Page 2 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you’ve nothing to worry about. Your father is tall, as was your mother, God rest her soul. I’ll wager that, within the next year, you’ll grow into those hands and feet.”
“Thank you,” Michael muttered, even though he felt the opposite of grateful. He was all too aware that, unlike his friends, who had shot up dramatically in the last few years, he remained on the shorter side of average. Not only that, he was scrawny and terrifically awkward, with hands and feet so large they looked like they could not possibly go with the rest of his body.
Throw in his gigantic ears, and he wasn’t exactly a fairy-tale prince.
But Anne wasn’t shallow. She didn’t care about things like that.
At least, he hoped to God she didn’t.
The earl was shaking his head, looking wistful. “You remind me very much of myself when I was not too much older, when I began courting my first wife. You’ve chosen well for yourself, if you don’t mind my saying so. Lady Anne actually bears a striking resemblance to my Clara.” He gazed across the room, lost in thought. “A very striking resemblance indeed.”
“I see,” Michael said. He was so anxious, it was difficult to attend to what the man was saying, but he was trying not to be rude.
There was a rush of footsteps in the foyer as the first footman returned. “Excuse me,” Michael said, already halfway across the room.
“They were at Lady Grenwood’s house earlier,” the footman said, hands on his knees, breath coming in gasps. “But they left a half hour ago, and her ladyship didn’t know where else they were heading.”
Yarwood gave the man no quarter, handing him another slip of paper. “We’ve thought of three more houses.”
“Yes, sir!” the footman said, hauling in one last breath before rushing out the door.
Time passed both agonizingly slowly and all too quickly. Somehow every time Michael checked his pocket watch, another five minutes had disappeared. Soon all the footmen but two had returned, and still there was no news.
Michael sighed and turned to Yarwood. “If I am to make my ship, I must depart in ten minutes. As much as I hate to convey such a message in a letter, it appears it has come to that.”
“I believe you are right, my lord,” Yarwood said, leading Michael back into the drawing room, where the earl was still waiting before the fire. Yarwood opened a writing desk and gestured for Michael to sit.
Over the years, Michael had imagined proposing to Anne in hundreds of different ways. On the balcony at a ball. In the Greek folly behind her house. On the pond where, years ago, they had whiled away many an hour playing pirates (Michael had quickly rejected that one. They had been prone enough to overturning the skiff without anyone attempting to go down on one knee).
But he had finally decided that he would propose in the meadow next to Cranfield Castle, the glorious old ruin that had been in his family for almost five hundred years. This happened to be the spot they had been picnicking the summer they had both been fifteen, when Michael had come oh so close to kissing her.
Proposing in a letter therefore tasted like the bitterness of defeat, and what Michael was able to compose in the space of ten minutes left much to be desired. But at least he was able to cover the essentials: that he loved Anne, that he had for years; that he wanted no one but her for his wife; that he never wanted to be parted from her; and that if she would but wait for him, he would rush back to her side just as soon as he had completed the task his father had set before him.
“There,” he said, putting a final crease in the paper and rising to his feet. He consulted his pocket watch and was dismayed to discover that he should have left five minutes ago. “I must hurry.”
“I will ensure that Lady Anne receives it,” Yarwood promised.
“Thank you, Yarwood,” Michael said with feeling. “For everything.”
The earl had crossed the room to shake Michael’s hand. “Good luck to you, young man.”
Michael accepted his hand. Plague take it—he was in such a state he had entirely forgotten the man’s name. “Thank you, my lord.”
And so Michael hurried down the steps as quickly as he had rushed up them, anxious for Anne’s answer and knowing he would have to wait months to learn what that answer might be.
Lord Wynters glanced about the drawing room. The house was still aflutter following the excitement caused by young Lord Morsley’s unexpected arrival. The footmen were chattering amongst themselves in the foyer.
Yarwood, the only one who seemed to recall that they still had a guest, had taken up a position just outside the door.
“Yarwood,” Lord Wynters called, “I suppose I won’t wait any longer. But I wonder if I might ask a favor before I go.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
He raised his empty glass. “I happen to know that Cheltenham keeps a bottle of Martell up in the library. Would you mind fetching me a glass?”
“At once, my lord.”
