Mad About the Earl

by Christina Brooke

  Gathering her courage, she asked him the question that had nagged at her mind since his return. “Why did you never come for me?”

  There was an arrested silence; then he exhaled a long breath. “Many reasons. None of them had anything to do with you.”

  Rosamund digested this in silence. Was she comforted by that or insulted? She couldn’t decide. With all the upheaval of the previous two days, she was too confused and overwhelmed to puzzle it out. She would tuck his words away for later examination, like the miniature portrait in her locket.

  She wanted to steal a covert look up at him, but his height and her parasol, not to mention the poke of her bonnet, prevented subtlety. She was obliged to crane her neck.

  His expression was a stony blank, as if he’d slammed the door on the fortress in which he imprisoned his deepest emotions.

  She’d get nowhere with him when he looked like that, so she said, “Let us put the past behind us. You are here now, and the season is about to begin. We shall enjoy a little courtship. Yes—” She held up her hand to fend off the protest she anticipated. “—I do mean enjoy, my lord.”

  Once again, his expression altered. Those gray eyes held a rakish gleam. “I recall some parts I mean to enjoy very well.”

  She gasped. Could he actually mean—?

  Amusement lightened his features in response to her confusion. He leaned toward her. “Starting tonight.”

  His voice was a low growl that vibrated through her body; his breath brushed her ear with tingling warmth. The implication caught fire in her brain, making her pulse jump and race. A hot flush swept over her breasts and up, into her cheeks.

  Those intimacies she’d promised him …

  Should she admit she anticipated those intimacies as eagerly as he did? Perhaps not. Something told her he’d want her more if she displayed a little reluctance.

  “Oh!” she said. “But you’ve done nothing to earn any rewards yet.”

  A little grimly, he replied, “If you think spending an entire week at the tender mercies of your cousin and my new valet aren’t enough to earn me a taste of you, let me remind you that I’ve been dancing attendance on you for the better part of an hour this afternoon.” He threw out a hand as if to encompass their surrounds. “I’m strolling, for God’s sake!”

  She was enjoying this hugely. “That is true,” she said, cocking her head as if to consider. “And yet, these were not the conditions of our agreement. I distinctly recall that I specifically listed various entertainments which— Oh!” she exclaimed as he grabbed her hand and pulled her along with him. “What are you doing, sir?”

  He yanked her off the path and whisked her behind a tree so that they were screened from the path, but not from any other chance passerby. In a flash, he’d captured the handle of her parasol, twisted it out of her fingers, and tossed it aside.

  “That parasol cost me twenty guineas!”

  “I’ll buy you another.” He maneuvered her so that her back was against the tree trunk and brought his palm flat against the trunk beside her head.

  Leaning in, he said, “If you don’t want me to kiss you here, now, in public, you’ll agree to meet me somewhere in your house tonight.”

  “Oh, this is an outrage!” managed Rosamund, trying not to allow a delighted laugh to escape her. “I utterly refuse to agree to anything so improper.” She turned her face away from him like a martyred virgin avoiding the flames licking upward from the pyre. Her heart thumped hard and fast in her breast.

  But when he did not respond to this clear piece of encouragement, she breathed, “I should think you would treat your future wife with more respect, sir.”

  “Oh, I respect you, my dear.” Griffin raised his hand and ran his fingertip gently over her lips. His breathing grew ragged. She closed her eyes and waited for his mouth to descend on hers.

  It was scandalous behavior. They were in public, even if by some lucky circumstance, no one could see them now. Yet she longed for his kiss so much that she didn’t care.

  Voices. Coming closer. Now she really did panic, her bravado deserting her abruptly. “Oh, someone’s coming! Let me go, I—”

  “Not until you agree to meet me.”

  “Yes, yes, I agree! But let me g— Oh.”

  He stepped away from her just as a couple of small boys ran past, rolling a large wooden hoop.

  She sagged back against the tree, limp with relief, giddy with exhilaration.

  Griffin bent to pick up her parasol and handed it to her, and his gray eyes still held a devilish sparkle.

  “When?” he said softly. “And where?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Dearlove, I need your help.” Now those were words he’d never thought to say.

  In fact, Griffin was quite bemused at the way this consummate gentleman’s gentleman had insinuated himself into his life. Griffin had been so preoccupied with thoughts of Rosamund that he had scarcely noticed the quiet efficiencies of his new valet.

  The French-milled soap the man provided for Griffin’s bath was doubtless contraband, but it smelled uncommonly good. Fresh and clean, like pine needles and lemon. Griffin didn’t hold much with scents, but this one seemed appropriately masculine.

  He needed to shave, but with his clandestine rendezvous looming, Griffin didn’t trust his hands not to shake at a critical moment. Accepting Dearlove’s offer to wield the wicked-looking razor instead of hacking at his throat himself seemed like a sensible idea.

  Before he knew it, Griffin was shaved, bathed, and dressed, sitting by the fireplace in a comfortable armchair with that morning’s paper and a preprandial glass of Malaga sherry at his elbow.

  He could get used to this.

  The valet bowed. “Help, my lord? Certainly. How may I assist?”

  “It’s this Lady Buckham’s soiree tomorrow night.” Griffin glanced again at the stiff engraved card in his hand, then gave it to Dearlove. “I want to go, but my evening dress won’t be ready by then.” He shook his head. “Oh, never mind. I know it can’t be done.”

  Though Lydgate had called him a wizard, Dearlove was not truly a magician, after all. How could he be expected to conjure a tailcoat of ridiculous proportions from thin air? If Griffin had been a more reasonable size, then perhaps.

  But Dearlove seemed undaunted by the task. With a slight smile, he said, “My lord, I shall endeavor.”

  Griffin looked up. “Really?”

  “Oh, yes, my lord. You will go to the soiree.”

  Griffin nodded curtly. “My thanks,” he said.

  “Don’t mention it, sir.” There was a pause. “My lord?”

  “Yes, Dearlove, what is it?”

  “I understand Your Lordship is to be married. Might I be so bold as to wish you happy?”

  A question that, a week ago, would have caused Griffin to bite his valet’s head off. Of course, a week ago, Griffin would not have allowed Dearlove within ten miles of his person or his meager wardrobe.

  Now, with the magnanimity of a man about to meet Lady Rosamund Westruther in a moonlit garden for the purpose of committing various unspecified intimacies upon her person, he said, “You may. Thank you, Dearlove. You are dismissed.”

  Once again, the Westruther family had all left for the evening to attend various entertainments. Griffin had considered a jaunt to his club, but he was too restless and preoccupied for company. He chose instead to eat a light supper alone in his rooms.

  After picking at his plate and drinking three glasses of the duke’s excellent Bordeaux, he hunted in the library for something to pass the time before his tryst with Rosamund.

  Montford’s collection was extensive, housed in awe-inspiring magnificence in a vast room with a gallery level and high, coffered ceilings. Books covered the walls from floor to ceiling. Griffin had never seen so many in his life. Not knowing how to begin to search for anything specific, Griffin chose at random a rather bland treatise on drainage systems.

  Ah, who was he trying to fool with the pretense of
reading? He couldn’t possibly keep his mind on the page. His nerves were on edge. Anticipation hummed in his blood. Finally, he gave up on drainage and crossed to his window to peer out at the night sky.

  He’d agreed to marry Rosamund to save his sister from marriage to a man old enough to be her grandfather. Or was that only what he’d told himself, the excuse he’d made for taking what he’d wanted all along? Regardless of the wishes of his betrothed.

  But it seemed she did indeed wish for this union and always had. He couldn’t wrap his mind around that part, so he set it aside.

  Instead, he considered Jacks. Had she truly formed an attachment to young Warrington, as the fellow’s mother asserted? Griffin hadn’t seen Jacks for months, but it seemed unlikely that she’d developed a taste for chinless whelps in the meantime.

  For the moment, however, Lady Jacqueline deVere was safe. She was still a minor, and that powerful tyrant Oliver, Lord deVere, stood her guardian. DeVere would not permit her to marry Warrington. A flight to the border was out of the question. Quite apart from the scandal that would ensue, Warrington must know that if he attempted it, Griffin would tear him limb from limb.

  Once he and Rosamund were wed, he would send for Jacks to join them at his town house. Rosamund would school Jacks in what she needed to know, and then they’d launch her in society.

  Tomorrow, he would see deVere and get that list of prospective suitors he’d promised. And then the vetting process would begin. It would take a certain kind of man to appreciate his sister’s … unique qualities. Griffin intended to find that man if it was the last thing he did.

  One thing was certain: Jacks could never return to Pendon Place.

  Perhaps he ought to consult Rosamund about these fellows deVere was proposing as possible matches for his sister. After two seasons, Rosamund must know them all, at least by reputation.

  He felt a twinge of guilt. She’d asked him that afternoon why he’d never come for her. As if she’d been some princess locked in a tower the past three years, waiting and dreaming of her white knight.

  Didn’t she know he was the ogre of this story? She seemed almost willfully blind to his ugliness, to his foul temper, and to his wish to be left well alone. He believed now that she was sincere in her indifference to his faults and that she did not regard the vast disparity in their situations.

  Rosamund wasn’t mercenary or in the market for a title, as he’d thought when he first met her. She was in love with the idea of marriage and a family to call her own. She refused to see the truth about him, but the reality of matrimony would rip the scales from her eyes all too soon.

  Too restless to sit here festering in his rooms any longer, he took the small lantern he’d had the forethought to request from Dearlove and left his bedchamber.

  * * *

  Rosamund let herself out of the house, easing the French window of the conservatory until it was almost shut, but not quite.

  Expectation danced along her nerves while the cool night air played over her skin. With a glance over her shoulder and a small, voluptuous shiver, she fled down the steps toward the small summerhouse that stood at the edge of the fountain.

  The evening had seemed to stretch into eternity. Montford had escorted her to a dull musicale that necessitated sitting still for hours feigning interest in the sedate strains of a string quartet when she itched to be gone. Even worse, the principal entertainment of the night was canceled due to the soprano’s indisposition.

  The hostess threw her thin-voiced daughter into the breach, and sad work the girl had made of the program. Most of the audience chattered through the dismal performance. Montford had remained silent, contemplating the molded ceiling with an expression of pained endurance, but Rosamund felt so sorry for the poor young lady that she listened attentively and applauded at the end.

  All the while, her nerves had screamed at her to flee.

  Finally, they’d returned home. Rosamund had allowed Meg to undress her and brush out her hair and put her to bed, only to throw back the bedclothes and scramble out of bed again as soon as Meg left the room. Dressing herself hadn’t been easy. Abandoning all hope of lacing a corset, she donned a chemise and chose a simple blue round gown and some dancing slippers and sat by her window to wait for the household to settle.

  Andrew hadn’t come in yet, and neither had Xavier, but they might not be back until daylight. She’d have to take the risk of one of them spotting her as she crept out to keep her tryst with Griffin.

  He was her affianced husband, so she wasn’t too concerned that her behavior would rate serious censure. She simply didn’t want to share what they did this night with anyone. Particularly not with her male cousins.

  Now, finally, the moment had arrived. She hurried along the path, skirting the fountain and continuing on until she came to the place she’d proposed to meet him.

  He loomed in the doorway of the summerhouse, a massive, muscled form in trousers and a loose white shirt. A frisson of fear shot through her, raising her senses to a pitch of heightened awareness. Every sight, every scent, every touch, every sound intensified to an almost unbearable degree.

  The summerhouse dripped with wisteria and honeysuckle. Their delicate blooms shivered in the breeze, wafting a scent as wild and heady as her mood. The only sound was the gentle rush of soft night air whispering through the trees.

  That, and the rasp of her quickened breathing.

  “You came,” he said.

  His voice seemed to resonate deep inside her. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

  His shoulders raised in a shrug. “I wondered if your scruples might overbear your courage. I’m glad they didn’t.”

  Pleasurable anticipation had almost made her forget she’d protested vehemently against this rendezvous. She hardly knew why she continued the charade of reluctance. Some deeply feminine instinct seemed to dictate that she should.

  She’d follow that instinct and see where it led her. It had brought her this far, after all.

  “I honor my bargains, my lord,” she said, making her voice prim.

  “Is that so?” He reached out and touched her upturned face, feathering his knuckles gently down her cheek. “I trust you won’t find this obligation too onerous.”

  The most onerous part was continuing to stand when her knees had softened to jelly.

  “Come,” he said, and led her into the darkness.

  Inside the glass walls, the warmth of the day still lingered. A lantern burned low in the corner. He’d lit a few candles here and there to give the place ambient light. Ranged along one wall was a banquette covered in silk cushions. A wrought-iron table and chairs stood in the center of the room, and pot plants and hanging baskets dotted about gave the impression of the outdoors.

  She’d been here countless times, yet now the place was an enchanted bower, full of moonlight and shadows and scents that were piercingly sweet.

  But all she could focus on was Griffin and how much she longed for his kiss.

  He turned and stood there, watching her, a bright-eyed predator of the night.

  Seconds ticked by, and he did not move or speak. The tension built inside her until she could bear it no longer.

  To goad him, she said, “We ought to set rules before we start.”

  He blinked. Then a muscle jumped in his jaw. “You’re not serious.”

  “Of course,” she said. “This is a bargain, is it not? Intimacies in exchange for social interaction. But I am not experienced in intimacies. I want to know what you mean to do.”

  Rosamund eyed him with the unnerving sensation that she’d just poked a tiger with a stick. His body seemed coiled, bunched with tension, as if at any moment he might spring.

  She sucked in a breath, her hesitancy no longer feigned. “I don’t wish to be taken by surprise.”

  He shook his head. “There’s nothing left to agree upon. The intimacies are whatever I want them to be.” Then he tilted his head. “Unless,” he purred, “you have suggestions.”
r />   Oh, Lord. She swallowed hard. “Not suggestions, no. But surely I have the power of veto.”

  He moved toward her. “You surrendered all power to me when you walked through that door.”

  His gaze ranged over her, lingering here and there, as if he were calculating which part of her to devour first. Suddenly, she was afraid she’d granted him license to do far more than she ever imagined he might.

  When he looked at her like that, she felt as if a giant hand picked her up and shook her until her defenses fell away, leaving her vulnerable, exposed to the caress of his gaze.

  Where had her courage gone? She’d expected to be more than a match for him, even in this arena. Too late to discover she’d been wrong.

  Griffin’s manner was intent and assured. He knew exactly what he was doing. She knew only what she’d been able to glean from snippets of conversation, hushed whispers about her mother, and the gems of information Jane had been willing to impart.

  In other words, a mélange of theory and no practical experience at all.

  Instinctively, Rosamund retreated. He followed, until the edge of a table stopped her and there were mere inches between them.

  He smiled with a flash of white teeth, then closed in and planted his hands on the table on either side of her, caging her body with his.

  She leaned back as far as she could, but there was no escape. He loomed over her, his ruined face stark in the moonlight.

  Her breathing quickened, and she inhaled his scent. He smelled like a forest, mysterious and dark. Something inside her craved his touch, but she did not want to be overwhelmed by his darkness. She did not wish to lose herself in him and leave her heart behind.

  “Frightened?” His tone mocked her. His breath held the faint sweet scent of wine.

  “You are no gentleman, sir,” she whispered.

  “Just discovered that now, have you?” he murmured. Then his mouth descended to hers.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN