Page 4 of An Earl Unmasked
“Aye. She be the youngest daughter of the Earl of Wallace. Mrs. Humbleworth said yer da enjoyed her visits immensely during the past two summers. The staff seem rather fond of the chit. Shame if she got killed.”
How old could the chit be? Randal wracked his foggy mind to recall the details of the Malbury clan. The earl’s eldest and heir was a couple of years Randal’s junior. Why was the man’s name alluding him? Randal bowed his head, praying his skill for absolute recall would return. He’d taken a beating during his last charge against the Frogs, but that had been months ago.
“What was the purpose of Diana’s visits?”
“I’d not glean the reasonin’, but Mrs. Humbleworth said sumthin’ about the gel bringing flowers to brighten up the place and the staff missin’ her singing.”
“Singing?”
“Like yer ma, they say.”
His mother had left this earth near on a decade and a half ago, yet Randal cringed at the mention of her. He missed her daily. She had been the only person to see him beyond his aloof exterior. If this Diana chit was anything like his mama, he’d best steer clear. After all these years, his heart had yet to fully mend from the loss of his mother.
Brushing Cartwright’s hand away from his face, Randal attempted to stand, but the shooting pain in his head had him falling back against the bed. His body may have recovered; however, his head was still ailing him. Ignoring the sparks of light behind his eyelids, he heaved a deep breath and rose. “Make sure all the signs are posted and spread the word, my edict stands. No trespassing.”
“Wot ever ye want, me lord.” Cartwright huffed and left the bowl of shaving soap on top of the bed.
Letting his head fall back, Randal stared at the ceiling and counted to ten. “Cartwright, come back and finish what you came to do.”
“I fink not me lord. I fear me thoughts of slicing your stubborn throat might be too tempting.” Cartwright left Randal’s chambers with a decided click of the door.
Trust his bat man to simultaneously threaten and defy him. Randal scooped up the porcelain dish, brush, and razor off the bed and padded very slowly over to the corner to place the items next to the wash basin. He unraveled the bandage from his head. Shock registered as he caught sight of his image in the looking glass. His unkempt appearance was indeed similar to that of a bear. He leaned forward and peered at his image in the looking glass—Why had his papa entertained a young lady two summers in a row?The man had been devoutly in love with Randal’s mama.
Never in the years since her death did his papa even glance twice at another woman. Randal was acutely aware that, as the sole survivor of his family, it was time for him to marry and produce an heir. His mind was set on a marriage of convenience. He had an entire summer to conduct his research, and come next Season, he would marry.
Splashing cool water over his face, Randal ignored the pang in his heart as it rebelled against his sound plan. Fresh air and exercise would banish the ache in his chest and aid his sore head. He needed to take back control over his rampaging emotions and the voices of his family that haunted his thoughts. His parents and Russell may have been stout supporters of love, but Randal knew love was the downfall of all good men, and he wanted nothing to do with the emotion.
He dragged himself across the room and grabbed the lawn shirt that lay neatly folded upon the end of the bed. Stuffing his arms through the sleeves, he tugged the shirt over his head. He let out a deep groan as the soft material grazed against his injured face. With his features disfigured, it was a wise plan to have the marriage agreements drawn up and signed before meeting the lady. No woman of sound mind would want to marry him. Tucking his shirt into his breeches, he searched for his waist coat and jacket. Neither were in sight. Damn his valet.
Glancing at the warm sunlight streaming through the windows, Randal ignored propriety and left his chambers. With only he and the staff present on the estate, there was no need to don the extra garments that he believed superfluous. A stroll about the property would clear his mind and ease the terrible ache in his chest and head, though it would be challenging physically. If he simply repeated the statement, mayhap it would become truth.
Chapter Three
Leaning low overher mare’s neck, Diana drew her dark brown cloak over her bare shoulder. Her blood pumped in rhythm with the beat of her horse’s hooves. It had taken her a week to contrive a plan that would ensure she escaped Malbury Manor without detection. Seven long miserable days. With the wind grazing her cheeks, the rush of energy flowing through her was exhilarating.
Eyes narrowed, Diana spotted sunlight glinting off a metallic object in front of her. She adjusted her seat and slowed her mount to a trot. Cautiously approaching, she found a prone form laying in the meadow. Sliding down from her mare, Diana raced to the side of the hulking man lying on his back.
“Sir.” Diana dropped to her knees, barely brushing his hip. She leaned over and placed her forefinger under his nose. “You’re alive.” She methodically ran her hands over his shoulders and down each arm. No sign of blood or protruding bones. She pressed her hands against his chest, then lowered them to graze over his flat stomach.
Nothing was amiss, and her heartbeat began to steady. Shifting her weight, she leaned over to check each leg. Nothing broken. Turning around, she sat back on her heels and stared at the handsome, bearded stranger. The facial hair intensified her interest. Deducing the reason for his unresponsive condition must be a head injury, the trickiest of wounds to treat, Diana released a sigh and shuffled forward until her knees were parallel with the man’s shoulders. “Sir. I’m going to examine your head.”
Having read in medical journals the importance of immobilizing a fallen man’s neck, she rose on her knees and gently placed her thumbs on his temples, and threaded her fingers through his short-shorn hair to feel his scalp. Relieved not to have come in contact with either warm oozing or dried blood, she pulled back and brushed the man’s hair away from his forehead. She gasped at the sight of a large gash upon his brow.
Diana searched the nearby surroundings. There were no obvious tracks other than those freshly made by herself and her mare. What was she to do? If there were a bandit about, it would be a huge risk to leave the man alone to go for help. Her gaze flickered over the man’s features. He appeared at peace. His features seemed familiar, yet she was certain she’d never met the man. Would he have kind eyes if they were to open? A person’s eyes were windows into their souls.Blast.Minerva or Isadora would have already calculated the odds of his survival and devised some clever plan to assist the man. Instead, she was waxing poetic thoughts over the man’s eyes.
“What am I to do with you?” Diana cupped his cheek, and the stranger’s eyelids twitched. “Sir?”
The cool breeze fluttered the man’s dark mahogany tresses, drawing her gaze back to his horrible injury. She was no physician, but she was knowledgeable enough to know that slumbering was not ideal for head injuries. She needed to wake him.
Involuntarily, she ran her thumb across his lower lip. Soft but firm. What would it be like to be kissed by those lips? Kissed! The man was dying, and she’d let her mind wander once more. Curiosity was her weakness. A quick scan of her surroundings confirmed they were still alone, and before reason set in, Diana bent over the fallen man and pressed her lips to his. When his lips parted, she snapped back to stare at him grinning at her.
“I’m surprised by your choice of methods to rouse a man, but I’ll not complain. I confess it was a challenge to remain still during your examination.”
“You beast!” Diana planted her hand on his chest to push herself to her feet.
With cat-like reflexes, he managed to sit upright and haul her into his lap, all in a matter of moments. Stunned, Diana remained mute as she stared into the peculiar eyes that had preoccupied her thoughts for the past year. What she had thought of as artistic flair was indeed reality—the man did have gold in his eyes.
The stranger, who she was fairly certain was the Earl of Cheswick, wrapped his arms about her tight. “I’ve been called worse. The quandary is how shall I refer to you? Sprite? Sorceress? Princess?”
