Meet the Earl at Midnight

by Gina Conkle

  “Clerodendrum thomsoniae. A bleeding heart vine.” Lord Greenwich’s voice shot into the room. “And that’s Latin you’re reading, the language of science and intellectuals.”

  Lydia whipped around, facing the direction of the cultured voice. As she whirled, a golden arc of scotch sprayed from the glass, raining wetness. To stop the spray, she jerked abruptly, overcorrecting, and the glass tilted, sloshing liquid on her dress.

  The earl filled the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded loosely, as if finding a woman snooping in his room was a common occurrence. A cringing chill scraped her skin, the same as when she was a child caught in the thick of wrongdoing. Fire sparked in his lordship’s eyes and the way his scarred jaw ticked. What would he do? That molten stare of his raked her bodice.

  “Your dress.”

  “My dress?” She shook her head, befuddled, until she followed the cant of his glare. “Oh dear.”

  A wet spot blossomed, the strong, smoky peat of scotch marking her with its stain like some kind of immoral woman. Grim-faced, his lordship moved across the room with long, quick strides. He reached for the glass she clutched to her chest in a death grip.

  “I’ll take that.”

  His chill tones sent goose bumps down her spine. Long masculine fingers slid over hers.

  “I know this looks bad,” she said, swallowing the lump in her throat, not letting go of the glass.

  “Yes.” Hard brown eyes stared back, giving no quarter. “Very bad.”

  “Awful…for many reasons,” she whispered, dry-mouthed.

  He pulled on the near-empty glass. She held fast. Her fingers pinched fine crystal as if the glass were some kind of talisman. Lord Greenwich’s jaw muscles flexed.

  “Give. Me. The. Glass.”

  Some strands of dark blond hair had gone awry of his queue, flanking his jaw. Lydia stared wide-eyed at the masculine hand covering her own, then met his hard stare.

  “You won’t hit me, will you?”

  His eyes flared wide, as if the idea were ridiculous. “I don’t hit women. But you will give me the glass.”

  “Yes, of course.” Numbly, she followed the exchange of her hand curving in his, and stinging embarrassment made her study the carpet. That’s when she saw the puddle at her feet.

  “Lud! Look what I’ve done.” She dropped to the floor, using the hem of her underskirt to alternately rub and dab the spot.

  “The rug is the least of my concerns,” he said, extending a hand. “Up with you.”

  Lydia knelt at his feet. She followed the line of scuffed boots, past traces of dirt smeared on his breeches, to the calloused hand offered to her. This thoughtful gentleman’s gesture was in stark contrast to his anger. She swallowed hard as excruciating embarrassment at demonstrating the worst kind of invasive voyeurism crumbled under a weightier issue: her mother’s fate.

  Why hadn’t she thought of her mother before snooping in his room?

  “Come, now.” The earl’s proffered hand flicked at her. “While I’m sure my legs make for an interesting view, I’d rather we converse face-to-face.”

  Sarcasm aside, his words held a certain promise. Or could it be the beginning of her getting the boot? Another chill skittered down her neck. This loomed like the worst kind of trouble but with ominous consequences. Unable to meet his eyes, Lydia set her hand in his. She moved upright, swallowing hard.

  “I can explain.”

  Lord Greenwich placed the glass on the table and settled in the faldstool chair, sprawling his booted legs before him. He could be the very picture of Caesar giving audience to a humble citizen. The stern line of his mouth, however, promised dire judgment.

  “Yes, I’d very much like to hear why you were in my room, uninvited, and rifling through my things,” he said, propping an elbow on the chair’s arm.

  The earl leaned his unscarred cheek into his index finger and waited, acting as judge and jury on her person. Hadn’t he done the same last night? The floor seemed flimsy under the soles of her stocking feet. No corset. No shoes. A woman could never gain the advantage poorly dressed. Lies, a fleeting temptation, failed to appeal: nothing from that avenue would be plausible anyway. Truth gave the simplest and best path. She clasped her hands together, hating the sunken pit that was her stomach, and hoped for mercy, yet her shoulders drooped as one already condemned.

  “I…I wanted to learn more about you. That’s all,” she said, licking her lips. “I apologize for the intrusion. This was…I was terribly wrong.”

  His eyebrows shot up at her last pronouncement. The index finger pressing his unscarred cheek began a slow circle over his temple as silence ticked between them, but the light in his lordship’s eyes hinted at his mind working those simple statements of hers, measuring them.

  “And drinking my single malt gives you intimate knowledge of me?” His lips twitched with something between a cold smile and doubt.

  “No,” she groaned.

  Her face and neck went warm; Lydia was sure all her exposed skin turned beet red. And the most pressing point wasn’t her defense, rather what bothered him more? The invasion? Or the drink? Her brain couldn’t form a coherent explanation for pilfering his scotch. Did one even exist?

  “Are you given to heavy drinking, Miss Montgomery?” His question cut the awkward silence.

  Her body jerked as if he’d hit her. “Of course not.”

  “A drunkard, perhaps? It happens with some women.” He leaned forward and pinned her with his intensity. “No need to act the outraged miss with me. Young women do not usually go skulking around men’s rooms uninvited, going through their things. Nor do they drink strong liquor. Only those of the loosest morals would entertain such audacity.”

  She gasped at the implication. He assumed the worst of her. Again. And she had her answer: snooping in his room was the greater of the two evils committed this day. Her damp palms pressed her chest in pledge.

  “I assure you, my lord, going through someone’s personal effects is highly unusual for me.” Her heart pounded under her hands.

  “Is that so?” His eyebrows shot up once more.

  How could a man’s eyebrows be so irritating?

  Lydia wanted to slap that imperious expression right off his face. A calming breath was needed. After all, his lordship did have the moral high ground here. She had some work ahead of her to put things right; best to dive headlong with the truth. Taking a deep, calming breath, she proceeded.

  “On occasion, I enjoy a small dram with my aunt. A bottle we open a few times a year is all. It’s a gift from a longtime admirer of hers, who visits from the borderlands now and then. I know it’s unseemly for women, but…” Lydia let her words trail off and decided on a new approach. She held up thumb and forefinger, keeping a judicious inch of space. “I have only about this much every once in a while…very little, but, yes, I enjoy it. Is that a crime? And I came into your room with the intention of looking at your books. The drink was an afterthought. Nothing more.”

  “My books.” He said that as both statement and question, part and parcel of whatever judgment swirled behind his brown eyes.

  His lordship stared at her, weighing her words, while his other hand tapped his thigh. Agonizing silence stretched, mere seconds really, and Lydia placed a steadying hand on the table. She needed something to prop her up under that dark-eyed scrutiny, but damp spots touched her skin. She checked her palm, noticed a small spray of wetness, and her gaze flitted from hand to table.

  “The map! Blast it!”

  She hiked up her skirt and dabbed wetness off the crumpled, curling foolscap. Lord Greenwich sprung from the chair and snatched the map from her. He held the yellowing sheet high toward the window, examining every detail. Sunlight touched the planes of his smooth, tanned cheek. From this angle, he was every bit the handsome nobleman. He squinted at the map as his left hand skimmed the scrawled words.

  “The map is intact…a few drops on the corner,” he said, breathing a sigh of relief. “No har
m done. I can still read the directions.”

  “You can read that scrawl?” She grimaced at the map.

  “Hope so. It’s my writing.” His lips turned in a half smile as he set the map on the table.

  His sleeve brushed her arm. She smelled the plain soap he must’ve used to shave with that morning. Clean scents of English mist and greenery clung to him. Lydia shifted away from the earl and swallowed hard.

  “Is it a treasure map?” She gave all her attention to the map and clasped her hands on the table.

  “Yes.” His hand flattened the square paper reverently. “The best kind.”

  He took one book and used it as a paperweight on one curling edge, and smoothed his palm down the other. Glad to have the attention diverted from her blunder, Lydia stood a silent witness as his free hand grazed the page as one might stroke a beloved instrument.

  “What you see here is my first effort as cartographer and botanist. The map represents my first and only scientific expedition to an uncharted island off Africa’s west coast. And this”—he tapped the X twice—“was my unusual find.” His bemused smile and faraway look morphed into something stony. “A treasure hard won by flesh and blood.”

  Midday sunlight broke through the clouds. His skin made a dark contrast to his white shirt and the sudden brightness flooding the room. He eased the map from under the anchoring book.

  “You say you want to learn more about me?” His lips twisted in a bitter, tight-lipped smile as he raised the parchment next to his scarred cheek. “Notice any similarities?”

  She gasped, unable to drag her attention from his face. Lydia’s gaze levered from face to map, map to face, comparing the near-identical markings as stomach sickening horror set in. The map’s myriad lines and Lord Greenwich’s cheek shared the same awful pattern.

  “Who would do such a thing?” she asked, though not expecting an answer. The question slipped out from shock.

  What could one say to offer comfort? Words were trite and small compared to what he must have endured. Newfound admiration sprung as well. While all of England gossiped and guessed about his painful trials these past three years, Lord Edward soldiered on with tenacity. Lydia swallowed, searching his face, unable to voice even the plainest mumblings of comfort. He had half the visage and full vigor of a man in his prime years, but those glinting, topaz-brown eyes of his bored into her, reflecting a lifetime of—courage and depth? More of the unexpected revealed from this privileged nobleman.

  Lord Greenwich sighed under her scrutiny and returned the map to the table, settling it with care.

  “Barbary pirates attacked our ship. We were on a scientific expedition, and they thought to torture information out of me.” He tapped the yellowed paper with efficiency, but his voice was slow and rough. “They got hold of my map. So certain were they that it led to gold and silver…that I withheld information to protect my treasure. It didn’t help matters when they discovered I’d funded the expedition, and the treasure in question was plants.” His sardonic smile covered a flare of raw emotion. “Drunken, angry pirates make a bad combination.”

  His brief explanation gave cursory facts, the telling was not denied her, but when Lydia searched his face for more, a wall slammed down around Lord Greenwich. A strange pressure moved up her chest and into her throat as the whole vast room fell away, disappearing. She would not lose that fragile connection with him. Lydia reached out to touch his arm, needful contact for a reassuring bond. But with his lordship’s rolled-up sleeve, her palm grazed his bare forearm.

  Crisp, curling masculine hairs tickled her palm as her hand hovered over warm skin to finally settle, flesh to flesh. Tactile communication, a forward touch out of step with propriety, stilled him as much as it stirred her.

  And she was alone with this man in his room. Again.

  The earl’s dark gaze dropped to her slim hand resting on his arm.

  A rush of schoolgirl awkwardness flooded her. She pulled her hand away. Cool air brushed her empty palm, but his clean smell became a welcome, heady scent. Lydia’s breathing notched up its effort to move air in and out, and thankfully, his lordship was equally affected. He crossed his arms, but his heavy-lidded gaze dropped to her mouth and lingered.

  “I need to be clear: my room and my laboratory are forbidden territory. Keep out. I thought you understood this.” His commanding words held no bite, swimming as they both were in a sea of awareness.

  Lydia tipped her head sideways, exposing a length of neck. The move was flirtatious, but worked. Her quarry gave his full attention to the column of her throat, half-hidden by unbound hair.

  “Wouldn’t that make your plans for procreation a bit…difficult?” she asked, letting quiet, saucy challenge have its way. “If I’m not welcome in your room, that is.”

  She was completely in the wrong here. The earl had every right to be incensed with her for this intrusive foray. She should take a more conciliatory tone, but something unsettled within her wouldn’t let things rest. Perhaps because she was a woman who knew very well the lustful underbelly that inhabited every man.

  She clasped her hands behind her, giving in to the perverse wish to tempt the reclusive Lord Greenwich. Truth be told, she still chafed at his absurd one-month waiting period, but Lydia held her tongue from going further on that score. She wasn’t in very good standing, what with her history with men, her snooping in his room, and that dreadful error with his scotch.

  Lord Greenwich looked her up and down, as if taking measure of an unusual creature.

  His lips quirked. “A bold statement from a woman in a precarious situation. Pushing the limits of my benefaction?”

  She couldn’t answer why she wished to needle him about the privacy of his room and laboratory. In that short stare down of nobleman versus hoyden, the tanned V of his shirt and the earl’s noticeable breathing rhythm mesmerized Lydia. He was just as affected by the riot of attraction that bounced between them. For that was most definitely what was going on, however unexpected.

  Lydia shook her head. “I think not, my lord. You need me as much I need you.” With a triumphant tilt of her chin, she finished quiet-voiced, “And I’ve just realized we’re on equal footing.”

  “A dangerous assumption.” His eyes narrowed, but his tone met hers, equal in velvet softness. “I’m not letting you off that easily. We must deal with your intrusion here.”

  “What? Are you going to bend me over your knee?” She laughed at the absurdity.

  His mouth pulled in a harsh line, and Lydia’s vulnerability hit her. She blinked at him, and her jaw dropped.

  “You aren’t sending me packing, are you?”

  Eight

  Deal with the faults of others as gently as with your own.

  —Chinese Proverb

  How could he?

  They stood close enough that her neck craned in her effort to maintain eye contact. But it was his lips, well formed and attractive, that snared her. A sculptor could have taken his chisel and smoothed the slight plane on his lordship’s lower lip, leaving the rest of that brooding mouth alone. Pure fanciful thinking.

  The earl was unreadable, but this much was clear: the tables had turned in her favor for a short space of time. The whole interchange turned informative, exciting even. Oh, yes, more revealing clues about this enigmatic man unfurled like large petals on a blossom.

  But control was a fleeting thing. Lord Greenwich neatly turned the tables back to the error of her ways, and Lydia faced another startling fact: she wanted to stay…at least for a while.

  The corners of his mouth played at a smile that failed to light his eyes.

  “Logic dictates that I can’t send you packing when your things haven’t arrived yet, now can I?” his lordship said, picking up the near-empty glass.

  He walked to the liquor cabinet across the room. Much of his hair had worked free of his black velvet queue. Daylight hit a few guinea-gold strands in the dark blond, yet, the hair at the nape of his neck was dark velvet brown. What wou
ld his hair feel like? As Lord Greenwich set the glass inside the cabinet, he spoke over his shoulder.

  “I came looking for you because I was less than gallant in the greenhouse. I wanted to make amends. And then I found you violating the sanctity of my room.” He shut the cabinet doors with a click and turned to face her with both hands at his hips. “An appalling lack of good manners, wouldn’t you agree? In fact, twice now, you’ve entered my room uninvited. Do you have a habitual disregard for others? Or is my charm growing on you and you find me irresistible?”

  He had the audacity to give her that brigand’s grin. Was he toying with her?

  “I can assure you, no to the former, and I’m not knowledgeable enough on the latter to say.” She cleared her throat, trying for seriousness. “Today’s behavior, my lord, is most unusual for me. I am not a snoop.” She emphasized the not with all the starch of a proper nursemaid.

  “Words, Miss Montgomery, mere words. You’ve been full of assurances and light on action since I met you last night.” He crossed his arms over his chest. Pale sunlight filtered through clouds and touched him everywhere.

  Not toying…flirting? At least his version of flirtation.

  “I’m in your home, aren’t I? Awaiting your pleasure.” The prim fold of her hands knocked any salaciousness from her words.

  “True.” He nodded. “But there is an axiom in science, a law of nature, if you will, that every action has an equal and opposite reaction. I think that applies here…call it a consequence to one’s behavior.” Then his gaze flicked over her head to toe. His eyebrows pressed together as if something bothersome came to mind.

  “Is something wrong, milord?”

  “Come here.” He spoke with his lordly, commanding tone.

  Warning bells went off in her head.

  Lydia rooted to the spot. “I…what do you want?”

  “For you to come here.” One side of his mouth slid up. “In fact, I’d find it refreshing if you did whatever I asked the first time I issued a command.”

  “What?”