Mad About the Earl

by Christina Brooke

  To Rosamund’s shock, his lips were gentle. They brushed against her mouth, caressing, teasing.

  Once. Twice. She lost count of the times as their breaths mingled and their lips clung and molded and moved in opposition yet completely in concert. And she was falling, losing her grip on fear, abandoning herself to the darkness.

  Tentative, but eager, she opened her mouth to the insistent press of his tongue. With a rumble of approval in his throat, he slid his arm around her waist, drawing her up against his big body. Her feet left the floor and she felt weightless, helpless, as he swung her into his arms.

  He walked to the wide banquette and sat down with her draped over his lap. His strength surrounded her, and the renewed force of his kisses set her senses on fire.

  Rosamund stroked her hands along his massive shoulders, exploring their contours, the great muscled expanse of his chest.

  She needed to get closer still. She wanted more. Reaching up, she ran her fingers through his crisp dark hair and urged his mouth harder against hers.

  That seemed to snap the last tether of his restraint. With a groan, he caught her against him and plundered her, slanting his mouth over hers, delving into her with firm, suggestive strokes. She met him with all the passion and desperation he’d aroused in her.

  As if spurred on by her response, he nipped her bottom lip and she shuddered at the welcome violence of it. How could she have known that sharp instant of pain would feel so sinfully pleasurable?

  His mouth slid down to her neck, sending new thrills of sensation through her. She gasped and squirmed against him, gasped again when he grazed his teeth against the tender skin at her throat.

  With a low hum of satisfaction, he raised his head and watched as he stroked a fingertip along her clavicle, then dipped beneath the gathered neckline of the gown. Ignoring her shocked denial, he slid the material away to bare her shoulder and the top of one breast.

  His fingers delved lower. She gave a halfhearted whimper of protest, but he silenced it with his kiss and boldly tugged her bodice down. The cool night air tingled deliciously at her exposed nipple. The sensation was so illicit and thrilling, she could not bring herself to care about modesty anymore.

  When he bit down on a sensitive tendon in her shoulder, she cried out and arched and melted against him; any vague notion that she should resist went up in flames.

  His deep voice was hot in her ear. “I need to see the rest of you. Show me.”

  Moved by some wanton compulsion she didn’t understand, she put a hand up to the side of her bodice that still covered her. With shaking fingers, she slid the capped sleeve from her shoulder, then hesitated.

  “More.”

  Wicked with need, Rosamund slid her thumb between the layer of her chemise and her skin and slowly, slowly drew the material down. She reveled in the rasp of his breathing as she bared herself, inch by inch. The gathers of her bodice cinched the gown around her torso while the top hung down, leaving her breasts bare.

  “Beautiful,” he whispered. “Now stand up.”

  His awed approval made her bold. She did as he asked, though her knees shook. Her heart gave a sharp pound when she understood the reason for his demand. His head was now level with her naked breasts. From this position, he could look his fill.

  The thought did not seem abhorrent or embarrassing as it might have before all this began. She was flooded with excitement. The vague, nagging sense that she might regret this loss of control later drowned in a king tide of passion.

  Griffin settled back against the cushions, his eyes glittering. His gravel-rough voice abraded her nerves. “Cup your hands beneath them,” he ordered. “Lift them up.”

  One part of her mind couldn’t believe she was doing this, but all sense of shame and restraint had fled. She was a sensual, desirable creature, and Griffin would be her husband soon. He ordered and she must obey. She took the weight of her breasts in her hands and presented them to him.

  Hunger ignited his eyes to a blaze. She didn’t need to hear his hoarse murmur of approval to know that he was as aroused as she.

  Leaning forward, he bent his head to one hard, puckered nipple and feasted. She threw her head back and swayed into him, relishing the rapturous torture. He set his hands to her waist to steady her against the workings of his mouth and lips and tongue, trapping her in an upward spiral of bliss.

  His hand lifted her skirts. His quick fingers grazed her thigh, then touched her in the place between her legs in delicious, sinful ways.

  The shuddering sensations took her unawares. With a broken cry, she let her mind spin away as she surrendered to pleasure.

  Wave after wave of rapture pounded through her until she felt wrung out with it. When she could stand it no longer, she drove her fingers through his hair and lifted his head so that he had to look up at her.

  Tenderness welled inside her. “Griffin,” she said. “Oh, Griffin, I—”

  But there were no words, or at least she could not find them just then.

  Instead, she bent to kiss him on the mouth.

  * * *

  The innocence of that kiss after the depravity he’d inflicted on her person threw Griffin off balance. His scattered wits slowly picked up and dusted themselves off and returned to assume their duties in his brain.

  What had he been thinking?

  The truth: After drawing her into the intimate ambience of the summerhouse, he had not been thinking at all. He’d challenged her, he’d aroused, worshipped, loved her … in a purely carnal way, of course.

  This kiss was no prelude to ravishment but an end in itself, a burst of pure sweetness, like the heavenly rush of flavor from a ripe, warm strawberry that exploded on the tongue. That kiss aimed to seduce his heart even as he seduced her body.

  He didn’t mean to let it.

  Her hands left his face to smooth over his shoulders; then her fingertips stroked into the deep V of his open shirt. He shuddered, fighting the urge to take her in all the ways he’d dreamed about. Her touch threatened to unman him, as if he were a callow youth fumbling in the dark with his first love. And wouldn’t that just be the crowning glory of the night?

  He broke the kiss and captured Rosamund’s questing hands. With an inner groan at his own restraint, he rose to his feet.

  She gave an instinctive, protesting cry.

  Then she opened her eyes and saw his face. “Why, what is it?” she breathed.

  He stole one final look at the delicious, rose-tipped delights before him, then regretfully drew her chemise and bodice up to cover them.

  “I’m taking advantage of your innocence,” he said, sounding, he knew, like the hero in a bad novel. “More of this, and you will no longer have a choice whether to wed me or no.”

  There was a pause while she digested his words. He saw reality return to her sky blue eyes as if a chill wind blew the mist away.

  “Don’t you know I’ve made my choice?” she said quietly. “I would not be here otherwise.”

  He thought she based important decisions on remarkably little. But it was not for him to do her thinking for her.

  A smart man would follow up his advantage. He ought to secure her agreement to wed him straightaway. He had the special license already, thanks to deVere’s interference. They could be man and wife in mere hours if he could find a willing parson.

  He ought to take up where they’d left off, enjoy her body to the full. And in the morning, when the bitter taste of regret still lay on her tongue, he could present the matter to her as a fait accompli.

  Then he wouldn’t have to go through this damnable charade squiring Rosamund to parties and whatnot. He wouldn’t have to suffer the constant disapproval of her family. DeVere would be obliged to keep his side of the bargain and refuse to marry Jacks off until she’d had her season and made her own choice.

  And finally, Griffin could have Rosamund as his bride.

  All this whirled through his mind in the matter of one moment. It took him only one moment more to
reject that reasoning as self-serving tripe.

  With a beleaguered sigh, he said, “My lady, you deserve better than a quick tumble in such a place. I know that, even if you don’t seem to. We’ll wait.”

  Rosamund’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “So you’ve made the decision and I have to abide by it, is that it? Don’t I get a say?”

  “No,” he said. “You don’t.”

  “But I don’t want to wait,” she said simply. “I want to keep doing what we were doing. I may be an innocent, but I know there’s more.”

  Christ Almighty! He jabbed a finger at her. “You are the female. It’s your job to stop me, not push me to go on.” Why should he be the one who held them both to standards of decency?

  She laughed, a low, dirty, derisive sound that made his skin prickle and heat. “Why, Griffin, I’d no idea you were such a prude.”

  If she didn’t stop this right now, he really would deflower her in her guardian’s summerhouse, and then there’d be Hell to pay. “You are clearly befuddled and incapable of making rational judgments. Therefore, I’ll make them for you. Let’s go.”

  With a faint, knowing smile, she moved toward him with a sultry sway to her walk he’d never seen before. “Are you afraid I’ll seduce you?” She trailed a fingertip over his lips. “But how on earth would I go about that?”

  I’m sure you can think of something, screamed his eager male parts.

  The struggle to beat down the demands of his lusty body cost him dearly, but there was too much at stake for him to mess this up now.

  He grabbed Rosamund’s wrist to stop her teasing explorations, then pulled her toward the door.

  “Back to the house,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  “Rosamund, a word.”

  Her brother’s voice flashed out from the shadows, steely and sharp as a rapier’s blade. He startled her so much, she gave a cry of alarm.

  She’d parted from Griffin before they reached the house. Thank Heaven he wasn’t with her still, or there’d be trouble.

  Rosamund pressed a hand to her chest as if to calm her pounding heart. “Xavier! You gave me a fright.”

  She peered through the gloom, but she couldn’t make out her brother’s expression.

  How much did he guess? She loathed lying, but to keep the peace between her brother and her betrothed, she wouldn’t hesitate. If Xavier discovered how close Griffin had come to anticipating his wedding night, he would make matters exceedingly unpleasant.

  She didn’t believe Cecily when she insisted Xavier could kill a man with his bare hands. Yet, Xavier had always been a law unto himself. Griffin might be a big man, but Xavier was ruthlessness personified. He was also insanely protective of her.

  Whoever might win the encounter, no good could come of a clash between the two men.

  “Come,” Xavier said, turning his back on her and striding down the corridor.

  Rosamund took a deep breath and followed her brother into the library. He gestured her to sit while he took the chair behind the mahogany desk. Only Xavier would ever dare to sit in Montford’s place.

  With an arrogant jerk of his head that sent the inky waves of his hair falling over his brow, he said, “Enlighten me.”

  She gazed back at him, her face impassive. “I don’t know what you think there is to explain.”

  How much did he know, and how much was supposition? Had he actually seen them?

  No, she thought that if he’d seen her and Griffin together, they would not be having this conversation.

  He watched her with those blue eyes that were so very like her own, yet infinitely more jaded and cynical. “I confess, I am at a loss to even guess what game you think you’re playing,” he said. “The only solution that presents itself is one I cannot countenance.”

  “Will you please stop talking in riddles?” she said evenly. “Of what do I stand accused?” She made as if to rise. “Forgive me, Xavier, but I am tired and wish to go to bed.”

  “Sit down.” He smiled unpleasantly. “Since you choose not to understand me, I’ll make my meaning plain. Did you meet your lover in the garden tonight?”

  “What?” She sank back into her chair. “No, of course I did not meet any lover.” Technically, that was true. “I don’t know why you should think it.”

  “What am I to think when my sister lets herself into the house alone at this hour of the night?”

  Holding hard to her composure, she arched a brow. “You jump to prurient conclusions, my dear. It’s not what it seems.”

  His features tautened to a harsh mask. “Damn you, Rosamund, it is exactly what it seems! Look at you! Your hair is down, you are flushed, your gown is in total disarray.”

  “I went for a walk in the garden,” she said. “I am flushed from the exercise, and my hair is down and my gown is all anyhow because I had to dress myself.”

  “Good try, my dear, but it won’t wash.” With an impatient gesture, he said, “Do you think I don’t know what a woman looks like when she’s been thoroughly pleasured?”

  She hit back. “I daresay you’ve seen quite a few in your time.”

  The look he threw her could have melted steel. “It’s not the same for men, and you know it. If you won’t acknowledge that, then you’ve abandoned your wits as well as your body.”

  Her voice shook. “You are insulting.”

  “If you wanted him, Rosamund, why didn’t you say so? My God, you begged me not to interfere.” His voice rasped. “Rosie, I could have gotten him for you. I could have made everything right.”

  Bewildered, she stammered, “But I—”

  He dashed a hand through his hair. “Damn Montford and his bloody relentless matchmaking!” He jabbed his finger at her. “But you’ve been a willing accomplice in your own downfall, have you not, dear sister? And now you are doomed to a loveless marriage to that brute while you sneak around in gardens at night. Congratulations. You’ve managed the business to a nicety.”

  The truth fell on her like an anvil. He thought she’d met Lauderdale in the summerhouse.

  She felt the blood drain from her face. “Xavier, no! It’s not what you think. I was not with Captain Lauderdale, I swear it.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” he snarled. “If you insist on wedding Tregarth, the least you can do is wait until you give him an heir before you cuckold him.”

  She wanted to burst into tears so badly, her head throbbed with it. That he could think her so base!

  Why did they all believe that because she had a pretty face, she must have a shallow heart? Why did they all assume someone like her could not possibly prefer Griffin to a flashy peacock like Lauderdale?

  Fury at the slur Xavier cast on her character made her stiffen her spine. She’d have pleaded her case had he accused her of endangering her reputation by meeting Griffin before they were wed. She’d been prepared to defend Griffin on that score, too.

  But her brother had no authority over her and no right to berate her like this. She refused to apologize for anything when she’d been so grossly misjudged.

  “You are wrong, Xavier. Even if such behavior weren’t abhorrent to me, don’t you think our upbringing would have served as a grim warning?” With quiet vehemence, she said, “I am not like our mother. Not in any conceivable way.”

  Something flared in his eyes—shock, perhaps, and a dawning realization. Anger still simmered beneath the surface, but she suspected it was no longer directed at her.

  He released a long breath and sat back in his chair.

  After a tense silence, he said, “My apologies. If you say that you are innocent, I must take you at your word.” He paused, watching her. “Of course you are not like her. Rosamund, you are quite the best person I know.”

  Which was why the conviction she’d become a sneaking, faithless baggage had affected him so powerfully, shaken him to the core of his cynical, arrogant soul.

  She and Xavier both knew it was only by lucky chance—or perhaps by their cle
ver mama’s judicious management—that they both happened to be legitimate. Thankfully, each of them resembled the late marquis in ways too marked to be denied.

  Her own anger calmed enough to respond with forced lightness. “The best person you know? Your compliment would go to my head if it weren’t for the company you keep.”

  His rare smile lifted the corners of his mouth. But he wouldn’t allow her to distract him for long. After a moment, he tilted his head and pinned her with that keen, penetrating gaze. “What have you been doing, I wonder?”

  “None of your business, dear brother.”

  His lips twisted. “I suppose I deserved that.”

  “Yes,” she said. “You did.”

  “I could inform Montford of your doings tonight,” he said, lowering his gaze to regard his long, elegant fingers as they toyed with the gold signet ring he wore on the third finger of his right hand.

  “But you won’t,” she said gently. He sighed in silent acknowledgment that she was right. They’d always put loyalty to each other above their duty to anyone else. They’d had to stand together to survive.

  Rosamund smiled sweetly and stood. “Now, dear brother, if the inquisition is over, I am for bed.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Rosamund woke late from a restless slumber with exhilaration flooding her chest and lifting her heart. Her body felt tender and sated, yet there was a yearning deep inside her that she didn’t fully understand.

  After a few moments of sleepy confusion, her mind caught up with her body.

  Griffin. The summerhouse. Last night.

  She rolled over and drew a pillow to her chest, hugging it tightly as her mind replayed the evening, dwelling on the most delicious parts.

  Echoes of sensation swept through her, pleasurable but also tantalizing in their shadowy vagueness. She could not wait to relive the experience in the flesh.

  Now she finally understood what all the fuss was about! Well, some of it, anyway. The challenge was to persuade Griffin to show her the rest.

  She was cheerfully confident she would succeed at that. They’d have to be more discreet than they’d been last night, of course, but—