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

by Kristen McLean

  The key clicked in the lock, and the door opened to reveal a humble yet comfortable looking room.

  He waited for her to enter, but she stood unmoving in the hall.

  He frowned down at her. “Is there something wrong with the room?”

  She turned to him abruptly, a nervous smile on her lips. “Will you join me for a drink?”

  Sarah folded her shaking hands behind her back. She was nervous. She was beyond nervous. It seemed every mile they traveled brought her nearer to hysteria. She was about to marry. Again. And to this man. Dear God, what was she thinking?

  But it was her only choice. If she didn’t marry him, she might be killed. And it wasn’t as though she were testing the waters, so to speak, trying to decide whether or not she could tempt him to do more than kiss her. To get her with child. That would be unforgiveable. Unethical. Wrong.

  That wasn’t what this was.

  Nor was this desire, or some force dragging her to him, into the sheer presence of him. Nor was it the beauty of him. The sound of his voice, velvet and deep. The feel of his hands, sending pricks of heat and energy over her skin. She wasn’t so weak as to give in to such a base enticement. No, this was simply wishing for a strong drink with a fellow comrade in this stressful, morbid scheme.

  Right.

  She needed a drink, and she needed it yesterday. She couldn’t explain why she wanted it with him, and she didn’t care to. All she knew was that having a calming drink and listening to his reassurances that they weren’t making the biggest mistake of their lives was what she desperately needed right this very second.

  It had nothing to do with this strange churning thing he did to her stomach when he looked at her with those intensely green eyes of his. The kind of eyes that saw through a person to their soul, the kind that instantly knew every lie a person had ever told.

  He blinked back at her, then glanced into the room, his sharp gaze assessing and analyzing. He was thinking, she noticed with a smile. He did it often, over the simplest decisions, she realized.

  Then his attention was back on her, and the force of it struck her like a blow to the chest, and not for the first time.

  “I do not drink.”

  “I’m not asking you to down an entire bottle. Just a swallow of sherry.”

  He frowned, glancing over her, his gaze lingering on her neck. “You are nervous.”

  “You’re dashed right I’m nervous,” she admitted. “A traditional wedding is cause enough for an attack of nerves. What we are about to do is likely to cause an apoplexy.”

  He didn’t look convinced, which mystified her. She wasn’t wrong about their endeavor. It was insanity.

  “It’s natural to be nervous,” he finally said. “A perfectly normal response. You need not do anything about it.”

  “Oh, I do if I plan on getting any sleep at all tonight,” she said, pursing her lips. “Truth be told, I’m not completely ready to be alone just yet.”

  He grimaced, letting out a long breath. “I cannot stay long.”

  “Of course,” she said as he followed her inside and closed the door.

  She stood behind the only chair, clasping the tall back, as he went to pour a glass of amber liquid.

  He brought it to his nose. “It isn’t sherry,” he said. He turned and made his way to her, handing her the glass. “I don’t know what it is, but it smells strong enough to kill.”

  She took the glass and downed the contents in one go. Fire followed in its wake.

  “Good God,” she rasped.

  One side of his mouth quirked up. “That good, is it?”

  She shook her head and breathed, “More.”

  He took the empty glass, refilled it, and handed it back to her. “You might want to take this one a bit…” His voice faded as he watched her down that glassful as well.

  She surrendered the empty glass when he held out his hand for it, refusing to feel the shame she should after acting in such an unladylike manner. She was a widow and about to marry for the second time this year, but only to escape the noose so a crazed murder would pursue her. A stiff drink or two was not uncalled for.

  He placed the glass back on the side table. “If you wish for any more, I suggest you do it alone. One generally does not wish to be observed when one loses one’s dignity.”

  She nodded. He was right. He shouldn’t be there. Alone with her. In a bedroom. With a large four-poster looming in the corner.

  They would not be intimate. She would leave whatever passion was between them behind when she traveled the world. She didn’t need passion. She had lived just fine without it until she had met him.

  She reached the door before him, pausing with her hand on the knob.

  But it was wonderful and life changing, and unlike anything she had ever known. She had never felt passion like that before him, before he had taken her mouth as though he had every right to it, every right to her.

  She might never find passion like that again. Certainly not with someone she admired as well as Drake.

  Drake. How long had she thought of him by his given name?

  She could feel him behind her, feel his heat seeping into her back through layer after layer of clothing.

  “Just once more,” she said and knew immediately why she had needed to invite him in for a drink.

  He might chastely kiss her cheek or her knuckles tomorrow if he so chose, but she wanted to taste passion tonight. It didn’t have to be much. She just needed something to take with her… to Europe or to the grave. Something to keep her warm in the coming years if she lived through this insane scheme. And she wanted it from a man she respected. Someone she could… love?

  “Pardon?”

  She had always prided herself on her courage, but now she couldn’t quite force herself to turn around. Not yet. Not until he gave her his answer. The thought of simply asking him outright was so deliciously wicked. More wicked than she had ever been before.

  No one ever expired from being just a little wicked.

  “Sarah, I cannot walk through you.” His voice was so near, rumbling over her shoulder.

  “Kiss me.”

  Her breathing stopped. His sounded harsh in her ear.

  “I am quite certain I misheard,” he muttered.

  “Kiss me before you go.” She smiled shakily at the door. “Give me something to dream of.”

  “You do not want to dream of me,” he said. “No one has ever wanted to dream of me.”

  Her brows knit. “I know what I want.”

  “Do you?” He let out a humorless chuckle. “You can’t even face me.”

  “Because I do not wish to,” she returned. It was mostly true. She did not wish to… because she didn’t have the courage to look him in the eye. She didn’t want to see that flicker of distaste if he thought her wanton, or if he was repulsed by her request. If he regretted that he had touched her before.

  “Or perhaps it’s because you know how dangerous this is,” he said, close enough she could feel his breath on her ear, a teasing puff of heat. “I shouldn’t be here, alone with you. We have already established you are irresistible.”

  “Not enough, apparently,” she muttered. Disappointment pricked.

  “Any more so, and I might be the one losing my dignity,” he murmured. “Now step aside and let me by. Admit you had too much to drink. End this.”

  “Yes, let’s blame the alcohol, not some idiotic desire to become lost in your kisses.” She snorted, irritated beyond reason that she should want such a thing with him. “They are only kisses. Just a mashing of lips. Your tongue sliding against mine. Your hands…” She swallowed, basking in the memory of being in his arms, becoming drunk on his kiss.

  “You are blushing,” he said, his finger brushing her neck. “Do you always blush when you speak of kisses?”

  Her breath hitched. Maybe blaming the alcohol wasn’t such a terrible idea after all.

  “I never speak of… those things. It’s the drink. That is all.”
/>   “It’s fetching,” he murmured. “I wish it were because of me.”

  “How silly. It couldn’t possibly be because of you,” she said tartly, looking down her nose at the door as though she were facing him.

  She felt the heat of his breath on her ear before his tongue began tracing its ridge, a slow, tantalizing caress.

  She trembled, her legs suddenly as weak as saplings under a prodigious weight.

  “Why?” The masculine rumble was so low, so soft, as it rolled over her.

  She swallowed. “Why what?”

  “Why could it not possibly be because of me?” he asked, nuzzling her neck, scratching her with the stubble covering his jaw, his mouth a soft contrast on her skin.

  She closed her eyes, lolling her head to the side and granting him better access to her neck. “Because that would intimate I have some attraction to you. How could I have an attraction to a man I know does not like me?”

  He found the sensitive spot below her ear, sending waves of heat throughout her body. Then he grazed it with his teeth before laving the tender skin with his tongue. She gasped at the wicked pleasure of it.

  “I do like you,” he murmured against her skin.

  “You do?” Even as happiness lit her face, his touch lifted as he moved away.

  “I do.” His voice became distant, cool. “That’s why I ought to go. Why I should never have touched you.”

  Tears burned behind her eyes, and she silently cursed herself.

  “Of course,” she forced out. “Leave if that is what you so desperately wish to do.”

  She made to step aside, but he clasped her arms, keeping her in place.

  “I ought to lie and say yes, thank you, and be on my way. In fact, had you said need, I would be gone by now, but you did not. You said wish.” His voice lowered to a murmur in her ear. “I do not wish to leave. What I wish to do… Good God, Sarah, you should not have invited me in.”

  Then his mouth was on her neck. With his tongue, he swirled small circles on her skin, traveling ever so slowly toward her ear. When he reached it, he took it in his mouth, tugging and suckling until she sighed, dropping her head back onto his shoulder.

  She brought her hands up as though possessed, tangling them in his hair, pulling him to her even as he eased away.

  “Sarah,” he uttered, his voice trembling. “Forgive me, I can’t. I must go.”

  “Drake, wait.” But it was too late.

  He set her away from the door and disappeared into the hall, leaving her tingling and dazed.

  All she could do was whimper, trembling with the lingering pleasure of his touch, desperately thinking of some way to ease the ache he left in her belly and between her thighs, knowing nothing she could do would be enough.

  Chapter 17

  Drake feigned sleeping the entire rest of the journey to Yorkshire, from the moment they entered the carriage to the moment they arrived at Barrington Park. It was cowardly, but he was in no mood for bravery, especially if it meant looking into Sarah’s eyes and seeing the hurt there. He had rejected her, and she undoubtedly despised him for it.

  Or thought him impotent. He would think the same, were he to hear of any other living man refusing to kiss such a woman.

  His male pride was pricked, something he hadn’t felt since he had been a young lad in knee breeches. He did not like it one bit. He liked even less the idea of losing whatever affection Sarah might have had for him.

  While he had no intention of capitalizing on that affection ever again, the loss still stung. No one had ever tried to seduce him as she had. He was always too busy to be put in a situation where one might even attempt the endeavor. Or perhaps they were too subtle, and he was oblivious to their attempts.

  Sarah was about as subtle as a punch in the face.

  After what felt like an eternity in the carriage, he finally stood in his library, overlooking the moors. While no longer laced with the bite of winter cold, the weather was not entirely favorable, either. The clouds rolling overhead were dark and heavy with rain, casting foreboding shadows over the landscape.

  It would storm tonight. Violent and electrical, and during the ceremony, most probably. They would have to exchange their vows at the chapel in the castle instead of the village chapel to avoid being caught in it.

  Barrington chapel hadn’t been used in over a hundred years.

  He moved from the window to pull the bell rope. Moments later, a footman entered.

  “My lord?”

  “Have the chapel prepared for use this evening, and send for the vicar. He is to stay here tonight. This storm will not be forgiving.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The servant left, and Drake resumed his place at the window.

  “I think I agree with you.”

  Drake stiffened at Pembridge’s voice drifting from the sofa near the fire. He had forgotten the earl was in the room. The man had been blessedly silent since they had arrived.

  “I only hope our villain is not too put off by having to invade this gothic monstrosity instead of a humble chapel in the village,” Pembridge added.

  He frowned, glancing once more out the large window. “The storm may keep him at bay, for tonight, at least. Late tomorrow night, we should expect him. Long after Gordon arrives with his recruits.”

  “Still, I suggest putting a few extra footmen at Sarah’s door to stand guard.” Pembridge grinned. “Unless you plan on doing the honors?”

  “It would be senseless for me to stand guard outside her door when a few footmen would better protect her.”

  “Not outside her room, Steel Breeches,” Pembridge drawled, pausing to sip his brandy. “It is too bad Céleste isn’t here to decorate the chapel for you. She has a remarkable gift for it.”

  “I hear you do as well,” Drake said, thankful for the change in subject. He knew Pembridge had a gift for decorating. He knew almost everything about everyone, including Pembridge’s affinity for remodeling old, unused buildings, and turning them into lovely cottages or fine silk factories.

  Pembridge grinned. “I do, but she is truly remarkable. If you would like, I could try my hand at a few frivolous decorations.”

  Drake was about to refuse his offer, but stopped himself. “Do you think Sarah would expect it to be decorated? Would she prefer it so?”

  Pembridge lifted a brow. “You are hopeless.”

  “It is a reasonable question.”

  “A reasonable…” Pembridge stopped and shook his head, lifting himself off the sofa. “How much time do I have?”

  Drake glanced at his watch fob. “Three hours and a quarter.”

  “In three and one quarter hours, my hopeless fellow, that chapel shall look marvelous. Or, as marvelous as it can be in such a short amount of time and with limited resources.” He cast Drake a pointed look. “I assume you haven’t entertained in the last decade or so?”

  Drake gave him a quick shake of his head.

  “Uh-huh. That’s what I thought,” Pembridge muttered. He moved for the door. “I shall see you in three hours, Steel Breeches.”

  “Thank you, Pembridge.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Pembridge returned as he walked out the door.

  True to his word, within three hours, Drake and Pembridge were standing in the tastefully decorated Barrington Park chapel. Though the sky was black and thunder rumbled in the distance, the outdoors was blocked by white curtains flowing from the tall windows lining the walls. A long, white runner stretched from the door to the altar. White and pale pink ribbons knotted in intricate bows were tied to the end of each pew, with bouquets of white and pink roses hanging from them. Very familiar roses, with perfection in every petal.

  “Those look like Mother’s prized roses,” Drake muttered suspiciously.

  Pembridge grinned. “I had them brought over from the dower house.”

  Drake lifted a brow and sent him a side-glance. “Pray she spares your life, Pembridge.”

  The blond dandy laughed in the
face of certain death.

  “She will not spare mine when she realizes what I have done… What she missed,” Drake muttered. She couldn’t have come. It was simply too dangerous. She was safe in London with Lady Umberton.

  “Perhaps she will forgive you when you present her with the sketch.”

  Drake’s brows knit. “What sketch?”

  Pembridge pointed to two girls about ten years of age in pink, flowing gowns, sitting in chairs against the wall. They each had large sketchpads in their hands.

  “One will be used as a reference for the painting they will make for you later, but one you may take with you as soon as it is finished.”

  “Who are they?” Drake asked, wondering with panic how many others Pembridge had taken leave to invite.

  “The flower girls and the sketch artists,” Pembridge explained as though it were obvious. “They will drop rose petals on the ground ahead of the bride…” Pembridge paused when Drake cursed under his breath but then continued. “And then they will sit and sketch during the ceremony. I believe, for now, they are drawing the room so they only have the bride and groom to focus on during the ceremony.”

  “Have you asked Sarah? Has she agreed to this?”

  “It’s a surprise, Steel Breeches, one I promise you she will be overjoyed with,” Pembridge assured him. “Trust me. I have been through this before.”

  Drake nodded, feeling a deep pang in his chest. He had done nothing to deserve such a friend as Pembridge. He had certainly never worked at keeping up the connection. Yet, here the man stood, having traveled to London the moment he had learned of Drake’s betrothal, then coming to Yorkshire to help him capture a villain, and decorating the chapel for Drake’s wedding. Soon, he would be standing as best man.

  “Thank you, Pembridge,” Drake said, at a loss for the words to describe the knot of unspoken gratitude in his chest. “Thank you, Nick.”

  Pembridge grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. “All in a day’s work, you lucky devil.”

  Lucky was one word he would never have attributed to his life, not in the least. Plagued would work better. However, he didn’t feel especially plagued at the moment. He wasn’t sure what he felt. Frightened out of his wits, he supposed. And anxious.