The Earl's London Bride

by Lauren Royal

  “Would you like to talk about how much you like pickled snails?” he suggested with a teasing grin.

  “I did like them,” she protested, although they both knew that wasn’t true. She’d tasted one bravely, even swallowed it without gagging, but her appetite had fallen off afterward.

  Her stomach was grumbling now. “Are there any apples left?” she asked.

  Colin’s smile was too knowing. “I believe there are.”

  He left, returning from the study with a shiny red apple. When she sat up and reached for it, he pulled it back playfully. “Hungry, are you?” Grinning, he handed it to her and stepped over to the windows.

  Amy took a bite and slowly chewed. She watched him peer out into the night, his hands linked behind his back.

  “It’s still snowing hard,” he told her. “I reckon we may be stuck here through tomorrow.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” she replied around a mouthful of juicy apple. The fruit was sweet, she was cozy, and she could think of worse fates than being stuck with Colin Chase another day and night.

  “I should do bookwork tomorrow, so long as I’m here.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She took another crunching bite.

  “What will you do?” He turned from the windows to face her.

  Amy chewed and swallowed before answering. “I can read. Try my hand at preparing dinner. Help you with your bookwork.” She took another big bite.

  “I don’t need any help.”

  She shrugged again. “I’ll explore your castle, then.”

  “I’m afraid there’s not much to discover.” He walked over to the fire, added a log from the basket, and stirred up the embers with a wooden-handled poker. “It’s small. And cold and damp.”

  “None of that will stop me.”

  Colin crossed back to her bedside and stood looking down at her with a wry smile, his teeth as white as the snow outside. “I suppose a bit of cold and damp are unlikely to deter the likes of you. So long as there’s not a horse involved.”

  Grinning, she held out the apple core and slid down under the covers.

  He put the core on the table next to the bed. “Better?”

  “Much.” She wiggled under the quilt, getting comfortable.

  “Good.” Offering her a distracted nod, he turned to the door.

  “No, don’t leave yet.” She patted the bed beside her. “You said you’d stay as long as I liked.”

  With seeming reluctance, he turned back and slowly sat down. Amy reached over and took his hand. He tensed; she saw the muscles go rigid beneath his bronzed skin.

  The nightmare had left her completely. The apple rested comfortably in her stomach, the room was warm, the bed was soft, and her hand tingled in Colin’s. She gazed at his profile in the wavering firelight, willing him to kiss her. Just one more time. Just once more before he put her on a ship and she sailed out of his life forever.

  Could she persuade him somehow? He hated her, didn't he? Or at least he didn't like her—she was naught but a bother to him, an inconvenience he needed to rid himself of. But he seemed to like kissing her, for some inexplicable reason…

  She squeezed his hand, and he turned to meet her gaze.

  Her heart beat faster. His eyes searched her face, and his free hand rose to wipe a bit of apple juice off her chin. His hand lingered; his knuckles grazed her cheek.

  He was going to kiss her, she knew it.

  THIRTY-ONE

  “CRIMINY,” Colin murmured. Amy’s skin was petal soft, her eyes dark liquid pools of longing. He leaned closer. He couldn’t move away, not with her looking at him like that. And he knew instinctively that she’d keep looking at him like that until she got what she wanted.

  The minx.

  He’d kiss her just once—an innocent goodnight kiss—and then he’d leave.

  When she closed her eyes, he brushed her lips with his, a mere whisper of sensation. A little sound escaped her throat, and her arms came up and around his neck, dragging him back down. She twined her fingers in his hair, her lips sweet and insistent.

  “Amy,” he groaned, trying feebly to pull away. But in the end he gave in. He’d never really had a chance. He was weak.

  And she was heaven. Soft and and eager and smelling of roses. He seemed to forget where he was, who he was…he forgot about everything but her.

  It was a long while before he found it in himself to break contact. Her eyes fluttered open, deep purple in the low light. She drew a long, shuddering breath.

  Using every ounce of his willpower, he pulled back. “I cannot do this.”

  She raised herself to place a warm, damp kiss in the hollow of his neck. Her eyes questioning, she fell back to the pillows.

  She truly was a minx!

  “Amy,” he said, standing up, “this isn’t right.”

  “Why not?” she asked breathily. “I like kissing you.”

  “I like it too, but we shouldn’t be kissing. I’m sorry.”

  She struggled up on her elbows. “Would you please stop saying you’re sorry every time you kiss me!”

  “I’m sorry.” He smiled innocently, and she burst into helpless giggles.

  But seconds later, his smile reversed to a frown, and he turned away, looking into the fire. He ran his hands through his hair. “Amy?”

  She sobered instantly. “What?”

  “You understand what I’m telling you, yes? I cannot marry you, so I shouldn’t be kissing you. It’s not that I don’t want to, love.”

  He stopped himself from clapping a hand over his mouth. But he couldn’t stop himself from whirling around to see her expression.

  Her eyes were wide and round, her mouth agape.

  Love, he’d called her. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What had he been thinking?

  He hadn’t, obviously. He hadn’t been thinking at all. The word had escaped his lips thoughtlessly.

  He’d never been “in love,” and he didn’t love Amy. He was infatuated, to be sure, but that didn’t mean he loved her. He hardly knew her, despite their weeks of acquaintance.

  Besides, love wasn’t part of his plan. Love was dangerous. It made one too vulnerable, too open to the pain of loss and betrayal. Look how much strife this mere infatuation was causing him! Love must be many times worse!

  Until he could rid himself of her, he had to be more careful, put more distance between them.

  “Don’t leave,” she reminded him, then sighed and closed her eyes.

  In the dancing firelight, her face looked stunning and flawless. Despite everything, he wanted to lie beside her and wrap her in his arms. His pulse quickened at the thought of staying with her.

  But he couldn’t stay with her that way. Instead he backed up and settled himself on the chest at the foot of the bed.

  He sat there until she slept, until her breathing came even and untroubled. And then he sat there watching her for a while longer before leaving.

  Something in him hoped it would still be snowing hard in the morning.

  THIRTY-TWO

  IN THE MORNING, Colin brought Amy breakfast in bed, then refused her offer of help again before disappearing into his study.

  She sighed. Nothing had changed there.

  After eating, she quickly bathed from the washstand and donned her old gown, then decided to see if she could find clean sheets to change the bedding before she left the room. She hadn’t noticed anyplace linens might be kept in the unrestored portions of the house, so she looked around the bedroom. The chamber held no cupboard, only the chest at the foot of the bed. She lifted its heavy wooden lid, and Colin’s scent wafted out.

  She breathed deeply, a smile teasing at her lips. Inside, his clothes were neatly folded. The suits were darker colors than were currently in fashion—hunter green, deep blue, rich brown—the fabrics fine, the decorations simple and tasteful.

  One was black velvet with glinting gold braid…was it the same one he’d worn for the coronation procession, or had he grown taller since then? His shirts were very white, sewn of g
ossamer cambric that felt smooth and expensive beneath her fingertips. She shook one out and held it up to herself, giggling when it fell well below her knees.

  Carefully she folded and replaced it, then delved beneath lace-edged cravats, tall boot stockings, and more handkerchiefs than a man could possibly use in a lifetime. To her vast relief, she found extra sheets in the bottom. And atop them, a small leather-bound book.

  Gold lettering on the red cover identified it as Hesperides, or The Works Both Human and Divine of Robert Herrick, Esq. Inside, the front page was inscribed in beautiful, flowing script.

  “March 1651. Poetry, for my son the dreamer. Your loving Mother.”

  Colin, a dreamer? Amy’s lips curved at the thought.

  She opened the book to a random page.

  Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

  Old Times is still a-flying:

  And this same flower that smiles today,

  Tomorrow will be dying.

  Words to live by, were they not? Smiling, she replaced the book and changed the sheets, folding the used ones and leaving them atop the chest. Anxious to explore the castle, she hurried to finish getting ready.

  A survey of the ground floor revealed nothing of interest. Narrow slits through the curtain wall let in little light, rendering the unrestored chambers dank and dark. What was left of the furniture was draped in cloth, encrusted with layers of dust sufficient to discourage her from peeking underneath.

  She paused at the closed door to Colin’s study, picturing him inside hacking away at his ledgers. She hoped he was suffering mightily, although in truth she had no idea whether he had an aptitude for such work. There was a lot she didn’t know about him, she admitted to herself.

  Squaring her shoulders, she made her way to the entry, where the beautifully restored oak staircase renewed her hopes of finding something more intriguing upstairs. She trudged slowly up, then stopped when her gaze lit on her trunk downstairs, still sitting against the wall where Colin had shoved it. What was left of her family lay locked inside.

  She closed her eyes, rubbing her temples. Months had passed since the fire. What would her father think of the way she’d put off getting on with her life, put off reestablishing the family business she’d promised would continue?

  ”Oh, Papa!” Her hoarse whisper filled the entry as she lifted her skirts and bolted downstairs for the trunk, then dragged it scraping along the stone floor to the bedchamber. She reached to pull the key from her hem even as she shut the door behind her.

  Falling to her knees, she worked the lock with unsteady fingers, then threw open the lid. The tray on top was lifted and dropped to the floor, the box of loose gemstones discarded without a thought. For underneath lay the real treasure: bits of her father wrapped in small squares of white flannel, pieces of his soul etched forever in his exquisite works of art.

  She thrust her hands into the trunk, filled both fists with jewelry, then moved to the bed and allowed the pieces to sift through her open fingers…remembering.

  THIRTY-THREE

  WITH A HEAVY sigh, Colin dropped his head into his hands. His desk was piled high with receipts, his ledgers lined with numbers he’d spent the morning staring at with unfocused eyes.

  In fact, he’d found himself unable to focus on anything this morning—anything except Amy Goldsmith.

  He twisted the heavy gold ring on his finger distractedly. It was obvious he wasn’t going to accomplish anything today. A glance out the window convinced him he wouldn’t be delivering his distraction to the docks today, either.

  The storm was waning, but the snow still fell steadily and the drifts were deep. His rumbling stomach reminded him it was past noon and Amy had offered to prepare dinner.

  Leaving the study without bothering to don a cloak, Colin briefly poked his head into each of the empty downstairs chambers, then dashed through the freezing great hall and into the kitchen. He’d laid a fire for her earlier, hoping she’d be inspired to prepare something hot.

  But she was nowhere to be found. Quick glances into the pantry and buttery also failed to reveal her presence. There was nothing bubbling in the stew pot nor any other evidence she’d been at work.

  Was she lost? No, Greystone was too small to be confusing. Hurt, perhaps? That was a possibility. Despite all the time and money he’d spent on restorations, the structure was still in bad shape; she could have tripped and twisted her ankle, or even worse.

  He set out grimly to find her, back through the great hall and the ceaseless snow.

  Once in the entry, his gaze swept up the stairs, and he remembered the library. Of course, he thought, relieved. Ford had told him of the countless hours she’d spent in Cainewood’s library. She must have discovered his library and lost track of the time, forgetting about dinner altogether.

  He took the steps two at a time, ran to the back of the upper level, and burst through the library door.

  No—she wasn’t here. Nor had she been here. Not a speck of the considerable dust was displaced; the titles on the neat rows of books were as obscured by grime as ever.

  Amy couldn’t have found this room and left it undisturbed. It was completely against her nature to ignore a room full of books, regardless of its filth and neglect.

  She wasn’t in any of the other upstairs chambers, either. His heart started pounding as he once again imagined her stuck somewhere, arms or legs broken, perhaps lying in the freezing snow or at the bottom of the oubliette. He should have toured her around the castle and offered to help her prepare dinner.

  What had he been thinking?

  He’d been thinking about getting away from her for a while, that was what. He’d been pretending she had no effect on his life, that he could set to work as usual, regardless of her presence. He’d been hoping that a few hours of separation would break the spell she seemed to have woven around him.

  It had all been for naught—he was as spellbound as ever, and now she might be hurt. He cursed at himself. She was his responsibility, and at the very least he should have asked her to stay in the bedchamber with a book while he worked.

  The bedchamber. He hadn’t even looked there. Maybe she was in the bedchamber with a book. As he hurried down the stairs, he pictured her curled on the bed, lost in the world of literature or perhaps even napping—she’d been awake in the night, after all. He could hardly blame her for losing track of time.

  He knocked softly on the door, half afraid he’d wake her up, half afraid she wouldn’t be there at all.

  No answer.

  “Amy?” he called, his voice muffled by the thick oak. “Amy? Are you in there?”

  He knocked louder. “Amy?”

  On the faint hope she was inside, sound asleep, he eased open the door.

  His jaw went slack at the sight that greeted him.

  The room was strewn with glittering jewels. She knelt on the floor beside her trunk—that deuced heavy trunk that she’d insisted go with her everywhere. And no wonder. The thing was heaped with gold and gems and heaven knew what else.

  “Why didn’t you answer me?” he asked.

  “I—I don’t know. You surprised me.”

  “You were supposed to be preparing dinner, and I couldn’t find you.” He tore his gaze away from the treasure to look at her. Her face was inscrutable. “I was…worried,” he finished lamely.

  “I’m sorry. I forgot.” She glanced out the window, but the sun was hidden behind snow clouds and gave no indication of the time. “Is it very late?”

  “It doesn’t signify,” he murmured, frowning as his brain began catching up with his eyes. “Good heavens, I suggested you leave that trunk on carriages overnight! Why didn’t you tell me what was in there?”

  “I…was taught never to trust anyone.” The guarded expression fell away, and now she looked troubled. “I’m sorry. I should have told you. You’ve given me no reason not to trust you.”

  Colin knelt beside her, instinctively wanting to soothe her distress. “It’s all right,” h
e said softly. “I understand.”

  When she smiled at him, he was surprised to see her eyes bright with unshed tears. She was still fragile emotionally, in a way that made him want to gather her into his arms and protect her from the world. He touched her instead, just lightly on the arm, and smiled back, a smile that widened as they seemed to reach a silent understanding and he saw her eyes clear.

  He skimmed his fingers down her arm, and her cheeks flushed pink. She looked away quickly and began gathering the jewelry.

  He grasped her hand, halting her efforts. “May I see some of your things?”

  She glanced at him in surprise. “Of course.” Her face lit with pleasure as she gave him the piece she was holding, a large diamond stomacher brooch.

  “This is amazing.” An enormous, rectangular step-cut diamond rested in the center, surrounded by round diamonds set into a spray of gold leaves. He turned his hand to admire how the gems caught the light.

  “Papa bought the center stone from a dealer in Antwerp, then saved it for almost a decade before mounting it.” She wasn’t blushing now; she spoke with enthusiasm and confidence. She missed her craft, Colin realized. “He rarely showed this to anyone. I don’t think he really wanted to part with it.”

  “It’s a shame it’s never been worn and enjoyed.”

  “I made some bodkins to go with it.” She rummaged in the trunk for a few seconds and came out with a half-dozen long gold pins, each topped with a gold leaf set with a rose-cut diamond. She dropped them into his other palm. “They would have been so pretty in a lady’s hair, with the matching brooch. I always thought that someday, someone very important would own them.”

  “Someone important owns them now,” Colin said, half-teasing.

  But her heart leapt into her eyes. He’d best be more careful.

  Mindful not to stick her with the pins, he handed the jewelry back to her and watched her wrap it up in two of the many pieces of flannel that were scattered about.

  She’d gone quiet again. He moved to sit on the bed, where a pile of trinkets glittered. “Is there anything here that you made?”