The Earl’s Return

Knowing his first appearance in Society was inevitable if he were to find a bride, he’d accepted the invitation to Lord and Lady Remington’s ball. Since his return to London three weeks ago, he had visited two of his clubs, renewing acquaintances and catching up on ton gossip. Thankfully, his four-year-old scandal had been relegated to the no-longer-of-interest category.

And apparently, word had spread rather quickly that the notorious Lord Redgrave had returned. After only a week, the invitations had begun pouring in from determined, marriage-minded mamas.

The few comments he’d picked up at White’s indicated that merely a few weeks after he and Lady Priscilla had made their way to Gretna Green four years ago, the Duke of Manchester’s sister, Lady Abigail, had quickly and quietly married Mr. Joseph Fox, a rector in Addysby End. His stomach churned with guilt, just as it always did when he thought of his former fiancée. And what he’d done to her, and her reputation, by abandoning her for another woman two weeks before their planned wedding.

Due to the guilt he’d suffered because of his actions, he’d insisted he and Priscilla remain at his country estate, Redgrave Manor, for the duration of their ill-fated marriage.

Despite his previous love of Town, now he viewed his return to London as a necessary evil, certainly not with the same enthusiasm he’d enjoyed for the Seasons and all that it had entailed before his shocking elopement.

His ruminations ended as the carriage came to a halt.

He climbed down and gazed up at the well-lit townhouse.

Passengers alighted from carriages, and hundreds of candles—from the ballroom windows and torches outside the house—cast a warm glow over the ladies and their sparkling gowns and turbans. And the jewels, he thought wryly. Always the jewels.

Had he really changed so much? His clubs had left him feeling empty, the thought of hobnobbing with the Quality unappealing, and the chance of running into Manchester or one of the duke’s many sisters made him uneasy. But he had no choice.

I need an heir.

He joined the queue as it meandered up the path, to the stairs, and into the house. The woman in front of him, an older woman, hanging on the arm of a man half her age, turned and gasped when she regarded him. She quickly leaned toward the man and whispered.

And so it begins.

He handed his cape and hat to the butler, along with his invitation. As he reached the top of the stairs, the butler announced his name.

Heads turned. Eyebrows rose. Women huddled together and murmured behind their painted fans. Redgrave made his way down the stairs and headed to the group of men keeping the houseplants company while they swilled champagne.

“Redgrave.” Lord Bittner nodded in his direction. “I see you finally decided to stop hiding in the country.”

Redgrave snatched a glass from the tray a footman held out and took a gulp. “Indeed. I wish I could say I missed all this”—he waved at the crowd with his glass—“but I must admit the peace and tranquility of the country appealed.”

“Ho. Listen to this,” Lord Dumont roared. “The man-about-town has turned into a country mouse.”

“Hardly. I just prefer breathable air and room to move around.”

“One of them might be here tonight,” Lord Spencer leaned in and spoke quietly, a whiff of something stronger than champagne on his breath.

Redgrave stiffened. “Who?”

“Manchester’s last sister. Lady Mary. The only unmarried one. The girl usually attends these things.”

His eyebrows rose. “The others are all married?”

Dumont placed his empty glass on a small table alongside them. “Two of them—the twins—married Highlanders.

Lady Marion’s husband came back from the dead, and, well, I guess you heard about Lady Abigail.”

Redgrave tried his best to avoid any type of reaction, but it was impossible. His face flushed. “Yes, I am aware of her marriage, and am quite happy for her. I can easily see her as a rector’s wife, performing good deeds.”

“Something she never would have done had she married you, eh?” Spencer slapped him on the back. Yes, he had changed considerably. Spencer was correct. When he had been betrothed to Lady Abigail, he had looked forward to a typical ton marriage. The balls, theater, dinner parties and such in London, before retiring to the country for hunts and holiday events.

Having been stuck in the country with a woman he had grown to despise had changed him—hopefully for the better. Although Lady Priscilla had been forced upon him, he had planned to make the best of it. Unfortunately, with Priscilla, there had been no best.

Hell, there hadn’t even been a better.

Shoving those thoughts from his mind, he leaned one shoulder against the wall and gazed around the room, assessing the latest group of young ladies. And were they young! Or had he gotten so very old? One woman caught his eye. A lemon-yellow gown with a bodice low enough to tantalize, but not scandalize. She was dancing a quadrille, the liveliness of her steps and the bright smile on her face mesmerizing.

She appeared to be older than the other girls: most likely a few Seasons to her credit. The silky, light brown curls that were piled on top of her head were beginning to slip from her carefully styled coiffure. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks flushed as she grinned at her partner when they joined hands, switched places, and continued on with the dance. Redgrave found himself smiling for the first time in many months.

Once more his eyes roamed over the crowd. After his four-year absence, he recognized most of the older guests, but all the young pups and debutantes were, for the most part, unknown to him. Although the young lady in the yellow gown did look a bit familiar. His attention drifted back to her. If he were to achieve what he had intended when he’d decided to reopen Redgrave House, he would best be about it and ask for introductions.

I need an heir.

The dance ended and the panting dancers made their way to the refreshment table, or headed toward the French windows to stroll on the patio and in the gardens below.

The young lady with the yellow gown shook her head at her partner, gave a quick curtsy, then crossed the ballroom to join three other young ladies. One of the chits in the group was Miss Edgeworth, the younger sister of James Edgeworth, whom he’d been quite friendly with at Eton.

With determination in his step, Redgrave spanned the ballroom, halted a few times by both the curious and those who offered their condolences on his wife’s passing the previous year. He graciously accepted their commiserations and continued on his way.

As he approached Miss Edgeworth and her little group, the girl’s eyes grew wide and she began to furiously fan her face. The young lady was distinctly uncomfortable, but since he’d seen all sorts of reaction to his presence, he shrugged it off.

“Good evening, Miss Edgeworth, you are looking quite lovely.” He bowed to her curtsy, noticing her decided nervousness.

“My lord.”

He glanced at the beauty in the yellow gown, but spoke to Miss Edgeworth. “May I have the pleasure of being made known to your friends?”

The three girls in her company all studied him with curiosity. He knew none of them, but they were very young, fresh out of the schoolroom, he would guess. Except Miss Yellow Gown. On closer inspection, she must be into her twenties. Her half smile as she regarded him brought a sparkle to her eyes.

“Ah, yes, my lord. Of course.” Worrying her lower lip, Miss Edgeworth turned to the girls on her left. “This is Lady Catherine and Miss Elizabeth Stanton.” She stopped and then turned to Miss Yellow Gown. “And this is Lady Mary.”

Bells went off in his head and he drew in a quick breath as the girl smiled at him. Then Miss Edgeworth continued.

“Ladies, may I make known to you…the Earl of Redgrave.”

Lady Mary stopped mid-curtsy and gasped. Her gloved fingers flew to her mouth, and she stepped back. “Lord Redgrave?”

“Yes, my lady.”

She drew herself up and glared at him with a look that would freeze a summer lake. Her mouth moved as if she wanted to say something, but then she merely turned her back and walked away, giving him the cut direct.

COLLAPSE