The Earl of Benton_Wicked Regency Romance

by Madeline Martin

  Alistair leaned over and rubbed at the spot directly in the middle of the star, and Beast's foot kicked at the air. “I'm Alistair,” he said. “And this is Beast.”

  Beast peered up at her, and his tongue lolled ridiculously from the corner of his mouth amid a toothy grin. The tension in the woman's shoulders relaxed somewhat.

  “I'm…Miss Emma.” She flicked a glance where the rust-colored stains smeared the once-fine fabric of her gown.

  “Miss Emma, you understand we can't have people seeing the state of your gown. Not with those men already asking questions.”

  She pursed her lips and furrowed her brow, frustration evident in her expression.

  He pulled the saddlebag from its hook. “I can put your gown in this for the time being, but we must find a way to get you from the stables without drawing attention.”

  “And being practically naked would draw less attention. How would that possibly be preferable?” she asked with horrified consternation.

  Naked was always preferable, though he refrained from saying as much, especially when she eyed him as if she expected him to be as dangerous as those who sought her.

  It would be impossible to get into the manor, not with her frock in such an alarming state. Though if one were to consider other possibilities, the house was within fair proximity to the stables. She might be able to run. If she could make it to the library, his room was accessible up the lone staircase. It might work.

  “What repercussions do you face if you are caught?” Alistair asked. “Tell me that much at least.”

  “I believe my uncle means to kill me,” she whispered. “Though his conversation with you implies he may attempt to put Jenny's death on me to see my fortune and lands stripped away.”

  High stakes to be sure.

  “It appears that is the way of it,” Alistair said solemnly. “Short of you going without your dress, there's only a slight chance we could avoid having those stains not be seen if we go through the main entrance of the manor house. We'll endeavor to come up with a better plan to get you out later. At present, we must get you in the house without being seen. How quickly can you run?”

  Miss Emma shook her head. “I don't know. Quickly enough, I suppose.”

  “You’d better do more than suppose,” Alistair muttered. If he could get into the house and unlatch the window to the library, she could dart across the yard. It would be rather precarious and more than slightly risky, but they were presented with few other options.

  “If you stay here, you'll be caught,” he said. “If we go through the main entrance, someone is sure to notice you. Same if we sneak through a servants’ entrance. I'll go inside, form a diversion of sorts, then go to the library and unlock the window.”

  The slender muscles of her neck flinched. “You're going to leave me?”

  Alistair drew the dagger from his boot and handed it to her hilt first. “If you need it, use it.”

  Miss Emma accepted the dagger with the delight of a woman receiving a massive, wriggling bug.

  He pulled a flask from his hip and dragged a deep, burning drink from it. “And have some of that while you’re at it.” He handed it to her.

  She eyed the flask with even less excitement than she had the dagger. “What is it?” She took it, sniffed once, and wrinkled her nose.

  “Courage,” he said with a wink.

  She took a tentative sip and gave a sputtering cough. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand. “That’s awful.”

  “An acquired taste, I suppose.” He gestured for her to take one more sip. “Go on, it will make this easier.”

  For both of them, but he didn’t say it. The less frightened she was, the less inclined she would be to scream and alert others of their attempt.

  She cast him a dark glare and took a defiant slug of the whisky as though she were an accomplished drinker. There was a strange gargling in her throat and her eyes watered, but she did not spit it out.

  He accepted the flask back. “Wait by the rear door there. I'll give you a signal when it’s safe, aye?” He gestured to the opposite wall. “I'll leave Beast here to see to you.”

  For his part, Beast flipped over and gazed adoringly at Miss Emma with large, soft brown eyes.

  She clutched the dagger to her chest. “Please do hurry.”

  “As fast as I can,” he promised.

  It was not until he was away from the stables that the absurdity of the situation slammed into him. He was aiding a woman he knew nothing about, who was somehow involved in the murder of a servant, possibly with people who intended to kill her as well. And he was devising a plan to enable her to flee. How he'd made it through the first year of his earldom without dangling from a rope was swiftly growing beyond his comprehension. He only hoped his luck might continue to hold.

  He regarded the butler, Craven, as he entered. “Have you seen two men about searching for a lady on the property?”

  The old butler blinked owlish eyes from behind the frames of his spectacles. “They were here only a few moments ago, my lord.”

  “I daresay, I saw the girl they sought in the gardens near the fountain.”

  Craven straightened with purpose. “I shall tell them at once.”

  “Good man.” Alistair strode away, confident the aging butler would see to the task immediately. The gardens were on the opposite side of the manor, and therefore would lead Miss Emma's erstwhile relatives to a place where she could not be seen.

  Alistair swiftly made his way to the library and found it empty, as he'd expected. A hutch sat beside the window that faced the stables. Several blankets were stored within, if he remembered correctly. The perfect thing for covering Miss Emma and protecting her while he escorted her to his room.

  He opened the window. No one appeared to be in the immediate vicinity. He only hoped nobody would inopportunely peer out to the stables at that exact instant. Miss Emma's white face peeked from around the rear of the stable. She was ready, and Alistair wasted no time in waving at her to run.

  Chapter 3

  Emma's legs were tense beneath her, still trembling from the last dash for her life, and yet poised and ready to leap into action. She'd never been one for running. That is to say, it wasn't exactly an activity encouraged for ladies. At least she’d learned last time how painful the coins were as they thumped and bumped her leg. She waited until Alistair left and shoved the bag into her stays, where it lodged snugly against her bosom.

  The dagger Alistair had given her remained locked in her right hand in a death grip. Not that she assumed she might ever use it on a person.

  Alistair's hand waved in the window, a flash of white against the dark room. Emma required no further encouragement. She leapt to her feet and made a mad dash for the manor. It had not appeared so terribly far away. At least, not until she'd started to run in earnest.

  Her lungs labored and her blasted stays kept her from properly drawing sufficient air. Why did her heart have to pound so? It could very well choke her before she could reach the window.

  Beast remained easily at her side with great, bounding strides, as if there were great joy to be had in running. Emma's skirts swung heavy at her ankles and the sharp edge of every stone buried in the grass nipped through her thin slippers. There was a reason ladies were meant to implement walking as their source of exercise.

  She was nearly to the manor house when dots of white blossomed in her vision. By her honor, the trek was a torturous distance the second time around.

  The baritone of a familiar voice carried on the breeze. The frenzied pound of her heart slammed to a stop. Her uncle.

  No, no, no.

  Her body reached deep and found a reserve of energy she did not realize she possessed. Her legs kicked into action, propelling her not only to the window, but through its empty center, and into the arms of Alistair.

  A scant second later, the writhing weight of Beast slammed behind her knees and knocked her forward. Were it not for the wall of Alistair's body,
she would have pitched to the ground. He caught her, locking her against him and keeping her upright. His arms and chest were impossibly solid and there was a pleasant smoky scent about him.

  He was staring down at her, his face a mere inch or two from hers. His eyes had appeared dark from afar. Up close, they were a captivating deep blue, like the sky on the tail end of dusk before the star-flecked blackness swept in.

  The room was silent save for her gasping, choked puffing from the extreme duress of her run. Her cheeks went hot with mortification. Not that heat was exactly what her body fancied right then when she already was a sweaty, ruined mess. She knew she was an unattractive woman, certainly she'd had significant proof in her life. But now she was gasping and filthy in addition to being homely. And Alistair, painfully handsome, mere inches from her face. Could this possibly get worse?

  He smiled down at her, more with the crinkle of his eyes than with the wry twist of his lips. “Mind where you put that, aye?”

  He glanced down to her hand where she clutched the knife. The flat of the wicked blade lay against his arm. Too close for comfort. Emma jerked back. “I didn't mean-”

  An unfamiliar male voice came from the hall, his words muffled.

  Alistair threw a soft blanket over Emma's shoulders and grabbed her close to him once more. “Forgive me,” he ground out.

  Before she could ask what he was about, he drew up her skirt, exposing her stockinged leg at the exact moment the door opened. If her cheeks were scorching before, they were now the very flames of a fire. They were being caught, like lovers. Embracing. Inappropriately close. Without a chaperone in sight.

  A jolt of excitement shot through Emma, as delicious as it was unexpected.

  Alistair squared his shoulders, shielding her. “I would knock next time.” His delivery to the intruder was dry with boredom.

  Emma's breath still huffed from her mad race across the yard, the crude sound evident in the ridiculously quiet room.

  “Benton, you really are a scoundrel.” The reply was equally as apathetic, but the door clicked shut and Alistair's body relaxed. His grip on her skirt loosened and the heavy cloth fell once more over her legs.

  “How dare you?” she snapped.

  “Indeed.” Alistair smirked. “It would have been far better for him to see the blood on your skirts.”

  She stopped, realizing he was correct. In fact, he had saved her, and deserved her praise instead of her scorn.

  “Let's get you upstairs, aye? We can plan how to get you out again once the carriage is ready.” He secured the blanket more thoroughly around her. “Lift your skirt higher. If we see anyone, better they note your stockings than those stains.”

  She complied with his suggestion, though doing as much left every one of her sensible notions bruised. He nodded in approval and led her from the room and up the stairs. She followed, endeavoring to keep her head lowered, the mess of her skirt caught tight in the grip of her fist and the blanket curled securely around her. While sounds of men's voices, and even some women's, could be heard throughout the house, they encountered no one on their way to Alistair's rooms. Beast stayed with them, happily plastered to his master's side with a panting, affable grin.

  A part of Emma, a resounding part of her, was appalled she was allowing a man to lead her to his private quarters, especially where there were clearly indulgences being pursued in sins of the flesh. And yet the sensible part of her understood her refusal in accepting his help would ultimately be her demise.

  And so, Emma followed Alistair and hoped her trust was not poorly placed on the greatest gamble in all her life.

  ***

  Alistair found MacKenzie in the room kneeling on the floor in front of a full trunk. Beast barreled around Alistair, nearly knocking his knees from beneath him, and greeted MacKenzie with a lick on the cheek. The valet leaned away with a laugh and rubbed at the dog's golden head.

  It appeared most of Alistair's effects were already carefully packed under MacKenzie's meticulous eye. Excellent. It was imperative they make considerable haste in light of their new developments.

  “The stable lad never showed,” he said to his valet. “See if you can locate him to ready for our departure.”

  MacKenzie gave Beast a final scratch on the head and got to his feet. “Aye, but dinna ye go packing this yerself. It’s been done in a particular order. Ye have to let me be yer valet, aye?”

  Emma shuffled into the room behind Alistair, her gait awkward under the folds of the blanket with her skirt raised and her head intentionally lowered. She rather resembled an old beggar woman than a lady.

  “There will be someone joining us and our departure has become more urgent,” Alistair added.

  Emma stiffened and dropped her skirts so they fell modestly over her legs. The rust-colored blood stood out like sin against the light-colored fabric.

  “And I'll require some additional clothing for the lady,” Alistair continued. “She desires to be unrecognizable.”

  MacKenzie did not appear disconcerted by Emma’s appearance and simply made his way to the door. “Verra well, my lord. I'll see to her clothing first.”

  He cast Alistair a level look upon his way out, a silent vow of warning to not touch the trunks. Alistair bit back a scoff.

  No matter how long he was earl, he would never be comfortable having others do things for him he could so easily do for himself. It seemed lazy and high minded. The utter dependency of the upper class on those of the lower stations would never sit right with him.

  Emma swept the blanket from her shoulders, carefully folded it, and stood awkwardly in the center of the room.

  They were alone and safe, which meant he could finally get some damn answers.

  “Who are you?” Alistair asked.

  Beast scratched at himself with a hind leg and issued forth a deep, satisfied groan before curling up on the carpet with a heavy sigh.

  Emma beheld the blanket in her hands as though it’d become the most interesting thing in London. Most assuredly, it was easier than meeting his eye with them being alone.

  “I’m Emma Thorne.” Her cheeks remained flushed from her sprint and her brown hair hung loose in a riot of wavy tendrils around her face.

  The name teased at his memory.

  “However, I think you want to know what you have gotten yourself into rather than who I truly am,” she said.

  “You're very astute.”

  “I do try,” she said with mock civility, matching his condescending tone with one of her own. A note of defiance shone in her eyes for a flash of a second before her face sobered into a more somber expression.

  She sighed. “I am the only surviving child of Thomas Thorne, a man made wealthy by his discovery of a great copper deposit on our lands. He died when I was only twenty and my uncle has been charged with caring for my estate until I am of age to claim it for my own. I have rejected his unrelenting suggestions to wed his son, no matter his insistence.” She added the last bit with an edge of vehemence.

  “I celebrate my birthday in less than a month and will be five-and-twenty,” she said. “My uncle will lose his grip on my fortune and is none too pleased.”

  Alistair remembered the name Thomas Thorne and the massive wealth the man had accumulated in his life. After all, for as much as they claimed never to do so, the ton spoke of little else but money and scandal. “And your maid?”

  Emma's brows drew together and her shoulders rounded protectively inward. “She was wearing one of my old gowns to go visit her parents in the village. I believe…” She paused and drew a shaky inhalation before continuing, “I believe my uncle thought she was me.”

  Her large blue eyes were luminous with unshed tears and the fullness of her lower lip had been pulled into her mouth. She released her lip in a way that should not have been as sensual as it was. “Will you take me to Scotland with you?” she asked. “I feel I can trust you.”

  Alistair's mind swirled around this fascinating woman. The bravery sh
e'd exhibited, the logic of her incredible understanding, even the gentle flex of the knowledge she’d gleaned from his conversation with MacKenzie that was more like a favor than a threat. And the innocent stare she cast his way mingled with the raw sexuality of those lips.

  “Aye,” he said brusquely. “You can trust me.”

  MacKenzie entered the room abruptly, his arms full of clothing. Beast leapt to his feet, tail wagging with delighted enthusiasm.

  The valet laid the heap atop a settee. “Ye willna be pleased with yer options,” he offered by way of apology to Emma. “I'll see to the stable lad.” He gave a sharp whistle and Beast bounded eagerly to his side.

  Alistair murmured his thanks to the man, appreciating as always how MacKenzie operated with admirable efficiency. The valet and dog departed together and left Alistair and Emma alone.

  Rather than let the quiet thicken between them once more, Alistair sifted through the small pile of clothing. There were the knee breeches, tail-coat, stockings, and powdered wig of a footman, and there was a scarlet red silk gown with a plunging neckline as well as a black silk mask and pot of something red and oily.

  The weight of Emma's curiosity settled heavy along the back of his shoulders and he knew she wanted desperately to see what had been laid out for her.

  Alistair stood back to allow her a better view. “It would appear you will either be a footman or a uh…” He cleared his throat. “Or a lady of…questionable…”

  “A whore.” Emma's stark tone stated well what she thought of the suggestion.

  Alistair lifted his shoulders. “They are certainly disguises you would not be recognized in.”

  “I'll be the footman,” she answered stoutly.

  He regarded her with a more critical eye than he had previously. It was difficult to see how trim her waist was within the fine muslin gown with its high sewn waist. However, the swell of her breasts was, well, substantial. His kind of substantial, as it were. A fine palm full that spilled over with more than a man needed, but a lot of what a man wanted.