The Earl Takes a Fancy

by Lorraine Heath

  Perhaps if she didn’t find herself constantly comparing him to Matthew, if she could relegate Matthew to little more than a youthful passion. Their paths would never cross. She wouldn’t have constant reminders of how he’d made her laugh, comforted her, helped her to believe in herself again. She would have to forget him and all they’d shared. “We’re each responsible for our own happiness, aren’t we, Mick?”

  It would make her happy to please her family, to ensure that all the advantages they’d given her had not been for naught. If she didn’t marry Beresford, her Season would be done along with their dreams for her. Even now she knew tittering was going on regarding her morals, and her suitability as a wife was being questioned. She imagined a good many of the matrons viewed her as being no better than Lottie. They certainly wouldn’t allow one of their sons to wed her if she turned Beresford away.

  “At least he knows you well enough to have discerned you have no resistance when it comes to books.”

  She almost smiled at the truth—and irony—of her brother’s words. It was her love of books that would now guarantee she wouldn’t marry for love. Although perhaps in time, affection could develop between them.

  “You seemed to get along well enough when he visited,” Aslyn said softly, encouragingly.

  “He reads, so that’s a point in his favor. I’ve enjoyed our conversations.” Still, she couldn’t help but wonder if he possessed a deceptive streak. Had he planned for them to get caught? Was he in need of her dowry? Or had he been as taken aback as she when Mick had walked into the room, as horrified as she when she realized they had an audience? “What more do you know of him?”

  “He comes from a good family. He’s never been associated with scandal until tonight. I’ve always found him pleasant, good company, polite.”

  “I could say the same of Dickens.” Except for the polite part, she supposed. He had attacked Matthew when he’d first gotten a tad too amorous. Yet she’d yearned for his attentions, had wanted all he’d been offering and more. She couldn’t say the same of Beresford.

  How the deuce had she managed to win the earl over when she’d waltzed with him three times and he’d called on her only once? Upon what did he base his feelings?

  The remainder of the journey was spent in silence, which gave her a good deal of time to reflect on her future and what it would entail. And what it wouldn’t.

  It wouldn’t include Matthew, wouldn’t include a gentleman who could set her skin to tingling with a mere look, who could set her on fire with a touch. A man who occupied her thoughts nearly every minute of every hour. A man who had not turned away from her when he learned the truth of her parentage. A man who had sought to comfort and reassure her that he found no fault with her for matters over which she had no control.

  Would Beresford be willing to take her to wife, to kiss her if he knew the truth regarding her father? He obviously had no issue with her illegitimacy, which was a point in his favor. Perhaps he would overlook that vile creature who had sired her. Or would she be better served to keep the truth from him? What sort of marriage would she have if it lacked complete honesty?

  When the coach came to a stop, she was more than ready to escape the suffocating confines. Mick walked her to her door and placed a hand gently on her shoulder. “You should be there when I have words with Beresford. He’ll treat you with respect or he’ll deal with me.”

  She knew exactly what those words would be: a demand for him to marry her. “I’ll do what must be done, Mick. I won’t bring the family shame.”

  “I never thought you would, sweetheart.”

  Rising up on her toes, she kissed his cheek. “Tomorrow.”

  “Come to my office a few minutes early so we’re all settled before he arrives.”

  With only a nod in response, she went inside, leaned against the door, and fought to absorb the quiet of the shop, but her mind was racing, and for the first time since she’d initially unlocked the door and stepped over the threshold into the empty building inside which she’d create a haven for booklovers, the place felt lonely. Matthew wasn’t here waiting for her. She knew it as surely as she knew that in spite of her world falling apart tonight, the sun would rise in the morning and people would go on about their lives as though hers had not taken a momentous turn.

  Knowing no classes had been held tonight, that Mr. Tittlefitz wouldn’t have left him with the key and responsibility of locking up, she experienced a keen disappointment. After all that had transpired between them, considering how much he’d come to mean to her, she should have given him a key so he could come and go as he wanted, so he could make use of the reading parlor at his leisure, so he could wait for her whenever it was his desire to do so.

  Although after tomorrow, she doubted she would see much of him. She would be betrothed and while it had not come about as she’d hoped—with a proper courtship and love—she certainly wasn’t going to be disrespectful of Beresford. Just as she understood her responsibilities to her family, she recognized her duties to her future husband. She would do nothing to cause him or Society to question her devotion to him.

  Shoving herself away from the door, feeling as though no strength remained to her, she climbed the stairs to her rooms, carried through to her bedchamber, and gazed out the window. Her chest tightened to such a degree that she feared it might crush her heart. He was there. Standing so still, his arms raised, spread wide as he pressed his hands against either side of the glass.

  How many nights had she sat here reading and looked across to see him doing the same? How often had she peered through parted draperies and watched him gazing out? After tonight, she would have to keep the draperies closed in order to avoid the torment of viewing what she couldn’t possess. After tomorrow, he could never kiss or touch her again. Could never hold her, stroke her, whisper in her ear.

  She could never welcome him into her bed.

  He would become little more than a customer who occasionally came to her shop for a purchase. How long before he read every penny dreadful and had no reason to wander through the aisles of shelves? How long before she was married and was no longer sharing her knowledge of books with her patrons, with him?

  Because it didn’t matter that nothing had happened between her and Beresford. In the aristocratic world, it mattered only what people thought. Perception was everything.

  Matthew could never be her future, but he was deserving of a proper goodbye. One more night of memories that would see her through into her dotage, that he would hopefully look back on with fond remembrance.

  Where was the harm in indulging in her yearnings, her wants for just a few hours? For a short time, she could pretend that the horror in the library hadn’t happened, that her reputation wasn’t ruined, that come morning her life wouldn’t be dictated by Society’s rules rather than her own heart.

  To avoid bringing her family total humiliation and shame, she would have to give up what she desired. But not for a few hours yet, not until the lark heralded the start of a new day. Not as long as the nightingale sang.

  Her decision made, she turned on her heel and headed back out, her steps beating a rhythmic and steady tattoo, growing stronger as the rightness of her actions reverberated through her. Just as she would have no choice tomorrow, so she had no choice now. She needed Matthew with the same urgency that she required breath in order to live. She would not consider the bittersweetness of having him once more, only to lose him. Her entire focus would be on now. Only now.

  Up the street she went. Past the mews. Around the corner—

  Straight into his arms. Never before had she belonged any place more than she did then, in his embrace, with her face against the soft linen of his shirt, with his heart pounding hard beneath her cheek.

  “I had to put on my boots, or I would have gotten to you sooner. What happened, Fancy? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing now.” Not for hours yet, and when the wrongness arrived, she would deal with it. Leaning back slightly, she skimm
ed her fingers up into his hair, cradling his face between her palms. “Kiss me, Matthew. Kiss me as though it’s the first time you ever have. Kiss me as though it’s the last time you ever will.”

  “Fancy—”

  “Please. I need passion and fire. I need you. Only you.”

  His mouth came down on hers, hard, greedily, hungrily. Yes! This. This was what she wanted, needed, required. With the first meeting of Matthew’s lips against hers, the sparks were kindled, with the full taking of her mouth the fire spread throughout her body, down to her toes, to the tips of her fingers. The heat was consuming, glorious, all-encompassing as their tongues stroked and parried. As though she were clinging ivy, she intertwined her arms around his shoulders, his neck, and his hold on her tightened as though he needed them closer as much as she did.

  With a low growl, he tore his mouth from hers, lifted her into his arms, and began walking toward his residence. “We need privacy for what’s to follow.”

  “Are you taking me on an adventure, Mr. Sommersby?” she asked breathlessly, gliding her fingers over every inch of him she could reach.

  His chuckle was dark, muted. “That is my intention, Miss Trewlove.”

  “I do so love your wicked intentions,” she whispered before circling her tongue over the shell of his ear, nipping at his lobe.

  Moaning low, he quickened his pace, carrying her inside and kicking the door closed behind them. Barely noting that the front parlor had no furniture whatsoever, she fought not to imagine how she might have furnished it for him, how she would have turned the cold space into a warm and welcoming lair where she would greet him each time he came in through the doorway. At some point, he would marry another who would hang paintings on the walls and snuggle against him on the settee. She didn’t want to think about that, think that another would share this intimacy with him.

  Up the stairs he carried her and into the room that she’d only ever viewed a portion of. It was simply furnished, but neat and tidy, the bed made—no doubt by Mrs. Bennett. Would the woman figure out that tonight he’d not been alone, that another had shared his residence, his bed, his body? When all was said and done, would another glass join the one that presently rested next to the low-burning lamp on the bedside table? Would her scent fill the room and mingle with his?

  Lowering her feet to the floor, he once more took possession of her mouth as though it belonged to him and him alone. His lips were moist and full, and she loved the way they moved over hers, urgently and yet tenderly. Then he was trailing a path along her cheek, and his mouth came to rest near her ear. “It drove me mad thinking of you at that ball enjoying the company of other men.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to ruin their last night together, not wanting him to know yet that it would be their last. “I don’t even know why I went. You haunt me, and all I could think was that I couldn’t wait to be with you once more. You know everything about me, the good and the bad, and still you seek out my company. I never have to pretend with you.” She let all that she felt for him flood her eyes, her expression, her face.

  “God, Fancy, I hate it every time you attend a ball. I sit up here torturing myself, thinking that you’ll meet someone you’ll prefer to spend your time with. He’ll take you on picnics and boating—”

  She touched her fingers to his lips. “No one will ever replace you in my heart.”

  Even as she spoke the words, she recognized the absolute truth of them. A man such as he had always been her dream. A man who could claim her heart, her soul, her body while still leaving the ownership of them in her care.

  With a low growl, he once more took possession of her mouth, deepening the kiss until it was nearly impossible to tell where he ended, and she began. Heat swept through her, through skin, muscle, and bone. Sensations rose to the surface and danced along her nerve endings, causing little sparks to burst forth like the tiniest of fireworks.

  She couldn’t stop the little mewl of distress when he separated himself from her.

  “Patience, love,” he urged, his low voice sending shivers of need through her. Slowly, he trailed one finger along the line where silk met flesh, over the swells of her breasts. Puckering tightly, her nipples strained against the cloth. “I want you as you were last night, naked before me.”

  Those deft pianoforte-playing fingers made short work of removing her clothing and his, but then he was barely dressed. Shirt, trousers, boots. They came off so quickly, a heap of clothing on the floor.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he rasped.

  Reaching out, he pulled the pearl combs from her hair. As though appreciating the value of them, he carefully placed them on the table beside his bed. He began plucking the pins from her hair. What had taken nearly an hour to pile into place, he disassembled in less than a minute, and the long heavy tresses fell around her shoulders, along her back. “You are as lovely as the first ray of sunlight over the moors.”

  “Poetry?”

  “Merely truth.”

  Lifting her into his arms, he carried her to the bed and set her upon it as though she were handblown glass that needed to be handled ever so carefully or it would shatter. Taking his hand, she pulled him down. “Make me soar.” Higher than a kite, a balloon, a bird in flight.

  Chapter 23

  A twinge of guilt pricked at his conscience because he had yet to tell her the truth of his identity, and yet he couldn’t deny the absolute pleasure it brought him knowing that she’d sought him out for simply being Matthew Sommersby. A man. Not an earl, not Rosemont.

  Last night she’d needed reassurances. Tonight she was here because she needed him.

  He considered telling her the truth of things now, but he didn’t want to ruin the moment, didn’t want to have to delve into an explanation that might cool the passion that was burning so fervently between them. Later. He would tell her later, when his blood wasn’t rushing so forcefully between his ears, when he could think more clearly, when he wasn’t distracted by those lovely breasts that were in need of his attention. She wanted him now without the title. Surely, she would want him with it.

  Clearing his mind of all thought except pleasing her, he lowered his head and began peppering kisses over her breast. Kneading it, licking it, suckling it.

  Her hands running over the corded muscles of his shoulders and back served to urge him on. His name released on a sigh caused his stomach to tighten, his cock to harden when he’d thought it could get no stiffer. This woman had power over him that no other had ever possessed. She could so easily bring him to his knees, and he’d not object. He’d go willingly.

  Shifting his attention to her other breast, when he clamped his mouth around her nipple, he lifted his gaze to find her studying him, her brown eyes sultry and smoldering with desire. Good Lord, he nearly spilled his seed then and there. No other woman had ever looked at him as though she were contemplating devouring him and would thoroughly enjoy doing so.

  He trailed his mouth down her stomach, surprised when she shifted, sitting up slightly, leaning back on her elbows. Raising his head, he quirked a brow at her. “Is there something in particular you would like me to do?”

  “I like to watch you.” She skimmed her foot along his leg. “Are you going where I think you’re going?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  “Very much so. I want you licking every inch.”

  “You say the naughtiest things.”

  “Only with you.”

  She bent forward until she was able to capture his mouth with hers. He poured all that he was, all that he felt into the kiss. She undid him, every facet of him. So much for his plans of never again allowing his heart to become involved when it came to women. She had conquered it, mastered it. It was hers, completely and absolutely.

  She almost told him that she loved him. Because she did. She’d begun to suspect she held these frightening and wonderful feelings toward him, but now she knew it with absolute certainty. But it wouldn’t be fair to give him the words
when she no longer had the freedom to bind herself to him for longer than this night.

  Although she realized with startling clarity that she’d never had the freedom. Not in the rookeries, not to a lad who raced barefoot through alleyways. Not in the posher area that her brother had built, not to a commoner who enjoyed penny dreadfuls, who accompanied her on adventures, who tore his mouth from hers, pressed a kiss to each breast, and pushed himself farther down so his breath stirred the curls between her thighs.

  She’d set her own dream aside in favor of her family’s. And yet here she was, where she shouldn’t be, taking the night and him for herself one last time. She couldn’t leave him with the memory of only one night together, a night when he’d given her everything. She didn’t want him doubting that to her he had been special. That the joys he brought her, she wanted to return in kind.

  His tongue stroked her intimately. Still resting up on her elbows, with a sharp intake of breath and a low moan, she dropped back her head. Another stroke, a swirl, and she turned her attention back to watching him, only to discover that he was watching her. Intently. As though each of her sighs was a catalyst for his own pleasure.

  “Touch your breasts,” he said against the sensitive flesh.

  And she did, skimming her thumbs over her hardened nipples, taking pleasure in his gaze darkening. He was caught between her thighs, and she was rather certain she’d felt him tense with her actions. Cupping his large hands beneath her bottom, he lifted her slightly and began to feast in earnest.

  Winding her legs around him, their gazes locked, she held him in place while pleasure spiked. Oh, the wondrous sensations he caused to spiral through her. Instinctually, she knew no other would make her feel as he did: powerful, beautiful, magnificent. With him, she was everything she’d ever hoped to be, experienced all she’d ever longed to know. It wasn’t only the physical, although God help her, she’d have been content with that and that alone. It was the manner in which he made her feel appreciated, treasured, capable. Comfortable within her own skin.