Earl of Tempest: The Wicked Earls Club

by Anders, Annabelle

  “No.” He clenched his fists, willing his heart to slow.

  And then she touched her tongue to his earlobe.

  “Lydia.”

  “Tell me again this is impossible,” she demanded in a whisper. “I dare you to convince me.”

  His willpower, which he’d always considered ironclad, chose that moment to shatter most spectacularly. Faster than lightning, Jeremy had her seated across his lap, one arm behind her and the other roving over her arms, the curve of her hip.

  “You are impossible,” he said. “Damnit, it’s you.”

  He’d tried, by god, he’d tried. He claimed her mouth and then deepened their kiss. Her whimper vibrated between them.

  “Not impossible,” she countered when he released her mouth to trail kisses down her neck.

  But the two of them, together, like this, was in fact, impossible.

  A voice of reason raged inside his head, even as his heart sang and his body breathed giant gulps of relief to hold her again.

  He’d felt dead inside for so long. He would pay later for giving in to these emotions. He should push her away, run out the door as far as his feet would take him.

  Except this was his house.

  “Lydia,” he sighed, his hands wandering over her supple curves. How had he imagined he could live without her?

  He’d clung to his need to absolve Arthur’s name. But he’d not been living. He’d merely been existing.

  Her hands snaked around his neck, and she turned to face him, placing herself in an even more inappropriate position.

  Knees bent, bracketing his thighs.

  By god, she was straddling him.

  This. How long had he needed this?

  Needed her?

  Memories of when she was a young girl flitted through his mind—and earlier that year, when she’d stood beside him at his brother’s funeral, when she’d met him on the bridge that separated his property from her brother’s, when she’d hesitantly given him permission to kiss her.

  He’d known Lydia for most of his life. And all the while, he’d expected to marry her.

  Knowing what awaited the two of them had been akin to living with a wonderful promise—a promise that his future held good things.

  Wonderful things.

  Without the promise of that future, all color had drained out of his life.

  He stroked her silk-clad ankles, hidden in her skirts. Locating the small indents there, he traced his fingertips over them. So fragile. Feminine.

  Sensual.

  He then ghosted his palms over her calves, rounded her knees, and edged them up the length of her thighs.

  All hidden in the billowing fabric of her skirt. Hidden treasure.

  “I need you, Jeremy.” She slowly rolled her hips against him.

  She could not know what she was saying—what she was doing.

  “So badly.” She exhaled.

  The heat of her center pressed down on the bulge in his trousers. Trouble. She was steering them headlong into trouble. And rather than drop anchor, he raised the sails, intent on traveling full speed ahead.

  He’d deal with the trouble when they got there.

  Jeremy tugged at her sleeves and lowered her bodice. How many times had he dreamed of doing this while courting her? Soft, creamy skin captured his gaze. A pink flush appeared, and he groaned.

  The reality of Lydia in his arms, of her flesh bared beneath his gaze, surpassed any dream he could concoct on his own.

  His prim and proper debutante was rocking against him. As he laved and suckled and nipped with his teeth, he realized that he had indeed been correct in the assumption he’d made before.

  Because Lydia Cockfield did, in fact, taste like love.

  * * *

  Lost in the haze of this… wanting, Lydia knew she should stop. Ladies do not do this.

  Not in the privacy of an isolated meadow, not in an earl’s Mayfair townhouse, and most definitely not with a gentleman who was not her husband.

  But… this was Jeremy.

  “Oh,” she gasped.

  His mouth summoned hot jumpy sensations… all over. She wanted closer to him.

  She was well aware of how a woman and a man came together—in the dark, in a bedchamber, the lady in her nightdress, the man wearing… Well, she wasn’t certain of that, but she knew that he’d eventually be…

  Exposed.

  Jeremy’s body was hard precisely where she needed him to feel hard. Caught up in the pressure building between the two of them, she imagined all manner of scenarios. Some that involved activities that would resemble the marriage act and others that were, well… unimaginable. Only she did imagine them. Even now…

  Frantic, she lowered her hands to his falls but before she could begin to unfasten them, he stopped her.

  He was right here. She was in his arms and yet…

  He was unreachable.

  “Not… like this.” His voice came out gravelly, rough.

  She lifted her lashes to stare into his eyes, her lids heavy as she struggled to focus.

  “But…” Was that her making that whining sound?

  His gaze pinned on her, he jerked his hips up and prodded… Precisely where she ached to be prodded.

  “Like this.”

  She could barely hold her head up.

  He pulsed upward again, and then again, building on the friction she’d been chasing.

  “Jeremy.” Her head fell back this time, and she would have fallen off his lap if his hands weren’t gripping her waist. He’d located her center and felt harder than before. Like wood, like steel, he ignited more heat—more wanting. White light danced over her skin at the same time little bursts of lightning sped through her veins.

  “Let go, sweet, like that.”

  Let go.

  Let go?

  Wasn’t that what she was doing?

  The settee was shaking now, knocking against the table behind it. His butler or housekeeper could come along any moment, wanting to know what on earth was happening in here.

  She allowed herself a split second to glance toward the closed door and when she swung her gaze back to him, she was surprised to see a bead of perspiration dotting his brow.

  “What if someone comes?” she asked.

  “Precisely what I’m hoping for.” His eyes flashed teasingly but then closed again, and squeezing her hips tightly, he growled.

  The knocking sounds grew louder as his thrusts carried her closer…

  Closer to… something.

  And then she doubted she’d care if King George himself strode through the door.

  Jeremy shuttered, something shattered, and then the most compelling feeling of completion rolled over her. At some point, she’d fallen forward, and they were all but gasping into one another’s mouths.

  “Jeremy.”

  “Are you all right, sweets?”

  “I am, but…”

  “What is it?” He stared at her in concern.

  “The vase. I think we broke the vase.”

  And in that moment, her hope that everything was going to turn out perfectly fine grew even stronger.

  Because Jeremy Gilcrest threw back his head and laughed.

  Chapter 9

  “Lord Tempest, Baxter.” The younger of the two elderly Ludwig Bros. stepped forward, hand outstretched as Jeremy and Baxter, as well as their men of business, entered the spacious but shabby meeting room housed in the Ludwig Bros. Shipping offices. If everything went as planned, the sale would be finalized by the end of this meeting.

  Both Ludwig brothers were well beyond their seventies, and Jeremy knew that neither of them had any family other than one another. Despite the fact that one was considerably plumper than the other, they were nearly identical. Both were balding with white hair, parchment-like complexions, and watery blue eyes.

  Seeing the brothers together elicited a painful twisting in Jeremy’s heart. It was a reminder that Arthur would never work beside him in business. They wouldn’t gr
ow old together. His own brother would forever be a young man in his memory.

  Jeremy cleared his throat and pushed the thought away before lowering himself into the chair beside Baxter.

  “I’m Leo, and this old grump of a fellow is Rudolph,” Leo quipped before taking his seat at the table. Based on the delivery of the joke, as well as Rudolph’s unimpressed grunt, Jeremy had no doubt Leo had been using the same line for most of their adult lives.

  At the far end of the table, Rudolph didn’t bother glancing up from what he was reading. Addendums to the contract—a rather satisfying collection of them. Jeremy flicked his glance over the thick binder of documents that he himself had compiled and then leaned back and crossed one foot over his knee. Was he anxious to get this over with? Yes. Would he show it? Hell, no.

  “We can’t all be the charming ones.” Baxter threw a quick glance in Jeremy’s direction, and Leo laughed.

  “Makes you and I look even better, eh, Baxter?” Leo agreed. “I’d offer you a smoke, but perhaps we should wait until after the negotiations?”

  “Brilliant, Leo, as usual,” Rudolph muttered without looking up from his reading.

  A handful of begrudging-looking gentlemen, presumably the Ludwigs’ solicitors, leaned against the wall, almost like soldiers but with their arms folded across their chests. They took their turns nodding as Leo Ludwig made introductions, but all the while Jeremy kept his gaze pinned on the grumpy one. Rudolph Ludwig would be the one to bring up all objections and questions.

  Baxter took the seat beside Jeremy and then caught his gaze meaningfully. Although the club owner had, in fact, brought in considerable investment money, Jeremy would be the major shareholder, maintaining ownership of fifty-one percent. For that reason, and because he was the most informed, he would act as principal negotiator.

  After waiting nearly half a minute, Rudolph finally raised his head and leveled his watery gaze on Jeremy. “This isn’t the asking price.”

  The room fell silent at the gambit, and Jeremy immediately recognized his advantage.

  These penny-pinching merchants considered gentlemen of the nobility to be foolish and cavalier where business was concerned. Jeremy was happy to be underestimated.

  “It’s twenty percent more than the company’s worth.” Ten percent, but that was beside the point.

  Jeremy would rather not bring up the missing ammunition nor the arms that had been tampered with.

  But if necessary, he would.

  Rudolph grunted, placed an unlit cigar between his teeth, and turned the page. “This ship is undervalued,” he said around the cigar.

  Jeremy opened his own folder and offered the evaluation he’d had done. “I beg to differ. Unless you have documentation proving otherwise?”

  Rudolph only grunted again, and then went on to dispute something else.

  Two and a half hours later, having made zero allowances where price was concerned, Jeremy and Baxter stepped onto the docks as the new owners of one of England’s oldest shipping companies. Official paperwork in hand, Jeremy stared up at the gray and cloudy sky and waited for relief that didn’t come.

  Buying Ludwig Bros. was only the first step in clearing Arthur’s name. Tomorrow, he’d begin the task of sifting through the company’s original accounting records. It would be one of those undertakings where finding nothing would be considered a good thing.

  He’d sift out the traitors, bring them to justice, and there would be no mention of his brother.

  Would he find relief then? Would it be enough?

  Arthur had not been a saint. Arthur had just been… Arthur: the charming brother, the ladies’ man. Yes, he had cheated on his wife and then failed to take the necessary steps to provide properly for his daughter, but he wasn’t a traitor.

  Jeremy was certain of this.

  None of this would have been necessary if Lucas and Blackheart had simply left well enough alone. Jeremy wouldn’t have had to remain in London over the winter, putting his mother’s health at risk; he wouldn’t have had to buy a damn shipping company nor would he have been forced to go to war with an army of dock thieves.

  And he’d already be married to Lydia.

  Lydia, without whom, he was coming to realize, his life was nothing more than a series of monotonous days.

  And endless, frustrating nights

  And having come to that conclusion, he realized he was going to have to change the way he’d been thinking. His gut roiled at the thought of enduring their betrayal, but Lydia was worth it.

  She always had been.

  He could never esteem her brothers as he once had. Not after all of this. But for her sake, for both their sakes, he would learn to tolerate them as brothers-in-law.

  He simply needed proof to convince Lucas to call off the official investigation he’d set into motion through the War Office.

  “I’d suggest we go for a drink, but Clarissa will want me home early,” Baxter said, smiling in satisfaction. “She tends to get this way every time we host a dinner party. You are coming, aren’t you?”

  “I said I would, didn’t I?”

  There were six other investors and, from what the earl told him, his wife had invited them all: Baxter’s brother, Devonshire—or Bash as he called him—the Earl of Goldthwaite, the Earl of Westerley, Baron Chaswick, and the Marquess of Greystone. It wouldn’t look good for Jeremy to forgo the event, as much as he’d like to.

  “It seems you’re finally learning, Tempest,” Baxter observed as Jeremy’s carriage appeared.

  Blasted Baxter—his notions regarding amiability were wearing Jeremy down.

  And yet, his mouth tipped up in a sly smile. Because Lydia, who he had not seen for three days, was going to be in attendance.

  After denying himself her company for four months with every intention of doing so indefinitely, he could now barely go three days without her.

  Without tasting her. Or kissing her. Or participating in other undignified, unmentionable, satisfying, yet unsatisfying exploits with her.

  She’d been dismayed over the broken vase. Beyond dismayed when she’d learned that it had been produced in China sometime during the Tang Dynasty. Jeremy had refused to confirm that it had been almost a thousand years old, but she’d nearly collapsed with the vapors anyway.

  His mother, on the other hand, might have something else to say about it once she was recovered. He would have to purchase a replica.

  Caring for something so mundane gave him pause. Was Lydia dragging him out of the clawing darkness he’d muddled through all year?

  Suddenly, everything in his life seemed to revolve around her. And if felt right.

  It felt righter than anything had in a very long time.

  Seated in the forward-facing bench, Baxter stared out the window, his arms crossed and his legs sprawled between them.

  Jeremy would relay the earl to his Mayfair home first, so the man could settle his wife’s nerves before her dinner party and then he would have his driver return him to Bond Street. The decision to visit Rundell and Bridge’s—the jewelers—was an impulsive one.

  He would be prepared when all of this worked out. If all of this worked out.

  If the original records had not been destroyed.

  If his brother’s name wasn’t listed amongst the other blackguards.

  And if the proof was enough to convince Lucas and Blackheart to stand down.

  Jeremy inhaled a shaky breath. That was a long list of ifs.

  For the first time in over a year, he was beginning to believe his future held something other than grief and hopelessness.

  Because when Lydia had stepped into his life again, she’d brought hope along with her.

  Hope.

  It was a terrifying thing.

  * * *

  Lydia trailed her gaze around the elegant but crowded drawing room. Clarissa’s dinner party was not the intimate gathering Lydia had assumed it would be. With all of Jeremy’s investors present, as well as their respective wives,
the evening promised to be more of a grand celebration. Apparently, the purchase of Ludwig Bros. Shipping had gone better than planned,

  “This Season promises to be considerably quieter than last spring, what with the Ravensdale brothers married off, as well as… a few other handsome rogues.” Lady Greystone’s gaze drifted across the room, and she smiled over her glass. Lydia decided that the well dressed and very handsome man she stared at must be her husband, the Marquess of Greystone.

  If Lydia realized nothing else that evening, the couples among Clarissa’s guests ought to be sufficient to convince her that happy endings were indeed possible. Every single lady here appeared beyond content, and their Lordly husbands seemed quite taken with their wives.

  One of them, Lady Westerley, a pretty American with startling red hair who was obviously with child, hardly went more than ten minutes without her husband crossing the room to inquire as to her health. That he was willing to break from society’s norms was not only sweet but touching.

  Because it was one thing for Lady Westerley to appear in public in her condition but quite another for her husband, who was also an earl, to be living in her pocket.

  And yet… Lydia felt quite comfortable amongst them.

  All of the ladies were kind and welcoming. And although every gentleman present was titled in one way or another, Lydia quickly gathered that this event was not really a tonish one at all.

  It was more of a business affair—business among friends—if she were to go by the bits of conversation she’d taken part in so far.

  Lydia swallowed a sip of the sherry Lord Baxter had procured for her and glanced toward the door for the hundredth time. Where is he?

  Clarissa intercepted her gaze and winced.

  When the countess had visited, two days before, and Lydia told her she’d seen Jeremy again, Clarissa had guessed as to most of the details of their meeting. Most of the general details, anyhow. Lydia had not relayed that she had sat on Jeremy’s lap, nor what she’d done while she’d sat there.

  Clarissa had dissolved into a fit of giggles when she told her about the vase.