The Earl's Daughter

by Lyons, Cassie

  “I'll take you home, my lady.” As Peter extended a hand, offering to help her into the carriage, fresh tears exploded from her eyes.

  “I cannot pay you for this job...” Sylvie whimpered. “And I'm quite certain my father won't. You would be doing this out of the goodness of your heart.”

  “It's not goodness, my lady,” Peter assured her. He gently took Sylvie's hand and helped her into the carriage. “I'm doing this because I hate to see you cry.”

  VI

  “Another drink!” Sylvie demanded, raising her empty glass in the air. Her raucous demand made her sound more like a boisterous fishwife than a polished young lady. “I need... hic... another drink!”

  Peter had watched her down several drinks since they arrived at the inn, where he sat across from her at a table. He figured she needed to drown her sorrows, and he considered it his duty to keep an eye on her. “Haven't you had enough?”

  “Never!” she declared. When Sylvie leaned forward, her head nearly crashed against the table. For some reason, everything above her neck felt much heavier than usual. “I have neverrrrr had enough.”

  Peter was shaking his head at her slurred words. “Perhaps you should lie down, my lady?”

  “No! Just one more!” A disoriented smile spread across her lips when the barmaid filled her glass. After she took a swig, she looked across the table at Peter and stuttered, “I have s-so many questions s-s-swimming through my mind.”

  “Such as?”

  Peter did not expect her answer to make sense, but somehow, she managed a moment of clarity. “What will Robert think when he discovers I am gone? What will happen when I return? Will I be expected to marry Charles Tonbridge? Will he even have me?”

  “Do you want to marry Charles Tonbridge?”

  “Nooooo!” As Sylvie whined her answer, she looked as if she was on the verge of tears. “No, I don't! You know I don't!”

  When he saw her reaching for her drink again, Peter gently nudged the glass away from her. “Perhaps you should go easy on the drinks?”

  “Why? I have nothing to lose!” Sylvie declared.

  “You have nothing to gain from it either.”

  Sylvie cocked her head to one side and took a moment to consider his words. But she was incapable of rational thought when her mind was so muddled; she brushed Peter's hand aside and reclaimed her drink. “My life...” she took another swig from her cup before finishing her sentence, “is over.”

  “No. I'm sure that isn't—”

  “It's true,” Sylvie interrupted him. “It is painstakingly true. Robert was my everything. Now I know him for the snake he is!” As if to illustrate her point, Sylvie slammed a fist against the table.

  “So... you saw them...?”

  “Together!” Sylvie shrieked. “Yes, they were together. Right after you told me, Peter... that's when I s-saw them. I saw them together, and now my life, as I know it, is over.”

  “I'm sure it won't be as bad as that.”

  “No! It's true!” Sylvie drained her beverage and set the mug aside. “All my hopes and dreams for the future were pinned on Robert. All of them. I wanted a life with him. I wanted his children. I...” Sylvie paused, taking a moment to absorb the gravity of her words, which were perhaps too much for her muddled mind. After a long pause, she finally said, “Maybe I did not love him at all. He is dead to me now. DEAD!”

  Her conclusion was conclusive. After she declared him dead, Sylvie laid her head on the table, closed her eyes, and promptly passed out.

  “Sylvie?” Peter nudged her shoulder in an effort to rouse her. “Sylvie. Sylvie?” When he realized she was as good as gone, he knew it was up to him to transport her to safety. He rose from the table, went to Sylvie's side, and lifted her into his arms. As he carried her to their room in the inn, he decided against sleeping in the stables. As long as she was foxed and utterly incoherent, he assumed she would not mind if he slept on the floor.

  Peter very carefully carried her up the stairs, down a long corridor, and nudged his way into the bedroom. He laid her in the bed as gently as he could, and sighed when he observed her wet clothing. In his mind, he briefly toyed with the idea of removing the damp garments, but he knew he would never forgive himself if he did—nor would she. He wrapped Sylvie in a blanket and prayed she would not catch cold.

  Peter tugged the blanket all the way to her chin and watched her sleep. With her eyes closed, and her hair loose and splayed across the pillow, he thought she looked like a sleeping angel—until she opened her eyes and groaned loudly.

  “Where are we?” she grumbled the words.

  “The inn,” he said. “More specifically, the bedroom.”

  “Mmm...hmm...” She nodded lazily. “And you brought me here?”

  “Aye. I did.”

  “I don't care what anyone else says, Peter Hughes. You are a good man. A very good man.” Suddenly, Sylvie's hand shot up and cupped his cheek. “You're a very handsome man too.”

  A smile twitched on his lips. As much as he enjoyed hearing her say the words, he knew they were nothing she would ever speak if she wasn't utterly and completely foxed. “So I've been told.”

  Her hand ascended to caress his head. “Your hair is very black,” she said. “It's black as midnight. I like it.”

  “I'm glad to hear it.”

  “I think I love you, Peter Hughes,” Sylvie slurred. “I do. I really and truly do. Did you know you were the first thought in my head when I woke up this morning?”

  “I wouldn't have guessed it.”

  “Well, you were. I was so excited to see you again. And I was thinking about how lucky your future wife would be. You're a good man. A handsome man.” Sylvie's eyes were glazed over as she spoke. “I wouldn't have wanted to make this journey with anyone else, as ill-advised as it was.”

  He took advantage of her inebriation and gently caressed her hair. “Nor I.”

  “I love you. I really do. I don't love Robert. Maybe I never did.” As Peter caressed her hair, she leaned against the palm of his hand. “If I loved you with my whole heart, as I think I do, what would you say to that? Would you love me too? Could you give your heart to me?”

  “You wouldn't be asking me this if you were sober, dear.”

  “But I mean it. I really do. You're a beautiful man, Peter. I long to feel your fingers pressed against my skin... to feel your lips on mine.” Suddenly, Sylvie sat up in bed and grasped his hand. “If I asked you to ruin me... would you?”

  Peter looked confused. “Ruin you?”

  “Yes. Ruin me. I want you to lay with me. I want you to lay with me, and make me happy... make me feel the way I've always wanted to feel.” Sylvie pulled his hand to her lips and kissed it several times. “If I'm destined to be married to an ancient man for the rest of my life... I would rather have one night of fun. Take me. Please! Pleasure me. I need you. I need this.” She laid his hand against her cheek and held it there, almost desperately. “I have never wanted anything more for as long as I have lived.”

  It would have been so easy to take advantage of her, to take advantage of the situation. Gentleman or not, he could never let himself do that to her. “Get some sleep, my lady. Get some rest. You'll feel more like yourself in the morning.” For her sake, he hoped she would not remember any part of their conversation.

  As he pulled away from her, she ineffectually tried to reach for him. “Peter!” she wailed his name.

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “Tomorrow...” she began. “Tomorrow... please don't leave me. Please don't leave me with my fiance and my father. I couldn't bear it. I want you to save me. Please.”

  “I will keep your request in mind,” Peter assured her. “Now get some sleep. You'll feel better in the morning.”

  When Sylvie heeded his request and closed her eyes, she was fast asleep in an instant.

  Peter threw a spare blanket on the floor and wrapped himself in it. He stared at the ceiling in silence and revisited Sylvie's words in his mind. She
was completely out of her head; nevertheless, he wished some of what she said was true.

  As sleep persisted in evading him, Peter clasped a hand over his heart and wished, with his entire soul, that circumstances were different.

  But it would never be so.

  VII

  After a mere few hours of sleep, Sylvie woke to a throbbing head and a dull pain in the depths of her chest. She glanced around the room in an effort to recognize her surroundings, but she had no idea where she was or how she got there. It was apparent, however, that someone had taken care of her. Her blanket was tucked around her so tightly, she could barely move.

  When she sat up in bed and saw Peter Hughes on the floor beside her, a vague recollection of the night's events poured into her mind. She even remembered some of what she said to him—particularly the embarrassing bits. She was tempted to roll on her stomach and groan into a pillow.

  Peter Hughes. What a good man he was. After all she put him through, he never abandoned her, nor did he ever stray from her side. As noble as he was, she assumed he would protect her until he knew she was safe. Sylvie could almost forget her pain for Robert as she stared at Peter. And as her eyes continued to drink in the sight of his handsome face, she felt an overwhelming desire to be closer to him. Much closer.

  Sylvie slid from her bed, tiptoed across the room, and knelt on the floor beside him. As her hand reached for his head, her heart hammered beneath her chest. Shiny, deepest black and exceptionally soft, his hair had been crying for her touch from the first moment she saw him. Even though her touch was feather soft, it was enough to rouse him from slumber. When he opened his eyes and saw her hovering over him, Peter just stared at her in silence.

  Her finger traced his eyebrow and slipped down to his cheekbone, tracing its sharp ridge. She lightly tapped the three freckles that formed a triangle below his eye. As her finger tickled his cheek, he closed his eyes again, secretly relishing in her touch.

  “I'm sorry I woke you,” she finally said.

  Peter opened his eyes and smiled at her. “You needn't apologize.”

  “I felt... alone. I needed someone to talk to.” Sylvie resisted the urge to touch his lips, even though the temptation was great. She did, however, lie on the floor beside him and pull his blanket around her body.

  Peter watched her in the corner of his eye and chuckled. “The bed's not comfortable enough for you, my lady?”

  “The bed is... tolerable,” Sylvie said. “But I would rather be close to you.”

  When he rolled on his side, facing her direction, Peter's eyebrow was raised. “Is that so?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Are you yet suffering from some impairment of your senses? From the drink?”

  “My mind is my own again,” Sylvie assured him. “My desire to be near you is an honest and genuine one.”

  “So you say... but you will have to forgive me if I'm more than a bit perplexed.”

  “Peter...” Without warning, Sylvie seized his hand and pulled it to her face. She cupped his hand around her cheek and nestled against the warmth of his palm. “May I ask you something?”

  “Anything, my lady.”

  “Do you think I am pretty?” Her lips puckered involuntarily, lightly kissing his thumb. “Or would you say I am plain?”

  “You are very pretty.”

  “Not as pretty as Clarissa, however...”

  “Prettier than her,” Peter corrected her. “Prettier than anyone.”

  “Do you mean that?”

  “Of course I mean it.” He lightly rapped her nose with his thumb. “I'm a man of few words, Miss Stafford, and I never say anything I don't mean.”

  Her next question was a bit more shocking. “Will you lay with me? Tonight? In this bed? O-or on the floor... I really don't care.”

  “Lay... with... you...” The words were difficult to repeat. “Now I know you cannot be sober.”

  “I am sober. I am. I have more clarity at this very moment than I have had in ages,” Sylvie insisted. “If I'm fated to marry a much older man... a man who I will likely never love... I want to enjoy one night. This may be the last opportunity I have to be with a man I truly admire... a man who, if I am not mistaken, truly admires me.”

  “I do admire you. But you're talking nonsense. You're mad!”

  “I'm not mad!” Sylvie was adamant. “And I have never wanted anything more. You can give me something, on this very night... a chance to feel something I am quite certain I shall never feel again. I want to feel... loved.” When she saw him open his mouth, she covered his lips with her hand. “Please, Peter, do not tell me you don't love me. I could not bear to hear that!”

  He turned his head away from her hand and said, “I wasn't going to say that.”

  “Oh...” His voice was so soft and gentle, it made a tremor erupt on her body. “Wh-what were you going to say?”

  “I was going to say, my lady... Sylvie...” When he whispered her name, he saw her shudder again. “I never thought I'd get to touch you.”

  And that was all Sylvie needed to hear. She grasped his hand as she rose from the floor, and led him to the bed. When she felt his hand in her hair, her entire body tingled, everything from her ears to her toes.

  “Are you sure this is what you want?” Peter tugged at the ends of her hair as he whispered the question. “You won't regret it?”

  “Never.” Her fingers brushed his lips, which she longed to kiss. “I could never regret being with you.”

  “But is it what you really want?” he asked again. “I don't want to take advantage of your sorrow.”

  “You're not taking advantage of anything,” Sylvie assured him. “You are merely fulfilling the heartfelt wish of a woman who is desperate to have your hands on her.” When the words were out of her mouth, heat rushed into her cheeks. She never imagined she could utter such scandalous words—and certainly not to a man who drove carriages for a living. “I only ask that you be gentle with me. I... I am sure you know I have never done anything like this before.”

  “I had gathered as much.”

  “And...” Sylvie continued reluctantly, “Robert is the only man I have ever kissed. He was the only man I ever expected to kiss, truth be told, and--”

  Suddenly, Peter's lips were on hers, silencing her. His lips were soft and his mouth was warm, and the sensation was unlike anything she had ever felt before. She felt a throbbing deep inside her, and it was a very pleasant feeling. When Sylvie moaned against his mouth, the kiss deepened. His tongue flitted out to taste her lips, and his hand flew to her hip. He pulled up her dress slightly, gathering the material at her thighs.

  Peter pressed his lips against her forehead and murmured against her skin. “You're beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”

  “I'm not,” she objected. “Not really.”

  “Only my opinion matters... and I think you're lovely.” Peter tugged Sylvie's gown from her shoulder and trickled his lips across her bare skin.

  “I'm... nervous,” she confessed.

  Peter gently took her hand and cradled it a few seconds before kissing her inner wrist. “I'll take care of you.” When he tugged his shirt over his head and tossed it on the floor beside the bed, an involuntary moan escaped from her lips.

  “You are... disrobing, I see,” Sylvie quietly observed.

  “I am. Generally, the act requires the removal of one's clothes.”

  “And... my gown...” She could feel her pulse pounding in her throat. “You will... remove it?”

  “If you'll let me.” When he saw her nod, Peter proceeded to peel her gown from her body. Her bosom heaved against her undergarments, which were strained by her heavy breaths. “You're breathtaking.”

  “I... ohhh...” As anxious as she was, it was impossible to manage a sensible thought.

  “Have you changed your mind?”

  “No.” Her answer was firm. “I want this. I want this very much.”

  When Peter tugged off his breeches, her eyes swelled. S
he never thought she would be in a bed with a man in his unmentionables—unless he was her husband, of course. She felt utterly unprepared for what was to come. There was a curious wetness forming between her legs—a spot that had always remained untouched, even by her. Her anticipation for what was to come had a suffocating effect on her.

  “Please tell me if I do anything you disapprove of,” Peter said. “I would never do anything to hurt you.”

  Sylvie was so transfixed by the sight of his body, she barely heard him speak. It was dark, but she could make out the contours of his body. His build was average, but athletic, and she longed to feel his skin against hers. She thought he looked a bit reluctant, so with trembling fingers, she removed her own petticoats.

  His fingers worked their way up her legs, encircling her calves, and gently kneading her thighs. Sylvie unfastened her bodice as Peter removed the last of her undergarments. When she was laying naked before him, she clamped her legs together and resisted the temptation to cover her nipples. She felt timid, but excited. She simultaneously wanted to hide from him—and to show him every bit of her.

  “You are lovely, Sylvie.” He brought her hand to his lips, and he kissed it many times. “So very, very lovely.”

  “I feel so... light-headed.”

  “Are you alright?”

  “I am.” Her heart continued to thump wildly, making her chest bounce. “I'm just feeling a bit shy.”

  “Take your time.” Peter hesitated as he started to remove his unmentionables, giving her a chance to protest. “And if you are ever too uncomfortable, you can stop me anytime.”

  “Don't stop!” she practically screamed at him. “I need you. I need this.” She parted her knees slightly, invitingly, and his hand glided along her inner thigh. Feeling his fingers on her secret skin made her moan with rapture. Sylvie parted her legs even further, offering herself to him. When she saw his manhood for the first time, she felt a dizzying rush of blood in her head.

  “You're like a dream.” Peter lightly kissed her knee as he spoke. “A dream that came to life.” He lifted his gaze to meet hers, and smiled slyly. Most of Peter's smiles were slight, but this particular smile had a hint of giddiness behind it. It was such a warm, wide smile, it made his rare dimples appear.