I Kissed an Earl

by Julie Anne Long

  He looked at her. The candle flames were reflected in his blue eyes, which seemed absurdly symbolic.

  She was worried everything was going to seem symbolic from now on, thanks to that damn message from her brother.

  “I hear he is truly ugly, with long shaggy hair and no teeth and terrible, terrible breath,” one shuddered deliciously. “And an earring!”

  “Au contraire. I hear he is handsome as Adonis, and his voice will melt all will from women, and that he is a valiant fighter.”

  “There is nothing gallant about piracy, madame,” the earl said gently. “And nothing valiant.”

  “Oh, allow us a little romance, Lord Flint!” And all the guests giggled. “Perhaps you are jealous?” She fluttered her lashes.

  He smiled politely, and Violet thought perhaps she was the only one who noticed the strained patience and the boredom and the hint of contempt behind that smile. He behaved beautifully; he was uncomfortable here. He knew so much more than they did about piracy. He likely knew so much more about most things than they did.

  “You are a trader, Lord Flint.” The viscomte addressed this to the earl. “Are you acquainted with Mr. Musgrove, another trader who makes his home in Le Havre?”

  “I am. And a pity Mr. Hardesty could not join us this evening, too,” the earl added.

  “Because we could have long and dull and very pleasant conversation about trade over cigars, non?” The viscomte winked at Violet.

  The viscomtesse muttered something in French here, most of which was unintelligible, but one was “Hardesty” and the other cochon.

  A different view of her brother was coming into focus. And yet Lyon had once been so devoted to Olivia Eversea. Then again, she supposed he was a man, and the viscomtesse here was an opportunist, and not ugly.

  “He was told of our gathering and our guests earlier today, but he needed to depart,” the viscomtesse confirmed.

  So that’s how Lyon had guessed she was present and had found himself a clever messenger.

  “Our earl here is from America, n’est-ce pas?” The comte showed no resentment of his guest’s grand title. “I know of an American captain of a large cargo schooner. He was arrested for slaving.”

  “Despicable,” the earl agreed emphatically. “But despite the laws, an illegal slave trade still thrives in Britain. I have alerted the navy to such ships on more than one occasion. Unfortunately, if the British navy catches them the scoundrels have been known to throw their cargo—human beings—overboard. I do not condone slavery, sir. I lament that states in the American South do. I never shall. And I shall do my part to end it in my own country, when it comes to that.”

  Violet stared at the earl, her fork poised midair. Horrified at the picture he’d painted, of people stolen from their land, chained, and then thrown overboard.

  “Very good, sir,” the viscomte said mildly. “I am careful about whom I choose to partner in trade with, you see. I needed to ask.”

  “I understand completely, sir.” Flint was in agreement.

  “Have you been to America, Miss Redmond?” The viscomte turned to her, his demeanor instantly different, warm, inclusive, charming, his dark eyes appreciating her thoroughly.

  “Why would one want to go to America, Vicente? I’ve heard most Americans are savages, regardless.” The viscomtesse said this sweetly to her husband before Violet could reply.

  Peas fled from the viscomtesse’s fork as she poked at them like an incompetent billiard player and stared at Violet. The wine had clearly played havoc with her reflexes.

  Was Violet the only one who saw the earl’s spine stiffen as though someone had shoved the barrel of a pistol into it?

  Violet felt the hairs stir unpleasantly on the back of her neck. Like snipers rising from a crouched position, ready to attack.

  Lavay shifted in his seat.

  “You’ve an excellent cook, madam,” the earl said almost too gently. “The lamb is particularly fine.”

  “Thank you,” the comtesse purred, then skewered a piece of meat, licked it clean of sauce with her pink tongue, just like a cat, and pulled it into her mouth.

  A prurient little show. She narrowed her eyes sleepily at the earl.

  He watched, looking interested in a sort of abstract way. Violet was reminded of his expression when he danced with Lady Peregrine. Her appetite further fled when she pictured him partaking of this creature. His big nude body covering hers—

  She clenched her hand tightly around her fork. Resentful that the conversation was robbing her of the desire to eat the excellent food.

  “And they say, you cannot make a silk purse from a sow’s ear, that is true, n’est-ce pas? Once a savage, always a savage. Particularly with those of shall we say, mixed parentage.” The viscomtesse volunteered this with wide-eyed innocence.

  And wrapped her tongue about her spoon to polish it, then held it up before her as if to admire her handiwork.

  Violet could see her own reflection in it, upside down, from across the table.

  Her jaw was clenched. Her eyes were narrowed to slits. She was a furious white. She in fact looked downright dangerous.

  The comte stared at his wife with something akin to astonishment.

  The earl remained politely quiet. Excruciatingly quiet. Enduring for the sake of manners and the company he was in, for the sake of the viscomte who’d married a beautiful actress/whore because he could, and would likely live to regret it.

  And something savage spilled over in Violet.

  And yet she took pains to sound somewhat timid when she spoke.

  “Allow me to say I’m not so certain, Lady Hebert. I imagine many would say your own transformation from sow’s ear into silk purse is very convincing.”

  Her tone was so credibly humble it took the viscomtesse a moment to realize she’d been gravely insulted.

  She froze. Instantly calling to mind an arching cat, fur all on end. Her big eyes glared, as if deciding which part of Violet she would like to stab with her fork first. Clearly she was speechless.

  “Oh, Lady Hebert,” Violet said shyly, conciliatorily. She leaned forward and touched her hand to her hostess’s, and the viscomtesse, anticipating an apology or explanation, began to thaw. Violet waited a strategic moment.

  “I should very much like to tell you how much I admire your wig. It almost looks like real hair.”

  The viscomtesse snatched her hand back. “Vous êtes une putain grossière!” she hissed.

  “Je crois que le pot appelle le noir de bouilloire,” Violet replied sweetly.

  Thereby officially launching an uproar at the table.

  The viscomtesse tossed her napkin down and began protesting with sharp little hand gestures and rapid petulant French to her husband, and Violet took the opportunity to slide her chair back and exit, very gracefully, to the terrace, out of range of the viscomtesse’s fork and knife.

  The terrace was so lovely it ought not belong to that woman, Violet thought.

  The moon was a window of light in the midnight blue sky; a cobweb of cloud clung to it; a breeze shook it off gradually. Stars, near ones, far ones, shone in their ancient patterns, performing their myriad doing duties: a map for sailors, inspiration for poets, oracles for astrologers, excuses for lovers to behave rashly.

  A fountain surrounded by little white stone benches sat in the middle of it, and it was enclosed by vine-trailed walls. She settled onto one of the benches. It still held the warmth of the day.

  She was alone only for a minute or two. She knew precisely who had followed her out by the size of the shadow and because she thought, really, she would know him anywhere, and then he came into the moonlight immediately so she wouldn’t be afraid.

  He stood before her for a silent moment.

  “Why did you do it?” He sounded genuinely curious.

  She inhaled, exhaled at length.

  “I suppose it’s that I have a lower tolerance for bullies than I ever dreamed. My brother’s wife Cynthia once told me I had
a good heart. Don’t.” She held up her hand to ward off witty remarks. “I was as surprised to hear it then as you are now.”

  He was laughing softly now.

  “Do you know what she said to me?” she asked after a moment. Curious about his facility with languages.

  “Oh yes. My French is fortunately quite good. She called you a rude whore. And you riposted by saying that you believed the pot was calling the kettle black.”

  Violet sighed. Really, when she heard him repeat what she’d said, even she was appalled. And yet in that moment it seemed she’d simply had no choice. She’d been peculiarly unable to bear it. He’d born it often enough. It seemed he was forever defending someone. Someone needed to defend him.

  She was still rather surprised it had been her, however, and not eager to look at the reasons she’d done it.

  They were quiet for a moment.

  “Thank you?” he offered dubiously.

  “I suppose you’re welcome. I hope I haven’t caused any lasting…riffs.”

  “Fear not. The viscomte knows what he married and he…enjoys her…nightly. He’s a practical man when it comes to business.”

  A silence, more easy than awkward, but a little of both. And they were both amused. It seemed easier to speak on the shadowed terrace, when one seemed little more than a shadow one’s self. Words were safer here; it was like speaking in a dream.

  He leaned back against the vine-trailed wall and took a look around, at the fountain, the sky, the bench where Violet sat. He breathed in the heady, heavy scents of jasmine and honeysuckle. Like a great powerful animal, she thought, taking in his surroundings, deciding upon a defensible position.

  “I like it better out here than in there,” she volunteered tentatively.

  “So do I. But then I generally do like it better outside than inside. Particularly if there’s a ball or a social occasion demanding social graces on the inside. Though I’m capable of graces. They do not come naturally,” he confessed. “I have to try.”

  She liked him for the confession.

  “I’ve never really been given a choice in the matter of balls. Then, I can’t say I entirely dislike balls. It’s just that there’s all there ever is.”

  “You poor, poor dear.”

  “I defy even you to endure a London season without developing elaborate defenses. My brother would make comparisons to how animals adapt. Growing fur coats or sharp spines that make them untouchable and the like. Irony is my defense, I believe.”

  “That, and threatening to cast yourself down wells?”

  She sighed. Did everyone in the world know about the well? And yet her company and approval was still endlessly sought by society. Such was the perversity of the ton.

  “I imagine you’re right,” he conceded. “Regarding the fortitude attending endless balls and parties requires. Then again, as captain of a ship and as an earl and a man, I seldom need do what I don’t wish to do.”

  He’d trumped her, naturally, with arrogance and station and gender, so she decided to punish him briefly with silence. But only briefly, because he’d said it good-humoredly and deliberately to tease her. And because she knew he’d earned every single one of those things, apart, perhaps, for the gender.

  “Have you ever been in love, Miss Redmond?”

  Well. That was one way to startle her into speaking. What on earth had prompted the question?

  “I’ve heard of love,” she said gingerly, the way one might say, “I’ve heard of the Griffin.” Acknowledging its possibility and its rarity while implying truly sane people would treat it as a myth.

  He laughed softly again. The sound was so companionable, so intimate, so strangely earned. So part of the night.

  And the entire night was a caress. The air so thick with soft warmth she thought she might simply stand and lean back and be cradled by it, and like an opium addict happily just breathe in the perfume given off by flowers heated mercilessly all day long.

  “How did you know about…‘savage’?” he asked softly. Genuinely curious.

  “Lavay.”

  “Mmm.” The earl took this in noncommittally. And was silent again.

  “Did you know a Gypsy girl shouted his name to me only a few months ago? We’d gone to have our fortunes told in Pennyroyal Green, and out she pops with the word Lavay. Just shouted it. A non sequitur. I think she even frightened herself. But my brother Jonathan thinks she’s a lunatic.”

  “Did a Gypsy say that?” he said mildly. It sounded as though nothing Gypsies did surprised him. “Never say it’s why you boarded that ship. Or that she told you you’d be taking a long journey over water.”

  “Very well, then. I won’t say it.”

  He smiled. Teeth a white flash in the dark. He turned toward the house. She took the opportunity to study his profile. It was a strange, painful pleasure to run her eyes over the strong, singular lines of his face.

  What is happening to me? She felt as though she’d been given wings but denied flying lessons.

  “He’s a good man, Lavay,” the earl allowed after a moment.

  “He told me you won him in a card game.”

  “Did he tell you why he was playing too deep?” As if he’d heard the story before.

  “He said you heroically rescued him.”

  “His family lost his money and much of his lands in the war. They weren’t overfond of aristocrats during the revolution, as you may know. He was a bit desperate, and he played too deep, because he needed to take care of his mother and sister, ensure his sister had a dowry. She married well, thanks to him. A good man, Lavay. A very good man. Looks after his own.”

  She reflected, but didn’t say, that the pot again was calling the kettle black.

  It surprised her to realize it.

  Was the earl fishing to discover what she thought of Lavay? Was he pressing Lavay’s suit for him?

  She said nothing. She’d said for now all she’d meant to say about Lavay.

  Flint reached up a hand and idly snapped off a single white jasmine blossom from the vine, then held it up absently before him, as if to ascertain that it did indeed match the moon in color, or deciding whether he wished to install it in the sky along with all the stars.

  “Why aren’t people like flowers?” she wondered. “If you heat flowers long enough, they smell wonderful. People simply smell if you heat them overlong.”

  “Profundity from Miss Redmond. Is that a slur against my hardworking crew? I won’t have it!” he teased. “Men invariably smell. Perhaps you should ask your brother Miles, the explorer. He’d likely shed light on his phenomenon.”

  “Likely,” she agreed. But then, Miles would likely tell her she was mad and fetch her home. Like the recalcitrant pet her family believed her to be.

  “Do you think your brother Lyon genuinely loves this Miss Olivia Eversea? Or loved her? That he’s out for revenge of some sort?”

  Interesting question from the earl. That’s why he’d wanted to know about love. She felt a little deflated.

  She hesitated, dragging her fingers over the smooth warm stone of the bench, enjoying the sensation. “I will confess to something I have never said aloud to anyone.”

  “You have killed a man!”

  “Don’t tempt me, Captain. I will say that…Olivia Eversea is…tremendously passionate about things. For instance, she is involved with the anti-slavery society. You spoke of slavery this evening…she would have known more about it than any of you. She’s very pretty, mind you…for an Eversea,” she sniffed. “But I’ve truly no doubt she broke Lyon’s heart. She said something to send him off. I just know she did. It’s just this…sometimes I feel so angry with Lyon for leaving that I believe Olivia is just an excuse we all use…just something we prefer to believe, rather than think he left because he couldn’t bear the weight of being the family heir. Very uncharitable, but there it lies.”

  “Do you suppose there’s any truth to it?”

  “I don’t know. Who wouldn’t want to be Fathe
r’s heir?”

  This for some reason made him smile, too. “A pity you were not a son, and the like?”

  She nodded, as if this went without saying.

  “Well, you see, in my family, Miles, he has always taken care of everyone, and Jonathan, he will go into Father’s business, and I’m simply there, it seems. But Lyon was heir. Granted, a good deal was expected of him. But he was everything a father hopes for in a son. He seemed to revel in it, too—the attention, being the best at everything. So handsome, so charming, such fun, so bloody arrogant, too. We were all quite proud of him. And then love destroyed him,” she said darkly.

  “‘Destroyed,’” he mimicked with dark humor. “How very melodramatic. How do you know he was destroyed? Perhaps Lyon is quite content. Perhaps he’s found his calling, with the so-called piracy, and it’s all because of love.”

  She snorted inelegantly.

  “Perhaps you believe this about Lyon simply because you’ve never been in love, Miss Redmond.”

  She looked up sharply. “How do you know I haven’t?”

  “Have you?”

  He sounded so unflatteringly skeptical it grated. She would have preferred him to sound possessive; she would have preferred him to be wrong.

  She would have preferred not to discuss it, in truth, unless he could provide her with some answers about love, because she was genuinely suffering over the question.

  “No,” she said, managing with some effort not to sound defensive. “I do unquestionably love my family. I suppose I am very particular. An argument can be made for my own singular character and the challenge in finding a suitable match for me.”

  “What a very lengthy and elegant way to call yourself a piece of work, Miss Redmond.” He was insufferably amused.

  She shrugged. “People do marry without love. Out of affection or duty or convenience or mishap. Perhaps it’s wiser to have the decision taken out of the hands of people irrational enough to fall in love. Perhaps love is an affliction or aberration, and all the sane people avoid it.”

  He sighed almost contentedly, leaning back against the garden wall, and twiddled the flower’s stem slowly between his fingers. Back and forth. Back and forth. Looking very much like a man enjoying himself, enjoying a rare peace, rather than a man hunting a criminal. His peace became her own for a moment.