The Earl Next Door: The Bachelor Lords of London

by Charis Michaels

  “Games are over,” he said. “We’re straight business now. Come.” He dragged her to the side of the church. “Let us have a word.”

  “I will not!” she said, struggling to get away. He held firm, half shoving her, half carrying her. When they reached the wall, he backed her against it. She tried to push free, but he captured her other hand, manacling her wrist.

  “Where’s my kiss, Piety?” He took a breath, his eyes mere slits. “I’ve seen the way the earl looks at you, and I’m no fool. God knows what you’ve given up to him—the least of which would be a kiss. Surely you have at least one or two left? For old time’s sake?”

  She refused to answer and turned her head—right, left, right again. He pressed closer, his face descending to catch her mouth. Twice he made contact, narrowly missing her lips and landing a slobbery lave on her chin and cheek. Her stomach lurched. She struggled to breathe.

  “When will you learn, Piety? I enjoy it all the more when you fight.”

  His words propelled her, and she fought, ignoring his foul breath, the soft, patchy stubble of his beard, the slick sweat. She tried to scream.

  “You think anyone can hear?” He laughed—a cruel, guttural sound—and raised one knee, forcing his thigh between her legs, lifting her. It upset her balance, and she fell against him.

  He released one wrist to swat her on the behind. She grabbed his shoulder for support, teetering on his knee. His hand slid from bottom to ankle, fishing for her leg in the hem of her skirts. His fingernails were long, and he tore her stockings, digging violently to reach skin beneath the silk.

  The new violation compounded her fear, but she fought harder, trying to keep her wits, keep her balance, keep her will. She would not submit.

  When he’d shredded her stockings, his hand massaged up, awkwardly groping, tangling with garters and petticoats. He withdrew it and then plunged in again.

  Now, she thought, and she jabbed her free hand to his right eye with a cry, driving down, thumb first, into the bulging, lust-clouded socket. He bellowed and reared back, wrenching them both from the wall.

  He nearly dropped her and Piety bucked, kicking off of his leg. She had one solid foot on the ground. The other was tangled in her skirts, but she turned, pulled, and hopped in the direction of the door.

  It wasn’t enough. Eli recovered and sprang, flinging himself down the aisle and catching the hem of her skirt. One firm yank, and the wool tore, toppling her.

  Next he had her ankle, and then he had all of her.

  “You pride yourself on humiliating me!” He growled, throwing her against the end of a pew. She flashed him a look of pure defiance and tried to wiggle herself free. He let her go, allowing her to topple backward and scramble along the floor. She was level with his boots now, and she reversed her feet and kicked him. Hard. He nearly fell, groaning in pain.

  “Bitch!” He reached down and slapped her square across the face. The room spun, but she kept her focus on the end of the row, struggling to stand as she scooted backward.

  “How amusing.” He mocked her attempts to flee. “You think you’re getting away. About to make a run for it, are you? Here’s some news, Piety. We’re finished running. You. Me. My brothers. Your mother. We’re all through! How long did you think you could make us dance to your little tune?” He lashed out and grabbed her chin, forcing her head up. “Skipping merrily around the world?” He rattled her chin, trying to wring an answer. “How long?”

  “I’m not trying to make you do anything but leave me alone. All I’ve ever wanted was for you to go!”

  “So you may pursue your life with the earl?” He growled again. “I hope you know he’s never going to marry you. Never. You think I enjoy watching him stare at you, and laugh with you, and escort you on bloody walks through the goddamn countryside?”

  “I don’t care what you do or don’t wish to see! You don’t own me, Eli!”

  “Yes, but has Lord High-and-Mighty had you? Has he, Piety?” He hauled back to slap her again, but she turned her face away. He used the force to shove her shoulder. She fell back again.

  “The only reason we remain here and allow you to carry on with this man,” he continued, “is so that he can fuck you well and sure enough to ruin you—ruin you beyond any question of a doubt. After that, marriage to me will be your only remaining option.”

  Forgetting the danger of his palm, Piety stared at him, disbelieving horror plain on her face. Could her mother possibly know of this plan? Consent to this plan? Surely this could not be her scheme, too. After everything else, this would not be the way Idelle would finally force her to heel.

  Eli used her stunned moment to seize her. He grabbed her by both shoulders and drove her into the wall at the end of the pew.

  She screamed. “Eli, please!”

  He ignored her and ground his fat, wet lips against hers, holding her in place with a suffocating hand to her throat. It muzzled her. She could no longer scream, couldn’t even whimper. Inside her head, rage rose to a deafening roar, even while she felt herself slip away.

  But then, somewhere in the distance, a new sound. Desperate and urgent and feral.

  A bellow—a roar—of rage.

  “Release her!” the voice shouted. “Get off!”

  The clear, angry words spiked over her blankness and startled her just enough. She surged upward to fight again, applying her last gush of strength to pull her head to the side and gasp for air.

  “Limpett!” the voice continued, more clearly now. “I said, get off!”

  Falcondale. He barreled down the aisle, growling, vaulting over pews, his outrage rattling the stained glass. When he reached them, he grabbed Eli by the shoulder and ripped him away in a yank, his fist connecting with Eli’s nose in a sickening crunch.

  Now free, Piety spun sideways, gasping and coughing, staggering down the wall. She saw Eli land on his hands and knees. Falcondale kicked him flat to the stone floor. Eli squirmed but did not rise.

  “Are you all right?” Falcondale asked, turning his attention to her. He stared wildly at every part of her.

  Crying, she ran into his arms. He kissed the top of her head—one quick, hard smack—and pushed her back. “Go outside,” he said. “Wait for me.”

  Before she could object, he stalked away.

  “You are a dead man, Limpett!” she heard him say. “If ever—ever—you touch her again, I will kill you where you stand. That is, if I do not kill you now.”

  Eli groaned and swore, cursing his name.

  Trevor grabbed him by back of his collar and yanked him to his feet.

  “Trevor, no!”

  “Piety, I told you to go!”

  “See if she minds you any better than she minds me.” Eli’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “Spoiled rotten, that one.”

  Falcondale snarled and swung, connecting with Eli’s jaw and sending him reeling. Blood spewed across the chancel, staining the satin pennant on the pulpit.

  He dropped again to the ground, and Falcondale was on him. He yanked him up by his lapels to hit him again . . . and again . . . and again . . . beating him with a wildness Piety had never seen.

  “Leave him!” She scrambled up the aisle. “You know that he is not worth this!”

  Trevor was angry enough to kill—skilled enough to do it, too—but to kill someone with his bare hands, even to avenge her, was not a burden she wanted on his head. Eli was defeated. It was enough.

  Trevor grunted, going for Eli again, but she grabbed him by the elbow. He propped his hands to his knees and drew labored breaths. Eli, now a pathetic heap of a man, lay fetal on the floor.

  “This is finished, and we’re leaving,” Piety said, trying to lead him away. “Trevor be reasonable. This is not you.”

  “This is me, Piety!” he said, pulling his arm free. “Now you see it. Any fantasy you have entertained about me—about how I passed my time in Greece—let it now be vanquished. Housing orphans and finding work for widows? Try beating people to a bloody pulp. And som
etimes,” he said, pouncing on Eli again, “they even deserved it.”

  Trevor yanked him up by his hair. “If ever you touch her again, nay, if ever you look at her again, I will finish what I have begun. Do you hear me?”

  “Go to hell.”

  Falcondale released him, and he fell in a heap to the ground.

  Piety screamed Trevor’s name, stunned by the raw violence.

  He pivoted and strode toward the door. For a second, she thought he would leave her there. He didn’t look at her, didn’t speak to her, but he snatched her hand as he walked by, dragging her behind him.

  They were at the doors in the next moment, Trevor shoving them open with the heel of his hand. Barely breaking stride, he pulled her through the churchyard, past the gate, down the path, and up the side of a moss-covered knoll near the edge of the wood.

  “Trevor, please,” Piety said, struggling to keep up. He ignored her and blazed ahead. Only when they reached the shade of the trees did he drop her hand and stalk on alone.

  Piety followed a few steps and then stared after him. “What is wrong with you?”

  He slowed, stopped, and then spun to face her. “Are you able to walk?” he asked.

  Able to walk? “Yes,” she said, “I can walk. Did you think I floated from the church behind you?”

  He scowled at her and looked at the sky. He flexed his shoulders, opening and closing his fists.

  He began to pace.

  She watched a moment, wondering how to proceed. “You’re bleeding,” she said.

  He grunted.

  She reached out and brushed a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. He ducked away.

  “You’re angry,” she said.

  “Anger does not begin to explain what I feel at this moment, Piety. Try rage. Or worse. What is worse than rage? Fury?” He glanced at her. “But not with you.”

  She nodded and looked back at the church. “If you’re trying to frighten me with your violent display, you’ve failed.”

  “Let me make it clear that I do not regret what I’ve done. My only regret is that you prevented me from finishing it.”

  “I don’t regret what you’ve done, either. I’m grateful. Any woman would be. But it’s over, and now . . . ” She stepped closer.

  He looked away.

  She stepped closer still. He sighed heavily. He seemed determined not to look at her.

  “Trevor,” she said simply, “will you not touch me?”

  He was silent and still, like a stag in view of a huntsman. She wanted to howl with frustration. Could he not bear to look at her? Now, of all times?

  “Trevor,” she repeated, her voice taut. “I need you. You need me. We need each other. Look, and you will see.”

  “You need Miss Breedlowe.” He glanced at her and then away. “The marchioness. Your friends should care for you. A doctor, too.”

  “No,” she said. “I need you. You are behaving as if you are afraid to touch me. I will not break, Trevor. I think Eli made that very clear.”

  “Do not speak his name!” He took two steps back and bellowed—shouted—at the sky. Not a curse, not a discernable word. A howl of frustration and futility and rage. After that, while his voice still echoed in the trees, he lunged, and swept her off of her feet and into his arms. Carrying her, he stalked up the path to the house.

  She was taken entirely off guard. One moment he was shouting at the heavens and the next, he carried her. She barely managed an outraged squeak. When she found her arms and legs, aching though they were, she kicked. She pummeled. She made every ineffectual effort to pull away. She wanted him to touch her, but not like this.

  “Put me down,” she said, squirming, “I’ve told you I can walk.”

  He ignored her and stared sternly ahead, plodding toward the manor house.

  “Trevor,” she repeated. “I said, put me down. Oh, why must you make everything more difficult than it needs to be?”

  He shook his head and continued forward, refusing to even look at her. Piety shoved him once more and then sighed deeply, wincing at the pain in her ribs.

  She gave up. The will to fight was gone. She could not take on his stubbornness, his black mood, and his strength to hold her. Most of all, she could not fight her own will to resist him. She lay her head on his shoulder.

  It was hardly an embrace—more of a sturdy haul than anything else—but it was a closeness just the same. It felt familiar, warm, and safe. She snuggled deeper, turning into his shoulder and breathing in the smell of him: leather, sweat, and him. She looped her aching arms around his neck and held on tightly, drawing herself closer with each jostle and jut. If he noticed her shift, he gave no indication. He strode on, blazing up the path, across the green, and clipping up the steps to the rear terrace of Garnettgate.

  When the sound of his footfalls turned from gravelly crunch to paved stone, Piety tentatively raised her head and peeked at the advancing house in the distance. The first thing she saw was mid-morning tea. The marchioness was there with Tiny and Jocelyn. Several servants stood sentry.

  Oh, God, I cannot.

  The thought of a spectacle in front of everyone, of having them see her sullied, helpless, discouraged, was mortification renewed. She returned her face to Falcondale’s chest and whispered, “Please, Trevor, no. Can you take me in the side door? To my room?” She could not face them in this condition. She would rather die than frighten them or seem anything less than happy and in control.

  “No, I cannot,” he said. “The marchioness will fetch a doctor directly, but first she must know why. And I must speak to your mother.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The marchioness spotted them before Trevor reached the terrace with Piety in his arms. “Falcondale! Must you now carry her? Is it not enough that the two of you pass every waking moment joined at the elbow, with hands clasped, mooning at each other wherever you go?” The marchioness paused in her tirade. “Good God, is that blood?”

  Next came the screech of chairs and hurried footsteps. They had been taking some refreshment in the bright, crisp morning sun. Miss Breedlowe hurried toward them, concern etching her forehead. “Piety! What’s happened? My lord, but she is wounded?”

  They were upon them then, pawing and patting. In his arms, Piety refused to look up.

  Through his haze of anger and fear, Trevor managed to bite out a working sentence. “Miss Grey requires the attention of a doctor.”

  The marchioness dispatched a footman to fetch the doctor, while Miss Breedlowe and Tiny tugged gently at her, trying to discover the source of her injuries. He did not put her down. It was possible, he thought angrily, that he would never put her down again.

  Piety held to him, hiding her face, while her friends attended to her with wet napkins and gentle fingers. Someone loosened her shoes. Her face was burrowed so deeply in his chest, he worried the wool of his vest would chafe her skin. He leaned down, whispering endearments, promising he would take her inside as soon as he’d seen her mother. She whimpered.

  “I require an audience with Mrs. Grey-Limpett,” Trevor told Lady Frinfrock. “Immediately.”

  The marchioness studied them both. “Fetch the American,” she told a footman. “She’s just returned from the village.”

  “Also,” continued Trevor, “Mr. Limpett can likely be found bleeding upon the floor of your chapel.”

  She looked in the direction of the chapel and then back to the earl. “Let him bleed,” she said. “What’s happened, Falcondale? Are her legs broken? Can you not put her down?”

  Piety finally reared her head, and there was a collective gasp at the sight of her battered face. Trevor could barely look at the gathering bruises and cut lip without charging back up to the chapel to finish what he had begun. He would not insult her by looking away, but he closed his eyes and pressed a soft kiss to a rising welt on her forehead.

  The marchioness was the first to speak. “Miss Breedlowe, I ask you, what manner of chaperoning is this? I’m beginning to
think you are as unfit as the Americans claim. I thought you said the girl went alone to the chapel to pray.”

  “But that was her intention.” Miss Breedlowe was nearly in tears. She gently smoothed the fabric of Piety’s torn gown.

  “I suppose you cannot be blamed,” continued the marchioness, “but it must be said: The girl cannot be safely left alone, even for a moment. Bleeding and wounded and carried around like a battlefield casualty? What are the servants to think? Their gawking is epidemic as is. This house will be the talk of the county.”

  Behind them, the door to the terrace swung outward, admitting Mrs. Grey-Limpett to the sun. Piety ducked her head, hiding in Trevor’s chest. There was silence. Miss Breedlowe and Tiny shuffled back.

  “Am I to be made to guess?” Mrs. Limpett asked.

  Trevor gritted his teeth, jostling Piety in his arms. “Try again, madam,” he said.

  “My, God, Piety, what have you done now? Will your theatrics never cease? Whatever is afoot, I can assure you that no one is amused.”

  Trevor made a growling sound low in his chest and then said, “Because you seem unable or unwilling to explore the circumstances for yourself, allow me to enlighten you. Your daughter has been beaten.”

  Idelle sighed. “Yes, yes, but you do not know her as I do. Mark my words, the sooner you cease fussing over her, the sooner we will hear some very far-fetched and unlikely reason. Will you not put her down, Falcondale? It is ridiculous to carry her.”

  “Ridiculous?” he asked, hoisting Piety higher. “Pray, let me show you ridiculous.”

  While the assembled women watched, he carried her damaged body to her mother. Piety whimpered and clung more tightly, but he whispered, “I’m so sorry, darling, but she forces my hand.”

  “No, please don’t make me face her.” She cried softly. “She will twist it. She will mock me.”

  “Please, Piety,” he said quietly, kneeling beside a chair and settling her in it. “Their abuse persists because no one has ever brought them to heel. But that stops today. Now. You must show her. Let her see what you have endured.” He brought her hands from around his neck. “This will be the sort of unflinching courage that demonstrates your strength, not weakness. I am here, but you can do this.”