The Daughter of an Earl

by Victoria Morgan

  Brett dropped his arm. “I inquired about the painting because I, too, am a collector of Grant’s works, as he is a fellow American. This one sounds intriguing. Makes me wonder why my cousin was interested in it. Do you think your brother would be amenable to another offer, if the price was right?”

  He needed to buy the damn painting. He owed his cousin that, because if not for Brett, Drew would be painting for pleasure, not profit as Brett had pressed him to do. For the first time in his life, he cursed his enterprising initiative.

  Haversley looked intrigued. “I could speak to him.”

  Brett bowed. “Thank you. Before your brother speaks to me, I suggest he has the painting authenticated at Ackermann’s. It is my understanding that they are the sole distributors of Grant’s works and would be able to assess its value.” Knowing Haversley was a gambling man, Brett was betting on the fact that Haversley and his brother would not confide Ackermann’s findings to Brett. Instead, they would sell him a forgery for a reasonable price, satisfying all parties.

  Haversley nodded and turned away.

  Brett now somewhat understood Drew’s disappearance.

  He was on a quest to locate an art forger.

  The information lightened Brett’s burden. He would try to assist Drew in acquiring the forgery, but Brett trusted his cousin to find the forger on his own. Brett had enough answers for now, would collect more when his cousin returned. Only if Drew did not resurface would Brett continue his search.

  Emily was his priority now.

  He needed to assist her, not only to save her neck, lovely as it was, but also to catch a murderer. He now believed her claim. But if Jason did not die from opium abuse, it meant he had uncovered something incriminating and been killed because of what he had found.

  Due to the East India Company’s unscrupulous business practices, Brett was not surprised to learn that one of their employees was a murderer. However, it was now more imperative than ever that they find their answers before someone learned that he and Emily were investigating matters and decided Jason was not the only one who needed to be silenced.

  Tomorrow he would consider how to proceed without their arriving at the same grisly end.

  But not tonight.

  Tonight, he had a dance to claim.

  Chapter Eleven

  EMILY knew the minute Brett returned to the dance floor. Her whole body was attuned to his presence, like a violin responding to a bow. She recalled the comforting grip of his hands when he had held hers in his office and stared intently into her eyes.

  I believe you.

  The three simple words gave her the strength to face friends she had avoided for too long, as well as to ignore the murmurs of surprise over her return. More pleasing was to see her father’s delight when she had accepted an offer of a dance—something she had not done in years.

  She had thought conquering her nerves would settle so many of the emotions that churned within her. But when Brett returned, she knew that was not enough. Other feelings that he evoked still percolated within her. He awakened old yearnings. One did not need love to feel desire, and it simmered in her.

  Her gaze followed Brett. The man was always striking, but in his formal black evening attire, he was devastatingly so. He walked with long, purposeful strides, without the haughty nobility that stamped the aristocracy. He ignored everyone moving from his path, his gaze locked on her.

  Her heart thudded as he neared, drowning out the orchestra and the voices surrounding her.

  “May I have this dance?” He bowed low and flashed that blinding white smile of his.

  It had been so long since a man had looked at her as Brett did. Like she was stunning and he wanted her and only her.

  She gave him her hand, dipped into a curtsy, and smiled back. His arm slipped around her waist and he led her over to join the quadrille.

  He bowed again and she curtsied, and they glided forward and back in the rhythm of the dance, her feet light. Her body brimmed with awareness, an instrument coming alive with sounds she had not played in years, but a tune she knew well.

  Her gaze met Brett’s and his look was warm, intensely focused, and . . . intimate. A shiver suffused her. She laughed as he twirled her around. She did so for the sheer exhilaration of it, the sound of her abandon stunning even her.

  Brett’s eyes sparkled under the shifting light of the chandelier, and his smile lightened her heart. Beneath her hand, his shoulder provided a sturdy anchor. His arm around her waist, combined with the warmth of Brett’s body heating hers, fanned the small flutters in her chest.

  Brett was a good dancer; tall and lean, he moved with an athletic grace.

  Her breathing became shallow, her pulse quickening. She lost track of time, place, and everyone else surrounding them. They were alone . . . until the music stopped, the dance wound to a close, and the magic ended. She stood before Brett, unable to draw a steady breath or move away as she should.

  A low cough shattered the moment, like ice water tossed on a roaring fire. She stepped back, and turned. Her breath caught at the sight of Drummond so close beside her. She wished the dratted man would do as she had requested and leave her alone.

  In contrast to Brett’s austere black, Drummond’s waistcoat was a rich emerald green, his neck cloth tied in another knot that must have taken his valet too much time to fashion. A glimmer of light reflected off the diamond pin piercing the lapel of his jacket.

  His eyes dipped disdainfully over Brett. “Curtis. Surprised to see you here. However, Lady Emily, I am delighted to see you. Your beauty renders me speechless.”

  “Not quite,” Brett muttered.

  A tic vibrated in Drummond’s cheek, but otherwise, he ignored Brett and bowed. “May I have this dance?”

  “No.” Brett snatched her hand and tucked it around his arm, holding it securely in place. “The lady is quite parched, needs a lemonade. I was going to escort her when you interrupted us. Another time.”

  Brett turned his back on Drummond and practically dragged Emily off, oblivious to Drummond’s expression. The man looked positively apoplectic.

  She emitted a horrified giggle. “That was very bad form. Very bad indeed.”

  “Did you want to dance with him?”

  “No, but—”

  “Now you do not have to. No thanks are needed.”

  “I should not be surprised to see him here, but I had forgotten that Drummond is related to the Earl of Dayton via his mother’s side of the family. However, Drummond appeared surprised to find you here.” In the receiving line, others had scrutinized Brett with the same look that Drummond wore, as if sizing up how an American had received an invitation to their elite club. It provided a hint into the reasons for Brett’s impatience with the aristocracy.

  He shrugged. “There are some in the ton who do not condescend to acknowledge me. In their eyes, my work in trade supersedes my relationship to the Duke of Prescott and my friendship with Bedford. In America, while many genuflect over English titles, success in business garners equal respect and opens as many doors. Our peerage is wealth. The more you have, the higher you rank.” He turned to Emily and seeing her expression, he grinned. “You need not worry about me. I decline to attend most of these events by choice, not due to lack of invitations.”

  She nodded. “Me, too. I had my debut, enjoyed my Season, and got engaged to Jason. But I have learned that after losing someone you love, you can never recapture the past or return to who you once were. I feel like a stranger at these affairs, so I stopped coming to most.” She emitted a small laugh. “I am also older now, practically an old maid at three-and-twenty.”

  “Older and wiser. And I find that it is better to have a few very good friends, than many shallow acquaintances.”

  “True, and a wise observation. I will keep that in mind.”

  “You do that, particularly the po
int about my being wise.” He winked.

  She smiled, but it faded as she became aware that they were leaving the ballroom. “Where are we going? We cannot leave. Your sisters—”

  “Are fine. They are holding court with some other young women. A few vultures were circling, but your father’s vigilance has them waffling. We will return shortly.” They moved further down the hall. He peered into the library, and then drew her inside, leaving the door open.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed, tugging at his grip. “We cannot go in here.”

  “Just for a minute, one minute.” Once he ascertained the room was empty, he led her between two rows of bookcases. He released her hand and paced to the length of the aisle and back. His stride was agitated, his expression conflicted as he ran a hand through his thick hair, leaving it looking attractively disheveled.

  “What is it?” Apprehension gripped her.

  He returned and stared at her intensely. “It is this. There is no help for it.” He slid his arm around her waist, yanked her against him, and swallowed her shocked gasp with his mouth. His lips closed over hers, devouring, kissing her with a thoroughness that stunned her.

  Her mind reeled with the taste and the feel of him as she lifted her hands to clutch his upper arms. His kiss elicited a rush of long-buried emotions, passion and desire, and . . . something more. Much more. Good lord, she wanted him. She tasted whiskey on his tongue as hers parried with his. She groaned as his hand splayed over her back, drawing her closer. The hard, solid length of his body pressed against hers, burning her like a welcome brand.

  He abruptly released her, as if his own behavior appalled him. He held up his hands. “I apologize. I never should have—”

  “Please. You strike me as a man who goes after what he wants without apology. I find I am a woman who likes to do the same.” She nearly laughed at his wide-eyed look when she looped her arms around his neck and pulled him down to kiss him again. There was something to be said for experience. She made sure to apply it.

  She plundered his mouth as if searching for buried treasure. Her tongue ran over his full lips, and her fingers threaded into the golden curls that teased the collar of his jacket. She arched against him, liking the feel of his chest against hers, the thundering beat of her heart matching his. Pleasure suffused her, but she wanted more.

  He yanked away and gaped at her, his hair boyishly mussed, his eyes dazed. “What are we doing?”

  She laughed and flattened her hands on his chest. “Laying our weapons down,” she murmured.

  He shook his head and caught her wrists, stepping back, as if he needed the distance to collect his thoughts. “No. This is a full-frontal assault, with all weapons fully engaged. That was dangerous. Inflammatory. Any more and we will be burned alive.”

  “Perhaps you should surrender, and I will ensure your survival.”

  He grunted. “I thought I already did.”

  “Mmh, perhaps we should negotiate the terms.”

  He arched a brow, his attention caught. “Terms? I thought it was my assistance in keeping you alive, for your agreeing to not go off alone and do anything foolhardy. Was there more?”

  “That is our original arrangement, but due to your stringent stipulation that we do everything together, we will be spending a lot of time in each other’s company. Due to the nature of our relationship—”

  “The nature of our relationship?” He looked bemused. “I thought we were becoming friends, but now I am not so sure.”

  “Friends do not kiss each other senseless,” she pointed out.

  “Very true.” Brett grinned. “You are rather good at that. Whatever new scheme you are plotting, perhaps we should discuss it when my wits have not been burned to cinders.”

  “No. Now is the perfect time to discuss this matter, but we haven’t much time. I was going to suggest that due to our obvious attraction toward each other, we—” She stopped at his snort of disbelief.

  “You think I am an overbearing, arrogant arse.”

  “And you think I am an ornery, meddling, obdurate female. Are you not familiar with the idea that when two people spar with each other, it is often a symptom of a deeper attraction?”

  “No, but I am familiar with chemistry. I know when two combustible elements come in contact with each other, they tend to ignite. I believe we just got singed,” he said, his eyes teasing.

  “We did.” She beamed at him. “So there is little point in fighting such formidable forces of nature. I say that we concede defeat to a higher power.”

  Brett stared at her for a moment. “Lady Emily, exactly what are you proposing?”

  She folded her hands together, lifted her chin, and stared him straight in the eye. She was prepared to do more than collude with the devil . . . far more. “I propose that for the duration of our arrangement, it would be difficult and rather silly to dance around this attraction that is simmering between us. I suggest, instead, we simply enjoy it.”

  “Enjoy it?” Brett’s lips curved into a smile. He rubbed his chin, as if pondering the matter seriously. “And how do you propose we do that? A few stolen kisses?” He peered around the near vicinity. “Behind bookcases in libraries or garden shrubbery?”

  Was the man really this obtuse? She had thought he had a way with women, but saw no sign of it now. “With an affair.” She tossed up her hands and glowered at him. “A very discreet one, of course,” she hastened to add, considering he was being so dim-witted.

  He swiped his hands down his face, and gave his head a sharp shake, opening and closing his mouth but emitting no sound.

  Perhaps she had made a mistake. Perhaps the man was simply a good kisser, and he did not feel any of the things that he made her feel. Then she would . . . She would simply arranged to have him killed and buried in the corner pasture of Robbie Tanner’s paddock. The one that was reserved for inferior or diseased stock. She would have no other choice.

  “You cannot be serious,” he sputtered when he had recovered his voice. He leaned forward and practically growled at her. “Your father would kill me. If he does not, Daniel would. I would not survive a day.”

  “Do you plan to tell them? For goodness’ sake, what part of discreet eludes you? Men and women carry on affairs all the time. Pity Americans are so puritan. I thought your kiss said you were a man who did what you wanted, damn the consequences. Unfortunately, I thought wrong.” She shrugged, and made to turn away.

  Brett caught her arm and swung her back to face him. “Do not be absurd. The consequences of this is marriage. That is damning indeed. You are the daughter of an earl. Sister-in-law to a duke. I am an untitled American who works in trade. There can be no alliance between us. Not in your world.”

  “I am not looking for marriage. Have no plans to enter that contract. The last one nearly killed me.” She ignored the piercing in her chest and lifted her chin.

  He nodded. “I understand. I, too, have no plans to offer for another woman. I did that once . . . and, well, death is not the only means of losing someone you love.” He hardened his jaw.

  She paused, stunned. She knew only one facet of Brett, the glib, self-assured businessman. This was another, a vulnerable side. Melody had mentioned his failed engagement. She should have realized it might have left some scars. Again, she wondered what sort of woman had rejected him—particularly after that kiss. “I am sorry,” she said softly.

  “So was I,” he said tightly, and then shrugged. “It was a long time ago. Not everyone is fortunate to have what you had with your fiancé. He must have been a very special man.”

  “He was. Very special.” She swallowed, disconcerted to have Jason enter this conversation like a third party interrupting an intimate tryst. For the first time, a flicker of irritation arose within her.

  Jason was dead, and she was alive, very much so. She had not felt this alive in a long, long time.


  But Brett did not want her, or rather, like herself, was not willing to take the risk of loving another again or—he feared Daniel and her father would kill him should he become involved with her. There was that. She gnawed on her lower lip.

  She would never again have what she had with Jason. This had to be enough for her. Passion. Desire. A man to hold her . . . to touch her. To remind her that she was alive and a desirable woman.

  Not any man, but this man.

  This strong, vibrant man who was turning her down. And he thought her stubborn. There was only one course of action left to her. She would simply have to remove his reservations.

  To seduce him.

  She caught her breath at the brazen thought, waiting for her conscience’s appalled protest to erupt. The denials never came. Well then. Brett had said she had too many hidden weapons at her disposal. It was time to deploy them.

  The man would never know what hit him.

  A small smile curved her lips.

  Brett held up his hands and stumbled back a step. “Now what are you planning? As I have said before, I have three sisters; I recognize guile when I see it.”

  She laughed. “You poor man, always under siege from women. I do not know how you weather it.” She turned her back on him, speaking over her shoulder. “We should return. If you have no plans to offer for my hand, we cannot be caught alone in here. You would not survive the scandal of that. As you know, my father does have a pair of Manton revolvers and would be delighted to use them if it meant seeing me married.” She grinned at his groan, but did not wait to see if he followed her when she headed back toward the ballroom.