Mad About the Earl

by Christina Brooke

  Perhaps it was as his grandfather said: The Duke of Montford would never allow the chit to draw back from the union simply because her betrothed was a gargoyle.

  Suddenly, Griffin noticed something … or the lack of it. The bustling stable yard had fallen silent. Only the splat, splat, drip of water on the ground could be heard.

  He released the pump handle and straightened, wiping the water from his eyes. Glancing up, he saw at least three stable hands frozen in place, as if turned to stone. His eyes narrowed. Was that a hint of drool slipping from the corner of Billy Trotter’s slackened mouth?

  With a strong feeling he wouldn’t like what he was about to see, Griffin turned around.

  Sweet. Jesus.

  He nearly shoved his head under the pump for another dousing. If the reaction of every other male in the vicinity hadn’t told him his eyes didn’t lie, he’d have believed her a vision conjured by exhaustion. But not even his imagination could have manufactured such a breathtaking piece of womanhood.

  She wore a deep cobalt blue riding habit that fitted her form so precisely, his hands itched to shape themselves around those well-defined curves. The habit was in the military style, with elaborate silver lacing across her torso that drew the eye to a magnificent bosom and trim waist.

  Griffin peeled his gaze from her mouthwatering form and forced it to her face. Eyes as blue as the heavens stared at him from beneath a sweep of thick black lashes and delicately arched brows. Rich golden ringlets escaped artfully from one side of her jaunty black hat.

  The angle of that hat seemed unconscionably rakish. In fact, with her pearly skin and her adorable bow of a mouth, celestial eyes, and gilt curls, the set of that particular piece of millinery struck a jarringly saucy note. It was as if an angel stood before him, closing one eye in a sly, knowing wink.

  Stunned as he was, moments passed before the truth crashed in on him, like Armageddon.

  Lady Rosamund Westruther.

  Bloody. Bloody. Hell.

  Her lips moved, but he didn’t hear what she said for the pounding in his ears. His heart pumped. His mouth dried. His hands grew clammy. Blood abandoned his brain like rats from a sinking ship.

  She’s not for you.

  His skeptical, cynical mind fought for supremacy, but instinct, powerful and raw, drowned out the frantic messages from his brain. A low, animal hum swelled inside him.

  I want her. Now.

  The angel’s brows snapped together, and for the first time, he noticed a distinctly militant sparkle in her eyes.

  She put up her chin and said, “You, there! Didn’t you hear what I said? Saddle me a horse, please. I wish to ride.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Beastly man!

  Rosamund’s first sight of Griffin deVere would have caused a maiden with a less valiant heart to quail. Shirtless, dirty, sodden, and glaring, he presented a spectacle to strike terror into any gently bred lady’s soul.

  His massive body gleamed wetly in the sunshine: acres of hairy muscled chest, miles of long, strong legs. Hands as big as plates shoved a shock of black hair from his eyes, plastering it back over his skull. The movement made the muscles in his biceps bulge with latent power.

  Her fascinated gaze snagged on the tufts of dark hair beneath each armpit. Oddly, the sight was the opposite of repulsive. A hot shiver burned down her spine.

  But it was the brooding, angry look in his eyes that made her insides melt and slide and sizzle, like butter in a sauté pan.

  Rot the man! Why did he have to be even larger, more intensely alive, more masculine than her wildest imaginings had painted him? He was colossal, and not only in stature. The powerful life force within him seemed to blaze from those lightning-colored eyes.

  She ought to be disgusted by the state she found him in, particularly in the circumstances. The least he could do was make himself presentable on this, of all days!

  Ah, how she wished she were disgusted. Her fury fired anew that he should have such a cataclysmic effect on her. He was rough and dirty and in a shocking state of undress, so far from the gallant prince of her imaginings, it would have been laughable had she not been consumed by disappointment.

  Well. If he wanted to behave like a groom, she’d treat him like one.

  But her heart obstructed her throat as she opened her mouth to teach him a lesson. Her voice wavered on the first attempt; she was obliged to repeat herself, and that only honed her temper to a sharper point.

  Still, the brute made no answer.

  “A horse, if you please,” she said again. “I presume my saddle has been sent down by now.”

  A snicker sounded behind Griffin. His jaw hardened.

  “Back to work.” He tossed the command over his shoulder, not bothering to check whether it was followed. The men scattered, leaving Rosamund and her beastly betrothed alone in the stable yard.

  He tilted his head, surveying her as keenly as a predator examines prey. She half expected him to sniff the air, bare his teeth … and pounce.

  Instead, he crossed his massive arms in front of him. “Your mount hasn’t arrived yet.”

  The deep rumble of his voice set parts of her to trembling. His pale, penetrating gaze traveled slowly over every inch of her, making those trembles multiply. If he were a servant, she’d reprimand him for such insolence.

  More heat washed over her, wave after wave of it. “S-saddle me something from here, then.”

  Oh, she could have killed herself for that betraying stammer. Besides, she was never so autocratic as this in her dealings with servants. He put her all on end. She couldn’t seem to come to grips with restraint.

  He shrugged. “Nothing fit for a lady in these stables.”

  Her lips pressed together. “I’ll be the judge of that.” She nodded and started toward the stalls. “Show me.”

  She tried to sweep past him, but he caught her elbow and tugged her to a halt. “No, you don’t.”

  Rosamund gasped. He wasn’t rough, but his grip was firm enough to prevent her escape. She whipped her gaze up to meet his. “Let go of me.”

  “You can’t ride the horses here. I forbid it.”

  She tried to pull away, knowing it was futile. His hold was as strong and uncompromising as a steel manacle. “You forbid it? And why should I obey your commands?”

  He showed her his teeth in a grimace of a smile. “Ah, my sweet, innocent angel. Didn’t you guess? I’m Griffin deVere.”

  * * *

  Griffin waited, bristling with anticipation. Now she’d shriek and run away.

  “But I know who you are,” she answered, widening those impossibly blue eyes. “You sent me a miniature of yourself, don’t you recall? Though you have a point. I should hardly recognize the grandson of an earl in such a guise.” A twinge of impatience crossed her face. “Oh, do let go of me. You’ll soil my riding habit, and it’s new.”

  He dropped her arm as if it burned him. Astonishment was an inadequate word for what he felt. This … this slip of a girl stood up to him as if he weren’t some ogre who ground children’s bones for bread. No woman other than his sister had ever reacted to him like that before. And she knew? She knew that he … that they … And yet, she stood her ground.

  Aware that his jaw had dropped, Griffin hastily shut it.

  Wait. “Miniature?” he repeated, frowning. “What miniature?”

  Her cool gaze flicked over him in a dispassionate inspection. How old was she? Seventeen? Eighteen? Yet she displayed all the poise of a matron in her prime.

  Her lips quivered with impatience. “The portrait you gave me. I sent you my likeness and you sent me yours.”

  He felt himself redden around the gills. Damn his sadistic grandfather! Gruffly, he cleared his throat. “The earl must have sent it. I would never—”

  He broke off. He’d almost said he’d never voluntarily inflict the sight of his face on anyone.

  The lady’s features relaxed. “Oh, I see. The earl appears to have kept you in the dark about all this
.” She tilted her head, her gaze softening. “Do you not know why I’m here today?”

  Griffin gave a clipped nod. “I know.”

  His answer didn’t please her. Coldly, she said, “Then why, might I ask, do I find you thus? Any gentleman with an ounce of courtesy would have awaited my arrival.” Her gaze wandered over him. “And dressed appropriately for the occasion.”

  He snorted. “I had more important things to do.”

  “More important? What could be more important than meeting the person you’re going to spend the rest of your life with?”

  Griffin nearly laughed. She didn’t seriously expect they’d go through with the betrothal? What a travesty that would be. Though every cell of his body urged him to take this perfect, virginal sacrifice, drag her back to his lair, and defile her in every way known to man, he knew better. Such an act would be a desecration.

  This bright angel was so far above his touch, she might as well have dwelled in Heaven itself. How could the Duke of Montford even consider someone like Griffin an appropriate match for such a delicate maid? Lady Rosamund Westruther ought to take a handsome knight to husband, not a monster like Griffin deVere.

  He reached for his shirt and used it to towel off his body in large, efficient swipes. “You needn’t worry. I’ll explain to the duke that we won’t suit. Come on.”

  Snatching up the rest of his garments, he strode out of the stable yard, leaving her no choice but to follow.

  Refusing to match his strides to hers, he obliged her to run to keep up with him. Even then, she soon fell behind. Rounding the rose garden wall, he heard her cry.

  “Wait!”

  With a curse beneath his breath, he halted. Turning, he watched her hurry toward him up the lawn. Despite her haste, she still looked unruffled and elegant. It made him want to muss her up good and proper.

  Hell, he needed to nip those kinds of thoughts in the bud.

  She finally caught up to him, and he noticed that the exertion had made a slight alteration in her appearance, after all. A flush pinked her cheeks, and her eyes glowed like sapphires. If anything, her beauty deepened with exercise. It made him wonder what she’d look like after a prolonged bout of lovemaking.

  He dragged in a shaky breath.

  “Do you mean to say you don’t wish to marry me?” Her surprisingly low voice betrayed no emotion.

  A harsh bark of a laugh burst from him. “Oh, come now, my lady. You cannot pretend you want to wed someone like me.”

  He refused to spell it out for her. If she chose to maintain the polite fiction that she didn’t find the idea repulsive, more fool she. He ought not to marvel at how well disciplined she was. He knew something of her guardian, the Duke of Montford, after all. The man was famed for his ruthlessness and his insistence on the paramount importance of duty to one’s family.

  Were Griffin’s prospects of wealth and position so attractive to Rosamund that she’d refuse to be swayed by his ugliness? Rich, heartbreakingly beautiful, well connected … Surely this girl had her pick of titles and estates the length and breadth of England. She didn’t need him.

  She swallowed hard. “I don’t follow you, sir. Before we undertook this journey, the earl gave us to understand all was settled. Is—” She faltered and bit her lip. “—is there something about me that does not please you?”

  Oh, for God’s sake!

  Pairing such an exquisite creature with him must be someone’s idea of a joke—his grandsire’s, most probably. The question was, why the Hell did she play along with it?

  He stared hard at her. “Do you wish for the marriage, then? You are prepared to obey your guardian in this?”

  She averted her gaze. “I—I never thought … I never considered doing otherwise.”

  Fury burned through him, the same kind of frustrated anger that ultimately crashed in after an encounter with a willing bit of muslin. Those women never cared what he looked like as long as he paid handsomely for their favors. This marriage was no less a business transaction than a punter taking a whore, though it was dressed up in the trappings of wealth and respectability.

  Did Lady Rosamund have the slightest inkling of what she’d be called upon to do as his wife? He’d wager if she did, she’d turn tail and run. He couldn’t imagine this cool goddess accepting, much less enjoying his touch.

  Yes, he wanted her so much, he was near crazed with it. But he hated the feeling. The hurt and resentment of it tangled inside him until he couldn’t see straight.

  And that same impulse that made schoolboys pull pretty girls’ hair made him step toward her, boxing her in between his body and the stone wall behind her.

  She didn’t shrink back or cry out or weep. She simply looked up into his face. Her eyes were wide, pink lips slightly parted.

  What the Devil was wrong with the chit? Why wasn’t she screaming?

  His breath quickened. Brutally, he said, “There’d be no ordinary marriage of convenience between us, you understand? I’d want you in my bed. In mine alone.”

  Her color flared. When she spoke, however, her voice was even. “Naturally,” she said.

  Naturally? Was she touched in the head? Did she not understand what he meant? He sucked air through his teeth. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  With a frown of impatience, she said, “I’m not a simpleton, Mr. deVere. I know what marriage entails.”

  The directness of her gaze threw down a decided challenge. Images of her tumbled naked on his bed flooded his brain, strangled the breath in his lungs.

  No. No, she couldn’t mean she’d willingly suffer his advances. It was all a ploy to get him to the altar. She’d do her duty and marry him, then wait until the wedding night to reveal her revulsion.

  The tangles in his belly drew into tight knots. Were his prospects so attractive to her? No other woman had been willing to risk herself in pursuit of his worldly expectations.

  As he stared down at her, a smile trembled on those plump, pink lips. Gently, as if speaking to a child, Rosamund said, “I’m not afraid of you.”

  The bottom seemed to fall out of his stomach. Apart from Jacks, he scared the living daylights out of every female he met.

  Unreasoning anger filled him. Suddenly, he wanted to scare her, to make her admit her fear. Otherwise, what chance did he have against her?

  With a strangled groan, Griffin gripped her waist and lifted her up and planted his mouth on hers.

  Fire surged through his veins at the first touch of those soft, warm lips. He ravished her mouth, hardly registering her reaction. He wanted to punish her, to show her how much she’d loathe suffering the intentions of a man like him. To strip away her veneer of acceptance and make her admit her disgust.

  But her soft, fragrant femininity called to him, a siren’s song that drew him, not only stirring his body but shaking him down to his soul. With a hoarse groan, he wrapped his arms around her waist and angled his head to delve farther into her mouth.

  * * *

  Instinctively, Rosamund knew this kiss was punitive and full of anger. She’d not the least idea what Griffin thought she’d done to deserve such treatment. Her mere presence seemed to ignite his wrath.

  His lips devoured hers with bruising force. One arm lashed about her waist, bringing her flush against his hard body. His other hand tipped the hat from her head and his fingers dragged through her hair. Pins scattered as her curls slipped free and tumbled about her shoulders in disarray.

  No man had ever tried to kiss her before, much less handled her with such furious mastery. Overpowered but not cowed by this giant of a man, she yielded in a way that would have shocked anyone who knew her. Treacherous thrills chased one another down her spine. A strange, melting warmth began low in her belly.

  He was immensely strong; his mouth gave her no quarter. Confusion, longing, and sheer curiosity warred within her. She’d dreamed of his kiss for so long, but she’d always imagined a careful, searching tenderness. Not the hard, domineering passion he
showed her now.

  Rosamund put her hands on his shoulders with some vague notion of restraining him, but the powerful muscles that shifted beneath her palms made her forget her purpose. She knew a sharp regret that she wore gloves and couldn’t feel the texture of his skin beneath her fingertips.

  Griffin smelled of the stables, of earthy masculine musk and sweat and something more pungent, like varnish. Strangely, it didn’t bother her in the least.

  He set her on the low wall behind her so that her head was level with his. Then, he slanted his mouth and slid his tongue against hers in the most shocking, lascivious move. Rosamund gasped deep in her throat, choking on her own answering surge of desire. She could barely catch her breath for the way his firm lips plundered hers.

  A hot thread snapped inside her, unraveling, then coiling tight in the pit of her belly. Against her will, for a few heated seconds, she teetered on the verge of responding with equally fierce abandon.

  Oh, God, what was happening to her? Was she so lacking in pride that this assault—for it could not be termed a gesture of affection—stirred her passions?

  But it wasn’t the wildness of his kiss that moved her. It was the pain she sensed buried deep beneath the savagery. What must it have been like to grow up at the mercy of his cruel monster of a grandfather? No wonder he couldn’t believe she truly wanted to marry him.

  But she did. Oh, yes, she did.

  A wave of tenderness swept over her. With a soft sigh, she kissed him back, clumsily, eagerly. Her hands left his shoulders to frame his face and stroke through his thick, dark hair. Experimentally, she ran her tongue over his.

  Griffin froze. Then, with a harsh gasp, he wrenched his mouth from hers.

  She whispered his name, but he didn’t seem to hear her. His head was bowed; his big chest heaved. She felt the warmth of his ragged breath against her neck.

  After a long, tense moment, Griffin raised his head. Without looking at her or speaking, he lifted her from the wall and set her gently on the ground.

  She brought up a hand to touch her lips, to feel the imprint of his kiss upon them. “Griffin?”