Never Say Never to an Earl (Heart of Enquiry Book 5)

by Grace Callaway

  Her eyes were dazed with longing. “Oh, Sinjin, you make me feel so… awash.”

  He knew the feeling. But he didn’t want to give in, not just yet. Not until he was certain that she saw herself the way he did. “Do you also feel desired?” He flexed his hips again to drive the point home.

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  “And beautiful?”

  “I feel that way… when I’m in your arms.”

  Her smile made him ache, not just in his cock, which was throbbing like the devil, but in his chest. In some deep and essential place.

  “That’s a start, at least,” he said huskily. “Now be a love, and hold your skirts up for me.”

  When she hesitantly complied, he went down on one knee. With the reverence of an acolyte—which was no less than she deserved—he ran his hands up her dainty, stocking-covered ankles, over the sweet curves of her calves, all the way to the satiny skin above her ribbon garters.

  He honed in on the treasure that awaited him at the apex of her thighs. As he ran a fingertip through that soft tawny thatch, he whispered, “You’re so damned gorgeous, Polly. Not just in your physical charms—which God knows you possess in abundance—but in your passion. How generous and full of life you are. How wet you get,”—he swallowed, feeling that dew ease his exploring touch—“how you melt at my touch… my kiss.”

  So saying, he leaned in and gave her the kiss that had featured in his fantasies.

  Her taste was as he remembered: honey and woman, all Polly. Parting her plump folds, he licked hungrily along her pink slit, fueled by the primal need to dispel any doubt that she belonged to him. To the man who was her true match. Who not only saw her beauty but felt it—in her shivers of delight, the rain of dew upon his tongue, the ardent way she arched herself into his kiss.

  When his tongue delved upward to her pearl, her knees buckled, and he steadied her, swinging one of her legs over his shoulder, bracing her against the column. With this improved access, he returned to his interrupted pleasure. He suckled on her little knot, then tickled it with his tongue. She reached her pinnacle with a sudden soft cry that made his turgid member jerk against his smalls.

  Her indescribable sweetness made his senses spin. Not ready to give up his seat at the feast, he continued to tongue her pearl as she came down, drawing out her voluptuous pleasure. He traced her drenched furrow with his middle finger until he found her tight entrance. Slowly but surely, he worked his way inside.

  The fit was snug, her sheath dewy but unaccustomed to invasion. Once he passed the initial resistance, however, her virgin muscles tugged at his digit, that erotic pull drawing a spurt of pre-spend from his cock. He lapped at her pearl as he screwed his finger inside, steadily and all the way, until her nest feathered across his knuckles. He was rewarded by a fresh gush of her ambrosia.

  “Yes, kitten,” he growled. “Spend for me again. Give me more of your sweet honey.”

  Afire with lust, he redoubled his efforts, stabbing her clit with his tongue, her tight cunny with his finger. Her hips bucked wantonly against his mouth, and when he judged her ready, he gave her more, adding another finger to the mix. His excitement surged as she took it readily, her pussy clenching lushly around his thick digits, her cream rich upon his tongue.

  “Sinjin.”

  In her moment of crisis, she called out his name—a summons that could not be denied. Aroused beyond reason, he surged to his feet, crushing her lips with his, their kiss flavored with the wild beauty of her pleasure. The intimacy of what they were sharing pushed him over the edge: he ground his hips against her, rubbing his trouser-confined erection against her thigh, finding the essential friction. When his release slammed into him, he buried his shout of satisfaction in her hair.

  When he regained his senses, he lifted her head—to see Polly smiling at him. She looked adorably… smug.

  He chucked her under the chin. “Pleased with yourself, sweeting?”

  “I can’t help it.” With a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, she said, “I suppose it’s nice to know that I’m not the only one who can, um, climax fully clothed.”

  “Touché,” he said with a wry grin. He examined the front of his trousers, gingerly buttoning his jacket over the stain. “I don’t relish handing this over to my valet. He’ll think his rakehell of a master was replaced by a fifteen-year-old greenling. Which, incidentally, was my age when I last disgraced myself in this manner.”

  She clearly tried to hide her smile, so dazzling that it could have lit up a ballroom. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t find it amusing,” she said between giggles. “It’s just that I never thought that I could… that the wallflower could turn the tables on the rake…”

  “If you need further proof, I’d be happy to provide it.” Intently, he said, “You’re beautiful, Polly, but more than that you’ve got so much passion to share. You are my match—and then some. Never doubt it.”

  “You’re right.” Regaining her composure, she took a deep breath. “And I will.”

  He cocked his head, not following. “You will…?”

  “I will marry you,” she said.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “How much longer?” Polly’s lashes brushed against the blindfold.

  “Just another minute, Miss Kent,” a voice—which she identified as Maisie’s—called out. “Now ’old still—we’re almost finished!”

  Hearing the girl’s excitement, Polly smiled and complied. She was in one of the classrooms at the Hunt Academy, where Madame Rousseau had set up a changing area to mimic the one she had at her exclusive boutique. Screens provided privacy around the dressmaker’s dais upon which Polly stood, the modiste and her pupils bustling around her, making adjustments to their masterpiece which would be debuted at the charity ball in two days’ time.

  Maisie had tied the scrap of silk over Polly’s eyes, saying that they didn’t want Polly to see the dress until it was perfectly in place.

  Although Polly couldn’t see the ball gown, she felt the swish of fine fabric against her skin… and the waft of air against the places the garment left bare. Which, she could already tell, were far more than what she was accustomed to. But instead of apprehension, she brimmed with anticipation. A readiness to try something more daring when it came to fashion… and life.

  This was Sinjin’s effect on her, of course. He gave her the courage to take risks, the ultimate one being her decision to commit her future to his. Yet from the moment she’d pledged her troth to him, she’d had no regrets. Her focus was now on the future, which held such promise… as long as she kept her deformity and love hidden. And she would. She would make this work.

  Sinjin, for his part, had wasted no time in making their engagement official. The day after the Pickering-Parks’ picnic, he’d paid a call and presented her with a ring. She rubbed her left thumb against it now; she didn’t need her eyes to see it since she’d committed every detail to memory. The ring matched the necklace Sinjin had given her, with a flawless aquamarine cabochon set in a frame of sparkling white diamonds and mounted atop a delicate gold band.

  Her sisters had agreed that the ring was perfect for Polly, and Ambrose had given his blessing to the marriage, which would take place eight weeks hence. Marianne, an expert at wedding planning, had said that two months was the minimum time necessary to properly execute such an event, and Ambrose had seconded the notion, although for different reasons.

  After a week, the search for Miss French’s accomplice had gone surprisingly cold. The scoundrel seemed to have vanished into thin air despite the fact that Ambrose had had a sketch made up of him and was circulating it far and wide with the promise of a reward. Ambrose wanted to clear up the business before the wedding, to give Polly and Sinjin the ultimate gift: peace of mind.

  Thus, in two months’ time, she, Polly Kent, was going to become the Earl of Revelstoke’s wife. The wallflower was going to wed the rake. Recalling the way Sinjin’s powerful body had shuddered against her when they’d made love by
the pond, the way he’d growled her name in his throes, she was filled with a heady sense of wonder and power. He had claimed she was his match—and she was finally beginning to believe it.

  “Attends, Annie,” Madame Rousseau’s accented voice said sharply. “The bow by the hem has come undone. Details, no matter how large or small, must not be overlooked. Comprends?”

  “Yes, Madame,” her pupil replied in a chastened voice.

  Polly felt a slight tug as the girl worked on the overlooked ribbon.

  “Maisie, straighten the train at the back,” Madame Rousseau instructed. “Alors, stand back, mes filles, and I will perform the final inspection.”

  One could hear a pin drop in the silence that followed. Even Polly’s heart sped up as she heard the dressmaker’s slow, precise footsteps circling her. Finally, an instant before the tension became unbearable and Polly was about to tear off the blindfold herself because she couldn’t stand the anticipation any longer, Madame declared softly, “Bien. Have a look, Miss Kent.”

  The silk slipped from Polly’s eyes. She blinked, staring at the image in the looking glass.

  “Don’t you like it?” Maisie said.

  Polly couldn’t summon up a single word.

  “It’s so much prettier than your other frocks, miss,” Annie piped up.

  “The color may take getting used to, chérie,” Madame Rousseau interjected, “but I assure you it is all the rage in Paris and—”

  “It’s perfect.” In a voice that wobbled, Polly said, “Thank you, all of you—I couldn’t have imagined a more perfect dress. I truly do feel like the Girl in the Cinders. And I’m so honored to showcase your creation at the ball tomorrow night.” Polly smiled tremulously at the beaming faces. “I expect your handiwork will bring a flood of donations to the academy.”

  As the girls squealed, clapping their hands, Polly’s gaze was drawn back to the image in the glass. It was amazing how different a dress could make one look: she felt as if a stranger was looking back at her.

  The lady in the mirror wore a gown that was neither blue nor green but some extraordinary, shimmering shade in between. The silk chiffon flowed like water over her figure, highlighting lush curves and a nipped-in waist, the full skirts cascading to the floor. The bodice was cut daringly low off the shoulder, edged with frothy, sea-green lace that emphasized the purity of the skin above.

  In the reflection, Polly saw herself standing taller, her carriage imbued with a new confidence. Because of the dress… and because of Sinjin. Because of how he made her feel: wanted and desired, no longer a wallflower but a lady coming into bloom.

  Then and there, she made a decision.

  “Madame, I’d like to come by your shop to have a few new dresses made,” she said.

  “Sacré dieu, my prayers have been answered,” the Frenchwoman said fervently.

  A rueful grin tucked into Polly’s cheeks. The beleaguered modiste had campaigned tirelessly for Polly to consider more fashionable garments. Had her sisters not been amongst the modiste’s most favored patrons, Polly was certain that Madame would have refused to make the frumpy dresses she’d insisted upon.

  After helping Polly back into her old clothes, the girls trooped out of the classroom—except for Maisie, who lingered to help Madame Rousseau tidy up. Seeing the flicker of uncertainty around the girl, who’d become quite subdued, Polly wondered what was amiss. She didn’t have long to wonder.

  “Miss Kent… may I ask you something?”

  “Of course you may.”

  Maisie’s brown eyes slid to Polly’s ring. “Is it true that you’re to be married?”

  “Alors, Maisie, that is not your concern,” the modiste chided as she rolled up a measuring tape.

  “It’s all right, Madame. I don’t mind answering.” Turning to Maisie, Polly said gently, “Yes, it’s true. I’m engaged to the Earl of Revelstoke.”

  “Oh.” The girl’s bottom lip trembled, and she turned quickly to the worktable, her small hands fumbling at she organized the dressmaker’s tools. Fear glowed around her brown plaits.

  “Maisie,” Polly said with concern, “what’s the matter?”

  “N-nothin’,” came the quivering reply.

  Seeing the girl’s distress, Polly murmured to the dressmaker, “Would you mind giving us a moment, Madame?”

  With an understanding nod, the Frenchwoman departed.

  “We’re alone now,” Polly said. “Won’t you talk to me, Maisie?”

  The girl’s shoulders hunched. She turned around, her small face aged by resignation. “There’s naught to talk about.”

  “I think there is. I think something is troubling you, and I’d like to help, if I can.”

  The girl’s gaze was trained on the floor. “And if you can’t?”

  “Then at least you’ll have spoken about your concerns to someone who cares.” Polly set her hands lightly on the girl’s shoulders. “That is something, I think.”

  Maisie raised her eyes and blurted, “But it won’t matter because you’ll still leave. The other girls said once you’re married, you’ll ’ave a family o’ your own, and no time for us foundlings.” A tear leaked down her freckled cheek. “You won’t come by ’ere no more. You’ll leave—like everyone does!”

  Taken aback by the fact that she was the cause of the girl’s distress, Polly was at a momentary loss for words. The girl shook free of her touch and returned to sorting pins into boxes.

  “Maisie, please look at me.”

  “Go away,” the girl sniffled.

  “Maisie,” Polly repeated.

  The girl pivoted slowly, her expression defiant and at odds with her affable nature.

  “Just because I’m getting married doesn’t mean I’ll stop coming here,” Polly said gently.

  “That’s not true. The other girls said—”

  “It doesn’t matter what they said. I’m telling you what is true.”

  Maisie’s hands curled into fists at her sides. “The girls said that even if you said you would keep coming, your new ’usband might ’ave something different to say in the matter. And because e’s your ’usband, you’ll ’ave to mind ’im. So you couldn’t come even if you wanted to.”

  “Goodness,” Polly murmured, “the other girls have rather a lot to say, don’t they?”

  Maisie gave a fierce little nod.

  “Well, I can tell you that my future husband won’t try to interfere with something that is important to me.” Sinjin had agreed, after all, that they would respect each other’s interests. “And I have no intention of stopping my visits here.”

  Hope sparked in the foundling’s aura, a tiny flame fighting against the dark gloom. Having survived so many travails, was it any wonder that the girl expected the worst?

  “You’re marrying a nob,” Maisie said in a quavering voice. “’E won’t want you associating with the likes o’ me. ’E’ll want you to do other things—like eat bonbons or ’ave tea with the King.”

  Would Sinjin object to her work at the academy? Polly doubted it. Despite his title and wealth, he disliked pretensions and snobbery. She was learning that he was his own man, one who lived by his own rules and code of honor, and she respected him for it. In fact, he was teaching her to care less about what others thought—and she believed that he would support her in the endeavors that were important to her.

  “You’ll have to trust me on this, Maisie,” she said. “I haven’t lied to you before, have I?”

  The girl gave an adamant shake of her head, her braids whirling.

  “Then I won’t do so with this. I like being here,” Polly said earnestly, “being with you and the other children. I plan to continue my work here for the foreseeable future. And if there came a time when I couldn’t… well, I’d be honest about it. I’d tell you straight to your face, Maisie, so you never have to worry that I’ll just disappear one day.”

  “Ma did.” The words emerged in a whisper. “One day I woke up, and she was gone. Tim said she weren’t coming b
ack, but I didn’t believe ’im. I thought she’d want to come back. For us. I was wrong.”

  There it was. The root of Maisie’s worry. And, by God, Polly knew from her own experience that it was not an easy fear to eradicate. Nonetheless, she had to try.

  “I was six when my mama left us,” she said quietly. “She was taken away by a fever. We thought she’d taken a bit of a chill, but she was gone within the week.”

  Even after all these years, she felt tiny reverberations of that shock. Of discovering that her warm, full-of-life mama had gone to be with the angels, leaving the rest of the family stricken with grief. Papa had never fully recovered from the loss.

  “I’m so sorry, Miss Kent,” Maisie said, her eyes wide.

  “Thank you, dear, but my point is only that I understand how difficult it is to lose someone.”

  “But my ma… she didn’t ’ave an ailment.” The girl’s shoulders drooped. “She just left us—on account o’ the drink, Tim said.”

  “Which is an illness of a sort, when one thinks about it. But whatever her reason, it doesn’t have anything to do with you,” Polly said, giving the girl’s arm a light squeeze. “Bad things happen in life, and we might not understand why, but we have to have faith that good things will happen too.”

  Maisie fell silent. As Polly struggled to come up with some other way to offer comfort, the girl said in a thin voice, “I’m worried… about Tim.”

  “Your brother?” Another surprise. Polly’s head tipped to one side. “Why?”

  “’E used to visit me every week, but this last time, ’e didn’t come for an entire fortnight. And now it’s been nearly three weeks since I seen ’im last.” The words rushed out in a torrent, as if they’d been dammed up far too long. “What if ’e tires o’ me… the way Ma did?”

  Polly’s heart wrenched at the girl’s despair. “Your brother loves you very much. He would never tire of you.” At fifteen, Timothy Cullen was already a rough-and-ready sort of fellow, a survivor of the stews, but during his visits, Polly had seen his bright and unfaltering devotion to his younger sister. “I’m sure other matters are detaining him. Have you asked him about it?”