The Cheer in Charming an Earl(31)

“Buckets of it,” Grantham promised.

Elinor frowned. The thought of her brother falling into his cups with Grantham alarmed her. What if they began to talk in earnest? “I may be well enough to ride, actually,” she tried, but the deal was done. The earl took her by one elbow, her brother tugged her other, and toward the brandy buckets they went.

Aunt Millie followed behind, chuckling.





THIS WAS, by far, the oddest spate of unexpected visitors Grantham could ever remember. As he escorted an innocent young lady, her irate older brother and their estranged aunt toward a drawing room that had served as a den of iniquity not three days since, Grantham gathered that Mr. Conley had learned of his sister’s accident via rumor. It seemed he’d ridden out posthaste and so had been unaware of her ultimately successful arrival at their aunt’s house—however distastefully that had come about.

As a brother himself, Grantham could understand how the other man might be skeptical of his intentions toward Miss Conley. They’d set eyes on each other only days ago. He, himself, could claim no preconceived plan to blurt out his proposal tonight. Moreover, it was clear from the family’s exchange that even they didn’t know each other as well as they’d thought. But while he wasn’t certain what sort of trickery had occurred among Miss Conley, her brother, their mother and their aunt, judging by the size and fierceness of Mr. Conley, Grantham was quite glad to have brought himself up to scratch before the massive farrier’s arrival. He much preferred to do things on his own terms.

Except now he felt compelled to put the situation to rights. This was his future brother-by-law. It wouldn’t do to have the man believe Grantham had ruined Elinor. Not when he’d shown such restraint in avoiding doing precisely that.

As they filed into the large drawing room, Lord de Winter rose and saluted them with his half-filled snifter of brandy. “And here I was contemplating how lovely it is to have a moment to think my own thoughts.”

“A waste of time,” Mrs. Rebmann drawled, floating from the rear of the procession to the front. She dropped into a wingback chair and proceeded to watch de Winter with a satisfied smirk.

Mr. Conley released his sister’s arm and took a step toward de Winter. “Who’s this?”

The earl raised his snifter to his lips and took a leisurely sip of his brandy, snubbing the question. Grantham sighed inwardly. De Winter would make it as difficult as possible to explain him away.

Resigned to introducing his scoundrel of a friend to Elinor’s brother, Grantham looped his arm around Elinor’s waist and led her to the couch. “Lord de Winter of Gillygate. He is a guest at Chelford through Twelfth Night.”

Elinor gripped Grantham’s arms tightly as he helped her recline against the cushions. Her skin was rather pale. “Thank you, my lord,” she whispered, her breath just a flutter against his cheek. Then her gaze dropped away as if the intimate embrace had embarrassed her.

He’d intended to go to the sideboard once he’d deposited his future bride, but something about her cheeks flushing pink and her gaze slanting in virginal shyness stopped him. He, Grantham Wendell, who had made so many mistakes in his life, had somehow earned the admiration of an innocent. The tug on his heartstrings was more like the heaving of a great, clanging bell than a gentle pull.

Her brother, Mr. Conley, stomped to the matching wingback chair beside his aunt’s and sat down hard on it. “Are you going to pour me a brandy or stare at my sister all night?” he growled at Grantham.

Grantham startled into action, realizing the man had left him with no seating option but the cushion beside his sister’s. It would seem his pursuit of Elinor was being tolerated, if not blessed.

He went to the sideboard and set out four snifters, then assumed Elinor would be inexperienced with strong spirits and traded one for a sherry glass. He was just sloshing brandy into the bowls when Mr. Conley grated at his back, “I take it that is the infamous kissing ball. Thank heavens there are no more berries on it, though I don’t want to think why.”

Nor did Grantham. Even across the room, he could discern that Conley had the right of it; the last berry had been plucked away, though Grantham had left it remaining in the hopes that Elinor might be persuaded to kiss him again tomorrow. There was only a single explanation for it, and he didn’t want to think too hard on it. His gaze flicked from the kissing ball to Mrs. Rebmann, whose eyes were locked with de Winter’s. Her satisfied smirk had turned to a full-fledged grin.

“Would you care for some refreshment?” Grantham offered Conley in an attempt to forget what he’d just seen. “Cook can send a cold pie and a glass of ale in while my carriage is being brought around.”