by Meara Platt
She nodded. “I suppose you do. I’m twenty years old. My brother, Thomas, died when I was sixteen. Childless. So his horrid ogre of a wife returned to her family and William became the new Baron Whitpool. He brought me back home. By then, he and our other brother, Gideon, had established a shipping company that hauled freight back and forth from the West Indies. Sugar. Spices. Rum.”
“They must have been successful businessmen.” He’d learned much in running the Westcliff properties as well as assisting to run this establishment. Even if one hired excellent managers, there was no substitute for one’s own diligence and attentiveness.
“Yes, they were. William never gave up his love of the sea. Despite his baronial responsibilities, he often joined Gideon on the shorter trips, sometimes to Ireland and sometimes to Flanders. They were caught last year in a sudden squall off the Irish Sea.” Her voice turned tremulous and raspy. “Both of my brothers drowned.”
He didn’t know what to say. So many losses in so short a span of time. He had three brothers of his own and could not imagine how he would have handled losing any of them. He felt a sudden pang of remorse. He hadn’t seen his family in a while. Perhaps he would stop by his mother’s townhouse for an overdue visit. Perhaps he’d invite this girl along when he did. “I’m so sorry, Abigail. Truly.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“No, call me Tynan. Or just Ty.” That’s what his brothers called him when they weren’t calling him something worse. They all loved each other, but they were brothers, after all. How else were they to show their love if not by mercilessly pounding on each other? “Call me whatever you wish.”
He did not bother with formality.
She hadn’t taken offense when he’d called her Abigail instead of Miss Croft. It felt right to do so. There was no propriety to their situation, especially not now with her sitting atop the silk sheets of his four-poster bed. He dragged the chair out from behind his desk and moved it near the bed. Turning it around, he rested his arms on its high back and sat straddling the seat so that he could face her.
The chair’s high back served as a barrier between them.
A necessary barrier, for she’d somehow stripped away his irritation. All he wanted to do was take her in his arms and comfort her.
In truth, he wanted to do much more.
But he wasn’t going to touch her. He’d promised.
She looked as soft and vulnerable as a gentle rabbit. His little rabbit. But he liked that she was also strong and spirited, ready to fight to save her last surviving brother. “Tell me more about Peter.”
What he really wanted to know was more about her.
Every blessed thing he could learn about her.
She curled her hands around the bedpost, as though the sad memories had cast her adrift and she needed to hold onto something solid that would serve as her anchor. “There isn’t much more to tell. He came home to take over the title and its responsibilities, but he’d been wounded during his military service and remains in terrible pain. The wounds never mended properly. No matter what the doctors have done to try to heal him, he awakens each morning in agony.”
“That’s how he ended up next door,” Tynan said, his voice barely above a murmur. “Each night he goes to that opium den to relieve the tormenting pain.”
She released a breath and nodded. “I want to take him home. I want to get him to the Whitpool estate by the seashore that he loves so much. I want to get him away from London and the bad influence of his friends. But I can’t do it alone and no one will help me.”
She gazed at him with her big, brandy-colored eyes.
Bollocks.
He only needed to give a responsive nod in sympathy. She wasn’t asking for his help. She was merely relating her tale of woe.
“Abigail…” Shut up, you idiot.
“Yes, my lord?”
He groaned.
What tempest was he about to sail into?
CHAPTER TWO
“WE’LL HAVE TO form a plan,” the Earl of Westcliff said, ignoring the fact that he didn’t know Abigail and owed her no obligation whatsoever. Quite the opposite, he’d saved her life. She was the one indebted to him.
Abigail gaped at this exquisite man with smoldering eyes that were the color of emeralds. A rich, dark green, flecked with the soft gray of burnt embers. He was big and brawny, not to mention handsome as sin. He’d told her that she could call him Tynan. Or Ty. She would call him her miracle angel, if he’d let her. “Are you saying that you’ll help me?”
He raked a hand through his head of wavy, blond hair. “Yes.”
Her fingers tightened around the bedpost, but what she really wanted to do was hold onto him. She wanted to rest her head against his broad shoulders and cry in relief that someone… finally… someone was going to help her.
But what fool would jump into such a situation?
The Earl of Westcliff had none of the vapid inanity one would associate with idiocy. Indeed, he was the farthest thing from foolish she could imagine. His brooding, dark gaze was sharp and assessing. No, this was a clever man, but not one who gave the impression of being particularly charitable. What favor would he seek from her in return? Perhaps he wasn’t her miracle angel after all. “I don’t understand. Why would you help me?”
He raked a hand through the thick waves of his hair again. “In truth, the reason eludes me. It could be because I have brothers, too. In many ways, Peter reminds me of my own cousin, James. He’s the Earl of Exmoor and I want you to meet him. I think it is important that you do.”
She nodded, deciding not to think too hard about his motives. He had saved her life tonight in more ways than one. “I look forward to it. Why does your cousin remind you of Peter?”
“James was wounded quite badly during the war, physically and… I don’t quite know how to explain his other injuries. They weren’t the sort of wounds one could see. His soul was shattered. We weren’t certain he would ever recover from that.”
“I understand. Skin heals. Broken bones mend. But how does one restore a lost soul?” She pursed her lips in thought. “You speak as though his torment is a thing of the past. What happened?”
Westcliff smiled. “Love happened.”
She leaned forward, eager to hear more. “Ah, love is the miracle cure for many ills. I believe that, I truly do.” But was a sister’s love for a brother enough to work a miracle on Peter? She understood that Westcliff was speaking of a different sort of love, the kind shared between a husband and wife. “Your cousin is very fortunate. I look forward to meeting his wife. She must be someone quite special.”
The earl’s nicely formed lips cracked wide as his smile broadened. “She is. You’ll like Sophie. You remind me a little of her. Soft on the outside, but forged of steel on the inside.”
Abigail shook her head and sighed. “You mistake me, my lord. I am soft and gooey inside and out. I haven’t helped my brother. Sometimes, I worry that I may have been too spineless and allowed him to fall into this abyss he seeks out nightly. I should have been doing all in my power to save him. We Crofts are headstrong. I pleaded with him, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“His situation isn’t your fault.”
“I try to convince myself of it, but the “ifs” plague me. If he hadn’t chosen to be a soldier. If he’d gotten better care. If I’d found him a better doctor. If I’d been there sooner to tend to him. If I’d fought harder to–”
“Stop, Abigail. Why do you impose this burden on yourself? You can’t fix everything. You can’t make people behave as you think they ought to behave. You can’t make them perfect.”
She nodded, knowing he was right and still feeling helpless about her brother’s slow and painful decline. “I’m not very good at business matters either. I understand what tasks need to be accomplished in order to maintain the Whitpool properties, but I can’t seem to carry them out on my own.”
“Bollocks,” Westcliff muttered, rising from his chair and moving to his mirro
r to fidget with the cravat he’d just grabbed out of his bureau and was now trying to form into a fashionable knot.
She studied him.
He was so handsome, he stole her breath away. He reminded her of a Roman gladiator, big and muscular and agile. Her heart had shot into her throat when he’d first stepped onto the street with his pistols drawn and wearing nothing but his boots and trousers. He’d appeared strong and invincible then and still did now, although he was now fussing and fumbling with the folds of silk, unable to make a decent knot.
She found this surprisingly endearing.
Other than failing at a task that any valet could master within a few minutes, did he have a weakness? If he did, she couldn’t find it. No, this gladiator was perfect. The fact that he was making an unfashionable mess of his cravat made him even more so. She smiled inwardly. True perfection was dull and dismaying. She liked that he couldn’t fashion a proper knot. “Let me help you.” Laughing, she rose from his bed to come to his side.
Good gracious!
From his bed?
She must have been more distressed than she realized, giving little thought to where she was… in his bedchamber… in his bed, and she was the one who’d foolishly asked for permission to sit there.
Yet, she now felt safe with this man.
It had not escaped her notice that he was putting on his clothes. Slowly, to be sure. First his shirt. Then his vest. Now his cravat. But it proved he was a gentleman at heart, one who would keep to his word.
He turned to her, wordlessly staring down at her as she put her trembling hands on the fine, green silk and began to fold and tuck the ends until they’d made a perfect knot at his throat. Up close, he was even bigger than he’d first appeared. His muscles, those that she’d grazed while working the sleek fabric into place, were granite-hard and taut.
She took a deep breath to compose herself, for this divine gladiator overwhelmed her. But it was a mistake to take that breath. His sandalwood scent surrounded her. He surrounded her, hot and male and rugged.
He made her weak in the knees.
Was there anything not wonderful about this man?
Of course, he was in a gentleman’s club and must have been engaged in dissolute and utterly deplorable activities before she’d interrupted him. Said deplorable activities must have been abruptly cut off when he’d run downstairs to rescue her. The heavy scent of exotic perfume lingered in the air, causing Abigail’s nostrils to twitch in irritation.
She sneezed. “Ugh, gardenias.” The woman he’d been with must have bathed in it, the odor was so strong. She sneezed again. “I mean. It’s none of my business who you bring up here.” She held her breath, feeling another tingling itch in her nose. “Achoo. But, how can you stand it?”
The gladiator earl withdrew his handkerchief and handed it to her. “It is strong,” he admitted with a grimace. “That’s why I was standing by the window. I’d just opened it when I saw you on the street.”
She turned away from him and crossed to the window, suddenly curious to know what he’d seen when peering out of it. She poked her head out and viewed the entire street. It was a clear, unobstructed view. That’s why he’d seen those three blackguards approaching her. Thank goodness. She wouldn’t have noticed them until they were almost upon her.
Another man might have ignored her peril, shut the window, and returned to his carnal pleasures.
But the Earl of Westcliff had run downstairs to save her.
She turned to face him, curious to know whether he’d sent the woman away.
If so, where was she now?
“She isn’t coming back.” His gaze was on her lips, and she realized that she was nibbling her lower lip, something she often did when puzzling out a problem.
She gasped, embarrassed that he could read her thoughts. “How did you know what I was thinking?”
“Those big, brandy-colored eyes of yours,” he said, his voice warm and husky. “They hide nothing.”
He took a step toward her so that he was standing too close.
Deliciously close.
He tipped his head toward hers and leaned forward. Was he going to kiss her?
More important, was she going to let him?
“Abigail, might I…” The deep, resonant timbre of his voice sent a thrill up her spine and through her limbs. “That is… would you…”
“Yes.” It suddenly seemed vitally important that her first kiss should be with someone meaningful, not to mention devastatingly handsome and knowledgeable about such matters. The earl easily met all those requirements. He’d saved her life. He was handsome enough to make a girl swoon. He was rakish enough to make her first kiss unforgettable.
She was about to close her eyes and tip her head up, when he breathed a sigh of relief and moved away. “Thank you. I do not wish to impose on you. Or insult you in any way. But I can’t put these blasted things on my cuffs without help and I can’t very well summon my valet while you’re in here.” He held out his hand, palm up, to reveal two shiny, gold squares with a large W etched into each square.
Cufflinks?
Her stomach sank into her toes.
That’s what he wanted? Not a kiss, but a valet to help him put on his cufflinks. “Yes. I’m happy to help. No insult taken, my lord. None at all. My, they’re splendid. Are they heirlooms carried down through the generations from Westcliff earl to Westcliff earl?” She sighed. “We have no such traditions, unfortunately. The Whitpool barons seem to take turns finding new and destructive ways to tarnish the title.” She was rambling now, too ashamed to admit her disappointment in not receiving a kiss, and too appalled to think she would have allowed it.
That was an understatement.
She was giddy for his touch, craved to feel the warmth of his lips pressed against hers.
Suddenly, it was the only thing that mattered. She’d been without warmth for so much of her life.
She hadn’t missed it before, not like this.
Her brothers had loved her, but three of them were already gone. Now, Peter was slipping away. She couldn’t bear it. There was a gaping hole in her heart, one that was growing wider by the day. A gaping hole and an aching need for someone to fill the painful void it had created, someone to hold her, to be strong for her, to assure her that everything would turn out sunshine and roses.
She took one of the cufflinks from the earl’s outstretched palm. “I’ll do your right wrist first, my lord.”
“Tynan.”
She nodded. “Quite so.”
It was a tactical impossibility to put the little gold square through his cuff without touching him. His skin was warm. His hands were big. Hers were small and shaking. “Who would have thought it? My father sired four sons and not one of them managed to sire a son of their own, legitimate or otherwise, to carry on the title. Peter is the last hope. I suggested to him that it is his duty to carry on the family name, but he merely scoffed at me.”
She switched to his left wrist and began to fuss with that gold link. “He doesn’t want a wife. He doesn’t want to secure the family’s future. Sometimes, I think he doesn’t want to live. Not like this.” She took a deep breath. “He’s in so much pain. I don’t know how to help him.”
Had she said too much?
Would he now retract his offer of assistance?
Why couldn’t she just keep her mouth shut? “Forgive me, my lord.”
“Tynan.”
“Yes, indeed.” She swallowed hard. “I don’t usually chatter like this. In truth, I never chatter. Not that you’d ever guess because I’m still… chattering.”
“Abigail,” he cupped her cheek in the rough, warm palm of his hand. “I know I said I’d have my driver bring my carriage around to take you home, but would you mind waiting a little while longer? I can’t leave for another hour yet.” He frowned lightly. “I don’t want you returning alone to an empty house. Let me escort you to your door.”
She smiled in appreciation, trying not to be so obvious
in her desperation to soak in every ounce of his kindness and his comforting touch. “I won’t be alone. We keep a staff of six at our townhouse. They’re very protective of me. They think I’m safely asleep in my bed.”
His frown deepened. “How will you get back inside? Don’t you lock your doors at night?”
“Oh, yes. We do.” His hand was still on her cheek and she was still absorbing his ruggedly gentle touch. She cleared her throat. “Um, I climbed out of my bedchamber window. There’s a trellis that hugs the wall directly under it. All I need to do is climb back up the trellis and haul myself over the sill. I left my window slightly open.”
“You might fall.” He slipped his hand from her cheek. “I’ll bring you to the front door.”
“Oh, no. You mustn’t.” She shook her head vehemently. “You’ll only disturb my staff. Don’t they have enough to worry about? But I’d be most grateful if you’d help me sneak back inside. The trellis was a little wobbly. You can hold it for me. I’d appreciate that, my lord.”
“Tynan.”
“As you wish.”
He laughed softly. “Why won’t you call me that?”
Heat soared into her cheeks, not to mention every other part of her body, for he had a dangerous effect on her. “I’ve known you less than half an hour. It feels improper.”
He arched an eyebrow in obvious surprise. “Are you serious? You’re in my bedchamber in a not-so-proper gentlemen’s club, in the middle of the night, and you’ve already seen me half naked.”
“But you’re fully dressed now.” Oh, my. She certainly had seen him unclothed and her heart was still dancing a merry tune because of that sight. A lively Highland jig, to be specific.
He turned away to retrieve his jacket, donning it while she gaped at him. It seemed a dreadful shame to cover up those spectacular muscles. It also struck her as odd that he was now fully clothed. Didn’t such arrangements usually work the other way around? The parties in question walked in fully clothed and then stripped off their garments to engage in who knows what, because she certainly didn’t know what that who knows what was that took place in the privacy of a bachelor earl’s tawdry nest.