Earl of Wainthorpe

by Cameron, Collette

  The coins she secreted away weren’t enough to last long, but she must have those funds to survive. Angst gripped Bianca, and her empty belly tightened further, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since yesterday. And that meal was only bread, cheese, and an apple. Still, this wasn’t the first time hunger had tormented her.

  Thinking of agreeable things helped her forget the gnawing in her belly.

  She mentally scrambled to conjure something pleasant.

  Lord Wainthorpe’s features intruded upon her contemplations.

  A strong hand seized her elbow, and her heart vaulted to her throat.

  Her other arm raised in defense, she swung around. The trembling organ in her chest didn’t return to its proper place behind her ribs when that man turned out to be none other than a none-too-pleased Lord Wainthorpe.

  Bother and blast. Ballocks, bunions, and boils, too!

  A sound very much like a growl of frustration gurgled in her throat.

  She’d waited too long to sneak from the manor after hearing his deep masculine rumble disparaging his role as her guardian. Quiet adamantly too. He’d foisted her off on the Timberlys in a manner as insensitive as if she were a raggedy, flea-ridden cat that followed him home.

  Why bother pursuing her if she was such a nuisance, and he abhorred Bertram so much?

  “Where do you think you’re going? I am responsible for you, Bianca.” His grasp on her arm remained firm, but his tone turned surprisingly patient. “Have you no care or consideration for my sisters either, after the benevolence they’ve shown you?”

  Chagrin washed over her, heating her face, and she dropped her gaze to his polished-to-perfection Hessians.

  Had her there, he did. His sisters had showed her nothing but kindness. Just because she was miffed at him for his bluntness and over-eagerness to be rid of her, didn’t mean she should forsake her manners or gratitude.

  And why was she indignant in the first place?

  Lord knew she didn’t want him as her guardian. Particularly if an ulterior reason motivated his request for her guardianship. What type of fanciful plan did she think Lord Wainthorpe would contrive anyway? Asking his sister to take on the guardianship made the most sense and was far more respectable than his doing so. And yet Bianca rebelled at the notion. Such fecklessness was rare for her, and she didn’t care for the emotional flip-flopping one jot.

  In the few hours since he sent her life tumbling into chaos, she’d lost her firm grip on her sensible temperament. Why he should cause such havoc irritated all the more. A chiseled jaw, smoldering eyes, and finely molded mouth had never turned her head before.

  Mayhap because she’d never paid marked attention to men’s jaws or eyes or mouths until she met him.

  His lordship wouldn’t learn about the lent rooms from her, however. If Bertram paid rents until the end of the month as he had done in April, then she would have a place to stay for a short while. That ought to have occurred to her before. But honestly, the wager and the hullabaloo that followed had so rattled her, she quite overlooked that important detail.

  “Bianca?” Impatience tinged Lord Wainthorpe’s voice now.

  What believable excuse could she give? “I…”

  A shiny black landau pulled up alongside them, and before she could finish her answer, Pierce neatly bundled her inside. Her waist throbbed where he’d encircled it to lift her inside.

  He stood on the pavement, a forearm resting on the frame. “It’s not safe or wise for you to gad about without an escort, my dear.”

  So it was ‘my dear’ now, was it? Like a doting uncle or indulgent older brother?

  Or…a protector?

  Never that. Never.

  He didn’t sound like a man who reviled her. What game was he playing? One Bianca didn’t know the rules to nor have the experience to win. This was dangerous ground, and she’d better tread most prudently.

  A pair of matrons, necks craned and ears practically flapping as they strained to hear Bianca and Pierce’s conversation, passed by at a pace a snail might exceed. The taller woman’s mouth went slack, and she elbowed the other hard enough to make her wince and glower at her cohort.

  “Octavia, doesn’t she look just like that young woman Lady Clutterbuck was telling us about at the milliners? Remember, the redhead with loose morals?”

  My hair is not red. It’s chestnut brown.

  Her companion lifted the pince-nez pinned to her redingote by a silver chain and balanced the eyeglasses on her thin nose. Lips puckered and eyes mere slits, she leaned forward, taking Bianca’s measure. “Sister, I believe you may be correct.” Her focus switched to Pierce. “Do you suppose he’s that scallywag her ladyship mentioned?”

  Jolly good. More gossip.

  “I was hardly gadding about, my lord,” Bianca murmured so only Pierce could hear. “And we are drawing undesirable attention.”

  Affecting a pleasant expression she didn’t at all feel, she slanted her gaze behind him.

  A rough, disbelieving sound escaped him as he cast a glance over his shoulder. He dipped his head in greeting and flashed one of his charming smiles. “Beautiful day for a stroll, isn’t it?”

  So swiftly did the cronies dive to whisper in each other’s ears, their poke bonnets smacked together, and the pair stumbled a few uneven steps.

  Unbalanced, they tottered, and for a second, Bianca believed they might topple onto the pavement. Grabbing each other’s forearms, they managed to steady themselves, but speared blistering glares toward Pierce.

  “Bianca, I need to give my driver instructions.” He touched her arm, forcing her attention back to him. “I mustn’t join you inside with those two tabbies watching.”

  Of course he mustn’t. She was not a dimwit.

  Her reputation already lay in tatters. She didn’t need it shredded any further. Still, he might include her in his plotting. What did he plan to do now that he’d plopped her inside his landau?

  His brows met, and he glanced at her feet. “I noticed you’re limping…”

  Her ankle did throb a mite.

  “I told you I had a limp.” She lifted a shoulder an inch. “I suffered a broken ankle as a child, and the walk seems to have aggravated it.”

  “All the more reason for you to stay in here. Do you understand?” He gave the slightest jerk of his head toward the busybodies.

  “I’m not a slowtop, Pierce. Of course, I understand.”

  Pierce shut the door, but Bianca quickly reopened it and poked her head out.

  “Where is he—?” She stopped short when the women stopped and openly gawked. “Taking me,” Bianca whispered to herself as she slowly eased the panel closed once more.

  Just like that, she was supposed to comply?

  Did anyone ever tell Pierce no?

  Probably no women had, and against her will, she felt herself slipping under his spell as well. That rankled every bit—more—than his ordering her about as if he held the right already.

  Sensible misses did not indulge in fluttering pulses and heated blushes when roués turned their attention upon them. Practical misses turned up their noses, presented their backs, and remembered their reputations above all else.

  She flopped back onto the seat and folded her arms.

  Oh, he made her so deuced mad. And she generally possessed a cheerful mien.

  Maybe she would slip out the other side. That would give him fits. Besides, how did she know that ridiculousness last night was even legal? He mightn’t have any right to order her about. He’d soon find she was no meek, mousy miss.

  She slid to the edge of the seat and peeked out the window.

  There he stood, one hand on his lean hip and the other propped upon the footrest. As if sensing her scrutiny, he angled toward her. Bending his sculpted mouth into a smile just this side of mocking, he shook his raven head and jabbed his finger, indicating she should sit back, out of sight.

  Were all peers so commanding? Demanding? So cock-sure of themselves?

 
Hmph. Well, he would find she possessed a backbone and a mind of her own, as well as a tenacious streak not easily subdued.

  She scooted to the other side.

  Hound’s teeth.

  The ladies stopped at the corner, and under the shade of their fringed parasols, unabashedly scrutinized the vehicle.

  Uttering a frustrated groan, Bianca collapsed into a corner.

  Fine, she might not be able to slip away just now, but at the first opportunity, she would. A moment later, the equipage sprang forward, and she nearly lost her seat. She dared another glimpse out the window.

  Pierce raised a hand in farewell before turning and striding in the other direction.

  The chinwags’ bonnets collided once more.

  At least the eavesdropping matrons could vouch that Pierce hadn’t boarded the landau. His thoughtfulness raised him minutely higher in Bianca’s estimation. Wouldn’t a notorious rake have taken advantage of the situation? Probably, but she’d heard Pierce was the epitome of discretion.

  He presented quite an enigma.

  A renowned rakehell but polite and considerate. A seasoned rogue up to his perfectly folded neckcloth—no, his iron black eyes—and yet, affectionate and attentive toward his sisters.

  Who was the real Pierce Baxter Maximillian Chamberlain, the ninth Earl of Wainthorpe?

  Lady Mulbrury had told Bianca Pierce’s full name. She also told her he would only answer to Pritam, his Munda name, when he arrived in England.

  How hard that must have been for him—an orphan and in a strange land. The new language and customs, and no parents to help buffer the confusion and fear. Bianca tilted her mouth into a grudging smile. He had adjusted well to his new life. Better than she would have done, for certain.

  Bending forward, she attempted to memorize the passing landmarks. A sense of direction wasn’t her strong suit, and after several minutes of the driver turning first one corner than another, she became thoroughly discombobulated.

  Except…

  As a familiar looking house came into view, she wrinkled her forehead.

  The Timberlys’?

  Why the elaborate route then? The driver had made so many turns, her stomach and thoughts had become scrambled knots.

  The carriage rattled into the mews behind the manor faster than Bianca thought safe, turned around so sharply, she was forced to brace herself against the side and ceiling to keep her bum upon the padded seat, then came to a rather jerky stop. Only her feet planted against the opposite seat prevented her from skidding onto the floor. Her empty stomach couldn’t handle much more of this bouncing and careening.

  An instant later, Pierce appeared out of nowhere and bounded inside.

  The door hadn’t even snapped closed before the conveyance was set into motion once more. She fought to keep her seat again. Perhaps the driver was new to his profession. He could do with a little—a lot—more practice.

  Once certain she wouldn’t be tossed onto the floor, she loosened her grip and demanded, “What in blue satin do you think you’re doing?”

  “Saving your reputation, my dear.” Pierce grinned in devilment as he drew the shades, first on one side then on the other.

  How many times had he gotten his way with that roguish smile?

  “By climbing in here and closing the shades?” Irony dripped from each word. “I don’t believe that’s quite how it’s done, my lord.”

  He gave her another of his engaging grins, and her traitorous lips dared to tilt upward in answer.

  “True, but no one knows I’m in here, except Burroughs, of course. And he would bite his tongue off before uttering a syllable to anyone. Even the trio.”

  “Trio?” Ah, he meant his sisters.

  “Yes, those three precious, but interfering female kin of mine.” He jutted his thumb toward the back of the landau. “And I fear they’ve set their sights on you now too. Be warned, they aren’t easily put off.”

  She’d learned the truth of that this morning. “They are probably peeved at me for sneaking away. I was unforgivably rude, wasn’t I?”

  “Not a bit of it. Rebecca applauded your daring. Amanda says I am to treat you kindly or she will not permit her cook to make me anymore of my favorite pink biscuits.” Pierce waggled his brows and clasped his hands to his chest in mock theatrics. “A tragedy to be sure. And when I left, after informing them I’d caught up to you, Lenora penned a letter—an advert for an abigail.”

  Warmth spread from behind Bianca’s ribcage to her limbs. “They are truly lovely women.”

  “Indeed, and they recognize a woman of the same ilk.” He gave her a lazy smile. “They’d have us wed in a thrice.”

  A jest? She wrenched her attention from the tiny bit of outdoors she could glimpse between the crack in the shade and the glass. Only sincerity played about the crooks of his mouth. Hunger couldn’t account for her stomach’s renewed frolicking.

  Uncertain how to respond, she returned to perusing the narrow ribbon of landscape. The carriage rolled along, and unable to see what streets they passed, her dismay grew. She would never find her way to the lodging house now.

  Nothing but a futile, rash idea from the start.

  Pierce unfolded across from her, his legs stretched out, and his fingers entwined across his flat stomach.

  She assessed the length of those impressive legs. A truly muscular physique. How could she have thought him soft and fleshy, with those angular cheeks and shoulders that strained the fabric of his perfectly fitted tailcoat?

  A hot wave encompassed her as she recalled her audacity this morning.

  Aunt Florencia had been slightly dotty and more than a bit eccentric. Most especially when she nipped the sherry. Then she rambled on about Mum. How Mum refused to come live with them. Because she’d still held hope Papa would return someday. He wouldn’t be able to find her and Bianca if they moved from their humble room.

  Perhaps the affliction was hereditary, and Bianca was slightly addled in the upper works too. She’d long suspected Mum was as well. Why else would she have stayed in London, pauper poor, when they could have lived comfortably at Elmswood with Uncle Sylvester and Aunt Florencia?

  “Why are you here, my lord? Where are we going?”

  No sense wasting time circling the pond as Uncle Sylvester used to say. Direct and to the point prevented misunderstandings.

  Pierce regarded her from beneath hooded eyes. “Because, Bianca, my dear, I mean to spirit you off to my hunting lodge until the Chancery Court either awards me or my brother-in-law your guardianship.”

  “But… But I heard you tell your sister you wished you’d never met my cousin. Which naturally means me as well. So why the pretense of wanting to be my guardian?” Tears blurred her eyes, and she dashed at her cheeks as a hot, sticky pair trailed over them.

  Stupid, stupid girl.

  “I assuredly do not regret meeting you, Bianca.” His voice held a warm note she didn’t recognize, but which rang with sincerity.

  Tears flooded her eyes. For pity’s sake. She seldom cried and never for trivial reasons in front of others. Never. It wouldn’t do for him to think she cared whether he still sought the appointment, and she swiped her face again.

  Pierce made another one of those comforting noises in his throat, and then he was beside her, offering her his starched handkerchief. Which, of course, smelled deliciously masculine like him. Sandalwood, cedar, and perhaps a hint of cloves and peppermint too.

  How was a girl to resist a man who smelled so wonderful?

  Bertram always stank of sweat, garlic and rancid cheese and Uncle Sylvester of hair tonic and camphor.

  Pierce’s simple tender act caused the dratted moisture to well even further, and though Bianca mentally ordered the waterworks to cease at once, more droplets spilled from her eyes.

  “Such a time you’ve had of it, my sweet.” Pierce wrapped one strong arm around her shoulders, cradling her to his side, and pressing her head to his chest. “Have yourself a good cry. You deserve it
, and I suspect you are long overdue. My sisters claim they feel ever-so much better afterward.”

  And blast her for a fool, Bianca did cry, wetting the front of his jacket in the process. Several minutes passed with only the sounds of her weeping and his rhythmic breathing within the carriage as he held her. Finally, the well of misery ran dry, and her tears ceased.

  Inhaling a raggedy breath, she shifted away from him and dabbed at her damp face. “Please forgive me. I’m not usually weepy.”

  He pressed a bent knuckle to the corner of one of her eyes, catching a lingering droplet. “I think perhaps you have a stoic disposition, and you think crying a weakness that you seldom permit yourself to indulge in. But it’s not a weakness, my pet. It shows you’re caring and vulnerable.”

  Self-conscious at his tenderness following her lack of control, she gave him a wobbly smile. She was too deuced susceptible to him.

  He cupped her jaw and traced his thumb across the seam of her lips.

  A jolt surged outward from his gentle caress, and she was overcome with the most pressing need to turn her face into his palm. And kiss it.

  Slowly, so gradually in fact, that Bianca was not aware Pierce had done so at first, he bent his head nearer to hers. He stopped his seductive onslaught on her mouth with his thumb, and an instant later, his warm lips brushed hers. The touch so brief—the slightest wisp but so tempting and delicious—yet alien desire tunneled through her every pore.

  When he pressed into her harder, she didn’t resist, but opened her mouth to his tender nudges. But only for a few seconds before common sense shrieked for her to stop.

  Bianca couldn’t do this.

  She was just another woman to Pierce. And though she couldn’t begin to understand what he might be becoming to her, the ugly truth was that afterward, he would go on his merry way, and she would be a woman ruined. Unfit for respectable employment, which left her with one option. To prostitute herself as many pathetic, desperate wretches had.

  Even her own Mum.