Page 6 of Earl, Enemy, Husband?

No. No; he wanted nothing to do with her. And as for threatening to visit him at home—hopefully his brusqueness had put her off.

‘Florence!’

Florence winced at the peevish note in her father’s voice. He was always peevish these days. His rheumatism seemed to trouble him more each year.

‘Coming, Father.’ She entered his study. It smelled of leather, books and her father’s earthy cologne.

‘Who were you talking to out there?’ Father asked. ‘I couldn’t make him out.’ He gestured to the window that looked over the garden. ‘Those windows need cleaning.’

The windows did not need cleaning. She had seen to it the previous week. No; Father’s eyesight was fading. But he would not want her to point it out.

‘It was the Earl of Blackdown, Papa.’

Father straightened in his chair. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘Ingram? What did he want?’

Father always said never trust an Ingram. And he wasn’t the only one who had a poor opinion of that family. ‘He rode across the field, by way of the shortcut. He seemed to be surveying his land, since he had some sort of map.’

‘Surveying, was he?’

‘I can only presume. Iris said good morning to him. He responded very politely.’

Which was more than she herself had.

‘If he really held politeness in esteem, he’d be calling on his neighbours to introduce himself.’

This was the opportunity she had been looking for. How unexpected. ‘Actually, wouldn’t it be more polite for his neighbours, particularly his closest neighbours, to call on him, introduce themselves and make him welcome?’

Her father peered at her from over his spectacles. He looked a bit owlish, but then he often did. It must be something to do with how much time he spent poring over his books. And his fading eyesight.

‘Why would we be polite to an Ingram?’ he growled.

‘Because the past is the past?’

Her father harrumphed. ‘Call on him if you want. Ingrams are a bad lot, but you won’t listen to me. Next you will be inviting him for tea.’

Startled, she stared at him, then snapped her mouth shut. She didn’t want him to see her astonishment. All morning she had been tossing around in her mind how to propose that she call on the earl, and here was Father suggesting it himself.

‘As you wish, Papa.’ It had not sounded exactly like a wish, and she had a strange feeling there was something amiss. But she certainly wasn’t going to question him. Not this time.

The small smile of satisfaction on her father’s lips gave her pause. It was gone in a flash and she decided she had imagined it. Things were working out exactly as she had hoped. Once the earl saw Primrose, he would be clay in her hands. Or rather in her sister’s hands.

Then all of Florence’s problems would be at an end. She would finally be free.

Not that she resented caring for her sisters—she didn’t, mostly. But she certainly didn’t want to see them end up as spinsters with no prospect of marriage or a family of their own, like her. It would be too terrible. Neither of them deserved such an awful fate.

Nor did she want to see them wed to some illiterate farmer, or an itinerant dancing master. No. She wanted to do what her mother had asked her to do: see them well settled and happy.

Then she could turn to the arrangement of her own future. Of course, she would remain here with Father. Someone needed to care for him in his increasing infirmity, and she would continue her work with the Stoor ladies on behalf of the village. Mrs Pole would be happy enough to have her services, and she might even have a bit of time to herself once her sisters were wed. She might even take up her violin studies again.

She stilled at a tugging pain in the region of her chest. The hurt remained even after all this time. Seeing Mr Campbell with his arm around her beautiful sister in just that way, and seeing Primrose lean into him, trusting, sweet and…

She pushed the image aside. She had saved Primrose just in time. No one had cared enough to save her, though. What a fool she had been.

But now she needed to concentrate on getting her sisters safely married off to decent men. Hopefully, reasonably wealthy decent men.

Florence nibbled at a fingernail. Father’s gaze was now fixed on the documents on his desk as if he had completely forgotten her presence. She sighed. He did love his research. Perhaps one day it really would result in a book.

‘Papa, it is important we do things properly. I think Primrose should accompany me on the call.’