The Earl's Revenge

by Allison Lane

  At least it started gently. Elaine had no thought of refusing him. She opened her mouth at his request, opening her heart and soul to him as well. Mind-numbing languor filled her, to be replaced by sizzling excitement as he groaned and pulled her closer.

  Everything about him was perfect, from his hard-muscled body and demanding lips, to his pounding heart that raced in unison with her own, to the thoughts that even now were forming in his mind.

  He lifted his head to gaze deeply into her eyes, his own blazing greener than she had ever seen them, open, without barricades, clear to his heart. “Elaine—” One hand reached up to caress her cheek.

  The door handle jiggled. Carrington burst into the room to find two anxious people standing at either side of the fireplace.

  “He just arrived,” Richard reported. “Burgess is suggesting that he tell me that he has not seen you. I am worried about your disappearance.”

  Mark nodded and faded into a corner where he would be unnoticed from the doorway. Only a single branch of candles burned on the desk.

  “Enter,” called Carrington in reply to a rap.

  “You wished to see me, my lord?” lisped Harold, sounding bored.

  “Your cousin is missing. Did you see him when you were out this afternoon?”

  Harold shook his head.

  “Where did you go?” pressed the marquess.

  “Through the village and into the next one. My groom discovered an inn there with an excellent ale – light and flavorful. Its qualities approach a German wine I sampled some months ago.”

  “How about earlier when you were out on the moor?” asked Elaine idly, wondering how anyone could seriously compare ale and wine.

  Harold jumped, for he had not noted her sitting in the wing chair by the fireplace. “The moor?” he repeated stupidly.

  “Yes, I saw you when I was out sketching. You circled around as far as Lookout Peak. Did you not see Lord Bridgeport there? He had intended to walk in that direction.”

  “No.” Harold had paled.

  “Not very observant, are you, Cousin?” growled Mark, stepping into the light. “Of course, you could not really see who was approaching because you were hidden on top.”

  “You can’t be here,” gasped Harold, swaying as the last vestige of color left his face.

  “How wrong you always are,” stated Mark coldly. “You failed, Cousin. Again.”

  “How did you escape? There was no way out.”

  “You checked, didn’t you?”

  Harold’s head betrayed the faintest nod.

  “You slimy bastard!” snapped Mark, grabbing his cousin by the shoulders and slamming him into a wall. “You nearly killed my daughter this afternoon. For that alone I should turn you over to the runners and let you rot in Botany Bay for the rest of your miserable life. But she is not the only one you’ve harmed. How many other traps were sprung by innocent bystanders?”

  “What?”

  “Your traps, Cousin. Things like the cliff path that injured one of my tenants, the coping stone that narrowly missed Miss Thompson, the poisoned mushrooms that could have killed the entire household, and so many more.” His grip tightened until Harold could barely breathe.

  “You don’t understand,” cried Harold. “I had no choice. If I cannot raise ten thousand pounds by next week, I’ll lose everything.”

  “And so you stoop to murder.”

  “It’s your own fault. You refused to help me.”

  “My fault! I have no obligations to fund your profligacy.”

  “Lording it again?” demanded Harold bitterly. “I should be Bridgeport. I am older than you. My father was firstborn.”

  “He wasn’t, and he got more than his expected share as it was,” Mark reminded him. “My father turned over nearly three times as much as Bridgeports normally allot to second sons. He even deeded over the wealthiest of the unentailed estates.”

  “Only because he felt guilty for cheating Father out of the title.”

  “Devil it! Where did you get such a preposterous notion?”

  “You cannot deny it!” shouted Harold. “Mama knew. She told me all about it. She was Lady Bridgeport until your unspeakable mother forced Papa into exchanging names and positions. And you condoned it. You stole my inheritance!”

  “Your sanity is slipping, Harold,” growled Mark. “My parents were married in London before the entire ton fully six months before yours were. Whatever tripe your mother fed you is pure fiction.”

  “It’s not!” he shrieked. “You cheated. You all cheated. But I can get it back. Four gypsies confirmed it. Fate is behind me. A simple accident to redress all wrongs and I am Bridgeport!”

  “What you are is crazy.”

  “You owe me my rightful place!” Harold twisted, and Mark pinned him more firmly to the wall.

  “I owe you nothing, especially after enduring years of your enmity, your rumor campaigns, and now this.”

  “Rumors?” Harold sounded on the verge of denials.

  “Don’t think I am ignorant of who has been behind every derogatory story ever circulated about me, and that includes the most recent crop of tales. I overlooked that bit of spite. I even overlooked the way you have been using my name to fleece gullible gamesters. But nothing will induce me to overlook murder.”

  With a roar, Harold whipped out a knife and stabbed the earl. Elaine screamed and tried to grab Harold’s arm. Carrington leaped forward to tackle him. In seconds it was over. Harold lay on the carpet, securely tied up, the knife kicked well out of reach. He was sobbing broken threats and curses, raving on again about his father’s stolen patrimony, and vowing vengeance for a host of imaginary slights. Carrington kicked him once before opening the door to summon Burgess and Willy, who had been waiting in the hall. Elaine ignored the villain as she bound up a gash on Mark’s arm. Burgess, Carrington, and Willy carried Harold out of the room.

  “What will happen now?” asked Elaine, succumbing to shudders once the excitement was over.

  “It depends on Harold,” said Mark with a sigh. “If he has gone completely round the bend – as it looks like he might – we can lock him in an asylum. Otherwise, I will have to prosecute him for attempted murder. It won’t be easy, but he cannot be allowed another chance. I had considered shipping him to the Indies, but I can hardly condone exposing another population to his tricks.”

  “True,” she agreed softly. “That man has no concept of honor.”

  “Indeed.” He drew her close and smiled into her eyes. “Does your concern mean you might care for me just a bit?”

  “I care for all people.”

  “Some more than others, I hope. I must ask it again, my dear. I do so damnably want to marry you.”

  “Why? Surely you are not still piqued over being jilted.”

  He laughed. “You might lift that awful curse that has hung over my head all these years. After all, you started it.”

  “Of all the absurd reasons to offer matrimony!”

  “I wasn’t – claiming that as a reason,” he added when she frowned. “The ultimate revenge is yours, my dear nemesis. I love you, Elaine. It is something I never thought could happen, but somehow you have slipped past all the walls I built around my heart. Not only do I want to marry you, I want to live with you. I cannot ignore my Parliamentary obligations, so we would have to be in town on occasion – which I know you do not care for – but most of the year we would stay elsewhere. Bridgeport Abbey is a delightful estate, and will be even better once we erase my mother’s touch. Please, Miss Mary Elaine Merriweather Thompson, artist extraordinaire, I need you.”

  She looked into his eyes and saw the truth of the words. His expression was open, without artifice. But her own fears still pressed close. “When all is said and done, marriage is nought but legalized slavery, and you have shown that you are capable of both pique and underhanded coercion.”

  Mark’s blood ran cold, but her eyes contained much more than fear – and who could blame her for hesitating after
the example her father had set? “Neither of us wants to be dominated, love. My own dread of it makes yours easy to understand. Before we say our vows, I will make you independent. You will be able to walk out any time you desire. And don’t ever think that I would try to curb M. E. Merriweather. I have too much respect for your talent to even consider it.”

  “You are so very different from the face you show the world,” she said with a smile. “Your poetry speaks to me in many ways, probably because your real character is so close to mine.”

  “You mentioned once that you detected pain, anger, and loneliness in my writing. I had never acknowledged them myself, but you were right. My mother inflicted pain every time we met, eliciting rage in return. Countering it required building walls around myself. But living apart as I have always done has left me lonely. Now that I know you, I cannot face remaining in such a state. Don’t make me beg, though I will if I have to."

  She reached up to lay a finger against his lips, and smiled. “He hath importuned me with love, in honourable fashion.”

  “Shakespeare, Hamlet, one of Ophelia’s speeches,” he said, nipping her finger. “And I importune you as well. What must I do to prove myself?”

  “I would never ask you to beg, Mark. And I know that you will never be the tyrant my father was. I would be proud to call you husband.”

  Happiness blazed in his eyes before they moved too close to see them clearly. His lips took hers fiercely, possessively, passionately. She clung to his shoulders, her wobbly knees no longer able to support her. Euphoria drove away all thought, leaving only compelling heat and excitement. She could feel similar emotions flooding him. It wasn’t until several minutes later that she realized she was no longer standing, but was sitting on his lap in a large wing chair.

  “I love you,” she whispered as he nuzzled her neck, one hand entwined firmly in her hair.

  “I should have married you years ago,” he managed huskily.

  “It would never have worked then,” she reminded him. “I was insecure, uneducated, and terrified. You would have taken me to Westron and left me there.”

  He laughed. “Probably. More fool me. What should a fool do with so good a woman?”

  “Shakespeare, Othello. You mean you don’t know? What shocking ignorance for a man of your reputation!”

  “Oh, I know, all right.” His eyes burned into hers. “And I am taking no chances this time, my love. Cramer can get a special license from Doctor’s Commons. He should be able to get it here within the week. I doubt I’ll let you out of my sight until our wedding – and certainly not afterward. We will have no repeat of our last betrothal.”

  “Never.” She pulled his head down for another kiss. “All that remains is to get rid of these pesky guests.”

  “Easy. I do believe that Helen has something contagious. They will be gone by morning.”

  “Except Lord Carrington and Anne,” she suggested. “We must observe the proprieties.”

  “In the eyes of the world,” he agreed, the laughter lighting his face telling her all she wanted to know as he drew her into another heady embrace.

  Copyright © 1997 by Susan Ann Pace

  Originally published by Signet Regency (0451191234)

  Electronically published in 2005 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228

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  This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.