Meet the Earl at Midnight

by Gina Conkle

  “You’ll want to put that on, won’t you? There’s a storm outside.” The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened.

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Stunned, she fumbled with her cloak and managed a wobbly smile.

  The cloth had rotated into a tight ball. A mass of jumbled nerves, she whisked her hand from the mess, and the garment dropped. Lydia and Lord Greenwich knelt to the floor at the same time. They crouched low and close; her head almost touched his hat. As she reached for her cloak, her bare hand bumped his gloved fingers.

  Her quick inhale was slight. “Oh.”

  The touch was trivial, yet Lydia couldn’t help but check for visible signs of normal flesh and bone. What woman wouldn’t? Her study of his gloved appendage must have gone on too long. When she glanced up, she met the earl’s hard-eyed gaze.

  “Checking for a hideous claw?”

  She flinched, locked by his dark stare and whiplike sarcasm. There was a rustle of movement, the slip of leather against leather, but she dare not look down. One of his eyebrows rose in challenge.

  “Aren’t you going to look?”

  She winced, but her gaze took a cautious path to his high collar, then dropped in a rapid fall of curiosity to the second sign of humanity from this arcane man. Veins roped the skin of a very normal, rather large, but nicely shaped masculine hand. Gold hairs sprung from bronzed flesh. Scraped knuckles were darker brown, leading to long, tanned fingers. Odd, a recluse wasn’t supposed to be so tan.

  How would those fingers feel on her skin?

  The unbidden question sent a jolt through her body. He flipped the appendage over for her to see his palm dotted with calluses at the base of each finger. A plain white linen cuff obscured his wrist, but Lord Greenwich had a different reaction to her study.

  “You see, Miss Montgomery, I’m human. Every. Inch. A human.”

  Each razor-sharp word hit the mark. Lydia’s face tingled with unwelcome heat. In spite of her blunder, she looked him square in the eye.

  “I don’t doubt your humanity, my lord. I simply wonder about the complete stranger who bartered for my body. This situation, after all, was heaped on me with only a moment’s notice, late at night when most souls are abed. And you stay hidden in your cloak.”

  “That’s the deal I offer. I like my privacy. I’m sure you’ve read the gossip columns,” he mocked. “They’ve mentioned as much.”

  “Begetting an heir, my lord, involves more exposed flesh than your hand,” she said.

  Oh, that was brilliant.

  “I’m familiar with the process.”

  Lydia squeezed her eyes shut at his dry tone; he must think her rather dim. She smarted as much from his gibe about gossip pages as her impulsive tongue. More unwelcome warmth spilled over her face and neck. If only the floor would swallow her now.

  Lydia stood up and smoothed damp palms down her muslin skirt. Perhaps she’d try for reason at a later time. Lud, but she needed her bed. A body couldn’t keep a clear head without decent sleep.

  Lord Greenwich rose to full height and, in gentlemanly fashion, held open the cloak for her. She stepped back into the cloak but studied his ungloved hand folding the garment’s edges over her shoulders. His mannered voice vibrated close to her ear.

  “In due time, Miss Montgomery, you’ll see much more than my hand.” His warmth and nearness sent a shiver skittering across her neck. “But first, we have the business of finding our way home.”

  “Home?” She whipped around to face him.

  “Yes. Greenwich Park. My home.”

  The fire made his brown eyes sparkle. That’s when she saw a white cleft on his skin, a minute scar, next to his right eye. She breathed a sigh of relief and made an effort to smile.

  “Of course. You’ll return to your home, and I’ll return to my mine.”

  “No, you’re coming with me.”

  He was irritatingly calm and in command. Certainly he didn’t expect her to go home with him this very night. Despite her bravado moments ago, all was moving much too fast. That unwelcome whirling sensation came back with a vengeance. This truly was going to happen.

  Now?

  Lydia swiped at a bothersome strand of hair that fell across her face.

  “Milord, the hour is late. I’m tired. You must be tired. Of course, you realize…” Her voice faltered, and she took a shallow breath. “I…I expected to return home. To my home.” She swallowed hard. “Surely, you don’t expect…”

  “Expect what?”

  Hands clasped behind him, Lord Greenwich exuded pragmatic patience. Or was he playing with her? Something in the slight arch of his eyebrows made her wonder. If only he’d lower his collar, then she could see his face, all the better to read him. But her patience thinned to near snapping, and her vision narrowed on him.

  “What I mean is, no true gentleman would even think…” Her voice trailed off again. Lydia stomped her foot and groaned her frustration. “Blast it! You’re impossible. This whole situation’s impossible. I’m tired. And you know very well what I’m trying to say.”

  “A moment ago, you were concerned about the business of our begetting an heir. You even expressed the need to see more of my flesh. Now you’re turning missish over a simple carriage ride to my home. What’s it to be?” he asked.

  “I…” Words failed her.

  She was sure there was a teasing smile behind that collar. His lordship baited her, and she was simply too tired and flustered to set him straight about that missish business. He must have grasped her rattled state. With precise care, he slid the leather glove back on his hand.

  “Let me put your mind at ease, Miss Montgomery. I grant you this evening has been unusually difficult. If you’re concerned about Society’s strictures, don’t be. I do what I want, when I want.” Fingers splayed, he methodically tugged on the glove for a tight fit. Lord Greenwich studied the gauntlet a moment, then pinned her with his dark stare. “I am not a rutting monster. We sojourn to my home tonight. For sleep. Nothing else. In the morning after you’re rested, we’ll talk. Does that put your mind at ease?” He didn’t wait for a response but walked to the door and pulled it open. “Shall we?”

  Shadows cast darkness over him. An air of arrogance and expectation and, she guessed, fatigue enveloped him. The evening’s drama wore thin for him as well. Drained of keen thought, Lydia followed him as if he were a lodestone. The earl offered his arm for escort, and her ungloved hand slid over his thick leather sleeve. Lord Greenwich was not a man of small stature, this much she could tell. Maybe it was the sureness of his step as they descended, but he walked with confidence, and that went a long way in soothing her.

  Belowstairs, George and Mr. Bacon waited for them by the hearth. At least the smaller rats had been chased away.

  “All’s well, then? You’ll not seek the magistrate, milord?” George called out to them as he wiped his forehead. “I’m free to go?”

  “Free?” Lord Greenwich scoffed. “Go home, Montgomery. I’ll be in contact.”

  George didn’t even consider her. His lack of concern didn’t sting—more the notion that she had no say in the matter rankled. That these men bartered her like common goods grated deeply. Lord Greenwich must have felt her stiffen, because he placed a hand atop hers resting on his arm. The gesture reassured but did nothing to abate her ire.

  “Feel good about selling me to save your skin?” she jeered.

  “I made sure you, your mam, and your sister were fed all those years, didn’t I?” George jammed on his hat.

  So that’s how it was? Lydia inhaled sharply, about to say something ill-mannered, when the earl squeezed her hand. A firm warning grip it was.

  “Go home, Montgomery, before this turns into a family brawl.”

  George’s wide mouth clamped shut, giving him the maw of a toad. His eyes beaded as he glanced from the earl to her and back to the earl, but he took his leave, mumbling under his breath. He banged a table in quick departure and left the inn door wide open. His heels clicked, f
ading in the night from his hasty retreat. Mr. Bacon closed the distance to the open portal, tipping his head in the direction George had run. The hissing storm swirled his frock coat around legs as big as tree trunks.

  “I’ll keep a careful eye,” he said, setting a Dutch cap on his bald head. He nodded at her, and his gold earring glinted. “Miss.”

  Lord Greenwich moved his hand to the small of her back and led her to the door. The familiar connection told Lydia the balance of power was his: she belonged to him. Unfazed by the storm, the earl strode to the center of the drive, and arm raised high, called for his carriage. His actions were ordinary, and one could daresay, considerate.

  He stood, a steadfast form, impervious to howling weather. Lydia recalled tidbits about the infamous Earl of Greenwich. The whole Greenwich dynasty, in fact, fell on one disaster after another, as if cursed. Such curse business sounded like foolish nonsense, helped sell scandal pages, but she admitted it was very strange how calamity camped at their door. Once they were golden: successful shipping concerns; father and youngest son renowned for their scientific prowess; the eldest son cut a dashing figure in Society; each family member beautiful like Renaissance art, or so people said.

  Now, one of England’s greatest sons was reduced to a midnight meeting at a backwater inn.

  In the darkness, hooves clattered. The black lacquer coach approached. The earl directed the large conveyance toward the inn door. At least she wouldn’t squish through mud and muck. Nobility had its benefits. Lord Greenwich spoke over raging winds as he came to the door.

  “You’re not turning missish on me again. I could have a footman chase after Mr. Bacon, but he’s a sorry substitute for a chaperone.” Rain beat down on him, but he set a hand to his chest in dramatic chivalry. “I assure you, your virtue’s safe with me.”

  “Quite,” was her tight reply.

  Over the storm, she detected a note of tolerant reassurance. Lydia opened her mouth, ready to say something tart, but the tired, shuttered expression in his eyes stopped her. The middle of a downpour was not the time to trade quips about virtue. Better save that delicate subject for later.

  A footman, his periwig sodden, attended the carriage steps and raised a candle lantern to light the way. With all formality, his lordship swept his hand toward the open door.

  “Miss Montgomery, after you.”

  Lightning split black skies, revealing the carriage’s fine forest-green leather and brass-studded interior. A dreamlike quality of stepping off a cliff into a chasm enveloped her. Lydia braced herself and dashed into the vehicle, and Lord Greenwich followed close behind.

  “To Greenwich Park.”

  The door snapped shut. The light was gone.

  Lydia fidgeted against the squab, letting her eyes adjust to blackness. Without a word, the earl settled his head into the corner and crossed his arms. He tugged down his hat and stretched one booted leg across the seat, bracing the other on the floor. She waited for him to say something. Anything. Lydia cleared her throat, hoping for some acknowledgment of her presence.

  Nothing.

  Black carriage curtains swished back and forth as the vehicle rumbled down the road, allowing occasional light to splash the interior. Her vision traced his lounging frame swathed in bulky leather, where a rounded paunch might hide beneath for all she knew. Lord Greenwich’s collar covered his face. The man refused to unmask himself even in pitch dark. His head lolled, keeping time with the carriage’s bumps and sways.

  “He sleeps,” she whispered.

  With her eyes adjusted to the dark, Lydia spied a heavy blanket folded next to her. She draped herself in wool and hunkered down. Cloth tickled her chin, and her mind fairly buzzed in the steady vehicle. She wasn’t fully reconciled that this would truly happen.

  How could she delicately extract herself without reprisals to her mother?

  Her mind turned to another matter—a matter she could hide from his lordship for the time being. She’d have to. Her fingertips grazed her abdomen. Would that be her way out of this mess?

  Men could be particular about these things. She shook her head and smiled at the mysterious man stretched out before her. If she truly found herself stuck, what wife doesn’t have a secret or two she keeps from her husband?

  Three

  If you must live in the river, befriend the crocodile.

  —Indian Proverb

  “Miss Montgomery…Miss Montgomery…” a persistent male voice intruded. “We’ve arrived.”

  Lydia rubbed sleep-grained eyes. The earl. His slit of eyes and hat pulled low appeared less ominous: gold-brown hair came loose from his queue and spilled over his collar, quite the ordinary, mussed traveler. She yawned and stretched, not genteel but satisfying, until cold air nipped at her face and hands.

  In the drive, wind drove heavy mist sideways at a footman who stood a respectful distance, his candle lantern swaying. Beyond him, a wide sweep of curved gray steps led to a large open doorway—a dark, ominous cavity. Lurid visions of dust and cobwebs and bats camped in her brain. Such notions were probably foolish, yet a body could only wonder.

  “What time is it?” She groaned.

  The earl, oblivious to the driving mist, pulled a silver fob from his cloak.

  “Precisely half past midnight, but the hour’s irrelevant.” He returned the glinting timepiece to his pocket and extended a gloved hand. “Come. You’ll find the house more inviting.”

  She frowned at the imposing edifice. The footman standing in the drive shivered. He needed to be abed as much as she. Stalling, and thereby keeping the servant from the comfort of his bed, equaled the height of inconsideration. The warm wool blanket dropped to the floor, and Lydia set her hand in the earl’s firm grip. She stuck her foot outside, but awareness wasn’t with her. That cavernous black doorway claimed her attention, and therein was her problem.

  Trouble came in mere seconds, as it usually did for her.

  The step was slick. She slipped. The sole of her leather shoe slid off the step’s edge.

  “Oww!” she yelped as her foot banged the graveled drive hard.

  Legs buckling, down she went, like a graceless sack of flour. What’s worse, she slammed into the earl, her shoulder punching his midsection.

  “Ooomph!” Lord Greenwich grunted but moved quickly to save her from falling all the way to the ground.

  Her face mashed against leather and linen. Strong hands held her arms. At least she didn’t knock the earl down. Grabbing for purchase, her fingers touched warm wool…buttons…skin.

  Her face pressed into fabric, she murmured, “I’m so very sorry.”

  Lydia tried to right herself, but relief turned to horror: she was a mortified eye level with the pewter buttons of Lord Greenwich’s breeches. Stalwart English mist snapped sense into her. That and seeing his placket bunched low in her fist. Her fingers grazed smooth flesh. Another, more interesting sliver of Lord Greenwich’s skin was exposed: pale, intimate skin just below his navel. Lydia yanked back her hand, and a pewter button went flying.

  “Oh no!” she cried as humiliating heat flared across her face and neck.

  “Miss Montgomery? Are you injured?” Lord Greenwich asked above the wind, slowly lifting her up.

  He sounded unperturbed at having a woman’s hands on the front of his breeches. Their bodies pressed together, and in the upset, Lydia’s hood slipped from her head. Drizzle wet her skin and hair. Oh, how she wished the cloak would swallow her up and blow her to another district.

  “I’m sorry. So clumsy of me.”

  “Not to worry,” he said above increasing wind. “Did you twist your ankle?”

  Lord Greenwich held her close. Concern reflected in his eyes. Considering the circumstances, plenty of leather and wool made a proper barrier between them, enough to satisfy the stodgiest matron, but the alarming proximity was too much. Lydia jerked free and, without thinking, stepped back. The earl stood bolt upright, strands of his gold-blond hair whipping in the wind. Even in darkness, sh
e caught the narrowing of his eyes.

  “Forgive me for intruding on your maidenly sensibilities. I thought only to stop you from falling to the ground.” His harsh words bit like frost to bare flesh.

  He must think me repulsed.

  She clapped a hand over her eyes and groaned. This was not the first time her hand was on the front placket of a man’s breeches, but now was not the time to clarify that point. More to the matter, she needed to clear up this debacle, but that would not be. Lord Greenwich’s bootheels pounded the gravel drive in his hasty exit. When she lowered her hand, he took the stairs two at a time, his leather cape sweeping wide like a huge bird of prey.

  “My lord, please…” Her voice was lost in the night wind.

  Either he didn’t hear her entreaty, or he ignored her.

  “Oh, blast it!” Lydia clutched her skirts high—showing too much leg—for a dash to the door.

  The footman’s slack-jawed gape stopped her short.

  “As if you’ve never seen the like,” she retorted. “Just go warm yourself.”

  Teeth chattering, he bobbed his head. “Yes, miss. Good night, miss.”

  Lydia bounded up the stone stairs, excess cloth from her skirts bunched high. She needed to set things right. She burst into a dim interior and stopped to shake her wet garments. Her noisy entrance didn’t distract the earl. He snubbed her—she saw as much when his back stiffened—and went right on speaking to two women holding guttering candles, the sole light for the cavernous entry.

  She near burst to explain, but the need to say something to Lord Greenwich was overruled by impertinent curiosity. A plump, older woman and another woman, whose face was hidden from view, listened to the earl. Both, apparently servants roused in the middle of the night, wore thick robes.

  Amidst his lordship’s muffled instructions, the hidden woman turned sharply in a flutter of pale blond hair, as if to get a better look at the miscreant hovering at the door. Lydia cringed; he must have relayed the minor misunderstanding by the carriage or some other unflattering news about her.