I Love the Earl by Caroline Linden Page B

neighbors in Holborn. Francis had been compassionate and generous in helping them when they went bankrupt after Mr. Twiston’s shop and everything in it burned to the ground. Surely he must remember that part of himself.
    “Tales of willful negligence of his estates. Tales of his flagrant disregard for his tenants and dependents. Tales of shocking financial neglect.”
    “Lord Branwell told you that, didn’t he?” She pursed her lips. “Did he mention he was Lord Dowling’s guardian after the death of his father, and many of the debts and bad investments were made on his orders?”
    His face darkened, and he didn’t argue. Margaret savored the hit. “I don’t like him.”
    “Like him?” she exclaimed in astonishment. “You’ve never met him!”
    “I know he’s in desperate want of funds, and I know he led you off into the dark Grove alone. I shall speak to Miss Cuthbert about that.”
    “Really, Francis,” she snapped without thinking. “I’m a woman of thirty, not some silly girl of sixteen. I invited him to walk with me, and Miss Cuthbert had nothing to do with it.” He stared at her, his eyes glittering in the glow of the oil lamps. “I was perfectly fine,” she added. “He did nothing I didn’t wish him to do.”
    “I see.” He jerked his head. “We’re going home.”
    “Very well.”
    “And you’re not to see him again.”
    Margaret flushed with outrage and fury from head to toe. “Not see him again?” she repeated. “How dare you. You promised me I would have my choice of suitors.”
    “Subject to my approval,” he growled.
    “You never said that! My choice, you declared,” she said savagely. “ Mine . Dowling is no more a wastrel than you are, Francis. Have the decency to meet the man before you judge him so harshly.”
    “I’ll judge him as I wish.” He tossed her cloak at her. “Come.”
    “Are you a man of your word or not?” She clutched the cloak but made no effort to put it on.
    “I gave my word,” he said. “To our father. I promised I’d protect you, and I intend to.”
    She narrowed her eyes at him. “Then don’t be an idiot about it.” She swirled the cloak about her shoulders and left, ignoring him as he strode next to her to the dock, boarded the wherry, and crossed the river. Not a word was spoken in the carriage on the way back to Berkley Square, and he went straight to his study while she stormed upstairs.
    But once there her heart began to tighten with anxiety instead of anger. If Francis forbade her to see Dowling again, what would she do? None of her other suitors engaged her interest half as much as he did. Lord Weston was a decent fellow, and Lord Camersley was pleasant enough and very handsome, but none of them had Lord Dowling’s blend of irreverent humor and kindness and wicked smiles. None of the others made her think they wanted her, naked in their arms at night, as Lord Dowling did. Margaret was not an innocent girl to be shocked by such talk. She had seen love and passion, good marriages and bad, and she knew what she wanted for herself.
    The next morning she was on the brink of sending Clarissa a note when the lady herself appeared, wide-eyed and burning with curiosity.
    “Are you well?” she demanded even before her bonnet was off. “Oh, Margaret, I was so worried last night—Freddie was so grim when His Grace sent us home, and Miss Cuthbert was almost in tears!”
    “Come into my sitting room,” Margaret said, mindful of the servants. “Miss Cuthbert should be waiting.” She led the way to the stairs to her suite of rooms, and firmly closed the door. “I need your help,” she told her two potential accomplices.
    Miss Cuthbert paled. She already looked wretched, and had been on the verge of tears all morning. “Miss de Lacey, I am mortified at what my actions have exposed you to.”
    “What happened last night?” cried Clarissa. “Did Dowling—?”
    “No.” Margaret pulled a chair closer and lowered her voice. “Lord