This Earl of Mine

by Kate Bateman

  Georgie chuckled at the irony of Mother presuming to lecture anyone on budgeting. Her idea of “economizing” was wearing a dress more than twice in one season, but since she made sure to disguise the fact by purchasing new shawls, hats, gloves, and earrings to match—which inevitably cost more than a new dress—there was no saving whatsoever.

  Juliet gave a watery squeal. “Oh, yes, I promise! Thank you, Mama!” She leapt from the sofa and went to embrace her, but Mother waved her off, already in full planning mode.

  “If we announce your engagement immediately, it should put a stop to any gossip, especially if we hint that the two of you have had a private agreement since before you even came to town.”

  Juliet danced toward the door. “Oh, I must write to him at once and tell him the good news!”

  Georgie watched her sister’s rapturous departure with a sense of utter fatigue. The day’s events had left her exhausted. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to have a lie down before dinner.”

  “Of course.” Mother nodded absently, already deep in thought about how to handle Juliet’s forthcoming betrothal and, presumably, the wedding of the decade.

  * * *

  “We missed all the fun,” Seb said gloomily, as soon as Benedict strode into the Tricorn’s dining room. “Willis and his men nabbed Johnstone while we were larking about in Hampstead with your woman.”

  Benedict stopped in the doorway. “What? Truly? Bloody hell.” Biting back a howl of frustration, he crossed to the sideboard, poured himself a generous splash of brandy, and took a healthy swallow. The alcohol warmed his belly but did nothing to ease the bitter taste of disappointment. “There goes five hundred pounds of reward money, then. Bollocks.”

  He sank into a comfy leather wing chair beside Alex, who nodded in confirmation.

  “We stopped in at Bow Street after we left you. They’ve got Johnstone and another of his men in the cells. Admiral Cockburn was there questioning them, but neither one was talking.”

  Benedict groaned. That five hundred pounds could have started the repairs on Morcott’s stable roof or paid off a chunk of mortgaged land. Damn it all. Why in God’s name had he tried to impress Georgie by refusing to take her money? He couldn’t afford such stupid, quixotic gestures.

  “I told Cockburn you knew someone who could sail the submarine down to Woolwich,” Seb said. “Didn’t tell him it was a girl, of course. He thinks all women are useless gossips, like his wife. He would have refused on principle. So I told him you’d found a lad who was a powder monkey at Trafalgar. He said to go ahead.”

  Benedict closed his eyes and rested his head back against the chair. He tried to feel some sense of satisfaction that Johnstone had been contained and the scheme to rescue Bonaparte foiled, but he failed miserably. Patriotic sentiment was all well and good, but it didn’t solve any of his financial problems. Or the conundrum of his wife.

  “I’ll tell Georgie,” he murmured. “She can meet us at the Ore Street warehouse one night this week.”

  She’d be delighted, he thought with an inward smile. The challenge of sailing an unmanageable boat down the Thames in the dead of night was exactly the kind of caper she’d relish. At least with Johnstone in custody, the risk to her would be minimal. As long as the damn thing floated, she’d be fine.

  His blood still boiled when he thought about the danger she’d been in that afternoon. Thank God her cousin hadn’t had time to molest her. He doubted he’d have been able to restrain himself from killing the bastard if he had. Georgie was his wife, even if only a few people knew it. It was his duty to protect her. He should have been with her. She could have been killed.

  Ben took another deep draught of his drink. The thought of the rest of his life without Georgie in it was unimaginable. As provoking and disruptive as she was, he couldn’t contemplate a world without her vitality, her determination, her sly sarcastic wit. He needed her. Not just as a temporary diversion, but as a permanent requirement for his future happiness.

  He’d never thought he’d find a female he could trust and admire as much as Alex and Seb. He’d had no female friends, only acquaintances, lovers. Sex and friendship had been neatly compartmentalized in his mind—women in one camp, men who’d earned his respect in the other. But Georgie had broken down those barriers; she was both friend and lover, temptation and muse.

  He gazed moodily into the fire. Did she feel the same way about him? Or was she just using him—an experienced male she found relatively attractive—to rid herself of her unwanted virginity and gain worldly experience? He ground his teeth. No. She might not love him, but she certainly desired him. She wouldn’t have responded so ardently to his touch if she didn’t want him. Wouldn’t have given herself to him without trust.

  Was she still thinking their time together was limited? That she’d be moving on to another lover in a couple of months’ time?

  Never. Not while he drew breath.

  She was his wife. And heaven help him, he wouldn’t give her up to anyone else.

  Benedict stilled as the irony of the situation struck him. He’d been thrown into a marriage of convenience with a stranger, exactly as his parents had been, but that was where the similarities ended. His parents had had nothing in common. No shared interests, no underlying bond of compatibility. They must have felt some momentary attraction, at least in the beginning—they’d managed to sire two sons, after all—but they’d barely tolerated being in the same county by the end of their marriage.

  It wasn’t like that between Georgie and himself. Yes, there was lust, a sizzling animal attraction that continued to stun him. But more than that, they shared a love of adventure, found the same things funny. She was full of wild ideas and schemes. He could see himself being interested in her, fascinated by her, for the rest of his days. He didn’t want to stand up in church in a few weeks’ time and have her think he was pretending to love her. He wanted her to know that he meant every word, that he was sincere in his desire to be joined with her forever.

  Was it fate? All he knew was that he’d dodged more bullets than one man should reasonably have survived, so somewhere the cosmological odds must have been in his favor. Maybe this was the same. He’d found the one woman he could be happy with. With whom he could break the pattern set by his own parents.

  The fire crackled and reality made an unwelcome, crashing return. Impossible. His lack of money would always be an insurmountable obstacle. He couldn’t even give her the title her mother so desperately wanted. He could give her nothing but himself, and how could that ever be enough?

  “You’re frowning,” Seb murmured unhelpfully.

  “Shut up.” Benedict glared at him, but it was without heat.

  Unease and despair bloomed in his chest. Time was running out—only a few short weeks of the season remained. He and Georgie would announce their engagement, marry, and then she’d leave him. She’d go back to the wilds of Lincolnshire or set off on some years-long grand tour of Europe without him. And he’d have to let her go, loving her, wanting her. Unable to burden her with the admission of his love.

  He might as well cut out his own heart.

  Alex refilled his glass and gave his shoulder a sympathetic pat. “Women, eh?”

  Benedict grunted. Carpe diem, that was his motto. He still had a few weeks left with her. He would enjoy each moment as it came. His knee started to bounce, his foot tapping in a jiggle of impatience as he calculated when he could see her next. Make love to her next.

  He wanted a full night with her, not a few furtive, stolen hours. He wanted the luxury of time to savor her, to learn the feel of every part of her, from the smooth, fragrant valley between her breasts to the texture of her nipples under his tongue. He wanted the creamy skin of her inner thigh, the sleek, supple muscles of her belly, and the warm, heaven-scented slickness at her core. He wanted to hear the sounds she made, that sharp intake of surprise followed by a moan of pleasure.

  Alex murmured something to Seb, and Benedict blinked as he sur
faced from his drowsy reverie. Christ. He was hard as a rock. He had to stop.

  He shook his head. “I’m going to bed.”

  Chapter 38.

  Simeon surprised everyone that afternoon by casually announcing he was the sole beneficiary of a distant great-aunt’s will.

  “A gold mine? In Wales?” Mother echoed, almost dropping her teacup in astonishment.

  Simeon, unaware of the magnitude of the grenade he’d so casually exploded in the drawing room, gave an absent-minded smile and gazed soulfully at Juliet. “Hmm? Oh, yes. Great-Aunt Wilhemina. I was always a favorite of hers. I used to send her a poem every year on her birthday. Hard name to rhyme, Wilhemina. Anyway, it turns out she’s left the whole thing to me. Lock, stock, and barrel, as they say. She said I was the only one in the family who would appreciate the romance of the place.”

  “What’s it like?” Juliet breathed, at the same time as Mother said, “Does it produce any income?”

  Simeon answered Mother first. “Oh, yes. Around five thousand a year, by all accounts. There’s a house and some land and whatnot too.” His wispy mustache twitched as he took Juliet’s hand. “Actually, when I say ‘house,’ it’s really more of a castle. It has turrets. And a moat.”

  Juliet looked as though she could scarcely breathe for excitement. “A castle?” she sighed. “You own an honest-to-goodness castle?”

  “Near Carmarthen. Built in the 1200s, parts of it. Legend has it there’s even a cave nearby with a dragon.”

  “There aren’t any dragons in England,” Juliet whispered.

  “This is Wales,” Simeon said. “They have a dragon on their flag. Who knows what we’ll find?”

  “That is excellent news, Mr. Pettigrew.” Mother helped herself to another biscuit in delight. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you will have the means to support Juliet in the manner she deserves. I only wish you might have told me of your improved financial status earlier.”

  Simeon gave her a perplexed look. “Oh, but Juliet loves me for who I am, not what I own.”

  Mother snapped her mouth closed, and Georgie stifled a smile at how neatly she’d been put in her place. By Simeon, of all people. A bittersweet ache coiled in her chest. Simeon had articulated her own desire—and problem—perfectly.

  What should she do about Wylde? Was it just too foolish to hope that he might grow to love her? For all her money, she couldn’t buy the thing she desired most: his love.

  * * *

  As predicted, the announcement of Juliet’s engagement to Simeon caused a minor sensation and successfully overshadowed the potentially scandalous gossip that she and her beau had been seen alone together in a traveling chaise. Always desperate for entertainment, the ton had whispered, but had turned an indulgent eye to this lapse in behavior since it had resulted in a betrothal. It was generally supposed that the couple had anticipated their vows; a baby, eight months after the wedding, was the gossips’ consensus.

  A few high sticklers tutted at the lax morals of the modern youth, and several disappointed suitors had declared themselves heartbroken that the divine Juliet was off the marriage mart, but all in all, everyone was looking forward to the wedding. Society had been thrilled to learn that Juliet had insisted upon the fashionable St. George’s, Hanover Square, and banns were to be called for the next three successive weeks before a mid-May wedding.

  Georgie had smiled until her cheeks ached as she accepted well-meaning felicitations on her sister’s happiness and endured some less-than-subtle digs at her own still-unmarried state. She’d been sorely tempted to tell all those snide busybodies that she was, in fact, also engaged to be married, but since she and Benedict hadn’t discussed when, precisely, they would make their own announcement, she held her tongue. Doubtless their betrothal would create even more of a stir than Juliet’s, and she didn’t want to overshadow her sister’s moment of glory.

  She hadn’t seen Benedict all week. He hadn’t made an appearance at any of the events she’d attended, and she’d found herself desperate for even a glimpse of him. His note, telling her to meet him at the coffeehouse on Ore Street that very evening, had been delivered six days ago, and Georgie could barely contain her excitement. This was the adventure she’d always craved, the chance to test her skills and help with something truly important.

  “Pieter, I need to disguise myself as a boy.”

  It was a testament to the old Dutchman’s years of service that not a whisper of surprise showed on his weather-beaten face. “Of course you do. May I ask why? I can only assume it’s because you’re about to involve yourself in some scheme that is—”

  “—a terrible idea?” Georgie finished fondly. “Yes, quite probably.” She reached up and kissed his whiskered cheek. “But you’ll help me, won’t you? I promise I’ll be careful.”

  The old Dutchman sighed. “Ah, you’re yer father’s daughter, Georgiana Caversteed. Ever one for a lark, he was. An adventurous spirit who could never be contained.” He gave a suspiciously watery sniff and blinked hard. “Of course I’ll help you. But tell that Wylde, I’ll wring his neck if anything happens to you. What do you need?”

  “Breeches will be fine. And a jacket. Something rough and inconspicuous. Oh, and a cap, to disguise my hair. I need to look like a powder monkey or a chimney sweep.”

  “And what exactly will you be doing, dressed up like that?”

  “Helping deliver an important cargo to the navy shipyards in Woolwich.”

  Pieter grunted, but went to do her bidding and returned a few minutes later with a bundle of clothes. “Here you go. What time do you need to be at Ore Street?”

  Georgie turned her mind to the task at hand. “Since Woolwich is downstream from Limehouse, we’ll need an outgoing tide to draw the vessel along. Tonight’s high tide is just after midnight, so we’ll have to wait until then. I’ve arranged to meet Benedict at eleven.”

  “I’ll have the carriage ready at ten thirty, then. What have you told your mother?”

  “She and Juliet are attending the opera. I’ve said I hate Don Giovanni and I’ll see them in the morning.”

  Pieter nodded. “So, you’ll be sailing a boat, eh? Remember what I taught you. The Thames is a completely different kettle of fish to that pond you have back home. Stay away from the mud banks and watch out for the currents. At low tide, the water’s only around three to four feet deep, but high tide is twenty-two feet or so.”

  “I’ll be careful, I promise.”

  Along with his note, Benedict had sent her the tube of rolled plans, and she’d studied them again just in case she needed to know how to operate the strange vessel. She eventually decided there would be no need to submerge it fully; they only needed to sail down the river, after all, which could be achieved by steering with the rudder and using the conventional sail and the power of the outgoing tide to propel them.

  As darkness fell, excitement coiled in her belly. The breeches fitted snugly over her hips—clearly meant for someone without feminine curves. She donned the clean shirt and shapeless jacket Pieter had provided, then tied her hair in a pigtail like a sailor and stuffed it under the squashy cap. She tied a red spotted handkerchief around her neck as a jaunty final flourish. A glance in the mirror confirmed she looked a perfect urchin, and she practiced hunching her shoulders forward to hide the telltale lumps of her breasts.

  Pieter smiled when she met him in the stables and cuffed her playfully on the shoulder. She’d seen him do the same thing to the cabin boys and younger crew members onboard ship; it was the highest form of masculine affection.

  “All right, Georgie Porgie,” he said, referencing the nursery rhyme he’d often hummed to her as a child. “Let’s go. And no kissing the boys to make them cry, you hear me?”

  Georgie shot him a wide-eyed look of devilry. “Who, me? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Chapter 39.

  It took Benedict less than three seconds to recognize his wife as she slipped through the coffeehouse door. He scowled. She p
robably thought she was being unobtrusive, keeping her head down so the cap shaded her features, but he was so intensely aware of her that he couldn’t believe no one else saw through her disguise.

  She slid onto the wooden bench next to him. He glanced at the front of her shirt, buttons straining over her small, pert breasts, and prayed for strength. Her slim legs were encased in tight brown breeches, which outlined her rounded derrière in the most tempting way possible. They weren’t touching, but he caught a whiff of her perfume, the intoxicating scent of her skin as she moved. That unmistakably feminine smell would be a surefire giveaway to anyone who got close to her. Not that he’d allow anyone to get close to her.

  He pressed his palms flat on the table to stop himself grabbing her by the lapels, hauling her outside into the alley, and ravishing her up against the wall.

  Bloody hell.

  “Evening, George,” Alex murmured across the table.

  She nodded at him, then at Seb, who was slouched in the corner, cradling his second cup of coffee. Ben glanced over at the large tavern clock positioned next to the bar. Not long to go. He ordered a chocolate for Georgie, and she sipped it dutifully.

  Despite the fact that it was nearly midnight, the place was still lively, but the crowd thinned a little as they waited for the tide. He, Alex, and Seb had gone over the plan in detail. After they slipped into the warehouse, they would slide open the rear doors and launch the vessel into the water. He and Georgie would navigate it to the Royal Navy dockyards, while Alex and Seb would remain to dismantle the rest of the smugglers’ paraphernalia and look for further evidence that might incriminate Johnstone and O’Meara.

  Benedict kept an eye on the masts of the boats moored in the small dock behind the warehouse. The pool was separated from the main flow of the river by a set of thick wooden gates that could be swung open to allow access. As he watched, the boats turned on their anchor chains, swinging around to face the opposite direction with the turning of the tide. “All right, it’s time.”