For the Earl's Pleasure

by Anne Mallory

  Campbell smirked. “I will win this bet, Penshard.”

  “I doubt it, Campbell. Bad luck at the tables all around for you. Not sure you should be betting anything at all.”

  Campbell’s eyes turned dark and he darted a look at her before narrowing his eyes at Gregory. “Trying to play with the men, Penshard. Never were much good at it, in school or out.”

  “I don’t see any men around here,” he said mildly.

  “Gentlemen, is there some difficulty here?” Mrs. Browning spoke into the knot. The surrounding onlookers turned to see what was happening.

  Abigail wasn’t sure she had ever been as relieved to have the woman speak. All eyes moved speculatively from one participant in the tight knot to the next.

  “I was simply asking for a favor from Miss Smart.” Campbell smiled winningly.

  “Well, give it to him.” Mrs. Browning made a motion to Abigail with her hand. Abigail watched the looks on the various faces, unable to think beyond the state of immobility she was in. She woodenly extended one of the ribbons she had purchased that morning.

  Campbell smiled and hoisted it. “A sure victory, then.” He bowed to her and turned to go to the starting line as a loud voice called for the next group.

  Gregory gave her an unreadable look, then turned on his heel and strode back through the crowd.

  “What is your relationship with Penshard?” Valerian asked behind her, his voice dark.

  She shook her head to indicate her confusion, but couldn’t deny the friction.

  Basil and Stagen watched her, as everyone else seemed to be doing. Basil smiled enigmatically. “Campbell will think his luck permanently turned. Little does he realize that his good fortune might not be what he thinks it.”

  “My apologies if you wanted—”

  He held up a hand. “No, I’m not in the race. I have the pleasure of your company for the rest of this adventure, have I not? Something which Campbell cannot claim.”

  Abigail was at a loss. Basil couldn’t seriously be wanting to court her. He didn’t need her money, and other than seemingly neutral regard, he didn’t seem enamored of her in any way.

  And his father and grandmother would never allow the match. The Duchess of Palmbury would surely threaten to cut him from the bosom of the family, and perhaps even follow through on the threat.

  That left few possibilities—including the distasteful one that he truly was involved in Valerian’s disappearance.

  The next five contestants took their places, Campbell included. Gregory watched with a dark, calculating look from the edge. Their individual race must be toward the end of the list, then. The riders mounted, sitting on the saddles.

  “Go!”

  The riders kicked off and a familiar hand wrapped around hers, pulling along her fingers—taking each one between, one at a time. Her breath caught, lost in the noise of the crowd.

  Basil continued to watch the riders from her right, oblivious. She wanted to ask Valerian what he was doing, to whisper furiously, but couldn’t afford to turn around to do so. No amount of whispering in the chattering crowd would go unnoticed if someone saw her talking to the air at her back or the tree behind.

  “Enjoying the spectacle and attention, Abigail? Talking with Basil, Penshard, Campbell, and the others?” he said into her ear, his lips brushing the lobe. “Seeing if you can gather even more suitors to annoy me?”

  She felt his hand touch her waist, press, then slide beneath the material to her corset below, then to her shift, then to her bare skin. A neat trick. One she hadn’t counted on when he’d been unable to remove her clothing. Her heart sped into a gallop faster than the fastest of the riders cresting the hill. Fingers ran along her stomach unhindered by the material of her clothing.

  “Adventure. I’ll show you what true adventure is,” he whispered in her ear.

  One finger curled inside her. She gasped, her body reacting automatically, just as if he had taken right up where they’d left the previous night. The crowd cheered, oblivious to her state.

  She leaned back against him, partially arching as he swirled the finger and palmed her, his thumb rubbing against a spot that sent hot chills through her.

  The crowd went wild as one of the riders broke out in front. People surged around her, craning to see more clearly. She used the movements to tug away from him, trying to get herself under control. She gasped as he stroked her again and involuntarily leaned back again under the caress.

  His other forefinger and thumb gently rolled her nipple, tugging just the smallest bit. “Definitely not the type of adventure you can get from your dilettante Mr. Sourting or Farnswourth.”

  He tugged again, his thumb slipping over the top. “And neither Basil nor Campbell, Stagen nor Penshard, can make you shiver like this.”

  Cool fingers stroked hotly inside and over her, full lips attached to her neck.

  “Isn’t that right, Abigail?” He sucked hard at the sensitive spot just under her jaw. “I’m about to make you come apart in the middle of this entire crowd. Make you beg for more than the trite little adventure that the others claim.”

  The riders reached the bottom of the hill and soared toward the finish line, legs fully extended, bottoms bouncing, rhythmic and nearly out of control. Heads back, savoring the experience.

  Extended, arched, bounced, savored, screamed, gave in to the thrill.

  The crowd cheered and Abigail gasped, raising her hands to cheer along with them, trying to cover her convulsions as she violently shuddered against and around him. As Valerian nipped her neck and sent her spinning. Spinning like they used to do in the meadows, laughing and free. No worries or concerns, no responsibility or death. Innocent and happy.

  Her body tightened involuntarily around Valerian’s fingers as he slowly stroked down, removing them and smoothing a proprietary hand over her hip.

  She worked up a semblance of a normal smile as Basil gave her a grin, his lips forming words. Something about the mechanics involved in the race, or about Campbell winning, or about how her cheeks were flushed from passion.

  She fervently hoped it wasn’t the last. Long fingers stroked down her hips and pulled her back so she fit tightly against the man, spirit, bane of her existence who was likely to torment her for all eternity, behind her.

  The men trooped back up the hill laughing—swatting at their trousers and sneezing as petite dust clouds formed and lifted into the wind. Servants scurried behind, pulling the wooden horses back up the hill for the next round.

  Campbell brushed back his windblown hair, high color in his cheeks. The bottoms of his trousers and shoes were covered in dust and dirt.

  Mrs. Browning sniffed and waited for Basil to turn toward Stagen before offering comment. “I suggest we leave soon. It feels as if it might rain. I wonder if those things will even work in the rain? Why you have always wanted to see them, I can’t understand, Miss Smart.”

  Valerian stuck a hand into Mrs. Browning’s arm until the woman shivered and moved a few steps away. Another body attempted to enter the space in the pulsing crowd, but they too muttered something about the cold and gave her side a wide berth.

  Valerian moved next to her on the left. He smiled in satisfaction as he tipped up her chin and looked upon her face.

  “Shall we try another adventure, Abigail?”

  Chapter 17

  Valerian watched in satisfaction as her already pink cheeks darkened further. With her lips parted and her eyes slightly glassy, he had no concern that she was thinking about anyone other than him at the moment.

  He reached a hand toward her forehead and watched her eyes close as he brushed a coiled curl away. Fey and enchanting. He had thought her a woodland spirit when he had first seen her tromping through the trees at the estate so long ago.

  She opened her eyes and the force of her gaze, the emotions within, punched him, threatened that part that he had kept sealed, ignored for so long. The image of a comb packed away, hidden and sealed in the same manner, flashe
d before him.

  “Miss Smart,” an unwelcome voice said. “Your favor was keen. I can’t believe it took me so long to seek it.”

  Her eyes tore from his, and something in him felt stripped. Peeled like hot skin cooled against leather.

  “Mr. Campbell, congratulations on your win.”

  Valerian didn’t like the notion at all that she had been concentrating on the race for one second. That she cared one iota for Campbell’s placement. The man that he had long considered a friend suddenly seemed more and more an enemy.

  “It was all due to your lovely good wishes.”

  As a future viscount right from the start of Eton, Campbell had been one of the boys who had run their age crowd from the beginning. Valerian hadn’t cared—he was a forgotten second son uninterested in the social hierarchy, more eager for military and adventure, for exploring academic pursuits or taking to the high seas than for the stuffy chambers of Parliament and the rules of etiquette. Only interested in what would be required for him to get what he wanted.

  “I am sure that you would have won regardless, Mr. Campbell. You seem to be quite adept at the sport.”

  “Required of a man of my station, Miss Smart.” Campbell smiled broadly. “Must keep on top of everything.”

  Valerian casually belted him, wishing that his hand didn’t sink right through.

  “Campbell, don’t you need to get ready for your race with Penshard?” Basil asked, and Valerian felt some renewed kinship with his younger brother.

  They had always maintained a strange relationship. Frequently sick, Basil had been unable to participate in the games Valerian craved. And Basil had monopolized their mother. But after Thornton…

  The duke’s first son had been the perfect heir. Hard to live up to such perfection, and Valerian had never tried until he’d been forced to the role. He had disliked his older brother, who was charming when he wanted, vicious at all other times—little need to understand where he had developed that, since he had been constantly under the tutelage of the duke and dowager. But even as an imperfect brother, he had been at least completely willing to let Valerian get himself killed in some adventure, and had always promised plenty of money for such happenings. Anything to keep him out of the center of the ton, which Thornton planned to rule with an iron fist.

  Valerian and Abigail had spoken of the many places they would travel. The lions they would hunt. The seas they would sail. It wasn’t until he had started to notice that there was a real difference between them beyond their clothes, her damned skirts that needed to be tied or unwound from branches, that the notion of Abigail as a partner in crime had changed.

  And by the time it had set in that perhaps there were different types of adventures to be had in the world, Thornton had died—under inauspicious circumstances—and Valerian had been thrust into a much different life.

  One that didn’t include all of the broken ideals and dreams of his youth.

  Campbell had helped spur that. Valerian narrowed his eyes as Aidan continued to speak to Abigail, trying to coax her into further conversation before leaving to take his place in the next race. Campbell, whose father was ill and undemanding. Who didn’t have the same familial expectations even though his title demanded certain obligations. Who had scoffed and laughed at the brush he’d discovered so long ago.

  “There is little desire to hurry, Danforth,” Campbell said to Basil. “Not when one has such a lovely lady before him.”

  Valerian had taken over as the de facto leader of the group a mere year after Thornton’s death. He wasn’t sure Campbell had ever forgiven him for that, not that he much cared at the moment—wanting to crush the man as he did—but Aidan had followed along, been a good disciple since.

  And Valerian had formed a tentative relationship with Basil after the death of their mother. The two of them the last rational members of the household. It was hard to think that Basil might want him dead—but the viper’s nest of their youth might have influenced his brother more than he’d thought.

  “Good luck, Mr. Campbell.”

  “With your favor, I can’t but win.” Campbell smiled charmingly at Abigail and strode off for his race with Penshard. Valerian hoped he fell on his crooked lips.

  Basil looked like he wanted to say something to Abigail, but he simply looked toward the finish line, the edges of his mouth tight in only a way that someone who knew him very well would be able to see.

  But Basil didn’t fancy Abigail. He could read his brother in that aspect, and for all of his uncertainty surrounding what Basil was up to, it wasn’t for courting Abigail.

  So why was Basil upset about Campbell and Abigail?

  Abigail leaned back into him and a sharp shock ran through him. His hand automatically rose to her neck, massaging the smooth area where her hair met the sensitive flesh below.

  Abigail Smart was someone who never sought reassurance. Who stood tall and weathered all storms with grace and dignity. Who had purged him from her life long ago—making him force her to pay attention to him ever since.

  Except that wasn’t true, and a niggling guilt surfaced that he had long assumed she didn’t care, accepted the possibility that she was the social climber his father and grandmother had claimed her. Had ignored her notes. Had been angered by the very thought of her, even though he used the possibility that she might care against her in every situation.

  He pressed forward against her. Just an inch, just because she was pressing into him. A nudge, a game. Nothing like seeking reassurance himself.

  He had been molded into an earl, a future duke. He had gotten past his brother’s death, his own part in it. Needing to live up to the Rainewood standard, and to protest it all along.

  Thornton had ruled with an iron fist.

  And he had become his brother.

  No. He shut down that line of thought and touched Abigail again. She was one of the last reminders that he wasn’t Thornton. That he had been someone else once.

  He had hated her for that once. Once not long ago.

  He had loved her for that for far longer.

  He gripped her shoulder. And now, now he could no longer even identify the emotions associated with her.

  He had become his hated brother.

  Abigail felt Valerian stiffen behind her, but there was little she could do to inquire as Basil began speaking again and the race between Campbell and Gregory cued to start.

  “Be wary, Miss Smart.” Basil continued to watch the race, but his low voice reached her.

  “I try to be ever vigilant, Lord Basil.”

  “Excellent. I would just see that you do not become a pawn in something that has been going on for far longer than you can know.”

  She examined him closely. “Such as what?”

  “Old grudges and dangerous proposals. From more sides than you are possibly aware.”

  “Losing patience in your houseguest, Danforth?” Stagen said from the side.

  Abigail looked at the two men. “Houseguest?”

  “Campbell is staying with Danforth for a few weeks. Repairs on his house forced him out,” Stagen said lazily, as if he hadn’t just dropped a vital piece of information in her lap.

  Valerian gripped her shoulder more firmly, and she felt the pressure radiate within her. If Campbell was staying at Number Eighteen with Basil…

  “Has he been with you long?” she asked innocently. “I know houseguests sometimes take a toll on one’s good humor.”

  Basil smiled, but didn’t answer.

  “He wasn’t staying with him before. I would have known of it,” Valerian said behind her, his breath a whisper in her hair.

  A whistle sounded and they turned to see Campbell and Gregory line up, straddling their horses. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Campbell confidently tossed his head. Gregory’s eyes narrowed and he said something that wiped the smile from Campbell’s face.

  The starter gave them a mark call and then jerked his hand down. The two men surged forward, p
ushing against the dirt as quickly as their long strides would allow. Dead even, they went over the hill at a breakneck pace. Both men put their legs up, the wheels tumbling over the terrain and making them bounce and lean forward.

  They hit the bottom of the slope and headed for the finish, legs pumping again. The crowd went wild and money changed hands as final bets were placed on the outcome. It was going to be a close finish.

  They surged for the line, chargers hugging together as they headed into the final stretch.

  Either could win. Abigail could see Valerian’s dark, flat look from the corner of her eye, but he too was watching the finish line with too much intent to be merely bored.

  They closed in on the finish. Twenty paces, fifteen. Abigail held her breath at the sheer thrill of the close race. Ten paces, five.

  Gregory’s hobbyhorse sharply veered left and Campbell lost control as he tried to jerk out of the way. His horse overturned in a cloud of dust and Gregory’s crossed first.

  The crowd gasped, then surged forward, taking her with them.

  Gregory dismounted and handed the horse to a waiting servant. Campbell untangled himself and rose, brushing off his trousers in a cloud of dust as he purposefully moved toward Gregory. The crowd surged even more intensely, wanting to observe the confrontation as closely as they could.

  Phillip quickly ran to Gregory’s side, and Stagen leaped forward to grab Campbell, grasping the back of his jacket. Campbell’s fists clenched and he strained against Stagen’s hold.

  “You cheated, Penshard.”

  “You lost control of your mount, Campbell.”

  “You deliberately jerked into me.”

  Gregory held out his hands, waving them. “I never touched you, Campbell. Your mishandling of the charger is what did you in.”

  Campbell’s face mottled with rage. “Why you—I challenge you to—”

  Stagen pulled sharply and Campbell jerked back midsentence. Stagen said something harshly in his ear. The crowd leaned in, eager to see where things would lead.

  Campbell shrugged Stagen away and straightened his jacket, tugging at the cuffs. “I challenge you to the balloon race, Penshard. Double stakes. Your choice of balloon against mine.”