Page 1 of An Arranged Marriage with a Cruel Earl
Chapter 1
“Go away! No!”
Andrew’s own cry of horror jolted him awake. He sat up in bed, his heart pounding, sweat sticking the sheets to his skin. Images from his dream hovered before his eyes. His grandfather’s face contorted with pain before him; breath rasping as he struggled to draw in air. He gasped and struggled as Andrew tried to help him back onto his feet. Andrew stared into his face, but his expression changed from shock to accusation. His hazel eyes usually so full of love narrowed with hate. His voice was a harsh whisper.You did this,he hissed at Andrew, his gaze venomous.You have killed me.
Andrew ran a trembling hand over his face, trying to push the images away. The dream, so vivid and haunting, left him shaken. He closed his eyes and exhaled; his voice low. “It’s just a dream,” he murmured to the empty room. “Just a dream.”
The dream in which his grandfather died in his arms and Andrew had to watch, helplessly, came whenever he was tense and upset. This new variation, in which Grandfather accused Andrew of causing his death, was a fresh torment. Grandfather had died in his arms, but Andrew had not killed him. He, of all people, had to remember that. If he did not, the dream would drive him mad. It was easy to believe that he had been responsible. If they had not been arguing, perhaps Grandfather would never have been taken by the apoplexy that had killed him. It was altogether too easy to imagine that.
Andrew slid out of bed, gazing down at the sweat-soaked sheets that clung to his muscled torso. He shivered, his flesh and his dark hair still damp with sweat. He walked across to the nightstand to drink some water. He gazed out of the window, his blue eyes widening to take in the grey-shadowed lawn and the overhanging trees beyond the window. It was early morning, the sky outside a dull, uncertain grey. Even from the bedroom window, he could see how neglected the garden was; the weeds claiming more and more space every day.
He tugged on his high-collared, starched shirt and buttoned it over his lean muscled chest. The looking glass on the wall opposite showed him the outline of his long, chiselled face, his skin pale in the half-light from thewindow. Even in the darkness, it was possible to see the grey rings of exhaustion and the haggard expression on his face.
“I need to do something about this,” he said to the empty room.
There were too many worries on his mind.
It was because of the rumours. He had tried to convince himself that it meant nothing, that being accused by most of theTonof compliance in his grandfather’s murder was something ordinary and trivial. But it had wounded him more than anything else could and had made him flee London and return to Rilendale estate, his home just two miles away from the city.
And it was why he was having nightmares again.
The rattling of a trolley made Andrew look up as he walked into the hallway. It was the butler, on his way to the breakfast room. Andrew wanted to laugh at the astonished look on the man’s face upon seeing the Earl of Rilendale awake at a few minutes past five.
“Good morning, my lord,” the butler greeted politely, struggling to contain his astonishment.
“Morning, Pearson,” Andrew greeted mildly as if there was nothing odd about being awake so early. He walked past and went downstairs and through the front door.
Being in the garden did not lift his tension as he had hoped. The overgrown shrubs and untrimmed trees, the weed-choked flowerbeds and tumbledown walls only served to highlight the neglect into which the estate had fallen. Feeling more distressed, Andrew headed indoors towards the breakfast room.
The butler had already set out the food and Andrew breathed in the scent of toast and pastries. There had been fresh pastries cooked every day during his childhood, but since the money had dried up, the cook only baked them on Tuesdays.
He took a seat, his stomach growling with hunger at the smell. As he poured tea for himself, he looked up in surprise at a noise in the hallway.
“Grandma?”
The Dowager Countess of Rilendale, his grandmother, was eighty years old, and she walked slowly, leaning on her expensive ebony walking stick that tapped the floor. Her small, frail form was clad in dark blue velvet as she came into the room, still in mourning for Grandfather. The early sunshine shone on her pure white hair, making it seem to halo her softoval face. She blinked in surprise as Andrew stood up politely from his place at the table. A serene smile spread across her face.
“Andrew! Grandson. You’re up early.” Her dark eyes scanned his countenance, a small frown forming between her brows. She had noticed his haggard appearance. He gave her a reassuring smile.
“I could not sleep any longer,” he explained gently. “And it seems you also awoke early?”
She sat down. “I often wake this early,” she told him softly.
Andrew reached for the teapot, pouring her a cup of tea. She thanked him, then added a lump of sugar and stirred thoughtfully. Her eyes held his.
“You worry too much, Grandson,” she said consideringly. “It does not suit you.”
Andrew laughed. His grandmother had always had the ability to surprise him. Gentle and kindhearted, she was keen-eyed and observant to an even greater degree.
“Thank you, Grandma. I’m not sure if I should be complimented or not.” He grinned.
She laughed at his comment, but her piercing gaze never left his face.
“I know you worry,” she began. “But it doesn’t help. And locking yourself away here at Rilendale doesn’t help either,” she added, reaching for a pastry. Andrew watched as she bit into it. “Lemon curd,” she told him, looking up mildly.
“Oh?” Andrew’s stomach twisted ambivalently. He liked pastries, but lemon curd was not his favourite. He decided to focus on buttering one slice of toast and ignore his grandmother’s advice about visiting other places. He knew that it was sound, but he preferred to ignore it. He added some blackcurrant jelly and bit into it. “Not bad.”
“You need to seek diversion, Grandson,” his grandmother continued, dabbing the crumbs off her mouth with her napkin and ignoring his attempt to divert her attention. “Go into London, mayhap. Attend a gathering or two. Shutting yourself away here does not help.”
