Engaging the Earl

“That’s personal.” The words came out more snappish than she’d intended.

Mr. Fairfax frowned. “This isn’t a safe place for a gently bred lady to be.”

“I hardly think that would concern you at all.” Emma bristled at his tone.

Mr. Fairfax didn’t back down. “You need to think carefully about where you travel, especially at night.” Along with the I-know-better-than-you attitude came a strong note of disapproval.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Fairfax. I think I can manage without your pearls of wisdom—” A phrase she decided on instead of her first choice, which had been “overbearing dictates.”

His nostrils flared. “Had I not troubled myself this evening, you would have found yourself robbed … or worse,” he said ominously.

“So you say,” Emma said stubbornly. She didn’t want to concede the smallest point to her new adversary. “I never saw anyone behind me anyway.”

“I came to your assistance before he had a chance to accost you,” Mr. Fairfax argued.

The battle over who could be the most intractable continued until the carriage rumbled up to the Roths’ townhome. Emma made a move toward the coach’s door, but Mr. Fairfax was faster. Swinging the door open, he jumped down to the street and reached out his hand to help her descend.

“Thank you for your unnecessary assistance,” she grumbled, dropping her hold on his hand once both of her feet were on the ground.

“My pleasure.” He bit out the words.

When Emma began walking toward the back of the house, Mr. Fairfax followed her.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed, reaching around, grabbing his arm and pulling him into the shadows.

“Walking you to the door,” he said, as though he were a typical gentleman escorting a young lady home after a leisurely stroll.

Their situation was anything but typical.

“Are you mad? What if someone sees you?”

“Who do you expect to be awake at this time of night?” he asked with a lift of his eyebrow.

Emma didn’t bother mentioning that Lady Roth was undoubtedly waiting for her. “You can’t very well tell me you expect a band of ruffians or thieves to be hiding behind the bushes, waiting to accost me,” Emma said instead.

Mr. Fairfax obviously thought answering her wasn’t necessary, because he only held out his arm, indicating she should lead and he would follow. Throwing her hands up in disgust, she resumed her walk to the house and didn’t bother to look back to see if he was following.

But of course he was.

When they reached the servants’ entrance, Emma motioned for Mr. Fairfax to step back into the shadows. Surprisingly, he complied without comment, and she blew out a heavy breath of relief.

“I suppose I should thank you for the escort,” Emma said, hesitating on opening the back door.

“But you’re not going to?” Mr. Fairfax asked with a smirk. The shadows obscured most of his expression, including his injured eye. Emma briefly noticed the effect was actually quite dashing.

“Thank you,” she replied, working to push the errant observation out of her mind. Her words of gratitude sounded rather grudging, however. Very grudging.

“I’ll wait here until you’re inside,” he told her.

Emma didn’t argue. Even with only their brief acquaintance as a guide, she knew it would have been pointless. But she did steal one last look at the handsome man standing in the shadows before she pulled the door shut behind her and stepped into the darkened kitchen.

Back in the carriage, Marcus Fairfax, the Earl of Westin, relaxed with a sigh as the driver turned toward home. His evening had run on longer than he’d expected—and the conclusion of it had been rather more exciting than anticipated, too. He prodded gently at his injured eye and winced at the sting. The fiery little governess had gotten in quite a good blow. He wouldn’t be able to see his face in the glass without remembering her for a few days at least.

Not that he was likely to forget her anytime soon—injury or not.

In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time a woman had so thoroughly engaged his attention—despite the fact that many had tried to spark his interest over the years. Marcus’s title was old, his name was well respected and his fortune was considerable. Not to mention he still had his health, his wits and all of his teeth. Even half so many attributes would be enough to draw the notice of matchmaking mamas and their ambitious daughters. But none had caught and held his eye like the young woman who had seemed so very determined to escape his company.

He was still musing on the fire in her eyes when the carriage pulled up in front of his town house. Before Marcus could open the front door, however, someone pulled it open from the inside. The earl was mystified to find Gibbons standing on the other side. The butler looked remarkably alert, considering the late—or rather, early—hour.

“Gibbons?” Marcus asked, blinking in surprise. The servant actually doing his job during daylight hours was notable. This was flabbergasting.

His butler looked just as surprised to see him. The eye, Marcus supposed.

“Were you waylaid by a band of ruffians, my lord?” the older man asked.

“No, Gibbons.” Marcus sighed.

“Attacked by a throng of marriageable young misses?”

Closer to the truth, Marcus reasoned, but still, he shook his head in denial.

“Trip over your feet?”

“Leave it, Gibbons,” Marcus ground out. Gibbons was an old family retainer and, as such, had the liberating knowledge that his position was secure. However, for some reasons mystifying even to him, Marcus was too fond of his butler to dismiss him. Although the notion was occasionally tempting.

Gibbons quirked a smile but then sobered suddenly. “Though I’m curious to know who accosted you, we’ve no time for game-playing, my lord,” he said as though the persistent questions were somehow Marcus’s fault.

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” Marcus said, stepping into the house. His eyes—well, the one that wasn’t swollen shut, at least—were tired, and his tongue felt thick and unwieldy. He’d been up now for nearly twenty-four hours, and fatigue weighed heavily on him.

“I’m going to bed now, Gibbons,” Marcus said, pulling off his greatcoat and passing it to the butler.

“I think you might want to go to the blue salon instead,” Gibbons suggested.

“Has my bed been moved there?” Marcus quipped.

“I don’t believe you left explicit instructions for us to do so in your absence.”

“Then I can visit the blue salon tomorrow. Right now, I’m going to sleep.” Thinking was becoming a struggle. If Marcus didn’t move quickly, he might end up sleeping in Gibbons’s chair because he couldn’t make it any farther.

“Shall I tell your estate manager to rest while he awaits your leisure?”

Marcus stopped in his path to the stairs. He turned to face Gibbons, trying to ignore the knot forming in the pit of his stomach. But Gibbons wasn’t smiling, smirking or doing anything that suggested he was joking.

“Grimshaw is here?” he asked.

Gibbons nodded. “He arrived twenty minutes ago.”

What could his estate manager want? Marcus knew that whatever had happened, Grimshaw’s coming to see him in the middle of the night was an ill omen. Anxiety momentarily banished his fatigue, and the earl nearly sprinted to the salon.