Page 7 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
“In truth,” Lord Deverell confided in a low voice, “I employed your sound advice for managing her. I must thank you sincerely for your wisdom, I have had a most peaceful morning.”
“I am always glad to help, my lord,” she answered, touched by his sincerity.
“That’s good,” the earl grinned again, though this time his smile was a little lupine. “Because I’m afraid that I have dragged you into my cunning plan. Mrs Mifford was determined to see me matched up for the duration of my visit, so I decided that if I could not stop her from forcing female company upon me, that I would chose which female it was.”
Sarah paused mid-step, her brain working too furiously to decipher his meaning to also instruct her legs forwards.
“I don’t understand,” she said, though she had a sinking suspicion she did.
“Mrs Mifford wants to matchmake,” Lord Deverell shrugged his broad shoulders, “She cannot be deterred. Therefore, I decided that if she will insist on orchestrating alone time with a young lady, that the young lady should be you.”
To prove the truth of his words, the earl gave a coy wave to Mrs Mifford who was peering back at them. She in turn broke into a broad beam at his signal, her delight evident.
“See?” Lord Deverell said proudly.
Sarah was torn between amusement and indignation at his air of self-satisfaction.
“Did you not consider that I may not wish to play-act as a partner in a faux-courtship?” Sarah queried, as she resumed walking so that they would not fall too far behind the group.
A silence ensued, during which Sarah deduced that earl had not considered her consent might be anything other than assured. How aristocratic of him to assume that everyone in his sphere was eager to do his bidding.
“My only worry was that someone had already claimed your hand,” he replied easily, ignoring his own pause. “But Mrs Mifford reassured me that this was not the case. All I have to say on that matter, is that the men of Plumpton must be blind.”
“I cannot be bribed with Spanish coin for my participation, my lord,” Sarah laughed at his obvious attempt to flatter.
“I have never offered anyone a false compliment in my life, it would imply a need to ingratiate that I have never felt. I’m an earl, other people do the ingratiating.” he huffed. “Though I am glad to hear you will participate—and how charitable of you to waive payment for your services. Come! You must see the orchids in the hothouse.”
He linked Sarah’s arm through his and escorted her—firmly—through the door of the hothouse where the other members of the party were already admiring Mr Leek’ collection.
Inside the air was pressing and humid, curling around Sarah like damp cloth. Rows of shelves housed intriguing flowers in violent shades and shapes. Along the far wall climbed a vine laden with magenta flowers, so beautiful that Sarah actually gasped aloud.
“Bougainvillea,” Lord Deverell informed her, his eyes following the line of her gaze. “It’s found mostly in the Kingdom of Brazil.”
“Have you always had an interest in plants, my lord?” Sarah questioned, as she crouched down to peer into a pot crowned with a rosette of long, sharp leaves. She gave a happy laugh as she discovered a pineapple at its centre—small but perfectly formed.
“I took up an interest in botany after my wife died,” the earl replied with a shrug. “I needed something to distract me. I soon learned that drinking or gambling were off limits; clubs and hells don’t take too kindly to a man who turns up with an infant in tow.”
Sarah turned to look at him, her brow raised, and was glad to find him smiling. He had delivered his statement so dryly that she hadn’t been certain it was said in jest.
“How old is your son?” she questioned, too shy to ask him about his late wife—though desperately curious to learn more.
“Seven,” Lord Deverell stated, his pride in his son evident. “He is visiting with his maternal side at the moment but will join me here in a fortnight, and then we will travel on to Abergavenny.”
Geography was not Sarah’s strong point but she knew from Debrett’s—which she had poured over after her first encounter with him—that the earl’s primary seat was in Wales.
“Miss Hughes!”
Charlotte Mifford’s voice traveled across the turgid air, causing Sarah to turn. The rest of the group was gathered around a table, with Mr Leek at its head, impatiently waiting to begin a lecture.
“I believe our host wishes to show off his peonies,” Lord Deverell said.
Sarah bit back a giggle as she imagined the fun her brothers might have had with that sentence. Lord Deverell caught her eye and she realised that he had intended the innuendo. No matter their rank or class, all men took a boyish delight in words that sounded even vaguely phallic. It was a wonder they had managed to assert themselves as the dominant sex, given how easily they were amused, she thought with a grin.
They joined the group at the table and Mr. Leek launched into a long lecture on the care and cultivation ofmoutanpeonies.
“Of course,” he finished—much to everyone’s relief, for the hothouse was stifling and they were all wilting in the heat. “They require a steady and generous water source, particularly during the early summer. We are lucky at Long Acres that we were able to divert a small tributary of the stream to serve our needs.”
The group as a whole stilled at these words, apart from Mrs Mifford, who never did seem to suffer from the bouts of awkwardness that afflicted most people.
