The Earl's Secret (Elbia Series Book 3)

by Kathryn Jensen

  At last his voice broke the magical silence. “I’ll drive you back to the hotel as soon as you like. I just wanted to share this with you.”

  She turned in his arms and gazed up at him, puzzled and more than a little disappointed. “That’s the only reason we came up here—the view?”

  He gazed warily down at her. “If the situation were different…” He let the thought go.

  “Different in what way?” she asked.

  “This isn’t something I can discuss with—” He sighed, shook his head in frustration.

  “With a stranger?”

  A sudden chill descended between them, and he stiffened. “With a woman who will be gone before the end of the week,” he said tightly.

  “I see.” Jennifer didn’t know how to respond or what he wanted from her…or even what she expected of herself. Stepping out of his arms, she moved away to clear her thoughts.

  Jennifer scolded herself for having behaved foolishly. She knew better than to get involved with locals while traveling. At home in Baltimore, she never would have let herself get carried away like this on a first date. She was falling headfirst into an old trap—the vacation fling. An unwise temptation for any woman.

  Her glance drifted past Christopher’s shoulder to a photo on a bedside shelf. A young girl wearing a school uniform smiled into the camera. Jennifer tensed. Was that what he had meant by, “if the situation were different?” Did he have a child? Despite all she thought she knew of him, might he secretly be married or living with the child’s mother.

  All the lovely warmth drained from her body. “You’d better take me back to the hotel now,” she said.

  “Certainly.” But he didn’t move. And she didn’t dare look at him. “Jennifer?”

  “Yes?” When she reluctantly brought her eyes up to meet his, she knew he’d followed her troubled gaze to the framed portrait.

  “I told you—there is no one else. I’m free and clear.”

  She felt numb, then hot all over. “Oh.”

  “I know that you need to leave, but I really want to kiss you just one more time.”

  She swallowed. “You were right the first time. We shouldn’t.”

  “I know.” He reached out and, grasping her wrist, hauled her into his arms. “To hell with being right.”

  She had no will to struggle. Everything drifted away except the sensations of his body pressing against hers, his lips moistly caressing hers. Her only reality was the shocking physical energy passing between them. She spread her fingers across his crisp, white shirtfront, stretched up on her toes and let her head fall back as he opened his mouth over hers.

  Jennifer curled her hands into fists against his chest as she felt his hand move up and close over her breast. The warmth of his palm penetrated her blouse and bra; she ached to feel his fingers touch her flesh instead of fabric. He must have had a similar thought. A second later he was tugging her blouse loose and slipping his hand beneath it. As his palm molded the cup of her bra, he paused and looked into her eyes, as though asking her permission.

  She nodded.

  His strong fingers moved beneath the nylon lace. His palm warmed her breast then moved aside just enough to gently roll her nipple between thumb and forefinger. She gave a little yip of pleasure, arched against him and felt his arousal against her stomach.

  “You’re like silk,” he groaned, dropping his cheek against her forehead. His breath was hot and labored. “I want you, Jennifer. I’m sorry. I didn’t plan…make me stop if you don’t—”

  She pressed her fingertips over his lips, silencing them. “I want you, too,” she whispered. But his few seconds of doubt had sharpened her own thoughts. She wasn’t as experienced as many women, but she understood that heartbreak was sure to follow an affair as sudden and hot as theirs promised to be. “But this isn’t going to happen, Chris. We must stop.” The words came out strong and reasonable, despite her body’s protests. You don’t sleep around, she told herself. If there is a man to love in your future, he won’t be a one-night stand in a foreign country. “Can we just sit and…hold each other?” she asked. Maybe his arms around her would be enough.

  He didn’t answer at first. She waited, not moving within his intimate embrace. At last he seemed to have composed himself. “If you like.” Slowly he withdrew his hand from inside her blouse.

  She closed her eyes and tried to prolong the warmth of his touch. If only her body would stop quivering and her head remain clear for longer than a few seconds. Darn hormones, she thought ruefully.

  “Come here,” Chris said, holding out his hand to her. He led her to the Victorian love seat. Sitting with his back against one pillowed arm, one leg extended along the cushions, he brought her down so that she could lean back against his chest. With his arms enclosing her, she felt as near to heaven as she’d ever been.

  “Rest,” he whispered, touching his lips to the pale wisps of hair on top of her head. “It will be all right.”

  “We’ll go back to the hotel soon,” she murmured.

  “Yes, soon.” He stroked her cheek, and his breaths grew quieter, deeper.

  Jennifer closed her eyes and let the earl soothe her. She still ached for him. But this would have to do.

  Three

  Christopher’s first conscious thought was that his back hurt like hell. He tried to recall if he had taken a bad fall during his last polo match, but didn’t think he had. His second thought, still before he’d opened his eyes, was that something rather heavy was sitting on his chest. Not as heavy as a horse, thank goodness, so he was probably okay. Then a faint whiff of vanilla met his nostrils…and he knew.

  Jennifer. Not sitting on him, sprawling over him.

  His eyes flickered open. Through the window he could see a gray predawn sky smudged with the first streaks of rose. He was stretched out on the love seat in his turret apartment. Jennifer was curled peacefully against his chest, her eyes still closed.

  Smiling to himself, he stretched his aching spine against the cushions of the short couch and buried his nose in the soft blond tresses feathering his cheek. Apparently the earl of Winchester had spent the night with a beautiful woman, he thought whimsically. His smile widened. Regrettably, the usual advantages attached to such a statement had not come to fruition.

  Jennifer stirred in his arms. He automatically contracted them protectively around her body to keep her from tumbling off the couch. After a moment she turned her head to squint up at him. “Tell me we didn’t.”

  “I think I’d remember if we had. And I sure hope you would.” Christopher let his eyes drift closed again, enjoying the feeling of holding her. He knew it was selfish, but he wanted to keep her there with him, despite her plans to leave for London that day.

  She touched a fingertip to his morning-whiskered cheek. “Christopher.”

  “Hmm?”

  “I’m sorry. You need to wake up and drive me back to the hotel…now.”

  “Now?” He sighed, bear hugging her until she let out a little grunt of protest. His mind was racing, seeking ways to convince her to stay, even if for just another hour or two. They could make love as the sun showed its new face. He would touch her in all the ways, on all the secret places he’d imagined touching her last night.

  “Christopher?” Now she was sounding just a bit irritated.

  Short of brute force, he decided, there was no way of holding her there. “I suppose we might as well face the music,” he grumbled. “I wonder what your traveling companions will think when they discover their valiant leader has slept with a man on their first date?” He grinned mischievously at her.

  Jennifer smacked him on the thigh. “We have not slept together—not that way, at least! Now let me go. We have to get back to the hotel before I’m missed. Breakfast isn’t served until seven, and most of them won’t come down until eight. It can’t be any later than six now. I think we can make it.”

  She started to push herself off him. But he liked teasing her too much, and he locked h
is arms around her all the tighter. “And I thought you American women were easy.”

  “This…this isn’t funny,” she sputtered, struggling…but not, he noticed, too energetically. “What if one of my clients needed me during the night?”

  “They aren’t children, luv.”

  Jennifer jumped at the sexy little word. It wasn’t the first time he’d used it. Before, she’d thought it a charming affectation; it made him more human, less like an aristocrat complete with title, castle and a heap of very old money. But that was before they’d kissed and…well, before he’d touched her bare breast. The intimate memory sent a shiver down the back of her neck, clear to her bottom. No, she was being ridiculous. It was just a harmless appellation used by the English much like her Baltimore neighbors used “hon” even when addressing a perfect stranger. No real sentiment attached.

  “I have two seniors with heart conditions,” she reasoned. “And one who is prone to occasionally forgetting what planet she resides on. They’re easy enough to manage when I’m with them. But I’m not. So don’t tell me not to worry.”

  He released her with a theatrical groan. She leaped up and ran to the cheval glass mirror to finger comb her hair. With a quick wipe of a fingertip beneath each eye, she banished the shadowy traces of yesterday’s mascara.

  “Fine, fine. I’ll take you back.” He caught her eye in the mirror and winked wickedly. “But if we get caught, it will be a shame we didn’t enjoy the pleasures of our ruined reputations.”

  Jennifer tossed him a poisonous glare.

  “Can’t blame the lord of the manor for trying, m’lady.”

  “I suppose not. Young aristocrats are expected to lead loose, perverted lives.”

  “We are?” He stood up and patted his pockets, frowning.

  “Of course. Everyone reads about the rich and titled all the time in those scandal sheets. Prince of Macadamia Caught in Tryst with Chorus Girl! Royal Couple Takes Separate Vacations…but Not Alone!” She followed him around the room as he hunted down what she suspected would be his car keys. “Royals out-Hollywood movie stars. My mother dotes on their escapades.”

  He laughed as he bent to scoop the errant keys off the floor from beneath the couch. “Is that so?”

  “I’m not as fascinated with your type, myself.” She sniffed delicately for effect, elevating the tip of her nose. “I think people should behave decently no matter who their parents are or how many figures describe their bank accounts.”

  “Come along, Miss Prim and Proper,” he said, grabbing her hand and marching into the stairwell. “If you want to return to your flock before daybreak, we’d better get a move on. There’s a more proper WC on the floor below, if you want to freshen up.”

  She hurried after him, all the way down what she was sure must be a hundred steps to the ground floor. After a quick stop at the bathroom, she met him outside.

  The early-morning mists off the lake had sparkled the grass and flowers with dew. It still wasn’t quite light, and the air held a milky quality, a thickness that made her want to reach out and gather soft handfuls of it. She breathed deeply of its sweetness, so different from the air surrounding her dear old Baltimore, as often rich with exhaust fumes as the scent of blooming honeysuckle. Here, the atmosphere begged to be inhaled, savored, held in memory.

  “I’m not a rich brat,” Christopher said after they had driven a mile or so.

  She slid farther down in the supple leather of the Jag’s passenger seat and yawned lazily. “Did I say you were?”

  “You implied as much back at Donan. What was your description of my life? Loose and perverted?”

  “Well, you do live in a castle,” she stated accusingly.

  “That’s not a crime or indication of decadence. Donan is my legacy from my ancestors. I could let it crumble, sell it or sink a lot of money and back-breaking labor into restoring it, which is what I have been doing over the past few years.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. You should have seen its condition before I moved up from London. When the place is fully renovated and furnished, I hope to open it as a museum and memorial to both the Scots and English men and women who gave their lives fighting for it. It’s never too late to mend fences, don’t you agree?”

  She considered this new side of him. “Your friends are all in London, at least that’s where their permanent homes are?”

  “Most of them, yes.”

  “Why don’t you just hire workmen to handle the restoration while you run along to whack polo balls with your chums? You obviously can afford it.” She had wanted to tease him, but he seemed not to take the remark with the good humor it had been intended.

  His eyes turned stormy. Long fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “I have my reasons!”

  She observed his expression. Something told her she should stop right now, but she couldn’t. “Is one reason your daughter? The little girl in the picture.”

  Christopher didn’t answer for several minutes, but finally resigned himself to admitting what she had already guessed. “Yes, that’s Lisa. And she is my daughter.” He steered the Jag onto A7, north toward Edinburgh. “Now, if you please, we won’t talk anymore of her.”

  The terrible thought occurred to Jennifer that the child might have died, and she’d innocently reminded him of the pain of losing her. Or perhaps something else had come between them. For a moment she was horrified by her thoughtless questions. But then she replayed his words in her mind: “That’s Lisa.” Present tense. And the photo looked quite recent. So at least it wasn’t death that caused him such anguish.

  She ached to ask him a thousand questions, but his icy glare had locked on the highway, and she knew that no amount of prodding would elicit another word from him on the subject of the child in the photograph. His face held that closed expression. Just as it had the day she’d mistakenly driven up to Donan, thinking it was Bremerley. No trespassing.

  They arrived at the hotel just after the sun had fully risen above the horizon, chasing away lingering pastel wisps of morning’s first light. Neither had spoken for the remainder of the drive. Sadly Jennifer reached for the Jaguar’s door, but before she could slip off the leather seat to the ground, his hand closed around her wrist.

  “Wait, Jenny.” There was a provocative urgency in the way he had shaped her name into a more intimate version. Warning tingles raced through her body. She turned apprehensively on the seat to face him.

  “What, Christopher?”

  “I don’t want this to be goodbye.” He looked as surprised at his own words as she felt at hearing them.

  Now she forced each word to sound calm and logical, even though her heart was thudding wildly in her breast. “I don’t think we have a choice about this goodbye business, Lord Smythe.”

  He was shaking his head before she finished. “I have to meet with several people in London. It could wait until next week, but since you’re heading that way—”

  “I don’t know,” she said warily.

  “I can be an asset if you’ll let me.” A wicked grin spread across his lips.

  “Or a distraction,” she added dryly.

  “There’s nothing like a native guide when traveling in a foreign country.” He dipped his head and peeked up into her face, almost managing to look boyishly innocent. “Your clients liked my Edinburgh travelogue.”

  She laughed. “Is this the line you use on all female tourists? Come along, dearie, I’ll show you the sights.”

  “I’m serious, Jenny.” He took her hands in his. “Let me see you again. Just until you leave England. It will be fun, I promise. And I won’t get in the way of your doing your job.”

  She sighed. It seemed useless to argue. Time and miles would ultimately separate them. What difference could another day make? “Oh, all right. I assume you have a place to stay.”

  “I’ll book a room at your hotel.”

  “Your own room…not mine,” she stated clearly.

  He winked at her. “’Co
urse, luv.”

  Although it was a good seven-hour drive from Edinburgh to London, time seemed to speed by, thanks to Christopher’s dramatic tales of old-time reivers, as the Border raiders were called. He pointed out Roman ruins, ancient woolen mills, historic houses, abbeys and battle sites as they passed.

  At their hotel in the West End of London, Christopher offered to help unload luggage while she checked her party in. But when the desk clerk handed her the keys to pass out among her group, she stopped and counted them a second time. “There are only keys for six rooms here.”

  “Yes, madam,” the clerk agreed. “Just as you requested.”

  “We requested seven. I have four couples, two singles and myself. Seven.”

  The man looked worried, and her stomach responded with a sharp pinch. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m afraid we are fully booked for the night.”

  Jennifer gasped. “What?”

  Christopher came up behind her. “Having problems?” She turned to see he had settled her people in the far corner of the lobby with their mountain of suitcases and hanging bags.

  “It seems we’re short one room. And they have no space for you.”

  “There are other hotels nearby,” he said.

  “It’s unlikely any will have vacancies, sir,” the clerk said apologetically. “The city is full for the exhibition.”

  “Ah,” Christopher said, nodding. He turned to Jennifer. “I’d forgotten. The International Art Exposition. Everything will have been reserved for months ahead.”

  “What can we do?” she whispered, stepping away from the desk to let others register. She stared hopelessly at the keys in her hand, then at the elegant art deco lobby with its marble mosaic floor and gilt cornices. It would be rude to ask any of her people to double up on rooms. The tour had been advertised as a luxury adventure. A cozy, private ensemble—but not that cozy.