I Kissed an Earl

by Julie Anne Long

  She was immediately irritated by the notion of spending an evening under the jaundiced eye of a beautiful, bored married woman who doubtless could speak to the relationship between the earl’s thighs and his blessing.

  And in a perverse way, rather looked forward to it.

  They paused, and she was conscious of a shift in Lavay’s demeanor: he was a flirt and a charmer and a gentleman, but he took his duties seriously, and his primary duty was to his role as first mate.

  She sensed he was about to bid her good day for now, with reluctance but with conviction.

  Off in the distance, she saw the earl speaking to the sailor who had the wheel of the ship. The two of them peered up with grave fascination at the sails. He shouted some order lost to the wind, at least to her ears, and men on deck scrambled to tug them in a different direction. What a massive undertaking, the steering of a ship! The earl had dispensed with his coat, and the wind filled the back of his linen shirt, gluing the front of it to his vast chest, making him look, fittingly, like a galleon poised for sail. It seemed safer to study him from this distance. It was impossible not to admire him abstractly, as a—oh, thing of natural curiosity she might draw. He was curves and angles and distinct lines, the broad shelf of his shoulders narrowing to his waist made a perfect V.

  His thighs were…oh, bloody hell, they could only be described as magnificent.

  His hair whipped out behind him. She knew it was just shy of touching his collar when the wind wasn’t having its way with it. Too much of it, Lady Peregrine had said. It wasn’t true. Any more or less would somehow seem all wrong.

  It was a patently ridiculous thought, but a vehement one.

  It was as though every part of him participated in sailing that ship. The magnitude of his responsibility and competence and the confidence with which he undertook all of this all at once struck her smack in the breastbone, as shocking and exhilarating as a gulp of sea air. So that’s what breathtaking means, she thought.

  Almost as though someone was steering him just like a sail, the earl turned toward her.

  How did he know when she was looking at him?

  She turned away, but not before she saw the sun strike a spark of light from those blue eyes. He shaded his gaze, perhaps settling in for a longer look at her, as if he, too, thought her safer to inspect from a distance. The way one might squint a far-off ship into focus, deciding whether it was friend or foe.

  She looked up at Lord Lavay. “And Mr. Hardesty is invited to our dinner with the Viscomte and Viscomtesse Hebert?” she asked a trifle more tersely than necessary.

  “Oui. As Mr. Hardesty believes the Comte is financing his next journey to the West Indies, you can be certain Mr. Hardesty is invited and will attend, which is, after all, why we are going. It should prove to be an interesting evening.”

  Chapter 10

  Thanks to a fair wind, two nights—one of which Violet had been obliged to sleep in the vole hole, which meant fitfully turning and tossing in order prevent her body from touching overlong any part of that vile little mattress—and one day later they dropped anchor during clear benign weather in Le Havre, France, and were lowered over the side of the ship rather gracelessly into the launch by the means of pulleys. They got her into the boat without soaking her hem or peering up her dress, though the temptation must have been torturous, and a small crew, a staff really—Greeber, Lumley, Corcoran—rowed them into the busy harbor, where ships clearly from all over the world, judging from languages shouted by the sailors on their decks sailors and the words painted across hulls, were anchored.

  “The Comte Hebert found himself in reduced circumstances since the war, which means he now holds only five properties, one palace, and two hundred or so servants among them.”

  The earl explained this to her. He’d scarcely spoken to her in the past two days, which made these words feel far more significant than they were. She had a peculiar hope he’d been ignoring her, because “ignoring” was more active than forgetting all about her.

  “And the viscomtesse?” she asked the earl.

  He looked at her at length then from his seat in the launch, and then frowned a little. As though he kept expecting to see something else when he looked at her, but simply saw her again and again.

  “The viscomtesse is rather new to being a viscomtesse,” the earl said shortly. Making it clear this was the end of any conversation about the countess.

  Interesting, indeed.

  Lavay seemed to find his amusing. “Ah, but she’s played the part many a time on stage.”

  “Was she an actress?” she asked this a little too eagerly. Actress. Yet another word to add to her storehouse of knowledge of the darker side of men.

  But Flint ignored this. Because he suddenly he had that fixity of expression again. Like a predator with prey in his sight. It never failed to make all the little hairs on the back of Violet’s neck stand up.

  “Lavay.” He gestured with his chin.

  Everyone in the launch turned and stared as they rowed nonchalantly past a handsome schooner. It had two masts to The Fortuna’s three; the hull was painted a dull, almost sea-foam green; the foredeck trimmed in yellow-gold.

  From the deck, a sailor with a spyglass idly watched them pass, raised a hand.

  The men raised hands in return. And continued rowing past.

  Violet’s heart leaped into her throat.

  “It’s…The Olivia, isn’t it?” Her voice was hoarse.

  “She’s bonnie, aye?” Corcoran said this with ironic cheer. “Built for speed. Though I’d warrant she could carry a heavy cargo, too. Even human cargo.”

  Violet didn’t quite understand the cold looks that ricocheted between the men.

  “It’s said Hardesty primarily makes runs to the Indies, or carries sugar cargo,” Lavay mused.

  “Fortunately we’ll have an opportunity to speak with him about it tonight.” The earl sounded grimly pleased.

  And she knew he stared at her again, searching her the way he might search that ship for clues.

  But she was staring greedily at The Olivia. She tried to feel Lyon, sense his mark upon it, but the launch was rowed quickly past, and she felt nothing at all.

  The Palais of the Viscomte and Viscomtesse Hebert was a trifle less grand than the word might imply, but then again, Violet was accustomed to marble from Carrera, to gilt and ormolu, to fathoms-deep Savonnerie carpets. She felt at home, rather than boggled, though her father’s tastes trended more modern than the Heberts’ clearly did.

  Reduced circumstances, indeed. And it was only one of their residences.

  They were ushered through a grand, airy domed foyer into a sitting room furnished in a dozen shades of gray: fog, silver, and pussy willow, if she were forced to name them. A tall carved fireplace dominated one end, and over it was an enormous painting of a beautiful woman. Violet scarcely had time to inspect it when the rapid clicking of slippers over marble shot all of them to their feet.

  The woman in the painting, human-sized, appeared.

  “So. You have become an earl, Captain Flint, since last we met,” the Viscomtesse Hebert said by way of greeting.

  Her elocution was flawless, every syllable caressed, but the Comtesse Hebert still managed to make it sound like the earl had committed a crime against her by acquiring a title.

  She extended her hand as though bestowing a blessing, and the earl dutifully bowed over it. She was tiny of waist, generous of bust and unburdened by modesty, as she appeared to have been all but sewn into her dress and her bosom appeared to be struggling to free itself from the low neckline. Her exquisite little feline face called to mind a cat bored of drinking naught but cream day after day but resigned to its fate.

  “And you have become a wife and viscomtesse, Marie-Victoire,” the earl replied. Please accept my belated congratulations on your splendid marriage. I have been remiss in not sending a gift.”

  Very good irony, indeed, Violet thought.

  “Your presence is gift e
nough, my dear Asher.”

  Such exquisitely rolled R’s. She’d made it sound like both a promise and a threat, and Violet studied the earl for signs of impact. She found him, naturally, inscrutable. Which likely meant there had indeed been impact.

  Asher. First names. Innuendo. It was a bit too reminiscent of London ballrooms. Violet was ready to smack someone with a fan already, and the dancing hadn’t even begun. She never in her dreams thought she’d become nostalgic for the vole hole.

  The viscomtesse next bestowed her hand upon Lavay.

  “Lord Lavay. What a pleasure it is to see you again.” Up went that hand to Lavay. Lace so gossamer it might have been spun from spring breezes and moth wings fluttered at the snug sleeves of her pale yellow dress. Violet surreptitiously fingered the sleeves of her own muslin day dress, reassuring herself of its quality.

  Lavay bowed over that hand. “The pleasure is all mine, Viscomtesse. My felicitations on your marriage as well. It’s remarkable; it seemed we were in Le Havre only recently and the next you are married! How time flies.”

  More innuendo. Lavay was very good at it. Violet was filled with admiration.

  The viscomtesse’s smile was decidedly tight. “It was a coup de foudre, of a certainty,” the viscomtesse replied smoothly. “My husband…” She stopped, and frowned faintly, looking surprised, searching for a word.

  “Vicente?” the earl supplied. Darkly amused.

  “Yes! Vicente,” she recovered, flustered, “sends his regrets, as he is not at present in, but he shall join us for dinner and dancing.”

  “And isn’t it amusing, Marie-Victoire?” Lavay pressed, as though she hadn’t heard him at all the first time. “One never would have suspected Captain Flint would one day outrank your husband.”

  He beamed disingenuously.

  The comtesse’s smile officially congealed. Tiny fangs, thought Violet critically, would not look out of place in it.

  “Or outrank you, my dear Comte Lavay. In every way.” She purred it. She was very good at the innuendo, too.

  The viscomtesse turned to Violet, while behind her Lavay mimed taking a knife to the heart and twisting it and the earl shot him a repressive look.

  The viscomtesse laughed, a sound like cascading fairy bells. “Though I confess I have seldom seen a less likely earl,” she added.

  “From a vertical position, anyhow,” Lavay murmured.

  “And who is this darling creature?” She turned her back abruptly on Lavay and the earl to examine Violet. She tipped her head, and her wide eyes flicked over her speculatively.

  Violet gravely disliked being called both “darling” and “creature,” particularly in an overly precious French accent, as she was decidedly neither. She felt an invigorating surge of antipathy.

  Related in part to the fact that the earl’s blue eyes were glinting insufferably.

  No petal ever floated toward the earth more gracefully than Violet curtsied to the viscomtesse. “Such a pleasure to meet you, Lady Hebert. I must say, it’s exceedingly generous of you to extend your hospitality to me, as I’m the earl’s lov—”

  “May I introduce Miss Violet Redmond, Madam le Viscomtesse,” the earl interrupted smoothly.

  The rigidity of his spine, however, told her he wasn’t the least amused.

  It was pleasant to surprise him yet again. This man who likely had seen so much of the world and the people in it.

  Nor was the viscomtesse. Her enormous sherry-colored eyes fixed upon Violet’s face, and whatever she concluded during that silent inspection made her beautiful face go hard. She gave her head the minutest little toss.

  Violet gave her a sympathetic smile. So terribly sorry you can find no gruesome flaw in me. Lady Peregrine represented the breed in London: dissatisfied married women who deployed their limited intellectual capacities into inventorying their appearances against other women. And losing sleep over it. And plotting petty, infinite games to prove superiority in matters great and small.

  Violet was torn between two equally unacceptable impulses: yawning or taking off her shoe and giving the dear creature a little whap with it.

  “Miss Redmond is Lord Lavay’s cousin,” the earl continued smoothly, “and we have lately been charged with escorting her home from Spain to her family. Knowing you as I do, I was certain you would hasten to make her feel welcome and comfortable and include her in the festivities.”

  It was the first Violet had heard of this story, and she admired its credibility, as well as the earl’s pretty speech. She was also certain none of what he said about the viscomtesse was true, but that the viscomtesse would be unable to resist viewing herself as the gracious lady. Ah, he was a clever one.

  Vanity the magnitude of the Viscomtesse Hebert’s must be a terribly inconvenient affliction, Violet thought. It would make one so easy to manage.

  Lavay, for his part, was still staring at Violet with something akin to awe. Clearly impressed with the sheer bald cheek of what she’d been about to say.

  Up went her eyebrows in his direction. She gave him the slightest shrug, one that rivaled his own for insouciance. You’ve seen nothing yet.

  “Of course, of course, my dear, Miss Redmond,” the viscomtesse soothed unconvincingly. “You will be a welcome addition to our little party, though your stay will be so lamentably short.”

  Violet ducked her head demurely to hide her smile, because the words sounded very like a threat. As though the viscomtesse was telling her in a coded way that she would be dispatching her with the tines of a fork over dinner.

  Then again, everything sounded ironic when uttered in French-accented English.

  There was to be dancing, then dinner, then games and more dancing, the trio was informed before they were ushered up a flight of curving marble stairs. One of the footmen bore Violet’s portmanteau up with him. Her hand trailed the carved gilt banister and balustrade, savoring the beauty and ostentation even though it was the sort that comprised her gilded Redmond cage. She didn’t object to comfort and luxury. At the top of the stairs, when Lavay and the earl were led in an opposite direction, Violet looked down to see the viscomtesse standing perfectly still, looking up at her from the center of the foyer, beneath an enormous branched chandelier dangling on a chain that could have supported a ship’s anchor.

  Even from this dizzying distance, she saw the flare of triumph in the woman’s eyes—she would not be sleeping in any proximity to the earl—before she clicked off in her satin slippers.

  Oh, what care I. Because everywhere was blue in her chamber, and it was clean, carpeted in plush, fringed, Savonnerie, hung with periwinkle velvet curtains and scented by an explosive profusion of hothouse blossoms stuffed into a tall Chinese vase. It was such an onslaught of comfort her senses hardly knew which pleasure to hoard first. Part of the advantage of sailing on a schooner, she decided, was how temporarily novel it made the luxuries she took for granted.

  She unlaced her walking shoes to sink her bare toes into the fathoms deep carpet, and settled her body on the bed, and next she sprang up to order a bath. She intended to make the most of the amenities while she was here. For if she had her way—and she saw no reason why she should not—she would be continuing her voyage on The Fortuna.

  She wondered if the earl would smell of his own soap or of borrowed Hebert soap when he came down for dinner.

  The thought astounded her so thoroughly she froze for a moment dead center in the room, like a wild creature cornered by an unfamiliar beast. Uncertain whether it would tear her to pieces or curl up at her feet and purr.

  A few hours after a bath, dressed in the fine gown she’d packed in her trunk for her journey primarily out of habit, Violet descended the winding miles of marble steps to join the guests milling about what the viscomtesse apparently called The Silver Salon, and the closer to the foot of the stairs she reached the harder her heart thumped.

  What if she entered the room and Lyon—Mr. Hardesty—stood there, plain as day? She’d never before fainted. But
she did pause with her hand on the banister then to accommodate the sudden anticipatory rush of blood to her head. She took each step with care to avoid treading her hem.

  The gown was a glossy midnight purple lutestring gathered and draped at the bodice to show as much white shoulder and bosom as possible, and against the color her skin glowed like ivory satin. The skirt was overlaid with tulle in a mistier shade of the same purple, and a narrow silver ribbon wrapped beneath the bosom. She was a veritable Circe in it. Or so she’d once been told by a lordling who claimed he’d been literally brought to his knees by her sorcery, rather than brandy, though his breath made a liar of him.

  Her own breath came in short gusts now as she clicked alone across the foyer in her dancing slippers, following the buzz of voices and the pleasant anticipator cacophony of stringed instruments being tuned.

  She sidled into the silver room, hovering at first on its periphery. Tension stretched her skin drum-tight over the bones of her face. She took in a deep, long breath, and found herself looking for two men at once: Mr. Hardesty, also known as Le Chat, and the Earl of Ardmay. She would recognize a Redmond anywhere, instantly—that indolent grace and impressive height, the dark hair, her own blood—and just as quickly knew Lyon was nowhere among the score or more men and women in the room.

  Disappointment and a peculiar relief were twin waves through her, and her knees weakened again. Because what precisely would she say if she saw him? And what would he do? Bolt?

  Drag her out of the room by the ear and give her a scolding?

  She naturally hadn’t considered what might happen, as responding to the moment generally proved so much more interesting.

  She felt lost.

  The other man made her feel peculiarly found. Near the towering, intricately carved mantelpiece, clutching glasses of sherry, the Earl of Ardmay and Lavay stood in conversation with the viscomtesse and a saturnine fellow in black who looked permanently bored in the way those possessed of ancient titles often do. She imagined this was the viscomte.