For the Earl's Pleasure

by Anne Mallory

  “I admit to thinking you must have an ulterior motive, Mr. Campbell.”

  There was a sudden sparkle in his eyes—not the darkening that she had imagined would take place. “A very keen one, in fact. It is possible that I wish to turn our dance into two and perhaps two dances into a carriage ride through Hyde.”

  She missed a step again. She could hear Valerian behind her swearing up, down, and around about everything from Campbell’s stupidity to his parentage. He seemed to find exceptional fodder with one’s parentage she’d noticed.

  “I don’t know whether to be amused or ashamed that you seem to think so little of me that you would miss a step, when all of the rest of your footwork has been so graceful,” Campbell said.

  “I confess I find myself at a loss, Mr. Campbell. You have taken me by complete surprise.”

  He looked over her shoulder. “And that is to my detriment. I should never have relied on the grace of my compatriots to define my actions.”

  Pretty words. Earnest eyes. Abigail didn’t believe a bit of it.

  Her mother, however, would have a fit were she to turn down such a lucrative possible match, a future viscount—her mother would be over the moon. She had seen in the ledger the amount of money Campbell owed—especially to Valerian. At the very least it would be interesting to make him confess his motivation for pursuing her so suddenly.

  “Should you choose to call, you will not be turned aside.” She tilted her head in the other direction to observe him, watching his shifting expressions. Satisfaction, joy, darkness, surprise. If only she knew which emotion to trust. It could all be a lark.

  Though—she looked at the group gathered along the side—most of them looked quite displeased.

  “Have you lost your sense? Tell him you want nothing to do with him,” Valerian demanded.

  She smiled at Aidan Campbell and let him twirl her away from the darkening face of her ghostly companion. Sometimes decisions had more than one effect, for good or ill. Valerian’s reaction struck something deep and satisfying within her. She had scoffed at females for such actions before, but now…a warm giddiness overtook her as she saw his outrage as she twirled again. She could almost understand the addiction.

  “That is quite wonderful to hear,” Campbell said with a satisfied edge to his voice. “I will make an appointment.”

  She inclined her head.

  “He’s either dangerous or after your money,” Valerian insisted, leaving a trail of shivering dancers in his wake as he passed through, trying to stay with them.

  Money—their blessing and curse. It was the one thing that had kept them in decent stead in the ton. The Smarts had fallen from society two generations ago, destitute. Renewed fortunes had provided them entrance once again.

  Those renewed fortunes had bought Mrs. Browning and an audience at court. Her mother had used their money liberally to ensure their base success. If Rainewood had given them a modicum of good will, they would have secured their standing.

  She gave him a dark look over Campbell’s shoulder. She recalled her debut as clearly as if it had occurred yesterday.

  Campbell seemed to be on the same train of thought. “I remember when you made your debut. Every eye was on you that night.”

  She wanted to ask Campbell when he had become possessed of a suitor’s tongue. Instead she laughed lightly. “That is kind of you, Mr. Campbell, but hardly true, I think.”

  He tilted his head. “No, it was quite true. I believe the crowd went silent in contemplation of where you would take your place in the social milieu. You are a beautiful woman.”

  “That is very kind of you,” she repeated, not knowing what else to add—such as how one’s deep pockets always made one more attractive.

  “What did you do to Raine to make him react so negatively to you on the evening of your debut?”

  She hadn’t expected the question. No one had been brave enough to ask it. They had just taken their cues from whichever side of the social circle they resided.

  “Perhaps Lord Rainewood was just having a bad night. Unlucky for me.”

  “Perhaps.” He sounded entirely unconvinced. “Raine sometimes has his piques, it is true.”

  “I would say so.” She glared at the topic of conversation.

  Campbell swiftly turned her. “How did you come to know of Oxting Stables?”

  She almost missed another step at the abrupt topic switch, but held together and gracefully glided forward. “I must have heard someone mention it in idle conversation.” Partially true.

  “Mmmm. I confess that you intrigue me, Miss Smart.” He twirled her competently for the final time as the violins pulled their last note to a close. “You always have.”

  The twirl put her back in view of Valerian’s face, which was dark and deadly. His eyes met hers and he stepped forward through Campbell, placing himself between them, his height obscuring Campbell from view.

  She gasped as his fingers curled possessively around her waist.

  “Miss Smart, are you ill?” Campbell asked from somewhere behind Valerian.

  She seemed to get asked that an awful lot in the presence of Valerian. “No, it is just rather warm in here, is it not?” She fanned herself with her gloved hand, wishing she’d brought a real fan, trying to cover up her deepening color, her parted lips, and the sweat collecting on her brow as Valerian pulled a hand up her back and around her nape, massaging the skin there.

  She tried not to react. To step away from him. To avoid the pull.

  She stepped left, removing herself from his grip and putting Campbell back in her sights. Campbell’s eyes had darkened, and she recognized the signs of a man who was partially aroused. She had seen the burgeoning look too many times in the faces of spirits. What had appeared on her face to have made Campbell react that way?

  “Thank you for the dance, Mr. Campbell.”

  He bowed, eyes never leaving hers. “Thank you, Miss Smart. I look forward to seeing you again, in perhaps a less formal venue.”

  She tipped her head and allowed him to lead her back to the sidelines. He walked closer to her than he had before they’d stepped onto the dance floor. Seeing some of Rainewood’s other lackeys heading their way, and feeling unnerved in more ways than one, Abigail excused herself as quickly as she could and walked over to where Phillip, Edwina, and Gregory were conversing about technical marvels with Sir Walter Malcolm.

  “Sir Walter, how good to see you,” Abigail said. The man had been unfailingly kind to her since her debut, even in the presence of Valerian’s dismissal and the coldness of his wife and daughter.

  “Likewise, Miss Smart.” He smiled good-naturedly. “Your mother mentioned that you were going to watch the balloon competition in a few days’ time.”

  “I am.”

  “Excellent! Mr. Brockwell will make a good showing, I am sure. I look forward to seeing his design.”

  Phillip flushed beneath the praise. “I aim to do so, Sir Walter.”

  “Excellent. I shall see you both upon the morrow. And perhaps Miss Penshard as well?”

  Edwina nodded, blond curls bobbing above her cherry cheeks.

  Sir Walter took his leave.

  Edwina turned inquiring eyes on her. “I saw you dancing with Mr. Campbell.”

  Gregory’s disgusted look spoke of far darker thoughts than Edwina was expressing—Edwina was always a bright light, willing to forgive any slight or indiscretion. Phillip simply looked uncomfortable.

  “He asked,” she said simply.

  Edwina looked thoughtful, but nodded. Gregory was hardly as kind.

  “After the Malcolm’s ball, you danced with him because he asked?” Gregory narrowed his eyes. “He has ignoble intentions.”

  From the corner of her eye, she could see Valerian’s darkly satisfied look.

  “Would you not be curious as to what they are?” she asked Gregory.

  “No. I know what they are. I would have publicly cut him. Given him a taste of his own behavior.”


  Edwina put a hand on his arm. “Now, Gregory, I am sure that is not true. We can forgive those who hurt us.”

  If it had been anyone else, Gregory would have assuredly shrugged off the hand, but he simply pursed his lips. “You are foolish in your forgiveness, Edwina. I thought Miss Smart more intelligent.”

  “I am sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Penshard,” she said tartly.

  Phillip looked increasingly uncomfortable. But then he had always hated confrontation, unlike Gregory.

  “Be careful with whom you choose to associate, Miss Smart. We have always been your allies. Don’t annoy me.” His green eyes were nearly black.

  “Gregory! Apologize this instant,” Edwina declared.

  “I will not. If she thinks to take up with them now that Rainewood’s out of the picture, then she deserves our scorn.”

  Valerian stepped forward, eyes narrowed on Gregory. “He knows something. I knew it.”

  “What do you mean, now that Rainewood is out of the picture?” Abigail demanded.

  Edwina and Phillip also looked at Gregory in question. Phillip’s eyes darted between Abigail and Gregory anxiously.

  “You should be relieved he’s gone,” Gregory said. “Or is it as I suspected—and you never dropped that heavy girlish torch you carried for him?”

  Her mouth dropped. “Pardon me?”

  Gregory laughed darkly. “I suppose if you are dancing with Campbell and dancing on Danforth, then perhaps I am mistaken.”

  It wasn’t a surprise that Gregory would be irritated by her outing with Basil or dance with Campbell, but she was still taken aback by his acidic tone.

  She narrowed her eyes on him. “I challenge you to live as a woman in this society. To see how well you deal with turning down such invitations,” she said as calmly as she could manage.

  Even Valerian’s eyes looked at her in an assessing manner, unreadable.

  Gregory’s eyes pinched, the look in them flat and unsympathetic.

  She squared her shoulders and prepared for war, recalling an earlier conversation with Valerian. “Why do you require a doctor, Mr. Penshard?”

  “Mother is looking for you, Ed.” Gregory firmly took Edwina’s arm and gave her a push. “Hurry.”

  Edwina gave him a questioning glance before dutifully shuffling off.

  Gregory turned back to her. “Watch yourself, Miss Smart.” He strode off in the direction he had pushed Edwina.

  Unnerved, Abigail looked at Phillip, whose besotted gaze focused on Edwina’s retreating back. “Mr. Brockwell?”

  Phillip looked like he might throw up in the potted ferns at any moment from anxiety. “Yes?”

  “Do you agree with Mr. Penshard about my new association with the members of Rainewood’s group?”

  Phillip twitched. “I, I don’t know, Miss Smart. They have hardly been kind to us. But, you must do as you wish. Pardon me, but I must go.”

  He quickly walked away leaving her standing on the sidelines, a bit lost.

  Campbell and Mr. Stagen suddenly appeared next to her before she could say anything to Valerian. “That is hardly an expression I wish to see upon your lovely face, Miss Smart,” Campbell said. “Let us cheer you up.”

  Valerian’s hands fisted at his sides.

  Phillip, Edwina, and Gregory had left her and Rainewood’s crowd had taken up residence. Her world had tilted, and she didn’t know which side was up.

  Valerian was a bear for the rest of the party and through the ride home—irritated that Campbell seemed to be extraordinarily attentive all of a sudden.

  “Perhaps Campbell is simply interested in me.” She threw her wrap on the bed. “There is nothing so horrid about me, I’ll have you know.” Other than the slightly crazy bit, of course. “And Campbell can offer social security and companionship,” she couldn’t resist adding.

  “There’s nothing you can get from Campbell that you wouldn’t get a thousand times better from me.”

  Her lips parted, but before she could form a response, his lips descended hard upon hers.

  Chapter 14

  The actual feel of her lips shocked him even as he knew that he’d be able to kiss her. But thinking about touching his lips to hers and actually doing it were two entirely separate things. They had shared one kiss in the past, one mistaken glorious moment before all had crashed down.

  This kiss was nothing like that. Except for the fact that everything in him seemed to shatter as her breath caught, her lips parted, and she kissed him back with just as much force as he was kissing her.

  Her lips felt like the softest blanket, but the strength beneath them, her vibrant personality, was even more intoxicating, drugging. Somehow his fingers found their way into the back of her hair, curling at the top of her nape, bringing her closer still. She made a little noise and his body responded, wanting to press against hers as hard as he could, to push her back toward the bed and complete the pieces that begged to be interlocked.

  He drew his hand down her neck instead, around the curve of her collarbone to the cloth at her shoulder, the satin rippling beneath his fingers as they sought for the sweeter feel of more deliciously bared skin.

  He could spend hours running his fingers down the back of her arm, soft as velvet, smooth as silk, her skin composed of the finest materials found on earth. It was one of the reasons he always indulged in taunting her, but now, open to him, starved from touching her for the days, weeks, that he’d been disallowed physical contact, touching her was what it had to be like to touch the moon when it was low slung and full, glowing and silky.

  She broke the kiss, her cheek level with his as she panted in his ear. “Valerian, I’m not sure that—”

  “That this is a good idea?” he said into her ear.

  She nodded jerkily.

  “You are right.” Her neck was so near, the scent of her mild, breezy soap tingling every sense he had feared lost to him. “It is a great idea.”

  His lips sought the spot of her neck just beneath the side of her chin where the skin curved and her pulse beat a mad tempo. Her breath caught and her head arched back allowing him greater access. The hand around her nape moved down her back, down her spine, down the edges of her hips to curl around her rear and hike her against him. Her body responded automatically and one leg bent and lifted to fit them together.

  God, she drove him mad. Even in this, something with which she should have no experience, she fired his blood, tempting him to take more and more until she conceded.

  He continued to stroke the lovely skin of her arm with his other hand, pulling downward to her gloved fingers. He gripped the edge of the glove in one hand, determined to remove the barrier, to remove each barrier between them. To rid himself of whatever demon had resided within him since he’d turned old enough to know the difference between the girl he had romped with as friends and the woman she had started to become.

  There was something so symbolic in removing her glove. As if it represented all that had become wedged between them. Children playing, little adults trying to fit their roles. Changing circumstances and bad choices that had irrevocably driven the division.

  Removing the glove was a little like removing the wedge. Opening his heart back up to something that he had closed it to long ago, too hurt and confused to do otherwise, then too proud and stubborn to recognize any fault of his own.

  He gripped the glove more firmly and just before he could make the final decision to remove it fully, his fingers slipped through. He paused for half a second. No, they must have slipped from the fabric instead. He pulled his suddenly free fingers back along her arm, lifting his head from her neck to look at her, eyes hazy and half closed, head tilted back.

  His other hand moved along her backside, hiking her closer still, making her eyes flutter shut for a second before opening again to stare at him, challenge him, as always.

  There was nothing he could do but kiss her again, maneuvering her against the back of the dressing chair, using the force to keep them pressed t
ogether below as his fingers once more sought her nape, bringing them closer, deepening the kiss, tasting every part of her mouth.

  Everything in his body urged him to remove the layers between them. And the analytical portion of his mind was silent for once, not weighing the decision, too distracted by the wonderful feel of her. Feeling he had been denied since falling into this dream.

  He moved his hand back down to her glove and gripped the edge. He gave a tug and his fingers fell through the fabric.

  He pulled his lips from hers and looked down at her wrist, only the heavy breathing and constant tick of the mantel clock making sound. He traced a finger around the top of her glove, around the soft, strong skin, then dipped beneath the glove to trace the untouched flesh there. She unconsciously arched against him with a gasp.

  He could feel the edge of her glove on the sensitive top of his finger, just behind the cuticle. It was a muted feeling of silk, not the vibrant edge that her skin possessed. He rubbed against the fabric to try and gather more feeling.

  His finger pulled through.

  His body went still.

  “What? What is wrong?”

  He could hear the uncertainty in her voice, could feel her body tense. The edge of battle always there, waiting for him. He was too long practiced at watching and reading her to know that there was a part of her waiting for him to finish the game. The game that she thought he still played. To do something irrevocable.

  He stepped back, unnerved. Unnerved by more than the fact that he was completely able to touch her skin, but still unable to touch much else. Unnerved by his thoughts on what lay between them, wedged still.

  What he had placed there. What she had built upon.

  He opened his mouth, but the colder part of his brain came to his rescue. “I can’t touch your clothing. For very long, that is. I can’t remove it.”

  Her cheeks, already bright, blushed a deep rose. A beautiful color next to her vibrant eyes and kiss-puffed lips.

  “Oh.” She tugged self-consciously at her shoulder sleeve.

  “Why?”