Mad About the Earl

by Christina Brooke

  When the vicar grinned broadly and urged him to kiss his bride, Griffin didn’t hesitate. But it was a swift, chaste kiss, cognizant of their situation. His lips rested on hers, warmed them for a fleeting instant, and were gone. In that moment when their lips pressed together, Rosamund felt as if her love rushed upward to greet him. How foolishly sentimental!

  She gazed up into his face. For the first time since she’d known him, Griffin seemed happy.

  The smile she offered him in return was a forced one. She wished she could recapture her own joy in wedding him. That had been overtaken by a sense of utter despair.

  What was the point of that? she chastised herself. Why realize now how greatly she endangered her own peace with this union? All she’d wanted was to create a stable, contented family to make up for the one she’d never had.

  Yet how could she bear to live with him in a cold marriage of convenience? How could she have been so stupid not to realize before?

  Of course, he’d shown her quite unequivocally that it would not be a cold marriage. But wouldn’t such hot passion make it worse when she knew that despite it, he didn’t love her? She’d seen too many men leave her mother without a backward glance to believe that passion was the same as love. Her mind knew that, even if her heart had a difficult time acknowledging it.

  She raised her hand to finger her locket. In the past, the gesture had been a comfort, the locket a kind of talisman. Now it was a grim reminder of the enduring hopelessness of her love.

  In no time, Rosamund had kissed Tibby, handed her pretty bouquet to Jacqueline, received the others’ congratulations and good wishes, and driven off in Griffin’s rattling old landau.

  Griffin sat opposite her, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “That’s a very fetching bonnet you’re wearing, my dear,” he said. “Take it off and come here.”

  Her eyes widened. “What, you mean here?”

  “There is no harm in taking off your bonnet, is there?” inquired Griffin innocently. “Is it a crime to wish to look upon my wife’s face without obstruction?”

  “You know very well what I mean,” said Rosamund with a laugh in her voice. But she tugged on the ribbon of her bonnet and lifted the confection from her head. Laying it aside, she rose to cross the carriage.

  As she did so, his boot hooked behind her ankle, toppling her off balance so that she all but sprawled over him. He caught her, and silenced her cry of surprise with the ravenous drag of his mouth over hers. He held her and kissed her until the impropriety of her situation faded from her mind.

  His hand found the backs of her thighs, and he lifted her to sit sideways across his lap while he continued to kiss his way down her neck.

  The decadence of such behavior made her hot and feverish and ashamed at once, but she didn’t want him to stop.

  Forceful and demanding as he was, the tenderness inside her grew. She put up her hand to caress his thick black hair. Shorter now than when she’d done this last. She was surprised to find she missed the luxuriant length, the bushy texture of it.

  Had it been only last night that she’d given herself to him? She seemed to have existed another lifetime since then.

  The carriage halted, bringing Rosamund to her senses. She sat up, scrambling to her own seat and diving for her bonnet, which had fallen to the floor during their frenzy.

  The footman seemed a little slow in opening the door. She’d just retied her bonnet ribbons when Diccon appeared and let down the steps.

  He shook his head. “Sorry, my lady. I shouted at the coachman to take you around to the front door, but he’s deaf and, I fear, bent on having his own way.”

  Rosamund emerged from the dimness of the carriage to find they stood in the midst of the stable yard, where she’d first met Griffin those years ago.

  She laughed. “No, no, Diccon. It is quite all right. Perfect, in fact.”

  Still smiling, she turned to Griffin as he emerged from the carriage. “The scene of our infamous first meeting, my lord. How rude you were.”

  He glanced down at her. “Pot calling the kettle black, my dear. You ordered me about like a groom, if I recall.”

  She sniffed. “That was to teach you a lesson. Anyway, you certainly looked like a groom.” She felt a distinct pang when she glanced at his smooth elegance—perhaps a touch more disheveled now, after their tussle in the carriage.

  “Do you want to see what I was doing that day?” he asked.

  Curious, she nodded.

  He jerked his head. “Come on.”

  He led her to an open pasture, where a gleaming black mare grazed.

  “Oh, she’s a beauty,” said Rosamund. “What’s her name?”

  She glanced at Griffin. He was looking not at the horse, but at her. Then he seemed to snap out of his abstraction.

  With a slight quiver to his voice, he said, “Her name is Black Rosie.”

  Surprise made her start and blurt out a laugh. “You named her for me?”

  He nodded, his eyes dancing. “You and those black looks you gave me.”

  “Black looks? Did I really?” She blinked. “That was out of character.”

  “I liked it,” said Griffin. “There aren’t too many women who would stand up to me.”

  He leaned his elbows on the fence and clasped his hands together. “The filly was born a day or so before you came, but the mother died. I’d been struggling to get another mare to suckle her when my grandfather sent word of your arrival.” He shrugged. “I couldn’t leave her.”

  “Of course you couldn’t.” Rosamund shook her head in disbelief at her own behavior that day. “You must have thought me spoiled and juvenile.”

  He laughed, then shook his head. He turned to her, and the laughter lit his eyes as she’d never witnessed before. “I thought you … enchanting. Magical. Like a fairy-tale princess, far above the likes of me.”

  He drew closer, his gaze intent on her lips. Rosamund lifted her face to his.

  Her soul shuddered as their lips met. They’d kissed many times, but those kisses had never been like this. So tentative, so sweet, so utterly new.

  Gently drawing out her response, he cradled her face in his hands as if he held a precious gift. Their lips clung and brushed and sipped in a kiss that was almost innocent in its chaste restraint, filled with emotion and promise.

  The tenderness of it nearly broke her heart.

  Griffin raised his head and looked into her eyes. She saw pain reflected in his gaze. How could that be?

  “Rosamund, I—” He started to speak when the mare, who had crept up on them unnoticed, gave him a forceful butt in the shoulder. “Hey, there!” He turned to rub his hand over the white blaze on the mare’s nose. “Not so rough, sweetheart.”

  “She is jealous!” Rosamund laughed.

  Stripping off her gloves, Rosamund joined him in fussing over the handsome steed. After a few minutes, gathering that no lump of sugar or apple was to be had, the mare loped off to lip at grass, her long tail swishing.

  Griffin glanced up at the sky. “So. We are married.”

  “Yes,” she said, with a shaky laugh. “Yes, we are.”

  “What would you like to do now?” He gestured around him. “I could give you a tour of the grounds.”

  She tilted her head and gazed at him from beneath her lashes. “Perhaps tomorrow. That would be pleasant.”

  “I could ask Peggy to show you the house,” he said.

  She’d seen quite enough of the house to know she was in no mood for that depressing excursion. “Thank you, but I am sure that can wait.”

  “Hmm,” he said, tapping his chin. “We could go for a ride down to the sea.”

  At any other time, she would have jumped at that prospect. Now, she murmured, “I thought you said there weren’t any horses fit for me to ride here.”

  “I only said that to be disagreeable,” said Griffin.

  “Aha, so you admit you were rude that day.” She grinned up at him. “We make progress!”
/>   He reached for her. “Listen, wife, if I have any more of your lip, I’ll…”

  Rosamund blinked up at him innocently. “You’ll what?”

  He exhaled an unsteady breath and brought his mouth within inches of hers.

  Then he stopped and grabbed her hand. “Come on.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The horse barn was sweet with the scent of clean hay. At the moment it stood empty, and Rosamund wondered why Griffin had brought her here.

  She wasn’t left in doubt for long.

  He pushed her back into a bed of straw and swiftly followed to kneel down, straddling her legs.

  Her heart raced and her breath came in rapid pants as he loomed over her. His eyes had lost their lurking humor as his gaze fixed on her mouth. Now his face was set with intent. He planted his hands on either side of her head and bent to kiss her.

  He made her mindless with that kiss. She smoothed her hands over the fine broadcloth that encased his shoulders. Despite the thickness of his clothing, she felt his muscles shift beneath.

  Stroking her tongue with his, he gathered up the muslin of her gown, shift, and petticoats until her legs were exposed to the air.

  She had on stockings, of course, and she gasped as his finger traced the bare flesh above the garter that anchored them. He looked down as he fondled her, and the hunger on his face made her flush all over.

  He spread her legs and changed his position to kneel between them, then set his fingers to her soft, sensitive flesh. He made her wild with his touch until she whimpered and begged. When it came, her release was swift and strong.

  He moved up, over her once more. Resting on his elbow, he looked down into her face. “If you need me to stop, say so,” he said. “You are probably still tender from last night.”

  She shook her head. She’d bear that pain gladly to return the bliss that he’d given her. But in the event, there was no pain. Only the odd and wonderful sensation of the inner walls of her body shifting to accept him, gripping the hard length of him as he eased deeper and deeper. With a guttural groan, he thrust all the way inside her.

  He stopped, and she opened her eyes to see that his face bore marks of strain. Did it hurt him to hold himself in check?

  “I am all right,” she breathed. “It is lovely. There’s no need to stop.”

  With his eyes squeezed shut, he stroked slowly, oh so slowly, in and out of her body.

  Rosamund tried to move with him, but he held her in place, exactly where he wanted her, taking her as he wished, and it was strangely freeing to simply lie there and feel.

  She’d expected more of that tearing pain in the place where they joined, but other than a slight burn when he’d first entered her, there was none.

  She hadn’t expected the sensations that now built in her body. They were distant yet, like an echo of the pleasure he’d already orchestrated within her. An echo that built and built, stronger and louder as he moved inside her.

  Griffin slid his hand beneath her thigh, lifting it so that it hugged his waist. His buttocks flexed beneath her heel as he drove into her, and the change in angle took him deeper, striking a triumphal chord of bliss that resonated throughout her body.

  Desperation made her whimper. She didn’t know what she wanted or what to expect, but this steady, smooth slide of his body into hers drove her mad with longing for something.

  “Rosamund,” gasped Griffin. He demanded something of her, but she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do.

  And then he pushed her leg even higher, pistoning into her with deep, hard thrusts, hitting something on the way that took her pleasure up another notch. Her body went taut as a violin string; her heart seemed to split open with sweetness. She convulsed around him. Ripples and shudders dragged her through wave after wave of bliss.

  He remained hard inside her while the crescendo eventually died to a gentle harmony of aching tenderness and subtle sensation.

  Her eyes fluttered open to see that his grim, almost pained expression had become fierce with triumph. She was so limp with satisfaction, she couldn’t speak. But something in that smug look made her decide that next time she would not lie so passive in his arms.

  For now, she would simply enjoy.

  Griffin’s release came with great, heaving shudders that racked his body and left him gasping for air. He rolled off her, his big chest heaving. Rosamund lay there in the midst of the soft, sweet-smelling hay, smiling and replete, as boneless as if she herself were made of straw.

  After a moment, she saw that Griffin watched her with a hint of expectation in his eyes. She wondered if she was supposed to tell him what a wonderful lover he was. That felt awkward and forced. Besides, his smug expression told her he didn’t need any reassurance on that point.

  Instead, she said, “You are vastly pleased with yourself.”

  He tilted his head as he thought about it. “Yes,” he said. “I do believe I am.”

  She laughed. “I am very pleased with you, too.”

  His expression was so open and unguarded that her heart turned over with longing. She leaned over to kiss him.

  Then he said, “We’d best go into the house.” He grinned and reached over to pluck a piece of straw from her hair. “With any luck, we’ll make it to a bed next time.”

  * * *

  In the following weeks, their nights were filled with sensual exploration, but Rosamund rarely saw Griffin throughout the day. He had much in the way of business to attend to around the estate.

  Rosamund occupied herself with setting the house to rights, a gargantuan task, far too great for three women to tackle. She’d discovered that while the estate workers largely remained, Griffin had dismissed half the household staff after his grandfather died. The other half had left of their own accord over the business of Mr. Allbright. They might serve him in the stables or on the land, but no one wanted to sleep in the same house with such a monster as Griffin deVere.

  “What nonsense!” she said to Jacqueline as they walked in the village. “I cannot abide such narrow-minded prejudice.”

  “Best keep your voice down, Rosie,” murmured Jacqueline. “There goes Mrs. Simpkins. She’s a neighbor of our friend Mr. Maddox, and the biggest gossip in the county.”

  “Really?” Rosamund’s interest sparked. “My dear, come with me. I have an idea.”

  She took Jacqueline’s arm, and they followed Mrs. Simpkins into the haberdasher’s shop. This excellent establishment sold all manner of materials, buttons, ribbons, and threads. Rosamund had already patronized the shop on numerous occasions, and she smiled and nodded to Mrs. Thorne as she walked in.

  Aware that the two other occupants of the shop were well within earshot, Rosamund spoke in a clear, carrying voice. “Yes, my dear Jacqueline, I’m afraid it will simply have to be London servants. A vast pity, but there is no help for it. Apart from a couple of daily maids I lured from the inn, there is no staff to be had in these parts.”

  Fortunately the girl took the lead quickly. “Very true, dear sister,” said Jacqueline. “I think you must be right.”

  “I shall have to pay them double wages for coming so far, of course,” said Rosamund. She made a little moue. “I detest the idea of London servants in the country. They are never content, and the locals do not like it.”

  “All of those handsome footmen making off with their pretty daughters, I expect,” said Jacqueline, adding her mite.

  “Oh, yes! And their odious way of looking down their noses at good, plain country folk,” agreed Rosamund. She sighed. “I daresay I’d be prepared to pay double wages just to have some competent, honest local staff. But there’s nothing for it; I must employ a London agency, no matter how distasteful I might find it. Pendon Place will not run itself.”

  With delight, Rosamund heard various gasps and mutters between the haberdasher and the county’s greatest gossip. With any luck, she’d have a fully staffed house by the end of the week.

  Rosamund picked up a length of raspberry-c
olored ribbon and held it flat on her palm. “Isn’t this pretty? Too dark for me, perhaps, but not out of the question for you.” She held the ribbon against Jacqueline’s skin. “Hmm. It would look better if your skin were fair.” She picked up a pale blue one. That brought out her sister-in-law’s eyes and complemented her skin tone better.

  “I don’t see that it matters which color I choose,” said Jacqueline, always impatient with what she termed frippery and folderol.

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you say that,” said Rosamund calmly. “It would be far better for you, my dear Jacqueline, to stop fretting and fuming and apply yourself to the business. So many things become more enjoyable when you expend some effort on them.”

  Jacqueline slumped her shoulders, and her voice took on a tone that was a cross between self-deprecating laughter and a pained whine. “But I loathe dancing, Rosie dearest! You have no idea how much I detest it. I am all left feet—like a drunk giraffe, Griffin says. Poor Dearlove tries and tries to teach me, but it’s no use. He tore his hair out the other day. Literally! I shall be solely responsible for turning the poor man bald.”

  “That won’t do at all,” said Rosamund. “What a pity my cousin Lydgate isn’t here. He is an excellent dancer and a patient teacher, too.”

  She’d written to her family with her news, provoking a flurry of letters in return, filled with underlinings and exclamation points in Cecily’s case and with restrained applause from the Duke of Montford.

  Xavier, however, did not write at all.

  She had asked them not to visit her until she set the house to rights. She, Jacqueline, and Griffin would no doubt return to London while the major work was carried out.

  It could not be soon enough for her. She sighed. Surely Griffin must finish his estate business soon. Jacqueline was as ready for her debut as she was likely to be if she were not to miss the season altogether. Rosamund was eager to see her family again and share her happiness with them. Concern about Xavier’s silence needled at the back of her mind, but she tried her best to ignore it. Most of the time, she succeeded.

  Despite Jacqueline’s restive demeanor, Rosamund took her time choosing all manner of laces, silks, ribbons, and floss. She couldn’t imagine what she’d do with them all, as they were vastly inferior in quality to London wares, but that was beside the point.