As an Earl Desires

by Lorraine Heath

  His mother shook her head and looked through the window. "A shame that. She has patience with the girls."

  "And with me usually. She's taught me a good deal since I arrived in London."

  "Have you told her you love her?"

  He silently swore. His mother had always known everything, been omniscient. Sometimes her uncanny ability to ferret out the truth had been almost frightening. She always knew if he arid Win had fought—even when they took great pains not to hit about the face, not to leave any evidence. She'd known the one time he'd cheated on an examination. She'd said nothing, just looked at him, but he'd known that she knew.

  She'd known when he'd kissed his first girl, and when he'd taken his first young lady in the hayloft. He didn't know how she always knew. Only that she did.

  "Telling her wouldn't make a difference," he finally admitted. "Although quite honestly, I'm not certain that I do love her. I care about her to be sure, but beyond that"—he shook his head—"I don't know."

  "You've never brought a gal home before."

  "I couldn't very well leave her at Sachse Hall."

  "I don't see why not."

  He closed his eyes, his headache suddenly intensifying. "She guards her past. She has no curiosity where mine is concerned. But I was shaped by all that happened to me before we ever met. She was as well. I thought if I shared with her, she'd share with me. I don't even know why I care."

  She patted his arm consolingly. "I think you do."

  "She would never settle for me."

  "You deserve better than a woman who would settle, anyway."

  "You only feel that way because you're my mother." He downed the remainder of the coffee before handing her the empty cup. "I'm going to take her to see the school."

  Leaving his mother there, he walked to a side door and stepped through it into the garden. He could hear the laughter more clearly, Camilla's and the girls'. They were having a grand tea party. A part of him was loath to interrupt, but he wanted some time with Camilla. Besides, he thought he owed her an apology. He had vague memories from the night before, and his mother's coffee hadn't helped to clear his mind.

  As though suddenly aware of his approach, Camilla glanced up and smiled, and the warmth of it nearly stopped him in his tracks. She belonged here, and even as he thought it, he knew it couldn't be true. She wanted rank and privilege and to be embraced by the Marlborough House Set. None of that existed in this small corner of northern England.

  "My lord, did you wish to join us?" she asked.

  He was disappointed to realize that her smile was no doubt part of the game she was playing with his nieces.

  "Actually, my lady, I thought to take you to see the school where I once taught."

  "I'd like that," she said, her smile seeming to take on a bit of solemnity as though she were moving away from the world of make-believe into the one of reality, and she wasn't completely pleased with the journey.

  He offered her his hand. While she wore gloves, he didn't, and he had no plans to put them on. Not here, not in Heatherton, where his clothes had once been plain and his manners simple. He drew her to her feet. "If you don't mind, we'll walk," he said.

  She nodded, glanced at his hands again, puckered her mouth as though she might comment on his not being put together exactly right, must have thought better of it, and simply placed her gloved hand on his arm. "Lead the way."

  He looked down on his nieces. "Go see your grandmother."

  They scrambled away, and he knew they'd do as they were told. It was simply an aspect of life here within his family. Children obeyed their elders.

  It wasn't a long trek to the other side of the village, and yet it seemed so because people greeted him as many had last night—a lord rather than their friend. He noticed the tension beginning to mount because he felt as though he were trapped between two worlds, the one into which he'd been born and the one destiny had chosen for him.

  He led Camilla up the dirt road that ended in a circle before three buildings: the church, the school, and the dormitory.

  "Is it a boarding school?" she asked, finally breaking the uncomfortable silence that seemed to have worked its way between them.

  Joy shot through him because she was expressing an interest. "For the most part yes. Parents from the nearby larger towns send their boys here. They board in that building there." He pointed to the distant wooden building with three levels of windows. "The boys from the village simply come for the day once they've done their chores." Archie had treated them all the same, because he believed that education was a great equalizer.

  "Do you not find it odd that attendance is compulsory but parents must pay a fee for their children to be taught?" she asked.

  Attendance had become compulsory in 1876, but Arch knew that people found ways to bypass the law. Poorer families preferred for their children to work.

  "Many fees are based upon a family's income, and there are charitable schools," he offered.

  She glanced at him, her lips pursed. "And you think they offer the same level of education as this school here?"

  He sighed. "I'll admit that it's an imperfect system. What would you suggest?"

  "More government involvement, more regulation. A means to provide quality education for everyone, regardless of income."

  "It sounds as though you've given this a good deal of thought."

  "It weighs on my mind from time to time. You cannot imagine how difficult it is for the uneducated to better themselves."

  "You say that as though you speak from experience."

  "Not personally." She turned her face away from him, as though suddenly taking a keen interest in the trees lining the path. "But I have seen others struggle."

  "So not only do you take interest in the plight of the poor but in the uneducated as well."

  "I have a good many interests."

  "So I am learning."

  He wished he could determine how to convince her to extend her interests more fully to him.

  "This was my classroom."

  Arch watched as Camilla looked the room over. The desks lined up in even rows. The blackboard where he'd made notes for his students. The shelves that housed the books he'd used. He'd left everything here when he'd gone to London. The teacher who'd taken his place had not yet settled in enough to erase Arch's presence. He was glad of it because he'd wanted Camilla to get a sense of who he'd been before he became the earl.

  She walked to the window and looked out on the tree-shaded lawn. In the distance was the path that parents used to bring their children to the school for the first time.

  "I should think your students would become quite distracted with all the comings and goings that would be visible through these windows," Camilla said.

  "No more so than I. On days when the weather was particularly lovely, we'd take our lessons out beneath the trees."

  "How unconventional."

  He picked up a piece of chalk, tossed it, caught it. He enjoyed the weight of it in his palm. He wrote on the blackboard, "So great a love leads to so great a passion."

  He tapped the board. She flicked a cool glance over the words before returning her gaze to the landscape beyond the window—obviously unimpressed with the sentiment he'd written. Erasing the board, he wondered what he might do in order to return to her good graces.

  "Last night, I dreamed that you were alone in my room with me," he finally said, deciding that while not blunt, at least it was direct.

  She glanced over her shoulder, pinning him with one of her familiar pointed stares. "Last night, you were foxed."

  "So you were real and not a phantom."

  "Someone had to tuck you into bed, and as your brother continually hears his mother calling for him, the task was left to me. I think you might want to have a physician look him over. It's entirely possible that he's quite mad, because I never hear her calling."

  He sensed that she might be teasing, that she knew full well Win's words were merely an excuse to make him
self scarce.

  "Win and I have always had an uncanny ability to hear our mother when others can't." And an understanding from their youth that they would use the excuse whenever sensing that the other wanted time alone with a pretty girl.

  "Do you also share his winking affliction?" she asked tartly.

  "No, mine is a smiling affliction. I merely smile when I see a pretty lady."

  "You'd not struck me as a man who'd drink to excess."

  He thought he detected actual disappointment in her voice, not that he could blame her, but he also thought it unfair that she would find fault with him when she didn't allow his better qualities to ensnare her. "People escape in different ways. Some turn to drink, other simply turn away."

  She gave him a sad smile. "Or turn to ice."

  "You needn't. At least not with me."

  "What are you trying to escape from, Archie?"

  The concern mirrored in her voice surprised and delighted him. He crossed the room to where she stood, pressed his shoulder to the wall, and looked out the window, careful to keep her visible out of the corner of his eye. "I miss the truth of a simple life."

  She shook her head. "The truth?"

  "You pretend to be an ice countess, but you're not. When we attended balls, I've never seen so many people with the ability to look down their noses on others, and cannot fathom why they would want to. What is gained? A false sense of superiority?

  "I value hard work, Camilla. I value mastering one's ability to reason and think. I value great works of literature. I value man and all he has accomplished. I find balls tedious, dinner party conversations lacking in passion, and I say jolly good for Lady Jane Myerson for daring not to wear gloves in public." He slid his gaze over to her so she was all that appeared in his vision. "I know I am unworthy of the title—"

  "No, I know no man more worthy." With a gloved hand, she reached up and cradled his cheek, the first time she'd ever initiated contact, and he desperately wished that she'd followed Lady Jane Myerson's example and removed the damned glove first. "I've never known anyone who believes so adamantly in the things in which he believes as you do. And I've never known anyone who believes passion exists outside of carnal activities."

  "Passion exists everywhere. In the artist, in the writer, in the architect, in the builder, in every person who cares deeply about what he is doing. Passion doesn't always take place between the sheets…" His voice trailed off as he realized what he might have implied, and she averted her gaze. "It never took place between the sheets for you, did it?"

  She moved her hand away from his cheek. "No."

  "I could give you that passion."

  "I hear no doubt in your voice, and I can't decide if you are truly skilled or only arrogant."

  He tucked his hand beneath her chin and turned her face to his. "I promise, with me, you would know passion."

  "I have secrets, Archie. They are mine to keep, and they will always prevent me from coming to your bed."

  "Perhaps they won't keep me from coming to yours."

  She laughed lightly, a warm sound that touched him deeply.

  "You do tempt me, Lord Sachse, but I fear you would be deeply disappointed in what you would discover within my bed."

  "I don't see how I could be."

  "It comes back to your desire for honesty and your discontentment with seeing only the surface of a person. You want more than I am able to give."

  "I could settle for less," he said, surprised by the almost desperate plea in his voice.

  "But you shouldn't have to, and I won't allow you to."

  She was reerecting her icy wall, and he was tired of trying to scale it. So be it. There could be no passion without interest. And he knew plenty of women who would take an interest.

  "Oh, m'lord, I can't believe you chose me." As Arch removed his clothes, he was having a difficult time believing he'd chosen Bessie as well. Her voice was breathless, her enthusiasm palpable, but her excitement had nothing at all to do with him—the man—but seemed entirely to rest upon the fact that he was now a damned earl! "I've never taken an earl to my bed before." She'd told him that repeatedly as they'd walked over from the Wild Boar. When he'd arrived at the pub earlier, he'd let the proprietor know that he was interested in more than beer for the evening. It hadn't been long before a couple of the serving girls were giving him their undivided attention. He probably could have chosen both of them if he was in the mood for an orgy—but all he really wanted was a release of the tension that seemed to be mounting daily as his frustrations with Camilla grew.

  "I would have cleaned the bedding had I known—"

  "The bedding is fine." She'd never worried about it before. He knew because it wasn't the first time she'd invited him to her cottage or that he'd accepted the invitation.

  "You only have to tell me what you want, " she said. "I'll do anything. I want to please his lordship."

  "You can start by no longer calling me his lordship." He tumbled her onto the bed and began to nibble on her throat.

  "I haven't removed all my clothes."

  Obviously. He wasn't blind, after all. "I'll remove them." He tugged on a lacing.

  "But you shouldn't have to do any of the work. You're an earl."

  He released a frustrated sigh. "I don't consider it work. I enjoy taking off a woman's clothing. It prolongs the moment and the pleasure."

  "If that's the way you want it."

  "It is." Although quite honestly he would prefer a bit of spontaneity and evidence of desire on her part. He began working on the lacings again.

  "How do you want me to touch you?" she asked.

  "However you like."

  "Do you want me to use my mouth or my hands?"

  He ground his teeth together. "Whatever pleases you."

  "But you're the important one here. You're the one who needs to be pleased."

  And he would be if she'd stop worrying about it. With a low growl, he came off the bed and began to pace, his bare feet traveling over rugs made of rags and planked flooring that wasn't polished to a high sheen so it reflected the surroundings. A good thing, as the surroundings were terribly drab, and even as the thought passed through him, he cursed it. He didn't want to find fault with that which he'd once been part of.

  "I'm so sorry, m'lord. I didn't mean to displease you."

  He faced her. She'd sat up and wrapped her arms around her drawn up legs.

  "You haven't displeased me."

  "You look displeased."

  He glanced down at himself. Yes, indeed, he did appear to be rather unhappy. Not dancing a jig down there, that was for certain. He raked his hands through his hair, unable to recall having a worse idea than finding a tavern girl on whom to slake his lust. Always before, his taking a woman to bed had come about because of a mutual attraction, a natural progression toward lovemaking because of common desires.

  It had never been as one-sided as this present fiasco. Him wanting, but her wanting to please only him.

  "I'm sorry, Bessie, I made a mistake."

  "No, no, you didn't." She climbed onto her knees. "Give me another chance. I'll please you. I promise."

  He sat on the edge of the bed, cradled her cheek, threading his ringers into her dark hair. "It's not about pleasing me. The mistake was mine in thinking that I could find what I was searching for so easily, not in selecting you. You are a lovely woman with good intentions at heart." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her brow. "I'm not disappointed in you, rather I'm disappointed in myself."

  "But if you'd tell me what you want, I could make you not disappointed."

  She was missing the point entirely. He didn't want to have to tell her what he wanted… he wanted to become lost in a passion that required no explanations.

  Chucking her under the chin, he winked at her. "Why don't we simply forget that I came here tonight?"

  "If that's what you want."

  Again, whatever he wanted, his lordship could have. He supposed that he should have bee
n grateful. He would have to adjust his thinking. He wasn't comfortable with this cloak of earldom.

  "That's what I want." He got off the bed, snatched his trousers off the nearby chair, and stilled as he heard a distant clanging.

  "That's the fire bell," Bessie announced.

  Unlike London's fire brigade, Heatherton didn't have a steam engine to pump the water. They were dependent on one manual fire engine, buckets, and lots of strong hands. Arch drew on his trousers and quickly buttoned them. Bundling up the rest of his clothing, he raced out the door.

  It was madness and mayhem and terror.

  Camilla had been lying in bed, thinking of Archie. Did he truly desire her? It was a frightening notion. Her husband had certainly not desired her. He'd desired how he could hurt her, but what she saw in Archie's eyes was unlike anything she'd ever had directed her way. No one could want the woman she presented to the world—not really. She knew that.

  Which meant if he wanted her, he was looking beneath the outer shell, and that idea terrified her more, prevented her from sleeping. So she was wide awake when the bells sounded.

  She rushed into the hallway and was nearly knocked over as Winston rushed past.

  "It's the school!" he yelled.

  "Where's Archie?" she asked.

  "He's probably already there."

  Then Winston was gone, and she ran outside after him without thought to the fact that she wasn't properly dressed. Archie had gone to town earlier, and if he'd not returned, then Winston was probably right. Archie would be at the fire, trying to save his beloved school—and knowing how utterly and foolishly unselfish he was, she feared he'd put himself in harm's way.

  The thought of his dying in a fire nearly doubled her over. She stumbled on the road, straightened herself, and hurried on. She caught sight of Winston charging past on a horse. Damnation! Why hadn't she thought to find him first? Why had she assumed he would run to the fire?

  She glanced back at the barn, discarded the idea of trying to get a horse, and continued running, halfway wishing she had a pair of skates. She didn't think she'd run since she was a small girl.

  She heard a rumble, a galloping of hooves.