She twisted and looked across the camellias at him. He held up a silver tray piled with cards and invitations.
Eve shrugged. “My mother and sister have always enjoyed an active social life.”
“Indeed?” He picked up an invitation. “Lady Hamilton.” He dropped it and picked up another. “Lady Roxeburgh.” He tossed the card beside the others and pulled another from the pile. “Lady Morton—she was, last I heard, in London.”
“Manchester is a favorite of London society,” Eve replied. “Especially this time of year, before the height of the London Season.”
He dropped the card onto the mound and set the tray on the small worktable to his right. “These invitations, one and all, include your name.”
Eve grimaced and once again faced the roses. “The gossipmongers are looking for fodder. The fact I shot the earl will silence any gossip that I was fraternizing with him.”
“You are damned fortunate the magistrate has not demanded your arrest,” he snapped. “I cannot hush things up as I did last time.”
“You will never forgive me, will you?”
“You ran away with the one man I forbade you to marry, and will not marry the one I command you to wed.”
She inhaled the roses’ scent. “Lord Rushton has no wish to marry me and I have no wish to marry him. Why should we do something we both hate?”
“Because you have no choice.”
“Rubbish,” she said. “My choice is to not marry him.”
“That is not a choice, Eve. Unless…”
She knew that unless. “The answer is no, just as it was last month.”
“His calling card is among the others,” her father said. “He will forgive you, even believing you compromised yourself with Lord Rushton.”
Eve had no idea why her father thought Lord Somerset held her in such affection, but kept silent.
“You have not told me why you will not consider his suit.”
“I do not love him,” she replied.
“You are too old to be choosy.”
She turned. “Thank you, Father.”
“It will be one or the other. Your involvement with Lord Blane pales in comparison to this escapade.”
Of that, Eve wasn’t so sure.
In the five years since her connection with him ended, Lord Blane had proven himself to be a gambler—and a bad one at that. His father had paid his debts in the sum of eight thousand pounds, and yet Lord Blane continued to gamble. All those years ago, when he’d presented himself to her father as her lover and the father of the child he swore she carried, her father wrote him a bank draft with the agreement that he disappear into Scotland or France for at least a year. Eve fully expected to one day read in the paper that his body had been pulled from the Thames. The dull ache that had once been sorrow at a love lost was now sorrow for a life wasted. Despite his deceit, Blane wasn’t a bad man. The compulsion, the disease, was consuming him. He would eventually succumb completely and make a wager even his father couldn’t, or wouldn’t, cover.
“Do you not want children?”
Her father’s tone and the question jarred her. “What am I teaching my children if their father doesn’t love their mother?”
“Respect.”
“That is not enough of a reason to marry, even for the sake of bearing children.”
A knowing light entered his eyes. “You forget to whom you are speaking. You are a strong woman, but you are a natural woman.”
“Some would disagree.”
He nodded. “And with good reason.”
“My point exactly.”
“They do not know you as I do. I remember you with your nieces.”
She warmed despite her effort to remember the two little girls.
“You begged me to raise them when their father died.”
Eve set the watering can on the floor. “No child should be without a father, which only serves to make my point. Lord Rushton will make a terrible father.”
“You could not be more wrong. He will be a very good father—as good as his father was to him.” She snorted, but her father cut her off. “Do not pretend to be one of those females who insists a man must coddle a boy as a mother would. A man’s world is hard. A boy must learn that early on.”
“Perhaps you are right, and Lord Rushton will make an exemplary father,” she said. “But he will make an abominable husband. He told me so himself. I do not intend to marry a man who will not only live his life as if I do not exist, but who will most certainly grow to hate me.”
“If he comes to hate you that will be your doing.”
Eve held her father’s gaze. “Just as you hating my mother is her doing?”
“Hate is too strong a word. That aside, you know nothing of your mother when I met her.”
“Did you?”
“No,” he said, startling her. “I was young and reckless. But that is beside the point. You will marry the earl.”
“Lord Rushton is the paradigm of recklessness. He broke into my room for pity’s sake.”
“But he is not blind to a woman’s nature.”
Eve stiffened. “And, therefore, could not possibly fall in love with me.”
“His feelings for you will be honest. That is more than most women get.”
“He has, indeed, made his intentions abundantly clear.”
“He will not lie to you and he will provide for you and your children.”
“A fine picture you paint.”
“Which way will you have it, Eve? You don’t want a man who sees you for the woman you are, and you do not want a man who adores you.”
“Adoration is overrated, sir.”
“Indeed, it is,” he said, and she knew he was thinking of her mother. “But you feel you can reject both. What of your sister?”
Anger welled up. “This is her doing. Yet she has not suffered one wit.”
“She will. Should you flout convention, the scandal will place her outside of polite society.”
“Then let her marry him. She wants him.”
“Eve—”
“No one knows Grace lied about his seduction,” Eve cut in. “They can still marry, as you first commanded. Surely, you must be pleased for her marry a man of stature. Mother is thrilled.”
“She has no common sense in such matters,” he muttered.
“What?”
“Never mind,” he said so abruptly it startled her. “I will not be gainsaid in this, Eve. You have refused Somerset’s offer. Therefore, your marriage to Rushton is a mere technicality.”
“Even the worst scandal does not mean I am obligated to marry him.”
“In fact, it means just that. I have an appointment with Philips after lunch.”
“Your solicitor?” Fury swept through her. “Cast me off into the wilds of Northumberland, for I will not be coerced into signing a marriage contract.”
“Northumberland?” He gave her a deprecating look. “You fail to grasp the situation. Even in Northumberland, a respectable man will not marry a woman with the reputation you will have if you don’t marry. No, I will not leave you to marry a country bumpkin who sires ten children on you while he whittles away your money—or worse, an out and out fortune hunter. You are to appear at a dozen parties tonight.”
“A dozen parties?” she blurted. “I will be out until the sun rises.”
“Not quite,” he said. “This is not London.”
“No one can make that many appearances in one night.”
“And you will dance at each soiree where there is an orchestra.”
She stared. “I will be incapacitated tomorrow. Even Mother and Grace could not keep up.”
“Do not concern yourself with them. You will make it plain that the future Countess of Rushton is not to be toyed with.”
“I am not the—” Her gaze caught on the mound of invitations and she realized her father was right. The future Countess of Rushton must put an end to this miserable business. Eve acquiesced with a cant of her hea
d. “I will make every appearance.”
*****
Erroll’s hotel room door opened in the small salon beyond the bedroom, but he didn’t bother to lift his head from the edge of the tub to call out. He was in no mood to be civil to anyone, not even the maid delivering his dinner. He did shift to ease the ache in his back and the angle of his wounded leg, which hung over the edge of the tub. It had been years since he’d ridden as hard as he had yesterday—or gotten into a damned fist fight as he had with Miss Crenshaw’s father—and he was paying the price. Today, he was paying the price for many a sin.
He picked up a glass of whisky from the table beside the tub and drank the contents in one long swallow. The liquid burned a velvety path down his throat and landed in the pit of his stomach where lay the other two glasses he’d already downed with just as much gusto. Erroll poured another glass from the decanter sitting on the table, then cradled the tumbler on his belly and closed his eyes.
What a grand joke that he should be snared by a woman who didn’t want marriage any more than he did. They would make quite a pair—threesome, he remembered with a groan. The younger Miss Crenshaw was not about to give up the chase without a blood-letting battle.
Erroll had replayed last night’s events over and over in his mind. He had thanked fortune that his accuser stopped before reaching her father’s estate, and he thought himself clever for cornering her alone in her room. But had the wheel on their wagon not broken, he wouldn’t have caught them, and her lie would have been exposed under the scrutiny of evidence that might damn his soul, but not his body. Instead—he downed the whisky, then poured another glass, sloshing half the liquid over the side of the glass before slamming the decanter back onto the table. He wrapped his fingers around the glass as the rest of his body began to loosen.
Too bad he hadn’t actually compromised the elder sister. Even an unrelenting hunter like Miss Grace Crenshaw would relinquish her prey if it mated with her kin. Sliding between Eve Crenshaw’s thighs would be all too easy. Her nipples had pressed against his chest just hard enough to give away her desire. Desire? He chuckled. Her only desire had been to put a bullet in him. And she had, the vixen.
His cock throbbed and began to rise in response to the memory of her body silhouetted by candlelight and the dark patch he’d glimpsed between her legs. Erroll drank the whisky in a flourish, intended to pour another, but the glass slipped from his fingers onto the floor as his eyes closed. His cock would fit snuggly inside her tight warmth. But what how to induce her to wrap her fingers around him beforehand?
He startled, the erotic vision suddenly so real he could feel her delicate hand closing around him. Erroll jammed his eyes more firmly shut and allowed his mind to sink deeper into the murky fantasy. Her fingers tightened and he lifted his hips, then slowly lowered back into the water. Her grip firm, she slid her hand up, then down, pulling his skin so tight he hissed a breath in pleasure.
Her hand pistoned down then up, faster. Erroll gripped the edges of the tub. He could smell her faint fragrance. She slowed the motion and a feathery light caress brushed his bollocks. Erroll shivered. His release was near and he had yet to touch the apparition. Dared he try? Would she vanish if he reached for her? He growled when the hand caressing his bollocks cradled them and gently squeezed. His release rose toward the surface. Soft lips brushed against his.
“Eve,” he rasped against her mouth.
“Eve?”
Erroll snapped open his eyes to find Lady Laura Greenwood’s face a hair’s breadth from his. He jerked his eyes to his groin. Her fingers encircled his thick member. The liquor induced haze evaporated.
Erroll shifted his gaze onto hers. “Seducing a man while he’s sleeping in his tub? You must be desperate, Laura.”
She massaged his cock and pleasure streaked along the sensitive flesh. He couldn’t repress a shudder.
A satisfied smile curved her mouth. “I know what you like.”
The sultry quality he recognized all too well was present in her voice, but he didn’t miss the underlying fury. Memory clicked into place and he realized he’d called out Eve Crenshaw’s name.
He lifted a brow. “I thought you were someone else.”
Fury blazed in her eyes. “You prefer a baron’s daughter to me?” This time she squeezed his member—hard.
He bit back a wince and managed a cold smile. “Yes.” Erroll saw the wheels turning in her mind and he seized the wrist of the hand that still gripped him. “Release me, my dear, before you do something you regret.”
Indecision flickered across her face before she jerked free of his hold and shoved to her feet. Erroll gripped the edges of the tub and pushed up, easing his wounded leg to the floor. He’d banged the damned thing against the tub when she’d startled him awake. The wound wasn’t bad, but it pounded like the devil as blood flowed through the muscle. He stood, then took one step nearer to the chair beside the hearth and snatched up the silk robe draped over the cushion. He stuck an arm in one sleeve and turned as he shoved the other arm into the remaining sleeve.
“What are you doing here?”
Her gaze dropped to his erection, which still demanded its reward. “You should have stayed asleep another moment, darling. You didn’t take your pleasure. You were close, though, by your reactions.”
He was, and with a great deal of help from her as it turned out.
Erroll closed the robe and cinched the belt. “How did you get in here?”
“The clerk was very helpful.”
He remembered the innkeeper who had given him the key to Miss Crenshaw’s room. It seemed clerks and innkeepers were too free with information concerning their guests.
He crossed to the small sideboard near the window and poured a glass of brandy. “Laura, I am in no mood.”
“I beg to differ.”
Erroll reached for the glass, then thought better of it and faced her. He leaned his backside against the sideboard. “I have never known you to venture farther from London than Coventry, and then only when a certain young duke was sowing his wild oats.”
She waved a hand. “You are as worthy as the duke.”
“More so, but your time is wasted on me, just as it was with him.”
“Erroll, we have shared much. Do you not miss me?”
“I have not missed you for over a week.”
Her mouth pinched, but she said in a bright voice, “It is all over Town that you were shot by your latest paramour. I didn’t believe it, but there is the proof.”
Erroll didn’t look at his leg. “A lovers’ quarrel. You know how that is.”
“I never shot you.”
“Only because you lacked the nerve.”
“Is shooting you how a lady keeps your attention?” She glided across the room to him. “Really, darling, are you going to stay angry at me forever?” She pressed her full lips into a pout and placed her palms on his chest.
“I am not angry,” he said.
She slipped her hands inside his robe to his chest. Erroll caught her wrists and her head snapped up.
“We are finished, Laura. I assumed you understood that last week.”
“So you are still angry. That is unfair.”
He released her and straightened, forcing her back. “I am not angry. I simply have no interest in a woman who will pit me against another of her lovers—and a jealous one at that. But I suspect that was what you had in mind.”
“You know how I get,” she sulked. “I never meant for you to get caught in that squabble. I said I was sorry.”
“And I accepted your apology. Now, if you will excuse me, I have an appointment.” She opened her mouth, but he cut her off, “You are not to interfere with my current situation.”
Ire flashed across her face. “How could I possibly interfere?”
“By putting it about that you visited me in my hotel room and had your pretty hands around my cock.”
“It would only be the truth,” she shot back.
“Just as it
is the truth that you are one ball gown away from your creditors going to Italy in search of your husband.”
She drew in a sharp breath. “You would never repeat that?”
“You created the situation. I simply do not intend to be one of your casualties.”
“You did not consider yourself a casualty when I let you fuck me.”
“Be sure to remember it was you who reduced our connection to such lowly depths,” he said.
“How dare you?” She drew back her hand and Erroll caught her wrist before her palm reached his face.
“What is going on?” he demanded. “This is dramatic, even for you.”
Laura yanked her hand free and took a step back. “Nothing that need concern you, my lord.” She whirled and stalked toward the door.
For an instant Erroll didn’t move, then he reached her in three quick steps and seized her arm, swinging her around to face him.
“Let me go,” she hissed.
“Sit down,” he ordered.
She looked up and he saw tears rolling down her cheeks. He urged her two steps to the chair. Her mouth tightened in rebellion and she didn’t sit.
“If you want my help, do as I say,” Erroll said.
She hesitated, then sat down. Erroll went back to the sideboard, poured a second brandy, then picked up both glasses and returned to Laura’s chair.
He shoved one drink in front of her. “Drink this.”
She took the glass and drank half the contents in two gulps.
“You have many vices, Laura, but drinking is not one of them. What happened?”
“Henry has returned from Italy.”
Erroll sipped his brandy. His head was starting to pound, but he knew it was due more to being shocked from the relaxed state of alcohol and arousal than an impending hangover.
“So your creditors do not have to go in search of him, after all.”
She shot him a dagger-filled look.
Erroll lifted a brow. “I take it he is none too happy with your peccadilloes?”
“Oh fie,” she said. “If that were all, I would be able to handle him without trouble. No. He has seen a few of my bills and…” She sighed and took another gulp of her drink.
“I see,” Erroll said. “The viscount does not mind that his wife is seen with every rake in Town, but he will not countenance his money paying for her lovers.”
Daring Lords and Ladies Page 11