In the Arms of an Earl

By Anna Small

Composer Frederick Blakeney lost his hand in the war against Napoleon and has given up on finding someone who will love him as he is. Jane Brooke, an insecure spinster, dreams of meeting her true love and being swept away from a mundane life. A chance encounter and their love of music bring them together. Life is perfect until Frederick inherits an earldom and its responsibilities, throwing them into the intrigues of the Ton and the cruel manipulations of his meddling sister-in-law.



When mistrust and gossip tear them apart, Jane discovers the truth too late. Can they confront their doubts and follow their hearts to claim the love they deserve?

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Jun 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781612178073

Anna Small

Anna wrote her first romance novel when she was 16. Her mother's only criticism was not to have any love scenes. Anna was sorry to disappoint her. Several books and years later, she is happily writing heartwarming, sensual historical and contemporary romances which capture the imagination of her readers. She loves reading Jane Austen and Shakespeare, as well as modern authors. Sharing the journey are her husband of 15 years and their two children, who support her dreams.

Book preview

heroes!

Chapter One

Jane Brooke closed her eyes as the piano crescendo soared through her, shaking her to the scuffed tips of her sturdy shoes. Lost in the music, she allowed her gaze to flicker to the program in her lap.

The Symphony of the Sea, by F.B.

Those few, simple words could hardly convey the absolute magnitude of the piece.

The petite blonde at the pianoforte could not be the composer. Her playing was far too precise, too methodical to possess a soul capable of creating such ethereal music.

The symphony ended in dulcet tones, the final notes curling around Jane’s neck like a lover’s embrace, until the tiny hairs on her arms tingled beneath the long sleeves of her gray pelisse. She clutched her hands together, chafing her skin through her kid gloves. For a moment, she was not plain Jane Brooke, spinster middle sister of two others who had married well. Rather, the music had transformed her into a spirit as light as air. Had she been able, she’d have danced around the room.

The audience’s enthusiastic applause snapped Jane out of her reverie. The pianist rose gracefully from the bench and curtsied, the hint of a smile playing about her lips as she absorbed the adoration. Jane took a deep breath and exhaled a shaky laugh, overwhelmed by her exuberant response.

She brushed the corners of her eyes before her friend Lucinda Parker noticed. Lucinda had little enthusiasm for music, or, indeed, of anything other than the newest cut of a bonnet.

As Lucinda stood, her unopened program dropped from her lap to the floor. Stepping over it, she took Jane’s elbow as they walked toward the exit.

Was she not superb? Jane sighed. Oh, but if I could only play like her.

She is very talented but not half as good as Jeremy, Lucinda replied.

Lucinda could not have paid the slightest attention to the performance, but Jane didn’t mind. After all, she was Lucinda’s guest for the summer, and through her good nature, they had sacrificed a day of sorting ribbons so Jane could attend the musicale, a highlight of the village near Everhill, the Parkers’ estate in Shropshire.

Your brother does play well. Jane kept her true opinion to herself. Jeremy Parker’s arrogance outshone his performance to the point where she could barely tolerate listening to him play.

Yet when his deep-set blue eyes looked her way, she was too flustered to notice his conceit or mind that his arpeggios far outdistanced hers.

He should practice his playing as much as he does drinking behind Papa’s back, Lucinda retorted. He is just over there by the punch bowl. I should have known where to find him. Her train of thought changed abruptly when she stared pointedly at Jane’s dress. I believe you care more about music than dancing and pretty gowns. This is the first outing we’ve had since your arrival where I think you’ve completely enjoyed yourself.

A blush warmed Jane’s cheeks. She hadn’t noticed before, but the other girls wore light-colored gowns with matching bonnets and gossamer-like shawls. She regarded her practical dress. Like most of her clothes, it was a castoff from her sister Amelia and was at least two seasons old.

I appreciate many things, Lucinda. But I believe the cultivation of the love of music…

The rest of her sentence dwindled away. Lucinda had already wandered off toward her brother, who was surrounded by a group of girls vying for his attention.

…Far outweighs a pretty dress, no matter how splendid. A man’s low voice finished her thought.

Startled, Jane turned to face the stranger who had spoken. He bowed, the top of his glossy black hair visible for a moment until he straightened.

Forgive my intrusion, but I could not help but notice your enjoyment of the last piece.

Her heart tripped beneath the tight corset that received little challenge from her small bosom. She hadn’t thought anyone had observed her happy tears or noted her tapping foot beneath the hem of her dress.

They had not been properly introduced, and his swarthy skin and dark-rimmed eyes were too much like a pirate or swami to be respectable. Even she knew not to address a stranger, despite having been to Bath for only one season.

Before she could decide upon his being a gentleman or a rogue, he gave her a hesitant smile. At second glance, he did not appear very roguish, with his exquisitely cut black broadcloth coat and spotless cravat. His linen was pure white, and the silver buttons on his waistcoat gleamed in a subtle manner. If his waistcoat had been striped, or his cravat extravagantly tied, she would have turned her back on him in a trice.

For the first time in her life, she was aware of her own dowdiness. He probably spoke to her without benefit of a formal introduction because he thought her an old maid, with her string bag and yellowed gloves, and the unadorned pelisse that nearly matched, but not quite, her even plainer dress.

But he was discussing music, a subject so dear to her heart she decided to ignore custom, if only for a moment.

I have never heard anything so lovely. She met his gaze and was dismayed at the warmth flooding her cheeks.

He regarded her with dark brown eyes, so dark she could not make out the pupils. Long, thick black lashes surrounded them, and she wondered why she had not been the object of the Maker’s overly lush hand when it came to designing her face. Curving lips with a Cupid’s bow smiled at her in a reassuring manner, relaxing her into conversation.

I am so pleased you enjoyed it. His smile broadened. I wondered how my attempts at composition would affect the hearing public after having not played in so long. I am gratified someone else feels about it the way I do.

A moment passed before she realized he was the composer of the wonderful piece. In her enthusiasm, she reached for his arm but pulled back before she could offend with her forwardness.

His smooth forehead creased beneath its shock of black hair.

Forgive me for disturbing you. Enjoy the rest of your day. He bowed quickly. The heels of his top boots clicked against the polished floor as he walked away, and only then did she realize why she’d offended him.

Where she’d almost touched him, his left arm ended abruptly at the wrist.

There you are! Would you like to see the gardens now, or did you wish to go home? Lucinda asked.

Jane stared after the composer’s retreating figure. Should she go after him and apologize? She had wanted to discuss music with him, but the opportunity had been ruined. Shaken, she turned to her friend.

Pardon me?

Lucinda took her arm and steered her toward the exit. We’re going home. Listening to so much music makes one tired, does it not?

Jane allowed Lucinda to lead her outside and nodded now and then while Lucinda chatted about the upcoming assembly ball. She managed a furtive glance around the dispersing crowd, trying to spot the composer’s dark head. She couldn’t shake her disappointment when she realized she would not be able to explain her actions. She hadn’t noticed his infirmity, and it made no difference to her, anyway. Men did not usually seek her opinion or companionship, and to have treated the composer so horribly was enough to turn her stomach.

Lucinda paused in conversation when they reached their barouche. Jeremy clambered inside after them, mocking some of the performers they’d heard. Normally, Jane would struggle to respond to his witty and sometimes cruel remarks about the people he knew, but for the first time since arriving at Everhill, she had no desire to speak to him. She pushed the composer’s anguished face to the back of her mind.

No good mourning her actions now. She was only in Shropshire for a few more weeks, and then would return to her quiet life at home.

****

Frederick Blakeney emerged from behind a decorative column. He knew Lucinda, having witnessed her emergence from rambunctious childhood into the frivolous young lady she’d become. Her father was a close friend, although more than twenty years separated them. The older Parker’s home had become a haven for Frederick after the war, when society turned its back on him.

Or perhaps he’d turned his. He could no longer remember. Or care, for that matter.

He’d planned to stop there later in the evening and visit a few weeks before returning to his brother’s house in London, but now he wasn’t so certain. If Lucinda’s friend was also a guest, he didn’t look forward to an embarrassing introduction. He’d noticed the shock on her face when she’d reached out to him, pulling back before she could touch what was a true monstrosity.

From old habit, he went to flex his fingers together, stopping short when his right hand did not find its opposite. His brain vividly remembered his left hand, and the phantom appendage twitched in response.

The audience dispersed, and he caught snippets of conversations as people walked by. Mundane, everyday subjects he would have taken for granted seven years ago, when he’d considered himself part of the world. Now, music was his only remaining joy of a life once fully lived.

The lead matron of the debutante’s association nearly brushed his arm as she waddled past in her sea-green gown, a trail of peacock feathers dangling from the side of her bonnet.

My dear, she gushed to her companion, another garishly dressed woman, you must compile your list of all the eligible bachelors attending the ball this Saturday. My sister’s eldest, Delphinia, will attend. I only want firstborn sons, mind you. She tapped her closed fan against her round chin. However, if you know of any well-to-do second sons, they may be considered. She cast a sly glance around the room, her gaze hovering on a father loudly correcting his son. Both were dressed at the extreme height of fashion. But no Nabobs, unless they appear genteel. We do not wish to turn away any good prospects.

Frederick snorted, discreetly pretending to cough when the women turned to glare at him with twin arched eyebrows. He gave a little bow, and one returned an uncertain curtsy. He walked outside, his temper rising at their intended slight. He was no poor second son or a Nabob but was independently wealthy and a bachelor.

They knew this well, as did every good mother in Shropshire in possession of an unwed daughter or two. He did not expect an invitation to the ball and would not have gone if asked, since he was not of a mind at present to wed any of the milk-faced, pinch-lipped progeny of genteel society.

Not having been considered suitable is what bothered him.

The hack he’d hired waited around the corner, and he walked briskly down the street, hiding the end of his left sleeve in his coat pocket. A few young women smiled at him as he passed, but he ignored them. Why bother when they would only see his empty sleeve and turn away?

To Everhill, sir? the jarvey asked, opening the carriage door with an exaggerated flourish, in probable imitation of the other footmen.

Frederick leaned back into the dim confines of the carriage, grateful the leather curtains were drawn. Not just yet, if you please. They are not expecting me until this evening. Can you recommend an inconspicuous tavern where a man may have a drink without being disturbed?

The man tugged his forelock and offered a broad wink. I know of such a place, sir.

He took his seat up front and shouted to the horses, which trotted briskly down the road. Frederick glanced at the program beside him on the bench. The centered words were drawn in a bold, swirling hand.

The Symphony of the Sea, by F.B.

He crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it into the corner of the carriage, where it disappeared beneath the seat. He had not expected accolades or even riotous applause, although the reception had been satisfying. Dreams of Haydn-like glory had been his when he was still at his mother’s knee, playing the world’s masterpieces while his indulgent mother praised his talent. He’d long outgrown the need for recognition, grateful the music he’d always heard inside his head still had the ability to entertain.

The audience had appreciated his offering though he suspected their rapturous outpouring had more to do with the lovely performer than with the notes themselves. Most of the audience had talked throughout the performance, except for Lucinda Parker’s companion.

Curious girl.

With her tightly wound little bun and drab gown, Lucinda’s friend appeared closer to sixty than sixteen, for all her youthful complexion. All she needed was a pair of spectacles perched on the end of her button nose to complete the picture of unmarried virgin. It was not her face or figure, though he found no fault with either, that had caught his attention. She had actually listened to his music, feeling it, apparently, in her flesh and bones, the way he did.

When he’d first become aware of her enthralled state, just after the adagio, he’d turned away, a sardonic smile twisting his mouth before he’d realized it. Emotional little spinster. He’d been swarmed by her type years ago at lavish balls where his compositions were the evening’s highlight. Enthusiastic and eager, the youngest daughters of impoverished barons and earls would press their praise and attentions on him, pretending it was his music, and not his fortune of ten thousand a year, which had sparked their interest.

He’d nearly dismissed Lucinda’s friend as another such girl until he looked again. The sparkle of tears glistened in her wide, hazel eyes. Her skin glowed with an inner fire, a rapture he realized he had caused. Mesmerized, he’d watched her long fingers dance across her knees in perfect imitation of the pianist, picking up the notes and measures until he could almost hear the symphony emerging from the folds of her dowdy skirt. He’d seen, too, the faded toes of her shoes peek from beneath her hem, tapping and keeping time.

His days of introducing himself to an unmarried miss were long over. As a confirmed bachelor of thirty-four, Frederick did not foresee a wife and children in his future. But this girl was no potential spouse. In her, he’d found a vessel in which to pour his heart and soul. To reach the heart of another through his music was all he’d ever wanted. He had no other interest in her beyond music. He was perfectly content to retire to his extensive property in Shropshire, basking in the companionship of a few close friends and the comfortable loyalty of his tenants. The enthusiastic women he’d known in his youth were gone, a direct result of his returning scarred from battle. Female companionship of the sort his brother Henry, the fifth Earl of Falconbury, favored held no interest for him.

He grimaced as a tremor shot through his left arm and ended in a fiery tingling sensation at the ends of his missing fingers. Repugnance, or worse, pity was the usual response of the ladies he’d met since the war. He normally eschewed attending even casual occasions such as this musicale, but the desire to hear his latest, and perhaps, finest piece played before a real audience had conquered his reticence.

And the fact he could not play it himself was another reason.

A spasm struck him. He squeezed his eyes shut, holding back a groan with gritted teeth while he waited for it to pass. Inevitably, the pain lessened as the pins and needles in his lower arm and hand—the hand no longer attached to his body—began.

He massaged the stump through his carefully sewn cuff, but it brought no relief. He hadn’t expected it to. The expensive London physicians Henry had summoned told him the pains and tingling were a mere fancy conjured by his imagination. Besides, how could he feel pain in an appendage that was no longer there?

He fumbled inside his coat and withdrew a slim silver flask. Grimacing, he held it between his knees while he pulled out the stopper. As he sipped, the sherry taste of laudanum slid down his tongue, filling him with an artificial heat.

He put the flask away, noting it was nearly empty. He couldn’t remember when he’d last filled it but would have to make a request of his valet, Dixon, to procure more. He’d withstand Dixon’s inevitable disapproving silence, knowing the man would serve his needs despite his objection to his master’s choice of sedative. It was either laudanum, or he could douse his pain in hard liquor, which had killed his father.

He scowled at the unbidden memory of his father. Quick to punish and miserly with praise for his sons, the late earl had governed his tenants and three boys with an iron hand. Frederick often wondered if their father’s brutality was why he and his brothers had no children. Henry and his wife, Alice, had tried for years with no luck; while his other brother Edwin had fled to the other side of the world to India, to minister to the poor.

Frederick liked to think he would have been a good father, but over time, hopes of marriage and fatherhood had vanished. He required a compassionate woman for such an endeavor and no longer believed such a woman existed.

Slowly, the drug worked its way through his body. The numbing effect was temporary, but by the time it wore off, he hoped to be knee deep in ale surrounded by the kind of men who didn’t notice a soldier’s injury. His mouth watered with anticipation of a drink, and he frowned at the sign of his need.

The jostling carriage had a lulling effect on his spirits, bringing thoughts of more pleasant things. An image of a heart-shaped face wavered in his mind—a face with a shy smile and eyes slanted like a cat’s, golden brown shot through with shards of emerald. Lucinda’s friend, the intriguing little spinster. If only for an instant, he’d felt a connection with her.

There may be hope for you yet, Blakeney, he muttered.

Chapter Two

Hold your pose, Jane. I’ve almost finished your right arm, Lucinda mumbled through the mouthful of paintbrushes dangling from her lips.

Jane buried her discomfort. Today, she was Arachne at a loom. Yesterday, she’d been a garden fairy, her hair swarming with paper butterflies and birds. And tomorrow…Lucinda had hinted of wood nymphs and something to do with a costume Papa will find less than modest, I’m afraid.

Her fingers skimmed the keyboard of her friend’s remarkable, and sadly neglected, pianoforte. She ached to play it and gazed longingly at the stacks of music on the ivory-inlaid cover. She hadn’t had much of a chance to play since coming to the Parkers’ house the month before. The only enjoyable outing they’d had was the musicale.

Her cheeks burned at the thought. She could still picture the composer’s dark eyes, filled with humiliation and embarrassment at her unintentional slight.

She shifted in her chair, and Lucinda scolded her for moving. Resigned, Jane imagined herself as the clever Arachne, who’d tricked a vain goddess. She didn’t feel particularly clever. In fact, she was tired and bored. Despite the Parkers’ friendliness, she longed to cut her visit short. Mamma would be disappointed as she’d hoped her luck in obtaining a husband might increase with a change of scenery.

Her arm tingled in protest from holding the same position for several minutes. How is it coming along?

I am almost finished. I cannot seem to get the drape of your toga. Too bad you won’t put on a real one.

I will not parade around in a bed sheet. Jane craned her neck to see the painting, but Lucinda blocked it with her body.

Not yet, Jane, I beg you. You will be very pleased with it. Depending on how it turns out, I might make you a present of it. Her brush was laden with dull, brown paint, and Jane knew Lucinda was starting on her hair.

Do you ever play this pianoforte?

Lucinda stared at the canvas, lost in thought. Not very much. Hardly at all. I prefer art to music. Papa said I might go to the Continent next year, if he can persuade my Aunt Matilda to take me.

What if you’re married by then? Jane brushed her fingers lightly over the keys without making a sound.

Lucinda laughed. Married? Pooh! Wealthy girls needn’t marry unless they really want to. Besides, I do not understand all the fuss about marriage. Papa spoils me terribly, and if all bachelors are anything like Jeremy, I’d rather live with Papa the rest of my life.

Jane pressed the keys. Music drifted out of the pianoforte, easing some of her discomfort. She remembered the haunting tones of F.B.’s work and played a chord as softly as she could so Lucinda would not object.

Not all men are like your brother. My sisters married very respectable, kindly gentlemen.

Lucinda stared at Jane’s hair with a frown. She dabbed at the canvas again. Your sisters are very fortunate, indeed.

Jane studied one of Lucinda’s paintings on the wall. Jeremy’s blue eyes stared back. Lucinda’s brush had captured the sardonic lift of the brow and the perpetual smirk on his lips. He’d ignored her when she’d first arrived but lately had been paying her the oddest compliments.

Surely, you’ve had suitors of your own, Lucinda prodded. I, myself, was proposed to. Well, almost proposed to—by the Earl of Warwick’s third cousin’s stepson.

Jane lifted her fingers from the keys. Really? What happened?

He was too young and had no prospects. Papa thought I should wait a while longer.

That sounds like good advice. She couldn’t see Colonel Parker ever desiring his only daughter to leave him.

Come now, Jane. Lucinda pointed her paintbrush like an extension of her finger. You must tell me of your own suitors.

Jane pushed the tickling strands of hair from her cheek. Lucinda’s maid had dressed it in the fashion they imagined a Roman maiden would have worn. Jane wondered how Lucinda knew anything of ancient Rome, since she had yet to observe her with a book.

I do not wish to have suitors. She pretended her single status was of her choosing and not due to lack of interest on the part of any bachelors. My sisters were always occupied in the pursuit of husbands. I prefer to stay at home, and read, or play… Her finger touched the keys again. A single note held and faded.

You prefer music over the attentions of a swain?

My sisters suffered while waiting for their beaux to propose marriage. I would not desire the same despair. Sleepless nights…

Whispers and sighs, Lucinda interjected, and sighed herself.

Distracted to a fault.

Focused on a pair of handsome eyes.

Jane turned abruptly away from Jeremy’s portrait. Lack of appetite.

Yes, but an appetite for something more desirable than food. Lucinda giggled, while Jane retained her composure. Lucinda studied her for a second and then sniffed dismissively.

Mark my words, Jane. There’s a daring romantic hiding within your stern breast. How could there not be? All those books you’ve read must have bred something of the poet within you. Still waters run deep, Papa always says.

Your papa is quite mistaken, I assure you. Jane stretched, her back creaking in protest from the unnatural pose she’d been forced to hold. She ran her hands over her tightly corseted frame for some relief and opened her arms, flustered.

Look at me, Lucinda. I’m not a celebrated beauty like my sister Amelia or clever like Rosalind. I have mouse-colored hair. I am more comfortable at home than at a party or ball. Men do not like girls like me. Marriageable men, at least.

The old doctor in her village had always enjoyed her company, but she suspected it was for her lack of squeamishness over a new disease or accident victim than anything else. Other than he, she’d been ignored by the eligible bachelors in Weston, few though they were.

There is nothing wrong with your hair, Lucinda said firmly. Mice have lovely fur, if you get a good look at them. All soft and velvety brown. I should think most men would prefer a wife who remains at home. They do not have to spend all their money on a woman who would rather read than hire a new modiste every season.

Not the men in Weston, I’m afraid. Jane left the bench to examine the painting. Posed over an imaginary loom, her hands looked slender and white, not nail-bitten and stained with ink. Her figure was lithe and feminine, not boyish and lacking in curves.

The crowning beauty was her hair, a glorious mane of richness hanging over her shoulders in voluptuous waves. Lucinda had painted in tiny strands of pearls, which echoed the dewdrops on the spider webs emerging from the loom, as if to pound into the observer the portrait depicted Arachne.

Except for the hair, it doesn’t look remotely like me, though it is lovely.

Lucinda dabbed a dot of pink on the canvas, transforming her from a bookworm into the rival of a jealous goddess.

It is quite you, Jane, I assure you. I would not be surprised if you received many proposals after this is shown at the Royal Academy.

Though it was improbable the painting would ever have an audience at the Academy, it was more unlikely she would receive a marriage proposal.

Marriage? Jane shrugged. We are of the same mind, Lucinda. Besides, I think gentlemen only want ladies who spend their days mooning after them. I would never lose a moment’s care over any gentleman. And young ladies who do are silly creatures.

Lucinda’s laugh tinkled like a bell. Jane had imitated it once, but a guttural bleat had come out of her mouth instead.

I quite agree with you, Jane. ’Tis a pity we cannot live in the same house together as cheerful old maids, and you can play all day whilst I paint.

Why would anyone want to play the pianoforte all day?

Jane’s stomach fluttered at Jeremy’s entrance. She returned to the pianoforte and began picking out a tune.

Jane and I were discussing how silly it is to moon over a suitor rather than pursue more worthwhile hobbies.

Jeremy’s grin brightened the room, and Jane was sure he knew it. Perhaps the pursuit of a husband is a worthwhile hobby. He gave Jane such an inscrutable stare she lowered her gaze to the instrument again. He cleared his throat. Miss Brooke, will you play for us tomorrow? Father’s having a guest, and Lucinda’s playing is dreadful.

What about your playing, dear brother? You had Mr. Colton’s instruction when he was here last spring. You should provide the entertainment, and Jane and I will pretend to listen.

"I hardly paid any attention to shriveled up old Colton. Besides, our guest doesn’t like my playing. I play far better than he does, now." His laughter sounded innocent, but Jane glimpsed the cruel twist of his mouth.

Lucinda jabbed the end of her brush at him, but he dodged her, walking instead to where Jane sat. He took the sheet of music off the rack in front of her.

Herr Haydn will do. Practice the rest of the day, and you should impress Blakeney. I should have played more as a boy, but I’d much rather ride. Do you ride at all, Miss Brooke?

I…no, I’m afraid I don’t.

Colonel B. is coming? Lucinda interrupted. Her eyes widened. Ooh, Jane—take care you play your very best. Father’s friend is a celebrated musician. I’ve always refused to play when he’s here, for fear he shall show me up with remarks and instruction.

Jeremy laughed again. "You mean he was a great musician. Can’t play much anymore, can he?"

Lucinda frowned, and then giggled. You should not say such things, Jeremy. Oh, Jane, are not men impossible?

Jane stole a glance at him from under her lashes. Thick, golden hair, like his sister’s, curled gently over his perfect ears. She’d never seen a more comely gentleman, for as much as she adored her sisters’ husbands. But their presence did not cause butterflies to wobble around inside her stomach.

Impossible, indeed, she replied, although she could not fathom why a man should be more or less impossible than a woman.

Jeremy tossed the music aside, and Jane slapped her hand on the papers before they scattered to the floor. Miss Brooke, you have nothing to fear from stodgy old Blakeney. Your playing isn’t half as bad as Lucy’s. Besides, we’ve no other entertainment at home. Edinburgh will be a refreshing change after all the dullness around here.

Jeremy’s going into the law, Lucinda explained.

He snorted. As if I have a choice, Lucy. Father’s ultimatum was either the law or soldiering. We’ve seen how soldiering turned out for Father and Blakeney. No, thank you. He sauntered out the door, his hands in his pockets and whistling under his breath.

Jane hid her dismay at Jeremy’s behavior. Her father would have put a stop