Earl of Westcliff: Wicked Regency Romance (Wicked Earls' Club)

by Meara Platt

  “Please don’t take it personally. I don’t want to marry anyone.” His breath tickled her ear. It would truly help if he backed up.

  “I understand entirely,” she replied, and she did. A rake was as unappealing to her as a wallflower likely was to him. Though she appreciated him not coming out and saying it.

  “But an earl would make a good catch for you, so I am puzzling out your resistance.” His hand brushed the small of her back in a gesture that was entirely inappropriate and ruining her concentration.

  Picking her next words carefully, she took a deep breath. “I make no assumption that I shall find love, but I would prefer a husband that wanted my company.”

  “Lady Tabitha, turn around,” he commanded. She hesitated for a second and then it was as though her feet had a mind of their own as she turned to finally look at him. Catching her breath, her eyes devoured his face. He was even more handsome this close with strong cheekbones and full lips that tilted in the slightest smile. They looked soft and enticing and she reached her gloved hand up as though to touch her fingers to them.

  She was a woman who always had her wits about her. But in this moment, she couldn’t put a single thought together as he too assessed her.

  “Now we are having an actual conversation.” One of his eyebrows arched up.

  “Really? I preferred when I faced the window,” she mumbled, lowering her hand. She blinked and looked away, trying to call her wayward body back to heel.

  “And why is that?” His voice was so close. His lips enticing as they twitched with amusement.

  “Must every woman in England tell you?” She turned away again.

  Surprise rippled through Luke for at least the third time since he had entered the room. Lady Tabitha was a known wallflower, that was a fact, but how could she be that blasted pretty and not be noticed? Granted her features erred on the side of sweet rather than seductive, luminous blue eyes, thick wavy auburn hair that looked barely contained by pins. He wondered what it might look like spread across a crisp white pillow.

  Her nose was tiny and adorable with a little sprinkling of freckles. He had the distinct urge to kiss each one as he counted them. As she stood facing the window, he assessed the curve of her backside, which he declared delightfully perfect.

  While she wasn’t tall, as was currently in fashion with the ton, she looked just the right size to fit against him, her curves softening his hard edges in all the best ways.

  He tried to decide what he might ask her first. What should every woman in England tell him? He already knew Lady Tabitha was referring to his looks. But what had she meant before about him not liking her? “Why would you think I wouldn’t want your company?”

  She turned back to him then, surprise written on her adorable features. “I would have thought it obvious.”

  “To you perhaps, but I would enjoy being enlightened.” His hand drifted to her hip. It was less than appropriate but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. Despite being a known rake and a member of the Wicked Earls’ Club, he had boundaries. He kept his attention to women who understood what it meant for a man to be a rake. Widows, light skirts, and the like. Generally, he stayed far away from young ladies of marriageable age. And when forced into their company, he kept his hands firmly to himself. The last thing he needed was to encourage a marriage-minded mama.

  He asked himself why Lady Tabitha was different. Perhaps because he thought they would marry after all? But no, that wasn’t it. It seemed to be that he wanted to touch her. He couldn’t remember the last time he desired to touch a woman this much.

  “Well, I am a wallflower to begin. Everyone knows it.”

  “You chose to be so. Leaving balls as early as possible, declining dances until men stopped asking. Flaying the few men who persist with your tongue.”

  “That was only Lord Carrington. He was rather rude.” Her chin tilted up to a jaunty angle and he had to grin.

  She had real spirit. Luke couldn’t help but admire it. He wondered if she would be this feisty in bed. Delicious heat curled in his loins at the thought.

  “Good for you. Now continue, why wouldn’t I want your company?”

  “Well, I spend my time feeding the homeless and helping at orphanages.” She raised her eyebrows, as though that meant something. Her hand came to her other hip. Even with his large hand encircling her waist, she had spirit. He found that he liked it immensely.

  “Yes?” His voice rumbled and he saw color rise in her cheeks. What was she thinking?

  “What do you spend your days doing, my lord?”

  Surprise again flitted across his features. The little chit was judging him. What was more, she had found him to be lacking. It was he who was supposed to reject her. “Why you little…”

  “Tut tut.” She raised her finger between them and he had the absurd urge to kiss it, lick it. Mayhap give it a little nibble. “You don’t want to marry me either, remember.”

  “With a tongue like that—” he started but he saw the hurt cross her face. Her luscious lips turned down at the corners, her eyes crinkled and her shoulders dropped. Then she straightened back up. He admired her tenacity and a little guilt wiggled through him that he had made her feel such. Truly he didn’t mind a little banter; in fact, he quite enjoyed it. A woman with no spark would be dull indeed and he shouldn’t have said it.

  “But you’re right about neither of us wanting to marry. What do you propose?”

  Her frown turned to a glowing smile in a second and he basked in its radiance. It lit her face, making him smile in return. “I’m so glad you agree. I can’t ruin our relationship. I’ll never socially recover. But you, you’re a known rake. You could be caught tupping a maid or—”

  His body clenched and damn it all to hell if his cock didn’t swell at the word tupping coming from her full sweet lips. If only he could tup her. The swell of her hips begged for his other hand. “Did you just suggest I tup a maid?”

  “Yes, but you must be caught.” She gave him an eager nod.

  “This is your plan?” His eyebrows lifted as he assessed her.

  One of her fingers rested on her bottom lip as she considered him. He wanted to replace that finger with his mouth. But she seemed unaware of how she was affecting him as she spoke. “My parents only told me of your visit this morning. I am sure they didn’t want me to have much time for planning.”

  His eyebrows rose higher. “Do you scheme often?”

  “Only when necessary.” Her tone implied that should be obvious. He tried to hide his grin. Damned if she wasn’t interesting.

  “You are a lady. How do you even know what tupping is?”

  “You’d be amazed what you hear when by the wall.” She gave him a grin. Her eyes danced with a merriment that was infectious.

  “You do realize whatever maid I was caught with would be sacked.” He crossed his arms then but immediately regretted it. He missed her heat under his hand, the feel of her body.

  But he had to stop thinking this way. While this entire conversation had been far more entertaining than he’d ever dreamed possible, it would probably be best to put it to an end.

  “Drat.” Her little slippered foot stomped on the plush carpet. He’d like to see that foot, and the calf attached to it. Perhaps he’d slide her skirt higher up her thigh until he…

  “Lady Tabitha, you’ve been over by that window for far too long. Please come back to the settee,” her chaperone called.

  “Keep thinking of ideas.” Her gloved hand rested upon his lapel covering his pin emblazoned with the W. His body clenched again and his fingers itched to return to her hip. “We must come up with a plan quickly. Meet me in the library tonight at the stroke of twelve so that we may decide what to do.”

  It was a terrible idea. If caught, there would be no escaping marriage. But, it was also exceedingly fun and the last thing he had ever expected from this meeting today. And so, he was absolutely going.

  Want to read more of the Earl of Sussex? Click here:
books2read.com/earlofsussex

  READ ON FOR A SNEAK PEEK OF COLLETTE CAMERON’S EARL OF WAINTHORPE

  EARL OF WAINTHORPE

  18 May 1817

  London, England

  BY GOD. AT long last, Pierce had the poltroon.

  Idly grazing his thumb along the lower edges of his playing cards, he raised his gaze to meet Bertram Normand, the twelfth Baron Fairfax’s triumphant stare. Mindful to keep his expression bored, Pierce brushed an indifferent glance over the former soldier. His regard lingered for a fraction on the crescent-shaped scar marring Fairfax’s right hand before he directed his attention once more to his opponent’s flushed face.

  “Well, Wainthorpe?” Fairfax wheezed. “Ready to concede defeat?”

  The other players, James, the amiable Earl of Pembroke and Alistair, Earl of Benton exchanged a swift glance. Did they sense this was more than a simple game of Loo?

  The perspiration beading the baron’s forehead, as well as the repeated darting of his tongue to moisten the corners of his mouth, exposed the older man’s excitement. From the cunning glint in his bloodshot blue eyes, he thought sure he had won this hand.

  Newly titled, in debt up to his sly brows, his estates mortgaged to their cornices and corbels, and possessed of an insatiable thirst for spirits, Fairfax needed to win. Was bloody desperate to, actually.

  Pierce, on the other hand, was not.

  Already an earl and the successor to a duchy, he had also inherited a substantial sum from his East Indian Munda mother. Which made him rich, and more importantly, powerful. And hell-bent on retribution because of the actions of the man sitting opposite him.

  Three pairs of gazes—two congenial, if somewhat glassy from indulging in the expensive cognac Lady Lockhart provided—peered at Pierce expectantly across the table. Teeming with cocky self-confidence, Fairfax believed he had Pierce by the ballocks.

  Exactly what Pierce had manipulated him into thinking.

  So easy to do, too.

  A frustrated frown here. A hefty sigh there. Nervously playing his fingertips atop the table. Even an occasional grimace or biting the corner of his mouth.

  Each a sham. All with one purpose. To lure Fairfax into a snare he couldn’t escape from.

  Pierce’s blood hummed through his veins in anticipation, a satisfying mantra of long-awaited vindication. He expected to feel more elation, more exhilaration. After all, he’d waited two decades for this moment.

  True, for a man accustomed to doing what he wanted, who enjoyed thumbing his nose at the haut ton’s strictures, and whose position and influence made most things possible with an idle flick of his finger, excitement was a rare commodity.

  That must be it. He had been bored, restless, discontent for so long, nothing much stirred him anymore. He needed a challenge. Something invigorating. Outrageous. Scandalous even. Anything to shake him from this unfeeling stupor.

  An urgent whisper, the voice melodic, yet heavy with censure and distress interrupted the tense silence. A tall, lithe woman had maneuvered her way to stand beside the baron. “Halt this idiocy at once. I insist you come away now.”

  Awareness prickled across Pierce’s shoulders and down his backbone.

  Who the devil was she?

  “Cease your endless harping, gel,” Fairfax snapped, his florid face flaming darker. His vehement head shake sent his mutton-chop adorned jowls to jiggling. Harrumphing his annoyance again, he yanked on his ear while cutting her a rancorous look. “Or I shall send you packing back to Elmswood Parke tonight.”

  “Horse feathers and hen’s teeth, Cousin.” Her cute nose scrunching the tiniest bit, she shook her fan at him in much the same way as a cat twitches its tail when piqued. “We both know you’ll do no such thing.”

  An overtone of proud defiance tempered her response.

  Cutting his hand toward her, Fairfax grumbled into his brandy glass. “Don’ know why I let you talk me into draggin’ you to London.”

  “Because, Cousin, doors are open to me that you cannot place your shoes-in-desperate-need-of-a-good-polish anywhere near.” She sounded more matter-of-fact than boastful or sarcastic, and Pierce found himself rather admiring her pluck.

  “Your jus’ an extra ’spense I can ill afford.” The baron eyed the cache atop the table, a distinct lustful glint crinkling the corners of his eyes. Obviously peeved, he scratched his jaw. “And with a tongue sharp enough to curl the bark off a Scotch pine, a constant, aggravating pain in my arse.”

  Slapping his knee, he dissolved into a fit of short-lived laughter.

  “That would be your gout paining you from too much meat and drink.” Twin spots of color accenting her high cheekbones, she squared her shoulders, slanted her chin to a regal angle, and with an agile twist of her long fingers, unfurled her fan. “And I might add, your eloquent speech continues to stagger.”

  Fairfax’s ready glower checked the titters and chuckles accompanying her retort, but not Pierce’s reluctant smile.

  By Jove, she was bloody entertaining.

  Another time, Pierce might’ve appreciated the woman’s barbed rejoinders much more. Instead, he only spared her a cursory glance.

  Nonetheless, he quite liked what he saw.

  He appreciated willowy, feminine forms. Particularly when they were naked and lying across his cherry-red sheets. Milky white, svelte limbs entwined with his olive skin—

  With single-minded determination, he slammed the door on his lurid imagination.

  For now.

  From beneath his hooded gaze, he cut her another covert glance. Not a woman easily forgotten or disregarded.

  She noticed his perusal, and elevated a winged brow. The tiniest hint of chagrin shadowed the edges of her oval face.

  Pierce forced his focus back to the game.

  He’d anticipated this opportunity, planned and schemed for this moment for far too many years to entertain pity about Fairfax’s treatment of the chit. Besides, Pierce never—truly never—harbored any sentiment stronger than warm regard toward females. With the exception of his sisters and nieces, that was.

  The rustle of fine silks and satins and the rhythmic swishing of ladies’ fans increased. More privileged and jaded guests took note of the high stakes and maneuvered nearer the table to witness the outcome. Their anticipation tangible, they approached, much like hounds closing in on a prey’s fresh scent.

  “We are waiting, Wainthorpe. Are you in or out?”

  Fairfax played his fingers along the table’s edge. Then, as if realizing his actions exposed his uneasiness, he bent his other hand and casually touched two knuckles to his mouth.

  Patience was not the baron’s strong suit, and Pierce intended to use that flaw against him.

  “Let’s dispense with tokens, shall we?” Brow and mouth quirked, Pierce shoved the entire stack of notes before him to the table’s center.

  Fans swished faster as muffled gasps and one low whistle accompanied his brazen move. Many peers’ fortunes had been reversed with the careless flip of a card or a toss of dice. Doubtless the onlookers thought him a hapless fool or an idiot who’d taken leave of his senses. Those were two of the more polite things London’s upper crust had called him.

  Their opinions meant naught, however.

  Never had. Never would.

  Years ago, when he’d first arrived in England, many of these same people had elevated their noses or pulled their skirts aside when he came near. His half-Munda heritage was a black mark upon him. As if ancestry and lineage molded a person’s character for good or bad. Many of the blue-bloods standing nearby kept secrets well-hidden that were far more objectionable than mixed blood.

  So at every opportunity, Pierce tossed their conventions and rules to the wind. More like kicked them to next winter. Only of late, even that ceased producing the usual wry twist of his lips.

  Tonight, however, he was intent on one thing.

  He trained his full attention on the man across the table from him.

  A man he despi
sed with every deceptively calm breath he drew. Since as a small, terrified lad of seven, he bit the then Captain Normand’s hand until the coppery taste of blood filled Pierce’s mouth. Before the cull cudgeled him with the butt of his pistol.

  Hours later he awoke, blood blurring his vision, and saw his AamA, his mother…

  Not now!

  Pierce bore a scar an inch above his right temple from the blow. A reminder of why he despised Fairfax each time he glanced into a mirror or touched the triangular mark. Jaw clamped until his teeth threatened to crack, Pierce dropped his gaze to the ante. A quick calculation sent his pulse stampeding.

  Just under five and seventy thousand pounds.

  Since Fairfax inherited the barony and skulked back to England a year ago, Pierce had systematically bought the baron’s debts. Those, along with tonight’s losses would pitch the unconscionable devil’s spawn bulbous nose over fat arse into bankruptcy.

  Destitution. Ruination.

  No, this was justice; blast Fairfax’s black soul to perdition.

  Pierce’s pulse surged, and his stomach clenched into a gnarled tangle of anticipation, revenge, satisfaction, and yes—a trifling stab of remembered pain. Yet, as was his habit, he arranged his features into passiveness. Something he mastered as a child to buffer the scorn and ridicule often directed toward him by the upper ten thousand.

  So close now, AamA.

  Would Fairfax take the bait? Would his greed and arrogance plummet him into the gutters where he belonged?

  “I’m no fool.” Chuckling and shaking his head, Pembroke laid his cards neatly upon the table, then pushed them away. Relaxing into his chair, he tossed back the last of his cognac while eyeing Pierce and their cohort, Benton over the glass’s rim.

  A small pin—the letter W—on their tailored jacket lapels revealed their membership in the exclusive Wicked Earls’ Club. A secret society for unrepentant and wholly irredeemable rakes and rapscallions. No one but the members knew the pins’ significance. If an earl lost all sense of reason and took that fateful step into matrimony, he must still protect the identity of the remaining unshackled peers.