Sex and the Single Earl

by Vanessa Kelly

  “Does this help, sweetheart?” His fingers delved beneath her hair to massage the back of her neck.

  She sighed gratefully. “Yes, thank you.”

  “Good, because we need to talk.”

  “What about?” she murmured, relaxing into the mesmerizing stroke of his powerful hands.

  “I’m going to post the notice of our engagement in the papers, and set a date for our wedding. After tonight, I see no other choice.”

  “Hell’s bells.” Sophie tried to sit up, but Simon kept a restraining hand planted at the base of her spine, forcing her to direct her words to the floor. ``I don’t know why you’re in such a rush. And I can’t believe you want to talk about this while I’m feeling so…so…”

  “Top-heavy? Jug-bitten? Disguised?”

  “Unwell,” she ground out. It was difficult to register an offended dignity with one’s head between one’s knees.

  Simon began to snicker. Clearly the blasted man didn’t have a romantic—or sympathetic—bone in his body.

  “Let me up,” she insisted, pushing against his hand.

  He choked back another laugh and helped her sit up, resting her against the back of the settee. Simon retrieved her glasses from the nearby ebony table and propped them onto her nose.

  “Better?” His face was grave, but his voice held a hint of laughter.

  Although the edges of the room still revolved in an alarming fashion, Sophie’s vision came into focus on the man lounging next to her. With the dying fire cutting shadows across his rippling muscles, Simon could have passed for a statue of a Greek warrior come to life. She considered climbing into his lap and pressing kisses onto his tempting mouth, but regretfully decided that her stomach and head wouldn’t cooperate with another bout of strenuous activity.

  “Yes, thank you. Much better,” she sighed.

  He reached over and threaded a hand through the wreck of her coiffure. Strong fingers rubbed the aching surface of her scalp. Her eyelids closed as the needlelike pain in her temples began to fade.

  “Sophie, we do need to talk about setting a date.”

  Her eyelids snapped open. She twisted in her seat to look at him, wincing at the stabbing jolt to the back of her neck. Simon’s dark gaze was devoid of any expression except, perhaps, one of wariness.

  “Why are you so insistent we set a date? I’ve agreed to our engagement. This”—she waved her hand in a vague circle, as if to encompass the monumental event that had just occurred between them—“this doesn’t change that. I still need time to get used to the idea of our marriage.” And to the idea that she would soon be legally and morally subject to her husband’s wishes, even if that husband was Simon. “And you promised,” she added.

  “I know, but we’ve run out of time,” he replied in a cool voice. “I have urgent business in London and can’t afford to delay my return to the city any longer. And you need to order your bridal clothes and begin planning for the wedding.”

  She jerked upright in her seat. Leave Bath? She couldn’t. She had a chance to help Becky and Toby, no matter what the blasted Earl of Trask might have to say about it. He may have forgotten them, but she hadn’t.

  Well, maybe for a little while, but that wouldn’t happen again.

  Simon frowned as she edged away from him. His hard eyes, glittering like coal, swept over her, then he rose with athletic grace from the settee. Turning his back—he really did have a magnificent set of shoulders—he grabbed his shirt from the chair where he had tossed it and began to turn out the sleeves.

  Sophie yanked her attention from the bronzed sinews of his back and neck, determined to refocus on the conversation.

  “Why must we rush back to town? You never said anything about this important business before tonight. I’m not ready to leave Bath. And I’m not ready to announce our engagement, either.”

  He didn’t even look at her, pulling his shirt over his head instead. A shivery sense of anxiety crept up her spine. Was he avoiding her question? Simon never did that. The man didn’t know how to be anything but blunt, at least with her.

  His head emerged from the folds of his shirt. He threw a hooded glance her way before turning to search for the rest of his clothes scattered about the room.

  “Fine. If you don’t want to return to the city, then we can be married here. I’ll still need to go up to London to discuss the settlements with your mother and your grandfather. Your family, I’m sure, will be happy to travel to Bath. I assume you’ll want your mother to be here when you get married,” he finished sarcastically.

  He had avoided her question. Why wouldn’t he explain why they had to get married in such a rush?

  Sophie gaped at him. He was holding something back, something important. Every instinct she possessed confirmed it. The idea that he had obviously decided to lie to her about it made her naked flesh crawl with goose bumps.

  She shook her head, wishing desperately she could obliterate the woolly clouds from her brain. What should she do? Simon had retreated behind the imperious facade that would deflect any attempts to pry the truth from him. But she couldn’t marry him until she knew what he was hiding from her. Especially—and she could barely stand to think about this—if it had something to do with Lady Randolph.

  Simon took her silence for acquiescence, for he extracted his pocketbook and a pencil from his tailcoat and began to make notes.

  “I’ll notify the local parish tomorrow, so the banns can be posted Sunday. We can be married in three weeks.” He paused for a moment as he frowned at his notebook, then resumed his rapid scribbling. “You can order your wedding clothes here. Aunt Eleanor and Aunt Jane can help you. It’s not London, but surely there are some respectable modistes in Bath who can provide you with what you need. I expect you to begin shopping tomorrow, so there will be no pointless delays. Have the shopkeepers send the bills to me.”

  An acrid taste of panic flooded her mouth. Why in God’s name was he pushing so hard? And why wouldn’t he even look at her?

  “Simon, stop.” Sophie put as much authority into the command as she could.

  He glanced up, a smile lifting the edges of his mouth as his gaze drifted over her naked body. Sophie could feel the hot rush of blood staining her cheeks. She grabbed her chemise from the heap of clothing on the floor and yanked the flimsy garment over her head.

  They stared at each other for a long moment. The smile on Simon’s lips faded, the lines of his face hardening until it resembled that Greek statue once again. No happy bridegroom this, she thought with a sinking heart.

  “Now what?” His tone was now positively grim.

  Sophie steeled herself to ask the question she had sworn she never would—or at least not yet. But his behavior demanded she seek the truth. The man who had made passionate love to her had disappeared, replaced by the arrogant earl who rarely deigned to show emotion. She didn’t trust that man, and right now she had a great deal of difficulty imagining herself married to him.

  “Simon.” Her voice caught. She swallowed and tried again. “Simon, do you love me?”

  He had looked away to tuck his pocketbook into the folds of his coat, but her question made him jerk around in surprise.

  “What the hell kind of question is that?” His black eyes narrowed to slits. “Sophie, have you gone completely mad?”

  She stood her ground. “Well, do you?”

  He sighed, buttoned up his brocaded waistcoat, and then shrugged into his formfitting tailcoat. A weighted silence filled the room, blending with the shadows around them. Her heart gave a sickening thump as she realized he was buying time to formulate an answer.

  He finally looked at her. “I’ve loved you ever since you were a little girl. Why do you think I pay so much attention to you?”

  She almost choked. Paid attention to her? Brotherly scolds and reprimands were his idea of paying attention to her?

  “Well, that’s very sweet of you.” She could hear the grumble in her voice. “But that’s not what I’m talking ab
out. Are you in love with me, Simon?”

  His dark brows snapped together like a trap. “What’s the difference?”

  Her heart squeezed another painful thump against her breastbone. Simon had, as usual, identified the exact nature of the problem, even though he probably didn’t realize it. He cared for her, but he had clearly fortified himself against the tempestuous emotions that swept through her every time she came within a hundred feet of him. How could she ever hope to have any control in their marriage—even self-control—if he refused to grant her any part of his true self?

  “Sophie?” He studied her with narrow intensity, as if she were some exotic creature in a menagerie.

  She blew out a tight breath and rose to her feet. Her head ached a great deal too much to think her way through the problem tonight. Well, more than one problem, since she couldn’t shake the disturbing notion that he had lied to her about something.

  Her throat constricted with unshed tears, but she forced herself to speak past them. “I’d rather not talk any more tonight. You’d better go before Yates or one of the other servants discovers what we’ve been doing in here.”

  A brief grin slashed across Simon’s dark visage. “I expect the old codger has a fairly good idea of what’s transpired.”

  “For heaven’s sake, don’t joke about it,” Sophie hissed as she grabbed his arm and began to drag him across the drawing room. The thought of discovery made her stomach pitch like the deck of a fishing boat in a storm.

  “Very well, I’ll go,” he grumbled as he let her tow him to the door. “But tomorrow we will set a date for our wedding. I won’t take no for an answer.”

  She wrenched open the door, stepping aside to let him pass. He walked through and turned, obviously intending to continue their argument, but Sophie slammed the door in his face and twisted the key in the lock. The solid panels of the mahogany door muffled the sound of his oath. After a few moments she heard him stalk toward the front of the townhouse, his heavy footsteps echoing loudly with his disapproval.

  She sagged against the coolness of the polished doorframe, her heart pounding so rapidly in her throat she could hardly breathe. Making love with him had been the worst mistake of her life. He had taken her innocence, claimed her for his own, and would continue to insist on marriage as soon as possible. His honor, and the demands of society would allow for nothing less.

  But she wasn’t ready to marry him. And she might never be if he kept acting the way he had tonight. Something was terribly wrong, and she needed the time to find out what it was.

  Somehow, she had to find a way to turn back the clock.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The coming of the dawn didn’t weaken Sophie’s resolve, or lessen her sense that Simon had lied to her. Well, he could bluster away till Armageddon, but she had no intention of being pushed into a hasty marriage. And she certainly wouldn’t leave Bath until she saw Toby and Becky again, and assured herself of their safety.

  Given his way, Simon would ruthlessly carry her back to her mother’s house in Mayfair, then head straight to Grosvenor Square and to Grandfather Stanton, who would agree to anything Simon asked for. In less than a month, Sophie would find herself trussed and delivered like a Christmas goose to her impatient bridegroom, who would then serve her up to the ton on a gold-leafed platter.

  And trussed up like a Christmas goose was exactly how she was beginning to feel, in spite of Simon’s declarations and lovemaking. He had never before shown any inclination to marry her, though both their grandfathers and his aunts had often voiced the hope that “the stubborn lad would come to his senses and marry the poor girl.”

  Sophie still winced whenever she recalled the long-suffering look on Simon’s face as he deflected the labored jests about founding a new family dynasty. He had never laughed or made a joke in return, which had made the whole thing worse. If only he hadn’t taken it so seriously, as if marrying her was the most horrifying idea he could imagine. She had put up with it for years and for some demented reason had loved him anyway, though she had always known he would rather set sail for India on a broken-down raft than take her as his wife.

  But now, for some reason, he wanted her. And if last night was any indication, wanted her with an alarming, if flattering, intensity. She had slept barely a wink after she had climbed into bed, jerked from sleep by disturbing dreams of Simon’s mouth on her lips, his hands on her breasts, his—

  “Sophia Stanton, you’re turning as red as a beet. Are you coming down with a fever?”

  Sophie jumped inches off the carriage squabs as awareness of her surroundings came flooding back. How humiliating to be thinking of that while driving through the streets of Bath with Simon’s Aunt Eleanor. As if trying to hide the marks on her neck left by his voracious kisses hadn’t been bad enough.

  “I…I don’t think so, ma’am,” she scrambled. “Although I may have eaten something last night that disagreed with me.”

  Lady Eleanor’s dark skirts rustled their disapproval. “How like Lady Penfield to serve bad refreshments. I remember one of her routs in London when she served lobster patties that smelled like a goat pen. I, of course, had the sense not to eat them, and I directed everyone that night to avoid them as well. But Mrs. Groton insisted on sampling them—a decision, I assure you, she came to regret.”

  The feathers on the old woman’s bonnet quivered with righteous indignation, leaving no doubt of the severe agonies inflicted by the lobster patties.

  “There were no seafood patties last night, my dear ma’am.”

  “Regardless, I insist you take a glass of the waters today. It’s just the thing for bilious complaints.”

  Sophie grimaced. Better to eat one of Lady Penfield’s suspect patties than choke back yet another glass of the vile healing waters of Bath.

  The family carriage rolled to a stop in front of the imposing portico and columns of the Pump Room. James lowered the step and handed Lady Eleanor to the pavement. Sophie jumped to the ground, waving aside the footman’s offer of assistance. The old woman grumbled under her breath, but declined to scold, leaning heavily on Sophie’s arm as she trudged into the Pump Room.

  The magnificent Tompion clock had just struck noon. Elegant ladies and soberly clad gentlemen crowded the room to sip the waters and gossip about the previous evening’s parties. The musicians, in their usual place in the west apse, provided a tuneful back note to the cheerful, discordant chatter that rose and fell in waves.

  Lady Eleanor and Sophie made their way to the top of the room, nodding to acquaintances but not stopping until they reached a few chairs set back against the wall. After settling the old woman into her seat, Sophie fetched a glass of water from the fountain attendant.

  Lady Eleanor frowned, taking the glass. “Where is your water?”

  “Oh, I seem to have forgotten it,” Sophie replied absently as she scanned the crush of people. She both hoped and dreaded that Simon would come to the Pump Room this morning. After last night’s soul-shattering encounter, she should obviously speak to him in private, but she was dead certain he would respond with outrage when she announced her intention to put off their wedding. Better to spring it on him in a public place, where he’d be less likely to attempt intimidation.

  Or worse, try to kiss her into submission. Which, she had to admit, had a much better chance of working on her than intimidation.

  “Sophia, stop craning your neck like a stork.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Sophie stretched up a bit further—it really was inconvenient being so short—but couldn’t spy Simon anywhere. She let her gaze drift over the crowd, relaxing as she encountered nothing more than a few disapproving stares from the usual assortment of bombazine dragons. No doubt her behavior at Lady Penfield’s had occasioned a few choice tidbits of gossip this morning.

  Despite her fluttering nerves, Sophie couldn’t help snickering as she imagined the ton’s reaction to her engagement to Simon, and what it would mean for her. No one would dar
e snub the Countess of Trask. Perhaps there were some advantages to becoming his bride after all—aside from the obvious ones he had shown her last night.

  A moment later her laughter died when her eyes encountered the one person in Bath she least wanted to see, especially this morning.

  Lady Randolph headed toward their corner of the room, her lush body wrapped in wine-colored silk that made her auburn curls glow like flame. As usual, she had a handsome escort by her side, looking as if he, too, wished to wrap himself around her voluptuous body in the same clingy way as the fabric of her gown. Sophie didn’t recognize the man, but he seemed somehow familiar.

  Oh well, at least it’s not Simon doing the clinging.

  Her headache from last night, still lurking behind her eyeballs, returned full force under Lady Randolph’s malicious gaze. Why couldn’t the blasted woman just leave her alone?

  “My dear Lady Eleanor, Miss Stanton, how delightful to meet you this morning,” purred the countess. “Why, Miss Stanton, I had no expectations of seeing you at all.”

  “There’s no explaining your expectations, Lady Randolph,” replied Lady Eleanor, her voice frosty. “Why shouldn’t Sophia be out and about today?”

  “She seemed most unwell last night at Lady Penfield’s ball. Perhaps it was something she drank.”

  Lady Randolph’s escort laughed, earning him a hard-eyed stare from Lady Eleanor.

  “More like something she ate,” barked the old woman. “And who might this jackanapes be? You could remember your manners, Countess, and properly introduce him.”

  The other woman’s eyes narrowed, but she maintained her cream-pot smile. Sophie wished that, just once, the sophisticated widow would lose her poise in front of an audience.

  “Allow me to present Mr. Watley. He’s been in Bath for only a few days, which might explain why you haven’t seen him.”

  “My lady. Miss Stanton.”

  Mr. Watley gave a graceful, correct bow and returned his gaze to Sophie. He seemed fascinated by her, and with a sickening flash she realized she had seen him before. He was the man outside the theater. The man who had watched her with avid curiosity as she helped Toby inside Lady Eleanor’s carriage.