British Bad Boys

by Nancy Warren

  Shit. If she broke a piece off the centuries old paneling…But before she’d even finished the thought she realized that a whole section of paneling was opening, like a door.

  No, she realized in amazement. Not like a door. It was a door. A secret panel. Delight filled her. Nobody had mentioned anything about a secret door in her room. Maybe they didn’t know it existed. Perhaps the secret had died with one of the earls currently on display in marble effigy in the family chapel.

  Since the castle was no stranger to losses of power through storms and other mischance, her room was equipped with both a decent flashlight and candles and matches. She picked up the flashlight and turned it on. The beam was strong and steady. She shone it into the still-open doorway and got a second rush. It was definitely a passageway, not a cleverly designed closet.

  Cool.

  Dark, mysterious, and very gothic. She glanced around at the luxurious guest room, then back into the dark, scary tunnel. Naturally, what any sensible woman would do would be to wait until morning and mention her discovery to one of the earl’s staff. But a person didn’t go around the world making documentaries without being, at heart, an adventurer.

  Shoving a single candle and a book of matches advertising the gift shop into the breast pocket of her pj’s, just in case the flashlight battery failed, she plunged into the tunnel.

  It wasn’t really all that exciting. Since it was aboveground, there was no stone walkway that might lead to the dungeons. In fact, her sense was that the plain wood floor didn’t dip down, but stayed level. Still, maybe there was some kind of treasure. A forgotten Rembrandt, or diaries from one of the former earls. What that would add to her documentary!

  Not to mention possibly helping the current earl out of a financial crunch. She imagined a newly discovered Rembrandt, properly auctioned, could help him out of his monetary troubles a lot faster than increased tourism.

  She crept along, smelling dust and stale air, trying to ignore the cobwebs. The passageway was narrow, barely a foot wider than her shoulders, and not more than six inches above her head. Not a good place for a claustrophobic person, she thought, glad she’d left the door open at her end.

  The tunnel made a turn and then she was facing a blank wall. Not a Rembrandt or ancient diary in sight. But, when she played her flashlight over the wall, she saw the thin line of a doorway and a latch.

  Without giving herself time to think, she pushed open the latch, and with it the door.

  Chapter Seven

  “Good God,” said George, standing in his shirt, underpants and socks beside his massive bed and looking startled, as well he might. A deep and comfy-looking armchair sat beside a fireplace, and by its side was a table, with a lamp illuminating a book. Obviously, the earl had been trying some prebedtime reading as well. No doubt for the same reason she had.

  “George.”

  “Ah,” he said, while she stood there with her mouth open and her eyes blinking. “I see you’ve found the passage.”

  Embarrassment flooded her cheeks as she stood there. “I am so sorry,” she managed. “I had no idea it went anywhere. I mean, I accidentally found the knob thing and it opened a door and-”

  “Naturally, you were curious,” he said with his usual well-bred ease, as though people wandered out of the walls and into his bedroom every day.

  “Yeah. I was.”

  “Come in. Would you like a drink?”

  She felt so foolish standing there, half in the tunnel and half in his room, that she went all the way in. “No, thank you.”

  There was a pause. He finished folding his trousers over a wooden stand by his bed. She watched him, fascinated. His boxers were blue and white striped, very genteel looking. He had great legs, muscular but not bulky, furred with brown hair. When he leaned over to put his trousers away the fabric pulled over his butt and her mouth went dry.

  “Why is there a secret passage linking these rooms?”

  He took a navy dressing gown from a hanger and slipped into it. “The eleventh earl is believed to have built it. For his mistress.”

  “For his mistress.”

  “Well, more than one, I fancy. In fact, for a hundred years or so, I think that was a fairly high-traffic thoroughfare.”

  She stared at him, resisting the urge to smack him. “Three hundred and thirty-three rooms in this place and they put me in the earl’s mistress’s room?”

  “Wiggins’ idea of a little joke, I imagine.”

  “Well, it’s not funny.”

  “No. Quite.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Did you know I was in that room?”

  “Yes. I didn’t choose the room, but I heard that’s where they’d put you. Look, I wasn’t planning to come sneaking into your room in the middle of the night, you know. And I never thought you’d find the door. It’s damned difficult to do unless you know it’s there,” he said, sounding a little huffy. “I’ll have you moved in the morning.”

  “That’s okay,” she said, deciding he was right and she’d only look like an idiot if she asked to move. Besides, she realized, flashing him the smile that very often got her what she wanted in life, “There are advantages.”

  He glanced up, the sexy twinkle in his eye. “There are?”

  “Yes. Unlimited access to you.”

  “I like the sound of that.” He walked forward until he was close enough to touch her.

  She looked up at him demurely from under her lashes. “For documentary purposes.”

  He reached out and traced the vee of her pajama top, the smile already tilting his lips so she caught a flash of white teeth. “Is that all?”

  Oh, what the hell, she thought. Fate had practically drawn her a map to his bedroom, taken her hand, and led her to his bed. “No,” she said, throwing her arms around his neck. “That is not all.”

  She kissed him, surprising him while the smile was still on his lips. She felt it, the curve of lip, the hardness of teeth, and found herself smiling against him. This, she realized, was about as perfect as mixing business and pleasure got. No one would ever know.

  Being an earl definitely had its privileges.

  After the way she’d walked away so hot for him, and so unsatisfied, her libido roared from zero to the speed of light in the time it took their kiss to deepen.

  Tongues tangled and stroked, hands stroked then grabbed, good manners and caution flew out the window, and all that was left were heat and need.

  Her oh-so-proper some kind of distant cousin to the queen turned into a savage. He nipped at her, dragged her nightclothes off her with no subtlety at all, popping two buttons in his haste.

  She didn’t care. She reveled in it. She wasn’t all that shy about exposing her body, but usually the first time involved a certain awareness that a guy who loved big breasts was going to be disappointed, and that her belly would be a lot flatter if she could stick to her running schedule when on location. She’d normally turn away from the lamp, maybe suck in her stomach a bit, but somehow, here with George, none of that entered her mind.

  While he was dragging at her top, cursing his own clumsiness-and what had happened to the smoothie out there under the oak tree who’d buttoned her back up so efficiently?-she was pulling off the sash of the robe he’d only just put on. When she’d dragged it down and off his arms, she went to work on his shirt.

  When he got frustrated, he tried to help her and more buttons flew.

  Oh, his chest was so nice. Barely hairy at all, but surprisingly buff. Even his muscles were elegant, she thought. They weren’t so big you worried he’d bench-press you halfway through the act, or so small you knew the guy rarely picked up anything heavier than a teacup.

  “You play sports,” she breathed,

  “Tennis,” he agreed, pulling off one sock. “Polo,” as he pulled off the second and hopped on one foot to keep his balance.

  Polo. Of course.

  He pulled her against him so they were skin to skin, and her nipples had never felt so exquisitely sensit
ive as they did rubbing against his chest. The warmth and friction only reminded her that she needed a lot more warmth and a lot more friction, and soon.

  Slipping lower, she hooked her thumbs around the waistband of his boxers and slid south, taking the garment with her.

  “Oh my,” she breathed, when she found herself face-to-face with the probable reason the earls of Ponsford had always enjoyed such a reputation with women.

  If what she was staring at was a dominant gene-and it sure as hell seemed like one-then money and position weren’t all the earls had had going for them.

  She glanced up and the usually self-effacing George was grinning down at her, looking anything but. He enjoyed her surprise. This genteel, urbane, well-mannered aristo was hung like a moose.

  He stepped out of his boxers and when she rose, she couldn’t resist the urge to cup him in her hands. Oh, he felt as good as he looked. Hard and velvety warm.

  He liked to use his mouth, she discovered. Everywhere his hands went, he followed with his lips, his tongue. Until she was dizzy with the desire that kept on building, and he finally pushed back a surprisingly modern-looking bedspread and they tumbled into bed.

  She was so hot by this time, so needy, that she couldn’t wait anymore. She wanted him, and now. And just as she was about to grab him and guide him to where she needed him most, an unwelcome realization swept over her. She hadn’t started down that tunnel with sex on her agenda.

  “Um, I have to run back to my room for a second.”

  “There’s a bathroom through there,” George said, leaning in and nipping at her shoulder.

  “No.” She shook her head and whispered. “Condoms.”

  “Ah, right. I’m sure I’ve got some.”

  “You have?” She flopped back in relief.

  “I’ll ring Wiggins. I’m sure we’ve got some somewhere.”

  “You’d make your butler…?” Even as she got halfway through, she realized he was joking. He leaned over and opened the drawer of his night table. And like every man worth his salt, he had protection ready and waiting.

  He took care of sheathing himself and she lay back and watched him. Then he was kissing her, rolling onto her, pushing into her.

  And she went completely and absolutely wild. It was as though a starving woman had been invited to an elegant banquet-it didn’t matter. She would stuff her face with greed and no manners. A desperately thirsty woman would glug water, not caring that it splashed all over her face. That’s how she felt. She couldn’t get enough of him, urging him deeper, rolling over, taking him, being taken. There was something wild and magic about the way they were together. She felt it, knew he felt it, too.

  They didn’t have to talk or ask, or murmur questions or suggestions, they simply took, greedily, ravenously until she was sobbing out his name and he was shuddering against her.

  When her heart had finally slowed so she thought she might one day be able to function again, she turned her head to gaze at him, chest heaving as badly as hers was. As though on cue, he turned to regard her. She wanted to say, That was the greatest thing that ever happened to me. Or, Wow. Or, Thank you. Instead, she gazed at him, deep red from exertion, a drop of sweat rolling from his forehead into his damp hair, and a giggle snorted out of her.

  After a stunned moment, he started laughing, too. And somehow, it felt like they’d said it all.

  They talked then, she with her head propped in her hand, doing what she did best, interviewing. Not because of the documentary, or because she was incurably nosy, though both were true, but because she really wanted to know.

  She wanted to know everything about this guy. How did it feel to be brought up so upper class that you got sent away to boarding school at eight years old? What were his favorite foods, flavors of ice cream, when did he learn to swim? How did he discover sex? All the things that made him who he was were suddenly fascinating to her.

  And so they talked. He turned out to be not a bad interviewer himself, or maybe his curiosity was as ravenous about her.

  “Will you stay?” he asked after a while. Her fingers were making patterns idly on his chest, and he was twirling a lock of her hair around his finger.

  Stay. The night.

  How had they gone from a birthday kiss to spending the night?

  She glanced over at him, feeling suddenly uncertain about how far and how fast she wanted this thing to go, but who was she kidding? If she cared passionately whether he preferred Chocolate Chip to Rocky Road, she was obviously not averse to spending the night in the man’s bed.

  Something of her momentary uncertainty must have shown on her face. He kissed her lightly. “If you stay, I promise to act like less of an animal and make love to you properly.”

  “Okay,” she whispered.

  But it didn’t work that way. They started out slow and decorous, but in the end the heat and greedy passion caught up with them again. It was like being struck by lightning twice.

  But in a very good way.

  Chapter Eight

  Maxine paused. She couldn’t help herself. She was busy and had at least three million things to do today, but the grand portrait of the eleventh earl caught her, as it always did. Of course, it was the family resemblance between George and his ancestor that always pulled her to a halt. As she gazed up at him, in all his splendor, she felt an odd thrill.

  “Communing with the spirits of my ancestors?” George said softly from behind her.

  She started. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “No. You were deep in thought.”

  He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her, kissing her neck. She closed her eyes and leaned into him for a moment, recalling, as she was certain he was also doing, the way they’d made love last night. Slow and tender. As though they mattered to each other. Which was a dangerous game when your lives were so very different, and separated by an ocean.

  “I was thinking,” she said, “how sure of himself he looks. He stares down at me as though all he has to do is give the order and I’ll prostrate myself at his feet.”

  “Lucky bugger. In his day, you would have.”

  She secretly thought things weren’t so different today, but she didn’t share that thought aloud.

  “I love his pride and arrogance.”

  “He’s not wrestling with death duties and union wages,” George reminded her, sounding a teensy bit aggrieved.

  “I’m sure he had his own problems.”

  “Doesn’t look it, though, does he?”

  “Well, he must have had some.”

  “I suppose.” She felt George’s smile as his cheek wrinkled against her own. “There was all that political intrigue for starters. My ancestors, I’m sorry to tell you, weren’t men of highest morality. They tended to change religions whenever it seemed expedient and they were dreadful boot-lickers and arse-kissers. Anything to keep the king’s or queen’s favor. Then there was the urgent need of a wife to ensure the succession.”

  “That couldn’t have been very hard,” she said, looking up at the earl in all his glory. His clothes were sleek with fur and glinted with gold thread and jewels. “Not only is he obviously rich, but he’s hot.”

  “Important for him to choose wisely, though. As well as being wellborn, and hopefully rich in her own right, his wife had to be a good breeder, you see, or who would inherit the estate?”

  “What a depressing way to choose a partner,” she said, seeing some of the romance of the period dim before her eyes.

  “Well, that one didn’t waste a lot of time being depressed. Or in his wife’s bed.”

  She turned her head. “You sound like you admire him.”

  His grin was sudden and wolfish. “I do. He’s the one who had that secret passageway built.”

  “Oh,” she said, feeling her own lips twitch. “I knew there was a reason why this picture was my favorite.”

  “Come on. I think I have to be interviewed and I can’t do it without you there.”

  They’d b
een shooting for five straight days. The shoot was so smooth it was spooky. George was as natural and charismatic on camera as she’d known he would be. If she said to him, “Why don’t you take us through the portrait gallery, and give us the highlights,” he could do it without a lot of fumbling or overuse of the word um.

  So often there’d be an unforeseen delay. Equipment broke, or illness struck, or the roof would start leaking, and the rain would hold things up. But not this week. They’d shot outside in the rose garden and he’d told the story of his parents charmingly, focusing on the falling in love and happy times. She’d cut in some old family movies and stills showing the Anglo-American love match.

  Even the dramatic telling of the ninth earl had been comparatively easy since they were able to hire local actors. Soon they’d be done here, possibly a day ahead of schedule.

  How ironic that of all locations, this was one where she’d have happily been stranded for a while.

  They turned away from the painting and she checked out the current earl with a critical eye.

  He stood still for a few seconds while she studied him and then said, “Well, will I do?”

  “You’re gorgeous. But the tie’s too bold. It’s going to draw attention away from your face.”

  “Sounds like a good thing to me.”

  “Give it up with the false modesty. Something blue and muted would be much better. Want me to go and choose something?”

  “No, thank you. I’m capable of selecting a tie on my own.” He pulled out a cell phone and dialed. “Ah, Wiggins. Sorry to bother. Can you bring me a tie?

  “Yes, I know. I thought so, too,” he continued. “But they want something blue and muted. Will do. Thanks.”

  “I can’t believe you sent a servant for a tie,” Maxine said. “I would have gone.”