How the Earl Entices

by Anna Harrington

  One who made him want to give her the world, and himself right along with it.

  He gathered her into his arms and turned onto his back to nestle her into the hollow between his shoulder and his chest. With her eyes still closed and her face tantalizingly flushed, he’d never seen a more beautiful woman.

  He placed a delicate kiss to her lips.

  In reply, she placed her hand to his chest—

  No, to his heart. Her fingers curled into the waistcoat he still wore, so desperate had he been to have her that he hadn’t removed any of his clothes. He grinned. He understood that feeling of possession, because he felt the same about her.

  “You are an amazing woman, Grace Alden,” he murmured. “I’ve never…never.”

  He laughed with astonishment that he couldn’t put to words the wonderful way she made him feel and nuzzled his cheek against hers. But he’d have the rest of his life to describe to her how happy she made him, how much he admired her, and if his blossoming joy was any indication, how much he cared about her.

  She whispered against his shoulder, “Susan.”

  He froze, his heart skipping with a hard jolt that shook him to his core. He slowly rolled over on top of her, raising himself onto his elbow as he stared down at her, searching for answers.

  She fixed her eyes to his chest, unwilling to meet his gaze as she confessed so softly that he could barely hear her, “My name is Susan Montague.” A silver tear slid down her cheek in the moonlight. “Viscountess Lockwood.”

  Chapter 22

  Ross climbed the stairs into the bedroom and silently held out a glass of brandy.

  “Thank you,” Grace whispered as she accepted it. Yet there wasn’t enough liquor in the world to help her through this. Nothing could stop the shaking that had gripped her since she’d revealed her secret, or relieve the numbness that filled her after he’d gazed at her with such shock.

  Or hide the bewildered suspicion that now registered on his face.

  Only a few minutes ago, they had been wrapped around each other, desperate to touch and explore every part of the other until their passion was spent. Now he remained apart from her, and as she stood there, covered neck to ankle to wrist by her night rail, she felt more exposed and vulnerable than when he’d ripped her dress away.

  He’d removed his jacket and cravat while she’d been changing. Now, with his shirtsleeves rolled up, revealing muscular forearms, he looked like the perfect picture of a gentleman at leisure as he sat back on the windowsill and watched her, his long legs kicked out in front of him. But his relaxed appearance belied the simmering tension seeping from him.

  “Start at the beginning,” he ordered quietly. “And tell me everything.”

  She took a deep swallow of brandy and welcomed the burn down her throat. “You were there at the beginning.” She whispered in little more than a breath, “At Lady Hawthorne’s masquerade.”

  His eyes flickered as the memory of that night finally returned to him. “The waltz that was stolen…It was Lockwood.”

  She nodded, suppressing a shiver as the memories flooded painfully back. “That was when I met David. We were married not that long after.” She trailed her fingertip around the rim of the glass, watching it because she couldn’t bear looking at him. “For two years, we had a pleasant marriage. He was kind and generous, always thoughtful…a good husband in every way.”

  “He loved you.” The matter-of-fact shrug of his shoulder wasn’t enough to hide the trace of jealousy in his voice.

  “He did. But I didn’t love him, not in the same way. Oh, I cared about him, certainly, but it wasn’t love. I think he knew that and was hoping that I would come to love him in time.” She didn’t dare to speak louder than a whisper, not when the connection between them now felt so tenuous that she could destroy it with nothing more than one harsh word. “But we only had two years together.”

  Trying to gather herself enough to continue, she lifted the glass to her lips. She closed her eyes as the brandy warmed her throat, to shut out as much of the pain of that time as possible. Yet from the ashes rose life, because that horrible time also gave her Ethan. How could she wish for anything to be different?

  “You said before that he died of fever,” he prompted.

  “Yes. We were in London and had just arrived for the season. Because we’d lost our land agent the month prior, David had worn himself out putting the estate in order for our absence. He was exhausted from working and traveling, and the fever came on so fast…” She pressed the back of her hand against her lips to keep down any errant sob that might escape at the memory of her sick husband and whispered through her fingers, “I sent for Doctor Laraby. At first, David seemed to recover, only to suddenly become worse. But I couldn’t be at his side because I’d fallen ill myself—headaches, sickness in my stomach, dizziness…”

  “Because you were with child.”

  Nodding, she felt the close study of his gaze on her, although she didn’t dare look up from her glass. “I’d missed my courses the previous month, but that wasn’t unusual. I was only eighteen, and since I’d missed my courses before but hadn’t gotten with child, I thought that month was simply the same as before, that my sickness was the same that had gripped David. So did Doctor Laraby. He advised me to stay in bed in my room, and that’s where I was when David died.” The memory of that horrible afternoon rushed back so fiercely that she flinched. “I should have been at his side. I should have been there to comfort him. I should have—” A knot of self-recrimination in her throat choked her. “But at least he wasn’t alone. His brother Vincent was with him when he passed.”

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

  She forced her gaze to his, to acknowledge his sympathy and show her gratitude for it. “The following fortnight was a blur. I stayed away from everyone because I couldn’t bear to see their pity. It was easier to grieve in peace, and I was still feeling ill. We had the funeral, and as the heir, Vincent assumed the viscountcy.”

  “The heir presumptive,” he corrected. “You were of child-bearing years, which should have given everyone pause. I cannot imagine anyone believing your husband wouldn’t have made love to you, repeatedly and often.” He murmured, “I damned well would have.”

  An embarrassed blush rose in her cheeks. It was difficult enough to share this with anyone after all these years, but discussing her marriage bed with the man she’d just given herself to with such wild abandon nearly overwhelmed her. “No one would have assumed that. I certainly didn’t. After all, we’d been married for two years, and I hadn’t become enceinte during that time. David wanted children, and I desperately wanted to give him a family. But after two years, even we had come to believe that I was barren.”

  “Surely the Committee on Privileges would have waited to see for themselves.”

  “I was too distraught and ill to speak with them. Vincent said he would take care of everything, so I let him, still believing that I couldn’t possibly be with child.” Still believing his lies that he would protect me. Oh, she’d been such a fool! “When he notified them of David’s death, he told them that I was barren, and they believed him. I had no reason to think otherwise.”

  “When did you find out?”

  “Two weeks after David died, when I missed my second month of courses.” The bittersweet anguish of that day flooded over her, that day that had been both the happiest and most terrible of her life. “I began to suspect why they hadn’t come, why I’d been so ill…When they didn’t come the third time, I knew for certain.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the Committee then?”

  She slowly raised her eyes to his. “Because Vincent had already threatened my life.”

  His jaw tightened. But who was he angry with—Vincent for threatening her, or her for keeping all this awful truth from him for so long?

  She swirled the brandy, took another long swallow, slowly lowered the glass, raised it to take another sip—doing anything to directly avoid his eyes. She couldn�
�t have endured the anger she might see there. Or the cold accusation.

  “It was shortly after the funeral and before I knew for certain about the baby,” she whispered breathlessly. “We were at the London house. Vincent had already moved in. To help comfort me, he’d said. The family solicitors were there, to discuss the settlement of the estate. I let Vincent meet with them and went to my room to be alone. At the time, I thought he was being so kind to keep me from being burdened with all that. But when the men left, Vincent came upstairs.” She squeezed her eyes shut against his face as it materialized before her, as if no time had passed at all. “I’d never seen him so angry, so enraged. Far beyond shouting and cursing. And his eyes—Dear God, Ross! Such hatred…”

  “What happened to anger him?”

  “The will wasn’t at all what he’d thought. David had changed it without telling him. Or me. I had no idea—” She shook her head as an anguished pain pierced her. “Vincent inherited all the property entailed with the title, but most of the estate wasn’t in that property but in bank investments. It came from their mother, whose family were wealthy factory owners in Manchester. David left everything that wasn’t entailed to me. It was a fortune.” A sad smile touched ironically at her lips. What a wonderful, kindhearted man. But his love had been her doom. And his son’s. “Vincent demanded that I turn it all over to him. He said it belonged to the rightful heir and not to some trollop who’d bewitched his brother into marrying her.”

  Ross tensed. His hands gripped the window casement beneath him so hard that his knuckles turned white even in the dim lamplight.

  “When I refused—” The words strangled in her throat, but she swallowed hard and forced out, “He shoved me toward the fireplace. I landed on my side on the fender, and my head—” Her hand shook so violently now that she had to set down the glass for fear that she would splash the remaining brandy onto the floor. “I missed the flames, but the iron cut my cheek.”

  She reached up slowly to trace her fingertip over the scar slicing from the corner of her mouth to her temple. Even after a decade, drawing attention to it like this was agony. The sweep of her finger pained her as much as if the wound were still raw.

  “Jesus.” Ross rasped out, stunned, “He tried to burn you.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, knowing the severity of the accusation she was making, one of attempted murder. “Such an unremarkable way to die that no one would have given my death a second thought…the new widow so aggrieved by her husband’s untimely death that she hadn’t been minding her skirts around the fire, who died by trying to run away from the very flames that were burning her alive. Nothing more than a tragic accident. Thank God the maid heard my fall and came running into the room.” She placed her hand over her scarred cheek, unable to tamp down her humiliation over being so helpless that day. “I knew then that he would kill me if I didn’t do as he asked.”

  His expression was inscrutable despite the tensing of his body that was so fierce as to be visible. “So you signed over your inheritance.”

  “No.” She lifted her chin in foolish pride at that obstinate act. “I never signed any papers, but how could I stop him from taking everything anyway? He was a viscount, after all, and my only male relative. All I could do was make certain that I was never alone with him, that my maid or one of the servants was always with me.” She picked up the glass and drank the last of the brandy, then winced at the burn. “Already I was trying to figure out how to escape him, where to go, who I could call on for help. Yet I stayed because I was young and afraid, because I had no place else to go…until I discovered that I was with child.”

  Wrapping her arms around her middle for protection against the past, she stepped forward until she stood beside him at the window. She gazed out blankly through the dirty glass at the moonlit alley and the service gardens of Chelsea that lined it. Appearing so still and silent…a mirage that belied an entire world sleeping and at peace.

  “I kept it secret from everyone. If my baby were a girl, she would have been no threat. But a son would have taken everything away from Vincent, including the title. He would never have risked that.” She lifted her hand to the window, to feel the cold of the night—to feel anything except the omnipresent fear that still haunted her. “If he were willing to harm me to steal my inheritance, how far would he go to eliminate any chance of losing the title?”

  Ross stepped up behind her but didn’t reach for her. She felt the absence of that touch as coldly as the glass beneath her fingertips. “So you fled.”

  She gave a jerky nod. “I packed a bag, took what little money and jewels I’d secreted away in my room, and left that night. It was dangerous, but so was remaining in Mayfair. I found an inn where I hired a post-chaise. I didn’t think to give a false name or hide my appearance—I was too concerned about simply fleeing, about protecting my baby.” She forced a grim smile. “Which turned out to be the very best thing I could have done.” Then her smile faded, replaced by grief so deep that she pressed her hand against her chest to keep breathing, to keep telling her tale. “Because when I finally stopped running ten days later, so tired that I couldn’t go on, there was a fire at the inn. A terrible fire.”

  “Were you hurt?”

  The thick concern in his voice nearly undid her, because it gave her hope that he might understand and accept the horrible things she’d done to survive.

  She shook her head. “I was one of the lucky ones. But several people were killed, their bodies taken to the parish church and placed in the crypt to await burial. Somehow I knew that this was my chance for life, for me and my baby.” She had to pause to gather herself before she could continue. “So I went to the church. I lied to the vicar and told him that I needed to search for my friend who was separated from me in the fire. He let me into the crypt, where I chose one of the women. A young woman my size, burned beyond recognition.” She swallowed. Hard. “I told the vicar that the body belonged to her, to the woman I’d met while traveling…Susan Montague.”

  Ross said nothing, but in his dim reflection in the window glass, she saw his hand lift to rake his fingers through his hair. That telltale sign of frustration she’d become so familiar with during their time together.

  “I knew my word wouldn’t be enough. Not to fake the death of a viscountess. So when the vicar wasn’t looking, I put my wedding ring onto her finger so that Vincent would identify her body as mine. I knew he wouldn’t look too closely. After all, he wanted me dead. It was the answer to his prayers.”

  She turned around to face him then, and the grim set of his face nearly undid her. Even in the dark shadows of the room, lit only by a slant of moonlight, she could see visible signs of his unease in the stiff tension in his shoulders, in the lift of his chin as he stared silently at her. Less than a foot separated them, but he felt a world away.

  “That fire changed everything, you see,” she whispered, desperate to make him understand. “Susan Montague died that night, and Grace Alden rose from the ashes. I took my new identity and bought a coach ticket for as far away as I could travel.”

  “To Sea Haven,” he murmured.

  “Not at first. I didn’t trust that Vincent hadn’t discovered what I’d done, and why. That he wasn’t still coming after me. So I kept moving, never staying in one place for more than a few weeks. By the time I arrived in Sea Haven, I was nearly ready for my confinement and out of options. I had planned to make my way to the coast and then somehow find a ship that would take me away from England. But Ethan had other plans for us.” She smiled wistfully and placed her hand over her lower belly. She could almost feel the babe that she’d once carried there. “Alice Walters saved our lives. She helped deliver him, then took us in when we had no place else to go.”

  “So you stayed and pretended to be a fisherman’s widow.”

  “I had to protect my baby.” Her chest tightened with that same dread that had hovered over her like a specter for the past decade, until it had become a part of her. Only during t
his time with Ross had it not haunted her, had she been able to shake off the oppressive fear. But his disbelieving expression made her hope sink. “I know what you’re thinking—you, who’s never backed down from a fight in his life, who is even now running toward danger rather than away from it.” Anger at the weak woman she’d been filled her chest. “You think I was a coward to run and hide like that instead of fighting.”

  “I don’t think that.” Yet he made no move to touch her or take her into his arms to give her reassurance.

  “I do.” She blinked hard against the stinging tears as that old feeling of helplessness resurfaced. “I was a different woman then.” From a different lifetime. She feared he might never understand the choices she’d made. “But I refuse to hide any longer.”

  Losing his battle to keep his distance, his arms went around her and pulled her against him. He buried his face in her hair. “You were eighteen, for God’s sake, with no money and no relatives to take you in. What else could you have done?”

  She choked down a sob as she slipped her arms around him and rested her cheek against his hard chest.

  “But you were safe in Sea Haven,” he murmured against her temple. “You two could have lived out your days there completely unnoticed. Why return to London now?”

  “Vincent’s second wife is expecting,” she whispered. “His first wife was barren, so I thought I had time to claim Ethan’s inheritance. But Cora died, Vincent remarried…”

  And she’d run out of time.

  The Committee on Privileges would never remove a sitting lord with a legitimate heir in favor of an heir whose legitimacy was suspect. If her son was to have the life that he deserved—the life that David would have wanted for him—then she had to act now.

  From the way Ross tensed in her arms, he realized that, too.

  He shifted away from her just far enough to cup her scarred cheek against his palm. “It’s going to be an uphill battle, you realize that.” His fingers soothingly stroked her cheek. “They most likely won’t even agree to hear your petition.”