Never Dare a Wicked Earl

by Renee Ann Miller

  He pressed her shoulders into the soft mattress, forcing her to release him. And with his feet still planted on the floor, he leaned over her and retook her lips. His hands cupped her breasts to shape them to his palms.

  She moaned, wanting more.

  His mouth moved to her breasts, one, then the other, and she tangled her fingers in his hair. The sharp edge of his teeth scrapped at her nipples. The rough sensation and pleasure entwined into something deeper.

  “Yes, yes.” Her voice sounded husky, foreign. She arched up, her body pleaded, reiterating her spoken word.

  His tongue soothed her skin. Closing her eyes, she focused her senses on his touch, the sensation of his warm mouth, loving her body—drawing her closer to that explosion of nerves and energy—the ultimate physical climax.

  His hands skimmed over her thighs. He unwrapped her feet from his back and placed her heels on the edge of the bed. The height of the bed seemed perfect, and she knew his intent.

  She reached above her head, knotted her hands in the counterpane. His countenance darkened. A few weeks ago, such an intense expression would have frightened her, but now it only heightened her base desires. He shifted, moved closer, spreading her legs wider.

  He clamped his hands on her hips, pulled her to the edge of the bed, and entered her. A slow, exquisite slide of skin against skin until her welcoming body completely sheathed his hard flesh. His thumb stroked her swollen nub as he pulled back and entered her over and over again until nothing but an anxious tension and exquisite pleasure thrummed in her body.

  Their eyes locked. “I love you,” he said again.

  His words were the catalyst—the toppling force. She climaxed so forcefully her thighs quivered as they clamped against his hips, holding him to her. His eyes closed. His face grew taut, and she knew he followed her into the abyss of physical pleasure.

  * * *

  Through the thick fog, Sophia ran up Little Marlie Row. The narrow housing swayed back and forth as though susceptible to the whim of the wind. Something brushed her feet, and she stopped to glance down. Rats, hundreds of rats, scurried about the street. She turned, intent on running, but a clawlike hand caught her arm. She swung around and stared straight at the angry, demonic countenance of Adele Fontaine. Her green irises had an unearthly glow and her skin was black.

  Sophia’s eyes flew open.

  With her heart pounding in her chest, she scanned the dim bedchamber lit only by the gentle kiss of gray sunlight peeking shyly over the horizon.

  She shifted in bed. Hayden slept soundly beside her, his arm draped over her naked waist. A nightmare, nothing more, she reaffirmed, soothing her overwrought nerves.

  Exhaling a taut breath, she placed her hand over Hayden’s forearm. The knowledge he lay beside her quieted the beating of her heart to a normal cadence, and Adele’s image drifted away, evaporated, the way images in one’s dreams are apt to do upon awakening.

  She snuggled closer to the solidity and warmth of his body, not daring to shut her eyes, fearing Adele’s face would resurface. Yet when her heavy eyelids finally drifted closed, it was not Adele’s face she remembered, but the miniature portrait in Hayden’s desk, the one with the beautiful blond woman. The image appeared clear and detailed as if Sophia held the painted ivory within her hands. Had the artist embellished the woman’s beauty or the blue of her eyes, painted with barely diluted cerulean pigment?

  Sophia’s lashes drifted open, and she stared at the shadows on the ceiling.

  Who was she? His mother? No, the style of the clothing did not speak of several decades past.

  A lover? Probable, but who had captured him so completely that he kept her miniature secreted away in the top drawer of his desk when she’d not seen even a single painting or photograph of Laura?

  Was it Laura?

  No, the woman had blue eyes like Hayden’s eyes. And Celia’s brown eyes must have come from her mother.

  A cousin?

  What a fanciful thought.

  Sophia slipped out of the warm bed, pulled her dressing gown on, and walked downstairs. She paused at the doorway to Hayden’s study.

  Turn around, an inner voice urged. Her legs were not in accord with her mind. She opened the door, made her way to the desk, and lit the small lamp set atop it. After removing the key from under the inkwell, she unlocked the top drawer and withdrew the miniature from its case. For a long minute, she studied the lovely woman in the painting. Then with great care, she removed the frame’s backing, hoping the miniaturist had inscribed not only his name, but noted the subject’s identity as well.

  He had.

  With unsteady legs, she lowered herself to the edge of Hayden’s chair.

  Laura?

  With trembling fingers, Sophia reattached the backing and turned it around. Deep blue eyes peered at her. It didn’t make sense. She’d read Francis Talbot’s paper on heredity. He’d written about traits. The odds of two blue-eyed parents giving birth to a child with brown eyes was rare.

  Edith had spoken of some secret. An uncomfortable chill spread down Sophia’s back as if a cold finger from the grave traced her spine.

  Laura, tell me you didn’t betray him.

  Sophia leaned back against the chair.

  “I’m being foolish,” she mumbled.

  Yet it would explain why he’d abandoned both wife and child. But Celia’s resemblance to him could not be discounted. Her smile, the shape of her mouth, even the angles of her face. And her brown eyes mirrored Edith’s eyes.

  Sophia peered at the landscape above the mantel. Celia’s voice echoed in her head as she spoke of the damaged portrait of Hayden’s father in the attic. “It used to hang above the mantel in Papa’s study. Papa did it. I remember.”

  “Oh, merciful God.”

  Grabbing the desk lamp, Sophia slipped the miniature into the pocket of her dressing gown and made her way upstairs.

  By the time she reached the attic steps, an oppressive weight consumed her chest. The thought taking root, nourishing itself in her mind, seemed too heinous to fathom.

  With the lamp clasped in one hand and her hem lifted in the other, she nervously scanned the narrow stairs. A dark spot on one of the treads seemed to shift and then scurry into the shadows. Sophia stepped back. Panic took hold, increasing the rhythm of her heart while beads of sweat prickled her back.

  For a moment, she believed her fear of vermin would render her incapable of moving forward. She stared at the now empty tread and fought the urge to turn and flee.

  You can do this. Taking deep breaths, she concentrated on the air moving in and out of her lungs as she stepped forward and took the first step and each subsequent step until she reached the top.

  The cool air of the attic chilled her damp skin. The subtle light floating through the dormers illuminated the portraits. They seemed miles away, yet she knew it only a short distance. Anxiously she swept the lamp in a large arc over the wide floorboards. Then taking several more steadying breaths, she made her way to the paintings.

  She set the lamp on the floor, pulled her dressing gown about her legs, and squatted before the paintings. She glanced at the tattered portrait of Hayden’s father, leaning in the corner.

  The anger raging through Hayden when he’d destroyed it seemed palpable. She flipped over the first painting—the one of Hayden’s father with his hound. Once again, the resemblance between father and son amazed her. The old earl’s gaze was downcast, making it impossible to discern the color of his eyes. She moved the painting aside and turned the next one over.

  She inhaled a jagged breath. Brown eyes caught the light of the lamp. Eyes that resembled both Celia’s and Edith’s eyes. Forgetting her fears, she knelt on the floor and extracted Laura’s miniature. She gazed at the beautiful woman portrayed within.

  Did you betray him with his father? Were you so cruel?

  A shadow cast a dark pall over the floorboards, and Sophia’s head shot up.

  Hayden, clothed in his green dressing rob
e, stood looking at her, his large body stifling the morning light, working its way through one of the dormers. His gaze shifted from his father’s portrait, illuminated by the lamp like an actor in an Athenian tragedy, to the miniature she held.

  “Aren’t you a clever one?” His voice sounded cold, dangerously detached.

  If she had needed confirmation, she had it.

  Celia was not his daughter. She was his sister.

  The charged silence was broken by the sound of feet shuffling up the stairs. “Who’s up there?” Mrs. Beecham called out impatiently as she stepped fully into the attic.

  Hayden shot a thunderous glare toward the housekeeper.

  “Oh, my lord, m-my lady,” the elder woman stuttered as she gave an awkward bob of her head.

  Sophia glanced down, not wishing the woman to see the tears pooling in her eyes. Hayden’s shadow shifted and moved like a specter across the floorboards. When she peered up, he was making his way down the stairs.

  Sophia hastily slipped the miniature into her pocket and scrambled to her feet. Mrs. Beecham’s gaze appeared frozen on the illuminated portrait of the old earl.

  “Was the very devil he was,” Mrs. Beecham whispered, a quiver lending unsteadiness to her low voice. “Didn’t care a farthing who ’e ’urt.”

  Obviously, the image, created with oil and pigment, distressed the housekeeper, so much so that her speech became less cultured, belying her humble origins. “I remember. . .” Her voice trailed off and she wrapped her arms about herself as if attempting to protect her body from an unwelcome memory.

  Sophia cupped her mouth. The haunted look in the woman’s eyes . . . her posture. Sophia had seen women at the mission with that scathed look. She’d known the cause, examined the bruises on their throats, arms, inner thighs. Women who’d been violated. The old earl had either coerced or raped Mrs. Beecham, and Sophia feared it the latter.

  Sophia turned to the tattered painting.

  Laura? Had it been an act of mutual congress or . . . ? Oh God, had Hayden’s father been a monster?

  She studied Mrs. Beecham’s trembling form and knew the answer.

  Sophia did not realize she’d gasped until the woman stepped toward her. “Forgive me, my lady,” the housekeeper implored. “I forgot myself. I beg your pardon.” Her expression crumbled. She appeared ready to weep. “Forgive me.”

  Sophia closed the distance between them. She folded Mrs. Beecham’s chilled fingers within her clammy hands.

  “Don’t,” she said firmly. “Don’t apologize.” Sophia took a deep breath. She needed to speak with Hayden. She needed him to know she understood some of his past—what motivated his tight rein on her, his fears, even the anger she sensed within him. Retrieving the lamp, she motioned the housekeeper to precede her down the stairs.

  “Mrs. Beecham, I wish those portraits packed away. Crated and nailed shut.”

  “Yes, madam, I’ll see to it myself.”

  “No,” Sophia said, not wishing the woman to have to look at them again. “Tell Hawthorne I wish one of the footmen tasked with the job.”

  An expression of relief flashed across the housekeeper’s face, and she nodded.

  * * *

  Sophia opened the bedchamber door to find Hayden standing before a low dresser, his palms braced on the wood surface, his back to her. Without a word, she stepped behind him and slipped her arms about his waist. She set her cheek against his shoulder. His breath shifted in and out of his lungs, strong enough to stoke the flames of a blacksmith’s forge.

  After his breathing calmed, he spoke. “When Celia was born, I thought myself the most blessed of men. Laura appeared well and Celia looked round and pink. So beautiful. Yet I feared . . .” He paused, took a deep breath. “You see, I believed her arrival premature. Laura and I had been married only seven months. Contrary to what you may believe, I am not in the habit of despoiling virgins, even those I wish to marry. I did not realize Laura was not chaste on our wedding night. I was a man of little experience.”

  She tightened her hold on him.

  “After Celia’s birth, while Laura slept, I spoke privately with the doctor. I needed confirmation Celia would not suffer any complications due to her early birth. The doctor assured me Celia was not premature. To the contrary, he said her wrinkled skin indicated she was overdue. ‘Stayed in the oven a bit too long,’ he said. ‘Just stay in the country a few weeks and no one will be the wiser.’”

  Sophia pressed her face tighter to his back as tears welled up in her eyes.

  “I had the oddest urge to strangle the man when he winked at me. Bloody fool didn’t comprehend he’d just informed me Celia was not my daughter. I tried to discard his words as the ramblings of an old country doctor, but Celia was so robust.”

  “A week later, I asked Laura who fathered Celia. She would not tell me. Three weeks later, with betrayal gnawing at me like some insidious disease, I left for London. I’m sure you’ve heard I did not live a virtuous life. A man fueled by what he conceives as betrayal has a panache for revenge. I flaunted my infidelities. I chose women specifically from my own social stratum, a stratum Laura was not part of. She had privately humiliated me, but I wished for something grander for her. A public crucifixion that clearly stated my indifference.”

  “You were distressed,” Sophia whispered.

  He swung around abruptly, and she stumbled backward. He grabbed her shoulders and steadied her. His fingers bit into her skin. “You don’t understand.”

  She feared she did. She looked at his eyes—sharp with pain. “Then tell me,” she implored, hoping a catharsis would ease his anguish.

  He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, dampness wet the corners. “I abandoned her when she was guilty of nothing. Nothing,” he repeated, his voice raspy. “If you think Laura would have willingly slept with that sod who called himself my father, you are mistaken. I defied him by asking a woman below my station to wed me, and the bastard unleashed his anger on her.” Hayden swallowed. “He forced himself on her.”

  Sophia took a steadying breath and pressed a hand to his chest. “Hayden, you were unaware of that when you left her. Why didn’t she tell you?”

  “I would have killed my father. Strangled him with my bare hands. Laura knew the consequences my actions would bring about. He’d known she wouldn’t tell me and counted on her silence. He probably taunted her afterward, fueling her fears.”

  He released his painful grip on her shoulders. Raked his hands through his hair.

  “Two days after my father’s funeral, Laura came to London. I not only refused to see her, I left that day for the Continent. I’m sure the gossip sheets reported my salacious antics while abroad.” He glanced away. “I only came back a month later when I received word from Edith that Laura was dead. A carriage accident.”

  Sophia briefly closed her eyes, forcing the new wave of tears pooling in them to stay contained. There had been no reconciliation between them. No words of love or sorrow, no apologies made, and no reunion. That was the crux of the problem. Hayden had loved Laura, and she had loved him. Enough to relinquish him, yet she’d died before the truth lay exposed, leaving him riddled with guilt. If his father had meant to hurt Hayden, as well as Laura, he’d succeeded.

  “Hayden, you are not accountable for your father’s sins.”

  “Sophia,” he said softly, “you don’t understand.”

  “I do, Hayden.”

  He shook his head. “Laura left a note at my house, revealing everything. My father was dead and she’d finally felt safe telling the truth, knowing I would not exact my revenge on the bastard. If I’d just returned sooner or not left at all.”

  Warm tears spilled onto Sophia’s cheeks. What horrendous guilt Hayden must have experienced when he’d finally comprehended the sordid truth—read Laura’s letter. Realized the secret she’d kept, the pain she’d endured, and that she’d been waiting to tell him the truth.

  Sophia gazed into her husband’s tormented eyes. Guilt was a
terrible cross to bear. Sophia knew it intimately. She’d contended with that emotion after her niece Georgiana’s death—sometimes she still did. There was no recourse when the one you loved was nothing more than an intangible memory.

  “I’m sorry, Hayden. So terribly sorry.”

  He scowled. “I don’t want your pity. Condemn me, but don’t pity me.”

  Now she knew why Hayden did not reveal he was the mission’s benefactor. He sought and cultivated society’s censure, hoping to punish himself.

  “Hayden, your father is the one who deserves condemnation. You were ill used by a man with no moral compunction, no soul, but you are not that man.” She cupped his face. “When I look at you, I see a man capable of tremendous love. A man who loves his daughter—”

  He gave a discordant laugh. “Daughter? Celia is my sister.”

  She shook her head adamantly. “No, I have watched you with her, seen the love you have for her. She is your daughter. She is my stepdaughter and will be the much beloved sister of our children. If you will help me, we can make a wonderful home for Celia. For our family.”

  She took his hand, placed it atop her abdomen.

  A depth of emotions glistened in his blue eyes.

  “Hayden, will you be my partner? Help me through life’s adversities and allow me to help you?”

  “Do you love me, Sophia?”

  “Hayden, when I met you, you made me feel . . . Oh, I don’t know how to explain it, but I felt something strange. Something more than physical attraction. It did not make sense in my rational mind. You and I seemed so ill-suited. Now I realize we are not so different. We both suffer from guilt that is not our cross to bear. I could not save Georgiana. I realize that now. Just as you are not responsible for what happened to Laura.”

  Sophia slipped her hand around his neck and peered into his eyes. “You want to know why I capitulated so easily that night you came to my house. The truth is, I already loved you then. I desperately want the child that grows within me. I want your love. I want a family. And I want to share my life with you. Do you want these things as well?”