The Irresistible Earl. Regina Scott
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short jacket. “You are the latest seven days’ wonder, my dear. I advise you to make the most of it.”
Impossible. She had to avoid undue attention, for Algernon’s sake if not her own sanity. She’d never liked being the center of attention. She didn’t come to the spa to preen.
Not so Mrs. Price. She immediately set about greeting everyone they knew, from portly Mr. Cranell, who was an old friend of Meredee’s father’s, to the bold countess who had introduced herself yesterday after Meredee had rescued Lady Phoebe. Meredee smiled politely through every conversation, trying to keep from fidgeting. She’d have much rather cheered Mr. Openshaw, who had lost an arm serving on the Peninsula, or the country squire crippled with gout. The sadness in their eyes, their tenacity in adversity, spoke to her heart. She felt more at home with them than with the fashionable ladies who wrinkled their noses at the strong metallic taste of the waters they sipped, all the while their gazes roamed the room like those of lionesses intent on their prey.
Ah, but she shouldn’t judge them. She had been told time and again—by her father, by her governess—that the surest way to a secure future was to find a wealthy husband. Even Mrs. Price understood that. She’d already buried two husbands, and still she batted her thinning lashes, swished her pale muslin skirts and giggled like a girl at something the widowed Mr. Cranell said, making the old fellow turn as red as the tops of his boots. As soon as she could, Meredee excused herself and went to stand by the windows, gazing out at the sea.
She could hear the waves through the glass as they tumbled over the sands. Already men in dark coats and women with pale parasols wandered the shore. But Scarborough’s bays never failed to remind her of her father. How many times had he trod those golden sands, head bowed, hands clasped behind his black coat, while she scurried along behind him, hoping she might find a way to be useful to him.
“Wait for me, Papa!” she’d cry.
But as usual, he hadn’t waited. He’d gone on ahead of her and left her behind, no more sure of her purpose.
“Such dark thoughts on this fine day,” Lord Allyndale said quietly beside her.
Meredee took a deep breath and composed her face. He had no need to know anything more about her. In fact, the more she said, the more likely he was to connect her with Algernon. She turned and smiled at him. “Good morning, my lord. And how is your dear sister?”
“Fine, as you can see,” he said, nodding to where Lady Phoebe was squealing with delight over another young lady’s velvet jacket. His sister wore a pink muslin gown with ruffles at the hem that fluttered as she moved. Her straw bonnet was covered with a profusion of ribbons and silk flowers, making it look as if she had brought spring with her. The earl himself looked more somber, dressed in a navy coat and buff-colored breeches above gleaming boots.
“You don’t seem to have thrown off yesterday’s events as easily,” he said. “If I may, Miss Price, you look tired.”
Was that concern in his voice? Why should he care? “And do you flatter all the young ladies this way, my lord?” Meredee countered.
He chuckled, a warm rumble that was hard to resist. “I’m afraid I’m not good at doing the pretty. Some other fellow would quote you poetry or the Bard. ‘She walks in beauty like the night,’ or some such.”
“I’ve never been all that much for poetry,” Meredee admitted. No, it’s more likely quiet concern that will be my undoing.
“That we have in common, then. What do you prefer to read?”
Meredee eyed him. His head was cocked, and the light through the windows touched his sandy hair with gold and highlighted the planes on his face. Nothing in his look or his attention said he was teasing her. How extraordinary! But she doubted he’d look so attentive if he knew the truth. Most men would be aghast at her reading material. Even her stepmother turned up her nose. Only one other man had ever listened to her prose on, and she’d done her best to forget him. She would be safer admitting to the occasional gothic novel, which she did enjoy.
“Ah,” he said just as she realized she had probably been silent too long. “Perhaps you prefer not to read.”
She refused to leave him with that impression. “Most likely I read too much, my lord. I love history, and the latest scientific discoveries. I recently found a copy of Mr. Humboldt’s treatise on his travels to the equatorial regions of the South American continent. It was most inspiring.”
She waited for his eyes to glaze over, to hear him murmur polite excuses and hurry away as generally happened when she shared her pastimes. But he merely leaned closer, his eyes lighting. “And do you adhere to his theory that the earth’s magnetic field varies between the poles and the equator?”
“He was most persuasive, though I should like to see his observations duplicated on the African continent. Flora and fauna would be more of a challenge there, I think.”
He straightened and beamed at her, suddenly looking as young and carefree as Algernon. “My thoughts exactly. And what of more practical matters? Are you a staunch supporter of Hannah More or do your tastes run to Mary Wollstonecraft?”
“Must it be one or the other? Mrs. More instructs us to read the Bible and think on how we can best serve the Lord. Mrs. Wollstonecraft insists that only a woman who uses her intelligence can truly find her purpose. I do not see that the two contradict each other.”
He laughed. “I’d like to see you explain that to them.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “I suppose they would find a great deal to argue about. What of you, my lord? Which do you find more useful?”
His gaze traveled to where his sister was even now blushing as a tall, angular young man bowed over her hand. “The Bible guides us in our lives, but every woman should use her intellect to ensure her future. Excuse me, Miss Price.”
She curtsied, but he was already striding across the room to his sister’s side. As Meredee watched, the gawky youth paled, stammered and then stumbled way from Lady Phoebe, who turned to her brother, mouth drawn in a tight little bow.
“What did he want?” Mrs. Price begged, hurrying up to Meredee, breaths coming in little pants. “Does he suspect?”
Meredee shook her head. “No. He talked only of science and philosophy.”
“Science?” Her stepmother drew a breath that swelled her lacy bodice. “I would not have thought him capable of it.”
Across the room, the earl took his sister’s arm and drew her toward the door that led to the wells. “Just because he’s taken a dislike to Algernon,” Meredee said, “doesn’t make him a monster, madam.”
“Well, I like that!” Mrs. Price huffed. “And why was I dragged from my home if not to escape a monster?”
Meredee sighed and took her arm. “I begin to wonder. Have you drunk from the wells, then?”
“No,” her stepmother said with a pout. “I didn’t dare leave the room once I saw you conversing with that wretch.”
“Then let’s get you a cup.” She led her stepmother through the long room and out the door.
Once outside, the sound of the waves came louder. At high tide, she knew, they could pound against the rounded stones of the terrace and dampen the path with spray. Now a few leaves dotted the dark steps as they made their way down to the stone-lined recess that housed the two wells. Mrs. Price was convinced the Chalybeate Well was the finer of the two, so Meredee steered her toward the line of people waiting for a drink dipped from the stone-edged hole of the south well by a gentle widow.
One of the wonders of Scarborough was the variety of people who were welcomed at the wells. Everyone from Mrs. Price’s new friend, the countess, to the tiny son of the local coalmonger stood waiting their turns, sure that a sip from the mineral springs would make them stronger, or at least more fashionable. But Meredee and Mrs. Price had only taken a few steps when she saw Lord Allyndale and