I Love the Earl by Caroline Linden

didn’t believe him guilty of engineering that scene in Vauxhall. Was it too much to ask of fate that this one point of desire in his life, this small question of personal happiness, not go spectacularly wrong?
    “Come now,” Clyve relented when he was silent. “It ain’t so bad as that! I know you liked her best, but buck up, man—there are other heiresses in London. If Durham spurns your offer, take another turn at the Cranmore girl. I hear she refused Simington the other day because he was a mere baron.”
    “Who?” Rhys frowned and waved Clyve’s answer aside. “No.”
    His friend sat back and looked at him in surprise. “You’re smitten,” he declared, half amused, half disgusted. “By the saints, how did you let that happen?”
    Rhys didn’t bother replying. Bunter brought in the ham, neatly sliced, and set it on the table, along with a fresh pot of coffee, before disappearing out the door again.
    Clyve speared a slice of ham from the platter and rolled it up. “What you need to do, then, is secure the lady’s affections.” He took a bite of his ham and chewed, looking thoughtful. “I gather that’s the only obstacle.”
    “Yes, that was my plan,” he said dryly.
    “She went off into the shrubbery with you, so she’s not indifferent.”
    “No.” Not at all, from the way she kissed him back. He inhaled deeply at the memory. Another few kisses like that. . .
    “You need to have her alone, then,” Clyve went on. “Exert some persuasion.”
    Another few kisses like that . . . would tell him what he needed to know. If she didn’t care for him, for whatever reason, he would know to move on. If she did, though . . . Margaret was no meek, limp creature. He remembered the way she had put him in his place in Chelsea, and a smile touched his lips for the first time all day. “Clyve, I do believe you’re right.”
    “Of course I am.” Clyve folded the rest of his ham into his mouth and wiped his hands on the tablecloth.
    The knocker on the front door sounded, echoing through the hall. Rhys heard Bunter rush to answer it, and a moment later Freddie Eccleston appeared in the doorway, a pair of dogs at his heels. “Morning, Dowling,” he said cheerfully. “Clyveden.”
    Brilliant. Eccleston had taken to stopping by whenever he had a message regarding Margaret. Rhys had never asked him to do it; he suspected Miss Stacpoole told him to all on her own. Like Clyve, she seemed to think Rhys needed every aid in winning Margaret’s heart. Rhys was growing exceptionally fond of Miss Stacpoole. “Come in. Have some breakfast.” He waved one hand at the table, even though it only held the ham and coffee.
    Eccleston took a seat, his dogs creeping under the chair at his command. “I have information for you,” he said directly, taking a slice of ham and tearing it into shreds. “You’re to attend the masque at Carlisle House three evenings hence.” The two dogs’ noses emerged from under his chair, and Eccleston fed a piece of ham to each twitching snout. “You must wear dark colors and a domino, and I was assured it would not go amiss if you were to wear a hat with a large, dashing plume in it as well.”
    Clyve gave a bark of laughter. Rhys grinned, but in growing jubilation instead of amusement. “What else does Miss Stacpoole recommend?”
    “You should look for a lady wearing white and black, with a garland of flowers on her head.” Eccleston paused. “I endured quite a description of how striking it will be, so take careful notice, Dowling.”
    “Good God,” drawled Clyve, lounging in his chair with an air of wicked delight. “I haven’t been to a masque in some time. I might have such a hat at home . . .”
    “Excellent; I’d be delighted to borrow it. Bunter will fetch it at once,” Rhys told him. “What time should I seek the lady in white and black?”
    “Not before ten o’clock.” Eccleston fed more scraps of ham to the patient dogs before pinning a serious look on