A Beastly Kind of Earl

by Mia Vincy

  “Testicles.”

  “I…beg your pardon?”

  “Orkhis is the Greek word for testicles,” he said. “The species of plant was so named because the roots of an orchid look like a man’s testicles.”

  “Um.”

  “Shall I stop educating you now, Miss Knight? Or would you like me to explain testicles too?”

  Thea knew she should be scandalized—Arabella would give him a glare so withering his hair would fall out—but her mind was already occupied with assessing her relevant knowledge.

  There were animals, of course, which were not known for their modesty, and the secret etchings she found in Mrs. Burton’s library had filled in a lot of gaps in her education, and Billy Nash, the butcher’s son, had shown her his testicles when they were both ten, because he had them, and he was proud of them, and Billy really, really liked to share.

  So while Thea was certainly no expert, her education in testicles was sufficient for her to conclude that, whatever else might be said of them, they were not, well, pretty.

  “Allow me to confirm that I have understood correctly,” she said, her puzzlement overriding her nerves. “Here is this gorgeous, magnificent flower, and some man—who for unknown reasons is put in charge of naming it—he looks at this gorgeous, magnificent flower and he says, ‘By George, that looks like my bollocks.’ And then he says, ‘You know what the world needs now? The world needs more things named after my bollocks.’ So he names this gorgeous, magnificent flower after his bollocks, and all the other men look at it and say, ‘How excellent, it is named after our bollocks.’”

  His expression was unreadable as he studied her. She would not be surprised if he stalked off in disgust at her unladylike speech.

  “I must admit,” he finally said, “that us men are immensely fond of our bollocks.”

  Something like amusement crept into those tired eyes, perhaps a hint of playfulness. Thea did not know what to make of his look, so she wandered away, ending up in front of the orchid again. It really was gorgeous and magnificent, although not at all soothing like an English wildflower. She reached out and—

  “Don’t touch it! How many times must I tell you?”

  Once again, she snatched back her hand. “Sorry. I forgot.”

  “Again.”

  “What happens if I touch it?” she asked, winding her fingers together. “Will I get poison all over my hand? Will monsters come and take my soul? Will anyone die?”

  He pushed off the wall and came back to the flowers, stopping by her side, stirring the air around her. With one broad, strong hand, he caressed the space around the delicate blooms.

  For once, the flower could not hold Thea’s attention. Her eyes trailed up his arm to his face, his profile suddenly as touchable as the flower: the individual curls of his dark hair, the contrasting textures of his skin and scars, the defined shape of his firm lips, the angle of his jaw. She should not stand so near to this surly, disagreeable man. She did not move away.

  His eyes remained on the flower. “I told you, orchids are delicate. This one is not as well as it looks. It has been carted across the world, and then nearly murdered by an arrogant, ignorant Englishman, arrogant and ignorant being the worst possible combination in a human. It needs special care and attention, not the poking fingers of a lady with the curiosity of a cat and the concentration span of a puppy dog.”

  “Oh.”

  His words were grumpy, but his tone was gentle. As though he cared. How intriguing that he cared about a flower, this big, gruff man, who must have gone to wild places and seen wondrous things and done terrible deeds, because one did not get mauled by giant jungle cats by sitting nicely in one’s club in St. James.

  His unexpected tenderness toward the flower made the last of her nervousness disappear.

  “You have not said why you sought me here,” Thea said. “Or how you know anything of me.”

  “Lord Ventnor told me you would be here.”

  “The plants…”

  “A mere excuse.”

  He straightened, but did not explain. He simply studied her thoughtfully, intently, tapping his mouth with his fist.

  “For what?” she prompted, her nervousness blooming anew. “One cannot say something like that and not explain it. It’s insufferable.”

  Then he shrugged and let his fist fall. “Might as well do it now, I suppose,” he muttered.

  “Do what?”

  “Apparently, your Beau agreed with his father not to marry you, and obediently went north to a shooting party to recover from his heartbreak. Yet Ventnor fears that his son will need only one look at you to lose all reason and elope anyway. I am here to make sure you don’t go anywhere and give him that one look.”

  Wonderful, Thea thought. Their plan was proceeding superbly. In truth, Beau Russell had only pretended to do his father’s bidding, as the shooting party had placed him conveniently close to the Scottish border, making it easier for him to steal away to marry Helen. And along came this earl, believing Thea to be Helen and himself to be so clever.

  “And what does Lord Ventnor bid you do in this matter?” Thea asked pertly. “No doubt he had excellent suggestions.”

  “Not at all. One of his suggestions was that I kidnap you.”

  “Gosh! I’ve never been kidnapped. That sounds terribly exciting.”

  “It sounds terribly tedious, not to mention troublesome. Another suggestion was that I seduce you.”

  “Also terribly tedious,” she said hastily. “And very, very troublesome.”

  His eyes flicked over her. “I’m inclined to agree. Fortunately, I have my own plan for ensuring you do not marry Beau Russell.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Why, I shall simply marry you myself.”

  Chapter 3

  She might have looked pleased, or calculating, or any number of things. But not Thea Knight. Of course not. No.

  Thea Knight laughed.

  Peals of bright laughter bounced off the glass walls before she covered her mouth, while her shoulders shook and her bosom quivered, and a glossy lock of chestnut hair swayed against her neck. Even in the fading light, Rafe could see her eyes sparkle. Throughout their ridiculous conversation, he had been unwilling to tear his eyes from her face; he found himself surprisingly captivated by the way her entire countenance conveyed her thoughts, from the active dark brows and lively blue eyes, to the mobile mouth and the teeth that occasionally nibbled at her full bottom lip.

  And now she laughed, freely, generously, holding nothing back. Rafe would not call Thea Knight a beauty, necessarily, but she had a beguiling freshness about her, like the plant that was best placed, that received a little more sunlight or a little more water, and was just that little more lush and alive.

  Yes, that was it: The vitality about her, the way her whole face and body welcomed the world’s delights.

  Suddenly, he sympathized with her urge to touch the orchid, to confirm that something so marvelous was real. His fingers twitched, his arms became restless, as if he could reach out and capture her laughter. Hold it, taste it, share it.

  A surge of irritation had him balling his hands into fists instead.

  Blast it. This was not how she was meant to react to his proposal. This was not how he was meant to react to her.

  If a woman earned a reputation as a wily, ambitious seductress, then she should bloody well have the decency to act the part. She should flatter and flirt and… Oh hell, he didn’t know. Cast coy looks under her lashes, perhaps; present her figure to its best advantage, and declare him clever and handsome in a manner so sincere that he even began to believe it himself.

  She was not meant to make fun of him, or appear scatterbrained and silly one moment and biting and crass the next. Why had no one thought to mention that she had mischievous eyes and a playful smile and a tendency to break out in satire?

  He scowled at her. “A marriage proposal from an earl amuses you, Miss Knight?”

  She shook off the las
t of her laughter. “It is such a male way of solving your problem: ‘Should I kidnap this woman or seduce her? By George,’ he says, ‘I’ll do both at once and just marry the girl.’”

  “How gratifying that you find my proposal diverting. But I assure you, I am quite serious.”

  “Yes, you look quite serious.” Another light laugh escaped her lips, and she tapped them with two fingers to make them behave. “You’re not very good at proposing, are you?”

  “You’re not very good at accepting.”

  “If you were better at proposing, I might be better at accepting.”

  “If you were better at accepting, I wouldn’t need to be good at proposing. Why do you not leap at this opportunity? If you married me, you’d be a countess.”

  Ideally, she would not realize that if she married him under a false name, she would not legally be his wife. But even if she did know the marriage wouldn’t be valid, surely she could see how to turn this to her advantage? Surely, her past scandal had ruined her so thoroughly she would be desperate enough to try to make this marriage real. Get close to him, charm him, play on his lust or honor or gullibility so that he married her anyway. None of which she would ever manage to do, of course, but surely she would take the chance to try.

  “Precisely,” she said. “You would prevent me from becoming a future viscountess by raising me to the higher position of countess instead.”

  Rafe shrugged. “Men like Ventnor get all excited about lineage and breeding and whatnot. I don’t much care whom I marry, so long as she’s female and she… No, that’s it. Just so long as she’s female.”

  And Thea Knight certainly qualified on that count.

  “Besides, you’d have to haul me off to Scotland to marry me quickly,” she added. “And I don’t want to go to Scotland.”

  “Neither do I. Scotland is very far and I want to go home. And since, as you point out, English laws preclude us from marrying quickly in the normal way, I came prepared: I have obtained a common license.”

  “A common license. I see. Yes. Right.”

  “Do you know what a common license is, Miss Knight? I could tell you,” he added, “but then I’d be educating you, and we both know how little you enjoy that.”

  Ignoring her glare, he slid the license out of his pocket and offered it for her inspection. She caught one edge of the paper between two ink-stained fingers and stretched to peer at it. A hint of her strawberry-sweet fragrance tantalized his nose; he kept his eyes resolutely on the page.

  “This license authorizes us to marry immediately. The details are all there.” He pointed to each item as he spoke. “Rafe Alexander Landcross. That’s me. And Helen Elizabeth Knight. That’s you. There’s the name of the parish where this permits us to marry. And the name of the bishop who issued the license: the Bishop of Dartford. He’s my father’s cousin. When I told him I was journeying to Warwickshire to meet and marry Miss Helen Knight, he was more than happy to prepare this for me.”

  “Yes. Right. I see.” She nodded knowledgeably and released the page. “That seems to be in order. Well done.”

  As he returned the license to his pocket, she paced away from him, glanced at him over her shoulder, then turned back, frowning and drumming her fingers against her chin.

  “This is absurd,” she finally said. “Is this a prank?”

  “Do you think I have nothing better to do than travel for days to play some prank?”

  “We’ve barely met and you’re not very nice.”

  “True, but I am an earl.”

  “And?”

  “Are you saying you do not find me interesting?”

  “Not nearly as interesting as you find yourself.”

  “You followed me in here for this encounter.” He waved an arm at the plants and glass walls. “An intimate tête-à-tête in the twilight. What did you seek, if not a marriage proposal?”

  “I sought an explanation for the words you spoke in the inn.”

  “Hmm?”

  “One cannot make cryptic comments without explaining them. It’s exasperating.”

  “Are you saying you don’t want to be a countess?”

  Something flickered in her eyes, a hint of confusion, indecision.

  Rafe waited. What the hell did she want, then? Unless the rumors were wrong and she was not the scheming social climber that her reputation suggested? But she must be. Look at her current efforts to help her sister catch a viscount’s heir. And her own scandal was more than rumor. Scores of people had witnessed her disgrace. It was all perfectly clear to Rafe. If only she would do what he expected her to do, so he could get this blasted matter over with and go home.

  “You must be very eager to please Lord Ventnor, to go to such lengths,” was all she said. “I had no idea earls were so biddable.”

  “When the reward is sufficient, we are positively servile.” Her contempt should not bother him, but still he found himself adding, “If I marry, I get access to a large trust fund.”

  “You were already married.”

  “My mother established the trust to encourage her younger sons to provide legitimate grandchildren. Unfortunately, I was a widower by then and did not qualify, as dead wives are not known for producing live children.”

  But she did not seem to be listening, as a calculating gleam lit her eye. “That must be quite a sum.”

  “It’s big.”

  “How big?”

  “Very big.”

  “I see.”

  Rafe did not bother asking what she thought she saw, for one thing she would not see was a penny of that money.

  “There you have it, Miss Knight. Early tomorrow, we rouse the vicar, marry, and then leave for my estate.”

  “Your estate?”

  “Brinkley End, in Somersetshire.”

  “But I’d need to live with you.”

  With that, she was backing away.

  “And heirs,” he lied desperately. “Earls have to make heirs. Surely you can see the opportunity this presents.”

  “By George,” she might say to herself, in that way she had. “If I seduce him and he gets a child on me, he’ll have to marry me for real.”

  Perhaps he had found the answer, for her face softened. Yes! She was going to accept! But she shook her head and turned away.

  “What is the trouble?” he demanded.

  For an agonizingly long minute, she stood silently, facing away from him. Several tendrils of hair had escaped their pins to caress the bare skin of her neck, brushing the edge of her gown and the buttons that kept it fastened.

  “The trouble, my lord, is that was a terrible proposal.” Levity had entered her tone, and when she twirled back around, mischief once more danced in her eyes. “Do they not teach you how to propose at earl school?”

  “‘Earl school’?”

  “Yes. Lessons in proposals, after your lessons in posturing, prejudice, and pomposity.”

  “No need,” Rafe said. “No matter how an earl proposes, there are only three possible answers: ‘Yes, my lord,’ ‘Of course, my lord,’ or ‘I’d be honored, my lord.’”

  “And yet again the nobleman gets what he wants without having to work for it.”

  “I have no interest in courting you, Miss Knight. If you yearn for pretty words and nice sentiments, you can provide them yourself.”

  “Very well, I shall. ‘My dearest Miss Knight—’”

  She paused and looked at him expectantly. Rafe met her gaze and said nothing.

  She broke the impasse with an overwrought sigh. “A pretty state of affairs, indeed, when a lady must dictate her own marriage proposal. Once upon a time, it was chivalry and gallantry and poetry, but oh no, not with these modern earls.”

  Damn her. Why could she not simply behave like a caricature of a social climber? Why did she insist on having a personality? But what else could he do? He was an earl, yet she could make him dance like a carnival bear.

  “Fine, I’ll play your blasted game,” he muttered. “My dearest M
iss Knight.”

  “‘The mere thought of your ankles makes me swoon.’”

  “You want that in your marriage proposal?”

  She eyed him defiantly. “I rather like the idea of a man swooning over my ankles.”

  “If he swoons over your ankles, he won’t be good for much else. I assure you, they are not your most interesting feature.”

  “Whatever can you mean? My ankles are fascinating.”

  Rafe glanced down, but her ankles were hidden by the shadows under her hem. He was suddenly and irrationally curious about them, how they would look, how they would feel in his hand. Bloody hell. They were ankles, for crying out loud.

  Maybe she was better at this than he thought.

  He dragged his eyes back to her face. “Your fascinating ankles make me swoon.”

  “‘The sight of you makes my heart go pitter-patter like raindrops on a—’”

  “No. Enough. Let me emerge with some dignity.”

  “Your aim is to emerge with an engagement; your dignity is of no consequence.”

  “Anything to end this agony. Pitter-patter heart raindrops. What else do you want?”

  Her expression changed again. The mischief faded, replaced by something like sorrow. Rafe’s arms tensed with the improbable urge to offer comfort. She stared at the orchids, and then brushed her thumb over one petal. He bit back his scold. Her fingers were so gentle and reverent, her touch alone might help the orchid recover.

  “I want…” She trailed off, and he caught himself leaning forward. “Say: ‘I promise you a lifetime of laughter and kittens and syllabub, and a warm, safe, loving home.’”

  Kittens? Syllabub? What?

  “Enough!” he snapped. “You have had your entertainment, making me say ridiculous things, but that is too much. You can use this opportunity, so stop playing games and just bloody well agree to marry me.”

  A sad smile curved her lips as she nodded. Already she had stopped playing, and he didn’t understand what had changed. How he had lost her, when he had never had her. How he had missed something, something important. Misunderstood, miscalculated, got something horribly wrong.