The Earl Takes All

by Lorraine Heath

  Except the one he desired.

  Putting his other arm behind her, he provided her with the leverage she needed to stand. Then her arm came around his in a smooth motion that gave him no choice except to accompany her to her bedchamber. Too late for excuses. Too late to avoid another night with her in his arms.

  He shouldn’t have limited his scotch. Dulled senses would make the night easier to endure. But it was too late for that as well.

  Chapter 7

  The only thing Julia had ever lied to her husband about was that blasted kiss in the garden. Why had he brought it up tonight? Had Edward confessed when they were trekking through the wilds?

  Avoiding her gaze in the mirror as Torrie braided her hair, she couldn’t imagine that he had. While it might have caused a rift between her and Albert, it would have caused a greater one between Albert and Edward. Edward had to know that. It was the reason he’d not contradicted her lie that awful night.

  She didn’t like thinking about that kiss. It had been her first, and the wonder of it had taken her by surprise. It left her wanting another. Later, when Albert first kissed her, she had been disappointed that his mouth was not as hungry, as demanding, as raw with need. Because she was a lady, he’d held himself in check. Thank God that had changed after they married and the kisses deepened.

  But she’d never been able to forget that first kiss. Or forgive Edward for deceiving her, for being the one to gift her with her initial taste of passion. That privilege had belonged to the man she loved—­Albert. They were perfect for each other. A wayward kiss certainly didn’t change that.

  “Will there by anything else, m’lady?” Torrie asked.

  “No, that will be all.” Only after her maid left did she meet her gaze in the mirror. It was unkind to think ill of the dead. At least she was reassured that Albert would never learn of her betrayal. She’d always worried that Edward—­during one of his drunken stupors—­would blurt out what had occurred among the roses. She’d been ever so grateful when he’d taken up residence in his own London town home.

  “You did nothing wrong,” she reassured her reflection. Except fail to distinguish one brother from the other. She’d not repeated her mistake since that night. Now it was no longer a possibility. What struck her was how much Edward’s passing saddened her. She didn’t think he’d really meant any harm. It was simply his mischievous ways. Her pride had been pricked, she was embarrassed, and she certainly never wanted her husband to know. She might strive to think of some memories to share with him, but that night in the garden would never be one of them.

  Rising, she glanced at the door that led into her husband’s bedchamber. I’ll see you in a bit, he’d said before leaving her to prepare for sleep.

  This morning she almost instructed his valet to toss out his nightshirts, to ensure that he no longer wore one to bed. It was heavenly having so much skin easily accessible to her touch. She walked to the bed, used the low steps to climb up, then lay beneath the covers, stared at the canopy and listened to the quiet in the next room. Heard the click of the door opening. Turned her head to the side. Smiled at the sight of his skin revealed by the V of his dressing gown.

  “Are you warm enough?” he asked, glancing quickly at the dying fire before looking back at her.

  “I will be.” She patted his side of the bed.

  He extinguished the flame in the lamp before settling in beside her, lying on his back, staring at the canopy that only a moment before had held her attention.

  “It’s quite boring,” she said.

  He rolled his head toward her, and she rather wished he hadn’t extinguished the lamp. There were too many shadows now, and she couldn’t see his eyes as clearly as she’d like, couldn’t determine what he was thinking. On the other hand, the grayness made it easier to say words that caused her to feel vulnerable. “You haven’t kissed me since you arrived home.”

  Enough light remained for her to see his brow furrow. “I kissed you last night.”

  “No, I kissed you. Granted, you returned the kiss with fervor, but you’ve not begun one.”

  “The babe—­”

  “A kiss is certainly not going to hurt the babe. Whereas not kissing me causes me to doubt, to fear far more has changed while you were away than I realized. We used to kiss so often. We’ve not kissed once all day.”

  Rising up on an elbow, he cradled her face, stroked his thumb over her cheek and held her gaze. “We can’t have you doubting your husband’s devotion to you.”

  He lowered his head. Her eyes slid closed as she welcomed his warm lips brushing over hers just before he settled his mouth in to plunder. That was the only word to describe the force and surety with which his tongue swept through her mouth, claiming every corner, crevice, and hollow. The kiss last night had weakened her knees. This one weakened her entire body, caused warmth to sluice through every inch of her. She turned toward him, sliding one of her knees between his thighs, relishing the echo of his growl.

  She skimmed her hands over his bare chest and shoulders, along his back. So firm, so hard, although not quite as hard as the part of him that pressed against her belly. She trailed her fingers down his stomach, his hip, around until she cupped him.

  His head came up sharply, his hand tightened around her wrist. “We’re not going there. I’m on a weak tether as it is.”

  “I want to touch you, all of you.”

  “No.”

  Taking her hand, he flattened it against the center of his chest, held it there. “You can touch anything not covered in cloth.”

  “That’s hardly fair when I’m willing to let you touch anything you like.”

  She heard his sharp intake of breath, felt it as his ribs expanded beneath her palm. He squeezed his eyes closed, pressed his forehead to hers. “I shall play by the same rules.”

  She could not miss how rough and raw his voice sounded, as though he’d dredged those words up from the soles of his feet. He wanted her. She had no doubt that he wanted her. She nipped at his chin. “Spoilsport.”

  He chuckled low. “I’m working here to be a good husband. Considerate. Mindful of your delicate condition.” He leaned back. “Besides, imagine how mad we’ll be for each other after the babe comes.”

  “I’m mad for you now.”

  With a low groan, he blanketed her mouth, kissing her with such abandon that she went light-­headed. He kept to his promise of touching her only where cloth did not separate her skin from his. Thank God he noticed that the hem of her nightdress had risen up to her thigh. He stroked her calf, the sensitive area behind her knee. All the while he kept his mouth plastered to hers as though he drew the will to live through her.

  She grew warm, so warm, wanting to toss off the covers, yearning for much more as her nerve endings thrummed with unbridled desire. She became aware of the dew between her thighs, an aching in her breasts. The power of his kiss astounded her. All the sensations it elicited. They’d shared a few chaste kisses while he was courting her. The more sensual ones had always accompanied their lovemaking, were part and parcel of the whole, and she’d been so lost in the moment that she never noticed all that a kiss stirred to life.

  Everything.

  He tasted of scotch, smelled of bergamot. His groans caused satisfied pleasure to ripple through her. She tingled, grew warmer, became lethargic and energized at the same time. She wanted to unbutton her nightdress, have his hands slip between the parted material to fondle her breasts, but considering where that action would no doubt lead, she had to acknowledge the wisdom of his rule. Touch nothing covered by linen.

  He trailed his lips along the underside of her jaw, down her throat. His mouth was hot, so incredibly hot. It was a wonder it didn’t scorch her skin. His hand left her leg, cradled the back of her head and tucked her face into the hollow of his shoulder where his skin had grown damp. Beneath her cheek his heart pounded furiously.<
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  “We should sleep,” he murmured, his voice low and raspy.

  She nodded, her arm resting along his side, her hand pressed to his back, her fingers creating soft circles on his skin. Had she known a trip to Africa would put him in the habit of sleeping without a nightshirt, she might have encouraged him to go sooner.

  His rule regarding cloth seemed to no longer apply when his mouth wasn’t on hers. His arms came around her, drawing her near, and she fell asleep inhaling a fragrance enhanced by the warmth of his flesh.

  Considering how lethargic she’d been, she should have slept well. Instead, dreams of being kissed in a garden had jerked Julia from slumber every time she drifted off too deeply. When Albert had begun to stir, she pretended that she wasn’t awake, didn’t move when he left her bed and went into his chamber.

  Now she sat at her dressing table and stared at her reflection, haunted by the dreams. She’d not thought of the details of that first kiss in years, had shoved aside all the inappropriate responses it kindled within her. She had reacted with such longing to that mouth pressed to hers because she believed it belonged to Albert. The shadows had caused her not to see clearly, to misjudge—­

  The rap had her shaking off the mad thoughts scurrying through her mind.

  “Enter.”

  The man stepped inside. There were no shadows now. She knew those features. The square cut of his strong jaw, the knifelike edge of his nose, the brown of his eyes, the dark blond of his hair.

  “Torrie said you didn’t ring for breakfast. I wanted to make sure you were well.”

  The rough timbre of his voice.

  “I’ve had a time of it getting going this morning.”

  He took a step nearer. “Are you ill?”

  The deep furrow of his brow, the concern in his eyes. She knew these things about him as well as she knew the back of her own hand. She knew him as well as she knew herself. Although they’d both admitted to changing during the separation, the very essence of them shouldn’t have. Yet something had spurred his reason for avoiding her, and it had nothing to do with sorrow over Edward. Could it be guilt for bad behavior? Out of sight, out of mind, and all that? “Did you practice while you were away?”

  His eyebrows raised, his brow furrowed deeper. “Pardon?”

  Mortified by her suspicions, she swallowed hard. “Did you kiss other women while you were away? I know it was a long time to be apart and that men have needs—­”

  “Julia.” He was kneeling beside her, holding her hand in both of his before she was able to force out the remainder of the hideous words. The same pose he’d taken when he asked her to marry him. “Your husband would never be unfaithful to you.”

  “You’re my husband. Why would you speak of yourself in the third person?”

  “I simply meant that any man fortunate enough to be your husband would adore you to distraction and never stray. Any man. Including myself.” He squeezed her hand. “Why would you think I would kiss other women?”

  She looked down at his hands, darkened by weeks in the sun, a new strength to them, the veins and muscles standing out in sharp relief. “The kisses last night reminded me . . .” Memories were faulty. She knew that. Memories of her parents had become unclear. That kiss in the garden—­it hadn’t been like the ones last night, and yet something about it was similar. “ . . . of hunger.”

  “We’ve been apart for some time. A bit of hunger is to be expected I think.”

  “But the night before—­”

  “Was tempered by grief.” Lifting one of his hands, he cradled her face, tilted up her chin until her eyes met his. “I swear to you, Julia, on my brother’s grave, that I kissed no woman while we were away. I bedded no woman.”

  She searched his expressive eyes, saw naught but earnestness and truth. “I feel such a fool.”

  “You shouldn’t. You should always be able to share your worries and concerns with me. It is my job to reassure you that all is well.”

  With a self-­conscious laugh, she pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  Wrapping his hands around her wrists, he lowered her arms, leaned in and brushed his lips over hers. “I shall strive to do a better job at restraining my passions.”

  “No, don’t!” His eyes widened while heat scalded her cheeks. What a brazen wanton she was. “I enjoy your passion. That it seems more than it was before . . . perhaps absence makes more than the heart grow fonder.”

  “It certainly seems to, yes. Now, you should have some breakfast.”

  After rising to his feet, he walked to the door, paused in the threshold, glanced back. “Nothing ever stays the same, Julia, no matter how much we wish it.”

  Then he was gone, leaving her to wonder what exactly he’d meant by that.

  The kisses were going to be his undoing. As he riffled through the various drawers in the credenza in his brother’s study, searching for any semblance of a will, the disturbing conversation he’d had with Julia rumbled through his mind. He feared that his kisses reminded her of the one he’d bestowed in the garden. A kiss was simply a kiss—­

  But he’d received enough to know that they differed. Yet he also knew that they changed over time, as a couple became more familiar. Or at least the kisses he gave at the beginning of the night seemed different by the end of it. His relationships with women were short-­lived, as he had no desire for anything permanent. He was grateful that he’d been able to speak with complete honesty regarding the fact that he’d not been with a woman, not kissed a woman, while he was away. Still, he understood her suspicions. He wasn’t acting like a man who was treading along familiar ground, but rather one exploring new avenues of discovery.

  With a harsh curse, he slammed a drawer closed, frustrated by his lack of finding any mention from Albert regarding the arrangements he had made in the event of his death, as well as his own inability to completely embrace his deceptive role as a counterfeit earl. He dreaded tonight, when they would dine, sit in the library, converse. Damn Albert for loving his wife. It would be so much easier if they had shared a platonic relationship and welcomed not being in each other’s company.

  After taking a final walk through the room, searching for any hidden nooks or crannies, he decided he’d have to pen a letter to the solicitor. He could do it here, but he preferred the library. Once there, he poured himself a scotch, downed it in one swallow in order to shake off his lingering frustrations. So many things Albert should have told him that he hadn’t. Why hadn’t they ever discussed how Albert would want Julia cared for in the event of his demise?

  At the desk, Edward tapped his finger on the mahogany wood, striving to determine how best to word the letter to the solicitor so he didn’t give himself away. His gaze drifted to the ebony box. He was relatively certain that Julia would have sent acknowledgments to everyone who had offered condolences. The thought of reading them held no appeal, seemed a betrayal of sorts, as people were paying tribute to a man who still breathed. After shoving it to the very edge of the desk, he leaned back in his chair, studied the paneled ceiling.

  Julia had the right of it. This room more than any other reminded him of Albert. If he were to claim a room as his, it would be the billiards room. He wondered which room Julia might have claimed as her own. When he envisioned her, he always saw her in the bedchamber, which conjured up dangerous images of her stretched out on the bed with slumberous eyes—­

  Oh, he needed a woman. She was one he could not ever have. That he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about her was a testament to his body’s needs rather than her desirous state. She was swollen with child, for God’s sake. Nothing attractive there.

  Except her hands were so silken and warm when they traveled over his chest, his back. Her mouth was fiery and eager. Her moans were low and throaty.

  Shoving back the chair, he got to his feet and stormed t
o the window. He was so hot that he was surprised he didn’t ignite. He should go to the mausoleum, remind himself of the debt he owed his brother. Pressing his forehead to the cool glass, he realized that he needed to replace images of her in the bedchamber with those of her elsewhere.

  The dining room, perhaps. Closing her lips around her fork, a look of sensual delight crossing her face. Her tongue quickly touching the corner of her mouth—­ No, not the dining room. If he wandered through the residence, he might find a place in which he could view her as unattractive and boring. He owed it to his sanity to give it a go.

  The manor house was large, two wings. One could roam the halls for days and not come across anyone else. It had been relatively easy to avoid her when he would come to visit; except now he was supposed to be someone who yearned to be in her company. If he crossed paths with her, he could claim to have been looking for her. It would be a lie, of course, he wasn’t wandering about, peering into one room after another because he wished to see her. Disappointment didn’t punch his gut because he found each room empty. Rather, he decided, it was only because the rooms didn’t suit his needs.

  None reminded him of her. They seemed too harsh, imposing, not nearly as welcoming.

  He should suggest she redo the residence so it reflected her more than any countess who came before her. It wasn’t as though he had any sentimental attachment to anything. He didn’t even know which rooms his mother might have decorated or if she had. When he was a child, most of his time had been spent in the day or night nursery except when he and Albert were paraded out to be inspected by their parents for a few minutes in the afternoon or evening. He had far more memories of his nanny than he did of either parent.