Entrancing the Earl

by Patricia Rice

  A short while later, a drab female in vaguely fashionable dark skirt and white bodice appeared in the doorway. “You have a question, sir?”

  Gerard’s pulse escalated, and he bit back a grin of satisfaction.

  “Bell, Lord Ives would like to ask you how a female steward handles obstinate laborers.”

  At this idiocy, Gerard threw his host an incredulous look. “You don’t even know your own steward? That’s not Bell, that’s her sister.”

  Fourteen

  Iona bit back a laugh at the earl’s reaction and curtsied. “Most people can’t tell us apart, my lord. I daresay only our mother knew. What gave me away?”

  “Your imperious air,” Lord Ives said grumpily, leaning against the mantel and swinging his whisky glass. “I’ve only met your sister once. She’s either a very good actress or she’s a much mousier version of you.”

  Iona was almost giddy with relief that he had actually come looking for her. She’d never had anyone other than Bell and her mother who she might hope to depend on. Despite the earl’s unhappy demeanor, she could smell his relief. “I told you Bell is the quiet one. That doesn’t mean she’s mousy, by any means.”

  She turned to Bell’s employer, who leaned against the billiard table and didn’t seem particularly happy to discover a cuckoo in his nest. “I apologize, sir. I have not tried to play Bell since we were children. I merely wanted to protect her from strangers.”

  Mollified, Mr. Ives nodded. “Lydia knows you’re here?”

  “She doesn’t, actually. There didn’t seem to be any reason to disturb the Librarian.”

  Looking particularly striking in his tweed country clothes, the earl narrowed his midnight eyes. “Do the pair of you trust no one?”

  Iona glared back. “Not if there’s any chance others will be harmed. My stepfather is a desperate man.”

  “And you think it’s safer here than Wystan?” he demanded, as if insulted—as if it mattered to him.

  She desperately wanted her safety to matter to him, but his pride was probably more affected. She responded with tartness, enforcing her distance. “No. We needed time together to plan our next move. If you’re truly interested in helping, we can proceed with our plans. Is there any way to determine if Mr. Winter has the funds to pay the reward? I dislike relying on rumor and braggadocio.”

  Surprisingly, Maxwell Ives replied. “My man of business is on his honeymoon, but I’ve had one of his associates look into the reward situation. With a little persuasion, Craigmore has placed the ten thousand pounds into a bank account, with an Arthur Winter as the signee. If the gentleman really is Winter, he’s worth several fortunes.”

  As if she’d been summoned, Lydia strolled into the room, looking stern. “No one interrogates my staff except me.” She turned to Iona. “Are you Isobel or Iona?”

  “Iona.” She curtsied. The Librarian was an extremely perceptive soul.

  “And she’s interrogating us,” the earl said in disgust. “May we all sit now? I have a feeling I’ll not like anything she says.”

  “I’ve sent for tea. I needed a break anyway. Iona, have a seat. I’m glad to see you’ve finally come to your senses and are ready to ask for help.”

  Lydia took a seat on one of the leather chairs and put her feet up on an ottoman. “I’m not inclined to ladylike grace,” she told Gerard, unapologetically.

  “You are far more gracious than most of the females in my family,” he replied, still sounding irritable.

  Iona gathered from his glare that she was included in that company, although if she were part of his family, the relationship dated back to the medieval era.

  “I’ve never seen our lordly Ives express anything except cool composure,” Max said with a laugh. “I think you’re crawling under his skin, my lady.”

  Iona hoped she disturbed Ives as much as he disturbed her, but irritableness was not the reaction she preferred. She took a chair some distance from where the earl leaned against the mantel with unconscious, virile, grace, even in his country attire.

  “Bell and I did not think we needed help when we set out,” she said primly. “We meant only to wait until Mr. Winter went away. We did not count on his determination to buy what he can’t have.”

  She gritted her teeth when the earl unfolded himself from the mantel to pull up a chair beside her. His masculine scent drew her like a bee to lavender. She sensibly looked toward Lydia and not the man at her side.

  “You are of age,” the Librarian insisted. “Your stepfather cannot force you to marry against your will.”

  “But he can make our lives even more miserable than they already are. We thought it might be more agreeable to make our own way for a while. I do not miss Craigmore in the least. If I didn’t fear for Bell’s safety, I would have stayed in Wystan.”

  “So now that you know we won’t turn you in for the reward, you’ll go back?” Ives asked, not sounding in the least hopeful.

  “No, now that I’ve had a taste of freedom, I mean to keep it.” And she meant it. She was tired of dodging and hiding. “Short of killing Mortimer, freedom means I need money—enough to dower Bell and to pay Mortimer to stay away. To that end, I’ve written the queen for my letters patent. I shall sell my title to the highest bidder, with the understanding that the marriage is in name only.”

  Bell had been the one to come up with the highest bidder notion. She was quite good with money. Iona sat back and waited for the explosion.

  Instead, the men sat there and glowered, and Lydia pursed her lips in thought.

  “An interesting solution, certainly,” the Librarian said as a tea tray was carried in. “Are annulments still allowed?”

  Iona’s lips quirked. “I like the way you think, but any man stupid enough not to include a clause to that effect deserves to be robbed. No, I mean to do this honestly. I’m not a love and marriage sort.”

  Although she was most definitely interested in certain aspects of the wedded state—just not with a boring toad like Arthur Winter.

  “Honest but mercenary,” Maxwell Ives muttered. “What if I just give you ten thousand pounds?”

  That shocked her, and it took a moment before she could recover and shake her head. “That’s very generous, but I recommend loaning Lord Ives the sum he needs to repair his roof. I intend to demand a larger settlement than that, plus a monthly stipend. I will not sell myself cheaply.”

  “That almost guarantees Winter will win,” the earl pointed out. “No one else is insane enough to want a worthless title or stupid enough to believe he’ll buy an earldom.”

  “Unfortunately true,” Iona agreed with a shrug. “But if I say we must advertise in America and Europe before deciding, I can hope he’ll agree to almost anything for a pre-emptive bid.”

  Silently, the earl reached for his whisky instead of the tea.

  * * *

  After a dinner in which Gerard could easily discern Iona as the leader of the sisters, he was forced to admit that claiming her title was a good move. It was the rest of the plan that irked him beyond measure.

  But after he and Max shared a drink, made a few plans, and returned to join the ladies, they discovered the twins had vanished again. Lydia swore the queen bee hadn’t flown the hive, but Gerard didn’t trust the deceptive little witch. Fingering the chuckling medallion in his pocket, he climbed to the parapets, following the soldier’s instincts for locating treasure.

  Treasure, indeed. If Iona Ross was the soldier’s idea of treasure, he’d fling the medallion into the ocean on his way to Italy.

  He found her communing with the clouds and wind, leaning into the parapet with her cloak flying around her. “You’ll need a broom to fly,” he said, trying not to startle her as he approached.

  She huffed a laugh. “Only another Malcolm is allowed to say that to me. Do you have a gift?”

  He wasn’t about to open his veins and bleed. “The family is eccentric enough without the heir claiming psychic ability. If you’re not planning on flying, wh
at the devil are you doing out here in the cold?”

  “Psychic? From the Greek?” She turned, leaning on the wall—which might give way at any minute—and let the wind blow the hood back from her pixie curls.

  “My cousin Phoebe came up with the word. Don’t blame me. Could you stand over here where I won’t fear you’ll fly into the night or turn into an icicle?” Gerard indicated the more solid wall enclosing the stairs, where he stood.

  “This isn’t cold,” she scoffed, but she obligingly stepped into the lee of the wall. “It’s just a brisk breeze reminding me of home. Craigmore’s bluffs overlook the Moray Firth. You Southerners are thin-skinned.”

  “In more ways than one. We’re more inclined to shelter our ladies and children than turn them into Highland warriors. You almost gave me heart failure when I returned to find you gone.” He hadn’t meant to admit that, but the damned female was so slight and fragile that he honestly feared she’d blow away.

  Which was sheer idiocy, he admitted. He’d seen her right the hive and manage the hackles and haul buckets of honey. He had no doubt that she’d sheared sheep and dragged them out of sinkholes as well. She was supposed to be a damned countess and sit on tuffets!

  She turned her heart-shaped face up so he could almost see the curve of her lips in the dark. “No one has ever cared if I came or went. I seldom give it any thought. I do what needs to be done, knowing Isobel understands and can find me right enough. I’m a little in awe that you bothered.”

  “Bothered?” Gerard thought his blood might boil. He blocked the wind with his back and placed a hand on either side of her head. She merely tilted her head up expectantly. “I’d like to show you bothered.”

  Surrendering his practiced indifference, he placed his mouth firmly over hers. She didn’t even jerk with surprise but encircled his neck with one slender hand and pulled him closer. Bothered didn’t even come close to his reaction.

  He swore she smelled of heather and roses and tasted sweeter than her honey. He consumed her mouth as if she were the honey cakes he loved. Her tongue entwined with his. He didn’t know if she understood the tantalizing offer she extended. Her hand ran up into his hair, and he couldn’t resist touching her in return. He tried just smoothing her hair, twisting the curls in his fingers while his lips sampled and slaked his thirst. But it wasn’t enough. When she raised herself closer, he cupped her breast.

  The brazen woman wore no corset under the dowdy gown she’d worn to dinner. She moaned when he caressed her through layers of fabric, and his cock came to instant attention.

  She was a Malcolm, he told himself, trying to force himself away.

  But a Malcolm beekeeper was of no danger to him, his other half argued.

  She was a virgin countess— That kicked some sense into his brain. Virgins meant marriage.

  But Iona ran her slender hand beneath his coat, and Gerard couldn’t release her if his life depended on it. It might depend on it. Her touch raced his blood and kept his cold heart beating.

  He cupped her bottom and lifted her into his arousal while their tongues battled. She moaned again and wrinkled his waistcoat by clutching it with both fists. When she balanced her precarious position by raising a leg to wrap around him, he almost spent his seed right there.

  It had been far too long since he’d sent away his mistress.

  He pushed his hips into her so she couldn’t fail to notice his arousal, then regretfully pulled away, setting her back on the solid roof again.

  “I want you,” he said with certainty. “But there is no future for you in what I want.”

  “And none for you,” she retorted, pushing further away and running her hand into the hair he’d so thoroughly mussed. “But I wanted a taste of what I’ll be denying myself. I understand now why wives might entertain lovers.”

  “Especially if their husbands are obnoxious mushrooms.” Gerard straightened his waistcoat as best as he could, but there was no reducing his arousal despite her crude assessment. “That’s what comes of marrying for titles and wealth.”

  She shrugged and drew her cloak closer, gazing past his shoulders to the scuttling clouds. “My mother married for love. He died and left her in poor health, with two young children, and an estate she couldn’t manage on her own. Wealth and freedom seem eminently more practical to me.”

  That removed some of his starch. Working to regain his normal veneer, he leaned his shoulders against the wall beside her and let the cold wind take care of the rest. “My parents married for love. My father is an irascible curmudgeon, but my mother mysteriously adores him. And he worships her, even after all these years. I’d like to have that someday.”

  “Well, you will someday have wealth, title, and freedom, so maybe you can. It’s different for a woman. We’re tied to the man we marry, for better or worse. I’m not impractical enough to throw away what little I possess in return for something as fleeting as love—or even lust.”

  Gerard snorted. “What little wealth I may ever have goes to support a large and demanding family and a plethora of servants and estates. The title encompasses so many responsibilities that once I inherit, I doubt I’ll ever have the opportunity to travel again. So I’m not seeing freedom in my future. I’m not entirely certain freedom in your sense of the word is even possible, unless you own nothing and care for nothing.”

  Which was what she’d gain if she married Arthur White, he realized.

  “You will someday be able to travel, even if it is for only a few months at a time. I will be tied to the cold shores of a barren estate for the rest of my life unless I marry wealth. Freedom comes in different sizes and shapes. I’ll trade the prison of my life for caring for nothing, thank you,” she said, confirming his thoughts. “Will you help me gain my freedom?” she asked, turning her head as if she could study him in the darkness.

  “Will you let me try it my way first?” he retorted, glaring down at her, unable to remain dispassionate with this wretched female. “Can you admit that I may have a little more experience in the ways of society than you do?”

  He could only see the white outline of her face beneath the dark cap of hair, so he couldn’t read her expression. She stood still for a moment—and he realized that stillness was an unnatural state for her. She should be humming and flitting about like one of her subjects.

  “Only if you take me with you and explain to me what you plan as you go.”

  “Take you into gambling hells or worse? You don’t know what you ask.”

  “I do and I will,” she vowed, as if they were in a church. “And if you don’t take me, then I’ll find someone who can.”

  He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.

  Fifteen

  “His lordship is furious with you,” Bell whispered the next morning as she tidied the bow on Iona’s small straw cap. “Are you sure you wish to go with him?”

  “Nonsense. Lord Ives doesn’t care what I do one way or another. He is simply unhappy at being thwarted. Men are frequently like that. He’ll come around.” Iona straightened the frock Bell had loaned her. Had she Bell’s salary, she’d have purchased bright red to go with her ugly chestnut hair dye. But Bell was trying to blend in with the woodwork by wearing browns and tans. Even the bustle was small and unassuming. Still, it was more fashionable than any Iona owned.

  Deciding whether she wished to be Nan or Iona matched her confusion over wanting to both strip off the folds of coffee-colored lace to uncover the revealing neckline and wishing to don a heavy shawl to conceal the form-fitting bodice. She still didn’t really know who she was.

  Kissing Lord Ives last night had not helped her confusion. May the good Lord in heaven help her, but she had wanted the man last night. She’d wanted all the sensations his experienced lips had promised. She’d wanted to know the meaning of the pressure between her legs. By all that was holy, she’d wanted to lift skirts and petticoats and learn the animal act they’d simulated.

  And she wasn’t entirely certain she would
n’t encourage him to show her.

  She hadn’t felt this heady with excitement when she and Bell had plotted their escape.

  “Lord Ives doesn’t strike me as a man who can be wrapped around your little finger,” Bell warned. “You may make country lads dance to your tune, but he is no green lad.”

  Iona beamed at her reflection in her sister’s mirror. “I am in no danger wrapped to the ears in your bland flounces and frills. I look like a dowdy spinster in this. Really, Bell, you need to add a little color to your life. You should have seen the gowns in Rainford’s ballroom! It was like watching a dancing rose garden with bare shoulders. The earl is accustomed to ladies who flirt their wares. He’ll not know I exist.”

  Bell smacked Iona’s hand without anger. “That is my very best Sunday dress you disparage. I should send you off in my official uniform. If you are to entice Mr. White into marriage, you’ll need to look more like a countess. You’ll have to sell more pearls.”

  Iona hugged her sister. “I’m sorry. I know you’re worried. But don’t you see? Nothing I do can be much worse than returning to Mortimer’s destruction. Look at this as an adventure. If I fail, we know we can find shelter with the Malcolm ladies. If I succeed, you can have the estate, and I can have my freedom. It’s worth the gamble.”

  Bell hugged her back. “I know. But I so much wanted us to be like normal ladies, with friends and family and someone to love and children romping about our feet. That’s silly, I know.”

  It was especially silly for Bell, who had been known to fall senseless when anything from sheep to men caught her by surprise. There was a reason she was the quiet twin. She would never know normal.

  “It’s not silly. We will arrange it,” Iona insisted. “Keep studying Lydia’s library, learn more about your condition, and I’ll be back before you know it.” Iona kissed her twin’s cheek and hurried down the stairs. The train left Calder station early.