The Earl's Countess Of Convenience. Marguerite Kaye

outside the drawing room. A cloud of butterflies fluttered to life in Eloise’s tummy, intensifying the faint feeling of nausea she’d woken up with. Today could prove to be life-changing.

      A cold sweat prickled at the back of her neck. What if Lord Fearnoch really did turn out to be loathsome? What if he found her repugnant? Now that everyone in the household was reconciled to the idea of her marrying, now that they had all agreed that the benefits by far outweighed the fact that the groom would be a complete stranger, Eloise couldn’t bear the thought of the match falling through.

      What would it be like to be married? How much time would they be required to spend together? Would they be expected to have breakfast and dinner at the same table? What would Lord Fearnoch tell his friends, his colleagues at the Admiralty? She had a hundred questions. And right now, bracing herself for the coming introduction and feeling quite sick with nerves, Eloise was discovering that there was a very big difference between the idea of a convenient and advantageous marriage and the reality, in the shape of the man who might become her husband, a man who was at this very moment descending from his carriage.

      She stared at her reflection in the mirror set over the mantel. Her hair was still obediently pinned in the smooth chignon, which had taken her three times longer to do than her usual careless topknot. She looked pale, her eyes betraying her anxious state. Pinching her cheeks, forcing her mouth into a semblance of a welcoming smile, she tugged unnecessarily at her gown. It was the one which Phoebe had suggested she wear. Her own creation in ivory muslin, she was rather pleased with the result achieved by twisting emerald and ivory ribbons together to trim the neckline. Triangles of emerald silk fluttered like little pennants around the high waistline, and she had used larger triangles in the same colour to trim the hem. Green suited her colouring, she knew, but she worried that today of all days it would over-accentuate the red hue of her hair.

      The doorbell clanged, making her jump. Her heart felt as if it was in her mouth. Upstairs, Phoebe and Estelle would no doubt be peering down from Kate’s bedroom window, which would give them the best, unobserved view of the new arrival.

      Alert for the sound, she heard the familiar teeth-grinding grate as the huge front door scraped on the uneven flagstones of the hall. Eloise took several deep breaths in an effort to calm her nerves. Casting her eyes around the familiar room, she first opted to seat herself on one of the chairs at the fireplace, but that seemed inappropriately intimate. She hurried to her favourite window seat, picking up the book she had left there, but that seemed too studied a pose, so she jumped up to her feet again, and was casting about for some other innocuous task to go about when the door opened and Kate’s butler announced Lord Fearnoch. Voltaire’s Candide involuntarily dropped from her hands as a man who bore absolutely no resemblance whatsoever to the abacus-wielding Admiralty bureaucrat her sisters had had such fun imagining walked into the drawing room.

      Alexander Sinclair, the Earl of Fearnoch, had cropped dark-brown hair, a high, intelligent brow, wide-spaced brown eyes framed by ridiculously long lashes, cheekbones which were razor sharp and a jaw that made strong seem like an understated description. His mouth, in contrast, could only be described as sultry. His navy-blue coat fitted tightly over a pair of shoulders which would be the envy of a blacksmith, fawn pantaloons encased muscular legs, a fact which she should not be noticing. He was a physical specimen to make any woman weak-kneed and he was in her drawing room, looking at her expectantly.

      ‘How do you do? I assume you are Miss Eloise Brannagh?’ He took her hand, kissing the air above her fingertips.

      His teeth were pearly white and clearly his own. So much for the twins’ wild speculation. He smelled faintly of lemon soap. ‘Lord Fearnoch.’ Utterly confused, because Eloise wasn’t the type of woman to go weak-kneed, she blurted out the first thing that popped into her head. ‘I assume you are Lord Fearnoch? You don’t look at all like someone who works in some rather tedious capacity at the Admiralty.’

      ‘I am indeed Lord Fearnoch, and very pleased to meet you, Miss Brannagh. If I may respond in kind, you do not look at all like a dutiful mother hen to twin sisters.’

      A startled laugh escaped her. ‘Good grief, is that how my uncle described me? Then I’m surprised you agreed to meet someone so tiresomely worthy.’

      He raised a brow. ‘You imagine my predicament must be desperate indeed, to attempt to lure such a paragon from her life of self-sacrifice?’

      ‘I am wondering why a handsome man who is heir to a vast fortune would choose to marry a—a—how did you imagine I would look?’

      ‘Older. Fiercer. With spectacles.’

      ‘Spectacles!’

      ‘Daniel—that is, your uncle—told me that you were the clever one of his nieces. So I imagined eyes weakened by long hours of study. Hence the spectacles.’

      Though his tone was cool, there was, she was almost certain, a hint of laughter in his eyes. A sense of humour was another thing that Eloise had not expected. ‘I hope you are not now imagining me ill-tempered. I should tell you that I consider myself extremely even-tempered, and if you think that the colour of my hair tells a different story, then you are making a common, very facile assumption. Red hair does not denote a fiery temper any more than the looks of a—a Greek god denote a—a romantic poet.’

      ‘Rhyming cat with mat exhausts my poetic abilities. Shall we sit, or would you prefer to continue trading misconceptions standing up?’

      ‘I do beg your pardon.’ Her face flaming, Eloise finally remembered her manners. ‘How was your journey, Lord Fearnoch?’

      ‘Painless.’ He sat down, seemingly at ease, and studied her overtly. ‘It is clear, Miss Brannagh, that your imagination had conjured as inaccurate a picture of me as I did of you.’

      If only he knew! Her colour heightened. ‘I did not—I tried not to anticipate—after all, it is not as if we are required to find each other—I mean—I mean you did say in your letter that it would be a marriage in name only,’ she finished lamely.

      This time she was certain she caught a glimmer of a smile. ‘Indulge me,’ he said. ‘How would you imagine an Admiralty clerk, I wonder? Dandruff, or a squint? Ink-stained cuffs? A man with a stoop, perhaps, from spending his life poring over dusty ledgers?’

      Eloise laughed. Lord Fearnoch steepled his hands, waiting. She could not possibly tell him. The silence stretched. She wasn’t used to silence. ‘My sisters, they cannot understand why an earl with a fortune should wish to marry me.’

      ‘How very unkind of your sisters to say so.’

      ‘No, I mean—not me, but anyone. A complete stranger. They think that you must be—’ Mortified now, she broke off, shaking her head, but he simply raised an enquiring brow, and waited. Eloise counted out forty-five seconds before she threw up her hands in surrender. ‘If you must know, they thought you must at least be averse to bathing, or toothless perhaps. We knew that Uncle Daniel would have said in his letter if there had been some—some physical—defect—so it had to be the sort of drawback that men don’t really notice.’ She grimaced. ‘Sorry. You did ask.’

      ‘I did.’

      That silence again. ‘You obviously do bathe regularly,’ Eloise said, trying for a smile.

      He nodded.

      ‘And your teeth are—well, what I can see of them, they are...’

      He burst out laughing. ‘All there, and in good condition. You sound as if you are inspecting a horse with a view to buying it.’

      He had a very attractive laugh. Relieved beyond measure, Eloise relaxed a little. ‘But that is precisely what we are doing, in a manner of speaking, aren’t we? I hadn’t thought—I mean, I was looking forward—but then this morning it occurred to me that it would be—well, it’s very awkward. You’re looking me over and I’m looking you over, and for the life of me, I can’t understand, now you are here—I beg your pardon, but I think the twins—my sisters—have a point. A man like you, surely there must be women