“I am Mrs.Beasley,” corrected the younger woman, emphasizing the B in her surname as she dipped into a curtsy. “I am afraid that Mr. Potter is nearly deaf.”
To that, Mr. Potter cupped his hand to his ear once more, stained handkerchief and all. “What was that, Mrs. Measly? Do speak up, if you please.”
“I said you are hard of hearing, Mr. Potter,” she repeated, raising her voice for the butler’s benefit before turning back to Zachary. “And who might you be, sir?”
“I am the earl,” he announced grimly. “I sent word in advance to prepare for a wedding.”
Mrs. Beasley’s mouth dropped open, the color leaching from her face. “You are the earl?”
He inclined his head. “I am afraid so.”
Her gaze ventured past him, presumably to the carriages lining the approach. “A wedding?”
He bared his teeth, feeling like a wolf. “Just so.”
The housekeeper’s shoulders slumped. “Whose wedding is it, my lord?”
“Mine,” he ground out.
Beatrice had done this, he knew. Somehow, she had intercepted the missives he had sent. No doubt in an effort to thwart his marriage or otherwise cause him pain. After her furious insistence he reconsider marrying Izzy last night, it was apparent that she was vehemently opposed to the match. He ought to have suspected her interference sooner. But her seething resentment toward him, coupled with the perverse need to provoke her, had kept him from seeing the obvious.
He saw it now, however.
And he was bloody well going to send his brother’s widow back to London on the back of a fucking donkey.
* * *
Barlowe Park had not been preparedfor a wedding.
That much was apparent.
Nor, however, had it been prepared for guests.
Furniture was covered. Dust was abundant. The domestics appeared to consist of a hard-of-hearing nonagenarian butler, a young housekeeper who was either named Mrs. Measly or Mrs. Beasley, depending upon whom one asked, two footmen, one parlor maid, a cook, and a very inexperienced scullery maid.
The cook had a meager larder, there were not nearly enough servants to attend their guests, more of whom would be arriving the following day, and Izzy was willing to wager suitable numbers would not be found in the village. As she stood in the great hall conferring with the housekeeper over what needed to be arranged and which provisions might be found in the village at such short notice, Izzy’s misgivings returned. Not just because of her hesitation to marry, which her future husband had managed to disprove with some talented kissing.
But because of the widowed countess who was currently engaged in furious debate with Anglesey.
“At least a half dozen maids should reasonably be found in the village,” Mrs. Measly or Mrs. Beasley was saying. “Pray forgive us, my lady. After the burial for the former earl and his brother, we were told to reduce the domestic burden by her ladyship. There was no indication anyone would be in residence here at Barlowe Park any time soon, or we would have been prepared to receive you. I must apologize for the sorry state in which you find us.”
I do not give a damn, Beatrice.
I assure you I did not intercept any letters…
…back to London at once.
Zachary, please…
Izzy forced a smile, trying to make the housekeeper the focus of her attention even as she continually allowed overheard snippets of Anglesey’s conversation with the countess to distract her. “I am sure this was all a terrible misunderstanding. Fortunately, we have some time until the remainder of our guests arrive.”
And she had some time to investigate the troubling familiarity between her future husband and his brother’s widow. Something harsh and angular was poking about inside her. Something markedly similar to the way she felt whenever she thought about Arthur and Miss Harcourt.
Jealousy?
How? She did not love Anglesey. He had kissed her senseless, it was true. But he was a rake. Perpetual seduction was themilieuin which he spent his every day. He was meant to be excellent at kissing. Just as she was meant to not be moved by his prowess. Last night, when she had lain awake tossing and turning and futilely seeking sleep, she had reached a realization. Their marriage would only work if she could keep her heart hardened against him.
“I hope you will continue to put your trust in my ability to oversee Barlowe Park when you are the new Lady Anglesey,” Mrs. Measly/Beasley said, quite reminding Izzy that if she intended to follow through with this wedding, she would, quite necessarily, need to find out the proper pronunciation of the housekeeper’s surname.
