I Love the Earl (The Truth About the Duke) by Caroline Linden

Author:Caroline Linden [Linden, Caroline]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2011-08-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

If Margaret had any illusions about her brother’s attention or temper altering under the weight of his ducal crown, she was swiftly disabused.

She took her time going back into the box in Vauxhall, still trying to sort out her feelings over what had happened on her walk with Lord Dowling. First, and most delightfully, he kissed her—and so spectacularly well, her knees still felt a bit weak. She could see fewer and fewer reasons not to encourage his suit: He was charming, attentive, thoughtful, decent, and bloody beautiful, as Clarissa so aptly put it. He held her as if he could hardly restrain his baser urges, and his kiss . . . She touched unsteady fingers to her lips, remembering. Would he really have kissed her that way when she was still a spinster from Holborn? Would he have said to her then, as he did tonight, that he was losing his heart to her? Margaret was becoming more and more certain he might have. And the less she believed him to be just another bankrupt in search of a rich wife, the more she admitted she might be falling in love, too.

Fortunately she sent him off before walking into what turned out to be a bitter quarrel. Francis, who had hitherto shown a commendable lack of interest in her suitors, was waiting when she returned. She knew it would be bad when she found him alone in the supper box. Instinctively she halted in the doorway.

“Where were you?” he asked through thin lips, his arms folded over his chest.

“Walking. Where were you?” She looked around the box. “Where have Clarissa and Mr. Eccleston gone? And Miss Cuthbert?”

“Eccleston took Miss Stacpoole home, with Miss Cuthbert chaperoning. Where were you?” he repeated.

“I went for a stroll with Lord Dowling.” There was no reason to lie, as everyone had seen them leave.

“Dowling,” he said harshly. “Dowling, the Welsh earl who hasn’t a shilling to his name?”

“Dowling, the charming gentleman who’s become my friend?” She widened her eyes. “Yes, that’s the one.”

“The one who’s after your dowry, you mean.”

“Pish.” Margaret laughed lightly, sensing his temper was truly engaged and trying to divert it. “That bloody dowry. You really ought to take it back, Francis.”

“That’s what he wants, Meg,” her brother warned, ignoring her attempts. “Don’t allow yourself to be seduced by a wastrel.”

“How do you know he’s a wastrel?” she demanded, irked. “How do you know he’s any different from Lord Sandridge or Viscount Lavoy?”

He glowered at her. “I’ve heard tales.”

“Tales of what? Dead sheep?” She shook her head. “How is his misfortune any different than Mr. Twiston’s?” The Twistons had been their neighbors in Holborn. Francis had been compassionate and generous in helping them when they went bankrupt after Mr. Twiston’s shop and everything in it burned to the ground. Surely he must remember that part of himself.

“Tales of willful negligence of his estates. Tales of his flagrant disregard for his tenants and dependents. Tales of shocking financial neglect.”

“Lord Branwell told you that, didn’t he?” She pursed her lips.

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