A penny for an Earl

Someone Different

You Sir, are albeit rude!.. and mightily different, and oh I meant the mighty quite literally..

The Earl of Thornbridge was not handsome—his nose was blunt, his brow heavy, his jaw hard and wide. On the whole, his face resembled granite that had been carved with an axe. He did, however, stand two heads taller and two times wider than any other man in Lady Reedham’s drawing room.

That was -Largely- impressive..

Penelope’s breath had left her the moment she’d glimpsed him, leaning in the oddest way with arms crossed over his chest, one enormous shoulder braced against the window casing, as though he wished not to be noticed.

As though such a thing were possible.

He wore the same clothing as all the other gentlemen—black tailcoat, white cravat. His waistcoat looked to be fawn brocade, his breeches white to match his stockings. The garments were finely made, well fitted to his sizable frame, obviously of superior quality.

But in no other way did he resemble any gentleman of her acquaintance. From the size of his gloved fingers to the cleft in the center of a squared chin, he was … different.

“Ah, I see he has answered my summons,” came a voice from behind and above her. “How unexpected.”

She turned to greet Nacelle, dragging her eyes away from the extraordinary man only with the most determined effort. “Introduce us.”

Nacelle grinned. “Patience, penny. I fear you are about to be accosted by my cousin. First, you must attempt to dissuade Andrew of his foolishness. Then we shall—”

Penny gripped Nacelle’s elbow and tugged a bit harder than she’d intended, causing Nacelle to stumble. “Now. Please.”

Perhaps Nacelle protested, perhaps not. Penny dragged her past the blur of ladies either glaring or smiling, eager men murmuring, “Miss Hollingbrook,” with varying degrees of hopefulness, and entirely too many pieces of mahogany furniture. She heard nothing, saw nothing except a man who was different from the rest.

“Oh, apologies, Lady Randall,” Nacelle muttered as Penny tugged hard to wrench her friend past a particularly cozy pair of matrons. Their disgruntled gasps mattered not a whit.”

“Penny was close. Then, she was there, sidling past the final obstacle, her steps slowing to a stop as she came within feet of her quarry. The window was dark behind him, candlelight reflecting richly gold in its panes, in his hair—dark blond, thick, and shadowed. His face was turned slightly away, his eyes focused on a door to the right of the fireplace on one end of the Pomona-green room.

My, he is indeed a mountain.

she thought breathlessly, neck craning, gaze flared wide to take him fully in.

“Er, Penny . I seem to have dropped my fan somewhere in this crush. I expect you will help me locate it, considering your dratted impatience is the reason—ow! Stop that.” The last bit came out as a hiss when Penny’s fingers unwittingly dug into the crook of Nacelle’s arm.

“Terribly sorry,” Penelope whispered, loosening her fingers and glancing to where her friend stood beside her. She met green-and-gold eyes and an exasperated smile. Returning that smile sheepishly, she reiterated, “My sincere apologies, Nacelle. Truly.”

“You are forgiven. Come. Before you generate a calamity more severe than damaging my arm or knocking Lady Randall’s turban askew, allow me to comply with your gentle invitation.

Are you ready?”

Penelope swallowed.

Pressed her lips together.

Nodded.

Followed Nacelle as she approached the towering, dark-blond mountain. Inside, she was floating in champagne—bubbling and fizzing, warm and giddy.

“Lord Thornbridge,” said Nacelle cheerfully.

The mountain turned, dropping his arms to his sides and straightening away from the window. Although he gave Nacelle a polite nod, and his expression softened around the eyes, there was no welcoming smile, only a look of stoic forbearance. “Miss Bronn. A pleasure.”

Oh, his voice was a rumble. A deep, resonant rumble like distant thunder or rolling rocks. It traveled across her skin in pleasurable shivers.

She wished to see his eyes. She wished to know their color.”

“… present James Hallow, the Earl of Thornbridge . Lord Thornbridge, this is Miss Penelope Hollingbrook, one of my dearest friends. Her grandfather is Lord Redlington.”

At last, he turned his eyes to her.

Green.

They were deep, dark green, the irises nearly black in the low light.

She waited for those eyes to flame and surge upon glimpsing her, as other men’s were wont to do.

Instead, they journeyed slowly from her hairline to her chin before she received the same polite bow he’d given Nacelle. “Miss Hollingbrook ,” he said.

Her answering curtsy, lowered lashes, and murmured “Lord Thornbridge” was intended to give him time—time to display the spark of interest she was accustomed to seeing. Perhaps he required a moment longer than other gentlemen. Surely that explained his odd restraint.

Nacelle filled the ensuing silence with inquiries about Thornbridge’s journey from Derbyshire to London, which he answered with brief, uninformative rumbles. “Damp,” he replied. “And long. As one might expect.”

He was not precisely curt, although if Nacelle had asked a similar question of Penny, her answer would have been far lengthier and more detailed. For example, she might tell about the innkeeper with an amusing lisp who persisted in offering the “fineth thoop in Thropthire.” Or share her memory of dew shimmering like crystals upon budding branches as they embarked on the final morning of their journey to London.

But not Lord Thornbridge . It appeared he favored fewer words and single syllables.

Perhaps he requires stimulation, she thought. Some people were naturally loquacious, whereas others needed a bit of conversational encouragement. He must be one of the latter.

“How true, Lord Thornbridge,” Penny interjected, catching his gaze. “My father and I traveled from Cheshire early for the season and encountered no fewer than five storms. Each one proved too much for either horses or driver, so we were granted the opportunity to partake of innkeepers’ hospitality at nearly every village between Warrington and London. Although, I must tell you, ‘hospitality’ might be a bit of an exaggeration.” She laughed lightly.

He did not.

She fluttered her lashes.

A subtle frown etched creases along his heavy brow.

Nacelle cleared her throat. “Travel certainly does test one’s mettle, does it not?”

“Indeed,” he responded, shifting his eyes back to Nacelle. “Many necessary things do, though they must be borne in spite of it.”

Penny considered whether he was making an oblique reference to her. Given his obvious—and bewildering—disinterest, it was certainly possible, albeit rude. Before she could probe further, however, Nacelle’s cousin, Andrew Farrington, approached from her right.

Sand-haired and red-cheeked, he bowed to her more deeply than necessary, his eyes dropping for one greedy glance at her bodice. “Miss Hollingbrook,” he cooed, his tongue lingering long on the syllables. “You are a vision. Each time my eyes fall upon you, I stand in awe of your radiant beauty, thinking you could not possibly be real. And yet, here you stand to prove the fault in my logic.”

Granting him a lighthearted chuckle, she replied, “How you flatter me, Mr. Farrington. I fear your words are far prettier than any lady could hope to be.” She had employed similar responses to gentlemen of every rank and age whenever they’d uttered fawning blather over the past two seasons. She did not doubt their sincerity. She doubted their depth. Determined to shift his focus before the young man embarrassed himself further, she inquired, “Are you acquainted with Lord Thornbridge?”

Mr. Farrington’s eyes finally left her face and moved to the much larger man. “Indeed. Thornbridge.”

“Farrington.” His rumble drew her again to his face.

He was still frowning.

At her.

Her heart gave a tiny flip, knocking against her breastbone. For a moment, she dared not breathe as those green eyes scoured her features, lingering on her mouth.