The Formidable Earl Read online

  “They’re perfect.”

  The clerk smiled with satisfaction. “I’ll just have them trimmed and tied with a bow.”

  “Since you’ve no remaining female relations,” Lady Warwick murmured once Simon had paid for the flowers, “one cannot help but wonder who those might be for.”

  He wanted to tell the nosy woman it was none of her damn business. Instead, he offered a private smile. “And if I have my way, you shall continue to do so indefinitely.”

  Leaving her wide eyed and speechless, Simon exited the shop, bouquet in hand. A grin teased his lips. There was something wonderfully freeing about being less polite than people expected. Not rude. He’d never be that. Just a bit more blasé.

  His grin widened. It finally felt as though he was starting to cast off the shackles with which he’d been bound his entire life. Not completely. He was still a gentleman, after all. But he was a gentleman with a newfound purpose – one with a scandalous secret waiting for him in his bachelor lair – and one who cared a little less for propriety today than he had the day before.

  As a child, Simon had learned to follow orders – he’d been taught that there were rules of comportment one must adhere to. Obedience had been expected of him by both parents. Furthermore, Papa had served as an example of how an earl should behave, which was apparently without humor or any hint of emotion. Whenever he’d caught Simon playing, he’d reminded him in a somber tone that learning to be an earl was a serious business, upon which he’d ordered him back to his studies with the reminder that being a peer demanded sacrifice and dedication. There’s no room for frivolity or personal indulgences.

  Simon shook his head in wonder. When he’d woken two days earlier, he’d been just as determined as ever to remain in the mold his parents had crafted for him. The last thing he’d expected was for it to start falling apart. And yet it had. Or at least that was how it felt in light of the sharp left turn his life had taken. But he was now on a secret mission – a potentially dangerous one – with a woman he’d only just met. And she a courtesan, no less.

  It was ludicrous to think of. His friends would never believe him if he told them about it. They’d think he was spinning a tale for the sake of appearing more interesting than he was. And who could blame them? He’d never made a wrong move before, never let so much as a hint of disgrace attach itself to his name. Certainly, he’d gone out more since his mother’s passing, imbibed more, and enjoyed a few transgressions from time to time. Like putting his feet up on the table while reading a book, and slouching.

  He cringed.

  The very idea seemed horribly dull now when compared with what Miss Strong had to offer. With her, he was going to have an adventure. He could already feel it in his veins and the increased speed with which his heart pumped. It was terribly thrilling. The opportunity he’d not even known he’d been waiting for, to step up and be the hero for a change, had finally come.

  His excitement was such he was almost racing toward the front door of Number Five Bedford Street by the time the house’s façade came into view. He climbed the front steps and fumbled a bit with the flowers while trying to find the key.

  “Miss Strong?” he called once inside – another departure from his usual self since he’d always been taught it was uncouth to yell indoors. When she didn’t respond he tried again, this time while popping his head into the downstairs rooms.

  All were empty.

  Was it possible she still slept?

  As unlikely as it seemed given the late hour, Simon climbed the stairs and approached her bedchamber door. He paused, frowned, pressed his ear to the wood in the hope of learning if she was awake or not. Stepping back, he stared at the door. And finally knocked.

  No answer.

  He knocked twice more before easing it open and peering inside. No sign of her here either.

  Simon’s skin began cooling. A prickly sensation crept over his shoulders.

  Turning about, he darted downstairs and made for the kitchen. The room was chilly – completely devoid of life. There was no longer any doubt in Simon’s mind. Miss Strong was gone. She’d left him and…

  Dear God.

  What if she’d been taken? What if the man who’d attacked her last night in the alley had followed them here after all and snatched her away? She’d been alone, completely without the protection he’d promised he would provide. And he, damnable fool, had assured her she’d be all right here until he returned. He’d thrust a pistol into her hand and left her.

  With a surge of panic prompting him to imagine the worst, Simon stalked through the house while searching for signs of a struggle. What he found was an unmade bed, a discarded cookbook in the library, and a biscuit tin on the kitchen counter along with a half empty teapot. He paused at that. She’d made tea for herself. A frown knit his brow as he glanced around with increased scrutiny. There were no signs of a struggle, no indication she’d been hurt or taken. And yet, he refused to believe she’d decide to walk away without even bothering to leave him a note.

  Although it did appear as though this was precisely what she had done.

  The panic started to simmer, then boil, until it turned to anger.

  Here he was, an idiot holding a very expensive bouquet of flowers, almost desperate for the company of a woman who was by all accounts beneath him in every conceivable way, and she had the audacity to quit their partnership without having the decency to face him?

  He ought not be surprised. Good God, she was a fallen woman, for heaven’s sake. Although he would have expected Matthew to have raised his daughter with better manners and—

  “Oh. You’re finally here.”

  Simon spun around so fast he almost lost his balance. He wobbled slightly, regained his footing, and stared at Miss Strong, who’d somehow materialized directly behind him in the hallway. “Where the hell have you been?”

  She crossed her arms and raised both eyebrows. “I was hungry, so I went to get something to eat.”

  Simon’s anger deflated. A knot formed in his gut. It was hard for him to remember when he’d last felt as small as he did in that moment. What had he been thinking?

  “Christ,” he murmured, recalling the lovely breakfast he’d enjoyed hours earlier. He dropped his gaze and considered the tips of his shoes. “An obvious slight on my part for which I can only hope you’ll accept my sincerest apologies.”

  Cretin.

  He wasn’t used to setting up houseguests and hadn’t spared food a thought. At home it was simply always there and ready at the allocated hours.

  “You’re as much of a fish out of water as I am, I suspect.” She offered a smile. “Change takes time to get used to.”

  “Does that mean I’m forgiven?”

  “Of course.” She cleared her throat. “Those are lovely by the way.”

  He blinked, followed her line of sight, and recalled the flowers he still held in his hand. “Right. I mean, yes. They’re for you.” He handed them to her. “Not in a romantic or seductive way,” he quickly added when her eyebrows rose in surprise. “I just…thought you might like them. That’s all.”

  Her smile widened. “Thank you. I’ve never received flowers from anyone before.”

  Just as he’d suspected, then. A rush of warmth filled his chest, fanning out until it encompassed his whole body. There was something wonderfully satisfying about making Miss Strong happy. Perhaps because of how appreciative she was of things most women he’d known took for granted.

  “Come on. Let’s find a vase.” She glanced over her shoulder at him while heading toward the kitchen. “How are your cooking skills, Lord Fielding?”

  “My what?”

  “Never mind. I’ll find out for myself soon enough.”

  Simon dared not begin to imagine what she had in mind, but he followed her anyway, though not without a great deal of apprehension and a very succinct, “God help me.”

  After appeasing her hunger with a steak and kidney pie she’d bought from a small shop two str
eets over, Ida had purchased all the ingredients she required for the stew and tea buns she wished to make. She’d set the basket she’d used for her shopping aside on the kitchen counter as soon as she’d walked through the door and heard Simon yelling. While it had not been her intention to make him worry about her, it warmed her to know he had.

  “Would you please unpack the shopping for me while I see to the flowers?” Whatever his reason for buying them for her, she truly appreciated the gesture.

  “Where should I put everything?”

  “On the counter. Or on the table. Wherever there’s space.” She was sure she’d spotted a vase in one of these cabinets earlier when she’d been hunting for food. Ah yes, here it was.

  She turned, and immediately blinked in response to the long neat row of items he’d laid out on the table. “It doesn’t have to be so organized.”

  He gave her a quick look before pulling an onion from the basket and setting it down next to a bunch of carrots. “I like it this way.”

  “All right, but you’ve mixed the baking materials with the items for the stew. Here, why don’t you fill the vase with some water and I’ll rearrange it.”

  His expression was one of distinct disgruntlement but he didn’t argue. When he returned a short while later with the vase full of water, Ida had managed to switch a few things around without upsetting his attempt at order.

  He gave her efforts a once over, then met her gaze. “You didn’t mess it all up.”

  “Did you honestly think I would?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Considering the practicality of your sorting method, it would have been foolish of me to do so. Besides, you and I need to respect each other if we’re to get along amicably. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Good.” She placed the bouquet of roses in the vase he held, her fingers inadvertently brushing his. An instant flutter gripped her heart and she took a step back, averting her gaze. “We’ll start with the tea buns. That way the dough can rise while we make the stew.”

  “And by we, you mean you. Correct?” When she shook her head he held up his hands. “I am an earl and earls do not engage in chores. We hire people to do such things for us.”

  Ida made a show of glancing about. “Forgive me, but I do not see a hired cook or chef anywhere.”

  “Only because you insisted you do not need one.”

  “And I don’t.”

  He scowled. “There’s an excellent cook at Fielding House. I’ll have her make something for you.”

  “And let everything I just bought go to waste?”

  “If you’re set on the tea buns and stew, you can give me the recipe and ingredients to pass along.”

  It was Ida’s turn to scowl at him. “No.”

  “No?”

  “There’s pleasure to be found in creating something yourself – a sense of accomplishment you won’t acquire from anything else. You’ll see.” When he simply stood there, staring at her without moving, she sighed. “No one will know besides us.”

  A crease appeared upon his brow. “Why would you say that?”

  She shrugged. “Because you seem like the sort of man who wants to keep playing the part he’s been assigned – the one in which he mustn’t associate with fallen women or engage in domestic activities.”

  “Miss Strong—”

  “The food will take less time to prepare if you help me. Naturally, I will not force you to do so. I won’t even judge you for choosing not to, but if I were you, I’d rather join in instead of just sitting there watching me work, which I imagine will be rather dull.”

  Deciding she’d said enough on the matter, Ida went to locate a measuring jug, a bowl, and a spoon. When she turned around, she froze.

  He arched an eyebrow. “What?”

  She swallowed while doing her best not to look too surprised at the sight of him even though she was keenly aware that she was failing miserably. In the short time she’d had her back to him, he’d removed his hat and gloves along with his jacket, and was now in the process of rolling up his shirt sleeves.

  Catching herself, Ida pointed to the kettle. “We need warm water to activate the yeast. Maybe you can heat some while I measure the flour?”

  A knowing smile tugged at his lips as he crossed to the stove, almost prompting Ida to curse. The blasted man knew he was gorgeous. More than that, he knew she’d noticed. With a deep inhalation intended to steady her nerves, Ida did her best to focus on what she was meant to be doing rather than the unbidden and most inappropriate urge she’d had to reach out and touch him.

  “I have to admit, this is actually fun,” he told her once they’d mixed everything together, and he’d been given the honor of kneading the dough. “It’s almost like boxing.”

  “Maybe you should get all the men who frequent Gentleman Jackson’s to start baking. It would be good practice.”

  “It’s certainly harder than it looks – good work for the muscles.” He looked up from the bowl and met her gaze for a brief second. Amusement danced in his eyes and Ida’s stomach immediately tumbled over. With his hair all mussed and flour marring his cheek, it was easy for her to forget who he was and pretend they were from the same class.

  “I think that’s good. We’ll cover it now and set it aside for half an hour while we prepare the vegetables and meat.”

  “You’ve clearly done this before,” he said an hour later once the stew was simmering on the stove and the tea buns had been placed in the oven. “Did your mother teach you how to cook?”

  “Yes.” Ida gave him a sentimental smile and proceeded to make a fresh pot of tea. “She thought it a useful skill to pass on to me, and considering how my life has turned out, I’m exceedingly grateful she did.”

  A mournful silence followed during which Ida wasn’t sure if he was feeling sorry over the loss of her parents or over the loss of status she’d suffered. Perhaps it was both. To her relief, he didn’t offer apologies or voice his regret, he simply said, “She gave you a better foundation than I received from my parents. I’m not sure I’d have the skill required to survive if I were to lose my station.”

  “You would figure it out.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  “And I beg to differ. Do you have any hobbies?”

  “A gentleman hardly has time for anything else.” There was levity in his voice and yet she was certain she heard a hint of disparagement too. “My favorite pastime activity is riding.”

  Ida winced. “I’ve only been on a horse once. Didn’t much care for it I’m afraid.”

  “Then it was probably the wrong horse.”

  “Hmm.” She wasn’t so sure.

  “I’ve a great interest in horses,” he added. “The ones I own have been carefully selected and are very much sought after. Several men, including the king himself, have made numerous attempts to purchase a few of them, but alas, I’ve had to turn them away.”

  “Because they didn’t offer enough?”

  “No. My horses are special to me, Miss Strong. Nothing in the world would ever make me part with them.”

  She tilted her head. “You might think differently if the choice was between keeping them and putting food in your belly.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “So then, if you did fall on hard times all would not be lost,” she said with amusement. “You could seek a position as a royal horse breeder, which I’m sure is not the worst position in the world.”

  He grinned. “You’re different from anyone else I’ve met, Miss Strong. I must say I find your company more refreshing than I’d have imagined.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, my lord.” Surrendering to the pull of her lips, she gave him a wide smile. “You’re also not as bad as I feared. Quite the opposite, in fact. Shall we see how your tea buns have turned out?”

  Chapter Five

  The excitement in her voice was just as dizzying as her bright smile and the abrupt shift in conversation. Simon b
linked, then immediately stood. He was actually rather eager to see the result of what he’d made with her help. Grabbing a tea towel he opened the oven. A warm, wholesome smell wafted toward him as he pulled the baking tray out and placed it on the table.

  “Those look delicious,” Miss Strong said as she sidled up next to him. “Well done, my lord.”

  Simon stared down at the most beautiful buns he’d ever seen. They were so plump and golden, he was tempted to snatch one up right away and sink his teeth into it. Only they were still hot and he’d probably burn himself if he did so. Miss Strong had been right. He did feel a wonderful sense of accomplishment right now, for he’d done something he’d not imagined himself capable of, and with excellent results, it would seem.

  He met Miss Strong’s gaze and was instantly struck by a strong sense of camaraderie. It was nice, being here with her like this, sharing an activity he never would have engaged in otherwise, and it occurred to him that no one had ever complimented him before. Growing up, he’d always been told he could do better, never that he’d done well. Now, as an adult, people praised his possessions, not him.

  “Tea’s ready,” she said and broke eye contact by crossing to one of the cabinets and retrieving a cup for him. “I’ll just fetch the one I used earlier this morning. No sense in getting another one dirty.”

  By the time she returned, Simon had found a couple of plates, placed the buns in a bread basket, and made a space for each of them at the table. He offered the basket to Miss Strong as soon as she’d taken a seat.

  “Thank you. Would you like some jam with yours?” She gestured toward the jar she’d just pulled toward the center of the table. “It’s raspberry.”

  “I’d love some. After you.” He watched as she broke the bun apart and placed a generous dollop of jam on one side. Following suit, he finally allowed himself a bite.

  Heaven exploded inside his mouth.

  “Oh my God,” he mumbled while letting the rich doughy fluffiness mix with the sweet flavor of the jam. “This is so good.”