Meet the Earl at Midnight

by Gina Conkle

  “No hysterics, please—”

  “You talk of sending my mother to the Compter, and you’re bothered by hysterics,” she bit each word at him and took a step closer.

  His lordship’s eyes closed a moment, as if he dipped into a well of forbearance. “If you’ll remain calm, I’ll finish.”

  Lydia scowled at George, who was too busy wiping perspiration from his forehead; she’d get no help from that quarter. She wouldn’t put it past him to implicate her mother in some way just to weasel his way out of any consequence.

  “There is an amenable solution…a plan, if you will.”

  “Yes, I’m most interested to hear what plan was concocted without my knowledge,” she said, glaring at the earl.

  “Please understand, Miss Montgomery, I thought you were in full agreement to the solution your stepfather presented.” The cadence of his voice slowed. “Call it a creative remedy to satisfy an urgent requirement of mine.”

  “I don’t care what you need. My mother will not go to that hellish place.”

  “Careful, Miss Montgomery,” the earl cautioned. “You’re in no position to make such pronouncements…such is the way of things with theft and debt, an imperfect justice system to be sure.”

  Lydia inhaled quickly, about to give his high and mightiness the sharp end of her tongue.

  “Wait.” He raised a gloved hand. “I’m not without compassion. Understand, the power to resolve this matter rests in your hands.”

  Lydia was sure she had the red-faced bearing of an angry fishwife. But he was nobility, and George and Tristan were clearly at fault.

  “Go on, then.” Her arms clamped over her chest, bunching damp garments. “You said something about a plan.”

  “Your stepfather overheard a conversation I had with my solicitor at Sanford Shipping. He knew of a particular and rather urgent need of mine. To get to the point—he offered you.”

  “Offered me? You want to employ me to pay off this debt?” Lydia canted her head sideways. “That’s what this is about?”

  Lord Greenwich had the nerve to be amused. At least she took the muffled sound behind the collar to be a laugh. Beside him, a heavy log rolled and split apart in the hearth. Firelight flared a bright dance of orange and yellow, exposing his splinter of skin.

  “No, Miss Montgomery, I don’t want to employ you.” He paused, and topaz eyes scrutinized her. “I need you for a different purpose.”

  Though bare of corset or stays, Lydia couldn’t shake the sensation of whalebone pinching her ribs. Breathing became difficult. Male stares bored into her, waiting. Her fingers dug at scratchy wool and muslin.

  “Me? Why?”

  His lordship sighed overlong and repeated in a monotone voice, “Because Tristan and your stepfather stole—”

  “No,” she huffed. “I’m not a half-wit. I mean, why this odd trade? Makes no sense. If not to employ me and repay the debt, then what for?”

  The earl’s shoulders squared. His dark-eyed look reached across the space and pinned her.

  “More precisely, I need your body.”

  Two

  Even a fish could stay out of trouble if it learned to keep its mouth shut.

  —Proverb

  “You are mad as a March hare.” The rude words slipped off her tongue. “Why would you need my body?” Lydia’s leather shoes scraped uneven planks as she inched backward.

  “I assure you, I’m quite sane.” The earl watched her, clear-eyed and focused. “I need an heir. I’ll expect you to provide one for me, and possibly a second in due time.”

  He stated his requirements as if this were simply a matter of course. They could have been discussing a mundane transaction of flour or wool. The deafening rush in her ears competed with the steady drum in her chest, muddling her brain. As the midnight hour approached, her life opened an unwelcome door, and the cascade pouring down on her was not appealing by any stretch. She had plans of her own and was quite done with men.

  “And if I refuse?” Lydia asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “I will seek justice.”

  Her mother’s gentle face clouded her mind, but under the folds of her cloak, Lydia’s hands covered her abdomen. Her womb was a negotiation piece. Babies…children were meant to be the fruit of something close to perfection between a man and a woman…something close to that perfect, dreamlike memory of her mother and long-dead father. Children deserved to grow into their own dreams and desires, not live as pawns or game pieces for the fulfillment of others.

  The pressure, so much to absorb, caused a nagging throb. Lydia’s hand moved to her forehead. Her fingertips massaged her temple, wishing away George, Mr. Bacon, Lord Greenwich, this whole mess. She squeezed her eyes shut, only to picture her mother once again, and a different coldness that owed nothing to the weather crept over her. Lord Greenwich’s smooth, hypnotic voice broke the silence.

  “Come. Step into the light.”

  Lydia opened her eyes. Beside her, George licked his lips as his glittering, avaricious gaze bounced between her and Lord Greenwich. That calculating gleam of his…the irksome man saw an opening to bilk the situation.

  George raised his index finger. “Perhaps, milord, we can renegotiate—”

  She groaned.

  “Jonas,” Lord Greenwich called behind him.

  Mr. Bacon nodded his shiny pate and grasped the unspoken request. The velvet-clad brute moved off the wall with surprising grace for one his size. Then, some shuffling of feet, a firm redirection or two, and his lordship’s man of business gripped the back of George’s cloak with one hand, removing him, like a broom sweeping out refuse. The big man finished the job by shutting the slanted door neatly behind him.

  “Perhaps I spoke to the wrong Montgomery.” The earl tipped his head in invitation. “Please. Come closer. This evening’s been an unexpected trial.”

  No harm in that. The bewildering night might end well, if she could just have a sensible conversation with his lordship. After all, a peer of the realm ought not to marry a woman of little consequence, especially when one considered the dynasty in question. Matters could be negotiated, if only the earl would be reasonable.

  But Lord Greenwich studied her with a different potency in his dark eyes. Lydia lowered her lashes, aware of how men’s minds worked. She needed to regroup and gather her wits, but the earl must have sensed her wariness, or so she guessed when he extended a gloved hand.

  “Please. This need not be unpleasant.” His voice lulled her. “I promise I won’t bite.”

  “Meaning sometimes you do,” she snipped.

  A muffle of low, masculine laughter floated from his collar. “Only on a full moon.”

  His quip surprised her much like a clue revealed. Still, this midnight meeting defied reason, best she use caution. When she didn’t move, his hand dropped to his side. His lordship’s presence grew bigger in the tiny room, though he stood a safe, respectable distance.

  “Very well then. Why not take off your cloak?” he coaxed.

  “How like a man,” she said, eyeing him from the safety of her hood. “Get a woman naked, first. Solve a problem, second.”

  That earned her another low, masculine chuckle.

  “Now, now,” he chided. “I’m not asking you to undress, only that you remove your cloak. As you informed all, you are wet and soggy.” Lord Greenwich motioned to the blazing hearth. “You could stand here and warm yourself…dry your damp skirts.”

  How did he manage to be commanding and reasonable at the same time? With a sigh, she pushed back her faded red hood and stepped closer. The welcome fire warmed her ankles nicely.

  “I am, if anything, ever accommodating,” she said, tart-tongued.

  Her sharpness missed its mark. Instead, her target tipped his head with great interest, almost fascination, when her face came into view. Topaz-brown eyes inspected every exposed inch of her visage, searching her with blunt curiosity. A spark as hot and fast as flint striking stone shot through her. Flummoxed
, Lydia squared her shoulders and tried for businesslike composure.

  “I’m sure something can be done to rectify this debt.”

  “Your cloak.”

  “My cloak?” she repeated, running her palms over damp wool.

  “Remove it.”

  Something in his firm tone brooked no disagreement. Her leaden hands obeyed, loosening the frogs and loops under her chin with graceless plucking. Her well-worn red half cloak, a sign of her modest station, parted and swayed, all while his gaze roamed over her, head to hem, waiting. A stag, tense and alert, scenting a doe came to mind. This was one way a woman could find herself flat on her back, as well she knew from times past.

  Wind and rain squalled outside as the last closure came undone. Damp wool slipped from her shoulders. Though fully clothed, she couldn’t shake the sense of being stripped bare under his lordship’s keen scrutiny. Lydia clutched her cloak in both hands and made a rumpled shield. There really ought to be more space between them.

  Lightning slashed the room. Quick flashes split darkness behind Lord Greenwich. His acute study drifted up her skirts to pause just below her neckline—he stared at her bosom, and her traitorous, corsetless bosom pointed back. Was it the cold air? Or him? Lydia inched her cloak higher, and his lordship, undaunted in his perusal, returned to his intense study of her face. Was he pleased? That she entertained such a question shocked her.

  The earl clasped his hands behind his back. “Turn around.”

  She gave an indignant huff and glared, not budging an inch. “I will not.”

  “If you please, Miss Montgomery.” He made the request sound courtly. “I’m only asking you to take a turn.”

  The cloak, rough scratchy wool, bunched tighter in her hands. “Next, you’ll want to check my teeth.”

  His lordship twirled his finger. “A single rotation will suffice.”

  Being at the mercy of his good grace reminded her to get this done and over with…all the better to move on to a more reasonable solution. Her mother’s welfare beat a constant drum in her head; thus, she obliged him. The water-stained ceiling became the safest place to look as she crossed one foot over the other, beginning a slow circle.

  “You know, my lord, I have a small amount of my own funds. Well, not much, really, but if we could discuss this tomorrow. At luncheon perhaps? I might have a solution of my own.”

  “No. We do this my way.”

  Fire crackled and floorboards creaked from her slow circling movement. A tickling sensation flowed over her, touching everywhere. Her lack of corset set her cheeks aflame. Yet, his scrutiny was fascinating. She bemoaned her wrinkled, outdated dress. Did he notice? Or did he notice her smooth skin and glossy waves of sleep-mussed sable hair, of which her great-aunt raved? The earl’s impertinent gaze ranged everywhere.

  “If you’re quite through, my lord,” she said with some starch.

  Lydia pressed the cloak closer. Lud, but he needed a set down. She’d dealt with overzealous farmers and country squires in the past and knew how to put men in their place. Men were all the same, no matter their status. The quality of their clothes differed, but all were flesh and blood underneath. A biting remark formed on her lips.

  He reached for her.

  She froze.

  Lord Greenwich’s gloved hand hovered near her face in the gentlest fashion, as if he wanted to touch her but held himself in check. They stood that way for a few, eternal seconds. Only his warmth touched her cheek. So close, she smelled oiled leather and saw the stitching on his glove. Why the hesitation?

  Long moments stretched, measured by the sound of rainfall. His brown eyes studied her lips, her hair, even the outline of her ear, as odd as the notion was. His lordship examined her as if he would memorize shape and texture without contact. He angled his head, the black tricorne casting shadows, and something passed between them: something elusive and slight when his gaze met hers…a current of curiosity that must have beckoned him to test her.

  A lone, leather-clad finger trailed over her cheek, so light. Lord Greenwich’s subtle connection caused tantalizing shivers, shivers that followed his whisper-soft caress on Lydia’s skin. His exploring finger slipped under her chin and angled her face toward firelight.

  “You’re a thorough one,” she said breathy and low. “No doctor’s ever examined me thus.”

  His dark gaze flicked to hers. “Even phantoms have their standards.”

  The tip of his glove grazed her neck, a mere hint of touch. His eyes fixated on that fraction of her exposed flesh, following the line his finger traced. Unexpected warmth swirled across her body, yet her feet were stuck. His hand dropped to his side, and the earl stepped back, breaking the current.

  “You realize I offer marriage?” He clasped his hands behind his back and spoke matter-of-factly.

  They were back to the evening’s transaction. But her breathing, heavier from the singular invasion of his gloved hand, hadn’t recovered.

  “A legitimate heir requires as much,” she managed, trying to sound like a woman with some wits about her.

  “You would lack for nothing. As my wife, you will have every luxury, I daresay more than—”

  “My mother,” she blurted. Was she giving in to this bargain?

  Lydia needed to gauge the man who held all the cards, and this discomfiting sense that all was out of her control. Even more, she needed him to remove that infernal greatcoat, or at least have him drop his collar. Hadn’t she done as much for him?

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Yes. What about your mother?”

  “Leave my mother alone. No harm befalls her.” Lydia twisted and bunched her cloak, rationalizing what was important and what was not. “Tristan and my stepfather can rot for all I care, but I don’t want my mother to suffer for anything they’ve done.”

  “Of course. You have my word. She will live as free as she pleases.”

  Free. She smirked at the notion. That was a relative word where her mother was concerned. Still, he agreed so quickly. Hands clasped behind his back, his lordship was all business. Yes, she had to protect her mother, but her whole reason for coming to London also hung in the balance.

  Her plan could not be pushed aside any more than she could stop breathing.

  And one ought to consider how the Sanford name could help with that.

  Her mental scale tipped in favor of this preposterous agreement. She was in no hurry for marriage fetters with any man, if ever at all, thank you very much. However, a peer of the realm could open doors, doors previously closed to her. Lydia’s mental scale slanted more toward the earl’s scheme.

  Her chin tipped high. “And I want a measure of freedom.”

  Lord Greenwich crossed his arms. The action caused his collar to slip lower, revealing the top of a blade-straight nose.

  “You’re in no position to make demands, Miss Montgomery.” His cultured voice firmed. “Especially, oddly phrased ones.”

  Lydia licked her lips. She should have asked for funds. He probably expected as much, but she lacked the cunning for that sort of thing. She wanted what she wanted, however out of the ordinary that may be. Her cloak knotted into a tighter ball in her hands. Like a juggler at a country fair, her mind tossed each notion and problem up high and worked to keep track; then a new one joined the whirl.

  “On the contrary, my lord, no respectable family of rank will marry their daughters to you because…” Her voice trailed off as she searched his collar, unable to meet his eyes.

  Lydia recalled the scandal pages, each with their own lurid story of a failed liaison with another noble family. The common theme in all the gossip rags claimed the engagement fell apart last summer when his betrothed slashed her wrists and nearly bled to death. Nasty business it was that drove the family into seclusion. The earl’s notoriety as The Phantom of London grew. Was he horrid to that young woman?

  Reading about the disgrace made little more than passing news for her and her great-aunt. This close to the earl, discomfort poked Lydia’s con
science like a stick. Gossip charged a hefty price: she saw it in his eyes. Shame must have stung him, and all of England played voyeur, entertained by his private pain. Nevertheless, her empathy had its limits. Lord Greenwich tilted his head back and looked at her as an unexpected chess rival.

  “Apparently, I underestimated you.” His voice softened. “It’s true. Certain circumstances have made the possibility of marriage…difficult.” He paused, and his tone turned weary. “You asked for freedom. What kind of freedom?”

  She hesitated. How to word this? After all, what she wanted was out of the ordinary.

  “To…to…pursue the same quiet interests I enjoyed in the country, with the occasional stay in London, where I’ll—”

  “I don’t participate in Society.” He nearly growled the words at her.

  “Yes, I understand this.” She searched the exposed part of him. “I…I only wish to maintain my…interests, such as they are—” Lydia squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye with a different approach. “Give me free rein, my lord, and I’m confident that I can be of assistance to your needs. As often as you like.”

  His head snapped to soldierly attention. That last distracting bit was a tad bold, but men were rather simple. Wasn’t food or sex what most men clamored for? Keep those appetites sated, and a woman could do what she wanted. Lord Greenwich stepped forward, invading her space. His dark eyes narrowed as he searched her face.

  With the hot fire at her back and cloaked man leaning close, there was no place to go. Silence stretched between them, save the rain easing to a light patter outside. A ceiling stain turned into a steady drip; its subtle ping of water droplets hit a porcelain bowl on the floor with hypnotic rhythm.

  The bottom of his cloak brushed her skirt. She couldn’t be sure if the earl was trying to read her or intimidate. Lydia’s neck tensed, ready to snap, but she met Lord Greenwich’s stare, despite his invasive closeness. Stiff-armed, stiff-necked, she pressed her cloak to her ribs.

  His eyes crinkled in the corners. “Very well, Miss Montgomery, we have a deal.”

  Her jaw dropped. She stared at him as wide-eyed as her great-aunt’s cow. Lord Greenwich took a step back, pointing at the cloak she clutched to her chest.