Page 3 of Tempting the Earl

Setting her sack on the large work table, she did her best to mostly ignore the unwelcome intruder as he dipped his head to step across the threshold into the kitchen. Too late, she realized she would’ve been better served by receiving him in the formal parlor she so rarely used. Now, her favorite room in the house would forever be tainted by the memory of his presence.

Up until several months ago when she’d received a missive from London, she’d never really believed Caillie’s father—or any of his aristocratic family—might someday come for her. She’d never believed it—but she’d always feared it.

It wasn’t until Angus Claybourne had inherited the barony upon the death of Ainsworth’s father that Ainsworth first met her cousin Davina. Being of an age, the girls naturally became quite close. After Davina eventually confessed her disgraceful condition, there were no secrets between the cousins.

Ainsworth learned all about the posh English earl traveling about Scotland who’d stayed in Kyleakin only long enough to seduce and abandon a woefully unsophisticated country girl. Angus had been a cold, unfeeling father, but he’d tried to do his duty by insisting the earl make proper amends. Ainsworth had been at Davina’s side, tightly holding her hand, when the English lord’s reply finally arrived to say he’d have nothing at all to do with the girl or the bairn she carried.

Angus had been furious, but Davina had been crushed, and Ainsworth had known then that her cousin had harbored a real tendresse for the handsome earl despite the fact he’d been significantly older and had displayed a total and callous lack of regard for her in return.

Glancing up from her task of sorting the various herbs she’d foraged, Ainsworth noted that if the father had looked anything like the son, she might understand how Davina had become so tragically enamored.

She hated to admit it even in the secure privacy of her own mind, but the current Earl of Wright was unfortunately handsome. He was tall and trim with sandy-colored hair in a style that somehow managed to appear both careless and elegant. His clothing was simple at first glance, but Ainsworth recognized the fine materials and expert stitching that had gone into making the garments. And, as he slowly approached with a stride that was both purposeful and slightly distracted, she found herself intrigued by the man’s consistent contradictions.

Shifting her attention to his face, she noted a wide forehead paired with a ridiculously square jaw and a straight patrician nose. The features should have looked severe or at least autocratic, if not for the very boyish dimple in the center of his chin and the intense, breath-stealing blue of his eyes...

Blue like a clear summer sky but darker.

Nay. More like the blue of a peacock feather but lighter.

As she struggled to classify the exact shade, she realized she was staring, yet she couldn’t force herself to look away. Because aside from the striking color, his gaze also contained a very real and visceral magnetic pull.

It was fascinating and rather unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She quite literally couldn’t look away. And it took her a moment to realize he’d come to stand directly across the table from her.

“Am I safe to assume you are Miss Ainsworth Morgan?”

She’d never much liked the more formal English accent used by the country’s titled gentry. It had always sounded so stiff and unnatural to ears long accustomed to the rolling cadence of her home. But his voice was just low enough and just rich enough to create a tone that was surprisingly warm despite its formality. Another unsettling contradiction.

Getting a hold of herself, she turned to sift through the jars lining the shelves behind her. She’d need to dry the leaves and stems and flowers she’d collected today before storing them, so she didn’t require the jars just yet, but the task allowed her to turn her back on her unwanted guest.

“Assume whatever you’d like,” she replied.

A pause. “Then I shall also assume you know why I’m here.”

She instantly thought of Caillie and a fierce burning urge to protect pressed through her chest. She spun about with her hands planted boldly on her hips to give the pretentious lord (she didn’t actually know if he was pretentious, but weren’t they all?) a hard glare.

“Nay, in truth, I dinnae. Most people wait for an invitation before arriving at someone’s home.”

Her harsh words didn’t seem to affect him—certainly he didn’t look insulted or irritated by her intentional rudeness. For a moment, he just stared back at her. Then he took a slow breath and straightened his shoulders—though they were quite straight enough already—and lowered his chin. Just a bit.

“I understand your animosity, Miss Morgan.”

“I doubt that verra much.”

His brows tugged low over his eyes before settling back into a neutral position. “She is my sister. I’d like to meet her.”

Fear and fierce denial arced through her. Moving her hands from her hips to press them wide and flat on the table, she leaned forward. “Nay.”

He didn’t even flinch. “Why?”

“No good could possibly come of it.”

His frown deepened as he took a step closer. “Did you tell her about my letters?”

Ainsworth decided the question was unworthy of an answer.

His gaze narrowed for just a moment and a muscle along his jaw gave a barely perceptible tic. “Did you even bother to read them?”

She shrugged. “The first.”

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