How to Marry an Earl (A Cinderella Society 1)

“Do you routinely invite people to the duke’s house for treacle tarts?” Conall asked, sounding amused. He lounged against a nearby tree in that way rakes always lounged, as if the weight of their own charm was simply too much strain on the spine.

“I do when they use their valuable rest time from their crops to help him with his festival,” she replied. “Thank you again for your assistance. I’ll be on my way.” She curtsied again. Ouch. Shouldn’t have done that. She walked away, trying to hide her slight limp. More bruises sparked to life with every step.

Conall walked up behind her, leading his horse. “You have hurt yourself.”

“It’s nothing.” She tried for a breezy smile and picked up her pace.

“Let me take you home.”

“Thank you, no. I’m not going home. I’m sure Mrs. Hastings will have a cold compress for my knee.”

“So, it’s your knee, is it?”

“Really it’s nothing.” Didn’t he know better than to be seen with her? The village folk would all be at the windows by now, judging the weather for the day. Judging her. Of course, he was the charming and dashing earl and could do no wrong. He might survive her. Best not to risk it. Anyway, what did dashing earls possibly have to say to her? Or she to them? Even if she had known him since childhood. Even if she found she had missed him, now that he was back. Odd.

“As it happens, I’m on my way to Pendleton House,” he said smoothly. Everything he did was done smoothly, like thick cream to coffee. “Let me see you there because I’m not about to let you hobble off on your own. My mother would disown me.” He smiled a smile that ought to have been outlawed. She paused. She didn’t like this new smile and she couldn’t think why.

But he’d find it odd if she kept fighting him and then she’d have to explain herself, and she’d rather tumble back into the hole. And if they hurried, no one would see them. A rooster crowed. A back door slammed shut. And her knee did hurt more than she liked. She could not afford to be hobbled for the next week. That made up her mind. Scandals came and went, but ancient scarab beetles brought from the pyramids themselves were rare.

“Certainly, let’s go.” She grabbed the side of the saddle so abruptly that Conall had to rush to help her. He grasped her around the waist, and she felt a small thrill race up her spine at his touch. His breath ruffled her hair. Pain lanced through her kneecap, effectively ruining the moment. It was just as well. She had no business being distracted by the strength of his arms or the tilt of his now amused half-smile. She liked that one. It seemed real.

Perhaps she’d hit her head when she’d taken the tumble. Her brain was veering off into the strangest places.

She had a festival to organize and the promise of history about to share ancient secrets—there was nothing better. She ought to concentrate on that. Several distinguished fellows from the Society of Antiquarians had been invited to attend. As no one easily declined an invitation from a duke, it promised to be quite the event. Persephone had been working on the details for weeks now; from the children’s displays where they would dig up treasures she would hide in smaller, safer holes—to tours of local sites of historic interest, to having enough teacakes at the series of lectures scheduled for the assembly rooms.

The anticipation thrummed through her, even buried under the mundane details her grandmother thought beneath the attentions of an earl’s daughter. It was one thing to dig up bronze brooches or pieces of broken Roman mosaics from the back hedges, and quite another to be afforded a true glimpse of canopic jars from Ancient Egypt. All her life, she’d dreamed of such collections. Her visits to Montagu House in London only fanned the flames of her obsession. She considered it her field, not her obsession. Well, not just her obsession. Even she had to concede that she likely ought to feel this kind of excitement over the handsome scholars about to descend on the village, instead of their broken artifacts.

But artifacts were so much more interesting.

Usually.

Conall’s chest pressed against her gave her pause. He smelled of cedar and rain. His arms wrapped around her to hold the reins and she couldn’t help but watch the tendons flex in his wrists. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so close to a man. Actually, she could. But he had been a lad, young and green. And a pragmatic means to an end. “So, am I to assume Pendleton roped you into his festival?” Conall’s voice rumbled in her ear. It was intimate, husky. And it sent a march of embarrassing and inappropriate goosebumps along her neck.

“I was happy to volunteer.”

“Were you?”

“Of course. Do you know how rare it is to be able to exhibit the kinds of artifacts that are even now on their way to Little Barrow?”

“Hmm.”

She wasn’t sure how to read his non-reply, only that it spoke volumes. “If you’re not interested in history, why come here? Especially now?”

“I never said I wasn’t interested.”

“You are not an antiquarian.”

“You seem very sure.”

“Not a speck of mud on you, to begin with,” she pointed out.

He smiled down at her. “There’s enough in your hair for both of us.”

She considered being mortified then decided there was no point. There was usually mud somewhere on her person. It would be exhausting if she were offended every time it was pointed out. “But you wear it like jewels,” he murmured in her ear.

She twisted slightly to arch an eyebrow at him. “Really.”

“You don’t sound convinced.” He sounded downright amused.