The Earl is Mine Read Online Free PDF

Paris. If so, who would he dangle in front of Gregory this time as a rival for her affections? And how did Uncle Bertie manage to get anyone interested in the first place? Her dowry was nothing, in tonnish terms: his theaters upon his death.
    “My great-niece’s latest admirer—” he began in a ponderous tone to his godson.
    “A handsome lad with fine manners and an abundance of funds—” interrupted the Toad in his croaking voice.
    “Is Mr. Broderick Hawthorne, heir to Lord Dalrymple,” Uncle Bertie finished just as a corgi squeezed out from behind him and climbed onto his lap.
    Pippa’s throat constricted. She’d no idea who the man was.
    “He’s coming sometime next week”—Uncle Bertie wriggled his great girth back into the chair—“and wants my great-niece as his future viscountess. He seeks my blessing. I’m curious to know your thoughts on the matter, godson, as I’ve never met the man.”
    Uncle Bertie! Pippa almost sank through the floor. He winked at her, which meant he had high hopes Gregory would be jealous. Knowing there was even further humiliation in store, she burrowed deeper into her chair, toes curling in her slippers, stomach taut with tension, head dizzy with apprehension. Mother touched her false pearl choker, her face ashen white.
    Gregory deigned to speak. “I met Hawthorne once. I seem to remember he had a voice like a loud gong and a head that kept splitting into three and back again to one, like a magical mythological creature. Of course, I was in my cups at the time. But I’m still not sure that accounts for the impression.”
    He sent Pippa a bold, lazy stare. She narrowed her eyes back at him.
    “Don’t tell me he’s an ass.” Uncle Bertie leaned forward, his fists on his chubby thighs. “I want to hear more. Shut your ears, Helen and Pippa.”
    It was a little late for that. Pippa gripped the arms of her chair and stared at their guest.
    “He was a sore loser at cards,” Gregory replied indifferently. “And despite his lack of chin and his protruding teeth, he declared himself God’s gift to women until I challenged him on that point. Of course, the only available judge in the competition was a stooped crone nicknamed the Duchess, who brought us all rum punch and beef sandwiches. But she counts, doesn’t she?”
    He had the nerve to turn to Mother.
    “Of course,” she said loyally.
    “Thank you, Lady Graham.” Gregory gazed at her as if she were a duchess herself—or maybe a queen.
    Pippa wanted to be angry, but it was good to see Mother glow the way she was meant to in that splendiferous costume.
    “Is that the extent of it?” Uncle Bertie persisted. “He might not be as handsome as you, but he’s still Dalrymple’s heir. And I don’t lose well at cards myself.”
    Everyone in the room knew that. He’d sulk until someone brought him a fresh glass of whiskey or Pippa hugged his shoulders and kissed his head.
    Gregory shrugged. “The Duchess loudly proclaimed that she preferred my devil-eyes to Mr. Hawthorne’s puppy ones. She hadn’t a word to say about my friends Sir Hugh and Lord Bromley. They were too happily leg shackled to command feminine attention.”
    “Poor sods,” said Mr. Trickle.
    “Their hard luck,” Gregory replied, his face perfectly serious, the scoundrel.
    “Demme, godson.” Uncle Bertie gave a chuckle. “You do resemble the spawn of Satan.”
    “Lord Westdale could have sported horns and pointed ears,” Pippa said with exasperation, “and still have won this dubious contest. The Duchess saw that Mr. Hawthorne was obviously the ruder of the two”— only just barely, was the look she sent Gregory—“which is why you can write him and tell him not to bother coming to woo me, Uncle Bertie.”
    He gave a wry shake of his head. “Hawthorne might be a tad vain, but that’s nothing a dose of marriage can’t cure.”
    Gregory’s eyes glinted with amusement. “Anyone who’s able to procure the hand of the elusive Lady Pippa