the first time she had truly seen him as he was - a virile, desirable man. Wanton that she was, she wanted to see what lay beneath his clothes and she wondered what it would feel like if he would kiss her, or, good Heavens above, make love to her. Then again, as she had never even been kissed, she suspected that if David Rutledge stood stark naked before her, she would have no earthly idea what to do with him.

  But she did still love him. And she did still want him. Very much so.

  And that was precisely why she was creeping away from the various parlors and the grand ballroom where the frivolous games were underway. It wasn't so much that she despised the games, though she did to a very large degree. Rather, it was because she was jealous. Jealous of the way Lady Lydia glanced coyly at David, fluttering her eyes at him and, in general behaving like a nitwit. But a nitwit who had David's attention nonetheless.

  Amelia was jealous of the other woman's easy way with men, the way she flirted and cajoled, ever so gently and properly mind you, to exact precisely what she wanted from them. All men. Any man. Most especially David. And it made Amelia sick inside with each caress Lady Lydia managed to impart on David's arm. Gloves or no gloves, she was certain he felt the contact, and, as he was a man, probably enjoyed it immensely.

  That was why Amelia was sneaking out, a copy of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night tucked securely under her arm, a volume borrowed from the earl's sizeable library where she had been given free reign to indulge herself for the duration of the house party.

  Books were preferable to parlor games in Amelia's opinion. Not to mention that she did not want to see another woman making a fool of herself over the man she loved, nor did she want to see that same man encouraging those intentions.

  "Ah, there you are." The cold voice cut through Amelia like a knife and she straightened, knowing there was no way to avoid detection now. "Heading to bed so early?"

  Turning, Amelia kept her expression bland, not wanting to give Lady Lydia anything to use against her in the future. Which she most certainly would. Of that, Amelia had no doubt. "I have a megrim, as I am certain you have heard. I wish to be able to see clearly tomorrow for the grand ball, so I thought I might retire early."

  It was no secret that Amelia suffered quite a bit from megrims, particularly those brought on by overpowering smells, and the parlor game Lady Lydia had devised used the particularly cloying scent of lilac water which Amelia could not tolerate in the least. It made her vision cloud and her head pound until she could not think, among other maladies.

  "Or perhaps you simply do not wish to see the man you love with another? A man who wants nothing to do with you, aging spinster that you are. A man who sees you as a dried-up old maid. You, a woman who has fooled herself into believing a man like him could love a wallflower such as yourself." There was nothing short of pure venom in Lydia's voice, not that Amelia had expected otherwise.

  Still, this time, for the first time in a very long while, Amelia felt compelled to fight back, though she could not say why. Only that the need to defend herself burned brightly within her, as it sometimes did when she was extremely angry or upset.

  "Or perhaps I have seen enough of a woman making a cake of herself over a man who does not care for her and will never marry her," Amelia shot back quickly, not giving a wit if she was not being very ladylike or following any rules of propriety. This was not like her, but for once, she did not care. She was normally very shy, but then, Lydia always did seem to bring out the worst in her. "If you truly believe that Lord Weatherby will marry you, Lady Lydia, then perhaps it is you who do not see things as they are."

  "Do not cross me where the earl is concerned," Lydia hissed. "He is mine. Or will be soon enough. You would do well to remember that unless you wish to find your voucher for Almack's revoked."

  Amelia did not particularly care if she never set foot in the establishment again. She had been pawed at by men seeking her fortune far too many times to actively wish to go there again. However, she also knew that Lady Lydia's family, particularly her mother, was close to both Lady Cowper and Lady Jersey. A word from them might ruin her family socially and there would be no recovery from that kind of scandal. She could not do that to her mother in particular.

  Amelia drew in a deep breath, regretting her words of moments earlier, ones that had been said in anger. That was not like her, but then she supposed that jealousy did that to a woman. "I have no claim over Lord Weatherby," she replied as evenly as possible. "I am merely advising you to be careful where the man is concerned. He does as he wishes and is not controlled by anyone. Push him too hard and he will rebel. Of that I am certain. I have known him far longer than most anyone, after all." Then she dipped a curtsey at Lady Lydia. "Now if you will excuse me, I feel the need to lay down for a bit."

  "Stay. Out. Of. My. Way." Lydia's words were succinct and came out as more of a low, clipped hiss than anything. Amelia did her best to ignore the other woman but when Lydia slapped the book out of her hands for emphasis, causing it to fall to the floor with a great thump, that was rather difficult.

  Amelia bent down to pick up the book, careful to keep her eyes on Lydia when a shadow fell across the volume at her feet, darkening nearly the entire corridor, dimly lit as it was, and snatching the tome from her grasp moments before she could pick it up.

  "Ladies. Do we have a problem?"

  Amelia winced as she looked up into the eyes of the one man she had desperately wished to avoid. Of all the people to find her in the corridor squabbling with Lady Lydia, it had to be David. He might not care for her, but she also did not want him to see her at her absolute worst, and her behavior just now had skirted dangerously close to scandalous, not to mention childish.

  "None at all, my lord." Lydia was back to her sweet, simpering self, so pleasant and meek that butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. "I was merely seeing if Lady Amelia needed assistance. She did leave the festivities so very early." Then she smiled up at him prettily. "When she dropped her book after feeling the effects of a megrim, I merely wanted to help her."

  "Such a pattern card of charity you are, Miss Parham," h
e said, though the sarcasm in his voice was lost on Lydia. Either that or she chose not to notice it. Amelia could not tell for the other woman's face wore nothing but a beatific smile.

  Lydia fluttered her eyelids at the earl invitingly. "I do try, my lord. After all, what good is a young woman without a good and noble heart?"

  At Lydia's words, Amelia wanted to cast up her accounts were she stood, though she did not think David would find that amusing. Or, given the twinkle in his eyes, perhaps he would. She could not say for certain. What she did know was that she wanted nothing more than to escape and retreat to the confines of the lovely pink bedroom suite she had been assigned upon her arrival. There, she could cry in peace, and allow her heart to ache for all that would never be.

  "As I said, a pattern card of charity." There was a dryness in David's tone that Amelia was certain went completely unnoticed by Lydia this time. She was not nearly that bright, after all. "Still, it is not the done thing to have young, unmarried ladies wandering about an earl's home on their own. I would not want any harm to come to your reputation, Miss Parham."

  "I am perfectly fine under your watchful eye," Lydia simpered and this time, Amelia almost did cast up her accounts. Would the torture of this night never end?

  "Still," he said as motioned for a woman that Amelia had not noticed earlier to step forward, "I would be remiss in my duties as a host if you were forced to marry because of an accident while under my roof. Miss Markham will escort you back to the festivities, so if you please follow her, you may return to the others. That way, there will be no talk if we return to the main parlor together."

  Amelia was rather certain that was precisely what Lydia was praying for in the hopes of forcing a match between them, but to her credit she didn't utter a single protest. Given the sparkling gleam in her eyes however, it was also evident - to Amelia anyway - that though she may have lost this round, Lydia had not yet lost the war. And love was war, at least to women like Lydia who saw men as prizes to be captured, no matter the method or the cost.