The Earl of Pembroke: A League of Rogue’s novel

by Lauren Smith

  James held out his hand to her in a silent invitation. Refuse. Walk away. Be sensible.

  Gillian buried the voice beneath a surge of foolish hope in her chest. She placed her hand in his, and he led her down a garden path, away from the succession houses and walled gardens.

  “So you know my likes and dislikes?”

  “Yes. Let’s see.” He tucked her hand on his arm, bringing their bodies even closer. “You enjoy riding but don’t get to do so nearly as much you would like, you adore Christmas, and you love to read more than anything else. You cannot stand the taste of duck, and you aren’t terribly accomplished at drawing or playing instruments.”

  “Accomplished? Heavens, you gentlemen have such high standards. What I wouldn’t give to be measured like a man. Am I quick-witted? Am I good with numbers in business?”

  James chuckled. “I always thought a lady’s accomplishments in the arts were a bit silly. I mean, it’s damned impressive to see my sister’s embroidery, but it gives me very little to discuss with her. Thank heavens Letty is a reader like you.” He glanced her way, a mischievous grin on his lips. “If you were a gentleman, what would you do with your day?”

  She pondered the question. The birds in the trees chattered lightly as the two of them crunched gravel beneath their boots, giving an eerie sense that this moment could last forever, and she wanted it to.

  “I suppose I would wish to be in trade. I’m not one for sitting still. I would open a shop, a bookshop, and enjoy running it immensely.”

  “I like that.” James chuckled. His rich and deep voice reminded her all too much of the night he had made love to her.

  “And you?” Gillian asked. “If you weren’t running your estate, what would you do?”

  “That’s simple. I’d come to work at your bookshop. I promise I could take orders quite well.” He winked at her, and she flushed.

  He sobered as they reached a set of stairs leading up to a terrace, as if he knew that they would part ways soon. Gillian moved up a few steps, but he turned her back to face him.

  “Gillian, I want to…know you. I think if you gave me the chance, I could court you properly. But if you keep running away from me, I…” He grasped her hands in his. “Do you not feel what I feel?” He stared down at their hands and intertwined his fingers with hers. “When I’m with you, it’s like my heart is shot through with fire and light, and yet I feel a tranquility I’ve never known was possible. Tell me, am I mistaken? Am I the only one who feels this between us?” When he looked up at her, their faces were on an even level because she’d taken a step ahead of him on the stairs.

  “I…” A thousand yeses sat on the tip of her tongue, but she was afraid to voice them. She could not let this madness continue. “It doesn’t matter what I feel. What matters is that I’m not the woman for you, Lord Pembroke. I’m sorry.”

  The light of hope burning in his eyes dimmed. She marveled at how even in sorrow he looked wonderfully handsome.

  “Who’s to say you are not? Is there another? If so, then I will…” He choked on the words. “I will relent. But if you don’t…”

  She should have lied, told him that she belonged to someone else, but she couldn’t. “There is no other.”

  His eyes brightened again, and her heart jolted. “Then you feel something for me. If you did not, you would dismiss my wish to court you with ease.”

  Gillian couldn’t deceive him, at least not in regards to her feelings. “I admit, it is my feelings for you that make resisting you so difficult.”

  Before she could react, he pulled her into his arms, kissing her. The memory of being in his embrace, skin to skin, came flooding back to her. His kisses stoked that gentle fire inside her, bringing it to a roar. In the wake of a kiss like that, she was powerless to resist.

  “Please. Let me court you.” His hand slid slowly down her spine, holding her him to her, gentle but possessive.

  “James…” She sighed his name, but no other words came out.

  “Remind me how to live, Gillian. Give me a chance to show you in return. It’s all I ask of you. A chance.”

  A chance. A chance to live. It was all she’d ever dreamed, ever hoped for, but it could never last. It could only be a beautiful illusion that would someday be exposed for the lie it was.

  “Please, my love.” James kissed her again, with a tenderness that brought tears to her eyes.

  “I… Yes… You may court me.” The moment the words left her lips, she knew she was damned, but her desire to experience life outweighed the knowledge that it would soon come crashing down around her.

  He laughed in triumph as he pulled back to look at her. “Then let’s go riding.”

  “Right now? The guests are still arriving.”

  “I don’t give a bloody damn about them. I only want to be with you.” His boyish delight and the warmth of his arms around her muddled her good sense.

  “I…I suppose no one would miss us if we weren’t gone for very long.”

  “No one shall miss us. That’s the benefit of a large house party.” He gripped her hand, and they dashed off toward the stables, laughing like children.

  For the first time in her life, Gillian felt free.

  Miss Venetia Sharpe stood on the back terrace of Rochester Hall facing the gardens, and she gasped when she saw something utterly scandalous. James Fordyce, the Earl of Pembroke, was kissing a woman. Not kissing her hand or even the somewhat risqué greeting the French did with their cheek kisses. No, this was a passionate embrace with open mouths and wandering hands.

  “Good Lord!” She covered her mouth. She stared at them for a moment longer before she realized they might see her. She ducked behind the part of the house near the door that led back inside. Peering around the corner, she glimpsed Pembroke and the woman running off together, hand in hand, toward the stables. Venetia glanced about and saw a young footman just inside the door. When she approached him, he opened the door for her, and she pointed back to the gardens.

  “You know that woman, the lady with the Earl of Pembroke?” Venetia, as the daughter of a wealthy viscount, knew that servants were aware of nearly everything in the house and could be counted on to gossip for the right price.

  The footman glanced down at his booted feet.

  “Come on, you must tell me. She is a guest here for the party. I really ought to know her name so I won’t look foolish when we meet for dinner this evening.”

  Her words seem to relax the young man. “That’s Miss Gillian Beaumont.”

  “Gillian Beaumont?” Venetia tapped her chin. She knew nearly everyone of consequence in London, and she only knew one family that bore the name of Beaumont. The Earl of Morrey and his sister, Caroline.

  “Is she from London? Or does she hail from the country?” she asked the footman. Again, his gaze strayed away from her.

  “I don’t rightly know, miss,” he said apologetically. “I’m new here, you see. Only started last week. I only know her name is Miss Beaumont because she was pointed out to me. I helped take her travel case from her coach.”

  “Hmm…” Venetia turned back to the window, frowning.

  Lord Pembroke was considered quite a catch, and Venetia had spent three Seasons doing her best to catch his attention, but to no avail. So, naturally, to see the man she wished to marry kissing a woman in the gardens like a man would kiss his mistress was upsetting.

  Venetia curled her hands into fists but maintained her composure. She knew what she must do—write to Leticia Fordyce and inform her of her brother’s reckless actions. She would also write to Lord Morrey and politely inquire if he had some cousins in the country. Venetia needed to know who her competition was. She wanted to be the Countess of Pembroke, and she would do anything to secure that for her future.

  7

  Gillian laughed as her horse galloped ahead of James’s along a field of wildflowers and wheat-colored grass. A late summer had lingered this year, leaving the field glowing with color and life. The thunder of
hooves behind her made her glance over her shoulder. James was grinning astride a black gelding. Their eyes met, and he smacked his riding crop on his horse’s flank. The beast took the command quite seriously, and James was suddenly racing alongside her.

  “First one to the road wins!” he shouted.

  Gillian leaned low over her own horse, gripping the reins tight, listening to the mare’s steady but labored breaths.

  “Come on, you can beat him,” she whispered in the horse’s ear. Then she gave her mare a kick, and the horse picked up its pace. Just enough to pull ahead.

  The end of the road came all too soon. She laughed as she reined the horse in till it was huffing and dancing in place.

  James steered his horse close to hers, their knees touching in a light bump. “You won.” She’d had the groom give her a regular saddle rather than a sidesaddle since she was more comfortable riding with her legs braced on either side. Her skirts were raised far too scandalously, but no one could see them out here.

  “I believe you held him back,” Gillian said, out of breath with her own excitement.

  “Of course not! A man would never willingly lose.”

  “A gentleman might,” she countered with a knowing smile. He was always the gentleman with her and would no doubt let her win.

  “Perhaps. It depends on how much he likes the lady he is racing against.” He guided his horse closer to hers and then glanced about. “Why don’t we walk them to that copse of trees and let them graze a bit?”

  “All right.” Gillian started to dismount, but James was already off his saddle and gently took hold of her waist to help lower her to the ground.

  They stayed close a moment, bodies pressed against each other, his breath warming her skin before he released her. James cleared his throat and stepped back, and she regained her control, brushing her dress down to loosen some dust from the ride. They walked their mounts to the trees he had pointed out and looped the reins of their horses over a low branch.

  They moved through the field, side by side, neither speaking as a breeze drifted through the meadow. The white clouds above them billowed and climbed up on one another. Gillian studied the skies and looked at James. The wind teased his dark brown hair, and a faint smile played upon his lips. Never in her life had she seen anything so beautiful as the late-afternoon sun illuminating hints of red and gold amid the chocolate-colored strands of his hair.

  He suddenly reached for her hand. “Tell me something about you, about your childhood.” She hadn’t worn gloves, and the feel of his skin against hers brought back flashes of their wonderful night together.

  “My childhood?” She watched as he stroked his index finger in intricate patterns over her palm. The intensity of his focus and the sensual, tender touch filled her heart with new forbidden hungers. She’d promised that one night was all she could have with him, but fate had given her another few days. Could she take a chance and enjoy them?

  “Yes. Tell me anything. I’m desperate to know you, the real you.” His tone was beseeching, and she found she didn’t want to deny him anything. She met his gaze with sudden fear. Could he know she was masquerading as a lady?

  “The real me?”

  “Yes. Everyone has a public face, but who we are when we are out in society isn’t always who we really are.” His observations of society and the people in it was a credit to the depth of his character.

  “Oh.” She bit her lip wondering if there might be a different James, one she’d never met. “Then I must assume the same is true of you. You should go first.”

  His low chuckle made her smile. “Always one step ahead of me. Very well.” He eased into a relaxed sitting position on the grass, and she joined him. The gold grass of the meadow had grown to the point that when they sat it came up to their shoulders, and she felt strangely safe and hidden from the world. James still held her hand as he started to speak.

  “My father loved maps. He collected them. He had maps from all over the world, and I used to go into his study when I was a boy to look at them. He had a large globe, one on a spindle that I could carefully move so it would spin in lazy circles. I loved to see the continents flying before my eyes, the gilded lettering of the country names flashing in gold light and—” He stopped abruptly, looking to the sky.

  “And what?” she prodded.

  “I used to close my eyes and for a brief instant pretend I could fly.” He pointed to a bird circling in the distance. “Just like that, like a falcon, soaring over the world.” He peeked up at her from beneath his dark gold lashes, his face slightly ruddy. “It sounds foolish, I suspect.”

  “No! It sounds wonderful. I have always loved to watch the hawks in the meadow, how they seem to hover on the wind as they search for mice. It’s a powerful feeling, imagining the ability to fly. Even Leonardo da Vinci had such dreams. Have you seen the sketches of his flying apparatus?”

  James nodded. “Indeed I have. Quite extraordinary.” He raised her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her hand before he closed her fingers, as though sealing his kiss there.

  “Your turn,” he said, watching her with rapt attention.

  A blush crept into her cheeks, and she felt a sudden lump in her throat. She would never get used to this man watching her in this manner, to being seen as something other than a servant.

  “My father—” She cleared her throat, trying to bury the flood of emotions he brought up. “He wasn’t around for much of my childhood. He had duties that kept him away. But when he was there, he used to love quizzing me. He paid for me to have excellent tutors. I wasn’t sent to any finishing schools; rather, he wanted my education to be special. He often said that no child of his, regardless of gender, would be lacking in education.” She paused, smiling a little at the memory.

  “A man who believes in the education of women. I would have liked him.”

  “You would have,” she agreed. “My father was kept away from my mother and I due to business so we didn’t see him except for a few times a week. We used to sit for afternoon tea, and he would ask me questions. Each time I got the answer correct, he gave me a slice of pineapple. They are so rare that we didn’t get to eat them very often. Yet he always tried to find one and bring it with him when he came home. I remember how he used to laugh when the cook would frown and grumble about cutting it open. It has such a thick and prickly exterior.” She smiled, still able to see her father’s face as he would hand her slices of pineapple.

  “He sounds like a wonderful man.”

  “He was,” she agreed. Her father had suffered so much sorrow after losing his first wife, and he had truly loved her mother and her. She only wished he had married her mother, but the match would have been beyond scandalous. Her mother had been born in a brothel and raised to please men. She’d never had a chance to live a life of quality, other than as a man’s mistress. But her father had met her at a gambling hell one night and whisked her away to her own happy life—as happy as one could be, anyway. She turned her attention back to her story, trying to banish her heartache.

  “He always gave himself a slice when I got a question right too.” She laughed. “I wish…” Her throat tightened, and for a moment she was unable to continue.

  “What do you wish?” James reached up and cupped her chin, turning her face to his. The truth of who she really was nearly slipped out, but she kept control.

  “I wish I’d had more time with him before he died.”

  “How old were you when he passed?” James brushed the pad of his thumb over her chin. She shivered as little pulses of heat flared up inside her.

  “Only fifteen. Once he was gone, I knew everything would change. I had grown up in a safe little cocoon, but when he died my mother and I struggled because he hadn’t set up an allowance for us. She was always delicate, and she didn’t have the constitution to survive without him. She loved him so very much.” She couldn’t help but think of James’s mother, how alone and lost she was, how her illness had robbed her of so much o
f her life too soon. Despite being so different from James, she shared more with him than she’d realized.

  “I was sixteen when my father died,” James said quietly. “Even though my mother is still alive, I feel a bit like an orphan some days. The guilt of that tears me up at times.” His voice was hoarse when he met her eyes, and then he looked away, as though afraid he’d revealed too much of his heart to her. He tilted his head back, basking in the sun. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to stay here just like this?” He leaned back on his elbows with his booted feet straight out and crossed at the ankles.

  “Yes, it would,” she agreed. She didn’t want to think about her life without James or how it would end when the house party was over and they would both return to their lives. A sudden desperation filled her, and she leaned over, placing a hand on his chest.

  “Kiss me, please,” she whispered.

  “I thought you would never ask.” He reached up and curled one hand around her neck, pulling her head down to his. Their lips met with a divine fire, and she trembled at the sweetness of it. Her body came alive at his touch, demanding everything he could give to her. James seemed to sense her urgency and rolled her beneath him in the grass. He kissed her with a savage intensity, and her thighs fell apart to allow him to lie on top of her.

  “I rushed last time—it went too fast. I won’t make that mistake again,” he vowed. “You deserve the best a man can give his woman.”

  His woman. Those two words turned her heart over in her chest. Despite her constantly telling him that they could not be together, everything in his actions said he would marry her tomorrow if he could. She dared not think too long about how wonderful that made her feel, because she couldn’t let it happen.

  She curled her arms around his neck and pulled his head down to hers. But he didn’t kiss her for long. His lips moved down her throat, her collarbone, and finally to the curves of her breasts. For once she cursed the protective layer of her clothes, just as did he.