My Kind of Earl

by Vivienne Lorret

  “Very well, I’ll agree to a few lessons.”

  She blinked. “You will? Just like that and without any grumbling protest?”

  When he nodded, her responding smile beamed so brightly that it seemed to penetrate his skin with warmth.

  Unable to help himself, he kissed her again, losing himself in the welcome of her lips until her essence became part of his own. This was all happening because of her. She’d cajoled and pushed him from the start. He’d fought her every step of the way. Yet, somewhere along the way, he’d let down his guard with her, and more than he ever had with anyone else.

  It was a startling realization.

  He drew back after another lengthy interval and rested his forehead against hers, filling his lungs with her every panting breath. “No protests this time,” he said, “but I do have one condition.”

  “That’s hardly fair. You’ve kissed me senseless and I cannot think of my own name, let alone argue against your condition, whatever it may be.”

  “Then we are on even ground for once.” He touched the tip of her pert nose. “And all I ask is that you don’t keep anything from me again. If you ever have doubts, I want to hear them. If you discover anything, even something as inconsequential as those missing ledgers,” he said with straightforward firmness, “I want to know about it. If we’re working together then we can’t have secrets. There’s one thing I won’t forgive and that’s being left in the dark only to be taken unawares later. Do you understand?”

  “No secrets,” she agreed. Her hands cupped his face, her gaze earnest. “I would never intentionally keep anything from you. Truth and certainty are things we both value greatly.”

  Satisfied with her answer, he moved to take her lips once more.

  But Jane shied away. “I have a condition as well—in the future, you must not introduce me by my given name, or use it in public. I can only imagine what the earl must think.”

  Raven arched a brow. “Are you accusing me of laying claim to you?”

  “Of course not,” she said on a breath, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. “I think you were simply being yourself and forgot the rules.”

  “And one must never forget the rules,” he teased and kissed her again.

  Chapter 19

  Dear Jane,

  The rumors have begun. Just this morning, my aunts heard tale of a stranger leaving the Earl of W—r’s town house on the arm of an indiscernible young woman.

  Please be on your guard. It is only a matter of time before someone will recognize you. Should that happen, I fear any number of plagues will shortly follow.

  Your ever-worrying friend,

  Elodie Parrish

  Dear Ellie,

  Fear not, for this is welcome news. Never before have I been thankful to be so exceedingly plain. I shall use it to my advantage and hold those plagues at bay.

  For now, my battles are against a certain gentleman who is proving to be stubborn (even more than myself). He adamantly refuses to see the value in purchasing calling cards or in hiring a manservant—as if the lack thereof will maintain his anonymity.

  Your exasperated friend,

  Jane Pickerington

  Dearest Jane,

  I have heard the most shocking rumor—which is saying quite a good deal considering I never hear anything so far removed in the country. Could it be true that the Earl of W—r’s heir has actually been found after all this time?

  Have you heard of him? And, more to the point, is he as handsome and as primitive as everyone is saying?

  Your friend on the fringes,

  Prudence Thorogood

  Dearest Prue,

  I hope you are sitting down as you read this.

  I am acquainted with the man himself. The meeting happened as a result of one of my research expeditions (the details of which are not suitable for a letter). But the answers to your queries are . . . yes.

  As for the question of his primitive nature, however, he is actually quite exceptionally levelheaded for a man who suffered the horrors of being an orphan in London. Though he is reticent to share many details regarding his upbringing, what I have learned of him I find admirable. And while he tends to be somewhat domineering and overprotective at times, I also find that his loyal and thoughtful nature far outweighs his flaws.

  But please do not presume that my observations are indicative of romantic feelings. No, indeed. These are merely logical conclusions to the facts presented. The Earl of W—r would seem to agree. Since their first introduction, his lordship has requested daily visits with the estimable gentleman in question.

  I’ll say no more on the matter, but send my fondest regard to you. I hope you know that you are ever in my thoughts.

  Your clearheaded friend,

  Jane

  As Jane blew the sand across this letter, she frowned in speculation.

  Was she clearheaded? All her life, and up through the end of October, she would have answered in the affirmative, without hesitation.

  Now, however, she was beginning to have her doubts.

  She blamed Raven, of course. His tendency to communicate through primitive growls, errant touches and sweltering kisses, had put her mind in a twirling muddle.

  Then, just as she was learning to immerse herself in this form of communication, he stopped without warning. In fact, he hadn’t kissed her since that day in the carriage. It was a terrible shock to the nervous system, like a plunge in a frozen lake. Was it any wonder that her thoughts were murky?

  Each time he’d come to the conservatory in the past week, he’d acted the gentleman, even though he still spoke like a scoundrel.

  True to his word, he adhered to the bargain they’d made. While she presented her lessons, he willingly offered insight into the more scandalous aspects of a man’s desires.

  One day, he’d arrived right after she’d finished repotting a fig tree. Grinning rakishly at the way she brushed at the residual specks on her bodice, he said, “You’re giving me all sorts of filthy thoughts. Want me to help? I’ll be incredibly thorough.”

  She’d chided him for noticing. “A gentleman should never remark on a blemish on a woman’s person.”

  “Unlike other men, I was born to observe the world around me,” he’d offered with a shrug of self-defense. “At an early age, I began to notice the differences in anatomy. We had a cook at the foundling home who ladled out our breakfast gruel every morning. She had these enormous and glorious . . .” He stopped when Jane glared at him but grinned at the way she had her hands on her hips. “Well, they’d had me so transfixed that I didn’t even realize that the lad next to me had eaten all my porridge. I’ve never gotten over my appreciation for the fairer sex since, in every size and shape.”

  If the way his gaze had heated as it roved hungrily over her slight form was any indication, Jane shouldn’t have had the barest feeling of inadequacy. Besides, there was little she could do about the body nature had given her. She would never have a bosom that would transfix a man.

  As if sensing her thoughts, Raven had taken a step closer and murmured low in her ear, “I have a particular fondness for little samplings that I could devour in one bite.”

  * * *

  On another day, she’d asked him, “Is physical attraction the primary force that compels a man to seek out a woman?”

  “It doesn’t hurt,” he said absently, smirking while perusing the manual of Gentleman’s Etiquette.

  Thinking about a letter she’d received from Prue and how the gentleman, which her friend referred to as Lord F—, had pursued her to the point of compromising her in the gardens at Sutherfield Terrace, Jane had required more from his response. “What if the gentleman knows he cannot have her?”

  To that, Raven had looked up sharply. He closed the book with a snap and dropped it onto her desk, seeming cross. “Sometimes a man desires what he cannot have, and not even he can explain the reason.”

  He’d left shortly thereafter and stayed away for the two days that fo
llowed.

  * * *

  When he’d returned, he had regained his usual rakish humor, flirting with her shamelessly as she’d tried to teach him table manners and the intricacies of flatware.

  “Show me again how the napkin is supposed to lay across my lap,” he’d said blandly. But there had been enough heat in his smoky gaze that suggested he had an ulterior motive.

  Still irritated by his unexplained absence, and wondering if the siren call of cyprians had kept him away, she’d tossed the wadded linen at him. “Perhaps you would be better served if you had interests other than sexual congress.”

  Capturing her wrist, he’d kissed her fingertips and waggled his brows. “You would not say such a thing if you knew how all-consuming pleasure can be.”

  She’d jerked free, wanting to stomp her foot and be angry at him. And yet, she had to think about the book. Understanding the driving force of a scoundrel’s nature would be valuable information.

  “Very well, then,” she’d said, taking up her ledger. “If you would, describe the sensation wrought by coupling.”

  Raven had looked at her thoughtfully for some time and softly tucked a tendril behind her ear.

  “Pleasure isn’t always a matter of physiology, professor. Sometimes,” he’d added rather cryptically, “a man can walk away from a rousing conversation, feeling more sated than if he’d spent himself between a pair of comely thighs.”

  She, of course, had blushed but averted her face to write down every word verbatim.

  * * *

  The remainder of the week had progressed similarly. For every lesson she’d given, he’d provided a new insight for the primer.

  Jane should be pleased, lack of kisses notwithstanding.

  However, the more pages she filled in the ledger, the more she knew that this time with Raven would come to an end. The thought made her listless and anxious at the same time. It made no logical sense. After all, she’d known this from the beginning.

  Still, she sighed as she folded and sealed the letter for Prue, leaving it on a salver in the hall.

  She came back to the conservatory just as Raven strode through the door. Her chronic arrhythmia erupted again in a flurry of heart palpitations that drew all the blood from her brain, leaving her with that peculiar giddy, spinning sensation.

  She pinched the bridge of her nose and wondered if a simple remedy might be to start wearing a corset and being fitted for spectacles.

  Raven tossed his hat and gloves to the top of her desk with familiarity. But a frown furrowed the flesh above the bridge of his nose as he stared at her quizzically. “Something amiss, little professor?”

  He took a step toward her and reached for her hand. Her fingertips tingled, craving his warm touch.

  In the last instant, she shied away and pretended an urgent need to replace the stopper on her inkwell. “Nothing of the sort, I assure you.”

  His gaze wandered over her in a slow, speculative perusal, pausing at the pulse at her throat and the crests of her cheeks. Then his mouth quirked as if he were privy to her inner thoughts and believed them all to be scandalous. That one hot look had the peculiar effect of expelling all the air from her lungs, sending her stomach into fits of flutters.

  It was decided then. She would begin wearing a corset on the morrow.

  He took a step toward her, then two, until only an inch separated them. The crisp scent of the outdoors clung to his clothes. She drew in a breath, catching the pleasing spice of fresh shaving soap, the aroma of leather boot polish and his own tantalizingly earthy essence.

  “What’s my lesson today, hmm? Physiology, I hope. Or, better yet, female anatomy. Just lay yourself out on the trestle table for in-depth scholarly research,” he said, his voice as deep and rich as blackberry jam on rum-soaked cake.

  “Paying calls,” she whispered hoarsely as if she’d spent the past hour breathing in noxious fumes from an experiment.

  She cleared her throat and tried again. “It is a gentleman’s obligation to return calls that are paid to him. Morning calls to a person of the female sex, however, should always be of a short duration, otherwise it suggests certain intimacies. Therefore, it is essential to keep your hat and gloves with you.”

  He chuckled and distractedly skimmed the backs of his knuckles along the exposed inner curve of her forearm, eliciting tingles of gooseflesh. “Does society believe it’s impossible for a man and woman to swiv”—he stopped at her narrow-eyed glance—“to share intimacies while a man carries his hat?”

  “Certainly. If his hands are otherwise occupied then he is ready to leave at a moment’s notice and cannot engage in any activity to sully his hostess’s reputation.”

  Raven turned back toward the desk and proceeded to don his gloves and then his hat. “Come closer, Jane. I’m going to demonstrate the first four things that popped into my mind—no, make that seven—in order to better inform you of what a man is capable of while still keeping his hat and gloves.”

  “Seven?” she asked without the slightest blush. She was genuinely curious now. “I should need to take notes.”

  Picking up her ledger and the stub of a pencil, she numbered the page and waited for him to begin.

  He grinned and quickly surveyed the conservatory. “This isn’t the ideal room to have you up against a wall, since these are all glass. Nonetheless, that wouldn’t disturb my hat. Neither would taking you against the door.”

  She considered this for a moment, her mind blank. Then her sketch artist flashed a pair of scandalous drawings and the surface of her skin heated by at least eight degrees. “I don’t mean to question your authority on the subject. However, wouldn’t those two be the same . . . um . . . position?”

  “Not if, for the second one, I’m behind you and you’re facing the door, hands braced, feet apart,” he whispered, his breath drifting across her cheek as he tapped the tip of his index finger to the paper. “You’re not writing.”

  She blinked, several times. Her throat went dry. And her body seemed to have developed a series of new pulse points that quickened deep inside and caused her inner organs to tilt and clench. “Oh, yes. And the third?”

  “This desk would do nicely. Or on this stool with you on my lap and your hands on my shoulders,” he said and shifted closer. His boot slid in between her slippers, compressing the layers of her petticoat and skirts until they were molded against her thighs.

  Her fingers slipped down the length of the pencil, her nails butting up against the page. “Goodness, I think I put too many pieces of wood in that stove. If you’re too warm, we could open the door to the garden.”

  He traced the flushed swell of her cheek and the outer rim of her ear, blowing softly at the curls trailing down from her temple. “Then either of us on our knees, or both of us for that matter. Hat still in place, of course.”

  The scandalous portrait flashed in her mind. Newton’s apple! She was beginning to forget how letters were formed. And yet, she heard herself say, “That’s only six.”

  He readily picked up the gauntlet and settled his hands on her hips, pulling her flush. His teeth flashed with wicked delight at her gasp. “Or I could just lift you in my arms right here until your hips and mine align, and your limbs are wrapped around me . . .”

  His warm breath swirled around the whorls of her ear, slipping inside her body on a warm tingling current that reminded her how wondrous it felt to be in his arms.

  However, with it, came the reminder that this wasn’t going to last—this arrangement or whatever it was between them. She was providing him lessons to fit into society and he was merely assisting her with her book. And she had her reputation to consider.

  Absently, she realized she’d dropped the ledger. Her hands were fitted to the curves of his shoulders instead, her breasts taut and aching beneath her bodice. “I’m not . . . thinking properly at the moment.”

  “Then you must be thinking improperly.” He nuzzled the underside of her jaw. “You need to share those naughty tho
ughts with your professor, Jane.”

  A strangled laugh escaped her, the throaty sound wanton and foreign to her own ears. “I am the professor, remember? And our lesson isn’t over.”

  “Mmm . . . I was hoping you’d say that,” he murmured against her skin, skillfully teaching her about the quivering electric currents running through her body.

  But from not too far away, she heard her name being called by one of her siblings in a plaintive, “Ja—ane.”

  They both turned to look at the open doorway, their breaths quick and harried.

  “Damn,” he cursed and turned away to face the trestle table, his palms splayed on the surface. “I forgot where we were. It’s no wonder with all these lessons. They’ve made it impossible to sleep. And I’ve eaten that entire bloody jar of damson jam.”

  “I wish I had more to give you, but that was the last we had in the larder,” she answered automatically. But when he looked over his shoulder and his heated gaze dipped to her mouth, she realized he was saying something else.

  He just told her that he thought about her when they were apart. He wasn’t sleeping. He’d consumed an entire jar of jam. Apparently, he wasn’t clearheaded either. And it was because of her.

  Her! Jane Pickerington, the plain, forgettable bluestocking.

  Her heart fluttered fast and wobbly like the wings of a nectar-drunk hummingbird, crashing into her lungs and leaving her breathless.

  Drat! Why hadn’t she kissed him when she’d had the chance?

  But she knew why.

  Because, for her, this was starting to feel like more than just kissing. And more than research, too. Much more.

  Chapter 20

  After he’d nearly debauched Jane seven different ways in her conservatory, Raven decided to take a few days off from lessons.

  They’d both agreed it was for the best.

  Lately, it had become nearly impossible to control his desire to bed her. Though, it might have helped if he’d been able to slake his lust elsewhere. And he’d tried, too.