The Earl's Heiress, page 2
CHAPTER 2
Saville Manor, Nottinghamshire
Miss Arabella Anderson sat atop her horse, enjoying the sunshine and the light breeze that swept her hair. She was grateful that the rain had stopped, so she could venture outdoors. She turned to look at the beautiful Gothic manor as it faded in the distance. Arabella wanted to hate Saville Manor in the very same way she said she would hate England, yet she couldn’t. She wouldn’t go so far as to say she loved the old place, but she was drawn to its rather quaint and impressive history, having been in the family for over a hundred years.
The manor seemed ancient in comparison to the newer houses in America, and she was left open-mouthed to find a housemaid needed to make five trips from the kitchen, carrying jugs of hot water to fill a bath.
What a production!
While the houses in the English countryside were grand and stately, they were often dark, dingy, and terribly cold. The coldness reverberated through her bones, and she found it quite difficult to stay warm. How was she going to make this country her home?
Arabella wanted to explore more of the manor but had left it behind this morning to join the hunting party. Hunting in England tended to be quite different from back home because they were going to hunt on the grounds of the estate, and they weren’t going to hunt large animals. Instead, they would hunt foxes. It should prove interesting. Most of the hunting party had gone ahead of her because she refused to go out in that dreadful weather and catch her death. Two of the grooms from Saville Manor were escorting her to the hunting lodge, where she would catch up with the others.
Her family had journeyed across the ocean from Boston to this cold, damp place called England. Arabella was the oldest sibling, and when she turned eighteen, Papa decided it was time for her to be torn from the bosom of her homeland. She would miss her sisters, Winnie, Elsie, and Lottie, as well as her brothers, Edwin and Martin. While her dearest friend, Sarah, promised to write to Arabella often, she was not reassured.
Then, there was Mr. Stephen Cartwright, a young lawyer who had started to woo her. She had always hoped to meet the perfect gentleman with whom she would fall hopelessly in love. They would marry, and she would have a large family very much like her own. Love was important, and she truly wanted a love match. She had found Mr. Cartwright pleasant and charming, and with each moment spent in his presence, Arabella had thought him a man she could love.
Her father had been outraged at the idea that she would settle for someone so mediocre. Arabella’s heart twisted upon recalling his insistence that they were better than the Cartwrights. Henry Anderson was a self-made man who acquired immense wealth from mining gold in California before moving their family to a more prestigious area in Boston. Arabella lived a life of privilege, and she always thought her father had a soft spot for her. However, it seemed that the social image he wanted for them was more important than her happiness in life.
He was driven by ambition to improve their family’s standing back home and solidify their position on the social circuit. American socialites coveted what they saw as the higher social status of British aristocracy and royalty members. Arabella didn’t think it was necessary to ingratiate herself into British society, as her family had already amassed a great deal, and she was quite content with everything the way it was.
She sighed and lifted her face to the overcast sky. “Oh, Papa, why do you not understand me?”
When her father told her she would marry a nobleman, she insisted she wanted to choose a man she loved. His dismissive tone still stung.
“I am sorry, my dear Bella, but we no longer have the luxury of marrying for love. We need to gain our rightful place in Boston and New York society, and the best way to do that is for you to marry an English nobleman. I will not give my blessing and support to a marriage that would not elevate our standing. You may not love your husband, but you will respect and care for him as he respects and cares for you. Given time, it may flourish more.”
His words were haunting her. Mama had agreed with him, explaining that daughters of self-made men like Papa didn’t have the social standing of longtime members of high society and had trouble gaining acceptance among well-heeled socialites who shunned what they saw as “new money.”
Arabella thought the entire thing was preposterous, but while she didn’t agree, she accepted it was the way of the world. Papa viewed a title as a shortcut to social acceptance, and plenty of British aristocrats were eager to trade their titles for cash. In his eyes, the exchange was worth every penny. But Arabella wanted a husband who loved her, not one who saw her as a means to enrich himself. Once married, her wealth would become his, leaving her entirely reliant on a gentleman who felt no affection for her.
The thought was utterly daunting and heartbreaking.
I need a plan.
Her mind spun as she considered her options. Arabella could challenge her father directly—a prospect as appealing as scaling a cliff—or find a gentleman she genuinely liked and marry him on her terms. But to do so, she needed time to assess her choices and avoid being rushed into a disastrous match.
She resolved to tell Papa she was willing to entertain suitors with titles, but only if the final decision remained hers. Still, the thought made her groan. The real challenge wasn’t finding a husband—it was climbing the mountain of her father’s stubborn, infuriating belief that the choice was his!
“Is it much farther, John?” Arabella asked the closest groom.
“Not much farther, Miss Arabella,” he replied.
She was certain John’s answer was the same as the last time she had asked, yet they had traveled much farther since then. Casting her gaze upward, she watched dark clouds rolling swiftly across the sky. The sunshine had vanished, and she could hardly believe how quickly the weather had turned. She mentally added “unpredictable weather” to her growing grievances with England.
No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than a bolt of lightning split the sky, followed by a deep rumble of thunder. Her horse shook its head, and she felt the tension ripple through its frame. Arabella patted his flank, hoping to soothe his growing anxiety.
The groom turned back to her. “We should pick up the pace, Miss Arabella.”
It was sound advice. Horses hated lightning, and the approaching storm would make them even more skittish. Large, cold raindrops began to fall with surprising force, matching the thunder’s roar. The wind howled like a tormented soul, sending shivers down Arabella’s spine. Soon, the rain turned into a relentless torrent, blurring her vision. If she had known that this perfectly sunny day would devolve into a tempest, she would have stayed at the manor.
Another lightning strike lit up the sky, followed by a deafening crack of thunder that made her heart leap in fright. Her horse bucked and reared, panic overtaking the animal.
“Goodness!” Arabella cried as she clung to the reins.
The horse, now in a blind frenzy, bolted through the trees, crashing into a thicket of brambles that didn’t seem to slow it down. The downpour was so heavy that she could barely see ahead of her. Branches lashed against her face and arms as they tore through the undergrowth, and she instinctively hunched low, hanging on for dear life. The pounding rain drowned out all other sounds, and she couldn’t tell if the grooms were still following her. Fear rooted her gaze forward; she didn’t dare look back. Her horse’s gallop had not eased; if anything, the animal seemed even more determined to flee.
Arabella yanked hard on the reins, pulling with all her strength, but it made no difference. The horse continued its headlong flight, unstoppable. They had covered a great distance, and she realized with dread that they were truly lost. Her mind raced, recalling her riding lessons. She had been taught to stop a runaway horse by bridging the reins across its neck and pulling hard or “sawing” the reins to force control. Yet she hesitated. The methods would cause the horse pain, and she didn’t want to hurt him. Worse, the pain might provoke him further.
Instead, she tried turning him into a wide circle to unbalance him and slow his momentum, but the trees crowded too closely for the maneuver to work. She rose slightly in the saddle to attempt it again, but as she looked up, her eyes widened in horror.
“Bloody hell!” she shouted.
Too late.
A low-hanging branch struck her squarely, knocking the wind out of her. The world tilted, and she felt herself tumbling forward. Her heart pounded so hard it drowned out every other sound. Time seemed to stretch, each second painfully slow as she fell, the ground rushing to meet her. Rain blurred her vision, and chaos surrounded her. She flailed her arms, grasping at empty air, but gravity showed no mercy.
The impact came with brutal force. She hit the ground, pain exploding in her limbs as the breath was knocked from her lungs. A sharp jolt reverberated through her body, followed by a dull, throbbing ache. Dazed and disoriented, Arabella lay still, the world spinning around her in a haze of rain and agony.
Then the darkness came, swallowing her whole.
CHAPTER 3
Temple only realized how far he had ridden when the return journey stretched endlessly before him. The bloody thunderstorm had come out of nowhere, catching him entirely off guard. When he’d left the house earlier, the sky had been clear and blue, but now the heavens raged, soaking him through to the skin. The thick wool of his coat clung to him like a second, sodden skin, offering no warmth.
Above him, the clouds pulsed with flashes of light, and a piercing gust of wind shook the trees, showering him with a fresh deluge of icy rain. He wiped water from his eyes with a wet sleeve, tucking a damp lock of hair behind his ear as he cursed under his breath.
Suddenly, the sound of a horse crashing through the trees snapped him to attention. Hooves thundered against the forest floor, trampling the underbrush. He reined in his stallion, tightening his grip as the wild horse came into view, its rider clinging desperately. His heart leaped when, with a jarring motion, the rider was thrown from the saddle, landing in an unceremonious heap on the muddy ground. The panicked horse bolted into the distance, wild and free.
Temple stared at the motionless figure, his breath catching. Was the rider dead? He quickly nudged his stallion closer, leaped from the saddle, and secured the reins to a nearby branch. There was no sense in letting his horse bolt, too, leaving him stranded.
He rushed to the fallen rider, his boots slipping on the rain-slick earth, and dropped to his knees. The figure lay face down, unmoving, their soaked clothing plastered to their body. Temple wasted no time, carefully turning the rider over. The hat fell away, revealing coiffed hair that was neatly pinned. He froze.
“I’ll be damned,” he whispered.
Temple wasn’t expecting to find a woman dressed in men’s garments. He stared into the most delicate, beautiful face he had ever seen. Even drenched in rain, streaked with mud, and pale from the fall, her features were striking. Her face was heart-shaped, with high, refined cheekbones and a small, elegant nose. Her skin, though ashen, had a natural porcelain glow, as if kissed by moonlight. Thick lashes framed her closed eyes, and her dark, wet hair tendrils clung to her face and neck. Though slightly parted, her lips were full and exquisitely shaped, a soft blush of color that stood out against her pallor.
Temple’s heart lurched. For a moment, he forgot the storm, the cold, and even his own discomfort. All he could see was her. But she was deathly still, and alarm coursed through him.
“Miss?” he said urgently, leaning closer.
His voice was rough, hoarse from the cold and the surge of adrenaline. He reached out, his hand hovering over her shoulder before finally pressing against her neck, searching for a pulse.
He shook her shoulders. “Can you hear me?” he shouted above the roar of the rain and wind.
He waited, but there was no response. Her head lolled to the side like a rag doll. A chill ran through him. He hoped she wasn’t...
“Good God!”
He gently slapped her cheek, willing her to awaken, but she remained still. Lowering his head to her chest, he strained to hear her heartbeat, but all he could hear was the thunderous pounding of his own. What was he to do?
A memory flickered in his mind—a physician in Edinburgh years ago, demonstrating a life-saving technique. The physician had revived a lad who had nearly drowned, crediting the method to William Tossach’s teachings.
Bloody hell.
It had seemed miraculous then, but Temple had only observed it once. Could he replicate it now? The odds seemed impossible, but he had to try. He carefully checked her for broken bones, running his hands swiftly but gently over her slender frame. Her body, though well-curved and graceful, was utterly limp. He knew how inappropriate his actions would seem, but the circumstances left him no choice.
Her damp coat and shirt clung to her skin. Temple hesitated before loosening her coat and undoing the first few buttons of her shirt. Her skin was ice-cold to the touch, and dread pooled in his stomach.
Was he already too late? Her mouth hung open, her chest unnervingly still. He placed his hand near her lips but felt no breath. He clenched his jaw. He would do it. He had to. Temple knelt at her side, his hands shaking slightly as he pinched her nostrils closed with his thumb and forefinger. Leaning down, he pressed his lips to hers and exhaled firmly, distending her lungs with his breath.
He repeated the action again and again. It was harder than he’d imagined—demanding and riddled with uncertainty. The rain had finally eased, though the air remained heavy and damp, the storm’s rumble distant but ever-present. Temple continued, drawing on the memory of the Edinburgh demonstration. It wasn’t a quick process, but he refused to stop.
As he exhaled again, something unexpected happened. A moist, hot tongue brushed against his lips, sending a jolt through his body and tightening his chest. She tasted of vanilla and cinnamon. His breath caught, and he momentarily froze. A shrill shriek cut through the air, snapping him back to reality.
Temple lifted his mouth from the lady and whipped his head toward the sound, his stomach knotting with nerves. In his focus on the woman, he hadn’t noticed the approach of other riders.
“Upon my word!” a voice demanded, sharp with indignation. “What is the meaning of this?”
Temple saw a small group gathering. Horses snorted and pawed the ground, their riders casting incredulous and judgmental looks his way. Their hunting attire made them appear armed and ready for confrontation. Temple stiffened, noting the steely gaze of one gentleman who clearly had no qualms about using his weapon if provoked.
“You damn bounder!” the man snapped, his voice like a whip. “How dare you act in this manner?”
Temple locked eyes with him, his jaw tightening. He recognized the man—Lord Archer Jarvis, a former guest at Stanford Hall who had conducted business with his father.
“Good heavens!” gasped a lady from the group.
Her earlier shriek seemed to have given way to a look of scandalized disbelief. Her wide, shocked eyes raked over Temple before darting to the woman lying on the ground, her state of partial undress adding fuel to the fire of their assumptions.
“Explain yourself!” Lord Jarvis demanded.
Temple ignored the stares and murmurs rippling through the small group. Instead, he knelt and carefully gathered the unconscious woman into his arms. Rising to his feet, he held her close, shielding her as best he could from the prying eyes. Gasps erupted from some of the ladies while the men’s glares darkened.
“Ladies and gentlemen, things are not as they appear,” Temple said, his voice steady but firm. “I swear to you, on my honor, that I did not take advantage of this young lady.”
He invoked his honor, but a glance at Lord Jarvis revealed skepticism. The man’s expression all but accused him of wrongdoing, perhaps fueled by the lingering rumors about Temple’s involvement in his father’s death. Temple shifted his gaze over the growing crowd, realizing with a sinking heart that this would become a spectacle—and likely another mark against his name in the unforgiving circles of society.
“I know my eyes do not deceive me. My daughter was lying on the ground with her garments loose, and you, young man—”
The gentleman’s furious words left no doubt as to the ridiculous conclusion he had reached. Temple could understand how they might assume the worst, but it didn’t make the accusation any less infuriating. There was no way for this man to know he would never take advantage of a young woman, let alone ruin her reputation. He wouldn’t contemplate such a thing, much less carry it out.
“There is an innocent explanation for this scene,” Temple said, striving for calm as he met the man’s enraged glare. “This young lady was thrown from her horse, and I came over to assist her—”
“By kissing her and doing God knows what else?” the man spat.
Temple’s jaw clenched, his patience waning. The accusation was absurd, but he resisted the urge to snap back.
“I cannot believe you would go this far, Stanford!” a woman cried.
Temple’s gaze shifted toward the voice, and his stomach sank. Lady Blackwood, one of the haut ton’s most infamous busybodies, stood among the crowd. She was a relentless gossip with a tongue as sharp as a serpent’s fang. Lady Blackwood never missed a hunt, and, unsurprisingly, she was here now, eyes gleaming with scandalous delight.
He could already imagine how the story would spread—no one would focus on the fact that he had saved the young woman’s life. The truth wouldn’t matter; the narrative would grow more titillating and salacious with every retelling.
“Who the devil are you, and what are you doing with my daughter?” the man barked, his face a thundercloud of rage.
“I am Temple Grey, the Earl of Stanford,” he said evenly, holding the man’s gaze. “I was riding when I heard a horse bolting. Your daughter came into view just as the horse threw her. I immediately went to her aid, hoping the fall hadn’t harmed her too severely. When she didn’t respond to my attempts to wake her, and I couldn’t detect her breathing, I administered the kiss of life.”
