A Beastly Kind of Earl

by Vincy, Mia

  “Rafe?”

  “Hmm?”

  She was caressing a reddish-green, three-lobed leaf. “I asked, what is this one?”

  “It’s…” He dragged his eyes off her fingers and onto the leaf. “A plant.”

  “Gosh.”

  “It does have a name,” he assured her.

  “That is brilliant.”

  “Bellyache bush. For dysentery,” he blurted out as it came to him.

  When he stepped forward, she didn’t move back. Her smile broadened. And suddenly, Rafe relaxed. He was not in this alone. Whatever this was, she felt it too.

  “This is Arum ovatum,” he said, indicating another plant, his voice lower. “Used for treating burns.”

  She reached for one of the large, flat leaves, then pulled her hand back and feigned innocence.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I know I shouldn’t touch.”

  “You can touch. You can definitely touch.”

  Her eyes flicked up to his hair, down to his chest, and his skin tingled as if it already felt her fingers. Oh, what he’d give for her touch, for her kiss, for the right to strip off her dress and taste every last inch of her soft, fragrant skin.

  She whirled away and darted up the row away from him. Then she pivoted and lowered a large, palm-like leaf in front of her face, her smiling eyes peering through the fronds.

  “Melegueta pepper.” He prowled closer, slowly enough for her to get away. “For colds, coughs, and stomach problems.”

  As he neared, she released the leaf and danced on. She grabbed a potted plant and held it between them like a shield.

  “A cannabis plant,” he said. “For relief of pain, rheumatism, and convulsions. Also a powerful intoxicant, unlike the related plant that grows in England. That was one of the ingredients in my medicine last night.”

  She regarded the spiky bright-green leaves with interest. “May I try some?”

  “No. You appear intoxicated even when sober.”

  Tossing the pot at him, she made her escape. Rafe took his time shelving the plant; he was happy to let her escape, because he enjoyed chasing her. That was the game, and he must not catch her, however much they both wanted him to.

  She skipped away to the potting area down the end.

  “Oh, I know this one,” she said of the small fruit trees on the table. “Tangerines.”

  “They prevent scurvy.”

  She poked at a tangerine tree, making the little fruit wobble. One fruit fell into the pot. “Oops,” she said and turned away, pretending it had never happened.

  There were no more plants, but before her sat a tray of rich, dark soil.

  “And dirt,” she said.

  “Food for plants.”

  Laughing, she plunged her hand deep into the soil and jerked it back out, sending soil spraying.

  “You’ll get dirt all over you,” he warned, drawing closer.

  “Like you do.”

  “Like I do what?”

  “Have dirt all over you.”

  Rafe checked his shirt, his hands. “I do not.”

  “Right here.”

  He was too slow. Maybe he was distracted by her radiant cheeks and impish smile. Or maybe the drug was still in his blood. Or maybe he wanted to be slow, because he knew her intention and let it happen.

  Either way, he did not even try to escape as she pressed her soil-covered hand to his cheek and smeared that gritty mud over his skin and into his hair.

  That giddiness washed over him again, the recklessness of a young man who cared nothing for consequences, seeking only the joy of the moment. Thea arched back, poised to run. Slowly, deliberately, Rafe extended one arm and rubbed his hand in the dirt. She followed his movements with her eyes, as he lifted his hand, thick with dark, redolent soil.

  Squealing, she danced backward. Her bottom collided with the table behind her. The leaves of the tangerine trees quivered, and the small fruits bobbed enthusiastically.

  “Your hair, I think,” he murmured, inching toward her. “It’s much too shiny and clean.”

  With another squeal, Thea covered her head with her arms.

  The pose was very effective for protecting her hair.

  It left her front completely exposed.

  So Rafe pressed his soil-covered hand firmly over her chest. Right at the spot where her breasts met. She gasped, a sound as warm and soft as her bosom against his palm. Sensations coiled up his arm and charged into his groin as a savage, clawing desire. Her heart beat madly under his palm—or perhaps that was his own pulse—and her chest rose and fell with her ragged breaths.

  For half a dozen blissful beats of their racing hearts, Rafe let his hand linger before dragging it away. Her breathing fast and shallow, Thea slowly lowered her eyes, and together they admired his handiwork: a perfect handprint right over her bosom.

  Rafe rubbed his fingers against his palm. The dirt clung to his skin, while the feeling of her softness slid under it, into his flesh and blood, right down to his bones.

  They both looked up at the same moment. Thea narrowed her eyes, her mouth tightening.

  He schooled his face into innocence.

  “Oops,” he said.

  * * *

  Thea tried to breathe, but breathing proved difficult when laughter and the lingering heat of Rafe’s impudent touch had robbed her of air. Yet air seemed inconsequential when Rafe was looking at her like that. With mischief and desire, and something else, something that made her feel special and interesting. As if whatever she did next would be the right thing to do, simply because she was the one doing it. It was a wondrous feeling, which mingled with the delicious sensations bouncing under her skin to make her reckless. More reckless, even, than when she had smeared dirt on him, merely as an excuse to touch his hair.

  Not taking her eyes off his wicked face, stifling her laughter, Thea fumbled behind her. Her hands landed in the pot of a tangerine tree, with its treasure trove of soil and fallen fruit.

  Rafe prowled closer. Closer. She pressed her bottom back against the table. His gaze flicked to the handprint over her breasts, and her skin burned yearningly at the memory of his touch.

  Behind her, she rubbed both hands in the soil.

  He drew nearer. His eyes intent. Seeing nothing but her.

  She clutched a tangerine in each palm.

  He stopped. The toe of his boot nudged her foot. That vast chest loomed barely a foot from her eyes. A crumb of soil tumbled down his cheek and he swiped at the dirt on his face.

  A distraction. Ha! Using all her strength and weight, Thea pressed her tangerine-laden palms against his chest. Solid as a castle wall, he did not budge an inch.

  Perfect!

  The tangerines exploded under her palms, against his chest, and the tart scent of citrus filled the air. He yelled his protest as his arms flew up like wings on a startled bird, and his ribcage shifted beneath her hands. Relentless, she smeared the crushed fruit down the front of his waistcoat, leaving a triumphant trail of pulp and juice and dirt.

  Then the giddy recklessness made her giggle, made her linger, made her hook a finger inside the waistband of his breeches. She tugged it an inch from his body, and—

  “Oh no you don’t!” he cried.

  —dropped the crushed tangerines inside.

  Her feet were light as air and she danced away before he could react, darting around to put the solid width of the table between them, from where she could gloat in safety.

  When he looked up at her, his body was as still as a cat on the hunt, and his eyes gleamed with predatory intent. Thea’s breathy laugh did nothing to distract him, and her body thrilled in anticipation of his revenge.

  He slid a few steps to his left. She danced the opposite way, keeping the table between them. He slid back; so did she. He feinted one way, and then the other, and each time she kept her distance.

  No catching her! Perhaps they would pass days this way, dancing around the table, until he—

  He leaped onto the table.


  A single bound of virile athleticism and he was back in control. Whichever way she ran, he had only to pounce and he’d be there first. Catching her. And then?

  Thea backed away, her bottom meeting another bench, and drank in his magnificence as he stood on the table, like a sculpture displayed for her pleasure. With a wince, he tugged at his waistband, then ignored any discomfort and nimbly picked his way between the pots.

  At the near edge of the table, he paused. Their gazes tangled. His eyes dared her to move. He twitched. She sidestepped. He pounced.

  The second he landed, his hands slammed down on the bench on either side of her. Thea arched backward, and he leaned over her. His toes nudged hers, and his legs pressed against her skirts. He did not touch her but she felt him everywhere.

  “Got you,” he whispered.

  One hand shifted firmly onto her waist. She responded by pressing a palm to his bicep, the firm muscle hot through the linen of his shirt.

  Then his other hand slid over her cheek and jaw, the fingers sliding into her hair, caressing her ear, and gliding back down, until his thumb touched her lips. She could not look away from the compelling heat in his eyes, as he traced the outline of her mouth. A warning, perhaps, or an invitation.

  She let her lips part. Her own invitation.

  Again he spoke, the delicious promise in his near-whisper curling over her skin like smoke.

  “Now I have caught you, what shall I do with you?”

  His head lowered, unstoppable as the tide. Thea let her eyelids flutter closed as his lips settled on hers, warm and sure and open. His kiss was full of purpose and triumph, as though kissing her was a long-sought prize and the one thing he absolutely had to do that day, and he was doing it with every ounce of focus he had.

  It made kissing him the most important thing in her world too.

  Pushing into him, Thea fumbled for his hair, his shirt, needing to hold him tight, tug him closer. His tongue touched hers, sending new and exciting sensations swirling through her. Again she had that odd fancy—that his kisses entered her body like living things and gathered between her thighs, where they bounced around eagerly, making her tingle and hum as she yearned both to let them out and hold them in.

  With a groan, he slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her against him as he kissed her deep and hard. He was everywhere, engulfing her, stoking her senses until they clamored with craving. He made another growl-like sound, deep in his throat, and she pressed harder into him, wanting more of that sound. More of him. The taste and feel of him were new, unimagined, splendid, and she needed more, more, always more.

  Her hand slid inside his shirt. That was new and exciting too, and demanded exploration: the satiny skin, the firm muscles, the heat that was so like and so unlike her own. One of his thighs pressed against her, and she pushed into him, craving more of that hardness.

  Then abruptly, he released her and stumbled away, robbing her of his heat, leaving her clutching at air.

  Thea tried to breathe. She did not want to breathe. She wanted him.

  But he was backing away, all the while hissing between clenched teeth.

  “Rafe? What’s wrong? What did I do?”

  He shook his head, holding up one hand in a gesture of “wait.” His mouth worked, and when he spoke again, it was in the hoarse, airless whisper of a man holding his breath.

  “Tangerines.”

  Giggles bubbled up inside her and she struggled to smother them, as Rafe stumbled away. He turned his back to her, rested his forehead on a pillar, and slipped his fingers into his breeches. Thea craned her neck to look, then remembered herself and sat back on the bench.

  “Um.” The sound came out breathy and unsteady, matching the rest of her. “I hope the tangerines did no damage.”

  “Simply…a little crowded in there.”

  He tossed the offending fruit to the side, and Thea hastily averted her eyes. She smoothed down her skirts, as if that might soothe her unruly body, while he stood motionless, his forehead still resting on the pillar.

  Then he thumped the pillar with one fist. He muttered something that sounded like, “I keep forgetting. One look and I forget,” and once more he thumped the pillar, the muscles in his back shifting under his shirt.

  This was not about the tangerines anymore.

  Thea waited. No words came to mind, and she occupied her restless hands by rearranging her clothing. She tugged up her bodice, brushed off the dirt, and shook out her skirts. Straightened and breathed and squeezed her tormented thighs.

  All the while, Rafe faced away. His broad back rose and fell with his deep breaths, and by the time he finally turned around, Thea was settled enough to perch on the bench, gripping its edges.

  His expression was pained. Too late, she remembered he believed they were married, and she’d have a hard time putting him off because clearly she did not want to put him off. But she had to put him off, because…because…oh yes, because he thought she was Helen, and they weren’t truly married, and soon she would leave, and while she was eager for adventures, she had not anticipated an adventure like this. As she fumbled for words to delicately imply it was that time of the month, he spoke in a harsh rasp.

  “I can’t. I can’t.”

  “Oh. Oh.”

  Oh no. How naive of her, not to read the clues. Never having children, he said. Ignoring his bride. Never demanding his conjugal rights. Needing medicine to ease his pain. Indifferent to his wife’s lineage.

  When he said “I can’t,” it must be because he couldn’t.

  The poor man. No wonder he was grumpy.

  “Was it the jaguar?” she asked softly.

  “Hmm?”

  “Did the giant cat maul your orchids?”

  His chin jerked up, his eyes widened. She might have turned into a giant cat herself, he looked so taken aback.

  Then he blinked, rapidly, before his face settled into a fierce glower.

  “I assure you, my orchids are fine.”

  “Oh. Good. Um.”

  “I mean, we…” He half laughed and ran a hand through his hair. It came away dirty and he blinked at the soil with surprise. “I promised to wait. So. My apologies.”

  Without another word, he strode out of the greenhouse, leaving Thea alone with the plants and their knowing looks.

  * * *

  By the time Thea arrived back at the house, cloak wrapped tight around her dirt-smeared dress, she was thinking more rationally again. And rational thought informed her that she had to leave.

  Now. Today. Tonight.

  Rafe—Lord Luxborough, his lordship, whatever she should call him—had tried to avoid such pleasures, and now she understood why. Because once those delicious sensations slid under one’s skin and into one’s blood, they became all consuming. Even now, Thea did not want to be rid of them. She wanted more.

  Which would lead to nothing but her ruin—when her ruin was precisely what she sought to undo. Besides, Rafe didn’t want her or care about her. He didn’t even know her real name. Likely, when he learned she was not truly his wife, he would merely shrug, grumble about the inconvenience, and replace her with someone else.

  She would not tell herself stories that had no foundation in truth. The truth was, this was not her home and Rafe was not her husband. The truth was, Thea must leave for London tonight, but she could not travel alone, so required Gilbert’s help.

  An inquiry of a passing servant revealed that Mr. Gilbert was in the ballroom with Mrs. Flores. Unable to fathom what possible business Gilbert and Martha could have together, Thea headed for the ballroom.

  Where she still could not determine what business they had together.

  The cavernous room was cool, despite the sunlight that poured through the open curtains and sparkled in the crystals of the chandeliers and sconces. By one window sat Martha, a notebook in her lap, pencil in hand. She was periodically frowning out the window and then looking back at Gilbert, who was…waltzing?

  Gilbert was
a broad man, whose battered face told the story of his past as a champion prizefighter, which made the gracefulness of his dance all the more surprising.

  Or perhaps not, Thea mused. After all, a boxer did have to be light on his feet. The only real surprises were that he even knew how to waltz, and that he was dancing at all, given it was afternoon and he was alone. His arms were positioned as if they held an imaginary partner, his eyes were closed, and his face wore an expression of dreamy bliss. As he circled nearer, she heard him humming a slow waltz in a pitch-perfect baritone.

  Thea slipped across the room and crouched beside Martha. Martha’s dark eyes narrowed as they roamed over her face, and Thea feared that the effects of the kiss were evident. Cheeks heating, she clutched her cloak more tightly and reminded herself that everyone believed she was married.

  “What is Mr. Gilbert doing?” Thea whispered.

  “Mr. Gilbert is dancing.”

  “Of course. Um. Why is Mr. Gilbert dancing?”

  Martha tapped her pencil on her notebook and shook her head. “It’s astonishing, sí? It takes everyone differently.”

  “It?”

  “I do not have a good name for it. It’s based on bhang, but such modifications I have made, it has become something else.”

  Thea’s heart sank. “He is intoxicated?”

  “Mr. Gilbert volunteered to help test my medicines. The purpose is to ease pain, and I am trying to remove the intoxicating effects, but without success. It seems to make people behave more like themselves. When Sally tested it, she laughed and laughed. I rambled for hours about natural philosophy.”

  And Rafe, Thea recalled, had been sweet and funny and affectionate.

  “Claro, that is what intoxicants do,” Martha added. “We wear masks to survive in society, and intoxicants allow us to remove those masks again.”

  Thea looked back at Gilbert. With his grace and bliss, he made a lovely sight.

  “He is in quite a state,” she said. “When will he recover?”

  “By tomorrow morning, he’ll be himself again.”

  “I see.”

  If Gilbert was intoxicated, he could not accompany her to London, and Thea could not go alone. Thea wasn’t leaving Brinkley End today, then. So she took a seat and watched Gilbert dance, feeling her body tingle with the memory of Rafe’s touch, and her heart relax, as if she’d had a reprieve.