Entrancing the Earl

by Patricia Rice

  The workers were already packing up their bags. The modiste promised to complete the other gowns by tomorrow and ushered her charges away.

  “Lord Ives,” Iona said stiffly once they were alone, uncertain how to approach him after his generous gesture.

  “I wish you would call me Gerard,” he said. “There are far too many of us to wish to be called Ives by people I’ve come to know.”

  He didn’t even notice Iona’s pretty attire. Warily, she nodded, “Very well, Gerard.”

  He nodded and began pacing the tiny room. “I’ve filed a report with the police but I won’t count on them arresting Mortimer. I can’t leave you alone all evening. We’ve decided you’ll be safe with Phoebe’s aunts for the night, if we can smuggle you in without anyone noticing. I’m hoping we’ll keep your stepfather busy at cards this evening so he won’t think to hire anyone to look for you.”

  “Unless Lady Phoebe has a flock of aunts, I’m assuming you’re taking me to the School of Malcolms? Surely they must be full to bursting and run ragged at the start of a school year.”

  Miffed that he didn’t notice how nice her stylish gown fitted, Iona swirled around, letting the skirt fly above her newly trimmed petticoat. Her short gowns were practical, but this bit of confection appealed to her long-denied feminine nature.

  “They’re expanding the school into the next building. There’s room,” he said curtly, keeping his gaze above her head. “Tomorrow, we’ll meet with the solicitors to claim the reward. We’re hoping to have Mortimer sign a document relinquishing all claim to you and your property. I won’t promise anything except a second plan if he does not comply.”

  “It won’t work, of course. I’m certain Mr. White has promised to pay off Mortimer’s debts in return for my title. But you’ll have your reward. I suppose these gowns can be considered an expense of doing business, Gerard.”

  She taunted him a little, stepping close to his proud figure and drawing her finger down his waistcoat buttons. He was very much the proper gentleman in silver-blue today, a shade that went well with his dark coloring. “You can be free of me tomorrow,” she said a trifle wistfully.

  He grabbed her invading hand and seemed set to push it away. Instead, he wrapped it in his long fingers and pressed her palm to his chest, where she could feel his heart beating. “I’ll never be free of you. You’ll haunt me like all the other voices in my head. But I won’t be leaving until I know you and your sister are safe.”

  Aroused by his scent and proximity, she slid her hand away. “Heroic of you, I’m sure,” she said sadly, not thrilled to know she’d caused him grief. “I’d rather you promise to take me to Italy as long as we’re talking fantasy. I really do not expect you to take care of me. You have enough to do.”

  He finally turned his gaze downward, and she sensed his churning conflict. She shouldn’t do this to him, but she wanted so much and could have so little— She drowned a little in his dark, troubled eyes.

  Then he yanked her against his hard body, so she could feel his conflict as well as smell it.

  “This is the reason I’m taking you to the school,” he muttered, bringing his mouth down on hers.

  She wanted this so very much—

  Twenty

  Gerard knew better than to kiss this woman he craved, especially in a private room. He had experience and understood how easily the flames of lust could soar into a conflagration.

  But by tomorrow, Iona might be gone. He would never have another chance to touch and hold her, to explore the richness of her kisses or the lushness of her curves. In that foolish gown, her breasts rose above the neckline, taunting him with their perfection.

  He wanted her to remember him as he would always remember her.

  He didn’t need the voice in his head to mutter stupid.

  But he couldn’t resist her enthusiastic response to the thrust of his tongue. She didn’t back away when he held her close but clung tighter. He ran his questing hands down her back, to the annoying bustle that prevented him feeling her natural curves. He couldn’t undress her. . . but he wanted to.

  Undeterred, Iona worked her fingers beneath his waistcoat, scorching him through his linen. How would it feel to lie with her all night, her nakedness against his? Instead of her usual roses, fragrant herbs wafted from her skin, and he wanted to taste her all over. He longed to see how far her boldness would take them.

  He carried his kisses along her jaw, to her ear, and she pressed closer, moaning encouragement. The fool woman knew no fear. He was a man with tight control, but not all men would respect her innocence. To prove to himself—and to her—that this had to stop, he caressed her breast above the corset, where he could relish her softness.

  She practically climbed up him, covering his jaw with kisses and letting him take his fill. He was so engorged, he feared he’d rip his trousers. She didn’t even know to be afraid.

  “Damn, I know I’ll regret this,” he whispered as he lifted her against the wall. He buried his face in the enticing curve of her neck, planted kisses on the ripe curves above her lace. She wrapped one leg around him as she had before, instinctively pulling their hips together.

  He wouldn’t take her like this. He wasn’t that kind of cad. But he pushed her skirts up, rubbing his thumb along the fine linen of her drawers. He would buy her silk, if he could.

  At the intimacy of his caress, she didn’t shove him away but arched into him, almost begging for the caress he craved as much as she did.

  All the voices in his head stilled as he located the slit of her drawers and rubbed her where she was wet and willing. It would be so very easy. . .

  Gerard steeled himself, refusing to take advantage of an innocent who had no clear idea of what she was doing. Kissing her, he used his fingers to teach her, until he was muffling her screams and holding her as she bucked into his searching hand.

  He continued to hold and kiss her as she melted and went limp. He let her skirts fall back in place. Once she merely leaned into him, shuddering slightly, he stepped away.

  “That is only a sample of what a husband can give you. Do not throw yourself away,” he warned, stepping over to the washbasin to clean up and steady himself.

  When he turned back to her, he saw a tear streak down her cheek, but she was already straightening her attire. She swung to check her hair in the mirror, rubbing surreptitiously at her eyes.

  “I will find lovers,” she said boldly. “I will be like a man and take what I want.”

  “Women have babies.” The thought of her in a brute’s arms caused him to run cold, but he had no right to dictate her future. “Women cannot behave like men.”

  “Your aunts will welcome me at Wystan,” she taunted. “They love babies. And they will teach me how not to have them. Why should I be tied down to one man?”

  He could see it now—she was entirely right. He might go to Wystan one day and see her coddling another man’s baby, and his tenants cooing over it as if it were their own.

  “Because you are loyal and loving and being tied down happens. Come along, we need to take you to the school before it’s dark. I have to meet Rainford.” Gerard picked up the cloak and helped her into it.

  She silently fastened the hood and waited for him to grab her satchel. She refused to take his arm as they stepped into the corridor. “I’ll meet you at the train station.” She walked rapidly toward the servants’ door.

  The entire hall smelled of sex to him, but at least her cold taunt had made it possible for him to move without crippling himself.

  The philosophical soldier in his head remained silent.

  * * *

  Iona sat as far from Lord Ives as the hansom allowed. She was a wanton. She should be thoroughly ashamed of herself—but she had enjoyed every second of that marvelous encounter and wanted more. If just touches could produce such exalting sensations—what would actual coupling be like? She grew up on a farm. She knew there had to be more.

  But Lord Ives was an automaton with cloc
kwork control of himself. She ought to be glad of that. If he controlled everyone else the way he did himself, he’d succeed at obtaining the reward and setting her free.

  That was almost a depressing thought. She knew money wasn’t the end of her problems. But her time with Lord Ives had taught her a great deal. She’d needed to learn who she was, what she wanted, and she was gradually coming to understand herself. Almost.

  She simply had to forget her irrational longing for a man she couldn’t have—an automaton she shouldn’t want. So she had a few lessons to learn yet—like how to control her roiling emotions the way he did.

  At the school, he introduced her to Phoebe’s aunts. The older women were complete opposites of each other. Lady Agnes was short and welcoming, and Lady Gertrude was tall, stout, and formidable. While they exclaimed over her likeness to Isobel, they reminded her of the ladies at Wystan, and she felt at home.

  Iona allowed herself to be swept into the world of women without a second look back at the dashing Lord Ives, who held her future in his hands.

  For once in her life, she had to trust someone other than herself. She couldn’t think of any better place to start than a man who could turn off his emotions like a spigot.

  * * *

  In ill humor, Gerard descended the crumbling stone stairs to the ill-lit interior of the Old Rooster tavern. He knew he’d done the right thing by leaving Iona untouched and taking her to the ladies at the school. But afterward, she’d treated him as if he were an old coat she’d discarded.

  Far better that way, he realized. They needed distance before they committed an irrevocable act. Logic didn’t improve his humor.

  Rainford was already there, commanding a table, wearing his evening tails and appearing the glamorous and fabulously wealthy lord that he was. Young Viscount Drummond was with him, gathering players he’d apparently met on the previous evening. Gerard hated gambling, but he’d donned his dinner clothes to look the part of dissipated aristocrat with gold to waste.

  The players all slapped him on the back and steered him toward a chair in a prime location in the gas-lit, whisky-stench of the ancient cellar.

  Rainford held him back for a minute to murmur, “I’ve met with the Queen’s secretary. He’s located the lady’s request and will expedite it through the committee. It will give one of the twins some amount of legal power once this all falls out.”

  “Brilliant, thanks.” Gerard pounded the slender marquess on the back and shoved him into his chair.

  Rainford had done all the work. Gerard felt like a sponger—until Arthur White and the drunkard Mortimer arrived. They gave off such strong vibrations of excitement that he didn’t even need Iona at his side to notice. Or maybe thinking of Iona brought his focus to pinpoint acuteness.

  It was very possible he’d shut out people and their interfering energies in order to accomplish the many tasks he set himself. In the process, he’d shut out this part of himself as well. He wasn’t entirely certain he wished to go through life noticing vibrations, but for Iona, he’d concentrate as if people were antique objects of interest.

  Crossing one leg over his knee and leaning back in his chair, he assumed his best air of boredom and disdain as Drummond introduced his gambling mates from the previous evening. Gerard shrugged when one of the others suggested the newcomers join them.

  Winter practically rattled the table with his eagerness. A stout young man, wearing tailoring finer than Gerard could afford, the American beamed delight from a cherubic face it was hard to dislike. He was quite possibly as much a victim as the twins.

  While Winter lavished them with gratitude for allowing him to join such exalted company, Gerard watched his companion, the supposed Earl of Craigmore. Mortimer wasn’t too far into his cups yet. He had probably once been a handsome man but dissipation had carved lines in his face, shadowed his eyes, and sapped his body. A receding hairline and untrimmed sideburns and mustache created a caricature of a degenerate villain.

  It only took a few rounds of cards to determine Mortimer was cheating. Gerard fingered the cards the villain handled, focusing on the energy they emitted and not how he played. As Iona had said, her stepfather wasn’t much on planning more than the moment. His vibrations were so shaky and crude that even Gerard’s newly discovered talent could translate them as fury and frustration—and fear.

  He didn’t need pulsing air to tell him Mortimer was quite capable of doing damage if he didn’t have what he wanted.

  The old soldier in his head grunted agreement. . . and interest. It was worse than having his father in his head.

  After a few more rounds of play, Gerard almost began to like the eager young American. On White’s cards, he picked up languid shreds he interpreted as boredom and impatience, presumably with Mortimer. Again, he didn’t need vibrations to discern the wealthy American’s unnatural interest in young Drummond. Damn. This business of reading others was worse than sitting down to a gossip fest.

  Irritated, Gerard laid down his cards, literally and figuratively. “I’m ready to call it a night, fellows, sorry. Craigmore, I believe I’ve found something of interest to you. I’m seeing your solicitor in the morning to verify that all is above board. It was good having a chance to meet you first.”

  He tapped on his hat and stood, leaving the fake earl and his wealthy friend looking startled and shoving back to follow. Rainford and friends prevented them from doing so.

  Gerard had no doubt that he’d be tracked the second he climbed the cellar stairs. Insouciantly, he summoned a hansom and took it to the hotel. He had no fear for himself, but he may have just dropped a bomb that would have repercussions.

  Mortimer had seemed dangerously desperate. Would he try to find Iona first? If the false earl thought he could pry a large marriage settlement out of Winter, he’d want as much control of Iona as he could. That wouldn’t happen in a solicitor’s office with Gerard watching.

  Wrapped up in his thoughts, Gerard forgot to be wary once he reached the relative safety of the busy hotel lobby. It was early enough in the evening for guests to be returning from dinner or leaving for entertainments. Heading for the stairs, he nearly tripped over a ruffled red train.

  The wearer of said train swung angrily, then said in disgust, “Lord Ives, of course. Why aren’t you in your sty where you belong?”

  Lady Alice. He really didn’t have time for flirtation or argument. Volatile Alice was capable of either without a moment’s notice. They’d been lovers a few times, years ago, but mostly they were childhood acquaintances who occasionally leaned on each other. And she apparently thought him dull enough to marry her if pressed. He knew to be wary now.

  He offered his usual smooth apology, a smattering of flattery, and kept his eye out for her escort. But when it became plain she had just returned from dinner with her father, a little imp in his head kicked cans until he woke up.

  Mortimer’s spies were waiting for Gerard to lead them to Iona. If he stayed in the hotel, they might tear the place apart in search of her. If they had anyone watching the school, they may have seen Gerard arrive with a cloaked female and not depart with her. Thugs might attack the school.

  He hoped the school had the resources to protect Iona for an evening, but why leave it to chance?

  “How interested are you in helping the ladies at Wystan who helped you?” he asked bluntly. Alice was self-absorbed but not heartless, and she owed him for that earlier embarrassing contretemps.

  Her eyes widened. “You’re actually speaking to me, not just uttering inanities?”

  Gerard waved an impatient hand and played on Alice’s usual ennui. “Obviously. It’s only a small favor, to aid a young Wystan lady being pursued by an unwanted suitor. You’ll benefit from it, I assure you.”

  “Deceit and a reward,” she almost purred. “I can do that. If this will settle any debt I owe, what do I need to do? And how long will it take?”

  He produced Iona’s room key. “I need you to change into something drab, perhaps fro
m your lady’s maid, if necessary. If you have a hooded cloak, wear that, or I’ll borrow one.” He wagered the lady knew the need for hooded cloaks and kept one on hand. “Then go to this room and wait for me. How long do you think that will take you? I shall try to be up there shortly after.”

  Once they settled on a time, he explained his plan. His cousin Phoebe and her husband wouldn’t mind harboring a guest for the night. And the Blairs knew all the right people in Edinburgh who would appeal to Lady Alice and her miser of a father.

  Preventing Mortimer’s hooligans from attacking might be a different problem, but the Blairs were better prepared than a school full of young women. Their affluent street had watchmen and street lights. Plus, Phoebe had animal guards that could sniff out strangers and terrify attackers.

  He was almost starting to appreciate his family’s odd abilities. Perhaps he needed to pay more attention to his own.

  The old soldier in his head muttered irascibly.

  While he waited on Lady Alice, Gerard sent a messenger to warn the Blairs of his plans. So when they arrived after dark, his drama-prone cousin was at the door to greet them. For the benefit of any onlookers, she announced, “Gerard, how good of you to introduce us to your new lady friend! She will be more than safe with us, I assure you. Come along, my lady. We have a room all prepared and hot chocolate just waiting for your arrival.”

  Alice shot him a dirty look, but he’d explained who the Blairs were on the ride over. For the introduction to Blair’s wealthy coterie, she’d hold her sharp tongue and drink chocolate.

  While the women hustled upstairs, Andrew Blair appeared from his workroom in back. A large man in an oil-stained shirt that revealed he was no stranger to hard work, he polished a piece of metal. “We’re old hands at skullduggery,” he reminded Gerard. “You needn’t worry. Phoebe’s animals are all alert and waiting to take a bite out of any intruder.”

  “I’ve had the biggest thug locked up. I don’t know if Mortimer has found any more larger than a street urchin, or I’d say have the beasts aim for the testicles.” Worrying about Iona left Gerard short-tempered.