My Irresistible Earl

by Gaelen Foley

  Her priorities were very different now. She was no longer an insecure young debutante, desperate for a husband—any husband—in order to escape her parents’ loveless home, but an independent woman who had fought hard to come into her own. Two years ago, the birth of her son had changed everything. For Thomas’s sake, Mara had grown strong.

  Reaching the aisle along the gallery wall, Delilah and she walked toward the back of the crowded auction room, where people were milling around, quietly coming and going. Delilah nodded to various acquaintances along the way, while Mara, following, gazed at the rain tapping at the high, arched windows along the opposite wall.

  The flat gray light of winter-weary March did little justice to these sad masterpieces so unceremoniously put up for sale. Dozens of oil paintings crammed the gallery wall, along with watercolors and sketches of all shapes and sizes.

  Most of these Old Masters had changed hands many times over the ages, she supposed, but still had not arrived at their true home. There was something so poignant about seeing them hanging there, as if they were just waiting for someone to come along who might finally see and appreciate their subtler beauties, not just buy them for the sake of others’ envy or for some haughty sense of self-congratulation.

  She thought of her supposed lover with a wry smile.

  The Regent would have probably bought them all if the country were not already outraged at his spending.

  Her gaze trailed wistfully down the gallery wall to the long tables where statues, vases, jewelry, and other objets d’art were displayed, awaiting their turn on the auction block alongside rare old books and a few ancient, illuminated manuscripts.

  Glancing forward again to mind her step, Mara unexpectedly locked eyes with a man leaning against the back wall a few yards ahead.

  She stopped in her tracks.

  Stunned recognition nearly knocked the breath from her lungs. She knew him at once though it had been years.

  Gorgeous, impeccable, and smoldering, just as Delilah had said…

  Jordan—?

  Jordan Lennox!

  He was staring at her, but he did not smile.

  But, how—? What on earth was he doing here?

  Pain gripped her as she held his stare, a sudden surge of anguish that came without warning.

  Delilah walked on ahead, oblivious to her halt.

  Mara floundered in a state of shock.

  Of course, her logical mind had known it was inevitable she would run into him sooner or later, but to see him standing there after all these years…

  He narrowed his eyes in aloof curiosity, watching her.

  Mara stiffened though her mouth had gone dry, and her heart was already pounding.

  Treading water in a flood of buried hurt and long-nursed anger, she saw that she would have to walk right past him.

  There was no other way out of Christie’s unless she went all the way round to the other side of the room. And she did not intend to give the ice-cold bastard the satisfaction of her doing that.

  Perhaps he won’t even speak to me. I meant so little to him in the end, after all. It’s been so long, he probably doesn’t even remember who I am.

  Since there was no point in trying to pretend she had not seen her former suitor, the one she had naïvely thought might be her true love, she masked the tumult of her emotions, steeled her spine, and proceeded forward with a haughty lift of her chin.

  She felt naked, however, before the earl’s cool, steady stare. He did not look any more pleased by their little reunion than she was.

  As she approached, still defiantly holding his gaze, refusing to show any intimidation, quite unlike the first time they had met, she thought that his ice blue eyes looked even shrewder, more piercing than she remembered.

  Not as kind.

  He was still terribly handsome, that austere face with a hint of Nordic blood, all chiseled planes and angles. But he did not look like a happy man.

  Good, she thought fiercely. If she’d had to suffer in the years that had passed since they had parted, it was only fair he should’ve done the same.

  Everything she had gone through in nine miserable years of marriage could have been avoided if Jordan had not abandoned her. If he had really been different from the rest of the young men who had once vied for her hand.

  Oh, he was different, all right. The others were merely shallow. He was worse, crueler, in his way, than her rough-mannered husband.

  Tom had been a club, but Jordan was a scalpel.

  “Mara.” He condescended to a dutiful nod when she was right in front of him, the crowd jostling her closer to him than she had any desire ever to go again.

  The sound of her name on his tongue made her flinch.

  How dare you speak to me?

  “Lord Falconridge,” she replied in a frosty tone. She meant to keep going without so much as slowing down, but he spoke again—as if he could not help himself—his words polite, his tone slightly goading.

  “Congratulations on the Gerrit Dou.”

  Mara paused, turning to him with a guarded stare.

  He flicked a rudely approving glance over her figure. “You’re looking well.”

  Gracious, this bold appraisal from Lord Holier-Than-Thou quite astonished her! He had always been—or pretended to be—the model of knightly virtue when they were young.

  Perhaps he’d changed. Perhaps he’d given up the act of chivalry at last. Good. The world did not need any more hypocrites.

  “Thank you,” she clipped out. Again, she meant to walk away, and again he stopped her with another comment—seemingly in spite of himself.

  “I did not know you collected art.”

  There’s a lot you don’t know about me, you prick. “I don’t, my lord. Good day.”

  “Mara—”

  “Lady Pierson,” she corrected him in sharp reproach, but she, too, could not help turning back in spite of herself. Folding her arms across her chest, she subjected him to the same rude perusal that he had just enjoyed of her.

  It did not help her peace of mind to see that he still looked good. Very good. Actually, to her dismay, the false-hearted cad looked even better than he had twelve years ago. He must be what, now? Thirty-four?

  The years had hardened the comely, golden youth into a man. He was still clean-cut, his sandy hair cropped short and neat, while the careful discipline of his dress had matured into effortless elegance. But no wonder that, she thought in disdain, as this was a man who spent his time lounging around European palaces.

  Leaning by the oak-paneled wall, casually winding his fob watch, the worldly diplomat earl wore a bottle green riding coat, its stand collar framing his neat white cravat. His waistcoat bore a discreet herringbone pattern; tobacco brown breeches disappeared into black top boots with buff turnovers.

  That was Jordan for you, she thought with an ache that had never quite gone away. Nothing extreme. Coolly controlled, the consummate gentleman. All subtlety, precision. A model of exacting, pitiless perfection.

  Years ago, she had heard one of his friends call him “Falcon,” short for his title, Falconridge, and indeed, the nickname fit him well. A fierce, beautiful, and solitary creature flying over all, out of reach, looking down on the rest of the world from a distance, his most private thoughts known only to the wind.

  He had always fascinated her. Even now, to her complete exasperation, she felt the heated pull toward him in the core of her body, a womanly yearning for a completion with this man that had been too long denied.

  He just watched her with a hawklike detachment, both very close and yet, so far away. That piercing stare made her think he could read her as easily as a street sign, but for his part, he was still a mystery to her, unknown and unobtainable.

  At least now, in her widowhood, she had an inkling of the freedom he enjoyed as a male, with the money and time to do as he liked, having to answer to no one.

  Perhaps that was part of why he had walked away from her all those years ago. She had though
t she understood back then that the thing he cared about most was friends and family, the connections that wrapped a life in comfort; but instead, to her bewilderment, he had become a rootless wanderer.

  Well, but it did not signify. Their history together was as dead and gone as Tom.

  Mara advised herself to leave. Now. And yet, caught in his gaze, she remained.

  “Back from the Continent, are you?” she asked begrudgingly, remaining aloof. “Or do you merely condescend to honor England with a visit, my lord?”

  Jordan put his watch away again, looking amused by her hostility. “Back to stay, as far as I’ve been told.”

  The news shook her. Oh, perfect. So now I’ll have to deal with you on a regular basis in Society?

  Delilah had stopped ahead but pivoted upon finding herself alone, then returned the few short paces to Mara’s side. She smiled at the earl with admiring interest, then turned to Mara in curious expectancy. “Shall I wait for you?”

  “No need. I’m coming,” she replied, but Jordan, damn him, dazzled her companion with one of his most devastating smiles.

  “Won’t you introduce me to your friend, Lady Pierson?” he asked very deliberately, his tone silky-smooth.

  Mara gritted her teeth. “Mrs. Staunton, the Earl of Falconridge.”

  “Mrs.?” he asked, a teasing twinkle of regret in his pale blue eyes as he took her friend’s offered hand.

  “Alas, Lord Falconridge, my poor husband has gone on to be with the Lord,” Delilah purred.

  “What a shame,” he murmured with a frown full of sinful intent. He dipped his head and kissed her knuckles. “Pleasure.”

  Mara clenched her jaw harder.

  Delilah’s stare devoured him. “I marvel that we have not met before, Lord Falconridge.”

  “The earl spends most of his time abroad,” Mara interjected, studying him in disapproval. “England is far too small for the likes of him. Provincial, I’m afraid.”

  “I say!” Delilah laughed, noting Mara’s razor tone. “Where have you been wandering, my lord?”

  “Yes, where, Jordan, pray tell? The nine circles of Hell, perhaps?”

  “Not all nine yet. So far, I’ve only seen a few. Here and there,” he added, answering Delilah’s question with a smile. But he sent Mara a sardonic frown at her pointed reference to the scandalous Inferno Club, of which he was a longtime member.

  All London knew that only very bad boys with fine bloodlines and deep pockets were admitted into Dante House, the headquarters of that exclusive and rather mysterious society of rakehells and highborn libertines.

  Years ago, Jordan had charmingly assured her that he was the club’s token “good boy,” the one responsible fellow who made sure the others got home unscathed after a night of riotous drinking and wenching, or whatever other violent mischief his mad friends got up to in the middle of the night.

  At seventeen, she had been naïve enough to believe him. Now she understood this was just his line.

  It had certainly worked on her.

  “Provincial or not,” Jordan added lightly, watching Mara, “I am back in London now.”

  “How fortunate for the entire Realm,” she drawled, unnerved by his presence and this news. “Come, Delilah. I must get home to Thomas. Good day, my lord.”

  “Thomas, yes, of course. How is your charming husband, my lady?” he challenged her.

  Mara looked at him, taken aback. “Lord Pierson has been dead these two years. I was referring to my son.”

  “Ah.” Jordan looked not at all surprised. “I’m so sorry,” he added with a polite nod and an utter lack of sincerity.

  She realized he had known of Pierson’s death.

  For whatever reason, he seemed to have asked merely as an experiment to find out her reaction.

  Mara eyed him warily, then turned away, but alas, Delilah lingered. “I say, Lord Falconridge, considering you’ve only just returned to Town, why don’t you and Lady Falconridge come to my dinner party tomorrow night?”

  Mara whipped around, aghast, hearing this.

  “You mean my mother?” he drawled.

  Delilah’s lashes fluttered. “Oh, you are not married?”

  “Most assuredly not, last time I checked.” The air crackled with furious tension after that remark.

  He did not look at Mara, and she could not possibly look at him.

  In that moment, she was paralyzed with the memory of their final night together at the country-house party, when she had risked her reputation and her mother’s wrath to sneak away and join him in the garden, as he had asked.

  Running out to him through the flowery garden paths glimmering in starlight, she had been so sure he meant to propose, and she already knew that her answer would be yes, yes, yes.

  Every hour since she had met him had been magical.

  But as it turned out, that was not the reason for his summons, as she had soon learned when he had taken her hands gently in his own.

  “I wanted to see you privately so I could say good-bye.”

  Stunned disappointment nearly stole her voice. “Good-bye?”

  “I must go.” He had searched her eyes soulfully. “My orders arrived this afternoon from the Foreign Office.”

  “Well, w-when do they want you?”

  “Immediately, I’m afraid.”

  Mara had struggled to absorb the blow. “W-will you be gone long?”

  “Six months, at least. Maybe as many as eight.”

  “Eight months! Oh…”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Her head was reeling. The thought of having to stay even longer in her parents’ house made her wince, but if there was hope they could be together eventually, she had to admit he was worth the suffering. “C-could I at least write to you?” she ventured.

  “Oh—I don’t know yet where I’ll be.”

  Being in shock made it hard to know what to say. “If you let me know the address when you find out, I’ll write you every day. You can write back to me when you’re able.”

  “I’m not sure that will be possible, Mara,” he had said, searching her eyes with such sincerity. “But I will try.” He had lowered his gaze. “Miss Bryce, I know you’re anxious to change your situation. But if there’s any way you could delay making your choice for a while, then in a few months when I return, perhaps we could see each other again, and if we still feel the same—it’s just, I’ve never met anyone like you—”

  “Oh, Jordan!” Without warning, she had thrown her arms recklessly around his neck and kissed him on the lips.

  He had seemed as surprised by her sudden advance as she was.

  A moment later, he had cupped her face between his hands and kissed her back with such reverent restraint.

  “Take me with you!” she had whispered breathlessly, as soon as his lips stopped caressing hers.

  “I can’t,” he breathed, shaking his head.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s too dangerous, Mara.” He closed his eyes. “The whole Continent’s a battlefield right now. I’m not dragging you into the theatre of war. You’ll be safe here.”

  “Don’t go! I’ll die if anything happens to you!”

  “Nothing is going to happen to me. I’m just a diplomat. I have to go, sweeting. People are counting on me. It’s the right thing to do. And besides, it is my duty,” he said, though the look in his eyes was anguished despite his conviction.

  Mara had gazed at him adoringly. How beautiful he was! How noble! she had thought in awe, staring at him. How could a silly thing like her ever have attracted a golden-hearted hero like him?

  If he left, he was sure to come to his senses once they were apart. Trembling, Mara had lowered her gaze to the ground for a long moment. Everything in her said, Don’t let him get away. It was obvious how and why she needed him. But some small voice inside her heart warned her, illogically, that somehow, Jordan needed her, too.

  Rising panic made her desperate enough to dare whisper the boldest question of her life:
“Could we not marry before you go?”

  At least then she’d have her own house and the guarantee that he’d come back to her eventually.

  He had gazed at her in tender regret and tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Mara, try to understand. I do care for you. But this is all so sudden. I have—responsibilities. We mustn’t let our emotions run away with us. A person can’t fall in love in three short weeks. That’s just the moonlight talking.”

  She had lifted her head and stared at him. Did he really doubt what she knew they both were feeling?

  She nearly blurted out her doubts, but she was already embarrassed that she had just more or less proposed to him and been rejected.

  “Please. I have no choice,” he had whispered to her with an imploring gaze. “We have to be adults about this. When I come back, if things still feel the same between us, if you want to, then we can…oh, don’t look at me like that, sweeting. I’ll be back before you know it! You won’t forget me, will you?”

  “Oh, Jordan, I could never forget you.”

  “Then you must be strong.”

  “And you be safe,” she had countered, tears rushing into her eyes.

  He had winced, pulled her closer, and pressed a kiss to her brow. “Don’t worry about me. You just behave yourself like a good girl, and I will see you soon.” He had kissed her hands, then released them, gazing reverently into her eyes as he backed away, bowing to her when he reached the edge of the grove.

  Mara had choked back a sob as he pivoted and marched off into the shadows.

  That was the last time she had seen him until this very day. No wonder she could barely draw her next breath of air in past her corset.

  But Delilah had no knowledge of their painful past, still prattling on. “You must come and let us entertain you, my lord!” Her friend was sidling closer to him and looking altogether pleased to discover that he was a bachelor. “I’m famous for the excellence of my table—and Lady Pierson will be there! I see you two are acquainted. You’ll want a chance to catch up, no doubt. And given that you’ve been away, we’ll both be happy to introduce you around again to everyone. All the best people come to my soirees,” she added, preening.