Mad About the Earl

by Christina Brooke

  Despite her understanding, anger still rode close to the surface. She gave it free rein and sank her teeth into his lower lip.

  He groaned, a sound expressive of the deepest carnal pleasure that resonated down to her bones.

  Like the flip of a coin, her ambivalence switched to pure, raging desire. She licked the injured lip, then tangled her tongue with his, gave back everything he dealt her. He still held her hands captive, and the feeling of being trapped, subject to the will of this big, strong man seemed to heighten her need.

  The roughness of his jaw abraded her cheek as he trailed kisses away from her mouth and down her throat. Without warning, he bit her in the place where her neck met her shoulder. Spasms of the most exquisite mix of pleasure and pain scintillated down her body. She felt the place between her legs heat and moisten. Shamelessly, she rubbed herself against him.

  He fumbled with his breeches, then lifted her so that her back was flat against the wall and they were at eye level. In one shocking, deep thrust, he was inside her, sheathed to the hilt, staring with those fierce, storm-cloud eyes into hers.

  “Oh, God,” she moaned.

  He gripped her thighs and she wrapped her legs around him as he withdrew and surged up, into her, filling her, stretching her, stroking those intimate parts of her that he knew brought her the greatest pleasure.

  They’d made love many times, but this, this was urgent and lusty and violent and raw. Their mutual anger had ignited a passion that caught them both up in its flames.

  She sensed when the first flush of his ire faded. His lovemaking grew slower and more deliberate. He moved only the smallest amount, pulsing higher inside her, touching deep inside her, over and over again.

  Ah, this was torture of the best and worst kind.

  “Harder,” she whispered in his ear, and he gasped and shook his head.

  He didn’t want to hurt her, but she knew what she wanted and it was him, all him, going harder and higher inside her. Experimentally, she licked his earlobe, then scraped it with her teeth.

  He sucked in a breath and lost control, pounding up into her until she climaxed in a glorious conflagration of heat and light. She kissed him wantonly, communicating all her raw, elemental passion to him. In moments, his body arched and stiffened. With a primal cry of triumph and release, his body erupted into hers.

  * * *

  With an inward oath, Griffin relaxed his hold on Rosamund and slowly set her on her feet. While he adjusted his breeches, she slid down the wall a little way, watching him with glazed eyes, parted, bruised lips, and cheeks that were now flushed with neither guilt nor anger, but passion.

  What the Hell had he been thinking, flying into a rage over Lauderdale? He knew she’d parted from the captain without a backward glance. If she had private longings for the man, she could hardly help that, could she? The marriage of the Earl and Countess of Tregarth had not been a love match. He had no right to demand her heart as well as her fidelity. And if she didn’t act upon whatever feelings she might harbor for the captain, Griffin had no cause for complaint.

  And yet, such reasoning seemed more than a little specious. While his mind knew he had no cause for such rage, pure reason could not cure him of this insanity. His was a damnably possessive nature. He wanted her—needed her—to think only of him.

  All right, he was jealous! He admitted it. But that was his problem, not hers. He must keep telling himself that. Love had never been a part of their bargain. He couldn’t command her to wrench Lauderdale out of her heart.

  “I’m sorry,” he said gruffly. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  The hazy look vanished, and she glared at him. “If you dare apologize for taking me like that—”

  “Oh, no, not for that,” he said. “In fact, I fully intend to pick more fights with you so we can do that all over again.” His gaze warmed as he looked at her. “Or some variation of it.”

  Her color heightened even further. Those bluer-than-blue eyes burned with desire. And with curiosity.

  “You want to know what else I might do if roused to a temper?” he murmured. He tapped his chin with his finger, running his gaze over her in a leisurely fashion. “Hmm, let me think.”

  He paused as if to ponder the question, as if he hadn’t already imagined every conceivable permutation of lovemaking in his many fantasies about her.

  She licked her full, pink lips, and his mouth abruptly went dry. No, that was not a fantasy he would share with her. Not yet, anyway.

  “Well?” she breathed. She still hadn’t moved from where she stood, all but plastered against the wall.

  Grinning, he said, “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

  That made her brows twitch together and her lower lip stick out.

  His grin grew wider. “You look like a sulky angel who wasn’t allowed back in Heaven.”

  She laughed. “After what we just did, I shouldn’t be at all surprised.”

  He bent to pick up her locket and, without hesitation, held it out to her. She took it, but their rapprochement didn’t prompt her to show him what was inside it.

  “I’ll have the chain repaired,” he said gruffly.

  “That’s quite all right,” she said. “I’ll attend to it. I have quite a knack with jewelry.” The locket disappeared into the folds of her gown, where she must have had an inner pocket.

  “Griffin?” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “I told you the truth about Lauderdale, you know. I never loved him. I don’t love him now. I have not even thought of him since I saw him last.”

  Perhaps she believed the truth of that statement. It was too soon for him to tell what it meant that she believed it. Was it fact, or did she simply deny her feelings for Lauderdale because the truth did not fit with her design for a perfect marriage?

  Ah, but he was thinking too much. He ought to be happy that she was wholly committed to him and to their union, to building a family together. A sudden vision of a golden-haired little girl made him catch his breath with fear and awe.

  He touched Rosamund’s cheek and bent to kiss her lips. “I am sorry for my outburst. It will not happen again.”

  “You are forgiven,” she said, looking up into his eyes. “Yes, I would be very happy never to speak of Lauderdale anymore. As for the rest … I am not afraid of your temper, Griffin. In fact, I find it strangely … exciting.”

  Well, that was novel. He raised an eyebrow. “You do, do you?”

  She nodded. “My parents’ arguments culminated with the marchioness throwing things. My father would turn into a positive icicle, then leave, sometimes for weeks at a time. For myself,” she said, “I like a good, honest exchange.”

  The exchange had not been honest. Not entirely. But he let that pass. “Particularly if it culminates in such an interesting manner.”

  With a laugh, she peeled herself away from the wainscoting, and he helped her put her gown to rights. He gathered up several pins that had scattered over the floor in the course of their frenzy and handed them to her.

  She took them, crossed to the pier glass above the mantel, and began pinning up those shining tresses. Swiping some pins from where she’d dropped them on the mantel, he set to work, too. He hindered her more than helped her with this, he knew, but he liked to feel that silky mass slipping through his fingers.

  Rosamund shifted her gaze to his reflection behind her. “And what about Jacqueline?” she said. As if he might have changed his mind about it.

  His mouth hardened. “We leave for London immediately.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I know that you didn’t kill Allbright.

  Griffin crumpled the short note in his hand, staring out his window at the terraced gardens beyond. They’d been wild and overgrown for the past year because there was no gardener to tend them and Griffin could not spare the time from the estate.

  Now, an army of gardeners worked around the flower beds and the park, setting all to rights. Soon, the garden would be in
full bloom, bursting with color. If it was not entirely restored to its former beauty, it would be close enough.

  How had she done it?

  He shook his head. Better not to ask. That same efficiency and ruthless charm had brought servants inside the house, too. Slowly, the place began to look more like a home and less like a musty mausoleum.

  He’d rather be dead than admit he wanted them all there, even though he did. Best to remain oblivious and pretend he didn’t know she’d offered them double wages to return.

  Gingerly, he spread the short note open again and studied it.

  Had he seen that script somewhere before?

  Oh, he’d received quite a few anonymous letters of accusation when the business of Allbright became known, most of them only halfway literate. But these had grown rare as the people of his village found new gossip to interest them and new victims upon whom to vent their spleen.

  The persistent rumor of a witness to Allbright’s murder still hounded his thoughts. In his dreams, he saw himself dragged away in chains while Rosamund turned from him in disgust and shame.

  He’d roused to feel Rosamund’s delicate hands smoothing over his chest, touching his face. She’d murmured softly to him, the reassuring utterances a mother might give to a child tormented by nightmares.

  He’d gathered her into his arms and loved her with fervent urgency, desperately seeking the kind of comfort only her warm, giving body could provide.

  Afterwards, she had not asked him about the dreams. Perhaps she knew their subject very well from his mutters and moans.

  A jolt of fear gripped him. Had he given away too much in the unguarded state of slumber?

  But no. Not even Rosamund would remain understandingly silent if she knew the truth.

  Making love to her had kept the demons at bay for a time, but for once, sleep refused to overtake him. He lay there with her head on his shoulder, her arm draped over his chest, her slender legs tangled with his.

  In the predawn silence, he rhythmically stroked her hair and tried very hard not to think about losing this. Losing her.

  No one could prove he’d murdered Allbright. But then, his innocence hadn’t turned out to be quite the shield he’d thought it would be, had it? He didn’t trust the locals. Who was to say but that one of them might be malicious enough to perjure themselves and say they’d seen him kill Allbright?

  It would almost be a relief if that were the intent behind starting that rumor of a witness. He’d no doubt that a good defense counsel would tear such a false witness’s testimony to shreds, if the case ever got to court.

  The other alternative was far too dire to contemplate.

  Rosamund had drifted in and out of sleep while he fretted silently in the semidarkness. Now, she stirred awake with a deep sigh.

  “Griffin?” She raised herself and looked down at him, her golden hair a pale curtain across his arm.

  “Yes?”

  “You are still awake?” She smiled a little. “That is not like you.”

  He splayed his hand over her back. “I am … restless, I admit.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” The words, spoken in that husky, low voice that seemed to be natural to her in the bedchamber, made his body stir.

  “Let me see if I can relax you,” she said.

  He held his breath as she toyed with him idly, touching him with soft, gentle fingertips, kissing him lightly, caressing his flesh delicately with her tongue.

  Relax him? He groaned. More like tease him to an early grave.

  She must have interpreted his impatience correctly, for she moved then. Her naked breasts brushed his chest as she straddled him and bent to kiss his throat, while she kneaded the muscles of his shoulders and arms with her hands.

  He hissed in a breath. Impossible to feel his cock harden again so soon after the last time, but she excited him as no other woman ever had.

  He ran his palm down the sleek slope of her back and up.

  “No,” she said, capturing his wrists and pushing them down. She pinned his hands beside his head and bent to kiss him again.

  The kiss was open-mouthed, long and slow and lascivious. Her breasts pressed against him as she breathed the words over his mouth. “Lie back and enjoy.”

  A ragged groan was all he could manage in reply. There was enjoyment, and heat, and passion. There was also torment as this goddess-turned-mortal-woman kissed him and touched him, and all the while, her wet, tight sheath hovered there above his straining member, tantalizing him.

  The mere thought aroused him to such a pitch that the urge to plunge into her became unbearable.

  “Let me inside you,” he breathed. “Ah, God, I can’t take any more.”

  There was a pause. Then she sat up, straddling him with her hands braced on his rib cage. He felt her wetness rub against him and gasped out a plea.

  She adjusted her position and grasped his erection, then guided it into her moist warmth. She sank down, down until he was hard and deep inside her.

  He gripped her hips to steady her, but he let her set the rhythm this time. Rosamund was an adept student of the art of making love. She was inventive and sensual and surprisingly earthy sometimes, with that low, dirty laugh she gave that never failed to set his blood racing.

  Now, as she moved, he reached up to touch her breasts, rubbing her nipples with his thumbs. She gasped and he gave her breasts a gentle squeeze.

  “Harder,” she panted, moving faster now, grinding down on him, arching her back. She was glorious, unashamed, taking her own pleasure as she pleasured him. He’d never seen anything more magnificent in his life.

  “Show me how hard you want it.” He found her hands and pressed them over those full, luscious globes.

  She was too deep in the throes of passion to demur at his request. He didn’t know if she would have, anyway. She continually surprised him with the lengths she would go to please both him and herself.

  The sight of her playing with her own breasts made him even harder, if that was possible. He gripped her hips and drove up into her again and again, making her give an agonized moan of pleasure.

  Suddenly, her hips jerked and her body shuddered and spasmed beneath his hands. He gritted his teeth and held on until he could bear it no longer. He arched and thrust and thrust again, deep into her, touching every part of her he could.

  And in that transcendent moment before climax, he knew with a clarity that was beyond mere thought: He would die before he lost this woman.

  * * *

  The pliers pinched Rosamund’s thumb viciously for the third time. “Confound it!” She snatched back her hand and stuck her throbbing thumb in her mouth.

  “Oh, not confound it, Rosamund dear.” Jacqueline, who had entered the sitting room in time to hear Rosamund make that unladylike exclamation, arched one black brow.

  “Damn and blast, then,” said Rosamund around her throbbing thumb. She gave the pad of her thumb a last, soothing suck and removed it to inspect the damage. No blood, but it was puckered and turning a light purplish color.

  “How shocking you are!” said Jacqueline with a grin. She moved to peer over Rosamund’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”

  “Fixing my locket,” said Rosamund. “But I don’t have my usual tools with me. Diccon found some pliers and they are almost the right size, but not quite, so bending the links back in shape has been a tricky business. This link really needs to be soldered, I suppose, but for the moment…”

  She bent over her work again. “I think … I have it. Yes!” She sat back, beaming with satisfaction.

  Then she looked up at her companion. “Are you prepared for the journey tomorrow?”

  Despite Griffin’s urgency, it had taken more than a week to make all ready for their departure. Rosamund had promoted Diccon to butler as a reward for risking his position and quite possibly his hide as well on more than one occasion on her or Cecily’s behalf.

  She had also hired a housekeeper, a most excellent woman. Mrs. Fai
thful was the former vicar’s widow, who wished to run a household and be paid for it, rather than doing the same for her more affluent relatives in exchange for bed, board, and daily condescension.

  Rosamund liked her on sight and hired her instantly. With the redoubtable Diccon and Mrs. Faithful in charge, she felt she could return to London confident that all would be well at Pendon Place in their absence.

  She was not so confident of Jacqueline’s state of mind. The girl had a way of covering her emotions with laughter and funning. As Rosamund came to know her better, however, she grew more and more convinced that the girl hid great pain beneath her jolly mien.

  Was she in love with Anthony Maddox, after all?

  Now, in answer to Rosamund’s inquiry, Jacqueline said, “Oh, I expect so, yes. I mean, there’s no use complaining, is there? And it’s so boring to sulk for extended periods, don’t you find?” She sighed gustily. “I suppose I shall simply have to participate in this farce.”

  “A splendid attitude!” Rosamund picked up the locket and chain and held them out to Jacqueline. “Help me with this, will you, my dear?”

  She sat still while Jacqueline clasped the cool metal around her neck. The locket dropped to nestle happily in her décolletage, where it belonged. “Thank you.”

  Jacqueline sighed again and took a restless turn about the room. She was like a caged animal when the squalling rain made it impossible even for an intrepid horsewoman such as she to venture out. She didn’t seem able to amuse herself for very long indoors.

  “Why don’t you sit with me awhile?” suggested Rosamund, picking up her embroidery. “We haven’t even begun planning for your stay in London. There must be many things you would enjoy seeing. London is full of diversion and interest, not just parties and balls.”

  “I should like to visit the Tower of London,” Jacqueline conceded, sitting down on the window seat and staring out at the rain.

  “There is Astley’s Amphitheatre, too,” said Rosamund, casting about for things that might entertain her sister-in-law. “I haven’t been there since I was a child, but the horsemanship of the equestrians is held to be something spectacular, indeed.”