Page 5 of My Wicked Earl
“Now,” Nick filled Colin’s glass before his own, “let me tell you more about my widow friend.”
“ICAN’T BELIEVEI let Nick talk me into this.”
The ballroom before Colin was filled with the overindulged, pampered gentlemen and ladies of theton, hovering in groups around the vast room like the vultures they were. He had a distinct dislike for society, having always been a member of it, but only allowed to exist on the fringes. The Earl and Countess of Kilmaire were certainly not sought after. Their third son, even less so.
It didn’t matter a bit to Colin. He found the people humming about him like wasps about to sting to be dreadfully boring. The gentlemen spoke of their horses and their mistresses, usually in that order. The women were vapid bits of flesh encased in silk and taffeta who gossiped and pouted while flapping their fans and filling their dance cards.
Colin’s arrival aroused little fanfare in the ballroom. The barely murmured announcement of his arrival from a dutiful footman didn’t even merit a glance from the crowd.
He immediately took a glass of wine from a passing servant and slid into a deep alcove where he could observe the ball unseen. His only companion in the alcove was a rather large urn which looked appropriately ancient and priceless. A large potted plant sat inside the urn. A closer inspection of the large green fronds springing from the plant indicated it was a palm.
“Thank God I don’t have to make attending affairs such as these a habit,” he whispered to himself. “Ian or Thomas must fetch punch and converse with these nitwits.”
There were few advantages to being born a third son, and even fewer if you were the third son of animpoverishedearl and his addled wife. But one obvious advantage was that the continued lineage of the Kilmaire’s would not be Colin’s responsibility, but the responsibility of his brothers. Ian, the heir, and Thomas, the spare, would have to dance attendance on some virgin with a large dowry.
Averylarge dowry.
The state of Runshaw Park, the ancestral seat of the Earl of Kilmaire was a well-known fact amongst theton.Every piece of property not entailed had been sold in bits over the years, probably to many of the people in this room. The Kilmaire jewels were gone. The paintings and tapestries that once hung in splendor had been sold to the highest bidder. Even the once magnificent Kilmaire library had been sold, book by book, to a London bookseller.
The sale of the library especially pained Colin.
But being an impoverished title wasn’t the reason the Kilmaire’s were considered beneath most of theton. After all, plenty of titles needed the infusion of a rich dowry. No, it was more the Irish blood running through their veins. While the earldom was English, the origins of the title were Irish, and the Kilmaire earls continued to show a marked preference for women from Ireland. And of course, most of the Irish were papists. The taint was nearly more than thetoncould tolerate.
And, of course, there’s Mother, the Mad Countess.
Carefully tugging at a loose button hanging from his nearly threadbare coat, Colin grit his teeth at the thought of his mother. He wondered how he could possibly avoid her if he visited Ian and Thomas. There likely wasn’t a way to do so. Just the sight of Colin would set off the Mad Countess, terrifying everyone on the premises.
Why did Rose McBride Hartley detest her youngest child? Even in hindsight, it still remained a mystery to Colin. When he’d been younger, before he’d simply grown to accept her hatred, Colin would lie in bed and replay every action he’d had with his mother. How had he angered her to the point where she could no longer stand the sight of him? Her distaste for Colin increased during his years at Eton, to the point where he stopped visiting Runshaw Park all together, instead spending the holidays with the Cambourne family at Gray Covington.
On the rare occasions that Colin did visit Runshaw Park and his brothers, the Mad Countess would sit perfectly still, dark eyes so like his own, tracking his every movement. She barely blinked, reminding him of a cat stalking a defenseless mouse.
Bloody unnerving.
Lord Kilmaire, on the other hand, ignored his youngest son, only taking notice of Colin’s presence if Colin managed to truly disturb Lady Kilmaire’s mental state. Uncle Gerald took Colin’s father to task once over his treatment of Colin, but Lord Kilmaire refused to defend his son or show him an ounce of affection. The earl would brook no disparagement of his wife, even from her younger brother. For though the Mad Countess was…well,mad, Colin’s parents had been a love match. Lord Kilmaire’s adoration for his wife bordered on obsession.
Colin’s glance fell back to the ballroom and the entitled swirl of theton. Mulling over his parents and his lack of finances was depressing. While Colin never expected much from Lord and Lady Kilmaire, Uncle Gerald was a different story. Uncle Gerald mortgaged away the only home Colin had ever really known, without so much as a warning to his nephew.
I must succeed, for there’s no other way for me.
“Damn.” Colin poured the remainder of his wine into the dirt around the palm, wondering if the liquid would have an adverse effect on the plant, for wine certainly did on Colin. He detested wine, no matter how fine and French the vintage. Possibly one of the servants would bring him a whiskey.
Not bloody likely.
Why hadn’t his uncle told him the true state of affairs? They’d been close, close enough that Uncle Gerald did not mince words when speaking of the madness of his sister. Uncle Gerald even hinted that Mother had accidently killed a housemaid in a fit of rage and Colin’s grandfather shushed the incident. Upon bringing Colin to Ireland, his uncle had taught him how to defend himself with a knife. He’d gifted Colin with a wicked long blade that could easily be stowed in the front pocket of a coat, or in one’s boot.
‘Just in case, lad. My sister’s as mad as they come. And you might end up in London one day, a city full of murderous intent. Not one of them fops can be trusted.’
Rose McBride Hartley was indeed as mad as they came. A beautiful woman whose appearance was completely at odds with the chaos that dwelled within her mind. Though Uncle Gerald always spoke of his sister with love, there also was an everpresent undercurrent of fear.
A stir at the end of the ballroom ended Colin’s musing. A hum, the sound of many voices all whispering at once, filled the air as if a hive of bees had been let loose. Several men bowed low, the ladies at their sides falling into deep curtsies. The musicians put aside their instruments and lowered their heads as if the king himself were making an appearance.
Not the king, of course, but close.
His Grace, the Duke of Dunbar, entered the nearly silent ballroom, daring anyone with an icy blast of his azure blue eyes, to notice the slight limp in his stride. Stubbornly, he made his way to the dance floor, slowly moving towards the center of the room, enjoying the homage he was paid.
None dared to meet his eyes.
The ballroom was eerily silent, the guests struck mute with respect for and fear of their host. The curse that lingered over the Devils of Dunbar gave one pause, for who among them knew if it was true or not? Treason hovered like a filmy cloud over the Dunbars. One would think London society would cut the entire family.
