This Earl of Mine

by Kate Bateman

  “He adores the role of lovesick swain. Back in Lincolnshire, he was very taken with the Arthurian legends. Troilus and Cressida, Lancelot and Guinevere. He spent an entire week last summer splashing around in the lake looking for some mystical sword.”

  “Well, I wish he’d go and search for the holy grail of poesy somewhere else. All that sighing and languishing. It’s exhausting just watching him.”

  “I believe he’s cultivating a fashionable ennui.”

  “Bloody hell. Since when was it fashionable to drape yourself over the furniture and spout godawful verse? What is the country coming to?” He shook his head. “Is this the sort of watery whelp I fought hand-to-hand at Waterloo to protect? What happened to British manhood while I was away?”

  Georgie bit her lip. “He’s what they call ‘a sensitive soul.’”

  Wylde cast Simeon a disapproving glare. “Ten minutes in the Rifle corps would toughen him up. He’d probably faint if he ever had to hold a loaded gun.”

  Simeon was still going strong.

  “If I were a bee, and you were the clover,

  I’d drink of your sweetness and—” He paused, searching for a suitable rhyme.

  Benedict leaned in close. “That has to end with ‘and bend you right over,’” he whispered.

  Georgie’s cheeks flamed. The man was outrageous. Every time he looked at her like that, she experienced a strange, melting, squirming sensation just below her ribs, not entirely pleasant, but not particularly comfortable either.

  Simeon scribbled something, then crossed it out and frowned. Twin lines furrowed his bushy brows.

  “Having trouble, Mr. Pettigrew?” she enquired desperately.

  “Indeed. I’m trying to find a satisfactory rhyme for ‘lady luck.’ But my muse has deserted me.”

  “Thank the Lord,” Benedict murmured.

  “How about Puck?” Georgie suggested. “Shakespeare’s character from A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

  Wylde glared at her for encouraging him. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, and the word “suck” popped into her brain. She imagined catching his lower lip between her teeth and—

  Stop it.

  Wylde was watching her. His lips twitched, as though he guessed the wicked direction of her thoughts. He glanced over at Simeon with a bland look. “Maybe if you go through the alphabet? Buck. Chuck. Duck. Nothing starting with E, of course.”

  Georgie wasn’t fooled by his innocent expression. The next letter was F. And she knew precisely which word he was thinking of, even though a gently bred woman shouldn’t. She’d spent too much time around foul-mouthed sailors. They’d bellowed that profanity enough times when they’d thought she was safely out of hearing. A very emphatic, Germanic word.

  Wylde bit his lower lip with his top teeth, beginning to form it in slow motion. His eyes twinkled in delight, and he looked like he was about to break out laughing. “F—”

  “Gluck!” she blurted out, too loudly. “You know, the German composer?”

  Wylde looked comically crestfallen that she hadn’t fallen into his verbal bear pit and made a face that clearly said “spoilsport.”

  “That’s not how you say it,” he murmured. “It rhymes with book, not luck.”

  Pettigrew, of course, was oblivious to the scalding undercurrents in the room. He chewed the end of his pen. “No. I don’t think I can put a composer in here. Perhaps I can insert a chicken? And use ‘cluck.’”

  Benedict clapped his hands. “Excellent idea, Mr. Pettigrew. I’ve yet to encounter a poem that wasn’t immeasurably improved by the inclusion of a chicken. Carry on.” He waved his hand like a royal pardon, then caught Georgie’s elbow and steered her toward the window seat on the other side of the room. “A moment of your time, Miss Caversteed.”

  As soon as they were safely out of earshot, Georgie turned innocent eyes on him. “Don’t tell me you’re not a fan of poetry, Mr. Wylde?”

  “That is not poetry,” he growled. “That is a mangling of our great and noble language. I’ve heard better verses in St. Giles.”

  She raised her brows.

  “There’s one by Prinny’s favorite, Captain Charles Morris, that starts, ‘The Dey of Algiers—’”

  “I’m sure I don’t want to hear it,” she said swiftly. “I doubt it’s suitable for a lady’s ears.”

  “Why not? It’s amusing. And at least it rhymes. It celebrates the Dey’s magnificent—”

  “Naval victory?”

  “—manly appendage,” Wylde finished, completely unrepentant. “But perhaps your ‘gentle ears’ aren’t ready for such profanity.”

  Georgie suppressed a snort. He knew she’d been thinking of that dreadful word earlier. And unlike every other man of her acquaintance, he found it amusing, instead of censuring her for it. How liberating, to be able to share a joke with someone of equal wit and flexible morals.

  “All right, what about this one by Robert Burns?” he pressed.

  “Tom and Tim on mischief bent,

  Went to the plains of Timbuctoo;

  They saw three Maidens in a tent,

  Tom bucked one, and—”

  “Let me guess,” Georgie said dryly, determined not to let him discompose her, “‘—and Tim bucked two’? How original. At least Mr. Pettigrew’s verses are about more than…” She strove for an appropriate word and settled on “… tupping.”

  “No, they aren’t. They might be couched in obfuscation and circumlocution, but at the heart of every one of them is tupping. Or screwing. Or whatever else you want to call it. The hero of any courtly romance, whether he admits it or not, is pining for a good, hard—”

  “Kiss,” she finished emphatically.

  “No. Not a kiss, Miss Caversteed. I can tell you quite candidly, that there’s not a man alive who would turn around after killing a bloody great dragon or vanquishing some horrible witch and be happy with a kiss on the cheek.”

  “So die my dreams of courtly love,” she sighed, emulating Juliet’s breathy tone to perfection.

  “Courtly love isn’t what populates the world,” he finished darkly. “If you ever want a demonstration of what does, I’ll be happy to show you.”

  His gaze caught hers, and Georgie thought her body would go up in flames. Good God, what did one say to that? “That’s very magnanimous of you,” she managed weakly.

  The corner of his mouth curled upward. “Isn’t it? Now, tell me honestly, when you came up with your lunatic plan to marry a criminal, surely you didn’t intend to eschew male company for the rest of your life?”

  “As a matter of fact, I’d planned on taking a lover once I returned to Lincolnshire. A widow can do as she pleases, as long as she’s circumspect.”

  Georgie marveled at her own boldness. What was it about him that made her say whatever was on her mind, however indiscreet?

  He nodded, entirely unperturbed. Did nothing shock him?

  “And now I’ve ruined your plans by refusing to be hanged or shipped off to Australia. I do apologize.” His roguish grin was in no way apologetic. He leaned forward again. “As your legally wedded husband, one could almost argue that it’s my duty to teach you such things.”

  Her happiness evaporated. Of course. That’s all she was to him—a duty. An entertaining one, quite possibly, but a duty nonetheless. Theirs was a marriage in name only. Any emotional entanglements—which would naturally ensue if she agreed to such an outrageous offer—would only complicate things when it came time to part ways.

  If only it wasn’t so tempting to say yes.

  “That aspect of our union is not something I require your help with,” she said.

  He accepted her withdrawal with a good-natured shrug. “All right, but if you ever change your mind, do let me know.”

  Georgie decided it was time to steer the subject into safer territory. “Did you learn anything of import at Vauxhall?” The only thing she’d discovered was how nice it felt to be in his arms, how quickly he could turn her blood to fire and her brain to
mush.

  She had to stop thinking about it.

  “I did. My contact gave me a lead to a man who could be involved.” He glanced over at Simeon and Juliet, but neither of them was paying any attention. A bomb could have gone off, and they wouldn’t have noticed.

  “And—?” Georgie prompted. “Who is it?”

  He frowned at her. “I’m not sure I should tell you. Issues of national security, and all that.”

  She shot him a pointed look. “You don’t think I can keep a secret, Mr. Wylde?”

  “Good point, Mrs. Wylde,” he whispered.

  “So who’s the lead?”

  He sighed in defeat, as if sensing her determination. “A man named Barry O’Meara.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “There’s no reason why you should have. He’s the Royal Navy surgeon Napoleon selected to remain on St. Helena with him as his personal physician. O’Meara recently returned to these shores, full of sympathy for the emperor’s cause, and has been lobbying intensely in favor of Bonaparte being freed.” Twin creases formed between his brows. “O’Meara will be familiar with the security arrangements on the island. If he thinks his petitioning is falling on deaf ears, he’d be in a perfect position to advise on a rescue mission instead.”

  “He does sound a likely candidate. What do you plan to do?”

  “Find evidence to support the theory that he’s plotting something.”

  “How?”

  “By searching his house.”

  “Will you wait until he goes out?”

  Wylde grinned at her persistence. “No, I plan to do it while he’s at home, with thirty or forty other people in attendance.” Georgie raised her brows incredulously and he chuckled. “O’Meara’s having a card party next Tuesday evening. There’ll be deep card play, plenty of drink, and lots of available women. I’ve managed to get myself invited.”

  “The Westons’ ridotto is on Tuesday night too,” Georgie said. The Westons’ annual masked ball was usually her favorite event of the season; since every guest wore masks and dominos to conceal their identity, she could pretend she was somebody ordinary for a night. People actually flirted with her and spoke to her because they wanted to, not because she was a rich heiress to be envied or entrapped. She loved the thrill of anonymity. Even so, Wylde’s evening sounded far more exciting.

  A sudden determination not to be left out seized her. “I have a suggestion.”

  It was his turn to raise his brows. “I’m all ears.”

  “I should come with you to O’Meara’s house,” she said firmly. “I can attend the Westons’ party, but slip away to O’Meara’s to help you, and be back before my mother even notices I’m missing.”

  “And why would I let you to do that?”

  She gave what she hoped was a winning smile. “It will be far easier for you to sneak around a house party with a woman in tow. Think about it. A lone man loitering around might be seen as suspicious, but nobody will bat an eyelid if a couple are seen disappearing off into the shadows.”

  His eyes glinted wickedly. “And what do you know about disappearing into the shadows with gentlemen?”

  She fought to contain her blush. “Nothing at all. But I’m sure if O’Meara’s guests are as disreputable as you suggest, they’ll think nothing of it. Especially considering your reputation as a rake.”

  His smile made her blood heat. “You mean nobody will be shocked if we’re caught kissing on the billiard table?”

  Georgie’s breath caught, but before she could remind him that there would be no kissing, or anything else for that matter, he said, “Actually, you make a good argument. O’Meara only lives a few streets away from the Westons. And you’ll be masked, so there’s no chance of you being recognized. It shouldn’t be too risky. All right, you can come.”

  She quelled a little crow of elation. She hadn’t really imagined she’d be able to persuade him, but here, suddenly, was her chance for an adventure!

  Her heart thudded against her ribs as she saw the challenge in his eyes, and she had a sudden vision of what he must have been like in the war. Flashing that devil-may-care grin, sneaking off to do something dangerous that might just get him killed. She had no doubt his men would have followed him anywhere, even into hell itself. His charisma was magnetic, irresistible.

  He smiled. “I’ll take my leave. I’ve had quite enough bad poetry for one day.”

  “Shall we arrange to meet somewhere specific at the Westons’?”

  His gaze roved over her face as if committing it to memory. “No. I’ll find you.”

  Georgie wasn’t sure if that was a promise or a threat, but her heart took a long time to regain its normal rhythm after he left.

  Chapter 19.

  Her eyes glittered with excitement through the holes of her black half mask. Georgie took one last satisfied glance in the cheval mirror then swept her floor-length domino over her shoulders and descended the stairs to find Mama and Juliet already in the hall, and Pieter, in his coachman’s livery, waiting by the door.

  Juliet appeared equally pleased to be going to the Westons’. She’d arranged to meet Pettigrew—who would sneak in without an invitation—and take advantage of the opportunity to dance more than the permitted two dances together. Or to steal a kiss somewhere private.

  It took fifteen minutes of queuing just to reach the front steps of the Westons’ mansion, and Georgie smiled in relief. It was a perfect crush; it would be easy to slip away in such a crowd. Hopefully Mother would be too busy trying to keep track of Juliet to notice her eldest daughter had gone missing.

  Her heart pounded. She felt deliciously naughty, sneaking off to experience an entirely different side of life. This might be just another work assignment for Wylde—he probably spent half his life unearthing incriminating evidence in exciting places—but for her, it promised a night of unparalleled adventure.

  She slipped away from Juliet and Mother in the crowded entrance hall and entered the main ballroom. The heat and press of warm bodies was stifling and the hum of excited chatter almost overwhelmed the orchestra, but her spirits lifted. The whole place buzzed with energy, with people determined to enjoy the night to the fullest.

  She’d just started to edge around the side of the room, squeezing herself through the throng, when a highwayman stepped into her path. He was dressed almost entirely in black, from his shining Hessian boots and billowing cloak, to the black fabric mask tied over his eyes and the tricorn hat perched jauntily on his head.

  She gasped as he caught her arm and tugged her against his broad chest.

  “Evening, wife,” he rumbled.

  She’d half expected him to say, “Stand and deliver.”

  “How did you know it was me?” She still wore her domino with the hood pulled up over her hair, which concealed her from head to toe.

  His lips curved in an enigmatic smile as he lifted her chin with his finger, as if readying her for a kiss. “I’d know you anywhere, Georgie girl. This way.”

  Her stomach somersaulted. That was the first time he’d ever called her Georgie. It sounded strangely intimate in his deep masculine voice.

  He took her elbow and weaved his way through the crowd, which parted as if by magic in front of him. She couldn’t help but notice how the women’s gazes followed him, drawn by the magnetism of his body, even when they couldn’t see his face. He exuded power and mystery, the promise of danger, an irresistible combination.

  Georgie was seized by the ridiculous urge to shout: He’s mine. He’s married to me. She shook her head. He probably had a mistress. Or a whole string of them.

  When they had navigated the sea of guests and slipped back outside, Wylde hailed the foremost cab in the semicircular drive and gave the driver an address. His large fingers closed around hers as he helped her up into the carriage. The contact burned, even through her evening gloves.

  “Let me do the talking tonight, understand?” he said as he settled on the seat opposite her. She nodded, her sto
mach churning in trepidation.

  It was a short drive to O’Meara’s house. Lights blazed from the windows and the sounds of a raucous party emanated from the open front door. Georgie followed Wylde up the steps, where he handed his cloak, hat, and mask to a waiting footman.

  She’d been anticipating this moment all evening. She waited until he glanced back at her, undid the tie at the neck of her domino, and let it slide over her shoulders. She suppressed a smile of pure feminine satisfaction when his mouth dropped open in shock.

  “What the devil are you wearing?” he growled.

  “Don’t you like it?” She feigned innocence. “Since you said I was to be your ‘lady companion,’ one of possibly dubious morals, I thought I should dress the part.”

  It was the most scandalous dress she’d ever owned. She’d never worn it in public—the color and style hardly befitted an unmarried woman—but when she’d seen the rolls of teal silk being unloaded from one of her ships, she’d been unable to resist. She was sick of wearing demure, unflattering pastels. She’d ordered Madame Cerise to make her something extraordinary, and Madame Cerise, a true Frenchwoman, had risen admirably to the challenge. This was the dress of a bold, confident woman, a daring gown to go with a daring adventure.

  Wylde looked like he wanted to shove her straight back into the carriage.

  Or strangle her.

  Or devour her.

  Excellent.

  His eyes seemed to be fixed on her chest. Or perhaps on the diamond and emerald necklace she’d chosen to match the outfit. The jewels had belonged to a minor European royal until the turbulent years of the revolution had forced them to sell. Georgie always felt like a princess when she wore them, despite the covetous looks she received from the other girls in the ton.

  “Holy hell, woman!” he growled. “Do you want to be robbed?”

  Fine words from a man dressed as a highwayman. He looked quite capable of stealing her jewels and her virtue. She wouldn’t miss either.

  She waved him away. “Nobody will think they’re real, not on a courtesan. They’ll assume they’re paste. Stop worrying.”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw, and she congratulated herself on having discomposed him. There was something decidedly satisfying about shaking his usual air of cool confidence.