An Earl Like You

by Caroline Linden

  Eliza was having tea with another woman. A small girl sat on the sofa between them, and another even smaller girl sat on Eliza’s lap. In the moment between the opening of the door and the butler’s announcement of his arrival, Hugh caught a glimpse of her, laughing with pure joy as the little girl tried to feed her a biscuit.

  “The Earl of Hastings, ma’am,” said the butler.

  Eliza blushed. Her companion gasped aloud, reaching at once for the child on Eliza’s lap. Both women rose and curtsied, although the child on the sofa merely looked at him with big brown eyes. Hugh winked at her as he bowed. “Forgive me for interrupting a tea party.”

  “Not at all,” said Eliza, her face a pretty pink. There was a spot of jam on her bodice, right near her breast, and she brushed some crumbs from her skirt. She looked at her friend. “Mrs. Reeve, may I present the Earl of Hastings? He is a business partner of my father’s. My lord, Mrs. Reeve, who is our vicar’s wife, and her two daughters, Cassandra and Jane.”

  “An honor, ma’am,” said Hugh. The woman murmured something polite, even as her gaze sharpened and grew curious.

  “We were having tea to celebrate Miss Cassandra Reeve’s fifth birthday,” Eliza said. The pulse in her throat beat rapidly, but otherwise she was composed.

  “A very happy occasion indeed. A happy birthday to you, Miss Reeve.” Belatedly he noticed the small, child-sized posies of flowers on the table, the beautifully decorated tea cakes, and the handsome new doll sitting on a cloud of silver paper at the end of the sofa. Eliza had planned a party for her friend’s child.

  “Thank you, my lord.” Mrs. Reeve dropped another curtsy. “We must go, Eliz—Miss Cross. Thank you.” She nudged the little girl in her arms, who repeated, “Thank you, Miss Cross,” in a wispy little voice. “Come, Cassandra.”

  The child slid off the sofa and looked up at Eliza before flinging her arms around Eliza’s knees. “Thank you, Miss Cross,” she said.

  Eliza’s face softened and she rested her hand on the girl’s head. “You are quite welcome, Cassandra.”

  Cassandra collected her doll and the flowers, Mrs. Reeve collected her children, and they left. Hugh turned to Eliza as they were left alone. “I hope I didn’t frighten them away.”

  “Oh no! Not at all.” She was so fetchingly flustered, still trying to brush away the crumbs unobtrusively. “I did not expect you . . .”

  He grinned. “Next time I shall send word ahead, to avoid disrupting any more parties.”

  “It was only a small one,” she said with a smile. “Have you come to see Papa? I’m afraid he’s away from home.”

  Hugh drew a deep breath. “No. I’ve come to see you. Does that displease you?” he asked at her startled expression.

  “No!” She crossed the room and yanked the bell rope. “Let me send for a fresh tea tray . . .”

  “Will you walk in the garden with me instead?” Suddenly he wanted to be out of Cross’s house, away from anything that would make him think of the man who had maneuvered him into this spot. The garden was Eliza’s, where she planted what she loved and felt at ease.

  She cast one look of despair at the chaos of the tea tray, then mustered a bright smile. “Of course.”

  They walked out into the sunshine. Hugh offered his arm, and she took it at once. That was a good start. He wasn’t really in doubt that she would accept him, but nothing could be left to chance. Willy bounded up to join them after a few minutes, and Hugh could feel the tension drain out of the woman beside him. She went down on her knees to stroke the dog’s ears.

  He also knelt. Willy licked his hand and then flopped onto his back, presenting his belly. Hugh obligingly gave him a good scratch, until Willy’s back leg was maniacally twitching in midair.

  Eliza laughed. “You have a way with him, my lord.”

  “He’s a good dog.” Hugh peeled off his gloves and stuffed them into his pocket. Willy leapt to his feet, and Hugh cuffed him lightly from side to side, finishing with a few long strokes down the animal’s back. Willy circled his feet several times, gave a happy woof, and bolted off after something rustling in the lilies.

  “He likes you,” said Eliza warmly, and Hugh remembered Cross telling him he would have to take the dog, too.

  He grinned. “I hope he’s not the only one.” Her eyes grew round, and she quickly turned to watch the dog, now sniffing along the edge of the walk. Hugh captured her hand in his. “Eliza. Am I making you nervous?”

  She smiled nervously, not quite meeting his eyes. “No. Are you trying to?”

  Hugh laughed. “On the contrary.” He tucked her hand around his arm and started walking. “I’ve been very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “And I yours.” She was breathless. Good.

  “My mother was, as well.” That wasn’t quite true. His mother had cornered him just this morning and tried to persuade him against this. Hugh had assured her he knew what he was doing.

  But it had the desired effect; Eliza flushed with delight. “It was my honor to meet her.”

  They skirted the fountain in the center of the garden. Hugh spied a small building of white stone, tucked around the corner down the hill. He nodded toward it. “What is that?”

  “It is the folly, my lord. It’s very peaceful, with a view of the garden.”

  “Very good.” He turned his steps there. She said her father was away from home, but Hugh couldn’t shake the feeling that Edward Cross was watching over his shoulder, prodding him onward. The farther he could get from that man, the better. Let him have privacy for this moment with Eliza.

  Chapter 14

  The folly was a small temple, with a pair of sofas and small tables arranged in the middle. There were also draperies, tied back out of the way. It had a splendid view of the gardens, with the house looming above on the hill. It was perfect. Hugh released Eliza’s hand and began untying the draperies.

  “You looked quite fetching with the little girl on your lap.”

  “Oh!” She turned red and brushed at the jam stain on her bodice again. “They’re darling girls.”

  He gave her a warm smile. “They are, but you’d be even more fetching with your own child in your arms. You should have children of your own.”

  “Oh—I—I hope to, some day . . .”

  He undid the knot on the last drape; when he closed it, they were cocooned alone in this little temple.

  Eliza stood in the center, looking uncertain. Hugh started toward her. “Miss Cross. Eliza.” He took her trembling hands in his. “You’re still nervous.”

  “Well.” She looked up at him through her eyelashes. “Now you are making me a bit nervous, yes.”

  “Don’t be.” He brushed his thumb over her cheek, letting his fingers trail around her jaw. Her lashes fluttered, and her head tipped slightly into his palm. “I don’t want to,” he whispered, edging closer. “I don’t try to.”

  “I—I know.” She wet her lips, and Hugh felt an unexpected stab of desire. This was his future wife—the bride he’d been coerced into courting—and by God he wanted her naked under him. It was a good omen.

  “What makes you uneasy?” He moved even closer, gliding his hand along the side of her waist. She sucked in a breath but made no protest.

  “You,” she whispered. “You’re—you’re very handsome, my lord . . . Far too elegant for a girl like me.”

  “Really?” He could feel her quick, shallow breaths against his skin. “That seems unfair.”

  “Unfair?” Her hands hovered a moment, then rested lightly on his chest. Her head fell back, all but begging him to kiss her. “How so?”

  Hugh threaded his fingers into her hair, holding her in place. When her eyes were glazed with passion and her lips were parted in want, she was mesmerizing. “Deciding I’m too much of anything for you. Don’t you know I want to kiss you again?”

  “Do,” she begged at once, and he did. He covered her mouth with his and tasted her, deeply and thoroughly. She made sensual little sounds, pressing
unabashedly against him, until he lifted his head and rested his forehead against hers.

  “Eliza.” His breath rasped in his throat. Again it caught him off guard how much he wanted her. “I should do this properly . . .” He set her away from him and went down on one knee. “My dear Eliza, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  Her face was pale, her eyes bright, her smile ecstatic. “Yes, Lord Hastings, I will.”

  He came back to his feet and caught her in his arms, swinging her off her feet. Eliza gasped and then laughed, her arms around his neck. He pressed another kiss on her lips: exuberant but also relieved.

  He wanted her. Every nerve in his body was urging him to kiss her again. And a small, cold, calculating part of his brain whispered that seducing her right now would seal the bargain. Cross couldn’t object, couldn’t wriggle loose, couldn’t change his mind or impose any other conditions once she might be carrying his child.

  He let her feet come back to the ground and cupped her face in one hand; she looked up at him with adoration in her eyes. Hugh stifled the twinge of his conscience. He meant to be a good husband, faithful and kind. That was all he had to offer anyone. Love was too reckless to premise a marriage on. But passion . . . passion could keep them both satisfied for a long, long time.

  Starting now.

  His hand came up to her bodice. “This has been tempting me since I arrived.” He drew his finger across the splotch of jam and felt her nipple hardened under his touch.

  Her face flamed. “I should have changed—”

  “No, I like it,” he whispered, and bent down. Slowly he licked the fabric, swirling his tongue over the strawberry-soaked cloth.

  Eliza had long since decided the entire afternoon was a dream. Not only had he come to see her, he went down on one knee and proposed, like the most romantic suitor imaginable. And now he was kissing her, touching her as he’d done before when she nearly lost her mind from wanting him.

  But this time . . . he was her betrothed husband. There was no way Papa would refuse his suit, which meant they would be married soon. Eliza was head over heels in love, and when his lips touched her breast, every sensible, restrained thought in her head went up in smoke.

  With a sudden motion, he swept her up in his arms and carried her to the chaise. Eliza hid her face against his shoulder, embarrassed by how sharply her body throbbed in want, but he set her down gently against a pile of pillows as he laid her back.

  “My darling,” he whispered, his lips on her throat. “Soon to be my wife.” Eliza shuddered at that word, wife. Hastings’s hand tugged at the back of her dress—undoing the buttons, she realized with thrilled disbelief. He wanted her. He eased the front of her bodice down, and Eliza yanked her arms free of the sleeves, suddenly desperate for his touch, his kiss, his mouth on her everywhere. His teeth flashed in a roguish grin, and he tugged the dress farther down, then her shift. His expression grew taut and fierce as he looked at her. “Mine,” he said quietly. “Mine, to have and to hold.” He cupped one hand reverently around her breast.

  Eliza made a stifled choking noise. Hastings laughed under his breath and lowered his head. His tongue was soft and hot, and she arched off the chaise when it traced her bared nipple.

  “Better than jam,” he whispered, peering up at her through the dark curls falling forward across his brow. Eliza trembled, that this beautiful, wonderful man wanted her, and without a word she clasped his head to her bosom. His hands closed on her ribs and his weight came to rest on her, and then he began to suckle.

  She bucked in astonishment, but he held her, helpless beneath the pull of his mouth. Tears wet her lashes and still he tasted her, first one side, then the other, until her breasts felt tender and swollen, sensitive to the slightest touch.

  “Eliza,” he breathed, catching her nipple between his teeth for a moment. “I want you so desperately. I think I’ve gone mad for you . . .” Her legs had fallen apart when she sprawled backward on the chaise, and now she felt, with a shock, his hand come to rest between her thighs, right where she felt the most insistent ache of all. “I want to drive you mad for me.” Slowly his fingers stirred, pressing between her legs. Eliza gulped for air. “Do you want me, too, darling?” Back and forth his hand went, making her shake with each pass.

  “Shouldn’t you—don’t you—my father,” she panted, trying to make sense.

  “He gave me his blessing already,” Hastings whispered, his tongue flicking over her breast again. “Yours is the only desire that matters now . . .” Somehow his hand had got under her skirt, gliding over her knee and pausing to tug loose her garter.

  A great buzzing filled her head. Never had she felt such a deep, desperate craving for someone. It seemed as though she might die without his touch. When his hand slipped up her thigh, she widened her legs without thought. When his fingers brushed the curls that covered her there, her back arched and she pressed into his touch. And when she felt the satisfied hiss of his breath against her bare bosom, she only gripped his head tighter to herself and stopped thinking of anything but him.

  Her skirts were bunched at her waist now. He stroked his palm between her legs, making her flinch. “So soft,” he said, sounding enthralled. “And so wet . . . you want me, don’t you?”

  He wanted to make love to her. Eliza had almost given up hope of being the object of any man’s desire, let alone a man as wonderful as this one. “Yes,” she gasped. “I do want you. Please.”

  “I warned you the other day . . .” His finger stroked delicately through the curls on her mound, lower and lower until he paused. “If you ever begged me, I would take you and make you mine. Here. Like this.” Ever so slowly, he pressed that finger inside her.

  Eliza’s thoughts scattered. He was inside her. Not the male part of him, but he could feel how wet she had grown, just from listening to him say he wanted her. She had asked a lot of questions; the fact that her body was wet and slick meant she was ready for a man, hungry for a man. Belinda Reeve had told her women could feel that way for the wrong man, but this—this was Hastings, who was going to marry her. Hastings, who was everything she’d ever dreamed of. Hastings, with whom she’d fallen madly in love. “Yes,” she managed to say, “I’m yours.”

  He raised his eyes to hers. “Yes?”

  Somehow she nodded. “Yes. Please.”

  His mouth curved in a languid, wicked smile. His finger stroked deeper. Eliza writhed against the storm he built inside her. At some point he moved, sliding between her knees, now spread wide in wanton abandon. He nipped at her mouth. “They say this might hurt.”

  Her heart nearly burst with love at this tender concern. She put her hands on his jaw and smiled. “I don’t care, my love.”

  His eyes flashed. He rose above her, and she felt him pressing against that aching center of herself. He flexed his spine and pushed hard. Eliza gave a startled squeak, jolted out of her daze of passion by the pain. “Shh,” he murmured soothingly and pushed again, until she thought she might be torn apart.

  He inhaled deeply, his hands tightening on her. He opened his eyes, dark and hot with passion, and said, “That’s the worst.”

  “Is it all?” The throbbing was one hundred times worse, and no longer pleasant. She tried to move away, and he said something profane under his breath, holding her in place.

  “Not nearly.” He pulled back and pushed forward again. Eliza mewed in discomfort, but he kissed her and she forgot it. Again he moved, back and forth, until her hips moved against his on instinct. It still stung and ached, but oh—not really pain, not quite pleasure—she twisted against him, clinging to his shoulders, trying to take satisfaction from the very obvious thrill he felt. His face was dark, almost savage; his eyes glowed like coals. He hiked her knees around his waist, sliding deeper into her in the process.

  “How beautiful you are,” he whispered raggedly. “Here.” He pulled back and pushed forward again.

  “How?” She felt feverish and stupid, unable to sort out his mean
ing.

  He bared his teeth in a hungry grin, then took her hand and sucked her fingers into his mouth. He slowed and stopped moving, then placed her hand, her fingers laced with his, under her bunched-up skirt, right on the place where their bodies joined. “Touch,” he said, his voice almost unrecognizable. “Feel how perfectly we fit together.” He shoved up her skirt and pushed himself upright to watch as she tentatively swirled her fingers around.

  Good heavens. He felt enormous, buried inside her. Eliza’s hand began to tremble as her fingers slid around his thickness. Enormous, but . . . good. He pulled back and thrust deep again, sliding between her fingers until they were wet with the proof of their desire for each other.

  “Eliza.” The word was almost a command, harsh and urgent. He was holding himself stiffly above her.

  Gingerly she touched herself, on the tiny pulse throbbing right above where he entered her. A jolt of sensation rocked her, and it felt as if all her muscles tightened. Hastings growled, his hips jerking. Eliza circled her finger again, watching his face all the while. Every time she felt a quickening in her belly, he seemed to swell even larger within her, and the tension in his face grew tauter. His arms were trembling beside her, but he did not move, letting her explore.

  Eventually, though, his hips surged against hers. Eliza felt wild; she spread her legs wider and gripped her skirts in one hand. Hastings added his fingers to hers, stroking her firmly as he moved inside her. He bent his head and caught her nipple between his teeth, just sharply enough to make her writhe and cry out. Her muscles hurt; her bones were melting. She gazed in dumb adoration at the earl, her love, her lover, her husband-to-be, and then—

  Everything went still, and dark, and white-hot with pleasure. A second later her senses roared back, ten times keener than before, and she felt the tears run down her face as she reached for Hastings. He thrust hard into her, his face dark and fierce, once more before he exhaled in a gust. Eyes closed and breathing hard, he rested his forehead on her bare bosom.

  Her heart was pounding a thousand times a minute. Scarcely able to believe it was real, she rested one hand on his hair. The dark curls were damp. With a sense of incredulity, she realized what she’d done; she was his, and he was hers. Consummating the marriage before the wedding made it binding.