by Anna Bennett
“As you wish.” He offered his arm, and the hard, solid feel of it beneath her hand instantly reminded her of the previous night.
When they’d danced, and his face had been mere inches from hers.
When he’d caught her, and his eyes had turned dark with something akin to … desire.
In the candlelight of the Northcroft ballroom, he’d appeared dark, brooding, and a tad dangerous. But now, in the broad light of day, he looked twice as intimidating—all rough edges, from the shadow of a beard on his chin to the thin scar beneath his right eye.
She swallowed, tamping down a wave of doubt. Outlining her proposal in writing, with the earl at a distance, had been relatively simple. Now that he was here, in the flesh, the idea of discussing marriage was far more daunting.
But she wouldn’t be deterred from her mission—she simply had to succeed, and she’d come to the park prepared to argue her case.
Fiona waited until Mary was out of earshot, but spoke softly nonetheless. “I shan’t waste any more of your time with small talk,” she began. “Should you agree to marry me—and I hope that you will—you would obviously acquire my substantial dowry and marriage portion.”
“But not all of it, as I understand from your letter. You wish to retain a small property with a cottage in Cornwall, five thousand pounds for your own use, as well as a reasonable yearly allowance?”
“That is correct.” She attempted a light tone, even though she was acutely aware he watched her out of the corner of his eye.
He reached into the chest pocket of his jacket, withdrew her letter, and unfolded it. “‘The stipulated monies shall be mine to spend as I please without any explanation or interference,’” he read.
“I hardly think that’s unreasonable,” she said coolly.
“Five thousand pounds can purchase a large quantity of hats, gloves, and … frippery,” he drawled, obviously trying to goad her.
“I suppose it could.” All Fiona was interested in buying was a man’s silence.
“You also say that you must wed within a fortnight.”
“Yesterday it was a fortnight. Now it is thirteen days,” she corrected.
He stopped and turned to face her. “Why the urgency?”
“I have my reasons, my lord.”
“Reasons you do not wish to share?”
She closed her eyes briefly and recalled the terrifying threat in the blackmail letter. “I do not.”
“Then my answer remains no—a firm no.” He folded the letter and tucked it back into his pocket, then made a small bow as though he was about to leave.
She couldn’t let him.
Her mouth turned dry, and her heart raced madly. If the truth about Lily became known, she’d be ruined. The whole family would. “Please understand,” she said, reaching for his arm. “I realize that my conditions are somewhat unusual. But this union would be more like a business arrangement than a true marriage. We’d both stand to benefit.”
“I can think of only one reason why you would demand the marriage take place so quickly, Miss Hartley.”
“It’s a personal matter, and I would rather not—”
“You are entitled to your secrets,” he intoned, “but forgive me if I refuse to give my name to another man’s bastard.”
Fiona gasped and narrowed her eyes. Her palm itched to slap the scruff off his cheek, but she refrained. Just barely. “How … dare … you.”
“Come now,” he crooned, apparently unaware of how close she was to physical violence. “We’re both adults. We know how the world works. The only logical reason you’d demand such a brief engagement is that you are with child.”
“That is not the only logical reason,” Fiona countered. Although she couldn’t very well reveal the real one. “I am not expecting a babe—and I would never lie about something like that.” She ignored the single cool raindrop that plopped onto her nose.
“So you say.” The earl stroked his chin and continued strolling down the pebbled footpath. “But you’ve yet to explain what you stand to gain from the arrangement—aside from your monetary demands.”
“Your title,” Fiona said simply. “It matters little to me, but my father and stepmother are adamant that I marry a member of the aristocracy, and I should like to please them.”
“Surely my title is not the only reason. Why else?” he demanded. “Why me?”
Because she needed someone she respected. The other eligible bachelors—even the handsome ones—had disqualified themselves for a variety of reasons. One was inexplicably curt when speaking to his mother. Another had been unnecessarily cruel toward his horse. Yet another was so enamored of his own appearance that it was quite impossible to converse with him in any room where a looking glass was present.
But she couldn’t confess those things to the earl, so she avoided the question.
“Marrying you would give me a measure of independence.” She sighed. “I don’t expect you to understand because you’re … well, a man, but I would like the freedom to pursue my own interests.”
He tilted his head. “Such as?”
Fiona inhaled deeply. She was reluctant to expose herself to ridicule, but she supposed her future husband deserved to know. “Drawing,” she said softly. “I like to sketch … people.”
“Why?” he asked.
She managed to refrain from rolling her eyes. “Because they’re interesting, my lord.”
“Truly? The people I know are predictable. Boring.”
“Then perhaps you’re not looking at them deeply enough. Drawing people helps me peel away their many layers.”
He shot her a wicked grin that melted her insides. “I think I understand. You sketch them naked.”
“I do not,” she said evenly, aware he was baiting her. “But I do try to see past the masks they wear. Sketching people helps me to … understand them.”
The earl froze and stared at her curiously for the space of several heartbeats—then nodded thoughtfully before continuing along the path. Light rain began to fall, and he looked to the sky. “You don’t have a parasol. I should return you to your carriage.”
“I’m not worried about a little water,” she scoffed. “And I shan’t leave until I have your answer.”
“Who is next in line?” he asked.
Fiona blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“If I say no, who do you intend to ask next?” He shrugged impossibly broad shoulders. “You cannot blame me for wanting to know who else you’re considering. Other titled gentlemen, I presume. Hopefully none who are old, portly, or without their teeth. I’d prefer to be in good company.”
Good heavens. She hadn’t seriously considered anyone else—and she didn’t care to examine the reasons why. “I’ve put all my metaphorical eggs into one basket,” she said earnestly.
“A very big gamble, Miss Hartley.”
“Perhaps—but isn’t that always the case with marriages? No prospective bride truly knows whether her betrothed will be a suitable match, and no one can predict what the future will bring. But if you agree to marry me, I can promise you that I will not be an overbearing wife. You will be free to live your life as you please.” She tried to make the arrangement sound as appealing as possible, even though the idea of a husband and wife leading separate lives seemed rather sad to her.
“Who else knows of this plan of yours?”
“No one. Only you.” She was encouraged by the fact that he was still asking questions, still talking to her—and he hadn’t said no for at least five minutes. A gust of wind whipped her skirts around her legs and raindrops fell sideways, pelting her cheeks beneath the brim of her bonnet.
Fiona looked back at her maid, who still followed them dutifully. With one hand Mary held her cap in place, and with the other she clutched the shawl wrapped around her shoulders. “Return to the carriage before you are soaked,” Fiona called to her. “I shall join you in moment.” The maid hesitated only briefly before scurrying toward the road.
Fiona turned her attention back to Lord Ravenport. Droplets trickled from the dark curls that hung over his brow and the shoulders of his midnight blue jacket had turned black from the rain, but she couldn’t leave until he agreed to at least consider her proposal. “All I ask is that you—”
Boom. A rumble of thunder shook the ground and the air crackled around them. “That’s it,” he said, brooking no argument. “We’re heading to our carriages. Now.” He laced his fingers through hers and dragged her along, each of his long strides equaling at least two of hers. As they hurried back up the path, the skies opened and the rain came down in sheets, making it difficult to see, much less walk. He slung an arm around her shoulders and pulled her to his side in an attempt to shelter her from the wind, and though the rain was cold, his body was deliciously warm and solid.
“This way,” he shouted above the roar of the storm. She huddled against him and ran as fast as her skirts would allow. They splashed through puddles and mud, drenching the hem of her gown. When at last they reached the pavement, she was soaked.
He pointed several yards down the road. “There’s my carriage.”
As they ran toward it, he waved to a liveried footman, who opened the door, allowing the earl to usher her into the dry, blessedly warm cab. The door shut tightly behind them, and they collapsed onto one of the seats, breathless.
“The storm will pass soon. Until it does, you will remain here.”
A crack of thunder pealed overhead, and Fiona nodded mutely. She should not be alone in a carriage with the Earl of Ravenport, but since the alternative was standing outside in the violent storm, bending the rules of propriety seemed prudent.
Though she seriously doubted Miss Haywinkle would agree.
Chapter 4
Rain pounded the roof of the carriage, lending a cozy, intimate feel to the interior. The earl’s long legs were sprawled in front of him, and Fiona endeavored not to gawk at the wet buckskin trousers clinging to his thighs.
She was not, however, entirely successful.
To be fair, a certain amount of study was necessary if she were to draw him at some point—and she intended to. Her artist’s eye noted the proportions of his hips and thighs, the pronounced contours of his leg muscles, and the slight hollows on the insides of his knees. But as a woman, she noticed him, too—on a whole different level. The heat from his body. The scents of leather and soap. The light stubble on his chin.
Swallowing, she considered moving to the seat opposite him, but they had already soaked the velvet squabs of one bench and she saw no reason to sully the other.
Instead, she resolved to make use of this time to advance her cause. Mustering as much dignity as she could, given her soggy gown and dripping hair, she squared her shoulders and faced the earl. “Now then,” she began. “I believe we were discussing the—”
“Stop,” he ordered.
Fiona attempted a haughty look. “I beg your pardon?”
“I can’t take you seriously in that bonnet. Not while there’s a wet feather dangling in front of your face.”
Of course, Fiona could see the rogue ostrich plume—she’d been doing her best to ignore it. “How gallant of you to mention it,” she said dryly. She pinched the limp feather between her thumb and forefinger and tossed it onto the top of her hat. “There. Satisfied?”
He wrinkled his nose. “Now it looks as though a small, wet rat is napping on the brim.” He flashed a grin so genuine that it momentarily disarmed her.
“Yes, well, I’m certain neither one of us represents the pinnacle of fashion at the moment.” But despite his rumpled cravat and the wet hair slicked back from his face, he did, blast it all. It was hard to imagine him looking more masculine … or more attractive.
“I’ll help you remove it.” He reached for the ties at her chin, then froze. “With your permission?”
Fiona’s cheeks heated, but she nodded and loosened the ribbons herself before allowing him to lift the bonnet off her head. A few pins went with the hat, and several long locks of hair fell around her shoulders.
“Much better,” he said, his voice a notch deeper and gruffer than before. He tossed the bonnet onto the seat opposite them and crossed his boots at the ankles. “Now I shall be able to listen properly.”
Suddenly nervous, she swallowed. “I realize that my letter must have caught you off guard, but now that you’ve had some time to adjust to the idea of … marrying me, I hope you will at least take a few days to think about my proposal—and give it the same consideration that you’d give any other business proposition.”
“Business proposition,” he repeated, skeptical.
“Yes, my lord,” she choked out. “One that shall be mutually advantageous.”
He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. “There’s more to marriage than a signed contract and a handshake, Miss Hartley.”
“I’m well aware of that.” She strove to keep her voice cool. “But it needn’t be overly complicated.”
“I’d argue it’s the most complicated thing on earth.”
Ignoring the heat in his eyes, she said, “How so?”
He lifted her hand from the seat between them and slid closer, till his knee was touching hers. “Will you allow me to demonstrate?”
She swallowed. “Yes. Of course.”
Good heavens. The words were barely out of her mouth before he’d peeled the wet silk gloves off her hands—and stripped off his gloves as well.
First her bonnet, now her gloves … she shuddered to think what articles of clothing might go by the wayside next. Shoes? Stockings? Oddly, her belly fluttered at the thought. “What are you doing?”
“I’m proving a point.” He cupped her hand in his and used the rough pad of his thumb to trace slow, languorous circles on her palm. Delicious shivers stole over her skin, curling her toes.
“Do you feel that?” he asked—as if he knew.
“Hmm?” She blinked up at him. “Feel what?”
His heavy-lidded gaze searched her face, lingered a bit too long on her mouth. “Nothing about this is simple.”
“I disagree.” Fiona pretended they were discussing the weather. Or needlework. Anything but the feel of his skin on hers. “It’s only as complicated as we allow it to be.”
“Then let me kiss you.”
“Are you mad?” She snatched her hand away—mostly because it was hard to think clearly while he touched her.
“Very well.” He sighed, feigning defeat. “You may kiss me.”
“What?” She knew what he was about. And she was not some naïve maiden he could trick into doing his bidding. She opened her mouth to protest, then stopped. The earl was attempting to scare her off.
But she didn’t frighten easily. And her sister’s happiness—indeed, her entire future—depended on Fiona’s ability to access her dowry money. Quickly.
“If I kiss you, will you agree to consider marrying me?” She ignored the pounding of her heart as she awaited his reply.
Outside, the rain continued to fall, and rivulets of water streamed down the carriage windows. Thunder boomed in the distance.
“I will,” he said disbelievingly—as though he’d surprised himself with his answer.
Gads. He’d surprised her, too.
“Very well,” Fiona said with significantly more confidence than she felt. But if a kiss was needed to seal their deal, then kiss him she must. She would demonstrate that their relationship did not have to be complicated at all.
She only prayed that she didn’t botch it terribly.
Lord help her, she was about to kiss the earl. And she didn’t dread the prospect nearly as much as she should have.
* * *
Gray sat very still, mostly out of a sense of self-preservation. For Miss Hartley obviously had no idea in hell what she was doing. He’d already discerned that she wasn’t the most graceful of creatures. Dancing had not been her forte, and neither, apparently, was seduction.
She coughed, straightened her sp
ine, and flexed her fingers—as though she were preparing to perform on a pianoforte rather than kiss him. Lines of intense concentration creased her forehead as she inched closer and stiffly braced her hands on his shoulders. She stared at his mouth like it was an unpleasant bit of medicine she must ingest for her own good. Or one of Hercules’s labors she must endure.
As her face neared his, she squeezed her eyes shut and stretched her neck forward, bumping her nose into his, not once, but twice. Fragrant hair tickled his cheek. An odd noise—the sort a startled cat makes—escaped her throat. Her soft lips might have brushed against his mouth in the process, but the ordeal was so quick that he couldn’t be sure.
However, he did know two things.
First, what had just transpired was the sorriest excuse for a kiss in the history of man- and womankind.
Second, Miss Hartley was not with child. Because no one who thought that bit of awkwardness qualified as a kiss had ever had a lover. He’d stake his life on it.
“There.” She sat back, exhaled, and smiled as though quite pleased with her efforts.
All Gray could think about was her extraordinary courage and gumption. She’d obviously never had a proper kiss before, but she hadn’t let that deter her from accepting his dare. The scents of her skin and fresh linen and rain mingled in his head. A damp auburn curl clung to her neck, and he longed to sweep it away so that he could count the freckles there and brush his lips over each one.
What the devil was wrong with him? Had it been so long since he’d lain with a woman that a brief, bumbling kiss could knock the wind out of him?
It was supposed to scare her off. Make her realize that the very idea of marrying him was preposterous. But she’d called his bluff and raised the stakes.
“I think the rain is slowing,” she said a bit too brightly. Just as if that horrific, god-awful kiss had never happened.
Funny, but he was torn between wanting to scrub it from his memory and wanting to replay it over and over in his head. Truly, there’d been nothing remotely seductive about it. And yet his pulse still raced and his cock twitched as though his body hadn’t received the message that the kiss had been a catastrophe of near biblical proportions.