The Earl's American Heiress. Carol Arens

and a poor American—society would never recover from it—but one like her. If there was one like her to be had.

      “That sounds delightfully simple. But now that you know why I was in the garden, I’d like to know what you are doing here.”

      She spoke to him with boldness and he found it quite appealing. Would she do so if she knew him to be the lordly master of the house next door? He was glad she didn’t know it, since the very thought was as pompous as a strutting rooster.

      “There are some things a gentleman cannot reveal. Let’s just say I thought it an inviting path to take on my way home.”

      “Yes, until you encountered a cat. I can’t be sure but it appeared to have been a black cat. I hope you do not also encounter a string of bad luck.”

      “To tell you the truth, Miss Fitz, tripping over the cat and coming awake in the pond with you was the nicest thing to happen to me all evening.”

      The nicest thing to happen to him in a very long time, in fact.

      “Being plucked from certain death is nice of an evening.”

      “Quite,” he murmured. Then, since he could hardly keep her here shivering all night, he said, “Please, let me pay for your ruined gown.”

      “It’s far from ruined, only wet. It will dry out right as rain.”

      “I’ll see you home then.” He crooked his arm thinking how silly it must look, two dripping people in the wee hours of the night observing the formal gesture.

      “There is no need.” She arched a brow, shaking her head. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

      “I assure you, I’m not a blackguard, but they are out there.” He waggled his elbow at her. “You saved my life. I will escort you home.”

      “As I said, there is no need.” She glanced over her shoulder at the apartments on the far side of the garden. “I am completely capable of walking from here to there.”

      But she didn’t walk. She lifted the hem of her drenched skirt, spun about and ran. Her slippers made squishy noises across the stones.

      She opened a door mostly used by servants, nodded to him and then vanished inside.

      And like a dream in the night, she was gone. Who was this woman? A servant? Not likely, given she was an American. A lady’s companion hired by someone renting one of the apartments across the shared garden? More likely that, or something of the such.

      While he stared at the door, a fairy-tale character came to mind. The mysterious Cinderella. Although Cinderella was not seductively dripping but merely missing a shoe.

      Leaves rustled. The cat leaped from a bush. It crossed in front of him, tail waving smartly in the air.

      Was it good luck or bad luck that he had met the beautiful and self-minded American?

      Heath supposed he would never know for certain. In his sphere, the titled and the common people lived side by side but in vastly different worlds.

      * * *

      Since breakfast was a private affair, Clementine ignored proper etiquette and propped her elbows on the table. She folded her fingers under her chin and stared across at Grandfather.

      He seemed distracted, glum. It bothered her to see him so downcast. It was uncommon for him to be anything but cheerfully confident.

      She lifted a biscuit from a dainty plate and spread clotted cream on it while she thought how she might best cheer him up.

      But given that she was one of the reasons for his frown, it might be difficult.

      Surely he must understand that he could not simply decree that she would take Madeline’s place and marry a stranger in a foreign land and expect her to smile blissfully and fall into line with his wishes.

      She had wishes of her own—dreams that his ambition had ripped from her—of teaching children, to put a fine point on it. Every day she wondered how her students in Los Angeles were faring with the new instructor. She hoped he would be patient with Billy’s slow speech and Anna’s progressive mind.

      Would it even be possible to teach again once she bowed to Grandfather’s demand? She honestly had no idea what a countess was and was not allowed to do. She did know it was a rather lofty position in society, so maybe she could do as she pleased and no one would speak against it. Then again, perhaps everyone would speak against it.

      She wished she could ease her grandfather’s mind by agreeing to the marriage before her next bite of biscuit and cream, but she was not quite ready to make that commitment even though she had crossed the Atlantic Ocean to that supposed end.

      Indeed, she was less ready this morning than she had been last night.

      For some reason the man she’d pulled from the fountain was capturing a good deal of her attention. No matter how she tried, she could not put away the image of water dripping off the corners of his mouth, of the handsome turn of his lips when he smiled or of the easy conversation that sprang so naturally between them.

      It was not an easy thing to make a decision to marry a man when another fellow’s face was all one could see. What a shame Mr. Ramsfield was not the earl. Her outlook on the marriage might be slightly different if that were the case.

      At the heart of it, Grandfather’s heavy spirit was not her fault. It was Madeline’s. Had her cousin lived up to what she had been groomed for rather than running off, Grandfather would be celebrating an engagement rather than fearing there might not be one. Also, he would not now be fearful that Madeline would come to a desperate end.

      Yes, it was all completely Madeline’s fault. Clementine was only here in London facing a decision that might break Grandfather’s heart because of her cousin’s reckless decision.

      “Life for a bastard child is—” Grandfather’s voice faltered. “I only hope that Madeline will remember and behave—”

      He would know this since he had been one.

      The circumstance of his birth was not something he spoke much of—not in words—but the struggles of his young life had formed the man he was.

      To his mind, amassing a fortune was vital. At the same time he believed that no amount of money would keep his granddaughters secure.

      After all, wealth hadn’t helped his mother. At eighteen she had made a brilliant match, at twenty she had become a widow, a year and a half later her solicitor had squandered her fortune and left her pregnant.

      “Madeline will do the right thing, Grandfather. You raised her to be strong and resourceful. She will not make that mistake. I know she will not.”

      For all that she said so, she knew her cousin had acted rashly and followed her heart as she tended to do. Clementine wondered if she had given more than a passing thought to what might happen to her by going off with—well, a stranger. No matter what Madeline might feel for the fellow in the moment, he was surely a philanderer.

      “Maybe so, but she’s used to having money to rely upon and now she does not. She might cling to the wrong sort of man.”

      Was he picturing the faces of the many wrong sorts of men his mother had clung to? If the faraway look in his eyes was anything to go by, he was remembering them.

      “Madeline,” she pointed out, “is not your mother.”

      “No, but she is a woman and thereby helpless.”

      “Well, she does take after you in being resourceful. I’m sure she will be fine.” As long as the Pinkerton agent found her before she was not fine.

      “A woman is only as fine as the man in charge of her funds is honest. You’ll know that a part of the reason we are here is because I’m going to earn a fortune in Scotland. You being titled will ensure the venture is a success. But Clemmie, my girl, it won’t be enough. Wealth on its own will not keep you secure.”