A Beastly Kind of Earl (Longhope Abbey, #1)

by Mia Vincy

“When a man is attacked by a giant cat,” she said, “do you think he becomes infected with the nature of the beast?” Arabella turned her head slowly and raised one eyebrow. Cheered by this response, Thea continued. “Consider it to be like the legend of the werewolf. Most of the time, he appears to be a perfectly normal gentleman.” She gripped Arabella’s forearm and lowered her voice for dramatic effect. “But at nightfall, he turns into a giant cat. He prowls through the shadows and pounces on humans like mice.” Arabella gently reclaimed her arm. “If Lord Luxborough is a were-jaguar, then I do hope he is house-trained. I should not like him scratching the furniture and making a mess in corners.”

“I do not need to be an expert to share my expertise.” “Fair point. Ignorance has never stopped anyone from talking knowledgeably about a subject.”

“I realize that if this goes wrong, you will be disgraced.” “Nothing will go wrong. Nevertheless, do not draw attention to yourself.” “I never—” Thea caught Arabella’s sharp look and sighed. “I shall try.” “And don’t get into trouble.” “I shall try.” “And don’t go near Lord Luxborough. He might think you are a mouse and pounce.” “He might rub up against me and purr.” Arabella’s eyebrows shot up and Thea considered her statement. “That didn’t come out quite as I intended,” she said.

As she sought the words to ask, her eyes strayed back to the flowers. The purplish petals at the back were ruffled, puckered like sewing when one pulled the thread too tight. She reached out and— “I said, don’t touch!” She snatched back her hand. “Sorry. I forgot.” “Forgot? I told you barely a minute ago.” “It was a very crowded minute.”

“I wouldn’t hurt it,” she said. “Orchids are delicate. It does not need you poking at it.” “What did you call it? An awkward…what?” “An orchid.” “Orchid.” She tried out the word, savoring its shape in her mouth. “What an odd name. Orchid.” “It’s from an ancient Greek word,” he said irritably. “Orkhis.” “Oh. You’re going to educate me. Very well.” She folded her hands and waited politely. “You don’t sound thrilled,” he remarked. “On the contrary, my lord. I’m always thrilled when a man wants to tell me all the important things he knows.” His brows hitched a fraction. “I suppose now you will tell me what the word means and where the plant comes from, and if I’m very lucky, you’ll explain at length how you know more about it than anyone else.” That little half smile curled his lips. The scars on his cheek twisted slightly to accommodate it. “No, I wasn’t going to tell you what the word means, actually.”

“Allow me to confirm that I have understood correctly,” she said, her puzzlement overriding her nerves. “Here is this gorgeous, magnificent flower, and some man—who for unknown reasons is put in charge of naming it—he looks at this gorgeous, magnificent flower and he says, ‘By George, that looks like my bollocks.’ And then he says, ‘You know what the world needs now? The world needs more things named after my bollocks.’ So he names this gorgeous, magnificent flower after his bollocks, and all the other men look at it and say, ‘How excellent, it is named after our bollocks.’” His expression was unreadable as he studied her. She would not be surprised if he stalked off in disgust at her unladylike speech. “I must admit,” he finally said, “that us men are immensely fond of our bollocks.”

“This is absurd,” she finally said. “Is this a prank?” “Do you think I have nothing better to do than travel for days to play some prank?” “We’ve barely met and you’re not very nice.” “True, but I am an earl.” “And?” “Are you saying you do not find me interesting?” “Not nearly as interesting as you find yourself.”

“I have no interest in courting you, Miss Knight. If you yearn for pretty words and nice sentiments, you can provide them yourself.” “Very well, I shall. ‘My dearest Miss Knight—’” She paused and looked at him expectantly. Rafe met her gaze and said nothing. She broke the impasse with an overwrought sigh. “A pretty state of affairs, indeed, when a lady must dictate her own marriage proposal. Once upon a time, it was chivalry and gallantry and poetry, but oh no, not with these modern earls.”

“Very well,” she said. “I shall tell you the tale of…a winsome lass.” “Winsome?” He regarded her skeptically. “Do you even know what that means?” “Of course I do.” She’d never given it much thought. Winsome was just one of those things that lasses were. “How is, ah, Thea winsome?” “Um. Because she win some, lose some.” “I’m sorry I asked.” He briefly closed his eyes. “Very, very sorry.”

She was a survivor. When people talked of survivors, they meant battle-scarred soldiers and shipwrecked sailors, people like Rafe, who wore his trauma on his face. But how many other survivors walked through the crowd? Unmarked, unnoticed, keeping their scars hidden as they went about their daily lives. Pasting on a brave face, putting others at their ease, hiding their pain beneath a smile. Of course: Life treated most people roughly, once in a while. Who didn’t, at some point, feel like they had been mauled by an indifferent beast?

“I imagine scars this pronounced are difficult to ignore.” Behind them, the inn door opened, releasing the noise inside, which became muted again as the door slammed shut. The inn was settling for the night, and the yard was quiet but for them and the owl. “Yet why should we ignore them?” she asked. “I do not wish to pretend your scars are not there. Our scars are our stories, and stories should be told.” “Then my story must be a frightening one, to match my face.” “But that’s it.” She stepped closer to him. “The attack must have been horrific, but now you seem so strong and fearless, and I wish I knew how to… You wear those scars like a challenge. As if to say, ‘Yes, I tussled with a wild animal with paws as big as my head. What did you do this morning before breakfast?’”

“I hate him. The Honorable Mr. Percival Russell.” She slid a sideways glance at the bishop. “I know it’s wrong to hate someone.” “Eh,” he said, in a tone that suggested otherwise. “Aren’t we supposed to love everyone?” “We’re supposed to, but…” He shrugged. “Some people are such vile snots.” A surprised laugh burst out of her mouth and she hastily stifled it. He met her gaze serenely. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought you were a bishop.” He grinned. “It surprises me sometimes too. What were they thinking?”

“You must acquire invitations for Ma and Pa.” Hastily, she began to prepare pen, ink, and paper. “And write to Pa. Tell him— Why aren’t you writing?” “I am an earl.” “And?” “You cannot order me to write a letter like I’m your secretary.” “Don’t they teach you to write at earl school? Classes in penmanship, alongside classes in preposterousness, peremptoriness, and parsimoniousness.” “You do realize there is no earl school.” “Then how do you know how to earl? You are in charge of running the country and they don’t train you for it?” “Precisely.” “Without even teaching you to read and write?’ “Of course I can read and write.” “Then why are you not writing?”

“That’s a fierce frown, Countess,” Luxborough remarked as he came to stand at her side. She had not been aware of the cool breeze until his large body blocked it. “Is the house not to your liking?” “It’s not even old,” she complained. “I never said it was.” “It should be old and crumbling and gloomy, with mad monks and bats and ghosts.” She shook her head. “Honestly, Luxborough. How do you manage to stay so grumpy when you live in such a beautiful place?” “An overabundance of natural talent, I suppose.”

Inside the greenhouse, Thea looked at the plants, and Rafe looked at Thea. “Yes, yes.” She nodded knowledgeably, in that way she had when she didn’t know a thing. “Yes, I see.” “What do you see, precisely?” he asked. She frowned, as though he had posed a complex and important scientific problem. “I see…plants. Definitely plants. And if I might offer my expert opinion?” “Please do.” “They are…green.” “They are very green,” he agreed solemnly. “It seems I have nothing left to teach you.”

“Lord Luxborough is a horrid, beastly, lying liar, but apart from that, he is kind and caring and honorable and gentle.” “Gentle? You foolish girl. He broke my walking stick.” “Yes, but he broke it very gently.” “And if you don’t leave, Ventnor, I shall shoot you gently too.”

“It is an act of great faith, to plant a seed, to nurture something fragile, yet you do that every day. And when I use these plants to make medicines, crude as they are, in the hope I can cure the sick… We are ignorant, clumsy, but still we try, and every attempt is an act of hope.” “You make hope sound like a kind of madness.” “Yes, but a madness we need to live.

First, Rafe found a straw bonnet and a yellow shawl, flung across a wooden bench. He set his neckcloth down beside them and walked on. Next, he found a pair of women’s shoes and stockings. Rafe peeled off his damp stockings and laid them down. Barefoot, he walked on. Then, he found Thea. She was drifting through the gardens, singing to herself, fingers brushing over the flowers and leaves. Her hair was pinned up but for a few tendrils and one persistently errant lock, and her feet were white against the green grass, beneath her yellow hem. It felt like a lifetime since he had touched her; it was a wonder he had stayed away. She spared no thoughts for him, he supposed, lost as she was in the simple pleasure of watching butterflies in a flower garden on a warm summer’s day. This was her strength. It was not the kind of strength the world valued, but its power stole his breath. This was what made her a survivor: her gift for transforming the ordinary world into a wondrous, captivating place. Despite everything, no one had taken that from her. If Rafe had his way, no one ever would.

“I always thought one could not rewrite the past, but it seems the past is not set in stone. We learn new things about our history, and view it from a fresh perspective, and when we see things we hadn’t known were there, everything changes.

“It’s good luck to have a butterfly land on you,” she whispered. “If you make a wish, the butterfly will fly away and use its magic to make your wish come true.” “I’ve never heard that before.” His voice sounded hoarse. “Of course not. I made it up just now.” “Well, if you made it up, then it must be true.” Her lips curved playfully and her eyes dipped to linger on his mouth; he was smiling too, broadly, helplessly, undignified dimple on display. “Will you make a wish?” she prompted. Rafe made a wish. A wish so bold and true that the butterfly immediately took flight. He followed it with his eyes, the pale-blue butterfly fluttering off in search of his wish.