The Earl's American Heiress. Carol Arens

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СКАЧАТЬ would think so, of course, since he had been the one to raise her. The truth was, her hair was far too red to be considered fashionable, her eyes green rather than the desired blue. But it was her nose that was her biggest beauty fault, being a bit too sharp. Unless she was smiling, her countenance had a slightly severe appearance, bordering even on arrogance, or so Grandfather had warned.

      Her younger and prettier cousin, Madeline, had a nose that looked sweet no matter her mood.

      And Clementine’s temperament? She was far too direct and opinionated to be considered socially graceful. Truly, she smiled only when she felt like it, not when it was required. Her smiles were quite genuine, to be sure, but never given away simply to put someone at ease during an awkward conversation. Sadly, on those occasions she tried, the gesture came out more as a grimace.

      Madeline was far better at playing the hostess. Indeed, she excelled at charming people. Her cousin was petite, with fairy-blond hair. Her blue eyes were lit from within by a gracious spirit. Madeline had a gift for making a stranger into a friend.

      It was why Grandfather had elected Madeline to be the one to cross the ocean and marry a peer of the realm—a lofty earl, no less.

      Every morning and night Clementine thanked the good lord that she was not the charming granddaughter.

      Which allowed her to be the one who was free to stand on the beach in her bathing costume, wiggle her bare toes in the sand and dream of being a pelican.

      Since she was not doomed to become a countess, Grandfather had given his blessing on her desire to become the schoolteacher she had always yearned to be. Truly, she wanted nothing more in life than to direct young minds toward a sound future.

      And of equal importance to her, marriage could wait until she was good and ready for it.

      “If I do stay in my room, no one will miss me.” She returned her grandfather’s arched brow with one of her own. It must be a family trait, that—putting someone in their place with a lifted brow. Her cousin didn’t share it, though. Only she and Grandfather used the expression. Perhaps her parents and Madeline’s had it, but they had all died so long ago that she knew them mostly as portraits in the formal parlor. “Madeline will make up for my absence.”

      “Madeline has run off.”

      All of a sudden she could not hear the surf crashing on the sand, and the gulls went silent.

      Run off?

      “To the dressmaker, no doubt.”

      “She’s run away with some charlatan. Left a note admitting it.”

      Clementine ought to have suspected that might happen.

      While she and Madeline both tended to be freethinking, as Grandfather had raised them to be, her cousin’s temperament sent her flying headlong into adventure.

      Clementine was of a settled nature, happy to be at home, cozy and content in the smallest room of the sprawling mansion she had grown up in. Her best nights were the ones when she managed to hide away from Grandfather’s many social gatherings. The back garden had private nooks and lush alcoves where she’d spent many a warm summer evening undetected.

      Now Madeline—the intended countess—the one to fulfill Grandfather’s plan for the safekeeping of the family, beyond that which could be found by mere fortune alone, had freely taken wing and fluttered happily away from her duty.

      And Grandfather was looking at Clementine in a most peculiar way. She feared the battle of the arched brows was going to end up with her becoming the Countess of Fencroft.

      No! No! And no!

      But the merciless, twisting knot in her stomach made her suspect that Grandfather would win the battle, because she was, above all things, distressingly loyal.

      Drat it.

      Near Folkestone, England, at the same moment,

      May 1889

      The sixth Earl of Fencroft stood on a rock, staring out at the sea. The light of a full moon suddenly emerging from behind a cloud illuminated the crests of unsettled, ink-like water for as far as he could see. It was a violent yet beautiful thing to behold.

      And to hear. The forceful crash of waves hitting the rock ten feet below where he stood suited his mood, which, like the approaching storm, was darkly brooding.

      Cold wind snapped his cloak about like a pair of wild, flapping wings. Mist from the crashing waves dampened his clothing, soaked his hair and dripped down his face. He felt the sting of salt water in his eyes but didn’t dare to close them.

      If he did he would see the fifth Earl of Fencroft’s face, still and pale in death.

      In life, his brother’s face had never been still. In spite of a lifetime of ill health that face had always been smiling.

      Laughter—not always appropriate laughter, to be sure, but laughter just the same—was what he was known for.

      Even though no one had expected Oliver to make old bones, his death had seemed sudden.

      The lung condition that had plagued him all his life had grown worse so slowly that it hadn’t been noticeable day to day, not until Oliver slumped over his cards while playing whist with the estate accountant, Mr. Robinson, and died.

      No, Heath could not say that he had not known the mantle his brother carried so jovially would fall upon him one day. He had understood it since he was old enough to recognize that his brother lived in a damaged body. Nonetheless, it was shocking and bitterly sad.

      Even if sorrow were not perched upon his shoulder, he would not be happy. Believing in a vague way that one day he would replace his brother as earl was a far different thing from actually doing it.

      The last thing he wanted was his new title, especially given how grievously he had come by it.

      Death certainly had a way of altering life.

      His life had been rather ideal when the main requirement on his time was to oversee the estate in Derbyshire. Those rolling green acres of pastureland were paradise.

      While his presence in London was often necessary, he had been excused from much of the city’s social rigor.

      Now he would be required to attend Parliament in Oliver’s stead.

      He’d be required to sit among the nobility, arguing unsolvable issues.

      Glancing back over his shoulder and up the stark cliffside, he watched smoke curl out of the chimney of his coastal retreat.

      The seaside cottage was as much home to him as the estate in Derbyshire was. Certainly more than the town house in London was.

      All the upstairs lamps had been put out. Only the kitchen window remained aglow.

      He looked back at the sea, watching the blackish surface peak and foam.

      Somehow, knowing that the children slept sweet and safe inside СКАЧАТЬ