The Earl's New Bride (Entangled Scandalous) by Frances Fowlkes Page B
Authors: Frances Fowlkes
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offering Lady Henrietta a stroll through the garden—and Simon could not allow that to happen.
Though neither could he select her as his prize. That honor would go to the simpering Miss Saxton. A delightfully fair-haired, plain-faced, non-tempting choice.
“I shall lead them,” said Lady Sarah to her sister, “while you and Henrietta lead the earl to the servant entrance on the lower west side. There, he can explain to Mother why she should not whip you both for ruining your clothes.”
“Excellent,” said Lady Albina. She peered up at Simon while pulling off a sodden glove. “Shall we go then, my lord?”
He had no choice but to agree, his cold, soiled clothing, along with a lack of knowledge of his own estate, preventing him from escaping Lady Henrietta’s disconcerting nearness.
He trudged up the path, following behind Lady Albina. He turned briefly and said, “When I win, Satterfield, please have the final weight sent to my room. I wish to see how badly you overestimated.”
“Underestimated,” Satterfield huffed. His arms were held out at awkward angles, the frog slipping as he adjusted his grip. “This beast is massive, and I shall prove it.”
“Well then,” said Lady Sarah. She gave both of her sisters one last look and stepped toward the right. “This way to the kitchens, Lord Satterfield.”
“And this way to the west entrance.” Lady Albina motioned toward the left with her muddied arm.
Simon nodded and quickened his strides. He’d be damned if he stayed in the rear. Lady Henrietta was tempting enough. Her bottom swaying tantalizingly in front of him required a restraint he simply did not have.
Now or otherwise.
Chapter Five
Henrietta sat at dinner, her lips grazing the edge of her silver spoon so as not to spill her steaming hot soup. Heaven knew what would happen should a single drop of the creamy base land anywhere but in the confines of her mouth. The world would end as she knew it. And her mother would fly deeper into her most impressive rage to date.
Irate was an understatement. Her mother had been incensed at the sight of Albina and her, encased in a thick layer of mud, their delicate, new, and quite expensive muslins beyond saving.
Had it not been for the earl’s equally sodden appearance, along with his persistent assurances an accident had been had, Henrietta and Albina would have been resigned to the lowest levels of Hades, their mother’s disappointed looks casting them into a lake of further shame.
Even if the whole ordeal was quite humorous. Honestly. The earl had been completely covered in mud, his impeccable waistcoat and crisped cravat as filthy as her muslin—and yet, even he, as the earl, had seen the humor and indulged in a laugh.
A laugh that made her face flush at its sheer memory. Deep, rich, and above all sincere, his throaty chuckles had her momentarily forgetting her humiliation—until her mother had taken to reminding her with sharp reprimands.
If Albina had not revealed their purpose for being in the marsh in the first place, their mother might have placed a switch to their bottoms.
Thankfully, she had been mollified with the assurance that it mattered not which man won the wager, Albina or Henrietta was a certain contender for a strolling partner.
Albina was confident in Lord Satterfield’s selection. And Henrietta prayed the earl would see past her uninspired conversation and give her a second chance. Their mother need not know their assurances, at least in Henrietta’s favor, were based on a one in three chance. A small percentage was larger than none at all.
But more than wanting to win for Plumburn, she wanted to win for herself. To have his soulful gaze centered solely upon her because he wanted to know more about her, while she learned more about him, his past, and the injuries he carried—both inside and out.
A foolish notion to be certain, but one she didn’t want to relinquish…at least not yet.
Lowering her spoon, she peered at
Though neither could he select her as his prize. That honor would go to the simpering Miss Saxton. A delightfully fair-haired, plain-faced, non-tempting choice.
“I shall lead them,” said Lady Sarah to her sister, “while you and Henrietta lead the earl to the servant entrance on the lower west side. There, he can explain to Mother why she should not whip you both for ruining your clothes.”
“Excellent,” said Lady Albina. She peered up at Simon while pulling off a sodden glove. “Shall we go then, my lord?”
He had no choice but to agree, his cold, soiled clothing, along with a lack of knowledge of his own estate, preventing him from escaping Lady Henrietta’s disconcerting nearness.
He trudged up the path, following behind Lady Albina. He turned briefly and said, “When I win, Satterfield, please have the final weight sent to my room. I wish to see how badly you overestimated.”
“Underestimated,” Satterfield huffed. His arms were held out at awkward angles, the frog slipping as he adjusted his grip. “This beast is massive, and I shall prove it.”
“Well then,” said Lady Sarah. She gave both of her sisters one last look and stepped toward the right. “This way to the kitchens, Lord Satterfield.”
“And this way to the west entrance.” Lady Albina motioned toward the left with her muddied arm.
Simon nodded and quickened his strides. He’d be damned if he stayed in the rear. Lady Henrietta was tempting enough. Her bottom swaying tantalizingly in front of him required a restraint he simply did not have.
Now or otherwise.
Chapter Five
Henrietta sat at dinner, her lips grazing the edge of her silver spoon so as not to spill her steaming hot soup. Heaven knew what would happen should a single drop of the creamy base land anywhere but in the confines of her mouth. The world would end as she knew it. And her mother would fly deeper into her most impressive rage to date.
Irate was an understatement. Her mother had been incensed at the sight of Albina and her, encased in a thick layer of mud, their delicate, new, and quite expensive muslins beyond saving.
Had it not been for the earl’s equally sodden appearance, along with his persistent assurances an accident had been had, Henrietta and Albina would have been resigned to the lowest levels of Hades, their mother’s disappointed looks casting them into a lake of further shame.
Even if the whole ordeal was quite humorous. Honestly. The earl had been completely covered in mud, his impeccable waistcoat and crisped cravat as filthy as her muslin—and yet, even he, as the earl, had seen the humor and indulged in a laugh.
A laugh that made her face flush at its sheer memory. Deep, rich, and above all sincere, his throaty chuckles had her momentarily forgetting her humiliation—until her mother had taken to reminding her with sharp reprimands.
If Albina had not revealed their purpose for being in the marsh in the first place, their mother might have placed a switch to their bottoms.
Thankfully, she had been mollified with the assurance that it mattered not which man won the wager, Albina or Henrietta was a certain contender for a strolling partner.
Albina was confident in Lord Satterfield’s selection. And Henrietta prayed the earl would see past her uninspired conversation and give her a second chance. Their mother need not know their assurances, at least in Henrietta’s favor, were based on a one in three chance. A small percentage was larger than none at all.
But more than wanting to win for Plumburn, she wanted to win for herself. To have his soulful gaze centered solely upon her because he wanted to know more about her, while she learned more about him, his past, and the injuries he carried—both inside and out.
A foolish notion to be certain, but one she didn’t want to relinquish…at least not yet.
Lowering her spoon, she peered at
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