Never Dare a Wicked Earl

by Renee Ann Miller

  “Celia will sleep a good while,” he said, seeming to read her thoughts. He closed the distance between them with the light-footed grace of a cat.

  “Do you wish to play cards, or do you have business to attend to?” she asked, taking a single step back.

  “I have canceled all my appointments today, and I fear a game of cards holds little appeal at the moment.” He slipped his coat off and tossed it over a chair, then pulled her close.

  My goodness, there was no denying his intentions. His erection pressed against her. She contemplated pulling away and retaining her anger, but Edith’s words echoed in her head. “My brother loves you. Can you not see it in his eyes?” Would she see what Edith spoke of in this room where no shadows lingered?

  “Do you know I burn for you the moment we’re apart?” His voice sounded low and raspy.

  Her body warmed. Hayden swept her into his arms, set her on the hearthrug, and lay beside her. Propping himself up on an elbow, he leaned over her. His eyes were intense, dark.

  She tangled her fingers in his hair and drew his lips to hers.

  With a groan, Hayden slipped his tongue into her mouth while his nimble fingers made quick work of the buttons lining her jacket and dress.

  She had removed her corset before she’d left to ice skate, not wishing to feel its restraining form.

  He lifted his head. “Ah, Sophia, you are shockingly improper at times.”

  Her cheeks warmed.

  He set his hands on the collar of her chemise and tore the thin fabric wide open.

  She gasped. “Hayden,” she chastised, even though his actions heightened her spiraling desire.

  “Ah, I must atone for my haste.” He released the rent cloth, cupped the bottom of her breast, and captured a nipple in his mouth.

  She lowered her lashes—watched his tongue and mouth against her skin. The edge of his teeth softly scraped the sensitized bud. Excitement exploded in her belly, settling liquid heat in the most intimate and private area of her anatomy. A soft moan escaped her lips.

  He stroked her nipples, soothing them with his warm tongue. He held her gaze. “Do you want me to make love to you, Sophia? Do you need me as much as I need you?”

  Need? Did he mean in a carnal way or something less tangent, but ultimately stronger? Though not sure which question he asked, she knew the answer to both. She couldn’t guard her heart against him. Not when he already possessed it. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice throaty. Impatiently she tugged her skirts upward.

  He reached for the buttons of his trousers. His hard flesh sprung forth, and he slowly sheathed himself into her welcoming body.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “I can’t wait to read it,” Celia said, a week later, standing in Hatchards.

  Sophia returned the child’s exuberant smile. The display of Walter Crane’s latest illustrated book, The Frog Prince, had immediately caught Celia’s eye when they’d entered the bookshop. Now she radiated pleasure, bobbing up and down on her toes as the clerk wrapped up the book.

  “Shall we go to Madelyn’s Tea House for some hot chocolate and sweet buns?” Sophia asked as they exited the shop.

  Celia’s eyes widened, and she nodded. As they made their way up Piccadilly, the child sang in a low voice, “Hot cross buns. One a penny, two a penny—” She abruptly stopped and pointed. “Look!”

  A large gray Shire, nearly twenty hands, moved up the street, pulling a green dray. The cart looked heavy, better suited to being drawn by two. However, the white-stockinged horse made easy work of it.

  Tugging Sophia behind her, Celia moved to the curb. “Isn’t it the biggest, prettiest horse you’ve ever seen?”

  “Quite so.”

  The carman, who sat on a high perch, tipped his cap at the pedestrians gathering to gawk. A swarm of excited children jostled both Sophia and Celia before knocking Celia’s hat into the street.

  “My hat!”

  Sophia glanced at the dray. The horse was a short distance away, but the hat lay close, well within reach. “I’ll get it.” Releasing Celia’s hand, Sophia crouched down, outstretched her arm, and twined her fingers around the velvet rim.

  A violent blow struck Sophia’s back. The air exploded from her lungs. Her gloved hands skidded across the pavement as she flew into the street. Pain, like hot ash, seared her palms.

  The metallic screech of the dray’s brakes rent the air, along with Celia’s scream. Saucer-sized hooves approached. Sophia covered her head with her arms. The Shire’s iron shoes hit the pavement. The sound exploded in her ears. Dirt sprayed and prickled her exposed skin like sand-sized hail.

  The heavy clopping receded—moved past. Her tense body sagged. The dray’s wheel stood only inches from her. The air held tight in her lungs hissed out between her teeth.

  Strong hands were on her, lifting, cradling her against a broad chest. She stared into a set of brown eyes, nearly as dark as her own.

  “I hope you are not injured, Lady Westfield,” the gentleman said, setting her feet to the ground. He clamped her upper arms, steadying her.

  Though his voice sounded as smooth as honed marble, it sent an odd quiver of recollection up her spine. Sophia stiffened. Lord Simon Adler. The man she’d seen entering Hayden’s home weeks ago. The same man who’d dared Hayden to sleep with her. Her already rolling stomach spun.

  “S-Sophia, Uncle Simon!” Celia darted toward them.

  Lord Adler released Sophia and effortlessly lifted Celia into his arms.

  With watery eyes, Celia stared at Sophia. “I-I thought y-you were going to be trampled.” Her voice broke on a sob.

  “Shhh, Celia, all is well,” Lord Adler murmured, cupping the back of the child’s head and pressing her face to his shoulder.

  Sophia tugged off her rent gloves. Her palms were abraded and small grains of dirt embedded her skin. She rubbed the grit off before running a reassuring hand down Celia’s back. “I am fine, dear.” Closing her eyes briefly, Sophia tried to gather her bearings. She set a hand over her abdomen, thankful the baby was still small and her hands took the brunt of her fall.

  “Lady Westfield, are you going to be ill?” Lord Adler’s voice radiated what sounded like genuine concern.

  Before she could reply, the dray’s driver appeared next to her. The man stared anxiously at her, his cap crushed between thick fingers. “Ye ’urt, mum?”

  “No. I thank you for your concern and of course your skilled driving.”

  The man’s chest expanded. “Me Finn’s a great big beast, but ’e’s as gentle as a new puss. Wouldn’t’ve ’armed you for the world.”

  “You own the horse and dray?” Lord Adler asked.

  “Aye, I do,” the carman replied.

  His lordship withdrew a card from his breast pocket and gave it to the man. “Come see me if you’re ever in want of employment.”

  The man’s eyes widened. “Yes, m’lord. Thank you.”

  Adler arched a brow, clearly dismissing the man. He shot the same haughty expression at the crowd, and they dispersed.

  “I do not believe we have ever been introduced, Lady Westfield. I’m Simon Adler. Your husband and I are old chums.”

  Sophia avoided his gaze by straightening her clothing. “Yes, my lord. I’m aware of that.” She could not contain the brisk edge in her voice.

  When she glanced up, he gave her a broad smile, quite different from the roguish one he’d flashed at her outside Hayden’s house. This one seemed more honest, reaching his eyes. She had a feeling he didn’t offer it too freely.

  “I’d be honored if you’d allow me to accompany you and Celia home.”

  “I thank you, my lord, but it is unnecessary.” She reached out to take Celia from him.

  The smile on his face faltered. “I assure you, madam, Hayden would expect nothing less from me.”

  * * *

  Even before Hayden’s town carriage made a complete stop in front of his residence, he noted the indolent figure leaning against one of the columns
of his portico. Simon Adler took a long draw on his cigarette before releasing a swirl of gray smoke into the cold air.

  “Simon,” Hayden said, stepping down from his equipage. What the deuce was the man doing standing outside instead of before a warm hearth?

  “Remarkable woman, your wife.” Simon flashed the lackadaisical grin he’d perfected. The one that made strangers think him benign.

  Hayden rolled his shoulders. He would trust his friend with his own life, but he didn’t favor the incorrigible bounder sniffing around Sophia’s ankles.

  Grinning, Simon dropped his cigarette and ground it beneath his shoe. “Relax, old boy. I enjoy having my bollocks attached to me.”

  Hayden motioned toward the door.

  With a small shake of his head, Simon withdrew his pocket watch. “Don’t have the time. Already dreadfully late for an appointment, but we need to have a chat.”

  His friend’s tone caused the hairs on the back of Hayden’s neck to stand.

  “I happened upon Lady Westfield and Celia today while on Piccadilly.” He paused. “Your lovely bride appeared to have stumbled and was nearly trampled by the hooves of a great big beast.”

  Heart beating fast, Hayden leapt the few steps to his door. “Is she hurt?”

  Simon clapped a hand on his shoulder. “A bit frayed, but seriously hurt . . . no.”

  Hayden reached for the door handle.

  “Hayden,” Simon said, halting his progression. “I don’t believe it was an accident.”

  Dread rolled in his stomach. “What do you mean?”

  “There was a crowd gathered to watch a large Shire. People were moving toward the curb. Someone screamed. When I looked, I saw a lad moving quickly away from the commotion. His head was down and he wore a cap, but he glanced up—mind you it was only a second, but I’d swear it was no lad at all, but Adele Fontaine.”

  A cold chill flooded Hayden’s body. “Kent told me he sent her away again.”

  “I might be mistaken.” Simon rubbed his jaw. “It was only a glance, but I thought it best to tell you.”

  “Thank you.” Hayden rushed into his foyer and shrugged himself free of his heavy overcoat. A stoic Hawthorne entered the hall, and Hayden shoved the garment into the butler’s hands. “Where are my wife and daughter?”

  “In your bathing room, my lord.”

  Taking the treads three at a time, he darted up the stairs. He stepped into his bedchamber. Celia’s laugh echoed off the tiled walls of the adjacent room. The joyous sound eased the hard metal bands compressing his chest.

  He entered to find Celia sitting in a bubble-filled tub, white suds piled atop her head, chin, and cheeks.

  “Papa, look at me! I’m Father Christmas.”

  “My goodness,” he replied, forcing the edges of his lips to turn up, “if you aren’t his spitting image.”

  Giggling, Celia scooped up more bubbles and patted them onto her cheeks, thickening her faux beard.

  Hayden’s gaze shifted to Sophia, seated on the fringed ottoman that usually resided in his dressing room. Lady Olivia lay sprawled by Sophia’s feet. The dog thumped her tail excitedly, while Sophia gave a clearly hesitant smile before starting to rise.

  He stepped forward and offered his hand to assist her. She winced when he tightened his fingers and pulled her upward. He turned her palm upward and surveyed the angry red skin. He swallowed. Guilt clogged his throat. He contained the urge to slam his fist into the wall, wanting, almost needing, a tangible pain that would exceed hers.

  “You heard?” she asked, her voice soft.

  He took a calming breath. “Yes.” He examined her other hand.

  “I’m so dreadfully sorry, Hayden. Truly, I do not know what happened, but I swear I shall be more careful when I accompany Celia about.”

  God almighty, she thought him angry with her when it was he who should be horsewhipped. He pulled her to him, slipped his hand between their bodies, and touched her belly. “The baby?” he inquired sotto voce.

  “My hands took the brunt of the fall. The baby is fine and Celia as well.”

  “Celia? She fell too?”

  “No, but she was quite distraught. There was a crowd and . . . Oh, I don’t know. It all happened so fast.”

  His gaze shifted to Celia splashing about in the tub. She looked well—better than well. He pulled his wife tighter to him, wishing to feel her heartbeat, needing its rhythmic reassurance. He should tell her what Simon told him, but he didn’t wish to frighten her, and it still remained possible his friend was mistaken. He’d find out more first—confirm Adele was in Town.

  “Papa, are you going to kiss Sophia?”

  “Do you think it would be terribly improper of me to do so, Celia?” he asked, his eyes still on his wife.

  When Celia didn’t answer, he glanced at the child. She pulled on her foam-covered chin like some wizened old scholar. “I have seen Aunt Edith kiss Uncle Henry.” Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “Especially when she thinks I’m not about.” Celia placed her small, wet hands over her eyes. “Go on, Papa. I shan’t peek.”

  Hayden tipped Sophia’s face to his and touched his lips to hers—first gently, then with an intensity he couldn’t subdue.

  Celia chuckled.

  He stepped back.

  The child’s hands still covered her eyes. However, one iris peered at them from beneath splayed fingers.

  How content Celia was, even after the events of the day. Sophia made Celia happy. And whether he deserved it or not, his wife made him happy. When he’d thought her hurt, he’d feared his heart would stop. Whether he wished to admit it or not, he realized how deeply he loved his wife.

  Was it all about to slip away as it had eight years ago? His stomach clenched. No, if what Simon said was true, he’d find Adele and set everything to rights. He would not allow anyone to harm his family. He’d failed Laura, but he would not fail Sophia.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Sophia, Celia. I have business to attend to. I’ll be back shortly.”

  He found Hawthorne in the entry hall. “Tell Evans to bring the carriage around.”

  A few minutes later, Hayden hammered the brass knocker at Lord Kent’s Curzon Street residence.

  The sour-faced butler opened the door. “See here—” The man’s reprimand died in the air, and he audibly gulped. “Lord Westfield.”

  So the butler remembered him. How could he forget? The last time he called here, he’d left Kent’s sister, Adele, screaming and screeching like the bedlamite she was after he’d broken the relationship off.

  “Where is she?” Hayden snapped, stepping into the white-tiled entry hall.

  “She’s not here. If you wish to leave your card, I shall make sure Mrs. Fontaine receives it when she returns from holiday.”

  Westfield narrowed his eyes.

  “Really, my lord.” The butler took several precarious steps back, and then straightened his form.

  “Billows, what the devil is all this raucous about?” Halfway up the central corridor, Lord Kent poked his balding head out of a doorway. “Oh heavens!” Kent disappeared back into the room.

  Hayden stalked past the butler. He stepped into Kent’s study to find the man pouring himself a glass of whisky with an unsteady hand. The baron glanced up, his face a pasty shade of white.

  “Where’s Adele?”

  “Westfield, I-I assure you she is not here. After your last letter informing me she approached you at Lord Prescott’s, I took her to Dover myself and w-w-watched her and Finnegan, the new man I hired to take care of her, board the ship. I swear, I’ve not seen h-hide nor hair of her since. And if she’d run away Finnegan would have sent w-w-word.”

  Kent’s propensity to stammer always took a turn for the worse when the man became nervous. If he was hiding his sister, he damn well better be terrified.

  “Someone thought they saw her on Piccadilly.”

  Kent’s pale complexion turned sallow. “Impossible.”

  Hayden stepped closer. “Damn you
, Kent, if you’re lying to me.”

  Whisky sloshed on Kent’s sleeve and his overly large Adam’s apple bobbed convulsively. “I am not. I do not wish her here anymore than you do, Westfield. I would have committed her years ago if not for the scandal.”

  “If you hear from her, I want to be the first to know. Or so help me . . .”

  “Of course. I have been the recipient of Adele’s cruelty since we were children. There is no love between us. In truth, I believed myself rid of her when she married Fontaine, but the bloody bastard had to go and die.”

  That statement set off an alarm in Hayden’s head. Fontaine, a French diplomat, had drowned while on holiday with Adele on some remote island.

  A bead of sweat trickled down Hayden’s back. He rushed out of Kent’s house.

  “Evans,” he called to his coachman. “The Bacchus Club.”

  The servant’s eyes grew round at the mention of the private club that catered to men and women with fetishes.

  “Damnation,” he snapped, agitated by the censure in the coachman’s countenance. “Just take me there, fast.” Hopefully, Simon was mistaken and Adele remained on the Continent, but in case he was right, Hayden needed to visit Adele’s haunts.

  If she wasn’t there, he’d head to the Sade Club, where flagellation and rough play were in favor, and tonight, after Sophia went to bed, he’d delve into the seedier parts of London and scour every opium smoking room he could find.

  A disturbing thought bubbled up in his mind like noxious gas from a cesspit. Beckett—the man who’d attacked Sophia in Whitechapel—could he have been Adele’s lackey? No, the idea seemed too preposterous to give credence. Nevertheless, first thing tomorrow, he’d go to Newgate Prison and question the man. And by God, he’d have the truth.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sophia tried not to tap her foot or smooth the tablecloth before her. She’d done both a dozen times as she and Celia sat at the dining table waiting for Hayden to return home.

  Celia fidgeted with one of her spoons and restlessly kicked at the leg of the chair next to hers. Surely, not fair to make the child wait to eat dinner.