When to Engage an Earl

by Sally MacKenzie

  And a supernatural cat. She mustn’t forget Poppy.

  Oh, and the lending library. After she finished with the books on rodent control, she could explore the collection’s other treasures—the four or five books on the most common diseases of sheep, for example, or the illustrated guide to local beetles.

  Is that all I want my life to be?

  She was here with Lord Evans. They were quite alone. The castle staff was in no condition to disturb them.

  Was it time to be a little less cautious?

  Perhaps a kiss or two will cure me of this odd disquiet. Perhaps then I’ll know what I want.

  At the moment she was afraid she wanted Lord Evans. It was almost like she had a fever. She felt her forehead. No, that wasn’t where the heat was.

  The earl brought her a glass of wine. “Studying the blackguard who started the curse?”

  “What? Oh.”

  She’d been staring at—but not seeing—a full-length portrait of a man in early seventeenth-century garb. A young man, trying to look older and wiser than he was, she thought. If there was malice in the fellow, the painter had hidden it well.

  “He doesn’t look evil, does he?” She took a large drink. The wine warmed her, settled her.

  “No, he doesn’t.” The earl examined the painting. “Marcus said he found a letter this duke wrote to Isabelle, telling her he was coming to Loves Bridge to marry her. Unfortunately, she never read it. She had already, er, left.”

  “Oh.” Could two hundred years of heartache have been avoided if a letter had arrived just a little earlier? But then the current duke would never have been born. Cat would not have met him, and the beautiful baby Jane had watched come into the world earlier wouldn’t exist. “It doesn’t matter any longer, does it, A-Alex?”

  “No, I suppose it doesn’t.” He smiled—and then his expression grew serious. “Jane, I tried to say this at the Spinster House, but we kept getting interrupted. I told you I came to Loves Bridge because Nate asked me to check on Marcus, but I also came to see you.”

  Her silly heart leapt with delight. She took another sip of wine to steady it. “Oh?”

  “Yes. To apologize.”

  “Oh.” That sounded bad. She took another sip. “You don’t need to apologize for anything.”

  “I think I do. I think I frightened you when I kissed you in the garden that night—well, both nights, I suppose—at Chanton Manor.”

  Ah, so here we are.

  She took another drink. Warmth spread through her, relaxing her, blunting her worries, making her head buzz just a little, and waking other parts of her that she’d kept under strict control most of her life. She wasn’t drunk—not that she knew precisely what drunk felt like. She just felt braver, more daring, as if many of the rules that confined her—rules she’d put in place and rules Society had placed on her—had loosened. Become negotiable or irrelevant.

  She was going to throw caution to the wind.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “You didn’t frighten me, Alex.” Jane smiled a bit too brightly. “It was only a kiss.”

  He liked hearing her say his name. He liked it far too much.

  Hmm. Her glass was empty already. She’d probably drunk her wine too quickly. And when was the last time she’d eaten? They’d had brandy, but no food, when they’d been in the Spinster House kitchen.

  “I’m glad.” He took her arm to urge her toward the table. “We should eat before the food gets any colder.”

  She leaned into him—she’d definitely had too much wine.

  “I’m not used to being kissed, you see. I was just st-startled.”

  He sat her down, gave her a sizeable slice of shepherd’s pie, and then took his own seat and cut a piece for himself.

  “I liked it, though. I’d like to do it again.”

  He almost dumped his pie onto the table.

  “Ah.” How was he to respond to that?

  “It made me feel quite . . .” She put a forkful of pie in her mouth and appeared to savor it. “Tingly. It made me feel tingly in all sorts of odd places.”

  Good Lord! He immediately started thinking of all the places she must mean. “The pie is very good, isn’t it?”

  She nodded and reached for her wineglass—and seemed surprised it was empty. “More, please.”

  “Er, don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

  She scowled at him. “I am not a child. I think I know if I wish more wine or not.”

  Right. That was the problem here. She wouldn’t be drinking wine at all if she were a child—and he wouldn’t be having salacious thoughts about her.

  She lifted her chin. “I shall have more wine, if you please, Lord Evans. Or if you’ll pass the decanter, I can pour it myself.”

  So, I’m back to Lord Evans.

  He shrugged off his disappointment and reached for the decanter. As she said, she was an adult.

  It might be that she was just now reacting to having witnessed Cat give birth. It must have been a stressful, intense time. She’d clearly been on edge when they’d arrived at the castle.

  Perhaps that was also why she’d taken to the corridors to avoid him.

  He poured her a moderate amount of wine—and then filled her glass when she gave him a stern look. Then he poured the rest of the decanter—it was almost empty—into his own glass to save her from herself.

  He might be a bit bosky soon.

  He took a mouthful of pie.

  “I imagine you’ve done a lot of kissing,” Jane said.

  He was in the middle of swallowing. Part of the shepherd’s pie went where it was supposed to, part returned to his mouth, and a rogue bit decided to explore his nose.

  He tried to sort matters out with a large swallow of wine.

  “And other things,” she added. “Haven’t you?”

  How to answer that? He certainly didn’t want to ask what she meant by “other things.”

  “I’m a man, Jane. I have some experience, yes, but I don’t believe I have any more than most men.”

  She frowned. “Randolph visits the Widow Conklin weekly, you know—or did before he married.”

  He grunted, hoping—weakly, but optimistically—that this was just a bizarre non sequitur and the widow ran a book club or some such thing.

  Jane leaned forward to clarify. “Mrs. Conklin—well, we’re rather sure there was never a Mr. Conklin. In any event, Mrs. Conklin is a perfectly pleasant, ordinary-looking woman in her middle age who earns her living by welcoming the village men into her bed.”

  Blast it, the woman was exactly what he’d thought she was.

  “She’s very particular, though, that if the man’s married, his wife give permission for the visit. She doesn’t want to offend any other women. The wives are her neighbors after all, and Loves Bridge is a small village.”

  He drank more wine and nodded. He knew that very well.

  She frowned down at her shepherd’s pie—or what was left of it. Fortunately, she’d eaten quite a bit.

  “I suppose I understand why she does it—it’s her trade, just as Mrs. Greeley is a dressmaker and Mrs. Bates runs a shop. But”—she looked back at him as if he were an exotic beast, not unlike Mr. Wertigger’s kangaroo, before its demise—“why do men do it?”

  He took another swallow of wine, hoping that was a rhetorical question.

  It wasn’t.

  “Why would you visit a, well, light skirt, Lord Evans?”

  “Er, well . . .” It wasn’t a subject he cared to explain to a well-bred, strong-minded, inquisitive virgin. “I don’t believe we were speaking of me.”

  Miss Wilkinson dismissed his observation with a wave of her hand. “Do you have a Mrs. Conklin?”

  “No.” He wasn’t a virgin, but he’d also never wanted a mistress or even to single out a particular woman at any of the brothels. That seemed too much like a marriage without the love or commitment.

  “But you’ve”—she finally seemed to realize she was deep in inappropriate t
erritory, but she pressed on anyway, face flushed—“done it before.”

  At least Jane’s wineglass was almost empty.

  Perhaps it was safest to divert the conversation into slightly less personal territory. “Jane, do you know what ‘it’ is?” She should. Yes, her mother had died when she was young, but she had two close friends who were now married—and increasing—so they clearly understood the mechanics of the deed.

  But one could never be certain of anything with Miss Wilkinson.

  She looked away. “Not really.” And then she smiled, drank the last of her wine, and said the most shocking of all the things she had said yet. “Why don’t you tell me?” Her gaze dropped to the table. “Why don’t you show me?” And then she popped the last bite of pie in her mouth.

  Alex picked his jaw up off the table and sent his cock a stern warning to behave.

  He would pretend she hadn’t said anything. That was the only way to deal with the situation. And in a way, she hadn’t said it—it had been the wine talking. She’d be grateful for his discretion in the morning.

  He drew breath to tell her it was time they went up to bed—to their separate beds in their separate bedchambers—but the words that came out were, “You’ve got a crumb on your mouth.”

  The tip of Jane’s tongue ventured out in search of the errant bit of pastry, and his temperature shot up about ten degrees.

  “It’s on the right.”

  So of course her tongue moved to the left.

  “Your other right. Here.” He should have handed her a napkin, of course. Instead he reached over and used his finger to push the crumb over so her tongue could capture it.

  Her tongue captured his finger as well. The sensation of the warm, wet stroke shot directly to his eager cock with predictable results.

  He finished his wine in one large gulp—it went straight to his head. He felt very . . . happy and quite, er, eager.

  Surely he could keep his impulses under control until he deposited Jane—Miss Wilkinson—safely in her—

  Good God, her hand was going to her neckline. She loosed a few buttons. “Is it hot in here?”

  It is now. “No, I don’t think so. Perhaps you should go up to your room.”

  She frowned at him. “Alone?”

  “Yes.” Be strong.

  She looked very disappointed. “So you aren’t going to explain things to me?”

  Very strong. “No.”

  “But how will I ever find out?”

  “I’m sure you can discuss the matter with your friends.”

  “But they’re women.”

  Has any man in the world ever had to endure this sort of trial?

  “Miss Wilkinson, surely you see how inappropriate this conversation is.”

  “I thought we were friends.”

  Oh, Lord. “We are friends, but—” No, it was impossible to explain. They were both too bosky—particularly Jane. If she were sober, they’d be discussing literature or something else unexceptional.

  She nodded, looking crestfallen. He wanted to wrap his arms around—

  No. That would be a mistake. A big mistake. Bigger even than his cock in its current swollen condition.

  “Very well. If you’ll excuse me?” She stood—and started to list to one side.

  He was on his feet at once, his arm going round her waist to support her.

  She had a lovely, small waist.

  Judgment! Where is my judgment?

  Slipping under waves of alcohol and desire.

  “Oh.” She blinked up at him. Her lips were so close to his. “I seem to be a bit unsteady on my feet.”

  He exerted Herculean control and straightened, putting more space between his mouth and hers. “I think you’ve had a little too much wine.”

  She nodded—and wrapped her arm around his waist. At least it was on top of his coat.

  “I’m sorry, but I think I’ll need your help getting to my room, Lo-lor”—she let out a small growl of annoyance that she couldn’t seem to manage his title—“Alex.”

  His foolish cock was singing. And he had no choice. She was leaning heavily against him. If he let go of her, she’d fall flat on her face.

  “Come along.” Perhaps he could pretend she was his sister or his niece or, or some poor stranger he’d come upon.

  He took a step and she stumbled against him, giggling.

  Jane was not one to giggle.

  “Do I need to carry you?” Though that would not be the best idea. He thought he was steady enough to manage the stairs with her, but he wasn’t entirely certain. It would be wiser not to put it to the test.

  She shook her head—and snaked her arm under his coat. “No. I’m f-fine.”

  She wasn’t fine, but she did appear to be ambulatory.

  They made their way out of the study, up the stairs, and down the corridor to Jane’s bedchamber without seeing another living soul. Er, another living person. They found Poppy sitting outside Jane’s door, tail twitching as if they’d kept her waiting.

  “Oh, P-Poppy,” Jane said, “did you have f-fun in the kitchen?”

  Poppy blinked at Jane and then turned to give Alex a look of disgust.

  Well, he was surprised at Jane’s overly sweet tone too.

  Jane opened the door and Poppy dashed inside.

  “Do you think you can manage on your own now?” Alex asked. If he stepped over the threshold, he was very much afraid he would lose his struggle with his baser instincts.

  They both looked at the vast distance from the door to her bed. Zeus, Emmett must have put her in the largest guest bedroom in the entire castle.

  “I—I can try,” she said doubtfully, but her arm tightened around his waist.

  He sighed inwardly. She had about as much chance of safely navigating the path to that bed as Poppy did of flying to the moon.

  Actually, he’d put his money on Poppy over Jane at the moment. He would just have to find some heretofore unexplored reserves of self-control. “I’d better help you.”

  He got her through the door and then closed it carefully behind them. Given the celebrations belowstairs, it was highly unlikely anyone would come this way, but there was no point in tempting fate. Then he guided her over to the bed.

  “There you go,” he said with false heartiness.

  Her hold on him tightened.

  “Could you.” She cleared her throat, staring at the bed instead of him. “That is, I doubt I can manage the buttons down the back of this dress at the moment. Could you undo them for me?”

  That shouldn’t be so difficult. A woman’s back was relatively safe territory. Even if her dress drooped once he’d got it unbuttoned, there would still be her stays and shift between his fingers and her soft skin.

  Don’t think about skin.

  Women’s buttons were designed by the devil. They were so blasted small, and his fingers felt unnaturally fat and clumsy—and yes, the alcohol he’d consumed didn’t help. It took what seemed like forever, but he finally managed to wrestle all the buttons out of their buttonholes.

  “There you go,” he said, stepping back and forcing his hands to clasp behind him. Perhaps that would keep them out of trouble. “I’ll just be . . .”

  Jane pulled her dress down and stepped out of it, leaving her in just her shift and stays.

  Correction—just her shift. Her stays quickly followed her dress to the floor.

  “Ah, that’s better.”

  Zeus! The sigh of pleasure she gave with those words went straight to his cock. It was pleading with him to touch her.

  His fingers tightened their clasp behind his back.

  No. No touching.

  And then she turned toward him, and he could see the shadow of her nipples through her shift.

  His blasted cock started shouting. It was hard to remember, over its desperate exhortations, that he was an honorable gentleman and Jane—Miss Wilkinson—was a gently bred virgin. Honorable gentlemen did not tup gently bred virgins.

  Unfort
unately.

  She raised her arms to pluck the pins from her hair. The thin fabric of her shift drew tight across her chest. Not only could he see her nipples clearly now, but he could also admire the soft, full shape of her breasts.

  He forced his eyes up to her face, a face that was much, much too close to his. He wouldn’t have to take a single step to reach her—he could just lean forward slightly and put his mouth on hers.

  A mouth that was now smiling.

  Dear God, he was in trouble. Her lovely, feminine body called to his cock, but the warmth and intimacy of her smile melted his heart.

  He could not let it melt his resolve. His honor. He knew what he should do, much as he didn’t want to do it. He needed to move his feet right now and walk out of this bedroom.

  “Thank you, Alex. I—”

  And then disaster by the name of Poppy struck. The cat ran toward them, chasing a mouse—though Alex wouldn’t put it past the animal to be intentionally herding the rodent their way—and Jane screamed, leaping the inch that separated them and throwing her arms around him. Her soft, unbound breasts flattened against his damned waistcoat and her lower parts rubbed against his eager cock as she twisted to avoid the scurrying little creature and the larger furry she-devil in pursuit.

  And of course he’d put his arms around her to catch her when she’d jumped toward him. His traitorous hands, recognizing a prize, wasted no time. One pulled her closer, while the other set off to explore the lovely curve of her back, the firm roundness of her buttocks.

  I should leave. If I don’t leave now I’ll end up in bed with Jane. I’ll end up in Jane.

  Honor tried vainly to break through the alcohol-fueled lust surging through him, but it was like throwing up a sheet of paper to stop a raging river.

  He buried his face in her lovely, silky hair.

  It’s not just lust. Surely this time what I’m feeling is love.

  No matter. He couldn’t take advantage of Jane. Neither of them were precisely sober.

  He might still have been able to save her virginity and his soul, but just at that moment Poppy and the mouse ran by again.