London's Most Elusive Earl

by Anabelle Bryant

  The door latch rattled and she spun, caught where she should not be, this time with no dark corner as refuge.

  Her heart beat triple time as Lindsey slipped inside, closed the doors, and secured the lock. He was alone. She took a deep breath. He looked magnificent. “My lord.”

  My lord.

  He smiled. That same half effort that sent women into vapors. She withstood the impact but appreciated the rumor more thoroughly by the experience. Perhaps there was something to it.

  “And we meet again, my lady.” His strides ate up the distance between them until he too stood poised before the easel. “I wonder if Fate isn’t playing a wicked game at our expense.”

  “Fate?” It took a moment for her to recover her good senses. His nearness set her equilibrium awhirl. “Coincidence perhaps. It seems we both prefer quiet, or at the least, to inspect the private study of whomever has invited our ungracious attendance to their affair. I find after an hour or two, many of these societal events become predictable.” She’d spoken her mind, and her mother would suffer a case of the vapors if she were to discover Caroline’s boldness.

  “Your honesty is refreshing. A lady should always speak her mind. Any man worth having for husband or companion shouldn’t feel lessened by your thoughts and opinions.”

  She was at a loss for words after hearing the earl’s unexpected remark, though her mother’s advice slithered through her brain to remind of conventional etiquette.

  You must maintain a conservative demeanor at all times, even if you yearn for adventure.

  Luckily, Lindsey didn’t wait for her reply and continued in a silky voice she was anxious to hear again.

  “I have no doubt after your travels these evening affairs run toward the mundane. Everyone yearns for adventure now and again, and women are no exception.”

  She returned his smile, feeling much more like herself considering he loomed next to her, tall and virile. The man had a potency about him that urged every part of her femininity to alertness. Her regard for his point of view rose a notch. What would he say next? Anticipation caused her pulse to thrum, and inside her stomach a dozen butterflies took wing.

  “And what is your opinion of this piece?” He angled his head to inspect the artwork closely, pushing the cloth up and over so it hooked onto a corner of the wooden frame.

  He wished to hear her viewpoint? How enlightened. And unexpected. “You’d likely be surprised.” She dropped her voice to a murmur, hoping he wouldn’t pursue the subject further.

  “Is that so?” He resettled his gaze on her. “Because you abhor the subject matter or find the workmanship inferior?” He stepped back and shifted his position to inspect her more closely.

  His eyes roamed over her face and then lower, where they took on a carnal gleam. Heat raced across her skin. She’d worn one of her most flattering gowns this evening, for a bit of variety, not because she’d hoped to see the earl again. The gown was a new design of imported silk the color of ripe peaches. The bodice was flattering yet not over-revealing, though the way his gaze devoured her she wondered what he found so interesting. She forced herself to supply an adequate answer to his question.

  “The artist is accomplished no doubt,” she replied, emboldened by his persistence. “But I’m left at crosses with the subject matter.” That wasn’t a complete truth. At least not in a manner she would reveal to him. Tremulous feelings of inadequacy, unfulfillment, and failure threatened to shatter her calm disposition. She wouldn’t cry, nor would she confess the despair of her heart. If she accomplished her goal and found an ideal gentleman to wed, one who could love her in return with understanding of her complicated condition, gratitude would replace the emptiness eventually.

  “You’re a lovely little liar, aren’t you?” His eyes pierced her with their acute interest. “Not captivated by Roman mythology though you lived in Italy for a time?” He seemed unaffected by her reluctance to reveal more.

  “I believe artwork should evoke emotion, touch the heart, and cause one to have distinct feelings.” Oh, and this painting did all those things. If he ever knew, she’d be exposed as the worst hypocrite.

  “And the Nona causes you little reaction?” He tensed, and she wondered if he knew she spoke false.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Mayhap too many.” She stepped closer to the painting and pretended to peruse the goddess intently. “And you? When you see this beautiful piece of art, what do you feel?”

  * * * *

  Lindsey might have laughed if her question didn’t force him to confront unpleasant realities. When he’d discovered her poised in front of the easel, her bottom outlined by the smooth silk of her evening gown, his mind conjured images having little to do with art appreciation. Their conversation pleased him, her beauty uncommon in its purity, and he found in regard to their age difference and worldliness, he was intrigued. More than he’d care to admit.

  But finding the Nona here, when he’d only secured the same painting from Lord Jenkin’s private collection, proved disturbing. The fact he may have stolen a replica evoked rage, mistrust, and resentment. Damn his father in hell.

  “It’s nothing more to me than oil and pigment on canvas.”

  “It must cause some reaction,” she insisted.

  “Then I feel curiosity.” He tamped down his anger before she called him a liar. Because he was. Without a doubt.

  “Curiosity? I wasn’t expecting that.”

  This seemed to effectively cut off her questioning. Now it was his turn.

  “Do you believe the scene depicted by the artist? Do you accept we are no more in control of our lives than an ancient myth suggests?”

  “I’m not sure how to answer that.” Her voice quieted, as if she spoke to herself more than to him.

  “You must believe in something.”

  “I do. Love.”

  Her expression revealed she’d blurted out her answer before she thought better of it, and now perhaps regretted it. He’d hoped for a genuine conversation. Too often women were instructed to keep their thoughts to themselves and defer to a male point of view. He’d always found that belief lacking.

  “You possess a romantic nature then.” He accredited her answer to youth, his world-weary soul too immune to consider the notion. Opportunity seemed more likely. Besides, love was for fools wishing to invite pain with nothing more than a grand illusion. Love was a thorn, unforeseen while one admired beauty, and discovered when one held on tight. A change of subject was in order. “How is it we find ourselves alone in another man’s study for the second time in three days?”

  “I sought respite from an unwelcomed situation the first time.” Her lovely mouth flattened into a line of disappointment.

  “This time too, I suppose. I missed our dance this evening.” He closed the space between them to less than a stride. Silence stretched. He watched her eyes change with the mood, and a twinkle replaced an earlier skepticism. Her irises were an unfamiliar shade of blue. One only an artist would be able to label. “How can I make amends for my irresponsibility?”

  She didn’t respond, though he noticed the fluttering beat of her pulse at the base of her slim neck, and the earlier lust-filled images he’d entertained rose with vivid clarity. Would her skin hold the same fragrance as her hair? A light, ethereal scent that reminded him of the extensive floral gardens at Kingswood, his country home, the same which dared him to believe in fanciful nonsense instead of hard, unrelenting consequences.

  He waited, determined not to hurry the moment though he knew exactly what would occur and believed she did too. As before, she’d lowered her eyes to his cravat, which offered him an invitation to admire her in closer proximity than the painting earlier. Her lashes against her alabaster skin composed a delicate portrait in shyness, but her gasp of surprise as he touched her, and the flush of her rosy warm cheeks, declared other emotions battled for attention.r />
  He tipped her chin upward with his fingertip, cursing his gloves and the formality that prevented him from knowing the heat in her skin.

  “Would a kiss suffice as reparation, my lady?”

  Blame it on some misplaced irrational urge, but once he tilted his head with his eyes matched to hers, his jaw at the perfect angle, there was no denying it would happen. The persistent prick of conscience which reminded she was a young innocent, and he an older disillusioned rake, lost out to raw want.

  And he hadn’t wanted anything by his own choice in so long, whether manipulated by his dead father or commanded by a lifestyle perpetuated by meaningless distraction. Somehow this kiss meant much more than he cared to examine.

  She granted consent as her lids fell closed, a soft sigh on her rosebud lips instead of an objection. He wanted to capture that breath, to inhale it, if only to possess something of hers, the freshness, the hope in their fleeting moment that would happen and then never happen again.

  Impatient and restless, he wanted her kiss and he would have it. As soon as he lowered his mouth and settled his lips over hers, a visceral shock arrowed through him so intensely he almost withdrew.

  Almost.

  But to stop would be the death of him, and right now he had no reason to hurry along the journey.

  She tensed, a slight pause to indicate she’d experienced it too, then she melted into him and any flimsy shred of conscience he might have possessed evaporated. He slanted his chin and captured her mouth more fully, deepening the kiss, his heart in a race against time as if inside, in the dark corners of his soul where the truth lived, he knew the moment was too pure to last.

  Were she to pull away now he’d suffer on a level he’d never known, and that one startling thought proved so odd and unexpected he discarded it as soon as it formed, grasping on to desire to allow the more familiar, safer emotion to take hold.

  He ran the tip of his tongue along the seam of her lips, licking the corners with an eager bid to entry. She reacted, half gasp, half moan, and he wasted not a moment, the lush invitation of her mouth far too tempting to deny.

  * * * *

  Caroline had been kissed before. She’d allowed a few gentlemen suitors the advantage of an embrace while in Italy. Those kisses had been wet mostly, and overpowering. They’d caused her to panic slightly, to experience fear instead of pleasure. On each of those occasions she’d withdrawn promptly, ended the exchange, and refused to allow it again. She’d soon discovered, after three encounters, she either chose the wrong men or knew nothing about kissing.

  But now, wrapped in the circle of Lindsey’s strong arms, his warm chest against her heart, his decadent mouth tasting hers, she realized the truth. She’d truly known nothing about kissing. Because anything she’d experienced before hadn’t been kissing.

  Good lord, the pressure of his mouth on hers would be her undoing. She melted into his hold and shuddered with desire. He ran his tongue in a smooth line across her lips, and much to her mortification she moaned as sensation racked through her. When he slid his tongue inside to rub against hers, she lost sensible thought altogether.

  This was no forceful demand, the kiss precious and intimate, as if they spoke without words, communicated with nothing more than emotion. She wanted it to last forever, the shimmering vibration of pleasure and excitement that flooded her senses and extended outward from the fluttering inside her stomach to each fingertip. Her knees refused to cooperate but the wall of his chest, all warm wool and masculine scent, supported her in their mutiny.

  He deepened the kiss and she allowed it, each stroke of his cinnamon tongue against hers divine, a new experience like nothing she’d ever encountered. Heat licked through her skin to ignite her veins. As if bewitched, he pulled her further into a sensual dream as seamlessly as the nude in the painting unraveled the thread from her spool. Somehow, by the mere act of kissing, he successfully undid her steadfast proper beliefs, her body all too ready to leap at the tempting freedom he offered.

  Desire washed over her in waves of heady awareness, and she recalled a time when she was younger and her family had visited Brighton. Giddy with excitement, she’d waded out too far, the ocean alluring and beautiful. Before she could think better of it, the tide took control, tumbled her under, head over heels, to wrap around her with intense demand, winding so tightly that her delight soon turned to peril. It was that singular thought which caused her to pull away from Lindsey’s embrace.

  As enticing and pleasurable as it was, it held dark dangerous power she wasn’t ready yet to explore.

  At first, they stood motionless, their eyes matched. His brow lowered for the briefest moment, but whether he was surprised or confused she couldn’t decipher. He stepped back a stride, and the space proved helpful in restoring her breathing rhythm. She surmised he needed the additional air as much as she, though when he turned to look at her again he appeared as unaffected and polished as earlier.

  Pity her heart thrummed in her chest like it wished to break free.

  “Are you angry?”

  His murmured question, peculiar if examined closely, forced her to focus on the present moment. “Not at all.”

  “I’ve wanted to do that since the moment I saw you hiding beside Lord Albertson’s bookcases.”

  “I wasn’t hiding.”

  “Whatever you were doing…” A sly smile played at the corner of his mouth, and she found herself fascinated all over again. “You didn’t object, or make yourself known.”

  “I’d hoped you would be quick about your business, do whatever you needed to do without additional conversation, and be off to rejoin the festivities.”

  “I see.” This apparently brought him amusement. His eyes twinkled as he stared at her directly.

  “Do you?” She smiled now too. “I’ve found often enough that actions speak louder than words.”

  “Some believe that.” His expression changed, though he still held her with his eyes. “My father usually expressed his answer to my questions with his hands.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Her heart twisted with a mixture of shock and sympathy, all former emotion vanquished.

  “I know.” He didn’t say more, and the silence built between them.

  “I can’t be found here with you. I’ll be ruined.” Her voice came out husky and uncertain, and she swallowed in an attempt to regain equilibrium. Lindsey might appear the unrepentant rogue, but there were layers upon layers to this intriguing man.

  “As would I,” he agreed too quickly.

  “You?” She didn’t mean to sound peevish, her scoff unladylike. Her emotions were running all over the place. “Gentlemen have all the advantage, the rules unjust.”

  “Your view is too simplistic, darling.”

  “Don’t call me that.” A swift memory of that same endearment muttered to Lady Jenkin sprawled atop a desktop ruined the effect quite neatly. “Is it what you call every female who spares you attention?”

  Her question hit the mark, though his expression revealed he was more impressed by her perception than repentant at having been accused.

  “Fair enough, the word means little to me.” He didn’t say anything further, but then his eyes once again found hers, the intensity there similar to the fraught moment before he swept her into his arms. “Lovely is a more appropriate descriptor.”

  She dismissed his compliment without thought, though her heart thudded with pleasure. “Regardless, were I discovered here alone with you, I would be the one ruined.”

  “And I contend, I would be also. I’d be forced to marry, and that’s a disastrous condition I intend to avoid at all cost.”

  “Oh.” His reply proved too difficult to unriddle at the moment. “I see.”

  “You shouldn’t waste your curiosity on it.” He smiled fully, and she was doubly charmed, by his handsome features and, too, that he could
easily discern her introspection.

  “Isn’t it the course of things that you wed and produce an heir? That you continue the line and honor the title?”

  “Of course.” He chuckled, seemingly with amusement. “Though I’ve never been known to do what’s expected.”

  “So you’d rather pursue shallow distractions and release yourself from the true obligation to your heritage?”

  “I wouldn’t put it in those words, though I can’t expect you to understand when I don’t myself.” He inhaled deeply. “Besides, you’re trouble, my lady. More to my surprise, the kind of trouble I apparently can’t resist.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” She wheedled, calmer now, thinking clearly and at the ready to leave before their bandied topic of conversation turned into a shocking reality.

  “Nothing more than you’re as curious as I.” He reached out and stroked a fingertip across her lips, his gloves no barrier to the heat of his touch. “Now, to avoid further complication…”

  She wondered to what he implied. Her curiosity had never led her to feel as confused as she did now.

  “I’ll leave immediately, and you’ll stay a beat longer. Thereby anyone who happens to be in the hall, which I doubt is anyone at all, will never know we’ve spent this time together.”

  But I will.

  A lingering and pleasurable tension hummed through her veins still.

  He left straightaway, and she could only stare after him, the click of the door an end to their interlude.

  Chapter Eight

  Lindsey couldn’t think straight. Oh, he’d managed intelligent conversation and mingled sufficiently with the Duke of Warren’s guests, but he was for the door and out into the bracing night air as quickly as the evening allowed.

  How could it be? A slip of a girl, a debutante no less, had rocked him to the core with a single kiss. He was a fool. A fool mesmerized by the past and all the opportunities missed, no doubt.