Page 55 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
Michael couldn’t believe what he had just heard. It was a sensation he had felt only once before, when he found out Anne had married someone else—a sledgehammer to the center of his chest. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t—she couldn’t—she had to…
“You have to marry me,” he said, the words emerging rougher than he would have liked.
“I cannot. Not if you insist on moving to Canada.”
“You have to,” he repeated, his panicking brain not functioning well enough for strategy or finesse. “You promised that you would.”
“That was before I knew you were going to drag me off to Canada!”
“You have to, Anne,” he said again. “You could already be carrying my child! If you would just think rationally—”
He saw her eyebrow twitch and realized that hadn’t been the right thing to say.
“I am thinking rationally!” she hissed. “You’re the one who’s not thinking rationally! So many people are counting on my society, are counting on me. I cannot abandon them, I cannot—”
“I cannot believe,” he snapped, “you would even contemplate refusing me so you can stay here, and… and”—he gave a contemptuous flick of his wrist—“knit scarves for the poor!”
She froze, then slowly raised her head. Her expression held the wrath contained in a single eyebrow twitch, multiplied ten thousand-fold. Even though he stood a full head higher than her, Michael found himself recoiling.
“Knit scarves for the poor?” she said slowly. “Knit scarves for the poor?”
Oh, God. He had always imagined that when he died, it would be in his own bed at the age of ninety. Or perhaps he would be thrown from his horse, or mauled to death by a bear. Something manly.
But no. Judging by Anne’s expression, he was about to be murdered.
By the kindest, most saintly woman in all of England.
He tried to backtrack. “I did not mean to imply that it was not important work—”
“I have never once knit a scarf, in my whole entire life!” she exploded. “Is that how little you think of me? Knit scarves for the poor!”
She shot off the bed and began tearing around the room. It took him a second to realize that she was gathering up his discarded garments. She strode through the door that led to her sitting room.
He hurtled off the bed as he realized her intention. He reached the door as she flung it open and threw his clothes out into the hall.
“Anne!” he thundered, hurrying to retrieve them. “Be reasonable! We need to discuss this calmly.” He spun back toward the door. She stood framed in the doorway, naked and irate, holding his drawers in her hand. As he stepped forward, she threw them square in his face.
He ripped them off his eyes, but it was too late. She slammed the door in his face, and he heard the tell-tale click of a key turning in the lock.
He pounded on the door. “Anne Astley, you open this door right now!”
“Go away!” was the muffled answer he got in return.
“We have not finished!” he thundered, only to be interrupted by the sound of someone clearing his throat.
He looked up and saw the footman he had met last night, Hugh, striding down the hall, flanked by four of his fellows. Michael hastily moved his drawers in front of his groin.
“Uh… m’lord…” Hugh blinked, and Michael could almost see him struggling to figure out the proper decorum for addressing an irate earl who was naked in the hallway. “Her ladyship has an appointment this morning.”
“Hang her appointment,” Michael snapped. “I need to speak with her.”
Hugh began rolling his shoulders, as if he were loosening up. That was when Michael noticed that Anne’s footmen were... unusual. Footmen were usually selected for their height, their fine figure, and their elegant bearing. These fellows met the height requirement, perhaps, but ‘elegant’ wasn’t the word Michael would have chosen. They were huge, hulking men. Three out of the five looked to have had their noses broken, probably more than once. And judging by the way they were glaring at him, they weren’t above roughing up a peer of the realm, if that was what Lady Anne required.
Michael sized them up. He could likely take any one of them in a fight, but not all five together. He sighed, recognizing defeat when he saw it.
Hugh perked up as he marked Michael’s capitulation. “Come, m’lord. There’s an empty bedroom right there. I’ll be your valet.”
One of his fellows snorted, and Hugh rounded on him. “What? I can manage!”
