The Untouchable Earl

by Amy Sandas

  The panic inside him condensed to a single searing point in the center of his chest.

  “Don’t.”

  Though the word screamed like fire inside his head, it came out sounding clipped and stone cold.

  Her hand stilled instantly, and her eyes widened. She slowly lowered her hand to her side.

  “I wish only to offer comfort,” she said softly. “What can I do?”

  “Nothing.”

  Something akin to regret flickered across her features, and the sight of it, even as fleeting as it was, hurt far worse than all the years of emotional degradation and physical torment he had endured in his life.

  Her eyes met his. Soft and resilient. “Won’t you let me try?” she asked.

  His skin prickled fiercely at the thought, but he said nothing.

  Making love to her had been an experience he would never forget. The fire and passion. The melding of two bodies. The sensations roused and fed by his desire had grown until they had overwhelmed all else.

  But this would be something entirely different. Allowing her to touch him in his current weakened state terrified him. He did not have the strength to manage the inevitable pain.

  Yet, he could not bring himself to refuse her.

  Taking his silence as acquiescence, she took a step toward him. Not so close that she touched him yet, but he could feel the warmth coming from her bared skin, her kind heart. Holding his gaze in the mirror, she slowly slid her hand around his waist to press her palm low against his abdomen, where his body was undamaged.

  Avenell could barely breathe. Sensations slid swiftly across his nerves, but they were not unpleasant, not there where she touched him. The other pain was still present across his shoulders, chest, and down his arms, but he also experienced the odd impression of her touch distracting him from other sensations as his focus centered in on her and what she was doing.

  Then she shifted behind him, easing closer. Her belly curved against his buttocks, her full breasts pressed to his back, and most distressing of all, she rested her cheek against the back of his shoulder.

  He could not move. His body turned to stone while frantic, uncontrolled sensations claimed the nerves of his upper back. He closed his eyes to focus on the effort of drawing breath into his lungs and forcing it out again. He could endure this.

  He tried, but his body was too weakened, his soul vulnerable, and the pressure was too much. She was too much.

  With a rough exhale, he grasped her wrist and turned to face her, gently pushing her arm behind her back to prevent further torment. His breath was fast and uneven, matching the tumult of thoughts and emotions tumbling through him.

  Though she had stilled at his abrupt movement, she did not pull away. Her gray eyes were wide beneath the thick sweep of her eyelashes.

  How could she look at him that way, so quietly confident and hopeful?

  It angered him.

  Did she not see the truth? He was not like other men. Inside, he was as damaged as the nerves that burned like a thousand flames beneath his skin.

  He did not deserve her gentle regard, her sweetness. Why could she not see him for what he was?

  She tried to release her hand from where he held it behind her back, but ceased when he did not loosen his grip.

  “I want so badly to touch you.” Her voice was an intimate whisper. “To make you feel the things I feel beneath your hands.”

  He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw throbbed. “That will never happen.”

  A small line formed between her brows, and her chin tilted. “Given time, perhaps—”

  “No, Lily,” he growled angrily.

  She did not understand. How could she? No one knew the fear, self-loathing, and powerlessness he had lived with. She had never experienced a parent’s abject rejection and disgust. The sense that something was broken inside of him—that he didn’t, couldn’t, belong anywhere. She could not know how far he would go to protect himself from ever feeling that again. Especially from her.

  “It will never happen,” he continued, hating how cold and distant his voice sounded in the darkness. “Accept it now, or this cannot continue.”

  He watched the effect of his refusal roll gently but inexorably through her body as she lowered her lashes over her gaze. He wished he could see into her eyes, know what she was thinking. But she hid it from him.

  After another moment, she took a deep breath that lifted her breasts before she released it in a slow exhale. Then she took a step back and turned away from him.

  Avenell nearly shouted for her to come back, to wrap her arms about him despite the pain and the denial. He watched her in silence instead, while his stomach tightened with regret, and his heart thudded painfully against his ribs.

  Before he could sink even further into the encroaching distress within him, Lily paused to smile at him over her shoulder. Her gray eyes were soft. Her expression was once again generous and open.

  “Shall we dine, my lord?” she asked lightly. “I find myself rather famished.”

  Avenell released his breath and gave a nod that felt wooden and stiff. “Of course.”

  He glanced at his shirt where it lay on the chair, tensing at the thought of having to put it on over his still-rioting nerves. Though silk was much easier to bear than linen or cotton, during his current state, it was guaranteed to cause significant distress.

  “Don’t put it on.”

  Avenell looked up in surprise to see Lily standing in her shift with her lovely hair falling in tangled waves down her back as she watched him. She had obviously rightfully identified his reluctance.

  She lifted one shoulder and tipped her head to the side. “There is no reason we cannot be comfortable while we eat. It is rather warm in here anyway.”

  The heat that spread through Avenell’s chest had nothing to do with the room and everything to do with the woman who stood patiently waiting for his response to her casual suggestion.

  With a rueful curl of his lips, he walked toward her, enjoying the way her gaze flickered over his bared torso with admiration. The desire that never quite went away when he was in her presence flared bright in response. Tightly reining in his physical reaction, he executed a formal bow before reaching for her hand to bring it to the bend of his elbow.

  Her fingers fluttered in his hold before resting warmly on his bare skin. The stimulation of her touch challenged his control. Not only due to the painful prickling that raced beneath his skin, but more so due to the craving her touch ignited deeper within. When she glanced upward with a lush sweep of her lashes and curved her lovely mouth into a smile, Avenell’s heart fell.

  Unexpectedly, irrevocably.

  It took him a moment to recover, and he nearly stuttered over his words as he said, “Miss Chadwick, would you honor me by joining me for supper?”

  She performed a graceful curtsy as a pink blush colored her cheeks. “My lord, I would love to.”

  The exchange was fanciful and light, and their meal followed through in the same tone as Lily kept up a steady stream of conversation. Her eyes sparkled with laughter as she told stories of her sisters. He heard much in her voice when she spoke of her family. Not only the obvious love and regard she held for her sisters, but her sadness over the loss of her mother when she had been on the very cusp of womanhood. And her confusion and regret over her father’s gradual dissipation and ultimate death from a weak heart.

  He was well aware that she spoke as a means of distracting him from the pain he’d been unable to conceal from her. What surprised him was that it worked. By the time they finished their meal and decided to move to the sofa to finish their wine, he was more relaxed and content than he had been in years, perhaps in his entire life.

  After stoking the fire back to life, Avenell turned to find Lily resting sideways against the back of the sofa, with her legs curled up beneath her
and her lips parted in sleep. Her innocence was palpable. Her softness a stark contrast to the hardness he felt in himself.

  Moving silently to her side, he eased the wineglass from her hand and set it on the end table before lowering himself onto the sofa beside her. Taking care not to awaken her, he gently traced his fingertip across the crest of her cheek, then along her jaw to the point of her chin.

  With a murmured sound, she shifted in her sleep until she nestled along his side with her head against his bare shoulder.

  Avenell held his breath, afraid to move. Pain seared the surface of his skin and burned through the sudden tightness of his lungs. It angered him that he could still feel the intense adverse reaction even while holding something so precious. Despite the distress it caused, he deliberately wrapped his arm around her curved form and drew her in closer to his chest. Her unconscious sigh fanned across his burning skin, soothing and destroying him all at once.

  He forced himself to focus on her. The warmth of her body, the silken texture of her skin, her complete, yielding trust. The longer he held her, the easier it became.

  After a while, he was able to regulate his breath to match her deep and quiet rhythm.

  After a little while more, Avenell allowed himself to wonder…

  And as he wondered, that clenching hope claimed him in its grip once again and wouldn’t let go.

  Twenty-four

  “Mon dieu,” Angelique exclaimed with a dramatic sigh. “I cannot recall if we are attending a dinner party, a ball, a rout, or a soiree tonight.”

  Emma turned to reply over her shoulder. “It is a ball to celebrate the engagement of Miss Farindon to Mr. Pinkman.”

  They were in line to enter yet another grand London home, and Lily honestly couldn’t blame her great-aunt for her confusion. As they finally reached the receiving line to be greeted by their hosts, Lily had to stifle a yawn behind her gloved hand.

  She had spent five out of the last eight nights with the earl. A naturally early riser, even when she stayed up until dawn, Lily was not getting the amount of sleep her body needed, which should have made the many social events they attended a torment to get through. On the contrary, despite her exhaustion, Lily was enjoying herself far more than she had at the start of the season.

  Though Emma still insisted they attend social functions in their efforts to obtain an honorable proposal, she no longer put such urgency on the issue. Her winnings from Bentley’s ensured that they would have the whole Season to find husbands.

  And since even that motivation was gone for Lily, she found she had much more freedom to simply enjoy herself now that she did not have to worry about impressing suitors. She loved dancing and had made several friends over the weeks.

  Miss Farindon, the girl celebrating her engagement tonight being one of them.

  The only thing that could make evenings such as this better was if Lily could share them with Lord Harte. Every now and then, when her brain was soft with lack of sleep, she would entertain the fantasy that they might somehow manage to continue their relationship indefinitely.

  A foolish dream. Gentlemen did not marry their mistresses.

  Especially not the secret ones they purchased at a brothel auction.

  Oh, but she wished they did. Somewhere along the way, her near-obsessive infatuation with her lover had turned into something much more complicated.

  She had fallen in love with him.

  And though the feeling, in acknowledging it fully to herself, gave her such a wealth of hope and happiness, in full context it was frightfully depressing.

  She did not often think about it in full context.

  As she followed Angelique and her sisters up the wide and curving staircase to the second-floor ballroom, she pressed her hand to her abdomen, trying to contain the swirling feeling that came to life whenever she thought of Avenell. Since the night of the theater, a new layer had been added to their time together.

  She never reached for him unexpectedly, never wrapped her arms around him as she wished to do. His admission that night had touched her with a helpless sort of sadness. Though she wanted to honor the restrictions he demanded in regard to their physical interaction, she also wished there was something more she could do, some way she could help him.

  She understood that he experienced pain from stimulation on his skin, but the why of it was still unclear.

  She was loath to cause him more discomfort by pressing him to accept what she was so desperate to give him. Though he was not demonstrative in the common ways of affection, his generosity was unmatched. He was intense, passionate, and tender.

  Her time with the earl had liberated her passion, but he had also opened her up to life in a thousand subtle ways. She wanted to share it all with him. But as long as she was his mistress, what they did—what they could be to each other—was frightfully limited. She ached with subtle longing for what she could not have. The more time Lily spent with the earl and came to appreciate the full depth of his rich, giving nature, the more she saw a possibility for a more profound connection.

  And also couldn’t help but notice the heartrending absence of it.

  As his mistress, she was free to make love to him, but not to love him.

  It was a cruel design.

  Though she found herself enjoying the endless social whirl with a newfound sense of confidence, there was ever present this sense of something missing. Him.

  She would never talk happily with him at a dinner table, or stroll along a garden path on his arm. She would never dance with him under the magical lights of a ballroom.

  Hating the discontent that claimed her, Lily forced her attention away from her inner turmoil. Her wishes and dreams were futile and only weighed her down with their depressive nature.

  The Chadwicks stayed with Angelique until she found a place to sit among the other matrons and chaperones, and Emma took her place at her aunt’s side.

  Lily frowned at her older sister’s constant dedication to the role she had chosen for herself as the responsible head of their little family. In struggling with her own yearning to express herself more honestly, Lily had become more and more frustrated by Emma’s restraint. She wanted to suggest that her older sister mingle with the guests, dance a time or two, something to get her away from the wall. But Emma continued to insist that she was content with her lot as spinster and guardian to Lily and Portia.

  Clearly, a falsehood. Lily was just not certain whether Emma lied only to them or to herself as well.

  Once the music started, there was less opportunity for Lily to worry about her sisters or her own future. A distraction was exactly what she needed, and she did her best to make the most of it. Evenings went by much faster when she was engaged with other guests, doing what she could to enjoy the hours.

  Unfortunately, Lord Fallbrook was in attendance. Since the incident in Warwickshire, Lily had been very careful to avoid the man, but tonight, she could not completely escape his leering stare as he noticed her from a distance. The man positively made her skin crawl.

  Her next dance was claimed by Mr. Campbell, and Lily went with him gladly. There was no fear, at least, of any inappropriate advances from him. Their conversation was easy and comfortable, reminding Lily how much she enjoyed his company.

  Just as they positioned themselves for the start of a long country dance, Lily caught sight of someone familiar crossing the room.

  Mr. Bentley.

  As the bastard son of an earl and the proprietor of a gambling house, Bentley was barely tolerated by polite society. If not for the fact that his financial acumen had kept many of the gentlemen present tonight from going into debt with their lavish lifestyles, he may never have been invited to an event such as this.

  That he was here now triggered a jolt of inspiration. Lily quickly glanced around for Portia.

  “You are looking quite fresh and lovely
this evening, Miss Chadwick.”

  Lily shifted her attention back to Mr. Campbell long enough to acknowledge his compliment. “Thank you, Mr. Campbell.”

  He smiled back, his perfectly trimmed beard curving around his mouth. His gaze was warm and kind as he stated, “I would like you to know how much I have come to appreciate our acquaintance. In fact, I hope you do not take it as too forward for me to say I believe we have become friends.”

  “I would be honored to count you as a friend, Mr. Campbell,” Lily replied just as the steps of the dance drew them apart.

  Curiosity had her attention shifting to find Mr. Bentley again as he strode through the crowd. Something in his manner struck Lily acutely.

  He appeared distraught. His strides were long and purposeful, his head angled down, and his focus fixed on a doorway that led to a game room. Just before she lost sight of him, he turned to glance over his shoulder. The emotion revealed in his expression would have been obvious to anyone with a heart.

  Lily followed the direction of his glance, though she already knew toward whom it had been directed. Emma stood at the other end of his tormented gaze, entirely unaware of his presence or his passionate regard.

  Lily sighed. She wished her sister would do something. Heaven knew Emma deserved to be happy after all she had done for their family—taking care of their mother when she had been ill, then struggling to counter their father’s destructive behavior, and taking a position at Bentley’s club to fund Lily’s and Portia’s debuts.

  But Mr. Bentley was not at all a proper match for a lady of high society. Even the whisper of a lady being involved with a man like Bentley had potential to cause a ruinous scandal, which certainly explained his distance. He clearly cared for her and would not damage her by association, and Emma would never risk her sisters’ futures in such a way. Her loyalty and self-sacrifice were far too ingrained.

  The basic unfairness of it simply infuriated Lily, as did her older sister’s relentless adherence to propriety. It was far past time for Emma to let go of her need to manage everything to death.