The Earl Most Likely

by Goodger, Jane

  “Certainly not Baron Longley. He’s sponsoring dear Clara for the little season, you know.”

  “Yes, you mentioned him.”

  “A mere baron would never be invited, I imagine. A pity. He’s a wonderful man, you know. Quite respected.”

  Harriet dared a look at Lord Berkley and winced before studying her plate again. The man looked as if he was in pain and trying not to let on. Would her mother never be quiet?

  “I’m certain he is. I have no idea who is on my grandmother’s list, other than, of course, Princess Catalina.”

  Harriet lifted her head so quickly, it could hardly go unnoticed by her mother.

  “You know who Princess Catalina is, ’arriet?” she asked.

  “No, Mother. It is only that having a princess in St. Ives will be rather exciting, don’t you think?”

  “Princess Catalina of Lystengrad. I have never met her myself, but my grandmother says she is all that is kind and has the face of an angel.”

  Harriet stared at Lord Berkley and saw his lips twitch upward. “What does an angel look like?” she asked.

  He slowly turned his head to study her and Harriet felt her entire body heat in such an unexpected way, she nearly let out a small sound. She shifted in her seat, unused to the oddly pleasant feeling that flooded her.

  “I imagine she would have lush, pink lips and golden hair and eyes the color of St. Ives Bay on a summer’s day.”

  “Then like Clara,” her mother said loudly. “Just like my Clara.”

  Harriet, whose cheeks had burned in desire a moment ago, now burned with humiliation. Could her mother never say one kind thing to her?

  “Yes, of course,” Lord Berkley said dismissively. “But as I said, I’ve never seen the girl—if she is even a girl. She could be an old cow for all I know.”

  “But such a lovely name for a cow,” Harriet’s father said, producing laughter from everyone.

  And Harriet couldn’t help think that she was more cow than princess at the moment in her drab, brown dress with her hair a frizzed mess. But on the night of the ball, she would be that woman Lord Berkley described, that kind girl with the face of an angel. Princess Catalina.

  The next day, Harriet entered the gallery on a mission to place the paintings in their proper place, and paused. A large painting of a lovely woman with snapping green eyes and a Mona Lisa smile was set apart from the others. Curious, she walked to the painting to examine the brass plate attached to the ornate frame and let out a small gasp. Lady Greenwich. So, this was what she looked like. It was difficult to believe such a pretty, vibrant-looking woman was dead. Harriet stared for a long moment at her, feeling an odd affinity with her. She bit her lip, wondering whether his lordship would want the painting hung; it had not been one of the original pieces of artwork that had been in the gallery. With a small shrug, she left the painting alone and turned her attention to the other artwork that had been placed haphazardly on the walls and tried to recall where each one went. Lord Berkley entered the room, whistling a tune she’d never before heard.

  “What song is that?”

  “It’s an American song. ‘Camptown Races.’” He walked toward her with a decided bounce in his step, then stopped suddenly, his eyes riveted on the portrait of his late wife. “What is that doing in here?” He stared at the painting, his eyes filled with a mix of anger and despair.

  “It was in here when I arrived,” Harriet said, going over to the painting and turning it toward the wall. She should have done so immediately, she realized. “I’m not really certain why it was put with the rest of the paintings.”

  “It was in the attic. I put it there myself,” he said.

  “Of course. I had one of the workers look to see if anything had been stored there. I couldn’t find an urn that I recalled stood by the fireplace and thought it might be there as it was not in the barn. He must have seen it and brought it down.” Harriet worried her hands together and looked cautiously at Lord Berkley, hoping she hadn’t angered him.

  “It’s of no consequence,” he said with a smile that seemed forced. “I would simply rather not have her portrait hanging in a gallery of hunting scenes.”

  The portrait summarily forgotten, he stood beside her and stared at the wall where the other paintings would hang. Though he stood a few feet from her, Harriet was painfully aware of him, almost as if she could feel his warmth from where she stood. Which was entirely impossible. “I want to apologize.”

  Surprised, she looked over at him. “Whatever for?”

  “I’m not certain,” he said, with almost boyish hesitancy. “I somehow feel to blame for yesterday.”

  “Oh, no, my lord. Please do not,” she said, stepping before him. “I should apologize to you. I knew my mother did not want me there and I suppose I had a bit of the devil in me when I found out you had been invited to luncheon and no one bothered to tell me.” For just a moment, she got lost in his dark blue eyes, in the heady way he was looking at her.

  He gave her the oddest smile, right before he kissed her, softly, softly, a devastating meeting of their lips. Before she could react, could fully understand that Lord Berkley was kissing her, it was over. He stepped away, his arms clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable. “I am sorry,” he said, then quickly added, “Not for that. Not the kiss. I would never be sorry for that. But for what you went through yesterday, what you have gone through your entire life.”

  Harriet was speechless. She stood there, close enough to touch him if she was so brave, and looked up at him mutely, all words escaping her. Lord Berkley kissed me. When he reached out one hand and laid a gentle finger on the cushion of her bottom lip, she stood, entranced, frozen, and wishing with all her being she had the courage to say something.

  “I knew they would be that soft,” he said distractedly.

  The idea that he’d thought about her lips at all was a wonder, and that he was touching her… He needed to stop. He needed to stop making her feel as if she were falling. His eyes on her bottom lip, he pressed his finger slightly, and she resisted the urge to taste him. What would he do if she did? Recoil? Or would his eyes flare with desire?

  “Excuse me, my lord.” Mr. Billings stood in the doorway and seemed to be staring intently at the back of Lady Greenwich’s portrait, the oddest expression on his face.

  But for the smallest flicker in his eyes, Lord Berkley did not react to having been discovered in such a compromising position with his hired help. The tip of his index finger still rested gently upon her lip.

  “I think your lip did not sustain a great injury,” he said, withdrawing his finger finally.

  “Oh. Oh, good.” Thinking to go along with the ruse, she licked her lower lip, and when she did, Lord Berkley let out a small, odd sound.

  “Injured, were you?” Mr. Billings said with concern as he walked over to them.

  “It is nothing to worry about. I was about to hang a painting in its proper place and somehow hit the frame against my mouth. There wasn’t even any blood,” she said, relieved beyond measure that Mr. Billings believed her. The very last thing she needed was for him to come to her defense, or worse, tell tales to the other men.

  “If you need help, Miss Anderson, you need only ask,” Mr. Billings said with a hint of chastisement and another long look at the portrait, making Harriet wonder if he thought that was the painting she’d injured herself on. Perhaps Mr. Billings was a superstitious man.

  “I know. Hanging pictures is simple enough. I was only being clumsy.” Harriet was beginning to feel a bit guilty about lying to this good man. For all his gruffness, Mr. Billings treated her with respect and insisted his men do the same.

  “If it makes you feel any better, Mr. Billings, I will supervise Miss Anderson to make certain she does not injure herself again,” Lord Berkley said. “What was it that you came here to tell me?”

  “The
staircase, my lord. It is completed.”

  “Now that is excellent news, sir. Excellent. Shall we go and take a look?” he asked, turning to her.

  All three departed the room, but not before Lord Berkley turned and gave her a wink, the devil. How could Harriet ever be in a room alone with him now without thinking he might try to kiss her? She ought to make it clear that any more kissing was completely out of the question. She ought to, but she knew in her heart she would not. What sort of a woman did that make her? At that moment, Harriet could only think it made her a woman who rather liked to be kissed.

  Or rather, who liked to be kissed by Lord Berkley.

  On her instruction, Mr. Billings had covered the lions each day so that Lord Berkley would not see the work in progress until all was perfect. When they arrived at the staircase, the tarp was in place. With a flourish and a grin, Mr. Billings pulled the tarp from the lions and Lord Berkley let out a small cheer.

  The lions who guarded the staircase were in their full glory, having been scrubbed clean by the workers. What marvelous fellows they were. The grand staircase was shaped in an upside-down Y with each side being guarded by one of the stately creatures. In the middle, on a raised marble platform, sat the largest of the three, his massive paw on a golden globe, polished to a sheen. It was lovely to see them back in their proper places rather than covered with refuse in an old barn. One could almost imagine the great roar they could let out.

  “Well done, sir.” Lord Berkley leapt up onto the platform with surprising grace for a man of his height and patted the head of the center lion. “It’s good to have you back, old chap,” he said fondly, making Harriet laugh aloud. The earl looked around the entrance to his home and nodded. “She’s nearly back, Mr. Billings. Please tell your men to take the rest of the afternoon off. Well deserved.”

  Mr. Billings grinned and dipped his head. “Yes sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “But be back tomorrow, bright and early,” Harriet called to Mr. Billings’ departing back. “We still have much to do.”

  When he was gone, Harriet stood at the base of the stairs awkwardly. “I shall go as well,” she said, and nearly winced when it came out as more of a question. She didn’t want to leave, she realized. Truly, she wanted to stare at Lord Berkley like some moonstruck girl. Warning bells in her head rang so loudly she could hardly hear.

  “What about the paintings?” Lord Berkley said. Was it her imagination or did his voice sound gruffer than usual? I ought to leave. Now. Leave. Run and never come back.

  “Of course. I nearly forgot.” She stood there, her foolish heart beating in her chest, as she looked up at Lord Berkley, standing on the platform and looking so completely…lordly. While she stood below him in her plain brown dress looking so completely common.

  “I shall assist you,” he said easily, and jumped down, landing perhaps two feet from where she stood, close enough so she thought he must hear her heart beating madly in her chest.

  “I’m certain I can manage,” she said with a sidelong glance.

  “I won’t hear of it; some of those frames are quite heavy,” he said easily. “Why, what if you injure yourself again?”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to remind him that she hadn’t been injured, that it had been a ruse, when she stopped. He was teasing her, she realized, and for some reason that made her heart beat even faster. Was he hinting that she might be “injured” again? Oh, she really should fetch her coat and run off home.

  One thing stopped her—the thought that something like this would never happen again in her life. Indeed, she’d lived twenty-two years and had never been kissed. Chances were quite good that she would never be kissed again. Unless, that is, she allowed this magnificently handsome, completely inappropriate man do so.

  Truly, she could hardly wait.

  When they reached the gallery, Harriet made a great show of studying the paintings and then closed her eyes as if in deep concentration. For the first time in memory, the images that made it so easy to recall every small detail had vanished. In their place was the way Lord Berkley had looked just as he was about to kiss her, the way his firm mouth had felt against hers, the smoldering glance he gave her when he pulled away. The feel of his finger against the pillow of her bottom lip.

  Paintings and where they should be placed were the farthest things from her mind.

  “I think this goes here,” he said, and Harriet opened her eyes, deeply disappointed to see Lord Berkley several feet away holding a painting of a hunt in his hands. She’d thought he might have taken advantage of her closed eyes to perhaps sneak another kiss. It occurred to her that perhaps he truly only wanted to help with the paintings, that having assuaged his curiosity, he might never kiss her again. She ought to be relieved, but instead fought down a sharp stab of disappointment. As kisses went, she supposed, it hadn’t been a particularly passionate one and it was quite possible Lord Berkley had not been stirred in the least. Why should he?

  “No,” Harriet said. “It goes one over to the right, and that painting should be placed there.”

  He did as she directed, leaving one of the paintings askew, so Harriet stepped in to adjust it, only to find a large, steely arm wrapped around her waist until she was pressed against his hard body.

  “Shall I let you go?” he asked, speaking close to her ear and making her entire body feel as though it were melting. She took a breath to answer, but he interrupted her. “Don’t answer. Don’t. Don’t be that country miss who wishes for something but runs when that very thing is presented to her.”

  “Are you speaking from experience?” Harriet asked, stiffening slightly in his arms.

  “Not at all. But I’ve read books where this sort of thing happens all the time.” He breathed in deeply. “You smell like sunshine.”

  “Sunshine does not smell, as you know very well.” He chuckled, and she could feel the deep vibrations against her back. “I know I should be that country miss who runs away,” she said, trying to ignore how delicious it felt to be held in a man’s arms. Never in her life had she felt wicked and wanton, but at this moment, standing in the gallery with a strong male arm wrapped around her, she did. “But I am not that country miss. Not today, at any rate.”

  “Mmmm,” he said, pressing his mouth against her neck. “Good.”

  He sounded so pleased, alarm bells started ringing in her head, too loud to be ignored. “That does not mean, however, that I will allow you liberties beyond…” She stopped because she truly didn’t know what those liberties might be. As it was, the fact she was standing there, pressing her backside against his front, was more liberty than she would have thought she would have allowed only one hour ago. Something happened to her when she was with him, as if another woman entirely took over her body. She noticed things like the sharp line of his jaw, the way his beard stubble had flecks of red and gold hidden within the mahogany, how broad his shoulders were, the way he looked so handsome even from behind. These were the things that caused her entire body to heat, that made her wonder if she were far more common than she’d even believed herself to be. Money does not make one a member of the aristocracy; she knew that well. Apparently, even the best finishing schools could not remove her baser side.

  “Beyond?” he prompted.

  “Beyond this.”

  He laughed again. “My dear, this is not even a liberty. Well, perhaps a small liberty. This,” he said, spinning her around in his arms so that she was facing him, “is a liberty.”

  With that, he kissed her in a way she couldn’t have imagined. He moved his mouth as if tasting her, letting out a small masculine sound of satisfaction when she couldn’t help but respond. One large hand rested on her jawline, the other hand lay firmly on the small of her back, so firmly she became shockingly aware of an odd ridge of hardness just below the waist of his trousers.

  Oh, she thought, his…man part. And then another though
t, one that was perhaps even more shocking: he was aroused. By her. By plain Harriet of the straw-like hair. Except at that moment, molded against his hard body, tasting his lips against hers, she did not feel at all like plain Harriet. She felt like Catalina.

  “Let me taste you,” he said, and he applied a gentle pressure near her mouth while pressing his tongue against the seam of her lips. A low moan escaped him when she did as he asked. He swept his tongue into her mouth in such a carnal way, Harriet’s knees buckled and his grip around her waist tightened just enough to keep her upright. Before she knew what was happening, he’d pressed her up against the wall, not ungently, and Harriet cried out.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, pulling his head back to look at her, his eyes nearly black with passion.

  “Sorry?” Harriet was so muddled, she had no idea what he was apologizing for. She was certain he was not apologizing for kissing her.

  “For hurting you.”

  “Oh.” Yes, she had cried out, but it was not from pain—it had been pure animal excitement and the thrill of knowing she had somehow incited such passion in him that he’d quite forgotten himself. “I was not hurt, just startled.” Just pleased. Her voice sounded oddly breathy.

  “There is something about you. I do not make a habit of accosting women,” he said, sounding almost angry.

  “I have been known to incite excitement in men.” It was a lie, and so blatant, she actually thought he might get the joke.

  Instead, he let out a sound that could only be described as a growl. “What men?”

  “Leagues of them.” She let out a giggle. “You silly man. This is the first time, I believe, a man has ever wanted to kiss me, never mind done the deed.”

  “Your first kiss?” Something undefinable flickered in his eyes but was gone in an instant. “Silly, am I?”

  She nodded, grinning widely, keenly aware that this sort of flirtation and banter was so foreign to her, she wondered if she were doing it right.

  He placed his hands around her waist and leaned in toward her with his hips, pressing his manhood against the apex of her thighs. Harriet couldn’t begin to stifle her sharp intake of breath at the motion, at the sensations it brought.