Page 1 of A Damsel for the Wounded Earl
Chapter One
The English Countryside, Lanwood, Summer 1816
“I was thinking,” Beatrice Langley said, in a light, off-hand tone that was almost certainly rehearsed, “that we could have a few people round for tea. What do you think, Arthur?”
Arthur set his teacup back onto the saucer, trying to ignore the way it rattled. Everybody else ignored it, too. It would be bad manners to draw attention to the light tremor in Arthur’s hand. It wasn’talwaysthere.
“I… I am uncertain if I possess the fortitude to attend a soiree, Mother,” Arthur said, as gently as he could manage.
As expected, Beatrice and his distant Cousin Lucy threw meaningful glances at each other. She was still mostly in black after her father’s death, but Beatrice and Arthur had contented themselves with armbands. It seemed strange to deeply mourn a man he’d never met.
But then, Arthur was now living in his house and running his estates, so fair was fair.
The house was, naturally, huge. The late Earl of Lanwood was known for his love of socialising, and his parties were – Arthur had been assured – truly unforgettable. In a good way.
It was explained to him – along with lavish descriptions of the famous Lanwood balls – that the Langley family had always been a pillar of society, and the life of any gathering.
Hints were made that Arthur would continue that tradition, throwing balls and parties and soirees, masked balls, picnics, and so on. Arthur had smiled and nodded politely, and gradually the hints had stopped, when it became clear to everybody that the new Earl of Lanwood was not going to follow in the footsteps of the old one.
It was clear that the house and its many modernisations had been created with the purpose of entertaining – a vast, cavernous ballroom which was permanently shut up, long lawns, terraces running around the house, no less thanfourparlours, a cloakroom able to take a thousand cloaks and coats and shawls, and so on.
A waste, really. Since Arthur and his mother had moved in, a good half of the house was shut up.
He felt guilty about that, especially since Lucy – Lady Lucy Langley, the late Earl’s daughter and now Arthur’s ward – had watched her home being shut up without a single word of complaint.
It was a fine house, but too large for Arthur. He wished he could live somewhere else, anywhere else. There was a Dower House just under a mile away, but his mother had told him severely the Earl of Lanwood couldnotmove into the Dower House.
“It’s just that I have already sent out the invitations,” Beatrice said, all in a rush. Colour was rising to her cheeks.
This wasn’t an absolute surprise, but a flash of irritation curled in Arthur’s gut all the same.
“You sent out invitations to a party at my house, without telling me? Without asking my permission?” He said, pleased that his voice was level and not angry. “That was wrong of you, Mother. Very wrong, and I think you know it.”
Mrs Beatrice Langley was generally considered to be a fine woman for her age. She was still beautiful, dressed well, and had retained her figure. She followed fashion a little too diligently, and currently wore her hair in the many-ringleted style, curls clustering around her temples. She was youthful in more ways than one and could easily be taken for ten years younger.
She was not asensiblewoman, exactly, but she was Arthur’s mother, the one he’d called for when he lay delirious on an army stretcher, covered in blood and mud and worse. They’d fallen low, over the years, and risen high, and Beatrice had been by his side for it all.
“I knew you would say no if I asked,” Beatrice said, sounding a little pleading. “Pray forgive me, but once all guests have arrived and arrangements are settled, you shall have no need to concern yourself. I assure you, Lucy and I will see to everything- simply relax and enjoy the festivities.”
The forked scar on Arthur’s left cheek, running from his hairline to his cheekbone, throbbed warningly. He swallowed dryly.
“Mother, I want you to call it off. When did you send out the invitations?”
She lifted her chin a little defiantly. “I’ve already gotten replies, Arthur. Everyone is coming. It’s just a soiree – a little dancing, a little dining, and all you have to do is turn up and smile. It is the simplest of tasks, only requiring minimal effort.”
Arthur fervently disagreed but couldn’t quite manage the words to say so. He squeezed his eyes closed, trying in vain to ward off the oncoming megrim.
Strange to think that he’d rarely had so much as a headache before the war. He didn’t even remember the events that had led to him lying on a stretcher with a broken head and an agonising megrim. He was lucky to be alive, naturally, but the memories refused to stop coming. He’d thought he was dead, long before the final blow was struck.
And now, whenever things were too much or he was too anxious, agonizing pain descended, blurring his vision and making him sick. It wasn’t unusual for Arthur to vomit during his megrims, and nothing soothed it except for going somewhere cool and quiet, closing his eyes and hoping for the best.
Right now, with Beatrice’s constant chatter, the megrim was only getting worse and worse. Arthur’s stomach clenched.
He tried not to imagine it, the halls crowded with people, full of heat and noise and chatter. He imagined himself beset by countless neighbours, all keen to ask him about the war and his amorous affairs and his plans for the future. Mammas trying to introduce their eligible daughters, loudly wondering whether Arthur intended to ‘keep it in the family’ and marry his distant Cousin Lucy or whether she was deemed too much of a bluestocking for his tastes.
No to the first, no to the second. Arthur liked Lucy, found her intelligent, but marrying her felt deeply wrong.
That wasn’t the point. Beatrice was still talking. Arthur heard that fateful name,Miranda, and couldn’t quite help a shudder.
