“No one of consequence, I assure you. Lady Abigail Croft. My brother is Peter Croft, Baron Whitpool. His is an old title, but that’s about all that can be said for the good. In truth, I feel it is more of a family curse.”
He could hear the heartbreak in her every word.
“I wasn’t here because of your club.” Her release of breath came out in a ragged and rather forlorn sigh. “I was trying to work up the courage to enter the house next door. It is where my brother goes nightly... for his... to forget about the demons that haunt him.”
Any irritation he might have felt toward the girl’s folly had now fled. If Tynan understood her correctly, her brother was an addict. Bollocks, that was trouble. He and his fellow earls had become increasingly concerned by the fashionable artists salon next door that had lately turned into something more sinister. The place was frequented by romantic poets, many of whom were darlings of the ton. Someone in very high authority shielded them, perhaps not realizing this house was more of an opium den than a salon for patrons of enlightened literature. “I’m truly sorry, Lady Abigail. How long has this been going on with your brother?”
“Ever since he returned home from the war. He was recalled from his regiment when he came into the title last year. But his condition has gotten especially bad these past few months. Perhaps he’s been like this for years and I hadn’t noticed until now. He was wounded years ago in Spain fighting Napoleon’s forces, you see.”
Tynan regarded her with concern. “He was a soldier?”
She clasped her hands together, wringing them as she nodded. “The youngest of four sons, so it was either fighting or the clergy for him. He chose fighting.” She cast Tynan a wincing smile. “I love him, but Peter was never the pious sort. My parents knew it, too. As for me, I was the accidental fifth child, the girl they had hoped for and finally got. Being the only girl among all those boys, and the youngest as well, I was either picked on mercilessly or worshiped. There was never a middle ground.”
If she had four older brothers, then where were the other three? Why was she left the task of bringing Peter home? It made no sense.
She cleared her throat. “My lord, have you lost your shirt?”
“What?” He glanced down, noting he was clad only in his trousers and boots, and only now recalling he’d run out in this state of undress. He kept a wardrobe at his club, but he’d been too distracted by the girl to bother making himself respectable. Was it necessary? She was in his chamber. Alone with him. They were strangers to each other. There was nothing respectable about their situation. “Give me a moment.”
He fetched a clean shirt and slipped it on, buttoning it only part way up and rolling up his shirt sleeves since he wasn’t going to fumble with cufflinks or don a bloody cravat, vest, or jacket for her sake. In truth, there was a sensual innocence about the girl that made him think of shedding clothes - mainly hers - rather than tediously putting his on.
Her gown was seductively prim, he noticed. A dark blue woolen weave with a white lace collar that buttoned to her throat. A man would have to work for hours to slip that gown off her slender shoulders. He ran his gaze up and down her body once more. Ah, but she’d be worth every bit of the effort it would take to peel those layers off her. “I’m afraid I cannot leave my club yet, Lady Abigail. If you promise not to run off the moment my back is turned, I’ll have my carriage brought around to take you home.”
She nodded. “I give you my word. Thank you. This was my driver’s night off and I foolishly thought... well, clearly I wasn’t thinking. I’d hired a hack and paid the driver to wait for me, but the horrid man disappeared the moment I handed over the money. I was stranded and didn’t know what to do.”
As though fully realizing just how incredibly idiotic and dangerous her actions had been, she blushed and glanced away.
Her innocent eyes lit up the moment she noticed what was sitting upon his bureau top. “Are those strawberries? And cream?”
Tynan realized she was hungry and not thinking of the games one played in bed with... never mind. “Yes, please have them. I’ll ring for some more food to be brought up for you while you await your ride home.”
“Oh, no. It isn’t necessary. The strawberries are perfect. Thank you.” She dipped one in cream, closed her eyes, and tipped her head back to take it into her mouth. Her tongue darted out to lick at a spot of cream that had landed at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, my. This is heavenly.”
Holy hell.
Her eyes were still closed while she slowly savored each lush, juicy bite. “Would you care for one, my lord?”
“No, Lady Abigail.” His throat was suddenly as tight as the rest of his body. “Have them all. I wouldn’t deny you the obvious pleasure.”
She opened her eyes and smiled at him in appreciation, a genuinely sincere and warm smile that upended his heart once again.
“Oh, and what a lovely feather.”
Bollocks.
“It’s a peacock feather, isn’t it?”
He wished the girl would keep her hands off those things. In truth, they weren’t his. The viscountess had brought the peacock feather and silk bindings along in anticipation of a night of erotic fantasy. Her fantasies. Not his. He was merely her chosen stud bull.
Since he was single, unattached, and feeling particularly restless lately, he’d accepted her proposition. Meaningless sex with a beautiful woman who wanted no commitment.
So why was he relieved that it had not taken place?
Worse, why was he enjoying his night of celibacy with one of the most clueless young women ever to cross his path?
“Oh, what lovely silk ribbons. They’re a rich, lustrous black. What are you–”
“Give me those.” He grabbed them from her fingers and stuck them in the top drawer of his desk. “I gave you permission to eat my strawberries, not dig through my belongings.”
Her eyes rounded in surprise. “The ribbons are yours?”
He cleared his throat that was still so tight, it was a miracle he didn’t sound like a bullfrog. “They belong to a friend. None of your business who she is.”
“I suppose the peacock feather is hers, too.” She held it up against her hair, no doubt believing it was a hair adornment and not... never mind.
“Put that thing down. Where were you raised? In an isolated abbey in the wilds of Yorkshire? Did no one ever teach you manners?”
She glanced up at him in surprise. “Yes, my abbey was in Yorkshire. How did you know?”
He frowned. “But you just told me that you had a family. Four brothers. Parents.”
She nodded, her expression suddenly turning pained. “My mother died when I was five. My father passed on shortly afterward. My eldest brother, Thomas, became Baron Whitpool. He tried to keep us all together, but couldn’t manage us and the Whitpool properties, all of which were run down and plagued with debt. I was too young to help out, and my other three brothers were terrors even when under our parents’ strict supervision.”
She paused a moment and glanced around. “My lord, may I sit?”
“Of course. Forgive my rudeness.”
However, before he had a chance to pull out the lone chair that was situated behind his writing desk, she sank onto his bed and released a breathy sigh. “Thomas married a girl from a wealthy, local family,” she said, her slender shoulders sagging from the weight of her obvious unhappiness. “He hoped she would help him restore order to the Whitpool household. She did, by shipping me off to the abbey. I remained there until I was sixteen.”
“How long ago was that?”
Her big, sad eyes met his stern gaze. “Are you asking me how old I am?”
He folded his arms across his chest, needing to do something to distract him from the heat flowing through his veins and the inexplicable urge to hold her in his arms and protect her forever. Perhaps he was the one who needed protection from her. He turned away and grabbed his vest, putting it on as he answered her question. The more layers between them, the
better. “I just saved your life. I deserve some answers.”
She nodded. “I suppose you do. I’m twenty years old. My brother, Thomas, died when I was sixteen. Childless. So his horrid ogre of a wife returned to her family and William became the new Baron Whitpool. He brought me back home. By then, he and our other brother, Gideon, had established a shipping company that hauled freight back and forth from the West Indies. Sugar. Spices. Rum.”
“They must have been successful businessmen.” He’d learned much in running the Westcliff properties as well as assisting to run this establishment. Even if one hired excellent managers, there was no substitute for one’s own diligence and attentiveness.
“Yes, they were. William never gave up his love of the sea. Despite his baronial responsibilities, he often joined Gideon on the shorter trips, sometimes to Ireland and sometimes to Flanders. They were caught last year in a sudden squall off the Irish Sea.” Her voice turned tremulous and raspy. “Both of my brothers drowned.”
He didn’t know what to say. So many losses in so short a span of time. He had three brothers of his own and could not imagine how he would have handled losing any of them. He felt a sudden pang of remorse. He hadn’t seen his family in a while. Perhaps he would stop by his mother’s townhouse for an overdue visit. Perhaps he’d invite this girl along when he did. “I’m so sorry, Abigail. Truly.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“No, call me Tynan. Or just Ty.” That’s what his brothers called him when they weren’t calling him something worse. They all loved each other, but they were brothers, after all. How else were they to show their love if not by mercilessly pounding on each other? “Call me whatever you wish.”
He did not bother with formality.
There was no propriety to their situation, especially not now with her sitting atop the silk sheets of his four-poster bed. He dragged the chair out from behind his desk and moved it near the bed. Turning it around, he rested his arms on its high back and sat straddling the seat so that he could face her.
The chair’s high back served as a barrier between them.
A necessary barrier, for she’d somehow stripped away his irritation. All he wanted to do was take her in his arms and comfort her.
In truth, he wanted to do much more.
But he wasn’t going to touch her. He’d promised.
She looked as soft and vulnerable as a gentle rabbit. His little rabbit. But he liked that she was also strong and spirited, ready to fight to save her last surviving brother. “Tell me more about Peter.”
What he really wanted to know was more about her.
Every blessed thing he could learn about her.
She curled her hands around the bedpost, as though the sad memories had cast her adrift and she needed to hold onto something solid that would serve as her anchor. “There isn’t much more to tell. He came home to take over the title and its responsibilities, but he’d been wounded during his military service and remains in terrible pain. The wounds never mended properly. No matter what the doctors have done to try to heal him, he awakens each morning in agony.”
“That’s how he ended up next door,” Tynan said, his voice barely above a murmur. “Each night he goes to that opium den to relieve the tormenting pain.”
She released a breath and nodded. “I want to take him home. I want to get him to the Whitpool estate by the seashore that he loves so much. I want to get him away from London and the bad influence of his friends. But I can’t do it alone and no one will help me.”
She gazed at him with her big, brandy-colored eyes.
Bollocks.
He only needed to give a responsive nod in sympathy. She wasn’t asking for his help. She was merely relating her tale of woe.
“Abigail...” Shut up, you idiot.
“Yes, my lord?”
He groaned.
What tempest was he about to sail into?
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ABOUT Meara
Meara Platt is a USA Today bestselling author and an award winning, Amazon UK All-star. Her favorite place in all the world is England’s Lake District, which may not come as a surprise since many of her stories are set in that idyllic landscape, including her Romance Writers of America Golden Heart award winning story released as Book 3 in her paranormal romance Dark Gardens series. If you’d like to learn more about the ancient Fae prophecy that is about to unfold in the Dark Gardens series, as well as Meara’s lighthearted, international bestselling Regency romances in the Farthingale Series, please visit Meara’s website at www.mearaplatt.com.
Other Titles by Tammy Andresen
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Taming the Duke’s Heart
Taming a Duke’s Reckless Heart
Taming a Duke’s Wild Rose
Taming a Laird’s Wild Lady
Taming a Rake into a Lord
Taming a Savage Gentleman
Taming a Rogue Earl
Fairfield Fairy Tales
Stealing a Lady’s Heart
Hunting for a Lady’s Heart
Entrapping a Lord’s Love: Coming in February of 2018
American Historical Romance
Lily in Bloom
Midnight Magic
The Golden Rules of Love
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American Brides
About the Author
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Tammy Andresen lives with her husband and three children just outside of Boston, Massachusetts. She grew up on the Seacoast of Maine, where she spent countless days dreaming up stories in blueberry fields and among the scrub pines that line the coast. Her mother loved to spin a yarn and Tammy filled many hours listening to her mother retell the classics. It was inevitable that at the age of 18, she headed off to Simmons College, where she studied English literature and education. She never left Massachusetts but some of her heart still resides in Maine and her family visits often.
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Earl of Sussex: Wicked Regency Romance (Wicked Earls' Club) Page 10