A Beastly Kind of Earl

by Mia Vincy

  She looked back up, nibbling at her lip. She took a step backward. Rafe took a step forward. She brushed her knuckles over her jaw, glanced down at his chest, and away.

  Again he stepped forward. Again she stepped back.

  “Do you know why men marry women?” he asked.

  “Because they’re not allowed to marry their horses?”

  Her gaze flickered to his lips, and he realized he was half smiling. “Because among women’s many delightful attributes, they have—”

  “The ability to embroider buttons,” she finished, too loudly.

  “That too,” he agreed.

  Another step forward, another step back, and her shoulders were against the wall. Her gaze roamed over his face, then dropped to his mouth, then lower to his chest. Her skirts brushed against his legs: She was twisting her fingers in them. Her cheeks were a little pink.

  “Am I frightening you, Countess?”

  “No,” she squeaked. “Though you act like you are hunting me.”

  “Ah, but man is a hunter.”

  She snorted derisively. “If man is a hunter, why does he sit around expecting other people to serve him? ‘By George,’ he says, ‘I could hunt the cow myself, but instead I’ll send the wife for roast beef.’”

  Rafe leaned one forearm on the wall by her head, catching her sweet strawberry scent. He kept his other hand, with its clutch of bills, behind his back, so he would not test the softness of her skin, or catch a curl of her hair. She tilted back her head and made no attempt to flee.

  “I promise never to send you for roast beef. But surely I can expect a kiss. What use is a wife whom I don’t take to bed?”

  “It might be nice to wait until we know each other better.”

  “I don’t need to know you better to locate your pertinent parts.”

  Ah, poorly done, Rafe. Now he was imagining her pertinent parts. Imagining all of her. How animated she would be, how curious, enthusiastic, fun. Her expressive face… So help him but he would love to pleasure her just to watch her face.

  But he must not. He had promised she would be safe, and she would be. This was a whole new game, and one not even he was ready to play.

  So he closed his eyes and contented himself with breathing her in, her scent summoning images of long, lazy summer afternoons. He was aware of every inch of her: her breasts above the ribbon, the curve of her waist below. Aware of her hips, her thighs, her feet.

  Aware of her breathing. Her breath hitching. Her skirts rustling.

  She was escaping. He kept his eyes closed. He must let her go.

  Then soft, warm lips pressed against his.

  Just pressed. Unmoving, but unmistakable. A light promise of a kiss.

  Every part of Rafe was as still as stone, but for his suddenly pounding heart and the hunger stirring in his loins and the sweet sensations dancing through his gut. He dared not move, for fear of frightening her away, and he needed time, a millennium, to savor the sensation of her lips on his. Time stretched and Rafe became as big as the selva, yet as tiny as this moment: this tiny, sacred moment of two pairs of lips pressed together.

  He dared to move his mouth against hers, a gentle search for more, an offering, a vow. Hunger coursed through him. He stopped. Waited. Eyes still closed.

  She responded in kind, the enchanting caress of her lips as slight and self-conscious as his own. Once more, he moved his lips, perhaps this time less a kiss than a prayer, a prayer that was answered, as for another tiny, sacred moment, they kissed as lovers would.

  Then the pressure was gone. She ended the kiss. His lips were cold from her absence and warm from the memory, and new and familiar and alive. He could breathe again, and he sucked in that breath, his body desperate for air, and for, oh, so many things. He kept his eyes closed, because to open them was to lose that precious, tiny moment, but he knew from the murmur of muslin and the whisper of his shirt sleeve over his skin, that she had ducked under his arm and escaped, and was lost somewhere in the room.

  He opened his eyes and faced the wall. It was papered with a riot of leaves and flowers and berries.

  “What was that?” he asked the ugly wallpaper.

  “A kiss,” Thea said from behind him. Her voice was too high and too bright, and he felt a rush of unmerited pride.

  She cleared her throat and added, in her usual tone, “That should keep you satisfied for…a week.”

  He turned and lounged back against the wall to show he didn’t care. She stood by the writing desk, fingers of one hand curled around its edge, the others fiddling with the ribbon below her breasts.

  “What happens in a week?” he asked.

  “Um. Two kisses?”

  “And in two weeks?”

  “In two weeks, we shall renegotiate.”

  In two weeks, this farce would be over.

  But what if things were different? What if he were a different man? A man who could take a lively bride home and make her happy?

  Thea at Brinkley End, lighting up the house, turning it upside down, making it a place that he longed to enter.

  Thea at Brinkley End, lonely and bored, sick of him, fading away, her light dimming, her laughter gone, and him, helpless to save her.

  She had lived in an isolated country house, she had said, where she had no friends and never quite belonged. Whereas he rarely left his estate these days and spent every evening alone.

  Blast it. No. Desire was turning him foolish, the bishop’s words confusing his thoughts.

  Her face was half turned away from him as she stared down at the desk, giving him the angle of her jaw, the lock of wayward hair. He searched for words, annoyed both that he could not find them and that he cared enough to try.

  But then her manner turned sharp and bright, and the last lingering echoes of that tiny moment and its elusive promise faded away.

  “Look! A letter for the Countess of Luxborough,” she said, lifting the paper sitting by her hand.

  Rafe suspected that if he mentioned the kiss she would look at him blankly and say, “Kiss? Oh, yes, I forgot.”

  Fair enough. It was barely a kiss. He would forget it too, if he could not still feel her lips on his, her caress soaking into his skin like dye.

  “But this isn’t Arabella’s hand.”

  Her smile dimmed. Oh, blast. It could only be Mr. Knight. A mistake to have called on the man. If he told Thea about the money, she would take it and run, and this would end too soon.

  “This is my father’s hand,” she whispered. “How could he possibly know?”

  Thea pressed one corner of the letter into the pad of her thumb so hard it left an indent. As she watched, the indent disappeared. Like that kiss: a fleeting feeling, soon gone, easily forgotten.

  And yet, not.

  Luxborough was watching her intently and more than a little warily, as if he feared she would do something terrible like kiss him again. If she had surprised him, she had surprised herself more. But when he teased her, a kiss had seemed a marvelous idea. When he advanced, seeing nothing but her, thrills had spiraled down her middle. When he stood close, her body warmed to his, even though they did not touch.

  Thea was not accomplished at kissing—besides, he was tall and she had not been steady—but perhaps she had not done too badly, because the kiss still bounced around inside her, like a living thing that had become trapped in her body, bumping against various parts of her, creating…sensations.

  Oh dear. That was not part of the plan. She was meant to keep him at a distance. He believed they were married, which meant he believed he had a legal right to her body. She had to put things back to how they were, when she annoyed him with her nonsense and he growled at her.

  He was rather adorable when he growled.

  “You called on Pa?” she asked.

  “I married his daughter. Seemed right.” His eyes flicked down to the letter and back again. “Give me the letter. I’ll read it.”

  “It’s my letter.”

  He lunged for i
t. She leaped away. Those same thrills spiraled through her, right down between her thighs. She did not know what to make of this, and when their eyes met, he seemed equally confused.

  Then he lounged back against the wall, and she scrabbled at the letter so clumsily she tore the page.

  “‘My darling Helen,’” she read out loud.

  Oh, thank heavens. Her parents didn’t know what she was up to. Helen and Thea had agreed not to tell them, because they were incapable of keeping a secret. And this—this must have been the cause of the joy she had witnessed that day.

  Luxborough was eyeing the letter as if it planned an attack.

  “What did you say to him?” she asked.

  “Hmm?”

  “My father. What did you say?”

  “Hmm.”

  Thea gave up and read silently:

  How proud we are of you, to have married an Earl. Just yesterday we learned the new Marquess of Hardbury has returned to England a Bachelor, and we entertained Dreams you might become his Marchioness. But better an Earl in the Hand than a Marquess in the Bush! Thank you, our dearest—We can forget the Troubles your Sister caused, and know that even if I lose everything again, the Little Ones’ future is secure. Nobody stops a Knight!

  The paper was suddenly too heavy; Thea lowered it and let it dangle. The too-familiar feeling of having disappointed them lodged in her throat, as sour as old cream. She supposed if she had truly married an earl, they would welcome her home and forget what “troubles” she had caused. Perhaps, if she were a countess, they would discover they did believe her, after all. Well, she wasn’t a countess, and she never would be, but soon Helen would be safely married, and Thea’s pamphlet would be published, and everyone would know the truth. Nobody would stop this Knight.

  “What did he say?” Luxborough asked.

  “I didn’t read it all.”

  This time, when he reached for the letter, she let him take it. The letter did not seem to betray her ruse. Her mind swam with the image of her parents that day, hugging and laughing. The closed blue door.

  She didn’t want to think about that. She would think about something else.

  “The Marquess of Hardbury!” she cried.

  Luxborough did not look up from the letter. “What about him?”

  “He’s alive and back in England.”

  “And?”

  “You already knew?”

  “Someone mentioned it today. Everyone assumes that as a peer I am interested in other peers.”

  “Arabella!”

  He did look up then. “Are you just yelling out names like in a game of charades?”

  “I must tell Arabella about Lord Hardbury’s return.”

  “Because?”

  “Because they were promised to each other as children, but they hated each other. Then he went away and everyone thought—”

  “Stop. Enough. I’m sorry I asked.”

  She would write to Arabella and then she would not think about her parents. Yet no sooner had Thea sat at the desk than he said, “Your parents mean to call on you tomorrow,” and she bounced back up with a high-pitched “What?”

  No, they must not see her.

  She snatched back the letter and scanned it, saying as she did, “The Prince Regent will host a grand party in London to celebrate the marquess’s return and they want me to procure them invitations. ‘This year, September’s Little Season will be a Grand Season, and we will be part of it.’ And he will call tomorrow.”

  “Not possible,” Luxborough said. “We leave for Somersetshire first thing tomorrow.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” she said absently, her mind still on this news.

  A grand party, hosted by the Prince Regent. In late August, every lord, lady, and gentleman in Britain would travel to London for that party; Town would be as busy as during the main Season in spring. Pa would not be wrong; he would know because he supplied the contractors who supplied the Crown.

  Oh, but this was a marvelous opportunity! If Thea’s pamphlet was distributed to every genteel house in London, then by the time of the Regent’s ball, her story could be the talk of society.

  Yet her charade with Luxborough would be finished. She would have no entry to the ball, unless Arabella could smuggle her in, for surely Arabella would attend. As would everyone else. Ventnor and Percy and Helen and Beau and—

  “What are you up to?” Luxborough said.

  She blinked, startled. “Pardon?”

  “You are scheming something. You have a frighteningly expressive face.”

  “You must acquire invitations for Ma and Pa.” Hastily, she began to prepare pen, ink, and paper. “And write to Pa. Tell him— Why aren’t you writing?”

  “I am an earl.”

  “And?”

  “You cannot order me to write a letter like I’m your secretary.”

  “Don’t they teach you to write at earl school? Classes in penmanship, alongside classes in preposterousness, peremptoriness, and parsimoniousness.”

  “You do realize there is no earl school.”

  “Then how do you know how to earl? You are in charge of running the country and they don’t train you for it?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Without even teaching you to read and write?’

  “Of course I can read and write.”

  “Then why are you not writing?” She patted the chair. “Sit. Write. Tell Pa that if he keeps your marriage secret, you will announce it at the ball, and present them to the Prince Regent as your parents-in-law. They’ll like that.”

  He looked disgusted by the idea. “I shall not attend any blasted ball, or beg for invitations, or present your parents to anyone.”

  “Do you want them showing up on your doorstep in Somersetshire? My parents, who are incapable of keeping a secret? Poking in their noses right where you are raising an army of dead wives?”

  He threw up his hands. “I am not raising an army of dead wives.”

  “I have it on good authority that you are.”

  “That was your fabrication.”

  “Well, if I made it up, it must be true.”

  His eyes looked wild and she managed not to laugh. Or to catch his face in her hands again, just to feel his warmth and strength. Or to kiss him again. Her lips tingled at the thought.

  “At least if I write this blasted letter, you might shut up,” he muttered.

  Bending over the desk, he dashed off a quick note to her father and addressed it. Then he scrawled out a separate note, tossed down the pen and wad of bills, and straightened. His eyes skated over the pile of parcels but all he said was, “We leave for Brinkley End early. Be ready.”

  He took two steps toward the door, then turned back. “Countess, I should advise you, some of the workers in my house and on my estate are…unusual.”

  “Unusual how?”

  “My land steward and housekeeper have trouble finding employees because of the rumors about me. Astonishingly enough, many people prefer not to work for a man reputed to be a murdering sorcerer. But we are not far from Bristol, where people from around the world wash up, many of who are desperate or homeless or have come from situations that make a murdering sorcerer sound pleasant by comparison. We don’t care where people come from or what they look like, so long as they are willing to do an honest day’s work.”

  “You forget that I grew up in a part of London full of people from around the world.”

  “And the housekeeper, Sally Holt. She is…eccentric.”

  “Eccentric? How?”

  “I assure you she is quite harmless.”

  “Um. That’s comforting.”

  He paused, looked at her lips, and the kiss bounced around inside her again, as if eager for a friend, but then he wheeled about and headed for the door. In the doorway, he again turned back.

  “And I apologize for my earlier behavior. You are exceedingly desirable but I promised not to importune you for a month. I assure you, you are safe.”

  The
n he was gone.

  You are exceedingly desirable.

  Well.

  Just as well he was honorable enough to follow his own rule, because Thea was still thinking about how delicious it felt to be near him, the way his radiating heat embraced her. At no point had she felt truly frightened when he pursued her. Indeed, she rather liked the idea that he wanted her.

  Silly. She knew enough of men to understand that a man could want to kiss a woman yet not really want her.

  Determined to forget about the kiss, Thea sat and read his letter to her father, tersely worded and penned in a precise, bold hand. The other note was for Luxborough’s man of affairs in London, whom he instructed to obtain invitations for Mr. and Mrs. Knight and to pay all of Lady Luxborough’s bills.

  Thea sealed the letter to her father, and placed it and the note on a salver. Then she wrote first to Arabella—judiciously omitting mention of the kiss—and to Mr. Witherspoon, regarding the possibilities the Prince Regent’s party presented for their campaign.

  And several times she caught herself brushing a finger over her mouth, reliving the unexpected softness of his lips.

  He had not pressed her over his conjugal rights. He had protected her from Ventnor’s unkindness, and written to her father, and not scolded her for the shopping.

  You will be safe, Luxborough had promised her, and she could almost believe it was true.

  What if it could be true? What if everything could be different? If Thea could have someone who truly wanted her. Who would keep her safe, and give her a home, and hold her close, and kiss her in thrilling ways.

  But no: He would detest her when he learned about her lies, and even if he didn’t, he would not want a woman like her. Anyway, she didn’t want him. He had married a stranger for money, and he had conspired with horrid Lord Ventnor. Thea shoved away the notion. She had enough impossible wishes, without wishing for that too.

  Chapter 9

  It took nearly two days to reach Brinkley End, though Lord Luxborough grumbled that they would arrive more quickly if Thea didn’t insist on making frequent stops. Such breaks were essential, she argued, for what was the point of travel if one didn’t stop to gush over the scenery, eat snacks, and torment the locals? Happily, the earl shared meals with her, and she used these interludes to pepper him with questions about his travels; he had wisely realized it was easiest simply to answer, and he enthralled her with descriptions of what he had seen.