Someone to Love

by Cheryl Holt

  She sauntered over to where he was dawdling by the window and sipping the brandy her footman had dispensed. She grabbed the glass, downed the contents and, with a great deal of irritation, smacked it down on a nearby table.

  “Lord Barrett?” she said as if in accusation. “Are you joking?”

  “It’s the newly-minted Earl of Barrett.” He grinned. “Have I surprised you?”

  “No. You are a pompous bully, so I deem it to be absolutely typical that you would turn out to be an aristocrat.”

  “I’m not a bully,” he insisted.

  “Whether a man is a bully or not is in the eye of the individual being bullied. That would be me. What are you thinking? I could have sworn we were meeting at the theater.”

  “I was positive you wouldn’t oblige me, so I bribed an actor to tattle about you.”

  “You are totally absurd. Or perhaps you’re simply deranged.”

  His grin widened. “Tell me the truth. If I hadn’t shown up here, would you have shown up there?”

  “Yes, I’d have arrived—for I understood that you are an arrogant fiend who can’t bear to have his wishes ignored. If I hadn’t come, you’d have tracked me to the ends of the Earth to find out why, and then, you’d have nagged until I obeyed.”

  “You know me so well.”

  His approving male gaze roamed down her torso. She was slender, willowy, and petite, but curved in all the right spots. She’d gone to an enormous amount of trouble with her appearance, so evidently, she had planned to attend him.

  “You wore red as I requested,” he said.

  “I had to. You’re like a force of nature. Who can resist you?”

  “You’re learning fast.”

  He made a twirling motion with his finger, indicating she should spin and let him view the entire ensemble.

  Her gown was bright red—his favorite shade—with black piping along the sleeves and waist. It was cut low in the front, her corset laced so tight that she was practically falling out of the bodice, and he just adored a woman who was brave enough to display so much bosom.

  Her glorious blond hair was curled and braided, with black feathers woven into the pretty strands. She was chic and elegant and much too fascinating for him. Normally, he was a very vain fellow, but he couldn’t imagine how he’d ever match her in style and sophistication.

  He was as British as the next man, and he comprehended that blood determined a person’s lot in life. Who could have sired such a magnificent specimen?

  In his memories about her return to England, she’d been referred to as an unnamed orphan. Had her family ever been found? He didn’t recall how it had ended, but who might her father have been? She had to have an elevated lineage. How else could her stellar traits be explained?

  “Are you ready to depart?” he asked her. “Or will I have to cool my heels for an hour or two while you finish primping and preening?”

  “I’m ready, you wretch, but it would be nice if you’d told me where we’re going. I hope I’m dressed appropriately.”

  “I originally claimed it would be a carriage ride, but I’ve changed my mind. We’re having a picnic.”

  “A picnic? Will I have to sit in the grass and pick leaves out of my hair?”

  “I’d never make you suffer through such a repugnant episode.”

  “Thank goodness. May I inquire as to where this picnic will be held?”

  “No, you may not.”

  “That sounds dangerous, and just so you know, I always carry a small pistol.”

  He frowned. “A pistol? Why?”

  “Why do you think? It’s so I can shoot any fellow who acts like an idiot.”

  It was the wildest comment any woman had ever uttered in his presence, and he was completely enchanted, but he had no idea why. If he’d been pressed to state an opinion, he’d have declared himself to prefer modest, demur females who guarded their tongues, exhibited perfect manners in all situations, and went to church on Sundays.

  Apparently, there was a hidden side to him that liked sass, brazen attitude, and cocky temperament. It vividly occurred to him that his brother, Bertie, had constantly chased doxies, so perhaps Luke was more like Bertie than he’d ever care to admit.

  Another woman entered the room. She’d been in the dressing room at the theater as he’d strolled out. She delivered items to Libby—a black lace shawl, a reticule, and fan—and Libby retrieved them and draped the shawl over her shoulders.

  Every detail of her outfit had been meticulously selected for maximum effect, and as she spun toward him again, with her fan flicked open and seductively cooling her face, he realized he was gaping. She was an actress, singer, and avid storyteller, but she was also very likely a confidence artist.

  How had she learned to conduct herself in such a devastatingly superior way?

  She addressed the other woman. “Fish, this is Lord Barrett.”

  “My, my,” Fish said a tad snottily. “Aren’t we stepping into high company all of a sudden? How did this happen?”

  She didn’t curtsy or provide any sign that she was in awe of Luke or that she should show him any deference.

  “Luke . . .” Libby stopped and scowled. “May I still call you Luke? Or now that you’ve revealed your true status, must I call you Lord Barrett?”

  “We can stick with Luke. I’m fine with that.”

  “This is my dear friend, Miss Edwina Fishburn. Fish? This is Lucas Watson, Lord Barrett.”

  “Hello, Miss Fishburn.”

  “It’s Fish, my lord,” she responded, “and hello to you too.”

  “Will you be joining us?” he asked.

  “Gad, no. Libby doesn’t need me telling her how to behave. Even if I tried, she wouldn’t listen.”

  His raised a brow at Libby. “You don’t travel with a chaperone?”

  “No, but then, I don’t require one. I have my pistol, remember?”

  “I stand warned.”

  He extended his arm, and she clasped hold. Sparks ignited as they always did when she was in close proximity. The air was charged with so much energy that he was dizzy from wading through it.

  “She has to perform tonight,” Fish told him. “Please don’t make her late where we’d have to rush to get her prepared.”

  “I won’t let her be late,” Luke said.

  Libby smirked. “If you expect me to dawdle with you for hours, you’ll have to entertain me, and I’m easily bored. Will you be able to amuse me for more than a few minutes at a time?”

  He scoffed. “You’ll be so thoroughly diverted that you’ll be begging me not to bring you back.”

  “Keep hope alive, Lord Barrett,” she saucily retorted, and she sauntered off.

  He followed like a puppet on a string.

  They walked out to his carriage. His driver and outriders snapped to attention, and as he helped her in and climbed in behind her, they all furtively watched her, their gazes warm with male appreciation.

  What would it be like to be bound to such a magnetic woman? Any fellow who tried would likely turn into a jealous, vigilant fool who would exhaust himself by chasing off admirers. There’d be no way to stay sane.

  He settled on the seat, and when she moved to the seat across, he yanked on her wrist and snuggled her onto his lap. He urged her forward and kissed her as he’d been dying to do since they’d parted the night before.

  As she pulled away, they both sighed with pleasure, and she remained right where she was, a pert breast crushed to his chest. She studied him meticulously, as if hunting for clues that would clarify what was happening, and the explanation was simple.

  They were one of those lucky couples who enjoyed a strident, uncontrollable attraction. There were frequent stories about the sort of passion they stirred, and poets wrote sonnets about it, but he’d never believed it was real.

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nbsp; “Who is Fish to you?” he asked.

  “She sews my clothes and tends my wardrobe.”

  “She’s magnificent at her job. You’re so glamorous.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I have to admit that I’m surprised by your home.”

  “Why? Had you predicted I would be camping in the woods with a wagon of gypsies?”

  “Yes. I’m a terrible snob, and I possess every low opinion about actors. I had no idea what I’d find, but your residence is so . . . normal.”

  She chuckled. “And I am so abnormal.”

  “You live with Fish?”

  “Yes, and my cousin, Simon. He’s twenty.”

  On hearing a cousin mentioned, he scowled. “Simon Carstairs?”

  “Yes, but he typically uses the stage name of Simon Falcon.”

  “I met him at a gambling club. He’s a flamboyant devil, so it’s not odd that he would be related to you.”

  “We haven’t been in London very long, so he’s been out making friends and opening doors for me.” She wrinkled up her nose. “May I tell you a secret about him?”

  “You should tell me all yours secrets.”

  “Don’t gamble with him.”

  “He cheats?”

  She clucked her tongue. “I would never accuse him of cheating. I will just say that he’s worked in circuses and carnivals, and his fingers are quick and sly.”

  “You are surrounded by an interesting group of people.”

  “I’ve had an interesting life.”

  “You certainly have. Were you born fascinating? Or have you grown to be enthralling through years of practice?”

  “I think some of it is innate, but it’s mostly practice. My Uncle Harry is responsible for much of my appeal. From the start, he was determined to earn money off my tragedy.”

  “That’s sounds horrific. Greedy too.”

  She shrugged. “It was all right. I had natural talent, so it was a good path for me. I doubt I’d have thrived in the kind of dreary existence most girls are forced to endure.”

  “I doubt it too. So you had family to claim you back then? I’ve been trying to remember how your story ended.”

  “Harry Carstairs claimed me and raised me.”

  “He is your uncle?”

  “He announced to the world that he was, and everyone believed him. Recently however, I found out he was an acquaintance of my mother’s and no kin to me at all. But would you keep that information to yourself? I haven’t told anyone. I’m still a tad disturbed by it.”

  At the news, he was aghast. “I’m disturbed too. The authorities handed you over to him?”

  “You had to be there to understand how it was. Harry was a very convincing fraud who could persuade others to participate in any deranged scheme.”

  “He didn’t . . . didn’t . . . abuse you, did he? He didn’t mistreat you?”

  “No. He was generally a grand fellow, and he gave me a grand future. Look at me!” She waved over her torso. “I wouldn’t have become the person I am without him.”

  They were nose to nose, and he dipped in and kissed her again, but his mind was awhirl with questions.

  Apparently, the tales she shared on stage were only part of her depressing history. The more she talked, the more he realized she was a damsel in distress. What gallant swain wouldn’t be anxious to rescue her?

  It occurred to him that he needed to tread cautiously. If he wasn’t wary, he might wind up offering boons he should never extend.

  “Where is Harry?” he asked. “Is he the uncle who passed on? Is he the one you were privately scolding on the dock for dying in a stupid way?”

  “Yes, that’s him. It’s why I’m in London. He always booked my appearances, but Simon has started to manage it. We’ve had to restructure how we carry on.”

  “You support Simon and Fish?”

  “Yes, I always have. I supported Uncle Harry too.”

  “Since you were a little girl?”

  “Yes.”

  She admitted it as if it was customary for a child to support her family, and he wondered what it would be like to sing for your supper, to never know what sort of income would be generated from night to night. The weight of it had to have been enormous.

  You could support her . . .

  The dangerous prospect whispered through his head, and suddenly, it was on the tip of his tongue to propose an indecent arrangement. His brother, Bertie, had been a gambler and spendthrift who’d bankrupted the estate, but Luke had his own funds due to an inheritance from his maternal grandfather.

  He would wed shortly. Now that he was the earl he had to, and his bride would be an appropriate aristocrat’s daughter with a fine dowry. He would use her fortune to rebuild the property, but his money was his own. He was completely entitled to fritter it away on nefarious amusements such as a mistress.

  Why not engage in a torrid fling before he wed? For the moment, he was a bachelor. He’d settle into matrimony and monogamy soon enough. In the meantime, why shouldn’t he enjoy a salacious adventure?

  Libby Carstairs would deliver months—perhaps years—of delicious entertainment, and the notion was too thrilling to ignore. But would he really toss his money away in such an illicit manner? Despite how he pretended otherwise, was he that corrupt deep down? He was growing terribly afraid he might be.

  The carriage rattled to a stop, and she slid off his lap and glanced out the window.

  “Where are we?” she asked. “I thought you were taking me on a picnic, but I could swear we’re still in the middle of the city.”

  “This is my town house. We’ll eat in the rear garden.”

  She scowled ferociously. “You brought me to your home? If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect you have devious intentions.”

  “I might, and I’m interested to learn how many of them will be realized.”

  She opened her reticule so he could peek in it. To his great surprise, she truly was concealing a pistol. It was tiny and silver, but probably very lethal when shot at close range.

  “I wasn’t joking about being armed,” she said, “and as you are about to discover, I am very modest and reserved, so whatever plot you’re hatching, you will be sorely disappointed. I never misbehave.”

  “There’s a first time for everything.” He drew her in for another kiss. “It’s just a picnic.”

  “So you say.”

  “I’ll have a gaggle of footmen standing guard to protect your virtue.” He snorted with a bit of derision. “Does it need protecting? Have you any virtue left?”

  “I’m chaste as the day is long,” she insisted, “and don’t be so rude.”

  “That was rude, wasn’t it? I apologize.”

  “Apology accepted, and could you promise we won’t quarrel? Once you recognize that I’m not the woman you’re hoping, please don’t shout and throw objects at me.”

  “I’ve never shouted at a woman in my life. And there’s no female alive who could make me angry enough to throw something. I find displays of temper to be incredibly exhausting.”

  “Well, yes, but then, I have driven many men to new heights of fury and outrage.”

  “Of that fact, Miss Carstairs, I have no doubt at all.”

  A footman yanked on the door, and Luke climbed out. Libby hesitated, staring at him, staring at the house.

  “You’re pressuring me horridly,” she complained.

  “Yes. Is it working?”

  “I have no idea why I put up with you.”

  “You’re mad for me. Admit it.”

  “I’m mad for some reason, but I’m not sure it’s your fault.”

  “Come.” He extended his hand to her. “Let’s get you inside, so I can attempt to have my wicked way with you. I’m anxious to see if I’ll have any luck.”

 
“You are so obnoxiously arrogant.”

  “I might be, but I’m predicting I’m also exactly the man you need.”

  Ultimately, she grabbed hold and climbed out too.

  “You better not make me regret this,” she said.

  “You never will.”

  “I think I regret it already.”

  “I’ll change your mind. I guarantee it.”

  “It’s pretty here. You’re lucky.”

  “I am lucky. I can’t deny it.”

  Libby smiled at Luke, studying his handsome face and broad shoulders. They were seated under a tree at a small table in the garden behind his house. It was a warm afternoon, so he’d shed his coat and rolled back his sleeves.

  She was particularly mesmerized by his hands. They were a man’s hands, the palms wide and calloused from his years in the navy. Obviously, he hadn’t spent his time loafing at a desk.

  She couldn’t stop assessing how the fabric of his shirt shifted across his chest whenever he moved. The sight had a strange effect on her feminine sensibilities, and she didn’t understand why.

  He simply generated the most exciting impulses, and they had a stirring effect on her moral inhibitions. She’d spent her life watching Harry and his friends misbehave, and she knew right from wrong, having witnessed too many accounts of wrong.

  But for once, she was seriously considering the benefits of committing a few sins. What could it hurt? Who would care?

  It wasn’t as if she was saving herself for marriage. Nor did she have a doting parent who would be horrified at the notion of misconduct. She could carry on however she liked, but she always picked the straight and narrow path.

  Had she changed her mind about that? If she let Luke Watson lure her into indecency, where would she be when it was over?

  Nowhere she wanted to be. She was certain of that one pertinent fact.

  “I wasn’t sure of your preferences,” he said, “so I had my chef prepare a little of everything.”

  “Well, I like everything, so you made a wise choice.”

  There was a second table set up next to them, and it was covered with pans of hot food. A half-dozen footmen stood at attention, eager to be helpful.