Mad About the Earl

by Christina Brooke

  “He’s mine,” Griffin warned.

  “Be my guest,” murmured Lydgate. Let’s see how you do, were Lydgate’s unspoken words.

  Then they turned their attention to the top of the staircase, where Lauderdale appeared.

  To his meager credit, the captain didn’t take to his heels or try to talk his way out of trouble. He squared up to Griffin, his head held at an arrogant tilt. Oh, good. He would take his punishment like a man.

  Lauderdale raised his brows, looking haughty beneath that flopping fringe of golden hair. “Are you going to challenge me to a duel, my lord? How—”

  He didn’t get any farther. Griffin’s fist stopped his mouth.

  “No,” said Griffin, advancing as Lauderdale crashed into the wall. “Dueling is for gentlemen. And you, my dear sir, are not one of those.”

  Lauderdale regained his footing and bore in, but Griffin was ready for him. Griffin drove a punch to the kidneys, then slammed his fist into Lauderdale’s stomach and followed it lightning-fast with an uppercut that all but lifted the captain off his feet.

  The man was tough, Griffin would say that for him. Lauderdale raised himself from the floor and slowly got to his feet. Staggering like a drunk, he squared up again.

  “Finish it.” Lydgate’s clipped voice cut through the deadly atmosphere. “Finish it now, Tregarth, or I’ll finish it for you.”

  Griffin shook his head like a dog. Fury pounded in his blood, roared in his ears. He’d finish it, all right. He’d be satisfied with nothing less than total annihilation. He was going to kill Lauderdale for the pain he’d forced on Rosamund.

  He dealt Lauderdale a sickening punch on the temple that sent him reeling back. Baring his teeth, Griffin started after the captain. He wanted to pound that pretty face into a bloody bag of bones.

  But somehow, Lydgate got mixed up in the fight. Or at least, his foot did. Lauderdale tripped over it, lost his footing completely, and tumbled back down the stairs.

  Baulked of his prey, Griffin could only watch, bemused, as his enemy dropped from view.

  There was a shocked gasp from below, and a calm speech from Lydgate, who had followed Lauderdale down in a more leisurely fashion. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Deepest regrets. Man ought to be able to hold his liquor, eh? Call the captain a carriage, will you, my good man? Tsk-tsk, ladies present, too.”

  Griffin ducked back out of sight of the guests downstairs. His fists were still clenched and his chest heaved. Curse Lydgate’s interference! He’d fully intended to rid them of Lauderdale once and for all.

  But as his bloodlust faded, he began to feel grateful. Lydgate’s coolheaded thinking had saved him from an irrevocable act that would have embroiled Rosamund in scandal and perhaps seen him arrested or obliged to flee the country.

  Satisfied that Lydgate had matters well in hand downstairs, Griffin turned again to Rosamund.

  She was shaking, shaking hard. He led her to a sofa by the wall, where they sat down. He put his arm around her and murmured soothing nothings while he stroked her hair.

  She shrank into his chest and clutched his coat lapel. “I never loved him. Never!”

  “I know, sweetheart. I was a fool to believe otherwise. Indeed, I have not believed it for some time.”

  She seemed to accept that, and the relief of having Rosamund safe in his arms slowly sank in.

  He looked down at the golden top of her head, at the curls that tumbled about it in disarray from her exertions with that sword. Where had she found it? Glancing around, he spied a collection of rapiers decorating the far wall of the gallery and had his answer.

  Marveling at her courage and resourcefulness, he stroked her shoulder in a soothing motion.

  She stirred then, disengaging herself. With a self-conscious smile that slipped a little, she put her hand to her hair. “I must look an awful fright.”

  “I don’t care,” he said.

  “Yes, but I do,” she said ruefully. “I doubt that aspect of my character will ever change.”

  She rose to stand straight-backed and elegant, her natural grace reasserting itself despite the disarray of her person. “I’ll go to one of the upstairs chambers and ring for a maid to attend me and be with you directly.”

  “I’ll come with you,” he said, getting to his feet. He worried about her going alone.

  Her smile lasted longer this time, but he saw what it cost her. “No, thank you. But if you would have the carriage brought, I should be grateful. I want to go as soon as I have tidied myself.”

  Before she left him, she laid a hand on his arm. “Thank you, Griffin,” she said softly.

  And she stood on tiptoe and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Griffin couldn’t sleep, knowing Rosamund lay wakeful beside him, though she’d assured him she needed nothing more from him tonight.

  She did need something, though. She needed to talk. That’s what women liked, wasn’t it? To talk about things.

  The trouble was, he hadn’t a clue what to say. He couldn’t imagine anything worse than reliving such an unpleasant experience. Wouldn’t talking about tonight make things worse? Wouldn’t she be better off putting it out of her mind?

  He didn’t know. But he owed it to her to give her what she needed. He hated the thought of her suffering beside him.

  Griffin rolled onto his side and spoke into the darkness. “I am awake. If you like, we could…”

  In a strained voice, she said, “I’m terribly sorry, Griffin, but I’m not in the right frame of mind for making love tonight.”

  Appalled, he said, “No, I didn’t mean—I meant, you know, if you wanted to, ah —” Oh, Hell. “—talk. About things.”

  He winced and waited for her to annihilate him with scorn.

  She didn’t, though. She didn’t say anything at all.

  He heard her swallow a couple of times. Loud, inelegant noises that sounded like a valiant attempt not to weep.

  “Sweetheart.” Gingerly, he took her into his arms.

  She laid her head on his shoulder. In a quiet, trembling voice she tried desperately to control, she said, “If my mother had offered you that portrait, Griffin, would you have bought it?”

  It was too dark to read her expression. She held herself rigid in the circle of his arms, however. He sensed a subtle withdrawal, though she did not move from his embrace.

  “The portrait?” he repeated. His answer to this question was vitally important; that was clear. “Hmm. I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “Oh, never mind. Forget I asked.”

  The temptation to take her at her word was one he nobly ignored. “Of course, I would have bought the painting to save you from embarrassment.…”

  “But otherwise?” she asked. “Would you want that painting?”

  He hadn’t seen the painting—not intact, at all events. He’d scarcely glanced at the unfinished canvas when he’d arrived at her brother’s house. But he’d seen her pose for it, hadn’t he? And he’d certainly admired the way she appeared that day.

  But there was something … not right about gawping at a portrait of her in semi-undress, particularly one that had been completed so as to identify her without her knowledge or consent. It was too much like a dirty old man leering at one of those bawdy cartoons in a print shop.

  “I don’t think so,” he said finally. “Certainly not from your mother.” He stroked the silken softness of her shoulder. “And, well, why would I need a picture of you when I have the flesh-and-blood woman right here?”

  She made an inarticulate sound, throwing him into panic. Oh, God, he’d said it all wrong!

  “Not that I don’t want to look upon you all the time,” he assured her hastily. “I do, but … I want you, not just your beauty. I want to talk with you, laugh with you. I want you to have your own mind, to make me lose my temper, to be your own self. I want you in my arms, in my bed.” He hesitated, feeling his chest tighten with the well of emotion his own words had evoke
d. “That’s it,” he said gruffly. “I’m not good at explaining.”

  “I think I understand,” she said. He nearly groaned with relief when he heard the smile in her voice.

  She turned in his arms and kissed him on his crooked beak of a nose. “Thank you, Griffin.”

  He released the breath he’d been holding. “Was it a good answer?”

  “It was the perfect answer. Better than perfect, in fact.” She subsided into his embrace again, and he closed his arms about her and held her tight. He should have killed Lauderdale for bringing her to such a pass.

  Rosamund tilted her head up to press her lips to his.

  Perhaps she’d meant it as a chaste, brief expression of her gratitude. To Hell with that! Griffin lashed his arms around her and crushed his mouth down on hers and lost himself in Rosamund.

  With a choked little cry, she responded, opening to him, tangling her tongue with his. Their kiss was raw and perhaps a little clumsy, too. But it shimmered with honest, true emotion. He’d never realized a kiss could communicate so much, reveal so much.

  Griffin raised his head and stared down at her in wonder. Beneath all that tumbled beauty was an aching vulnerability that he had not seen before tonight.

  He’d been willfully blind, had he not?

  Had he ever truly seen her before? Had he been no better than Lauderdale? In love with the dazzling face and the heavenly body and not troubling to discover the heart and soul and mind behind them?

  In that moment, his own heart shifted in his chest. She was neither perfect nor an angel, his countess. Despite her incomparable beauty, her good breeding, her wealth and her charm, even Lady Rosamund Westruther was not unassailable.

  Rosamund experienced pain, betrayal, and loss, just as everyone did. Her beauty was no armor against them.

  Why hadn’t he seen it before? Perhaps he’d been too busy protecting himself from pain. He loathed his own looks and hated being judged by them. Yet he’d done the same to her, hadn’t he, without even knowing it.

  Her beauty had always staggered him; it still did. But he knew now that if some bad fairy took away Rosamund’s stunning looks tomorrow, his feelings for her would not change.

  And he knew now, without a shadow of a doubt, that he loved her.

  She’d said she loved him. Indeed, she’d never shied from his looks, even when they first met, though his scarred, puckered face must have come as a shock.

  Did she see past his exterior, too? He was beginning to believe that she did. The thought was frightening, exhilarating.

  She entwined her arms around his neck and pulled him down to her once more. “Griffin, I’ve changed my mind. I need you. Make love to me. Please.”

  * * *

  When Griffin finally thrust inside her, Rosamund released a long, soft sigh.

  Griffin’s lovemaking was slow and passionate and careful—as it often was—and immensely pleasurable, too. He did not do anything different, but everything had changed between them, nonetheless.

  Tonight, he’d made her feel safe and loved and secure.

  But it was more than that. Her love for him had deepened somehow. When he touched her, when he stroked her inside, it was as if her pleasure existed on two planes, spiritual and physical. Each heightened and informed the other until she lost touch with the difference between them and flew with him in a glittering transcendence of color and light.

  There were no words to express what she felt. She only hoped he experienced some small fraction of that unparalleled bliss, too.

  “I love you,” Griffin whispered.

  She squeezed her eyes shut as silent tears of thankfulness leaked from them. At last! She couldn’t contain the happiness that flooded her. Her joy in hearing him say the words was so intense, it was almost painful.

  “Oh, Griffin! Oh, my darling.” She stroked the hard line of his jaw, laughing and crying at once. “I love you, too.”

  * * *

  Griffin was waiting in the drawing room at Steyne House when Lady Steyne walked in.

  He rose, more from the desire to intimidate than from politeness.

  The lady had been unpinning her bonnet, but at the sight of him, her movements faltered and her hands fell to her sides.

  Then she lifted her chin and stared up at him, cold lights sparking in her eyes. “How did you get in here?”

  “Oh, it really was not so difficult.”

  She whipped around and saw her son lounging in the doorway. He pulled the doors shut behind him and leaned back, surveying her for a long, silent pause. Then he strolled toward her like a panther stalking prey.

  Griffin grinned as his mother-in-law shrank perceptibly in stature and confidence.

  “I—I thought you were out of town,” stammered the marchioness. Her face hardened. “But perhaps you merely made that excuse to avoid my party.”

  “The absence was unavoidable, or I would have attended, I assure you. Perhaps then I might have saved my sister an intolerable insult. From her own mother, no less.”

  Lady Steyne drew herself up. “Oh! Is that what this is about? I assure you, the girl has far too much sensibility. There was no harm intended. If I’d known she had such strong objections…” With a smug curl of the lips, she lowered her gaze. “Well,” she said softly, “she could hardly be expected to confide such things to her brother. Or to her husband, for that matter.”

  “That won’t wash, ma’am, so don’t waste your breath,” said Griffin. He no longer felt a particle of jealousy toward Lauderdale. Clever of her to prey on that particular weakness. A few weeks ago, she might well have succeeded.

  Icily, Xavier said, “I trust you do not mean to compound your villainy by implying that my sister willingly participated in your little scheme?”

  Lady Steyne opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.

  “Because if you are, indeed, implying such a thing, I shall have to think of a suitable punishment in addition to throwing you out of this house and cutting off the outrageously generous allowance I pay you.”

  Her eyes widened as the enormity of his words sank in.

  “What?” she screeched. “You selfish, ungrateful blackguard! I should have aborted you when I had the chance.” She picked up the nearest object, which happened to be a fine example of Chinese porcelain, and hurled it at Xavier’s head.

  He caught it so deftly, he might have been playing in the slips in a game of cricket. Turning, he set it on the mantel.

  With an aristocratic sneer, Xavier said, “Take your malice and your tantrums somewhere else, Mother. Like every other man who has ever figured in your vain, shallow existence, I am done with you.”

  Xavier opened the door and spoke to a footman outside. “Have Her Ladyship’s bags packed and the traveling carriage brought around.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” sputtered Lady Steyne. “This is outrageous! Preposterous! Xavier, you cannot do this to your own mother. What will people say of you?”

  “I do not doubt they will say a great deal,” he agreed. “But if you spread tales of that night or lies about Rosamund, you may be sure that I will hear of it. And I will destroy you.”

  “I want what’s rightfully mine! Two children I brought up on my own when he left me. Do you think that wasn’t a sacrifice?”

  He curled his lip. “We would have been safer with a pack of wolves.”

  After a moment, Xavier shook his head. “No, my lady, you frittered away your fortune on jewels and pretty gowns and on your gaming, too, I have no doubt. You have your jointure, however—”

  “A pittance!”

  “On the contrary, ma’am,” returned her son. “It is far more generous than you deserve.”

  She licked her lips and shifted her stance. “What would you give for my silence about Rosamund?”

  The look Steyne bent on her sent a shiver down Griffin’s spine. “Shall I tell you what I will do if you do not remain silent?” he purred. “The lives we lead in these modern times are so fraught with danger, ar
e they not? Carriage accidents, a stray shot from a poacher in the woods, an inadvertently large dose of laudanum at night.” He spread his hands. “So many possibilities.”

  Finally cowed, Lady Steyne began to weep. Even Griffin was a little shocked at that one.

  Xavier sighed. “Oh, dear Lord, spare me.” He opened the door again and said to the footman outside, “Take her away. Escort her to the carriage when all is ready for her departure. If she gives you trouble, you have my permission to throw her into the street.”

  The footman, definitely one of Xavier’s men, received these orders with commendable impassivity.

  The defeated marchioness swept from the room, her head held deliberately high. Xavier turned back to Griffin.

  “That was immensely satisfying,” he said. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to do it for years.”

  “I enjoyed it, too,” Griffin admitted. He held out his hand. After only a moment’s hesitation, Xavier shook it.

  Xavier’s face, Griffin noted, appeared slightly gray, and his eyes looked almost feverishly bright. Despite the vitriol that laced his dealings with Lady Steyne, it could be no easy thing to cut ties with one’s sole living parent.

  Gruffly, Griffin said, “If I had stopped her in the first place, none of this need have happened. If I’d known—”

  Xavier’s sleek brows twitched together. “It’s not your fault. You could not have known what she was capable of. Truthfully, even I did not guess.” His mouth set in a grim line. “I should have been there. I could have prevented it.”

  “You are not responsible for your mother’s actions.”

  Xavier shrugged and turned away. Then he said, “I owe you an apology, it seems.”

  “What? Good God, no.”

  “You love my sister,” said Xavier softly. “And she you. And I was wrong about both of you.”

  The feelings he had acknowledged to Rosamund were too new and raw to admit to anyone else. Griffin made no reply.

  He glanced out the window to see Lady Steyne being firmly escorted to the traveling carriage. Her head was high, but a hectic spot of crimson bloomed in each cheek.