The Earl Who Played With Fire

by Sara Ramsey

  He shifted an arm under her derriere and pulled her up to him. That, and the promise in his voice, was enough to throw her over the cliff. She cried out as her climax wracked her, flinging her arm over her mouth to stifle the scream she hadn’t known she had within her. Everything was hot, shuddering, torture and release in the same breath.

  Torture and release. It was no wonder she loved him, if this moment was a perfect mirror of everything that had happened before. She loved him, hated him, needed him, dreamed of him — a pain and a completion that fed on itself, the same way her climax stretched on, seemingly endless.

  She loved him. Even if he didn’t love her.

  And she would have to find a way to live with it.

  As aftershocks went, that was a bleak one. She came down quickly, pulling her arm away from her mouth. Alex looked smug as he slid back up her body. “Did I please you?” he asked, as one does who expects a certain answer.

  “Yes,” she said. She couldn’t lie to him about that.

  But it wasn’t the yes she wanted to give him.

  His grin faded. “Did I hurt you somehow? I thought I was slow enough, but your breasts…I may have carried myself away.”

  She nearly laughed at that, but she sensed that laughter about this particular situation might injure him. “You didn’t hurt me. You were lovely.”

  Alex frowned. “What is it, then? Something is wrong. Why?”

  At least he asked. Mortifying as it was to tell him, at least he hadn’t walked away feeling satisfied with himself.

  “Why did you do this?” she asked. She had to know. She was stupid for asking, but it was a compulsion. “Was it…was it because of Thorington?”

  “Thorington?” Alex said. “Were you thinking of him just now?”

  He sat up beside her, didn’t stop her when she pulled a sheet over her body. He left his shirt off, and she saw the bulge in his trousers — whatever he had come for, he wasn’t satisfied.

  That knowledge emboldened her. “Of course I wasn’t thinking of him. But why did you stop? I know what is supposed to happen next.”

  She didn’t quite have the vocabulary to ask for what she wanted. But if he was ready to keep her, she was ready to let him.

  He paused, though, too long for her comfort. Her rational side slunk back over from the cold part of the bed, whispering doubts in her ear.

  “Not yet.” He was silent another moment. “I want to. God, I want to. But I need a week.”

  “Why would you need a week?” she asked, bewildered enough that she didn’t promptly punch him again. “What purpose could possibly be served by waiting?”

  Alex seemed to consider something. She saw the doubt in his eyes as he mulled over whatever he was deciding about.

  The doubt won. “Give me a week. I promise I will have an answer for you then.”

  She didn’t want an answer — she wanted a question, the question she wanted to say yes to.

  “Find me when you have it,” she said.

  The dismissal in her voice chilled even her. She turned on her side away from him, refusing to meet his eyes, refusing to turn over again when he touched her shoulder. “I will give you an answer, Prue,” he vowed. “Just…please, wait for me.”

  He shifted off the mattress. She heard him gather his things, but she didn’t turn to see whether he put his clothing on properly or just shoved it into a bundle under his arm. Then the shadows from the candle moved, the floorboards creaked, the door opened…

  And he was gone. She flipped onto her back and stared at the ceiling, willing herself not to scream. She had known that he would lead her astray. She had let it happen, too seduced by the pleasure of his touch to remember the inconstancy of his heart.

  This was how all the women in Amelia’s favorite novels came to some bad end. Prudence had always scorned them before. Who would choose scandal and disgrace over proper conduct, when proper conduct guaranteed a roof over one’s head? If this were a novel, Alex would have ravished her that night and she would have begun a quick, dreadful descent into the brothels.

  She was being melodramatic. But she punched her fist against the mattress and wished it was his face instead. Anger warred with the hot tears leaking, unwelcome, from her eyes.

  “Bloody bounder,” she muttered to herself.

  He had asked for a week. If she were a better woman, she would wait meekly for him, the charity case consigned to the shelf while he went about his business.

  But in a week, the auction would be over. She would have the funds to start another life. If he didn’t want her — if those few gorgeous moments of pleasure were an aberration that he never planned to give her again — she would leave him. Surely there was somewhere in the world where she could forget him.

  And if she couldn’t forget him…

  She punched the mattress again. She’d lost her father, lost her brothers, lost her home, and was very near to losing her place in society. She’d survived it all. She wouldn’t lose herself just because Alex Bloody Staunton didn’t want her.

  Her curiosity, wretched beast that it was, would give him his week. But she couldn’t wait any longer for a life she would never have.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Six days later, Prudence no longer felt like wringing Alex’s neck.

  The thought had tempted her over the intervening days between that night in her room and Ellie’s auction. Alex had mostly avoided her, even though she felt his eyes watching her at dinner every night. He never made mention of the week he’d asked for. Nor did his voice, during the few moments they’d spoken to each other, hold anything more than distant affection.

  If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought him mad. At least madness would have been an explanation for his actions. And she might not have wanted to strangle him if she’d been able to send him to Bedlam.

  But by the evening of the auction, Prudence was no longer angry. She thought she might be sick instead.

  “You shall be rich after tonight,” Ellie pronounced.

  The marchioness adjusted the stone one final time. It was much smaller than the Rosetta Stone, approximately the size of a man’s outspread hand. The stonemason had roughened the edges and chipped a few flakes into the text so that it might look weathered, but it was still legible if one knew how to read Aramaic. Ellie had centered it on a piece of red velvet, adding a rich, sumptuous backdrop to the granite. Two footmen stood guard solemnly behind it — a pair of well-matched brunets, scandalously dressed in pleated white linen that was reminiscent of Egyptian drawings.

  Prudence was immorally proud of her efforts. But she was no longer sure that she wanted the results. “This is really too much,” she said.

  “Nonsense. Allow me to indulge my artistic inclinations and say that this tableau is perfect.”

  The craze for Egyptian furnishings had given way to other decorative schemes, but Ellie must have kept all of her old collection in her attics. She had redecorated her largest drawing room as an Egyptian fantasy, with low couches, large urns, and miles of white gauze. The stone stood in the center, on a pedestal, as though it was already important enough to be the premier attraction in a gallery.

  The tableau was perfect — if the stone itself wasn’t a forgery.

  “We shouldn’t do this,” Prudence said. “What if someone discovers that I am the seller?”

  “They won’t. I will take the money and give it to you, with no one the wiser. No one questions my dealings. And in any case, I have never canceled a party when the guests have already arrived, and I shan’t do it now.”

  “But what if it isn’t real?” Prudence asked. “What if I was wrong about its provenance?”

  It was as close as she could come to a confession. Even with the idea of ruin staring her in the face, she didn’t want to take the more honorable step and tell Ellie the truth. Ellie might hate her if she knew, and Prudence wasn’t ready to lose her friends.

  Ellie just laughed. “As I said, if the men are stupid enough to b
uy it, that is their business.”

  She waved another footman off in the direction of the musicians. They were seated behind a painted screen in a corner of the adjoining room, which guests might spill into when the main room became too crushed. As soon as they began to play, she nodded at the butler. He threw open the doors to the entrance hall, admitting the din of excited would-be buyers.

  Prudence was going to faint. Perhaps if she knocked over the pedestal as she toppled, she could grab the stone and run before anyone realized what she was doing.

  Ellie moved away to mingle with her guests. Prudence thought of going to the retiring room and hiding there until it was all over. She moved toward the door, intending to squeeze unnoticed past the entering guests.

  But Ostringer stood in the doorway, blocking her path. She was so startled to see him that she froze an instant too long, long enough for his sharp eyes to pick her out of the crowd. He walked toward her, slowly enough not to draw notice, but too quickly for her to escape. “Miss Etchingham,” he said, in a low voice that sounded like a judge pronouncing a death sentence. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance again.”

  “Mr. Ostringer,” she said. “If you will excuse me, I was just on my way out.”

  “Are you not feeling well?” he asked. The question was solicitous, but his tone wasn’t. “I had hoped you would have explored the offerings at my shop during these past weeks.”

  He had sent her several messages through her courier at the pub in Soho Square, each asking whether she had thought of something else to forge. She’d responded to the first few with vague murmurings about scarab beetles and vases — the projects she was working on in case the stone failed to sell. But she had burned the last two notes unanswered.

  “The Season is rather demanding,” she said. “I’m sure you understand.”

  He looked past her to the stone standing in the center of the room. “Of course, Miss Etchingham. I assume you’ve been quite busy helping Lady Folkestone with this little soiree.”

  “Lady Folkestone manages well enough on her own,” Prudence said.

  “She is a very intelligent and resourceful woman,” Ostringer agreed. “I wish all the ladies I knew were so adept at accomplishing their goals without courting disaster.”

  She wanted to ask him to state his business in plain English, but there were too many people around them. “I hope that you don’t hold me in such low esteem,” she said, in a voice made for shallow flirtation.

  “I could never hold you in low esteem. I suspect you could be like a daughter to me if I had the opportunity to know you better,” he said.

  It would have been touching, if it weren’t for the hard edge to his voice and the horde of people who might overhear him. “I thank you for the sentiment,” she said. “But I should retire now so that I may return before the auction.”

  His gaze held her in place. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want to miss seeing the sale. Men who don’t know better might be tempted to spend an extravagant sum on this stone.”

  “Do you intend to bid?” she asked.

  He laughed. “I know better. As should you, Miss Etchingham.”

  Her hands were cold and clammy in their gloves. “I’m no scholar, Mr. Ostringer.”

  She was trying to remind him of their public situation, trying to steer the conversation away from the deep waters she was near to drowning in. He didn’t seem to care. “It is for the best. I don’t hold with some of the prohibitions against the fairer sex — one of the smartest people I ever knew was a woman. You could rival her. But you don’t seem to know the difference between audacity and stupidity.”

  His voice was still low. No heads turned toward them. But Prudence’s stomach dropped into her shoes. “Now is not the time for conversation,” she said as quietly as she could.

  He shrugged. “Perhaps we will have the opportunity to converse again someday. But if you aren’t more careful, I rather doubt it. Good evening, Miss Etchingham.”

  He left her dumbstruck in the middle of the drawing room. He knew the stone was forged. And he knew she was responsible for it.

  Would he demand money from her to keep her secret? He hadn’t mentioned money at all, though. It was as though his warning was about something else entirely.

  She was too confused to parse his words, and her blood was running too hot and cold to allow her to calm her nerves. And anyway, she was surrounded by people — there was no room to consider what he had meant.

  She tried to leave for the retiring room again. But again, she was caught before she could melt into the shadows. Madeleine intervened, accompanied by Ferguson’s younger sisters, Lady Maria and Lady Catherine. “I am too jealous that you saw the room before Ellie opened the doors,” the duchess said as she kissed Prudence’s cheek. “Isn’t it lovely? But the twins were late, as usual.”

  Kate and Maria both protested. “We didn’t keep you waiting above five minutes,” Maria said.

  “It was closer to twenty,” Madeleine said.

  “In our defense, it was Ferguson’s fault,” Kate interjected. “His lecture this afternoon rivaled the longest ones Father ever gave us.”

  Prudence didn’t want to hear anything about their day, but she would attract far more attention to herself by leaving. “Where is Ferguson?” Prudence asked Madeleine.

  “Dining with Malcolm at Aunt Augusta’s house,” she said. “He asked me to tell Nick to meet them there for a drink when he tires of this ‘nonsense.’”

  “Perhaps we should consider living with Ellie,” Kate said, looking around the room. “She has more than enough room for us. And she wouldn’t balk at spending money on entertainment.”

  The twins had lived with Ferguson and Madeleine since their father had died the previous year, but at two-and-twenty they were beginning to chafe against their brother’s rules. Not that he had many. Or any, as far as Prudence knew. Ferguson had been a confirmed rake before marrying Madeleine. He was the last man Prudence thought to see turn into a conservative protector of female virtue.

  “What was Ferguson lecturing you about, if you pardon the question?” she asked.

  The twins both shifted. “He may have…taken umbrage at our new musical instruments,” Kate said.

  “It seems he did not know how much a new piano and harp might cost when he gave us permission to buy them,” Maria added solemnly.

  Rothwell had more than enough money to buy new instruments. “Is that all?” Prudence asked.

  The twins were silent. Madeleine snorted. “What they aren’t saying is that they also hired a music master along with the instruments. And that the music master is very young, very handsome, and very Italian.”

  “We must learn from someone,” Maria pointed out. “It isn’t Master Angiello’s fault that he is young.”

  “Or handsome,” Kate added, with a laugh she couldn’t quite suppress.

  Prudence smiled, but as they continued to prattle about their music master, her quicksand thoughts sucked her back in. She hadn’t been as carefree as them in…well, ever.

  She took a deep breath. Perhaps it was going to be all right, after she sold the stone. She would have to take care of Ostringer, of course.

  And she would have to escape Thorington. She’d burned six of his notes in the past week as well. They had all been attached to a single rose. All had said the same thing, as though he’d had them printed on a press: Miss Etchingham - do you have an answer yet? Yours, etc., Thorington.

  The man was surely mad. She’d ignored the notes and given the flowers to the maids.

  But once she paid off Ostringer, encouraged Thorington to find a better mark, and convinced herself to forget Alex, perhaps she could be the carefree sort of woman she had always longed to be.

  She couldn’t be carefree yet — not when her night kept getting worse. Alex found them then. It wasn’t lost on her that she was the first person he sought when he arrived.

  “Madeleine, Lady Catherine, Lady Maria, Miss Etchingham,” he said, bo
wing to each in turn. He didn’t linger over her name, nor did he promote her above her order of precedence even though she was older — hopefully dearer? — than the twins. “I hope you shall forgive my intrusion.”

  Kate spoke before the older ladies could respond. “How charming of you to join us, Lord Salford.”

  Was Kate simpering? Prudence took a glass of champagne from a passing footman and prayed for calm.

  If Madeleine noticed anything amiss, she gave no indication of it. “Do you mean to bid on the stone, cousin?”

  “Have you ever known me to refrain from such a find?” Alex asked.

  “No. But it’s just a stone,” Madeleine said. “Wouldn’t you prefer to save your funds for a statue or painting instead?”

  He shook his head. “It isn’t just a stone. It holds the key to unlocking everything.”

  Prudence couldn’t bear to hear his assessment of the rock she’d forged. “I’m sure the twins will be bored by the topic if we continue it. Shall we discuss something else?”

  “No need,” Maria said brightly, ignoring Prudence’s dampening intentions. “We find auctions thrilling.”

  “Have you ever been to an auction?” Prudence asked, with enough skepticism that she was sure her annoyance was obvious.

  “No,” Maria said. “But anything that secures Lord Salford’s interests sounds quite special indeed.”

  Alex inclined his head. “I do not deserve such flattery, but this particular object holds significant promise.”

  The twins continued flirting with him, asking him questions about the object, its provenance, and why he cared for it. Prudence barely listened. Her attention was focused instead on everything he wasn’t saying.

  The words themselves were calm, assessing the object as any collector might. But the cadence of his voice was faster. His shoulders were stiff, as though he needed the extra muscular control to keep from leaning forward and showing how eager he was. And while his loose stance was eminently proper, he was absentmindedly stroking his left palm with his right thumb — a gesture Prudence knew.