That was putting it mildly. Nate had screamed like a girl—he looked at Miss Wilkinson and decided she would not approve of that description—and leapt out of bed. And then he’d chased Alex down the corridor, cursing and promising to beat him to a bloody pulp.
“I should think not.” She gave him a reproachful look.
“Yes, well, I did apologize profusely.” He offered her his arm. “Allow me to escort you to the relatively spider-free house.”
They walked back in uneasy silence.
Chapter Eight
Jane walked down the sloping lawn toward a line of trees. She was feeling a little fragile.
She’d tossed and turned all night. Every time she’d closed her eyes, she’d relived the scene by the fountain. The moonlight. The quiet intimacy. The touch of Alex’s—Lord Evans’s—hand smoothing back her hair. The slight friction of his mouth on hers.
And the intense need that had surged through her, that was still beating inside her, even now, hours later, in the bright morning sunlight.
She stopped and touched her lips, swollen and sensitive with the memory.
The kiss had been completely unlike the one Lord Dennis had forced on her years ago at Davenport Hall. Then all she’d wanted was to escape. Last night, it had taken all her control not to press herself closer, wrap her arms around Alex’s neck, and welcome him in deeper.
And it wasn’t just the unsettling physical sensations that haunted her. She was twenty-eight. She had some inkling about physical lust, not that she’d felt it often. This was more than physical.
I care about his feelings.
Sometime during the endless night she’d conceded that it had hurt her far too much to tell him what she’d overheard Charlotte say. Why?
She believed in speaking the unvarnished truth without roundaboutation . . . well, except perhaps when she’d been plotting to win the Spinster House. But nothing was ever gained by living a fairy tale. It would have been a tragedy for both of them if Lord Evans had married Charlotte.
Both of them meaning Lord Evans and Charlotte, of course.
Except...
Lud! She squeezed her eyes shut. At the darkest part of the night, she’d thought it would have been tragedy for her, too. Which was ridiculous. Whom Lord Evans did or didn’t marry had nothing to do with her except insofar as she would likely encounter the woman at any celebrations Cat or Anne might have. Lord Evans was a close friend of her friends’ husbands, after all.
What if I were the next countess?
Good Lord, where had that thought come from? She was the Spinster House spinster, happily and permanently independent. She was not looking for a husband.
Clearly, she was far too tired to think rationally.
She’d decided when she’d finally given up on sleep and got out of bed that a nice brisk walk would help settle her chaotic emotions. From the house, she’d seen what looked like a glint of sun on water, and, when she’d asked Lady Chanton about it, the woman had confirmed there was a pleasant woods with a lake and a lovely walking path at the bottom of the hill. She’d encouraged Jane to go for a stroll—in fact, she’d almost pushed her out the door.
So she should start strolling again and stop thinking. But where was the path? She scanned the line of trees—ah, there it was. She adjusted her course, angling off to the right, and soon stepped into the cool, peaceful woods.
She felt better immediately. She took a deep breath, drawing in the scent of the forest, and listened to the rustling of small animals moving through the leaves, the call of birds above her, the splash of—
Splash?
It must be a duck landing on the pond. Several ducks. An entire flock.
The sound was far too loud and regular for that.
She cautiously followed the path down to the lake, the carpet of fallen pine needles muffling her steps, and looked out to see—
Lud! There’s a naked man in the water!
She jumped behind the nearest tree.
No, I must be mistaken.
She peered around the tree trunk. Fortunately, her dress was a shade of green that would blend into her surroundings.
She hoped.
Yes, that was definitely a naked man. He was swimming away from her, so she could admire his broad shoulders and muscled back without being seen. Who was it? Not Randolph. Lord Chanton? No, the viscount’s hair was darker and surely his shoulders weren’t this broad....
The man turned slightly—oh! She ducked back behind the tree. It was Lord Evans.
All the upsetting feelings of the night before came roaring back.
I should not be spying on him . . . though I do seem to be making a habit of spying these days.
She peeked again just as the earl chose to dive underwater, giving her an excellent view of his arse.
Mmm. That was very nice.
What was she thinking? She should be shocked. Embarrassed. Alarmed. Having a fit of the vapors. Instead she felt hot and breathless and her most private part was, well, throbbing and damp. She wanted to tear off her own clothes and dive into that nice, cold, occupied water.
He surfaced, swam a few more strokes toward shore, and stood. Water streamed down his muscled arms, broad back, and narrow waist and hips.
Oh. Oh, my.
He shook his head, sending drops flying, and ran his hands over his body to remove more water.
I’d like to help with that....
She flushed even as her palms itched to feel those hard muscles and warm flesh—
What a shocking notion. She would not—
He turned to face her, and what little rational thought still remained in her poor brain was swamped by a raging tide of lust. Her gaze examined—far too avidly—the light-colored hair that dusted his chest and then traveled in a narrow line over his flat belly to a nest of curls where his male bit rested.
That was rather larger than any she’d seen depicted in art.
She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her forehead into the rough tree bark. Jane Margaret Wilkinson, you are not to be looking at the Earl of Evans’s male bit!
Yes, but . . . just one more peek?
She saw to her disappointment—no, to her relief—that he had turned away again and was reaching for his shirt.
Here’s my opportunity to escape.
If she stayed where she was, she’d be discovered—and die of embarrassment. The path back to the house was only a foot from her current hiding place. The only way he’d not see her was if he were struck blind.
She would have to dart away when his shirt was over his head. If she made it to the bend in the path, she might be safe.
She lifted her skirt so she wouldn’t trip and waited. As soon as Lord Evans’s eyes were covered, she took off running—as quietly as she could—and didn’t stop until she came to the end of the path. Once she saw the broad lawn in front of her, she dropped her skirt, took a deep breath, and stepped sedately out of the concealing trees. If anyone was watching from the house, they would assume she was calmly returning from a leisurely stroll around the lake and think no more of it.
Fortunately, they would not be able to see her legs trembling nor hear her breath coming in short gasps.
She lengthened her stride, heading for the back of the house and the garden door. She needed to put as much distance between herself and the woods as she could. Lord Evans would be emerging shortly and she did not want him to suspect she’d seen him.
Good God, she was turning into a wanton! Who but a light skirt would hide behind a tree to spy on a naked man? A respectable spinster should have turned her back and hurried away at once.
Mmm. I would never have guessed those chiseled arms and muscled, flat—
Do not think about the earl’s naked body!
She fanned her heated face with her hand.
This was all Bea’s fault. Bea was the one who’d persuaded her to meet at the fountain and then hadn’t shown up. If not for that, she’d have gone straight to her room and been safe
ly reading while Lady Charlotte and Septimus and the earl prowled the garden. Her life would still be calm and orderly and . . . spinsterish. She—
She sighed. No, it wasn’t all Bea’s fault. She had to be honest. She bore a good deal of the responsibility. She should have insisted Lord Evans take her back to the house the moment she’d seen him and been firm about not wanting to see the fountain. She should definitely not have said one word about Lady Charlotte. The girl was none of her concern.
Perhaps not, but I hate to see Alex hurt . . .
Lord Evans was none of her concern either. Really, she’d been fortunate he’d behaved himself, at least for the most part. After that distasteful experience with Lord Dennis, she’d been very careful never to be alone with a man.
You were alone with Lord Evans in the Spinster House.
That was different. She was older and wiser now and Poppy had been present. One might not consider a cat an effective chaperone, but she had no doubt that if the earl had tried anything questionable under Poppy’s sharp eyes, he would have found Poppy’s claws buried deep in his lovely, muscled arse.
Do not think about Lord Evans’s hindquarters!
She waved her hand in front of her face again. If anyone saw her and asked what she was doing, she’d tell them she was swatting bugs.
The truth was last night had been nothing like that dreadful time in Lord Davenport’s library. With Lord Dennis she’d felt mauled. He hadn’t cared who she was. He’d just wanted a female. Any female would have suited his purposes. But Lord Evans had invited her—Miss Jane Wilkinson—to join him in some wonderful adventure. An invitation she’d felt completely free to decline—but hadn’t wanted to.
Lud! She’d wanted to abandon all reason and restraint and propriety and go wherever he led. It had taken all her willpower to keep from throwing her arms around him and pulling him full against her body, from breasts to . . .
She felt a hot blush flood her face. She’d even wanted to do whatever it was Charlotte had been doing with Septimus.
Lord Evans’s virtue had been far more at risk than her own.
He is looking for a wife....
She stopped by the garden wall and blinked at the ivy.
He hadn’t mentioned marriage last night.
Of course he hadn’t. They’d been talking about Charlotte and his broken betrothal. He clearly was still very much affected by that.
And yet he kissed me.
As had Lord Dennis, and he most certainly had not had marriage in mind.
Men were just very odd creatures when it came to such matters. Look at Randolph. He’d had a weekly appointment with Mrs. Conklin, the village’s woman of accommodating morals, for years. It was simply a fact of life that men were able to separate physical actions from emotional attachments.
She went through the gate and followed the path toward the house.
And she had to admit, she wasn’t an expert on the subject of physical love, even though she was twenty-eight. Besides that one dreadful encounter with Lord Dennis—and the lovely interlude with Lord Evans last night—she’d never been kissed.
She’d been too embarrassed to ask Cat and Anne any questions. It had felt an invasion of their—and their husbands’—privacy. And she had no older sisters—no sisters at all—to turn to. Her mother had died before Jane’s courses had even started.
She certainly wasn’t about to ask Randolph—
She chuckled. Lord, poor Randolph had had to assure her she wasn’t dying the first time her menses came—and then he’d hurried her over to the vicarage and asked Cat’s mother to explain things. But of course Mrs. Hutting wasn’t going to discuss marital duties to a fourteen-year-old girl.
She would guess, given how her feminine parts had reacted, that the business involved the male organ, nakedness, touching, and kissing.
Should I see if I can make a match for myself?
No! I’m not going to follow in Isabelle Dorring’s footsteps and squander my independence for some man, no matter how attractive.
She turned a corner and saw a couple in an alcove, locked in a passionate embrace. She stepped back quickly. Lud! That had looked like Randolph and Lady Eldon.
She peered around the corner to check.
Yes, that’s who it was. They really must be intending to wed and, from the look of it, soon. Well, why wait? Neither of them was getting any younger. And now that Jane had moved into the Spinster House, Randolph needed a woman to keep house for him.
She frowned. No, that was unkind of her. And unfair. She believed Randolph truly loved Lady Eldon.
She shifted from foot to foot. She didn’t want to interrupt them and, well, she wasn’t ready to hear her brother’s good news. Not right now when she still felt off balance.
She retraced her steps—and then remembered she might encounter Lord Evans if she continued in that direction. The image of his naked shoulders and chest and male bit leapt into her mind and she flushed again.
Where should she go?
She heard children’s voices. Perfect. Children wouldn’t notice her embarrassment, and their antics should distract her from a certain earl.
* * *
That swim had been just what he’d needed, Alex thought as he pulled on his breeches. He’d intended to ride as was his habit, perhaps going over to Evans Hall to check on things there, but he’d felt far too tense and out of sorts to inflict himself on poor Horatio.
Swimming had been a far better choice. The cold water and exercise had cleared the cobwebs from his brain and restored his equilibrium. Now he was ready to stop by the nursery to see the girls and then face Diana and her guests.
And Miss Wilkinson.
Lust slammed into his gut—and another, far more prominent organ. He shoved the misbehaving body part into his breeches, tucked in his shirt, and buttoned his fall so his, er, thoughts weren’t so obvious. Not that he expected company. It was early. Everyone else—except for his sister whom he’d met on his way out—was still abed. The birds or squirrels or spiders wouldn’t care that he was aroused.
Spiders. He smiled. So Miss Wilkinson was afraid of spiders. She should have left her shawl where it had fallen and let the spiders set up housekeeping. Why had she hidden herself under its over-warm folds? She was brave and independent about everything else—she should be equally confident about her lovely body.
His unruly body swelled with eagerness again, but the sturdy fabric of his breeches kept it under control.
He could have used some control last night he thought as he pulled on his stockings and shoes. He’d tossed and turned through a succession of heated dreams, all featuring a certain prickly spinster.
He picked up his waistcoat. Zeus, he was not a youth, new to romantic urges. He was a grown man with a normal history of sexual encounters. The thought that two brief kisses—
Well, it had been more than the kisses. It had been the light, tentative touch of Jane’s hands, the softness of her mouth and cheek and neck under his lips, her sweet scent of lemon and woman, her air of brave innocence—they had all combined to condemn him to this sensual purgatory. Still, the fact that such small things could so affect him that he’d be standing here in the middle of the woods the next morning, no female in sight, with a throbbing erection was ludicrous.
And yet, here he was. Too bad he didn’t have time for another dip in the cold lake.
He wrapped his cravat around his neck and made short work of tying it.
It made no sense. Miss Wilkinson was attractive, but she was not anything out of the ordinary. On the contrary, she was a little too tall, a little too thin, and much too opinionated. And she was twenty-eight years old—firmly on the shelf.
That was the most important point—Miss Wilkinson had gone to a fair amount of trouble to claim her spot on that shelf. She was very happy there. She would not welcome his—or any man’s—attempts to dislodge her.
And he shouldn’t try. He wasn’t in a position to court any female, no matter how much
Diana and Bea and likely Mama tried to meddle. Bloody hell, he’d thought himself in love with Charlotte, and he’d either been wrong or he knew nothing about the emotion. Just as bad, he’d thought she’d loved him, when clearly she had not.
It was very lowering to realize he was so blind.
He shrugged on his coat and started along the path up through the woods to the house.
Blind? Ha! He could see one thing clearly. He should not be feeling anything for Miss Wilkinson. She was nothing like the sort of wife he’d determined he required. Quiet and restful? Hardly. She’d already dragged confusion and hubbub into his life—into his soul, really.
There was only one thing for it: As he’d decided yesterday, he would put off looking for a wife until he felt certain he could trust his instincts on the matter.
He kicked a pinecone out of his path with more force than the small bit of vegetation warranted.
Likely a good part of his problem arose from the fact he’d been celibate too long. Once he was back in London, he’d visit that new brothel everyone was talking about.
The thought was frighteningly unappealing.
He stopped at the end of the trees, closing his eyes as the thought he’d been avoiding wormed its way to the surface.
Why in God’s name did I admit Charlotte’s actions had wounded me?
Blech! What a mawkish, namby-pamby sort of fellow Miss Wilkinson must think him. It was quite embarrassing. He would pretend that part of the evening had never happened. Undoubtedly, Miss Wilkinson would prefer to pretend that as well.
He started walking briskly up the lawn to the house, but changed direction when he heard the sound of children’s voices. The girls must be out on the broad, level field beyond the garden.
Indeed, they were. The middle girls—Ruth, Esther, Rachel, and Rebecca—were playing a spirited game of tag. Bea and her next younger sister, fourteen-year-old Caroline, sat on a blanket, reading. Four-year-old Judith and two-year-old Martha stood with their nurse, Miss Conover, watching the game.
And Diana sat in a chair with Christopher—and next to her sat a suddenly red-faced Miss Wilkinson.
When to Engage an Earl Page 11
