Page 8 of How to Tempt an Earl

She looked over his appearance, and her fine brow wrinkled despite what he suspected was great effort on her part not to show her distress. “You were raised as one.”

Ian gave his mother a disbelieving look. “It’s been years.” He didn’t dance. He’d be horrid at tolerating silly young debutantes or their overbearing mamas. Talking about fashion or the latest wager in White’s betting book. Dressing like a buck or a beau.

The thought almost made him laugh.

At his mother’s pointed look, he said, “I never cared about the title.”

“Then do it for Matthew’s memory and your sisters.”

The noose drew incrementally tighter. Ian was all too aware of what some men whispered behind his back—that he had lured his brother to the treacherous winding road, known as Devil’s Lane, and challenged his brother to the horse race that had resulted in his death in order to gain the title. No one knew the truth. Matthew had often sought out the excitement of the race, craved it, and had begged Ian to race him that day. Horse racing had been his brother’s escape from the dry duties pressed upon him first from their father, then as the earl himself.

His mother watched him, waiting for his response. The thought of attending balls, garden parties, and soirees made sweat bead on his brow. He dreaded the debutantes and their mother’s vying for his attention, not for who he was, but because he was now the earl.

As for the men, he knew many of them, knew their vices and financial worth. They gambled at his casino and wagered on the boxing matches in the back room. No matter the whispers behind his back, Ian knew they wouldn’t dare to give him the cut directly. They feared his knowledge and power.

But would they ever truly accept him as a peer?

He’d never cared before, but now he had more than just himself to consider. There were Olivia and Ellie. Even Matthew’s memory.

But could Ian do it?

For ten years, he’d dressed as he liked, behaved as he wanted, spoke as he wished. He’d frequently boxed in the club for the thrill of the win. The wealthy and titled lined up to gain admittance into his establishment. There, his word was law, and with a simple nod of his head, members could be tossed out or admitted to private gaming rooms.

Simply put, he was the ruler of his realm. But if he did what his mother asked, there would be other rules. He’d have to attend countless boring parties and balls. He’d have to control his impulses, and his tongue, and smile and nod at the gossipmongers and the dandies. It went against the very fabric of his being. He wanted to leave the room and ride hell for leather in the opposite direction.

It seemed he had a bit of honor left in him after all. His mother must have sensed his weakness, for she sat forward on the settee and touched his hand. “Lady Crowley is hosting a ball in a fortnight. It’s the perfect opportunity for you to take your place.”

His gaze snapped to hers. “You mean my brother’s place.”

“No, you are now the Earl of Castleton.”

Christ. Would he ever get used to the title?

“I’ll consider it.”

To his relief, the countess knew when to leave. She rose and smoothed her skirts. “I know you’ve had your differences with your father, but the title belongs to you now.”

Differences were an understatement. They’d hated each other. Matthew had been the heir and the golden son who had always been able to please their father.

Ian had been the disrespectful spare. The wastrel.

His mother nodded in approval. “I’ve always had faith in you, Ian.”

She swept from the room. A minute later, Ian heard his butler speaking to the countess, then the front door opened and closed.

Ian went to a sideboard and poured himself a brandy. He swallowed the alcohol, then poured himself another as he mulled over his mother’s request.

What he’d told her was true—he was no gentleman. After years of disuse and disinterest, he’d lost any knack he’d once had. If he was going to do this, he needed a tutor. Someone born and bred in the bosom of Society, someone in whom the proper manners and etiquette were ingrained. Someone who would keep it a secret that Ian Swift, the Earl of Castleton, needed training.

His thoughts turned to one woman.

Chapter Three

A week later she returned to the Raven Club. Ian had known she would. He’d done everything in his power to ensure it.

A busy night found him on the second floor of his club, overlooking the gaming activity below. A boxing match had taken place earlier in the back room, and the same men now gathered around Ian’s whist and vingt et un tables, losing the money they had won a mere hour ago.

Despite the crowd and the haze of cigar smoke wafting to the ceiling, Ian spotted her as soon as she stepped through the door. She wore a different half mask and hooded cloak, but her graceful movements were unmistakable.