Chapter Five
After walking away from the prickly Lady Lydia Balcomb, Edmund was shocked to recognize the hum of arousal in his blood. Their interaction had been grossly tame by his usual standards. Intentional, as he didn’t wish to scare the woman off by being too bold.
Yet, somehow, he’d been more affected by their intimate little verbal skirmish than he should’ve been.
And even more surprising; despite his current state, he went straight home from the ball. Alone.
He attributed his lack of motivation in finding a bedmate to the fact that he’d enjoyed a quick rendezvous with Lady Grimshaw. But the truth was that his mind remained surprisingly fixated on the other woman he’d engaged with that evening.
After shedding his coat and loosening his cravat, he also removed his boots and stockings before pouring himself a snifter of the finest French brandy.
He’d have preferred a bracing Irish whisky, but “brandy was the drink of gentlemen”—so Brimley, his trusted manservant, had harped a thousand times.
Even after five years as the earl, Edmund still had to practice the tastes and behaviors of the refined populace.
Perhaps someday it wouldn’t feel like he was performing in some play where he was on the verge of being booed off the stage.
Taking his drink with him, he stepped onto the broad balcony that extended off his bedroom.
From there, he could look out over the garden or gaze beyond it to the lights of town.
There was just enough space for a reclining chaise, and he’d gotten into the habit of taking some time to enjoy the night air before retiring.
On those rare nights when there were no clouds, he’d turn his gaze skyward and muse on the stars or the phase of the moon.
Sometimes, he’d be inspired to form a little verse, and very infrequently, he’d decide the verse worthy of writing down.
When he’d inherited the earldom five years ago at the age of twenty-three, he’d never have considered he might have some affinity for poetry.
Born to a butcher and raised by a washerwoman, he’d barely known how to read and write.
His life had been a well-defined cycle of hard work during the daylight hours and rousing fun after the sun set.
He’d been aware of his father’s very distant cousins who lived in Mayfair, but only as an abstract concept.
The existence of lords and ladies were far removed from his own life.
A fact his mother could never keep from bemoaning after his father died when Edmund was a small lad.
Patricia Holt had believed her husband’s connection to the peerage—though distant—would elevate their status, as well.
After she’d still never met the Earl or Countess of Darlington when her husband died of influenza five years into her marriage, she was forced to acknowledge that there would be no residual betterment.
And this made her extremely bitter. She’d claimed that Edmund’s father had deceived her, making false promises, and that she’d never have birthed his misbegotten whelp of a son if she’d known she’d remain a washerwoman the rest of her life.
All her anger toward her deceased spouse was taken out on their only offspring.
Edmund learned very young to keep away from his mother when she was on one of her rampages against the unfairness of her life. On those days, she’d slip into the doldrums of drink, and each hour that passed and she grew more intoxicated, her meanness also multiplied.
And then came that fateful day when Edmund and his mother were visited by a small, almost petite middle-aged man in a fine woolen suit and round spectacles.
When the prior earl’s longtime solicitor, Mr. Samuel Pontifort, quietly explained that a tragic fire had recently taken the lives of the Earl of Darlington and his family, Mrs. Holt had not immediately understood what that meant.
In characteristic fashion, she’d taken the opportunity to berate the man and make terrible, unfounded accusations about her late husband’s stingy, unfeeling family for leaving her and her son in such squalid circumstances while they thrived…
Considering the solicitor had gone to such trouble to track them down in the heart of London’s East End, Edmund had suspected what the tragic news implied.
He’d quickly ushered Mr. Pontifort out of his mother’s three-room, thin-walled house to the nearby pub, where they could continue the conversation in private.
The shock of hearing the calm gentleman say in his stoic, cultured voice, that Edmund was the new Earl of Darlington would never leave him.
All he had to do was close his eyes and he was back in that pub.
It had felt like a dream then. And it still did, even after five years—the first of which included intense training and education to prepare him for his new role.
Pontifort had refused to present him as the earl until he could make a proper showing and not disgrace the family name and the legacy of the earldom.
It had been a harrowing year during which Edmund had wondered more than once if he shouldn’t just disappear in the dead of night and allow the title and lands to revert to the crown.
He’d never had aspirations like his mother.
He’d been content with his life—one equally balanced between work and play.
But, one of the first things Pontifort instilled in him was a sense of duty.
The earldom wasn’t just about having a fine house and money to burn.
He had estates and tenants and responsibility to countless people who relied on him for their livelihood.
So, he’d endured the lessons. He’d hired Brimley, an experienced manservant who was highly recommended—and had since proven to be invaluable to Edmund’s success in society. And he did his best to integrate the lessons that had been drilled into him during that dreadful year.
Part of his training to become a proper lord had involved a thorough reading of the classics, what Pontifort considered to be a foundation of cultural reference and knowledge.
From the ancient Greek greats to the popular poets of the current day.
Edmund’s brain seemed naturally attuned to verse and he found himself able to absorb great works with ease, retaining much of them after only a single read-through.
Sometimes, he fancied that the words sort of painted themselves onto his soul.
He never said any of that out loud, of course. And no one knew that he occasionally set ink to paper in his own words. But poetry had become a sort of refuge for him during the turbulent transition into this new life and in the time since.
It wasn’t surprising, really, that tonight he’d feel a desire to sink into that comforting, private world.
Considering he’d started along a path he wasn’t entirely certain he should be on, combined with the unexpectedness of Lady Lydia Balcomb, he had some contradictory thoughts twisting through his mind.
He’d recognized the book the young lady had been reading in the quiet of that sewing room. Paradise Lost was one of his favorites. He’d been tempted to ask her how far she’d gotten and inquire on her thoughts about it.
But that wasn’t his purpose. He’d been given clear instruction toward the lady, and it had nothing to do with epic poetry.
Although… perhaps he could use a bit of verse to get past her spiney exterior.
No. He shook his head with a laugh and sipped his brandy. She would see through such a ruse immediately. Resting the crystal snifter on his abdomen, he tipped his head back against the raised end of the chaise and gazed upward to a starless, cloudy darkness.
Why, exactly, had he agreed to seduce the contentious young woman?
Right. Because it was a simple task that, once completed to the specifications, would wipe clean the extensive debt he’d managed to accumulate across town.
Not that he couldn’t afford to pay the debt outright.
Darlington’s coffers came to him brimming with wealth.
And despite his reckless spending, he was not accustomed to the aristocratic lifestyle.
In truth, he’d barely made a dent in his accounts over the last few years.
Pontifort often assured him that his spending had been quite modest to date and that he had enough funds to live a bit more lavishly if he wished.
All of that to say he could easily afford to settle his accounts…
if he’d been given that chance. Instead, some mysterious character had decided to buy up all his debts—from every single gambling house in town.
The holder of his IOUs refused to consider cash repayment, insisting there was only one way to settle the debt.
He acknowledged that he should be ashamed of accepting the unusual terms so easily. But it’s not as though he would be injuring anyone. Quite the contrary, as he expected a great deal of pleasure to be involved.
And the uncomfortable truth of the matter—which he didn’t wish to analyze more closely—was that the entire situation had finally managed to cure his recent boredom.
He’d inherited one of the richest peerages in the land—his life had basically become a fairytale.
From the back alleyways of the East End to Grosvenor Square.
From the docks to the House of Lords. Yet, he found little in his new life that was truly and fully satisfying.
The highlight of his last five years had been the summers when he left town to travel to his estates and assess the lands and tenant farms. During those months, he’d spent time talking with the families who lived and worked the farms that supported the earldom.
He’d rolled up his sleeves and worked beside them on occasion, to Brimley’s utter horror, and sat with them in the taverns drinking ale once the day was done.
Such work was immensely satisfying.
But London was a different story.
He’d loved it for a while. The freedom wealth could provide.
The endless amusements and entertainment that could be found.
The boundless dissipation and hedonism and debauchery.
In truth, the pleasures of town were practically thrown at him.
Women and wine. The best of everything. And why in hell shouldn’t he enjoy it?
As far as he could tell, none of the other lords felt guilt for their indulgences. Why should he? Simply because he hadn’t been born to it as they had?
Edmund sighed and closed his eyes.
What in bloody hell was wrong with him? He had everything a man could want in life and he felt…dissatisfied. Uninterested. Annoyed at the lack of a challenge.
And then he felt shame for such an indulgent emotion. He knew better than most how lucky he was to have landed in his current circumstances. Boredom was a selfish indulgence. But…one for which he frustratingly hadn’t discovered a remedy.
Perhaps this mysterious debt collector was some sort of blessing in disguise. Maybe Lady Lydia Balcomb presented just the sort of challenge he needed. And after meeting the young woman, he wondered if maybe he was just what she needed, as well.