1
Ellis Aperton, Earl of Blythe, rode across the expanse of meadow, lifting his face to the morning sun. A misty haze hung over the stretch of trees to his left, hiding the thickly forested area from view. Part of Ellis wished he could escape into that forest and not come back out. Perhaps find a tiny woodcutter’s cottage and spend his days in peace with no mother constantly haranguing him on duty and responsibility. He could attempt to write poetry and recite it to the trees and surrounding animals with no harsh critics to rebuke him.
A sigh left him. While he adored poetry, his writing of verse was utter rubbish.
Very well. He would take out the knife his father gave him and create a host of delicately carved trinkets. Possibly a squirrel that didn’t look like a frog. Or a flower that didn’t resemble a horse dropping.
Fine.Wood carving was not exactly his forte either. Unfortunately, Ellis was equally terrible at sculpting in marble.
Two years in Rome he’d tried, every moment fraught with frustration, though it had at least given him a reason to avoid London. Then he’d attempted poetry, something he dearly loved. He’d loitered around the Piazza di Spagna hoping the ghost of Keats, who’d lived and died in the area, might inspire him to produce the sort of words that touched hearts and souls.
No such luck.
After his return to London, a little over a month ago, Ellis had decided to merely carve animals and figures for his own pleasure and to amuse his sisters, all of whom had made a game out of trying to guess what it was Ellis had carved.
Yes, he was that terrible.
They’d done the same with the previous earl, their father. Ellis’s lack of artistic talent was clearly inherited. Alas, while Ellis adored sculpture, art, poetry, and music—another of his failings—he lacked the necessary skill for such pursuits.
He was quite good with a pistol, a crack shot in fact, which was a good talent to have if he ever chose to do something romantic, like fight a duel.
No one dueled anymore.
He was decent with his fists, less so with a sword. Not like his friend Haven who was adept at anything remotely piratical.
In truth, Ellis’s only useful skill, in addition to providing naughty innuendo, careless flirtation, and being attractive, was his ability to grow his fortune and care for his tenants. A good thing, though a trifle boring, because being an earl required both.
His mother, Lady Blythe, was less pleased that Ellis also possessed what she called “common” tendencies. He could fix a plow, mend harnesses, and, to his mother’s utter horror, had once repaired the parish pump in the small village of Larch just outside his country estate. In his shirtsleeves.
Mother had nearly fainted. Several village girls had swooned.
Ellis urged Dante forward with a gentle nudge of his heels, clucking softly.
Not Zeus, Demon, Hades or one of the other menacing, powerful, and pompous names his peers gave their steeds. But Ellis thought Dante a perfectly fine name for a horse. After all, he and Dante had been through the circles of hell together, including one over which his mother, Lady Blythe, presided.
Taking a deep breath of the fresh morning air, Ellis felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. Distance from London and Lady Blythe, though he’d only recently returned, was welcome. He loved his mother. Truly. But the role of sole heir and only son came with navigating the abundance of her manipulations. Her suffocation of him had become intolerable, just as it had years ago when he’d first fled her gentle care for the delights of London. Only nineteen years old, Ellis had engaged an excellent steward to oversee things and, for the first time in his life, had sowed every wild oat in England. He hadn’t lacked for women, drink, or wealth. He still didn’t. Ellis’s golden good looks and charm assured his welcome. He’d had a perfectlymarveloustime until...well, until his Mother had followed him to London.
That had been thefirsttime Ellis escaped to the Continent to avoid the indomitable Lady Blythe. He’d returned after less than a year and been immediately anointed London’s most eligible bachelor, much to his dismay. Ellis wasn’t unaware of his looks; how could he be? But he wasn’t overly vain about them either. After all, his appearance hadn’t been his doing, but was rather a result of his parentage, much like the title he carried and the fortune he held. He’d had nothing to do with any of it. Admittedly, Ellis was an acknowledged flirt. Something of a rake. But in his defense, headoredwomen as any man with five sisters and an invasive mother must in order to survive.
His second foray abroad had been longer. Blissfully so. Then he’d returned, barely enduring a month before the petty tyrant dressed in canary yellow had forced Ellis to this remote location in Hampshire. He couldn’t flee the country again. But he could hide out here—at a long-forgotten hunting lodge his father had once used.
Ellis hadn’t even been able to properly take up his earlish duties before his mother had badgered him into fleeing.
Earlish.
He wasn’t certain that was actually a word, but it sounded an appropriate way to describe his role in Parliament, his presence at balls, and the job of seeing to his tenants and the like.
Thankfully, while Lady Blythe knew of the hunting lodge’s existence in Hampshire, she wouldneverset one tiny foot in such a rustic locale. The very idea would give her fits. The nearest enclave of civilization, a kind designation, was the obscure village of Chiddon. Chiddon consisted of a shop selling necessities, a blacksmith, a tavern, and little else. At least on his last visit. Ellis doubted Chiddon had improved overmuch, though he hardly cared.
Chiddon was far away from Lady Blythe and herconstantpecking away, which made it a veritable paradise.
Ellis closed his eyes for an instant. He inhaled the scent of the grass.
Dinner with Mother, a few nights ago, had finally compelled him to flee.
The evening had started, like so many others, with a recitation of Ellis’s responsibilities to his title, the estate, his mother, and his remaining unwed sisters, of which there were two. Duty, Mother insisted, tiny fist curled at him in exasperation, had to come before his own selfish desires. No more traveling about the Continent charming the female population. Wasting his days among penniless writers and poets. Imagining himself to be an artist, chiseling away at blocks of stone, or worse, carving like some peasant. Hissolepurpose was to marry and produce an heir.
Ellis had signaled for a footman to bring more wine. A great deal more wine.
