The Earl's Revenge

by Allison Lane

  Talk returned to the expedition to Tintagel, which was set for four days hence, weather permitting.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Elaine awoke to a foggy dawn. She had thrashed around for fully half the night, then found her sleep tormented by nightmares. None of the details were clear now, but despite the early hour she feared to try again. Instead, she donned a dressing gown, pulled out her sketchbook and drawing board, and set to work on Thornton’s last illustration. Three hours later she nodded her head in satisfaction. It would do.

  The job was complete. In a state of euphoria, she pulled on her cloak and indulged in an energetic walk along the cliff path. The morning sun had burned away the earlier fog, leaving the air clear. Gulls rose in shrieking clouds as she approached, to settle, grumbling, back in place once she had passed. Two seals played tag just offshore, their antics widening the smile on her face. In charity with the world, she turned back to the Manor.

  But her good humor waned when she entered the hall. The first person she ran into was Bridgeport. Despite his vow of friendship, she was uncomfortable in his presence. Her own growing attraction could no longer be ignored.

  “Good morning, my lord,” she murmured, intending to return to her room.

  “Have you already been out for a walk, Miss Thompson?” He smiled. “I envy you that. I have just come from visiting Miss Beddoes.”

  The words halted Elaine in her tracks. She looked up into green eyes that were much too close for comfort. “How is she?”

  “Worse, I fear. Dr. Martin arrived after you had retired for the night, but he does not hold out much hope. The hip is infected.”

  “Poor Helen,” replied Elaine with a shake of her head. “She will be heartbroken when the end arrives.” At the earl’s questioning stare, she continued. “Miss Beddoes is the only mother she has ever known. In the last two years, their roles have been nearly reversed, with Helen looking after the nurse. There is a very strong attachment there.”

  “Of course.” He frowned. “I hope her governess arrives soon. The more people she has to comfort her, the easier it will be.”

  “Perhaps.” She did not believe that a stranger would be able to offer any support. On the other hand, if the woman arrived soon enough, perhaps Helen would develop some rapport with her before the inevitable end. “Did Dr. Martin see after your own injury?”

  He nodded. “As expected, it is nothing. I am on my way to collect Helen for another riding lesson. Will you join us?” The invitation was prosaic but his eyes gleamed warmly.

  “Not today, my lord,” she managed to reply calmly. “I have some business with Mrs. Burgess this morning.” She needed to discover when someone would next travel to Bodmin for supplies. If it was soon, she could ride along and arrange for Mr. Holyoke to send the illustrations to Murray. If not, she must make her own plans.

  “I have been remiss in not offering thanks for organizing this gathering so efficiently, my dear. I don’t know how I could have managed without you.” He raised her hand to his lips, the touch sending shivers down her spine, for neither of them was wearing gloves. His eyes burned into hers.

  “You are mistaken,” she protested. “I have done nothing. And how quickly you forget your own fair words. If you truly wish for friendship you should practice acting less like a rake.”

  Pulling her hand from his, she turned toward the stairs. Insufferable man! How could he expect her to believe his flirting? No country dowd could attract him when he had Mrs. Woodleigh to warm his nights.

  Too far away to overhear their words, Mr. Hardwicke nevertheless saw that intimate caress and noted the look in Bridgeport’s eyes. His passion for revenge burned all the hotter after his failure, and he meant to embarrass the earl as much as possible. Stealing the man’s current mistress would strike a suitable blow to that puffed up lord. No woman had ever broken off an affair with the fellow.

  Consequently, he haunted the house, shrugging off a suggestion by Lord Means that he join the gentlemen for a morning ride. Two hours later, his vigilance was rewarded when Miss Thompson headed for the secluded workroom where every day she arranged the flowers used in the dining and drawing rooms. He checked to see that no one was in the vicinity, then followed.

  “My dear Miss Thompson,” he began smoothly, stopping in the doorway so she had no exit from the room. “You are looking remarkably beautiful today.” Her dark hair glowed mysteriously in the uncertain light of the workroom, turning her eyes to translucent gray. The unfashionable gown did little to hide her curvaceous figure.

  Elaine frowned. “Did you want something, Mr. Hardwicke?”

  “I have admired your floral artistry ever since we arrived,” he continued, smiling warmly. “It is such a pleasure to find someone who makes the most of the unique shape of each stalk instead of indiscriminately stuffing them into the nearest container.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She turned her attention to her work, hoping he would take the hint and leave. The treacly voice and insincerity were disturbing, and the gleam in his eyes made her nervous.

  “Such clever fingers,” he noted, the seductive tone making his meaning all too clear. “Long and slender. An elegant hand, capable of so much more than arranging the day’s flowers.”

  “Lord Bridgeport is in the library,” she suggested, finished an arrangement and beginning another. “He will doubtless welcome company.”

  “But I have no interest in speaking with him,” he said softly.

  Alarmed, Elaine realized that he was no longer propped against the wall. The door clicked shut as he scrutinized her arrangement – by sidling around the table.

  “I have work to do and must ask you to leave, sir,” she said frigidly, torn between fleeing in panic and forcing him to give up his game, whatever it was.

  “But I have no wish to leave.” His implacable voice told her too late that she had underestimated her danger. His movement had already trapped her in a corner. Waves of tension radiated from him, though her terrified mind could detect no hint of either lust or attraction. He picked up her icy hand and made as if to kiss it.

  “Your conduct is offensive,” she snapped, trying unsuccessfully to pull away. But his grasp tightened, his other arm whipping around her shoulders to pull her into an iron embrace.

  “Come now, Miss Thompson. Don’t play coy. You will find me just as accomplished as your current protector, and even more lavish.”

  “Let go!” Her free hand slapped his cheek hard enough to snap his head to one side.

  His leer changed to fury. “You will pay for that, my country vixen,” he growled, twisting one arm behind her and making an unsuccessful grab for the other. “It is not fair that Bridgeport keeps two doxies when there is not even a chambermaid for the rest of us.”

  “You must be drunk,” she panted, thrashing uselessly as he pulled her tighter against him. “No gentleman would attack a lady!” She twisted her head to avoid his kiss and spotted the shears still lying on the table. If only she could reach them! Easing her posture, she relaxed into his embrace in apparent capitulation. She could feel his triumph as one hand shifted to her breast. Panic engulfed her but she let him force her onto the worktable, then reached out with her free hand.

  “Damned wench!” he gasped as the scissors dug into his side.

  She jabbed harder until he rolled off, allowing her to jump out of reach. “Get out!”

  “Never!” he swore. “No country slut will get the best of me.”

  “I don’t know where you got these ridiculous ideas, but you are wrong,” she gasped, tears springing to her eyes.

  “You needn’t bother perjuring yourself,” he spat. “Everyone knows you are one of Bridgeport’s whores. He is never faithful to his women, so why should you be.” He was inching closer as he spoke, taking advantage of her paralyzing shock to grab the shears.

  “I always suspected you were stupid, Hardwicke, but this proves it,” drawled the Earl of Bridgeport from the newly opened door.

  Hard
wicke whirled, his color draining so fast he swayed. The shears ricocheted off the wall to land at the earl’s feet. Sobbing, Elaine collapsed onto a chair.

  “You cannot deny the truth,” shouted Hardwicke, launching an attack on the earl.

  Bridgeport sidestepped, landing quick punches to the jaw and stomach that crumpled Hardwicke to the floor. “No, I cannot. The Honorable Miss Thompson is the innocent daughter of a viscount and the epitome of propriety. I will tolerate no one – especially an uninvited guest – abusing her or any other person residing under my roof. Is that clear?”

  Looming over Peter like a gargoyle, the earl grabbed the man’s cravat in one fist, and yanked him to his feet.

  Hardwicke nodded.

  “Very well,” said Bridgeport, stepping back. “You will apologize for your ungentlemanly behavior, then you will take yourself off for the rest of the day. If I note the slightest sign that you are stepping out of line again, you will leave.”

  Hardwicke flushed under the earl’s steely glare. “My apologies, Miss Thompson. I cannot explain what came over me. My behavior was offensive and unforgivable. I can only pray you will ignore it and try to forget it ever happened.”

  She nodded, but could not bring herself to speak to him.

  Hardwicke bolted from the room.

  “Are you all right?” asked Bridgeport softly.

  “Yes, my lord.” But tears streaked her cheeks and she was visibly shaking.

  “He shan’t touch you again,” Mark promised, squatting down to wipe her face with his handkerchief. But the tears would not stop, nor could she stifle the sobs that now filled the room.

  “Everything is all right,” he crooned, pulling her into his arms so that she could muffle the sound against his shoulder. It was odd to be offering comfort to a weeping female, for it was something he had never before done. Never had he cared enough to bother.

  Minutes passed before she pulled back and finished mopping her face. Mark paced the room several times to give her time to regain her composure.

  Elaine folded the earl’s damp handkerchief into a neat square.

  “Forgive me, my lord. I am not usually such a watering pot.”

  “There is nothing to forgive.” Actually, she had handled the attack far better than he would have predicted. Most ladies would have long since succumbed to hysterics – those who had not swooned dead away. “Let me apologize again for his disgusting behavior,” begged Bridgeport. “I suspect that this was another attempt to irritate me.”

  “Is that supposed to comfort me?” she demanded. “He only attacked me to avenge himself on you. How flattering! If you knew his plans, why did you not stop him earlier, or at least warn me of his intentions? You cannot claim ignorance, for you admitted yesterday that he is trying to embarrass you. His interest certainly did not spring up overnight. He has been leering at me since he arrived. Two days ago he trapped me in the pantry. And it is all your fault! He only believes that attacking me would annoy you because of your dishonorable campaign to seduce me yourself!” Tears again flowed freely. She turned away to lean her head against the wall while she fought to regain control.

  “My God! I had no idea,” he protested, though his conscience was already rising up to flail him with the truth of her words. “Why did you not tell me he was annoying you?”

  “What good would that do? His behavior is no worse than yours and that of your other friends. Witness how Lord Means is stalking Anne.”

  “I had not noticed,” he admitted. “But I certainly do not condone it.”

  “Do not add new lies to the old, Lord Bridgeport,” she begged, sniffing loudly into his handkerchief.

  He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her around so that she was forced to meet his eyes. “I never meant to hurt you, Elaine,” he lied.

  “Do not take me for a flat, my lord. That may have been true in London, but can you swear by your honor as a gentleman that it is true now? You have had your fun, and you have ruined my life. There is no way I can ever hold my head up in this area again. I will have to find a new home.”

  “Now you are growing hysterical. What nonsense is this?” he demanded, shaking her.

  “Do you truly believe that Hardwicke’s words will not spread outside of the house? How naïve.”

  “Nonsense. There was no one anywhere near this room, and I certainly will not repeat his lies to others.”

  “You are as blinkered as a London cart horse. Are you really so ignorant? Your behavior has convinced your guests that I am your doxy. The servants must have heard the talk. If you think word has not already spread, you are living in a fantasy world. The Burgesses might be loyal enough to keep their mouths closed, but those you brought in from Bodmin know nothing about me and have no reason for silence.”

  Tears again shone in her eyes, twisting a knife into Bridgeport’s heart. While it was true that he had wanted to hurt her, publicly degrading her was a act he had never contemplated. Nor was driving her from her home. She appeared so vulnerable, so broken by Hardwicke’s attack. Without thought, he lowered his head and took her mouth in a gentle kiss.

  Elaine was so shocked, that all thought froze.

  He pulled her closer, fitting her comfortably against him as her lips softened, responding to the pressure of his own. His last coherent thought was one of wonder – at sweet innocence, pliant lips, and arching body. The kiss deepened, sending excitement racing along his nerves and tightening his loins.

  After the emotional havoc of the last half hour, Elaine’s senses were numbed. But not for long. Bridgeport’s lips were warm and gentle, stroking lingeringly across hers. A comforting hand slid down her back, smoothing away tension and fear.

  But before she had even registered tranquility, his kiss changed. As did his touch. His lips parted, allowing his tongue to lap at her mouth. Shocking heat followed the path of insistent hands, swirling excitement into her weary brain that drove the last remnants of reason into hiding. She arched into him, seeking more and closer contact.

  Not until his groin hardened did she come out of her trance. Jerking away in horror, Elaine slapped him.

  “Still bent on seduction, I see,” she snapped with loathing. “Does nothing matter to you but your own selfish desires?”

  Mark was reeling with far more than the force of her hand. “Forgive me, Elaine,” he begged. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Obtuse, aren’t you? And you one of London’s premier rakes! Nor do you have permission to use my name.”

  Bridgeport grimaced. “Dear God, what have I done? My conscience has a thousand several tongues, and every tongue brings in a several tale, and every tale condemns me for a villain,” he quoted sadly, shaking his head at his own stupidity.

  “Mayhap you should listen to them. You might learn something useful.”

  “No author?” he teased with a sudden smile.

  “I am in no mood for games today, Lord Bridgeport, but if you insist – Shakespeare, King Richard III, though I may be wrong about that last. My thinking is muddled at the moment.”

  His eyes gleamed.

  “Lecher!,” she snapped. “Two assaults in the space of an hour would confuse anyone.”

  “My pardon, and your source is correct. But I am a cad of the worst sort, as you so rightly pointed out. All I can do is plead temporary insanity. It is true that I childishly sought revenge for the embarrassment you caused me so long ago. And it is true that I did not consider the ultimate effect of carrying out so dishonorable a course in front of others. So much attention was bound to cause talk and damage your reputation. A grain of sand, a tuft of hay, / the mighty oak erodes away.”

  “Thornton’s ‘The Wind,’ ” she identified wearily.

  “I never intended seduction, only some private distress. Yet I have ruined you even more than if your suspicions were correct,” he admitted ruefully. “There is but one way I can rectify things. You must accept my hand in marriage.”

  Elaine stared, her mind again whi
rling in shock. “Thus speaks the arrogant lord. However unscrupulous your actions, you can repair all harm by tossing a sop to the victim. You belong in Bedlam! Do you really expect me to give up my freedom for the dubious pleasure of incarcerating myself on one of your estates? If I must leave here, so be it. But I will do so under my own power and in my own way. Good day, my lord earl. Please be so kind as to leave me alone.” She swept from the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Flowers lay scattered across table and floor, mute testimony to the chaos that had raged.

  Mark stared for a long time, finally gathering the blooms and thrusting them into a container of water. It was ridiculous to feel either hurt or empty at her rejection. He certainly deserved no better.

  Yet he could not help himself. Twice he had offered his hand. Twice she had preferred to build a new life, giving up all that she had known. At least this time she had the means to support herself.

  * * * *

  Elaine threw herself across her bed and indulged in another lengthy bout of tears. It was shameful to react so strongly, but the shocks had piled atop one another so rapidly that she had been unable to deal with them.

  She frowned as Bridgeport’s words echoed in her ears. Not his proposal, which had been grudgingly offered and spurned without thought, but the quote from ‘The Wind.’ It was one of the verses that would appear in Thornton’s third volume, and there was only one way he could know it. It must have been he who had searched her room. Though not one of the poems that she was illustrating, the text was in her work bag.

  She scanned her papers to be sure. It was there. But if Bridgeport had searched the bag, he would also have seen the sketchbook that contained ideas and abortive layouts for the drawings she had completed while at the Manor.

  She paced the room in agitation. This placed her in far more danger than any of his seduction plots. What could she do? If she included them in the completed work, Bridgeport might recognize them – would certainly recognize them.

  There was no hope that he might not see the book. It was precisely the sort of thing he was sure to read. It gave him yet another sword he could hold over her head – this one all too real. All he had to do to reap his revenge was tell Murray who M. E. Merriweather really was, and she could say good-bye to any hope of supporting herself. Even if Murray continued to buy her talent, he would never pay a mere woman as much as he had offered Mr. Merriweather.