When a Girl Loves an Earl (Rescued from Ruin Book 5) by Elisa Braden Page A
Authors: Elisa Braden
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preening against a clear Northumberland sky.
“You will have to remove that stitch if you do not wish to leave a tangle on the reverse side.”
Viola closed her eyes and gathered her patience before turning away from the window to face the woman who would soon be her stepmother. What Papa found to love in her was yet a mystery. But, she was the woman he intended to marry—provided Viola could land Tannenbrook by the end of the house party. After nearly three months of running headlong into his stalwart resistance, she judged that result to be far from certain.
“Thank you, Mrs. Cumberland. How kind of you to alert me to possible calamity.”
Her ruddy face framed by the brim of a gray bonnet, the stout woman nodded and returned to her own sewing—a white shirt she was mending, possibly for Papa.
He had elected to ride with the coachman, leaving Viola, Penelope, Aunt Marian, and Mrs. Cumberland to occupy the enclosed carriage.
For four bloody days.
Viola had spent the first two hours of their journey from London conversing with Penelope, who could talk of nothing except her upcoming nuptials with Lord Mochrie. The conversation had only served to remind Viola of her own appalling failures, so she had borne Penelope’s enthusiasm as long as she could before pleading a headache and pretending to nap. After that, she had begun assembling a gift for James, a small token of her affection. It was a handkerchief, a white linen square with a bit of embroidery in one corner.
Of course, such a project would have been quite simple if anyone else had attempted to make it. But she was Viola, Mutilator of Stitchery.
On the first day, she had spent two hours cutting the linen. By the time she had finished, the square was half the size it should have been. Then, she’d spent the next six hours hemming three of the edges. The fourth edge had proven the most problematic and now bulged unevenly along one corner. By the time she was finished, she could not bear the thought of reworking the thing yet another time.
Then had come the embroidery. Because she and James had spent a good deal of time together—the natural result of chasing him everywhere short of his front door—she had managed to learn a fair amount about him. For example, he favored coffee over tea and ale over coffee. Wine he only drank for politeness’ sake. Also, he was an earl by blood, but he sometimes exhibited subtle contempt for his fellow aristocrats, particularly the insufferable ones. And, his favorite thing to do whenever he had time enough for leisure was fishing. She had coaxed him to talk about it one evening when the tedium of their third musicale had driven them both to the brink of desperation.
“What sort of fishing?” she had probed, grateful to have garnered a response other than dismissive grunts and transparent evasions.
“Rivers, mainly.”
“No, silly. What sort of fish?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does to me.”
“Why?”
“Because I wish to know more about you.”
“You are daft, woman. Why can you not let me be?”
“Because.”
“That is not a reason.”
“What reason have you for failing to answer a simple question?”
“Because.”
Into the silence had fallen a sour note upon the pianoforte, courtesy of one of the Pennywhistle daughters.
“Very well,” he’d grumbled. “Trout. I like to fish for trout.”
She’d brightened, seeing the first small glimmer of hope since the day he’d handed her up into a barouche on Park Lane. She still felt warm remembering how he had raised the hood to screen her from the sun’s glare, all to give her a tiny bit more comfort.
That was why she loved him. Unequivocally, unreservedly loved him.
But, if his coldness toward her throughout the rest of the season were any indication, he did not return the sentiment. No, he merely tolerated her presence with a flexing jaw and a stony expression the way she tolerated Mrs. Cumberland’s embroidery advice. Occasionally, he
“You will have to remove that stitch if you do not wish to leave a tangle on the reverse side.”
Viola closed her eyes and gathered her patience before turning away from the window to face the woman who would soon be her stepmother. What Papa found to love in her was yet a mystery. But, she was the woman he intended to marry—provided Viola could land Tannenbrook by the end of the house party. After nearly three months of running headlong into his stalwart resistance, she judged that result to be far from certain.
“Thank you, Mrs. Cumberland. How kind of you to alert me to possible calamity.”
Her ruddy face framed by the brim of a gray bonnet, the stout woman nodded and returned to her own sewing—a white shirt she was mending, possibly for Papa.
He had elected to ride with the coachman, leaving Viola, Penelope, Aunt Marian, and Mrs. Cumberland to occupy the enclosed carriage.
For four bloody days.
Viola had spent the first two hours of their journey from London conversing with Penelope, who could talk of nothing except her upcoming nuptials with Lord Mochrie. The conversation had only served to remind Viola of her own appalling failures, so she had borne Penelope’s enthusiasm as long as she could before pleading a headache and pretending to nap. After that, she had begun assembling a gift for James, a small token of her affection. It was a handkerchief, a white linen square with a bit of embroidery in one corner.
Of course, such a project would have been quite simple if anyone else had attempted to make it. But she was Viola, Mutilator of Stitchery.
On the first day, she had spent two hours cutting the linen. By the time she had finished, the square was half the size it should have been. Then, she’d spent the next six hours hemming three of the edges. The fourth edge had proven the most problematic and now bulged unevenly along one corner. By the time she was finished, she could not bear the thought of reworking the thing yet another time.
Then had come the embroidery. Because she and James had spent a good deal of time together—the natural result of chasing him everywhere short of his front door—she had managed to learn a fair amount about him. For example, he favored coffee over tea and ale over coffee. Wine he only drank for politeness’ sake. Also, he was an earl by blood, but he sometimes exhibited subtle contempt for his fellow aristocrats, particularly the insufferable ones. And, his favorite thing to do whenever he had time enough for leisure was fishing. She had coaxed him to talk about it one evening when the tedium of their third musicale had driven them both to the brink of desperation.
“What sort of fishing?” she had probed, grateful to have garnered a response other than dismissive grunts and transparent evasions.
“Rivers, mainly.”
“No, silly. What sort of fish?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does to me.”
“Why?”
“Because I wish to know more about you.”
“You are daft, woman. Why can you not let me be?”
“Because.”
“That is not a reason.”
“What reason have you for failing to answer a simple question?”
“Because.”
Into the silence had fallen a sour note upon the pianoforte, courtesy of one of the Pennywhistle daughters.
“Very well,” he’d grumbled. “Trout. I like to fish for trout.”
She’d brightened, seeing the first small glimmer of hope since the day he’d handed her up into a barouche on Park Lane. She still felt warm remembering how he had raised the hood to screen her from the sun’s glare, all to give her a tiny bit more comfort.
That was why she loved him. Unequivocally, unreservedly loved him.
But, if his coldness toward her throughout the rest of the season were any indication, he did not return the sentiment. No, he merely tolerated her presence with a flexing jaw and a stony expression the way she tolerated Mrs. Cumberland’s embroidery advice. Occasionally, he
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