Page 10 of Earl, Enemy, Husband?

Nor was Florence. ‘Perhaps Mrs Pole can help. Now that we have broken the ice, as it were.’

‘Oh, if you mean to set Mrs Pole on the poor man, then he is surely doomed.’

She couldn’t help laughing at the image her sister’s words conjured up and they were still chuckling about the fate of the poor Earl of Blackdown when they arrived at the vicarage. The maid opened the door and directed them to the drawing room. They had been here so often, there was never any ceremony observed, and they walked in unannounced.

Mrs Pole and Lilian were present, along with Mrs Reddy. The ladies were engaged in needlework and enjoying a cup of tea. This was how Mrs Pole tended to conduct her business with the women of the parish. Lilian immediately found them a place to sit and sat beside Florence on the sofa.

‘What news?’ Mrs Pole asked, when they had received their cups of tea. ‘Have you spoken with Lord Blackdown?’

Primrose smiled and left the answering to Florence, as they had agreed she should.

‘We met with him this morning and broached the idea of a ball. He was somewhat distracted, as I believe the renovations to the house have some way to go.’

‘You both went?’ Mrs Pool eyed Primrose. ‘Excellent idea.’

Yes, it had been. The earl had clearly been bedazzled by her beautiful sister, which surely would help their cause. And that was no reason for her stomach to dip. ‘He is not particularly sociable.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’ Mrs Pole asked.

‘He is grumpy.’

Primrose giggled at her use of the term. ‘Very grumpy,’ she agreed.

‘Oh dear,’ Lilian said. ‘We had such high hopes of him. I hear he is quite handsome.’

Quite handsome? Quite—who on earth would have said quite? The man was…

‘Too pretty by half,’ Mrs Reddy said.

Oh, had the woman read her mind?

‘I like a man with a bit of character in his face,’ Mrs Reddy continued, adjusting her shawl around her shoulders.

Mrs Reddy’s husband had a bulbous red nose and goggly eyes. Mrs Pole tskd, as if she thought the women was talking utter nonsense. ‘More importantly, did you remind the earl of his duty to call on the reverend?’

‘He is not exactly the sort of man one reminds of duty,’ Florence said. ‘But I did hint that he should get to know his neighbours and mentioned that the vicar was eager to meet him.’

‘Humph.’ Mrs Pole thinned her lips. ‘I suppose it will have to do. Did he at least seem interested in putting on a ball?’

‘He didn’t have much chance to voice an opinion,’ Primrose said, her eyes dancing. ‘But we left him with the impression it was expected.’

‘It will have to do, I suppose,’ Mrs Pole said. ‘Perhaps once he has spoken to Reverend Pole…’

The Reverend Pole was a very nice man, a very gentle man, but not a very persuasive one. Much against her better judgement, Florence took a deep breath and said, ‘I gather from his housekeeper that he has taken up residence at the Hall, even though construction is not yet complete. Why don’t I follow up with him in a day or so?’

Mrs Pole looked doubtful. ‘What on earth excuse could you have for another visit?’

Florence scrambled around in her mind, looking for an excuse. ‘Better yet, I will have Father invite him over for tea.’

Mrs Pole tapped her chin with her forefinger. ‘Well, it would be a fine matter indeed if your father can manage to bring the earl around.’

It would be a miracle. She should not have suggested it. Father would never agree. And Mrs Pole would think her a fool.

The invitation to tea at the Dearings had come as a surprise to Graydon. He’d summarily dismissed the Misses Dearing yesterday, and had assumed that would be that. Even if he had subsequently regretted it, he wasn’t about to retract his position. He would not be manipulated by a scheming female. But he would go for tea.

Alone in his chamber, having dressed for the occasion, he picked up the handkerchief she had returned and breathed in. The scent of it reminded him of the first time he had met Miss Dearing. He’d breathed in her scent on that day too, along with the odour of muddy water. But her perfume had been distinguishable, nevertheless, and here it was invading his chamber, lingering on the handkerchief he had placed on his dressing table not long after their meeting. The smell was woody, rather than floral. He preferred it to some of the sickly scents most women wore.

Had she soaked it in perfume for some reason, or did it hold a trace of her scent merely because she had carried it in her reticule? He inhaled again. Nonsense. He didn’t prefer it. He certainly didn’t want it on his linen…although it might be preferable to the smell of starch on his sheets.