She pictured herself as being much more important than he was, so she believed he was the lucky one in their pathetic duo.
She was beautiful, dynamic, and flamboyant—and famous to the point of being notorious. Since she’d returned from the Caribbean at age five, she’d been the kingdom’s darling, and with the revelation that she was Little Henrietta too, her acclaim had soared to astounding heights.
He had a very large ego, so he should have been incensed over the situation, but when he’d proposed, he’d been forced to acknowledge that life with her would never be boring. She’d never behave as a typical spouse would behave, would never do as was expected of her as his countess.
No, she was Libby Carstairs, Mystery Girl of the Caribbean, and she’d grown up in an unconventional manner, so she acted however she pleased. There would be no changing her, and he wouldn’t want to change her. He loved her just the way she was—even when she was maddening and impossible to tolerate or manage.
They were at Barrett, his country estate, and loafing in the front parlor. There was chaos surrounding them, but they were ignoring it. The wedding was in ten days, but Libby had no feminine inclinations that would have made her a competent person to handle the arrangements.
Her half-sister, Penny, had stepped forward to supervise the event. Penny had been raised to be an aristocrat’s wife, so she was the perfect candidate to be in charge. It was incredibly hectic. Servants were running to and fro. Tradesmen and merchants were delivering goods and offering services, and Penny was shouting orders like an army sergeant.
The wedding would be a very grand affair, with a week of parties and balls. The fact that he was an earl guaranteed it had to be fancy, but he was marrying Libby Carstairs. The whole country yearned to be included, so he was working valiantly to control the size and the cost.
The ceremony itself would be small, held in the village church that had pews for only a few dozen people, so they’d had to be meticulous about who they invited. They would compensate for the tiny amount of guests by hosting enormous celebrations afterward.
They probably should have tied the knot at the cathedral in London, but he wasn’t an ostentatious fellow. He’d recently inherited his title, and he didn’t like mobs or mayhem, so it definitely had him questioning—yet again—why he was so determined to proceed with her.
She couldn’t stroll down the street without a crowd gathering. She relished being the center of attention and having audiences drool over her. When standing by her side, he was completely out of his element.
“Let’s take a ride,” he said to her. “I’ll get you out into the fresh air, and it will help to calm you.”
She had problems with anxiety and claustrophobia. They were symptoms left over from the shipwreck she’d survived, and he was adept at assessing the signs of her escalating discomfort.
“I can’t leave right now,” she said.
“Why not?”
“I just. . . can’t.”
She looked bewildered by her reply, and he laughed. “Because something is about to happen?”
“Yes.”
“The only thing about to happen in this house is more havoc erupting.”
He went to the sideboard and poured her a whiskey. She possessed numerous habits that no gently-bred female would ever dream of exhibiting. A taste for hard spirits was one of her oddities.
He handed her the glass, and she downed a hefty swallow. Alcohol soothed her quickly, and he studied her as she visibly relaxed, and it was definitely no great chore to stare at her. She was the most gorgeous woman in the world, and he was about to bind her forever.
For quite awhile, he couldn’t have predicted if he’d win her or not. She’d certainly had no burning desire to be a wife, but he’d pestered her until she’d relented.
“Go by yourself,” she said, and she rose on tiptoe and kissed him. “You need to escape this nonsense. I’ll be fine by myself for a bit.”
He pondered his route, thinking he’d visit her father, Charles Pendleton, who was Lord Roland. His estate adjoined Barrett, and he and Luke were cordial. They could chat about how much they hated weddings.
“Will you sing for me when I return?” he asked. “May I have a private concert.”
“I might sing for you—if you’re very, very nice to me once you’re back.”
“I shall view that as a challenge.”
He initiated a kiss of his own, then pulled away. She overwhelmed him, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d dawdle all afternoon, gaping at her like a halfwit. He was besotted as a green boy, and his infatuation sizzled hotter every day.
He walked out to the foyer. It was teeming with stacks of boxes and trunks that were filled with nuptial supplies. Servants were riffling through the boxes to note what had arrived.
He’d planned to skirt all of it and climb the stairs to his room so he could don his riding boots and fetch his coat, but when he passed the front door, his butler, Mr. Hobbs, was arguing with a man who seemed familiar to Luke. For some reason, Luke was instantly annoyed.
He stopped to focus on why he’d be irked, and the reason swiftly occurred to him: It was Howard Periwinkle, the oafish reporter who’d been harassing Libby about the shipwreck anniversary. He was also the infuriating tattle who’d written the stories about her being Little Henrietta. The articles had set off a wave of pandemonium that hadn’t been totally quelled.
Luke had ended up being glad about the revelations, glad that Libby’s identity had been discovered. If it hadn’t been for Periwinkle being so dogged at his task, the truth likely would never have been exposed. Still though, Periwinkle had some nerve showing up at Luke’s home. The last time they’d spoken, Luke had volunteered to thrash him for being so obnoxious.
He marched over and said to Hobbs, “I’ll deal with this, Hobbs, and please take a
