My Kind of Earl

by Vivienne Lorret

  A sudden wash of tension flooded every fiber of his being, itching beneath his skin. That one simple, thoughtless, statement cast him as an outsider. Someone who didn’t belong.

  He knew this, of course. But the reminder that he was only here to be molded from a poor, pitiable orphan and into a gentleman had caught him off guard.

  “Aye. I’m an excellent mimic. I can pretend better than any stage actor,” he said tightly, jaw clenched. “As I said, I already know how to dance. I’ve had years of experience with country dances and reels. Or did you imagine I was living under a rock before we met?”

  “Well, no. But . . .” She frowned, lifting her curious gaze. “That isn’t what I meant at all. In fact—and forgive me for saying this—but you’re a terrible mimic.”

  He stiffened, the roped muscles beneath her hand rigid. “You’re mistaken.”

  She shook her head. “You may have fooled others, but it’s true, I’m afraid. You don’t do a single thing like anyone else, especially when you put on aristocratic airs in an effort to blend in. You do everything your own way. As I said when we first met, you even move differently than other men.”

  As they made their way down an ivory-and-gold wallpapered corridor toward a set of white-glazed doors that stood ajar at the end, she continued. “My statement was in regard to your skills of observation. You are quite adept at understanding the way of things at a single glance. Not only with people, but with my contraption just a few moments ago. I don’t think there’s anyone like you. And I wouldn’t insult you by expecting you to be like someone else.”

  Raven was left speechless.

  She hadn’t been casting him as an outsider at all. In her own logical way, she was paying him a compliment.

  Every ounce of tension drained out of him at once, as if a hole had opened up in the floor beneath his feet and simply gobbled it all away. And yet, he wasn’t feeling empty. Something else had taken its place. Something powerful that made him want to pull Jane into his arms and kiss her.

  As they neared the threshold of the ballroom that hosted a bank of mullioned windows on the far side, he planned to fulfill that desire in just a few short steps.

  Regrettably, he discovered that they weren’t alone.

  Seated at a piano bathed in the afternoon light, was a young man with a Caesar hairstyle of short disorderly nut-brown curls and aristocratic features. He bore a striking similarity to all of the other Pickerington males Raven had met thus far, but seemed to be a few years older than Charles.

  “Hullo there,” the young man said with a casual salute of his hand before he stood and sketched a bow. “You must be the one I’ve heard the others chattering about—the infamous suitor who dared to return. You’re the only one, you know. All the others have abandoned their pursuit shortly after they’d survived tea with us.”

  “I’m not exactly a suitor,” Raven corrected, refusing to give the wrong impression that he was a permanent fixture. Even so, when he felt Jane uncurl her fingers from his sleeve, he was compelled to place his hand over the top of hers, keeping her in place. “I’m more of a . . . foundling, you might say.”

  “Eh, we’re all foundlings here. Jane simply found us in the nursery and has been watching over us ever since.” He took a step forward and slid a palm across his coat front before extending it. “I’m Henry, by the by. Welcome to our clan.”

  “Raven,” he said and was forced to release Jane in order to shake hands.

  She slipped free, taking her warmth with her. “Henry is home from school after concluding his examinations early. He’d decided to assist”—she cleared her throat pointedly—“some of the other boys in his house with their work. The schoolmaster thought it best to permit him to return home early for winter holiday before he finds himself in any more mischief that might warrant permanent expulsion.”

  “And as punishment for cheating,” Henry said to Raven with a grin, “I’ve been relegated to the task of playing an assortment of instruments for your dancing pleasure. So, what shall it be—a stuffy minuet? A fast-footed quadrille? A lively Scotch reel? A dreadfully boring country dance?” He paused to roll his eyes. Then, he perked up and chafed his hands together as he continued. “Or . . . a salacious waltz? I just happen to have a melody I’ve composed, poised and waiting on the piano.”

  Raven didn’t know why it surprised him that Jane had a composer in the family. And she’d once said they were all quite plain. Well, he couldn’t find anything remotely ordinary about any of them, least of all her.

  “The only one I’d care to learn is the waltz,” Raven answered, knowing that was a proper excuse to have her in his arms.

  “Huzzah!”

  “Absolutely not, Henry,” Jane chided. “I won’t reward your misbehavior at school by presenting you with an audience to admire your latest work. You’re not allowed to enjoy yourself one bit.”

  “Aw, you’re just tetchy because you’re forbidden to dance the waltz.”

  “Forbidden?” Raven’s brows rose with mock alarm. “Why, Jane, just how terrible are you? And should I bandage my feet before or after the lesson?”

  “Your feet have nothing to fear. I’m only forbidden because I have yet to earn a voucher that permits me to waltz at Almack’s.” She lifted her shoulders in an inconsequential shrug. “Mother was going to make a request last Season, but she forgot.”

  “And she forgot again this Season, as well,” Henry muttered, disgruntled. “Much like Father forgot to send a carriage for me at school, so I had to hire a coach for the drive home.”

  Jane stepped forward to cup his shoulder. “Remember what I always say?”

  “Yes, yes. I should consider these instances as lessons in resourcefulness.”

  She pressed a kiss to his cheek, then wiped it off with a pass of her thumb before he could.

  Facing Raven, she cocked her head to the side, her lips murmuring silently. Then, aloud, she said, “We would require two more for a proper quadrille. Therefore, the waltz seems our best option.”

  “Somehow, I shall carry on.” He nodded solemnly, pretending disappointment and forgetting all his reasons for wanting to keep his distance from Jane.

  * * *

  The instant the music began and Raven swept Jane into his arms, all her thoughts of lessons fluttered off in a dozen heartbeats.

  His steps were sure and quick, as if he’d been dancing all his life. The possessive angle of his shoulders kept his posture from being precise, but she didn’t mind. It felt too wondrous to be in his arms. His hold was firm but still gentle, and close but not stifling.

  She could hardly believe this was his first waltz, and that all he’d done was watch Mr. Miggins a few moments ago. However, for reasons beyond her understanding, it made her giddy to be his first.

  Perhaps it was all due to the fact that she’d missed him terribly, and for the first time in a week she felt alive.

  A laugh bubbled past her lips as he swept her into a turn and her gaze held his. “Now, I know what I’ve been missing. It will be difficult to return to watching the dancers from a distance.”

  “What if you were to waltz without permission?”

  “Scandal,” she said with a lift of her brows, still smiling. “Of course, I’ve never been asked, so I’m not entirely certain. As my brother so eagerly mentioned, I hardly have suitors lining up at the door. Should any manage to look past my unremarkable appearance and idiosyncrasies, they would soon find that my dowry was a less-than-tempting two thousand pounds.”

  “Those gents are all idiots,” he said simply and left it at that.

  She felt him draw her closer, the shift of his palm gliding over warm silk, his fingertips brushing the tiny cloth buttons down the back of her dress. They turned together, effortlessly gliding over the polished floor. She breathed in the scent of him, enthralled by a tender aching sensation beneath her breast that begged her to press against him.

  The three-quarter beat melody sped by in a rush. More than anything, sh
e wanted to slow down and savor this feeling of contentment thrumming inside her. Their time was coming to an end. Not only today, but the lessons and his need for her assistance would soon be concluded.

  Then, she knew he would go on his own path and likely never think of her again.

  When the last note of the piano faded, she averted her face to hide her thoughts. He was always too good at reading them.

  “You are quite the exceptional dancer, Raven,” she said a little breathlessly, focusing on the lesson at hand. “Your form and steps are somewhat more predatory and possessive than what the ton would consider graceful. Additionally, you could not hold your partner so improperly close without causing a stir.”

  “And yet,” he said, bending to her ear, “I didn’t hear a word of reprimand or correction from my instructor in the midst of it.”

  Somehow her hand had drifted to his chest where the heavy thud of his heart nudged the center of her palm. It had a three-quarter beat, too, much like her own at the moment . . . bum-BUM-bum . . . bum-BUM-bum . . .

  What a fascinatingly intimate thing to notice.

  Not only that, but the insteps of his boots slid along the outer curve of her slippers, corralling her into an embrace. There, in the middle of the ballroom.

  “I was distracted by my study of the . . . um . . . mechanics of it all,” she said and reluctantly took a step back, her protesting body slow to retreat.

  Scanning the room, she saw that Mr. Miggins had gone—likely to return the tray to the kitchen—and Henry was at the piano, scribbling notes onto his sheet music.

  “Let’s waltz again. I’ll do much better this time,” he said, a deep edge to his voice as he moved closer and seized her hand, twining their fingers together with delightful friction. He slid his other hand to her waist, skimming to the small of her back.

  She cast a glance to her brother before she whispered, “If you did any better, my dress would go up in flames.”

  He grinned rakishly. “I’m willing to take that chance. I imagine you’d look fetching without it.”

  “Such a scoundrel.”

  “Take care, Jane,” he chided softly. “That phrase is beginning to sound like a term of endearment. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you liked scoundrels.”

  “Before you say another word,” Henry called from the bench, still not lifting his head from the pencil nub and paper, “I must warn you that the acoustics in this room are exceptional. So if you plan to have your way with my sister, please wait until after I’ve gone.”

  Face flaming bright, her eyes narrowed into slits at Raven. Then she scoffed and turned to her brother, hands on hips. “You shouldn’t be eavesdropping, Henry. In the very least, you might think about defending my honor.”

  “You’re managing well enough on your own. And I daresay you’d know more ways to kill a man in a duel than I do. Which, by the by,” he said distractedly, “would make an excellent opera. Yes. I can hear it now. A bluestocking murder of a scoundrel on a cold November morning. Why, it practically writes itself! The opening score would begin with a shot, a clash of cymbals, and a high keening E sharp . . .”

  “I think we’ve lost our chaperone,” Raven said and his gaze lowered to her lips. “Seems to me that we should adjourn to the conservatory for . . . research.”

  “I cannot.” She hated that those words fell from her lips. “I promised the children we’d start our Christmas puddings this afternoon. It takes weeks before they’re ready to be steamed. And I know,” she dropped her voice to the barest whisper, “that time would escape us if we engaged in more . . . research.”

  He growled in response, his grip possessive as he brought her hand to his lips. “You’re right. I’m in a mood to be quite thorough.”

  His warm gaze never left hers as he kissed each knuckle, and every vulnerable niche in between. Her knees went weak.

  Before she could stop herself, she asked, “Will you come back tomorrow?”

  From the piano, Henry cleared his throat and Jane made a hasty amendment.

  “For another lesson, of course,” she said in a rush. “You still need to improve your polite parlor conversation and—Oh! I just had another epiphany. You could come to dinner and meet my parents.”

  “Your parents?” he parroted with a horrified grimace.

  “Opus two,” Henry remarked with a snicker, “the bluestocking spins her matrimonial web on a new victim.”

  Jane sent a glare to her brother.

  Before Raven acquired the wrong impression, she slipped her arm into his and ushered him out of the ballroom and away from Henry’s interfering ears.

  “I have no ulterior motive,” she said once they advanced to the corridor. “I simply believe there is no better way for you to gain experience on practicing superficial conversation than with the two leading experts in society. To be honest, I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before.”

  “I work in a gaming hell, Jane. What am I possibly going to converse about—the odds of winning at faro?”

  “Oh, believe me, they’ll do all the talking,” she said. “It will be excellent practice for you.”

  Raven’s mouth twisted with patent skepticism. “I don’t know. It just seems a bit too proper.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, they likely won’t even realize you’re there. I often have dinner with them and they are startled to look down the table to see me.”

  Unfortunately, it was all too true. She was so plain and forgettable that even her parents couldn’t seem to remember her. But after all these years, it didn’t bother her. Not much. In fact, hardly at all.

  A pair of astute gray eyes studied her for a long moment and his head fell back on a taut sigh. Then he grumbled under his breath, “What the hell. It’s just dinner, eh?”

  Chapter 23

  Jane knew this evening was bound to be a disaster. Dinner with her parents? What had she been thinking?

  Oh, but she knew. She’d been under the spell of the waltz. She hadn’t been thinking at all about how humiliating it would be for him to witness how utterly unimportant she was to her parents. And he would soon realize how she wasn’t at all what a debutante ought to be.

  At that point, he would see her as an oddity like the other gentlemen had, and whatever connection they’d shared would soon be severed.

  She was a bundle of nerves. Waiting outside the door to the drawing room, she fanned her hands at her sides in an effort not to wrinkle her gown with the perspiration that dampened her palms.

  Inside, her parents were trying to recall which one of them had invited a guest to dinner.

  Jane had already told them three times that she had issued the invitation, but they paid no attention. They never did.

  But none of that mattered now, because Raven was here. Early, in fact.

  In his usual commanding prowl, he traversed the length of the hall in a floor-eating stride. A tailored dark blue coat drew her attention to the breadth of his shoulders and his trim torso in a cashmere waistcoat. He looked exceedingly handsome in his snowy cravat with his hair tamed back from his forehead.

  A pair of frostbitten eyes stood out in sharp relief beneath the dark slash of his brows. The only thing that hinted at his reluctance to be here was the muscle ticking along the hard, chiseled ridge of his mandible as he clenched his teeth.

  But then his gray gaze warmed as he drew closer, and witnessing it eased some of her agitation. He took in every inch of her form in a single, thorough sweep, from her lips to her pointlessly low-cut bodice and all the way down the rose-colored silk gown to the ruffled hem.

  By the time his eyes met hers again, they were smoldering in blatant hunger, as if he’d come to dinner and believed that she was the intended buffet. No one had ever looked at her the way he did.

  A pleasant fluttering stirred in her stomach and lungs, twirling in giddy circles. She laid a hand over her midriff, feeling peculiarly breathless. “Thank you for coming. Truth be told, I don’t know what poss
ess—”

  “Is that our guest?” Lord Hollybrook asked, coming up behind her.

  She turned and took a step into the drawing room as Raven followed. “Yes, Father. I’d like to introduce—”

  “No. No. Don’t tell me,” her father said, falling into his practiced guise of blandisher by grinning and wagging his finger. Then he tapped that same digit against the side of his pursed lips as he scrutinized the cut of Raven’s clothes. “I know! You’re the King of Waistcoats. That cut is positively smashing. You must tell me who your tailor is. I’m giving mine the sack this instant.” Then he genially held out his hand and offered, “Beauregard Pickerington, Viscount Hollybrook, and you are—Oh, wait just a moment, for I have spotted the most divine creature across the room. Love, come hither and greet our guest with your beatific smile. Sir, I am delighted to introduce my own Clementina, Viscountess Hollybrook.”

  “An honor, my lord, my lady. I am Raven.”

  “Yes, I’m sure we’ve met before. Raven . . . Raven . . . Ravenscroft. Of course! Excellent family, excellent.” Beneath a carefully coiffed dishevelment of short, sandy-silver hair, Father squinted, displaying two small fans of faint wrinkles beside each blue eye. “And which one are you?”

  “Dearest, how rude,” Mother said. With a graceful fingertip touch to her own coiffure, smoothing one errant pale strand back into the arrangement, she sashayed across the Axminister carpet in a dramatic mazarine blue gown.

  “Yes, yes. Quite right,” Father said. “None of that matters when our trenchers await in the dining room and our empty goblets are eager for libation.”

  Her mother issued a tittering laugh as she placed her hand on Father’s proffered arm. “Lord Hollybrook paints quite a barbaric portrait of my place settings. Trenchers, indeed. The silver has been in my family for three generations. Or would it be four, now, dear?”