Sex and the Single Earl

by Vanessa Kelly

  KISSING THE EARL

  “Is something wrong, Sophie?” Simon’s voice—an unfamiliar husky growl—made her legs tremble with a delicious weakness.

  “No, Simon,” she breathed. “Not a thing.”

  “I’m glad.”

  His lips moved over her cheekbone and down her jawline, trailing fire all the way. She clutched at the collar of his coat, trying to pull him to her mouth.

  “Simon.” Her voice whispered the plea.

  The next moment he swooped, covering her lips in a kiss so devouring that she almost swooned from the sheer joy of it….

  Books by Vanessa Kelly

  MASTERING THE MARQUESS

  SEX AND THE SINGLE EARL

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Sex And The SINGLE EARL

  VANESSA KELLY

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book is dedicated to my friend, Beryl CoteJohnson, and to my critique partner, Teresa Wilde.

  With love and gratitude, many heartfelt thanks to my husband, Randy.

  Many thanks to Liz Sykes, for all her kind support this past year.

  And to my friends in the romance writing community, Debbie Mazzuca, Manda Collins, and Kris Kennedy, who always give me insightful feedback and incredible support. You gals really make it fun!

  A special thanks to Janga, for her perceptive and sensitive reading of this book when I really needed it.

  Finally, I want to thank my editor, John Scognamiglio, for his generous support.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Yorkshire, August 1815

  Sophie would kill him if she ever discovered what he planned to do. But the benefits surely outweighed the risks.

  Simon St. James, Fifth Earl of Trask, leaned over his horse’s neck and surveyed the rolling, gorse-covered hills of the York shire landscape. Satisfaction surged through his body, tightening muscles in the familiar response that always came to him before the next challenge.

  His business agent, Henry Soames, huddled miserably on top of the serviceable mare standing beside Simon’s big bay. He glanced at Simon before returning his gaze to the wind-scoured horizon.

  “The surveyor would appear to be correct, my lord.”

  A gale-force wind, surprisingly cold even for the dales of Yorkshire in the late summer, snatched away his agent’s words. Simon nudged Romulus with his knees, moving his horse closer to the mare so he wouldn’t have to shout over the buffeting gusts.

  “You interviewed the man yourself.” He made it a statement, not a question. Soames would never leave something this important to chance. He knew Simon too well to risk otherwise.

  “Aye, my lord. Mr. Bedford came highly recommend by The Royal Society of Engineers. There are at least three major coal seams running through these hills, and large deposits of other minerals, as well.”

  Simon nodded. “Excellent. This land should provide all the coal required for the new mills in Leeds.”

  He flexed his hands within the soft leather of his riding gloves, no longer bothering to stem the sense of triumph that came with the knowledge he had been right. Now he could place the last stone in the path—the final piece that would bring to fruition his plan to dominate Britain’s wool industry. Soon, he would exert an overwhelming influence over every aspect of the trade, from the production of the raw materials to sale of the finished goods in the shops of every city in the country.

  Of course, he would have to retain an iron grip over these final steps, and make sure that Sophie’s uncanny ability to cause scandal didn’t blow all his careful work to perdition.

  “Will General Stanton sell or lease these lands to you?” asked Soames.

  “He might have a few months ago, but he recently promised to add the estate to his granddaughter’s dowry.” Simon could feel a cynical smile pulling at his mouth. “To sweeten the pot, as it were.”

  Soames’s long face took on the puzzled demeanor of a basset hound. “How then will you acquire…oh. Are congratulations in order, my lord?”

  Simon sighed. “Eventually.”

  He shifted in his saddle, irritated by the other man’s barely concealed masculine pity. As Romulus sidled under the movement, he reached a soothing hand along the bay’s powerful neck.

  Soames returned his gaze to the chalk downs. “I’ll contact Mr. Russell to begin negotiations immediately.”

  As always, Soames had read his mood and shifted the discussion accordingly. Simon had no desire to talk about Sophie now, or even think about the monumental changes that lay ahead for both of them—not until he had figured out in his own mind just how much his feelings for her had changed.

  And then there was Bathsheba, another difficult situation waiting for him in London.

  One problem at a time.

  Simon gave Soames a brusque nod of approval. Jedediah Russell had built and run the most successful textile mills in Bristol. The industry was moving north now, to be near the coal, and Russell intended to move with it. And Simon fully intended to be his partner in building a series of wool mills in Leeds, even though other investors were already courting Russell.

  “Do that, Soames. I can meet Russell in Bath before I travel on to Somerset. I might as well pay a visit to my aunts while I’m in that part of the country.”

  In a week Simon would be standing up at the wedding of his best friend, the Marquess of Silverton. The bride’s estate was only twelve miles as the crow flew from Bath, and the elegant townhouse of his aunt, Lady Eleanor St. James, and her younger sister, Lady Jane. He hadn’t seen them since Michaelmas, and he was due for a visit, though he would rather walk through Whitechapel in his nightshirt than spend even a day in the most boring city in England. But if he could meet with Russell, at least the trip would be productive.

  “I will write to him immediately, my lord.”

  Simon took one last, lingering look over the rolling hills that would soon be his, then wheeled around to head back to the small hunting box on the estate parallel to the Stanton acreage. St. James land had marched side by side with Stanton land for generations, as had the families, through times of both war and peace.

  Soames’s mare cantered gently beside Simon’s bay. “Lord Trask?”

  Simon threw his secretary a glance. The man’s lugubrious face looked even longer than usual.

  “Well?”

  “Mr. Russell will want some assurances that you can provide the necessary resources for this venture. The coal from the Stanton estate is vital to your plans. How do you…?” He let the question hang uncomfortably between them.

  Simon gave a harsh snort of laughter and tapped his crop against the flanks of his horse. Romulus exploded over the
muddy earth, spraying large clots of dirt in his wake.

  “I’ll do whatever I have to, Soames,” he flung back over his shoulder.

  London

  The women in his life would surely drive him to Bedlam, starting with his soon to be ex-mistress. Simon realized he should be feeling at least some modicum of guilt about ending their affair, but, oddly enough, he didn’t. It had really run its course some months ago, and they hadn’t slept together…. Well, he couldn’t even remember the last time they had.

  In any event, Bathsheba wasn’t the type of woman to invite a man’s pity.

  Better known to the ton as the dowager Countess of Randolph, Bathsheba was a lushly beautiful woman in her late twenties, small of stature, but with full, round breasts and generously curving hips. A riot of titian hair had been ruthlessly tamed into the most fashionable style of the day, framing a face that had the serene beauty of an angel painted by, well, not Titian, but some other Renaissance painter whose name he couldn’t remember.

  Unlike an angel’s, though, her eyes glittered like cracked ice, and the edges of what should have been enticingly full lips had a narrow sharpness that boded ill for anyone who crossed her. Bathsheba knew her own worth and, since the death of her husband in a carriage race two years ago, made sure every one of her acquaintances knew it as well.

  She stood before him in the center of her French-inspired boudoir, her small fists clenched against hips barely covered by a wisp of a silk dressing gown, her green gaze hard as the emeralds he had bestowed upon her last month.

  He, on the other hand, perched comfortably on the back of her chaise, grimly confident he had made the right decision.

  “So, this is how it ends.” Her melodious voice sounded high and thin, as if the muscles of her throat were constricted. “I should like to know, Simon, why you have decided to cast me aside so abruptly, when I have done nothing to merit such an insult. What do you imagine this will do to my reputation, when you have courted me so assiduously? What in God’s name will all our friends think?”

  Simon choked back an astonished laugh. Courting her? Bathsheba knew full well what had gone on between them. They had used each other, and used each other well. To suggest anything else was absurd. She knew it, and all their friends knew it too. Bathsheba Randolph was the furthest thing from an injured maiden he had ever met in his life.

  There were things he would miss, of course. The nights spent in hot passion, leavened with lethally witty conversation as they dissected the foibles of the ton. But Bathsheba had become possessive and grasping, as if she expected something more than he could give. Even without the changes that Sophie would bring into his life, his time with the voluptuous countess was over.

  He pushed away from the chaise and strolled across the soft pile of the Savonnerie carpet, coming to a stop before her. The gleaming leather of his hessians almost touched the tips of her gaily painted bare toes. She was forced to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.

  “Come now, Bathsheba. Don’t be dramatic. You know it had to end between us sooner or later.” He smiled down into her beautiful features. Strange that he had never noticed before how the bones of her face seemed to grow knife-edged when she became angry.

  “I don’t see why,” she flashed back. “Have I done anything to displease you? Embarrassed you in any way?”

  “Now you’re being deliberately obtuse, my dear. In fact, your reaction tells me that to continue as lovers would surely jeopardize what has been—and I hope will continue to be—a most enjoyable friendship.”

  She jerked away as if he had slapped her. An ugly flush of crimson swept up her throat and into her cheeks, clashing with her bright auburn hair. Her eyes narrowed to pinpoints of sooty rage.

  “You call what happened between us friendship? How dare you! When I have given so much of myself to you…expecting nothing in return but…” She gasped and bit her lip, perhaps in response to the astonishment that must be evident on his face.

  “My dear Countess Randolph,” he began, deliberately using her title in the hopes she would make an attempt to reclaim her dignity. “I have never been anything but honest with you. We agreed when we started that there was no future beyond friendship. No future beyond our mutual enjoyment. I’m saddened to discover you thought otherwise.”

  She glared at him, but the anger had begun to fade from her eyes, replaced by a sullen wariness. He waited for her to see reason. After all, Bathsheba was hardly a creature of excessive sensibilities.

  After a few moments she gave a reluctant bob of her head.

  “Good.” He smiled his approval. “You know you can always be assured of my friendship. You must continue to come to me when you need financial advice, or have a desire to discuss your investments. I will always consider your best interests as my own.”

  God, now he sounded like a politician, not a lover. Not even an ex-lover.

  “Thank you, my lord.” Bathsheba nodded her head a second time, her voice scrupulously polite. Her face had resumed its usual mask of alabaster beauty.

  Simon ruthlessly suppressed the nibble of guilt that finally gnawed at the edges of his mind. He had little reason to feel that way. Bathsheba had gained much from him, both in the generous gifts he had bestowed upon her, and in the financial guidance that had seen her fortune double in the two years she had been his mistress. She had nothing to complain about, and he should have no regrets.

  “Capital, my dear.”

  He winced inwardly at his inane response. Idiot. He extracted a little velvet bag from his waistcoat pocket and tipped the contents into his palm. A spill of glittering emeralds draped over his fingers.

  “Bathsheba, I would be grateful if you would accept this as a small token of my esteem and gratitude. I wish you to know how sincere I am when I say I shall always value our friendship.”

  Her face went as blank as a newly stretched canvas. She reached out, carefully extracted the bracelet from his fingers, and returned her hand to her side, clenching the expensive and delicate piece of jewelry in her fist.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  He stared for a long moment into her opaque gaze, then turned on his heel and strode to the door of her boudoir.

  “Will I see you in town, my lord?” Her soft voice drifted across the room and slid like a cool silk scarf over the nape of his neck.

  He repressed the urge to hunch his shoulders. Instead he glanced back, smiling. “No. I’m off to Bath this afternoon, then into Somerset.”

  Her eyes blazed to life with razorlike curiosity. “Bath? You never go to Bath at this time of year. You never go to Bath at all, if you can avoid it.”

  “Nonetheless, I am going to Bath.” Simon made his voice deliberately cool. She had to realize it was over between them.

  She took one step, then another, toward him. He reached out and grasped the handle on the door.

  “This has something to do with business, doesn’t it? I know you, Simon, better than you know yourself. You’re planning something, and you don’t want me involved. You think I’ll get in the way.”

  His hand froze on the knob. Just how much had he revealed to Bathsheba whilst in the throes of passion? They rarely talked about his ventures in trade, but she had a knack for wheedling information out of a man, especially when it had something to do with money.

  He looked back over his shoulder at her, painfully aware of both her beauty and her grasping nature. A cold weight of frustration—with her, but mostly with himself—settled in his chest.

  “I’m sorry, Bathsheba, but my business is no longer any of your concern. It would be best if you remember that,” he said softly, trying to keep the sting from his voice.

  Her breath gently hissed out from between clenched teeth, but her eyes blazed forth an answer that struck him like a blow. He turned away, pulled the door shut behind him, and strode down the hall of his former mistress’s townhouse.

  No regrets.

  After all, business always came first.

&nb
sp; Chapter One

  Bath, October 1815

  Sophie Stanton felt a sharp tug on her wrist, the beaded chain of her reticule digging painfully into her skin before snapping free. She spun around to make a grab for the dirty little urchin who slipped just beyond her reach.

  “Stop! Thief!” she yelled.

  Heads turned. The fashionable shoppers on Milsom Street craned their necks as Sophie hitched up her cambric skirts and dashed after the boy as fast as she could.

  Blast and damn!

  Racing down the street, she dodged startled pedestrians as she tried to keep the boy in sight. He was fast as a whip, but so was she. She couldn’t let him escape or she’d never see her gold bracelet again. It was nestled in the bottom of her reticule, stowed for a trip to the jeweler’s shop for cleaning and a minor repair. But instead of going straightaway to the shop, she had lingered in front of the display window of Barratt’s and made a perfect target for an enterprising thief.

  Sophie dashed up the long promenade running through the center of Bath, ignoring the startled exclamations of three soberly dressed matrons as she flashed by them. If she had the breath to spare she would have groaned. One of them was Lady Connaught, who would no doubt report her latest misadventure to Lady Eleanor before the day was out.

  But panic drove her on. Dodging and weaving up the street, she pushed to catch up with the boy. Her heart, already pounding from exertion, beat faster at the thought of losing him—and of losing her mother’s much-loved and valuable heirloom bracelet.

  Just ahead, the boy slipped into an alleyway next to a coffee shop. She put on a burst of speed and rounded the corner of the shop, skidding to a precarious halt beside a pile of refuse partly blocking the entrance to the alley.