The Heart of an Earl (A Box of Draupnir Novel Book 1)

by K. J. Jackson

  Wolfbridge watched the crush on the ballroom floor. “So why the current dour mood? You’ve managed to avoid the widows, so it cannot be that.”

  “My daughter.” Des took a glass of port from a passing tray, swallowing a third of it in one long exasperated drink.

  “Did she not speak to you today when you arrived back?”

  “Three minutes’ worth.”

  “Ah.” Wolfbridge nodded with a sigh. “It is an improvement.”

  Des looked at him, lifting an eyebrow. “Is it? I would have thought going to Troubant Manor to settle affairs would have given her the time she needed to ease her anger.”

  “She’s stubborn like her mother.”

  “Corentine, I could always wait out. But with Vicky…her anger at me knows no bounds and I don’t have the time.”

  “Don’t have the time? You have all the time in the world. And it’s only been a month and a half since you’ve been back.”

  “I’ve missed eighteen years of her life—so no, no, I don’t have the time.” Des flicked a nod of his head across the ballroom to the center white pillars. “And now she continues to encourage the attentions of that fop, Lord Flouten. Three glasses of punch he’s brought her. And the punch is not mixed with a light hand. She’s far too young for any of this and he thinks to get her foxed.”

  Wolfbridge scoffed. “You married Corentine at this age.”

  Des shook his head, his look boring into Lord Flouten. “That never should have happened—she was too young.”

  Wolfbridge chuckled, taking a sip of port. “And now you know how I felt when you took my sister from me. I never should have brought you home from Eton.” His glare narrowed, centering on Lord Flouten. “But tell me again how many drinks that idiot has delivered to her?”

  “Three. And she’s already danced with him once. And I think he means to dance with her again.”

  Lord Flouten’s eyes dipped from Vicky’s face to the bare slope of her breasts. Even from across the expanse the movement was obnoxiously obvious.

  Des was going to break the little bastard in two.

  “The dowry you settled on her is far too much, Reiner—it’s brought out the dregs of society to sniff about.” Des downed the rest of his wine.

  “You may be right on that.” His forefinger flicked out from his glass and Wolfbridge pointed at Vicky and Lord Flouten. “Sloane is determined to gain the very best match for Vicky and I thought I could intimidate the hell out of any man not worthy of her. It worked well enough in London during the season, but I’m not appreciating how this is progressing with this idiotic fop.”

  “I’m interceding.” Des took a step to charge across the ballroom.

  Wolfbridge grabbed his arm, stopping him. “She’s already irate enough with you. Don’t give her more fodder. I’ll go.”

  His fist clenching and unclenching, Des stopped trying to pull free from Wolfbridge’s vise on his arm. His brother-in-law was right.

  Unfortunately.

  “Fine.”

  Wolfbridge released him and nodded. Without a word, the Wolf Duke stalked through the crush in his ballroom, his glare not veering from his prey.

  Des watched him, a cold pang of jealousy striking through his chest.

  This was supposed to be his life. His daughter to raise. His daughter to protect.

  He was more than grateful to Reiner and Sloane for giving Vicky everything—they were her parents, people she had depended upon her whole life. Reiner had done that. Given her a family. Given her cousins she loved as her brothers and sisters. Given her the life he never could have, even if he had returned.

  He’d been jaded beyond repair, and now he was merely scrounging for the scattered, long-lost shards of what his life once was. What his life was supposed to be.

  No wonder his daughter avoided him at every chance. She could see quite clearly what he was. Broken. Not once, but twice by the cruelty of the curse that hung over him.

  Des had to shift his gaze away from Reiner, away from his daughter, and his stare landed on the ornate plaster relief of wolves hunting on the high ceiling of the ballroom. That was new. Wolfbridge Castle never failed to impress.

  His look dropped, searching for his daughter. Vicky had moved away from the third column on the left. He scanned the tops of heads. There. Wolfbridge had already interceded and was speaking with Lord Flouten. Now where had Vicky disappeared to?

  He set his empty glass down on a passing tray as he searched the edges of the ballroom. Tall, colorful feathers bobbed about the crush, plumes designed to draw attention.

  He followed the line along the side of the ballroom where French doors led out to the gardens. The evening chilly, only a few of them were partially open, men moving in and out, cheroots in hand.

  His gaze stopped on an exquisitely coifed head of auburn hair. His eyes involuntarily did that, paused at auburn hair—moth to a flame. He hated that about himself. Hated when he thought of Jules.

  Hated having to lose her over and over again, for that was what happened each and every time he dared to let her enter his mind.

  He lost her.

  The pain of it today just as harsh as it had been five years ago.

  The woman in the dark sapphire blue gown with the auburn hair turned his direction to speak to the blond woman next to her and Des lost his footing, his shoulder falling into the wall.

  Dammit to all hell, she looked just like Jules.

  The same nose. The same lips. The same hair.

  His feet moved forward, even as his mind tried to quell his steps.

  He’d done it before—scared some strange lady because he thought she looked like Jules. Her ghost. Her ghost still following him, not letting him go.

  Not that he wanted to be let go. He took a certain comfort in the fact that she haunted him.

  Before sanity could work its way to his feet and halt them, he was five steps away from the woman.

  Five feet and she looked even more like Jules than she had across the ballroom.

  He took another step toward her.

  The same eyes.

  She smiled at the woman next to her. The same bloody smile. The dimples that appeared when she gave a true smile.

  Blast it.

  Two more steps forward and he was far too close.

  The woman’s look flickered off her friend, scanning past him, then darted back to his face.

  Her jaw dropped, her eyes going wide as her face paled to an unearthly shade of white.

  But there, in the center, blue-green eyes that could never be matched. Never be duplicated.

  Blue-green eyes that locked into his.

  Jules.

  And she knew it was him just the same.

  Her blond friend grabbed Jules’s arm, looking from Des to her. “Julianna, are you not well?”

  Jules gave the slightest shake of her head, her gaze locked with his.

  “Julianna?” The woman shook her arm.

  “You’re not dead.” His words a whisper under the din of the ballroom, they still made it to her ears.

  “You’re not dead.” She echoed the words back to him.

  “What? Julianna?” The blond woman stepped in between them and set her hand on Jules’s shoulder.

  Caution no longer had a place in his soul and Des charged forward, pushing the blond woman to the side and he threw his arm around Jules. In one swift motion, he spun her and swept her by her waist out the French doors and down the marble stairs to the south gardens.

  For all its commanding, harsh fortitude, Wolfbridge Castle had another side—its sweeping gardens, complete with mazes and evergreen hedges that hid nooks and alcoves.

  His boots crunching along the side gravel path, Des aimed for the last row of hedges and the alcove buried deep within, far past the torches lighting the walkways.

  No words could come to his tongue—all he could do was stride as quickly as he could, dragging Jules, picking her up every time her steps faltered next to him.

&n
bsp; Rage spun, whipping into a brutal storm in his veins. Every step adding fire to the fury boiling in his belly.

  Jules was bloody well alive.

  Alive.

  Turning into the last row of tall evergreen hedges, he spun them into a hidden alcove of tall yews, the space five feet wide with a stone bench in the center. Light of the full moon the only thing to illuminate the shadows of the evergreens.

  Des’s arm dropped from her waist and he stepped around to face her.

  Too close.

  He took a step backward.

  And another.

  Her stare had locked back onto his, her fingers curled into balls at her sides. Her blue-green eyes raging their own storm of wrath in the moonlight.

  She should be irate for how he’d just manhandled her out of the ballroom and through the gardens. He didn’t care.

  Jules was alive.

  Alive.

  Directly in front of him, and yet he still couldn’t believe it. Grasp it.

  “It’s cold out here.”

  “I don’t give a damn, Jules.” He took another step backward, anger palpitating in every nerve in his body. Yet he couldn’t look away.

  She was damn well alive.

  Blood rushed so fiercely through his ears, he couldn’t hear his own breath that seethed with every inhale.

  And he watched her do the same. Every breath ragged, fighting what was in front of her.

  He stared at her.

  She was just as furious as he was.

  More so.

  It didn’t matter.

  All control deserted him and he charged forward, clasping her face in his hands, dragging her to him, kissing her.

  Anger, heartache and shock twisted into a vicious vortex that swallowed the two of them whole, their bodies entwining, their breath melding into one.

  No words.

  Nothing could form in his mouth, in his head, except for his lips on hers, his hands running down her body, on her breasts, lifting her skirts. Her calf, her bare thigh.

  His mouth went ragged, ravenous to her neck, to the bare skin of her shoulders, the line of her clavicle. Hungry. Hungry for all of her. Needing to taste everything she was. Convince him she was here. Alive. Real.

  His hand lifted higher under her skirts to the crux of her and he sank his fingers into her folds, drawing a gasp from her lips against his ear, her breath quickening against his skin. She ripped her gloves off behind his neck and weaved her hands down between them, her fingers frantic to the fall front of his trousers and freeing his cock to the cold air. Cold and torture, her fingers on the smooth skin of his shaft.

  His restraint so long gone he might never find it again, he yanked the rest of her skirts up and lifted her backside. Her legs locked around his waist, greedy for his body.

  He lifted her high, and then she was down on her own volition, sliding onto his cock that was straining and ready for her. A storm of five years of unsated needs culminating in the fierceness of their bodies colliding.

  Sweetness and hell wrapped into one. She lifted and he plunged upward, driving into her again and again until a tattered scream was at her lips, begging him, his name curling repeatedly on her tongue.

  He held. Held until her scream pitched high, her body tightening around him, writhing with ragged gasps of breath. He drove deep into her one last time, exploding. Every tortuous moment of time without her bottled up and emptying into her.

  Yet it wasn’t enough. He clutched her to his body, their breath mingled in a whirlwind of disbelief and lust, their chests battling against each other for every breath.

  His fingers dug into her back, not willing to let her go. Not ever. Not ever again.

  Her head popped away from his neck. “Blast, what have we done?” Her hands wedged in between them to his chest and she pushed herself away.

  His hold on her broke and her body slid off of his, her movements jerking, pushing her skirts down, shock vibrating in her blue-green eyes.

  She couldn’t look at him. Her head bowed, shifting back and forth, somewhere between a twitch and denial.

  “I’m dreaming—or am I—you’re not dead?” Her words shook, vibrating into the cold air.

  He finished buttoning the fall of his trousers and his fingers curled into fists at his sides. “A dead man did not just make you scream like that.”

  “No. Des—you’re dead.”

  “As are you, Jules.”

  An exhale sifted upward from the bottom of his soul. He had to touch her. As much as he needed air from her, he needed to touch her. Keep her solid in front of him. Not a ghost. Not a hope.

  He moved forward, his hands clasping onto the sides of her face, his fingers digging into the hair about her temples. “Dammit—tell me you’re here on your own. Tell me you haven’t married.”

  “What?” Her bowed head still shook, but then her gaze whipped up to him, her words breathless. “I—I—”

  “You what, Jules?”

  “You’re not dead—my father told me you died.”

  “I’m not dead.” His look pierced her. “Tell me you haven’t married.”

  She blinked hard, trying to follow his manic demands. “No—I’m here with my aunt and her friend that lives in the county—I didn’t marry—couldn’t marry anyone.”

  “You haven’t moved on?”

  Pain so visceral ran across her face he thought she was going to shatter under his hold.

  Her lips parted, her words ragged. “I—my heart—was never going to move beyond you, Des. Never.”

  His lips met hers in an aching kiss as relief exhaled from his chest. He pulled away, his eyes going to the dark sky above for a long moment, still trying to right in his mind that she was here. Here, her head in his hands.

  “He’s wanted me to.”

  His look dropped to her. “Your father?”

  She nodded. “He’s arranged one abhorrent match after another and each time I’ve refused. He wants me gone forever—to pretend I never existed.”

  “Bastard.” His hands dropped from her face to wrap around her, pulling her tight to his body. He couldn’t resist dipping his head to bury his face into her hair, into the scent of her. Honeysuckle.

  Hair that had lost its streaks of sun.

  “Tell me this isn’t a dream. Tell me you did not die, Des.” Her voice was frantic in his chest.

  “No. I’m here. Here. Alive.” His hand clasped the back of her head—clasped it to him, not willing to let her step one foot away from him ever again.

  A fragment. A moment of lost bliss, given back to him.

  Until her hands wedged up between them, pushing on him. “Where the hell have you been? Nothing—nothing could stop you from coming for me—that’s what you said. I was sure you were dead—it was the only reason.”

  Both of his hands flew up at his sides. “I thought you were dead, Jules. Your father—he showed me your grave. Your damned grave.”

  Her head snapped back and she looked up at him. “He did what?”

  “Told me you were dead—pneumonia. It was a month after he’d had me shot, but I came back for you. And that was what he offered me. A grave. He dragged me to your grave.”

  “You were shot?”

  He nodded.

  A scream, ragged, ripped up her throat, piercing into the night air. “That was the grave—the grave my mother had put up for me after I was taken onto the Red Dragon. She thought I died—could not think of me in any other way. But she never let him put a date upon it—there was always the slightest hope that she held to.”

  “Jules.” He stared at her, at the horror in her face, wanting nothing more than to take all of the pain of the last five years from her eyes. “There was nothing that was going to stop me from coming for you.” His hand went to the side of her face. “He had me shot—I nearly died, but once the infection finally cleared I came back for you. But by then you were dead—or so he claimed.”

  “No—no, no, no.” The words whispered raw from her th
roat.

  Laughter. Laughter from outside the alcove.

  Laughter close by. Laughter floating into the air from beyond the evergreen walls surrounding them. Laughter stealing the moment away from him.

  Laughter he recognized—bells of gaiety that rang true and strong. Not that the laughter had ever been in the room with him, but he’d heard it, again and again, floating throughout the halls of Wolfbridge Castle.

  Vicky. What in the hell was she doing out in the gardens?

  Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

  Torture to peel his arms from her, Des released Jules and stepped to the opening of the alcove. He craned his neck to see down the row of yews to the main part of the gardens.

  Her white skirts flashing in the moonlight, Vicky was walking along the border next to the maze, moving to the opening where she would get lost in the confines of the labyrinth. Her arm was threaded securely in the fold of Lord Flouten’s elbow.

  Damn Wolfbridge. He was going to take care of the fop and now the man thought to ruin his daughter under their very noses.

  Des flew out of the alcove and intercepted Vicky and Lord Flouten three steps before the entrance to the maze.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Des snatched the man’s arm and jerked him away from Vicky.

  Lord Flouten spun to him, “Who do you—”

  Des swung, punching the peacock straight across the jaw. Lord Flouten stumbled sideways five steps, holding his face, squealing in pain.

  Des turned to Vicky. “Come with me right now before you make an utter fool of yourself and me.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the steps leading to the ballroom.

  She fought him, trying to squirm from his grasp, but his hold was too tight. She’d not get herself ruined. Not tonight.

  He dragged her up the marble steps to the ballroom and just before the French doors she twisted to him, venom-filled words flying in a low hiss from her mouth. “You can’t just abandon me for eighteen years and think you have any right—any right at all to my life. You don’t.”