Mad About the Earl

by Christina Brooke

  “What was that about?” said Griffin.

  “Oh, His Grace does not believe in love—or at least, he does not condone love matches among the ton. Yet, his charges keep falling in love anyway.” She sighed. “I wonder if the duke will ever be struck by Cupid’s dart.”

  “Him?” Griffin snorted. “Not likely.”

  She sent him a saucy glance. “I can think of equally unlikely candidates.”

  “Keep looking at me like that, woman, and I shall forget that I’m a gentleman.” He leaned in to rumble in her ear, “And that we are in public.”

  She looked up at him through her lashes in blatant provocation.

  With a suppressed groan, he took her by the arm and steered her out of the ballroom and down the terrace steps. Then, because she did not move fast enough for him, he picked her up and ran with her into the garden through the rain. She gave a peal of laughter, kicking her slippered feet and turning her face up to feel the rain upon it. He did not stop until they were back in the summerhouse, the scene of their very first tryst.

  “So masterful,” she murmured, sinking down with him into the wide banquette.

  But his face had turned serious. “My God, Rosamund, I love you.”

  He kissed the raindrops from her face, hot lips on shivering wet skin. She sighed and he captured that sigh with his own mouth in a deep, soul-stealing kiss.

  Everything Rosamund loved about him was contained in that embrace. The wildness, the tenderness, and the passion. She’d found wonder and joy in his lovemaking before, but this surpassed anything she’d dreamed of. Finally, she could give herself to him, secure and free in the knowledge that he loved her. That he accepted her love in return.

  Griffin slid his hand beneath her skirts, and she gasped against his mouth. “Someone will see us!”

  “It’s raining,” he said, moving his hand higher. “They won’t come down here.”

  “Griffin!”

  But he wouldn’t be dissuaded, and the truth was she didn’t try very hard. She lost herself in the heat and strength and size of him, plunged with him into the depths of desire, soared to the heights of passion and delight.

  Afterwards, they lay panting and spent, side by side. Rosamund gazed at the stars through the panes of glass overhead and felt a sense of wholeness and peace she’d never experienced before.

  “Oh, here’s something I forgot.” Griffin shifted his weight, fished something out of his pocket, and handed it to her.

  “Oh!” she breathed. “My locket!”

  She raised herself on one elbow and smoothed her fingertips over its surface, inspecting it for scratches by touch, for she could see little detail in the darkness. There was no damage that she could feel.

  Then she checked the links on the chain itself. “Yes, that was shoddy repair work on my part,” she murmured. “The same links broke again.”

  She closed her fingers around the locket and looked down at Griffin. What had he thought when he saw his own portrait there? He’d have been pleased, wouldn’t he? Was that why he’d come back?

  “I didn’t open it,” he said, as if he read her mind.

  “Oh,” she said, torn between pleasure that he’d respected her wishes and concern that his lack of curiosity argued a lack of … interest, perhaps? But how could she believe that after the passion they’d shared tonight?

  “Were you not tempted?” she said.

  “No.”

  “Not even a little bit?” She was starting to feel put out by this.

  With a peculiarly boyish smile, he shook his head. “But that’s because I know what is inside.”

  “How do you know it?” she asked, a little archly.

  “Because you love me,” he said, kissing her on the nose. “And you always have.”

  “Just as you are madly in love with me,” she retorted.

  “And always will be,” he said. And with a wolfish grin, he drew her into his arms once more.

  EPILOGUE

  It had become something of a tradition for the Duke of Montford to end the evening of his annual ball by drinking a quiet glass of wine in his library with Lady Arden.

  It would go no further than that. They were not lovers, of course. Not yet.

  He was fond of adding that last part—a delightfully tantalizing notion. But in truth, he’d qualified their association thus for the past fifteen years or more. The companionship they enjoyed and the challenge Lady Arden presented to his wits and his ingenuity were things he would not willingly trade for something so transient as an affaire, no matter how desirable the lady.

  And she was infinitely desirable, with her brandy-colored eyes and luxuriant honey-brown hair. Her nose was noble, her chin feminine but determined, and those aristocratic cheekbones could slice butter. Not to mention the delectable body that curved lushly beneath the bronze silk gown she wore.

  She bent her clear gaze on his. “I hear that your little Rosebud’s mama, Lady Steyne, has married. To a diplomat, no less.”

  “Ah,” said Montford, crossing his legs at the ankles in a relaxed pose. “I, too, had heard something of the sort.”

  “Then, immediately after the wedding, what must happen but the poor fellow is posted to the steppes of Siberia or some such place!”

  His lips twitched. “Oh? I heard it was St. Petersburg.” In fact, he knew it was St. Petersburg. “Perhaps Lady Steyne does not understand the difference.”

  “Quite possibly,” Lady Arden agreed. “In any event, she will be far enough away that she will cause Rosamund no trouble. Yet the diversions open to a woman of her, ah, tastes in the court at St. Petersburg will induce her to stay there. One would not wish the lady’s exile to be too unpleasant, or she would simply run back to London again.”

  “Remarkable,” observed Montford, “the way your mind works.”

  “Isn’t it?” she agreed with an ironic smile. “At present, my mind is exercising its considerable powers in favor of your Lady Cecily.”

  He shifted in his chair. “She’s already spoken for. Don’t waste your time.”

  “I have told you, I cannot like that match.”

  “You do not like it because you had no hand in arranging it. Nor had I, as it happens. Lady Cecily’s parents secured the duke for her.” A bare month later, they’d been killed in a carriage accident. A very great tragedy, indeed.

  “I see,” said Lady Arden, a furrow between her brows. “Was there any formal betrothal, or is it merely an understanding?”

  “What it is, my lady, is none of your concern.” He regarded her narrowly. “Be satisfied that you’ve managed to gain deVere’s consent to Maddox and Lady Jacqueline’s marriage—a major coup. How did you manage it, by the way?”

  She waved an airy hand. “I have my methods.”

  The silence lay thick between them as he wondered what those methods had been. Then a movement in the garden caught his eye.

  Rising, he crossed to the French doors and peered out, into the rain.

  He saw two figures, both disheveled and sodden, running together toward the back gate. Montford raised his brows.

  “Do they intend to walk all the way home, do you think?” Lady Arden’s breath tickled his ear.

  “They?” said Montford, raising his brows. He slanted a glance at her. “I didn’t see anyone. Did you?”

  “No, no one at all,” said Her Ladyship on a low, delighted laugh.

  In spite of himself, Montford smiled, too. An unaccountable sense of satisfaction warmed his chest.

  Then he closed the curtains to shut out the night.

  Read on for an excerpt from Christina Brooke’s next book

  A Duchess to Remember

  Coming soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks

  Cecily froze. Confound that blasted footman! He’d betrayed her.

  It had all been too easy, hadn’t it? But good God, how could she have guessed he’d tell the duke of her plans? How many servants would remain loyal to their masters when offered the kind of bribe she�
��d intended to pay?

  Or perhaps the footman hadn’t informed on her and the rumors were true. Perhaps the Duke of Ashcombe was omniscient.

  He was certainly exceedingly strong.

  All of this passed through her mind in an instant. She fought him, twisting ineffectually in his iron grip, jabbing with her elbows, kicking back with her heels. If she could get free, she’d make a dash for it. She was fast when she needed to be and tonight she didn’t have skirts to hamper her.

  His hold was not vicious, but it was implacable. Seeming not to notice her struggles, her captor swept her into a room that was not a vestibule as the footman had informed her, but a library. Not filled with members of the Promethean Club, but empty of anyone save her and the man who held her captive.

  Once inside, he released her.

  He was very dark and very tall and he had the most uncompromising mouth she had ever seen. His strange eyes regarded her intently for a moment, sending an unwelcome chill through her body. Then he moved to close the door and lock it.

  When he turned back to face her again, she refused to show him fear. Instead of quaking or begging, she folded her arms across her chest and lifted her brows.

  His grim lips relaxed slightly. Holding up the ornate brass key, he said, “A precautionary measure,” and slipped the key into his pocket.

  That almost imperceptible change in the forbidding coldness of his expression made her less apprehensive of physical harm. But the preternaturally acute way his eyes assessed her was far from reassuring.

  He was hard and lean and broad-shouldered. Not an ounce of frivolity or decoration softened the harshness of his aspect. Dressed soberly in a black coat and gray trousers and waistcoat, white shirt and cravat, he wore no adjuncts to fashion save a heavy gold signet ring on the third finger of his right hand. His close-cropped black hair seemed to emphasize the hawkish lines of his nose and the sharp, almost Slavic contours of his cheekbones.

  And his eyes. They were a stunning golden-hazel with dark brown flecks, framed by thick, black lashes. Amber ringed with onyx.

  Unsettling, almost feline, those eyes. She wondered if they glowed in the dark.

  “Take off your wig,” he drawled.

  The instruction was not quite a command, but it was not a request, either. More a suggestion with overtones of intimidation.

  He knew she wasn’t a footman. The disguise was never meant to fool anyone except at a distance and in the dark of night. Besides, his manhandling had brought him into contact with the softer parts of her person. The notion sent a hot spear of … something through her body. She wouldn’t let him see it, however.

  Forcing herself to give a casual shrug, Cecily lifted the perruque from her head and set it on a piecrust table nearby.

  His brilliant gaze flicked over her.

  She’d worn breeches enough times to feel neither shame nor embarrassment that he’d caught her in them. But somehow his impassive regard made her want to leap to the defensive, to justify her actions to him.

  As the Duke of Montford’s ward, she’d long since mastered control over such inclinations. Instead, she forced herself to study the Duke of Ashcombe as dispassionately as he studied her.

  He was far younger than she’d supposed when she’d seen him at a distance. The harshness of his features, his arrogant air of authority, and the deference more senior members of the ton paid him had deceived her.

  She resented that illusion, as if it had been a deliberate ruse on his part. Older gentlemen were so much easier to handle.

  The silence lengthened between them until it became an object with her not to be the first to break it. She let her gaze wander around the room, over bookshelves and tables, globes and maps. As if she’d appraised him, found him tedious, and now looked for some other source of amusement.

  “Your accomplice betrayed you,” he said at last.

  “I’d rather gathered that at the start of our acquaintance.” She tried to make her tone cordial but it came out with something of a snap. Now that her initial fear had abated, chagrin at her failure took its place.

  Though perhaps she’d not failed entirely. She turned a speculative gaze to Ashcombe. Might she discover what she wished to know from him? If she was clever about it, then perhaps …

  Drawing herself up, she donned her most regal air and waved a careless hand. “But I am keeping you from your guests, Your Grace. Do go ahead. I shall find my own way out.”

  * * *

  Rand, Duke of Ashcombe, nearly laughed aloud at this summary dismissal. Who the devil did the chit think she was? She couldn’t be more than twenty, but she waved him away with the careless aplomb of a dowager duchess.

  “My guests go on most happily without me,” he said, leaning one shoulder against the door. “Besides, you interest me far more than a meeting of the Promethean Club.”

  “I’m so happy to provide you with entertainment,” she quipped.

  Better and better.

  He allowed his gaze to drift over his captive’s person, lingering at the lush bosom that jutted unmistakably from her blue velvet coat, pausing again at the womanly flare of hips that made her knee-breeches tauten a shade too much across her thighs. He imagined her bottom would be as round and female as the rest of her and experienced a sharp tug of curiosity on that account.

  It really was a very poor disguise.

  He regarded her face. Wide brown eyes with a slight tilt at the corners, a sweet, pert little nose, and the rosiest bud of a mouth he’d ever seen. Her lips reminded him of the dimpled lushness of a cherry when the stalk is plucked. Ripe and sweet, begging him to bite.

  “What is your name?” he said.

  She watched him for a few moments; it occurred to him that she scrutinized him quite as critically as he examined her. A new experience. A not altogether comfortable one.

  Breaking off her inspection, she wandered over to a set of globes that stood by the desk. Tracing the arcing frame of the celestial globe beside her with a fingertip, she said, “If I tell you who I am, will you let me go?”

  “I’m more likely to convey you home to your papa so he can beat you,” said Rand.

  “But I don’t have a papa,” she said on a note of false mournfulness. “I am quite alone in the world, you see.”

  Quite alone. He suppressed a pang of predatory opportunism that was entirely out of character for him.

  Ah, but she was lying, of course. And even if she wasn’t … He’d never been the sort of evil lecher who took advantage of helpless, friendless maidens. He’d never ruined a woman in his life.

  But he wanted her. And what the Duke of Ashcombe wanted, he would have.

  One way or another.

  “If you won’t give me your name, at least give me your direction and I’ll take you home.” He did not intend to take her anywhere, at least not before they became rather better acquainted. “You’ll not walk the London streets alone at this hour.”

  “If I tell you,” she said, “will you tell me something in return?”

  Her effrontery knew no bounds, it seemed. She didn’t even seem to register that he had her at his mercy. That he had not even asked her what she was doing stealing into his house.

  Rand angled his head and said in a soft, menacing voice, “I don’t think you’re in a position to bargain with me.”

  He wished she’d take down her hair. It looked dark and rich as mahogany, thick and soft and luxuriant. The kind of hair a man dreamed about trailing over his naked body, following the path of those cherry-sweet lips …

  But she’d scraped her shining tresses back from her face and twisted and pinned them in a fat knot at the crown of her head. Little curling tendrils had fallen free, however, gleaming darkly against the pale, delicate skin at her forehead and temples. He wanted to reach out and twist one of those mad little springs around his finger.

  Seeming oblivious to the intensity of his regard, she strolled toward him. “Well, that depends. If you were an ordinary man, perhaps I wo
uldn’t dare. But you, my lord duke, suffer from the eternal ennui of the pampered aristocrat. You’re intelligent enough to perceive that I am no common housebreaker. I, in fact, am a novelty.”

  “You, in fact, are a criminal,” he corrected.

  “But you are curious about me,” she murmured, staring up at him with those big, pansy-brown eyes. “Admit it.”

  She was wrong. His interests were wide-ranging and intensive. He was never bored. But … he failed to remember a time when he’d felt so enlivened by a woman’s presence. Furthermore, his curiosity about her nearly consumed him.

  He could have her hanged twice over for attempting to bribe his servant and breaking into his house. Quite apart from that, he had her here, alone, in circumstances that were entirely to his advantage. Who was this girl that she wasn’t even slightly afraid?

  “You are very sure of yourself,” he commented.

  She spread her hands. “Why go through all of this if you intend to hand me over to the law? Why not simply order one of your minions to deal with me? You do have minions, don’t you, Your Grace? You look like the sort of man who has minions.”

  He favored her with an unpleasant smile. “Perhaps I merely seek to toy with my prey before I devour it—or in this case, hand it over to the law.”

  She shook her head decisively. “No, I don’t believe that. You are intrigued.”

  “I am,” he admitted. “Most intrigued. But you do yourself an injustice if you think it is your novelty that excites my interest.”

  He stepped closer to her and had the satisfaction of hearing her breathing hitch. One side of his mouth curled upward. He let his gaze sweep down her curvaceous little body in a manner calculated to intimidate and confuse a virginal, gently bred female. Or excite an experienced one.

  She gave a sudden gurgle of laughter, startling him so much that his gaze shot back to her face.

  “Oh, dear,” she said, her brown eyes dancing with mirth. Her teeth were very white, framed by those deep red lips. “Pray, do not smolder at me so! You will set me off into whoops.”