Changing the Earl's Mind (The Lords of Whitehall Book 3)

by Kristen McLean

  She fixed her eyes on the door leading out into the hall, because in her opinion a book was worth it. As she slowly made her way across the room, something caught her attention, a specter moving in the darkness. Her heart kicked to a frantic pace, trapping her breath in her throat. Then she was being hauled against the wall by a massive shadow, her hands pinned on either side of her head.

  “Ghost!”

  “Unfortunately for you, I am not a ghost,” Saint Brides ground out, his face mere inches from hers. “I thought I made myself clear, Mrs. Tindall.”

  “Quite clear.” She nodded, her heart still racing. “I shall just be going back to my room now.” She made to squeeze around him, but instead of letting her go, he leaned into her, pressing her further into the wall.

  She froze, heat rushing throughout her body. The hard chest pressed against her was utterly bare. Her night rail and dressing robe felt like nothing more than thin gauze between her and every dip and ridge of his muscled torso.

  “Generally, the innocent do not risk dying of pneumonia by attempting to escape amidst a thunderstorm.” Lightning flashed, and she could see one side of his mouth pull up into a small smile. “Although, dressed as you are, perhaps escape was not what you had in mind. What were you after, Mrs. Tindall? Perhaps I could be of service. After all, you are most definitely pursuing something in my bedchamber.”

  She sucked in a gasp. “I can assure you passing through your bedchamber was not my design.”

  “Is that so?” he asked, his voice naught but a low murmur. “Then what, pray tell, was your design?”

  “Nothing. A book to help me sleep, but it’s nothing. I shall just be going now.” She tugged her hands, but he didn’t let her go.

  She felt the heat of his breath on her neck, and every inch of her skin came alive, tingling with warmth.

  “A book, you said? Do you read often?”

  She nodded, unable to push enough air from her lungs to form any coherent words. His stilted breath warmed her neck as he let out a soft chuckle.

  “Of course you do,” he murmured. “You are either God’s greatest creation, or the devil’s most dangerous weapon.” His lips brushed her neck, and he let out a low groan. “My darling, I am not at all sure which is the case.”

  “Oh!” she breathed, her voice an unrecognizable whimper on the air.

  His touch electrified her, melting her resolve until she was utterly lost.

  “What tomes do you prefer, Mrs. Tindall?” The low rumble of his voice washed over her like silk. His hands flexed over her wrists as his tongue lightly skimmed to just below her ear. “I asked you a question.”

  “N-novels.”

  “Not those awful gothic tomes, I hope.” He caught her earlobe between his teeth, laving it with his tongue.

  The mewling sound that escaped her mouth sounded distant and unfamiliar. Her breasts ached, flattened against his chest, and heat pooled in her belly.

  Then he shifted, and she felt his breath on her lips. “I think you will find that sort of reading will only keep you up at night here. Ghosts seem to leap from the pages expressly for that purpose.”

  She was undone. His mouth was so close to hers, his touch so heated, she had never wanted anything as desperately as she wanted his kiss. It was madness. She had to come to her senses. This man was keeping her prisoner. He was taking her to her death.

  “Mr. Saint—I-I mean, my lord,” she stuttered, gathering her strength.

  “Yes, Mrs. Tindall?”

  “Please let me go,” she pleaded breathlessly.

  There was a long pause before he answered. “Of course.”

  Inch by slow inch, he slid his hands from her wrists to her elbows until his touch was completely gone. She nearly slid halfway down the wall before she caught herself. The next thing she knew, she felt a hard object pressed into her hand.

  “I find novels keep me up, but I always keep a copy of Observations on Modern Gardening handy. I’m certain it will have you asleep in no time,” he said, sounding much more like the distant lord from before. “I suggest you stay in your room, Mrs. Tindall. It is dangerous to sneak about.”

  She nodded as he opened the connecting door for her, which she promptly rushed through without a backward glance.

  Chapter 4

  Drake had no hope of explaining what had possessed him to act so rakishly with Mrs. Tindall last night. He hadn’t done those sorts of things to a woman since… well, ever. But in the dark, with the savage storm raging outside, he had felt cut off from the world he had come to know, from reality. He was home again, but nothing felt right. Perhaps it was because she was there, beyond the single wall separating their rooms. She, with her inviting mouth and lush curves, lying in bed, tangled in the sheets.

  He could imagine his hands on her skin, her breasts filling his palms.

  Then she had been in his room, sneaking along the wall in naught but her nightclothes. Before he realized what he was doing, he had… Hell, he wasn’t sure what exactly he had done to her, but it had been savagely inappropriate.

  His only consolation was that he had a mere two more days in her company. Then they would be in London, and she would be out of his hair for good.

  Two bloody days.

  He muttered irritably as he dragged a hand through his hair. His valet, Thornton, who had previously been his father’s valet, sighed heavily as he finished tying Drake’s cravat and moved once again to set his chestnut curls back in place.

  “Thank you, Thornton.”

  “By all means, my lord,” Thornton returned. “It is unfortunate I cannot accompany you on your journey to London. I’m afraid you will arrive in utter disarray.”

  Drake lifted a brow. “I’m sure my hat will hide the worst of it.” He stepped before the mirror to examine his reflection. “Will you please inquire as to whether or not my guest is ready to depart?”

  Thornton bowed. “Of course, my lord.”

  “Have her escorted down to breakfast. I wouldn’t want her to lose her way in this mausoleum. We might never see her again.”

  Drake pulled on his coat, straightening his cuffs and shirt points before heading down to breakfast himself. An apology for his behavior last night over breakfast should relieve enough tension between them to make the journey to London, if not comfortable, at least tolerable.

  The enticing smell of fresh rolls, eggs, ham, beans, and—his personal favorite—fried potato cakes had his stomach rumbling before he even set foot inside the morning room. He went straight for the sideboard, his plate halfway full before he realized he wasn’t alone.

  “Steel Breeches, you set an absolutely marvelous table.”

  Drake was nearly startled to death, but he hid it well, slowly turning around to level a withering glare at the intruder. “Pembridge. Pritchard. Fowlerton. I hadn’t realized I had invited you all.”

  While Pritchard was about as mature as an eight-week-old puppy, and Fowlerton no better for having made Pritchard his crony, Pembridge was once one of Drake’s best agents. Now, however, the man had dedicated his life to running his silk factories and pleasing his new wife. He was besotted to the point of hopeless devotion, and would offer Drake not one iota of assistance in bringing Mrs. Tindall to London, he was sure of it.

  Besides, he would rather not have his assistance. Last time he rode in a carriage with Pembridge, the lunatic had purposefully provoked highwaymen and had nearly gotten Drake shot.

  Pembridge smiled broadly. “You didn’t. We just happened to be passing through and heard you were in residence, so we decided to drop by.” His blue eyes shifted to his plate appreciatively. “I must say, I’m very glad we did.”

  Pritchard grinned his agreement before stuffing a forkful of eggs and ham into his mouth.

  “Well, this is phenomenal,” Drake muttered to himself as he turned to finish arranging his plate. It appeared his apology to Mrs. Tindall would have to wait. He could hardly mention his lapse in propriety with these three present.


  Drake settled across from Pembridge, dreading the moment soon approaching when he would have to explain his guest. And so, he latched on to the first topic that entered his mind, hoping to keep them distracted long enough to form a believable excuse for having a beautiful woman in his home.

  “Have you heard how Sir Archibald Campbell managed the treaty of Yandabo?” Drake asked. He lifted his brows in inquiry as he waited for either uninvited guest to take the bait.

  None of them did. They simply looked at him as though he were insane, which was ridiculous. Pritchard surely did business in Burma, considering how much ore he had been shipping out to all corners of the earth. He must have been at least familiar with the conflict. And Pembridge had a seat in Parliament, for goodness’ sake. He ought to know as much as Drake. Only Fowlerton had any sort of excuse to be in the dark, being a man of little interest in the world.

  “He succeeded in convincing them to agree to all of Britain’s terms. Can you imagine?” Drake added, the words souring in his mouth. He knew the workings of the treaty inside and out, and the terms were horrendously unfair to the people of Burma. He had tried to persuade those involved to be more flexible in their demands, but his concerns had been ignored.

  “It will be the ruin of them,” Pembridge said soberly as he stabbed at his food. “They had no choice but to agree to those terms. It will crush them economically. It’s despicable, if you ask me.”

  “I agree,” Pritchard said. “It’s a tactical move to render the country defenseless. Soon it will be a British province, I promise you. Already that East India Company has military control over nearly all of India. Next, they will have Burma. Where does it stop?”

  “You are only upset because it is not your company with all this power, Pritch,” Fowlerton poked. “Thank heaven.”

  “Posh,” Pritchard muttered. “I would make a brilliant military leader.”

  “Oh?” Pembridge’s brows knit. “You had a chance, you know. You fought against Boney with the rest of us.”

  “Not with me,” Drake interjected. “I was too young to join in the war. Although, if I had to choose between my Latin tutor and Napoleon, I might have preferred taking up arms.”

  “You weren’t the only one too young,” Pembridge muttered.

  Pritchard scowled, but ignored the comment. “No one could see past my size.”

  “You mean no one could see you because of your size.” Fowlerton grinned. “You were barely to my chin.”

  Pritchard was thirty-two now, but at the time he had joined the war, he was only fourteen years old, and he looked it. Though he had told everyone he was eighteen, and quite old enough to fight for his country, no one truly believed him. However, they were desperate enough for men at the time to make exception. Pembridge, along with several others, took the lad under their wing… and had taunted him mercilessly ever since.

  Soft footfalls sounded in the hall, and a moment later, Pritchard shot from his chair, followed by Fowlerton and Pembridge, though at a much more reasonable speed. Drake clenched his jaw as he, too, rose from his chair, mentally preparing himself before he turned toward her.

  The last he had seen her, she had been in a night rail he had desperately wished to tear off her. Now she was elegantly clad and looking quite respectable. A dark part of him thought she might look just as elegant without clothes.

  “Gentleman, may I present my guest, Mrs. Tindall. This is Lord Pembridge, Mr. Fowlerton, and Mr. Pritchard.” He did his best to pretend he didn’t notice how well his mother’s old mourning gown fit her curves, and how soft her hair looked properly styled in a low knot held loosely at her nape. Not one strand was out of place, and he had the irrational urge to run his hands through it until all of the carefully arranged pins were strewn across the floor.

  “Gentlemen,” she said with a curtsey, which she executed as well as any lady he had ever seen in London. Considering her situation in life, he had expected her to botch it, if she had attempted it at all. She looked downright aristocratic.

  This surprise offered a boon. He could easily make them believe she was a distinguished cousin, whom he was helping financially since her husband had passed.

  Pembridge, Fowlerton, and Pritchard bowed, and Drake waited for her to move to the sideboard and fill her plate, but she stayed where she was, near the door, color riding high on her cheeks. Pembridge was shifting his attention between her and Drake with a lifted brow.

  Drake cleared his throat, gesturing to the sideboard, but it was Pritchard’s voice that broke the silence.

  “May I arrange a plate for you, Mrs. Tindall?” he offered, walking around the table to escort her to the sideboard.

  “Er… Yes. Thank you, Mr. Pritchard.”

  “It is my pleasure.” Pritchard beamed at her as he began filling her plate. “May I suggest the potato cakes? They are exceptionally tasty.”

  “Of course. Potato cakes are my favorite.”

  “Are they truly?” Pritchard returned.

  “Yes, I have made them so many times I have perfected my own recipe.”

  Drake closed his eyes on a hard blink. There went his chance passing her off as a distinguished cousin. Hell, they must think he had taken a mistress and set her up at Barrington Park.

  Even in that black bombazine, her voluptuous curves screamed seduction, and her eyes, the upturn of her nose, her full lips—good God, the woman could make a most lucrative career as a courtesan. The most sought after in England, he should think.

  Pritchard’s ramblings interrupted his thoughts. Thank heaven.

  “I must insist you prepare a batch for me, then,” Pritchard was saying, grinning like a fool. “I imagine anything prepared by such beautiful hands must be truly heavenly.”

  Fowlerton rolled his eyes, stabbing his eggs with his fork.

  “Oh, I’m sure the cakes prepared here are far better than mine,” she muttered.

  “I shall be the judge of that,” Pritchard argued.

  “Not anytime soon, you won’t,” Drake countered, surprising even himself with his biting tone. He paused to compose himself. “We are leaving for London today. This morning, in fact.”

  Pembridge’s eyebrows winged high. “You are taking Mrs. Tindall to London with you?”

  “I am.”

  Pritchard set Mrs. Tindall’s plate across the table from his own, which put her next to Drake.

  Pembridge spoke as soon as they were seated. “Will you be staying in London long, Mrs. Tindall?”

  Though Pembridge’s light blue eyes appeared only mildly interested in his usual devil-may-care fashion, Drake knew they were assessing and deducing. Damn and blast.

  He felt her gaze on him as he took a bite of his potato cakes before she said, “Not long if I can help it.”

  “Are you not fond of London, Mrs. Tindall?” Fowlerton spoke up between bites.

  “I have never been there.”

  “It’s quite lively,” Pritchard offered. “If you are still there when I arrive in a month, I shall be sure to show you Vauxhall Gardens, and we could get ices at Gunter’s.”

  Drake wanted to plant his fist in Pritchard’s face, but he went for an air of disinterest, instead. “I doubt that will be necessary, Pritchard.”

  “Oh? Will you be doing the honors?” Pritchard looked doubtful. “Have you even been to Vauxhall? It’s no secret you spend nearly every minute of the day locked away in your office.”

  He could hardly say she would be unable to do much sightseeing from a prison cell, but hell if he would allow that pup to think he was going to be flaunting Mrs. Tindall on his arm all over London.

  “She is my guest. If she wishes to enjoy London while we are there, then it will be my responsibility.”

  “Responsibility?” Pritchard grinned and turned toward Mrs. Tindall. “Unlike Steel Breeches, I have a heart, my dear. It would be my pleasure to escort you to all the entertainments London has to offer, as well as private events I shall host myself,” Pritchard said, punctuating it with
a suggestive wink.

  “Bacon-brain,” Fowlerton muttered.

  Drake had controlled himself during Pritchard’s nonsense, knowing the man as a chronic yet harmless flirt, but when he heard Mrs. Tindall’s shocked oh, he abruptly pushed his chair back from the table and stood.

  “If you will pardon us, gentlemen, we must be going. I prefer to get in a full day of travel,” he said, offering his hand to her as he spoke.

  She hesitated, looking from him to her plate and back again before she slowly accepted his hand.

  Pembridge stood with them, following as they made their way into the hall. “May I walk with you, Saint Brides?”

  “By all means,” Drake muttered. Not that he had much of a choice.

  “I hope you will forgive Pritchard, Mrs. Tindall,” Pembridge said once they were out of earshot of the breakfast room. “He’s harmless, truly. Utterly captivated by a certain Miss Cecilia Hunter. Someday, God willing, the idiot will marry her. Then, perhaps, he might start behaving himself and stop casting lures he has no intention of reeling in.”

  Sarah smiled and assured him she was not the least bit offended, only surprised, and she would not hold it against him.

  Drake could not say the same, so he kept quiet as they accepted their coats and hats at the door. Once they were at the carriage and Mrs. Tindall was settled inside, Pembridge pulled him aside.

  “Who is she to you?” he asked quietly.

  “I was sure I had made the introductions the moment she joined us in the breakfast room,” Drake said, hedging the question.

  Blue eyes narrowed on him. “I thought you weren’t a field man.”

  “I am not, as you well know,” he said evenly.

  “Yet you have taken it upon yourself to escort a murderess to Newgate,” Pembridge stated suspiciously. “What’s so special about her? Is she a duke’s illegitimate daughter? Is she a spy? Do you need to get information out of her?” He eyed the carriage. “If so, it should not take me more than a few hours, at most, to pry it out of her.”

  “Your assistance is more tempting than you could possibly know, but no. I thank you.” While he trusted Pembridge to get results, he wasn’t about to let the man torture Mrs. Tindall into giving up her secrets.