Cocky Earl - Annabelle Anders Page 0,38

my sisters are concerned.”

Not Bethany. “Tabetha?”

“I need to rein her in before she gets herself into trouble. Have you decided yet, then, to consent to our courtship?”

“I’m going to speak with my father early in the morning. Hopefully, I can change his mind.” The slightest regret trickled down her spine. “If I’m not here, the wager, of course, will become moot.” Feeling stiff from standing in one place for too long, she turned and began walking along the galley with him for the second time that day. “He has to take me with him,” she added almost to herself.

“But—”

“I think if he’d told me when we were alone, he would have listened to my arguments. I couldn’t very well quarrel with him in front of you and Mr. Stone and Peter Spencer, now could I?”

“It’s just that—”

“And please, don’t take offense. But seeing those distilleries is the primary reason I felt any enthusiasm whatsoever about going on this trip.”

“You weren’t curious about your grandparents?” He strolled leisurely along, matching her pace.

“I was. But I’ve seen them now and I believe they would be quite happy to pretend I was never born.”

“I doubt that very much. One thing you’ve yet to have learned about the English… well, most of us anyhow, is that all of those lessons provided by your mother’s parents is their way of showing you how delighted they are to have you here.” And then she heard the sound of his knuckles cracking.

“That sounds rather painful.”

“Your father did not take port. He left right after the meal was finished.”

She stumbled before turning to see if he was perhaps joking. He had to be joking, but at the same time, she knew Lord Westerley wouldn’t joke about this.

Her father had known she’d challenge his decision and hadn’t wanted to have to deal with it—with her. Her eyes burned. She’d never been a girl who cried easily and yet, since she’d been in England, she was constantly having to rein in stupid tears.

“He left? Already?” She wiped one arm across her eyes.

But then she froze, thinking to take flight. “Perhaps I can catch him—” But Lord Westerley caught her arm, effectively halting her escape. “He’s been on the road for over an hour by now. He excused himself from port and mentioned finding you in the drawing room to bid you farewell before leaving.”

“He what?” The air whooshed out of her. Were all of her plans to be thwarted? “I wanted… I could have…” And this time it had been her own fault.

If only she’d gone to the drawing room with the other ladies. But would her father have listened to her?

Lord Westerley relaxed his hold and stood silently. Dropping her gaze to the floor, Charley somehow had the wherewithal to be grateful that he wasn’t offering any inane platitudes. It was embarrassing enough that he’d already been witness to her father’s betrayal. If her own father didn’t take her seriously, how could she expect anyone else to?

She cleared her throat, determined to maintain a small amount of dignity. “Well then.” She forced a smile. “I’ll take you up on your bargain then. You may pretend to court me, and then go through the motions of making me an offer, which I shall, of course, refuse, in exchange for the benefit of your sisters’ and your expertise on all the things I’ll need to know to get through the Season in Mayfair.”

He squeezed her hand. “You won’t regret this.” But when he leaned his face forward, almost as though he was going to kiss—

“Goodnight, My Lord!”

Charley tore herself away from him and took off running in the direction she’d originally come from.

Chapter 11

A SPUNKY LITTLE CHIT

The next morning, Jules beat Charley to the morning room. One of the footmen had conveniently informed him that she rose early and hadn’t failed yet to finish a hearty breakfast.

All he’d had to do was wait, and sure enough, at half past eight, she strolled through the doors and headed straight for the sideboard. Throwing him a wary glance, she piled her plate high and then took her own seat a few places down from him.

Watching her dig into her eggs, Jules pinched back a grin.

She had bolted from him when he’d attempted to kiss her.

He hadn’t intended to but had acted on instinct. He couldn’t remember the last time a lady had resisted an overture from him.

In fact, hers may have been a first.

“Good morning,” she mumbled before stabbing a piece of sausage.